Outlaw's Prayer (ch. 16)
Title: Outlaw's Prayer (16/22)
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: R
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: A short chapter this week, to make up for the two huge parts of flashbacks from last week haha. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15, part one
Chapter 15, part two
"It was all for you. I did not think this would happen." - Henry Newton Brown in a letter to his wife, before being lynched for murder and robbery
Blood. It was all Kyle saw drenching the landscape...so much blood.
He lay helpless and trapped under the weight of his beloved, mutilated horse, unable to prevent the bloodshed he witnessed before him, powerless to even shield his eyes from the carnage. Kyle looked at the streets of Hope littered with bodies of friends and strangers alike, of allies, enemies and lovers, and his mind relayed back to where it all went terribly wrong.
The Kings's plan had been to ride close to Hope and assess the situation, with the lingering suspicion that their conscientious leader had no real plan at all. They left at daybreak and reached the town's borders at an impatient trot of their mounts' hooves, the rolling, ominous gray clouds overhead blocking out all remnants of the sun. Their ride was a silent one, David's eyes always trained on the horizon, Neal's jaw squarely set and clenched, both their minds on only one goal: to rescue their fallen partner in crime.
As Hope came into view, the three men saw that a rescue was no longer possible.
A sturdy juniper tree on the outskirts of town told the story in glaring, horrific detail: a taut rope dangled from its highest, gnarled branch, swaying gently in the dying breezes of last night's storm, the man attached to its end hanging limply, reduced to little more than a shadow.
Kyle's breath caught in his throat as he resisted the urge to run; he turned his head and retched instead, frighteningly aware that the first dead body he ever witnessed as an outlaw was one of his close friends. Andy's hands were bound behind his back, his right arm jutting out at a strange angle, as if twisting away from the rest of his body in pain at the last moments of life. His head strained out of an ill-fitting knot in the length of rope, the curve of the noose digging into the flesh underneath his chin, purplish welts blooming there from the pressure. His stringy, unwashed long hair hid his face from view, but there was no mistaking the man hanging in the air, the justice of a sheriff or the vengeance of an angry mob coming to its due.
The youngest member of their gang couldn't bear to look any longer, but quite different emotions ran deep through his companions. "No!!" shouted David, a horrific, guttural sound, his face contorting in grief and rage. He was supposed to save him...he was supposed to get them all out alive. Hot tears sprung uncontrollably from his eyes, blurring his vision as he drew his revolver from its holster. He failed him, David thought tragically, spurring Sugarfoot into action, blindly galloping towards town with no plan, and no reason to formulate one. He failed them all.
"Andy!" he continued to shout, his mournful screams pierced through the silent town, the outlaw throwing caution to the depths of hell as he raged, no longer caring if his voice roused the people from their safe little homes in their safe little town. "Andy!"
Let them come, he thought grimly as he cocked his gun with the knuckle of his thumb. The Kings were no longer there for a rescue; they were there for vengeance.
Neal reacted with much less commotion but no less feeling; he was as unmoving as a statue upon his mount at the sight of Andy, so still he could not even bring himself to breathe. But in the next second stillness turned to raw action, silent and instinctive, as he drew his gun and fired in one swift motion, the bullet finding its mark and ripping through the rope's knot at the branch. Instantly Andy fell to the ground in a heap, Neal already digging his heels into Sixx's sides, urging him at full speed towards the fallen man, his mind refusing to dwell on the probability that there would be no life left in Andy's body when he arrived.
All that went through Neal's mind at that moment was he had to get to Andy, no matter what. He had to get to him.
Almost following his own instincts and not those of his rider, Gangles went to follow in the hoofprints of Sixx and Sugarfoot, galloping towards Hope without any sense of what could or might happen next. Kyle was propelled against his own will, his body still in shock, unable to stop Gangles or do much of anything but grip the reins, holding on for his life.
Neal reached Andy first, dismounting hastily, nearly throwing himself off his horse to be by his side. Immediately he wrenched the noose from Andy's throat, the Dr.'s strong, stoic face a sharp contrast to the emotions coursing through him. David rode up beside them, gun at the ready, torn between watching the surrounding area for threats and staring down at his best friends, one pulling the other's lifeless body into a tight embrace, Neal burying his face in the crook of Andy's neck, fingers digging into the bloodstained fabric of his shirt.
It was in that one moment of weakness, of blind emotion and remorse when David looked down at the tragedy before him, that fate grasped the upper hand and sent a bullet through David Cook's flesh.
