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“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout, Kid?”
Mad Dog sits to his side, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. There’s that sly smile of his, as always — the likeliest culprit, responsible for the bends of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.
Kid pulls the brim of his hat further over his own eyes, and looks away.
“Should’ve known better than to ask, huh?” Still, he can hear the smile in Mad Dog’s words. “Mind if I take a guess?”
He grunts, and maybe it comes out a little surlier than he would’ve liked, but he knows Mad Dog gets the idea. “Sure.”
A sigh, then smoke, billowing across his face. He glances over and sees Mad Dog’s fingers tap his cigarette over his knee. “You’re thinkin’ about… the time you left me t’ die in the desert.”
He feels the faintest hints of a smile tugging at his lips. “Which one?”
“Hey now.” Mad Dog’s tone is still light. “That any way to treat the man who’s out to kill you?”
Mad Dog was funny like that. He would talk and talk, ever the chatterbox aside Kid’s silence, and it was easy for him. Easy for him, and easy for Kid. Not that he’d admit it, much less find the words to — but it was nice.
He supposes that, at some point, he must have grown used to this company that would always manage to find him amongst the tumbleweeds and red dirt.
There were worse things he could’ve gotten used to.
“Kid.” He feels a nudge on his shoulder. “Hear what I said?”
He hadn’t. “No.”
Mad Dog’s taken off his trademark black hat, fanning himself with it instead. “My second guess,” he says, very matter-of-factly. “You’re thinkin’ about gettin’ a haircut.”
Kid absently feels his hand reach up to twist a strand of hair around his finger. “You think it’s gettin’ too long?”
“Not me,” Mad Dog answers. “You, though, maybe.”
“Cut it like yers?” Kid offers with a twitch of his lips. Like he could ever be bothered to style it so meticulously as Mad Dog did.
He gets a chuckle out of that one. “Wouldn’t suit you,” Mad Dog says. Then, after a brief silence (they were never any more than brief), he clicks his tongue. “You’d better watch out, though. One day, when the wind’s blowin’ too hard and that hair flies into your face at the critical moment…” With a flash of his wrist, Mad Dog whips his gun out and cocks it to Kid’s temple. “Dead.”
Kid’s no stranger to the feeling of cold steel against his skin. It was, of course, his only rival’s favourite greeting in saloons and the like. “By yer hand, I’m guessing.”
“Yep.” One showy twirl later, the gun’s nestled back comfortably in Mad Dog’s belt. “Don’t you forget it.”
This was a fairly normal conversation, by their standards. Of course, when they first met, any reunions of theirs involved much more gunslinging and duels than they did now. Though, it wasn’t as if Mad Dog hadn’t immediately challenged him to a duel upon coming across him making camp for the evening.
But this… relationship, this rivalry of theirs, had mellowed out over the years, or at least it had in Kid’s eyes — after all, Mad Dog felt less like the thorn in his side that he had in the beginning. Maybe he owed it to that time they worked together defending Success.
He didn’t know. He didn’t really need to know.
All he knew was that, aside from his horse, the man in black had somehow become one of the only constants in his life.
He clears his throat. “You stayin’ here or what?”
“That an invitation?” comes the reply. Out the corner of his eye, Kid sees Mad Dog’s arm reach down to grab his hat back off the ground. The things he would do for his dramatics. “If so, I accept. O. Dio could use the rest, anyhow.”
Kid hears Mad Dog’s horse snort, as if to agree with him. “You really ain’t renaming ‘im?”
“What would I rename him to? Goldie?” Mad Dog lightly taps Kid’s knee with his hat and, damn him, forces him to make eye contact. “Y’know, I was real cut up about that. Losin’ Goldie. Swore I’d never forgive you for it.” He leans forward and takes a drag off his cigarette. “But some months ago I was in town, and I saw a kid leading ‘round a horse that looked exactly like her. Same mark on her flank an’ everything.” Exhale, smoke. “So I guess it all turned out alright, no thanks to you.”
Kid watches the white smoke disperse in the air. “Sorry.”
Mad Dog doesn’t say anything then, and it starts to feel like a comically large silence before it’s at last broken. “What’s with you?” he says finally, brows furrowed. “The Sundown Kid, apologizin’ to me? You in a sentimental mood, or something like that?”
He did that a lot recently - call Kid sentimental. And maybe he was, if only a little. “... I’m goin’ to bed,” Kid answers. He begins the process of heaving himself off the ground, something which proves to be more grueling than it should be, if the numerous cracks he hears are anything to go by. He’ll ignore that. “‘Night.”
