Outlaw's Prayer (ch.2)
Title: Outlaw's Prayer (2/?)
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Skibmann, various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: I have been working on this story for the past six months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it :D What started out as a fledgling idea grew to be a huge AU and I'm very grateful to share it with you. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
"You all know the people can't get along very well in the world. There are some good people and some bad people amongst them." - The Apache Kid
Feed and water the horses. Loosen their tethers so they won't be so wild when you start to ride. Douse and dirt the fire; scatter the ashes to make it look natural instead of a campfire. Don't forget to fence the pen or the cows may start to wander.
Well, he didn't have to remember that last detail anymore, but all the rest of Kyle's knowledge he picked up on the ranch was certainly being put to good use that morning. He had risen before both the sun and the other men in order to set everything in motion for a quick departure. After the murmur of men's voices died down the night before and Kyle was sure the meeting of the Kings had ended, David walked over to him, a slow, deliberate pace that seemed to calm the horses even more in the dark night, quickly evaluated Sugarfoot's condition, and gave a content nod in Kyle's direction, the biggest compliment the young man thought he'd received from the outlaw that night. When David told him he had done a good enough job, and that he'd get to the other horses in the morning, Kyle had to restrain himself from jumping for joy; it meant that they had decided to keep him there at least until the morning; if some of the Kings had gotten their way, Kyle had feared his life wouldn't last the night.
David hadn't told him the final verdict of the Kings, but from the hint of a smile in his eyes, Kyle knew the news he awaited with the dawn would be monumental.
Considering he still had a morning to wake up to and wasn't offed sometime during the night due to the gang's change of heart, Kyle believed things could only get better. All he had to do now was make good on his claims, everything he had told David he could do, everything he promised the night before in order to convince the other men he was worth keeping around. He hadn't thought that his life as an outlaw would start by hauling the night's horse dung from the camp and preparing breakfast, but if that was what it took to win the trust of the Kings, Kyle Peek would do just about anything.
The inky blackness of the Nevada sky was slowly giving way to the rising sun, the purple and indigo patterns stretching over the horizon so different from the cloudless blue skies of California Kyle had known all his life. His mind raced with the imaginative possibilities of other skies, of horizons broken by the cliffs and mountains of Arizona, of the flat yet majestic landscapes he'd heard about in Missouri. While the details of their journeys differed with every newspaper he read and bystander he interviewed, the one thing each story got straight was that the Kings were indeed well-traveled, hitting banks within the frontier territories and border states alike. Before he made the decision to leave his ranch life behind, Kyle had never seen any land beyond the grassy hills of his home; now, the dusty, desolate dirt underneath his feet and the quickly rising sun promised him a whole world to see.
But first, he thought with an excitement coiling in his limbs as he kicked the dead fire's sodden ashes into the brush, he had a camp to strike.
He had noticed quickly when he awoke, before his eyes could adjust to the violet hues of pre-dawn, before his memory could even remind him of the luck and good fortune that befell him the previous night; one of the Kings was missing. The calm, mysterious one dressed all in black, who expressed displeasure in the thought of killing Kyle last night but showed no love towards him otherwise--he and his horse were gone, leaving even less of a trace of their departure than Kyle could erase. The many dismissed rumors and tales of the supposed fourth rider in the Kings gang buzzed in his head as he had awoken; perhaps he had only imagined there was a fourth rider? One could have never been certain, but Kyle was pretty sure when a man's got expert revolvers cocked and aimed at him and he lives to see the next Nevada morning, he's pretty accurate about how many revolvers there actually were.
He would ask about the fourth King's disappearance, the man he had heard David call Andy last night--that is, if it all hadn't been one big desert hallucination--but the stares and glowers he was receiving, particularly from the menacing Dr., kept his inquisitive nature at bay. Neal awoke grumpy and his mood had not improved during breakfast or while packing up camp; on the contrary, Kyle noticed he became more irritable as the sun rose higher from the horizon line, a gruff silence acting as an invisible barrier, separating him even from his fellow Kings. Apart from making a mental note to keep his distance lest the tattooed man decide he truly did want to shoot Kyle, the young man paid little attention to Neal's sour mood; perhaps, he thought he'd learn, Neal was simply always like this.
"I see the horses are ready," David said as he approached, taking a quick but scrutinizing eye over Kyle's work with the campsite, noting with silent approval that it was as if no one ever slept there the night before. After he had tended to David's horse before daybreak, Kyle made sure the others were taken care of, checking their shoes and brushing the desert dust from their coats while familiarizing himself with the horses, speaking in soft, calming tones to let the horses get familiar with him as well. He was planning on doing this job for quite a while.
The younger man beamed at David, proud of his early morning work and more than pleased that the outlaw was appreciating it, even in his own, understated way. Kyle didn't expect compliments from the Kings but he wanted to prove to them nevertheless that he would be a definite asset to keep around. "Fed, watered, and groomed," he announced; Gangles was keyed in to the happiness in his voice and stamped the ground with a hoof in approval. He moved over to a speckled black and white horse, massive in stature, yet genial and gentled towards Kyle's already trusted hands. "This old boy had a rock caught in his shoe; I'm no blacksmith but I think I got it out alright, good enough to ride." He patted the horse's lean flank as David raised an eyebrow, observing. "Who belongs to this one?"
David jutted his chin out at the familiar horse, who nodded and snorted in response, bringing a half smile to the outlaw's face. He may not have been David's horse, but they sure had been through a lot over the years; they all had. "That's Sixx," he announced. "He's the Dr.'s horse."
Like a shock of sparks ran through the horse and into Kyle's arm, he jolted his hand away, quickly separating himself from the horses so they wouldn't recognize his alarm. He was not looking to get on that man's bad side that day, and although he knew with confidence he had taken good care of Sixx, he wasn't taking any chances. He hoped David didn't notice, but that was underestimating the outlaw; there was very little David Cook didn't notice. "It's probably a good idea to give Neal a...wide berth today," he agreed with the unspoken look of uncertainty on Kyle's face, knowing the kid wasn't one of Neal's favorite people to begin with.
Two pairs of eyes both darted over to the far side of camp, where Neal sat, perched atop a fallen petrified log, his eyes small, irritated slits as he smoked his third cigarette in fifteen minutes. "Is something wrong?" Kyle asked tentatively; he had already decided not to deliberately encounter Neal too often that day, only when necessary, but perhaps it was something serious if the leader of the Kings was making note of Neal's sour mood.
Shrugging with an apparent indifference that masked his true mood, David answered with caution, knowing the kid was only naturally inquisitive, but also knowing Neal wouldn't want him revealing his life story quite yet. "He just gets..." he hesitated, trying to find the right word; "restless" understated it, while "bitchy" could give Kyle the wrong idea. "...testy, when Andy's not around. Usually it's not this bad, but he gets worse when there's nothing else to focus on."
Kyle's eyes narrowed as he processed David's advice, and the meaning in between each word, like a hidden puzzle. His mind wasn't on Neal's temperament at all. "What do you mean, nothing to focus on?" he asked incredulously. "Aren't we riding out soon? The sun's already up, and -"
"Yeah, about that." David scratched his head conspicuously, his eyes to the ground. It wasn't that he had wanted to lie to the kid, but sometimes he learned these things were necessary; a leader's discretion, something he could have only learned while on the run, granting through experience who could be trusted, and who could not. "We're not heading out today; we're close enough to the outskirts of town, any closer and we'd be easily spotted, campfire or not. Today, we just wait for Andy to come back from town, which, hell, even gets me on edge, but it's become a necessary kind of boredom. Besides, waiting around, twiddling our thumbs...it's a lot easier job than what he's doing right now."
There was talk again of this Andy, the fourth rider, the one that, at least now, Kyle knew wasn't a hallucination. He was still a mystery to the Californian, but he was beginning to get the feeling that was the whole point of Andy Skib; to be a mystery, at best. But that wasn't at the forefront of his mind right now. "You mean I just ran around like crazy trying to clean up camp for nothing?"
It wasn't the best idea to raise your voice at a murderous outlaw, one who had held a gun to your head the night before and was keeping you alive against the advice of his other, also murderous, outlaw friends solely to flawlessly clean up camp and tend the horses. Kyle thought of this only after he had done it, a sinking feeling in his gut once he shut his mouth and watched David's complacent half-smile fade from his face. He truly hoped that sinking feeling wasn't the last sensation he'd ever have on Earth.
