Outlaw's Prayer (ch. 11)
Title: Outlaw's Prayer (11/22)
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: R
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), 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: This chapter's a little early today since I have to get on the road after a sunny, relaxing vacation. I hope you'll all forgive me :-)
I have been working on this story for the past nine months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it. 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
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
"The only good outlaw is a dead one." - Judge Frank Dale, about the Doolin Gang
The animals knew it before the men; Kyle should have seen the forecast clearly from their temperaments, all but hurtling head-first into the oncoming storm. Still unaccustomed to the excitement and high-strung life the Kings had offered, Gangles was restless, stamping his hooves at shadows on the ground and listening to no one's orders, not even Kyle's. Sugarfoot, who was notoriously stubborn to begin with, was damn near impossible once the Kings dismounted and began to set up camp for the night; refusing to let Kyle near her, she stayed through the night with her saddle and bridle on, the powerful muscles in her legs ready at a moment's notice to ride like lightning at her master's request. Gilbert had still not recovered from the strange, moody habits of his master, Joey's quiet isolation disrupting more than just Kyle, and the horse was as confused as ever, keeping far away from the other horses, testing his own limits. And Sixx, startlingly calm and peaceful in contrast to the others, diligently stood in the direction from which they came, sharing in his master's solitude and waiting for their riding companion to return.
Kyle knew to follow the animals’ instincts more than his own; he had seen many times on the ranch the cattle scatter and groan before an oncoming storm, even the prairie dogs nesting in the ground aware enough to run from danger. Only humans lost this survival instinct.
Letting out a low whistle of approval, he watched as Neal procured a gold coin from the sack of the heist's spoils and bit it, the genuine precious metal unyielding against the sharpshooter's teeth. "You want it, kid?" Neal asked, noting the awestruck look in Kyle's eyes. He tossed the coin towards the younger man, Neal personally having no use for gold unless he planned to wear it. He had learned quickly that there was no need to bring any more attention to his presence in a town; an Irishman tattooed like an Indian and spending minted gold and silver coins left a vivid memory implanted in the minds of humble storekeeps. "You got it."
"Not bad," David mused, nodding, as he surveyed the morning's take, Hope's bank notes laid out in five neat stacks, divided equally among each member of the Kings. It was far more than David had first assumed the outlaws would find in the sleepy town. But Hope's gain was the outlaws' as well, and as he handed out each stack, with one remaining for Andy's return, the weight of the bills were heavy with satisfaction, and accomplishment. All in a day's job.
When he handed the share over to Joey, hunched over a pit of tumbleweeds he gathered for kindling, the sandy-haired outlaw seemed distracted, and jumped when David approached, the hand falling on Joey's shoulder startling him more than a pistol's shot. With a grim, calculating expression David presented Joey's share of the take, watching carefully as Joey's spirits lifted slightly at the sight of such a hefty reward, but quickly fell again as the outlaw returned to the thoughts swirling through his head.
Joey's mood seemed to worsen after the heist in Hope; he had been silent throughout their escape, on a journey where his adrenaline usually won out over common sense and no one could get him to shut up. David assumed whatever melancholy Joey had fallen into would dissipate once the heist was over, aware that his own mood swings worked similarly and it only took a common goal or a new job to distract him. But Joey Clement was not David Cook, and where David's history was commonly known among the Kings, Joey's was shrouded in mystery, his only admission being that he never wanted to step foot in Arizona again.
For over a year David had overlooked the large holes in Joey's past; he held his inquisitive thoughts at bay, allowing Joey his secrecy in exchange for his skill during heists and his loyalty to the Kings. But if this cloud of melancholy silence that had fallen upon him did not lift soon, it would surely affect his performance, and any slight misstep or distraction could mean doom for the entire gang. David respected Joey's privacy, and he would continue to do so, but he couldn't allow it to threaten the others, not while he was their leader. Something would have to give.
"She's a good ol' girl," Kyle interrupted David's thoughts with some observations of his own, his hands spattered with caked dirt from the horses. Caring for their horses was an important job within the Kings, both Kyle and David understood this, but no one ever said it was an easy one. "Stubborn as the desert's dry. Means she's got fire in her, but a little too much fire in those legs of hers--she won't let me near her saddle." Still, the young man approached with a smile, considering Sugarfoot's irritation a challenge, testing his calm nature and skill instead of an impassible obstacle. "She's always let me unseat her before, especially after a ride like that. Do you think--"
He never had the chance to complete his question, to wonder aloud if the horse had been injured on their escape from the heist and pushed Kyle away only to protect herself. David waved a dismissive hand at Kyle, his thoughts clearly on something else. "Just do your job, kid," he shot back sternly, brow knit together in a deep crease, darkening his features. "Isn't that why you're here? Why we're all here?"
Kyle jumped back, startled by the sudden snap of anger. David was commonly open to mood swings, ranging from the boisterous to the sullen and back again, but rarely did it reveal itself as anger, and never right after a successful heist. Kyle's face was etched with concern, and it was no longer merely over the horse. "I just wanted to know what you would do," he reasoned, treading carefully in both step and speech.
Taking a deep sigh, David calmed himself, his fingers fidgeting with the strands of hair at the back of his neck; his frustration wasn't with Kyle, and it certainly wasn't with his horse. The only one he should have been frustrated with was himself. "If she's not letting you near her," he began, the expert on Sugarfoot's temperament. "Wait a few hours, she'll get tired of that saddle. We've got quite a while here; I told Andy not to hurry back, let the heat die down first before moving on. Sugarfoot's a spitfire, but sometimes she just needs the uncomfortable reminder that, like it or not, she needs you."
