“What do you think?”  Kid Curry glanced across at his partner.

 

“I don’t know, Kid.  It looks pretty beat up.” replied Hannibal Heyes.

 

For the past twenty-four hours they’d been trying to outrun a posse sent out by the Sheriff of the last town they’d visited, after he’d recognized them.  Twice they thought they’d lost them, only to realize the men were still on their trail.

With no opportunity to sleep and only time for very brief stops, for water, and to give their horses a breather, both men were as weary as their mounts and becoming increasingly frustrated by their inability to shake off the posse.

 

The chase had forced them up into the lower reaches of the Wind River Mountains, an area they weren’t familiar with.

 

After several hours riding they’d arrived at the crest of a ridge where they’d found themselves cut off by a forty foot wide ravine.

 

Dismounting, they cautiously approached the edge and looked over.  A hundred feet below them a fast flowing river churned it’s way over rocks. To their left, the land rose in an incline, leading higher up into the mountains. To their right it appeared fairly flat, although the run of the river suggested it was on a downward decline.  As far as the eye could see there was no end to it, and no place to cross.

 

With no option to go back the way they’d come, they had chosen to turn to the right and follow the edge of the ravine, in the hope of either reaching the end of it or that it would become narrow enough, somewhere, to allow them to jump it.

 

They were dog tired, and hungry, but knowing the posse weren’t too far behind them they had no choice but to press on.

 

Another fifteen minutes of riding had brought them to a spot where the ravine had narrowed slightly, the gap here being around thirty feet, and this is where they’d come across an old, dilapidated, wood and rope bridge stretching from one side to the other.

 

Their initial euphoria, at finding a crossing place, had faded as they took in the condition of the bridge.  Two poles had been set on either side of the ravine, with a crossbeam across the top of each pair, for added strength.  Ropes had been slung across from the posts on one side to those on the other and, from these ropes, others had been hung which supported a series of railway sleepers, placed every four to six feet apart. On top of the railway sleepers planks of wood had been laid, to make a pathway about five feet wide.

 

Closer inspection showed that that some of the planks were missing and many others beginning to rot away, as were some of the supporting ropes. It had obviously been there for some considerable time.

 

“Do you think it’s strong enough for us to cross?” Curry pressed.

 

“I don’t know.  Maybe, if we went one at a time, but I’d rather look for some other place to cross than risk it.”  replied Heyes.

 

“There might not be another place to cross for miles, “Curry pointed out, “and that posse is gonna catch up with us soon if we can’t find a way across or around this ravine.”

 

They studied the bridge, thoughtfully.

 

“I vote we cross it.” Curry said presently.

 

Heyes sighed, heavily,  “I don’t know.”  He peered over the edge at the rushing waters below,  “If it gives way, we’re done for.”

 

“And if that posse catches up with us we’re done for.”

 

Heyes nodded, grimly,  “You don’t need to remind me!”  He tested the support poles and pulled on the ropes, trying to ascertain their strength.

 

“If it’s a toss up between getting shot, or goin’ to jail for twenty years, and risking crossing this bridge, I’d rather risk the bridge.” Curry said, firmly, “The horses are dead on their feet. So are we.  We can’t outrun that posse for much longer.  If we cross this bridge, we could cut it down from the other side, then they can’t follow us.”

 

Heyes turned his gaze to the posts on the opposite side as he mulled over Curry’s suggestion.

 

“I guess one of us could go across first, to see if it holds.”  he said presently.

 

Curry shook his head,  “No way.  What if it should break and one of us is left stranded on this side?”

 

“Then at least one of us might get away.”

 

“No.” Curry shook his head again,  “I aint willin’ to leave you behind.” 

 

“An’ I aint willin’ to leave you behind. So I guess its stalemate.”

 

“No, it’s not.  We go across together.”

 

Heyes looked doubtfully at the dilapidated bridge.

 

“We’re just wastin’ time, standin’ here arguin’ about it.” said Curry, “Time we can’t afford. Let’s cross, now.”

 

Heyes looked from the bridge to Curry and back again.

 

“Who’s gonna go first?” he asked presently.

 

“Let’s toss for it.”

 

Reluctantly, Heyes took a coin from his pocket.

 

“Heads, I go first, tails you first?” he looked at Curry for confirmation.

 

Curry nodded, before snatching the coin from his hand and examining it.

 

“What are you doing?” demanded Heyes.

 

“Just checkin’ you aint usin’ a trick coin with two heads or somethin’.”

 

Heyes gave him a rueful look and held out his hand for the coin.

 

Satisfied it was a genuine coin, Curry handed it back.

 

Heyes tossed the coin and caught it, pressing it to the back of his gloved hand.

 

Before lifting his hand, he met Curry’s eyes, an unspoken conversation passing between them as to the wisdom of what they were about to do.

 

Curry gave an imperceptible nod and Heyes removed his hand, both of them bending to look at the coin.

 

“Heads.” said Heyes.

