Change of Plans
I had barely left the saddle and my foot just touched the ground
When a cold voice from the shadows told me not to turn around
Said he knew about my fast gun, knew the price paid by the law
Challenged by a bounty hunter, so I turned around to draw
“Running Gun” -Marty Robbins
There were ashes on the wooden countertop, and a lit cigarette lazily trailed smoke to the ceilings. The room was dark, shadows lurking about in the corners, until warm orange light from the adjacent fireplace broke through the smoke like sunlight through clouds. The young man's hat was clutched forgotten in his other fist, tapping the brim to his forehead.
“A sight for sore eyes, my friend.” A welcoming voice offered through the haze of the rambunctious conversations and incoherent murmurs.
The young man laughed. It was gruff, worn down smooth by drinks and smoke. “I wear it worse when I’m sober.”
The other man sat beside him at the bar, a crooked smile on his lips. “Hard night?”
He slowed the steady tapping of his hat and set it carelessly on the bar by his unfinished drink and growing ash pile. “Last I checked, this was supposed to be a celebration.”
“Of what?”
“To a job well done.” He said bitterly, taking up his glass and draining it.
“Mm.” Nodding towards the barkeep, he was handed a drink himself. “A toast to you, then.”
The young man pursed his lips as he raised his empty glass and drawled, “Cheers.”
The sheriff studied the unkempt boy beside him, the scars on his face and along his knuckles, the light brown curls over his heavy eyes. He was a man of a reputation, even at his young age–one well earned, well proven, and even now, well worn.
“Who was it this time?”
He replied with a laugh again and cocked a bitter smile. “That’s confidential, Kingsley.”
Kingsley shrugged, unbothered, tilting the liquid in his glass. “Where to next?”
“Not far, perhaps a few hundred miles from this shithole. Got a sucker with a price on his head.”
Kingsley didn’t mention that it was what the boy said every time he asked. There was something else on his mind. “I’ve got a job for you.” He said slowly.
The corners of the boy’s lips twitched. “ Do you? And here I thought you just wanted to say hello.”
“This one…this one is different,” Kingsley murmured cautiously. “I want you to take an offer.” He slipped a paper from his pocket and slid it through the ash pile.
The boy flicked his cigarette, eyeing the paper. “No.”
“It’s not a request.”
“I don’t go where I’m called, I follow where I’m not wanted.” The boy lifted a brow shot through with a hairline scar. “You of all people should know that.”
“Read the letter. I’ll see you soon.” Kingsley set his undrunk glass down and drummed his fingers on the bar counter. The barkeep shot him a look until he slid him a coin or two. “I think you’ll like this one, my friend.”
Before he could stand, the boy deftly latched onto Kingsley’s shoulder and kept him in his seat with gloved fingers. The boy leaned in, breath hot against Kingsley’s ear. His tone was low and laced with subtle warning. “However you found me, they’ll be dead by morning.”
The boy stood, his hand still on Kingsley and gruff voice still hovering by his ear. “Next time you want me, ask the devil where I am and not a friend. Thanks for the drinks.”
With a nod to the barkeep and a grab for his hat, the boy tipped Kingsley in farewell and was gone through the doors in the back without a second glance.
The barkeep held a hand towards Kingsley, and the man disgruntledly handed over the remainder of his money. Of the few run-ins Kingsley had the misfortune of happening with the boy, this was the first of those that Kingsley was mildly annoyed.
He was hoping to have used those coins for a nice bed before traveling the next day, but they were wasted instead on a drunk stomach.
Kingsley looked over to where the paper used to be on the bar, but in a quiet realization figured the boy had grabbed it while Kingsley wasn’t paying attention. Sly, sly bastard.
Kingsley reached for his glass again, now with the intention of taking a sip, but grabbed nothing but smokey air, and now with no coins and no damn drink, Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head and followed the bounty hunter out the double doors into the night.
Remus Lupin was a lot of things, but the first that came to mind was goddamn trouble. He was a wild card, a gamble, a cheat, and a last resort.
