![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: The West Coast Two-Step (1/9)
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (3,100 this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
It's high noon.
Outside, the sun's beating down on the scorched earth with the blistering heat of a prairie fire and, Lord Almighty, it ain’t even July yet.
What it is, however, is Washoe County. Here on the western border of Nevada, there ain’t green for miles but the prickly skins of cacti and brush—no humidity for at least ten times as far. Here in Washoe, a man makes do.
Inside a small, local saloon in Reno on the corner of Peavine and Third, Ray mops his brow with a soaked kerchief.
"This shit is unreal. How're we supposed to work in this Satanic level of temperature? Ain’t gonna be any bodies by the time we get back on scene, just lumps of coal baking in the sun. And tell me, Brad. How are we supposed to identify lumps of coal?” Ray scratches his nose, winces. “Fuck, I’m peeling like a fucking tomato."
Brad reaches over to paw down the brim of his deputy's ten gallon. "Shut your fuckin' trap, Ray. That's what the hat on your worthless head is for, you gin-snorting, mama-fucking waste of a space."
Deputy Person slouches deep in his chair, crosses his arms and pouts overtly. Mutters under his breath, "Yeah well, at least I got a mama to fuck."
Brad handily shoves the side of Ray's head, readying his tongue for another acerbic jibe when the whuff-whuff of saloon doors swinging open captures his attention. Brad looks up.
A man's silhouette appears in the entryway, backlit by the brightness of white-hot street behind him. Brad squints, waiting.
Brad knows every coot who frequents this joint. Today, there's him and Ray, imbibing their liquid lunch while Walt takes over patrol of the main drag for an hour or so. Hunched in the corner is Tennessee Jones, avoiding his old lady like always, and the rest of the meager noontime patronage consists of a couple of kids—Bobby Jameson and barber Phil's youngest boy Abel, playing cards when they oughta be learning their letters at the public schoolhouse.
This silhouette at the door—ain't no figure Brad recognizes. So he sits up and pays attention.
The man slowly saunters in. With the motion, the sun recedes behind him and his face pulls free from the shadows, revealing a dusty, unlined face. Hell, forget man—kid looks no older than nineteen, twenty tops.
He walks up to the bar, where saloon-keeper Doc Bryan wipes down the already gleaming counter.
"Water, please," the stranger asks politely.
Doc pauses, levels his gaze, then tucks his towel into the back of his apron and moves to get an empty glass from the rack. So avidly does the kid watch Doc fetch his water, he hardly notices the gaze of the entire saloon on his back.
Doc hands over a pint glass filled with clean water. Cup hardly hits the woodtop before kid's gulping it down like he ain't had anything to drink in weeks. Well, who knows—maybe he hasn't.
Brad doesn't even pretend to be discreet as his hand roves down to the peacemaker strapped to his thigh. Strangers don't deserve the benefit of doubt…not even harmless-looking ones.
The kid finishes his drink and plunks it to the wood, breathing in wetly. Doc automatically goes to refill the cup.
As he's pouring, the stranger asks, "What’s this place called?"
Doc looks up over his pitcher and replies steadily, "This establishment, you mean? Or are you asking about our little town here?"
Brad sees the kid flush at the back of his neck. "That obvious, am I?"
"Just the accent," Doc states. "Got a bit of Yank in you."
"Maryland, actually." The kid takes his cup and drinks some more, before stopping to add, “But I know this is Reno. I can find my way around a map. I’m asking about your saloon here. "
Doc's about to answer, Brad can tell, but he's had enough of the small talk. He pushes back his chair with a loud scrape of wood, making his presence known, and answers simply, "Mathilda."
The kid swivels his head around and their eyes catch, wary gazes locked on each other as Brad walks over with long, deliberate strides. En route, young Jameson hastily scoots his chair in to let Brad pass, letting the playing cards slip forgotten from his hand.
Brad gets to the bar, stops short in front of the stranger who regards him unflinchingly. "Mathilda," the kid repeats.
Brad's close enough now to turn around and prop his elbows on the counter beside him, leaning back as he introduces himself. "Brad Colbert." He touches the underside of his Stetson with a casual finger.
