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Charles throws his coat aside and grabs his pistol before Cricket comes to a complete stop. The worn handle digs into the skin of his palm as he squeezes, ready to draw.
Cricket’s ears prick forward, the tips nearly touching. She snorts mist out into the cool night. She holds herself completely still as she intently scans the dully illuminated area surrounding them.
Soft moonlight spreads across the dirt path, filling the dips and notches shorn by countless horseshoes like spilled milk. The stars blink languidly around the watchful eye of a full moon. Owls hoot in the trees lining the path, the sound echoing through the little valley.
The ambient sounds are pleasant and certainly not what Cricket stopped for. Her attention is fixed on an unusually dense tangle of bushes coming up on the right side of the road; the perfect spot for thieves or other reputable men to hide and ambush an unsuspecting traveler.
Charles stays perfectly calm and quiet. He won’t force her on or scold her. He trusts Cricket in the way only an outlaw and his horse can trust each other. She could sniff out danger miles away and avoid any troubles following them on whatever adventure sounded fun that week. When he was young, he remembers hearing a story about a cricket who taught a puppet right from wrong and kept him out of trouble. That's not why he named her Cricket, of course, but the parallels weren't lost on him.
Yet, Charles feels his heart pounding and not from the anticipation of a fight. The air is thick with the smell of approaching rain. Clouds are already starting to blot out the sky and he shivers, bobbing anxiously in the saddle.
Rain made his brain go fuzzy, especially when he got caught out during a storm and got soaked to the bone. It felt like he was made of soil and instead of worms, bruises and cuts rose to the surface. Thunder rattled his body with fists and lightning came cracking toward him with teeth and the glint of knives. He knew it was all in his head, that rain was rain and the mud pit he almost died in was hundreds of miles away, but it never seemed to do him any good.
Sensing his uneasiness, Cricket huffs, shaking out her mane. She wouldn't budge until Charles let her make sure the coast was clear and told him as much with a high-pitched whinny.
"Alright, alright," Charles concedes. Keeping his hand securely on his pistol, he clicks his tongue and squeezes her flank with his knees. "Go on, then."
Exercising an incredible amount of restraint, Cricket walks toward the bushes. Dense tangles of brambles and other vegetation pack together to create an impenetrable wall to the side of the hill surrounding the path. Rabbits coming across the road freeze and then bolt into the cover, rustling branches tracking their retreat.
Charles hears the crying once Cricket is almost on top of the largest bramble bush. It's faint and muffled, like someone's trying to smother the sound behind shaking hands. He can stomach almost everything after the last few months living like a stray dog, but that kind of fear makes his stomach twist painfully.
He opens his mouth and immediately hesitates. Bandits often imitate people in distress to lure victims in close and the last thing he needs is to waste bullets on some cowards playing hide and seek. Then again, he'd never forgive himself if there actually was someone needing help and he went on without offering any. One of these days his heart might finally bleed out.
Tugging gently on the reigns to signal Cricket, Charles dismounts. His boots hit the ground with a resounding thud and the crying cuts off with a mangled whimper. Charles reminds himself to breathe as he unclips the small lantern on the saddle and swings it toward the bush.
"Hey," he calls out, doing his best to stay relatively quiet. "My name's Charles. I'd – uh, I'd like to help. You hurt?"
Silence.
Right. People who cry like that don't usually respond when asked if they're hurt. He should know better than anyone, Charles thinks bitterly.
Getting on his knees, Charles starts detangling the thin branches with his free hand and crawls inside. He swears as the burrs and brambles attack, ripping at his face. Maybe getting a hole blown through his hat last week wasn't so bad after all. One less thing he'd have to maneuver around the knotted mess. The tangle eventually widens, the broken ends of branches hanging like loose teeth ringing the gap. Charles pushes on and finds himself entering a small burrow at the heart of the patch.