Remus Lupin crouched by a balding man named Mundungus Fletcher, who was bleeding out in the alley at the edge of town. Mundungus had made the dire mistake of taking the black cloak and faded plaid bandana for someone else, and hadn’t expected the pistol to be pulled on him.
I stayed at your inn for discretion, Mundungus. Remus had approached slowly, purposefully. Not for an invitation to kiss ass by throwing my name around.
What? Mundungus stumbled back a bit, unnerved until his eyes widened with recognition. Mundungus was a squat, beefy man, well-built, but his sniveling personality was weak and powerless. Remus hadn’t been a fan before, he sure as hell wasn’t a fan now. Why the devil…Mister Howell? What are you…is this about the Sheriff? I had no–
Hear that Mundungus? Remus had interrupted, approaching. Remus was steady with his weapon, regardless that he was a bit fuzzy around the ears. Drinking made him morose, not stupid. He knew when he needed to sober up.
What? No, no, Mister Howell I don’t hear nothing-
Bang, silence, bang . Two bullets into the night, like a crack of lighting in two quick recessions.
It's the sound of the Reaper, Mundungus.
Remus knocked his final drink back and then, with a grimace, threw the glass as hard as possible at the alleyway wall across from him. It shattered on impact, littering the cobblestones in brutal delicacy. Compared to the gunshots, the sound was nothing.
When Kingsley turned the corner for the alley he had chosen discretely to pay the man who had tipped off the bounty hunter’s whereabouts, Mundungus wasn’t there.
There was blood though, lots of it, it seemed. And glass, which Kingsley had an inkling of what it could’ve been.
With a sick turn of his dark hand over the blood, Kingsley sighed and his nostrils whistled from the force of it. He had liked Mundungus.
The man had a lot to him, harboring fugitives and the like for years now, but a good acquaintance of Kingsley’s. Liked nothing more than a good gamble and a change of pace.
Kingsley stood and crossed his heart, and walked away.
There was nothing else to see.
Wherever Mundungus Fletcher had thought he would end up that night, it wasn’t hightailing it out of his hometown that he had never left in the back of a cattleman’s cart, leg and foot bandaged so tightly that he swore the appendages had fallen off hours ago.
He was nodding off in the low darkness of the wagon, reeling off the drunken taste of pain and shock. In a turn of two nights, he had lost the money he was owed, his work, his home, and now his name.
Mister Howell told him he was Charles Harbury now, and that this cart would take him to a town with a big-name doctor.
That was if he didn’t die on the road there, but Mundungus– ‘Charles’ was willing to risk it. A bottle of whiskey sat half empty in one sweaty fist, remnants of his choice of medicine.
The boy's words still echoed in his ringing ears, soft and steady.
You’re going to take this and tie it above your wounds, and then you’re going to get on the cattleman’s cart and get the hell out. You don’t know who I am, you don’t know how you were shot, Mundungus is dead.
He had been sobbing in his pain, inconsolable to reason. I don’t…I don’t understand…
There’s a doctor in Westfield. I would go now before you die here. You’re taking my passage out of town, so thank me, and scram.
Mundungus would be a new man if he made it to the next city. He almost laughed, lying there under a bout of hay, blinking hard in the darkness. He didn’t even get to say goodbye.
The cart began to slow to a steady trot, shaking Mundungus awake from his awkward position. The cattle driver was speaking to the young boy with him at the driver’s bench in hushed tones.
“...what's got the horses all spooked, Pa?”
There was a hard beat of silence that Mundungus tipped his head towards, trying to hear better. If they weren’t stopping for the night, he wanted to tell them he needed a quick second to relieve himself. It was a good and kind thing that Mister Howell hadn't shot his hands instead, or else he would've needed help.
“Go untie Lacy and the calves, boy. We’re leaving her.” The cattle driver growled.
They were pulling to a complete stop now, and the child’s shout of indignation was now much louder. “Pa? But Lacy won’t– I thought-”
“Now, boy! Hurry!” There was a scramble of movement outside the cart, heavy steps and dropped ropes, the boys hushed sniffles breaking the silence.
