Chapter Text
The fire crackled gently in the cast-iron stove as it heated the little shack and fought the cold bite of the drafty walls. Beside it sat a pile of more kindling should the flames burn low, and beside that rested a half-empty bucket of water. Emmett’s boots stood between his saddle on the floor and his gun belt, hanging off the corner of a chair beside the bunks, still within easy reach. He was still sleeping on the bottom bunk with his back to the door when the first gunman burst in.
Emmett grabbed his revolver and rolled into the corner before the door fell shut again. He’d always been a light sleeper.
The intruder fired twice, once from each of his guns, his aim missing wildly as his eyes struggled to adapt to the darkness of the shack. Three rounds fanning the hammer put him on the ground quickly enough.
The second gunman fired through the wall behind Emmett, narrowly missing his left shoulder as he threw himself to the floor and returned a shot. He followed the man’s shadow, starkly silhouetted by the sunlight streaming through the shack’s slats, his revolver cocked and ready as he watched the gunman slink around the corner.
Another blast - this time from a shotgun - tore a hole in the roof and shattered the stool just behind Emmett’s head as he flinched. The ceiling creaked as the third gunman found a new position; Emmett ignored him and continued to stalk the second man’s shadow with his revolver. He fired once, ahead of the man’s silhouette to force him back, then used his sixth round to shoot the gunman in his retreat.
The shotgun ripped another hole in the roof, this time blowing a crater in the dirt by Emmett’s foot. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the man through the new opening, but his revolver was empty, and his Winchester was sitting on the top bunk above him. He chucked the useless six-shooter at the far side of the shack to clang noisily against the stove. Immediately another blast fired in that direction, sending shot scattering about as it hit the cast-iron.
Pushing to his feet, Emmett tugged on the protruding barrel of the Winchester and sent it cartwheeling into the air as the top bunk got shredded in another blast. The weapon landed perfectly in his waiting hands, rapidly cocking and firing twice into the ramshackle roof before it had even settled into his arms. With a groan, the third and final gunman came crashing through the ceiling in a shower of debris at Emmett’s feet, sunlight and splintered wood shards strewn over the dead body.
Blinking away the dust, Emmett carefully rose to his feet and listened. Clearing the rifle’s chamber seemed deafening in the sudden silence. He stalked soundlessly to the door, Winchester still at the ready in his gun hand, and gently opened it with his right. The vast Western wilderness stretched on as far as the eye could see to meet the promise of the blue horizon; Emmett ignored it and continued to cautiously check the perimeter of the shack.
The body of the second gunman lay lifeless where Emmett had shot him. Emmett rolled him over with a sock-clad foot, his boots still sitting in the shack where he’d left them the previous night. No one else was out here; he uncocked the Winchester.
On the rise behind the shack, two saddled bays were bolting through the undergrowth, the only moving things in the empty landscape. A third saddled horse - this time a pinto - stood nervously near where his own massive grey was tethered to a stake. Emmett watched the fleeing horses with some curiosity as he approached the pinto, now-unneeded Winchester slung over his shoulder. The pinto, though clearly nervous, didn’t shy as he came nearer, and remained stock-still as he noticed the brand on its hip. Two diamonds in outline, directly beside one another. It wasn’t a brand he knew. Bemused, Emmett rested his hand on the pinto’s saddle and stared after the two bolting bays, pondering.
He didn’t linger. By midmorning, he was back on the trail and moving down-country, newly-acquired pinto in tow. By nightfall, he’d made camp by a small stream under the open stars. Emmett reached the desert the following day and was making good time when he noticed something lying on the sands ahead.
The something turned out to be a someone. A man, wearing only a red union suit and socks, lying on the sands with his eyes closed and only a rock for a pillow. His skin was burned red and blistering, but he looked to’ve laid down in peace. Emmett dismounted a few feet away and lifted the canteen off his saddle - he could see the man was still breathing - before kneeling beside him and slowly bringing the uncorked canteen to the man’s chapped lips. He drank eagerly and choked, prompting Emmett to pull the canteen away as he sputtered. Breathing unhindered again, the man finally opened his eyes, his lips twisting upward. He rasped something unintelligible. Emmett leaned a little closer.
“Pleased to meet you.”
Emmett smiled.
~*~
“Two of the horses run off, but that pinto you’re riding hung around,” Emmett explained that evening, wiping his knife off on his sleeve before putting it away.
They’d made camp in the scrub-strewn grasslands just past the desert. Paden - the man - lay bundled in the pinto’s saddle blanket, his head propped against the saddle itself. “You got no idea what they were after?” he asked.
“Nope.” Emmett pulled the coffeepot from the fire and started to fill his mug.
“Offend anybody lately?”
“Not for five years,” answered Emmett, expression guarded. He put the coffeepot back in the fire.
“Jefferson City?” prompted Paden, tone now conversational.
It put Emmett more at ease as he warmed his hands with the mug. “No, Leavenworth.”
“Never been in there,” Paden replied blithely, as if they were speaking of cities rather than prisons. “They just jumped you outta the blue?”
“I had to get up anyway,” Emmett deadpanned, then cracked a smile.
Paden smiled back. “Me, I’m ridin’ along, mindin’ my own business. Four cowboys come by, and we decide to ride together for a while, friendly as can be. I always figure, might as well approach life like everybody’s your friend or nobody is. Don’t make much difference. We got in the middle of that frying pan, and suddenly everybody’s pointing their gun but me.” His eyes turned distant. “Guess they admired my horse.”
Emmett listened with sympathy. “Looks like that’s not all they admired.”
“Yep. The whole rig.” Paden sighed. “I don’t care much about the rest, but I surely will miss that bay,” he continued, eyes turning distant again. “Least they didn’t kill me. That was…right considerate, I thought.”
He paused, staring at nothing in particular, and Emmett waited for him to continue.
“They were laughing when they left me. Thought it was real funny.” Paden sucked in a breath. “I walked for a little while, but it was no use, so I gave it up. Figured it was just bad luck.”
“Well,” Emmett reached for the coffeepot again, “looks like those boys are headed south, so they weren’t the same ones that jumped me.” He filled Paden’s mug, turning to put the pot in the fire. “Where you goin’?”
Paden’s eyes flicked to the horses. “Where’s the pinto goin’?”
Emmett chuckled at that. “I gotta stop by Turley and meet a guy.”
“Where’s Turley?”
“South of here, past Chimayo.” Emmett finally stretched out himself, pulling over his sheepskin coat as a blanket.
Paden didn’t have a reply to that. He glanced around the campsite idly as Emmett settled down for the night, eyes landing on the scabbarded rifle tucked in the pinto’s saddle by his head. “Is this loaded?”
“Yep,” Emmett answered without looking. He closed his eyes and rolled over, his back to Paden.
Paden smiled to himself and, settling in for the night, wondered if his luck had changed for the better.