Whiskey No More

By Wichita Red

Bathed in the soft glow of twilight, a meadow of waving Needlegrass, Blue Bunch, and Wheatgrass scattered with streaming patches of mountain wildflowers swept away from a mountain range silhouetted against an orange-smeared sky. From the Pinetree-clad ridgeline, inky shadows crept down the rocky crevices concealing the legendary Devil's Hole.

Entering the meadow, Kyle Murtry, looking entirely the part of a down-on-his-luck cowboy, gigged his little roan into a lope. As she pushed across the meadow, grass bent from her with grasshoppers leaping clear like flashing bullets. When the land began tilting upward, Kyle guided his mare from the grass onto a labyrinth path with a practiced flick of his wrist.

The mare drifted along between reddish boulders twice her size, her head bobbing with purpose as she knew the barn with its promise of an evening meal lay just ahead.

Sighting their approach, Hardcase rose from his concealment atop a ledge that thrust forth like a giant's fist and silently ambled to its edge. A big man with the trials and victories of his life etched clearly upon his face that created a disgruntled scowl, alerting all that he was not a man to be trifled with. In his right hand, Hardcase gripped an 8-gauge Wells Fargo double-barrel shotgun, to which he had already cocked the twin hammers.

With a subtle tilt of his head, Hardcase angled the narrow brim of his bowler, shielding his eyes from the sun's golden rays. Being able to see better, he grunted and released the hammers as the rider drew closer, his gravelly voice cutting through the stillness, "Sure be grand to see ya again, Kyle."

Only as he said this, Hardcase's deep-set eyes were focused on the sleek, long-legged chestnut following in Kyle's wake. Truthfully, he was assessing the stranger sitting the animal, for he had learned through ardent endeavors a newcomer could come bearing untold secrets.

"Lookie, who I found," Kyle announced with a proud flourish, extending an arm back to the man behind him.

A face raised to Lookout Rock,  revealing a wayward member of the gang, none other than Edmund Wycliffe.

Lobo chuffed out, "Faith and begorrah, I never thought I'd set eyes on you again!"

A hint of sheepishness gracing his sharp features, Wycliffe tipped his hat in response as he and Kyle moved past Hardcase and the lookout rock.

Leaving the hideout’s entrance behind, the pair trotted on. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and creaking saddles reverberating from rocks as they trailed through towering Aspen trees, their golden leaves whispering secrets of summer days that would soon be mere memories.

Edmund Wycliffe's gelding moved easily alongside Kyle's mare as he peered nostalgically about himself. He was a tall man with blonde hair as neatly trimmed as the handlebar mustache that framed his mouth with piercing blue eyes that offered a person no hint of his inner thoughts. He wore a dark suit; every detail attended to with precision, down to his leather finger jacket and the holstered Colt snugly fitted to his left leg.

As the pair flowed into the homeyard of the Devil's Hole hideout, gang members emerged from various corners and both cabins, greeting Kyle with the warmth and camaraderie of a family member. For despite their outlaw lifestyle, Kyle Murtry, with his infectious open smiles, easy laughter, and trusting nature, was a cherished constant in their lives.

However, the gang members, like Hardcase, sloped wary eyes toward the imposing, clean-cut figure swinging down from his mount, even as Kyle jumped from Strawberry. As recognition dawned on each gang member, surprise painted their expressions even as suspicion remained lingering in the air.

With fluid grace, the Devil's Hole's charismatic leader, Hannibal Heyes, wove through the gathered men followed by his ever-present shadow, Kid Curry. Reaching the front, Heyes rocked back in his heels, placing a finger to his hat brim, he pushed the black Stetson until it sat rakishly on the back of his head. His dark eyes traveled over Edmund Wycliffe with an expression that encouraged the silence to drag out taut before dryly uttering, "Appears life's been dealing you a good hand, Whiskey."

"Don't imbibe anymore," Edmund answered, squaring his jaw to match Heyes' stare, his voice tinged with finality, he added, "so it isn't relevant to call me that any longer."

Kid Curry, his blue eyes shrewdly secured on Wycliffe, took a subtle step closer. "Suppose it isn't. But what's relevant to me is why you're here." His head dipped slightly toward Heyes. "We heard you took to wearing a star."