"I had you clean up camp," David's voice was eerily even, emotionless; calculating. Kyle couldn't glean anything from it, and he wasn't too proud to say it frightened him. "Because I wanted to see if you were lying when you told me you could make our camps untraceable. You were trying to save your own skin, and I respected that; but if you crossed me and my boys, we would have trouble." Kyle gulped, a knot forming in his throat at the thought of what these outlaws could have actually done to him if they deemed him "trouble". "And I wasn't going to test you when we actually had to go anywhere. So I figured today would be the perfect time to see if you were being square with me last night."
Kyle was almost too nervous to ask. "And?"
David's grim expression gave way to a sly, wide smile; like the night before, when Kyle had not backed down from the Kings' locked and loaded guns at his back or turned tail when he had the chance, the kid wasn't failing to impress him. "If you can shoot like you can strike camp, I might have to replace the Dr. as my sharpshooter point man."
It was more of a compliment than Kyle ever imagined he would receive from the Kings, especially after just mouthing off to their leader, and for the second time in less than a day he felt on top of the world. It didn't matter to him that David played that clever trick to test his worth, or that it meant waiting, sedentary, for the rest of the day; his hard work was praised and he knew he had proven himself. The Kings might just keep him around, after all.
The older man held his hands up, slowing down the rolling build of Kyle's excitement before he got too pleased with himself; David would have to note that the kid seemed to take compliments very seriously. "Don't celebrate yet," he warned, his tone turning grave. "You did a solid job this morning, but I need you to do it again tomorrow, when it really counts. As good as this -" he waved his hand out towards camp, which looked nothing like the remains of a traveling party; even Kyle had to admit he had outdone himself. He watched the far side of camp as Joey approached Neal with a genial punch on the arm, then retreated from the deathly glare he received from the blond. Neal was on his fourth cigarette of the morning. "Better than this. They can't tell where we've been; they can't tell where we're going."
The "they" was vague and never detailed, but Kyle knew well enough not to pry further; David was being vague for the necessity, because the four men never knew exactly who might be on their trail or if they would ever be discovered, be it greedy bounty hunters, ruthless lawmen, or a hapless, enthusiastic ranch hand from California seeking more out of life. He was simply ecstatic to be considered part of the "we" David spoke about. Better "we" than "they."
"So tomorrow, are you..." Kyle began to ask, his inquisitive nature seeming to always take over when in the presence of David Cook; there was so much he wanted to learn about the outlaw life, so much the Kings could teach him about adventure and really living, and so far their leader was the only one to give Kyle the time of day. He knew what he wanted to ask but the words couldn't come, wouldn't show themselves to the light of the dawn. He supposed only townsfolk and the gossipers of the frontier called the crimes outlaws committed by their names: stagecoach holdups, horse thievery; bank robberies. The outlaws themselves just knew the acts as their job.
David gave no indication either way on the subject, just a slight shrug to display his indifference. "Depends on what information Andy's got for us." The four Kings knew the outline of their plan, it never wavered from one town to the next unless new information was discovered, and different factors were determined. The details were all different but Joey and Neal considered each heist to be the same: bust in, wave a few guns around, collect the cash, and make a spectacular getaway, killing anyone that would get in their way. But the devil was in the details, and Andy Skib made sure to introduce himself to that devil in the saloons and general stores of each town they hit. David wasn't into the fundamentals nor the details, but he understood the necessity of both; perhaps that was what made him the gang's born leader.
It seemed much of the operations of the Kings hinged upon Andy Skib; Kyle had started calling the man in his head "the fourth rider," though he felt soon enough that moniker would prove to be incorrect. The outlaw that no one in the public was sure even existed was definitely an integral part to their gang, but Kyle was still not sure just how important he may have been. "What does he do?"
He was also learning--quite quickly, he thought, but he had always been one to catch on fast, even at the ranch--that when David Cook shrugged, his face a glib, mysterious canvas that gave nothing away, things may not always be what they seem. "He's our eyes and ears in the town," David said, a bit proudly, and though he would take the observation to his grave, Kyle swore the outlaw puffed out his chest ever so slightly while mentioning the gang's well-planned and perfected operations. "He goes in, buys some provisions, does a little bit of talking, mostly spends his time listening. Finds out how the town works, what makes them tick; sees what'll work to our advantage, and brings all that back. Then we plan what we do next."
Kyle's eyes grew wide with wonder as he let those thoughts sink into his head: the fourth rider of the Kings, overlooked and often dismissed by the public at large, was always among them, riding into town under everyone's attention, gathering information while still remaining pleasant, unmemorable, and unknown. "He's like a shadow," he said, before his mind could stop the words from escaping his mouth.
David couldn't help but laugh; it was the first time he was seeing an outsider's observation of Andy up close, one that he hadn't read in the newspapers chronicling their criminal exploits. It was Andy himself who picked those up while in town, making sure to take a copy or two if there was any mention of him. "No," he replied offhandedly; Kyle would find out soon enough that Andy was no mystery, none of them were; he'd start to feel at home soon enough to lose this feeling of mystique that made Neal think of him as green. "He's just Andy."
***
Andy Skib contemplated getting a shave. He scratched at his jawline as he rode into town, feeling the thick, coarse stubble that was quickly turning into a full beard from his neglect. He had been teetering back and forth between a clear complexion and a beard, typically noncomittal on either front; he asked Neal's opinion once, and only received a warm, playfully mocking laugh in response, the sharpshooter ruffling his hair and warning him not to become a playboy.
He shrugged to himself, slowing his chestnut horse, Vera down to a walk as the sounds of people and horses and the unmistakable buzzing of a town visited his ears. He could always make a stop at the barber's while he was in, though David would probably joke he should have gotten an updo to match, and apart from the churches and saloons, the barber shops gleaned the most of what he wanted.
Each town was different, Andy knew this, and he never merely meant the Main Street layouts or the location of the bank on each wood-carved avenue; he never meant just the features the other Kings saw, the thickness of a bank's front doors or the corners and crevices where a shooter could hide. Every town had a story, and with those stories came different people, with desires and goals...and fears. Andy took all of this into account, recorded in his mind the physical schematics of a town as well as its personal climate, factors he always tried to tug and pull to his advantage.
Most people in any town, he found universally over the past years, had the same fear: the Kings.
Andy tethered Vera to a post along the main road in and out of Fox Canyon, a tiny frontier town David predicted would teeter and yield to them faster than the new kid could probably heat up their dinner. Built around an old Indian trading post that had long since disappeared along with the Indians, the town itself was, at most, two dozen wooden buildings lined up along a fat artery through town, with the whitewashed planks of the church and the new, flashy bank building bookending the street and laying Fox Canyon's boundaries bare. The rest of the townspeople's homes were scattered throughout the desert landscape, tiny homesteads cultivating what little fertile land could be found in the desert or staking greedy, preemptive claims on land in hopes of discovering oil or gold.
Neal would take one look at this town, snort through his teeth, and declare it to be just the same as every other town they've hit for the past year. Joey would crack some joke associating the frontier towns with saloon girls: the names and faces were all different, but the inner anatomy all works the same. David would note the juxtaposition of the bank and the church on either ends of the town proper, and remark on which institution was really the root of all evil.
But instead of buildings and walls, Andy saw people.
He saw the pack of children making their way to the one-room schoolhouse next to the church, a shy boy with an infectious smile giving way to his larger, gregarious female friend with a head of dark, corkscrew curls. He saw neighbors welcoming each other with hellos and good mornings, mothers with swaddled newborns and men in tattered yet cherished bowlers, thinking themselves distinguished. He saw young ladies bustling down the street, laughing and gossiping with each other as one held a bouquet of wildflowers in her clenched fist, tied together with a baby pink ribbon.
The most important part of Andy's job, he thought with a respectful tip of his wide-brimmed hat to the passing ladies, garnering another wave of giggles behind demure hands, was that they didn't see him.
Oh, they saw Andy, all right--his ego even wondered if those ladies questioned who that mysterious, handsome stranger was, or if they simply laughed at his attempt to grow a beard--but no one ever noticed him, no one remembered him past initial introductions and a cool yet unassuming smile. It was the way he wanted it, it was the only way his role in the Kings worked: townsfolk were always easygoing with him, always open to a little conversation or less apt to disguise their words lest eavesdroppers be near. Someone with the memory of an ancient might offhandedly recall a traveler passing through the town, gathering supplies like any passer-by. But he had never been connected to the string of bank robberies rolling through the West like a desert thunderstorm, no mention that the notorious Kings might have an inside man. The only rumors of his existence simply told of a fourth man riding with the three known Kings long after a heist, coming from the very few people who saw the men and lived.
Sadly saying his silent goodbyes to the crowd of ladies, Andy made his way to the first of his stops in Fox Canyon, the one place--save for the barber's shop--where his visit was beneficial twofold: in the general store in each town he gathered the Kings' supplies as well as information. Sometimes he wondered if his role was less about being the shadow of the Kings and more about being the delivery boy.
