TeiyusTeki:

1: Old…Married…Couple..

2: Every self-respecting western story needs a good suave asshole, don't you think? Thank you for your compliments! As much as we're all supposed to hate him, Henry Elton is so much fun to write with.

Thanks for all the reviews, favs and follows!

Chapter 25

Only white men make a fire everyone can see. She clearly remembered her grandfather's words about campfires. Taught to him by the Apache man he travelled with a long time ago, long before her grandmother came into his life. And so, whenever Eleanor joined her grandfather on his annual coon hunts, every spring, she watched in amazement as he build them a campfire so smoke free and low to the still cool ground, no one would ever notice they had been there. Little ashes was found when morning came, but it had kept them warm throughout the night anyway.

And now, she was staring into the same low burning flames she remembered from her childhood, from her fond memories of spending time with her grandfather out in the vast open spaces of the prairie, where he taught her to navigate by the stars. Butch had built the same Indian fire. To remain unnoticed in a land not his own. Shortly after setting up camp, giving her both Bobby's and Annabel's saddle blankets to sit on, the gang leader had left her to collect their supper in the breaking light of the fading day. Surrounded by the calmly grazing horses, making their gentle, breezing munching sounds as they roamed around the campsite freely, she found time to think, and take out the book Rosa had given her.

She used to love books, devouring every novel Colby's general store had lying about. But now the words she read, and tried to store in her mind, seemed lost to her. Somehow they didn't stick, and every line had to be read atleast three times before she understood what they meant. Her mind was distracted. Torn from the ability to escape reality to wonder around in a world of imagination. Something snapped behind her, and she quickly looked over her shoulder, into the pitch dark of the surrounding forests, only to hear the sound again, and never able to see where it came from. But the horses seemed undisturbed, and so she trusted it was nothing worth worrying about. Giving up, she shoved the faded book back into her saddle bags, and decided to listen to the sounds of the woods instead, making them her own. She scanned their little campsite, quickly set up and improvised. She hadn't even noticed Butch had left his gun behind. His entire gun belt, bullets and all, placed over his saddle carelessly.

She blinked in confusion. Apparently he considered himself skilled enough to go out hunting without a gun. She hesitated, then reached over to slowly wind her fingers around the faded wooden grip of the old revolver, pulling it out of its black, leather holster carefully, gingerly, like she expected the weapon to go off out of nowhere. It felt heavy in her small hand, her wrist protesting against the weight it was forced to carry. She didn't know if it was loaded or not, and she had no idea how to open the chamber to count the bullets. Now holding the worn out gun in both her hands, one around the grip, the other supporting the haggard barrel, she studied it in the fading light of the low burning campfire.

Her mother always did the shooting. Her two barrelled shotgun locked in a case in her bedroom, only to be taken out when coyotes threatened the chicken pen, or when rabbits needed to be killed for supper. The rancher's wife had forbidden her husband to teach his daughter how to handle a gun, and so, the young girl was left unable to defend herself now. She wondered if Butch was ever planning on teaching her how to use it. Or maybe, like with most things she had encountered on her travels so far, she was supposed to teach herself. Slowly, carefully, she cocked the gun, making it click four times before locking. Click C. click O. click L. click T. The only revolver to reveal its maker by the sound it made when you cocked the hammer. She aimed at the black wall in front of her, beyond the campfire, pine trees and thick woods surrounding her. She inhaled slowly, her breathing shaky, before exhaling white ghosts of cold fog. Her hand trembled, the gun too heavy, so she placed her other hand underneath the grip, to steady the weapon as she aimed it at the darkness. She wound her trembling finger around the smooth iron of the trigger, feeling her heart beat in her throat. It was as if the forest held its breath for what was about to come, for the sounds had died away. The crickets had ceased their song, and the wind made the tree tops move no more. This gun had ended countless lives. She wasn't aware of how many, and she would never dare ask, but it felt like holding a number of souls in the palm of her hand that would never be given back. Yet, she felt like pulling the trigger, like something whispered in her ears to just do it, all it took was a little twitch of her finger. She moved the trigger toward her for half an inch, the iron material loose in some places. Everything else seemed forgotten, every other sound had disappeared, and all she saw was the front sight at the end of the barrel, pointed at the vast black unknown beyond. She didn't even realize she had gotten up from the ground, standing on top of her horse's saddle blanket.

