oom: room 25, for the doppelganger plot
"Josiah...this ain't the untamed prairie you used to run free over. The Governor, with a general at Shiloh, he's got militia, he's got Army, he's got money to pay glory hunters to run you day and night...and they're on their way. And they will kill you, Doc."
"You take care of yourself, Pat."
He can't remember the last time he ate.
Maybe it was yesterday, or the day before.
He's been riding around the desert ever since he started having trouble finding the door back to the bar. Bar's not normally like this, at least, when he's involved. He thinks about the bar, or needs the bar to show up, and he'll usually wander his way in within a reasonable time frame. A day or two, never much longer than that.
Except it's been weeks. Nearly a month. The money ran out awhile ago and there's only so much you can steal before people start to get suspicious of the blond haired man hanging around a place. People talk, in small towns. Murmurs and whispers that eventually grow into outright gossip, which means it's time for him to go.
The horse is tired.
He's tired.
Shadows stretch across the desert floor, the long limbs of the horse he's riding moving awkwardly across the sand. If he stares at it long enough, it reminds him of a piece of machinery. Moving. Stretching out across the ground. Maybe train tracks, long stretches of iron and steel...yeah, train tracks.
Everything's working against him. The heat, the hunger, the exhaustion. Part of him just wants to stop riding, but he can't. His hands won't work right, the leather reins resting against leather gloves. He wants to pull back on those reins. Stop. Stop.
"Atsay."
The horse's ears flick backward, then forward again.
"I said atsay."
They keep moving. Doc snorts, irritated, then shakes his head. He catches something in his eye, maybe it's dust, maybe it's a piece of hair, and then raises his hand up to rub at his closed eyelid. It's so damn hot. As much as he hates the heat, he knows he hates the snow worse, so he can't complain.
When he blinks to clear his vision, he spots a hint of dust off to the left, just over the next ridge. He tilts his head to the side, then shifts his hands to the left. The horse obeys the command, and they pick up and break off the dirt road, moving into scrub and brush. He can feel the branches brushing against his ankles, but the leather boots protect his skin. The leather saddle creaks as they track uphill, up the ridge...
Oh god no.
He can hear hoof beats in the distance, on the other side of that ridge. He knows what that dust is from. He knows because he's been here, only he wasn't alone when it happened. He wasn't alone when it happened because they weren't all dead, yet. His hands won't move, and his voice won't work, words catching in his throat.
No, no, run, you have to get out of here they'll catch you.
They'll kill you.
His legs do, and he spurs the horse, which gets him moving. The animal reacts to the hard kick and turns, and he rears a little on his hind legs before springing forward. He kicks up dust and runs.
It's all of them.
Kinney.
The Dona Ana Bunch.
Even the goddamn Cavalry regiment out of Fort Sumner.
They'll kill you.
They'll kill you.
They'll kill you.
And then the shot rings out.
He wakes up in a jail cell when they throw a bucket of cold water in his face. Someone's laughing, but he can't open his eyes. No...he's blindfolded. They tear the blindfold off and drag him up by the shoulders. Sheriff Brady is there. So is Ollinger.
This isn't right. Billy killed both of them.
Another man steps into the doorway of the cell, and stands in front of Doc.
Patrick Floyd Garrett.
"You take care of yourself, Pat."
Doc feels the anger boil up and he lunges at the lawman, but Brady and Ollinger are holding him back. Ollinger's laughing, and that earns him a kick in the leg before he turns and spits in Garrett's face.
"You son of a bitch. You killed them."
You killed me.
Garrett reaches up and wipes his face clean with his hand, then shakes his head.
"I warned you, Josiah." He sighs, heavily. "I warned you."
"You were on our side, Pat!"
The anger is so hot between his eyes that he feels it giving him a headache, and everything feels sluggish when he tries to focus. Fuzzy and hot and he's almost a little bit dizzy. There's sweat running down his spine and the sun's baking down from overhead.
(When the hell did they all get outside?)
Someone hits him in the head with the butt of a rifle and it all goes black.
He wakes up when he hears a hammer cock back, and the cold steel of a gun pressed up against his temple.
"Get up."
Doc squints up into the sun and can't quite make out the face of the man standing over him, for a moment, until his eyes adjust. He nods, slightly, and then pushes himself to his knees, then hauls himself up to his feet.
Someone else is standing behind him, that gun pressed against the back of his head, now.
(He doesn't turn around.)
"You're lucky," says the man.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man smiles. It's not a nice smile, either. He gets that chill at the back of his neck that he only gets when something's about to go wrong, but he should have expected that. He asks again.