“Back on the cart now, up with you.” There was a tone of urgency that made Mundungus’ pulse sputter, and the kid was no exception. The kid got on the cart faster than he had gotten off.
The cattle driver spurred his horses on, taking on a faster pace than before that had Mundungus head slamming up into the wall.
Thump thump thump thump
Thump thump thump thump
Mundungus held his hand over his chest, trying to breathe, but a sharp twisting pain had started in his leg again so he chugged a long gulp of whiskey to ease it.
Thu-thump thu-thump
Mundungus sat back, trying to steady himself, but it seemed the beating was increasing so fast that it was then that he realized it wasn’t his heart he was hearing or the horses dragging the cart.
It was riders.
“On!” The cattle driver urged, “On girls!”
Faster, faster, thu-thump thu-thu-thump thu-thump
“Get in the cart, boy, take that shotgun.” The old man yelled over the wind and the distance. They were at a full breakneck speed now.
The boy crawled into the space a second later, a shiny barrel in his small hands. The kids' eyes found Mundungus and scooted closer to him, eyes wide and afraid. They had let Mundungus ride in the cart after he said the safewords the bounty hunter had taught him. A sight for sore eyes, my friends.
The cattle driver had eyed him up and down and huffed. He needs to lose that trigger finger or I’ll make him buy me a new cart. Get in.
Mundungus said over the noise, “Know how to use that?” Gesturing to the gun, the kid wildly shook his head.
Mundungus regretted asking, putting a hand on it. “I suppose I do.” The kid paused a moment, looking back at where his father was in the driver's seat, before handing it over. “Get behind me, stay low. Who's out there?”
The kid was pinching his face as he hid on his side beside Mundungus, who had settled the shotgun ready in his hands where he lay sitting back on the hay. “Bandits, sir.”
"Bandits? You're sure?"
"Yes, sir."
“Damnit.” Mundungus gritted his teeth and wished Mister Howell had picked better places to shoot him. If they were going to have to jump cart, he would be no help bleeding everywhere.
He missed his rented room and the local saloon and the whiskey's on their shelves. He missed his simple life and petty crimes and making his living.
He traded the boy his bottle and grunted, "Don't spill that."
The cattle driver was yelping like a banshee, flying across the desert road as fast as he could possibly take them.
Mundungus pushed aside the canvas fabric with the barrel of his gun and peered out his small vantage, catching the tail-end of a steadfast horse catching up on their left. With a dramatic pressing of his face against the curved wall of the cart, Mundungus caught another horse off to their right as well. If there were more, Mundungus had no idea.
“You've got two closing in behind!” the boy called behind him, and Pa grunted.
The thing about chases like this, you never want to do it in such wide open spaces. At night. Alone. Or with a cart to slow you down.
Depending on how close they were to the nearest town, they would either run their horses dry, or they would be overpowered. There were no detours, no hiding, just pure, uninterrupted running for their life.
From Mundungus’ viewpoint, the sky was still dark despite it most likely being early morning, the cold air seeping through the wooden boards while the dry dirt was kicked up by the horses, brambles of dead branches snapping in earnest. His town was a mere speck in the distance now.
There was a loud shudder on one of the sides of the cart, making Mundungus lose his balance a moment where he sat. It didn’t take a genius to know whoever it was was trying to make the cattle driver stop.
Wiping a shaking hand over his brow, Mundungus tried to think this through.
Another thud hit the cart on the other side like someone was banging on the wooden bed like it was a door to a neighbor's house.
Let us in, Mundungus.
A snap of a gunshot sliced through the canvas and out again over their heads, and the kid found Mundungus’ eyes and scooted back into the far corner.
Mundungus was told he could push past the tied down canvas flaps but was advised against it. The driver was technically not allowed to be sneaking around fugitives and bounty hunters in his cart, so it was best that no one could look within. But that was before they were attacked by Bandits.
He tugged a knot and unspooled it, feeling his weight wobble as the flaps whipped free and he was looking out at the world like it was through a larger, more dramatic peephole. The wind was much worse now as he pushed himself against the side and slowly angled the shotgun at the adjacent bandits' horse.
