AN: Langstonlover wrote a story on comment-fic at LJ that is a crossover of Into the West and Crossfire Trail. We did a fic trade, and I asked if she minded if I used the idea she used (that Abe Wheeler is J.T.'s father, which is actually Jada Ryl's idea because she prompted it) in my story, which takes place directly after her story. I got the green light so here it is, originally posted on comment-fic last year. You can check out the first part of this story, which should be (posted by langstonlover) right under mine ("The Midnight Ride of Abe Wheeler, Part 1").

The title is a take-off on "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere."

The quote where Bo Dorn is saying who he's supposed to kill is paraphrased from langstonlover's story. Some of the background info about J.T. is from what langstonlover told me about the book Crossfire Trail.

Oh yes, and one other important thing: This is an AU from about the middle of Crossfire Trail.

The Midnight Ride of Abe Wheeler

He rides as fast as his horse will take him, he rides all the rest of the day, trades his horse for a fresher one that night, then rides on until morning sees him crossing into Wyoming. He sells his steaming, exhausted horse and buys another at an exorbitant price (but it's for his son, his J.T., and for his boy he'll pay any price but that precious life), then keeps riding north.

All the while, he thinks of his son, his boy, whom he hasn't seen in nigh on eight years, and thanks Providence, thanks Tatanka, thanks whoever is listening that he'd run into that devil, Bo Dorn, by pure chance and learned of his nefarious intent against his son and his friends.

He rides until he's damn near ready to fall off of his horse, until the foam rises on the animal and it gasps and wheezes for air, and still he presses on, the pounding of hooves on the dirt road reminding him with each gallop that he's not as young as he was when he had ridden for the Express. When the horse flags, he urges the beast on, apology in his heart, the guilt for pushing it too hard overridden by the need to get to his son before...

Before...

"Got a coupla pests been botherin' an old friend of mine. He's wantin' me ta get rid of 'em. Two men and a young pup," the hired gunman had sneered, laughing, unaware of whom Abe Wheeler truly is.

"Two men and a young pup."

Two men, those would be his son's companions, Covington and the Irishman, Mullaney, and the "young pup" - Who else could that be but his boy, his J.T., now all of sixteen years old?

He'd been only eight, blond and blue-eyed like his mother, when Abe had left the ranch, down in Galveston, Texas, where he'd settled. Settled, but not for long. There's work out west, he'd heard, work for a strong, able-bodied man, work anywhere but here. And so he'd gone, and it hadn't been easy, leaving behind the small ranch, his own land, which he had built up from the ground with his own two hands, leaving behind his wife - they'd grown apart soon after their son's birth, but he still loved her as much as he did the day he'd married her - and his son, young Johnny. That was the hardest, leaving behind the boy he loved more than the sun, the moon, and the stars all put together.

But the ranch was failing, and there was money to be made elsewhere, and so he'd gone. He'd sent money home, sent letters and trinkets and toys when he could, but more often than not, months went by before he had enough saved up for the package to be worth sending. He never heard from Jane - but of course he wouldn't - and he never heard from J.T. And so the letters home soon dwindled down to nothing. He still sent most of his wages, though, partly out of spite of his wife - still his wife, as her priest would not allow a divorce - as a notice that he was still alive and kicking.

But J.T. He wonders what his son is like now. He wonders if he now takes more after Jane or him, if he even still remembers him, the absent father who had left half a lifetime ago.

These are the thoughts occupying his mind when he arrives on the Rodney ranch, the sides of his horse heaving and dripping with sweat.

He's greeted with the metallic sound of two guns being cocked. Dismounting, he puts his hands in the air and walks forward to meet the two men, a tall, dark-haired fellow, older than himself, and another man, much older, grizzled and stout. The ground dips and churns from so many hours of hard riding, and he has to remind himself that he's on dry land, not on a goddamn boat.

"One of you Rafe Covington?" he asks, slightly breathless. His body aches, sore from his long journey, and the bile rises in his throat, but he needs to know this. He needs to know...

Although this, he already suspects he knows the answer to. Accordingly, the taller man replies, "Who wants to know?" There's steel in that voice; everything about the man matches the description J.T. gave Covington in his letter home.

"Abe Wheeler," he replies. "There's a man comin' ta kill you," he says. That's important. If this man is still standing, then that means his son is most likely still safe. The sick, fluttering feeling in his stomach (there because of fear, not because he hasn't eaten in a full day) abates slightly.

