Beating the Odds

Beating the Odds

By Maz McCoy

Kid Curry stood up and stepped out of the bath tub. Water cascaded down his toned, muscular body, dripping onto the rug as he reached for a towel. Wrapping it around his waist, he picked up another from the bed and began to towel dry his hair. He caught sight of himself in the mirror that stood on top of the dresser, and paused. Kid looked at his reflection and then touched the scar on his left shoulder, the legacy of a bullet from a bounty hunter’s gun. There was another scar on his left side, just above the waist and one on his right side too. He let out a heavy sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Heyes asked, from where he lay on his bed reading. There was no answer. Heyes lowered the book. “Kid?” he prompted.

“D’you ever think about how many times we’ve been shot?” the blond man asked. “How many times we’ve been hurt or wounded?”

“Not really,” Heyes admitted, as Kid turned to face him.

“Don’t you think we’re lucky to be alive today?”

“Well I guess we have been shot more times than most people, but I always accepted that as a hazard of the job.”

Kid rubbed his hair some more as he thought.

“But we’re still lucky right? I mean the odds must be against us, so many bullets an’ all.” He waited to see what Heyes would say.

“Well yes, I guess we are beating the odds. Where’s this coming from Kid? You don’t usually worry about getting hurt,” Heyes said, as closed his book, sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Just got to thinking that’s all,” Kid told him.

“Well now we had an agreement about that, remember?” his friend said with a smile, as he stood up and walked towards the dripping man. He put a hand on Kid’s shoulder. “Come on, get dressed and I’ll buy you dinner to cheer you up.”

Kid smiled.

“Besides,” Heyes continued, giving his partner a smile. “Maz and those other gals would never let anything really bad happen to us. I mean she likes you, at least she says she does, and the ladies that favour me, well all I have to do is flash my dimples at ‘em and they’re putty in my hands.” Heyes grin widened.

“You know Heyes, I think you have a point,” Kid agreed. “D’you think she’d write me a steak dinner and a cold beer? And maybe a real sweet saloon gal to…”

“Don’t push it Kid!” Heyes warned and Kid turned, smiling sweetly over his shoulder, at the watching author, fingers poised over the keyboard.

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