The Road to Santa Fe

A note from the author: due to the reception that my previous piece in this series received, I will be attempting to write an entire novel based on Quinn's journey for NaNoWriMo. I am presenting this next chapter here now in order to tide those of you who enjoyed "The White Oak" over until I've finished the book.

Wish me luck, and enjoy the next chapter in the adventures of Quinn the Bounty Hunter.

Quinn spun the revolver in his hand until he held it by the barrel, then swung the butt into Curran's temple. The other man howled through the rough cloth gag, and slumped forward awkwardly in the saddle, groaning. Quinn spun the pistol back, and then shoved the mouth of the weapon into the back of Curran's head.

"I'm gettin' real sick of repeatin' myself..."

He cocked the hammer slowly, letting Curran feel every little vibration of the trigger pawl clicking over the ratchet on the back of the pistol's cylinder through his bones.

"Now, quit the noise. Won't do you any good; I can keep this up til your brain goes soft..."

They weren’t even two hours out of Albuquerque, and he was already acting a damned fool; hell, the town was still a stone's throw away when he had regained consciousness and started hollering. Didn't take long after that for the gag to go on. Quinn didn't blame him though; if he ended up in the same situation, he'd probably be trying his damnedest to bargain, to plead, to get himself free. Still, this was the dance, and Quinn had to stick to his steps. He eased the hammer back down, and holstered the weapon.

"That's better."

Curran lifted himself back upright with a grunt, breathing out the pain that was likely spreading from the side of his face, trying to blink his vision back to normal. Quinn gave the man a moment - when the fire in his head died down, it'd likely move to his belly, and he might have to whoop the man once more for good measure. After some time, Curran's focus must have returned, as his eyes shifted to look directly into Quinn's, and spat hate into them. He let the other man sit in this emotion.

Quinn slowly pulled the revolver part way out of its holster, looking from the gun back to Curran back to the gun, daring him. The men locked eyes. Go on you dumb bastard, Quinn said in his mind, I'm not the one who suffers when you're unconscious. He imagined what Curran was thinking, which wasn't hard. You motherfucker, I'll slit your throat the first chance I get. I'll make you pay for doing this to me and so on and so on and so on. Quinn smirked, ready for the opportunity to earn himself fifteen more minutes of peace.

It took a minute, but Curran must have figured the reality that carrying on would only bring him closer to a fractured skull. He broke eye contact, and tried to spit, the impact of the gesture hampered by the gag; saliva mixed with blood oozed down his chin, coming to a rest in his stubble. Quinn slid his gun back home, and nodded at him.

"Good".

He shifted in his saddle, his back twinging some. They continued on.

The remainder of the trip to Santa Fe would take the better part of seven hours or so, depending on how many times they stopped. Quinn was stopping more often these days. Nothing to be done for it, no salves or medicines or snake oils seemed to work for him, and he damned sure wasn't going to resort to something stupid like downing laudanum, or smoking opium. Nothing for it, but to bear the pain and get on with it.

Quinn was aiming to reach the town by sundown, and then camp just on the outskirts. From what Quinn knew, there were ample lodgings in Santa Fe, but since he was a private operator, he wanted to remain as out of sight as possible, which meant roughing it. Come to think of it, sleeping so many nights in the wild was probably not improving his condition, but, nothing for it...

He'd taken Curran's handbill from one of the Helena deputies, but that didn't give him any kind of exclusive rights to the bounty. The posters were all over the town, Curran was fair game. With so many zeros in the reward, Quinn wasn't going to take any unnecessary risks at exposing him or his prize.

So, they would rough it out in the wild for the night, and then the following morning, they would catch the first train to Topeka. At least that was the plan. But Quinn knew better than to count on things going smoothly, they rarely did. Not only would there be a whole host of other private bounty hunters on the lookout for Curran, there would even be members of organisations like the Marshalls, or hell, the Pinkertons, capable and keen-eyed, looking to make a quick buck, that would be all over this.