“No you ain’t,” Mad Dog says with another puff of smoke. “It’s barely even dark. ‘Less you’re that old already.” Kid hears rustling, then feels a tug on his poncho. “Sit down and have some dinner. Then you can sleep.”
As if on cue, his stomach growls, and Mad Dog smiles smugly at him. “Fine,” he grunts. “Roll me a quirley, then. I’ll get a pot.”
Mad Dog scoffs. “What am I, your butler?” He takes one more drag, then holds the half-smoked cigarette out to Kid. “Use this one.”
Kid eyes it. “You ain’t got a new one?”
“Too good for a used one, eh?”
He sighs, and after a moment of deliberation, takes it in his hand. Tobacco was tobacco, after all. He puts it to his lips, inhales, exhales. “What’re we eatin’?”
“Didn’t realize it was my job to feed you.” Mad Dog rummages through his satchel. “But I suppose I could spare a biscuit or two. Ripen you up ‘fore I collect your bounty in the morning.” He pauses. “You got any coffee?”
“‘S what the pot’s fer.” What’s left of the cigarette hangs in between Kid’s lips as he turns to rummage through his own rucksack. He finds the pot, dented from life on the road but otherwise good as new, and his faded tin of coffee beans. Likely just enough for two cups, too.
He hauls those, along with his canteen, out of his bag and sets to work, counting on Mad Dog to fill the silence — which he does, which he always did.
It occurs to him then, as he listens to Mad Dog chatter about something or other, that their conversations were largely one-sided, and to call them conversations might be a bit misleading. But Mad Dog liked talking, and he didn’t so much mind listening, so he reasons, silently to himself, that as long as neither of them minded this arrangement then there wasn’t much they needed to change.
Then, Mad Dog does a little cough, like he usually did after talking for some time. “Shame it’s so cloudy tonight,” he says. Kid glances up at the sky — as shades of violet and indigo bear down on the horizon, it’s true that most of it is strewn with clouds. He looks back down to his pot. It’s not yet boiling. Behind him, Mad Dog keeps talking, and Kid has to wonder if he’s even found the biscuits yet. “Could’ve been a real romantic night, don’tcha think?” he titters. “Under the stars and everythin’. But alas.”
“Like lovers, again?”
“Listen, Kid,” Mad Dog’s tone is even. “We’re even spendin’ the night together. What do you want me to say, huh?”
Kid smiles a little. “Not like this is the first time.”
“No,” he replies. “But it’ll be the last.”
“Like last time?”
“No. Go to hell.”
Kid pours the last of the coffee beans into the boiling water and stirs it tentatively. “Now?”
It would go like this in the morning: Kid would wake up first, like always, and he would pack his things up nice and neat. Then, depending if Mad Dog decided to wake then or not, he would either ready himself for the last duel of his life, or he would wake the man up himself in preparation for the last duel of his life.
Unlikely, though, he thinks with some amusement.
In reality, he knew that at some point in the future, he would find yet another bar with the suspiciously recent remnants of a torn-down wanted poster, and the man in black would find him all the while crowing about how easy he made it for him, that he must be losing his touch. And then they might draw their pistols, or they might drink whiskey, and it wasn’t a sure thing what they would be doing except that it would be the same dance they always did.
For how long they would be doing it, he didn’t know either. Forever, maybe — though they were both getting on in the years, so then again, maybe not. But for now, he was content.
“Here, Kid. Try one.” Mad Dog’s hand brushes over his shoulder, holding a biscuit. “Pretty dry without coffee, though. Is it ready yet?”
Kid takes the biscuit and nibbles the corner. Dry. “Almost.”
The coffee boils, and Mad Dog talks. “What you reckon I should buy with your bounty?” he asks.
He would ask this every time. “Yer own coffee.”
“Hey.” A shoe nudges Kid’s backside — not hard enough to knock him face-first into the dirt, though. “Gimme back that biscuit.”
The coffee looks, and smells, about ready. “Already ate it,” he answers.
_________
Soon, the coffee is poured and the sky dark. By some miracle he had some leftover jerky in his pouch which he eventually, reluctantly, parted with, seeing how there was just enough for two people. Everything, always, just enough for two. ‘It’s your last night alive anyway,’ Mad Dog had said while eyeing the dried meat, so Kid didn’t have much of a choice other than to shrug and toss some into the man’s lap. He would find more at the next town over, anyhow.