"Never seen you around these parts," the man behind the counter scrutinized Andy's face as he handed over a list of supplies, written carefully to be as inconspicuous as possible; no need to list the bullets they'd need next to the tins of coffee.
Andy knew the drill, could almost recite the same conversations he'd had with dozens of different shopkeeps; despite all their nosiness, not a one could remember his name or face once the Kings blew out of town. "Just passing through," was his answer to everyone, and seemed to satisfy most. "Need some provisions to make it out to California. Could you give me a hand with that list?"
The counter man, a short yet solid man with dirty blond hair and a kind smile, seemed to take Andy's word for it, and beamed not only at a new, temporary face to talk to, but a long list of expensive items in his hand that would satisfy his profits as well. "Sure can, sir!" he said with dollar signs in his eyes; Andy didn't like being called "sir," never settled right with him, but correcting the man would have brought more attention to himself. He let it be with a pleasant nod of his head; must be the beard.
"Name's Jon Peter Lewis; lived in these parts since I was a boy, though, so everyone just calls me JP." The counter man held his hand out for Andy to shake in between gathering the various items on the Kings' list throughout the store, a generous smile on his face. He was talkative, itching for a new face in town; Andy thought this was almost too easy. "We don't get a whole lot of travelers down this way, usually those taking the trip to California head through Ely and take that path west. Where'd you say you were coming from, again?"
Andy smiled, his face completely calm, his actions and thoughts so honed and trained over the years they were near instinctual. He hadn't said where he had come from, he never did, and while it would be easy enough for him to lie and fabricate a hometown--or, hell, he could even say Tulsa if he wanted, he didn't think it would mean much to the happy shopkeeper--Andy knew the less information he told others about himself, the higher chance they'd never even remember he was here. He pointed to a fully stocked shelf high above the shopkeeper's head, an optimistic smile helping JP forget his question was ever asked. They always forgot they asked. "Could I get a pound of the salted bacon, too?" he said expectantly, already knowing his misdirection had worked when JP nodded and hustled to get a ladder. "And a newspaper, if you have."
Jon Peter, however, seemed to be Fox Canyon's one-man welcoming committee. "We've got a great little town here, if you stay a while to check it out," he said as he teetered on the ladder, while Andy watched the industrious passings of the townsfolk and carefully noted in his mind the function of each building along the street, from the telegraph office to the rowdy tavern, already alive with the sounds of spirited, drunken music and the flirtatious calls of saloon girls. JP pointed out the window, to a smaller building across the street. "Barber shop's open till supper; you know old Phil Stacey's got a steady hand with the razor, he's got not a one hair on that dome of his."
That wiped the smile off Andy's face; perhaps it really was time to abandon the beard. Jon Peter didn't seem to notice as he hurried around the store, eager to please a customer with such a long list and happy to have a new face to converse with. "Just don't hitch your horse in front of the bank." His voice turned from chipper to something lower; conspiratorial. Andy knew what what tone always signified, and his ears perked; he didn't even seem to have to try very hard in Fox Canyon, the locals were just about handing him and the Kings the bank. "Mr. Hicks is very particular about having any dung outside his flashy new bank building." The shopkeeper rolled his eyes. "I say, this ain't Saint Peter's gates, you're in a horse town, you better get used to a bit of horse dung!"
But the practicalities of horse dung wasn't the topic in the forefront of Andy's mind. "Who's this Hicks?" he asked, not even trying to circumvent the question. He had a feeling this man could talk all day if Andy let him. "He the banker around here?"
With a flair of his free hand, Jon Peter held out his pinky as he waggled his eyebrows, miming sipping a dainty cup of tea. "That's Mister Taylor Hicks," he corrected with a roll of his eyes; obviously the man had no love for this banker. If the rest of the town felt the same way, Andy considered, perhaps this would be easier than they thought. "Thinks his bank's the Queen's palace or something. Walks around in these suits he brought over from New York; most days you'd think he was walking 'round to get buried, he even out-flashes the undertaker." JP snapped his fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. "He's...oh, what's the word I'm looking for..."
There was one thing Andy had discovered over the years that was universal throughout the Western frontier: whether lawmen, outlaws, or common folk, everyone worked hard for what little they had, and humility and a deep connection to the land made them resent the high societies of the East Coast, the leisure activities of the rich and bored. A man wore a suit for his wedding and his funeral, if he lived long enough to see either; this Taylor Hicks sounded like he was asking to be hated by all of Fox Canyon. "High-fallutin'," Andy contributed. He had only heard that word once but he remembered it well; Neal had used the term when they first met to describe Andy's father.
"Yes!" Jon Peter's face brightened into a full grin; he liked this fellow, though he couldn't recall his name. "High-fallutin'." He seemed satisfied with the answer, and went into a doorway beyond Andy's sightline to find his requested coffee. "And that bank of his, it's even worse than those suits!" he called out behind him as another customer entered the store, an errand boy with a supply list even longer than Andy's. A tall, lanky lad, with startling red hair and a fair, freckled complexion covered by a large hat, the boy looked too old to be a shop boy and too young to be an apprentice; he gulped in air, chest heaving, as if he had just ran the length of the town to get to Lewis's general store. Andy gave him a quick nod as he scrutinized him, feeling less tense about the boy's presence when he received a nod in return, the boy's face red from running and the unforgiving sun.
"How so?" Andy felt bold enough to call back, feeling confident in the quick connection made with the storekeeper. If this kept up, he wouldn't even have to look around any further, this would be all the information he would need.
But the presence of the errand boy caught Jon Peter's attention, and the question went unheeded for now. Andy had learned patience on the job, knowing that not all the answers he wanted would be forthcoming; he had to coax them out of a town sometimes, like a hunter who won't react the moment he sees the deer, but waits for the right moment to strike. "Five more pounds of butter, Mr. Lewis," the boy requested, waving his list in the air. "And some sugar, if you've got any left. Miss Kellie says Miss Carrie's cake is gonna be short on frosting without it."
"I'll get that in a moment, Stevens." It was the first time Andy heard a stern voice from the shopkeeper, who had seemed to be permanently glib and carefree. His life would have been quite different if the worst of Andy's problems was a cocky new banker in town. He turned back to Andy, shaking his head. "Women. Gotta have a damn cake for a wedding. Used up all my stock of sugar for the month on cakes and candies and sugared fruits...women," he said again, chuckling under his breath; Andy joined in, though he wasn't sure if he agreed with that temperament, nor did he know if he ever would.
"It's a girl's big day. Gotta make the bride happy, I guess," Andy reasoned; he remembered his sister Alexis's wedding, the cakes that looked like pink clouds of sugar, the dozens upon dozens of lady fingers drizzled with honey, all surrounding a bride who was very far from happy. He regretted he and Neal leaving before he could say goodbye to her; it was the only thing he ever regretted about leaving.
Jon Peter shook his head again, a firm believer in a life without frills. He would have rather that stock of sugar had gone into making his morning cup of coffee. "It's all so unnecessary," he complained. After the trading post had abandoned the town built around it, the Lewis's goods were the only supply store in the area, and the number of order requests for pricey and completely frivolous items--mostly from the women of the town asking for bolts of expensive fabric or glittery notions of no benefit to a frontier family, but banker Hicks was also a big culprit--made JP skeptical to lavish lifestyles, even if for merely a wedding day. "Like Hicks's bank down near the far end of town, all that shine and finery he's got inside, and still, no substance."
Andy's ears couldn't help but perk up at the resurgence of talk about the bank, particularly when it dealt with the building itself. Paydirt. "Must be a wonder to step inside," he skirted the conversation, danced around the topic expertly. Andy had mastered how to get all of his answers without ever having to ask the questions.
"Oh, it's a marvel of a building, that one," the shopkeeper conceded, but with a cynical undertone. "All the metal in the building's brass, right down to the doorknobs. Polished wood floor smoother than a baby's rear end. Hell, I bet Hicks would have dipped that bank in gold if it was possible." Jon Peter shrugged as he tallied up the items on the Kings' supply list; Andy spotted the requested boxes of ammunition laid down on the wooden countertop next to a sack of cornmeal, surprised that they were retrieved without any further questioning on why he needed more bullets than a typical traveler would use in a year. "But he spent all his effort on the glitz, didn't give a lick of thought to security. The walls are stick-thin and the place looks like it was put together with spit and prayer. I wouldn't trust that bank, or Hicks, for that matter."
The supply tally was completed and Andy handed over the cash without a word, concealing the smile that dared to play upon his lips. He was too expert at this game to reveal this man had just handed him a jackpot.