Live and let live, and what you desire will come to you: this seemed to be the mantra of David Cook. Leaving Burleson and Kelly behind, knowing he was not yet the man she deserved, and allowing distance and time to strengthen their love. His philosophy was not based on inaction, but neutrality: one had to wait for the right time to strike, the right circumstances to take on a challenge. Every moment had its purpose, and in this moment, it meant the difference between a sharp horse's kick to a kneecap and a docile creature grateful for a human's aid.
But, looking past Kyle and towards the growing fire, the tumbleweeds soon catching and creating a smoky blaze, he also knew that in other circumstances, the moment to act may have already passed. Kyle followed his gaze, saw the troubled young man looking over his shoulder nervously, as if ghosts were to come out from the growing shadows and swallow him whole. Joey was so distracted by his fears his hair nearly caught on a spark along with the tumbleweeds; he jumped away quickly, matting his hair down with sweaty palms, a jittery shell of his usual self. Watching their fellow King in the dying rays of the sun, Kyle knew what had been frustrating David enough to snap at him.
"That doesn't always work, does it." When David turned his attentions back to Kyle he noted the serious expression on his face, and he knew they were no longer talking about the horse. "Sometimes you can't just wait for everything to sort itself out." Had he let things run their course, Kyle would have found his fate at the barrel end of David Cook's revolver, or with a mundane, empty future working his life away on a ranch. Had things run their course, David would have never tracked down the lawman who so viciously wronged his family and taken justice for himself; he would have never even tried. They would all be drifters then, having never met, never forged their close partnership; there would be no Kings at all.
David's mouth curved down into a thoughtful frown; the kid was certainly wiser than he looked. "People ain't horses, Kyle." The sentiment wasn't deep and it was far from profound, but Kyle understood it nonetheless.
That night, when Sugarfoot finally acquiesced and allowed Kyle to groom her, he saw through the dying embers of the fire the two figures approach one another while on Kyle's watch, Joey with a confession and David with an order. He couldn't hear every word from their conversation, the blustery winds deterring any chances of eavesdropping, but some words caught wings upon the air and flew to his ears, the most troubling of them from Joey's voice, murmuring words like "posse" and "personal," words Kyle vividly remembered spoken before by Ryan Star, relaying warnings of the road.
The voice he did hear clearly was David's, projecting through the wind with the calm authority of a leader, yet the sympathy of a friend. There was a heavy sigh that filled the air, a hand massaging away the tension at his brow, and when he spoke his voice was filled with disappointment, but bitter acceptance. "You'll always have a place here," he offered to Joey, whose silhouette leaned heavily on his shotgun, his gaze to the ground because he couldn't look David in the eye. "But you don't have to--"
"I have to," Joey assured him, his voice desperate in a way Kyle had never heard before.
The next morning Joey was gone, all traces of his presence with the Kings erased with the distance, the wind sweeping over even the retreating hoofprints of Gilbert, wiping them away. No one said a word about his absence this time, no parting jokes or wagers as to when the outlaw might return. David's face was stoic and final, and it was clear he would give no information on what had transpired the night before, what Joey might have said to him. Kyle may have been curious by nature, but he wasn't an idiot; there were situations when even he knew to keep his mouth shut.
He turned to see Neal pouring a draught of whiskey from his flask into a mug of Kyle's coffee, the sharpshooter's eyes, as they always were, on the brightening horizon towards Hope. Kyle's thoughts briefly turned to Andy, and what he would have to say about Joey's disappearance once he returned to camp, before slicing off the top of the last can of Joey's beans in their supplies, his duties more important to the other Kings than his musings.
If he let his thoughts wander towards Joey and the reasons why he might have left--if the pull towards Mexico was finally too strong for him, if that vengeful vigilante posse had their sights set on the sandy-haired outlaw after all--then it gave Kyle hope that Joey might return, that they would all meet again. But the bitter cold morning air and the choked silence invading the camp, like the presence of death itself merely biding its time and waiting to strike, told Kyle that Joey Clement was gone for good, and the Kings would never be the same.
***
Kris had no idea how the Pinkerton detectives did it. The famous private investigators scoured the West, tracking down outlaws whose trails had long grown cold, protecting the frontier and never resting until they caught their man. Only three hours into the investigation of the Hope bank robbery, and Kris was ready to walk himself up to the Kings just so they can do him in and put an end to the monotony of this inquest.
"Just...one more time, ma'am," he drawled, laying his Arkansas accent thick in order to calm the woman, her witness statement already repeated twice, both times muddled with unintelligible hysterics over the accounts of the day. Kris stood diligently with pen and paper in hand, spearheading the investigation with solid evidence and what he hoped would be air-tight eyewitness accounts of the robbery. He didn't know why he was trying so hard to placate the crying woman; her statement was bound to be just the same as everyone else's, mentioning how they saw and heard not a thing on Main Street until Matt Giraud awoke the town like a lesser Paul Revere. The best account he received was from a boarder at the top floor of the Lambert Inn, who caught sight of four riders escaping out in the distance, merely retreating specks on the horizon, the outlaws bound to be even farther away by now. No one in town brought up the idea of gathering together a posse to track down what was unanimously acknowledged as the Kings gang; no one, not even Kris, had the courage or stupidity in them to come face to face with the baddest bank robbers in the West.