"Iceman!" Ray calls from across the room.
Brad twitches, but otherwise remains impassive as he adds, "And I know you know already, but proper introduction: you're in Washoe County's one-and-only Reno. Population four thousand, and home to the dullest lot of lawmen west of the Mississippi.” Ray makes a wounded noise from somewhere.
The stranger tilts his head back and drains the rest of his water. Brad's eyes slide down, following the bobbing up-and-down motion of his Adam's apple. When the stranger resurfaces, the bright red of his moist lips contrasts with the dusty film that covers the rest of his face, his clothes. "I'm Nathaniel Fick," he says as Brad's eyes snap back up, "but call me Nate." He extends a hand.
Brad just looks at the proffered hand before asking point blank, "Why are you here?"
Nate clears his throat. "Business. Just passing through."
"You know, if you're headed West anyway, you'd do well to leave before sundown. Sure picked a day to come visiting—some bad business went down this morning. Town could get ugly by nightfall."
"Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment," Nate says with the first hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips, "But you don't have to worry yourself over my hide."
"Is that so?" Brad asks with a smirk.
"Seriously, kid," Ray suddenly cuts in, making himself known in the only way Brad's deputy can. "You're like what, twelve years old?"
Nate's brow draws down and Brad leans back on the counter, keen on watching Ray embarrass himself in front of this fresh-faced newcomer.
"Whatever," Ray continues. "However old you are, you talk like you jus' begging to be stung in the ass with a forty-five cal'. Walking all upright like you got a stick up your ass, fresh off the railroad, all loaded with money and shit. If I were you, I'd steer clear of a town full of scumbag frontiersmen still riled up from a morning shootout, unless you get your rocks off on a bunch of guys jumping you. But hell, if you're that hard up for attention, there are other ways to get it, if ya know what I mean." Ray pauses. "I mean paying for it."
Brad raises an eyebrow at that last addition. Ray says defensively, "What? You can get anything at Dirty Birdy."
To his credit, Nate listens to Ray's verbal diarrhea with no more reaction than the thinning of his lips. Nate finally replies, "I'm only going to repeat myself once." He turns to Brad with a significant look. "You don't have to worry about me. And neither does your wife."
That catches him by surprise, and Brad can't help the grin spurred out of him. Ray looks at him like he’s grown another head, but the low chuckle that Brad grants Nate is completely deserved.
Nate's green eyes are trained on him in return, and the genuine smile quirking his lips makes Brad feel inordinately pleased. Brad explains, "This loose-lipped retard is my Deputy Sheriff, Ray Person."
Nate's smile dims.
"Sheriff?"
"Yeah," Brad says, reaching into his breast pocket to show his nickel badge. It’s labeled “High Sheriff”, followed by Washoe County and his license number. He doesn't like wearing it on his chest like some shiny trophy—it's redundant. Kind of hard to miss a 6'4" cowboy whose business is to know everyone else's business. Sure as hell impossible to miss Deputy Person, who obliges himself to Brad's side, steady and constant as a stray mutt you fed once and can’t shake.
"Well, Sheriff," Nate says, wiping a hand over his face. "I'm afraid I don’t have a choice but to stop through Reno. Need to replenish some supplies, and my bay hasn't had a proper shoeing in months." He reaches down towards his hip and there's a split second where Brad's fingers twitch for his holster, but the kid ain't smart enough to keep a gun on him and the loud jangling of coins dispels any remaining doubt. Nate pulls out a couple coppers to tip Doc for the water.
The kid's obviously looking to leave, so Ray moves aside. Brad, however, pulls his weight off the counter and crosses his arms over his chest.
"I wasn't kidding about Reno being dangerous at night," he says. "The town gets rowdy when there’s a fight, and the one this morning was a doozy. Three cold bodies ain’t nothing to sneeze at."
"No, it’s not," Nate agrees. Something flickers in his eyes, but vanishes before Brad can make anything of it.
