Appearances, Mag7/HL, slash, R, 1/4
Posting the first few sections of this for Medie's birthday. Yes, it will be finished, probably sometime this week, but it's going slower than I thought, and well, birthday, y'know? <(I make no promises that what's here will be precisely what goes on the site, since it'll go to the betas for clean-up before it goes up on the site. Hopefully there won't be much difference, however.)
All that said, Happy Birthday, medie!
ETA: Beta'd version now available here.
Appearances
Four Corners, 1877
Matthew McCormick studied the jail cell with a careful eye for the details. Plank flooring, with gaps that might let a blade through and might not, but a man shouldn't have leverage under the building for any blade long enough to threaten a sleeper. A stab in the foot was a possibility, but that would only be annoying, not fatal. The bars on the windows could be pulled out by a couple of horses at most, but with the telegraph office two doors to the left and the mercantile and the bank immediately to the right, it would be hard to go unnoticed. The lock on the cell door was decent. Nothing that couldn't be opened with a strong pick and a few uninterrupted minutes, but the sheriff's desk had a good line of sight to the lock and, for that matter, the bunk.
No matter how he looked at the matter, it didn't seem a cell a man would get out of without both help and luck.
Damn it.
He sighed and sprawled onto the bunk, abandoning worries about posture, appearance, or anything else. Sooner or later, even Larabee would have to admit what he'd been arrested for. It might even be the truth, though Matthew rather doubted it would start with such.
# # #
The tall, solidly-built preacher who was also one of the local law -- Josiah Sanchez, Matthew's memory provided after a moment -- unlocked the cell door with an economical motion. "Sorry about all this. You made Chris a mite uneasy."
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I did get that impression, yes. Dreadfully sorry," he said, and watched the other man grin at his complete lack of sincerity.
"So how do you feel about the spirit?"
Matthew eyed him sidelong, coming up to his feet and out the open door before Sanchez could change his mind. "That would depend on what kind of spirit we were discussing, and in whom. And I'll just have my guns back, thank you."
Sanchez shrugged, unlocked the desk drawer, and handed over Matthew's gun belt. "I don't see any reason to keep them. And I was thinking the spirits that move a man."
Matthew chuckled. "I'm afraid I've heard one sermon this week, so unless you mean bourbon--"
"I was thinking whisky," Sanchez admitted. "A man can work up a powerful thirst watching you decide not to break out of jail."
"I'll remember to be less obvious next time," Matthew drawled, adjusting his holster and hoping that they hadn't found his sword among the bed slats during the afternoon he'd been behind bars. "Must admit, I'm wondering why I'm loose again."
Josiah's smile explained why Matthew's eye and brain refused to agree on whether he was homely. "But not why you were behind bars?"
"You did say I made Mr. Larabee nervous. Speaking of whom...." Chris Larabee only leaned his chair farther back and watched Matthew cross the street to the saloon, his hat tilted down as sharply as his chair was back on two legs. Matthew smiled slowly, eyes flicking to the tall, mustachioed man standing beside him. Buck Wilmington. Interesting. This morning it was Vin Turner, no, Tanner standing so close. Hmm. So is Mr. Tanner on patrol? Or out of the way? What did I worry them about, I wonder? It surely wasn't Cory, from what little I heard.
Matthew nodded to both of them. "Gentlemen," and watched Wilmington stifle a grin as he nodded back. Larabee restrained a growl, and Matthew chuckled softly.
"Like playing with fire?" Josiah asked curiously.
"A man can get burned doing that," Matthew answered, drawl more pronounced than usual to buy him time to look the saloon over. The lanterns hadn't been lit yet, but his eyes adjusted quickly to the dimmer light... and Matthew frowned, eyebrows drawing together as he studied the man shuffling a deck of cards. Even in this light, he was clearly the best-dressed person Matthew had seen in the town so far; the cards poured between his hands as smoothly as water pouring over the lip of a new pitcher.
The town cardsharp was also the man who'd brought Matthew his lunch earlier, and Matthew cursed himself silently and inventively for not having noticed the incongruity of well-kept hands with too-worn clothes. So this was Ezra Standish. Definitely not Cory. Damn. Another false lead. A false lead worried enough to come and look him over unnoticed, though. Hmm.
"Game, Josiah? Mr. ... ?"
