Spoilers: This is AU, so there are no major spoilers, but there are a few references to events in "The Stage Stop," "Men in Shadows," and "The Marshals."

Disclaimer: I don't own Laramie, but I certainly wish that I did.

A/N: My mom has always loved Laramie - especially Jess Harper - and she's the one I have to thank for getting me interested in the show, so this fic is dedicated to her. :)

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.

I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think!

The Hoot Owl Trail

The tumbleweed wagon rolled into town in a cloud of dust, the driver bouncing in his seat as the wagon hit a particularly deep furrow in the road.

From his vantage point on the boardwalk in front of the jail, Slim watched the wagon's approach with narrowed eyes, his hands tightening on the rifle he held.

He had nothing against the Marshals in charge of the wagon…he'd heard they were good men, in fact. But Sheriff Mort Corey had been gone since yesterday, chasing after a gang who'd pulled off several armed robberies around the territory. They'd hit Laramie twice, killing three people, and the Sheriff was keen to see them behind bars. He'd taken a posse with him, but when Slim had volunteered to go along, Mort had refused, saying that Slim could do more good if he stayed behind. He wanted someone in town with a level head on his shoulders, just in case there was trouble.

Slim had reluctantly agreed and been deputized in short-order.

His first day on the job had been relatively quiet. Aside from needing to break up a fight at the saloon, Slim had spent most of the day without a whole lot to do. He'd hoped today wouldn't be much different, and at first, it seemed like he might have his wish.

Then he'd gotten word about the tumbleweed wagon.

A rockslide up north had blocked the road leading into Ironwood, and Ironwood had been scheduled as the tumbleweed wagon's next stop. That meant they'd have to make a detour for rest and supplies in Laramie.

Slim knew he couldn't turn 'em away - the Marshals had authority over every peace officer in the territory, and it wasn't unreasonable for them to make use of the jail. But Slim had an uneasy feeling in his gut that he just couldn't shake, due in no small part to who that tumbleweed wagon was carrying.

Jess Harper.

Slim had never met the man, but he knew his reputation. His wanted posters had been sent to every lawman in the territory ten-times over in the last year, Mort included. By all accounts, Harper had a quick temper and an even faster gun. Some said he was just a stone-cold killer and nothing more. Others insisted that he didn't go lookin' for trouble, but trouble found him anyway and he was always ready to answer it. Regardless, he'd killed and killed plenty.

Word was that Harper had been let down by one-too-many partners in the past, and when he wasn't hiring out his services as a gunslinger, he tended to keep to himself. That meant there wasn't much chance that he had someone on the outside, waiting to help him escape. But, Harper was nothing if unpredictable, and he'd evaded capture for long enough that he was sure to have at least a few tricks up his sleeve. He clearly didn't have any compunctions about killing lawmen, either - he was set to be tried for killing a sheriff down in Kansas, and a deputy in Colorado.

All in all, Slim wouldn't have wanted Harper in Laramie on a good day, let alone on a day that he was charged with keeping the peace.

But he didn't have much choice.

His hands curled on the rifle again before he forced himself to relax.

"You think they'll be here long, Slim?"

Slim glanced over at the man next to him. Gabe Hansen was barely twenty, tall, with blond hair and blue eyes, some of that youthful lankiness still visible, like he hadn't quite grown into his limbs yet. He was a good kid, the type who was almost always ready with a smile and a friendly word. He was solid, too, someone you could trust to keep his head in a fight, as he'd shown last year when some rustlers had set their sights on his parents' ranch. He was still pretty green, though, which was probably why Mort had decided to leave him behind in town. He'd been deputized alongside Slim two days before.

"It's hard to say, Gabe," Slim answered honestly. "Depends on what the Marshals decide. A day, maybe two."

Gabe nodded, then turned back to the street, watching as the tumbleweed wagon rolled to a stop in front of the jail.

He'd taken his cue from Slim, resting his hand on the gun at his side, his expression serious, but there was an eager sparkle in his eyes that he couldn't quite hide. Whether that excitement was from the responsibility he'd been given, or from the prospect of meeting a notorious outlaw, Slim wasn't sure.