What the lantern sees first are a set of feet blackened by mud and grime. The feet recoil the instant the light touches them, the torn and bloody soles leaving red tracks on the dirt.
Charles holds the lantern higher and finds the frightened face of a boy. He's all sharp angles, like broken glass pieced together. Old bruises sprout along his clenched jaw and sweat plasters his ratty brown hair to his brow. His watery eyes squint as the light falls over his face and he turns away, hissing softly. There's blood on his teeth.
Why exactly the boy's hiding isn't hard to guess given the threadbare black and white uniform. Prison stripes. Charles saw plenty back home when he did rounds around the prison with his father. The hard, dusty faces staring out at him from the rusted bars were a far cry from the boy sitting across from him, wiping snot on his baggy sleeve.
Before Charles can say anything, Cricket nickers out a warning. Charles and the boy both tense, listening.
Hoofbeats. An entire herd thundering toward them.
The boy draws a short, ragged breath and looks wildly in the direction the sound echoes from. He makes an odd keening noise and starts to back out of the brambles.
Without thinking, Charles grabs the boy's wrist. Under Charles’ fingers, his pulse pounds harder than the hoofbeats rapidly approaching them. The boy flinches, and Charles notices for the first time there are more bruises ringing the skin there. He immediately lets go.
The boy snatches his arm back but doesn't immediately bolt. Instead, every muscle in his body goes rigid like a cornered rattlesnake ready to strike.
For the first time since meeting him, Charles is tempted to reach for his pistol. Someone wearing prison clothes and looking meaner than sin paints a pretty clear picture, but the quiet sobbing and the violent tremors currently rattling the boy's frame burn it to cinders.
The muscles in the boy's jaw jump, thick eyebrows knitting together as he suddenly turns his gaze to the ground. He must be weighing his options because after a minute he settles back on his haunches, resigned. At least he's smart enough to understand running's about the dumbest thing he can do, especially with how bad his feet look. He might get a couple minutes down the road before he’s caught.
Charles wipes the sweat from his brow. He clears his throat, and the boy looks up at him sharply. He holds his hand out flat and mimes pushing on the boy's heaving chest, signaling him to stay put.
He isn't surprised when the boy twitches like a spooked horse, trying to figure out exactly what the trick is, so Charles raises his eyebrows imploringly. Trust me.
Finally, the boy nods.
Letting loose the relieved breath he didn't know was trapped inside his chest, Charles nods back and clumsily backs out of the brambles. Charles scrambles to his feet just as the faint speck of another lantern manifests out of the dark like the eye of some great beast.
The faint light splits, becoming two, then three, and finally four. Four riders wearing dark clothes and hats.
Even from this far away, the sight of the shiny badges pinned to their vests makes Charles' heart lurch into his chest. They aren't here for him. They are coming for the boy hiding in the bushes but his vision keeps going gray and fuzzy around the edges as they get closer.
Texas hurts to think about, and so Charles pushes the blood and the rain and the angry howls of boys hellbent on murdering him into the furthest reaches of his mind. Deeper and deeper until he hits the back of his skull. He wishes he could break through and get rid of everything for good and just ride Cricket across the entire world, leaving the flashes of fear stabbing him and twisting up under his ribs behind for the vultures to scavenge.
Adrenaline makes the panic spike and then turns to ice, calming the overwhelming tide long enough for him to think.
Charles hastily undoes the cinch of Cricket's saddle. The strap hangs limply, swaying as she shifts her weight nervously. He makes a show of fiddling with the perfectly intact strap, the leather creaking and protesting as he tugs it this way and that. Cricket, ever the thespian, starts nibbling on the bush and flicking her tail nonchalantly.
Somehow, Charles holds himself steady when the band skids to a halt behind him. The leader swings his horse around, kicking up clumps of loose dirt. The others swear loudly and yank the reins, swerving to avoid collision. Bodies cluster together and the horses' eyes roll, flecks of spittle collecting at the corner of their gasping mouths.
