scurlock | [lincoln county]

[lincoln county]

[after highways 2]

The drive across White Sands is quick - little traffic, open road, clear sky - and they don't slow down until they hit Carrizozo, and it's not too much farther until they reach Capitan.
He tells her stories as he notices landmarks, but it's really just landscape, save for the few small towns they've come across.

It's so familiar it makes him nervous and excited at the same time.

It's like it ain't changed a bit.

The road into Lincoln is only a two-lane highway, with worn pavement and faded stripes, the hills on the side of the road brown and green from mix of heat and spring rain. It's quiet (they've turned the radio off at this point) and he's shed the sunglasses, eyes focused on the landscape.

There's a two-story brick building coming into view on the right side of the street, and they're already going pretty slow (not much traffic, but there are a few other people around), but he leans back and exhales, giving a nod to indicate what he's talking about.

"That's the courthouse." A beat. "Welcome to town."

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She follows him in, studying the store.

"This has to be pretty strange."

"It's almost feels like I'm dreamin', to tell you the truth."

To the left side of the room, there's a doorway that opens into another room of the building (the post office) beyond.

His fingertips pause on a deep gouge in the wood, and he tilts his head, then looks at her, tapping it lightly.

"I put that there."

Her eyes drop to the scarred counter before flicking back to his face; a slow half-smile lifts one corner of her mouth.

"Did not."

But by her tone, it's clear she believes him.

"Did too."

He smirks at her and shakes his head, amused.

This is so damn surreal it's ridiculous. Doc looks at the stuff behind the counter, the 'merchandise' all meticulously preserved.

"Git rid of the cars out front and the paved road, and add a bit more dust..."

"And it's just like you walked in from your side of the door," she surmises quietly, her eyes roving over the shelves.

"Did you spend a lot of time here, in the store itself?"

"Not really," he admits. "I guess out of the other boys, yeah I probably did. I actually spent most of my time sitting out front on that bench," he says. "Keepin' an eye on things. Or down at Juan Patron's."

She glances toward the door and the porch beyond, imagining Doc on the bench outside with his rifle.

"Juan Patron's?"

His boots echo quietly as he makes his way outside, dropping himself down onto that bench, waiting until she's joined him to speak.

"Eatin' house, saloon, whatever you'd want to call it. Just 'cross the street. Tunstall and Alex took lunch there, usually."

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"He had really damn good rootbeer, s'what I usually drank, sittin' at the bar near the front door."

Root beer.

That detail makes the back of her throat itch.

(She's seen him drink it before in Milliways.)

It's another reminder of just how young he is, and how easy it is to forget, after the things he's told her.

"No ice cream?"

"Didn't really have ice," he says. "You got things cold either by keepin' 'em in the cellar or durin' the winter, you could get snow on occasion."

A pause.

"S'probably why I prefer beer regular rather'n cold, come t'think of it. No fridge."

"Some types of beer actually taste better when they aren't cold. Wine, too."

She peers down the street, trying to envision Lincoln in Doc's time.

"When you were keeping an eye on things here, were there a lot of ... run-ins?"

Doc glances over at her.

"President Hayes once called this street," he motions along the highway. "The most dangerous street in America."

There's a bare hint of pride in his voice.

"Oh."

He shakes his head.

"Wasn't like we had blood runnin' in the gutters or nothin'."

Doc leans back and puts his arm against the back of the bench, looking down the street.

"Y'didn't start a fight for no reason."

"I didn't think that."

A beat.

"Exactly."

(Only kind of.)

"So how many, um, reasons came into play?"

"Well we kept t'bein' civil, for the most part. No reason t'git to shootin' off pistols when a war of words or fists'll do."

He shrugs slightly.

"Sometimes we'd have t'have words over disagreements. Didn't help that Murphy had Sheriff Brady in his pocket, though it wasn't long 'fore Billy got rid'a Brady."

Billy got rid of him.

He killed the sheriff.

She ignores the hollowness in the pit of her stomach, reminding herself that it's different; this sheriff was corrupt.

It's different.

She crosses her ankles and clears her throat quietly, eyes moving back to Doc.

"Do you and Bill ever talk about law enforcement? What he does and what it's like in your time?"

Doc's never killed a sheriff, but he has picked off a handful of deputies.

He nods slowly, looking over at her.

"We have."

Then he looks back out at the street, letting his eyes focus on the building across the way. They get a little distant.

"Bill's a damn good sheriff," he says. "Honorable. Lawmen are different, they're...respectable. They're actually interested in doin' right rather than doin' what gets them ahead."

A better man than Brady or Peppin.

"He cares 'bout people."

She nods, her throat tight.

"Being on leave hasn't been easy for him. He hasn't said it, but I know he can't wait to get back to work."

She looks down at her hands in her lap.

"But not every officer is like Bill -- I know that. The corruption's still there, even if times are different. It all comes down to politics, no matter what century it is."

"You'll never be able t'git humanity to unite completely, agreein' on what's right or wrong. No matter when it is."

He shakes his head.

"It ain't worth much now, but I am..."

He's not sorry about getting justice and he sure as hell doesn't regret it. It's a different kind of remorse, one that he can't quite vocalizes.

There was no other way to do it, not in their time. Kill or be killed. Run or be caught dead to rights. If it wasn't one bounty hunter, there'd be three more in days.

"I wish we'd had another choice."

"But sometimes, you just don't."

Her eyes are on the street now.

"The day the bomb went off in L.A., I shot and killed a man who was going to kill me. It doesn't change what I did, but it makes it -- not easier, but ... "

She trails off and shakes her head.

Her admission surprises him a bit, but it's not evident on his features.

(If anything, he understands.)

"Justified."

Doc shifts his arm - it's already lying on the bench behind her shoulders, easy enough to drop it down and wrap it around them in a slight hug - and leans towards her just a hair.

"It ain't ever easy to pull the trigger. I'm not sayin' it won't come natural after a time, but even if you learn not t'flinch...it still ain't easy. I don't think it ever should be."

Justified.

Only Bill and Grace know the full extent of what happened that day, that Kate pulled that trigger.

(And Jack -- he was there.)

She nods, turning to look at Doc.

"That's what sets you apart," she says, voice thick. "That it's something that isn't easy."

"I'm lookin' forward to the day that I won't feel like I'm missin' somethin' when I don't have the Colt at my side," he admits, shaking his head.

It's just natural, for that weight to be at his hip. He feels unbalanced when it's missing, even if it doesn't show on his face or in his eyes.

Then he offers her a small smile.

"Long as y'got pals, you'll be alright."

She glances down, looking for a holster she knows she won't see.

Leaning a shoulder into Doc's loose, one-armed embrace, she returns the tiny smile.

"I've got those in spades."

A beat.

"And so do you."

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