"McCormick, sir. Matthew McCormick. And a game might be pleasant, after a drink and some dinner." Matthew glanced at Josiah. "You did say you were buying me a drink, after all."
Standish smiled at them both, a cocky, toothy expression, but Matthew caught a flicker of expression, barely there before it was gone again, and wondered what had just surprised the man. Surely not his release?
"I just suggested it," Josiah rumbled, but he grinned. "I suppose we owe you a drink after all."
Matthew followed him the few steps to the bar, eyes flickering as he appraised the room by daylight instead of oil lamps. Not up to the standards back East, but clean enough for a frontier bar. The glasses didn't sparkle, but neither were they fly-speckled. The food last night had been good and his room clean. Daylight didn't change his impression that it was a good place, particularly for a frontier where survival didn't leave much time for trivialities.
Once he had a glass in hand, Matthew pointed out, "Loitering was a rather thin excuse. Especially given that I paid for my room in advance and am clearly not indigent."
Josiah shrugged, sipped half his whisky, and sighed, shoulders relaxing. " 'Looking for a friend' was a mighty skimpy answer."
"Well, I am," Matthew said mildly. "He simply doesn't seem to be here."
Standish kept dealing out a game of solitaire while they ordered dinner, but he was clearly listening to the conversation. "Might we know some distinguishing characteristics of this 'friend?' Perhaps we could assist you in your quest."
"I doubt there are fair maidens involved, or dragons," Matthew said as he brought over a plate full of a surprisingly fragrant chicken and dumplings. The whisky even smelled like it might be drinkable; the beer, on the other hand, had smelled only a day or two from going off. He'd have to mention that tomorrow.
Standish played the jack of diamonds, meditating on the cards as if the pattern could tell him the future. Perhaps he knew the art. Or just had a dangerous way of thinking. "No knights either, I suppose?"
Matthew swallowed his whisky, resisting the sudden urge to exhale it over the table. "Don't believe one's been seen in years, no."
"Some reason this friend of yours doesn't have a name?" Larabee's appearance wasn't a surprise; Matthew had heard his rowels clink when he came in from the porch. Watching the man settle across the table near Standish, wary as a cat near a rocking chair, was more of a surprise for some reason. Surely having three of his own nearby should make Larabee more relaxed than this? And, for that matter, Standish shouldn't be so tense either.
And why do I associate 'Standish' with barratry, not cards? Must admit, though, it's hardly outside the realms of possibility for Cory to protect a town that needs it.... Matthew finished his bite of dinner, sipped at his whisky, and nodded to Josiah. "Not bad at all, sir. Thank you." He sorted idly through his memories, trying to find the last association for Standish and (not coincidentally) wait until Larabee's patience looked thin to add, "This is the West, Mr. Larabee. Not everyone who comes here keeps to the name his parents had placed in the church register. I'd as soon not annoy the man before I can find him if he has changed his."
"Some reason he'd need to?" Larabee pulled out a nickel and put it on the table. "I'm in, Ez."
Standish sighed. "Ezra, Mr. Larabee. It has two syllables as well as a distinguished history. And certainly, once the plates are clear. No point in insulting Inez's cooking by applying it to pasteboard."
Matthew chuckled. "Her cooking surely doesn't involve paste. The dumplings are quite good." Matthew added lazily, "No reason that I know of, but a man who's traveled more than a thousand miles doesn't try to make his trip longer."
"He gonna want to see you?" Wilmington asked, sitting down with dinner for himself and Larabee.
Matthew chuckled. "Some reason he wouldn't, Mr. Wilmington? Hardly as if I've had him thrown into a cell for loitering."
Larabee touched a finger to the brim of his hat in lazy salute, but he was more interested in his food than in conversation. Understandable, given the quality of the cooking, but Matthew's attention caught the incongruity of three locals eating dinner at the table while a fourth sat there without his. Something looked wrong and Matthew began to pay more attention to their body language.
Larabee relaxed when he talked to Wilmington, listened to what Sanchez said, but only addressed Standish directly. Interesting. Wilmington either didn't like the tension or had innate tendencies towards peace-making; he sat between Larabee and Standish and talked to both. Sanchez directed his comments to everyone evenly and ignored the tension, which might or might not force it to dissipate.
