Tattered Pages

In the Steal of the Night

Warning: Light Smut and Violence

The night was alive with nature's symphony sounding its dark harmony in the cool air of late evening. All was still except for the flick of the horses' ears and the swish of their manes. Charles and a few of his fellow tribesmen sat atop their steeds on a nearby cliff overlooking the small reservation. They scanned the plot like night predators searching for a single sound a miss, a simple breath of difference in the usual somber slumber of the camp's twilight state. They would come from down in the valley, or from the southern basin, it only made sense being the track of least resistance.

Taima whinnied and snorted, pawing the earth restlessly underneath her master as she sat obediently in place itching to run to feel the wind around her. The three men never saw the group coming from behind, never even thought to look. Who would ever come over and down the snowy pass Above the camp. It was filled with wintery ravines and the eve of the river mouth that flowed down by the side of the valley pasture, filled with rapids that sputtered and spat angry and violent objections. But he had underestimated Dutch and his comrades. They had been destitute in the Grizzlies before Charles had joined them, and they had been exiled to those same mountainous terrains after the near death of Arthur Morgan. They had braved both the climates and the wretched snowy wasteland enough to get around in it quite proficiently at this point, and that is exactly what they did. Just up and around from the three Indians, Dutch and his men were preparing to quietly tie up the horses for a quick getaway. They did not ride in on their regular steeds, oh no, that would have been foolish and possibly dire. A nervous Lenny and Sean looked on as the gang came to a stop, them being the youngest and most mislead of the group in their youth. Javier, Micah and Bill slowed slightly in front of them as their gang leader held up a silent hand to stop the proceeding. Mr. Williamson had helped to procure 6 fully grown beautiful Clydesdales and they were splendid and a magnificent sight to behold. Their towering broad bodies and powerful composition making them powerful and agile in the treacherous mountains, allowing them to take the gang with ease to their destination.

Dutch swung his leg over the beautiful mare he had dubbed the Countess, it's shimmering coat mirroring the opposite colors of his regular stallion The Count. She shook her mane and whinnied softly as he fed her a sugar cube to calm her agitation to the abrupt stop. The men didn't bother with bandanas, no not this time. This time they masked their entire faces with a thick black cloth to block out all detection of sound from their breathing. They would be like shadows dancing a lover's dance with the moonlight as they slid down into the camp. Dutch gathered the boys in a circle without making a sound. He pointed at the two youngest to 'stay here' with the horses then turned to the other three. He gestured with his eyes around the bend and held up three fingers slowly taking them down one by one as he assigned Javier, Micah, and then the biggest of them Bill to take down the three Indians perched overlooking the res site. The three nodded, sliding their silent weapons of choice from the horses and turned to take out the guardian squad with iron mallets or batons fashioned to maintain their undiscovery. As for Dutch, he slithered like a viper dressed all in silken black down and around to the quiet camp below. He was surprisingly agile and fit for an older man, taking the bends and curves of the camp with ease. He stood only for a moment till his eyes found his target, the large white Arabian horse of Arthur's braying softly near the largest of the tents. Dutch fished in his pocket first bringing out more sugar cubes to ease the horse then a bottle with two rags wrapped around it.