"Who the hell are you?"
Where am I?
Who's standing behind me?
What are you going to do to me?
"Who the--"
And then the shot rings out.
"You take care of yourself, Pat."
He can't remember the last time he ate.
Maybe it was yesterday, or the day before.
He's been riding around the desert ever since he started having trouble finding the door back to the bar. Bar's not normally like this, at least, when he's involved. He thinks about the bar, or needs the bar to show up, and he'll usually wander his way in within a reasonable time frame. A day or two, never much longer than that.
Except it's been weeks. Nearly a month. The money ran out awhile ago and there's only so much you can steal before people start to get suspicious of the blond haired man hanging around a place. People talk, in small towns. Murmurs and whispers that eventually grow into outright gossip, which means it's time for him to go.
The horse is tired.
He's tired.
Shadows stretch across the desert floor, the long limbs of the horse he's riding moving awkwardly across the sand. If he stares at it long enough, it reminds him of a piece of machinery. Moving. Stretching out across the ground. Maybe train tracks, long stretches of iron and steel...yeah, train tracks.
Everything's working against him. The heat, the hunger, the exhaustion. Part of him just wants to stop riding, but he can't. His hands won't work right, the leather reins resting against leather gloves. He wants to pull back on those reins. Stop. Stop.
"Atsay."
The horse's ears flick backward, then forward again.
"I said atsay."
They keep moving. Doc snorts, irritated, then shakes his head. He catches something in his eye, maybe it's dust, maybe it's a piece of hair, and then raises his hand up to rub at his closed eyelid. It's so damn hot. As much as he hates the heat, he knows he hates the snow worse, so he can't complain.
When he blinks to clear his vision, he spots a hint of dust off to the left, just over the next ridge. He tilts his head to the side, then shifts his hands to the left. The horse obeys the command, and they pick up and break off the dirt road, moving into scrub and brush. He can feel the branches brushing against his ankles, but the leather boots protect his skin. The leather saddle creaks as they track uphill, up the ridge...
Oh god no.
He can hear hoof beats in the distance, on the other side of that ridge. He knows what that dust is from. He knows because he's been here, only he wasn't alone when it happened. He wasn't alone when it happened because they weren't all dead, yet. His hands won't move, and his voice won't work, words catching in his throat.
No, no, run, you have to get out of here they'll catch you.
They'll kill you.
His legs do, and he spurs the horse, which gets him moving. The animal reacts to the hard kick and turns, and he rears a little on his hind legs before springing forward. He kicks up dust and runs.
It's all of them.
Kinney.
The Dona Ana Bunch.
Even the goddamn Cavalry regiment out of Fort Sumner.
They'll kill you.
They'll kill you.
They'll kill you.
And then the shot rings out.
He wakes up in a jail cell when they throw a bucket of cold water in his face. Someone's laughing, but he can't open his eyes. No...he's blindfolded. They tear the blindfold off and drag him up by the shoulders. Sheriff Brady is there. So is Ollinger.
This isn't right. Billy killed both of them.
Another man steps into the doorway of the cell, and stands in front of Doc.
Patrick Floyd Garrett.
"You take care of yourself, Pat."
Doc feels the anger boil up and he lunges at the lawman, but Brady and Ollinger are holding him back. Ollinger's laughing, and that earns him a kick in the leg before he turns and spits in Garrett's face.
"You son of a bitch. You killed them."
You killed me.
Garrett reaches up and wipes his face clean with his hand, then shakes his head.
"I warned you, Josiah." He sighs, heavily. "I warned you."
"You were on our side, Pat!"
The anger is so hot between his eyes that he feels it giving him a headache, and everything feels sluggish when he tries to focus. Fuzzy and hot and he's almost a little bit dizzy. There's sweat running down his spine and the sun's baking down from overhead.
(When the hell did they all get outside?)
Someone hits him in the head with the butt of a rifle and it all goes black.
He wakes up when he hears a hammer cock back, and the cold steel of a gun pressed up against his temple.
"Get up."
Doc squints up into the sun and can't quite make out the face of the man standing over him, for a moment, until his eyes adjust. He nods, slightly, and then pushes himself to his knees, then hauls himself up to his feet.
Someone else is standing behind him, that gun pressed against the back of his head, now.
(He doesn't turn around.)
"You're lucky," says the man.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man smiles. It's not a nice smile, either. He gets that chill at the back of his neck that he only gets when something's about to go wrong, but he should have expected that. He asks again.
"Who the hell are you?"
Where am I?
Who's standing behind me?
What are you going to do to me?
"Who the--"
And then the shot rings out.