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aeroport_artTitle: The West Coast Two-Step (2/9)
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 (4,600 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.
Nathaniel Fick turns out to be tougher to track than Brad would've reckoned.
Now, in his defense, Reno's no small pond. Biggest town in Washoe County in fact, sprawling four miles across with more shops and saloons than you can shake a stick at.
Don't matter how big a place is though, Brad's got a reputation to maintain. Ain't no one squirrely kid gonna fuck that up.
" 'Bout twenty years old, goes by Fick? Green eyes, short hair like mine." Brad waits as the gun shop owner, Percy Grant, folds his arms in thought and teeters back and forth on his heels. He looks like a bowling pin when he does that, and the fierce look of concentration on his face is comical.
Well, he can’t blame him. Brad’s been grilling the guy for a good hour or so about the case, though not with nothing to show. Turns out the three bodies from the shootout were real regulars at this gun shop, which ain’t a huge surprise as Grant’s Arms & Ammunitions is the best place in town to get outfitted.
Within minutes, Percy had identified the victims as John Marlon (bullet between the eyes), Georgie Brown (two slugs to the gut), and Bob Raleigh (gunned down eleven times over), just from looking at their guns and hearing Brad’s verbal descriptions.
Done and done, with time to spare. As long as Brad gets back to the station for the meeting at sundown, he might as well use this spell to scratch that Nate-shaped itch he got under his skin.
"Talks with a dude accent,” Brad supplies when it’s obvious Grant’s having a hard time recalling any such patron. “He's from Maryland."
"Oh, right!" Grant snaps his fingers. "Clean-shaven, kinda yay-high?" Not being especially blessed with verticality, he has to stretch to put his hand up to Brad's eye-level.
"That's him," Brad says encouragingly. "When'd he come through here, you remember?"
Grant hems and haws for a bit, musing about how he gets a lot of traffic after gunfights like the one that morning. "A lot of folks like to load up after a duel or brawl breaks out in their backyard," he says with a chuckle. "Can't keep track of all them nervous cowboys."
"But you remember Nate Fick," Brad presses. "Did he say anything about what hotel he’s staying at?" There’s something like twenty or thirty boarding rooms in Reno, and Brad can hardly check in on all of them.
"I gotta say, Sheriff. I don't remember him all that much. Just that he passed through."
There must be something in Brad's expression, as Grant quickly adds, "But you know, I can tell you about the job he had me do. I always remember the equipment, 'specially nice equipment like the holster he brought in.”
Brad frowns. Nate didn’t even have a gun on him when they were at the saloon. What the hell use would he have for a holster?
The shopkeeper continues, eyes looking skyward as he strains to remember. “The buckle on the belt was broken, which he had me replace, but the rest of it was still in darned fine shape. Nice quality leather, good stitching, the works. I mean, it was worn pretty thin on the back of the bag, but you could tell it’s because he’s been wearing it for awhile."
Okay, so Nate owned a holster. That doesn’t really tell him anything. “Did you see what kind of gun he had?”
"No gun," Grant says decisively. When Brad responds with a blank stare, Grant suggests weakly, “I would’ve noticed. Maybe he left it with his horse?”
Bullshit. Nobody with the slightest hint of self-preservation leaves their gun unattended in their fucking horse pack. Nate might’ve been young, but he didn’t seem stupid.
Grant shrugs helplessly.
Brad sighs. No use milking a dry cow. “Thanks, Percy.”
They shake hands and Brad turns to leave, but just before he gets outside, Grant calls after him.
"You know, Sheriff, maybe I can't tell you where that Flick boy—"
"—Fick."
"—where Fick is staying the night, or what model gun he’s got, but there was something that stuck out to me."
Brad steps back inside, letting the door fall shut with a jangle of the cowbell. “And what’s that?”
"The way people use their equipment shows a lot. When you been around these things long as I have, you'd pick it up too. That holster, you take one look at the interior and you can tell he’s been keeping a short-barrel in there for at least a few years."
"Short barrel," Brad repeats. “We talking derringer short or what, Percy? I need a little more than that.”
“Derringer? Hell, he ain’t a woman, is he?” Grant laughs. “Just short like, I don’t know, four or five-inch barrel. There’s always a groove in an old holster where the front sights have dug in, and this groove stopped pretty high. Shorter than your peacemaker, anyhow.”
Brad feels an odd sensation creep up on him, something niggling at the back of his mind that he can’t quite place. Ain’t nothing Percy can help with, though, so Brad tips his hat in thanks and exits the shop.
-----
Brad spends the rest of the waning day showing the Outlaw around town, trying to see if anyone recognizes it or its owner. Funny how things work—wasn’t but a cakewalk to identify the morning’s three victims, but when he’s got an obvious lead like a one-of-a-kind revolver ditched near a town full of trigger-happy, wannabe firearm aficionados, ain’t nobody even recognize the model all of a sudden.
At the end of the day, Brad meets up with his team at their single-story office on Ralston and Fifth, in the northwestern side of town.
Inside, they crowd around the big, square table used for debriefs. Brad shares what he discovered from Percy that afternoon and methodically collects everyone’s contributions as they go through the next day’s agenda.
Doc Bryan—same Doc who runs Mathilda, ‘cause everyone out West wears multiple hats to pitch in—already categorized the bullets found in each corpse. Marlon and Brown were indeed killed by the same gun, while Bob Raleigh’s eleven bullets came from three different sources.
Rudy, a broad-shouldered deputy with a penchant for showing off his preposterous physique, identified the victims through his own means, as did Poke. They each have their own leads to follow.
The sky darkens outside their windows as the meeting progresses, which Brad eventually winds down by instructing Walt to begin interpreting the evidence into a scenario, complete with suspects, motives, and theories on what exactly went down that morning. Walt pales a little when he hears Brad wants a report by sun-up, but he’ll rise to the task. Always does.
In the meantime, Ray’s gonna hold down the fort during the week, keeping watch over downtown while the rest of them work the case.