Gangles reared up on his hind legs at the sound of gunfire nearby, jostling Kyle in his saddle and forcing the young man to take control of his mount. He watched in horror from his distance as the bullet pierced David's thigh, ripping through muscle and bone and finding an exit out the other side, penetrating Sugarfoot's flank. The injured horse gave a shriek as it felt the pain long before her master, bucking and running for safety. Only when David, gripping his gun in one hand and holding onto his thigh in the other, tumbled off Sugarfoot's back and landed in the muddy street did Kyle see anguish on the outlaw's face, eyes shut tight and teeth clenched in pain.
It occurred to them both at the same time, leader and disciple, teacher, student, and friends, that the Kings rode directly into an ambush.
David scrambled to his feet immediately, the pain in his thigh overlooked in the face of his survival instinct, the blood flowing from the wound and coating his fingers ignored. He took one second to gain his bearings, his trusted horse abandoning him out of panic, his men under siege. He looked around the empty streets, assessing the dangers of an unseen enemy, and then with a cruel decisiveness Kyle had never seen before in him David raised his revolver and fired into a building, the sound of the gunshot followed by a tinkling of shattered glass and the faint yet unmistakable grunt of a man being shot dead.
With their safehouse no longer safe, the door of the Lambert Inn burst open, people teeming out in a panic, some men with guns drawn, others looking to flee and spare their lives. David discriminated against no one, shooting down both the fearful and the brave with thoughts only of what the Kings had lost, of what that town had taken from them. His bullets hit one man squarely in the forehead as he fled, running clear through the mole on his face like a bullseye, and another man sporting a pistol but not adept enough to shoot it, his blood soon running in rivers along the cherry blossoms tattooed onto his forearm and into the mud.
Kyle could no longer stand by and watch as his friends and partners were ambushed; he spurred Gangles on as he unholstered the twin pistols at his sides, knowing this time he could not save the Kings with a mere stampede. With a resounding battle cry he did not even know he had in him, Kyle rushed towards the town, aiming to situate himself between where David stood ground, and the base of the juniper tree where Neal and Andy lay. He mustered all of the training given to him by their fallen partner, all of the adrenaline and guts he could gather within himself, as he opened fire.
He killed his first man that day, watched his bullet rip through the luxurious fabric of a suit jacket as it struck home in a man's chest, his only consolation for watching his victim's blue-gray eyes close forever was that he had saved David from a similar fate. With a grim, empty satisfaction Kyle saw the lifeblood drain out of him, forming a pool around his tall, imposing frame and matting in his blue-black hair; the young man was too morbidly entranced by his own handiwork to see the figure creeping from the back alley of the inn, raising a revolver to his sightline, undetected by the rampaging outlaws, and fired a round directly at Kyle.
Only a slight shift of his weight by chance saved Kyle's life; Gangles re-situated himself with the intuitiveness of his rider's movements, only to be unwittingly betrayed by a bullet meant for his owner. The shot that only seconds before would have pierced Kyle's heart went into Gangles's muzzle, the horse shrieking in pain before rearing up in one last burst of panicked life. Startled by the shot, Kyle had no time to pull on the reins or steady himself, the massive and loyal beast underneath him suddenly falling away as Kyle hit the ground face-down with a sickening thud. He tried to scramble away but there was no time, not even a second to save himself, as his beloved Gangles let out his last breath, his useless legs crippling under the dead weight, and toppled over onto Kyle.
Pain more excruciating than he had ever experienced in his young life coursed through his body like a locomotive, the horse's unforgiving corpse shattering the bones in his legs on impact, pinning him to the ground. There was no escaping this fate, no more thoughts of running or riding away from danger, his legs immobile and useless, the horse he had cared for since a foal, watched his very birth, lying dead atop him. Kyle had no time to mourn his Gangles or dwell on the crushing pain that threatened to make him lose consciousness with every passing second; his friends were still in danger, and so was he. The bullet that had caused this must have come from somewhere the outlaws weren't looking: through eyesight blurred by the blunt, monstrous pain in his legs, Kyle tried to find the culprit, his hands still gripping the pistols, his body in some self-surviving way knowing he had to kill to stay alive. But his senses were flooded with all of the bloodshed, the smell of sticky, hot blood mixing with the muddy ground entering his nostrils, the feel of his own blood beginning to pool underneath him. He couldn't focus on a clear shot, couldn't tear his mind away from the terrible sensations; Kyle thought this was truly the end.
But suddenly a figure rose above him, using the dead horse's body both as a shield and a pedestal, a guttural warcry pierced through the air, striking fear into the hearts of all within earshot. Straining to identify the man, Kyle fought back waves of nauseating pain as he looked up, shocked at the sight before him.