Out of the corner of his eye, Charles finds the leader, presumably the Sheriff, scowling down from a chestnut mare. He's blonde and barrel-chested and scowls like an old bulldog even though he isn't all that old – maybe twenty-five or so. A familiar itch follows the man's appraising eye across Charles.
Charles bristles, hiding a snarl inside his overcompensating smile. "Evening," he bites out, sickeningly polite. He glances around. "Bit late for you boys to be out riding."
"Could say the same about you, stranger." The sheriff replies gruffly.
"Saddle came loose." Charles gestures airily toward the loose straps and shrugs. He leans against Cricket's flank, crossing his legs at the ankle. Although it makes him nauseous, he lets his eyes wander to the man's badge and then back to his face. "Trouble?" He asks innocently.
The sheriff eyes him. Charles sticks out his chin. It's an agonizing couple beats before the man finally nods, opening his coat and pulling out a folded piece of paper. "Yes, as a matter of fact," he says as he unfolds it and offers it to Charles. "We're tracking an escaped convict."
"That right," murmurs Charles, taking the paper and once again coming face-to-face with the boy.
The mugshot shows him sitting stiffly on a stool holding a chalkboard stating his name as Edwin Payne, along with a long serial number. Edwin's eyes are wide like he's staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. They obviously hadn't let him wash before taking the photo because there's blood on his chin from a split lip and more staining the hands holding the chalkboard.
"Slipped out of his cell about an hour ago," continues the sheriff. "Nobody saw anything but we found his trail soon enough. He's on foot. The bastard couldn't have gotten far, so we'd appreciate the public's cooperation in recapturing this dangerous criminal."
"Dangerous criminal, huh? Sure doesn't look it."
"Don't let the photo fool you. That son of a bitch murdered five boys in cold blood," There's a growl in the warning which raises the hair on the back of Charles' neck. The sheriff's horse flattens her ears against her skull as he shifts in the saddle, hiding his eyes behind his hat. "Including my little brother," he adds like Charles didn't already have an idea how antsy he was to shove the muzzle of his gun down Edwin Payne's throat.
Charles tries picturing Edwin Payne murdering five people. Take away the blood and feral glint in his eye and what's left is an awkward, gangly teenager. He looks like he should be drinking tea with his pinky out and making mind-numbing conversation with men in three-piece suits. Charles can't find anything that'd make him believe he'd murder one person, much less five.
He must take too long to answer because the sheriff clears his throat.
"Sorry about your brother," offers Charles, handing the mugshot back. He shakes his head. "Haven't seen him, or anybody really since I've been on the road. Good luck finding him, Sheriff..."
Again, the sheriff scrutinizes him and again Charles smiles, drawing on the survival instincts that allowed him to reach the ripe age of seventeen. Be good, be polite; smile in the face of intimidation no matter how many teeth you might lose later.
"Mould," grunts the sheriff. "Sheriff Mould. Best get to where you're goin', boy."
Sheriff Mould spits tobacco on the ground at Charles' feet and roughly tugs his horse's head around. The mare's nostrils flare at the manhandling but he doesn't seem to notice. He does pause, giving Charles one last look. "Keep this in mind: Whether you snatch Payne or shoot him, there's quite the reward posted already. Just a thought."
With a sharp whistle, he digs his heels into the horse's flank and takes off. One by one, the others follow.
"Sure, I'll keep it in mind," mutters Charles as he watches the horses disappear. "Fucking prick."
The sky rumbles, the reminder of the approaching storm snapping whatever spite was holding Charles together. His chest collapses in on itself like a card tower and he wheezes, stumbling back against Cricket's rump. Time gets mixed up in his head, and Charles isn't sure exactly how long he stays there sweating. Eventually, he's able to uncurl his fists and wipe his palms on his trousers just to dispel the lingering anxiety driving knives into his spine.
