Word Count: 2,368
Archive: DarkMagick.net, Apollymi’s Grimoire, and Archive of Our Own. Anyone else wanting it, please ask first. I’ll probably say yes, but ask first…[endsection]
If there was a part of this plan of Chisolm’s that he didn’t like, it was the whole damn thing, Joshua had decided to himself.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust that Rocks and Chisolm would be able to successfully draw all the town’s attention to themselves, leaving it easy enough for the rest of them to slip into position. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the pair of them to stay alive long enough to assist the rest of them in clearing out the town of Blackstone agents.
No, it was the needless splitting of their numbers. Seven was a small enough number as it was, and little Teddy Q and Miss Emma had confirmed that there were at least twenty-something Blackstone agents in town, barring any others having been sent in or some having left while the pair had been gone retrieving them. Yes, they had the element of surprise on their side, but this seemed like pointlessly risking losing part of their group way too early in the game. This wasn’t even a battle Bogue himself would be at. No, this was just housekeeping that Chisolm was making more dangerous than it should be.
But he was going to follow the plan for now. If it came down to deviating from it later, he wouldn’t hesitate to do just that, though he might let at least Vasquez in on it. He had come to some conclusions early this morning as to V’s feelings regarding the warrant officer: the short version was that he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. He didn’t think that Vas would be too unwilling to go off script for the right reason. Survival? That was definitely the right reason, he figured.
He had taken up position on the long porch surrounding the saloon, and Vasquez was across the street, walking up the alley between the hardware store and the mining office. Between the two of them, they would be able to keep anyone from getting too far down the street. The positions also gave them room enough to duck and weave in and out of buildings and alleyways, while still keeping them in the thick of things.
He knew Horne was stationed in an alleyway not far from where Chisolm and Rocks would be stopping, ready to do some damage on some seriously wicked men. And he knew the Comanche that Chisolm picked up this morning was on the roof of the sheriff’s office, ready to take down the Blackstones’ sharpshooter and maybe participate in a bit of that himself. That part wasn’t such a bad idea. Certainly no one would be expecting it. He certainly hadn’t been.
Tell me I’m hallucinating, whispered though his head again, still in his brother’s voice, coming back to him from early this morning.
You’re hallucinating, came once more in his own voice. And so am I.
And speaking of his brother… That was another part of the plan that he did not like: the fact that Goodnight was more or less holding the end of the street nearest the livery stable. Even the most rookie commander in the War had known that that wasn’t how you used your acknowledged sharpshooter. You didn’t put him down in the thick of things. It just wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done. And of the two rifles he had seen on Goodnight carrying in his saddle holsters, the one he had had on him when they left on foot the rest of the way into town had been the Mississippi Rifle… the damn muzzle loader. If Goodnight had to take a shot, it was going to take way too long for him to reload: probably around three minutes, if he hadn’t gotten a lot faster since the last days of the war.
And then that was also saying nothing of the fact that he couldn’t remember seeing his brother fire any gun since he had last been ordered to. Yeah, he had that pretty Colt Peacemaker on his hip, the twin to his own Ethel, but he had never seen the revolver come out of its holster except for cleaning. He didn’t even remember ever seeing Goodnight test fire it a single time. If Ethel wasn’t such a damn good gun, he would wonder if her twin was defective.
He was in position, and his energy was up because, damn, this was going to be fucking fun. Even if he gave credit where he wasn’t sure it was due, the odds were better than three to one. He had taken on odds like that and come out on top, but the thrill was always there. This could be the time when they got the better of him, or it could be the time he obliterated everyone who stood against him. This could be the time when he came out on top, or it could be the time he was gunned down where he stood.
It was chancing his hand, which always got his blood going, whether it was cards or violence.
It was almost too easy to slip into Rose Creek unseen.
He’d honestly be more comfortable had he gone in with Billy, but Chisolm’s half-assed plan seemed to be to alienate the people they were hoping to aid as well as rile up the Blackstones, and as such he’d decided that it would be the two most offensive-looking people would enter by the main road into town — although why he had Billy on foot was beyond Goodnight’s reasoning.
Instead of going in next to his cher, Goodnight headed in by the back road, accompanied by his little brother and the Mexican, both of whom were in a right mood, clearly spoiling for a fight, as well as crazy ol’ Jack Horne. The man was eating jerky as they walked, for God’s sake. That was hardly the definition of stealth, but there you had it.
Rather than stick close for longer than needed, Goodnight had slipped away to take his position nearest the livery. He listened to Chisolm bullshit the Blackstones and snorted to himself, checking his Mississippi to ensure that he still had a round chambered. He wasn’t overly concerned with taking more than one shot; Joshua had always been a deft hand with his Peacemaker, even though Ethel (as he’d named it long ago) seemed to be retired from what he’d seen thus far, and he trusted the men he knew, as well as his new acquaintances, to keep anyone from even coming close to where the sniper would be keeping watch.
“I can’t say the same for my compadres behind you,” Chisolm was saying, and Goodnight took that as his cue to walk out from the alleyway, rifle resting on his shoulder as he stared down the Blackstone men. Not far off, he could spot Joshua leaning against the door of the hotel and Vasquez directly across the street on the saloon’s porch. Horne was coming out of another alley, and Goodnight was pleased to see Billy tensed and ready even as Chisolm pretended at calm. There was no sign of Red Harvest, and hopefully that meant the Comanche was already in position atop the bank.
And his assessment proved to be true, when one of the Blackstones whistled a signal and Chisolm responded with a call in Comanche. Red Harvest tossed the body of the sniper from the roof and let fly another arrow into a heavyset man standing behind the apparent leader of the group of cowards. One moment was silent glaring between the head Blackstone and Chisolm, the next bullets were flying.