"Is that your horse outside the store, mister?" the errand boy asked Andy once John Peter disappeared from view into the back room to scour his shelves for the last of the sugar. Andy nodded with a wince; he felt even less comfortable with the term mister than sir. He spent too many years with the three men around him who simply called him Andy. "You might want to keep an extra eye on her," he suggested emphatically. "I heard there's been outlaws around these parts."
"Don't scare the man with that talk, John," chided JP's distant voice; Andy raised his eyebrows, his thoughts on alert. He hadn't thought anyone had seen the Kings come around these parts from their last heist, save that kid from California that David seemed intent on keeping around as some sort of gladhand. They were confident that their camp was miles away from anyone out searching for them, but their last heist showed them all that they couldn't account for every factor, that they could never be completely safe. Andy became keenly conscious at the revolver holstered at his side; even if his cover as the shadow of the Kings wasn't yet blown, he wouldn't be able to stand here gossiping with the locals if he heard news that the others were in trouble.
"That's what the bullets are for," Andy chuckled, his attempt at a joke keeping Jon Peter at ease and unsuspecting. John Stevens, on the other hand, whose grandmother never let him come close to a gun, much less familiarize himself with one, took it as Andy's serious precaution.
"It's true!" he exclaimed, sky blue eyes bright and wide as saucers, eager in a far different way from the shopkeeper. He had been cooped up indoors all day, forced to listen to the tittering gossip of the young ladies of Fox Canyon while they whipped, baked, stirred and sewed, the unlucky boy to be on-hand for all their errand-running needs. It was only a matter of time before the stories those girls told permeated into his head, too. "Miss Pickler said one of her brothers heard it from a trader in Fuller's Ridge; said the town was robbed, bank plum cleaned out, sheriff nearly shot dead. They said..." Stevens took a deep gulp of air, too scared himself to name those outlaws aloud; Andy didn't think the boy had enough knowledge to create dramatic pauses deliberately. "...they said it was the Kings."
That was more than enough to catch the shopkeeper's attention, as well as the newcomer traveler whose hairs stood at the nape of his neck, though his face remained motionless with a friendly half-smile. Andy never gave away his emotions on his face while in a town, he couldn't, not when he had worked so hard to remain undetected and unnoticed. But in his mind, thoughts raced on what exactly the previous town was buzzing about the famed outlaws, if there were suddenly questions over how the Kings knew when and where to strike; if anyone thought there could have been more to the robbery than three men and a sack of cash. Andy wished he could be at ease with the gang's fame like David was, wondered if he'd ever read the newspaper articles sensationalizing their exploits and not scan the text first for ominous mentions of a fourth rider.
Jon Peter's eyes widened as he emerged from the back room, his hands empty but his face full of expression, a mix of fear and awe simply from hearing the notorious outlaw gang's name. "You don't say..." His eyes shifted instinctively to the window, the streets as sunny and carefree as they had been a moment ago, but now the man saw the potential for danger there, for trouble. One's world was always free of threats until the suggestion of threat was brought to one's mind. "D'you think they could be coming down here next?"
Another red flag; another question Andy kept silent for. He wanted to see how this conversation panned out, wanted to know what the town knew about the Kings' whereabouts. At best, he could ride out to them tonight, warn them of the rumbles and suspicions running through Fox Canyon and choose to pick a less prepared and less chatty town; and at worst...at worst, Andy was still aware of the gun at his side.
"Gosh, I hope not," Stevens's voice wavered; the Kings' reputation preceded them in every frontier town in the West, and their rumored ruthlessness caused chills of fright to run through even the bravest of men. Neither soul in the general store noticed that Andy received no such chill. "Miss Pickler said her brothers heard talk of them leaving south from Fuller's Ridge. They could be headin' straight for us." Jon Peter's gaze turned to the window again, as if mere talk of the outlaws could cause them to appear, or coax a King out of hiding in order to steal this unassuming traveler's horse right out from under him. Andy resented that thought; the Kings were bank robbers, not rank horse thieves, and they'd never hold up a common general store. Even outlaws had their standards.
The agitation and fear evident on John Stevens's face caused concern to stir in Andy's mind; he didn't care a lick about the boy's well-being, but he could tell the ladies of Fox Canyon weren't the only gossips in town. With the long list of errands in his hand an indication, John was about to make his way through half the buildings and stores on the whole avenue, undoubtedly chatting and relaying this information to the rest of the town. Whether it was met with fear, panic or incredulity, the warnings would certainly be heeded, and the last thing Andy needed was to have a whole town on alert for fear of a band of bank robbers--exactly when the Kings were preparing to strike. He wasn't one to meddle with the affairs of townsfolk, but this appeared to be a necessary circumstance.
"Fuller's Ridge?" Andy asked, as if the name sounded vaguely familiar to him but wasn't a part of his everyday vernacular. "That town's north of here, ain't it? About half a day's ride?" Both the shopkeeper and the errand boy nodded, their eyes on Andy but their minds imagining the horrible, unspeakable deeds that could befall their small town if outlaws came to target them. It was certainly time to redirect those thoughts before they spread to the rest of the town, particularly that ostentatious banker. "I just came from there; spent a night at their inn, heard the whole place buzzing with talk of the Kings."
Instantly he had their attention: the errand boy's eyes widened even larger than before, his mouth dropping open unconsciously, while Jon Peter leaned over his wooden countertop so much Andy thought he'd topple right over. "D'you know what happened?" he asked; the trail of information by word of mouth was more trusted in these parts than anything in paper and ink, and usually arrived faster. "Was it actually the Kings? Did their sheriff really get shot near dead?"
"Did anyone else get hurt?" John Stevens was almost too frightened to ask.
Andy recalled his own memories of Fuller's Ridge, the heist that was supposed to go flawlessly but something went off-plan. He had been lazy, he blamed himself; too much time spent in the saloon and not enough time casing the bank. The streets were supposed to be empty as David, Neal and Joey hit the bank right before it opened for business, but the doors to the building's back room had been reinforced with new steel locks just arrived from Pittsburgh, and the terrified bank owner couldn't remember how to manage them, especially when under the pressure of David Cook's revolver at the back of his head. Andy hadn't seen what had transpired in the bank but he remembered hearing the sounds of gunfire echo off the bank's walls, remembered his heart ceasing to beat, his lungs to breathe, until he saw all three of his partners escape with barely enough time to evade the sheriff's posse. He remembered counting down the minutes in his own agitation before he could escape the town and make it back to the others, forcing himself to make appearances and act as shocked as the rest of the town so as not to cast any suspicion his way. He had seen the sheriff after the Dr. had been through with him, a bullet wound clear through his firing forearm; it'd have to be amputated, and the sheriff was lucky enough that Fuller's Ridge boasted its own town physician.
He remembered David's stony expression as he washed the banker's blood from his hands and clothes, never speaking of what happened in the bank's back room to any of the Kings.
But of course, that wasn't the kind of story he meant to share with these men. "It shook the town up quite a bit, that's for sure," he downplayed the townsfolk's panic after the Kings blew through; no need to spread that sort of sentiment into Fox Canyon. But they didn't have to know everything, either. "I showed up long after they had gone, but a few of the men there said they saw them riding out of town, heading north, not south. No one could have caught up to them by then, but they saw them, clear as day."
"Really?" Jon Peter hung on his every word, their conversation much more important now than the idle gossip they were sharing about Hicks before. Why, that was just JP blowing off a bit of steam about the pompous banker, but this...this could be a cause for concern and security for the whole town. He turned to the errand boy with an accusatory tone. "Who did you say told you the Kings were riding south?" Stevens repeated that it had been one of Miss Pickler's brothers, or any combination of them, really, as Miss Pickler hadn't specified when she unraveled her yarn of a tale to the rest of the wedding party. He gulped as Jon Peter narrowed his eyes and shook his head in doubt. "Those Pickler boys," he said with a disappointed sneer; with their long histories of underachievement and laziness, he would rather take a stranger's word over the third-hand testimonies of those boys.
He turned back to Andy for confirmation; the earnest look on his face, and that of John Stevens, told Andy all he needed to know. These men were going to believe anything he said so long as it meant they were safe from the danger of the Kings. "They headed north, you say?" he asked.
Andy nodded as he gathered up his supplies from the counter. "Don't think you're gonna have that kind of trouble around these parts; not from that gang, at least." The shopkeeper and the boy heaved near simultaneous sighs of relief, the constant threat of the wild, violent frontier abated for the moment. Andy could just imagine that freckled errand boy returning with his charge of butter and sugar, bringing with him good news to spread to the rest of Fox Canyon, reaching the ears of even the sheriff and his deputies, and even Hicks, the flashy banker.
