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The ride north into Lamy takes longer than he'd like, but he's not about to push his horse, even if it's not all that hot out. There's a cattle train leaving Albuquerque and heading up for St. Louis, and Doc thinks that he's got enough friends in New Mexico to still call in a favor or two.
It's nothing like the train that he and Yen took East to New York City, but he has just enough money left to buy a spot in one of the few boxcars for his horse (and himself, but he's never added to the list of the cargo contents). The open stock cars provide ventilation for the beef but the boxcars don't, which is why after they've left the station and are headed north towards La Junta he cracks the door just a bit and watches the scenery rush past.
Without passengers, they don't stop for a day until they reach Burrton and only then it's because they have to make sure they get on the right spur, get rid of the cattle that they've lost from the travel so far.
Doc smokes one of his cigarettes while standing outside the boxcar door, waiting. Carefully. And while he's not technically wanted in Kansas, it never hurts to be too careful.
Like slow hands, not being careful will get you killed.
The train rocks gently against the rails as they rumble across the plains, and he drifts in and out of sleep, hand resting on the grip of that Colt in his holster, just in case. His dreams are strange.
He's walking across the desert, surrounded by bones, bleached white by the sun. Like someone had dug up all the graves in the world and littered the contents across the ground.
He's riding through a forest, low hung branches slapping against his face. Running, but he's not sure who he's running from. He can't find his guns.
He's sitting on the beach, watching the sunset over the water, but it's not just light. Flames flicker on the waves and everything's hot, everything's burning him but he can't quite move...
Doc jerks his head up as the train whistle calls out and he glances at the crack in the door. The air rushing in is cold, and he shivers, and feels the sweat against his forehead. His arm is on fire and he's tired, so tired, but he can't stop shaking.
(His fever breaks a few hours west of St. Louis, after...he's not sure how long it's been.)
He is wanted in Missouri, but he doesn't hide his face all that much, just keeps to himself as he pulls his horse out of the boxcar and heads into town. The buildings here are brick and mortar, rather than simple clapboard, and it's easy enough to find a livery to bed the horse for the night.
The hotel room he gets for the night is small, but there's a wash room on the floor and he uses the hottest water he can stand to bathe in, in an effort to rid himself of the sweat and grime from riding three days in a boxcar. The water is filthy by the time he stands and redresses, but he feels a little better.
It's sometime after two in the morning when he finally manages to finish wrapping his arm again, ignoring the angry red skin around the wound. Infection is the reason for fever, and while his leg is relatively alright, his arm and stomach aren't. It worries him enough that he spends the next hour opening and closing the closet door.
But it's empty.
Nothing but wooden panels.
_______________________________
By the time they've herded the cattle across the river on ferry skiffs, the next morning, Doc feels the pain in his stomach start up again, worse than before. He ignores it long enough to help the drivers with the beef and get them onto the next set of stock cars, this train headed East out of St. Louis, fine longhorn cattle for the high class folk living in New York City.
Before the train leaves St. Louis, Doc pays a kid (with a coat that's a size too big for his young frame and shoes that are probably a size too small) for a newspaper and stops in at a general store to buy himself another pouch of tobacco and rolling papers. Once his horse is settled in the new boxcar, lead firmly tied off to a rail, and they've moved from the station, he sits down on a crate and opens the paper.
Four days.
The infamous outlaw and scourge of New Mexico, William H. Bonney, more widely known as Billy the Kid was captured outside of Las Cruces after a blazing gunfight in which one member of his gang was shot and killed and three others escaped. Josiah Gordon Scurlock, of Liberty, Missouri was gunned down by Sheriff Pat Garrett during the fight. Sources report...
There's a photograph of Billy in irons and it makes his stomach twist a little.
You were stuck in that pit under the noose and he came back for you. Pals, right? He came back and saved your hide, him and Will, and you owe him. You owe him...
...no you don't. He lied to you and all those boys. He got Tom killed. You were never heading to Old Mexico, you were goin' around in circles and it was only a matter of time before one of you ended up dead. It was Tommy. It would have been you if you hadn't had help from your friends back in the bar.
Pals.
But you don't owe him.