“That’s all for now, gents,” Brad says, leaning back from the table which is now littered with maps, pencils, and a few tins of dip. “We got a hot case to cool down, maybe chase some of those loose ends that got away, but for tonight, let’s just deal with the fallout. Y’all know where you need to be. Let’s make some money.”
A collective yee-haw signals their departures. Most of them leave the station but Brad stays behind for a bit, tidying up the area and answering Walt’s straggling questions before he finally heads out to start patrol.
-----
When Brad steps foot outside the ground’s still emanating heat like coals, but at least the sun’s gone. Brad flicks his Stetson back, grateful for the fresh air that greets him.
He strides down the empty alley on his way to the stable, path wanly lit by the half-moon that hangs in the sky like a lamp. The wide entrance of the stable looms up along one side and he turns into it.
Brad’s horse, Hummer, is right at the front, but even with the light filtering in from the entryway his dark, chocolate coat blends seamlessly into the shadows. The whites of his eyes stand out like porcelain.
Brad approaches, stepping on a patch of sand with a crunch that startles his horse into a whicker.
“Shh—shh,” Brad murmurs, palms facing out as Hummer anxiously thrashes his head side-to-side. “S’just me. Your old pal Brad-Brad.” He pauses at the words that done come out of his mouth, then curses Ray for his infectious retardese.
“Brad-Brad, huh?”
Brad whirls around. His Colt’s safety-off and pointed in the direction of the voice, faster than the time it takes Rudy to get half-naked in public.
“That’s not very friendly,” the voice rings out, and Brad could just be hearing things but…
Across the dusty alleyway, Nate shoulders off the building at his back and walks forward, hands in his pockets. He stops just a stone’s toss away from the end of Brad’s raised gun.
Nate looks up, the brim of his ten-gallon lifting until his face is bathed in moonlight. “I’m twenty-six, by the way. You've been defaming me all day, Sheriff, telling strangers I ain't old enough to buy a legal drink on my own.”
Brad kicks the safety back on and drops the Colt into the holster at his thigh. His lips feel dry.
Maybe he’s spent the better part of the sun-scorched afternoon searching out this kid’s scrawny ass for no real reason other than to placate his own curiosity, but hell if he can think of a single thing to say to him now, other than:
“What’re you doing here?”
Nate chuckles, the sound echoing down the empty alleyway. “I think you have something of mine.”
Behind Brad, Hummer stamps his foot impatiently. Brad touches him lightly on the nose to quiet him, eyes never leaving Nate’s, then steps out of the stable to meet him in the street. He makes sure to keep a safe distance though, unsure of what Nate wants from him.
“So what’ve I got that’s yours?” Brad asks cautiously.
Nate’s eyes flick down, hovering around Brad’s waist for a long moment before lifting back up to lock on Brad’s intent gaze.
Nate replies, levelly, “My gun.”
-----
Brad freezes in place while Nate blinks at him slowly. With pale skin glowing under the half-moon and clean, boyish features that simply don’t come around the frontier nary ever, it’s highly possible that this Nate before him is just a heat-induced hallucination.
“I’m sorry,” Brad says. “Think I heard you wrong.”
“Well, what did you hear me say?” Nate comes in close, knocking the toes of their boots together. All right, so not a hallucination.
Brad slowly replies, “I heard you say…that I have your gun.” He doesn’t back away from Nate’s crowding. Refuses to let any weakness show.
“Then there ain’t nothing wrong with your ears, Sheriff.”
Brad feels a chill slink down his spine. The only guns he got on him are his trusted Colt, the hidden Pocket Navy strapped to his left calf…and the ’75 Army Outlaw.
The gun—Nate’s gun—suddenly feels heavy against Brad’s lower back, where it’s tucked into his waistband.
He knows it’s there. Nate knows it’s there.
Nate cocks his head to the side, saying lightly, “The sun get to you or something? I’d like my property back, Sheriff.”
At that entreaty, Brad snaps back into focus. “You best be joking, Fick. You think I’m gonna hand over a piece of evidence, just like that? Just ‘cause you asked me nice?”
Nate’s eyes harden. “I wasn’t asking nicely. I said I wanted my piece back, and I do. It’s mine. Stealing my gun from me isn’t going to help your investigation, as I got nothing to do with what you’re sniffing around.”
“Like hell,” Brad spits. He closes the gap between them with a rough grab at Nate’s vest, fingers wrapped into the open armhole as Brad yanks Nate forward.
Nose to nose, Brad, says, “Your gun was the only weapon unaccounted for near the site, all bullets discharged. Same-caliber casings were found on the dead bodies. Now, I thought you were some boat-licker who got toilet-trained at university, where they force brains between people's ears, but I must be wrong because you sure ain't got any.” His voice is low and threatening but Nate looks impassive, his eyes flinty and steel-colored in the muted light.
Brad barrels on, “You honestly think you can just come around my town, throw your special-edition Outlaw into my backyard one mile from the dirtiest firefight we’ve seen in months, and I’m gonna just let you go? Think you’re too nice to get in trouble with the law, Nate? Too pretty to rot in jail with the rest of the boys who’d pushed their luck and lost?”
Nate’s angry now, Brad can feel it. He can feel the heat thrumming off Nate’s body, can see how Nate’s mouth is set into a hard line, lips downturned at the corners. Lesser men might tremble in the face of Nate’s dark look, but it don’t make a lick of difference to Brad.
Nothing makes Brad’s blood run colder than a potential killer.
“I’m bringing you in,” Brad says curtly.
The crack to his jaw comes from nowhere. Brad reels back, hand rushing to cradle his throbbing cheek.
“Let me know when you’ve pulled your head out of your ass long enough to notice what’s been going on in your town,” Nate says coldly. “I’m gonna want my gun back.”
Nate turns around, sauntering away like he’s got all the time in the world.
Well, shit. Maybe that works for him back East, but it sure as hell ain’t gonna fly here.
Brad turns his head to the side, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the dirt. He calls out, “Fick.”