If he'd had to guess, though, he'd say it was the latter. Slim snorted softly. Andy would probably have looked the same way standing in his place. That boy always had cottoned to every no good drifter that came through, and he'd doubtless be thrilled to meet an outlaw like Harper. Slim, on the other hand, wanted to keep Andy far, far away from Harper's ilk…as far away as that boarding school in St. Louis, preferably, but there just wasn't enough money for that right now, and there might never be. One lean year had turned into two, then three, until the contract with The Great Central Overland Mail was the only thing keeping them afloat. Unfortunately, that meant that unless Slim could find - and afford - a hired hand, he needed Andy's help with the stage teams. Jonesy just couldn't do it with his back the way it was, and Slim had too many other chores to see to.

Still, while those were all good, solid reasons for keeping Andy at home, they weren't enough to curb the keen disappointment of a twelve-year-old boy. Slim just hoped Andy would be in good spirits when he got back from Laramie. He'd trusted his little brother to oversee things while he was gone, and their neighbor, Ben, had offered to handle the work out on the range.

It was the sound of hooves that brought Slim out of his reverie, and he looked up to see two men on horseback trotting up behind the wagon. One man was already swinging down from the saddle, his badge glinting on his vest as he moved.

"Branch McGary, Territorial Marshal," he introduced himself. He nodded at the other man on horseback. "This is my deputy, Reb Carlson." He turned and motioned again, this time indicating the wagon, "And my driver, Patrick Brooks. He goes by Patches."

A quiet round of "howdys" were exchanged.

"I'm Slim Sherman, and this is Gabe Hansen," Slim offered in return. "We're acting deputies."

"Acting deputies?" McGary repeated. "Sheriff Corey isn't here?"

"No, Marshal, he's not. He rode out with a posse a couple days ago."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I don't."

McGary nodded, but he looked as happy about the situation as Slim was. "I see." He glanced away for a moment, his eyes lingering on the horizon.

"Alright," he said at last, turning back to his deputy. "Reb?"

The deputy seemed to know what the Marshal wanted, because he immediately dismounted and started for the back of the wagon, a set of keys jingling in his hand.

A moment later, he reappeared. The man that shuffled out behind him, chains binding his wrists and ankles, was shorter than Slim had expected, just an inch shy of six feet, but he was built solid, all compact muscle and not an ounce of fat. His features were sharp and mostly unlined aside from the cleft in his chin, and his hair was dark, nearly black. He wouldn't have stood out much on the street, might even have looked like any other cowhand, with a blue shirt, well-worn pants, a red bandana tied at his throat and a dusty black Stetson on his head. It was his eyes, though, that said different. They were a startling blue and as hard and cold as a winter wind.

His gaze swept his surroundings as he walked, like he was looking for threats, the chains he wore rattling with every step. His eyes narrowed faintly when they landed on Gabe, one corner of his mouth curling, maybe in derision or amusement.

"These lawmen get younger all the time, eh, McGary?" he said, his voice a low rumble.

McGary gave him a hard stare. "That's enough, Jess."

Slim's eyebrows rose faintly, surprised to hear the Marshal use Harper's first name. He was even more surprised when Harper scoffed in response but didn't say another word as Deputy Carlson pulled him up onto the boardwalk and into the jail.

Gabe followed them inside, and Slim was ready to do the same until he realized that the Marshal had stopped to speak with his driver, sending him off to see to the horses and restock their supplies. Slim waited until McGary was finished, and the driver started off in the direction of the livery. Then, he stepped down into the street, hoping that the Marshal would understand the unspoken request for a moment of his time.

Thankfully, he seemed to.

"Something I can do for you, Mr. Sherman?" he asked when Slim approached.

"I'd like to know what your plans are, Marshal."

McGary smiled a little. "You mean how long is that jail of yours going to be occupied?"

Slim nodded.

"As long as Patches doesn't have any problems with the supplies, we should be out of here first thing tomorrow morning."