The only citizens with any information on the robbery were the banker, a timid man who came from the South, skinny, with pale skin that caused him to stay inside to avoid the harsh New Mexico sun; Giraud, who Kris planned to interview last, considering the amount of attention the storekeep coveted from the deputy; and Danny Gokey, the sheriff the people of Hope elected who stood by, frozen, while outlaws looted their bank. Kris didn't have much confidence that Gokey would even allow himself to be interviewed: as the sheriff he should have been heading the investigation as it was, and it would only further damage his pride and reputation to give a witness statement to his own deputy. With a disgruntled frown in Gokey's direction, Kris made his way to the scene of the crime; it didn't look like his sheriff would be very cooperative in this at all.
After confirming with the banker that it was indeed the Kings that robbed Hope's only bank, Kris decided to take a look at the establishment himself, the law-abiding man having never seen the aftermath of an official crime. The wooden bank was far from ransacked and looked as if it only needed the skills of a talented housekeeper: till boxes and file cabinets were left intact, the easy targets of amateur bank robbers overlooked, the experienced Kings knowing they were decoys. The only items disturbed in the bank were the front door--its wooden frame sturdy and functional but unable to withstand a heavy blow, its remains now lying in splinters across the floor--and the safe, its heavy iron door swinging harmlessly open, its purpose now obsolete.
The building looked nearly identical to how it had been the day before, but in the eyes of Hope, it would never be the same.
"And they left this." The banker's Carolinian accent came through thick when nervous and never was he more shaken than that day. "They--they said to give it to the newspapers, but I thought you'd want to take a look."
What the banker handed over caused Kris's heart to sink: the single playing card, glossy and directly from a new, untraceable pack of cards, was proof that Hope's bank had been hit only by the best. He didn't even need to turn it over to know a king's mirrored face would stare back at him, expressionless eyes asking Kris why he couldn't protect the town like he had sworn to do. Why he let his passion overpower his duty, in a warm, plush bed with his lover, but leaving the town in the incapable hands of Sheriff Gokey.
Gokey. The deputy set his jaw at the thought of the sheriff, who had fled to his office once Kris arrived to calm the frazzled nerves of the crowd. Almost immediately when he arrived on the street, Kris had noticed Danny was in trouble: the fog of confusion was lifting from the townspeople, looking less for answers and more for someone to blame, a scapegoat. Gokey had been a sitting duck, frozen in the middle of Main Street, his glossy promises and smarmy, charming smile useless against an honest threat to the town. The pleading in his eyes was almost pitiful, Kris thought as he approached him, diffusing the tensions within the crowd, but any semblance of pity was thrown out with the bathwater when Gokey took the opportunity to duck back into the office, escaping the accusations of ineptitude flung at him from all sides. Silently Kris wished he didn't have that tin star pinned to his chest, or else he would hurl those very words right along with the rest of them.
After he collected the witness statements, taking the good part of the day in the unforgiving sun for the investigation as penance for not preventing it, Kris made his way towards the sheriff's office himself to gather both the evidence and his thoughts. Glumly he knew Gokey would want to see the information, most likely twisting it to his own ends and then claiming whatever glory there may be in closing the case; such was the life of a deputy, he thought, and mentally kicked himself for having ever lost to such a man. But a silver lining appeared in the gloomy storm cloud hovering over Kris's head: if Danny insisted on pouring through the evidence Kris gathered that day, it was quite possible Kris could duck out of the office early and head to Adam's ahead of schedule. If there were any day he could use Adam Lambert's special brand of comfort--a bourbon, a backrub, a warm seat by the fire and perhaps a little more--it was today.
"Finished taking the witness statements," he announced as he entered the sheriff's office, eyes cast down upon the stack of notes in his hands, overlooking the despondent look on the sheriff's face as Gokey ignored Kris's entrance. "Some were a little helpful...most were less than a little." He tossed the papers down onto Gokey's desk, a simple, sturdy wooden table Kris remembered far more fondly when Sheriff Daughtry sat behind it with authority. Kris frowned; Daughtry had been a man who would not have fled to the safety of this office had he owed explanations to his constituents.
Finally he caught sight of Danny at the desk, head in his hands, unresponsive to the world. "Gokey?" he asked with uncertainty, his compassion winning out over his resentment of the sheriff. "You feelin' alright?"
Kris had not been prepared for Danny's response; in hindsight, it should have been the first impression on Kris's mind when he asked Danny Gokey what was wrong. "They all hate me," he bemoaned, his voice shaky and unsure, the insecurities Danny usually held behind a heavy curtain of bravado now laid bare. It was difficult to remain arrogant when one was stripped of the very qualities that fueled one's conceit.
"Danny..." Kris tried to be sympathetic, his mouth quirking to one side of his face in a concerned frown, but he couldn't bring himself to go the extra mile and refute the sheriff's fears. Wouldn't want to lie to the poor man, he rationalized.
"They all saw me; the whole town." Danny looked up and his eyes held something worse than regret, more than the self-deprecation Kris felt over failing to protect the town. Brown eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses told the tale of fear running through Danny's mind, fear more of Hope's townspeople than of any bandit in the West. "They all know I just let those robbers go, I didn't do anything to stop them."
