Blackwell Bounty

Chapter Eight

Please, let this be a dream. Please, let this be a dream.

Actually, nightmare was a more fitting word, but Cal was willing to settle for anything so long as this wasn't real.

Yet, no matter how many times he blinked, no matter how many times he looked away and then glanced back, the form of Amos Barnett, sitting confidently like a collector of broken souls with his forearms folded over the saddle horn atop a large black stallion, didn't shimmer or falter like the form of the apparition Calvin so hoped him to be. He was a ghost from Cal's past and oh, how Cal wished Amos was just a ghost because then he'd be dead. Long gone. Buried beneath the earth. Far from doing any harm to anyone else.

Sadly, this seemed to be all too real.

"I don't remember you being so taciturn the last time we spoke, Calvin," Amos said, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his grey whisker shadowed mouth.

No, Cal thought sarcastically, I'm sure you remember me looking a little worse for wear since my face was bleeding. The scar tingled as if with apprehension.

The past few days, Cal had been a jumbled mess of thoughts in between gaps of insignificant hours he meandered drunkenly after his trips to the saloon. He'd slipped, he realized. When he'd first come to Blackwell he had it all together. He'd had a plan. And now the chips lay scattered abroad with no way for Cal to collect them all again.

However, Calvin McClain was a proficient in the criminal world. He knew the important skill of how to uphold an impassive face. All too aware of the fact that Edith stood by his side, staring up at Amos curiously, Cal managed to conjure an indifferent expression as he resisted the urge to protectively shift his body in front of Edith. Any movement like that from him and Amos would immediately pick up what Cal was trying so desperately to hide.

Finally, and not without effort, Cal managed to calm himself enough to clear his head of the murky worries that would otherwise cloud his common sense. Best Amos didn't know he was so jumbled in the head. Cal would need every advantage he could get. With a guarded expression, Calvin said cautiously, in a serious tone that was meant to test the waters of this reunion with his old mentor, "I don't reckon there's a whole lot to say, Barnett. Howdy - that's 'bout it."

"A man of few words," Amos replied. "As always." He leaned back so he sat straight in the saddle and then he swung his leg over the horse and climbed down. The half a dozen men around Amos - all forced loyal, trail roughened men of the gang no doubt - did the same.

Overall Amos wasn't really all that intimidating in stature. He was at least twenty years Cal's senior, maybe more, and his age showed in his appearance. Sun stained skin, weathered and wrinkled from time but lacking the smile lines of the more mundane, lay over his face. Amos looked normal enough to be friendly. A white shirt, complete with buttons that trailed down his torso, was tucked into black trousers. A matching black vest, along with a gun belt and boots completed the look of an old cattle herder just looking for some place to quench his thirst like every other cowpuncher this side of the Mississippi. But what lay behind those ice-grey eyes was what bothered Cal. Those eyes had seen years and years of misery and pain inflicted by the hands of their owner.

Calvin knew more than he ever cared to share about Amos Barnett.

And the worst part was, he'd once looked up to this man. He'd once seen him as a great adventurer, a man who knew how to play the game of life and death, beat the stacked odds against him, and win every single time. When Cal was younger, he'd wanted to be Amos. He'd wanted to experience what it felt like to know that he was revered, known, esteemed.

Now the thought just made Cal sick to his stomach.

"It's good to see ya, Cal. Really, it is."

Amos extended his hand and Cal stared at it without moving for a long moment before replying, "Wish I could say the same." Cal paused to see if a reaction would cross in the grey eyes watching him. When nothing changed, he continued. "It seems my friend here was mistaken when he sent for ya. We won't be needin' any o' your..." He risked a glance at the half a dozen thieving gang members before turning his attention to Amos again. ".... assistance."