"Best news I've heard all day."

"Not fond of outlaws?"

"Not of men like Harper, no," Slim answered honestly.

"Can't say I blame you, though I don't think you have anything to worry about. Harper's dangerous, no question, but I've seen far worse."

"You sound like you know him."

"I do. Or I did." McGary sighed, resting his hands on his gunbelt. "He was just a kid when I met him. Just an angry kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas."

Slim frowned. "Way I hear it, that angry kid killed a sheriff down in Kansas."

"And the way Jess tells it, that sheriff was crooked."

"He have any proof?"

"No. The only man who could back up his story is dead. Shot. The sheriff said he'd caught him red-handed in a robbery." McGary sighed again. "In any case, it doesn't matter now."

"Because of that deputy in Colorado?" Slim guessed.

McGary nodded. "The man had only been on the job for a few weeks, and he was probably hoping to make a name for himself. He recognized Jess and drew on him. Jess was faster."

Slim's frown deepened. That would have been considered fair play in a regular gunfight, but not when there was a lawman involved. Still, it said something, he supposed, that Harper hadn't made the first move, and that was likely what McGary had wanted him to know.

"Just the same," Slim said at last, "I'll be glad to have him gone."

"I understand, Mr. Sherman. We'll do our best to oblige you."

Slim nodded his appreciation, and together, they walked the few steps back to the jail, McGary waving him through the doorway first.

Harper was already in a cell, Slim saw, and free of the chains. He was laying down on a bunk, feet crossed at the ankles, hands behind his head, the Stetson covering his face. He looked like a man enjoying a sunny day in a meadow somewhere, instead of a man on his way to short trial and a probable execution.

Slim shook his head at the picture Harper painted, then headed across the room to the corner where Gabe sat. The younger man had pulled out one of Mort's extra chairs, and he dragged out another when he saw Slim walking over.

Slim smiled briefly in thanks and sat down, setting his rifle on the floor, propping it up against the nearby wall so it would be within easy reach.

McGary, for his part, had taken the chair behind Mort's desk, and Deputy Carlson was still on his feet, keeping watch by the door, his arms folded across his chest.

Slim sighed and leaned back in his own chair, stretching out his legs and settling in to wait.

With any luck, the wait wouldn't be a long one.

It was an hour or so later when they heard it: the steady pounding of hooves outside.

Slim was on his feet in an instant and Gabe was only a split second behind. McGary and Carlson were already headed for the door, hands on the guns at their hips.

McGary reached the door first, swinging it open just far enough to get a good view of the street. A single rider was headed their way, the horse running full-out, kicking up a cloud of dust as he went.

"Someone you know?" McGary asked.

Slim stepped closer to the door and squinted into the sun, trying to make out the rider's face.

Slim blinked in surprise when he recognized the green eyes and brown scruff visible beneath a wide-brimmed black hat. "It's Bill Jacobs - he left with the posse."

McGary nodded and opened the door wide, moving out onto the boardwalk with Deputy Carlson, Slim right on their heels.

When Jacobs finally reached the jail, he pulled his horse to a stop and jumped out of the saddle, tying the reigns to the hitching post with a sloppy hand.

"Bill, what happened?" Slim demanded, stepping forward.

Bill opened his mouth to answer but he was taking great, desperate gulps of air, like he'd done all the running instead of his horse. He doubled over, resting his hands on his knees, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"You hurt?" Slim asked, worried.

Bill shook his head and raised a hand, waving the concern away. "Not me," he managed at last, still panting hard. "I…ain't…hurt none. Just…plum tuckered."

Slim nodded, then turned at the sound of footsteps beside him. Gabe must have followed them outside, then gone back into the jail when he'd seen Bill, because he was standing there now with a canteen in hand.

"Here," Gabe offered, holding out the canteen, "some water."

Bill accepted it gratefully. "Thanks. Mighty kind of ya."

He took a few quick swallows, wiping his face with the back of his hand when some water trickled down his chin.

"What happened, Bill?" Slim repeated when Bill finally seemed a little less winded.

