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Entry tags:
oom: scavengers
As the firing stops and the posse closes in around the cabin ruins, the air gets still, almost silent, save for the click of hammers being cocked and of irons being slapped around the wrists of the Kid. Then there are horses, shifting against the sand, hooves scrambling over rocks and dirt, breath coming soft as the Kid is hauled up onto a horse.
Some of them are laughing, others chatting about what they've just done:
"We got him. Billy the fuckin' Kid!"
"Killed Scurlock, too."
"I got that Indian 'fore he and that French fella got away."
"Rudebaugh skinned out too."
None of the extra stuff matters. They caught Billy the Kid, and they've got him in irons and saddled up on that pretty horse of his, the posse with their rifles at the ready, grins on their faces. They caught Billy the Kid.
"Should we take care of Scurlock?"
"Nah. Ain't like kickin' dust over him will do him any favors."
"Come back for him tomorrow," Garrett says. "Kid's more important."
The scavengers are never far behind after the dust settles.
This time is no different.
The first thing Doc feels when he wakes up after the shooting stops is something pulling on his hair. At first he wonders if it's an Apache trying to scalp him, but there's no knife at his temple peeling the skin away from his skull. Just tugging. And chewing. He glances up at the sky and sees the horse gnawing at his hair and then groans.
Everything hurts.
But he forces his arms to move and wraps his hands around the leather reins, to keep the animal from spooking and bolting on him, and it takes every ounce of effort to sit himself up. There's a sharp pain in his arm and he can feel the ache of another in his thigh, but he curls his fingers around leather and hangs on.
"Easy," he urges. "Easy."
The horse tugs a little in an effort to back up, but he keeps his grip on the reins and eases himself up to his knees, then reaches for the guns in the dirt. His own Colt gets shoved in his holster and Billy's gets shoved into his pocket.
It's only one step up.
He reaches for his fallen rifle in the dirt and uses it as a crutch to brace himself. He knows this is going to hurt. He's bleeding and the vest is so damn heavy he can barely breathe. This is going to hurt.
It does.
Like hell.
Doc feels the sting of the bullet in his stomach and cringes a little, but hauls himself up to his feet and grabs for the halter to steady his stance. Everything hurts like hell.
Worse than hell, actually.
Once he feels like he's not about to throw up, he grabs the horn of the saddle and hauls himself up into the seat, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood -- but there's already blood in his mouth. But he doesn't scream.
"C'mon," he mutters, under his breath. "We gotta git."
_______________________________
When he gets into town -- it's not really a town, but they've got a main street and clapboard buildings so it's close enough -- he tugs his bandanna up over his nose and keeps his head down. The sun is almost set in the west, and he finds a place behind a shed to tie the horse.
His boots echo in the quiet as he heads down the boardwalk and slips into a low lit doorway.
The ladies are resting on the various couches and tables, and they all look up as he walks inside. He's not an inspector, that's for certain, but the fact that he's covered in dirt and there's blood on his clothes gets him more than just a second glance.
"...this ain't no doctor, son."
"Ain't lookin' for a doctor," he replies. "I need a room for the night and a bottle of somethin' to kick the edge off." That brandy on the sideboard looks like it'll do just fine.
"Still cost you the same, though." The woman has red hair and if she was prettier she'd remind him of Jane, but she doesn't.
"That's fine," he digs into his pocket and fights the wince from moving his arm, then drops a very large bill on the counter in front of her. "That brandy, a room, and I need one of your petticoats too."
She raises an eyebrow.
Doc resists the urge to roll his eyes. "This'll buy you three."
"Whatever you want, mister," she takes the money from him and hands over the bottle. "Second door on the right upstairs, and one of us will bring up the rest."
"Thank you," he says honestly, before he takes the brandy and heads upstairs. Every step hurts, but the prospect of a drink and getting the lead out of his skin encourages him.
Once he's in the room, he undoes the gunbelt and then drapes the leather over the bedpost.
The brandy is next, and he drinks straight from the bottle, a hard swallow that burns all the way down into his stomach, but it's a welcome taste beside the blood and dust in his mouth. He's in the middle of peeling the shirt off when the door opens and he whips his head around, half expecting rifles.