Time I stirred this a bit. I don't like being in hot water and not knowing what else may be in the pot. Matthew finished his last bite, savoring the taste, and then finished his whisky before asking, "Not eating, Mr. Standish?"
"I ate earlier, thank you, sir." His hands shifted cards around almost idly, clearing cards into precise patterns, laying the queen of spades on the king of hearts. The jack of diamonds was next and Standish played it on the queen with a raised eyebrow, as if he hadn't expected to see the card show up.
"Are all Southerners so goldurn polite?" The blunt, almost breathless question came from the much younger man who dropped gracelessly into the last seat at the table. His hat and long sideburns were meant to add age, Matthew suspected. They were as much assistance as an outsized pink bow on a donkey.
"Manners keep civilization moving smoothly, Mr. Dunne. They can be essential in a crowded city street for example." Standish's voice was patient as he gathered the cards, shuffling them again as he appraised the men. "Will five card draw suit, Mr. McCormick?"
"That'd be fine, sir, although I must admit I prefer chess. Nickel ante, I believe?" Matthew glanced over at the youngster as he stood up, empty plate in hand. "It's not that long that duels have been illegal in the South, Mr. Dunne, and a much shorter time than that since those laws have been well-regarded or obeyed. The prospect of a ball of lead or three feet of steel in a man's gut can make manners nearly reflexive."
"Unless of course you're good with a blade," Standish drawled lazily, not looking up. "We've one or two here in town who are, for that matter. And I've a chess set upstairs, sir. I understand you've had a long day, but if you'd care to play after the poker, I'd dearly enjoy a game."
Matthew took his plate back to the bar and smiled. "The food was excellent, ma'am, thank you."
The bartender and cook scowled at him, but it felt friendly nonetheless. "Two of you in my bar? Go, go," and she waved him away with both hands. "Play cards, don't get arrested again. Off with you. I have work to do, not compliments to listen to." She was smiling by the end of it though, and Matthew just grinned at her.
Behind him, Dunne was asking excitedly, "Well, yeah, Ez, I knew you and Nathan could fight, and Buck didn't get himself killed that time, but how often did duels really happen?"
"More often when I was younger, Mr. Dunne, and usually with pistols rather than swords. I rarely hear so much as the rumor of duels now. Perhaps the War finished persuading men that there were enough other ways to die."
"What about knives?"
Matthew said dryly, "It's harder to look both elegant and a gentleman in a knife fight. The gypsies can make a knife fight beautiful, but it's not the same." He kept his attention on the present with an effort, memories of knife fights by mortals and immortals both crowding across his memories. They flattened his voice somewhat as he added, "And true fights draw breath at the least, blood and other fouler things at the worst. Hard to make that beautiful."
Standish said thoughtfully, "True sword fights aren't precisely elegant either. I was... aware of a gentleman once who practiced quite hard with a blade. His bouts may not have been for true insult, however I assure you, at twelve, the spectacle was sufficiently sanguinary to be a caution."
"It was what?"
"Bloody, Mr. Dunne. Very bloody at times, but I was never sure if he and his... partner were fighting for practice or something more serious." Standish shrugged as Matthew took his seat again, and added lazily, "Not something I saw often, certainly. And there were matters that needed tending, so I'm afraid I couldn't stay so long as I'd have liked in the afternoons to watch."
Wilmington whistled as Larabee moved their plates out of the way. "What, Ez, you were sneaking off from chores? Who'd practice that hard with a sword, anyway?"
"A man who didn't care to run out of ammunition, perhaps?" Standish began dealing out the cards while he talked, hands moving almost independently and white cuffs flashing in the fading daylight. "A sword surely doesn't require reloading."
"Got to be awful close to use one," Larabee said flatly, pushing his hat back as he straightened from his slouch to take his cards. "Not as bad as a knife, but still. Apache with a knife's a fast way to get killed."
"Perhaps he didn't care to spend the money on powder and shot, then, Mr. Larabee. Is Mr. Jackson on patrol tonight?"
"He's got the first sweep," Larabee said. "JD, you in?"
"Sure, after I finish this." Dunne wiped up the gravy with the last dumpling, and Matthew restrained a chuckle. Young, enthusiastic, and saddled with several older brothers willingly or no from the way the others treated him.
