Obligatory Disclaimer: Own New Vegas, I do not.
Author's Notes: Well, this is the story I promised as the sequel to my one-shot "Whistling in the Dark." Is is necessary to read that story to get this one? Uh, not really, but if you want to understand the dynamics of the relationship with this Courier and Raul it is highly recommended. To those that have already read it, finally here I am. During the course of this story the two will finally be forced to come to terms with their emotions dealing with each other as well as endeavoring to save a small out of the way town. I'm a big fan of westerns both new and old and so this is also a story that's kind of a homage to the idea of the heroic gunslingers depicted in them. Note that the prologue begins elsewhere but the first chapter brings us back to the Courier. I hope you enjoy!
A Little Background on the Title: "The White Hats" is a nod to the older black and white westerns where the audience would know who the bad guys were and who the good guys were because of the hats that they wore. The heroes of the story would be known to wear white ones, while the bad guys would sport black ones.
xxx THE WHITE HATS xxx
0. Renegades
Tendrils of smoke spiraled up into the sky to dance a ghostly ballet among the stars. Like some ethereal entities gifted with their own consciousness the grey mists seemed to be alive, weaving in and out of each other on the breeze. The creaking of wood grinding against itself on hand-crafted joints accompanied a similar groan, this one from a man who was about as old as this antique. Samuel Ralston had been a citizen of Firedale since before his birth, and upon being brought into this world had been the first born there. In all his seventy-two years he'd seen many things come to pass, including civilization's attempt to grasp once more this lonely stretch of desert. But civilization was something he'd come to view as ephemeral and passing, especially here, and one always had to be on the lookout for trouble.
Through the smoke of his cigar he saw trouble walking towards him on ten feet. It wasn't some poor mutated desert creature, though he wished it were, for that could have been taken care of with a few well-aimed scattergun shots. Oh no, this was a more dangerous creature type: men. He squinted at the approaching posse and after a few moments of study reached down to put out his cigar. Turning to the girl sitting next to him he said, "Ruth, you go on inside an' get Bisbee. Young's back."
"It looks like he's brought more friends this time." Nervousness twisted the waitress' face as she skewed her mouth, teeth biting her bottom lip. A few days before Young had wandered into town with a couple companions and had proceeded to cause quite a stir in the saloon where she worked and lived. Sheriff Bisbee was forced to throw the drunks out and send them on their way. The memory of their drunken violence was enough to have her heed Sam's warnings, the recollection of Young's cold eyes was what sent her inside at a hurried pace. Out of the three he had only had one drink and although he hadn't participated in the row had seemed more dangerous than the other two.
"Evenin' there." Young called out to the Elder Ralston in a causal, conversational tone. He held a cigarette between his smiling lips. One hand was stuffed in one of his pockets while the other lifted in a brief greeting.
"Mhm." Ralston grunted, nodding his head once in a return greeting. "Though I'd say night is more appropriate than evening." He raised his wrinkled face up to the sky where a fingernail moon hung in the corner of the sky like a bent nail.
Young let out a strange laugh. His head tilted back as he howled with glee before returning his attention back to the older man. "That it is, that it is." Ralston followed his movements as he started to climb the porch to the saloon, wary of the unpredictable troublemaker. He'd known his type before, back when the Mojave was still wild – or rather, wilder. Of course, back then they were a dime a dozen, whether they be renegades who'd seen one too many holotapes or chemed out raiders that were little more than savages. Young was much like the previous type, more dangerous a threat because he had smarts, possibly even a reason for being there.
It wasn't by chance he'd come to their little town. Holding back conspiracy theories Ralston would just assume he was a youth on a power trip. Firedale was a little burg, and although it wasn't that far from the likes of places like the NCR's Mojave Outpost it was far enough set back from the main roads to be ignored for a long period of time. He'd never thought of it before, but what usually had kept them safe had also been something that at times had threatened them. Their isolation.
The double screen doors that hung as the portal to the saloon's innards squealed opened. A tall, broad-shouldered, dusty-haired man stepped out. On his breast was clipped a rusted badge. Sheriff Bobby Bisbee. "I believe I told you it would be wise to mosey along." Bisbee said, not quite looking at Young as he pulled out a cigarette of his own and placed it between his lips. Young followed the other man's hand as it reached into his pocket and retrieved a bent lighter, on which the letters R.B. were inscribed crudely as if traced with a knife or ice pick. The Sheriff flicked the lighter open and then struck the flint, the flames licking up along the tip of his cigarette. The light caught the hard lines of his eyes and settled in the minute wrinkles at the edges.
"I had considered it," Young replied, "but you know, I just liked this little town so much I decided that maybe I wanted to stay."