 

“O.K.  You go first.” said Curry, turning to re-mount his horse,  “I’ll follow.”

 

“I still think you should hang back until I get over.” said Heyes, as he too mounted his horse.

 

Curry shook his head,  “I’ll be right behind you.”

 

Heyes turned his horse and gingerly headed it out onto the bridge, walking it slowly and carefully.

 

After he’d gone about seven or eight feet, Curry followed.

 

Resisting the urge to rush, they carefully negotiated the missing planks.

 

The bridge shuddered under the weight of the two horses and their riders, but they held their breath and moved cautiously forwards.

 

They’d just passed the halfway point when one of the support ropes behind them snapped.  Both of them stopped, frozen, praying no others would follow.

 

When nothing else happened, they pressed slowly on, keeping their eyes focused on the opposite side.

 

They were three quarters of the way across when the bridge started to sag, as the worn ropes began to stretch under the load.

 

One of the support ropes, immediately to Curry’s right side, suddenly snapped, just missing hitting him in the head as it flew violently into the air.

 

“Only a few more feet!” Heyes shouted.

 

A yard further on, the support ropes on both sides, immediately behind Curry's horse, snapped and the combined weight of their horses, along with the now unbalanced weight of the heavy wooden railway sleepers, all being forced onto the remaining support ropes, caused many of them to do the same, sending most of the railway sleepers into the river.

 

Their horses’ hind legs started to slide as the wooden planks began to slip away from beneath them, their front legs frantically trying to pull themselves up.

 

Heyes was a mere three feet from the end of the bridge when he felt his horse beginning to slide backwards.

 

Instinctively he grabbed for a hand hold, his left hand managing to catch hold of one of the main support ropes, which was now broken and swinging free, and hung on for dear life as his horse slipped from under him.

 

Behind him, he heard Curry’s yelled “Heyes!” as Heyes’ horse slid backwards into his own.

 

Twisting round, he watched in horror as, with nothing to grab hold of, Curry and the horses slid off the remains of the bridge to plunge into the river below.

 

Heyes hung onto the rope for several moments, too shocked by the collapse of the bridge to think rationally.  Then he began to feel the pain in his left shoulder where his arm was taking his entire weight.

 

Bringing up his other arm to grasp the rope, he managed to climb up it and haul himself onto the top of the ravine where he lay, face down, for several minutes, trying to catch his breath and comprehend what had happened.

 

As the reality of it crystalized in his mind, he crawled to the edge of the ravine and looked over.

 

His horse had smashed onto rocks below, but there was no sign of Curry’s horse, or of him.

 

“Kid!”  he yelled, “Kid!”

 

He lay there for some time, his eyes anxiously scouring the waters as far down stream as he could see, for any sign of him surfacing, but saw nothing. He and his horse had disappeared without a trace.

 

“No!”  he ground out, shaking his head, “No!”  It couldn’t be true!  The Kid couldn’t be dead!

 

He looked again, scouring every inch of the river, praying to see him surface somewhere, but all he saw was the swirling water.

 

Then, a faint sound caught his ears.  Horses, running.  The posse!

 

Lifting his head, he saw the group of horsemen approaching on the other side of the ravine.

 

Instinctively, he scrambled away from the edge of the ravine and hid himself behind some large boulders, yelping as pain shot through his shoulder, which he’d wrenched almost out of its socket as he’d frantically grabbed the rope as his horse had fallen from underneath him.

 

The posse arrived several minutes later and Heyes heard them trotting around, obviously checking the ravine for any sign of their quarry, picking up snatches of their conversation on the wind.

 

“…Bridge must’ve collapsed as they were crossing it…”   “Look… dead horse…” “…couldn’t survive that…” “Guess that’s that…”

 

Eventually, he heard their horses turn and ride away, back in the direction they’d come from.

 

He sat there long after the sound of their horses had faded away, too numb with shock, at what had happened, to move.

 

If only they hadn’t tried to cross the bridge.  If only he hadn’t let the Kid persuade him. If only he’d insisted that they ride on and try to find another way across, or around, the ravine.  If only they hadn’t tossed a coin for who should go first, he could have sent Curry across first, alone, and then, without the weight of two horses on it at once, maybe the bridge wouldn’t have collapsed and then he could have followed separately and they would both be safe. If only, if only… the words reverberated in his head.

 

And now his friend was dead.

 

He became aware of what he thought was the howl of a wolf, only to realise that it was in fact himself making the sound as grief bubbled up from deep inside him and exploded in a howl of anguish.

 

Lifting his hands, he covered his face in an attempt to blot out the image of the Kid’s terrified expression as he’d fallen from the bridge.  “Oh, God, Kid…” he croaked, shaking his head in despair.  Then came the tears.  Silently at first, then degenerating into gut wrenching sobs.

 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in grief, but the sun was dipping towards the horizon when he finally became aware of himself and tried to decide what to do.