This town wasn't going to know what hit them.
Chapter 3
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Skibmann, various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: I have been working on this story for the past six months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it :D What started out as a fledgling idea grew to be a huge AU and I'm very grateful to share it with you. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
"You all know the people can't get along very well in the world. There are some good people and some bad people amongst them." - The Apache Kid
Feed and water the horses. Loosen their tethers so they won't be so wild when you start to ride. Douse and dirt the fire; scatter the ashes to make it look natural instead of a campfire. Don't forget to fence the pen or the cows may start to wander.
Well, he didn't have to remember that last detail anymore, but all the rest of Kyle's knowledge he picked up on the ranch was certainly being put to good use that morning. He had risen before both the sun and the other men in order to set everything in motion for a quick departure. After the murmur of men's voices died down the night before and Kyle was sure the meeting of the Kings had ended, David walked over to him, a slow, deliberate pace that seemed to calm the horses even more in the dark night, quickly evaluated Sugarfoot's condition, and gave a content nod in Kyle's direction, the biggest compliment the young man thought he'd received from the outlaw that night. When David told him he had done a good enough job, and that he'd get to the other horses in the morning, Kyle had to restrain himself from jumping for joy; it meant that they had decided to keep him there at least until the morning; if some of the Kings had gotten their way, Kyle had feared his life wouldn't last the night.
David hadn't told him the final verdict of the Kings, but from the hint of a smile in his eyes, Kyle knew the news he awaited with the dawn would be monumental.
Considering he still had a morning to wake up to and wasn't offed sometime during the night due to the gang's change of heart, Kyle believed things could only get better. All he had to do now was make good on his claims, everything he had told David he could do, everything he promised the night before in order to convince the other men he was worth keeping around. He hadn't thought that his life as an outlaw would start by hauling the night's horse dung from the camp and preparing breakfast, but if that was what it took to win the trust of the Kings, Kyle Peek would do just about anything.
The inky blackness of the Nevada sky was slowly giving way to the rising sun, the purple and indigo patterns stretching over the horizon so different from the cloudless blue skies of California Kyle had known all his life. His mind raced with the imaginative possibilities of other skies, of horizons broken by the cliffs and mountains of Arizona, of the flat yet majestic landscapes he'd heard about in Missouri. While the details of their journeys differed with every newspaper he read and bystander he interviewed, the one thing each story got straight was that the Kings were indeed well-traveled, hitting banks within the frontier territories and border states alike. Before he made the decision to leave his ranch life behind, Kyle had never seen any land beyond the grassy hills of his home; now, the dusty, desolate dirt underneath his feet and the quickly rising sun promised him a whole world to see.
But first, he thought with an excitement coiling in his limbs as he kicked the dead fire's sodden ashes into the brush, he had a camp to strike.
He had noticed quickly when he awoke, before his eyes could adjust to the violet hues of pre-dawn, before his memory could even remind him of the luck and good fortune that befell him the previous night; one of the Kings was missing. The calm, mysterious one dressed all in black, who expressed displeasure in the thought of killing Kyle last night but showed no love towards him otherwise--he and his horse were gone, leaving even less of a trace of their departure than Kyle could erase. The many dismissed rumors and tales of the supposed fourth rider in the Kings gang buzzed in his head as he had awoken; perhaps he had only imagined there was a fourth rider? One could have never been certain, but Kyle was pretty sure when a man's got expert revolvers cocked and aimed at him and he lives to see the next Nevada morning, he's pretty accurate about how many revolvers there actually were.
He would ask about the fourth King's disappearance, the man he had heard David call Andy last night--that is, if it all hadn't been one big desert hallucination--but the stares and glowers he was receiving, particularly from the menacing Dr., kept his inquisitive nature at bay. Neal awoke grumpy and his mood had not improved during breakfast or while packing up camp; on the contrary, Kyle noticed he became more irritable as the sun rose higher from the horizon line, a gruff silence acting as an invisible barrier, separating him even from his fellow Kings. Apart from making a mental note to keep his distance lest the tattooed man decide he truly did want to shoot Kyle, the young man paid little attention to Neal's sour mood; perhaps, he thought he'd learn, Neal was simply always like this.
"I see the horses are ready," David said as he approached, taking a quick but scrutinizing eye over Kyle's work with the campsite, noting with silent approval that it was as if no one ever slept there the night before. After he had tended to David's horse before daybreak, Kyle made sure the others were taken care of, checking their shoes and brushing the desert dust from their coats while familiarizing himself with the horses, speaking in soft, calming tones to let the horses get familiar with him as well. He was planning on doing this job for quite a while.
The younger man beamed at David, proud of his early morning work and more than pleased that the outlaw was appreciating it, even in his own, understated way. Kyle didn't expect compliments from the Kings but he wanted to prove to them nevertheless that he would be a definite asset to keep around. "Fed, watered, and groomed," he announced; Gangles was keyed in to the happiness in his voice and stamped the ground with a hoof in approval. He moved over to a speckled black and white horse, massive in stature, yet genial and gentled towards Kyle's already trusted hands. "This old boy had a rock caught in his shoe; I'm no blacksmith but I think I got it out alright, good enough to ride." He patted the horse's lean flank as David raised an eyebrow, observing. "Who belongs to this one?"
David jutted his chin out at the familiar horse, who nodded and snorted in response, bringing a half smile to the outlaw's face. He may not have been David's horse, but they sure had been through a lot over the years; they all had. "That's Sixx," he announced. "He's the Dr.'s horse."
Like a shock of sparks ran through the horse and into Kyle's arm, he jolted his hand away, quickly separating himself from the horses so they wouldn't recognize his alarm. He was not looking to get on that man's bad side that day, and although he knew with confidence he had taken good care of Sixx, he wasn't taking any chances. He hoped David didn't notice, but that was underestimating the outlaw; there was very little David Cook didn't notice. "It's probably a good idea to give Neal a...wide berth today," he agreed with the unspoken look of uncertainty on Kyle's face, knowing the kid wasn't one of Neal's favorite people to begin with.
Two pairs of eyes both darted over to the far side of camp, where Neal sat, perched atop a fallen petrified log, his eyes small, irritated slits as he smoked his third cigarette in fifteen minutes. "Is something wrong?" Kyle asked tentatively; he had already decided not to deliberately encounter Neal too often that day, only when necessary, but perhaps it was something serious if the leader of the Kings was making note of Neal's sour mood.
Shrugging with an apparent indifference that masked his true mood, David answered with caution, knowing the kid was only naturally inquisitive, but also knowing Neal wouldn't want him revealing his life story quite yet. "He just gets..." he hesitated, trying to find the right word; "restless" understated it, while "bitchy" could give Kyle the wrong idea. "...testy, when Andy's not around. Usually it's not this bad, but he gets worse when there's nothing else to focus on."
Kyle's eyes narrowed as he processed David's advice, and the meaning in between each word, like a hidden puzzle. His mind wasn't on Neal's temperament at all. "What do you mean, nothing to focus on?" he asked incredulously. "Aren't we riding out soon? The sun's already up, and -"
"Yeah, about that." David scratched his head conspicuously, his eyes to the ground. It wasn't that he had wanted to lie to the kid, but sometimes he learned these things were necessary; a leader's discretion, something he could have only learned while on the run, granting through experience who could be trusted, and who could not. "We're not heading out today; we're close enough to the outskirts of town, any closer and we'd be easily spotted, campfire or not. Today, we just wait for Andy to come back from town, which, hell, even gets me on edge, but it's become a necessary kind of boredom. Besides, waiting around, twiddling our thumbs...it's a lot easier job than what he's doing right now."
There was talk again of this Andy, the fourth rider, the one that, at least now, Kyle knew wasn't a hallucination. He was still a mystery to the Californian, but he was beginning to get the feeling that was the whole point of Andy Skib; to be a mystery, at best. But that wasn't at the forefront of his mind right now. "You mean I just ran around like crazy trying to clean up camp for nothing?"
It wasn't the best idea to raise your voice at a murderous outlaw, one who had held a gun to your head the night before and was keeping you alive against the advice of his other, also murderous, outlaw friends solely to flawlessly clean up camp and tend the horses. Kyle thought of this only after he had done it, a sinking feeling in his gut once he shut his mouth and watched David's complacent half-smile fade from his face. He truly hoped that sinking feeling wasn't the last sensation he'd ever have on Earth.
"I had you clean up camp," David's voice was eerily even, emotionless; calculating. Kyle couldn't glean anything from it, and he wasn't too proud to say it frightened him. "Because I wanted to see if you were lying when you told me you could make our camps untraceable. You were trying to save your own skin, and I respected that; but if you crossed me and my boys, we would have trouble." Kyle gulped, a knot forming in his throat at the thought of what these outlaws could have actually done to him if they deemed him "trouble". "And I wasn't going to test you when we actually had to go anywhere. So I figured today would be the perfect time to see if you were being square with me last night."