Bisbee sucked in a breath of tobacco, exhaled smoke into the air, and then leveled his eyes on Young. "Well, ain't that just too bad? We're a small town and we don't really have room for the likes of you."
Young laughed again, but this time it was a dark laugh full of malice. He shook his head at the ground and placed a hand on his hip. "The likes of me?" He repeated, as if that phrase was a great joke. Then the smile dropped from his face. The abrupt expression change was accompanied by the quick twitch of his hand as he pulled his gun from the holster at his side and aimed it right at the sheriff. Bisbee reached for his own gun. Seconds separated their movements and not in Bisbee's favor. A 10 mm round struck him in the stomach.
Pain doubled him over, fingers clutching at the site of the injury. Still he raised his pistol at the marauder. "Son of a bitch!" His finger pressed upon the trigger as Young stepped up to him and twisted his boot on the bullet wound and kicked him back. Bisbee staggered, his back slamming into the wall and his arm jerked upwards, causing his shot to fire into the sky instead of into his target. Young growled, drawing his arm back to gain momentum for a violent swing of his arm as he whipped Bisbee in the side of his head with the butt of his gun.
During the short-lived battle Ralston had tried to find a moment to intervene. No matter what he did he was sure it would end badly being outnumbered the way they were. With Bisbee crumpled in agony on the wooden planks, bleeding profusely he was worried that if he didn't do something Young was going to kill him. While Young was busy with the downed sheriff Ralston dropped his arm beside him to grip the shotgun he kept there. Seeing the movement Young swung around and aimed his barrel at his head. "I wouldn't do that old man. I have no quarrel with you… not yet."
Ralston released the gun and held up his hands a little to make sure Young understood he wasn't going to try anything else. "We don't want problems here."
"Well then," Young told him, "I guess you better spread the word of who's in charge now." He put his weapon away and stepped over the prone lawman to the doors. Over his shoulder he called to his men, "I'm feelin' generous tonight, boys. Drinks on the new Mayor!"
Whooping and hollering the men disappeared inside the saloon. He felt bad for Val, the owner, but there were more pressing matters at the moment to attend to. When the sound of chairs being dragged and feet being propped up drifted outside he knelt next to the injured man. "Come on, Bisbee, can you walk?" He helped him to sit up against the wall, Bisbee's head lolling down weakly. Likely he was disoriented from the blow he had taken to the head.
The sheriff groaned in pain as Ralston threw one of his arms around his shoulders and tried to get him to stand. The older man felt his back already beginning to protest, followed closely by a screaming in his joints as he heaved Bisbee up. "Come on now, youngster, help an old man out. I know you can do it." Ralston urged, hoping his pep talk would give Bisbee some extra strength. He knew that despite his own pain Bisbee needed to get medical attention. Stomach wounds weren't immediately fatal, but every passing moment they lingered meant another that Young might change his mind and come back to take Bisbee out.
As the two staggered out into the dust-swept street Ralston caught movement in the grimy window of Roth's General Store. It was the young shop owner himself standing in the dark, watching with curious and worried interest. When Roth saw he'd been spotted he stepped outside and raised his hand to hail the elderly resident. "Oi! What happened there, Sam?"
"Young came back and shot Bisbee." Ralston informed. Roth had been in the Saloon the first time Young had come to town and had been one of the ones to help toss him and his goons out. Immediately Roth's brows knit together with dread. His eyes turned up to the street and back to the Saloon and then behind him. Most likely his wife was waiting inside, further in the dark, waiting to hear what the shooting was about. Ralston could tell Roth was worried for his family's safety so he shifted Bisbee a little bit and added, "don't worry right now, they're busy ordering drinks. Do me a favor and go get Nancy!"
Jacob Roth was always a community man, close to being an honorary deputy. Helping out in Firedale was something he was always willing to do so it was no surprise when he turned again to motion to his wife Angie that he was running down to Nannette's shack to get the nurse. Then without another word he closed his shop door and took off down the street.
"S-Sam…" Bisbee murmured. His head swiveled to the left to look at him, a similar dread written in his eyes. "I didn't want to worry anybody, but I had Nash follow Young last time he left, you know, to make sure he was gone—" Another groan of pain interrupted him, and when Ralston tried to shush him Bisbee shook his head and continued. "Nash… He said that Young met up with a much larger group. About twelve or so men. Looked like they were planning somethin'. I think we're in trouble, Sam."
So what Ralston considered earlier could be true, that Young was there for a premeditated purpose. What concerned him was why? How did he even know about Firedale, much less find it useful? Something about this whole situation set him ill at ease, and not just because a criminal had just laid claim to his hometown. If someone didn't do something soon changes were coming to their little corner of the Mojave – bad ones.