Damn Loot!

"He thought you were one of those outlaws they are after and brought me here to set a trap."

"So why didn't he tell his companions?"

“That’s my point, Paw. It’s that he seems to want to keep it from them, ‘cause he wants something in exchange for his silence.” Weasel’s voice was progressively waning and the last words came out as a barely audible whisper.

“Hahaha!”

Hugg let out a hearty laugh. “Let him go warn them! What do I care."

"Yes, but he’s a pretty perceptive guy and if you let him go, he’ll start to suspect something. Then there’s one more thing. I don’t think that for a smart guy like you it will be a problem, but he said that in the case you turn him down, he won’t think twice about sparring with you. Of course, we only have pistols. He not only has those, but also has a brand new Sharps rifle. You know, Paw, they say that it has a good range and that it reloads in a flash. But you’re the best and you can take him out, even if you have to circle him from a distance on horseback. Right?” He pretended to cling to him, as though he was seeking his father’s protection.

A drop of sweat trickled down the man's forehead. "Sure, I can take him out with my eyes closed. Only thing is, if I end up just woundin’ him he’d go runnin’ off to his pals, then we’d have a pack of Rangers on our heels. Maybe we’re better off givin’ him what he wants. What’s his demand?”

This was the hardest part. Finn held up three fingers.

“Son of a crow! He wants a whole three hundred bucks just to turn a blind eye?”

“No, Paw... He doesn’t want three hundred...”

“Oh! Aight then what’re we standin’ here for? Here, take the thirty dollars the chump wants and that’ll be the end of it.”

“No, he wants three thousand...”

This was it. He was going to get another pummeling. Weasel was going to find himself on the ground again spitting out blood and dirt.

“Fucking pigs! They gorge themselves on our taxes, and rather than helping the honest citizens, they go rogue and want three grand to turn a blind eye!" Finn wasn’t sure his father ever paid a penny’s worth of tax. Even “honest citizens” was a laugh. However, he preferred not to point out those details because he had grown a liking to keeping his hide intact.

Hugg breathed in large quantities of air in a vain attempt to stifle his anger, when he finally blurted out, "I break my back to get this loot, then that horse’s ass shows up and wants three thousand, I say three thousand bucks! Well we’ll just see about that when I make him eat dirt. Who does he think he is? I’m just gonna have to get back to that hollow so I can get my pistol. This toy gun ain’t gonna get us nowhere. "

He gathered himself and pulled out his pistol. As he leaned out from his hiding spot, a bullet whizzed inches from his ear. After the near miss, the adversary could simply adjust his shot and hit him. Hugg immediately turned back around to crouch behind the rock.

"Consarn it! This stupid backloadin’ pistol piece a dung can’t hold a candle to my Jagg! If only I still had it...” He seemed more shaken up by the affront to his convictions than by risking his hide by a frog’s hair. He huffed and started digging through his pockets, cursing under his breath.

“Finn! Finn, stop rollin’ round in the dust like a cat in heat and get over here!” Despite his loss of equilibrium from the combination of the beating and getting up too quickly, he obeyed, but only to avoid an “encouragement kick” on top of everything else.

"Here. Take this. Should be worth about three thousand bucks. And you better hope he didn’t realize I don’t have a gun. If he did, he’s gonna want it all and will try to take us out to get it. He’ll have to pry it out of my cold dead hands!” His lump of a father shared nothing. Ever. But for some reason when things got hairy, his father had no problem sharing the burden. Always. “Come on, We gotta cut stick now!" He added.

“Err, Paw... There’s one more thing.”

Badfinger stared daggers at him, took a deep breath through gritted teeth, and motioned for him to continue.

"The guy wants me, too. He wants to take me to El Paso for me to get bandaged up; he needs it to keep his cover.”

Hugg breathed a sigh of relief.

“Shoot, I was thinkin’ he wanted more than that! Fare thee well, kid. Don’t take any wooden nickels.” He chuckled, heartened.

“Actually, I’m gonna try to escape and meet you in Agua Dulce.”

“You do what you want. Y’know, sometimes you can be useful after all. I’ll stay at the only inn the place has. If you’re still alive by then I’ll see you there. If not, it’s been a pleasure! I’ve got a fifty-thousand-dollar haul to think about, So I can’t be goin’ out of my way for you, understand.” That bounty was too substantial for Hugg to keep is head on straight. It was in his possession for less than a day and it was already taking over; an obsession that clouded his judgment and made him even less rational than he already was. Even putting himself in the line of fire was out of character for him. Finn determined that if he left him alone for too long, he would soon lose his father, along with aura of sheer luck that always seemed to linger around him.

The boy neatly arranged the jewels he was holding in his hand in preparation of the hard sell ahead of him. He popped out from behind the rock and walked up to Blondie.

Rick scanned over the baubles, summing up their value under his breath. Then he made a barely perceptible grimace and barked, “Damn curmudgeon!” This junk is worth at most twenty-nine hundred dollars, not considering courtesy fee.” For some reason, this did not surprise Weasel in the least.

The man stood there, contemplating for a moment. He could have been tempted to send the brat back to the crook to demand more. Even worse, he could have been contemplating a violent attempt to take it all. Fortunately, he was convinced that the crook couldn't have more than five thousand dollars. In the end, he decided that the game was not worth the candle. "Alright then. Let's say that this time I give him a little finder’s discount,” he conceded by shaking his head.