Neal stood poised on the Kings's battlefield, his jaw jutted out in a carnal sneer, a revolver in each of his deadly hands--one Andy's, one his own. His chest heaving with deep, angry pants, his cold blue eyes scanned the townscape, his hands soon following, his fingers heavy on their triggers. A dark, wet spot stained his left shoulder, spreading along his shirt down to the elbow, someone's lucky shot grazing the sharpshooter's skin and effective only in making him madder. Fueled purely by his rage, Neal surveyed Hope, this useless, underestimated shithole of a town that aimed to be the great outlaw gang's undoing, and vowed to take his revenge on every living soul that came within range of his bullets. The Dr. would provide no mercy here.
This town took someone precious from him, strung him up and left him to die unloved and alone on the barren branch of a juniper tree. Neal was going to make them all pay.
Like an unstoppable railroad train Neal advanced on the crowd outside the Lambert Inn, shooting off the guns in each hand with extreme prejudice and no regard for innocents caught in the crossfire; to him, every life in Hope was to blame for the Kings's loss, for his loss, and everyone was accountable for his punishment. Each of the bullets he fired found a different target, a different victim falling to the ground with each pull of the triggers. He jerked to the side and caught the lone gunman lingering in the alley of the inn, the bullet finding home in the short man's throat where on a taller man it would have reached his chest, blood spurting from the wound like a fountain as he fell. Neal kept charging, a one-man battalion against the town that tore his heart from his body, refusing to stop even when more bullets riddled his frame, Kyle helpless to watch the bullets reach their mark over and over again.
How can they stop him, Kyle thought with a heaviness in his chest, his voice surely screaming over the sound of gunfire though he could hardly hear anything but his heart thundering in his ears. Destroying them's the only thing he has left.
He managed to seek his revenge upon eight of the unfortunate people of Hope, discovering far too late the town's namesake held nothing but an empty promise for all. But the town also took from Neal what it sacrificed, bullets slicing through his skin, tearing at both his body and his willpower, a sixth shot piercing his heart and finally bringing the stubborn sharpshooter to his knees. He teetered on his feet, the bullets blazing at a nonstop pace from his guns finally ceasing as his arms fell limply to his sides, swerving from the momentum of his moving body connecting with the shot. When he fell Kyle felt it in his throat, felt the gasp and the sob rise as Neal's body sank into the muddy ground. His head towards Kyle, ice blue eyes open, staring but no longer seeing, Neal's face was stained with a mix of tears and blood, both shed in rage and grief over his lost love.
Kyle couldn't move, couldn't even think after that, the gunfight still raging on around him blind to his eyes, deaf to his ears. His friends were dying around him, the men he had risked his life to follow, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt wetness on his cheeks and couldn't tell if it was sweat, tears or blood; it could have been all three. Kyle felt himself screaming but could not hear it, his mind focused on the all-too-vivid memories permeating his senses. The world only came rushing back in on him when he heard a familiar voice by his side, urging him in a desperate tone to move.
"Get out of here, kid!" It was David, revolver in hand, the intricate "AC" tooled into the gunmetal covered in the outlaw's own blood. He retreated to the carcass of the fallen horse in a hail of gunfire, the inn housing an unknown number of gunmen within its walls, shooting like cowards through windowpanes and the cracks of doors. His right arm lay heavy and dead at his side, the sleeve striped with streams of blood, and he limped heavily on his one good leg as he approached, finally collapsing inches from Kyle.
There was no hope for him, David thought, his eyesight growing red with blood loss and anger; no hope for Andy or for Neal, their destinies to die by the gun decided for them years ago, fate catching up with them in this tiny town they thought was harmless. The Kings would be dead and buried, scattered away like the desert sands. But David still held his hope in the kid, believed that at least one of them, the best of them, could get away. David couldn't live with himself if he knew he got Kyle Peek killed, not after the eager young man held such faith in him as their leader.
A shot from one of the top windows in the building came hurtling towards the once mighty outlaw and lodged itself in his belly, causing him to let out a yelp of pain, spitting up blood. If David's decisions did get Kyle killed, he wouldn't have to live with that guilt for long.
Kyle wished he could comply with his leader's orders, will himself away to somewhere safe, a place where they would all be whole and alive again, the great Kings once more. But his poor horse was shot dead, his legs crushed and useless underneath him, and there looked to be no escape from the barrage of bullets aimed towards the outlaws. David's call to retreat was a valiant and compassionate order but not one Kyle even had the hope of accomplishing. "I can't," he said; a new emotion washed over him, an odd, out of place sensation of calm, that stiffened his resolve. None of them could escape this fate and he resigned himself to it: for a short, glorious time, Kyle Peek lived like a King, and now, he would die like one. "I won't."
