If looks could kill, Butch would have been six feet under and the Indian with the painted face would have been dancing around his grave. The gun against his temple was steady, no hint of apprehension in the other man's eyes. "Now wendigo must die." His English may have been broken and chopped in places, but his message was clear: Butch was a dead man. Or so he thought. Butch raised a brow as he looked up at the Ranger, spitting out a bit of blood that still lingered on his tongue, wondering if the explosion had affected the lawman's mind. Cursed silver, Spirit Walkers, wendigos - he could have laughed, had his face not been burning from the blows he'd received. He let his chin fall down onto his chest, more than ready to succumb to unconsciousness if it meant not having to hear these two idiots bicker.
"You sold out your whole village for a watch!"
Blue eyes shot up to stare in disbelief at the Indian who suddenly looked as though he was fighting back tears. For a moment, somewhere behind the paint caked on his skin and the sorrow clouding those dark eyes, Butch caught a glimpse of a young boy, no older than ten, staring at him with curiosity and distrust. The past rushed through Butch's mind like a Hell on Wheels menagerie - bribing the kid with Latham's pocket watch, finding the silver at the mouth of the river, slaughtering the village. He squinted at the now grown Comanche, suddenly questioning how they'd missed this one, and dismissed the thought as soon as it echoed through his head. It didn't matter now. They had the silver, enough Chinese workers to never have to get their hands dirty in the mines, and soon, control over the railroad - another Comanche angry about their actions wouldn't make much of a difference.
He watched with mild interest as the Indian fired an insult at the Ranger, then turned and knelt in front of him again, placing the gun its in former position against his head. "Look at me." Butch raised his gaze to the vengeful Comanche and up over his shoulder, noticing the Ranger silently approaching his former friend with a shovel. "See the faces of my people as you die," the Indian snarled, then abruptly fell to the dirt with a dull thud when the steel tool made contact with the back of his cranium.
The outlaw cast a smirk at the Ranger as the lawman bound his hands roughly together with rope. "Knew I could count on ya, Counselor," he said in a mockingly cordial tone, dipping his chin in false thanks. He earned himself the demand to shut up, in return to which he laughed as he was hauled to his feet. The Ranger's plans became clear when he mounted his horse and tugged sharply on the rope.
It was going to be a long walk back to where Latham was undoubtedly waiting. Butch could clearly see his brother in his mind's eye, checking that ridiculous pocket watch every so often, wondering what was taking him so long. He glared up at the Ranger's back and vowed to return him to the land of the dead, where Dan Reid was and where this one should have been.
They left the mine in a disarrayed state - several unconscious bodies, some of which were his own men, and more than a dozen Chinamen who were cowering in awe and fear of the lone rider, who'd made an unorthodox appearance and who was now taking away the man who'd oppressed them. The Ranger tipped his hat to them as they passed, and for extra measure, gave the rope enough of a jolt that Butch stumbled and nearly fell to his knees as the lawman called out to the Asians, reassuring the workers that this man would be brought to justice.
Fool, Butch thought with a nasty grin, noticing with sick amusement how the miners shied away from him as he walked through their midst. They don't even speak English.
Evening was rapidly approaching. The sun was steadily sinking lower, making the ability to see where he was putting his feet nigh impossible. The toe of his boot caught in the sand as they crested a hill and he fell, sending rivulets of dirt sliding down after him. To his credit, the Ranger paused long enough for Butch to regain his balance, but wasted no time pulling the outlaw along after the horse as they began moving again. With the absence of the sun the heat was beginning to dissipate and the night was turning cool. Walking through several puddles of water came as a relief; the splashes that made their way over the tops of his boots and soaked his pant legs felt good against his sweaty skin.
The bridge rose up out of the darkness like a hulking beast, a mass of unwavering metal and timber that Latham was so proud of. Butch snorted at the idiocy of his brother and smiled innocently when the Ranger turned his head to look at him, noticing how the man's gaze was immediately drawn to the cleft lip and silver tooth that flashed in the darkness. A mutual wave of contempt passed between the two men, each longing to be rid of the other.
Butch's head was drooping in exhaustion when the train came into view. Its metal glistened in the light of a crackling fire, guarded by several men in uniforms that Butch remembered wearing. His neck itched at the memory of a starched collar. He briefly flinched when the Ranger shouted out his brother's name, but he found himself too tired to struggle when they finally came to a stop. "Latham Cole!"
The man of the hour stepped out of a car, impeccably dressed in a fine suit and with a Cavalry officer trailing behind him. "What is it, friend?" Latham inquired, eyes briefly going to the unusual badge on the man's jacket. The Ranger's answer was short and then Butch found himself falling to the ground, letting out muffled groans as he landed on a harsh angle.
"Butch Cavendish." He rose to his knees as his brother approached. The knee that landed in his gut was unexpected but not delivered with extreme force; he was useless to his brother if he was too injured to work. Not to his surprise the Ranger quickly intervened, saying again how Butch had been brought here for justice.
Justice, Butch thought to himself, as Latham slid the cuffs over his wrists, is overrated. As if to agree with him, the chain jingled as he was led into an empty car with fine furnishings, and he wasted no time removing the purposely loose cuffs as he flopped down into the cushioned chair, propped his feet up on the desk, and smiled.
Somewhere in the distance, the train's air horn sounded, and Butch let his eyes drift shut as the train began to move, the rocking of the cars lulling him into a quiet slumber.