Bounty - Episode One
Bounty - Episode One
This story contains language and sexual themes and is not suitable for anyone under 18 or anyone who is offended by such.
The horizon glowed softly as the first rays of sunlight teased the start of another day. The darkness receded, painting the sky hues of red and orange, tinged with streaks of pink clouds. Sarah Montgomery sipped coffee from a tin cup, the campfire crackling beside her, exuding a warmth that warded off the early morning chill that seeped through her clothes and made her shiver.
“You’re up early.”
Sarah turned her attention away from the sky and into the face of Henry Fairbanks, a man she considered a father figure since her own became a useless alcoholic and up and abandoned her at the age of fifteen.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sarah said, taking another swig of her coffee, the smell of the dark roast pleasantly tickling her nose.
Henry lowered his six foot frame onto the log beside her. As usual, he was well-dressed, wearing a black and tan paisley shirt with pewter buttons beneath a tan waistcoat and black trousers and brown leather boots impeccably polished, despite traipsing through mud and dirt and thick undergrowth. His black sack coat served as warmth and to hide the dual pistols at his waist.
He topped his outfit off with a black derby hat for both fashion and to conceal his badly receding hairline, which was immune to any potion or oil he applied to it. And, while his sideburns were threaded with gray, his thick mustache was still purely black and curled at the ends thanks to copious amounts of mustache wax.
“Me neither,” Henry said, reaching for the coffee pot and pouring himself a generous helping into a tin cup similar to Sarah’s. He refilled hers and they sat together in silence, soaking in the morning air and listening to the sounds of the woods coming alive.
“Look there,” Sarah said, elbowing Henry and pointing her head at two squirrels jabbering at each other at the base of a Ponderosa Pine tree.
Henry chuckled. “Looks like the little one’s getting scolded.”
They watched as the larger squirrel scurried up the tree trunk, checked over its shoulder to glare at the smaller squirrel, then disappeared into the branches. The smaller squirrel waited a second or two, pointing its little snout skyward before it, too, scurried up the tree, stopping at a notch in the trunk to retrieve an acorn.
The larger squirrel practically flew down the tree, its high pitched squeaks interrupting the morning birdsong. The smaller squirrel took off, abandoning the half-eaten acorn, while the larger squirrel chased him, leaving Sarah and Henry both laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
The grating voice of Dwight Harris Fairbanks immediately caused the levity to cease. He stood right outside the flap of his tent, wearing only his union suit and a pair of scuffed roper boots, looking irritated at being awoken before the sun was even over the horizon.
Harris, as he preferred to be called, was a young man of no more than twenty with straw-colored hair, which he kept just long enough to hide his large ears. They were the size of saucer plates and Sarah didn’t doubt they made him the subject of ridicule. His nose was long and his cheeks and chin still bore the baby fat of youth. Peach fuzz covered his upper lip. His green eyes were the only thing he inherited from Henry.
“Nothing, son,” Henry said, draining his coffee mug and shaking any remaining droplets on the ground.
Muttering, Harris strode towards the campfire and plopped down on his father’s left side. He grabbed a camping mug from the stack beside the coffee pot, lifted the carafe and tipped it. Instead of getting a flow of hot, steaming coffee, he only managed to get a few drops that wouldn’t even fill a thimble.
“We’re outta coffee,” he said, directing his gaze at Sarah.
“And?” she said, deliberately taking an exaggerated sip from her own mug.
“Make some more.”
Sarah lowered her mug and narrowed her eyes. “What did you say to me?”
“You heard me,” Harris said. “I—”
“Dwight,” Henry warned in his deep baritone.
“It’s Harris,” he insisted.
“Fine,” Henry said. “Harris. What’d I tell you about needling your sister?”
“She ain’t my sister.” Harris glared at Sarah, his lip curling in contempt. “And she ain’t your daughter, neither. She’s just some whore you picked up in a saloon.”
Blood rushed through Sarah’s veins and her heart pounded in her ears. Her fingers were itching to snatch her pistol from her holster and unload it into him.
“That’s funny, Dwight,” Sarah said, forcing a chuckle and standing to her full height of five foot seven.
Harris stood up, too, towering over her a good four inches. His teeth clenched, the boy said, “It’s Harris.”
Henry stood up, too, dwarfing both of them. “Enough of this. I can’t have this fighting between you two. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us and I need us all to work together.” He divided a look between Sarah and Harris, “As a family.”
Not taking her eyes off Harris, Sarah said, “Sorry, Henry.”
Harris dropped his gaze to his boots for a second or two, then looked back up at his father. “Sorry, Pa,” he said.
Henry put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Good. Sarah, you and me will go on down to the creek and see how Lefty’s making out with reconnaissance. And son,” he turned his attention to Harris, who puffed out his chest at being addressed, “you pack up camp here and meet us there when you’re through. Don’t leave anything behind.”
Harris’ jaw went slack. “That ain’t fair, Pa! That’s women's work!”
“If the shoe fits,” Sarah said, smirking.
“Fuck you, bitch,” Harris said.
“Goddammit!” Henry said. “Sarah, enough! And you,” he said, zeroing in on his son. “You watch your mouth in front of a lady.”
Harris sneered and looked Sarah up and down. She wore brown trousers held up by cotton suspenders, a blue and white pinstripe shirt, a pair of brown riding boots that came almost to her knees, and a pecan-colored gambler hat plunked down on a head of chestnut hair worn in a long braid.
“She don’t dress like no lady.”
Sneering, Sarah said, “I know you ain’t never seen one naked, but I assure you, underneath I’m all woman.”
“Enough!” Henry shouted at Sarah. He swiveled his head to look at Harris. “Both of you pack up camp and I’ll go down and check on Lefty, just so I don’t have to listen to your goddamn caterwauling anymore.”
He started towards his horse, which was tethered to a long stretch of rope tied between two trees. “I expect to see you both down there in twenty minutes,” he called over his shoulder as he mounted his steed.
They waited until Henry disappeared into the thicket of trees, the clip clop of his horse’s hooves fading, before Harris said, “He’s the leader. And he’s my father. That means,” Harris said, shoving his finger in Sarah’s face. “I’m in charge.”
Sarah stared at Harris, the way his lip curled at her in disdain and the jealousy that was written all over his face. His finger in her face enraged her and Sarah desperately wanted to bite the damn thing off, teach him to invade her personal space. Instead, she settled for slapping him hard across the face, leaving an angry red hand print on his cheek.
Surprised, Harris immediately cupped his cheek. “What the—”
“I don’t care if your father is the King of England. You call me a whore again,” Sarah said to him, “I’ll slap you so hard I’ll knock that goddamn peach fuzz you call a mustache off your fucking face.”