Krix and Brugar returned to the bar with less than half the coin that filled their stolen purse. The Yurks had taken and spent it on God knows what, numbwillow likely, while more went to paying off that boy. "I'm charging you triple for the ride," Quincy said, "and another dozen for what you did to my place." Krix had never be more insulted, "We should be even since I saved your life … lucky I'm giving you any coin at all." Quincy laughed, "that's alright … I found something much more valuable than your feeble coin."
It was the way the boy smiled that made Krix wonder. That tooth-barring grin only held by a man who'd struck gold. But there was no gold on the farm battlefield … Unless he found puddles of piss from from the deceased and thought it was worth something. Quincy was an odd kid after all.
Krix looked up at the bounty bar curious to why he'd even come. There was nothing there for him or the big lard. They'd got what they wanted, two golden ticket into the tournament.
Suddenly his eyes widened and he tapped his coats, digging through the pockets. Nothing but lint and coins inside. He checked the inside of his pocket and sighed in relief, pulling out the pair of tickets that glistened in the afternoon light.
He sighed, "Almost thought I'd lost you …" Relieved they hadn't found their way into Quincy's jacket, and each sold for a hundred times the wagon rides rate. He placed them into his inner jacket pocket, patting his chest. "Live there my beauties."
And in a few days we'll greet the man who brought us here..
Brugar bumped him and Krix took a three steps forward, unaware he'd stopped at the face of the bounty bar. He peaked over a shoulder, "watch where you're going, you fool!" Grabbing his whip and pelting the giant man until his voice rang like a horn.
He clutched his bruised wrist. "Sorry, master … didn't see you stop."
Krix reeled back his arm and flicked it forward, giving a second bruise to match the other. Brugar wined. "How many times do I have to tell ya to keep your eyes forward?"
"At least one more—"
Crack! Crack! Crack! The whip scream and Brugar stood tall, but positioned like a boy who was at the end of a belt whippin.
"Please, no more, Master … I thought I did good in the gunslinger battle."
Krix hardly wanted to admit it, but the oversized ape was heavy-handed in the battle for the ranch. Even deserving of his nickname Clout. The pair had fought off two Yurks who were nearly as good with a weapon as they were. "You're messing with Procknock and Quam," the tall, skinny one had said while the fat one hammered a fist into his palm.
Krix knew, they weren't nothing the pair hadn't faced on one of their bounty outings. "Ya, well we're Strawthorn and Clout." Krix said, noticing their tough exteriors turn soft at his words. "Ya, you've heard of us…" And right they had. Cause them the duel too.
Quam had swung first, pivoting and twisting, throwing his weight into every swing. An attack like that grows a big man weary quick, though if it had connected, Krix or Brugar would've met their fate. After the man's fifth swing, Brugar counted with a heavy up swing of his club. A direct hit that sent the Yurk reeling backwards, spitting teeth, and slamming hard against the ground.
Proknock attacked like a chump when Krix was distracted. His eyes focused on the man spitting out murky-red blood and golden-black teeth. Procknock was not only skinny, but had a much longer reach, and much more stamina than his hefty friend. Swinging his wooden club, with obsidian bladed ends, like a toy. Krix had been snipped on the first strike, a chunk out of his shoulder to match the one out of his ear. His shirt still drinking up blood.
Once the man stopped, Krix threw one of his blades. Proknock swung the flat club, pelting the knife only to be impaled by the second; two slow to swing or to block. By that time he'd heard the Sheriff's voice. "Drop your weapons or this one dies!" He said.
Proknock was then ordered to die, but the fear of the names Strawthorn and Clout had already sunken in his head, defeating him, and his fat friend Quam, before the fight had commenced.
"Teeth…" Krix rubbed his chin, "maybe Quincy had found a few golden teeth. "Or, when nobody was looking, the boy had scoured the bodies, taking any bit of coin he could get. "might've been why the pockets were, so damn dry."
Once the battle had ended Krix had done just that; scoured through the pockets of the dead, taking every little trinket and wallet he could find. And if anybody asked he'd tell them to fuck off, and that was the end of that. It was also how he got the chained watch he swung, catching it and checking the time.
"Half past 6:00 PM," He mumbled. "Best we go find ourselves a seat, and grab ourselves a drink."
When they entered the saloon, eyes fell on them like flies finding shit. The few bounty hunters that had been there at least. The others were still lost somewhere out there near Ghostbound. Becoming nothing but bones now.
"Howdy…" Krix said so dryly his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Why the long faces?"
"You know why," Mason Horn said, sweating from a hard day of pulling lavender from the fields. "You know damn well—"
"Enough!" Mitch said, waving his hand. It seemed to shut the boy up. He walked over, shirt half undone, black, apeish hairs blooming from his chest. His brows were thick and deep in frustration. Mitch stopped a foot away, arms crossed. "What do you know about them bounty hunters being killed?"