He settles down and sleeps again until they hit Indianapolis, when they've lost another half dozen cattle and they've got to drag them out of the cars. It's dirty work and it makes his arm ache, but if he's got any chance of the other men letting him stay on the train it's something he has to do.
His fever comes back sometime around Cleveland, and he feels the shakes start around Buffalo.
By the time they hit Rochester, Doc has no idea how many days it's been since the gunfight. A week, at least. Maybe more. He wonders if they've already hung Billy or if he's escaped. The black coat he's got draped over his shoulders is covered in trail dirt and smells like smoke, sweat, soot, and a hint of steer shit if he really focuses on it. He's too tired to give a damn and spends the time they're steaming towards the city half asleep in a daze.
Bullet wounds like that need professional care.
I'm a doctor.
Once he gets to the city, he'll find someone to help him.
You need the bar.
The train rolls along steel rails, screeching quietly in the darkness as he slides the door of the boxcar open and sits in front of it, the cool air rushing against his face. He's dizzy and the slow, steady blur as they move through the woods doesn't help that, but the air feels good against his skin. He's too hot.
Doc closes his eyes and listens.
The steam driven power of the engine, a chug chug woosh, chug chug woosh. The wheels gliding across the tracks, car swaying back and forth ever so slightly, scree click scree click scree click. The heartbeat in his ears, a bit too fast as the blood rushes to his head thud thud thud thud thud.
The laughter of people, friends and his second family, the bar...
"...no."
He feels himself fall backwards and doesn't bother to catch himself as he hits the floor of the boxcar, just puts a hand on the wooden panels, stomach turning. He's so damn dizzy he thinks he might pass out, but he stares up at the dark roof of the car and pants for oxygen, trying to calm down his heart. Too many cigarettes, too little food, and this fever he can't quite shake no matter how tight he wraps that coat around himself.
"Just another gringo," he mutters, to nobody in particular. "Just another gringo in Ol' Mexico."
_______________________________
"Look up, Doc. Don't look at this."
He lifts his head at the sound of the voice and looks around the darkened boxcar, the only light trickling in through the open door and the moonlit expanse outside.
"Chavez?"
"Don't look at this."
Doc props himself up on an elbow and squints at the darkness, at a corner, but it's not Chavez who's sitting there. There's nobody there. He's alone. He's been alone since he hit the dust in New Mexico and the rest of the boys skinned out. The floor feels dusty under his hands, like he's sitting in sand.
"Chavez?"
"Pat! You son of a bitch! You killed him! You killed Doc! You knew him!"
"Billy?"
The horse snorts quietly as they run along those tracks, but Doc barely hears it. He's too busy staring at the shadow in the corner. It can't be. He's alone. Billy's either dead or sitting in a jail cell somewhere, waiting to hang for all those crimes. They'll write about it in the papers, send the press out, and make that hanging the event of the year. Billy the Kid. Caught like a dog. There's nobody there.
There's nobody...
"No."
Doc feels his shirt sticking to his skin. Idly he wonders how hot he really is. He can't tell anymore, as he sits up and draws his knees up towards his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. There's a sticky feeling against his stomach and he touches the cloth under his shirt, and eyes the dark splotch of blood on his fingertips, barely able to see it in the moonlight that's filtering in.
"Let's finish the game."
"No."
"C'mon, Doc. You know I'd just be another gringo. It's as good as bein' dead."
"I ain't like you."
"You ain't like me?" And the laughter fills the boxcar, wild and crazy. "Hell, Doc, you killed half the men I got credit for!"
"I ain't like you," he spits back at the shadow. "I ain't."
"Don't lie to yourself. Lyin's a sin, you know. Then again, so is killin' and drinkin' and gamblin'. You always did like a good game of poker, Doc, but that face ain't so easy to hide behind when you're lookin' as bad as you are. You seen yourself lately?" Billy laughs at him as he steps out of the shadow. "You look like hell."
He feels like hell. He puts a hand against his face and his fingertips can feel the grime against his skin. His beard is stubble against his cheeks and there's blood on his fingertips. On his hands. He thought he wiped that off on his pants.