Bill tamped the cap down on the canteen with a hard shove.

"We've got the Hardwick gang pinned down in Baker's Canyon, but Jack and Fred are both hit. They'll be okay, by and by, they just ain't much use now. Sheriff sent me back to get help."

Slim grimaced, eyes automatically darting to the Marshal. If it had just been him and Gabe, he'd have ridden off with Bill in a heartbeat. But now they had Harper to think about, and they couldn't leave him unguarded.

McGary's thoughts were obviously running along the same lines. Slim watched him share a look with Deputy Carlson who nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"Alright," McGary began. "Sherman, you and Hansen stay here. Reb, you find Patches and let him know where we'll be, then head to the livery and get us some fresh horses. Get one for Mr. Jacobs too."

The deputy nodded again and left to do as he'd been told.

Bill had watched the exchange with a confused sort of interest, but he must have seen the badges on McGary's and Carlson's vests, because he asked no questions about the Marshal's presence in Laramie. Slim figured there'd be time to fill him in later.

Carlson returned in a few minutes, leading two bays and a buckskin, all of which were already saddled. The buckskin went to Bill while McGary and Carlson took the two bays. They stopped only to gather their gear and pack a few extra supplies before they mounted up.

"We'll be back as soon as we can," McGary offered, then spurred his horse down the road with a press of his heels, Carlson and Bill at his side.

Slim watched until they rounded the bend, a muscle working along his jaw. Much as he appreciated knowing that the Marshal still planned on getting Harper out of town, he knew McGary had no control over what happened next. The standoff in Baker's Canyon could last hours or even days, depending on how well-supplied the Hardwick gang was. If they had water, and were settled in for the long-haul…

Slim sighed, his eyes drifting to the livery down the street. Gabe was already walking in that direction, leading Bill's old horse. The chestnut's coat was shining in the sun, soaked with sweat, and his legs were caked with dirt. Bill had obviously ridden him hard to get back to Laramie.

Satisfied that the horse would be seen to, Slim turned and stepped back inside the jail, closing the door behind him.

A glance at the cells showed that Harper had gotten up from the bunk and was pacing back and forth along the bars. His hand had darted to his side automatically when Slim entered, his fingers curling a little around the gun that would have rested at his thigh; reflex, Slim supposed. A man like Harper probably developed it early.

"Trouble?" Harper asked curiously.

"Just you," Slim retorted.

That earned him an amused snort from the gunslinger.

"Where's McGary?" he wondered.

"Out."

He had no intention of telling Harper where the Marshal was. He might have to, if McGary was gone long enough, but for now, he didn't need to know.

Harper smirked at his answer, pausing his circuit in the cell to lean against the bars. "Not much for talkin', are you?"

Slim was spared having to answer when Gabe returned from the livery, the door creaking as he opened it. Slim gave him a nod in greeting and Gabe smiled back in answer. The friendly, open expression made him look like the kid he mostly was, and Harper must have seen it too.

"Like I said before," the gunslinger scoffed, "they make you lawmen younger all the time."

Gabe answered before Slim could stop him. "I ain't a lawman - not really. The sheriff deputized me."

"And where is the sheriff?"

"None of your business, Harper," Slim cut in.

Harper's expression darkened and his eyes narrowed a little, but he shrugged deliberately, as if to say it didn't matter, then resumed pacing back and forth in his cell. He moved with an easy, unconscious grace, his footfalls quiet, even on the old wooden planks.

The silence stretched on for a few minutes, but Slim had a feeling it wouldn't last.

It didn't.

"Say, you got anything a fella could eat around here?" Harper asked.

"You'll eat when we do."

"A cup of water, then?"

Gabe looked at Slim questioningly, and when Slim nodded his permission, Gabe reached for the water pitcher and the tin cup Mort kept beside his desk.

A sudden clatter and a sharp yell outside brought Slim's head around towards the window. He snatched up his rifle from against the wall and walked towards the front of the office, brushing the curtains aside and peering out at the street. He relaxed, cursing his nerves. A horse by the dry goods store had thrown a shoe, and the rider was already crouching down by his mount, examining the hoof with careful hands.

