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oom: finish the game
It's dark when they duck out of the bar and back into the New Mexico desert, the lonely stand of adobe ruins. It had been easy enough when they were back at the bar to ignore the reality of life. But now that they were here...
Tommy was dead.
"Tomorrow we'd best get some more ground towards Ol' Mexico," Doc mutters, quietly, before he drops onto a patch of earth near a wall, rifle stretched across his chest, not more than a few inches from his hand.
He doesn't sleep. The other boys do, or at least they fake it well enough.
There's no roof in the cabin and with the lack of a campfire it's pitch black save for the barest hint of the moon. It's cold. Fall, almost winter. Snow'll be coming in the high desert soon. He can see the stars dotting the sky overhead and it makes his heart ache, a little, because there's one thought running through his mind.
The sky changes from ink black to dark blue, then lightens as the sun peeks over the horizon to the east. Doc gets up to watch it, ignoring the way it nearly blinds him.
It's beautiful.
(Poetic.)
The boys are up soon after, but nobody knows what to say or do. They're not hungry. They don't want to ride out, even though they know they should be going already.
It's like they're all walking on eggshells, around each other, but all he wants to do is scream.
Chavez climbs the hill with his knife and is singing, softly, as he stares out over the desert and runs the blade along a fistfull of that long, dark hair, cutting it in jagged chunks, but Doc's not really paying attention.
Distracted, if anything, he's just staring out at the horizon, watching.
Waiting.
Tommy was dead.
"Tomorrow we'd best get some more ground towards Ol' Mexico," Doc mutters, quietly, before he drops onto a patch of earth near a wall, rifle stretched across his chest, not more than a few inches from his hand.
He doesn't sleep. The other boys do, or at least they fake it well enough.
There's no roof in the cabin and with the lack of a campfire it's pitch black save for the barest hint of the moon. It's cold. Fall, almost winter. Snow'll be coming in the high desert soon. He can see the stars dotting the sky overhead and it makes his heart ache, a little, because there's one thought running through his mind.
The sky changes from ink black to dark blue, then lightens as the sun peeks over the horizon to the east. Doc gets up to watch it, ignoring the way it nearly blinds him.
It's beautiful.
(Poetic.)
The boys are up soon after, but nobody knows what to say or do. They're not hungry. They don't want to ride out, even though they know they should be going already.
It's like they're all walking on eggshells, around each other, but all he wants to do is scream.
Chavez climbs the hill with his knife and is singing, softly, as he stares out over the desert and runs the blade along a fistfull of that long, dark hair, cutting it in jagged chunks, but Doc's not really paying attention.
Distracted, if anything, he's just staring out at the horizon, watching.
Waiting.
no subject
"He's a dead man!" Dave shouts out. "They're startin' to surround us, we gotta skin out!"
Peering through a crack in the fallen wall Billy can see the men moving up. Pat's men.
"PAT!" Billy fires then turns back to the others. "We gotta make a break!"
Clutching his gun Henry asks, "So who's gonna bust out first?"
These odds are no good for Dave. They need to leave and they need to leave now.
"Well, Henry William French, you never killed nobody, they ain't gonna shoot at you!"
Henry might be a dumb farmer, but he ain't that dumb. "Go to hell, they shot Tommy!"
"Somebody's gotta do it!" Dave points out
Henry isn't listening to him anymore, he's just peering out and watching the posse approach, weapons drawn, ready to take them all out.
"Jesus there must be at least ten of them out there."
Billy sees them too. He hears Doc dying in the corner and feels the weight of steel in his hands.
"Dave? It's your gang."
Dave, caught off guard, "What?"
Turning to Dave Billy repeats, "It's your gang, you lead us out. C'mon."
For all his previous attempts to claim leadership Dave's never wanted it less, "What do you mean, my gang? It's your gang! It's always been your gang!"
The steel in his hand is heavy but Billy's still quick when he lifts the gun and sights on Rudabaugh, "Don't cross me, Dave."
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Doc cringes the words out and reaches for Chavez's arm, to haul himself to his feet. They've gotta get out of here.
You're not going to make it out of here but they can.
"You gotta go, Chavez," he whispers, before he straightens his legs underneath him and stands. It hurts like hell. His guts are on fire and his stomach is sticky, and the blood is trickling down his mouth. Everything hurts.
"Billy!"
He pulls in a deep breath, eyes locked on the Kid's.
You remember those men, Doc?
I will finish the game.
It hurts to breathe, hurts to stand, but he nods. "Let's finish the game."
That book at Milliways left the details fuzzy, but it didn't matter now. None of it mattered. Even if he had known, he still would have chosen this.
Let's finish the game.
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Bullets clip the stone around him but Billy walks straight and unflinching across the space to hand over a second pistol; eyes never leaving Doc's.
A nod is the only other thing they exchange but so much passes between them with it.
This is how it is. This is who we are. Pals.
Arming himself with a gun in each hand Billy stands beside Doc and waits for the whirlwind.
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Doc takes the second pistol and then nods his head, and closes his eyes.
Will. Kate.
Jack.
He doesn't hesitate another moment, just rushes out of the doorway and fires. His hands are quicker, but it's no use. The bullets rip into his chest, one, then another, and Doc feels his footing go. Dust flies from the broken adobe bricks as he falls, guns held firm in his hands.
Yen. I'm sorry.
And then there's nothing but black.
no subject
It's not the army out there in the rocks this time, but they're still running through a hell storm.
Dave's first, then Henry, and finally Chavez.
Billy goes last, stepping out as Doc's riddled body falls.
God dammit, Doc. God damn you, Pat.
He's firing back and trying to break free but it's too late. Ducking beneath a shot overhead and leaping back into the ruins he falls to the floor, shooting at sounds and voices, hitting nothing but air and stone.
"PAT! YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU KILLED THE BOY! AND YOU KILLED DOC! YOU KNEW HIM!"
He flounders in the dirt, breathless and raging.
And helpless.
Guns stick over the walls all around him, cocked and sighted by a dozen men but Billy's eyes are solely on Pat.
On his belly Billy breathes in the dust and wonders if any of the boys made it. Doc sure didn't.