1 Good manners.

Hugg Badfinger had a perfectly good reason to go straight to Agua Dulce. There, one could find a scanty old junk shop where a modest variety of services and accessories could be accessed by asking the right questions. For example, it was possible to pawn or sell an item, even if it was of dubious origin. Aaron Mansill, the shop owner, was nothing but a cheap loan shark, but he was the only hustler Hugg knew of in those parts. He had already concluded a few transactions with him and didn’t have any complaints thus far.

He was very sure the merchant could never take on the entirety of the stolen goods; primarily because he did not have enough connections to be able to sell it all. He also wouldn’t remotely have the liquidity to afford it all in one go. If he did have it, he wouldn’t have been there counting the nickels earned from pickpockets. Either way, Hugg had to start somewhere.

He hadn't trusted himself enough to take the entirety of the loot with him, so he had stashed most of it under a rock just outside of town. He had been very careful, and before taking off he stood watch for a long while. Long enough to be absolutely certain that no one had seen him; a precaution which bordered paranoia.

He arrived at the saloon of Agua Dulce a moment before high noon. Just in time for old Ben to serve a flat, piss-warm beer and a potato and rabbit stew. He was reasonably sure that the “rabbit” was not rabbit at all, but he ate it anyway. He just needed to put something in his belly. Fortunately, thanks to his grim face and standoffish demeanor, he had managed isolate himself in a secluded corner without being bothered.

According to an unwritten rule, he was supposed to offer a drink to the guy seated across the way from him. He had always hated this rule, and this aversion was not at all lessened by the fact that he was now rich. Upon finishing his meal, he was given a room to stay in. There he locked himself inside, turning the key twice to be sure. He intended to wait until late evening to go to the merchant. By showing up at closing time he would have plenty of time to make the deal without being disturbed by the occasional patron.

Evening came, and it was nearing the time to meet Aaron. Before he did anything else, he checked that he still had the jewels on him, even though they weren’t likely to grow legs and run off. Then he slipped the important-looking document into an inside pocket of his vest, lit a cigar, and shuffled downstairs to grab himself a whiskey. His throat was dry, and as far as he was concerned, no good business deal was ever made without a little spirit.

He had just brought the glass to his lips, when an unpleasantly familiar voice made his drink go sideways.

“I knew I'd find you here! See what happens when you gorge yourself? Like I always say: anybody who drinks alone is gonna choke to death!” His overtly cheerful manner made one wonder if his statement had a double meaning.

“Ben! A fresh glass of firewater for my friend. What the devil are you doing here, you old spooney? How is it that you didn’t go down with the rest of Little Pit?”

"Tell me now, Hugg, whereabouts did your little nipper run off to? When I was on my way back to town, a gunslinger on horseback who seemed to be in a bit of a rush went right by me. Then, when I was almost to town, I saw you dart away as though you had the devil on your heels. You was in the same hurry and... riding the same horse. I tried to shadow you in my carriage, but you was just too quick and I lost sight of you. But I knew I’d find you here. What you find on ‘im?” Joe Otthims, who had sat down next to him, accompanied the question with a cheeky grin and an elbow nudge.

The man was huge and sported a very prominent belly. He was much bigger than Badfinger, who was also slightly better proportioned. His pockmarked and flushed face was surrounded by a black beard and an unkempt mop of salt and pepper hair. The gravelly, powerful voice and the colorful vernacular clashed with his perfect British accent.

"Shut up, you idiot!" hissed Hugg, looking around in alarm.

"I’m on to something, eh! What’s it worth? A hundred? Two hundred?” He gave it his best effort, but just wasn’t capable of whispering. Hugg just shot him a fiery glare. Some patrons turned an interested glance in their direction.

"A hundred bucks and a gold-plated watch that could earn me another one-fifty if I’m lucky," he whispered, while still being deliberately audible. Two to three hundred dollars was the most common payload of Aaron's patrons. A fair sum, but nothing that would instigate a scuffle. On the other hand, the place was crawling with petty thieves trying to get similar amounts from their scanty spoils. He himself had never gotten more than two hundred dollars in earnings before that day.

"You have a hundred bucks in your pocket and you're hoping to get off with just one sip? You owe me at least a quart of whiskey! And I mean the good kind!”

Badfinger shook his head, snorted, and finally nodded to the bartender who handed him an entire bottle of bourbon. He grabbed it angrily and slammed it on the counter in front of Joe, then he settled the bill and left without saying a word. He had forgotten about the cigar, but it didn't matter; his urge to smoke had also dissipated. Hugg thought as he walked out, I hope he’ll be blackout drunk by the time it takes for me to disappear! Actually, it’d be even better if his liver dissolved once and for all, the damned fool!

"Oi mate, watch out for Mansill! He always tries to cheat when namin’ prices!" The Giant shouted after him. He should never have offered him that drink. He should have shot him full of holes to see how much booze would leak out. He had to restrain himself from doing so, but not because he had any scruples. Given how things had gone down so far, much of his discretion had vanished in the wind. However, if he reacted badly, he would have attracted the attention of the entire county.

Joe hadn’t downed even a third of his bottle before Weasel burst into the saloon. He was breathless and panting.

“Hey, rascal, you got the wrong waterin’ hole. They don’t serve milk here!” A man taunted, sparking snickers from the other barflies, most audibly his two drinking buddies. The man was a textbook bully; one who would likely never have the courage to ruffle the feathers of someone his own size. The boy ignored his taunting and continued toward the bar.

“Did you hear what I said, stinker, or do you need my boot in your ass to make you understand?" The bully got up from his rickety chair to cut him off.