Brad continues, "If you need a place to stay for the night, there’s a hotel over in Truckee twelve miles west of here. Should be quiet there. We’re headed in that direction, anyway."
Beside him, Ray perks up. "Yeah, we can escort you!"
Nate clams up again. "I’ve got a hotel here, already," he insists.
Brad knows when he's lost a battle. Nate's jaw is set, belying a stubborn clench of teeth. His hackles are raised and unarmed or not, Nate looks ready to scrap his way out of Mathilda if need be.
Brad lifts both hands in surrender. Doesn't move aside, though—just lets Nate shoulder between him and Ray, his chest dragging against Brad's as he squeezes past.
Nate goes straight out the way he came, doors swinging in his wake.
The room stays paused for a breath, but soon exhales into low activity as the patrons at Mathilda return to their drinks and cards. Doc goes to rinse out the empty water glass.
Brad checks his fob watch, suddenly antsy to get back to work. "C'mon, Deputy," he says, feeling anticipation build up the way it always does before a good, tough case. "We have a long day ahead of us."
-----
By the time Brad and his men get back on scene, they’re eight miles west of the Reno border.
Brad spits on the dirt, rounding up to the quivering greenhorn before him. "Who in the good Lord's name told you to move the bodies?"
"I'm sorry, Sheriff. It's just—the chief said we had to get them out of the sun. Said they'd start to stink up."
Brad just barely manages not to wring the neck of the officer quaking before him.
Hell, he oughta be used to it by now, anyway. Working with the city police—with their brick-headed, cretinous chief of police, to be exact—is an absolute exercise in restraint.
"Look, just—" Brad pinches the bridge of his sunburnt nose. It stings a little. "Get out of my fucking sight."
The kid skedaddles, and when Brad opens his eyes again he's looking at nothing but some brush and dirt, dried with blood where two bodies were found that morning.
Damn it, the area’s scuffed all to hell now, sand tossed every which way from Schwetje’s men dragging the corpses off. Now there’s no fucking way to tell who died where, or whose blood is whose.
Luckily, Brad and his men were thorough during the initial survey. Between all their recollections, they’ve been able to piece together a rough string of events.
Brad squats down in front of the site and shuts his eyes, invoking the morning’s tableau.
Two of the bodies were found next to each other, one guy nailed with two rounds to the stomach, the other sporting a head shot. Can’t tell if they were killed by the same hand though—not until the bullets get extracted for comparison.
Regardless, the two men were pitted against a third, whose body was found nine yards away, bled out from an impressive tally of eleven shots to the body.
Three corpses total. All white males in their late twenties or early thirties, and all dressed in dry goods Brad recognizes from various stores around town.
That’s good news. These men were locals—usually are, morning shootouts, making it straightforward enough to ID them. A little asking around town should have them pegged within a day or two.
A noise interrupts his train of thought and Brad opens his eyes, seeing nothing but desert sky, desert sun.
“Shit, dog,” a voice says from behind and Brad looks over his shoulder. It’s Espera. “You believe this shit? Eleven shots, man. Eleven.“
Espera—better known as just ‘Poke’ for reasons that really shouldn’t be repeated in polite company— circles around Brad, blocking the sun with his shadow. Brad stands up.
“Man, you white boys sure know how to fuck shit up,” Poke says. “Gotta respect.”
“It’s an important skill,” Brad agrees.
“Then again, this ain’t over yet,” Poke says, turning his head to look at the tremendous puddle of dried blood from afar, where the third body lay. Beside it, a set of footprints, inked by blood, trail away into nothing. “Who knows? Maybe it was a Chinaman who got away.”
“Could’ve be a Mexican,” Brad replies. Poke sniffs loudly, but he’s smiling as they settle into companionable silence, shoulder-to-shoulder.
A sudden, spirited hoot echoes through the dry air and Brad and Poke both turn their heads to meet it. Ray and his spotted Appaloosa can be made out through the heat rising from the baking earth, cantering in like a mirage.
Brad stands up, pulls his Stetson down to shade his eyes.