"There wasn't much you could do." And this, at the very least, Kris could say in truth: he had not been at the bank to witness the robbery, but if he had been there, he couldn't be sure how capable he would have been at stopping the band of outlaws, especially now that it was revealed they were the Kings. He could attest with all certainty, however, that he wouldn't have stood frozen while staring them down, alive only for the mercy of murderers and thieves, and he definitely would not have forgotten his gun. "It was the Kings, no one wants to face them, especially not alone. The town understands that--"
Gokey would hear none of it; he cradled his head in his hands again, in a tight grip that reminded Kris of bored farm hands back East who would crush unsellable, overripe melons in the fields with their bare hands. "They're gonna fire me," his notions started spiraling out of control, and soon even Kris couldn't speak any sense into Gokey's head. A man whose only firm quality was his charisma did not fare well when he finally lost it. "They're gonna sack me, completely, I just know it. I'll bet they're planning to string me up by the morning."
His voice grew more frantic by the moment. Kris had to fight not to roll his eyes at the sheriff's dramatics; it was clear Danny felt genuine fear over those possibilities. "I'm not gonna let them lynch you, Gokey," he said, once again unable to soothe Danny's ego with lies. There'd be no hanging in this town, not without fair trial and sentencing to go along with it, and Kris had vowed to protect every life in Hope, even Gokey's, from mob rule. Kris would never let the man die by the noose because an angry crowd called for it, but he wouldn't stop them if they called for his badge.
"They'll fire me for sure," he repeated, the fearful tension visible to Kris from the nervous shaking of his legs underneath the table, the wringing of his hands in a grip so tight Gokey's knuckles were white. "Especially since it was the Kings. Even the papers will say how useless I am..." His neurotic rants died down to a mutter, his mind so focused on his panic and his desperate attempt not to fall from Hope's grace.
Kris knew a lost cause when he saw one; there was no chance to console the sheriff, especially when Kris felt more obligated and less enthused to give it. He pulled his lips in between his teeth, refusing to take the bait and comment on Danny being useless. If one had nothing nice to say, one should stay the hell away from the conversation. "You might want to look over these for a while," Kris persuaded without outright instruction; he had recently learned how to make sure the sheriff got his work done without bruising the other man's ego. "I'll be over at the inn...interviewing more witnesses," he added hastily, knowing the older man was no fan of the festivities held at the Lambert Inn, even if Kris were going there for anything other than Adam.
Danny's attentions were still wholly insular; he did not even make his obligatory snort of displeasure at anyone mentioning the brothel he had been trying to destroy since getting into office. "I've got to win them all back," Danny uttered, eyes no longer fearful but determined, focused on the thoughts racing through his mind. "I've got to prove to them I'm not useless."
With a raised brow and a quickly bitten lip Kris backed out of the office, the evening air hitting him cold against his back when he opened the door, quite ready to leave the office and its ill-prepared proprietor behind. "You do that," he deadpanned, safely assured that Danny was far too in his own head to notice the sarcasm. Once the door was closed, the night greeted him, the extreme temperatures of the desert in autumn assaulting his senses. He wasted no time getting to the Lambert Inn, now truly in need of a stiff drink, a good conversation, and anything else Adam planned to give the deputy to ease the tensions of a troubled day.
***
With one last check on the supplies securely tied to Vera's saddle, Andy was ready to ride, reluctant to leave the luxuries of Hope behind him but eager to return to the other Kings, onto their next heist and next adventure. The cold night air turning New Mexico's autumn quickly into a bitter winter reminded him of the Tulsa winters of his youth, the weather harsh and unforgivable, but always surrendering eventually to the warm, mild breezes of spring. But it had been years since he experienced the territory's winters, and apart from brief reminiscences of childhood Andy hadn't missed it one bit.
From the booming sound that projected even outside the thick walls of the Lambert Inn, Andy could tell the festivities of the night had commenced, a flamboyant music revue with curvaceous singers and dancers with little regard to modesty. Even with the short amount of time he had spent in the town it was clear that the pleasure den never did anything half-heartedly. He wished he could join in the revelry but it simply wouldn't be the same; a night on the town alone was no night to enjoy at all.
Besides, he thought with a dirty grin as he unhooked Vera's bridle from the hitching post, he and Neal had some other ways to celebrate a successful heist, and every nerve in Andy's body ached with the anticipation of reaching camp and greeting him there.
"What's wrong, girl?" The darkness of Hope--with only the glowing embers of hearths peeking out of windows lighting Main Street in the presence of a new moon--caused Andy to only see shadows in front of him, but, placing a soothing hand on Vera's neck, he could instantly feel the horse was agitated by something.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a chill running through his body not from the cold; his hand slowly dropped down from his mount's neck, itching to grasp the hidden revolver at his saddle. It was probably just a stranger spooking Vera in the darkness, or a stray dog causing trouble, but in his line of work he could never be too sure. He just wished his eyes adjusted to the black night faster, would focus first on the shadows lingering in Hope rather than the pinpoints of light flickering like false stars in the foreground. He wouldn't pull a gun on an innocent citizen; it wasn't the last impression he wanted to leave this town, forever desperate not to raise suspicions about his true identity or where his loyalties lie.
Andy began to turn around, formulating a quick yet forgettable conversation starter on the fastest route to Cimarron from here, but he never had the chance to do either. With a loud bang that he felt rip through his bones and flesh before he heard it, Andy stumbled to the side, abandoning Vera as shards of pain stabbed deep into his shoulder, spreading fast like brush fires and just as dangerous. His mind screamed at him from the pain, a heat rushing through his body as if he were on fire, burning from the inside out. Andy tried to react, tried to reach for his gun, but his right arm was unresponsive, nerves shattered from the shock. The hand slipped harmlessly from his saddle as the rest of his body faltered, his eyes rolled wildly to the back of his head, and he collapsed head-first in the dirt, never seeing the face of his assailant.