Kyle was almost too nervous to ask. "And?"
David's grim expression gave way to a sly, wide smile; like the night before, when Kyle had not backed down from the Kings' locked and loaded guns at his back or turned tail when he had the chance, the kid wasn't failing to impress him. "If you can shoot like you can strike camp, I might have to replace the Dr. as my sharpshooter point man."
It was more of a compliment than Kyle ever imagined he would receive from the Kings, especially after just mouthing off to their leader, and for the second time in less than a day he felt on top of the world. It didn't matter to him that David played that clever trick to test his worth, or that it meant waiting, sedentary, for the rest of the day; his hard work was praised and he knew he had proven himself. The Kings might just keep him around, after all.
The older man held his hands up, slowing down the rolling build of Kyle's excitement before he got too pleased with himself; David would have to note that the kid seemed to take compliments very seriously. "Don't celebrate yet," he warned, his tone turning grave. "You did a solid job this morning, but I need you to do it again tomorrow, when it really counts. As good as this -" he waved his hand out towards camp, which looked nothing like the remains of a traveling party; even Kyle had to admit he had outdone himself. He watched the far side of camp as Joey approached Neal with a genial punch on the arm, then retreated from the deathly glare he received from the blond. Neal was on his fourth cigarette of the morning. "Better than this. They can't tell where we've been; they can't tell where we're going."
The "they" was vague and never detailed, but Kyle knew well enough not to pry further; David was being vague for the necessity, because the four men never knew exactly who might be on their trail or if they would ever be discovered, be it greedy bounty hunters, ruthless lawmen, or a hapless, enthusiastic ranch hand from California seeking more out of life. He was simply ecstatic to be considered part of the "we" David spoke about. Better "we" than "they."
"So tomorrow, are you..." Kyle began to ask, his inquisitive nature seeming to always take over when in the presence of David Cook; there was so much he wanted to learn about the outlaw life, so much the Kings could teach him about adventure and really living, and so far their leader was the only one to give Kyle the time of day. He knew what he wanted to ask but the words couldn't come, wouldn't show themselves to the light of the dawn. He supposed only townsfolk and the gossipers of the frontier called the crimes outlaws committed by their names: stagecoach holdups, horse thievery; bank robberies. The outlaws themselves just knew the acts as their job.
David gave no indication either way on the subject, just a slight shrug to display his indifference. "Depends on what information Andy's got for us." The four Kings knew the outline of their plan, it never wavered from one town to the next unless new information was discovered, and different factors were determined. The details were all different but Joey and Neal considered each heist to be the same: bust in, wave a few guns around, collect the cash, and make a spectacular getaway, killing anyone that would get in their way. But the devil was in the details, and Andy Skib made sure to introduce himself to that devil in the saloons and general stores of each town they hit. David wasn't into the fundamentals nor the details, but he understood the necessity of both; perhaps that was what made him the gang's born leader.
It seemed much of the operations of the Kings hinged upon Andy Skib; Kyle had started calling the man in his head "the fourth rider," though he felt soon enough that moniker would prove to be incorrect. The outlaw that no one in the public was sure even existed was definitely an integral part to their gang, but Kyle was still not sure just how important he may have been. "What does he do?"
He was also learning--quite quickly, he thought, but he had always been one to catch on fast, even at the ranch--that when David Cook shrugged, his face a glib, mysterious canvas that gave nothing away, things may not always be what they seem. "He's our eyes and ears in the town," David said, a bit proudly, and though he would take the observation to his grave, Kyle swore the outlaw puffed out his chest ever so slightly while mentioning the gang's well-planned and perfected operations. "He goes in, buys some provisions, does a little bit of talking, mostly spends his time listening. Finds out how the town works, what makes them tick; sees what'll work to our advantage, and brings all that back. Then we plan what we do next."
Kyle's eyes grew wide with wonder as he let those thoughts sink into his head: the fourth rider of the Kings, overlooked and often dismissed by the public at large, was always among them, riding into town under everyone's attention, gathering information while still remaining pleasant, unmemorable, and unknown. "He's like a shadow," he said, before his mind could stop the words from escaping his mouth.
David couldn't help but laugh; it was the first time he was seeing an outsider's observation of Andy up close, one that he hadn't read in the newspapers chronicling their criminal exploits. It was Andy himself who picked those up while in town, making sure to take a copy or two if there was any mention of him. "No," he replied offhandedly; Kyle would find out soon enough that Andy was no mystery, none of them were; he'd start to feel at home soon enough to lose this feeling of mystique that made Neal think of him as green. "He's just Andy."
***
Andy Skib contemplated getting a shave. He scratched at his jawline as he rode into town, feeling the thick, coarse stubble that was quickly turning into a full beard from his neglect. He had been teetering back and forth between a clear complexion and a beard, typically noncomittal on either front; he asked Neal's opinion once, and only received a warm, playfully mocking laugh in response, the sharpshooter ruffling his hair and warning him not to become a playboy.
He shrugged to himself, slowing his chestnut horse, Vera down to a walk as the sounds of people and horses and the unmistakable buzzing of a town visited his ears. He could always make a stop at the barber's while he was in, though David would probably joke he should have gotten an updo to match, and apart from the churches and saloons, the barber shops gleaned the most of what he wanted.
Each town was different, Andy knew this, and he never merely meant the Main Street layouts or the location of the bank on each wood-carved avenue; he never meant just the features the other Kings saw, the thickness of a bank's front doors or the corners and crevices where a shooter could hide. Every town had a story, and with those stories came different people, with desires and goals...and fears. Andy took all of this into account, recorded in his mind the physical schematics of a town as well as its personal climate, factors he always tried to tug and pull to his advantage.
Most people in any town, he found universally over the past years, had the same fear: the Kings.
Andy tethered Vera to a post along the main road in and out of Fox Canyon, a tiny frontier town David predicted would teeter and yield to them faster than the new kid could probably heat up their dinner. Built around an old Indian trading post that had long since disappeared along with the Indians, the town itself was, at most, two dozen wooden buildings lined up along a fat artery through town, with the whitewashed planks of the church and the new, flashy bank building bookending the street and laying Fox Canyon's boundaries bare. The rest of the townspeople's homes were scattered throughout the desert landscape, tiny homesteads cultivating what little fertile land could be found in the desert or staking greedy, preemptive claims on land in hopes of discovering oil or gold.
Neal would take one look at this town, snort through his teeth, and declare it to be just the same as every other town they've hit for the past year. Joey would crack some joke associating the frontier towns with saloon girls: the names and faces were all different, but the inner anatomy all works the same. David would note the juxtaposition of the bank and the church on either ends of the town proper, and remark on which institution was really the root of all evil.
But instead of buildings and walls, Andy saw people.
He saw the pack of children making their way to the one-room schoolhouse next to the church, a shy boy with an infectious smile giving way to his larger, gregarious female friend with a head of dark, corkscrew curls. He saw neighbors welcoming each other with hellos and good mornings, mothers with swaddled newborns and men in tattered yet cherished bowlers, thinking themselves distinguished. He saw young ladies bustling down the street, laughing and gossiping with each other as one held a bouquet of wildflowers in her clenched fist, tied together with a baby pink ribbon.
The most important part of Andy's job, he thought with a respectful tip of his wide-brimmed hat to the passing ladies, garnering another wave of giggles behind demure hands, was that they didn't see him.
Oh, they saw Andy, all right--his ego even wondered if those ladies questioned who that mysterious, handsome stranger was, or if they simply laughed at his attempt to grow a beard--but no one ever noticed him, no one remembered him past initial introductions and a cool yet unassuming smile. It was the way he wanted it, it was the only way his role in the Kings worked: townsfolk were always easygoing with him, always open to a little conversation or less apt to disguise their words lest eavesdroppers be near. Someone with the memory of an ancient might offhandedly recall a traveler passing through the town, gathering supplies like any passer-by. But he had never been connected to the string of bank robberies rolling through the West like a desert thunderstorm, no mention that the notorious Kings might have an inside man. The only rumors of his existence simply told of a fourth man riding with the three known Kings long after a heist, coming from the very few people who saw the men and lived.
Sadly saying his silent goodbyes to the crowd of ladies, Andy made his way to the first of his stops in Fox Canyon, the one place--save for the barber's shop--where his visit was beneficial twofold: in the general store in each town he gathered the Kings' supplies as well as information. Sometimes he wondered if his role was less about being the shadow of the Kings and more about being the delivery boy.