"Whoo-whee, Sheriff!” Ray shouts, pulling up in a spray of dirt. “Wait till you see what Walt and I scrounged up." He dismounts and bounces over like he got a bug in his pants.
"You're gonna love this, guys," Ray chirps. "You'll want to kiss your old pal Ray-Ray when you see this. Big ol' wet one right on the lips."
"Ray—”
"Just look!" Ray thrusts a folded up kerchief up under Brad's nose. "We found it ditched under a buckhorn, 'bout a mile east of here."
Brad gingerly pulls back one of the corners and the fabric drops to reveal the varnished, walnut grip of a revolver. Curious, Brad puts his palm out and Ray drops the gun into it.
The metal’s warm. Brad tests the weight in his hand, finding it heavier than his preferred six-shooter. He thumbs the hammer down, hears it click, then releases it, all under the silent observation of Poke and Ray.
" '75 Army Outlaw," Brad finally intones. He pushes the cylinder out with his thumb and looks down the barrel. No bullets are loaded, but it's easy enough to tell, ".45 caliber."
Ray leans in eagerly. "Good shit, right?"
Brad swings the cylinder back shut with the snap of his wrist. He smirks. "Very good shit. See how the barrel's real short?"
"Modified. So what?" Poke asks.
Brad makes a soft tut-tutting noise, wagging the gun side-to-side like an admonishing finger. "No, my friend. This gun comes straight from the manufacturer, no modifications. It was a special edition five-and-a-half inch barrel, released by Remington during the winter of ’84. It’s a good gun, but she didn’t do so well against the Colt that came out in ’86. She got discontinued real quick.”
Ray blinks at him doubtfully. "Homes, you need to get out more." Beside him, Poke stifles a snort.
It doesn’t faze him. Brad responds, “Regardless of what my comprehensive knowledge of firearms may or may not reveal about my shortcomings in conforming to society’s expectations of ‘getting out more’, at least I’m earning my keep.” He stops, unable to help a feral smile from escaping. “Think about it, gents. How many men do you think there are, walking around Reno toting this particular gun?”
Ray's eyes slowly dawn and he says, reverently, "Well, damn. Looks like we got ourselves a real lead, h'aint we?"
Over Ray's shoulder, a movement catches Brad’s attention. It’s Walt coming towards them, his unruly blond hair catching the sun as he trots over on his chestnut gelding. Walt straightens up in his seat, raising his arm to wave.
Brad turns to Ray. "Tell Walt he's getting a kiss from me. Big ol' wet one, right on the lips."
"Hey, we found the gun together!"
Brad smirks in response and walks away, taking the Outlaw with him.
They’ve done all they could on site, and it’s about time he goes back to the tent to pack up. It’s just a matter of letting the evidence speak for itself now. Gun especially—if Brad follows the Outlaw, he’s bound to dig up something about the guy who’d left the shootout alive.
Sun’s getting lower in the sky, and shops will be closing up in a few hours. His team will tidy up the site, bringing the evidence home as they all prepare for the long push through the night.
Reno’s a tough place to corral on any given day—yet more so in the aftermath of bloodshed. Sometimes it seems pointless to try and govern the laws of natural selection, but Brad likes to think what he’s doing isn’t completely meaningless. Not everyone can defend themselves in the midst of anarchy, and it don’t seem right to him that they should.
He’s suddenly reminded of the newcomer who came into Mathilda during lunch.
Brad arrives at the tent, greeting his horse with a pat on the neck before pausing with one hand on the knob of the saddle.
Fick, wasn’t it? That’s right. Nathaniel Fick.
Call me Nate.
Brad wonders if he should check on the kid this evening. While he’s got his fair share of children already—thinks fondly of Ray, Walt, and Trombley who’s out for a couple weeks taking care of his newborn—what’s one more rear end to cover? He’ll be patrolling the town anyway, might as well make sure Nate lasts the night.
Under his hand, his mount fidgets for acknowledgement and Brad smiles, shushing him as he unties the lash. He sticks the Army Outlaw into the back of his jeans and hoists himself up onto the saddle for the ride back to Reno.
Next
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:
aeroport_artRating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (3,100 this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
It's high noon.