Quinn had no idea how a rube like Curran stealing a horse could carry a bounty of ten-thousand dollars, but then again, from what he had heard, Helena had no shortage of millionaires after the boom there. He looked the horse over. She looked as healthy as any other mare, and was gaited, so at the very least she had been broken and trained to carry people with relative comfort. Despite the dust in her coat - no doubt from Curran not grooming her regularly - Quinn could see a shine that showed a somewhat healthy diet. Perhaps some sentimental value for the owner? It didn’t matter to him, however, all that mattered was that he got both horse and rider back to Helena. He turned his gaze up to the other man.

Curran bounced all over the place in his saddle - with his hands cuffed behind his back, and the cuffs tied to the back of the saddle, he had less control than if he was free to hold the reins, to move with the horse, as opposed to against it. He turned away from Curran, back to the road, stretching out before them.

Quinn felt the arid landscape creeping into his mouth. Licking his lips, eyes on the road ahead, he leaned down with a slight groan, and pulled a canteen from the side of the saddle. He took a hearty swig and looked over at Curran. The other man's eyes bored holes in the flask.

Quinn brought the horses to a halt.

"Thirsty, huh?"

Curran gave him nothing.

"I'll do you a deal, you keep quiet, and I'll share some of this with you. Sound good?"

Still nothing.

"...okay, suit yourself, go thirsty."

Curran grunted in submission, his shoulders dropping, as he nodded.

Quinn guided his horse over to Curran's, and pulled the gag down. Curran sucked down mouthfuls of fresh, unobstructed air.

"Don't make me regret this."

Quinn held the canteen up to the other man's face, eyes locked, and nodded. Curran returned the gesture, and Quinn tilted his hand. Water trickled into Curran's open maw; he gulped greedily without closing his mouth.

Quinn searched the man's face for any sign of intent outside of thirst, any hint of deceit or trickery or desperation. Curran's eyes were closed, savouring the precious drink. They opened slowly and looked into Quinn's. Don't fuck this up, he said to Curran with his eyes. The other man's eyes said nothing, and then they darted over Quinn's shoulder.

Quinn pulled back the flask, whipped his head around, scanning.

He squinted. There. On the horizon.

Movement.

He narrowed his eyes on the distant dark speck, replacing the canteen and pulling a revolver as his suspicion was confirmed.

A pair of people, hard to tell their age or demeanour from this distance, were riding toward them.

Could just be a pair of travellers, roving merchants or some such, making the trek between Albuquerque and Santa Fe to hawk their wares, to eek a living. Could be a pair of a pair of criminals, not looking to stop and get in Quinn - or anyone else's - business. Could be a father and son on a hunting trip. Quinn hoped for any of them. He stopped believing in any kind of God several lifetimes ago, but he said a silent prayer all the same.

The road they were on was the main route between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, likely hundreds of folk used it on a daily basis to travel between both cities. Quinn had chosen this path in order to avoid too much attention from hauling Curran and the horses onto a train back where he'd caught him. But that didn't mean this trail didn't come with its own risks. They were acceptable when Quinn had made the call, but now, something in his gut was telling him maybe it wasn't the better of two bad choices.

He dared not take his eyes off the people, but heard Curran spotting them.

"Oh, thank God!"

Quinn turned back to Curran.

"Don't!"

"HEY! HELP ME!!" Curran roared.

Quinn slid his revolver home again, having instinctively slammed it into Curran's head once more, barely realising that he'd performed the action until after it occurred. He leaned over in his saddle, and slid the gag back up into Curran's wailing mouth.

"You dumb bastard; I told you not to do that!"

As Curran groaned and moaned again, Quinn turned his horse to face the oncoming people. They seemed to have picked up some speed, so he attempted to obscure Curran some by shuffling his horse over some more. He ran his hand along the inside of the sleeve of his duster, felt steel through the cracked and worn leather; let go of a deeply held breath, and slowly inhaled another. The leather strap of the reins crunched in his hands as he spoke over his shoulder to the other man.

"You keep quiet, and these yahoos will pass us by without too much fuss. You screw this up, and we might just have to make a detour on the way to Santa Fe. And trust me, you don't want no detour..."