Slim turned back around, his eyes finding Gabe once more.

He tensed immediately, every muscle taut.

Gabe was right next to the bars, trying to hand Harper the cup of water, and he was close, too close. Slim realized what would happen just a split second before it did, but the warning he called out was too late.

Harper's hand snaked through the bars, spinning Gabe around so he was facing Slim. An instant later, the outlaw's arm was wrapped tightly around Gabe's neck, and Gabe's gun was out of its holster, now in Harper's other hand, cocked and ready.

Gabe dropped the water and struggled in Harper's grip, but Harper pressed the gun against Gabe's temple. Gabe stilled, his throat bobbing convulsively.

Slim brought his rifle up on instinct, his finger on the trigger, but he didn't fire.

He couldn't.

"You don't want to do this," Slim tried, hoping he could talk Harper down. "Don't make things worse than they already are."

"Worse?" Harper snorted. "What are they gonna do, hang me twice?"

Slim grit his teeth, bringing his rifle up a little farther so it was pointed at Harper's head. "He dies, you die."

The gunslinger shrugged. "Either I die by your gun now or die later by the rope. Makes no difference to me. But the way I figure it, his life," he tightened his grip on Gabe pointedly, "probably means something to you. So, what'll it be?"

Slim's teeth were clenched so tightly now that his jaw hurt, but in the end, he knew had no choice.

"Okay," he ground out. "You win."

He bent down slowly to set the rifle on the floor then straightened up again, hands raised as if in surrender.

"The other one, too," Harper insisted.

Slim's six-gun joined the rifle on the floor.

"Much obliged. Now," Harper continued, "you grab them keys, walk over here, nice and slow, and open the door."

Slim kept his hands raised as he walked to Mort's desk, pulling the key ring out of the drawer then making his way carefully across the room until he reached the door of the cell. The key slid easily into the lock, the click as it opened sounding unnaturally loud to Slim's ears.

He pulled the door open, the hinges protesting with a screech, and then he stepped back, leaving the keys in the lock.

Harper smiled. "Good."

He glanced around the room, then nodded at farthest corner of the jail. Slim knew why Harper had picked it. It was a good distance back from the cells and it was far away from the front door. The guns Slim had been forced to abandon were completely out of reach as well.

"You get over in that corner," Harper ordered, "and stay there, just like you are. You make a move on me and he dies."

Slim didn't waste breath arguing. He moved to the corner silently, keeping Harper in his sight every minute, for all the good it would do.

Harper waited until Slim was as far away as he could be, then gradually loosened his grip on Gabe.

"Kid," Harper said roughly, "I'm gonna let you go now, but don't you get any bright ideas. I ain't some dirty back-shooter, but give me no choice and I'll do whatever needs doing."

Gabe swallowed hard and nodded.

Apparently satisfied, Harper finally let him go and stepped back in the cell, the gun raised.

He waved it at the corner. "Go join your friend. Hands up, just like his, and move slow."

Gabe did as he was told, and Slim's worried gaze raked over him from head to toe. He was pale, his mouth drawn into a thin line, but his hands, now in the air like Slim's, were steady.

Harper watched them cautiously for a moment, then stepped out of the cell. He grabbed the keys out of the lock with his free hand but he kept his gun trained on them as he made his way across the room, headed for the corner farthest from theirs.

"Okay," he said at last, "both of ya, get in the cell and pull the door shut behind you."

Obviously realizing what Harper had planned, Gabe looked ready to argue, but Slim stopped him with a quick shake of his head. Harper held all the cards now, and they had no choice but to play along. At least it seemed like Harper planned to keep them breathing - he just needed them out of the way. There was a chance that Harper intended to shoot them both once they were locked up, but Slim didn't think that was the case. For one thing, gunshots could attract attention the outlaw didn't need, and for another…Harper just didn't seem like the type.

He was a killer, yes, but a killer with rules.

I've seen far worse, the Marshal had said.