Chapter 12
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: R
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), 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: This chapter's a little early today since I have to get on the road after a sunny, relaxing vacation. I hope you'll all forgive me :-)
I have been working on this story for the past nine months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it. 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
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
"The only good outlaw is a dead one." - Judge Frank Dale, about the Doolin Gang
The animals knew it before the men; Kyle should have seen the forecast clearly from their temperaments, all but hurtling head-first into the oncoming storm. Still unaccustomed to the excitement and high-strung life the Kings had offered, Gangles was restless, stamping his hooves at shadows on the ground and listening to no one's orders, not even Kyle's. Sugarfoot, who was notoriously stubborn to begin with, was damn near impossible once the Kings dismounted and began to set up camp for the night; refusing to let Kyle near her, she stayed through the night with her saddle and bridle on, the powerful muscles in her legs ready at a moment's notice to ride like lightning at her master's request. Gilbert had still not recovered from the strange, moody habits of his master, Joey's quiet isolation disrupting more than just Kyle, and the horse was as confused as ever, keeping far away from the other horses, testing his own limits. And Sixx, startlingly calm and peaceful in contrast to the others, diligently stood in the direction from which they came, sharing in his master's solitude and waiting for their riding companion to return.
Kyle knew to follow the animals’ instincts more than his own; he had seen many times on the ranch the cattle scatter and groan before an oncoming storm, even the prairie dogs nesting in the ground aware enough to run from danger. Only humans lost this survival instinct.
Letting out a low whistle of approval, he watched as Neal procured a gold coin from the sack of the heist's spoils and bit it, the genuine precious metal unyielding against the sharpshooter's teeth. "You want it, kid?" Neal asked, noting the awestruck look in Kyle's eyes. He tossed the coin towards the younger man, Neal personally having no use for gold unless he planned to wear it. He had learned quickly that there was no need to bring any more attention to his presence in a town; an Irishman tattooed like an Indian and spending minted gold and silver coins left a vivid memory implanted in the minds of humble storekeeps. "You got it."
"Not bad," David mused, nodding, as he surveyed the morning's take, Hope's bank notes laid out in five neat stacks, divided equally among each member of the Kings. It was far more than David had first assumed the outlaws would find in the sleepy town. But Hope's gain was the outlaws' as well, and as he handed out each stack, with one remaining for Andy's return, the weight of the bills were heavy with satisfaction, and accomplishment. All in a day's job.
When he handed the share over to Joey, hunched over a pit of tumbleweeds he gathered for kindling, the sandy-haired outlaw seemed distracted, and jumped when David approached, the hand falling on Joey's shoulder startling him more than a pistol's shot. With a grim, calculating expression David presented Joey's share of the take, watching carefully as Joey's spirits lifted slightly at the sight of such a hefty reward, but quickly fell again as the outlaw returned to the thoughts swirling through his head.
Joey's mood seemed to worsen after the heist in Hope; he had been silent throughout their escape, on a journey where his adrenaline usually won out over common sense and no one could get him to shut up. David assumed whatever melancholy Joey had fallen into would dissipate once the heist was over, aware that his own mood swings worked similarly and it only took a common goal or a new job to distract him. But Joey Clement was not David Cook, and where David's history was commonly known among the Kings, Joey's was shrouded in mystery, his only admission being that he never wanted to step foot in Arizona again.
For over a year David had overlooked the large holes in Joey's past; he held his inquisitive thoughts at bay, allowing Joey his secrecy in exchange for his skill during heists and his loyalty to the Kings. But if this cloud of melancholy silence that had fallen upon him did not lift soon, it would surely affect his performance, and any slight misstep or distraction could mean doom for the entire gang. David respected Joey's privacy, and he would continue to do so, but he couldn't allow it to threaten the others, not while he was their leader. Something would have to give.
"She's a good ol' girl," Kyle interrupted David's thoughts with some observations of his own, his hands spattered with caked dirt from the horses. Caring for their horses was an important job within the Kings, both Kyle and David understood this, but no one ever said it was an easy one. "Stubborn as the desert's dry. Means she's got fire in her, but a little too much fire in those legs of hers--she won't let me near her saddle." Still, the young man approached with a smile, considering Sugarfoot's irritation a challenge, testing his calm nature and skill instead of an impassible obstacle. "She's always let me unseat her before, especially after a ride like that. Do you think--"
He never had the chance to complete his question, to wonder aloud if the horse had been injured on their escape from the heist and pushed Kyle away only to protect herself. David waved a dismissive hand at Kyle, his thoughts clearly on something else. "Just do your job, kid," he shot back sternly, brow knit together in a deep crease, darkening his features. "Isn't that why you're here? Why we're all here?"
Kyle jumped back, startled by the sudden snap of anger. David was commonly open to mood swings, ranging from the boisterous to the sullen and back again, but rarely did it reveal itself as anger, and never right after a successful heist. Kyle's face was etched with concern, and it was no longer merely over the horse. "I just wanted to know what you would do," he reasoned, treading carefully in both step and speech.
Taking a deep sigh, David calmed himself, his fingers fidgeting with the strands of hair at the back of his neck; his frustration wasn't with Kyle, and it certainly wasn't with his horse. The only one he should have been frustrated with was himself. "If she's not letting you near her," he began, the expert on Sugarfoot's temperament. "Wait a few hours, she'll get tired of that saddle. We've got quite a while here; I told Andy not to hurry back, let the heat die down first before moving on. Sugarfoot's a spitfire, but sometimes she just needs the uncomfortable reminder that, like it or not, she needs you."