Quinn felt Curran's eyes burning into the back of his head as he turned back to watch the riders grow closer, slowing their horses to a trot. Please, travelling merchants. Please, criminals on the run. Please, a father and son, Quinn repeated in his head like a mantra. He began to determine what he could from this distance.

At first it was only really their clothing he could make out - white shirts under dark brown waistcoats, olive-coloured dusters, and sun-bleached brown hats. No military uniform, and nothing that looked standard to any peace-keeping association Quinn was familiar with. They began to slow their horses as they approached, and were just close enough for him to make out their faces.

They looked younger than him, yet older than Curran. They both looked to be around six-feet tall, both pretty solid despite their loose clothing. One had light eyes, fair hair, and a contrasting deep brown beard, the other had dark hair, stubble, and dark, narrow eyes. Doubtless they both had revolvers on their hips, but from here the only weapons Quinn could see were a rifle slung over the back of one man, and the other had some sort of stick or club slung behind his. Weapons didn't necessarily mean trouble, this was the frontier after all, but in Quinn's experience, the club said something else.

Goons.

Possibly members of one of the more well-to-do gangs, perhaps even hired thugs working for some rich rancher or mining magnate. Either way, the chance that they'd be unpleasant men to deal with was high. He'd have to play this calmly, try to pass by with nothing more significant than a nod and a 'howdy', and hope that if they stopped out of curiosity, that he'd be able to satisfy any questions they had, and could continue on the road to Santa Fe.

They brough their horses to a halt around four yards from where Quinn and Curran were, dust kicking up and drifting around the four of them in the breeze. The dark-haired man faced Quinn, but his eyes locked onto Curran as he lifted his hat and spoke.

"Morning..."

Quinn nodded at the dark-haired man.

"Morning."

"...does your uh, friend there need some help, Mister?"

"No, we're good, thank you kindly."

The dark-haired man broke his gaze from Curran and turned it on Quinn, a small smile, bordering on a smirk, passing over his face.

"You sure? Kinda sounded like someone was hollering 'help me' just now."

Yep, they heard it. No sense in trying to bluff them.

"The only help he needs, his daddy shoulda beat into him when he was a boy..."

Both the dark-haired and the fair-haired men chortled at this. The dark-haired man continued.

"That a fact?"

Quinn nodded.

"I was trying to make up for that when he had his little outburst. But we're good, thank you. He's got an appointment with the Sheriff."

"What did he do?"

"I don't rightly know; you'd have to ask the Sheriff."

"Where you fellas headed?"

He could feel his hackles rising, his fuse shortening. The road Quinn was on lead only to Santa Fe, and these men knew that. If they were going to make a move, start a fight, try to rob them, he'd prefer they quit the foreplay and just get on with it. He was already involved in one dance, and that required all of his attention.

"Santa Fe."

"That's funny...we just came from Santa Fe, but the Sheriff specifically said, 'none at all' when we asked if he had any open bounties. Ain't that right, Lester?"

He said the last part to the fair-haired man, who turned from looking Curran up and down.

"That's right, he did say that."

"So, you can't be taking him to the Sheriff in Santa Fe."

"I'm not. I'm taking him to Santa Fe, but he's goin' to another sheriff."

"There's only one sheriff in Santa Fe, and I just said he ain't got no open bounties! So where are you taking him?"

Quinn was done with this idiot; his patience had run dry, and his back was starting to nag him. Whatever this fellow wanted, either way it was trouble. As slowly and discreetly as he could manage, he began to move one hand toward his revolver.

"Listen, if you're gonna..."

The dark-haired man whipped a pistol up and aimed it at Quinn before he could even get close to his own.

Jesus fucking Christ. This guy was fast...or worse...Quinn was getting slower.

The light-haired man pulled the club from his back, tapping it in his open palm. The dark-haired man steered his horse a few steps closer to Quinn and Curran.

"Now, now, Boss, I see what you're doin' there, no need to be rude. We're just having a friendly conversation."

Quinn lifted his palms off his lap in a gesture of acquiescence.