"What ye aimin' at?"

She jumped at his voice, giving out a probably pathetic sounding shriek, as she spun around to basically bump into Butch's chest. He had been standing right behind her, curiously peering over her shoulder to detect what she had decided on that needed killing, and he had done so without making a single sound. "Holy mother of Jesus!" she called out, stepping back from him, a hand to her heart. "Why would you sneak up on someone like that?!" He said nothing, slightly surprised at her reaction. "I could have killed you!" she cried out, exasperated, holding up his gun.

He took it from her slowly, decocking the revolver calmly. "Yea, ye could have." He told her. "Could have killed me with mah own piece. And ah told ye how embarrassing that is." He chuckled softly. "What were ye aimin' at anyway? A suspicious looking squirrel?"

"At nothing." She stated, realizing how stupid that sounded. "I was just.. curious."

He stared at her. "About what?"

She sighed, embarrassed, and frustrated with herself. "About the gun." She explained, looking at the revolver in his calloused hands. "Your gun." She continued. "You left it behind and I.. I don't know.. I was drawn to it somehow. I can't explain it."

He nodded, toying with the weapon for a moment before opening the chamber, letting the bullets fall into the palm of his hand. "Well, next time ye get curious about guns, Sharky." He closed the chamber and tossed the gun back at her. "Make sure ye remove the bullets first." She caught the gun rather clumsily. "Ye don't want te go and make unnecessary ruckus with the Injuns nearby."

"I don't know how to do that." She stated dryly, ignoring his warning about Indians as she shoved the gun back into its black holster. "My mother forbid me to handle any weapons. If anything needed killing, she or my father, when he was still alive, would take care of it."

Butch didn't reply, and sat himself down on his own blanket, his knife between his teeth as he placed a young muskrat in front of him. She watched him skin the animal with his fast, skilful hands, placing the soft brown coat over a rock to dry. "ye ever had muskrat before?" he asked after a while.

"Well, my grandfather used to hunt them for their pelts. But he usually fed the meat to the dogs." She explained. "He said rats aren't meant to be eaten by humans."

"Damn shame." Butch mumbled, quickly setting up a spit to roast the animal above the low burning fire. "It makes fer a fine meal if yer too lazy to go out and do some real hunting like mahself." He chuckled. "Damn animals are slow as Hell, even ye could catch one. Ah might let ye do that tomorrow, if we haven't reached Standin' Faith yet."

With a slightly grossed out expression, she peered at the drying coat of fur, slowly turning the rock red with blood, shimmering in the light of the flames. "Standing Faith?" she asked. "Another outlaw town?"

He shook his head, turning the spit around slowly. "Nah, nuthin' but good Christian folks out there." He declared with a mischievous grin. "If ye know where te look."

She frowned in confusion. "And how on earth is it that you can walk into a town like that, and not get arrested?"

He chuckled darkly. "Ah wish the next coot all the luck in te world tryin' te get me arrested in that there town, Sharks. Ain't no Sheriff gonna come out of his chair to read the law te me, for there aint no Sheriff gutsy enough te do so." She said nothing, watching the skinned muskrat being slowly turned above the crackling fire, the smell of cooked meat filled her nostrils, making her stomach growl involuntarily. "Good place to get some supplies before movin' up the plains." Butch continued, seemingly undisturbed. "We need te get ye a proper jacket or yer gonna freeze te death."

She looked up at him, suddenly feeling cold, and drew the dusty saddle blanket around her shoulders tightly together. His torn coat didn't look all that sufficient for winter either. "What about you? Won't you get cold?" He shook his head, making a face.

"Ah don't feel the cold no more." He mumbled, and sliced off a piece of meat to taste it. He nodded in agreement. "That sucker is done. Alright, git over here cause ahm not about te throw it at ye. Don't want te attract no animals by tossin' meat around the place."