Outside, the sun's beating down on the scorched earth with the blistering heat of a prairie fire and, Lord Almighty, it ain’t even July yet.
What it is, however, is Washoe County. Here on the western border of Nevada, there ain’t green for miles but the prickly skins of cacti and brush—no humidity for at least ten times as far. Here in Washoe, a man makes do.
Inside a small, local saloon in Reno on the corner of Peavine and Third, Ray mops his brow with a soaked kerchief.
"This shit is unreal. How're we supposed to work in this Satanic level of temperature? Ain’t gonna be any bodies by the time we get back on scene, just lumps of coal baking in the sun. And tell me, Brad. How are we supposed to identify lumps of coal?” Ray scratches his nose, winces. “Fuck, I’m peeling like a fucking tomato."
Brad reaches over to paw down the brim of his deputy's ten gallon. "Shut your fuckin' trap, Ray. That's what the hat on your worthless head is for, you gin-snorting, mama-fucking waste of a space."
Deputy Person slouches deep in his chair, crosses his arms and pouts overtly. Mutters under his breath, "Yeah well, at least I got a mama to fuck."
Brad handily shoves the side of Ray's head, readying his tongue for another acerbic jibe when the whuff-whuff of saloon doors swinging open captures his attention. Brad looks up.
A man's silhouette appears in the entryway, backlit by the brightness of white-hot street behind him. Brad squints, waiting.
Brad knows every coot who frequents this joint. Today, there's him and Ray, imbibing their liquid lunch while Walt takes over patrol of the main drag for an hour or so. Hunched in the corner is Tennessee Jones, avoiding his old lady like always, and the rest of the meager noontime patronage consists of a couple of kids—Bobby Jameson and barber Phil's youngest boy Abel, playing cards when they oughta be learning their letters at the public schoolhouse.
This silhouette at the door—ain't no figure Brad recognizes. So he sits up and pays attention.
The man slowly saunters in. With the motion, the sun recedes behind him and his face pulls free from the shadows, revealing a dusty, unlined face. Hell, forget man—kid looks no older than nineteen, twenty tops.
He walks up to the bar, where saloon-keeper Doc Bryan wipes down the already gleaming counter.
"Water, please," the stranger asks politely.
Doc pauses, levels his gaze, then tucks his towel into the back of his apron and moves to get an empty glass from the rack. So avidly does the kid watch Doc fetch his water, he hardly notices the gaze of the entire saloon on his back.
Doc hands over a pint glass filled with clean water. Cup hardly hits the woodtop before kid's gulping it down like he ain't had anything to drink in weeks. Well, who knows—maybe he hasn't.
Brad doesn't even pretend to be discreet as his hand roves down to the peacemaker strapped to his thigh. Strangers don't deserve the benefit of doubt…not even harmless-looking ones.
The kid finishes his drink and plunks it to the wood, breathing in wetly. Doc automatically goes to refill the cup.
As he's pouring, the stranger asks, "What’s this place called?"
Doc looks up over his pitcher and replies steadily, "This establishment, you mean? Or are you asking about our little town here?"
Brad sees the kid flush at the back of his neck. "That obvious, am I?"
"Just the accent," Doc states. "Got a bit of Yank in you."
"Maryland, actually." The kid takes his cup and drinks some more, before stopping to add, “But I know this is Reno. I can find my way around a map. I’m asking about your saloon here. "
Doc's about to answer, Brad can tell, but he's had enough of the small talk. He pushes back his chair with a loud scrape of wood, making his presence known, and answers simply, "Mathilda."
The kid swivels his head around and their eyes catch, wary gazes locked on each other as Brad walks over with long, deliberate strides. En route, young Jameson hastily scoots his chair in to let Brad pass, letting the playing cards slip forgotten from his hand.
Brad gets to the bar, stops short in front of the stranger who regards him unflinchingly. "Mathilda," the kid repeats.
Brad's close enough now to turn around and prop his elbows on the counter beside him, leaning back as he introduces himself. "Brad Colbert." He touches the underside of his Stetson with a casual finger.
