Josiah 'Doc' Scurlock

It's a small town, on the outskirts of the state, he's not quite sure where he's at but he's not quite sure of anything at the moment because he's too far gone, mentally and physically, to give a damn.

The bar's noisy and that's what he wants, slipping inside and blending in with the crowd, even if the dark coat isn't quite normal dress code, but he doesn't care. He wants a drink and a door back to Milliways.

"You've gotta check your guns," the bartender says, as he's pouring the first shot of brandy.

"I'd rather not," Doc comments, as he reaches for the glass and downs it in a single swallow.

( Rules are rules. Sometimes you have to break them. )

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. )

It's dark when they duck out of the bar and back into the New Mexico desert, the lonely stand of adobe ruins. It had been easy enough when they were back at the bar to ignore the reality of life. But now that they were here...

Tommy was dead.

"Tomorrow we'd best get some more ground towards Ol' Mexico," Doc mutters, quietly, before he drops onto a patch of earth near a wall, rifle stretched across his chest, not more than a few inches from his hand.

He doesn't sleep. The other boys do, or at least they fake it well enough.

There's no roof in the cabin and with the lack of a campfire it's pitch black save for the barest hint of the moon. It's cold. Fall, almost winter. Snow'll be coming in the high desert soon. He can see the stars dotting the sky overhead and it makes his heart ache, a little, because there's one thought running through his mind.

The sky changes from ink black to dark blue, then lightens as the sun peeks over the horizon to the east. Doc gets up to watch it, ignoring the way it nearly blinds him.

It's beautiful.

(Poetic.)

The boys are up soon after, but nobody knows what to say or do. They're not hungry. They don't want to ride out, even though they know they should be going already.

It's like they're all walking on eggshells, around each other, but all he wants to do is scream.

Chavez climbs the hill with his knife and is singing, softly, as he stares out over the desert and runs the blade along a fistfull of that long, dark hair, cutting it in jagged chunks, but Doc's not really paying attention.

Distracted, if anything, he's just staring out at the horizon, watching.

Waiting.

When they charge out of the door from the bar, it's as if they never quite left the scene. The only different thing, really, is the fact that hidden under the hat, Doc's hair is a bit shorter than last time, and he's not so sore from eating shit into the sand (or barfloor, for that matter).

At least for the half second before the horse cartwheels again and he's thrown from it.

"Argh!"

Doc hits the sand with a thud and then scrambles for his hat and gun, hearing the shots from the posse up the ridge.

They've got to get out of there, and fast.

After talking with Jack the night of the bonfire, Doc spends the next day recovering from his hangover and sugar rush -- too much rum and way too many rum soaked marshmallows will do that to you -- by taking it easy and keeping the alcohol content to a minimum, as well as working outside in the stables, getting everything in a sort of order, as best he can.

He counts out a stack of coins after taking a glance at his tab, working in the stables helps to pay for the room and the fact that things back home don't cost that much helps somewhat, and then sets them on the Bar. Once they're gone, he asks Bar if he can borrow some more books, and after a moment, he heads upstairs with the stack of them.

The lamps make it easy to read by and Doc settles in a chair next to the bed, after setting the books on the floor next to him. There's already a small stack on the bedside table -- poetry by authors both his time and not, plays -- and another few on the bed -- tales of the Old West, collections of cowboy songs and trail calls. There is a different stack by the chair.

Biographies on William Henry McCarty, alias William H. Bonney, alias William Antrim.

Also known as Billy the Kid.

( The book in question, the book in his hands, however, is a bit more personal. )

OOC: Was co-written between docscurlock & young_gun_billy muns.


It wasn't hard finding the cows, it wasn't hard moving the cows. The hard part for Billy was holding back his laughter as he and the boys rode into town with the cows.

"Howdy." He grinned as they rode into a stockyard with the intent to sell their pilfered herd. "Found some cows."

And that's all it took. Chisum gave them the money they needed for the trip down to Ol' Mexico after all.


The sale went quick, Billy gave the guy a pretty good deal, and there were just a few stray matters to take care of. One of which Henry was discussing with Billy as they walked along.

"I guess what I'm trying to say, is, yer called 'Kid' and, ah, Rudebaugh's called 'Arkansas Dave' and, ah, I daresay Doc's Christian name ain't 'Doc'..." Henry said, gesturing and holding onto his hat.

