me up as I swing back my leg to give him boot to the head—
“Jasper?!”
I freeze. His voice is reedy and ragged, but the name sucks the breath from my lungs. His wide blue eyes are clouded and bloodshot. I reach down and grab him by the chest fur. How can he know that name?
Blake shoves me past the old hare, hollering for me to move it. Running, stumbling, I try my best to remember which turns I took, but my feet move like they’re in jelly. The bat’s got a wing around me and keeps pulling me onward. My thoughts are still with that old bunny. How could he know that name?
Ahead, I see a square of blinding light; the entrance of the mine. We stumble up the uneven stairs. Blake looks around, ears swiveling. I hear nothing, lost in thoughts and memories. I haven’t heard that name in years. Haven’t said that name in even longer. I lead Blake back to my little crow’s nest and we press against the back wall, facing the entrance.
Once inside the lookout, his wings wrap ‘round me, but to comfort me or prop himself up, I can’t say. He sputters, coughs, and in due course gasps “thank you” into the fur of my neck.
I take this tender moment to check my guns, which are covered in the mine’s gunk. I’m rattled bad. Can’t seem to steady my paws, or my wits. The iron slips from my shaking paws to the dusty grit we sit on.
Blake leans against me, all stunned and silent, panting hard.
I curse my weakness and snatch the guns up. Most days, the guns are an extension of my paws, something I can count on in dark or light. Not now. Now my fingers don’t work right, like they’re froze by the same fear chilling my guts. Meanwhile, a wildfire of a headache sears through my brainpan. The hell was in that mine?
On the third try, I manage to get use the ejector rod proper-like, only to knock out all my unused shots like a fool. I cuss. The sheriff tenses against me, giving me cause to hush up. Last thing I need is for anybody who followed us to come charging up here.
I clear the muck off the cylinder, paying no mind to how it sticks to the white fur of my fingers. One by one, I scoop up the bullets, roll the dirt off between my fingers, and ease it back home, keeping a sharp eye on the mouth of the crow’s nest. I click the mechanism back together with both paws— ain’t got the time or the paws for any fancy tricks at present.
I repeat the process with the other gun, while Blake sets a paw on the cleared one. I don’t remark on this, save giving him a little nod. Ain’t generally healthy, letting others hold your iron. I try to think on just what it means that I let him do that, but it only kicks up the wind for my headache. I clean the other gun instead.
Darkness comes on swift. Hayes’ men scurry over the anthill I’ve kicked up, but nobody comes looking further up the mountain. Tiredness seeps into my bones and, real slow-like, I find myself settling in against Blake.
I’m out for answers, not blood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The sheriff and I have ourselves a good hour of not speaking, with my head swimming most of that time. My whole body feels weak and numb; I swear it’s like my spirit’s drifted halfway out of it. Right unsettling.
“Six?”
I don’t look down at him right away, or even open my eyes, instead listening for any other movement. We should be safe here ‘til nightfall. Hard to believe, but we were only in the mine about an hour. By and by, I turn to look at the sheriff. The light blinds me for a spell, but I just keep looking where he ought to be. “Yeah?”
He looks like hell. Blake pants, his narrow tongue waggling just over his teeth. “What’d that bunny say to you back there? The one who got you so—”
I wince at the tenderness of my ears and of the subject. “…Jasper.”
He rubs his cheeks where the gag was tied. Looks up at me with questioning regard. “That a name?”
“Yes.” I tense, checking my guns. My fingers fumble, scarcely able to spin the
“Jasper?!”
I freeze. His voice is reedy and ragged, but the name sucks the breath from my lungs. His wide blue eyes are clouded and bloodshot. I reach down and grab him by the chest fur. How can he know that name?
Blake shoves me past the old hare, hollering for me to move it. Running, stumbling, I try my best to remember which turns I took, but my feet move like they’re in jelly. The bat’s got a wing around me and keeps pulling me onward. My thoughts are still with that old bunny. How could he know that name?
Ahead, I see a square of blinding light; the entrance of the mine. We stumble up the uneven stairs. Blake looks around, ears swiveling. I hear nothing, lost in thoughts and memories. I haven’t heard that name in years. Haven’t said that name in even longer. I lead Blake back to my little crow’s nest and we press against the back wall, facing the entrance.
Once inside the lookout, his wings wrap ‘round me, but to comfort me or prop himself up, I can’t say. He sputters, coughs, and in due course gasps “thank you” into the fur of my neck.
I take this tender moment to check my guns, which are covered in the mine’s gunk. I’m rattled bad. Can’t seem to steady my paws, or my wits. The iron slips from my shaking paws to the dusty grit we sit on.
Blake leans against me, all stunned and silent, panting hard.
I curse my weakness and snatch the guns up. Most days, the guns are an extension of my paws, something I can count on in dark or light. Not now. Now my fingers don’t work right, like they’re froze by the same fear chilling my guts. Meanwhile, a wildfire of a headache sears through my brainpan. The hell was in that mine?
On the third try, I manage to get use the ejector rod proper-like, only to knock out all my unused shots like a fool. I cuss. The sheriff tenses against me, giving me cause to hush up. Last thing I need is for anybody who followed us to come charging up here.
I clear the muck off the cylinder, paying no mind to how it sticks to the white fur of my fingers. One by one, I scoop up the bullets, roll the dirt off between my fingers, and ease it back home, keeping a sharp eye on the mouth of the crow’s nest. I click the mechanism back together with both paws— ain’t got the time or the paws for any fancy tricks at present.
I repeat the process with the other gun, while Blake sets a paw on the cleared one. I don’t remark on this, save giving him a little nod. Ain’t generally healthy, letting others hold your iron. I try to think on just what it means that I let him do that, but it only kicks up the wind for my headache. I clean the other gun instead.
Darkness comes on swift. Hayes’ men scurry over the anthill I’ve kicked up, but nobody comes looking further up the mountain. Tiredness seeps into my bones and, real slow-like, I find myself settling in against Blake.
I’m out for answers, not blood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The sheriff and I have ourselves a good hour of not speaking, with my head swimming most of that time. My whole body feels weak and numb; I swear it’s like my spirit’s drifted halfway out of it. Right unsettling.
“Six?”
I don’t look down at him right away, or even open my eyes, instead listening for any other movement. We should be safe here ‘til nightfall. Hard to believe, but we were only in the mine about an hour. By and by, I turn to look at the sheriff. The light blinds me for a spell, but I just keep looking where he ought to be. “Yeah?”
He looks like hell. Blake pants, his narrow tongue waggling just over his teeth. “What’d that bunny say to you back there? The one who got you so—”
I wince at the tenderness of my ears and of the subject. “…Jasper.”
He rubs his cheeks where the gag was tied. Looks up at me with questioning regard. “That a name?”
“Yes.” I tense, checking my guns. My fingers fumble, scarcely able to spin the
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