oom: bisbee, part 2

[lasthalfmile]

The town is quiet, today.

Between the funeral and the heat, most folks are either inside or busy with things. The main street is nearly deserted, as they head down, horses stirring up the soft dust beneath their hoofs as they walk.

The office is at the end of town.

Dan can only hear Mark's voice in his head. So young. So confused.

He keeps one hand on the reins, and the other slides down to his hip and the pistol, fingertips brushing the holster, checking to be sure that familiar weight is still there. He's not planning on killing anyone, but he won't hesitate to threaten with it if he has to.

They head around the back of the office, and Dan signals for them to be quiet. He can hear voices from inside.

"So you say the coach should be in this afternoon?"

"Butterfield himself ordered a new one sent out. I guess he had a back up in case Wade took out the first."

"He's not worried about him now that he's out?"

"He doesn't know. Figured might as well just let him find out when he gets in from Fort Huachuca this afternoon. Guess he wanted to ride with it to make sure it got here in once piece. With Wade's gang gone, should be in right on time."

Dan turns his head and gives Ben a look, as if to ask if he caught all that. The fort was to the west of Bisbee but there was only one way into town through the canyon that was north of Bisbee.

And Ben knew that canyon well.

Comments

[almosthonorable]

Ben catches all the conversation, all right.

He catches it and grins at Dan, eyes shining with something that's warm and cold at the same time.

Without a word, he turns back toward the horses, his walk silent and sure.

That son of a bitch is gonna have that thousand and more for Alice and the boys.

He's still smirking as he takes the reins from the hitching post.

"We should give Mr. Butterfield the glad news in person."

Ben Wade, free man; Dan Evans, back from the dead.

He looks at Dan, his smile threatening to split his face.

[lasthalfmile]

Dan's grinning too. His smile is a bit colder, as he loops the reins off the post and pulls himself up into the saddle of his mount.

"Think you're right. Wouldn't do it let him find out secondhand."

He settles his hat a little low on his eyes, and turns his head when he hears the church bell ringing softly up the hill. They'll be taking that pine box up the gulch to the top and placing Daniel Evans in that six foot hole.

(Or so they think.)

Dan nudges his horse back and turns her, a bit of a bounce in the mare's step because Dan's feeling a bit excited about all this.

They're gonna make Butterfield very, very sorry.

[almosthonorable]

Ben draws alongside Dan as they head north, toward the canyon.

He's taken careful note of the edge to Dan's smile and the flint in his eyes, and he's wondering if Dan wouldn't make a helluva gang boss, after all.

"Forgot how much I like this side of you, Lazarus."

[lasthalfmile]

"You keep callin' me that," Dan replies, voice almost cheerful.

After all, he is risen from the dead. And the look of absolute shock and surprise on Butterfield's face is going to be worth whatever nicknames Ben feels Dan deserves.

"Cause I'll keep tryin' not to disappoint."

The horses climb easily along the road towards the northwest and up into the canyon, and once they're through the pass, it's easy to look down at the wash and gully below, a long stretch of flat before the uphill climb to reach the pass.

No sight of the coach, but, they're in no hurry.

"How many men you reckon he'll have with him?"

He's already planning the odds.

[almosthonorable]

"Disappoint? On this job?" Ben chuckles, adjusting the reins in his hand. "Ain't a hope in hell."

He's quiet a minute, considering the question as his eyes move along the empty expanse of dirt and sand and rock.

"Gonna be awful sure of himself, thinkin' I'm locked up."

A beat.

"Driver, and a second. Butterfield on the inside, probably with a Pinkerton, just in case. Two flankin' the coach."

A grin.

"Easy enough for the likes of us."

[lasthalfmile]

Six, at least.

Dan nods and studies the layout of the canyon. He's driven his herd through here a few times, knows it somewhat well enough.

"Nothin' we can't handle," he echoes.

(Part of him wonders when they became a we.)

His mare shifts on her feet before Dan coaxes her down along the wall of the canyon, following the natural trail of the slope in the soil.

That revolver in his holster's got six bullets. So does the Hand of God.