"Bruce Barkow, we know," Covington says. The other man (not the Irishman, but the other, Rodney's hired hand, Joe Gill) shifts uneasily.

Abe shakes his head, "No. Not him. Maybe paid by him, but the man who's coming is named Bo Dorn. You know him?"

Gill gasps and his face turns as pale as the underside of a fish, and just as clammy. "Dorn? Back here? Oh, that's bad," he mutters, "Very bad news."

"Why are you telling us this?" Covington asks, still as the calm before a storm. "Barkow might kill you for it."

Abe snorts. "Barkow better see I don't get my hands on him," he says with a snarl. "I'm here lookin' for a boy. Goes by the name of John Thomas Langston. You know where I can find him?"

He knows that his son is here, or has been, from the way Gill shoots a sideways glance at Covington. Covington keeps his face straight and his grip on his gun straighter. "And what might you be wantin' with him, Mr. Wheeler?" he asks, protective of the boy. Good.

Abe's about to answer when a shout cuts him off. There's a young man running towards them from around the back of the house, crying, "Pa! Pa!" his arms outspread and waving, with a bright grin on his youthful face.

Johnny.

His weariness all but forgotten, Abe hops over the fence keeping him apart from his son and rushes to meet him, to clasp him in his arms and hold him close. He breathes his son's name into the boy's shoulder - he marvels at how big he's gotten - and feels strong, sinewy arms wrap around him, just the way he remembers shorter arms clinging around his neck.

He says his son's name again, hoarse and shaky, and is rewarded with a reverent "Pa."

He pulls away first, wanting to see his boy up close, see how he's changed and grown up into a young man. A fine young man, well-formed, handsome, beaming, and wet.

"What've you been up to, son? Swimmin'?" he asks, tousling the wet dark golden locks, a grin bigger than he's smiled in years adorning his face.

"Washin'," the boy - young man - replies, "Me 'n Rock had ta pull a steer outta a pond full o' oil today. Damn stuff wouldn't get off no matter how much we scrubbed. My legs're fair rubbed raw an' m' boots're ruined," he complains, shooting a reproachful look at the dry Covington and Gill, who by now have put their weapons away and are watching the pair of them with interested, wary eyes.

There's another man walking up the same way J.T. had run up, as wet as his son, looking as mystified as the other two men must be.

Abe laughs out loud, relief and happiness overflowing in his heart, and throws his arm around his boy's shoulders. "Well, put a shirt on, at least. Your ma would faint if she saw you out in company, half-dressed like that. Where're your manners?"

This earns him a scowl that disappears as quickly as it appears. "Ain't no womenfolk around," J.T. says with a pout that he remembers.

Abe merely raises an eyebrow at the boy's cheekiness. J.T. grins at him sheepishly. "M'shirt's hangin' out ta dry," he explains. "Only got the one."

"Good thing it's me and not your ma, then," Abe replies in a confidential tone with a wink.

"If Ma was here, she'd mend it for me," the boy points out, earning him a chuckle from all the men.

"That she would," Abe agrees. He looks around at his son's friends. "I'm Abe Wheeler," he says again, "John's father."

"Wheeler?" the wet latecomer, who must be Rock Mullaney, says. Then "Ach, I see," as understanding dawns. There are many unwed mothers in the world - there's no reason for the lad to be ashamed of that.

"My wife prefers our son to use her name," Abe says, a bit pricklier than he intends. He's tired, and the subject of J.T.'s name has long been a bone of contention between him and Jane.

"Well," Covington says in the awkward silence that follows, "It's almost time for supper- "

"Almost time for J.T. to make supper, you mean," Mullaney interrupts gleefully, prompting another scowl from the boy.

"Can't see why it's gotta be me," he grumbles. "I ain't no cook."

"And we better get that horse of yours in the stable and rubbed down," Covington continues, ignoring the interruption to look over the worn out horse with a disapproving eye.

The sinking guilt rises in Abe's heart again. He gives the horse (his lifesaver) a few gentle strokes on its neck and whispers a word of thanks into the twitching ears. "Pilamayaya, misukala ki."

Gill takes the reins and leads him limping away, leaving Abe to follow the others inside. J.T. is already chattering away a mile a minute, barely stopping for breath.

Abe smiles. Just like he remembers. Boy hasn't changed so much after all.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Lakota translation:

"Pilamayaya, misukala ki." - "Thank you, brother."