Live and let live, and what you desire will come to you: this seemed to be the mantra of David Cook. Leaving Burleson and Kelly behind, knowing he was not yet the man she deserved, and allowing distance and time to strengthen their love. His philosophy was not based on inaction, but neutrality: one had to wait for the right time to strike, the right circumstances to take on a challenge. Every moment had its purpose, and in this moment, it meant the difference between a sharp horse's kick to a kneecap and a docile creature grateful for a human's aid.
But, looking past Kyle and towards the growing fire, the tumbleweeds soon catching and creating a smoky blaze, he also knew that in other circumstances, the moment to act may have already passed. Kyle followed his gaze, saw the troubled young man looking over his shoulder nervously, as if ghosts were to come out from the growing shadows and swallow him whole. Joey was so distracted by his fears his hair nearly caught on a spark along with the tumbleweeds; he jumped away quickly, matting his hair down with sweaty palms, a jittery shell of his usual self. Watching their fellow King in the dying rays of the sun, Kyle knew what had been frustrating David enough to snap at him.
"That doesn't always work, does it." When David turned his attentions back to Kyle he noted the serious expression on his face, and he knew they were no longer talking about the horse. "Sometimes you can't just wait for everything to sort itself out." Had he let things run their course, Kyle would have found his fate at the barrel end of David Cook's revolver, or with a mundane, empty future working his life away on a ranch. Had things run their course, David would have never tracked down the lawman who so viciously wronged his family and taken justice for himself; he would have never even tried. They would all be drifters then, having never met, never forged their close partnership; there would be no Kings at all.
David's mouth curved down into a thoughtful frown; the kid was certainly wiser than he looked. "People ain't horses, Kyle." The sentiment wasn't deep and it was far from profound, but Kyle understood it nonetheless.
That night, when Sugarfoot finally acquiesced and allowed Kyle to groom her, he saw through the dying embers of the fire the two figures approach one another while on Kyle's watch, Joey with a confession and David with an order. He couldn't hear every word from their conversation, the blustery winds deterring any chances of eavesdropping, but some words caught wings upon the air and flew to his ears, the most troubling of them from Joey's voice, murmuring words like "posse" and "personal," words Kyle vividly remembered spoken before by Ryan Star, relaying warnings of the road.
The voice he did hear clearly was David's, projecting through the wind with the calm authority of a leader, yet the sympathy of a friend. There was a heavy sigh that filled the air, a hand massaging away the tension at his brow, and when he spoke his voice was filled with disappointment, but bitter acceptance. "You'll always have a place here," he offered to Joey, whose silhouette leaned heavily on his shotgun, his gaze to the ground because he couldn't look David in the eye. "But you don't have to--"
"I have to," Joey assured him, his voice desperate in a way Kyle had never heard before.
The next morning Joey was gone, all traces of his presence with the Kings erased with the distance, the wind sweeping over even the retreating hoofprints of Gilbert, wiping them away. No one said a word about his absence this time, no parting jokes or wagers as to when the outlaw might return. David's face was stoic and final, and it was clear he would give no information on what had transpired the night before, what Joey might have said to him. Kyle may have been curious by nature, but he wasn't an idiot; there were situations when even he knew to keep his mouth shut.
He turned to see Neal pouring a draught of whiskey from his flask into a mug of Kyle's coffee, the sharpshooter's eyes, as they always were, on the brightening horizon towards Hope. Kyle's thoughts briefly turned to Andy, and what he would have to say about Joey's disappearance once he returned to camp, before slicing off the top of the last can of Joey's beans in their supplies, his duties more important to the other Kings than his musings.
If he let his thoughts wander towards Joey and the reasons why he might have left--if the pull towards Mexico was finally too strong for him, if that vengeful vigilante posse had their sights set on the sandy-haired outlaw after all--then it gave Kyle hope that Joey might return, that they would all meet again. But the bitter cold morning air and the choked silence invading the camp, like the presence of death itself merely biding its time and waiting to strike, told Kyle that Joey Clement was gone for good, and the Kings would never be the same.
***
Kris had no idea how the Pinkerton detectives did it. The famous private investigators scoured the West, tracking down outlaws whose trails had long grown cold, protecting the frontier and never resting until they caught their man. Only three hours into the investigation of the Hope bank robbery, and Kris was ready to walk himself up to the Kings just so they can do him in and put an end to the monotony of this inquest.
"Just...one more time, ma'am," he drawled, laying his Arkansas accent thick in order to calm the woman, her witness statement already repeated twice, both times muddled with unintelligible hysterics over the accounts of the day. Kris stood diligently with pen and paper in hand, spearheading the investigation with solid evidence and what he hoped would be air-tight eyewitness accounts of the robbery. He didn't know why he was trying so hard to placate the crying woman; her statement was bound to be just the same as everyone else's, mentioning how they saw and heard not a thing on Main Street until Matt Giraud awoke the town like a lesser Paul Revere. The best account he received was from a boarder at the top floor of the Lambert Inn, who caught sight of four riders escaping out in the distance, merely retreating specks on the horizon, the outlaws bound to be even farther away by now. No one in town brought up the idea of gathering together a posse to track down what was unanimously acknowledged as the Kings gang; no one, not even Kris, had the courage or stupidity in them to come face to face with the baddest bank robbers in the West.
