Rush

act vii. { the rattler }

 { ❧ Song of the Section; Flathead by The Fratellis }

❧ "I'm not good with crying women."

I couldn't help that I sounded wary. There wasn't a bone in my whole body that was equipped enough to handle a crying woman. And if Mercy was going to start with the waterworks-- I needed to warn her before hand that I wasn't a good shoulder to cry on.

We mounted our horses next to that pathetic cerulean puddle of a lake, listening to Dollie's muffled cries from the tiny shack we were about to leave in the dust. Mercy's back was to me and although I wasn't quiet certain of whether or not she was too upset, I had thought I'd heard a sniffle. 

She whipped around, giving me an incredulous look. Her hair shined like spun gold in the sun. Dry-eyed, thank the Lord. When it came to women, I was surely at sea.

"Do I seem like the crying type to you?" Mercy quipped while she tightened her Palomino's saddle down. Despite our higher altitude, the August sun was beaten down on us without avail. She used the back of her gloved hand to dab at the beads of sweat collecting on her forehead while I took the time to ponder her question. A muffled crash came from inside the shack and spooked my horse a bit. More than likely, Dollie was raising hell in there, trying to free herself. Unfortunately for her, I was rather talented at tying knots. 

Perhaps Mercy was one of those closet criers. Regardless, I changed the subject just as Mercy climbed up on her horse, like she'd been doing it her whole life.  

"Why didn't you polish that little chicklet off?" I jerked my thumb in the direction of the shack. Not that it mattered to me either way, but it seemed that Mercy had beef with young Dollie. And as of late, Mercy wasn't the forgiving type.

Mercy sighed, a loose lock of hair blew up as she did so. "Dollie isn't worth getting my hands dirty for," she informed me. Fair enough. Mercy added, "seems to me like she just does whatever August and Reamer tell her to do."

"Imagine that," I hinted, shooting her a suggestive look. She ignored it. Hanging around Mercy made me miss women who did what they were told. A little bit, anyway. "D'you think she's telling the truth?" 

"About what?" I think Mercy loved that horse of hers something fierce. Soon as she climbed up, she gave him a good stroke right on his neck and I think I almost saw a sweet, sad little smile tug at her lips. But, then again, maybe that had to do with the thought of her pop's fortune being gone.

"Your Pa's money."

"I haven't the faintest idea," Mercy shrugged, giving the reigns a good tug. I was starting to think she only spoke like a true Calico Queen when she was trying to convince people she was tough shit. I guess she'd already convinced me. Her gray eyes settled on me, while I let my own wander up the mountains around us and settle on the wisps of smoke rising from the miner's camps in the distance. "But we need to get to August before August gets to Earl."

I nodded vigorously in agreement, digging my boot into my horse's side in an effort to get him a'movin'. Now, I might have been a low son-of-a-bitch, but I wasn't about to stand by and let Earl Hoover be cut down in the name of August and Reamer's gold fever.

You could take that to the bank. 

                                                                             ❦

We made our way through Idaho Springs to get to the miner's camp.  

The commotion had died down some and the celebration had migrated into the confines of the saloon on the corner. Just as I expected, everyone was three sheets to the wind by the time we blew through, but what I didn't expect was someone to go shouting my name at the top of their lungs.