Twelve bullets for six men -- five, really, since they don't want to kill Butterfield.

"Twelve bullets for five men."

Ben only needed six for his entire gang.

Seven if you counted the last one he put into Charlie Prince's heart -- but that wasn't his gun.

[almosthonorable]

We.

Ben wonders when that happened.

Figures somewhere between that last half-mile and those seven shots.

Eleven, counting the ones that hit Dan's chest.

"Good odds."

Ben looks over, his smile close to feral as his right hand brushes his holster.

"Ain't shootin' jackrabbits, but I like those odds."

[lasthalfmile]

"You are the expert."

Dan is already scouting out locations. His time with the Guard gave him enough smarts to know when to go running into the fray or when to sit and wait. Two guards flanking the coach will be the first ones that need to go. Then the second of the driver, before they can get back to the gatling gun on the back of the coach.

Then the driver.

Then the Pinkerton, if there is one.

Leave no witnesses, and make Butterfield look like he's lost his damn mind.

His grin is looking a little more feral as he looks around the canyon, looking for a good place for them to tuck up and wait.

[almosthonorable]

Ben's eyes narrow as he surveys the familiar terrain, placing the coach and its entourage in his mind's eye.

Two flankers.

Driver's second.

Driver.

Converge on the Pinkerton.

And then corner Butterfield, make him pay. Figuratively and literally.

Then, noting Dan's expression and searching glance, Ben's lips twitch as he inclines his head toward a ledge that's served him well in the past.

Good coverage (especially now, with only the two of them), good vantage point.

With a click of his tongue, he urges his horse on.

"C'mon."

[lasthalfmile]

Dan nods his head as they make their way up the hillside and two the ledge. It's got an easy path down, but it's not completely open. They'll have cover long enough to catch the guards by surprise, if everything goes to plan.

There's a hint of dust in the distance to the north.

Funny how it all comes back to dust.

Dry earth kills his crops.

Dry earth coats the small town in the heat.

Dry earth covers that pine box they're laying in the ground. It slips from William's fingers as he pours a handful and listens to the hollow sound as the clumps tumble and fall against the surface.

Dan checks the revolver at his hip and tightens his grip on the reins as that cloud of dust grows larger.

"Y'know," he comments, idly. "I'm startin' to think you're a bad influence, Ben Wade."

The smirk, however, gives away the fact that Dan could give a damn less.

[almosthonorable]

Ben keeps his eyes on the growing cloud, feeling anticipation build low in his gut.

He's missed this feeling since he's been in the bar — a new job, a new challenge. Landing another hit on the Pinkertons and the Southern Pacific.

"Y'know," Ben smirks right back as his fingers close over the Hand of God in his holster, "I might be offended if I didn't think you like that sorta influence."

[lasthalfmile]

"Funny what changes with time."

Squeezin' that watch won't stop time.

Dan draws the revolver and settles it near the horn of the saddle, hands waiting patiently, despite the itch in his fingers to get on that trigger and get to work.

The air fills with more dust, then a low rumble. Iron rimmed wheels and the pounding of hooves over the earth, then the quiet calls of a driver leading his team. It comes around the bend and Dan narrows his eyes to do a headcount.

Four on the outside. Driver, second. Two guards.

Dan looks at Ben and nods.

[almosthonorable]

"Funny what don't," he replies lightly, taking in the scene below.

Just as he'd figured.

Returning Dan's nod, his expression darkens; he goes cold and calm and calculating in the space between two breaths.

This is what he does.

He draws.

Aims.

bang

The first flanker falls.

Aims again.

bang

So does the other, tumbling head over ass off his horse, his body creating a small dust trail all its own.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

bang

The second on the coach doesn't get a chance to scramble for the Gatling.

"Driver," Ben barks at Dan, already moving down the path.

[lasthalfmile]

"On him."

The man at the reins yells something to the boys inside the coach, but Dan's already moving to get a better shot off. He's not as good of a mark as Ben is with the pistol but the bullet hits where it's supposed to.

bang

Blood mixes with the dust in the air as the coach is without a guide, horses running out of fear without having to be coaxed, without being controlled.