"Never seen you around these parts," the man behind the counter scrutinized Andy's face as he handed over a list of supplies, written carefully to be as inconspicuous as possible; no need to list the bullets they'd need next to the tins of coffee.
Andy knew the drill, could almost recite the same conversations he'd had with dozens of different shopkeeps; despite all their nosiness, not a one could remember his name or face once the Kings blew out of town. "Just passing through," was his answer to everyone, and seemed to satisfy most. "Need some provisions to make it out to California. Could you give me a hand with that list?"
The counter man, a short yet solid man with dirty blond hair and a kind smile, seemed to take Andy's word for it, and beamed not only at a new, temporary face to talk to, but a long list of expensive items in his hand that would satisfy his profits as well. "Sure can, sir!" he said with dollar signs in his eyes; Andy didn't like being called "sir," never settled right with him, but correcting the man would have brought more attention to himself. He let it be with a pleasant nod of his head; must be the beard.
"Name's Jon Peter Lewis; lived in these parts since I was a boy, though, so everyone just calls me JP." The counter man held his hand out for Andy to shake in between gathering the various items on the Kings' list throughout the store, a generous smile on his face. He was talkative, itching for a new face in town; Andy thought this was almost too easy. "We don't get a whole lot of travelers down this way, usually those taking the trip to California head through Ely and take that path west. Where'd you say you were coming from, again?"
Andy smiled, his face completely calm, his actions and thoughts so honed and trained over the years they were near instinctual. He hadn't said where he had come from, he never did, and while it would be easy enough for him to lie and fabricate a hometown--or, hell, he could even say Tulsa if he wanted, he didn't think it would mean much to the happy shopkeeper--Andy knew the less information he told others about himself, the higher chance they'd never even remember he was here. He pointed to a fully stocked shelf high above the shopkeeper's head, an optimistic smile helping JP forget his question was ever asked. They always forgot they asked. "Could I get a pound of the salted bacon, too?" he said expectantly, already knowing his misdirection had worked when JP nodded and hustled to get a ladder. "And a newspaper, if you have."
Jon Peter, however, seemed to be Fox Canyon's one-man welcoming committee. "We've got a great little town here, if you stay a while to check it out," he said as he teetered on the ladder, while Andy watched the industrious passings of the townsfolk and carefully noted in his mind the function of each building along the street, from the telegraph office to the rowdy tavern, already alive with the sounds of spirited, drunken music and the flirtatious calls of saloon girls. JP pointed out the window, to a smaller building across the street. "Barber shop's open till supper; you know old Phil Stacey's got a steady hand with the razor, he's got not a one hair on that dome of his."
That wiped the smile off Andy's face; perhaps it really was time to abandon the beard. Jon Peter didn't seem to notice as he hurried around the store, eager to please a customer with such a long list and happy to have a new face to converse with. "Just don't hitch your horse in front of the bank." His voice turned from chipper to something lower; conspiratorial. Andy knew what what tone always signified, and his ears perked; he didn't even seem to have to try very hard in Fox Canyon, the locals were just about handing him and the Kings the bank. "Mr. Hicks is very particular about having any dung outside his flashy new bank building." The shopkeeper rolled his eyes. "I say, this ain't Saint Peter's gates, you're in a horse town, you better get used to a bit of horse dung!"
But the practicalities of horse dung wasn't the topic in the forefront of Andy's mind. "Who's this Hicks?" he asked, not even trying to circumvent the question. He had a feeling this man could talk all day if Andy let him. "He the banker around here?"
With a flair of his free hand, Jon Peter held out his pinky as he waggled his eyebrows, miming sipping a dainty cup of tea. "That's Mister Taylor Hicks," he corrected with a roll of his eyes; obviously the man had no love for this banker. If the rest of the town felt the same way, Andy considered, perhaps this would be easier than they thought. "Thinks his bank's the Queen's palace or something. Walks around in these suits he brought over from New York; most days you'd think he was walking 'round to get buried, he even out-flashes the undertaker." JP snapped his fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. "He's...oh, what's the word I'm looking for..."
There was one thing Andy had discovered over the years that was universal throughout the Western frontier: whether lawmen, outlaws, or common folk, everyone worked hard for what little they had, and humility and a deep connection to the land made them resent the high societies of the East Coast, the leisure activities of the rich and bored. A man wore a suit for his wedding and his funeral, if he lived long enough to see either; this Taylor Hicks sounded like he was asking to be hated by all of Fox Canyon. "High-fallutin'," Andy contributed. He had only heard that word once but he remembered it well; Neal had used the term when they first met to describe Andy's father.
"Yes!" Jon Peter's face brightened into a full grin; he liked this fellow, though he couldn't recall his name. "High-fallutin'." He seemed satisfied with the answer, and went into a doorway beyond Andy's sightline to find his requested coffee. "And that bank of his, it's even worse than those suits!" he called out behind him as another customer entered the store, an errand boy with a supply list even longer than Andy's. A tall, lanky lad, with startling red hair and a fair, freckled complexion covered by a large hat, the boy looked too old to be a shop boy and too young to be an apprentice; he gulped in air, chest heaving, as if he had just ran the length of the town to get to Lewis's general store. Andy gave him a quick nod as he scrutinized him, feeling less tense about the boy's presence when he received a nod in return, the boy's face red from running and the unforgiving sun.
"How so?" Andy felt bold enough to call back, feeling confident in the quick connection made with the storekeeper. If this kept up, he wouldn't even have to look around any further, this would be all the information he would need.
But the presence of the errand boy caught Jon Peter's attention, and the question went unheeded for now. Andy had learned patience on the job, knowing that not all the answers he wanted would be forthcoming; he had to coax them out of a town sometimes, like a hunter who won't react the moment he sees the deer, but waits for the right moment to strike. "Five more pounds of butter, Mr. Lewis," the boy requested, waving his list in the air. "And some sugar, if you've got any left. Miss Kellie says Miss Carrie's cake is gonna be short on frosting without it."
"I'll get that in a moment, Stevens." It was the first time Andy heard a stern voice from the shopkeeper, who had seemed to be permanently glib and carefree. His life would have been quite different if the worst of Andy's problems was a cocky new banker in town. He turned back to Andy, shaking his head. "Women. Gotta have a damn cake for a wedding. Used up all my stock of sugar for the month on cakes and candies and sugared fruits...women," he said again, chuckling under his breath; Andy joined in, though he wasn't sure if he agreed with that temperament, nor did he know if he ever would.
"It's a girl's big day. Gotta make the bride happy, I guess," Andy reasoned; he remembered his sister Alexis's wedding, the cakes that looked like pink clouds of sugar, the dozens upon dozens of lady fingers drizzled with honey, all surrounding a bride who was very far from happy. He regretted he and Neal leaving before he could say goodbye to her; it was the only thing he ever regretted about leaving.
Jon Peter shook his head again, a firm believer in a life without frills. He would have rather that stock of sugar had gone into making his morning cup of coffee. "It's all so unnecessary," he complained. After the trading post had abandoned the town built around it, the Lewis's goods were the only supply store in the area, and the number of order requests for pricey and completely frivolous items--mostly from the women of the town asking for bolts of expensive fabric or glittery notions of no benefit to a frontier family, but banker Hicks was also a big culprit--made JP skeptical to lavish lifestyles, even if for merely a wedding day. "Like Hicks's bank down near the far end of town, all that shine and finery he's got inside, and still, no substance."
Andy's ears couldn't help but perk up at the resurgence of talk about the bank, particularly when it dealt with the building itself. Paydirt. "Must be a wonder to step inside," he skirted the conversation, danced around the topic expertly. Andy had mastered how to get all of his answers without ever having to ask the questions.
"Oh, it's a marvel of a building, that one," the shopkeeper conceded, but with a cynical undertone. "All the metal in the building's brass, right down to the doorknobs. Polished wood floor smoother than a baby's rear end. Hell, I bet Hicks would have dipped that bank in gold if it was possible." Jon Peter shrugged as he tallied up the items on the Kings' supply list; Andy spotted the requested boxes of ammunition laid down on the wooden countertop next to a sack of cornmeal, surprised that they were retrieved without any further questioning on why he needed more bullets than a typical traveler would use in a year. "But he spent all his effort on the glitz, didn't give a lick of thought to security. The walls are stick-thin and the place looks like it was put together with spit and prayer. I wouldn't trust that bank, or Hicks, for that matter."
The supply tally was completed and Andy handed over the cash without a word, concealing the smile that dared to play upon his lips. He was too expert at this game to reveal this man had just handed him a jackpot.