It's just the redhead, skirt in hand.
"You sure you don't want to see Doc Jones? He's a good man..."
"I'm a doctor," he grits out, as he yanks the velcro open and bites his lip at the sudden pain as blood-soaked Kevlar separates from his bare skin. That stung like hell.
She walks across the room, eyes on the guns as she places the skirt on the bed. "Don't look like one."
It's her tone that makes him snap back at her. "I ain't payin' you to talk," he bites out. "So either..."
"So either what," she replies, giving him a look with her hand on her hip.
Doc closes his eyes tightly as the pain washes over him. "Y'bring me a basin of water or y'help me drink this brandy."
"How about both, sugar?"
"Thank you," he mutters.
"Be right back," she replies, as she slips out of the room.
_______________________________
The next few hours go by in a blur.
First he takes care of the wound in his leg, using the bowie knife dipped in brandy to dig the lead out of his thigh, while the woman uses a pair of scissors to cut the fine silk skirt into strips. Once he's cleaned the dirt out, he uses a folded piece of the wool coat of his that's not filthy and places it over the wound, and wraps the silk strips around tightly and ties a knot.
"Feels better already."
"Ain't that the brandy?" She's teasing him, and it's obvious by the look in her eyes.
Doc chuckles a little as he rinses the knife off in the basin of water and then looks down at his left arm. This one is easier to dig the bullet out of, but he drinks a bit more of the brandy for the hell of it before he gets to work.
There are purple bruises already forming on his chest where the bullets hit the bulletproof vest but didn't puncture it. The bullet in his stomach he's not going to try and dig out, no matter how much brandy he drinks, but he cleans the wound the best he can and it's not too deep, since the edge of the vest slowed it down somewhat.
Just an inch higher.
By the time he's washed the wounds, bandaged them the best he can, and they've gone through the entire remainder of 2/3 of a bottle of brandy, he's feeling better. More alive. Even if he knows what will end up in the papers is anything but.
Billy the Kid, captured.
Josiah Gordon Scurlock, killed.
Doc spends the last hour before sunrise sleeping in bed next to a red-haired whore, the scent of perfume and brandy on her skin, the scent of dust, sweat, and blood on his. He doesn't screw her. He doesn't even kiss her.
Until she helps him pull his shirt on in the morning and hands him his holster, that is, when he kisses her hard, the taste of brandy still on her lips and tongue. Everything hurts and he's exhausted as hell, but his horse needs water and feed and he needs to get the hell out of town before the sun comes up.
As they're leaning against the doorway, he tucks another folded bill into her hand, wraps her fingers around it, and kisses her again. "Do me a favor?"
"What, you change your mind 'bout leavin'?"
Doc shakes his head. "No. The man next door's got a black coat hangin' on the back of that fine chair, I want you to get it for me," and he holds another bill between his fingers. "Without him knowin'."
She eyes him a moment before she slips out of the room, and while she's gone, he buckles the gunbelt on his hips and then listens to her soft footsteps in the hall, the click of a door closing, and then she walks back in with the long black coat.
"Perfect," he smiles a little and then shrugs it on, and adjusts the set of the shoulders before he hands it over. "Appreciate it."
"You come back now, sugar," she whispers. "But next time, don't be bleedin' all over."
"We'll see 'bout that," he promises, before he slips downstairs and heads out the backdoor.
_______________________________
It doesn't take long for the dust to settle before the scavengers arrive.
Sometime the next afternoon a pair of riders head up to the ruins of the old cabin where Sheriff Garrett said that they captured The Kid and killed Scurlock. It's the talk of Lincoln, with Billy being brought into town in the stage and locked up under guard, 24-7.
But there's no body lying in the dirt, just bloodstains on the rocks and hoofprints from the posse's horses. The two men circle around a bit, looking to see if perhaps he crawled off somewhere, but they find nothing.
"You know what," one of them finally says. "Bet it was the Apaches."
"You think so?"
"You ever see Scurlock?"
"Just a photo in the Harper's, why?"
"Full head of 'bout this long," he motions at his neck. "Blond hair."
"Ah," the second rider nods. "Must've been Apaches, then. They're havin' a good year with scalps, too."