A shot rings back at them -- Pinkerton inside, probably -- but Dan has already coaxed the mare into a gallop, and fires another shot off at the lead horse.

bang

Not meant to hit, just to spook the team enough to get them to turn.

It works, and the coach skids with the abrupt change in direction before the sound of wood splintering into pieces rings out, horses going one way, wood and iron going the other.

The dust rises as the echoes in the canyon fade as movement stops, seconds ticking by, before the door kicks open and the Pinkerton comes into view, gun first, then his eyes as he searches for where they're at.

[almosthonorable]

Five bullets, four men.

Damn good odds.

The hooves under him eat the distance between his gun hand and the coach, and he can hear Dan not far behind.

When the door to the upended coach flies open, Ben's ready.

bang

The Pinkerton's eyes go wide a quarter-second before the bullet pierces his temple; bloody clumps of hair and skin and brain spatter against the wooden frame.

As this latest report fades in Ben's ears, there's a muffled thump inside the coach, and what might be a frantic, high-pitched mutter.

Butterfield.

[lasthalfmile]

Butterfield.

The derby hat comes out first, and then Butterfield stands up and has his hands in the air (looking entirely pathetic as he does so) and can't believe what he's looking at.

Ben Wade.

Ben Wade is supposed to be in Yuma, in prison, rotting away in a sun baked, rock walled, iron barred desert hell. Not here just north of Bisbee and certainly not smiling at him with that God damn gun pointed in his direction.

"Ben Wade," he says, trying to be brave, despite the shake in his voice. "I thought we'd taken care of you."

Dan's climbing off his horse. Butterfield doesn't recognize him.

Yet.

[almosthonorable]

Ben quirks an eyebrow as he sits in his saddle. He looks deceptively relaxed, but his pistol never wavers, locked on the area just to the left of the gleaming top button on Butterfield's fine pinstriped vest.

"Funny, how you boys keep takin' care of me, and I keep showin' right back up."

A beat, just to make Butterfield sweat a little more in the warm Arizona air.

"Think I had a key to the place."

Or I missed my train.

[lasthalfmile]

The reins get looped over the nearest branch, before he reloads that pistol, six full shots. You just never know, and Dan's not about to take chances. He's watching the two of them.

Butterfield, however, is focused solely on Ben. Not his newest recruit to his gang.

"You probably do," Butterfield mutters, as he steps from the coach and waves an arm at it. "So why don't you get on with it, then. Take the money and gloat."

He fixes his vest and brushes a bit of dust from his arm, then touches his forehead and a bleeding cut, then takes another step from the coach.

"Go on," he says. "Take it."

bang

The shot rings out, a puff of dust stirred up at Dan's feet, before he turns quickly, eyes towards the north end of the canyon.

[almosthonorable]

Ben dismounts, shaking his head in mock-disapointment.

"Now, Butterfield, you're takin' all the fun — "

At the unexpected shot, Ben's head snaps to the side, but the Hand of God never leaves Butterfield.

"Spoke too soon," he says with a grim smile as he turns back to the man. Voice low and even, "How many Pinks?"

bang

A pocket of dirt erupts a yard from Ben's right foot.

[lasthalfmile]

Butterfield is a little bit smug, underneath the wary fear in his voice.

"More than you can handle."

Way more.

Dan's already moved to the coach and grabbed the rifle from the fallen Pinkerton agent, checked the chamber, and taken up a stance near the wooden frame where he can duck for cover if he has to.

"Ben," he says. "Why don't you bring Mr. Butterfield around here so he don't get caught up in the crossfire?"

At the sound of that voice, Butterfield turns away from Ben Wade and his eyes travel to Dan.

Who's smirking at him.

"Afternoon," Dan tips his hat in the man's direction, before he looks back up a the cloud of dust coming down the canyon.

bang

The slug buries itself in the coach with a dull thud, a few inches from Dan's head.

He doesn't flinch.

[almosthonorable]

"Think that's an excellent idea."

Ben smirks as he steps close and grips Butterfield's upper arm, hard.

"For your own safety, Mr. Butterfield, why don't you join my friend Dan — "

bang

He feels the wind off the round as it sails past his ear.