Nate halts. Somewhere, a few streets away, a dog starts barking and Brad takes that as his cue, launching himself forward. He stretches his arm out to grab Nate’s right shoulder and wrenches him around.
Nate ducks the first overhead cuff Brad throws, but Brad expected no less and meets him there with a hard fist to the side. Nate absorbs it easily though, and before he can think twice he’s blocking Nate’s swing with a last-minute arm up to protect his face.
“Leave it, Colbert,” Nate hisses. He drops down and gets an uppercut in, which can normally knock Brad off balance if dealt low enough, but Nate’s no midget either and the force of it’s dulled against the packed muscle of Brad’s upper abs.
“You’re attacking a Sheriff,” Brad laughs, or a coughs, he’s not really sure. “You think I’m gonna ignore that? Fuck that, Fick,” Brad says, throwing off another one of Nate’s empty swings. “You’re off your fucking rocker.”
Brad bends down real low. Springs forward. He tackles Nate right in the torso, knocking him off his feet until they both roll back once—twice—struggling in the dust, Brad tasting dirt. An eternity passes while they grapple, only the sounds of scraping grit and grunts of exertion escaping into the air until they fall into a hold, Nate wrapped around Brad’s back like a starfish trying to open a clam.
Brad’s Stetson digs in uncomfortably, crushed between their bodies. Nate’s own has since been discarded, lying upside-down in Brad’s line of vision a couple yards away.
“Look,” Nate says into Brad’s ear, moist breath puffing over sensitive skin. Brad jerks his head away, but Nate’s still there as he continues, “This is stupid. I’m not the one you want.”
Brad struggles wordlessly, but the top-down formation they’re in has Brad’s cheek grinding into alleyway dirt with no leverage to speak of. His best bet is to talk his way out.
“If you’ve got nothing to do with this morning’s shootout, then why you fighting me?”
Nate freezes. Bingo. It’s only for a split second, but a second is all Brad needs to break out of the hold and snatch Nate’s forearms, swiveling out from under him as he yanks back on them like they’re reins.
Brad clambers aboard, twisting Nate’s wrists in a way that’s got them taut and vulnerable, completely at his mercy but Brad’s taking no chances. Pins him down with one knee between the shoulder blades for good measure.
Nate swears a little, rocking back and forth to try and unseat Brad but there’s nothing to be done. Brad could break the frail, little bones in Nate’s wrists at the slightest provocation, and he reminds Nate of this fact by pushing down just hard enough to feel.
“Like I said before,” Brad says heavily, trying to keep Nate still beneath his knee. “I’m bringing you in. If not for being involved in the case I’m working, then for assaulting the county sheriff.”
Nate growls, “I was merely trying to save you some time by letting you know, unequivocally, that I’m not the one you want.“
Brad’s unconvinced. Regardless of whether or not Nate’s being honest, that’s something he needs to ascertain himself, on his own terms.
Of course, it might help first to figure out how to detain Nate long enough to ask the questions. Brad left his handcuffs on his horse, so he needs to figure out a decent substitute. Looks around for a bit, trying to see what he can use as a makeshift rope so he can hog-tie his prisoner. Or at least get his hands bound, keeping them from launching anymore blindsiding attacks.
Nate clears his throat, and Brad refocuses. He keeps his weight forward, making sure Nate’s got no wiggle room to try and reverse their positions, but pays attention to whatever Nate’s gonna say.
“Let me go.”
Brad almost laughs. “No.”
“Check my vest pocket.”
“Again, no,” he says automatically, but then his brain catches up to his ears. “Wait, what?”
“Just do it,” Nate says, voice muffled by being directed into the ground. Brad leans forward, trying to suss out what Nate’s up to.
“Why don’t you tell me what I’m gonna find there, first?”
“A reason for you to let me go,” Nate says simply.
Brad frowns, sensing a trap, but if he’s methodical about this then things should be fine. Can’t deny that he’s interested in what Nate might consider a reason to let an assailant walk away scot-free.
He lets Nate’s arms buckle down, but keeps a firm grip on his wrists and sits on his lower back so that Nate’s still immobilized. Hardly needs to, though—Nate’s pretty much stopped fighting.
Brad presses him into the ground anyway, stretching out so that his weight’s evenly distributed across Nate’s body and locks his legs around Nate’s. “Which pocket?” Brad asks quietly into his ear.
Nate turns his head to the side, his breaths sounding labored as Brad crushes his lungs. “Inside pocket,” Nate manages. “Left side.”
Careful to keep Nate restrained, Brad frees his right arm and moves it over Nate’s shoulder, wedging a hand between the ground and Nate’s chest. It’s difficult though, the dirt ground scraping against the back of his hand as he tries to squeeze down into the opening of Nate’s vest.
“Here,” Nate says softly, lifting his chest a little. Brad relents, because otherwise he’s got no room to maneuver. They both curve up a little, Nate fitting against Brad’s body like a spoon, leaving just enough space for Brad’s fingers to cross from grungy earth to the fine, smooth satin of Nate’s vest lining. Brad grasps for whatever Nate’s talking about, fingers worming into the inner pocket he finds there.
Fuck, this is getting dicey. Brad’s entire right arm is wrapped around Nate, holding him tight in a way that’d be excusable if they were still fighting but borders on inappropriate now that Nate’s compliant underneath him. Beneath his splayed hand, he can feel the ridges of Nate’s chest through layers of clothing.
“You’re sure it’s there?” Brad asks, voice gruff.
“Yeah,” Nate says, sounding like he’s having trouble breathing. Granted, Brad is draped across his back like a two-hundred pound anvil.
Finally, Brad touches the edge of something thin and unyielding, like a card or a piece of metal. He stretches his arm to get at it, digging deeper—straining—
Nate rears up like a wave, rolling Brad over with a hard, backwards whack of his shoulder.
Brad hits the ground hard, breath knocked out of him as Nate falls on top, his back to Brad’s chest. They both scramble to sit up, but gravity keeps Nate in place and he uses the advantage to dive forward, hugging Brad’s legs with anaconda-like arms as Nate’s ankles cross to make a chokehold against Brad’s throat, the little shit.
