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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"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."

"I know."

He does have friends - even if they are from a bar at the end of the universe, they still count. He might even consider them to be better friends than some of the guys he knows from his own time.

Doc pulls his arm back and nods his head.

"C'mon, if we walk down that way a little bit, promise you'll git 'nother history lesson outta the deal."

Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, her expression brightens as she stands and adjusts her hat.

"Then let's go."

He rises off the bench and they head down the street, walking slowly as he describes what Lincoln looked like 'back in the day'. He tells a few random stories about getting in 'trouble'. He shows her the spot that he first met Billy at, when they'd pulled the wagon up to what was a corral full of cattle and grabbed him.

They reach the end of the street and come upon a round stone structure. He glances at the sign.

"Y'know if anything, I'm surprised this is still here."

Torreon

She glances at the structure before reading the sign.

One of Lincoln's earliest structures. Built in the 1850s, its thick walls protected Spanish-Americans against the Apaches. In Lincoln Co. War Murphy's sharpshooters were here stationed. In 1937 Chaves County Historical Society undertook restoration of tower.

Her eyes move to Doc, full of unasked questions.

"Alex's house was over there," he motions across the way to what is now an empty lot. "Durin' the siege we had the group of us in the house, and Murphy's men spread out along the way. On the rooftops, in the street...you name it. They set up some barricades in front of the boardwalks to try and hide behind...they thought we had thirty of us in that house, with how many bullets we were layin' down."

Her eyes follow Doc's gesturing to the empty lot; she tries to envision the scene while pushing away memories of that night in the alley in Studio City, surrounded by gunfire and shaking in her sneakers.

"How many men did Murphy have?"

"Murphy had probably fifteen of his own. You had Kinney's gang...the local law enforcement which was probably another ten all together. They sent a whole unit down from the Fort the next mornin', the cavalry men."

A beat.

"Was probably 'bout fifty or so, on that side. And we had myself, Billy, Chavez, Charlie, and Steve. Plus Alex, Susan, and eventually Yen - but they weren't shootin', obviously."

Fifty against five.

"They wanted t'end the war right here."

"Fifty against ... "

" -- five?"

"Yep."

He's not wearing his sunglasses, so she'll be able to see the light (dark) in his eyes as they focus on the empty lot, then the road that passes through the center of town.

"With those odds, t'be quite honest I didn't think we was gonna make it. Then they set the house on fire, and...well we didn't have a choice but t'try."

"I think you did more than try -- you're still here."

Her eyes leave the lot and return to Doc's face.

(He looks older, now.)

He closes his eyes.

"Charlie and Steve both died right 'cross the road," he nods his head. "And then they killed Alex for the hell of it. He wasn't even armed."

I'm still here but they ain't.

But you made it.

She wants to put a hand on his arm, but she doesn't want to startle him; she settles for wrapping her arms around herself and letting out a slow, quiet breath.

"That wasn't your fault -- that's not something you should blame yourself for."

"I don't blame myself for it," he says, shaking his head as he opens his eyes again. "It was...there were...it was war."

People die. Friends don't make it.

"I wish they'd made it out but we knew 'fore we made the break that we weren't all gonna."

Doc glances once more at the empty lot and the earth covered in grass, the green a welcome sight compared to the dust and blood that's in his memory. Then he nods for them to start walking back towards the store.

"You know I'm findin' that there's a lot I don't blame myself for, these days."

She nods, tasting dust in the back of her throat as they make their way toward the store.

"Good." She gives him a sideways glance and an attempt at a smile that doesn't quite make it. "You'll have to tell me the secret behind that someday."

"As soon as I figure out how t'put it into words that make sense? I'll let you know."

As they approach the one story building, he slows their walk down a little - almost as if he's hesitating. Then he tilts his head, studying a worn path that leads around the back of the building.

(He's stopped walking.)

She continues a couple of steps before back-tracking, and quirks an eyebrow at the beaten path that's holding Doc's undivided attention.

"Anything back there?"

His eyes don't stray from the dirt path.

"I am gonna be pissed as all hell if there ain't."

Then he glances at her, and nods his head as he starts walking again. The space between the old buildings is relatively narrow (just wide enough for a horse if you had to squeeze through) but it's obviously been walked on recently.

Once they step out of the shadows, he exhales a sigh of relief at what he sees in front of him.

Beneath her brim, her eyes are drawn to the bright blue sky and the hills dotted with green; it's two heartbeats before she drops her gaze and --

Oh.

The two crosses are simple, rough-hewn, but smoothed with time and weather, wind and sand.

She looks at Doc, then back to the markers.

"If I ain't mistaken..."

And he's not mistaken, not on this, not when he can replay that day over and over in his mind, the feeling of cold earth on his hands and the scent of dust in his nostrils.

He doesn't stop walking as he speaks.

"Tunstall's on the left, they must have put Alex on his right."

There are two small markers in the ground at the base of each cross, brass - names and dates. He doesn't realize he's removed his hat, holding it carefully in one hand at his side, but he has.

John H. Tunstall. Died 1878.
Alex A. McSween. Died 1878.

He wonders if there was anyone with Susan when they put Alex in the ground. At least when they buried John, they had each other to stand with.

(Idly, he realizes that he's damn glad he's not alone right now.)

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