Birds of a Feather

Uncle

Beaver Hollow was an improvement on Lakay and Shady Belle, but that wasn't saying much. The sheltered nook cut into the hillside, overlooking the river on the west and the trails of the east. But, best of all, they were treading on dirt and green grass again. Uncle nearly kissed the ground.

Them boys did a good job securing the place, except Bill Williamson greeted all of 'em with a bunch of desperate wailing.

His moaning weren't over nothing neither. The kid Lenny weren't lying about the gash Bill had lovingly received by one of them wild men. Pale and sweating, Bill waited for them on a tree stump, a rifle at his side rather than his hand, preferring to cover the blood leaking from his arm. Susan set to work fixing him up.

Uncle noticed it was Bill's favorable side that had been affected. That meant, they were down another gunman. At this rate, Uncle would have to dig up the old gals and begin slinging again. Dutch must have made the same connection 'cause he stared at Bill's arm before stomping off into the cave entrance in a snit.

With Dutch out of earshot, Micah took the opportunity to start making orders. "Alright, you lot. Let's whip this area into a camp. Grimshaw, once you're done with Williamson, get Dutch's tent set up—"

"I know how to get my camp running, Mr. Bell," Grimshaw snapped, moving around to the back of the wagon. "And it don't involve you opening your mouth."

"Oh ho," Uncle laughed. "Susie's got the comebacks today."

"Shut up, old man," bit out Micah. "You should've done us the favor of dying off while we were away to rid us the goddamn burden."

Uncle patted his belly without concern. "This place would fall apart without me."

"Just make this place livable," Micah growled to no one in particular and strode away.

Uncle shook his head after him. There was something wrong with that feller. He'd known it since the moment he'd set eyes on him. Always running his mouth and nothing but piss and vitriol raining out every time.

Uncle knew the real problem with Micah. The man ain't got no values. He didn't believe in love and friendship and family. Only thought about himself above all else. Hell, each night that bastard picked a fight with someone. Like he couldn't go to sleep without needling one of 'em for his pleasure.

Really, the bastard would have fit in better with Colm and his boys. Them O'Driscoll's was always about the bottom dollar, not the quality of life. They didn't care about no one but themselves as the individual.

Micah didn't understand the reason Dutch's Boys ran as oiled as a greased goose. It was because this gang accepted all kinds into the fold. That's what made it special. That's what made it home.

But Micah kept putting his selfish ideas out there and pushing them into a different direction.

Uncle didn't waste energy on hate. It weren't good for the soul. Once you let hate in, it took over the heart and rotted everything else in you, sure as shit.

But when it came to Micah Bell, Uncle's heart had made up its own mind on that loathsome bastard.

While Susan worked her magic making this place homey, Pearson opened up the food wagon and the rest of 'em spread to stake out their own corner of their new home, Uncle made it his business to...wander away from the campsite some. The ride over had done nothing to ease the pain in his body. Sitting next to Pearson on that damn, hard-seated food wagon had flared up his lumbago something fierce.

Uncle knew his friends would understand if he took a little moment to rest his bones.

Hours later, Uncle opened his eyes to dusk. The smell of meat picked him up by the nostrils, carried him through the trees, the parked wagons and released him over the stew pot.