"Yeah," the first agrees. "Should git the hell outta here, then."
While both men turn and ride back to Lincoln, several miles from Lincoln, a lone man in a black coat is headed north towards Lamy.
He's got a train to catch.
Some of them are laughing, others chatting about what they've just done:
"We got him. Billy the fuckin' Kid!"
"Killed Scurlock, too."
"I got that Indian 'fore he and that French fella got away."
"Rudebaugh skinned out too."
None of the extra stuff matters. They caught Billy the Kid, and they've got him in irons and saddled up on that pretty horse of his, the posse with their rifles at the ready, grins on their faces. They caught Billy the Kid.
"Should we take care of Scurlock?"
"Nah. Ain't like kickin' dust over him will do him any favors."
"Come back for him tomorrow," Garrett says. "Kid's more important."
The scavengers are never far behind after the dust settles.
This time is no different.
The first thing Doc feels when he wakes up after the shooting stops is something pulling on his hair. At first he wonders if it's an Apache trying to scalp him, but there's no knife at his temple peeling the skin away from his skull. Just tugging. And chewing. He glances up at the sky and sees the horse gnawing at his hair and then groans.
Everything hurts.
But he forces his arms to move and wraps his hands around the leather reins, to keep the animal from spooking and bolting on him, and it takes every ounce of effort to sit himself up. There's a sharp pain in his arm and he can feel the ache of another in his thigh, but he curls his fingers around leather and hangs on.
"Easy," he urges. "Easy."
The horse tugs a little in an effort to back up, but he keeps his grip on the reins and eases himself up to his knees, then reaches for the guns in the dirt. His own Colt gets shoved in his holster and Billy's gets shoved into his pocket.
It's only one step up.
He reaches for his fallen rifle in the dirt and uses it as a crutch to brace himself. He knows this is going to hurt. He's bleeding and the vest is so damn heavy he can barely breathe. This is going to hurt.
It does.
Like hell.
Doc feels the sting of the bullet in his stomach and cringes a little, but hauls himself up to his feet and grabs for the halter to steady his stance. Everything hurts like hell.
Worse than hell, actually.
Once he feels like he's not about to throw up, he grabs the horn of the saddle and hauls himself up into the seat, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood -- but there's already blood in his mouth. But he doesn't scream.
"C'mon," he mutters, under his breath. "We gotta git."
When he gets into town -- it's not really a town, but they've got a main street and clapboard buildings so it's close enough -- he tugs his bandanna up over his nose and keeps his head down. The sun is almost set in the west, and he finds a place behind a shed to tie the horse.
His boots echo in the quiet as he heads down the boardwalk and slips into a low lit doorway.
The ladies are resting on the various couches and tables, and they all look up as he walks inside. He's not an inspector, that's for certain, but the fact that he's covered in dirt and there's blood on his clothes gets him more than just a second glance.
"...this ain't no doctor, son."
"Ain't lookin' for a doctor," he replies. "I need a room for the night and a bottle of somethin' to kick the edge off." That brandy on the sideboard looks like it'll do just fine.
"Still cost you the same, though." The woman has red hair and if she was prettier she'd remind him of Jane, but she doesn't.
"That's fine," he digs into his pocket and fights the wince from moving his arm, then drops a very large bill on the counter in front of her. "That brandy, a room, and I need one of your petticoats too."
She raises an eyebrow.
Doc resists the urge to roll his eyes. "This'll buy you three."
"Whatever you want, mister," she takes the money from him and hands over the bottle. "Second door on the right upstairs, and one of us will bring up the rest."
"Thank you," he says honestly, before he takes the brandy and heads upstairs. Every step hurts, but the prospect of a drink and getting the lead out of his skin encourages him.
Once he's in the room, he undoes the gunbelt and then drapes the leather over the bedpost.
The brandy is next, and he drinks straight from the bottle, a hard swallow that burns all the way down into his stomach, but it's a welcome taste beside the blood and dust in his mouth. He's in the middle of peeling the shirt off when the door opens and he whips his head around, half expecting rifles.
It's just the redhead, skirt in hand.
"You sure you don't want to see Doc Jones? He's a good man..."