She got up from her spot and sat down beside him. The place at his side warmer because of the presence of another human being. He handed her a piece of meat almost too hot to hold, and she juggled with it, blowing on her fingers until it was cooled enough to chew. Whatever her grandfather's reasons had been for not consuming the meat of the muskrats he killed, she was pretty sure they were for moral purposes, cause the taste was fine. But perhaps that was just because of her violent hunger. She gobbled away her chunk faster than the gang leader himself, and gazed longingly at the rest of the animal on the spit.

"Ah told ye it was good." Butch mumbled amusedly, handing her his knife. "Help yerself. Careful with that thing, it's sharp as a razor."

Albeit clumsily, she got her second piece of meat, and munched on it contently, her body finally refilled with fuel to warm up again. A pleasant heat coursed through her frozen limbs, making her drowsy. She leaned back against the same thick tree that supported Butch's back as well, her hunger satisfied. Side by side, they gazed into the flames, and listened to the fire's calm crackling. He didn't eat half as much as she did, never taking seconds, and it seemed the whole dinner party was more for her sake than his own.

"So should one of us stay awake or something? Stand watch?" she broke the silence, and at the way he jumped at the sound of her voice, he had obviously dozed off. He shifted a little, letting out a tired sigh.

"Are ye volunteerin'?" he chuckled gruffly.

"Well, I wouldn't know what to do if something would happen. I don't believe I'm much good as a night watch." She argued, feeling him roll over, his back to her as he lay down on his side.

"Get some sleep, Sharky. Nuthin' te worry about." He mumbled into his blanket. "Snakes are all asleep this tahm a year. If there was Apaches around we'd know about it already."

She wasn't convinced. "What about coyotes? Wolves?" he didn't reply. "Bears?"

"There are no damn bears in the desert." He growled. "Fire keeps the coyotes away. Ye want te stay up all night te make sure it don't go out, be mah guest. But ahm takin' the next damn dream train." The annoyance in his voice was a clear warning to her to not push it any further, and so she rested her case, despite her fear of the unknown surrounding them. She lay down, close to him, the heat of his body beckoning her close, as she was eager to get more warmth. He was out like a light within minutes, yet sleep didn't fancy taking her, and she remained awake long after the outlaw had drifted off. The sounds of the woods drew out the sound of his calm breathing, which had been the soothing rhythm that had helped her sleep the other night. But then again, locked in his arms, pressed against his chest, sleeping hadn't been that hard. It seemed so long ago now, almost a faded memory, one he obviously didn't care to rekindle. Rolled onto her back, her head resting on Frank's smooth leather saddle, she gazed up at the tree tops, her breath visible in the cool night air. She watched the moon rise until she casted her light right down upon the two people resting among the trees. With the winter stars standing watch, the girl dressed in man's clothes, drifted off to sleep.

She was roughly awakened by a hand pressed over her mouth, and Butch's gruff voice, barely above a whisper, close to ear. "Keep still." He instructed. "We got company." she had rolled onto her side in her sleep, and the gang leader's weight pressed her belly into the hard surface as he forced her to remain as still as possible. He remained there, until he felt her heartbeat slow down, her first state of shock behind her. Assured that she wouldn't give a sound, he slowly removed his calloused hand. Her eyes, still adjusting to the dark, switched from left to right, trying to see what threatened them. Butch reached for his gun, pulling it soundlessly out of its holster, and cocked it back slowly, while he peered into to blackness like an animal watching its prey.

"Ah know yer there!" Butch called into the dark. "Come out and show yerself!"

Through the smoke of the dying campfire, she watched the silhouette of a man calmly approach them. His steps were light, and soundless, like he had learned to walk by watching deer pass through the trees. As he came closer, his face illuminated by the crackling coals, his Indian features were hard to miss. His long grey hair curtained his old, gaunt face. And his eyes showed wisdom, and tranquillity, despite walking up to the barrel of a loaded revolver. He had a buffalo fur wrapped around his narrow shoulders, and seemed unarmed. Still laying on the ground, Eleanor peered up at the ancient Indian man in silent awe, and creeping fear. Their eyes met, and although he showed no emotion, she felt her heart skip a beat at his imposing presence.