Matthew pulled a nickel out and set it on the table before picking up his own hand. He eyed the cards and added lazily, "And for a good chess game, Mr. Standish, do believe I'll manage to stay awake."
# # #
Part two
All that said, Happy Birthday, medie!
ETA: Beta'd version now available here.
Appearances
Four Corners, 1877
Matthew McCormick studied the jail cell with a careful eye for the details. Plank flooring, with gaps that might let a blade through and might not, but a man shouldn't have leverage under the building for any blade long enough to threaten a sleeper. A stab in the foot was a possibility, but that would only be annoying, not fatal. The bars on the windows could be pulled out by a couple of horses at most, but with the telegraph office two doors to the left and the mercantile and the bank immediately to the right, it would be hard to go unnoticed. The lock on the cell door was decent. Nothing that couldn't be opened with a strong pick and a few uninterrupted minutes, but the sheriff's desk had a good line of sight to the lock and, for that matter, the bunk.
No matter how he looked at the matter, it didn't seem a cell a man would get out of without both help and luck.
Damn it.
He sighed and sprawled onto the bunk, abandoning worries about posture, appearance, or anything else. Sooner or later, even Larabee would have to admit what he'd been arrested for. It might even be the truth, though Matthew rather doubted it would start with such.
# # #
The tall, solidly-built preacher who was also one of the local law -- Josiah Sanchez, Matthew's memory provided after a moment -- unlocked the cell door with an economical motion. "Sorry about all this. You made Chris a mite uneasy."
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I did get that impression, yes. Dreadfully sorry," he said, and watched the other man grin at his complete lack of sincerity.
"So how do you feel about the spirit?"
Matthew eyed him sidelong, coming up to his feet and out the open door before Sanchez could change his mind. "That would depend on what kind of spirit we were discussing, and in whom. And I'll just have my guns back, thank you."
Sanchez shrugged, unlocked the desk drawer, and handed over Matthew's gun belt. "I don't see any reason to keep them. And I was thinking the spirits that move a man."
Matthew chuckled. "I'm afraid I've heard one sermon this week, so unless you mean bourbon--"
"I was thinking whisky," Sanchez admitted. "A man can work up a powerful thirst watching you decide not to break out of jail."
"I'll remember to be less obvious next time," Matthew drawled, adjusting his holster and hoping that they hadn't found his sword among the bed slats during the afternoon he'd been behind bars. "Must admit, I'm wondering why I'm loose again."
Josiah's smile explained why Matthew's eye and brain refused to agree on whether he was homely. "But not why you were behind bars?"
"You did say I made Mr. Larabee nervous. Speaking of whom...." Chris Larabee only leaned his chair farther back and watched Matthew cross the street to the saloon, his hat tilted down as sharply as his chair was back on two legs. Matthew smiled slowly, eyes flicking to the tall, mustachioed man standing beside him. Buck Wilmington. Interesting. This morning it was Vin Turner, no, Tanner standing so close. Hmm. So is Mr. Tanner on patrol? Or out of the way? What did I worry them about, I wonder? It surely wasn't Cory, from what little I heard.
Matthew nodded to both of them. "Gentlemen," and watched Wilmington stifle a grin as he nodded back. Larabee restrained a growl, and Matthew chuckled softly.
"Like playing with fire?" Josiah asked curiously.
"A man can get burned doing that," Matthew answered, drawl more pronounced than usual to buy him time to look the saloon over. The lanterns hadn't been lit yet, but his eyes adjusted quickly to the dimmer light... and Matthew frowned, eyebrows drawing together as he studied the man shuffling a deck of cards. Even in this light, he was clearly the best-dressed person Matthew had seen in the town so far; the cards poured between his hands as smoothly as water pouring over the lip of a new pitcher.
The town cardsharp was also the man who'd brought Matthew his lunch earlier, and Matthew cursed himself silently and inventively for not having noticed the incongruity of well-kept hands with too-worn clothes. So this was Ezra Standish. Definitely not Cory. Damn. Another false lead. A false lead worried enough to come and look him over unnoticed, though. Hmm.
"Game, Josiah? Mr. ... ?"
"McCormick, sir. Matthew McCormick. And a game might be pleasant, after a drink and some dinner." Matthew glanced at Josiah. "You did say you were buying me a drink, after all."