"Is that your horse outside the store, mister?" the errand boy asked Andy once John Peter disappeared from view into the back room to scour his shelves for the last of the sugar. Andy nodded with a wince; he felt even less comfortable with the term mister than sir. He spent too many years with the three men around him who simply called him Andy. "You might want to keep an extra eye on her," he suggested emphatically. "I heard there's been outlaws around these parts."
"Don't scare the man with that talk, John," chided JP's distant voice; Andy raised his eyebrows, his thoughts on alert. He hadn't thought anyone had seen the Kings come around these parts from their last heist, save that kid from California that David seemed intent on keeping around as some sort of gladhand. They were confident that their camp was miles away from anyone out searching for them, but their last heist showed them all that they couldn't account for every factor, that they could never be completely safe. Andy became keenly conscious at the revolver holstered at his side; even if his cover as the shadow of the Kings wasn't yet blown, he wouldn't be able to stand here gossiping with the locals if he heard news that the others were in trouble.
"That's what the bullets are for," Andy chuckled, his attempt at a joke keeping Jon Peter at ease and unsuspecting. John Stevens, on the other hand, whose grandmother never let him come close to a gun, much less familiarize himself with one, took it as Andy's serious precaution.
"It's true!" he exclaimed, sky blue eyes bright and wide as saucers, eager in a far different way from the shopkeeper. He had been cooped up indoors all day, forced to listen to the tittering gossip of the young ladies of Fox Canyon while they whipped, baked, stirred and sewed, the unlucky boy to be on-hand for all their errand-running needs. It was only a matter of time before the stories those girls told permeated into his head, too. "Miss Pickler said one of her brothers heard it from a trader in Fuller's Ridge; said the town was robbed, bank plum cleaned out, sheriff nearly shot dead. They said..." Stevens took a deep gulp of air, too scared himself to name those outlaws aloud; Andy didn't think the boy had enough knowledge to create dramatic pauses deliberately. "...they said it was the Kings."
That was more than enough to catch the shopkeeper's attention, as well as the newcomer traveler whose hairs stood at the nape of his neck, though his face remained motionless with a friendly half-smile. Andy never gave away his emotions on his face while in a town, he couldn't, not when he had worked so hard to remain undetected and unnoticed. But in his mind, thoughts raced on what exactly the previous town was buzzing about the famed outlaws, if there were suddenly questions over how the Kings knew when and where to strike; if anyone thought there could have been more to the robbery than three men and a sack of cash. Andy wished he could be at ease with the gang's fame like David was, wondered if he'd ever read the newspaper articles sensationalizing their exploits and not scan the text first for ominous mentions of a fourth rider.
Jon Peter's eyes widened as he emerged from the back room, his hands empty but his face full of expression, a mix of fear and awe simply from hearing the notorious outlaw gang's name. "You don't say..." His eyes shifted instinctively to the window, the streets as sunny and carefree as they had been a moment ago, but now the man saw the potential for danger there, for trouble. One's world was always free of threats until the suggestion of threat was brought to one's mind. "D'you think they could be coming down here next?"
Another red flag; another question Andy kept silent for. He wanted to see how this conversation panned out, wanted to know what the town knew about the Kings' whereabouts. At best, he could ride out to them tonight, warn them of the rumbles and suspicions running through Fox Canyon and choose to pick a less prepared and less chatty town; and at worst...at worst, Andy was still aware of the gun at his side.
"Gosh, I hope not," Stevens's voice wavered; the Kings' reputation preceded them in every frontier town in the West, and their rumored ruthlessness caused chills of fright to run through even the bravest of men. Neither soul in the general store noticed that Andy received no such chill. "Miss Pickler said her brothers heard talk of them leaving south from Fuller's Ridge. They could be headin' straight for us." Jon Peter's gaze turned to the window again, as if mere talk of the outlaws could cause them to appear, or coax a King out of hiding in order to steal this unassuming traveler's horse right out from under him. Andy resented that thought; the Kings were bank robbers, not rank horse thieves, and they'd never hold up a common general store. Even outlaws had their standards.
The agitation and fear evident on John Stevens's face caused concern to stir in Andy's mind; he didn't care a lick about the boy's well-being, but he could tell the ladies of Fox Canyon weren't the only gossips in town. With the long list of errands in his hand an indication, John was about to make his way through half the buildings and stores on the whole avenue, undoubtedly chatting and relaying this information to the rest of the town. Whether it was met with fear, panic or incredulity, the warnings would certainly be heeded, and the last thing Andy needed was to have a whole town on alert for fear of a band of bank robbers--exactly when the Kings were preparing to strike. He wasn't one to meddle with the affairs of townsfolk, but this appeared to be a necessary circumstance.
"Fuller's Ridge?" Andy asked, as if the name sounded vaguely familiar to him but wasn't a part of his everyday vernacular. "That town's north of here, ain't it? About half a day's ride?" Both the shopkeeper and the errand boy nodded, their eyes on Andy but their minds imagining the horrible, unspeakable deeds that could befall their small town if outlaws came to target them. It was certainly time to redirect those thoughts before they spread to the rest of the town, particularly that ostentatious banker. "I just came from there; spent a night at their inn, heard the whole place buzzing with talk of the Kings."
Instantly he had their attention: the errand boy's eyes widened even larger than before, his mouth dropping open unconsciously, while Jon Peter leaned over his wooden countertop so much Andy thought he'd topple right over. "D'you know what happened?" he asked; the trail of information by word of mouth was more trusted in these parts than anything in paper and ink, and usually arrived faster. "Was it actually the Kings? Did their sheriff really get shot near dead?"
"Did anyone else get hurt?" John Stevens was almost too frightened to ask.
Andy recalled his own memories of Fuller's Ridge, the heist that was supposed to go flawlessly but something went off-plan. He had been lazy, he blamed himself; too much time spent in the saloon and not enough time casing the bank. The streets were supposed to be empty as David, Neal and Joey hit the bank right before it opened for business, but the doors to the building's back room had been reinforced with new steel locks just arrived from Pittsburgh, and the terrified bank owner couldn't remember how to manage them, especially when under the pressure of David Cook's revolver at the back of his head. Andy hadn't seen what had transpired in the bank but he remembered hearing the sounds of gunfire echo off the bank's walls, remembered his heart ceasing to beat, his lungs to breathe, until he saw all three of his partners escape with barely enough time to evade the sheriff's posse. He remembered counting down the minutes in his own agitation before he could escape the town and make it back to the others, forcing himself to make appearances and act as shocked as the rest of the town so as not to cast any suspicion his way. He had seen the sheriff after the Dr. had been through with him, a bullet wound clear through his firing forearm; it'd have to be amputated, and the sheriff was lucky enough that Fuller's Ridge boasted its own town physician.
He remembered David's stony expression as he washed the banker's blood from his hands and clothes, never speaking of what happened in the bank's back room to any of the Kings.
But of course, that wasn't the kind of story he meant to share with these men. "It shook the town up quite a bit, that's for sure," he downplayed the townsfolk's panic after the Kings blew through; no need to spread that sort of sentiment into Fox Canyon. But they didn't have to know everything, either. "I showed up long after they had gone, but a few of the men there said they saw them riding out of town, heading north, not south. No one could have caught up to them by then, but they saw them, clear as day."
"Really?" Jon Peter hung on his every word, their conversation much more important now than the idle gossip they were sharing about Hicks before. Why, that was just JP blowing off a bit of steam about the pompous banker, but this...this could be a cause for concern and security for the whole town. He turned to the errand boy with an accusatory tone. "Who did you say told you the Kings were riding south?" Stevens repeated that it had been one of Miss Pickler's brothers, or any combination of them, really, as Miss Pickler hadn't specified when she unraveled her yarn of a tale to the rest of the wedding party. He gulped as Jon Peter narrowed his eyes and shook his head in doubt. "Those Pickler boys," he said with a disappointed sneer; with their long histories of underachievement and laziness, he would rather take a stranger's word over the third-hand testimonies of those boys.
He turned back to Andy for confirmation; the earnest look on his face, and that of John Stevens, told Andy all he needed to know. These men were going to believe anything he said so long as it meant they were safe from the danger of the Kings. "They headed north, you say?" he asked.
Andy nodded as he gathered up his supplies from the counter. "Don't think you're gonna have that kind of trouble around these parts; not from that gang, at least." The shopkeeper and the boy heaved near simultaneous sighs of relief, the constant threat of the wild, violent frontier abated for the moment. Andy could just imagine that freckled errand boy returning with his charge of butter and sugar, bringing with him good news to spread to the rest of Fox Canyon, reaching the ears of even the sheriff and his deputies, and even Hicks, the flashy banker.
This town wasn't going to know what hit them.
Chapter 3