"Iceman!" Ray calls from across the room.
Brad twitches, but otherwise remains impassive as he adds, "And I know you know already, but proper introduction: you're in Washoe County's one-and-only Reno. Population four thousand, and home to the dullest lot of lawmen west of the Mississippi.” Ray makes a wounded noise from somewhere.
The stranger tilts his head back and drains the rest of his water. Brad's eyes slide down, following the bobbing up-and-down motion of his Adam's apple. When the stranger resurfaces, the bright red of his moist lips contrasts with the dusty film that covers the rest of his face, his clothes. "I'm Nathaniel Fick," he says as Brad's eyes snap back up, "but call me Nate." He extends a hand.
Brad just looks at the proffered hand before asking point blank, "Why are you here?"
Nate clears his throat. "Business. Just passing through."
"You know, if you're headed West anyway, you'd do well to leave before sundown. Sure picked a day to come visiting—some bad business went down this morning. Town could get ugly by nightfall."
"Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment," Nate says with the first hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips, "But you don't have to worry yourself over my hide."
"Is that so?" Brad asks with a smirk.
"Seriously, kid," Ray suddenly cuts in, making himself known in the only way Brad's deputy can. "You're like what, twelve years old?"
Nate's brow draws down and Brad leans back on the counter, keen on watching Ray embarrass himself in front of this fresh-faced newcomer.
"Whatever," Ray continues. "However old you are, you talk like you jus' begging to be stung in the ass with a forty-five cal'. Walking all upright like you got a stick up your ass, fresh off the railroad, all loaded with money and shit. If I were you, I'd steer clear of a town full of scumbag frontiersmen still riled up from a morning shootout, unless you get your rocks off on a bunch of guys jumping you. But hell, if you're that hard up for attention, there are other ways to get it, if ya know what I mean." Ray pauses. "I mean paying for it."
Brad raises an eyebrow at that last addition. Ray says defensively, "What? You can get anything at Dirty Birdy."
To his credit, Nate listens to Ray's verbal diarrhea with no more reaction than the thinning of his lips. Nate finally replies, "I'm only going to repeat myself once." He turns to Brad with a significant look. "You don't have to worry about me. And neither does your wife."
That catches him by surprise, and Brad can't help the grin spurred out of him. Ray looks at him like he’s grown another head, but the low chuckle that Brad grants Nate is completely deserved.
Nate's green eyes are trained on him in return, and the genuine smile quirking his lips makes Brad feel inordinately pleased. Brad explains, "This loose-lipped retard is my Deputy Sheriff, Ray Person."
Nate's smile dims.
"Sheriff?"
"Yeah," Brad says, reaching into his breast pocket to show his nickel badge. It’s labeled “High Sheriff”, followed by Washoe County and his license number. He doesn't like wearing it on his chest like some shiny trophy—it's redundant. Kind of hard to miss a 6'4" cowboy whose business is to know everyone else's business. Sure as hell impossible to miss Deputy Person, who obliges himself to Brad's side, steady and constant as a stray mutt you fed once and can’t shake.
"Well, Sheriff," Nate says, wiping a hand over his face. "I'm afraid I don’t have a choice but to stop through Reno. Need to replenish some supplies, and my bay hasn't had a proper shoeing in months." He reaches down towards his hip and there's a split second where Brad's fingers twitch for his holster, but the kid ain't smart enough to keep a gun on him and the loud jangling of coins dispels any remaining doubt. Nate pulls out a couple coppers to tip Doc for the water.
The kid's obviously looking to leave, so Ray moves aside. Brad, however, pulls his weight off the counter and crosses his arms over his chest.
"I wasn't kidding about Reno being dangerous at night," he says. "The town gets rowdy when there’s a fight, and the one this morning was a doozy. Three cold bodies ain’t nothing to sneeze at."
"No, it’s not," Nate agrees. Something flickers in his eyes, but vanishes before Brad can make anything of it.
Brad continues, "If you need a place to stay for the night, there’s a hotel over in Truckee twelve miles west of here. Should be quiet there. We’re headed in that direction, anyway."
