A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

“The hell you been?” he demanded.

“Tryin’ to figure how best to get us both out of here ’fore the wrong folks catch sight of us.” Chess stared. “You do know there’s most of Doc Glossing’s neighbours down there right now, takin’ our names in vain to Sheriff and Marshal alike?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Thought you knew every damn thing, these days.”

“Yeah? Well . . .” Chess made a face, took another long swig. “. . . not today, I guess. My head hurts.”

Which made it Morrow’s turn to stare, because—now he thought to think about it—his travelling companion bore the hangdog, hungover demeanour of somebody just coming down off a too-long bender. Leaning far enough forward to catch a whiff from the bottle, Morrow wrinkled his nose: aniseed, heavy enough to cure leather.

“Didn’t know they served absinthe here,” he said.

Chess hefted it, considered the sloshing green liquid. “Don’t know as it was, when I first started in on it,” he allowed.

“So you do got some mojo left in you, at least.”

Chess bridled. “Damn straight! I just . . .” And here his angry eyes wandered off again, lost focus in a creepish fluttery way that reminded Morrow of Chess’s own dead Ma, “English” Oona, pulling hard on her Hellfire-filled junk-pipe. With effort: “That stuff, in the desert . . . turnin’ the Weed to vine, and whatnot . . .”

“Yeah, that was something, wasn’t it? Just did what the Rev said to—gave you blood, made my prayers.”

Chess shook his head, and winced. “Felt real good at the time,” he muttered. “A bit too damn good, entirely.”

He scratched at his beard’s fresh scruff, absent; not like the Chess Morrow knew to be so ungroomed, and heedless of it. But here he sat nonetheless, sweat-slicked, smelling of turned earth and dead flowers. Too distracted even to bother flirting, embarrassed and itchy, yet palpably jonesing for more . . . yeah, a lot like Oona, from what little Morrow had seen of her, ’fore the Rev cooked her insides out on Chess’s say-so.

Morrow thought hard on what he was going to say next, strategizing. Hoping Chess was far too distracted to even bother with picking the words from his brain before they could tumble out his mouth.

“Don’t look too rested, for all you been laid up in bed so long,” he began.

Chess took another pull. “I ain’t,” he agreed, fairly pouting.

“Bad dreams?” Chess shrugged. “Well, shove on over, then; make some room for a man to sit. And—maybe, you know, we put our heads together, might be we can figure out . . . somethin’ to do about it.”

Jesus, he was bad at this! But it was all he could think to offer: get Chess’s mind off new hungers, and back to his old ones. So he gave up on words and sat down as well, forcibly nudging Chess over with his hip. Uncharacteristically, however, Chess merely gave way—went limp and made room, without even looking up.

Morrow bit his lip. “You should think about keepin’ the beard longer a while,” he said finally. “Fair-to-middling sketch of you up at the trading post, but it’s got you close-cut. Might be that’s the reason they keep askin’ if I’m really your brother.”

At least that made Chess snort. “Oh, you poor innocent,” he replied. “That ain’t it at all. Thing I want to know is, though, why’s it always my face on those Goddamn playbills? You were there just as much as I was, every step of the ride.”

“Uh huh. Good thing that with you there, nobody ever remembers me.”

“You feeling ill-done by, Mister Morrow?”

“Not hardly. But they do got my name, even if there wasn’t room left for my mug, and five grand for any as brings me in. . . .” He trailed off. “But not alive,” he finished, stomach abruptly cold.

Oh, he’d known his bridges were well and truly burned, but somehow the sight of that explicit figure—black typeface smeared on crackling yellow paper—had finally brought it home how there really was no going back. Because those men he’d once counted closer than his own brothers really would gun him down if they felt they had to, rather than take him upright.

Chess’s eyes were on him now, sharper than he’d looked to find them. “You know,” he offered, “once I’m ace-high again, I could glamour you up some too, you wanted to stick ’round. Wear a new face, take a

new name . . . get jobs, even.” At Morrow’s startled snicker: “Hey, might be I got skills you’re not privy to. Running a faro table, for example.”

“Faro’s a nincompoop’s pastime.”

“’Course it is—the crookedest game around. But seein’ how I was raised up, I can deal it, in a pinch. We could take these up-stood fools for everything they got.” Chess glanced sourly out the window. “The whole lot of nothin’ that is.”

“These’re good citizens, Chess. You got no call to twit ’em behind their backs.”

“Oh, these fine law-abiders can kiss my queer ass, Ed—yours, too. Hell, I could probably make ’em.”