Standish smiled at them both, a cocky, toothy expression, but Matthew caught a flicker of expression, barely there before it was gone again, and wondered what had just surprised the man. Surely not his release?
"I just suggested it," Josiah rumbled, but he grinned. "I suppose we owe you a drink after all."
Matthew followed him the few steps to the bar, eyes flickering as he appraised the room by daylight instead of oil lamps. Not up to the standards back East, but clean enough for a frontier bar. The glasses didn't sparkle, but neither were they fly-speckled. The food last night had been good and his room clean. Daylight didn't change his impression that it was a good place, particularly for a frontier where survival didn't leave much time for trivialities.
Once he had a glass in hand, Matthew pointed out, "Loitering was a rather thin excuse. Especially given that I paid for my room in advance and am clearly not indigent."
Josiah shrugged, sipped half his whisky, and sighed, shoulders relaxing. " 'Looking for a friend' was a mighty skimpy answer."
"Well, I am," Matthew said mildly. "He simply doesn't seem to be here."
Standish kept dealing out a game of solitaire while they ordered dinner, but he was clearly listening to the conversation. "Might we know some distinguishing characteristics of this 'friend?' Perhaps we could assist you in your quest."
"I doubt there are fair maidens involved, or dragons," Matthew said as he brought over a plate full of a surprisingly fragrant chicken and dumplings. The whisky even smelled like it might be drinkable; the beer, on the other hand, had smelled only a day or two from going off. He'd have to mention that tomorrow.
Standish played the jack of diamonds, meditating on the cards as if the pattern could tell him the future. Perhaps he knew the art. Or just had a dangerous way of thinking. "No knights either, I suppose?"
Matthew swallowed his whisky, resisting the sudden urge to exhale it over the table. "Don't believe one's been seen in years, no."
"Some reason this friend of yours doesn't have a name?" Larabee's appearance wasn't a surprise; Matthew had heard his rowels clink when he came in from the porch. Watching the man settle across the table near Standish, wary as a cat near a rocking chair, was more of a surprise for some reason. Surely having three of his own nearby should make Larabee more relaxed than this? And, for that matter, Standish shouldn't be so tense either.
And why do I associate 'Standish' with barratry, not cards? Must admit, though, it's hardly outside the realms of possibility for Cory to protect a town that needs it.... Matthew finished his bite of dinner, sipped at his whisky, and nodded to Josiah. "Not bad at all, sir. Thank you." He sorted idly through his memories, trying to find the last association for Standish and (not coincidentally) wait until Larabee's patience looked thin to add, "This is the West, Mr. Larabee. Not everyone who comes here keeps to the name his parents had placed in the church register. I'd as soon not annoy the man before I can find him if he has changed his."
"Some reason he'd need to?" Larabee pulled out a nickel and put it on the table. "I'm in, Ez."
Standish sighed. "Ezra, Mr. Larabee. It has two syllables as well as a distinguished history. And certainly, once the plates are clear. No point in insulting Inez's cooking by applying it to pasteboard."
Matthew chuckled. "Her cooking surely doesn't involve paste. The dumplings are quite good." Matthew added lazily, "No reason that I know of, but a man who's traveled more than a thousand miles doesn't try to make his trip longer."
"He gonna want to see you?" Wilmington asked, sitting down with dinner for himself and Larabee.
Matthew chuckled. "Some reason he wouldn't, Mr. Wilmington? Hardly as if I've had him thrown into a cell for loitering."
Larabee touched a finger to the brim of his hat in lazy salute, but he was more interested in his food than in conversation. Understandable, given the quality of the cooking, but Matthew's attention caught the incongruity of three locals eating dinner at the table while a fourth sat there without his. Something looked wrong and Matthew began to pay more attention to their body language.
Larabee relaxed when he talked to Wilmington, listened to what Sanchez said, but only addressed Standish directly. Interesting. Wilmington either didn't like the tension or had innate tendencies towards peace-making; he sat between Larabee and Standish and talked to both. Sanchez directed his comments to everyone evenly and ignored the tension, which might or might not force it to dissipate.
Time I stirred this a bit. I don't like being in hot water and not knowing what else may be in the pot. Matthew finished his last bite, savoring the taste, and then finished his whisky before asking, "Not eating, Mr. Standish?"
