Birds of a Feather

Micah

In a run-down bar, in a crumbling town, drinking out of a chipped glass filled with watered down bourbon, Micah contemplated cutting and running right here, right now. It'd be easy enough. Steal a horse from some drunken sop in Van Horn and not quit riding until he reached another small town full of bigger suckers.

Micah wished they'd lost Arthur once and for all when they'd reached Guarma. They'd abandoned him to die in a sinking-fucking-ship, but that bastard still managed to stumble his way up the beach with only sunburns. How the hell did Arthur keep turning up only half dead?

Dutch wanted to continue the outlaw life, same as Micah, but Arthur seemed to be growing a goddamn conscience with every passing day. He was beginning to become a real pain in the ass.

Micah had made another attempt on the boat ride back from Guarma to persuade Dutch to return to Blackwater for the money they'd left behind. But Dutch was so goddamn adamant about not going. It was making Micah wonder if it was worth sticking around.

But no. Of course it was. That was too much damn money to just forget about and he'd exhausted his options trying to involve the other members of Dutch's gang. Foolishly, he'd tried working the old man once, but Hosea had snapped at him for undermining Dutch and hadn't trusted him since. As for the others, he'd been more cautious in enlisting any of them he'd thought capable to either convince Dutch or go for the money themselves, but the fools were all blind followers and refused.

Micah had done everything to play nice. He'd resort to playing not-so nice if he thought it'd work, but Dutch wasn't a man to cower from threats with his dying breath. He was pompous enough to laugh in the face of his killer, crazy bastard that he was.

So, here Micah sat, with no other option but to stick by Dutch until he found his way back to Blackwater and the money he was entitled to.

Micah finished off his watered down bourbon and raised his head to signal another, but the bartender was nowhere to be found. He scanned the rest of the bar and noticed none of the few patrons who'd been present when he'd walked in occupied the room anymore. What the hell. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he stood from his chair.

"Sit back down, Mr. Bell," a voice commanded and Micah froze, realizing too late he'd been ambushed.

When he turned around, there stood Agent Milton and a group of his cronies filling the rooms. Two took position to cover the front door while four stood between here and the gaming room. One agent covered each of the back doors and who knew how many were in waiting outside.

"What the hell do you want?" Micah snarled, his hands twitching towards his loyal guns.

"There's no need to be testy, Mr. Bell." Milton lifted his gloved hands. "Let's have a conversation."

Micah's glare was focused on Milton so he missed the movement of another agent rushing his left and punching him in the gut.

Shit.

"Disarm him. And then another one, Gerard," Milton ordered coldly. "I don't want him getting any ideas."

Two agents grabbed hold of either side of him, holding his arms while a third took his revolvers and placed them on the bar counter. He tried to kick out in resistance, but he was thwarted at that too. At Agent Gerard's next blow, Micah doubled over, the air leaving his lungs. He could absorb some hits under normal circumstances, but his fun little trip to Guarma had left him less than at his best.

Cocksuckers.

He gasped out, "I won't go down...that easy...you son of a bitch."

"Hold onto that thought, Mr. Bell." Milton raised his hands to stop the punishment. "Now, I don't believe you to be the only one who made it out of Saint Denis alive." Milton drew his arms behind his back. "You boys disappeared for awhile, but I knew it wouldn't be long before you came scrambling back."