"Suppose for a dead man you look pretty good, then again, so do I."
Doc snaps his head up to stare at Billy. "I ain't dead."
"You see the papers, Doc? Billy the Kid, captured. Josiah Gordon Scurlock," Billy picks up the discarded newspaper from St. Louis and waves it at him. "Killed."
"I ain't dead."
"According to them, you are."
"And since when has the press ever given us a good shake, Billy?!"
The shout echoes against the wooden walls and Doc glances up at the shadow. It's not Billy. It's not him. It can't be. There's no way it could be him. He's either dead -- maybe that's why he's here, because he's dead and he's ticked off that Doc ran for the East instead of heading back to Lincoln to bail him out of that jail cell -- or he's really here, but he can't be here. He can't be.
"I ain't like you."
"Keep tellin' yourself that, Doc. Maybe you'll believe it one day."
"Son of a bitch."
"Ain't like it's hard to see, Doc. What'd you do? Killed all those men, then ran for the East with that wife of yours. Got yourself a kid and respectable job, and the second you git dragged back to New Mexico you're back in it. Fightin' with me and shootin' that greaser of Chisum's, sleepin' with whores and ridin' that leather like you're hell bent for Ol' Mexico. You got bored in New York City and you know it."
"Shut up."
"You know it. You got tired of readin' 'bout me in those dime novels and five cent books."
Doc hauls himself off the floor of the boxcar and stalks at the shadow across the way. "Only 'cause I couldn't git you outta my head!"
Billy -- it's not Billy, something's not right, but it looks like him as he leans against the wall, body swaying slightly with the rhythm of the wheels on the tracks -- looks smug, arms folded across his chest. Something's not right.
"Because you were jealous."
"I ain't jealous."
"You understand why we couldn't go to Ol' Mexico."
"No."
"Yes you do. You know you do."
"No. No. I don't."
"You keep tellin' yourself that, Doc. Maybe you'll believe it someday."
"I don't understa--"
The darkness is shattered by the sound of the train's shrill whistle as it cuts through the air, and Doc glances at the open door before he glances back at Billy -- except he's not there. He was never there. But he was just...he couldn't have...
He crosses the floor of the boxcar and rests his hand against the edge of the door as he glances out, then hangs his body out partway to look ahead down the tracks, eyes narrowed to try and pick out the details. Lights. Buildings. The pre-dawn haze is shrouding whatever they're coming up on and he leans carefully, keeping a grip on the car and making certain he's not going to get smacked by a low hanging branch as they slow down through the station. They're picking up the mail, so they're not going to stop all the way.
There's a man standing on the platform and Doc whistles sharply at him as they get near to get his attention, before he calls out.
"Where we at?"
The man tips his hat as the car rolls past. "Albany."
Doc nods his head in response as he feels the engine jerk the cars forward, picking up the pace again. They turn south at the next spur and the engine picks up a bit more. The sun's rising in the east, to their left, and Doc sits back down on the crate to have another cigarette, ignoring the blinding flashes of sunlight between the trees as they roll on.
"New York City again, huh Doc?"
He doesn't turn around this time, but he nods. "Yeah."
"What you plannin' on doin' when you get in?"
He doesn't answer that.
You don't owe him a damn thing, and you know it.
Pals.
You understand.
Pals.
You always did understand. You can't get out of it once you're in. It's a whirlwind. You can't get out. You can't hide it and and you can't run from it, no matter how hard you try. They'll chase you down like a dog and throw you in the pit, and you'll hang for the things you've done. All those men you killed that he got credit for.
You're gonna hang, Regulator.
Doc lights another cigarette and tosses the match onto the floor, listening to his heart pound in his ears.
"C'mon, Doc," Billy urges. "You can talk to me. We're pals, remember?"
He glances over his shoulder and smirks at the shadow. "Yeah. Pals."
It's then that he realizes what's wrong with Billy. There's a noose around his neck. He blinks once, then again, before he turns around and stares out the door of the boxcar, sunlight skittering across the panels. Pals. Billy's sitting in a jail cell somewhere and he's thousands of miles away. Pals. You don't owe him a damn thing. He pulls in another breath of the acid smoke and holds it in his lungs.