The hot coffee slides down his throat with just the right tang of bitterness, and he finds that even though it’s cold out, even though the clouds won’t part way for the stars, even though his back hurts a little from all the crouching — it’s not so bad. There were better, more comfortable places to spend a night, he knows, but there were also worse places.
Mad Dog dabs at his mouth with his sleeve. “I think we’re close to Success.”
Kid glances over at him.
“How do I know? Easy.” He downs the last of his coffee and points the cup at a nearby tree. “I remember passing this very tree after you shot me off my Goldie, all that time ago.”
It’s absurd, but Kid entertains him all the same. “Mighty fine memory you have there.”
“Quiet, you son of a bitch.” Mad Dog stares out at the vast desert bathed in darkness. “You’ll see when we reach civilization again and see the word, Success, high on the town gate.”
He thinks that he wouldn’t mind a drink back at the Crystal Saloon. “Thought you were gonna kill me in the mornin’.”
Mad Dog sputters a bit at that. “W-well, I am. Who said I weren’t?” He brings the cup to his lips, forgetting that he’s already downed the entire thing which by that time it’s too late to do anything else so he pretends to really, really, drink the last few drops. “You’ll watch me ride into Success from the heavens.”
And he did think about it, about them, from time to time — how Billy was growing up, how Annie and her brother were doing, if the barkeep ever did get to meet Jennifer. He was a stranger then, and likely a stranger now, considering the ages on his face since he last saw them, but a reunion was certainly not an unwelcome thing.
Sentimental, he could hear Mad Dog say in his head.
Mad Dog himself, of course, would be instantly recognizable. The years didn’t seem to take the same toll on him as they did Kid, and aside from the smile lines decorating his face, he was still the same as ever. Thirty-five at most, if Kid didn’t know him.
He doesn’t recall how long it’s been since he left everything behind, but right now, as he sits on the dirt with the taste of jerky on his tongue and a cup of coffee in his hand, it feels like this has always been his life — on the road, wandering, unknowable, except to a few. Freedom, even if undeserved.
By the fireside, Mad Dog sits and fidgets absentmindedly with his hat. “What time is it, d’you reckon?” asks Kid, watching the embers.
Mad Dog doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he says, “Bedtime already, old timer?”
There was no need to argue when they both already knew he wasn’t even a decade older. “Yeah.”
“Well.” Shuffling sounds. “C’mon then.” A hand outstretched, by his shoulder.
He takes Mad Dog’s hand wordlessly, and heaves himself up.
Later, as they’re both tucked snugly in their own bedrolls, Kid lies there and watches the skies for a while.
Though his heartbeat thrums in his ears — the caffeine in his system, no doubt — he eventually drifts off to sleep, thoughts of bounty hunters and warm drinks lingering on his mind.
_________
He wakes up early enough to see the sunrise.
It’s not like he’s never seen one before, and it’s not like they differed much from each other — but the warm hues of the sky, and the sun, lazy, unhurried, stretching over the horizon — ease his heart all the same.
Mad Dog, still asleep, lies there peacefully. Kid watches him for a while, watches his chest rise and fall with every breath before he realizes he’s been staring a little too long, and it’s not as though there are any witnesses but he looks away and pulls the brim of his hat over his eyes anyway.
And it’s quiet. If there ever were a time where Mad Dog was silent, actually silent, it was when he slept. The man hardly even snored.
Still, for every trek he spent alone with his thoughts, he appreciated this company all the more. What was likely the thrill of the chase in Mad Dog’s eyes was now, in the eyes of a sentimental old man, the relief of reuniting with an old friend in an ever-changing world.
He wonders briefly what Mad Dog would say if he admitted this to him. There was no need to, at least not aloud, not at this very moment, but he still wonders.
There really wasn’t much else to think about these early mornings.
A yawn. “Damn,” Mad Dog’s voice, still rough from groggy sleep. “You beat me again.”
Kid looks over and sees Mad Dog rubbing his eyes. He always looked different in the mornings, messy bedhead and wrinkled shirt so disparate from his usual swanky image. But still Mad Dog, if the talkativeness was any indication.
“We shouldn’t’ve drank that coffee last night,” he says through a yawn. “Since we done drank the last of it then. Now we ain’t got none to wake us up.”
“Yeah,” Kid replies simply. “I was thinkin’ that too.”
They both sit — or in Mad Dog’s case, lie — there awhile, staring out at the wilds. The sun is higher now, and shades of blue start to brighten the sky. Then, Mad Dog says: “Draw?”
A light breeze caresses Kid’s cheek, and he answers: “Breakfast first.”