"Now, since you can't quite get your story straight, we're just gonna have to sort out exactly who you two are, and exactly where y'all are goin'. Do we got that one on the other end of that rope, Lester?"

The other man reached inside his jacket, pulled out a wad of papers. He licked his thumb, and began using it to shuffle through the pages, slipping the top one off the pile and putting it at the bottom, repeating the process as he quickly scanned each one.

Damn. Handbills. These guys were bounty hunters too.

This was exactly what Quinn was hoping to avoid. He was expecting to have to lay low in order to skirt some competition in the larger cities and towns they'd pass through on their way to Helena, but not run into it barely hours out of Albuquerque. If these men were carrying around a stack of wanted handbills like that, there was a chance Curran's face was in there, and this would go from bad to worse.

Lester's eyes bulged; apparently, he had found a match. He tucked the rest of the pages back inside his jacket, and steered his horse over to where the dark-haired man sat, holding out the handbill.

"Here, Blaire, this looks like him here!"

The dark-haired man - Blaire, apparently - took the piece of paper, and held it up, scanning between Curran and the handbill.

"James Curran, twenty-nine. Height five-foot eleven, wanted alive for the reward of ten thousand dollars, payable by Sheriff Johnson in Helena..."

He absent-mindedly stuffed the handbill in his own coat pocket, and grinned at Quinn.

"...Montana. Well, I guess that straightens everything out. Now it makes sense why you're goin' to Santa Fe when there ain't no open bounties. You get it, Lester?"

"Yeah, I follow. Hey, don't they got plenty of good stagecoaches in town? The kinds they can take all the way to Helena?"

Blaire cocked his head back in Lester's direction. Quinn held his breath.

"Yeah, they got stagecoaches, they got trains, hell, for ten-thousand dollars, you can pay..."

His jibe was cut short by a throwing knife piercing his throat, his words halted abruptly in an ugly gargle.

Seconds after the blade pierced his windpipe, Quinn launched himself at the man, grabbing the revolver that was pointing at his face, and pushed it up, letting his momentum take both of them to the ground.

As they fell, Quinn tensed his stomach muscles and waited.

As he landed on Blaire landing on the ground, a small mouthful of air was pushed out of his lungs in a short grunt, and he quickly rolled, taking Blaire's pistol.

The world revolving in his eyes, he ignored the swirling sky and topsy-turvy dirt path.

He aimed Blaire's revolver dead between Lester's eyes.

He cocked the hammer and exhaled, pulling the trigger.

Quinn missed the sight of the bullet entering Lester's head, but he heard it, followed by the sound of the club clattering to the ground.

He immediately swung the gun around to bear on Blaire, who was desperately clutching his neck, fighting his body as it choked on the blood filling his throat, trying in vain to pull his second revolver.

Quinn pushed the barrel into his eye, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet sent Blaire's hat spinning off his head, followed by a torrent of blood, skull fragments, and brain matter.

Quinn let out a groan, and then a long-held breath. He righted his twisted clothing, stood himself up, and walked over to where Curran's horse was pacing back and forth, unsure of what to make of all the sudden commotion. He grabbed the knot holding Curran's cuffed wrists to the back of the saddle, and yanked at it til it came loose. Then he grabbed Curran by the crook of one arm, and ripped him off the horse, right into the dirt with a thud. He kicked him in the stomach, not full force, but enough to make his point.

"You dumb motherfucker."

He lifted Curran up by the cuffs, almost dislocating both the man's shoulders in the process. He dug around in his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a key, unlocked the cuffs, tucked them into his belt, and spun Curran around.

"I swear to fucking God, I will beat you so bad you'll beg me to shoot you dead if you pull some dumb shit like that again!!"

Curran fought through pain to give Quinn a look that was likely supposed to be defiant, but with the gag still on, only looked like a grimace.

"Now, you are gonna help me get rid of these two assholes, then get back on your horse and remain silent for the rest of the ride back to Helena, or I'm takin' that yahoo's bat, and beating you silly with it, then I'm shoving it up the eye of your cock. Do you understand me?"

Curran tugged the gag out of his mouth, and spat on Quinn.