The back of Brad’s head hits the ground and he blinks up at the clear night sky, seeing stars. Isn’t sure if they’re supposed to be spinning.
“I wasn’t lying,” Nate says, his voice sounding far away. Brad blinks away his disorientation and tries to move his legs but Nate’s arms are absolute as they clinch Brad’s thighs to his chest. Brad cranes his neck up far as it’ll go, maybe see a weak point he can exploit—
He’s greeted by the sight of Nate’s ass, trousers stretched tight over it.
Well, now.
“I wasn’t lying,” Nate repeats hastily, like it should matter to Brad. “My badge is in there. I would’ve shown you earlier, but you seemed keen on tossing my ass in jail and I’m sorry Sheriff, but I don’t have time for that.”
“Is this before or after you decided a sucker punch was the most prudent course of action?” Fuck, just saying it riles him up again. Brad bucks hard, thrusting his back into an arch, but Nate’s crossed ankles push down hard against his throat, trapping him there.
“You pissed me off,” Nate says like it’s an explanation.
Brad would laugh if he could get some air into his lungs. Says instead, “I don’t know what kinda badge you got, Fick, but I’m pretty sure there ain’t a branch of office in this country—any legal branch, that is—that condones unprovoked violence against local law enforcement.”
Above him, Brad feels Nate give a silent chuckle that vibrates through his body, Nate’s chest rubbing against…well. Rubbing against Brad.
It’s kind of distracting.
Brad’s only half-listening as Nate replies, “I think I can safely say that the United States Marshals Service could give a rat’s ass about any employment of unprovoked violence on their watch, so long as we get the job done.”
Brad closes his eyes, saying unevenly, “Marshal, huh?”
He feels Nate drop his forehead for a moment, brushing against Brad’s thigh. “Yeah,” Nate says. His breath goes straight through the twill of his jeans, warm and humid.
Fuck, they really need to move this along.
“So can we skip the part where—”
“Um,” Nate says tensely.
Shit.
“Sheriff, this isn’t—I mean, I’m not—”
Nate lets up a bit, arms going slack with distraction and while Brad might be a little off his game at the moment, he senses an opening and reacts by rote.
Brad throws Nate’s ankles off his neck and turns the both of them over, dealing a firm knee to the stomach mid-roll that gets Nate to curl up with a small grunt of pain. It buys him time enough to scramble over and plunk down on Nate’s chest, using his knees to lock Nate’s arms to his sides as Brad shimmies backwards, all the way to his improvised seat on Nate’s stomach.
Nate struggles against the vise of Brad’s knees, his long legs kicking up a storm behind Brad’s back, but he’s effectively trapped.
Brad grins, ignoring Nate’s wild fussing, and rides the groundswells like he would a bucking horse. He reaches for the front of his belt, undoing it to the wide-eyed stare.
Nate asks nervously, “What are you doing?”
Brad yanks his belt to the side, pulling it out. Each loop that frees the leather gives a little snap in the air.
Underneath him, Nate’s stopped resisting. His eyes drift down to a half-lidded state and he watches Brad from under shadowy lashes, biting his lip.
Brad pauses, coming to a dumb realization that he’s still hard. It makes the front of his jeans tent out a little bit.
“Sheriff,” Nate says roughly. “I asked you a question.”
It’s got to be a trick of the night, that edge to Nate’s voice. That, or the sick little Yank is trying to unsettle Brad enough to regain the upper hand.
Well, fuck that. It’s time to end this.
“We could’ve just avoided this whole scuffle,” Brad says decisively, “had you cooperated from the get-go.”
Brad places the leather of his belt between his teeth to free up his hands, then yanks Nate’s arms out from where they’re pinned to his sides. Tugs his wrists together, bringing them near his teeth so he can work the belt around them with all the tools his body’s got.
Once the knot’s secured, leather pulled tight as it’ll go, Brad lets Nate’s wrists drop.
After a moment’s thought, Brad reaches down and fishes into Nate’s inner vest pocket. The badge is where he said it’d be, five-pointed silver star that bears the title U.S. Marshal.
Brad sticks it back into Nate’s pocket.
“I don’t care if you’re a Marshal, an Army general, or the goddamned President of the United States,” he proclaims. “You’re implicated in three homicides and I ain’t letting you wander off until I know what part you played in them.”
He lets himself enjoy the incredulous look that comes across Nate’s face, then gets to his feet and pulls Nate up by the loose leather trailing from his wrists.
Once he’s up Nate makes as if to argue, but the look of warning Brad sends seems to deter him. Nate’s face closes off and he says, “Let’s get this over with.”
Brad marches his captive to the city jailhouse, fourteen blocks away. They don’t speak, other than Brad’s perfunctory exchanges with the occasional passersby, but Brad can feel Nate’s eyes on him the whole way there.
-----
After he drops Nate off, Brad rides home in the thick of night.
His house, an old, converted ranch, is about five miles east of Reno where the land transforms from hard-packed desert into marshland. Reno might be dry as an old maid, especially with the main source of freshwater diverted into irrigation ditches and cisterns, but around Brad’s home he’s surrounded by patchy outcrops of flowering wildgrass, rooted to hard soil and crumbled boulders.
It’s a distance Brad has to cross twice each working day, but he doesn’t mind. Far from it, in fact. There’s nothing like the feel of Brad’s horse galloping strong underneath him, cool air whipping against his face. It helps ease his brewing mind tonight, anyway.
Once inside, Brad sits on his bed with a hand mirror and holds it up to his face. The damage looks all right—some scrapes here and there, and his lip is split from Nate’s initial cuff, but there ain’t nothing he can’t handle.
He gingerly touches the cut on his lip, which is dried over with blood. It throbs a little and when he presses in harder, the wound splits open and fresh blood wells to the top.
Brad automatically licks his lower lip, tasting copper. In his reflection, the red of his mouth reminds him of Nate.