It wasn't hard to guess what he was getting at, though Billy did let the man go on for a spell before making the point for him, "You want a name."

"Yes sir!" Henry nodded with an enthusiasm, "I would like that, I would like that very much indeed."

"You have to earn it, Henry. Until then, you're stuck with plain ol' Henry." Billy told him, patting his shoulder. "Sorry."

*****


They spent that night in a stand of adobe ruins, waking the next morning to the loud crack of gunfire.

Doc still wasn't too thrilled with the idea of going back to New Mexico, but he knew that it was something that had to be done regardless of the fact that he didn't want to. Life at Milliways was suiting him just fine, if you got past the part that included that he missed his wife and young son.

His only chance at seeing them again, was going home and trying to get to freedom. Head for the border. Old Mexico. Where outlaws could be men and go invisible. So he'd taken care of things with the stables and left the notes he needed to, strapped on his gun and grabbed the rifle from the security office where it had ended up, and headed back. Billy opened the door. It was a less chaotic scene then Doc had left, so, that was at least a plus.

Beever's tavern was a dive. But it was safe, for the most part. The rest of the boys would be here and they could get started. Doc grabbed himself a glass of whiskey once they stepped through the door, and then went to take a seat near the window, lighting himself a cigarette.

Just like old times.

He's standing in his classroom, making a fool of himself in front of his students while teaching them about the letter 'W', walking around like he's drunk and trying to get them into the lesson when the door swings open, hitting the wall behind it with a noise that makes the whole class jump.

There's a collective gasp between the students and Doc himself, as six armed men, all with rifles and badges that glisten in the low light pouring in through dusty windows, stare him at him.

"Josiah Gordon Scurlock, also known as 'Doc' Scurlock?"

Doc is tempted to say no, to duck and run, to claim that they've got the wrong man in their sights, but he's not brave enough to do it in front of all the kids, and when there's a chance they could be hurt in the crossfire. So he nods, slowly.

The sheriff curls his lips into a grim smile as the sound of six hammers are cocked back and primed to fire at will. He almost laughs, and he can read the look in his eyes. Well, well, what've we got here.

"Don't you move."

He doesn't. He sets the board with the letter down, raises his hands slightly and steps towards the men. One of them reaches for his wrists and Doc gives him a warning glance, then lowers his voice.

"Cuff me all you want, I ain't runnin', just don't do it in front of them, alright?"

The armed men look at the frightened faces behind Doc, and then nod slowly. He turns around to look at the boys. "Another teacher will be along in just a moment, we're going to go settle some business. Right now, I want you all to take out a piece of paper and write down all the words you can think of that start with the letter W, alright?"

There's a quiet echo of 'yes, sir' from the room, then as papers begin to rustle from rucksacks, Doc steps into the hall and holds his hands out in front of him. The irons snap tight around his wrists.

"You're being taken into custody to stand trial for," the man pauses, when someone walks down the hall.

"Josiah, what's going on?"

"Sir, this man here is a highly dangerous criminal,"

"I am not dangerous,"

"He's been on the run since January of last year from the United States Army,"

"You must have the wrong man, Mister Scurlock is a highly respected,"

"Jacob," Doc's voice is soft, as he shakes his head. "Let it go. The boys are doing their penmanship,"

The sheriff pipes up. "To stand trial for the murders of several members of the Murphy-Dolan gang, for crimes against the United States Army, murder of several officers of the cavalry, as well as theft, illicit activities involving a woman in a place of ill,"

"That's enough, Sheriff," Doc finally spits out, eyes flashing dangerously. "Let's just take me to jail and get it over with."

The smirk comes back. "Jail? Why Mister Scurlock, the train leaves when we arrive at the station. We're headed back to Lincoln County," comes the laugh, before they march him out of the building, ignoring his protests. He doesn't mention Yen-Sun or his young son, because he doesn't want them to be targeted or brought in.

Once they get him in the stagecoach to head to the trainstation, the put leg irons on him and ruffle up his hair, teasing and poking at him like they've caught themselves a ten pound fish from a creek the size of a stream of horse piss. Josiah doesn't say anything, just sits and stares out the window of the stagecoach as they bump along dirty streets, not even hearing them rib on him anymore. He doesn't want to hear it.

Finally, he just closes his eyes and thinks one thought over and over.

Yen, I'm sorry...