The air crackled with palpable tension, akin to an electric charge surging before a thunderstorm, and caught flat-footed by Curry's declaration, Kyle set to stammering excuses and apologies.  

Remaining locked on Wycliffe, Heyes lifted a hand, subduing Kyle's apologies away.

"I heard the same. The damn same!" Wheat blustered, his voice booming and thick with unease and bravado, as he stalked forward, brushing past Kyle. "And when you rode out of'n here," he continued, jabbing a finger toward the distant horizon, "you took off leaving all of'n us as if we were never your pals…. nothing but pond scum to scrape from your boot… us…" his arm swept out to the gathered men, shouting, "US!" The accusation echoed through the charged air, ringing from the towering mountains that enclosed the hideout's rear entry.

Placing a gentling hand on Wheat's shoulder, Preacher's voice trembled, perhaps from drink…or it could have been emotion, either way, his words surfaced slow and heavy. "And that you... you were part of a posse who locked up Walter Henry, Horse, and Lil' Mike," each name landing like a lament on the stretch of dirt between him and Edmund.

As the pair spoke, Heyes' chiseled features shifted, becoming steely, his dimples betraying no hint of warmth to match the smile playing upon his lips. "It's also what we've heard," he added, his voice adopting a silvered, brittle edge a perfect reflection of his cold anger.

Edmund Wycliffe squinted off toward the leader's cabin, gradually merging into the settling darkness, his mind drifting back to a night etched into his memory like a scar.

It had been like too many others. Swimming in a haze of alcohol, wandering the streets of some backwater town, and unable to stagger another step, he had slid to the ground, propping himself against the far side of a livery. When, from the darkness, malice-contorted faces with unmistakable intentions had stridden his way. Feeble from the rotgut he had swilled, Edmund had tried to flee. And that had added to the rough's pleasure for they descended on him like predators, attacking mercilessly, their jeers and laughter encircling him like barbwire.

Even now, Edmund could recall the pain—the wracking pain, and the realization he would be reduced to a lifeless, bloody pulp in this forgotten corner of a town whose name he could not even recall.

Curled in a ball against the torrent of blows and kicks, the crushing weight of despair swallowing him. Yet, as he wavered on the edge of darkness, his hope extinguished, Edmund's salvation arrived as two silhouettes emerging like phantoms from another realm. In that fractured moment, gunshots scattered his attackers like chickens before a horse. Then, the blows that followed had been righteous and swift, his assailants finding themselves on the receiving end of a reckoning.

Pulling from his memories, Edmund reflected with a profound sense of clarity. 'If not for Heyes and Kid, I would not be standing here today. But once I fully climbed out of the bottle….' his deep-blue eyes slid to Curry and Heyes. Again he saw how they had brought him here, befriending him when he was his own worst enemy, and his hand unconsciously traced the jacket pocket where a whiskey bottle would have once hung heavy. 'They made me want to save others as they had me,' his gaze flicked to the gang that had edged nearer and back to Heyes and Curry, 'but I could not do it living as an outlaw.' A deep breath escaped Edmund, and he blinked, almost as if to banish the ghosts of his past.

"Well?" Heyes asked, the single word hissing from him as smoothly as a snake sliding across the sand. 

Reminding himself why he was here and that he had survived a long road of redemption, Edmund set his shoulders back. "I've indeed arrested men," he said, flipping his jacket lapel to display a brass star encircled by the words 'Texas Ranger', "It's part of the job."

"Is that your plan here?" Curry inquired, one eye narrowing, a corner of his mouth curling with disbelief.

Fast as a drumbeat, Edmund replied, "Not at all." He cast another look to the Devil's Hole Gang, his expression apologetic. "Sorry about Walt, Horse, and Lil' Mike," he drawled in a tone tinged with genuine remorse, "But by Glory, can you believe it? I fell into being a lawman down in Texas, did it to help folks, never thought I'd bump into any our gang knows……" a small, mischievous smile danced at the corners of his mouth, jiggling his handlebar mustache, "…. all the way down there. Funny how life takes us, ain't it?"

"Thinking them boys didn't find it all so funny when you threw them in irons," Heyes said, his black eyes boring into Ranger Edmund Wycliffe with an intensity that tended to set most men’s nerves to twitching.