Back | Next
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:
aeroport_artRating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (4,600 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.
Nathaniel Fick turns out to be tougher to track than Brad would've reckoned.
Now, in his defense, Reno's no small pond. Biggest town in Washoe County in fact, sprawling four miles across with more shops and saloons than you can shake a stick at.
Don't matter how big a place is though, Brad's got a reputation to maintain. Ain't no one squirrely kid gonna fuck that up.
" 'Bout twenty years old, goes by Fick? Green eyes, short hair like mine." Brad waits as the gun shop owner, Percy Grant, folds his arms in thought and teeters back and forth on his heels. He looks like a bowling pin when he does that, and the fierce look of concentration on his face is comical.
Well, he can’t blame him. Brad’s been grilling the guy for a good hour or so about the case, though not with nothing to show. Turns out the three bodies from the shootout were real regulars at this gun shop, which ain’t a huge surprise as Grant’s Arms & Ammunitions is the best place in town to get outfitted.
Within minutes, Percy had identified the victims as John Marlon (bullet between the eyes), Georgie Brown (two slugs to the gut), and Bob Raleigh (gunned down eleven times over), just from looking at their guns and hearing Brad’s verbal descriptions.
Done and done, with time to spare. As long as Brad gets back to the station for the meeting at sundown, he might as well use this spell to scratch that Nate-shaped itch he got under his skin.
"Talks with a dude accent,” Brad supplies when it’s obvious Grant’s having a hard time recalling any such patron. “He's from Maryland."
"Oh, right!" Grant snaps his fingers. "Clean-shaven, kinda yay-high?" Not being especially blessed with verticality, he has to stretch to put his hand up to Brad's eye-level.
"That's him," Brad says encouragingly. "When'd he come through here, you remember?"
Grant hems and haws for a bit, musing about how he gets a lot of traffic after gunfights like the one that morning. "A lot of folks like to load up after a duel or brawl breaks out in their backyard," he says with a chuckle. "Can't keep track of all them nervous cowboys."
"But you remember Nate Fick," Brad presses. "Did he say anything about what hotel he’s staying at?" There’s something like twenty or thirty boarding rooms in Reno, and Brad can hardly check in on all of them.
"I gotta say, Sheriff. I don't remember him all that much. Just that he passed through."
There must be something in Brad's expression, as Grant quickly adds, "But you know, I can tell you about the job he had me do. I always remember the equipment, 'specially nice equipment like the holster he brought in.”
Brad frowns. Nate didn’t even have a gun on him when they were at the saloon. What the hell use would he have for a holster?
The shopkeeper continues, eyes looking skyward as he strains to remember. “The buckle on the belt was broken, which he had me replace, but the rest of it was still in darned fine shape. Nice quality leather, good stitching, the works. I mean, it was worn pretty thin on the back of the bag, but you could tell it’s because he’s been wearing it for awhile."
Okay, so Nate owned a holster. That doesn’t really tell him anything. “Did you see what kind of gun he had?”
"No gun," Grant says decisively. When Brad responds with a blank stare, Grant suggests weakly, “I would’ve noticed. Maybe he left it with his horse?”
Bullshit. Nobody with the slightest hint of self-preservation leaves their gun unattended in their fucking horse pack. Nate might’ve been young, but he didn’t seem stupid.
Grant shrugs helplessly.
Brad sighs. No use milking a dry cow. “Thanks, Percy.”
They shake hands and Brad turns to leave, but just before he gets outside, Grant calls after him.
"You know, Sheriff, maybe I can't tell you where that Flick boy—"
"—Fick."
"—where Fick is staying the night, or what model gun he’s got, but there was something that stuck out to me."
Brad steps back inside, letting the door fall shut with a jangle of the cowbell. “And what’s that?”
"The way people use their equipment shows a lot. When you been around these things long as I have, you'd pick it up too. That holster, you take one look at the interior and you can tell he’s been keeping a short-barrel in there for at least a few years."
"Short barrel," Brad repeats. “We talking derringer short or what, Percy? I need a little more than that.”
“Derringer? Hell, he ain’t a woman, is he?” Grant laughs. “Just short like, I don’t know, four or five-inch barrel. There’s always a groove in an old holster where the front sights have dug in, and this groove stopped pretty high. Shorter than your peacemaker, anyhow.”
Brad feels an odd sensation creep up on him, something niggling at the back of his mind that he can’t quite place. Ain’t nothing Percy can help with, though, so Brad tips his hat in thanks and exits the shop.
-----
Brad spends the rest of the waning day showing the Outlaw around town, trying to see if anyone recognizes it or its owner. Funny how things work—wasn’t but a cakewalk to identify the morning’s three victims, but when he’s got an obvious lead like a one-of-a-kind revolver ditched near a town full of trigger-happy, wannabe firearm aficionados, ain’t nobody even recognize the model all of a sudden.
At the end of the day, Brad meets up with his team at their single-story office on Ralston and Fifth, in the northwestern side of town.
Inside, they crowd around the big, square table used for debriefs. Brad shares what he discovered from Percy that afternoon and methodically collects everyone’s contributions as they go through the next day’s agenda.
Doc Bryan—same Doc who runs Mathilda, ‘cause everyone out West wears multiple hats to pitch in—already categorized the bullets found in each corpse. Marlon and Brown were indeed killed by the same gun, while Bob Raleigh’s eleven bullets came from three different sources.
Rudy, a broad-shouldered deputy with a penchant for showing off his preposterous physique, identified the victims through his own means, as did Poke. They each have their own leads to follow.
The sky darkens outside their windows as the meeting progresses, which Brad eventually winds down by instructing Walt to begin interpreting the evidence into a scenario, complete with suspects, motives, and theories on what exactly went down that morning. Walt pales a little when he hears Brad wants a report by sun-up, but he’ll rise to the task. Always does.
In the meantime, Ray’s gonna hold down the fort during the week, keeping watch over downtown while the rest of them work the case.