But David was resolute in his order to Kyle; his face cringed in pain, his one good arm clutching the fresh wound at his gut. "Get out, Kyle!" he screamed, using the young man's real name for the last time. His vision completely left him now, David knowing Kyle was still alive only by the sounds of his pained, panicked breathing over the gunfire. "While you still can! Get--out--"
Suddenly David slumped to the side, unable to hold up the weight of his body any longer; his eyes closed, a deep hazel in the gray morning light that so beautifully reflected the same eyes of the lost love in Texas he would leave behind. With one last shuddering breath all signs of struggle in his body ceased, and the once great leader of the Kings was dead.
"No!!" Kyle let out a wail, wishing he could reach his arms out towards David, straining to move and finding his body would give him nothing in return. He couldn't believe this was happening; he couldn't accept that they were dead, all of the Kings, not the fearless outlaw gang who made the West their own. Not when Neal and Andy cared for one another so much they would take on the world for each other; not when David still had Kelly waiting for him, both lovers longing for the moment he could come back to her. This wasn't the way their legend was supposed to end.
He took one scornful look at the carnage in front of the Lambert Inn, the facade of the old saloon splattered with the blood of its inhabitants. The Kings had taken a good deal of life out of Hope but the town stole more from them in turn, had stolen their very wills to go on. All this death...all this bloodshed, and no way to have stopped it. Kyle clenched his eyes shut as he wept for all of the dead that lay on their battlegrounds, outlaw and lawman alike, his mind and body resigning to the end. When he let out his last anguished scream he never even saw the last gunfighter take aim at his mangled, immobile body, and fire.
***
"No!"
Kyle awoke with a jerk, his hands immediately reaching up to shield his head from the phantom bullet. His mind was racing, skin drenched in a nervous sweat, his heart nearly beating out of his ribcage.
But his arms, they moved; his lungs still had air to breathe, to shout. And when he bolted up from his bedroll with a start, he discovered his legs were whole and unscathed, unharmed from the damage he had suffered in the dream.
A dream, he thought with a great sigh of relief, his eyes quickly scanning the area to find the remnants of their camp, and not a bloody end to a gunfight on the streets of Hope. The shootings, the death--it was all a dream.
More like a nightmare, he considered, once Kyle regained his bearings and stopped shouting like a madman, heaving in gulps of air to try to calm his racing heart. A vision of a fate he would not wish upon his worst enemy, much less the men he considered to be his closest friends. When they had heard the news of Andy's arrest his subconscious had conjured up the worst scenario Kyle could ever imagine, the bloody decimation of the outlaw gang, dying in a blaze of gunfire the likes of which New Mexico, and perhaps even all the great West, had never seen. He knew it hadn't been real but it sure felt like it, the emotional and physical pain still so vivid he thought he could reach out and touch the blood, feel David and Neal's wounds as if they were a part of their living bodies.
Neither one of the outlaws acknowledged Kyle's frantic outburst from his sleep. David, face ashen and serious, seemed to have much more on his mind than Kyle's mental well-being. Neal had not even looked up from his place at the dying fire, his eyes wet and glassy from sleeplessness and something else Kyle had no hope of deciphering. Their concerns were spent on Andy, worrying and devising plans on how to get him back alive; Kyle, though at times proving quite the opposite, could take care of himself for the time being.
But as the dawn arose, revealing tired, gray storm clouds overhead, blocking out the sun, Kyle felt less and less reassured that his dream was only a nightmare and not a premonition, a dire, terrible prediction of things to come. David ordered with a stern tone for the camp to be cleared and the Kings to ride out from the ridge, without mentioning where they would ride or what lay ahead of them. Kyle performed his duties quickly and silently, avoiding the gazes of both men, worried they might see the reflections of his nightmare in his eyes, scared he himself would glance over at Neal or David and see their battle wounds, visions of their bloody, dead bodies haunting him now even when he stood awake and alert. He was relieved beyond measure to see his Gangles safe and sound, but even the gentle horse could tell Kyle was ill at ease; he snorted and shied away when Kyle approached and placed a hand on his muzzle in reassurance, instantly aware of the apprehension in the young man's touch. And when they embarked on their ride through a sodden, rain-soaked New Mexican landscape, Kyle felt the sense of dread so intensely it formed a lump in his throat, rendering him unable to speak without tears welling in his eyes.
Fearful of the images his dream provided, Kyle could not tell if the Kings rode out to rescue one of their own, or if they were riding to their very deaths.