Goodnight stepped back from the alley, shifting his rifle into ready position and moving to keep a steady eye on all the men in play. His brother and Vasquez were cutting through them easily, at one point standing back to back as they kept the bastards from getting anywhere near his own position, and Billy was making short work of them with only his knives. He could hear Horne preaching the gospel to each man he tackled — no, really, Goodnight was positive that the bear of a man had just tackled one man off of a horse — and their Comanche friend was letting arrow after arrow loose. Chisolm was systematically taking down the ones who were trying to get towards the main way into or out of town, and the Cajun remained at his post, wary of any stragglers.
Finally, the shooting stopped, and he took a moment to assess the casualties. At least twenty men lay dead, but not a single member of their band. He was certain that a bullet or two had zipped by him, but the Blackstone men had had shit aim. Goodnight could have had more fun waiting in a cornfield at two in the morning during the winter in the pursuit of taking out a Yankee supply line. And he had, at that.
The sound of a horse drew his attention, and Goodnight stepped backward just in time for the lead Blackstone man to go tearing past hellbent for leather. The Cajun turned and took aim with his Mississippi, the same rifle that had served him well during his stint as a sharpshooter in the army. Two hundred yards out. Two-fifty. Three hundred.
“Go on. Take the shot,” came Joshua’s harsh voice behind him, and Goodnight ignored the words.
Four hundred yards.
“Take that shot.”
Four-fifty.
“Take the goddamn shot.”
Five hundred yards, and although he knew damned well he could lead it on for longer, Goodnight gently squeezed the trigger.
The Blackstone jerked forward in his saddle but remained upright. Even from this distance, he knew that he at least got a through and through on the bastard’s shoulder. Rather than reload, Goodnight lowered the rifle and turned to face his brother with a pleasant, passive expression.
It was one his brother probably hated as much as his Hero and Legend poker face.
“You missed,” Joshua accused, eyes hard and angry.
“I sent Bogue a message,” Goodnight replied, tossing his Mississippi to Billy as the other man approached. It was tempting to slam his shoulder into his younger brother’s as he passed him, but he restrained himself and simply headed towards the hardware store to rest on the porch.
He paused for a moment when he noticed Chisolm crouch down, and he scowled darkly when he realized that the ‘good’ sheriff of Rose Creek — bought out by Bogue himself, and about as useful as tits on a bull — had survived the gunfight. Goodnight scoffed in annoyance as his old acquaintance gave the man his marching orders and sent off a second (and probably less effective) message to ol’ Bart Bogue.
Truthfully, his message was likely clearer: This town ain’t yours, come fight if you want it. Chisolm’s was spurred solely by his own desire for revenge, and he was starting to wonder if this was the day he’d been waiting for since the other man pulled a group of Billy Yanks off of him in Lawrence, Kansas, a little over ten years ago.
“You okay?” his Billy asked, startling him out of his thoughts; the other man had been checking over the rifle and was now moving to hand it back. The Korean paused, and at Goodnight’s questioning sound fixed his eyes firmly on the other’s wrist. Goodnight followed his gaze and blinked to see blood dripping from his sleeve onto his hand.
Huh. Looked like one of those Blackstone agents got off a lucky shot after all.
Rather than worry too much on it — hell, he still didn’t feel any pain, maybe it was someone else’s blood — the Cajun sat down hard in one of the few chairs on the porch of the hardware store and pulled out a handkerchief. As he heard Miss Emma and Teddy come riding into town and calling out to their fellow townsfolk, Goodnight set about cleaning himself up. The blood on his hand was made quick work of, and he unbuttoned his sleeve and pushed it up just enough to confirm that, huh, he seemed to have been hit in the forearm.
He would get Billy to fully attend to it later. For now, however, Goodnight folded the handkerchief carefully and pressed it to the wound. He rolled his sleeve down over the makeshift bandage, buttoning the cuff and shaking his jacket sleeve back into place as well. From the corner of his eye, he caught his cher scowling worriedly at him even as he lit two opium cigarettes at once, and Goodnight turned just enough to offer a reassuring half-smile.
Then he settled back to listen to Emma Cullen berate half her friends and neighbors for being too cowardly to ride off for aid as she had. The woman was a stone cold beast, and he was almost sad that she reminded him so much of Colette in her take-no-prisoners approach to all things that were worthy of her attentions. In all honesty, it made him miss his little sister more than he had in the years since he’d received Joshua’s letter telling him of her passing from the fever. If only she could see what had become of her brothers; chances were good she’d smack their heads together and yell at them both before trying to mother them half to death.
Goodnight sincerely hoped that the number of residents wasn’t going to shrink to zero come morning. He would honestly be more shocked if no one fled for safety; hell, during the war he’d given some thought to fleeing and only stayed because his commission kept him and his brother in food and clothing for months before they’d turned to bounty hunting. Even now, he was pondering if he had some sort of death wish that had led him to this foolhardy battle or if he’d really been trying to see if reconciliation was possible.
Once the street was clear, he pushed himself to his feet. “Well,” he said aloud, “I don’t know ‘bout anyone else, but I could use a drink.” Without waiting to see if anyone was planning to join him, he turned on his heel and walked his way right over to the saloon.
Even without a barkeep, it wouldn’t take long to find some good bourbon and drink away his worries for the moment.
[section=Footer Notes]11 February 2017Happy birthday, Katsuko! It’s her birthday, and you guys are the ones getting presents.
~Adora[endsection]