“That’s all for now, gents,” Brad says, leaning back from the table which is now littered with maps, pencils, and a few tins of dip. “We got a hot case to cool down, maybe chase some of those loose ends that got away, but for tonight, let’s just deal with the fallout. Y’all know where you need to be. Let’s make some money.”
A collective yee-haw signals their departures. Most of them leave the station but Brad stays behind for a bit, tidying up the area and answering Walt’s straggling questions before he finally heads out to start patrol.
-----
When Brad steps foot outside the ground’s still emanating heat like coals, but at least the sun’s gone. Brad flicks his Stetson back, grateful for the fresh air that greets him.
He strides down the empty alley on his way to the stable, path wanly lit by the half-moon that hangs in the sky like a lamp. The wide entrance of the stable looms up along one side and he turns into it.
Brad’s horse, Hummer, is right at the front, but even with the light filtering in from the entryway his dark, chocolate coat blends seamlessly into the shadows. The whites of his eyes stand out like porcelain.
Brad approaches, stepping on a patch of sand with a crunch that startles his horse into a whicker.
“Shh—shh,” Brad murmurs, palms facing out as Hummer anxiously thrashes his head side-to-side. “S’just me. Your old pal Brad-Brad.” He pauses at the words that done come out of his mouth, then curses Ray for his infectious retardese.
“Brad-Brad, huh?”
Brad whirls around. His Colt’s safety-off and pointed in the direction of the voice, faster than the time it takes Rudy to get half-naked in public.
“That’s not very friendly,” the voice rings out, and Brad could just be hearing things but…
Across the dusty alleyway, Nate shoulders off the building at his back and walks forward, hands in his pockets. He stops just a stone’s toss away from the end of Brad’s raised gun.
Nate looks up, the brim of his ten-gallon lifting until his face is bathed in moonlight. “I’m twenty-six, by the way. You've been defaming me all day, Sheriff, telling strangers I ain't old enough to buy a legal drink on my own.”
Brad kicks the safety back on and drops the Colt into the holster at his thigh. His lips feel dry.
Maybe he’s spent the better part of the sun-scorched afternoon searching out this kid’s scrawny ass for no real reason other than to placate his own curiosity, but hell if he can think of a single thing to say to him now, other than:
“What’re you doing here?”
Nate chuckles, the sound echoing down the empty alleyway. “I think you have something of mine.”
Behind Brad, Hummer stamps his foot impatiently. Brad touches him lightly on the nose to quiet him, eyes never leaving Nate’s, then steps out of the stable to meet him in the street. He makes sure to keep a safe distance though, unsure of what Nate wants from him.
“So what’ve I got that’s yours?” Brad asks cautiously.
Nate’s eyes flick down, hovering around Brad’s waist for a long moment before lifting back up to lock on Brad’s intent gaze.
Nate replies, levelly, “My gun.”
-----
Brad freezes in place while Nate blinks at him slowly. With pale skin glowing under the half-moon and clean, boyish features that simply don’t come around the frontier nary ever, it’s highly possible that this Nate before him is just a heat-induced hallucination.
“I’m sorry,” Brad says. “Think I heard you wrong.”
“Well, what did you hear me say?” Nate comes in close, knocking the toes of their boots together. All right, so not a hallucination.
Brad slowly replies, “I heard you say…that I have your gun.” He doesn’t back away from Nate’s crowding. Refuses to let any weakness show.
“Then there ain’t nothing wrong with your ears, Sheriff.”
Brad feels a chill slink down his spine. The only guns he got on him are his trusted Colt, the hidden Pocket Navy strapped to his left calf…and the ’75 Army Outlaw.
The gun—Nate’s gun—suddenly feels heavy against Brad’s lower back, where it’s tucked into his waistband.
He knows it’s there. Nate knows it’s there.
Nate cocks his head to the side, saying lightly, “The sun get to you or something? I’d like my property back, Sheriff.”
At that entreaty, Brad snaps back into focus. “You best be joking, Fick. You think I’m gonna hand over a piece of evidence, just like that? Just ‘cause you asked me nice?”
Nate’s eyes harden. “I wasn’t asking nicely. I said I wanted my piece back, and I do. It’s mine. Stealing my gun from me isn’t going to help your investigation, as I got nothing to do with what you’re sniffing around.”
“Like hell,” Brad spits. He closes the gap between them with a rough grab at Nate’s vest, fingers wrapped into the open armhole as Brad yanks Nate forward.
Nose to nose, Brad, says, “Your gun was the only weapon unaccounted for near the site, all bullets discharged. Same-caliber casings were found on the dead bodies. Now, I thought you were some boat-licker who got toilet-trained at university, where they force brains between people's ears, but I must be wrong because you sure ain't got any.” His voice is low and threatening but Nate looks impassive, his eyes flinty and steel-colored in the muted light.
Brad barrels on, “You honestly think you can just come around my town, throw your special-edition Outlaw into my backyard one mile from the dirtiest firefight we’ve seen in months, and I’m gonna just let you go? Think you’re too nice to get in trouble with the law, Nate? Too pretty to rot in jail with the rest of the boys who’d pushed their luck and lost?”
Nate’s angry now, Brad can feel it. He can feel the heat thrumming off Nate’s body, can see how Nate’s mouth is set into a hard line, lips downturned at the corners. Lesser men might tremble in the face of Nate’s dark look, but it don’t make a lick of difference to Brad.
Nothing makes Brad’s blood run colder than a potential killer.
“I’m bringing you in,” Brad says curtly.
The crack to his jaw comes from nowhere. Brad reels back, hand rushing to cradle his throbbing cheek.
“Let me know when you’ve pulled your head out of your ass long enough to notice what’s been going on in your town,” Nate says coldly. “I’m gonna want my gun back.”
Nate turns around, sauntering away like he’s got all the time in the world.
Well, shit. Maybe that works for him back East, but it sure as hell ain’t gonna fly here.
Brad turns his head to the side, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the dirt. He calls out, “Fick.”
