Disclaimer: I don't own In Plain Sight, but I think it mixes rather deliciously with the Old West.

Author's Note: So BuJyo was like, "Kitty, what's up with my awesome birthday western fic?" And I was like, "What's up, indeed?" Okay, so I'm paraphrasing here. This story got a little sidetracked while I felt compelled to write some Faber material after the finale. But the key point to remember is that this fic is dedicated to the awesome BuJyo for her birthday, her awesome writing, her wonderful responses to my writing, and for everything else great about her which is way too much to list here! Saddle up and read on! =D


West of the Pecos

Part 4

"So, what were your intentions with my sister back there, anyway?" Mary asked as she guided her horse at a steady pace down the road, which was really little more than a path of wagon tracks worn by regular passage.

"Regardless of what you're most likely thinking, my intentions were, at first, to get my coat back," Marshall replied as he followed in her wake. "After a certain point, my priorities shifted to trying to escape with my life."

"Yeah, and what point was that?" she asked, smirking; though he couldn't see her face, he could hear the change of her expression in her voice.

"I started thinking about it when the coat came off and I saw how she was… well, dressed, if you could call it that. But it really became pressing when she pulled out that riding crop. Thank you for intervening, by the way."

"Don't mention it. My sister can be fairly enthusiastic about her trade."

"That's no joke. No matter what I said or did, she just wouldn't stop," he grimaced at the memory. "It was a bit intimidating, and I don't intimidate easily."

"It's not that surprising. How often do you think she hears the word 'no'?"

Marshall uttered a short laugh as he rode, tugging the reins to coax his horse around a gopher hole.

"What's the deal there, anyway?" Mary asked suddenly, looking over her shoulder at him. "Never been with a woman before, or something?"

Marshall's eyes widened, though he wasn't sure why anything the woman said or did should strike him as shocking anymore. "That's hardly a polite topic of discussion in mixed company."

"Suit yourself," Mary said with a shrug. "I reckon I've got my answer anyway."

"Now, hold on a minute," he stammered, flustered by her assumption. He drew alongside her and she reined her horse back to pace him. "For your information, and this is just to clarify so that you don't go on indulging a misplaced assumption…"

"Just to clarify, and not as an unnecessary attempt to defend your masculinity?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"… Right. In clarification, I have been with several women," he responded, meeting her eyes and holding her gaze. "But I've never had the need to pay for it."

"Whatever, cowboy," she said with a smirk before urging her mount forward. "Pick up the pace. Time's running short."

As the ranch came into view, the crack of a rifle shot split the air. Dust puffed from the ground near Mary's mount, spooking the beast and causing it to buck wildly. She stuck tight in the saddle, only just managing to keep her seat, and she struggled to rein in the horse as it bolted. Scanning the terrain for the shooter, Marshall spotted a trace of movement and the glint of sunlight on metal as another shot rang out. That shot, too, was a miss, and Marshall drew his weapon and returned fire, though accuracy at that range was slim to none; he hoped to frighten the rifleman more than anything else. His gambit seemed to work as no more shots came, and he set off at a rapid pace toward where he had last seen the sheriff.

Mary's charging mount had led her off the path and into a nearby creek bed, behind some bluffs and out of Marshall's sight. When he came around the bend in the path, he found her horse, spooked, champing at the bit… and riderless. He dismounted and cautiously approached the animal, managing to catch the reins.

He stroked the horse's nose soothingly as he surveyed the scene. There were scuff marks in the soft earth of the creek bed, made by boot heels, the pattern interrupted at random intervals, as though someone had been dragged while fighting, likely kicking. He frowned as he tethered the two horses to a withered tree and followed the trail left by the marks. Soon, he came upon something that struck a note of fear into his heart: Mary's floppy, well-worn hat, evidently pulled off during the struggle, for the cord that would have held it on hat been snapped. He folded the canvas hat in his hands, lips pressed in a grim line.

Further along still, he came upon hoof tracks, and here the boot marks, both those being dragged and those doing the dragging, ceased; the hoof marks continued until the soft mud of the creek bed gave way to the hardened desert floor, and no further marks could be discerned, nor could any riders be seen in any direction.

Still clutching the hat, he backtracked. It had all been part of a plan, he realized; that first rifle shot hadn't been a miss. It had been intended to frighten her horse, its flight sending her into a trap where O'Connor's men lay in wait. What they wanted from her, he had no idea, nor did he know where they would take her or what they would do to her when they got her there. His first and best course of action would be to head to the ranch, meet Bobby D there, and try to get the answers he would need.