When he exhales, it swirls back around him and he nods, slowly.
It's a whirlwind.
He can't get out.
He doesn't want to get out.
It's nothing like the train that he and Yen took East to New York City, but he has just enough money left to buy a spot in one of the few boxcars for his horse (and himself, but he's never added to the list of the cargo contents). The open stock cars provide ventilation for the beef but the boxcars don't, which is why after they've left the station and are headed north towards La Junta he cracks the door just a bit and watches the scenery rush past.
Without passengers, they don't stop for a day until they reach Burrton and only then it's because they have to make sure they get on the right spur, get rid of the cattle that they've lost from the travel so far.
Doc smokes one of his cigarettes while standing outside the boxcar door, waiting. Carefully. And while he's not technically wanted in Kansas, it never hurts to be too careful.
Like slow hands, not being careful will get you killed.
The train rocks gently against the rails as they rumble across the plains, and he drifts in and out of sleep, hand resting on the grip of that Colt in his holster, just in case. His dreams are strange.
He's walking across the desert, surrounded by bones, bleached white by the sun. Like someone had dug up all the graves in the world and littered the contents across the ground.
He's riding through a forest, low hung branches slapping against his face. Running, but he's not sure who he's running from. He can't find his guns.
He's sitting on the beach, watching the sunset over the water, but it's not just light. Flames flicker on the waves and everything's hot, everything's burning him but he can't quite move...
Doc jerks his head up as the train whistle calls out and he glances at the crack in the door. The air rushing in is cold, and he shivers, and feels the sweat against his forehead. His arm is on fire and he's tired, so tired, but he can't stop shaking.
(His fever breaks a few hours west of St. Louis, after...he's not sure how long it's been.)
He is wanted in Missouri, but he doesn't hide his face all that much, just keeps to himself as he pulls his horse out of the boxcar and heads into town. The buildings here are brick and mortar, rather than simple clapboard, and it's easy enough to find a livery to bed the horse for the night.
The hotel room he gets for the night is small, but there's a wash room on the floor and he uses the hottest water he can stand to bathe in, in an effort to rid himself of the sweat and grime from riding three days in a boxcar. The water is filthy by the time he stands and redresses, but he feels a little better.
It's sometime after two in the morning when he finally manages to finish wrapping his arm again, ignoring the angry red skin around the wound. Infection is the reason for fever, and while his leg is relatively alright, his arm and stomach aren't. It worries him enough that he spends the next hour opening and closing the closet door.
But it's empty.
And no bar.
By the time they've herded the cattle across the river on ferry skiffs, the next morning, Doc feels the pain in his stomach start up again, worse than before. He ignores it long enough to help the drivers with the beef and get them onto the next set of stock cars, this train headed East out of St. Louis, fine longhorn cattle for the high class folk living in New York City.
Before the train leaves St. Louis, Doc pays a kid (with a coat that's a size too big for his young frame and shoes that are probably a size too small) for a newspaper and stops in at a general store to buy himself another pouch of tobacco and rolling papers. Once his horse is settled in the new boxcar, lead firmly tied off to a rail, and they've moved from the station, he sits down on a crate and opens the paper.
Four days.
The infamous outlaw and scourge of New Mexico, William H. Bonney, more widely known as Billy the Kid was captured outside of Las Cruces after a blazing gunfight in which one member of his gang was shot and killed and three others escaped. Josiah Gordon Scurlock, of Liberty, Missouri was gunned down by Sheriff Pat Garrett during the fight. Sources report...
There's a photograph of Billy in irons and it makes his stomach twist a little.
You were stuck in that pit under the noose and he came back for you. Pals, right? He came back and saved your hide, him and Will, and you owe him. You owe him...
...no you don't. He lied to you and all those boys. He got Tom killed. You were never heading to Old Mexico, you were goin' around in circles and it was only a matter of time before one of you ended up dead. It was Tommy. It would have been you if you hadn't had help from your friends back in the bar.
Pals.
But you don't owe him.