Nate halts. Somewhere, a few streets away, a dog starts barking and Brad takes that as his cue, launching himself forward. He stretches his arm out to grab Nate’s right shoulder and wrenches him around.
Nate ducks the first overhead cuff Brad throws, but Brad expected no less and meets him there with a hard fist to the side. Nate absorbs it easily though, and before he can think twice he’s blocking Nate’s swing with a last-minute arm up to protect his face.
“Leave it, Colbert,” Nate hisses. He drops down and gets an uppercut in, which can normally knock Brad off balance if dealt low enough, but Nate’s no midget either and the force of it’s dulled against the packed muscle of Brad’s upper abs.
“You’re attacking a Sheriff,” Brad laughs, or a coughs, he’s not really sure. “You think I’m gonna ignore that? Fuck that, Fick,” Brad says, throwing off another one of Nate’s empty swings. “You’re off your fucking rocker.”
Brad bends down real low. Springs forward. He tackles Nate right in the torso, knocking him off his feet until they both roll back once—twice—struggling in the dust, Brad tasting dirt. An eternity passes while they grapple, only the sounds of scraping grit and grunts of exertion escaping into the air until they fall into a hold, Nate wrapped around Brad’s back like a starfish trying to open a clam.
Brad’s Stetson digs in uncomfortably, crushed between their bodies. Nate’s own has since been discarded, lying upside-down in Brad’s line of vision a couple yards away.
“Look,” Nate says into Brad’s ear, moist breath puffing over sensitive skin. Brad jerks his head away, but Nate’s still there as he continues, “This is stupid. I’m not the one you want.”
Brad struggles wordlessly, but the top-down formation they’re in has Brad’s cheek grinding into alleyway dirt with no leverage to speak of. His best bet is to talk his way out.
“If you’ve got nothing to do with this morning’s shootout, then why you fighting me?”
Nate freezes. Bingo. It’s only for a split second, but a second is all Brad needs to break out of the hold and snatch Nate’s forearms, swiveling out from under him as he yanks back on them like they’re reins.
Brad clambers aboard, twisting Nate’s wrists in a way that’s got them taut and vulnerable, completely at his mercy but Brad’s taking no chances. Pins him down with one knee between the shoulder blades for good measure.
Nate swears a little, rocking back and forth to try and unseat Brad but there’s nothing to be done. Brad could break the frail, little bones in Nate’s wrists at the slightest provocation, and he reminds Nate of this fact by pushing down just hard enough to feel.
“Like I said before,” Brad says heavily, trying to keep Nate still beneath his knee. “I’m bringing you in. If not for being involved in the case I’m working, then for assaulting the county sheriff.”
Nate growls, “I was merely trying to save you some time by letting you know, unequivocally, that I’m not the one you want.“
Brad’s unconvinced. Regardless of whether or not Nate’s being honest, that’s something he needs to ascertain himself, on his own terms.
Of course, it might help first to figure out how to detain Nate long enough to ask the questions. Brad left his handcuffs on his horse, so he needs to figure out a decent substitute. Looks around for a bit, trying to see what he can use as a makeshift rope so he can hog-tie his prisoner. Or at least get his hands bound, keeping them from launching anymore blindsiding attacks.
Nate clears his throat, and Brad refocuses. He keeps his weight forward, making sure Nate’s got no wiggle room to try and reverse their positions, but pays attention to whatever Nate’s gonna say.
“Let me go.”
Brad almost laughs. “No.”
“Check my vest pocket.”
“Again, no,” he says automatically, but then his brain catches up to his ears. “Wait, what?”
“Just do it,” Nate says, voice muffled by being directed into the ground. Brad leans forward, trying to suss out what Nate’s up to.
“Why don’t you tell me what I’m gonna find there, first?”
“A reason for you to let me go,” Nate says simply.
Brad frowns, sensing a trap, but if he’s methodical about this then things should be fine. Can’t deny that he’s interested in what Nate might consider a reason to let an assailant walk away scot-free.
He lets Nate’s arms buckle down, but keeps a firm grip on his wrists and sits on his lower back so that Nate’s still immobilized. Hardly needs to, though—Nate’s pretty much stopped fighting.
Brad presses him into the ground anyway, stretching out so that his weight’s evenly distributed across Nate’s body and locks his legs around Nate’s. “Which pocket?” Brad asks quietly into his ear.
Nate turns his head to the side, his breaths sounding labored as Brad crushes his lungs. “Inside pocket,” Nate manages. “Left side.”
Careful to keep Nate restrained, Brad frees his right arm and moves it over Nate’s shoulder, wedging a hand between the ground and Nate’s chest. It’s difficult though, the dirt ground scraping against the back of his hand as he tries to squeeze down into the opening of Nate’s vest.
“Here,” Nate says softly, lifting his chest a little. Brad relents, because otherwise he’s got no room to maneuver. They both curve up a little, Nate fitting against Brad’s body like a spoon, leaving just enough space for Brad’s fingers to cross from grungy earth to the fine, smooth satin of Nate’s vest lining. Brad grasps for whatever Nate’s talking about, fingers worming into the inner pocket he finds there.
Fuck, this is getting dicey. Brad’s entire right arm is wrapped around Nate, holding him tight in a way that’d be excusable if they were still fighting but borders on inappropriate now that Nate’s compliant underneath him. Beneath his splayed hand, he can feel the ridges of Nate’s chest through layers of clothing.
“You’re sure it’s there?” Brad asks, voice gruff.
“Yeah,” Nate says, sounding like he’s having trouble breathing. Granted, Brad is draped across his back like a two-hundred pound anvil.
Finally, Brad touches the edge of something thin and unyielding, like a card or a piece of metal. He stretches his arm to get at it, digging deeper—straining—
Nate rears up like a wave, rolling Brad over with a hard, backwards whack of his shoulder.
Brad hits the ground hard, breath knocked out of him as Nate falls on top, his back to Brad’s chest. They both scramble to sit up, but gravity keeps Nate in place and he uses the advantage to dive forward, hugging Brad’s legs with anaconda-like arms as Nate’s ankles cross to make a chokehold against Brad’s throat, the little shit.