"I'm a doctor," he grits out, as he yanks the velcro open and bites his lip at the sudden pain as blood-soaked Kevlar separates from his bare skin. That stung like hell.
She walks across the room, eyes on the guns as she places the skirt on the bed. "Don't look like one."
It's her tone that makes him snap back at her. "I ain't payin' you to talk," he bites out. "So either..."
"So either what," she replies, giving him a look with her hand on her hip.
Doc closes his eyes tightly as the pain washes over him. "Y'bring me a basin of water or y'help me drink this brandy."
"How about both, sugar?"
"Thank you," he mutters.
"Be right back," she replies, as she slips out of the room.
The next few hours go by in a blur.
First he takes care of the wound in his leg, using the bowie knife dipped in brandy to dig the lead out of his thigh, while the woman uses a pair of scissors to cut the fine silk skirt into strips. Once he's cleaned the dirt out, he uses a folded piece of the wool coat of his that's not filthy and places it over the wound, and wraps the silk strips around tightly and ties a knot.
"Feels better already."
"Ain't that the brandy?" She's teasing him, and it's obvious by the look in her eyes.
Doc chuckles a little as he rinses the knife off in the basin of water and then looks down at his left arm. This one is easier to dig the bullet out of, but he drinks a bit more of the brandy for the hell of it before he gets to work.
There are purple bruises already forming on his chest where the bullets hit the bulletproof vest but didn't puncture it. The bullet in his stomach he's not going to try and dig out, no matter how much brandy he drinks, but he cleans the wound the best he can and it's not too deep, since the edge of the vest slowed it down somewhat.
Just an inch higher.
By the time he's washed the wounds, bandaged them the best he can, and they've gone through the entire remainder of 2/3 of a bottle of brandy, he's feeling better. More alive. Even if he knows what will end up in the papers is anything but.
Billy the Kid, captured.
Josiah Gordon Scurlock, killed.
Doc spends the last hour before sunrise sleeping in bed next to a red-haired whore, the scent of perfume and brandy on her skin, the scent of dust, sweat, and blood on his. He doesn't screw her. He doesn't even kiss her.
Until she helps him pull his shirt on in the morning and hands him his holster, that is, when he kisses her hard, the taste of brandy still on her lips and tongue. Everything hurts and he's exhausted as hell, but his horse needs water and feed and he needs to get the hell out of town before the sun comes up.
As they're leaning against the doorway, he tucks another folded bill into her hand, wraps her fingers around it, and kisses her again. "Do me a favor?"
"What, you change your mind 'bout leavin'?"
Doc shakes his head. "No. The man next door's got a black coat hangin' on the back of that fine chair, I want you to get it for me," and he holds another bill between his fingers. "Without him knowin'."
She eyes him a moment before she slips out of the room, and while she's gone, he buckles the gunbelt on his hips and then listens to her soft footsteps in the hall, the click of a door closing, and then she walks back in with the long black coat.
"Perfect," he smiles a little and then shrugs it on, and adjusts the set of the shoulders before he hands it over. "Appreciate it."
"You come back now, sugar," she whispers. "But next time, don't be bleedin' all over."
"We'll see 'bout that," he promises, before he slips downstairs and heads out the backdoor.
It doesn't take long for the dust to settle before the scavengers arrive.
Sometime the next afternoon a pair of riders head up to the ruins of the old cabin where Sheriff Garrett said that they captured The Kid and killed Scurlock. It's the talk of Lincoln, with Billy being brought into town in the stage and locked up under guard, 24-7.
But there's no body lying in the dirt, just bloodstains on the rocks and hoofprints from the posse's horses. The two men circle around a bit, looking to see if perhaps he crawled off somewhere, but they find nothing.
"You know what," one of them finally says. "Bet it was the Apaches."
"You think so?"
"You ever see Scurlock?"
"Just a photo in the Harper's, why?"
"Full head of 'bout this long," he motions at his neck. "Blond hair."
"Ah," the second rider nods. "Must've been Apaches, then. They're havin' a good year with scalps, too."
"Yeah," the first agrees. "Should git the hell outta here, then."
While both men turn and ride back to Lincoln, several miles from Lincoln, a lone man in a black coat is headed north towards Lamy.
He's got a train to catch.