Beside him, Ray perks up. "Yeah, we can escort you!"
Nate clams up again. "I’ve got a hotel here, already," he insists.
Brad knows when he's lost a battle. Nate's jaw is set, belying a stubborn clench of teeth. His hackles are raised and unarmed or not, Nate looks ready to scrap his way out of Mathilda if need be.
Brad lifts both hands in surrender. Doesn't move aside, though—just lets Nate shoulder between him and Ray, his chest dragging against Brad's as he squeezes past.
Nate goes straight out the way he came, doors swinging in his wake.
The room stays paused for a breath, but soon exhales into low activity as the patrons at Mathilda return to their drinks and cards. Doc goes to rinse out the empty water glass.
Brad checks his fob watch, suddenly antsy to get back to work. "C'mon, Deputy," he says, feeling anticipation build up the way it always does before a good, tough case. "We have a long day ahead of us."
-----
By the time Brad and his men get back on scene, they’re eight miles west of the Reno border.
Brad spits on the dirt, rounding up to the quivering greenhorn before him. "Who in the good Lord's name told you to move the bodies?"
"I'm sorry, Sheriff. It's just—the chief said we had to get them out of the sun. Said they'd start to stink up."
Brad just barely manages not to wring the neck of the officer quaking before him.
Hell, he oughta be used to it by now, anyway. Working with the city police—with their brick-headed, cretinous chief of police, to be exact—is an absolute exercise in restraint.
"Look, just—" Brad pinches the bridge of his sunburnt nose. It stings a little. "Get out of my fucking sight."
The kid skedaddles, and when Brad opens his eyes again he's looking at nothing but some brush and dirt, dried with blood where two bodies were found that morning.
Damn it, the area’s scuffed all to hell now, sand tossed every which way from Schwetje’s men dragging the corpses off. Now there’s no fucking way to tell who died where, or whose blood is whose.
Luckily, Brad and his men were thorough during the initial survey. Between all their recollections, they’ve been able to piece together a rough string of events.
Brad squats down in front of the site and shuts his eyes, invoking the morning’s tableau.
Two of the bodies were found next to each other, one guy nailed with two rounds to the stomach, the other sporting a head shot. Can’t tell if they were killed by the same hand though—not until the bullets get extracted for comparison.
Regardless, the two men were pitted against a third, whose body was found nine yards away, bled out from an impressive tally of eleven shots to the body.
Three corpses total. All white males in their late twenties or early thirties, and all dressed in dry goods Brad recognizes from various stores around town.
That’s good news. These men were locals—usually are, morning shootouts, making it straightforward enough to ID them. A little asking around town should have them pegged within a day or two.
A noise interrupts his train of thought and Brad opens his eyes, seeing nothing but desert sky, desert sun.
“Shit, dog,” a voice says from behind and Brad looks over his shoulder. It’s Espera. “You believe this shit? Eleven shots, man. Eleven.“
Espera—better known as just ‘Poke’ for reasons that really shouldn’t be repeated in polite company— circles around Brad, blocking the sun with his shadow. Brad stands up.
“Man, you white boys sure know how to fuck shit up,” Poke says. “Gotta respect.”
“It’s an important skill,” Brad agrees.
“Then again, this ain’t over yet,” Poke says, turning his head to look at the tremendous puddle of dried blood from afar, where the third body lay. Beside it, a set of footprints, inked by blood, trail away into nothing. “Who knows? Maybe it was a Chinaman who got away.”
“Could’ve be a Mexican,” Brad replies. Poke sniffs loudly, but he’s smiling as they settle into companionable silence, shoulder-to-shoulder.
A sudden, spirited hoot echoes through the dry air and Brad and Poke both turn their heads to meet it. Ray and his spotted Appaloosa can be made out through the heat rising from the baking earth, cantering in like a mirage.
Brad stands up, pulls his Stetson down to shade his eyes.
"Whoo-whee, Sheriff!” Ray shouts, pulling up in a spray of dirt. “Wait till you see what Walt and I scrounged up." He dismounts and bounces over like he got a bug in his pants.