His stomach churned with an inner rage that burned him deep; though he knew the sheriff was one hellion of a woman, more than capable of standing on her own, a large part of him felt that by being in her company he'd been obligated to protect her, an obligation at which he'd failed utterly. And if that had been the start and finish of the matter, he could have dealt with it, but it wasn't. Underneath the mounting fury, something else quietly consumed him: his heart ached for the loss of her. He'd barely known her more than a day, and yet he felt a gaping wound like the path of a bullet at the thought that her absence might be permanent.

Damn it all to hell and back, he thought bitterly. A man in his occupation couldn't afford to fall in love this easily. No, the job demanded a heart fortified to withstand an invading army, a soul that could pick up and go and leave everything behind without a backward glance but by God, by the devil, by all the forces of nature and the universe itself, he knew not how but that woman had gotten in. There was nothing for it, now, and he could sort it all out when all was said and done, but his only course now was to try to find her, and hope he wasn't too late.

As he approached the ranch, Mary's horse in tow, Bobby D rode out to meet him. "Where is she?" her deputy demanded, worry transmuted to anger blazing in his eyes.

"They took her," Marshall replied succinctly. "It was a trap. They left a ransom note here and waited for her to come."

"Damn," Bobby D hissed. "Did you see where they went?"

"They got her in the creek bed. She was out of my sight for only a few minutes, so they must have found cover after they rode into the desert. The dirt was too hard to track them after they left the creek."

"There's only one person who can help us now," the deputy said cryptically, squinting as he looked out over the desert. A ranch hand, approaching on foot, finally reached them and took Mary's horse. "She lives in a little cabin a few miles from here."

"Then we ride," Marshall spurred his horse, following the deputy as he rode.


They'd ridden hard over flat terrain, but were forced to a slower pace by the gully they now navigated. At the faster speed there had been little opportunity for talking, but Marshall took advantage of the necessary reduction to get some answers.

"Who is it that we're going to see?" he queried; Bobby D glanced back, surprised at the sudden question.

"She's a tracker. White woman, but she was raised by the natives, or so some people say. Others say she's one-sixteenth Indian, that it's in her blood, but the tribe changes every time you hear the rumor, and she doesn't say much about it either way. Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that she can find anything. People, animals, places, food, water… hell, she could probably find silver and gold if she wanted to. If she can't find it, it isn't there to be found."

"But there were no tracks," Marshall replied, worried at the course their pursuit was taking.

"There were no tracks that you or I would be able to see, that's true," the deputy replied. "But the ground speaks to her when everyone else hears silence. That's what she says. It's some mix of observation and intuition."

Bobby D paused for a moment, and then continued. "Listen, Marshall, I wouldn't lead you astray on this. Not where Mary is concerned. You already know my last name is Dershowitz and you can't have failed to notice that I'm black. You're smart enough to know that there aren't many sheriffs out here in the west who would accept a deputy who's Jewish or of color, let alone both. Mary's always done right by me, and I will do whatever it takes to bring her home."

Marshall nodded, whatever protest he might have made effectively quelled by the deputy's speech. "So, tell me more about this tracker," he said instead.

"She goes by the name of Eleanor. She used to live in town. Her husband was killed when O'Connor's men robbed the bank a few months back and that's when she came out here. The cabin was where they'd go to hunt and whatnot, and she just decided she didn't want to be part of the town after he was gone. She'll help us though; she won't pass up a chance to get O'Connor back for everything he's done."

They rounded a bend and found themselves on a flat of land on which was nestled a small cabin, a little stable and paddock resting behind it. A woman standing on the porch looked up at their approach. Her hair was thick and long, mostly brown with bits of gray, and the strands around her face were pulled back, two feathers dangling from the knot that held them. She wore a dress with a flowing, Spanish-style skirt belted at the waist, in addition to flat-soled boots of soft leather that reached nearly to her knees. Her expression remained stoic; if she was surprised to find riders approaching her not particularly remote but well-hidden cabin, as she must have been, she did not let it show.

"Robert Dershowitz, so good to see you again," she announced as they approached, her tone carrying the unspoken question, what are you doing here?

"Mary Shannon has been taken by O'Connor's men, from the creek bed by the Alpert ranch," Bobby D replied, cutting straight to the point. "The United States Marshal and I need you to follow them."

She was already in motion, heading for the paddock and the small dappled-gray horse that grazed there. She threw the gate wide and mounted the creature without saddle or reins; her fingers twined in its mane and she coaxed it forward with barely any effort that Marshall could see. It was as if the animal responded to the force of her will alone.

"Follow quickly," she said as she headed for the trail. "We'll need to find her before we lose both time and daylight."

The two men urged their mounts after her as she navigated the twisting path far more quickly than they had done, for she knew the way intimately. The pace was swift enough to make Marshall a bit nervous, but he urged his horse onward, fear for Mary's safety chilling him to the bone.


A/N: I think I'm in love with Eleanor all over again. I hope to hear your thoughts on this chapter, and be sure to shine your saddle for the next installment! =)