Still, Slim wasn't about to risk his and Gabe's lives on a hunch and the Marshal's good opinion, especially when Harper's patience had notoriously short limits.

Slim motioned for Gabe to walk ahead of him, wanting to be sure he wasn't going to make any trouble. When they reached the cell, Slim's hand found the door and gave it a sharp tug.

It shut with a clang.

Harper immediately motioned for them to step back from the bars, waving the gun for emphasis. The moment they were far enough away, he strode to the door and locked it with a swift turn of his hand.

The outlaw tossed the keys back on Mort's desk, then glanced around the room again, as though sizing it up, before his eyes turned back to the cell, settling on Gabe.

"I'm gonna need that gunbelt yer wearing, kid."

Gabe blinked in surprise, then locked his jaw stubbornly, one hand curling protectively around the belt. "No."

"Gabe," Slim said warningly.

It was a nice belt - black, hand-tooled leather, with intricate stitching on the holster and a silver buckle. Jake Hansen had bought it for his son the year before, after that dustup with the rustlers, and Slim remembered watching him order it, beaming with pride about the bravery his son had shown. But there was bravery and then there was foolishness, and this was distinctly the latter.

No gunbelt was worth your life.

"Give it to him, Gabe."

Gabe's jaw clenched stubbornly, and Slim gave him a hard look, staring him down. The younger man's face crumpled a little, but finally, he did as Harper asked and unbuckled the belt. He tossed it through the bars at Harper, who caught it deftly and quickly buckled it around his own waist, setting it low on his hips. It didn't have any strings to tie the holster down to his thigh, but Harper didn't seem to mind. He ran a hand over the leather admiringly, obviously appreciating the fine work.

"My farther gave me that," Gabe muttered.

Harper looked back at Gabe, his lips quirking wryly. "Well, then, I'll be sure and return it to ya, first chance I get."

Gabe glared in response, but he wisely stayed silent when Harper set to work checking the rounds in his gun. A practiced flick of his wrist opened then closed the chamber, and Slim tensed, wondering if he'd been wrong about the gunslinger after all. Maybe he really did plan to shoot them where they stood.

But, it soon became clear that the gunslinger's focus wasn't on them. Instead, Harper turned a little towards the wall, slipped the gun into the holster and then drew it out again, once, twice, and a third time, the motions gaining speed as he grew accustomed to the feel of the unfamiliar weapon. By the last attempt, his hand was moving faster than Slim could follow.

Harper must have been happy with that because he set the gun in the holster one final time, then glanced around the room once more and headed for the gear piled beside Mort's desk. Most of it belonged to Slim and Gabe, supplies they'd brought with them assuming they'd be part of the posse, and the rest was made up of odds and ends the Marshals had left behind.

Harper dug through it all methodically, grabbing two canteens, a bedroll, some dried jerky, extra ammo, and a rain slicker. He emptied out one of the saddlebags completely - Slim recognized it as his own - and grabbed the keys he'd left on Mort's desk, tossing them inside the saddlebag first. Then, he set about packing his supplies with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times before. If Harper drifted as much as his reputation suggested, he probably had.

"This place have a back door?" Harper asked when he was finished.

Slim gave him a dark look in return, but he nodded. "Yeah. That way." He pointed at the hallway that led to the back room where Mort kept an extra cot. "Door's on the left."

Harper smirked, tipping his hat with mock politeness. "Thank ya kindly."

"You ain't gonna get far, you know," Gabe warned.

"Maybe, maybe not. Won't know 'til I try."

The outlaw stood, carrying his pack over to the guns Slim had laid on the floor, then he knelt down again, examining the weapons with an experienced eye. A moment later, Slim's six-shooter was tucked away in the pack itself, and the rifle was secured over the top of it in a way that suggested Harper had spent some time in the Army. He stood again, shouldering the pack with ease, then looked around the room one last time, searching for anything he'd missed.

Evidently satisfied with what he had, Harper headed for the back of the office, one hand resting loosely on the gun at his thigh. He paused just as he reached the hallway, though, and turned back towards the cells.