Charles takes another breath for posterity and rubs his nose. "Coast is clear," he calls out, cringing when his voice cracks slightly.
The bushes rustle, then stop, and after a moment Edwin peeks his head out. Cricket cranes her neck to nose his hair as he scrambles to his feet. He startles, swatting her nose. The mare recoils, ears flattening and pricking several times.
"Don't worry 'bout her, mate," Charles comments, patting Cricket's flank sympathetically. Edwin's eyes fix on him, pupils blown so wide it makes Charles' skin crawl. He tries to smile, moving his coat aside to shove his hands into his pockets. "She's just nosey. Guess she gets it honest, huh?"
Edwin blinks. His mouth opens and closes like he's trying to say something then notices the pistol that Charles' just revealed.
Shit. "Wait –"
Too late.
Edwin lunges for the pistol with all the mindless desperation of a starving panther pouncing an animal twice its size. He's off-balance on mutilated feet, letting Charles easily dodge the dirty fingers clawing at his holster. Edwin stumbles once before his legs finally give out from under him.
On instinct, Charles reaches out and catches him by the elbow before he falls but Edwin cries like a mad fox, wrenching out from his grip and crumpling to the ground.
"Don't touch me!" Edwin snarls when Charles goes to brace his shoulder. Hair falls into his eyes. Harsh, painful breaths whistle between bared teeth.
Charles holds his hands up placatingly and frowns when Edwin flinches. "Ok, not touching. Won't even get mad about the gun. Just – shit, just breathe."
Edwin takes several heaving breaths. Each one saps more and more of his fight and he slumps, barely managing to hold himself up. He studies his own fingers, the gouges he's left in the soft earth.
"Shoot me."
Charles stares, stricken dumb. The words were so quiet, surely he misheard. "What?" He asks because there's no other logical response to being asked to shoot someone. "No. No, I'm not gonna shoot you. I – I just saved your damn life. I lied to the Sheriff. Why'd I do all that if I was gonna turn around and kill you?"
"Why else?" Edwin tips his head back, eyes rolling sluggishly. "The reward. If you saved me just to bring me in yourself for the money, then you might as well kill me because I'm –" His breath hitches, "I won't go back there. I won't!"
"Hey." Charles kneels in front of Edwin. "I'm not going to kill you, and I'm sure as hell not turning you in. Actually, I'm chuffed to hear you gave those cops the slip. I know I wouldn't have been able to if I'd been caught."
Edwin's mouth twitches. He barks a mirthless laugh, bloody teeth bared to the sky. “You heard what Mould said about me,” he hisses, sounding somewhere far away. "I'm dangerous. I murdered people."
"Did you?" Charles asks, cocking his head. What he really wants to ask is Why do you want to die so badly?
The indiscernible emotion which passes across Edwin's weathered face seems to crack the fragile bravado. Tears cut through the thin layer of dirt on his flushed cheeks and he breathes shakily. "No," he croaks. "I was framed."
"I believe you," Charles says.
“You’re the first,” whispers Edwin.
Charles risks scooting closer. Their knees are a hair’s-breadth apart. Edwin curls tighter around himself. The pause stretches out into a bridge neither of them are sure how to cross.
“Last year, my friends tried to kill me.”
Edwin turns to him sharply, eyes wide. Charles watches Cricket paw the ground anxiously, letting the simple sounds instill an odd calm within him.
“They almost did, too. It was storming somethin’ awful. They chased me out of town – there was this huge, empty field where we’d scrap sometimes. This time, though. This time I knew they weren't going to rough me up and then we'd laugh about it the next day. They wanted me dead. ”
“Why?” Edwin asks, barely breathing.
“Because my idea of justice was real different from theirs; it didn't involve harassing folks for nothing except walking and talking and lookin' the 'wrong' way,” snaps Charles. Edwin flinches, and he sighs. “Anyway, I fought back. I’d never done that before, and I think it was because I was just so tired of it all. I wasn’t going to let them kill me. Scratched out one kid’s eye. He’ll be blind the rest of his life. Does that scare you?”
