new years day 1884 // deadwood, dakota territory
He rides into the territory two weeks before the end of 1883, spending two days in Rapid City before heading northwest for the Black Hills.
New Year's Day, 1884, is spent in the bed of a well-paid woman named Josephine. She doesn't bother asking him why he came to Deadwood, because he seems like the type of man that belongs in a place like this. His beard is long enough to conceal the hollows in his cheeks; his dirty-blond hair falls to his shoulders, hiding the scars on his neck that she knows only come from the burn of a hemp cord around his throat.
She doesn't ask him why he's here.
She doesn't ask him his name.
(She figures he wouldn't tell it to her anyway, so she settles for calling him 'Sugar', because he's oh-so-sweet when he kisses her on the neck and on the jaw, his fingers tracing the boning of her corset like he's drawing letters in fog on a sheet of windowpane.)
It's easier to forget the gunshots this way.
The way John jerked with each bullet's impact.
The way his body crumpled to the ground.
The way they ran.
Leaving him.
She curls her fingers tighter against his scalp as he presses his hips down against hers; when they're through, she moves from the bed to redress before he curls his fingers around her wrist.
He tells her to send someone to get their breakfast, and presses a handful of silver dollars into her palm. It's more than enough for the night's pay, enough for three days if she were to be particularly busy, but she doesn't question it.
They eat biscuits with ham and gravy, sitting at the table by the window in their underclothes. She drinks tea; he drinks from a half-empty bottle of whiskey until it's another half-gone.
"There's gonna be a hanging, today," she says later, as he's buttoning his shirt. "Down in the town square. Mr. S is lettin' us all have the afternoon off to watch the proceedings."
She's busy adjusting her stockings and doesn't notice the way he hesitates before speaking.
"What's the man been convicted of?"
"Shot ol' man Parsons last week, after they'd been drinking at a place up the road." She sighs. "It seemed as if Doc Walker thought he'd pull through, but he died on Tuesday."
"Mm."
"Whole town's gonna turn out. It should be quite a spectacle. Don't often get a hangin'," she approaches him from behind, smiling at him in the mirror on the wash table before turning around. "You mind giving me a hand, hmm?"
The laces of her corset dangle down her spine, delicate silk curving down over her backside. His eyes follow the path his fingertips don't.
"You don't want to see a hangin'," he murmurs. "Nothin' but folks hollerin' and a man pissin' himself on the gallows."
"True, but in these parts, it's so rare to actually see one. Most of the time folks just settle things by shootin' at each other until they're both lyin' up in Moriah."
"It's a better end to a man's life than by the rope."
She turns around and faces him. "Now, I know you're new in town and all, Sugar, but listen here. You don't miss a hangin' and not be noticed for it, you hear me?" She reaches back and begins tugging at the cords of the corset on her own. "Whether you go or not is your concern, but if there's one thing that gets a man lookin' for a piece of ass faster than a bottle of whiskey? It's a hangin'. And I intend on makin' quite a bit of money this evening."
He watches as she turns her back to him again.
After a moment, he speaks:
"What if I told you that I have every intention of accompanying you to this hangin' so as to keep any other gentleman who might get ideas about spending time in your company from gettin' those ideas?"
She turns to him, corset finally tied, and places a hand on her hip. "And just what is that supposed to imply?"
The distance closed between them, he lowers his head to let his forehead brush against hers, their slow footsteps taking them closer to the room's closed door. "As it seems I can't convince you to miss the event for the world, try as I might...I've got to make arrangements for my entertainment for the evening."
"is that so."
It's not a question.
Neither is his hand against the outside of her thigh, or her lips against his mouth, or her arms around his neck as he lifts her off the floor. Her back hits the solid oak of the doorframe at the same time she wraps her legs around his waist; she digs her nails into the back of his shirt as the sound of his gunbelt hitting the floor joins the beating rush of her own heartbeat in her ears.
They're late to the hanging, but manage to catch the finale.
It's the end result that matters, anyway.