A gun blasted, loud and sudden. Kid Curry let out a groan, still mostly unconscious.

And then a strange voice said, “Get up.”

Kid grunted and tried to sink back into the warm, dark place he had been but suddenly his side was on fire and he was twisting in the grip of the pain. His blue eyes opened; something had hit his injured side.

“I said get up.” A man stood over him holding a six shooter and pointing it at his head. A smear of blood on his boot told revealed that he’d kicked Kid and backed away.

Curry was alert now, irrevocably alert. He was lying near the upside down wagon, the shooter was standing over him, and his gun was gone. Yet his first reaction was to look around him at the wreckage, searching for Heyes.

Instead, he saw Tate lying half under the back of the upside down wagon. Dead, Kid thought, judging from the lake of blood spread out under him. The gray horse lay on its side with its legs twisted under it at odd angles and a bullet in its forehead. Heyes wasn’t in sight so either he was on the other side or he was underneath the wagon.

The man with the gun picked up a long sliver of wood that had broken off of the wagon, still holding the sixshooter in his right. Kid shifted his gaze to him just as he slammed the board into Kid’s side. Immediately, Curry doubled over, feeling like lighting had jolted through his body and scorched his insides.

“Do I have to tell you again?”

Kid rolled over into a sitting position and put his palms on the ground, steadying himself. He took a few slow breaths. He was trying to get control of his pain, yes, but also the anger he felt boiling under his skin. Kid was tired—tired of people trying to kill him and Heyes, tired of looking at the barrel of a gun, and tired of restraining himself. Nevertheless, he didn’t have a weapon or an opportunity at the moment so he assessed the damage. It felt like he’d bruised some ribs, his ankle was definitely out of commission and his right knee had been cut open, the wound leering through the tear in his jeans. Of all of this, the two holes in his side where the bullet had torn through were the cause of the most physical pain and the gunman hadn’t helped that any. After breathing in and out a few times, he narrowed his eyes and stared at the shooter.

The gunman watched him struggle to a sitting position and was surprised to see the look he received wasn’t afraid or exploding with anger; no, the look was dry ice that was so cold it burned, it stuck to your skin and you couldn’t get it off. He shook his head slightly. “Now stand.”

Kid hesitated, weighing the option of lunging for the man’s feet and tackling him. If he were Heyes, he’d say something such as, ‘you’ve made a mistake, sir, my partner and I are harmless cowhands’ or the like, but Kid stayed silent.

“My colleague is in the house keeping the ladies and the children company. You can imagine what will happen to them if I don’t come back.”

Resolutely, Kid shoved himself upright, slightly swaying for a second. The gunman with the gun spoke in an elegant, educated voice and Curry knew he was either the owner of a ranch or the son of an owner. Kid glanced again at the wagon, thinking about Heyes. To his surprise, the educated man nodded and gestured to the wagon with his pearl-handled gun.

“Go on, get your friend.”

Kid’s face remained stone as he limped, listed toward the wagon, his heart in a knot at the possibilities of what had happened to Heyes. He put his arms under Tate’s armpits and pulled him all the way out from under the cart—unable to let the wagon squash him as he turned it over—and he found that indeed the foreman was dead. Kid sighed and pulled him further from the cart, then took off the man’s bandanna, putting it over his face. He had just met Tate but the foreman had seemed like an okay guy, a steady worker, if a little enthusiastic about driving fast, and he hadn't deserve to die.

“Hurry up.”

Kid ignored the ranch owner or ranch owner’s son and moved over to the other side of the wagon; Heyes wasn’t there, so he had to be under it.

“Heyes?” Kid whispered, dropping onto his knees. He shoved as hard as he could, trying to tip the cart. Pain shot through him everywhere, but he kept shoving and finally the wagon tilted enough so that he could see Heyes under it. Curry kept his shoulder pressed into the wagon and reached under it to pull his partner out.

As soon as Heyes was clear, Kid let the wagon fall back down to the earth, the movement jerking the dead horse harnessed to it and shooting a cloud of dust into the air.

“Remember, my friend’s inside,” the man called, afraid Kid would try something.

Kid, however, was focused on Heyes. He bent down next to his cousin; he was breathing. Heyes didn’t seem to have many more injuries than he’d had before, but the old injuries had almost definitely gotten worse; his stitches were torn and his shoulder was bleeding. His head didn’t have any new cuts or bruises, but Kid figured he had a bigger concussion. Curry pressed down on the open shoulder wound to staunch the bleeding and heard the gunman stomping behind him.

“He’s alive? Get him up, then.”

“He’s hurt,” Kid said evenly, his anger under the surface, his face and eyes still frozen flint. “He’s not awake.”

“You want me to wake him up?”

Kid thought of his side getting hit and shook his head slightly, looking back down at Heyes. “Hey partner, time to get up.”

He wasn’t sure he could physically do it, but he leaned down and grabbed Heyes under his armpit and pulled to try and get him up anyway. Curry nearly fell over with the limp weight, but he somehow got Heyes’ good arm over his shoulder. Kid pushed and pushed upward and managed to get to his knees with Heyes pulled up into an almost sitting position. “C’mon, bud, you gotta help me here,” Kid muttered. He took a deep breath and shoved upward, managing to get them both into a standing position. The Kid was panting with the effort and had bolts of pain in his side and ribs, but he was up and he had his partner up.

“Alright, drag him to the cabin there.”

Drag him? Kid stared defiantly at the man and, one arm still holding Heyes’ upper body, he bent down and picked his partner up under his knees. He staggered a few steps but straightened, a warm sensation at the holes in his sides telling him he was bleeding again.

The man with the gun looked at Kid, who was shaking with the effort and the blood loss and had become suddenly pale, and his face held a hint of admiration. “However you get there,” he said. “Go to the cabin.”

Kid started walking, every step an effort. He had nearly made it when his legs gave out and he sunk onto his knees. Gritting his teeth and letting out a curse, he shoved himself up and made it to the front door.

“Matt, open up,” the gunman called, and the door of the cabin swung open. Curry mustered his strength and stepped inside.