“No.” Edwin straightens, looking for the first time like he has some life in him. “You said yourself they’d have killed you otherwise."
“Yeah. And even if they didn't and ran back for the cops, I'd be shot dead before anybody asked what happened. They wouldn’t need to. They don’t care. I reckon that’s exactly what happened to you.”
“Nobody believed me,” Edwin confirms, getting that faraway look again. “The officers said I'd gone mad. The reporters said I'd been possessed, and that's how they explained how I could kill Simon and those other boys. Nobody believed there was someone else there that night and I was sentenced to hang. Sheriff Mould kept getting the execution postponed so he could exact his own, personal revenge." The bruises on his face darken as he shudders. “He gets his hands on me, I'll die with or without a noose around my neck.”
“Then neither of us will get caught,” declares Charles, finally closing the gap. His knee knocks Edwin’s as he grabs his shoulder. “We’ll disappear, you and I.”
Edwin stops staring at the hand on his shoulder to look past Charles down the road. He swallows thickly, shaking his head. "Where I go, they will chase," he whispers severely.
Charles snorts. "I've already got plenty of dogs chasin' me around," he says dismissively, slapping his knees and getting to his feet. He offers a hand to Edwin, grinning. "Might as well add a couple more."
"That is...incredibly foolish."
"So is poking my nose into strange bushes on the side of the road. It's how I've always lived my life."
Edwin doesn't have an answer to that, despite the many faces he pulls trying to think of one. He sighs, and takes Charles' hand. Charles helps him up, holding his shoulder when he wobbles slightly.
"Where can we go?" Edwin asks.
"Anywhere!"
"Forgive me if I disagree."
"Well, here —" Charles shrugs off his coat. The night air pierces through the thin red shirt and hits his skin. He disguises the immediate shot of panic by throwing the coat grandly over Edwin's bony shoulders.
Edwin makes a surprised noise, fingers fuming for the coat's collar to keep it around himself. He gives Charles a questioning look, to which Charles simply smiles.
"Walking around wearing prison stripes don't exactly do us much good if we're meant to be avoidin' the law," Charles explains. "Better keep 'em covered up until we filch somethin' better off a clothesline. And a horse!" He adds excitedly. "Every outlaw needs a horse."
"I have a horse," says Edwin miserably. He draws the coat tighter around himself, shivering. "Dupin. That is, if Mother and Father haven't sold him to erase my stain off the estate."
"Let's go get him, then."
Edwin stares like Charles has lobsters crawling out of his ears. "Charles, if we go back for him, I might as well walk myself to the gallows. Sheriff Mould..."
"...is off on his wild goose chase and won't be any wiser. Maybe uglier, but definitely not wiser."
When Edwin hesitates, Charles chuckles. "The night's still young and we're both wanted criminals. Why shouldn't we steal your horse? Cause some chaos, rescue Dupin – sounds like fun."
"You're mad," Edwin says, but something like a smile ghosts across his face. He inhales deeply through his nose and nods resolutely. "I suppose if this is the life I am to lead, I would rather do it with Dupin."
"There's a lad!"
Edwin rolls his eyes, and Charles finds that strange sensation from before unfurling and spreading from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his toes.
The moon and stars go blind under the clouded skies as Charles gently boosts Edwin up onto the saddle. Edwin grabs the horn, keeping completely still when he gets on after him. Their bodies are pressed flush together, back to chest. Charles shifts, suddenly aware that Edwin might be able to feel his heart thudding against the stiff line of his spine.
"Ready?" Charles asks, reaching around to take the reins.
"Yes," Edwin answers, sounding unsure but determined.
Cricket neighs excitedly as Charles snaps the reins and takes off down the road toward the town; a phantom ferrying two ghosts into the night.