The only citizens with any information on the robbery were the banker, a timid man who came from the South, skinny, with pale skin that caused him to stay inside to avoid the harsh New Mexico sun; Giraud, who Kris planned to interview last, considering the amount of attention the storekeep coveted from the deputy; and Danny Gokey, the sheriff the people of Hope elected who stood by, frozen, while outlaws looted their bank. Kris didn't have much confidence that Gokey would even allow himself to be interviewed: as the sheriff he should have been heading the investigation as it was, and it would only further damage his pride and reputation to give a witness statement to his own deputy. With a disgruntled frown in Gokey's direction, Kris made his way to the scene of the crime; it didn't look like his sheriff would be very cooperative in this at all.
After confirming with the banker that it was indeed the Kings that robbed Hope's only bank, Kris decided to take a look at the establishment himself, the law-abiding man having never seen the aftermath of an official crime. The wooden bank was far from ransacked and looked as if it only needed the skills of a talented housekeeper: till boxes and file cabinets were left intact, the easy targets of amateur bank robbers overlooked, the experienced Kings knowing they were decoys. The only items disturbed in the bank were the front door--its wooden frame sturdy and functional but unable to withstand a heavy blow, its remains now lying in splinters across the floor--and the safe, its heavy iron door swinging harmlessly open, its purpose now obsolete.
The building looked nearly identical to how it had been the day before, but in the eyes of Hope, it would never be the same.
"And they left this." The banker's Carolinian accent came through thick when nervous and never was he more shaken than that day. "They--they said to give it to the newspapers, but I thought you'd want to take a look."
What the banker handed over caused Kris's heart to sink: the single playing card, glossy and directly from a new, untraceable pack of cards, was proof that Hope's bank had been hit only by the best. He didn't even need to turn it over to know a king's mirrored face would stare back at him, expressionless eyes asking Kris why he couldn't protect the town like he had sworn to do. Why he let his passion overpower his duty, in a warm, plush bed with his lover, but leaving the town in the incapable hands of Sheriff Gokey.
Gokey. The deputy set his jaw at the thought of the sheriff, who had fled to his office once Kris arrived to calm the frazzled nerves of the crowd. Almost immediately when he arrived on the street, Kris had noticed Danny was in trouble: the fog of confusion was lifting from the townspeople, looking less for answers and more for someone to blame, a scapegoat. Gokey had been a sitting duck, frozen in the middle of Main Street, his glossy promises and smarmy, charming smile useless against an honest threat to the town. The pleading in his eyes was almost pitiful, Kris thought as he approached him, diffusing the tensions within the crowd, but any semblance of pity was thrown out with the bathwater when Gokey took the opportunity to duck back into the office, escaping the accusations of ineptitude flung at him from all sides. Silently Kris wished he didn't have that tin star pinned to his chest, or else he would hurl those very words right along with the rest of them.
After he collected the witness statements, taking the good part of the day in the unforgiving sun for the investigation as penance for not preventing it, Kris made his way towards the sheriff's office himself to gather both the evidence and his thoughts. Glumly he knew Gokey would want to see the information, most likely twisting it to his own ends and then claiming whatever glory there may be in closing the case; such was the life of a deputy, he thought, and mentally kicked himself for having ever lost to such a man. But a silver lining appeared in the gloomy storm cloud hovering over Kris's head: if Danny insisted on pouring through the evidence Kris gathered that day, it was quite possible Kris could duck out of the office early and head to Adam's ahead of schedule. If there were any day he could use Adam Lambert's special brand of comfort--a bourbon, a backrub, a warm seat by the fire and perhaps a little more--it was today.
"Finished taking the witness statements," he announced as he entered the sheriff's office, eyes cast down upon the stack of notes in his hands, overlooking the despondent look on the sheriff's face as Gokey ignored Kris's entrance. "Some were a little helpful...most were less than a little." He tossed the papers down onto Gokey's desk, a simple, sturdy wooden table Kris remembered far more fondly when Sheriff Daughtry sat behind it with authority. Kris frowned; Daughtry had been a man who would not have fled to the safety of this office had he owed explanations to his constituents.
Finally he caught sight of Danny at the desk, head in his hands, unresponsive to the world. "Gokey?" he asked with uncertainty, his compassion winning out over his resentment of the sheriff. "You feelin' alright?"
Kris had not been prepared for Danny's response; in hindsight, it should have been the first impression on Kris's mind when he asked Danny Gokey what was wrong. "They all hate me," he bemoaned, his voice shaky and unsure, the insecurities Danny usually held behind a heavy curtain of bravado now laid bare. It was difficult to remain arrogant when one was stripped of the very qualities that fueled one's conceit.
"Danny..." Kris tried to be sympathetic, his mouth quirking to one side of his face in a concerned frown, but he couldn't bring himself to go the extra mile and refute the sheriff's fears. Wouldn't want to lie to the poor man, he rationalized.
"They all saw me; the whole town." Danny looked up and his eyes held something worse than regret, more than the self-deprecation Kris felt over failing to protect the town. Brown eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses told the tale of fear running through Danny's mind, fear more of Hope's townspeople than of any bandit in the West. "They all know I just let those robbers go, I didn't do anything to stop them."