"Fuck...you...asshole!!"

Curran tried his best to stand staunch, look tough, but Quinn was in no mood for this to go any way other than his right now.

He slapped Curran,

"Do you understand me?"

Curran balled his fist in reply, but Quinn levelled Blaire's gun at him.

Curran slowly dropped his hand.

Quinn slapped him again.

"Do you understand me?!"

Curran balled his fist again, but dropped it quicker, his grimace betraying the pain he was beginning to feel, tears welling.

"I asked you a fuckin' question, Jimmy!!"

Quinn slapped him again.

"Do you understand me?!"

Curran jumped, his body beginning to sob uncontrollably.

Quinn raised his hand to slap him again, and Curran flinched.

"Yes!! Yes!!"

Quinn let his open palm hover over Curran like a faith healer's reach, blocking the sun from the other man's face as he bawled. Quinn breathed out fire.

"Now. Put a body on each horse, and follow me."

Quinn prodded him with the pistol, the other man jumping some. He guided him over to Blaire, and gestured Curran to pick him up. The other man knelt down, sniffling, and threw one of the corpse's arms over his back, and wrestled the body up using his knees. He wobbled under the dead man's height and weight.

Quinn kept the revolver and his eyes pointed at Curran, as he took a few steps away to grab the reins of the dead man's horse. Both Blaire's and Lester's horses had spooked at the ruckus, but had eventually sauntered back over to their owners as Quinn had been slapping Curran around.

Quinn guided Blaire's horse over to where Curran wobbled under the dead body, blood and viscera dripping down his back, staining his already dirty shirt. He let the other man struggle to lift it over the saddle on his own for a minute or two, only helping when the corpse was partly on the verge of sliding off, but mostly on the horse.

"Grab that handbill from his jacket pocket."

Curran nodded silently, and retrieved his wanted notice, scanning it for a second, before sticking it in his own trouser pocket. Quinn gestured at Lester's body with Blaire's pistol.

"Now him."

He watched as Curran repeated the process for Lester, but stepped in earlier to assist him this time in order to speed things along, keeping his eyes on the other man the entire time. Quinn walked over to where Curran's horse was grazing on some light green scrub, and grabbed the reins with his free hand.

"Get on the horse. Slowly."

Curran did as he was bid, putting a foot into a stirrup, and slowly swinging himself over the saddle. Quinn nodded.

"Hands."

Curran bowed his head, and slowly pressed his fists together behind his back. Quinn cuffed him once more, retied the cuffs to the back of the saddle once more, slid the gag back into his mouth once more. He then took the reins and tied them to his horse's saddle, tied the two dead men's horses reins together, took a rope from his saddle bag, and tied the two horses to his own.

They diverted from the main road, passing over hillocks and through foot-high brush and in between dried-out saplings for the better part of an hour, until they found what Quinn was looking for. He dismounted his horse, his back twinging again. He tried to flex the pain away, but to no avail. He'd have to settle for a hot bath some time in the next week.

Quinn walked up to the edge of the rocky outcropping and peered down. He figured the gully to be a good forty to fifty feet. He scanned the horizon in each direction, confirmed there were no clear paths in or out. When he was satisfied, he walked over to the two bandit's horses, and began frisking their bodies. He pulled wads of cash from both men, some boxes of cartridges, and a tobacco pouch. He took the rifle from Blaire's back, now bent, and then guided the horses to the edge of the cliff.

Reaching down under the steed, he undid the saddle straps, and with a shove of the body, pushed everything except the horse and bridle off the edge, tossing the damaged rifle after it. A few seconds later, a loud, wet thud rang out from far below. He repeated the process for Lester, contemplating keeping the club for a few seconds, before flinging it into the gully. Once both men were down, he removed their horses' bridles, and slapped them on their flanks. They ran off into the wild.

He turned back to Curran, feeling spent, the minor skirmish and the clean-up that followed it having taken some effort out of him. His back would make him pay for this, and he knew just who to take that out on. He looked to Curran.

Curran had fear in his eyes. Good. Quinn sighed.

"Change in plans, James. We're taking a detour..."