(no subject)
There might have been plans for some fun in other worlds, but Billy still needed to get out for a bit.
He didn't plan on being gone long, and knew Doc would be good enough to wait for him, so Billy headed home for a bit.
Big skies, open desert and all of New Mexico stretch out before him and he rides South across the scrub.
He's not aiming for any place in particular, just has that need to fill his lungs with desert air and stretch his and his horse's legs.
They end up in a rat-hole town just North of the border. He doesn't plan on crossing, so he stops in at a cantina. Dirty floors and glasses, and an out of tune piano plunking in the corner complete with a frilly skirted bar-maid singer who's long past her dancing girl days.
Billy settles in at a table with tequila and a bowl of beans; perfectly aware of his surroundings, how many guns are in the room, and how many eyes fall on him.
He returns a few looks with a quick smile and that's enough that he hardly gets a second glance from them.
As bad as the singing and song playing are (or maybe because of it), Billy's enjoying it. His head nods along to a beat that's not quite there as he swabs up beans in a scoop of tortilla.
"Hey partner, don't I know you?" The voice comes from a mustached man in a tweed jacket. His derby hat tries to look respectable, but seems more secondhand than anything, and he has a partner behind him, carrying a camera.
Billy looks him over, expression a perfect match for casual, and shakes his head.
"Nope, don't believe you do."
The stranger grins, his first words a line that Billy's just bit onto.
"Course I do! You are the man witness to the end of the black-hearted Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh and his nefarious band of outlaws, the Regulators!"
Billy's eyes narrow a hair, even as he laughs.
"What?"
"Yes sir, indeed. Our friendly Mexican neighbors have captured that scoundrel and dealt him a good ol' hand of western justice. It's a historic event, friend, and for a low price you can be a part of it." The man's voice was all salesman, his smile pleasant like a wolf's as he leaned in towards Billy.
Around the bar, other ears start to catch the man's pitch, and interest drifts in the salesman's direction.
Sensing he's drawing a crowd, the man pitches his voice higher.
"Behold, images of the ill-fated Rudabaugh!" Snapping his fingers impatiently at his cameraman, the salesman is handed a stack of photographs. Putting one down in front of Billy, he holds the others up for the rest of the bar to see.
Billy's eyes fall on the photo, and his blood runs cold.
It's Dave, alright. Or at least his head.
Stuck up on a post, the features of Billy's pal were locked in a death grimace, his eyes half closed, mouth hanging slightly agape. The image filled Billy's vision, as the salesman kept pitching.
"Yes folks, that is the "Arkansas" Dave Rudabaugh."
"He said Dave Rudabaugh of Las Veh-has!"
"The last leader of the wild outlaws known as the Regulators."
"No, it's your gang, it's always been your gang."
"Man who thought he could outrun the law. He might've escaped Pat Garrett, but folks, he did not escape justice."
"Don't cross me, Dave."
The shot is loud. A sharp crack that splits the air and makes the whole crowd jump.
The salesman stands still, wide surprise written all over his face. He looks at the hole that's just been put into his chest, then lifts his eyes to Billy. His mouth works, but nothing comes out, and the photographs spill from his fingers before he tilts over and hits the floor.
Billy is still looking at the picture of Dave, gun up and leveled at the spot where the salesman stood.
Silence echoes in the room, and everyone's breath holds when Billy looks up, then stands.
Glancing around the room, Billy turns the gun towards the cameraman. The man shrinks down, quaking where he stands under Billy's cold gaze.
"You do any newspaper work?" Billy asks, gesturing at him with the gun.
The cameraman's mouth works like a fish for a few moments before he finds a voice. "S-- s-- some."
"Good. You tell 'em, that what Dave got wasn't justice. Justice is comin'. An' you tell everyone, the Regulators ain't dead."
The cameraman nodded, hiding behind his equipment as Billy, after another look around, strode past him and out of the cantina.
Outside he mounted up, pointed his horse South, and rode for Old Mexico.