"Tell McGary…" Harper started and then stopped, his fingers curling a little at his side. He blew out a harsh breath. "Tell McGary he was wrong," he finished at last. "I just ain't made for any other kinda life."

Adjusting his pack with a quick thrust of his shoulder, Harper turned away once again, quickly disappearing down the hall. His footsteps could be heard for a moment, followed by the sound of a door opening then shutting quietly.

And with that he was gone.

It took nearly half an hour of shouting before someone finally heard Slim and Gabe yelling for help in their windowless cell, and another half hour for their rescuers to track down the spare set of keys Mort kept in the office.

Another posse had immediately been sent out to search for Harper, but despite Gabe's earlier assurance that the outlaw would be caught, Slim had his doubts. A man as resourceful as Harper could get mighty far in the time he'd had. He might have even found a horse by now, and if that were the case, he could be halfway to the next town for all they knew. Plus, with Mort and the Marshal still caught up in that standoff with the Hardwick gang, Laramie just didn't have the kind of resources they'd need to track Harper down.

"I'm sorry, Slim," Gabe had said as soon as they'd been freed. "It's my fault. I shoulda known better than to get that close to him."

"You're right, you should have," Slim agreed. He'd sighed and given the younger man's shoulder a squeeze. "But you weren't the only one there, Gabe. I own a share of the blame too."

He should have known what Harper was up to the minute he started asking questions about the marshal and the sheriff…should have stopped the outlaw from prowling around in his cell like a cougar waiting to pounce.

Well, it was too late to change any of that now. All they could do was move forward.

Still, it was the thought of having to explain everything to McGary and Mort that had sent Slim out onto the range, trying to see if he could spot Harper's trail for himself.

He rode for a good hour without any sign, and as evening drew closer, he wondered if it had all been for naught. He wasn't even sure if Harper had come this way. Maybe he'd gone south, towards Cheyenne, figuring that would be the last place anyone would look for him. His trial had been scheduled to take place there, after all.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, Slim tugged on his horse's reins, intending to head back to Laramie.

That was when he saw it.

There, plain as day, hanging on a low branch like a peace offering, was Gabe's gunbelt.

Slim stared at it for a moment in disbelief, an odd noise, almost a laugh, bubbling up in his throat. Marveling at Harper's sheer nerve, Slim urged his horse forward, his eyes sweeping the terrain as he went. There was nothing, though - no sign of movement, not even any tracks that Slim could see around the base of the tree Harper had picked.

In all likelihood, the outlaw was long-gone. Reckless as it had been to leave the belt behind, Slim didn't think he was foolish enough to wait around for whoever found it.

Plucking the belt from the branch, Slim looked around one last time, then turned his horse up the road and continued on. He'd keep searching for a ways, just in case, but he had a feeling that the gunbelt was all he was likely to get. The holster was empty, of course, but Gabe would be glad to have the belt back just the same, and it was more than most men would have done in Harper's place.

Slim's hand tightened a little on the black leather, McGary's words running through his head for the second time that day.

It seemed like the Marshal was right. There were worse men than Jess Harper.

Men who wouldn't have spared him and Gabe back in that jail.

Men who wouldn't have cared if a kid lost a gunbelt that meant something to him.

It made Slim question just how Harper had turned down the hoot owl trial in the first place. Then again, desperation could drive a man to lengths he'd never imagined. Slim had felt a little of that himself when he'd lost his parents, but he'd had a kid brother to think about then, and Slim had hung on for Andy's sake as well as his own, determined to make a good life for them both.

Harper, as far as he knew, had no one.

That didn't excuse what he'd done, though. Life is about choices, his pa used to say, and Harper had obviously made the wrong ones. Still, as Slim hooked the gunbelt over his shoulder and spurred his horse into a trot, he couldn't help but wonder about the outlaw.

Maybe Harper was right. Maybe he just wasn't made for any other kinda life.

Or, maybe, just maybe, in a different world, Jess Harper might have been someone he would have liked to know.

Fin

A/N: Thanks again for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think.

Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)