Chapter 17
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: R
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: A short chapter this week, to make up for the two huge parts of flashbacks from last week haha. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15, part one
Chapter 15, part two
"It was all for you. I did not think this would happen." - Henry Newton Brown in a letter to his wife, before being lynched for murder and robbery
Blood. It was all Kyle saw drenching the landscape...so much blood.
He lay helpless and trapped under the weight of his beloved, mutilated horse, unable to prevent the bloodshed he witnessed before him, powerless to even shield his eyes from the carnage. Kyle looked at the streets of Hope littered with bodies of friends and strangers alike, of allies, enemies and lovers, and his mind relayed back to where it all went terribly wrong.
The Kings's plan had been to ride close to Hope and assess the situation, with the lingering suspicion that their conscientious leader had no real plan at all. They left at daybreak and reached the town's borders at an impatient trot of their mounts' hooves, the rolling, ominous gray clouds overhead blocking out all remnants of the sun. Their ride was a silent one, David's eyes always trained on the horizon, Neal's jaw squarely set and clenched, both their minds on only one goal: to rescue their fallen partner in crime.
As Hope came into view, the three men saw that a rescue was no longer possible.
A sturdy juniper tree on the outskirts of town told the story in glaring, horrific detail: a taut rope dangled from its highest, gnarled branch, swaying gently in the dying breezes of last night's storm, the man attached to its end hanging limply, reduced to little more than a shadow.
Kyle's breath caught in his throat as he resisted the urge to run; he turned his head and retched instead, frighteningly aware that the first dead body he ever witnessed as an outlaw was one of his close friends. Andy's hands were bound behind his back, his right arm jutting out at a strange angle, as if twisting away from the rest of his body in pain at the last moments of life. His head strained out of an ill-fitting knot in the length of rope, the curve of the noose digging into the flesh underneath his chin, purplish welts blooming there from the pressure. His stringy, unwashed long hair hid his face from view, but there was no mistaking the man hanging in the air, the justice of a sheriff or the vengeance of an angry mob coming to its due.
The youngest member of their gang couldn't bear to look any longer, but quite different emotions ran deep through his companions. "No!!" shouted David, a horrific, guttural sound, his face contorting in grief and rage. He was supposed to save him...he was supposed to get them all out alive. Hot tears sprung uncontrollably from his eyes, blurring his vision as he drew his revolver from its holster. He failed him, David thought tragically, spurring Sugarfoot into action, blindly galloping towards town with no plan, and no reason to formulate one. He failed them all.
"Andy!" he continued to shout, his mournful screams pierced through the silent town, the outlaw throwing caution to the depths of hell as he raged, no longer caring if his voice roused the people from their safe little homes in their safe little town. "Andy!"
Let them come, he thought grimly as he cocked his gun with the knuckle of his thumb. The Kings were no longer there for a rescue; they were there for vengeance.
Neal reacted with much less commotion but no less feeling; he was as unmoving as a statue upon his mount at the sight of Andy, so still he could not even bring himself to breathe. But in the next second stillness turned to raw action, silent and instinctive, as he drew his gun and fired in one swift motion, the bullet finding its mark and ripping through the rope's knot at the branch. Instantly Andy fell to the ground in a heap, Neal already digging his heels into Sixx's sides, urging him at full speed towards the fallen man, his mind refusing to dwell on the probability that there would be no life left in Andy's body when he arrived.
All that went through Neal's mind at that moment was he had to get to Andy, no matter what. He had to get to him.
Almost following his own instincts and not those of his rider, Gangles went to follow in the hoofprints of Sixx and Sugarfoot, galloping towards Hope without any sense of what could or might happen next. Kyle was propelled against his own will, his body still in shock, unable to stop Gangles or do much of anything but grip the reins, holding on for his life.
Neal reached Andy first, dismounting hastily, nearly throwing himself off his horse to be by his side. Immediately he wrenched the noose from Andy's throat, the Dr.'s strong, stoic face a sharp contrast to the emotions coursing through him. David rode up beside them, gun at the ready, torn between watching the surrounding area for threats and staring down at his best friends, one pulling the other's lifeless body into a tight embrace, Neal burying his face in the crook of Andy's neck, fingers digging into the bloodstained fabric of his shirt.
It was in that one moment of weakness, of blind emotion and remorse when David looked down at the tragedy before him, that fate grasped the upper hand and sent a bullet through David Cook's flesh.
