lesson plans - seven

[scurlock]

[previous: six]


"The door? Doc, what--"

"No, Frank," he hisses, backing up slightly, away from the door. "Outside."

McNab turns his head and glances; they don't have a chance to speak again before the door swings inward with a violent sound, wood cracking and splintering as the frame breaks from the pressure.

"Sonova--"

"Don't you move, McNab!"

Frank drops to the ground on a space behind the table, while Doc bolts for the hallway, boots pounding against the hardwood. He's got to make it to the back door or he'll never--

"Josiah Gordon Scurlock? Don't you move."





(He never feels the ground as he hits it.

The only thing that registers is the sharp, sudden pain in the back of his head.)




"Trial? There ain't gonna be no trial, boy. You're going back to Lincoln County to hang."



It's dark when he finally forces his eyes open -- before he realizes that he can't see. Everything around him is hazy, and he feels like he's going to be sick; turning onto his side, he vomits on the floor and loses the contents of his stomach onto the hardwood.

His wrists are bound in front of his body -- it feels like rope, not chain.

Someone steps in front of him and rips the blindfold off, flooding the surrounding area with light and making him dizzy; he retches again and tries to pull in a desperate breath.

"Oh c'mon, now it wasn't that hard'a a hit."

"Fuck you."

"Feisty? Y'ain't really in a position t'be tellin' me what t'do."

"Don't give a damn," he growls, forcing his eyes open and narrowing them. Everything is swimming and the room feels like it's on a constant tilt, but he knows that it's due to the fact that his head is pounding with every beat of his heart. They're still in the cabin. McNab is tied up, a few feet away with his back against the wall. "So fuck off."

The man curls his fingers around the barrel of his shotgun, letting the stock fall against the hardwood a few inches from Doc's face with an echoing thud. "How 'bout you fuck off?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Doc rolls over onto his back, then struggles to sit himself up. "Why don't you untie me and ask me that question again?"

"'Cause I know you, and I ain't 'bout to let your head outta my sight."

"And just why's that?"

The man kneels down in front of Doc, grinning widely, obviously amused. "Now, I know you ain't a fool," he drawls. "They always said you were the smart one'a the group, so don't you go playin' me for some moron."

"Thought never crossed my mind."

He's surprised by the force of the blow (that he never sees coming) from the backhanded slap across the face -- but not surprised at the taste of blood that soon fills his mouth, mingling with the sick -- and he closes his eyes to ward off the wave of nausea that threatens.

"Didn't think so."

Doc grits his teeth, before he slowly turns and opens his eyes. "So what's your name, smartass?"

"Charlie."

"Well, Charlie, since y'ain't been very smart so far, m'gonna let y'in on a secret."

"Doc," Frank warns. "Stop talking. He's a bounty hunter. He knows who you are." He pauses. "He came here lookin' for Hunter and found us."




He knows who you are.

A chill sinks down his spine, starting at the base of his neck and spreading into his lungs and his chest.

He knows what you've done.



He knows what your head is worth.

"That's right," Charlie continues. "Found myself two ex-Regulators, sittin' here in this one cabin. S'a mighty nice find, if you ask me."

Doc smirks -- and it's not a nice smirk, at all.

"What's so funny."

"Just how stupid you are, s'all."

The bounty hunter leans forward. "Stupid? I ain't the one tied up and bleedin'."

"No, no...not that."

"Just what, then?"

Doc tips his head. "Y'have no idea who you got tied up and bleedin'."

"Frank McNab and Josiah 'Doc' Scurlock."

"That's right."

"Then how do I--"

"--we ain't ex-Regulators."

"Gang ain't still runnin' this territory."

Doc leans forward, getting right in the man's face. "That don't matter. Thing 'bout Regulators? Y'can't git rid of us, even when y'kill us. We're Regulators until we die, and even after we die, we're still more'a man than your sorry, two-faced, pond scum lickin' asshole self will ever--"



(At least he's expecting the punch, this time. And the second one, too.)



The room spins around him as he falls backwards, laughing as Charlie's fist catches him in the throat. He's not sure why this is so goddamn funny but it just is, because after all this time, all this searching and running, they've got him.

They've got him in this tiny little cabin on this tiny little spit of land in the middle of the goddamn desert, and the next thing they'll do is parade him into Santa Fe and string him up for the crows. They'll read him his name and his list of crimes, his warrants and ask him if he has anything to say for himself.


"Your honor? You can go to hell, hell, hell!"



Then they'll hang him.

(He's still laughing.)

By the neck.

(It's funny.)

Until he's dead.




(You're already dead.)


"I said shut the hell up, Scurlock!"

"Can't," he wheezes, trying to get the laughter to stop. "S'just too funny."

The blood from his busted lip is mingling with the spit in his mouth, and he leans over -- away from Charlie -- to expel it onto the floor. He catches a glimpse of the look on Frank's face and sobers, slightly, almost able to read the question straight out of his friend's mind.

What the hell is the matter with you?

Doc swallows, ignoring the copper tang taste in his throat, and stops laughing. His eyes move from Frank, to the bounty hunter.

"Now, while you two are a mighty fine prize...ain't like I'd be stupid t'turn y'in 'fore we got to discussin' a little bit of business."

"And what sort of business would that be," Frank replies.

"You're gonna tell me where Timothy Hunter's gone off to," Charlie says. "And maybe if y'do it 'fore he gets too far off, I'll just forget that I found one of you two and y'can be on your way."

"You're wasting your time, Charlie," Doc grits. "We don't have a clue where Hunter is, or where he's goin'."

"Only thing I hate more'n criminals are liars, Scurlock."

"He ain't lyin'," Frank comments. "Hunter didn't tell us where he was goin', and honestly? I didn't want t'know, just for this reason. In case some idiot came lookin'."

"He was here, you had t'have talked."

"Why don't you just cut your losses while you're ahead," Doc suggests. "And leave, without sayin' a word."

"'Fraid I can't do that, Regulator."




Doc feels his blood boil when he hears the sneer in the man's tone, flexing his jaw as his teeth clench to hold his tongue back.

Nobody talks bad about the Regulators and lives to tell about it.

He shifts his hands, testing the strength of the bonds that hold his wrists. They're tied tight (the numbness in the tips of his fingers proves that easily) but if he had time to work at them, he might be able to wiggle free.

What you'd give for wrists like Billy's, right about now...

The bounty hunter's boots grind against the thin layer of dust on the hardwood as he stands, pushing himself up and using the butt of the rifle for leverage.

He's got a bad knee.

His eyes narrow and he makes eye contact with Frank once Charlie's back is turned, using his hands to tap at his left knee, nodding at the bounty hunter's legs.

Frank winks, then grins up at the man. "Howdy."

"Now, let's try this 'gain, where the hell--"




The room spins with the effort to kick his legs out and up, bootheel aimed straight at the side of Charlie's left knee -- it connects with a sickening pop and the man yells -- enough of a distraction to roll over and push himself up onto his knees.

Get on your knees, get on your feet, and choke the son of a bitch until he's dead.

He only makes it to his knees, before the (sharp and sudden, fuck that hurts) room goes black once more.