oom: somwhere near old fort sumner, new mexico
After White Oaks, the boys head south. They ride like hell, that night, knowing that if there was one lynch mob in town that soon others would follow, even if Pat Garrett will have to stop and at least notice the fact that a deputy is dead.
Doc's not sure where they make camp, all he knows is that they're far enough awake from White Oaks that they don't see the glow of the flames or the smoke that curls into the sky as the Sheriff burns down that 'den of sin'. This is a good thing. The farther away they head from White Oaks, the better.
They ride for nearly a week. Across open desert and over mountains, keeping themselves as far away from Garrett as possible.
Doc keeps the date in his mind as they ride. Each day is another day closer. He'll never tell Billy what he knows. He can't.
It's not that he doesn't want to save their hides. He does. He just doesn't want to get them all killed in the process. The rum in the flask is gone, after they make camp one afternoon, hiding out in a hollow at the base of some canyons. Doc keeps his guns on him as he walks, needing a cigarette to clear his head but his mind is elsewhere. It's a dangerous combination when you're wanted men. He finds a place to sit and he scrubs a hand over his chin, the beard growing back. His hair is longer. The longer he spends in Milliways, he finds, the less used he is to the outlaw way of life. Sleeping on the ground. Barely any food.
Cold desert air that chills you to the bone while you lie there and look up at the stars. He wonders what's going on back at Milliways. Back home. Wonders how long it's been since he's been gone. Time is so confusing as it is. It's when he's walking back to join the boys he sees the cactus sitting on the ground, and he kneels to look closer, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hankerchief and then draws his knife. One of the small peyote cacti is cut from the ground, carefully wrapped, and then carried back to the campfire. He tucks it into his saddlebag and then settles in for another night of sleeping on the earth, his duster thrown over him like a blanket, rifle lying right beside him and his gunbelt within reach.
The longer he spends away from Milliways, he finds, the easier it is to slip into old habits like this one.
+++
The next morning they gear up and head up into the canyon between two of the mountains. They can hear the faint sounds of men working, machines, and the braying of mules being used to carry buckets of material along, as they go deeper. It's a mine, and they need water.
Doc's riding in the front, bandana pulled up around his face, hat on. Billy's behind him, then Chavez and the rest of the boys as they make their way up. Nobody seems to give them a second glance.
When they see a man sitting near the machine that's driving the pulley system, Doc's the first to speak as they come to a stop around him.
"Hey. You got any water?"
The horses are tired, and quite frankly, so are all of the boys.
Doc's not sure where they make camp, all he knows is that they're far enough awake from White Oaks that they don't see the glow of the flames or the smoke that curls into the sky as the Sheriff burns down that 'den of sin'. This is a good thing. The farther away they head from White Oaks, the better.
They ride for nearly a week. Across open desert and over mountains, keeping themselves as far away from Garrett as possible.
Doc keeps the date in his mind as they ride. Each day is another day closer. He'll never tell Billy what he knows. He can't.
It's not that he doesn't want to save their hides. He does. He just doesn't want to get them all killed in the process. The rum in the flask is gone, after they make camp one afternoon, hiding out in a hollow at the base of some canyons. Doc keeps his guns on him as he walks, needing a cigarette to clear his head but his mind is elsewhere. It's a dangerous combination when you're wanted men. He finds a place to sit and he scrubs a hand over his chin, the beard growing back. His hair is longer. The longer he spends in Milliways, he finds, the less used he is to the outlaw way of life. Sleeping on the ground. Barely any food.
Cold desert air that chills you to the bone while you lie there and look up at the stars. He wonders what's going on back at Milliways. Back home. Wonders how long it's been since he's been gone. Time is so confusing as it is. It's when he's walking back to join the boys he sees the cactus sitting on the ground, and he kneels to look closer, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hankerchief and then draws his knife. One of the small peyote cacti is cut from the ground, carefully wrapped, and then carried back to the campfire. He tucks it into his saddlebag and then settles in for another night of sleeping on the earth, his duster thrown over him like a blanket, rifle lying right beside him and his gunbelt within reach.
The longer he spends away from Milliways, he finds, the easier it is to slip into old habits like this one.
+++
The next morning they gear up and head up into the canyon between two of the mountains. They can hear the faint sounds of men working, machines, and the braying of mules being used to carry buckets of material along, as they go deeper. It's a mine, and they need water.
Doc's riding in the front, bandana pulled up around his face, hat on. Billy's behind him, then Chavez and the rest of the boys as they make their way up. Nobody seems to give them a second glance.
When they see a man sitting near the machine that's driving the pulley system, Doc's the first to speak as they come to a stop around him.
"Hey. You got any water?"
The horses are tired, and quite frankly, so are all of the boys.