" ... over here?"

He shoves Butterfield behind the door, next to Dan. He'd laugh at Butterfield's gobsmacked face, but he's got more pressing matters to attend to. Like the gun in his hand.

Two left.

He reloads, fingers quick and sure.

"Guess we'll see how many we can handle."

And then look to counting the money in the coach.

[lasthalfmile]

Dan takes Butterfield by the shoulder and sits him down next to the coach, with a hard shove.

"We need to talk."

bang

The dirt puffs up a few yards away, but they're getting closer.

"After we're done killin' all your Pinkertons," he adds, cheerfully. "So you just sit tight, and we'll continue this in a minute. Got it?"

A beat.

"Try and run and I'll make sure you never run again," he tacks on, before he brings the rifle up to sight the approaching riders that come around the bend.

The dust makes it hard to count.

Dan doesn't need a headcount to squeeze the trigger and send a rider tumbling from his horse.

bang

[almosthonorable]

Ben squints into the swirling dust, trying to get a number on the Pinks as he aims.

bang

Well, that's one less.

bang

Two.

bang

Three.

One of the riderless horses spooks, slamming into a Pinkerton palomino and unseating the Pink in the saddle.

bang

Four.

Ben's jaw is set, but his eyes are shining. He doesn't even mind the bullet that nearly grazes his shoulder.

[lasthalfmile]

bang

Five.

bang

Six.

Dan is up from behind the coach, now, standing next to Ben.

A flash of silver from the other side catches his eye.

"Ben," he warns, low and urgent, with a sharp toss of his head in the direction to the right.

bang

Seven.

There's a faint click behind them, and Dan whirls around with the rifle, aiming at Butterfield, who's aiming at the back of Ben's head. Butterfield pulls the trigger.

bang

In the space of half a heartbeat, Dan shoves Ben, hard (he knows he's got to hit him hard to knock him off his feet) and the bullet hits the rancher (ex-rancher, he supposes now) in the chest, but Dan just aims steady and pulls the trigger himself.

bang

Butterfield cries out (knee shattered) and hits the ground the same time Dan does.

[almosthonorable]

It happens almost too fast to catalogue.

" -- the — "

Ben hits the dirt, hard, nearly losing his gun.

" ... hell?"

Turning, he sees Dan and Butterfield are down; Butterfield groaning as blood soaks the dirt around his blown knee.

Ben quickly gets to his feet —

bang

— downing another approaching Pinkerton (one bullet left), then offers a hand to Dan while glaring at Butterfield.

"Was bein' nice till you did that."

[lasthalfmile]

Dan grabs the hand and hauls himself up to his feet. His chest feels funny, almost like he's been punched hard, but when he touches the hole in the shirt there's no wet spot of blood spreading.

"I warned you," he mutters.

The canyon falls quiet, save for the low sounds of Butterfield in pain as he tries to push himself away from the two of them.

Dan brushes off his coat and walks the distance to the man on the ground, and then flips the rifle around, gripping it by the muzzle. The steel is hot (or would be, against a normal man's palm) but Dan doesn't flinch.

The butt of the stock gets dropped (slammed down) on that blown knee with a crunch of bone and the gravel beneath, and Butterfield screams.

"Now," a deep breath, as Dan releases the pressure. "You and I need to have a little talk." He kneels down and reaches back for the holster and the pistol, and the business end gets shoved against Butterfield's temple. "You told me that we had an agreement. A thousand dollars and the water rights. You remember that? 'Cept it seems that my boy's got the idea in his head that you ain't gonna pay it."

Dan growls.

"I don't like bein' lied to. Especially when it's upper class types like you who think they can get away with it." The muzzle of the gun gets nudged harder against his scalp. "Just cause they got a fancy suit and money to spare. So tell me, Mr. Butterfield," and he smirks, just a little. It looks feral and just a little crazy, if you get a glance at his eyes. "What the fuck gave you the idea I'd let you get away with it?"

A beat.

"And just cause I'm dead ain't a good answer."

[almosthonorable]

Ben scans the canyon for movement, for any unwanted company.