"You're gonna love this, guys," Ray chirps. "You'll want to kiss your old pal Ray-Ray when you see this. Big ol' wet one right on the lips."
"Ray—”
"Just look!" Ray thrusts a folded up kerchief up under Brad's nose. "We found it ditched under a buckhorn, 'bout a mile east of here."
Brad gingerly pulls back one of the corners and the fabric drops to reveal the varnished, walnut grip of a revolver. Curious, Brad puts his palm out and Ray drops the gun into it.
The metal’s warm. Brad tests the weight in his hand, finding it heavier than his preferred six-shooter. He thumbs the hammer down, hears it click, then releases it, all under the silent observation of Poke and Ray.
" '75 Army Outlaw," Brad finally intones. He pushes the cylinder out with his thumb and looks down the barrel. No bullets are loaded, but it's easy enough to tell, ".45 caliber."
Ray leans in eagerly. "Good shit, right?"
Brad swings the cylinder back shut with the snap of his wrist. He smirks. "Very good shit. See how the barrel's real short?"
"Modified. So what?" Poke asks.
Brad makes a soft tut-tutting noise, wagging the gun side-to-side like an admonishing finger. "No, my friend. This gun comes straight from the manufacturer, no modifications. It was a special edition five-and-a-half inch barrel, released by Remington during the winter of ’84. It’s a good gun, but she didn’t do so well against the Colt that came out in ’86. She got discontinued real quick.”
Ray blinks at him doubtfully. "Homes, you need to get out more." Beside him, Poke stifles a snort.
It doesn’t faze him. Brad responds, “Regardless of what my comprehensive knowledge of firearms may or may not reveal about my shortcomings in conforming to society’s expectations of ‘getting out more’, at least I’m earning my keep.” He stops, unable to help a feral smile from escaping. “Think about it, gents. How many men do you think there are, walking around Reno toting this particular gun?”
Ray's eyes slowly dawn and he says, reverently, "Well, damn. Looks like we got ourselves a real lead, h'aint we?"
Over Ray's shoulder, a movement catches Brad’s attention. It’s Walt coming towards them, his unruly blond hair catching the sun as he trots over on his chestnut gelding. Walt straightens up in his seat, raising his arm to wave.
Brad turns to Ray. "Tell Walt he's getting a kiss from me. Big ol' wet one, right on the lips."
"Hey, we found the gun together!"
Brad smirks in response and walks away, taking the Outlaw with him.
They’ve done all they could on site, and it’s about time he goes back to the tent to pack up. It’s just a matter of letting the evidence speak for itself now. Gun especially—if Brad follows the Outlaw, he’s bound to dig up something about the guy who’d left the shootout alive.
Sun’s getting lower in the sky, and shops will be closing up in a few hours. His team will tidy up the site, bringing the evidence home as they all prepare for the long push through the night.
Reno’s a tough place to corral on any given day—yet more so in the aftermath of bloodshed. Sometimes it seems pointless to try and govern the laws of natural selection, but Brad likes to think what he’s doing isn’t completely meaningless. Not everyone can defend themselves in the midst of anarchy, and it don’t seem right to him that they should.
He’s suddenly reminded of the newcomer who came into Mathilda during lunch.
Brad arrives at the tent, greeting his horse with a pat on the neck before pausing with one hand on the knob of the saddle.
Fick, wasn’t it? That’s right. Nathaniel Fick.
Call me Nate.
Brad wonders if he should check on the kid this evening. While he’s got his fair share of children already—thinks fondly of Ray, Walt, and Trombley who’s out for a couple weeks taking care of his newborn—what’s one more rear end to cover? He’ll be patrolling the town anyway, might as well make sure Nate lasts the night.
Under his hand, his mount fidgets for acknowledgement and Brad smiles, shushing him as he unties the lash. He sticks the Army Outlaw into the back of his jeans and hoists himself up onto the saddle for the ride back to Reno.
Next
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-09-21 09:21 pm (UTC)And GK favourites: Here in Washoe, a man makes do.