"There wasn't much you could do." And this, at the very least, Kris could say in truth: he had not been at the bank to witness the robbery, but if he had been there, he couldn't be sure how capable he would have been at stopping the band of outlaws, especially now that it was revealed they were the Kings. He could attest with all certainty, however, that he wouldn't have stood frozen while staring them down, alive only for the mercy of murderers and thieves, and he definitely would not have forgotten his gun. "It was the Kings, no one wants to face them, especially not alone. The town understands that--"
Gokey would hear none of it; he cradled his head in his hands again, in a tight grip that reminded Kris of bored farm hands back East who would crush unsellable, overripe melons in the fields with their bare hands. "They're gonna fire me," his notions started spiraling out of control, and soon even Kris couldn't speak any sense into Gokey's head. A man whose only firm quality was his charisma did not fare well when he finally lost it. "They're gonna sack me, completely, I just know it. I'll bet they're planning to string me up by the morning."
His voice grew more frantic by the moment. Kris had to fight not to roll his eyes at the sheriff's dramatics; it was clear Danny felt genuine fear over those possibilities. "I'm not gonna let them lynch you, Gokey," he said, once again unable to soothe Danny's ego with lies. There'd be no hanging in this town, not without fair trial and sentencing to go along with it, and Kris had vowed to protect every life in Hope, even Gokey's, from mob rule. Kris would never let the man die by the noose because an angry crowd called for it, but he wouldn't stop them if they called for his badge.
"They'll fire me for sure," he repeated, the fearful tension visible to Kris from the nervous shaking of his legs underneath the table, the wringing of his hands in a grip so tight Gokey's knuckles were white. "Especially since it was the Kings. Even the papers will say how useless I am..." His neurotic rants died down to a mutter, his mind so focused on his panic and his desperate attempt not to fall from Hope's grace.
Kris knew a lost cause when he saw one; there was no chance to console the sheriff, especially when Kris felt more obligated and less enthused to give it. He pulled his lips in between his teeth, refusing to take the bait and comment on Danny being useless. If one had nothing nice to say, one should stay the hell away from the conversation. "You might want to look over these for a while," Kris persuaded without outright instruction; he had recently learned how to make sure the sheriff got his work done without bruising the other man's ego. "I'll be over at the inn...interviewing more witnesses," he added hastily, knowing the older man was no fan of the festivities held at the Lambert Inn, even if Kris were going there for anything other than Adam.
Danny's attentions were still wholly insular; he did not even make his obligatory snort of displeasure at anyone mentioning the brothel he had been trying to destroy since getting into office. "I've got to win them all back," Danny uttered, eyes no longer fearful but determined, focused on the thoughts racing through his mind. "I've got to prove to them I'm not useless."
With a raised brow and a quickly bitten lip Kris backed out of the office, the evening air hitting him cold against his back when he opened the door, quite ready to leave the office and its ill-prepared proprietor behind. "You do that," he deadpanned, safely assured that Danny was far too in his own head to notice the sarcasm. Once the door was closed, the night greeted him, the extreme temperatures of the desert in autumn assaulting his senses. He wasted no time getting to the Lambert Inn, now truly in need of a stiff drink, a good conversation, and anything else Adam planned to give the deputy to ease the tensions of a troubled day.
***
With one last check on the supplies securely tied to Vera's saddle, Andy was ready to ride, reluctant to leave the luxuries of Hope behind him but eager to return to the other Kings, onto their next heist and next adventure. The cold night air turning New Mexico's autumn quickly into a bitter winter reminded him of the Tulsa winters of his youth, the weather harsh and unforgivable, but always surrendering eventually to the warm, mild breezes of spring. But it had been years since he experienced the territory's winters, and apart from brief reminiscences of childhood Andy hadn't missed it one bit.
From the booming sound that projected even outside the thick walls of the Lambert Inn, Andy could tell the festivities of the night had commenced, a flamboyant music revue with curvaceous singers and dancers with little regard to modesty. Even with the short amount of time he had spent in the town it was clear that the pleasure den never did anything half-heartedly. He wished he could join in the revelry but it simply wouldn't be the same; a night on the town alone was no night to enjoy at all.
Besides, he thought with a dirty grin as he unhooked Vera's bridle from the hitching post, he and Neal had some other ways to celebrate a successful heist, and every nerve in Andy's body ached with the anticipation of reaching camp and greeting him there.
"What's wrong, girl?" The darkness of Hope--with only the glowing embers of hearths peeking out of windows lighting Main Street in the presence of a new moon--caused Andy to only see shadows in front of him, but, placing a soothing hand on Vera's neck, he could instantly feel the horse was agitated by something.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a chill running through his body not from the cold; his hand slowly dropped down from his mount's neck, itching to grasp the hidden revolver at his saddle. It was probably just a stranger spooking Vera in the darkness, or a stray dog causing trouble, but in his line of work he could never be too sure. He just wished his eyes adjusted to the black night faster, would focus first on the shadows lingering in Hope rather than the pinpoints of light flickering like false stars in the foreground. He wouldn't pull a gun on an innocent citizen; it wasn't the last impression he wanted to leave this town, forever desperate not to raise suspicions about his true identity or where his loyalties lie.
Andy began to turn around, formulating a quick yet forgettable conversation starter on the fastest route to Cimarron from here, but he never had the chance to do either. With a loud bang that he felt rip through his bones and flesh before he heard it, Andy stumbled to the side, abandoning Vera as shards of pain stabbed deep into his shoulder, spreading fast like brush fires and just as dangerous. His mind screamed at him from the pain, a heat rushing through his body as if he were on fire, burning from the inside out. Andy tried to react, tried to reach for his gun, but his right arm was unresponsive, nerves shattered from the shock. The hand slipped harmlessly from his saddle as the rest of his body faltered, his eyes rolled wildly to the back of his head, and he collapsed head-first in the dirt, never seeing the face of his assailant.
Chapter 12