He settles down and sleeps again until they hit Indianapolis, when they've lost another half dozen cattle and they've got to drag them out of the cars. It's dirty work and it makes his arm ache, but if he's got any chance of the other men letting him stay on the train it's something he has to do.
His fever comes back sometime around Cleveland, and he feels the shakes start around Buffalo.
By the time they hit Rochester, Doc has no idea how many days it's been since the gunfight. A week, at least. Maybe more. He wonders if they've already hung Billy or if he's escaped. The black coat he's got draped over his shoulders is covered in trail dirt and smells like smoke, sweat, soot, and a hint of steer shit if he really focuses on it. He's too tired to give a damn and spends the time they're steaming towards the city half asleep in a daze.
Bullet wounds like that need professional care.
I'm a doctor.
Once he gets to the city, he'll find someone to help him.
You need the bar.
The train rolls along steel rails, screeching quietly in the darkness as he slides the door of the boxcar open and sits in front of it, the cool air rushing against his face. He's dizzy and the slow, steady blur as they move through the woods doesn't help that, but the air feels good against his skin. He's too hot.
Doc closes his eyes and listens.
The steam driven power of the engine, a chug chug woosh, chug chug woosh. The wheels gliding across the tracks, car swaying back and forth ever so slightly, scree click scree click scree click. The heartbeat in his ears, a bit too fast as the blood rushes to his head thud thud thud thud thud.
"...no."
He feels himself fall backwards and doesn't bother to catch himself as he hits the floor of the boxcar, just puts a hand on the wooden panels, stomach turning. He's so damn dizzy he thinks he might pass out, but he stares up at the dark roof of the car and pants for oxygen, trying to calm down his heart. Too many cigarettes, too little food, and this fever he can't quite shake no matter how tight he wraps that coat around himself.
"Just another gringo," he mutters, to nobody in particular. "Just another gringo in Ol' Mexico."
"Look up, Doc. Don't look at this."
He lifts his head at the sound of the voice and looks around the darkened boxcar, the only light trickling in through the open door and the moonlit expanse outside.
"Chavez?"
"Don't look at this."
Doc props himself up on an elbow and squints at the darkness, at a corner, but it's not Chavez who's sitting there. There's nobody there. He's alone. He's been alone since he hit the dust in New Mexico and the rest of the boys skinned out. The floor feels dusty under his hands, like he's sitting in sand.
"Chavez?"
"Pat! You son of a bitch! You killed him! You killed Doc! You knew him!"
"Billy?"
The horse snorts quietly as they run along those tracks, but Doc barely hears it. He's too busy staring at the shadow in the corner. It can't be. He's alone. Billy's either dead or sitting in a jail cell somewhere, waiting to hang for all those crimes. They'll write about it in the papers, send the press out, and make that hanging the event of the year. Billy the Kid. Caught like a dog. There's nobody there.
There's nobody...
"No."
Doc feels his shirt sticking to his skin. Idly he wonders how hot he really is. He can't tell anymore, as he sits up and draws his knees up towards his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. There's a sticky feeling against his stomach and he touches the cloth under his shirt, and eyes the dark splotch of blood on his fingertips, barely able to see it in the moonlight that's filtering in.
"Let's finish the game."
"No."
"C'mon, Doc. You know I'd just be another gringo. It's as good as bein' dead."
"I ain't like you."
"You ain't like me?" And the laughter fills the boxcar, wild and crazy. "Hell, Doc, you killed half the men I got credit for!"
"I ain't like you," he spits back at the shadow. "I ain't."
"Don't lie to yourself. Lyin's a sin, you know. Then again, so is killin' and drinkin' and gamblin'. You always did like a good game of poker, Doc, but that face ain't so easy to hide behind when you're lookin' as bad as you are. You seen yourself lately?" Billy laughs at him as he steps out of the shadow. "You look like hell."
He feels like hell. He puts a hand against his face and his fingertips can feel the grime against his skin. His beard is stubble against his cheeks and there's blood on his fingertips. On his hands. He thought he wiped that off on his pants.
"Suppose for a dead man you look pretty good, then again, so do I."
Doc snaps his head up to stare at Billy. "I ain't dead."