The back of Brad’s head hits the ground and he blinks up at the clear night sky, seeing stars. Isn’t sure if they’re supposed to be spinning.
“I wasn’t lying,” Nate says, his voice sounding far away. Brad blinks away his disorientation and tries to move his legs but Nate’s arms are absolute as they clinch Brad’s thighs to his chest. Brad cranes his neck up far as it’ll go, maybe see a weak point he can exploit—
He’s greeted by the sight of Nate’s ass, trousers stretched tight over it.
Well, now.
“I wasn’t lying,” Nate repeats hastily, like it should matter to Brad. “My badge is in there. I would’ve shown you earlier, but you seemed keen on tossing my ass in jail and I’m sorry Sheriff, but I don’t have time for that.”
“Is this before or after you decided a sucker punch was the most prudent course of action?” Fuck, just saying it riles him up again. Brad bucks hard, thrusting his back into an arch, but Nate’s crossed ankles push down hard against his throat, trapping him there.
“You pissed me off,” Nate says like it’s an explanation.
Brad would laugh if he could get some air into his lungs. Says instead, “I don’t know what kinda badge you got, Fick, but I’m pretty sure there ain’t a branch of office in this country—any legal branch, that is—that condones unprovoked violence against local law enforcement.”
Above him, Brad feels Nate give a silent chuckle that vibrates through his body, Nate’s chest rubbing against…well. Rubbing against Brad.
It’s kind of distracting.
Brad’s only half-listening as Nate replies, “I think I can safely say that the United States Marshals Service could give a rat’s ass about any employment of unprovoked violence on their watch, so long as we get the job done.”
Brad closes his eyes, saying unevenly, “Marshal, huh?”
He feels Nate drop his forehead for a moment, brushing against Brad’s thigh. “Yeah,” Nate says. His breath goes straight through the twill of his jeans, warm and humid.
Fuck, they really need to move this along.
“So can we skip the part where—”
“Um,” Nate says tensely.
Shit.
“Sheriff, this isn’t—I mean, I’m not—”
Nate lets up a bit, arms going slack with distraction and while Brad might be a little off his game at the moment, he senses an opening and reacts by rote.
Brad throws Nate’s ankles off his neck and turns the both of them over, dealing a firm knee to the stomach mid-roll that gets Nate to curl up with a small grunt of pain. It buys him time enough to scramble over and plunk down on Nate’s chest, using his knees to lock Nate’s arms to his sides as Brad shimmies backwards, all the way to his improvised seat on Nate’s stomach.
Nate struggles against the vise of Brad’s knees, his long legs kicking up a storm behind Brad’s back, but he’s effectively trapped.
Brad grins, ignoring Nate’s wild fussing, and rides the groundswells like he would a bucking horse. He reaches for the front of his belt, undoing it to the wide-eyed stare.
Nate asks nervously, “What are you doing?”
Brad yanks his belt to the side, pulling it out. Each loop that frees the leather gives a little snap in the air.
Underneath him, Nate’s stopped resisting. His eyes drift down to a half-lidded state and he watches Brad from under shadowy lashes, biting his lip.
Brad pauses, coming to a dumb realization that he’s still hard. It makes the front of his jeans tent out a little bit.
“Sheriff,” Nate says roughly. “I asked you a question.”
It’s got to be a trick of the night, that edge to Nate’s voice. That, or the sick little Yank is trying to unsettle Brad enough to regain the upper hand.
Well, fuck that. It’s time to end this.
“We could’ve just avoided this whole scuffle,” Brad says decisively, “had you cooperated from the get-go.”
Brad places the leather of his belt between his teeth to free up his hands, then yanks Nate’s arms out from where they’re pinned to his sides. Tugs his wrists together, bringing them near his teeth so he can work the belt around them with all the tools his body’s got.
Once the knot’s secured, leather pulled tight as it’ll go, Brad lets Nate’s wrists drop.
After a moment’s thought, Brad reaches down and fishes into Nate’s inner vest pocket. The badge is where he said it’d be, five-pointed silver star that bears the title U.S. Marshal.
Brad sticks it back into Nate’s pocket.
“I don’t care if you’re a Marshal, an Army general, or the goddamned President of the United States,” he proclaims. “You’re implicated in three homicides and I ain’t letting you wander off until I know what part you played in them.”
He lets himself enjoy the incredulous look that comes across Nate’s face, then gets to his feet and pulls Nate up by the loose leather trailing from his wrists.
Once he’s up Nate makes as if to argue, but the look of warning Brad sends seems to deter him. Nate’s face closes off and he says, “Let’s get this over with.”
Brad marches his captive to the city jailhouse, fourteen blocks away. They don’t speak, other than Brad’s perfunctory exchanges with the occasional passersby, but Brad can feel Nate’s eyes on him the whole way there.
-----
After he drops Nate off, Brad rides home in the thick of night.
His house, an old, converted ranch, is about five miles east of Reno where the land transforms from hard-packed desert into marshland. Reno might be dry as an old maid, especially with the main source of freshwater diverted into irrigation ditches and cisterns, but around Brad’s home he’s surrounded by patchy outcrops of flowering wildgrass, rooted to hard soil and crumbled boulders.
It’s a distance Brad has to cross twice each working day, but he doesn’t mind. Far from it, in fact. There’s nothing like the feel of Brad’s horse galloping strong underneath him, cool air whipping against his face. It helps ease his brewing mind tonight, anyway.
Once inside, Brad sits on his bed with a hand mirror and holds it up to his face. The damage looks all right—some scrapes here and there, and his lip is split from Nate’s initial cuff, but there ain’t nothing he can’t handle.
He gingerly touches the cut on his lip, which is dried over with blood. It throbs a little and when he presses in harder, the wound splits open and fresh blood wells to the top.
Brad automatically licks his lower lip, tasting copper. In his reflection, the red of his mouth reminds him of Nate.
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