 

The nearest town was at least two days away on foot.  With the loss of his horse he had no food or water and no bedroll.  All he had were the clothes on his back, his gun, and whatever ammunition was in it and his gunbelt, and the knife he carried hidden in his boot. He didn’t even have any tinder to make a fire after dark as that had been in his saddlebags, which now lay at the bottom of the ravine with the rest of his belongings.  Fortunately, it was June and the nights were warm so he wouldn’t freeze to death without a fire, but, if he should catch something to eat, lighting a fire to cook it with would be a laborious task just using sticks.

 

He knew he ought to get up and start walking, but he remained where he was, having no incentive to do so now that his friend was gone.

 

Eventually, the sun sank below the horizon and he decided to stay where he was for tonight, and start the trek back to civilisation the following morning.

 

Getting to his feet, clutching his painful shoulder, he moved across to some trees a hundred or so yards away and prepared to settle himself down for the night.  He made himself a bed at the base of a tree trunk, with bracken and fir tree branches, which was reasonably comfortable and warm.  His stomach growled, not having eaten in twenty-four hours, but he was unaware of it, his mind full of the events of the afternoon and the Kid’s fall from the bridge.

 

He slept fitfully, his mind replaying the collapse of the bridge, with the Kid’s yelled “Heyes!” as his horse had slipped off it, echoing in his mind over and over.

 

He woke at sun up and set off, despondently, in a westerly direction. His shoulder was stiff and sore and he was thirsty, but there was no water nearby.  It was ironic, he thought to himself, that a hundred feet below him was a river, with all the water he could drink, which he could not reach - unless he jumped off the ravine.  Surprisingly, the thought didn’t seem too alien to him in his desolate mood.  But he resisted the idea and kept walking.

 

A few hours later he came upon a small stream, little more than a trickle really but deep enough for him to scoop up several handfuls, to satisfy his thirst, after which he soaked his bandana and washed his face with it before wringing it out and tying it back around his neck.

 

Later he spotted, and shot, a rabbit which he carried with him, intending to try and make a fire that evening on which to cook it.

 

It was a beautiful sunny day and the landscape on the mountain was picturesque, but Heyes was unaware of the splendour of it, his anguished mind still back at the ravine.

 

Even though he knew the Kid was dead, he still couldn’t take it in.  One minute he’d been right there, behind him, the next, gone.  No time to say all those things one felt the need to say to someone in those final moments before losing them forever. No time even to say goodbye. If he’d had time to say all those things maybe he wouldn’t feel so bad about it, he mused, before grunting in self disgust.  Nothing would make him feel any better about it.  His closest friend, closer to him even than a brother, who’d been by his side since childhood, was gone.

 

His mind wandered back to the day when their families had been murdered by raiders.  There’d been no time for goodbyes then either. They’d left their homes one Saturday morning, to go fishing, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was to come, their parents smiling and telling them to be careful at the river, only to return to find them all dead, and themselves orphaned. As the eldest, Heyes had been the one to take his younger friend under his wing, protecting him during their time at the orphanage they’d been sent to, when the younger, smaller Kid was picked on by the other boys.  As they’d grown up and become outlaws their roles had gradually become reversed, with the Kid’s fast draw protecting him and keeping them both alive.  They’d shared everything; highs and lows, good times and bad, and Heyes had no idea of how he was going to survive without him.

 

He came across another stream, late in the afternoon, and stopped to drink some of the water before deciding it would be a good place to make camp for the night.

 

Looking around, he selected a suitable spot, near a thicket of trees a few yards away, and searched around for some twigs which he could use to try and start a fire.  As he was searching he came across the remains of the top part of the skull of a small bear, which must have been killed at some time in the past, and realised that it had enough of a curve in it to hold some water, which would save him having to keep returning to the stream to drink.

 

Having found some suitable twigs and some leaves to use as kindling, he set about trying to start a fire.

 

It took him more than half an hour to get enough heat for it to catch, and build up enough that it wouldn’t go out the minute he stepped away, his painful shoulder having hindered his labour.

 

Once it was burning, he collected some more twigs and branches to add to it during the night and then, taking the knife from his boot, he set about skinning the rabbit and cooking it, surprised to find himself enjoying it when he ate it.  He was careful to leave some, to carry with him the next day, in case he didn’t manage to find any other food on the trail.

 

After eating, he returned to the stream and filled the bear skull with as much water as it would hold and carried it back to his camp to drink at leisure.  Then, after carefully wrapping the remainder of the now cooled rabbit meat in his bandana and putting it in his coat pocket, he settled down to sleep.

 

Sleep once again eluded him however, with the collapse of the bridge once again overriding all other thoughts, and the Kid’s yelled “Heyes!” echoing repeatedly in his mind, and he woke feeling groggy and confused.

 

After splashing his face with water, and drinking his fill from the stream, he set off once again.

 

The land was definitely going in a steeper downward direction now and he knew he would get to the bottom of the mountain either late today or early tomorrow.  Then he would face a lengthy walk to the nearest town.  What he was going to do when he got there he hadn’t given any thought to.