He was so close he could see the strain in the horse’s muscles as it kept up with the cattleman, hooves digging at the ground so fast that Mundungus had to lean back so he wouldn't fall out and land under them. His leg screamed in defiance, pant leg growing warm with new blood.
With a prayer to whatever god listened, Mundungus loaded a bullet, cocked it, and pulled the trigger.
The horse whined and stumbled, its pace completely deterred, and veered away almost instantaneously, its rider attempting to breach the cart losing his footing and falling, his scream cut off as they already made distance between them.
One.
Mundungus knew the second bandit was on the other side, but he could still take out the horse. trembling as he pushed towards the other side, now almost shoulder to shoulder with the kid, Mundungus did the same as he did before: a bullet in the chamber, cocked, and fired.
But this time the horse was hardly affected, because the bullet went through the empty saddle bag. Mundungus gritted his teeth and fired a second, this time hitting the flank, sending the horse slamming into the cart with its bleeding weight before being left behind. The impact had jarred Mundungus from his precarious position and he was left scrambling to shift back into the cart.
The young boy reached out and steadied Mundungus with a yank, enough for Mundungus to push himself up and away from the wheel that was nearly about to take off his head.
Mundungus sat back a moment, breathing heavily and cursing Mister Howell, when another gunshot went off, this time by Pa.
A sickening feeling ran through his nerves like water as he realized what that could mean. Mundungus had Pa’s shotgun.
If Pa was down, there was no driver.
It seemed the boy had realized this at the same time.
“Pa?” He cried, crawling over the hay to attempt to look out through the open window by the seat.
Pa wasn’t where he should be.
In the split second it took for Mundungus to be staked to the cart bed in fear, Pa sat back up into view, a pistol in one hand and reigns in the other, twisted to aim up over the cart's small window, firing three shots into the night.
The cart veered again, pushing Mundungus into another side of the wall before it righted itself and he was able to look back.
A body lay in the dirt road behind them as they continued, its black cloak swallowed by the dust on the road.
Mundungus stopped the kid from trying to crawl back through the window. “Are there more?” The boy asked Pa, who was trying to calm the horses from their crazed pace and ignoring the small hand tugging at his sleeve.
Pa shot a small look over his shoulder. “Not that I know.”
“Pa?” The boy asked again, and Pa shook his head, gritting his teeth. “Stay in the cart until I get these–woah, woah, slow down!--until I get ‘em under control.”
It took a long while for the horses to stop treading so fast, and even then their breathing was heavy and well-spent, before Pa relaxed and patted the seat beside him.
“On up here, boy, take those reins.” The boy crawled through cautiously, doing as he was told and righting himself on the bench.
Pa then veered a raised brow in Mundungus’ direction. “You still have my gun?”
Right. Mundungus nodded and reached for it, asking, “Yeah, here I’ll-”
“Hold onto it. Keep a lookout.” Pa was a cattle driver; with his brawny figure and close-cut gray beard, Mundungus hated putting his trust in him but knew he had too.
The man's plaid shirt was now untucked, his straw hat bunched in one fist, and his heavy gray eyebrows thick and scrunched over his forehead.
“You did well out there.”
Mundungus swallowed. “That happen oft around here?”
Pa laughed. “It doesn’t. Lucky we only lost a few calves.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“It means we better make it to Westfield before we’re not lucky again.”
Mundungus nodded and sat back, pressing on his wounds with a pitiful sob. his bottle found his way back into his hands and he nursed his sputtering heart with it.
With Mundungus being a dead man, he had to be careful from now on. He couldn’t make the same mistake twice, especially since he knew why the bandits tried their luck.
Whoever Mister Howell was, he was trouble, because he knew this wasn’t about some poor old man harboring fugitives. This attack wasn’t meant for Mundungus.
Charles Harbury sobered as he drifted into a troubled sleep, missing the new dawn breaking through the night and draping the land with a slumbered wash of gold.