Blood Along the River

Jim Talbot had just sat down to a hot plate of venison and beans as the phone rang. He knew before he picked it up that it wasn’t good news. It never was at this hour.

“Talbot,” he said.

“We got a problem,” came Chief Henry’s steady voice. “State boys were transferring a prisoner. They stopped for gas and coffee. Man made a break for it.”

“Who?”

“Bob Findley. Insurance fraud, but he nearly beat a prison guard to death. They were moving him to maximum security.”

Talbot sighed, set his fork down, and stood. “Where’d he go?”

“Into the hills. On Rez land.”

“Figures.”

He grabbed his Winchester and checked his pocket for shells. Only four.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Meant to buy more.”

The state officers met him outside the market, pointing toward the ridge. “Mild-mannered, but slippery,” one of them said. “He’s smart. Be careful.”

Talbot found Findley’s tracks easy enough—man had no clue how to cover them. About a thousand yards up the hill, the con did something slick. He doubled back.

That’s when Talbot saw the man leaning against a tree, stripped, near-naked, blood running down his face.

“What happened?” Talbot asked, stepping closer.

“Bastard cracked me over the head, stole my clothes. Took my pistol too.”

Talbot’s stomach tightened. “Great. Now he’s armed.”

He tried his radio. Nothing. Out of range. He turned back to the hiker.

“Posse’s coming up the hill. You good till they get here?”

The man gave him a weak wave. “Go.”

Talbot nodded and continued, moving slower now. Findley was making for the river—probably thought water would hide his tracks. “Watched too many damn westerns,” Talbot muttered.

Down at the bank, he found the convict. Findley had stripped off his prison jumpsuit and was lacing up the stolen boots, too busy to notice the lawman creeping up.

“Hands up, Findley!”

Findley spun, pistol flashing in his hand. Talbot barely got a shot off before he felt a hammer blow to his thigh.

Talbot staggered back, cursed, and fired again—missed. Another shot—missed again. Then, he heard the click. Findley’s gun was empty.

“Damn fool,” Talbot growled.

He rolled onto his belly, dragging himself forward through ferns and deadfall, leveling his rifle. “Don’t move.”

Findley raised his hands slowly this time.

Talbot tried to push himself up. His leg gave out, and he hit the dirt hard.

“Sit down,” he ordered, breathing heavily.

Findley sat. “I didn’t mean to shoot you. I panicked.”

“Be quiet.”

Talbot could feel himself fading. Vision swimming. His hand fumbled for a bandana, but he had none.

“You’re gonna bleed out,” Findley said. “I can stop it.”

Talbot shook his head, fighting to stay upright. “No. You stay put.”

“You don’t have to die a hero.”

Talbot’s eyes snapped up. His fingers tightened on the rifle.

“What’d you just say?”

“I can stop the bleeding—”

“No. After that.”

Findley’s lips pressed together. He knew.

Talbot raised his rifle, centering the barrel on Findley’s chest. The convict closed his eyes. The woods were suddenly quiet–no river, bird, or wind in the branches.

Then, Talbot saw Findley moving. “Stop,” Talbot warned, but his voice was weaker than before.

He blinked slowly, head swimming. Findley kept coming.

Talbot pulled the trigger. Click.

Then, blackness. When Talbot woke, Findley sat with his back to him, hands cuffed.

And Talbot was still alive. He faded out again as the stretcher lifted from the ground.