"You see the papers, Doc? Billy the Kid, captured. Josiah Gordon Scurlock," Billy picks up the discarded newspaper from St. Louis and waves it at him. "Killed."
"I ain't dead."
"According to them, you are."
"And since when has the press ever given us a good shake, Billy?!"
The shout echoes against the wooden walls and Doc glances up at the shadow. It's not Billy. It's not him. It can't be. There's no way it could be him. He's either dead -- maybe that's why he's here, because he's dead and he's ticked off that Doc ran for the East instead of heading back to Lincoln to bail him out of that jail cell -- or he's really here, but he can't be here. He can't be.
"I ain't like you."
"Keep tellin' yourself that, Doc. Maybe you'll believe it one day."
"Son of a bitch."
"Ain't like it's hard to see, Doc. What'd you do? Killed all those men, then ran for the East with that wife of yours. Got yourself a kid and respectable job, and the second you git dragged back to New Mexico you're back in it. Fightin' with me and shootin' that greaser of Chisum's, sleepin' with whores and ridin' that leather like you're hell bent for Ol' Mexico. You got bored in New York City and you know it."
"Shut up."
"You know it. You got tired of readin' 'bout me in those dime novels and five cent books."
Doc hauls himself off the floor of the boxcar and stalks at the shadow across the way. "Only 'cause I couldn't git you outta my head!"
Billy -- it's not Billy, something's not right, but it looks like him as he leans against the wall, body swaying slightly with the rhythm of the wheels on the tracks -- looks smug, arms folded across his chest. Something's not right.
"Because you were jealous."
"I ain't jealous."
"You understand why we couldn't go to Ol' Mexico."
"No."
"Yes you do. You know you do."
"No. No. I don't."
"You keep tellin' yourself that, Doc. Maybe you'll believe it someday."
"I don't understa--"
The darkness is shattered by the sound of the train's shrill whistle as it cuts through the air, and Doc glances at the open door before he glances back at Billy -- except he's not there. He was never there. But he was just...he couldn't have...
He crosses the floor of the boxcar and rests his hand against the edge of the door as he glances out, then hangs his body out partway to look ahead down the tracks, eyes narrowed to try and pick out the details. Lights. Buildings. The pre-dawn haze is shrouding whatever they're coming up on and he leans carefully, keeping a grip on the car and making certain he's not going to get smacked by a low hanging branch as they slow down through the station. They're picking up the mail, so they're not going to stop all the way.
There's a man standing on the platform and Doc whistles sharply at him as they get near to get his attention, before he calls out.
"Where we at?"
The man tips his hat as the car rolls past. "Albany."
Doc nods his head in response as he feels the engine jerk the cars forward, picking up the pace again. They turn south at the next spur and the engine picks up a bit more. The sun's rising in the east, to their left, and Doc sits back down on the crate to have another cigarette, ignoring the blinding flashes of sunlight between the trees as they roll on.
"New York City again, huh Doc?"
He doesn't turn around this time, but he nods. "Yeah."
"What you plannin' on doin' when you get in?"
He doesn't answer that.
You don't owe him a damn thing, and you know it.
Pals.
You understand.
Pals.
You always did understand. You can't get out of it once you're in. It's a whirlwind. You can't get out. You can't hide it and and you can't run from it, no matter how hard you try. They'll chase you down like a dog and throw you in the pit, and you'll hang for the things you've done. All those men you killed that he got credit for.
You're gonna hang, Regulator.
Doc lights another cigarette and tosses the match onto the floor, listening to his heart pound in his ears.
"C'mon, Doc," Billy urges. "You can talk to me. We're pals, remember?"
He glances over his shoulder and smirks at the shadow. "Yeah. Pals."
It's then that he realizes what's wrong with Billy. There's a noose around his neck. He blinks once, then again, before he turns around and stares out the door of the boxcar, sunlight skittering across the panels. Pals. Billy's sitting in a jail cell somewhere and he's thousands of miles away. Pals. You don't owe him a damn thing. He pulls in another breath of the acid smoke and holds it in his lungs.
When he exhales, it swirls back around him and he nods, slowly.
It's a whirlwind.
He doesn't want to get out.
He understands.