They’ve been waiting at the side of the track for what seemed like ages. The two horses are tethered under some trees next to a stream where it’s cooler. The men take the occasional sip from their flasks to stave off dehydration.
“So Jeb,” asks the one, “What do you plan to do with your share?”
“Give it a miss,” says Jeb, “This is the third time we’re having this conversation. There must be something else to talk about. Like why is the 10.06 from Lucky Strike to Dodge City two hours late, especially when it’s carrying three weeks worth of gold and has the reputation of always being on time.”
The other man, Jake Olsen, hung-over and unable to remember where he was last night and with who, wipes his brow, “Well, maybe you’ve got the wrong day, or the wrong tracks. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Jeb’s eyes narrow and his hand caresses the butt of his Winchester, “You badmouth me like that and there won’t be anything for you, savvy?”
Just outside Lucky Strike, the Younger gang is whooping and cheering as they split their ill-gotten gains. “Here’s to Jake Olsen and his loose tongue,” says one.
This was written in response to Sunday Photo Fiction’s 200 word challenge. Click on the link and join in.