Seeing none, he turns back to Dan and Butterfield, quietly reloading as he watches and listens.

He likes this side of Dan Evans.

And he likes the unholy fear filling Butterfield's disbelieving eyes.

[lasthalfmile]

Butterfield shakes his head and stammers a little through the words. He wasn't there to see Dan fall but he saw the body afterwards, those bloodstains on his shirt, the dark red earth next to the train tracks when they picked him up off the ground.

"I...you're..."

Dan sighs, irritated.

"Dead. Yeah, I know. Trust me."

He removes the gun from Butterfield's temple for a moment and sits back on his heels, to study him.

"You lied to me. I don't like liars," he repeats, an odd calm settling over his face. "Especially when their lies hurt my wife and my boys. Now here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna let you go on to Bisbee and you're gonna give my wife two thousand dollars and those water rights, right soon as you get into town."

He pauses.

"And then, you're gonna go find yourself a doctor," and Dan flicks his head to the side, to Butterfield's blown knee, and without hesitation, he levels the revolver at the joint.

"Because you're gonna need one for that leg, there."

And pulls the trigger.

[almosthonorable]

Ben's picking up his fallen hat, brushing dirt from the brim, when he sees Dan's arm extend in his periphery.


bang


He takes a step closer and laughs, long and loud, while Butterfield screams.

"Goddamn, Dan. Think I like you more'n I ever liked Charlie."

Looking down at Butterfield, he sobers.

"Like I said, I was bein' nice before you tried to kill me."

His eyes narrow.

"You listen, Mr. Butterfield. If you don't do what this man says — if you don't ride into town and pay his family that money and give 'em them water rights — we'll pay you another visit real soon."







"And I won't be nearly as nice as Dan here just was."

[lasthalfmile]

Dan nods. "You'd best listen to him," he agrees, before he reaches for the nearest article of clothing -- the Pinkerton near the coach has a long jacket, and Dan rips a few strips of the cloth and ties that blown knee into some idea of order to slow the bleeding. "Because even I know not to cross Ben Wade."

A nod at Ben.

"Now. Up," he orders.

Butterfield listens -- and pulls himself up with Dan's help, only groaning a little as he bites his lip -- and then he leans against the coach while Dan fetches one of the horses from the team, which are nervously pacing a few hundred yards down the wash, still confused as all hell.

When he's back, Dan helps shove him up into the saddle and then hands him the reins, and points to the south, down the canyon.

"You should be on your way, now. Don't want your boys to worry about the coach comin' in behind schedule, after all. Ain't that right, Ben?"

Except instead of a coach it'll be a wounded coach owner with one hell of a story to tell.

Details, details.

[almosthonorable]

"Goddamn right," Ben nods.

He smiles, and it's a downright scary sight.

"They're expectin' you, Mr. Butterfield, sir."

Ben smacks the horse's hindquarters, chuckling as it starts and dances sideways while Butterfield hisses in pain.

He shakes his head slightly as it trots south.

Son of a bitch better pay what he owes.

Turning, Ben looks at Dan for a long minute before his eyes flick to the hole in Dan's shirt.

"That hurt?"

[lasthalfmile]

"Little bit."

Dan looks at the torn fabric and then back up at Wade. "Ain't too bad," he shrugs a little before he nods at the coach and makes an effort to take stock of the contents.

Before he does that, however, he looks around at the bodies littering the desert.

He chuckles under his breath, thinking of Butterfield's warning.

More than you can handle.

A pause, to shoot the lock off the cage --

bang

-- and then Dan steps back to reload the gun, eyes on Ben while his hands do the work of putting bullets in the chamber, a grin on his face. He's amused and it shows.

"Did y'see the look on his face when he popped up out of there?"

[almosthonorable]

Ben lips twitch, eyes lit with twin amusement.

"See the look on his face when he saw you?"

Turning to survey the dead men (and to make sure there's no more trouble stupid enough to approach), Ben just shakes his head.

"More'n we can handle, my infamous ass."

He looks back to Dan, quirking an eyebrow toward the safe.