Gangles reared up on his hind legs at the sound of gunfire nearby, jostling Kyle in his saddle and forcing the young man to take control of his mount. He watched in horror from his distance as the bullet pierced David's thigh, ripping through muscle and bone and finding an exit out the other side, penetrating Sugarfoot's flank. The injured horse gave a shriek as it felt the pain long before her master, bucking and running for safety. Only when David, gripping his gun in one hand and holding onto his thigh in the other, tumbled off Sugarfoot's back and landed in the muddy street did Kyle see anguish on the outlaw's face, eyes shut tight and teeth clenched in pain.
It occurred to them both at the same time, leader and disciple, teacher, student, and friends, that the Kings rode directly into an ambush.
David scrambled to his feet immediately, the pain in his thigh overlooked in the face of his survival instinct, the blood flowing from the wound and coating his fingers ignored. He took one second to gain his bearings, his trusted horse abandoning him out of panic, his men under siege. He looked around the empty streets, assessing the dangers of an unseen enemy, and then with a cruel decisiveness Kyle had never seen before in him David raised his revolver and fired into a building, the sound of the gunshot followed by a tinkling of shattered glass and the faint yet unmistakable grunt of a man being shot dead.
With their safehouse no longer safe, the door of the Lambert Inn burst open, people teeming out in a panic, some men with guns drawn, others looking to flee and spare their lives. David discriminated against no one, shooting down both the fearful and the brave with thoughts only of what the Kings had lost, of what that town had taken from them. His bullets hit one man squarely in the forehead as he fled, running clear through the mole on his face like a bullseye, and another man sporting a pistol but not adept enough to shoot it, his blood soon running in rivers along the cherry blossoms tattooed onto his forearm and into the mud.
Kyle could no longer stand by and watch as his friends and partners were ambushed; he spurred Gangles on as he unholstered the twin pistols at his sides, knowing this time he could not save the Kings with a mere stampede. With a resounding battle cry he did not even know he had in him, Kyle rushed towards the town, aiming to situate himself between where David stood ground, and the base of the juniper tree where Neal and Andy lay. He mustered all of the training given to him by their fallen partner, all of the adrenaline and guts he could gather within himself, as he opened fire.
He killed his first man that day, watched his bullet rip through the luxurious fabric of a suit jacket as it struck home in a man's chest, his only consolation for watching his victim's blue-gray eyes close forever was that he had saved David from a similar fate. With a grim, empty satisfaction Kyle saw the lifeblood drain out of him, forming a pool around his tall, imposing frame and matting in his blue-black hair; the young man was too morbidly entranced by his own handiwork to see the figure creeping from the back alley of the inn, raising a revolver to his sightline, undetected by the rampaging outlaws, and fired a round directly at Kyle.
Only a slight shift of his weight by chance saved Kyle's life; Gangles re-situated himself with the intuitiveness of his rider's movements, only to be unwittingly betrayed by a bullet meant for his owner. The shot that only seconds before would have pierced Kyle's heart went into Gangles's muzzle, the horse shrieking in pain before rearing up in one last burst of panicked life. Startled by the shot, Kyle had no time to pull on the reins or steady himself, the massive and loyal beast underneath him suddenly falling away as Kyle hit the ground face-down with a sickening thud. He tried to scramble away but there was no time, not even a second to save himself, as his beloved Gangles let out his last breath, his useless legs crippling under the dead weight, and toppled over onto Kyle.
Pain more excruciating than he had ever experienced in his young life coursed through his body like a locomotive, the horse's unforgiving corpse shattering the bones in his legs on impact, pinning him to the ground. There was no escaping this fate, no more thoughts of running or riding away from danger, his legs immobile and useless, the horse he had cared for since a foal, watched his very birth, lying dead atop him. Kyle had no time to mourn his Gangles or dwell on the crushing pain that threatened to make him lose consciousness with every passing second; his friends were still in danger, and so was he. The bullet that had caused this must have come from somewhere the outlaws weren't looking: through eyesight blurred by the blunt, monstrous pain in his legs, Kyle tried to find the culprit, his hands still gripping the pistols, his body in some self-surviving way knowing he had to kill to stay alive. But his senses were flooded with all of the bloodshed, the smell of sticky, hot blood mixing with the muddy ground entering his nostrils, the feel of his own blood beginning to pool underneath him. He couldn't focus on a clear shot, couldn't tear his mind away from the terrible sensations; Kyle thought this was truly the end.
But suddenly a figure rose above him, using the dead horse's body both as a shield and a pedestal, a guttural warcry pierced through the air, striking fear into the hearts of all within earshot. Straining to identify the man, Kyle fought back waves of nauseating pain as he looked up, shocked at the sight before him.