He'd find a door along the way.
He didn't plan on being gone long, and knew Doc would be good enough to wait for him, so Billy headed home for a bit.
Big skies, open desert and all of New Mexico stretch out before him and he rides South across the scrub.
He's not aiming for any place in particular, just has that need to fill his lungs with desert air and stretch his and his horse's legs.
They end up in a rat-hole town just North of the border. He doesn't plan on crossing, so he stops in at a cantina. Dirty floors and glasses, and an out of tune piano plunking in the corner complete with a frilly skirted bar-maid singer who's long past her dancing girl days.
Billy settles in at a table with tequila and a bowl of beans; perfectly aware of his surroundings, how many guns are in the room, and how many eyes fall on him.
He returns a few looks with a quick smile and that's enough that he hardly gets a second glance from them.
As bad as the singing and song playing are (or maybe because of it), Billy's enjoying it. His head nods along to a beat that's not quite there as he swabs up beans in a scoop of tortilla.
"Hey partner, don't I know you?" The voice comes from a mustached man in a tweed jacket. His derby hat tries to look respectable, but seems more secondhand than anything, and he has a partner behind him, carrying a camera.
Billy looks him over, expression a perfect match for casual, and shakes his head.
"Nope, don't believe you do."
The stranger grins, his first words a line that Billy's just bit onto.
"Course I do! You are the man witness to the end of the black-hearted Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh and his nefarious band of outlaws, the Regulators!"
Billy's eyes narrow a hair, even as he laughs.
"What?"
"Yes sir, indeed. Our friendly Mexican neighbors have captured that scoundrel and dealt him a good ol' hand of western justice. It's a historic event, friend, and for a low price you can be a part of it." The man's voice was all salesman, his smile pleasant like a wolf's as he leaned in towards Billy.
Around the bar, other ears start to catch the man's pitch, and interest drifts in the salesman's direction.
Sensing he's drawing a crowd, the man pitches his voice higher.
"Behold, images of the ill-fated Rudabaugh!" Snapping his fingers impatiently at his cameraman, the salesman is handed a stack of photographs. Putting one down in front of Billy, he holds the others up for the rest of the bar to see.
Billy's eyes fall on the photo, and his blood runs cold.
It's Dave, alright. Or at least his head.
Stuck up on a post, the features of Billy's pal were locked in a death grimace, his eyes half closed, mouth hanging slightly agape. The image filled Billy's vision, as the salesman kept pitching.
"Yes folks, that is the "Arkansas" Dave Rudabaugh."
"He said Dave Rudabaugh of Las Veh-has!"
"The last leader of the wild outlaws known as the Regulators."
"No, it's your gang, it's always been your gang."
"Man who thought he could outrun the law. He might've escaped Pat Garrett, but folks, he did not escape justice."
"Don't cross me, Dave."
The shot is loud. A sharp crack that splits the air and makes the whole crowd jump.
The salesman stands still, wide surprise written all over his face. He looks at the hole that's just been put into his chest, then lifts his eyes to Billy. His mouth works, but nothing comes out, and the photographs spill from his fingers before he tilts over and hits the floor.
Billy is still looking at the picture of Dave, gun up and leveled at the spot where the salesman stood.
Silence echoes in the room, and everyone's breath holds when Billy looks up, then stands.
Glancing around the room, Billy turns the gun towards the cameraman. The man shrinks down, quaking where he stands under Billy's cold gaze.
"You do any newspaper work?" Billy asks, gesturing at him with the gun.
The cameraman's mouth works like a fish for a few moments before he finds a voice. "S-- s-- some."
"Good. You tell 'em, that what Dave got wasn't justice. Justice is comin'. An' you tell everyone, the Regulators ain't dead."
The cameraman nodded, hiding behind his equipment as Billy, after another look around, strode past him and out of the cantina.
Outside he mounted up, pointed his horse South, and rode for Old Mexico.
He'd find a door along the way.