"And since you happen to be so far from Texas," Curry added, "perhaps you might start elaborating why you're here," he gestured out with his left arm, "at the Hole."

 "Well, like I was saying, I ain't here chasing any bounties," Edmund stated with a grin, a twinkle brightening his eyes. "Tarnation, even if I wanted to, I'm way outside my territory… couldn't serve 'em anyways. So, you can all rest easy."

Heyes and Curry exchanged an eyeroll so synchronized it could have been arranged. Heyes' mouth pursed, his dimples carving canyons as Curry did a swift swipe with his left hand across his mouth to mask his rising boyish smirk.

"Besides, Preacher," Edmund began, pointing at the thin scarecrow of a man, "you never fancied Horse much, did you? That man could clear a room faster than a stampede when he went to farting. And there wasn’t a poker game we set down; he didn't choke us with that fog."

Chuckling softly, recalling some of those nights, Preacher nodded agreeably.

Edmund looked down his nose at the man sporting a mustache quite similar to his own. "And, Wheat, you can't deny how we all had to talk you down from stringing Lil' Mike up when he stole Violet Lil's affections from you."

Hitching his thumbs in his holster belt, Wheat scuffed the dirt. "Yeah, I recall."

Swiveling his focus to Curry with a conspiratorial wink. "And cards on the table, Kid," he confided, "that sneaky thief you raked us all through the coals over…. that was none other than Walt."

Curry's eyebrows shot up to the accompaniment of gang members gasping and cursing in disbelief.

"Wycliffe, why in the hell didn't you fess up then if you knew?"

"Simple," Edmund answered with a chuckle, "every soul's got the right to at least one vice. Mine, at the time, happened to be whiskey, and Walt's... well, he had a soft spot for swiping extra grub."

Finally, Edmund fixed Heyes in his sights. "As for you, old friend," he said, his tone light with amusement tracing along his words, "you're only sore ‘cause I vanished without so much as a goodbye."

"That and you didn't get his leave to go," Curry chipped in, sounding more mischievous than helpful.

Hannibal Heyes's head swiveled towards his closest pal with an expression as intense as a horned owl on its prey.

"I know what you said…and said….and said again," Curry answered, smiling toothily.

"Well, in our line of work,” Heyes quipped, his gaze returning to Edmund as he casually gestured towards the Devil's Hole gang. “It's kind of a golden rule—to touch base with me before wandering off. How else am I to know if someone might be in a bind or worse?" He smiled wryly. “Especially when a vanishing act is done, without a word, and it uses up a lot of time and effort, trying to discover if one of my gang is in a fix, behind bars, or six feet under."

Curry nodded along, but at the end of his partner’s spiel, cheerfully added, "Sounds good, Heyes, maybe a few too many I's and me's, but still a good golden rule."

Heyes turned a deadpan look on Curry that to another would seem as empty of emotion as an overturned bucket. Yet, not Curry, not after all his years of riding beside the man, and a hearty laugh burst out. Folding his arms across his chest, he tucked his chin, choking it back.

Shaking his head lightly at Curry, Heyes again, returned his attention to Edmund. "Since you're back," he flashed his dimpled smile, it and his voice riddled with sarcasm, "mind telling us why you've graced us with your presence once more?"

"Because I'm getting married," Edmund answered.

Once again, Curry and Heyes exchanged one of those looks that covered a complete silent conversation.

"Then, Whiskey, what in—"

"Told you I don't go by that anymores, Heyes," Edmund interrupted.

Exhaling, Heyes flashed a tight smile, saying even tighter, "Then, Edmund—"

"Ed. Just Ed."

The look was again exchanged, blue eyes reading all the thoughts behind the dark eyes, and Curry said, "Ed, if you're in the midst of a wedding plan—"

"What in tarnation are you doing way up here?" burst from Wheat.

Edmund's gaze swept across the assembled men, who were either grinning mockingly or nodding in solidarity with Wheat's statement, after a moment, his eyes settled back on Heyes and Curry, with a smile so warm and large his mustache bunched until his nostrils nearly vanished.

"Why am I here?" he mused, his voice laced with a touch of mirth. "To extend an invitation to the two finest friends a man could ever wish for, in hopes, they will stand alongside me on my wedding day."