Neal stood poised on the Kings's battlefield, his jaw jutted out in a carnal sneer, a revolver in each of his deadly hands--one Andy's, one his own. His chest heaving with deep, angry pants, his cold blue eyes scanned the townscape, his hands soon following, his fingers heavy on their triggers. A dark, wet spot stained his left shoulder, spreading along his shirt down to the elbow, someone's lucky shot grazing the sharpshooter's skin and effective only in making him madder. Fueled purely by his rage, Neal surveyed Hope, this useless, underestimated shithole of a town that aimed to be the great outlaw gang's undoing, and vowed to take his revenge on every living soul that came within range of his bullets. The Dr. would provide no mercy here.
This town took someone precious from him, strung him up and left him to die unloved and alone on the barren branch of a juniper tree. Neal was going to make them all pay.
Like an unstoppable railroad train Neal advanced on the crowd outside the Lambert Inn, shooting off the guns in each hand with extreme prejudice and no regard for innocents caught in the crossfire; to him, every life in Hope was to blame for the Kings's loss, for his loss, and everyone was accountable for his punishment. Each of the bullets he fired found a different target, a different victim falling to the ground with each pull of the triggers. He jerked to the side and caught the lone gunman lingering in the alley of the inn, the bullet finding home in the short man's throat where on a taller man it would have reached his chest, blood spurting from the wound like a fountain as he fell. Neal kept charging, a one-man battalion against the town that tore his heart from his body, refusing to stop even when more bullets riddled his frame, Kyle helpless to watch the bullets reach their mark over and over again.
How can they stop him, Kyle thought with a heaviness in his chest, his voice surely screaming over the sound of gunfire though he could hardly hear anything but his heart thundering in his ears. Destroying them's the only thing he has left.
He managed to seek his revenge upon eight of the unfortunate people of Hope, discovering far too late the town's namesake held nothing but an empty promise for all. But the town also took from Neal what it sacrificed, bullets slicing through his skin, tearing at both his body and his willpower, a sixth shot piercing his heart and finally bringing the stubborn sharpshooter to his knees. He teetered on his feet, the bullets blazing at a nonstop pace from his guns finally ceasing as his arms fell limply to his sides, swerving from the momentum of his moving body connecting with the shot. When he fell Kyle felt it in his throat, felt the gasp and the sob rise as Neal's body sank into the muddy ground. His head towards Kyle, ice blue eyes open, staring but no longer seeing, Neal's face was stained with a mix of tears and blood, both shed in rage and grief over his lost love.
Kyle couldn't move, couldn't even think after that, the gunfight still raging on around him blind to his eyes, deaf to his ears. His friends were dying around him, the men he had risked his life to follow, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt wetness on his cheeks and couldn't tell if it was sweat, tears or blood; it could have been all three. Kyle felt himself screaming but could not hear it, his mind focused on the all-too-vivid memories permeating his senses. The world only came rushing back in on him when he heard a familiar voice by his side, urging him in a desperate tone to move.
"Get out of here, kid!" It was David, revolver in hand, the intricate "AC" tooled into the gunmetal covered in the outlaw's own blood. He retreated to the carcass of the fallen horse in a hail of gunfire, the inn housing an unknown number of gunmen within its walls, shooting like cowards through windowpanes and the cracks of doors. His right arm lay heavy and dead at his side, the sleeve striped with streams of blood, and he limped heavily on his one good leg as he approached, finally collapsing inches from Kyle.
There was no hope for him, David thought, his eyesight growing red with blood loss and anger; no hope for Andy or for Neal, their destinies to die by the gun decided for them years ago, fate catching up with them in this tiny town they thought was harmless. The Kings would be dead and buried, scattered away like the desert sands. But David still held his hope in the kid, believed that at least one of them, the best of them, could get away. David couldn't live with himself if he knew he got Kyle Peek killed, not after the eager young man held such faith in him as their leader.
A shot from one of the top windows in the building came hurtling towards the once mighty outlaw and lodged itself in his belly, causing him to let out a yelp of pain, spitting up blood. If David's decisions did get Kyle killed, he wouldn't have to live with that guilt for long.
Kyle wished he could comply with his leader's orders, will himself away to somewhere safe, a place where they would all be whole and alive again, the great Kings once more. But his poor horse was shot dead, his legs crushed and useless underneath him, and there looked to be no escape from the barrage of bullets aimed towards the outlaws. David's call to retreat was a valiant and compassionate order but not one Kyle even had the hope of accomplishing. "I can't," he said; a new emotion washed over him, an odd, out of place sensation of calm, that stiffened his resolve. None of them could escape this fate and he resigned himself to it: for a short, glorious time, Kyle Peek lived like a King, and now, he would die like one. "I won't."