"I ate earlier, thank you, sir." His hands shifted cards around almost idly, clearing cards into precise patterns, laying the queen of spades on the king of hearts. The jack of diamonds was next and Standish played it on the queen with a raised eyebrow, as if he hadn't expected to see the card show up.
"Are all Southerners so goldurn polite?" The blunt, almost breathless question came from the much younger man who dropped gracelessly into the last seat at the table. His hat and long sideburns were meant to add age, Matthew suspected. They were as much assistance as an outsized pink bow on a donkey.
"Manners keep civilization moving smoothly, Mr. Dunne. They can be essential in a crowded city street for example." Standish's voice was patient as he gathered the cards, shuffling them again as he appraised the men. "Will five card draw suit, Mr. McCormick?"
"That'd be fine, sir, although I must admit I prefer chess. Nickel ante, I believe?" Matthew glanced over at the youngster as he stood up, empty plate in hand. "It's not that long that duels have been illegal in the South, Mr. Dunne, and a much shorter time than that since those laws have been well-regarded or obeyed. The prospect of a ball of lead or three feet of steel in a man's gut can make manners nearly reflexive."
"Unless of course you're good with a blade," Standish drawled lazily, not looking up. "We've one or two here in town who are, for that matter. And I've a chess set upstairs, sir. I understand you've had a long day, but if you'd care to play after the poker, I'd dearly enjoy a game."
Matthew took his plate back to the bar and smiled. "The food was excellent, ma'am, thank you."
The bartender and cook scowled at him, but it felt friendly nonetheless. "Two of you in my bar? Go, go," and she waved him away with both hands. "Play cards, don't get arrested again. Off with you. I have work to do, not compliments to listen to." She was smiling by the end of it though, and Matthew just grinned at her.
Behind him, Dunne was asking excitedly, "Well, yeah, Ez, I knew you and Nathan could fight, and Buck didn't get himself killed that time, but how often did duels really happen?"
"More often when I was younger, Mr. Dunne, and usually with pistols rather than swords. I rarely hear so much as the rumor of duels now. Perhaps the War finished persuading men that there were enough other ways to die."
"What about knives?"
Matthew said dryly, "It's harder to look both elegant and a gentleman in a knife fight. The gypsies can make a knife fight beautiful, but it's not the same." He kept his attention on the present with an effort, memories of knife fights by mortals and immortals both crowding across his memories. They flattened his voice somewhat as he added, "And true fights draw breath at the least, blood and other fouler things at the worst. Hard to make that beautiful."
Standish said thoughtfully, "True sword fights aren't precisely elegant either. I was... aware of a gentleman once who practiced quite hard with a blade. His bouts may not have been for true insult, however I assure you, at twelve, the spectacle was sufficiently sanguinary to be a caution."
"It was what?"
"Bloody, Mr. Dunne. Very bloody at times, but I was never sure if he and his... partner were fighting for practice or something more serious." Standish shrugged as Matthew took his seat again, and added lazily, "Not something I saw often, certainly. And there were matters that needed tending, so I'm afraid I couldn't stay so long as I'd have liked in the afternoons to watch."
Wilmington whistled as Larabee moved their plates out of the way. "What, Ez, you were sneaking off from chores? Who'd practice that hard with a sword, anyway?"
"A man who didn't care to run out of ammunition, perhaps?" Standish began dealing out the cards while he talked, hands moving almost independently and white cuffs flashing in the fading daylight. "A sword surely doesn't require reloading."
"Got to be awful close to use one," Larabee said flatly, pushing his hat back as he straightened from his slouch to take his cards. "Not as bad as a knife, but still. Apache with a knife's a fast way to get killed."
"Perhaps he didn't care to spend the money on powder and shot, then, Mr. Larabee. Is Mr. Jackson on patrol tonight?"
"He's got the first sweep," Larabee said. "JD, you in?"
"Sure, after I finish this." Dunne wiped up the gravy with the last dumpling, and Matthew restrained a chuckle. Young, enthusiastic, and saddled with several older brothers willingly or no from the way the others treated him.
Matthew pulled a nickel out and set it on the table before picking up his own hand. He eyed the cards and added lazily, "And for a good chess game, Mr. Standish, do believe I'll manage to stay awake."
# # #
Part two