[lasthalfmile]

The gun goes back in the holster before Dan ducks into the coach and drops the broken lock onto the floor with a thud. The fact that there's a dead Pinkerton lying beside him doesn't phase him one bit as he opens the door and pulls out the first of the lock boxes.

That is a lot of cash.

"No wonder you do this for a livin', Ben."

Ain't quite as loaded as some coaches run, but he pulls out four boxes total and counts the contents while Ben watches. Half the stack goes into one pile --

"Toss me that bag of yours, would ya?"

-- and the other half is split again. A larger portion and a smaller one.

[almosthonorable]

"Tends to pay pretty well," he deadpans amicably, passing the bag to Dan.

He tilts his head slightly, studying Dan while he breaks down the second stack again.

A pause, then, "Don't think you can hand-deliver that."

[lasthalfmile]

Once the stacks are broken up, Dan puts Ben's half in the saddlebag and then hands it back up to him, as he stands.

"No, don't suppose I can."

The smaller portion is just a few bundles of cash. Enough to last a man of his time plenty if all he's doing is buying drinks and paying for a room in a bar. The larger portion is enough for a family, for awhile, to buy the things they need. Medicine for Mark. New clothes for William. Something nice for Alice.

Dan grabs the bag off his mare which he split the earlier cash into and sorts them. One bag is going back to Milliways with him. The other...

"I need you to go seem them and make sure they get it."

[almosthonorable]

Ben replaces the bag on his saddle and nods, quick and short.

He'll leave the money with Alice and the boys, and get to ensure Butterfield kept his word this time.

He gives Dan a wry half-smile.

"I'm sure Alice'll be real happy to see me at her door."

A beat.

"Might even get another steak outta the deal."

[lasthalfmile]

Dan gives Ben a look, before he hands the second bag over.

"I'm sure she'll be just thrilled."

Don't you try anything, Wade.

And he holds that gaze a moment, before he nods.

"Maybe you just will get another steak." A beat. "Probably be a better one this time 'round."

Since Ben'll be able to cut it himself.

[almosthonorable]

"Won't have your magic touch, though."

Smirk.

He adds the second bag to the load and looks at Dan, his features growing more serious.

"Gonna make sure Butterfield made good on the deal while I'm there."

[lasthalfmile]

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

Dan's look also tells Ben that if Mr. Butterfield didn't make good on that deal, well.

That isn't for polite company.

Then again, Ben isn't polite company.

[almosthonorable]

He's not.

He's infamous — famous — for that.

The hard look in Dan's eyes makes Ben think Dan could be (could've been) his own brand of infamous, if life had been just a little bit different.

"I know. S'what I like about you, Dan."

Ben swings into the saddle, taking one more look around the canyon.

"Headin' back to the bar now?"

[lasthalfmile]

"Reckon it's gettin' close to cuttin' it."

He feels solid enough, still.

Dan loops the reins off the branch and pulls himself up into the saddle, and once he's set, he looks around at the coach and the bodies lying in the dirt.

In the dust. Blood soaking red.

The image doesn't bother him, like it would have the day before.

He's not sure why.

(Maybe it's because he was the one doing the shooting.)

[almosthonorable]

"It'd hurt my feelin's, not seein' you when I get back."

He turns his horse toward the south, toward Bisbee.

Toward the Evans ranch.

If he rides hard, he might even catch that son of a bitch Butterfield while he's paying Alice.

(If he is, which he damn well better.)

Ben adjusts his hat.

"Well, now."

A grin.

"This was fun."

[lasthalfmile]

"I'll buy you a drink when you get back."

Dan nods a bit as he adjusts his own hat. He'll head north, back towards the top end of the canyon. Catch a door near Contention, maybe. He's not sure why but that's where his heart is telling him to head.

He smiles, just a bit.

"Maybe we'll do it again sometime," he says, and he means it.

Fingers curl around leather reins, and he holds Ben's gaze a minute before he turns his mare around and then digs his heels into the stirrups, clicking to her quietly, moving to head towards the north.

Then he stops, and turns to glance at Ben over his shoulder.

"Thanks, Wade."

A nod, a smile, and then he turns and rides out.