But David was resolute in his order to Kyle; his face cringed in pain, his one good arm clutching the fresh wound at his gut. "Get out, Kyle!" he screamed, using the young man's real name for the last time. His vision completely left him now, David knowing Kyle was still alive only by the sounds of his pained, panicked breathing over the gunfire. "While you still can! Get--out--"
Suddenly David slumped to the side, unable to hold up the weight of his body any longer; his eyes closed, a deep hazel in the gray morning light that so beautifully reflected the same eyes of the lost love in Texas he would leave behind. With one last shuddering breath all signs of struggle in his body ceased, and the once great leader of the Kings was dead.
"No!!" Kyle let out a wail, wishing he could reach his arms out towards David, straining to move and finding his body would give him nothing in return. He couldn't believe this was happening; he couldn't accept that they were dead, all of the Kings, not the fearless outlaw gang who made the West their own. Not when Neal and Andy cared for one another so much they would take on the world for each other; not when David still had Kelly waiting for him, both lovers longing for the moment he could come back to her. This wasn't the way their legend was supposed to end.
He took one scornful look at the carnage in front of the Lambert Inn, the facade of the old saloon splattered with the blood of its inhabitants. The Kings had taken a good deal of life out of Hope but the town stole more from them in turn, had stolen their very wills to go on. All this death...all this bloodshed, and no way to have stopped it. Kyle clenched his eyes shut as he wept for all of the dead that lay on their battlegrounds, outlaw and lawman alike, his mind and body resigning to the end. When he let out his last anguished scream he never even saw the last gunfighter take aim at his mangled, immobile body, and fire.
***
"No!"
Kyle awoke with a jerk, his hands immediately reaching up to shield his head from the phantom bullet. His mind was racing, skin drenched in a nervous sweat, his heart nearly beating out of his ribcage.
But his arms, they moved; his lungs still had air to breathe, to shout. And when he bolted up from his bedroll with a start, he discovered his legs were whole and unscathed, unharmed from the damage he had suffered in the dream.
A dream, he thought with a great sigh of relief, his eyes quickly scanning the area to find the remnants of their camp, and not a bloody end to a gunfight on the streets of Hope. The shootings, the death--it was all a dream.
More like a nightmare, he considered, once Kyle regained his bearings and stopped shouting like a madman, heaving in gulps of air to try to calm his racing heart. A vision of a fate he would not wish upon his worst enemy, much less the men he considered to be his closest friends. When they had heard the news of Andy's arrest his subconscious had conjured up the worst scenario Kyle could ever imagine, the bloody decimation of the outlaw gang, dying in a blaze of gunfire the likes of which New Mexico, and perhaps even all the great West, had never seen. He knew it hadn't been real but it sure felt like it, the emotional and physical pain still so vivid he thought he could reach out and touch the blood, feel David and Neal's wounds as if they were a part of their living bodies.
Neither one of the outlaws acknowledged Kyle's frantic outburst from his sleep. David, face ashen and serious, seemed to have much more on his mind than Kyle's mental well-being. Neal had not even looked up from his place at the dying fire, his eyes wet and glassy from sleeplessness and something else Kyle had no hope of deciphering. Their concerns were spent on Andy, worrying and devising plans on how to get him back alive; Kyle, though at times proving quite the opposite, could take care of himself for the time being.
But as the dawn arose, revealing tired, gray storm clouds overhead, blocking out the sun, Kyle felt less and less reassured that his dream was only a nightmare and not a premonition, a dire, terrible prediction of things to come. David ordered with a stern tone for the camp to be cleared and the Kings to ride out from the ridge, without mentioning where they would ride or what lay ahead of them. Kyle performed his duties quickly and silently, avoiding the gazes of both men, worried they might see the reflections of his nightmare in his eyes, scared he himself would glance over at Neal or David and see their battle wounds, visions of their bloody, dead bodies haunting him now even when he stood awake and alert. He was relieved beyond measure to see his Gangles safe and sound, but even the gentle horse could tell Kyle was ill at ease; he snorted and shied away when Kyle approached and placed a hand on his muzzle in reassurance, instantly aware of the apprehension in the young man's touch. And when they embarked on their ride through a sodden, rain-soaked New Mexican landscape, Kyle felt the sense of dread so intensely it formed a lump in his throat, rendering him unable to speak without tears welling in his eyes.
Fearful of the images his dream provided, Kyle could not tell if the Kings rode out to rescue one of their own, or if they were riding to their very deaths.
Chapter 17