"Red Elk, Goddammit." Butch complained, shoving his gun back into its holster in an agitated manner. "Ah swear te God ahm gonna blow yer brains allover the damn forest one day." He got up from the ground, brushing off the sand and twigs, and adjusted his gun belt around his waist. "Te hell were ye thinkin' sneakin' up on me like that?"

The old Indian man slowly averted his eyes away from the girl, to look at the outlaw, only slightly taller than himself. "Had I sneaked." Red Elk spoke calmly. "You would not have heard me."

Butch rolled his eyes, his hands in his sides, as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Whut do ye want?"

"Men entered our lands, four days ago, killed buffalo, took pelts and left carcasses to rot. I'm looking for them." Red Elk explained with his thick accent. "I knew you would return to our lands when winter came. I have seen the signs that foretold your coming."

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Butch gazed back at the old Indian. "Ah had nuthin' te do with yer buffalo. Hell, there's easier things te kill." He growled. "And ah haven't seen any hunters passing through either. Yer barkin' up te wrong tree as usual, old man." Red Elk said nothing, and his deep set eyes slowly went back to the young woman trying to become invisible on the old saddle blanket.

"Word spread, you took a woman away from her family. I see the word was true." Red Elk stated, his voice void of any emotion despite the rather controversial subject. "It will snow soon." He continued, looking up at the sky casually, his movement slow and calculated, like his spine was made out of glass.

"We intend te be in Standin' Faith when the snow starts. Wait out the storm, continue up the plains to Pine's creek. Meeting mah men there in three days." Butch explained. "Ah have nuthin' te say about the girl." His warning glare didn't seem to faze the ancient man, and the Indian continued peering up at the tree tops, like all they were discussing was the weather.

"I remember a story of our people. About a coyote protecting a three year old child from a mountain lion." Red Elk started. "There was nothing in it for the coyote, other than the child's respect once he grew into a man." He paused for a moment, bringing his head down slowly, to gaze at the criminal once more. "What do you hope to gain out of this endeavour?"

Still trying to go unnoticed, Eleanor sat up on the blanket slowly, her arms wrapped around her knees as she studied the outlaw's curious behaviour. He was almost like a child getting scolded by his father, fidgeting with the lapels on his coat, and looking everywhere but into the old man's eyes.

"Ah good night's sleep would have been great, Red Elk." Butch sneered, kicking away a small pebble with the tip of his snake leather boots. "But ah might as well stop tryin' te get any damn peace around ere' and make some coffee."

Red Elk nodded in agreement. "Coffee would be good right now." Inviting himself to join in, he delicately sat himself down onto a rock by the fire. Eleanor felt his eyes burn into her skull as he studied her curiously. When their eyes locked, it was by accident on her part, but it seemed to be something he had been waiting for. She tried to smile, uneasily so, but he didn't return the gesture, so she dropped her gaze again, fearing she was forgetting about rules she wasn't aware of in the first place. "What do they call you?" His question was directed at her.

She cleared her throat nervously. "Eleanor Christina Angela Hartley." She summed up her complete Christian name for what it was worth. "Sir.." she added politely. He nodded, wrapped in thought, as he gazed into the burning embers.

When Butch joined them, obviously in a foul mood, he clanked down a rusty coffee pot on a flat rock, and grabbed a stick to poke up the dying fire. "Ah guess we're goin' te have a social get together over here. Red Elk, meet Eleanor, the farmer's daughter ah forcefully dragged across the prairie, or whatever the Hell it is they say ah did. Eleanor, meet Red Elk, chief of the Tonkawa's, and infamous for inviting himself to sit at campfires that aren't his."

"A campfire shared, is a campfire well used." Red Elk confirmed, nodding in agreement with himself. "This also counts for coffee."

"Ah bet it does, ye old thieving featherhead." Butch grumbled, still poking up the fire underneath the coffee pot. "Where's the rest of yer war whoopin' bush creepers anyhow? Yer gonna scare away the buffalo hunters on yer own by robbin' them off their coffee too?"

"I see you extended your knowledge on the vocabulary used to describe my people. I wonder, what else you learned during your extensive travels." Red Elk almost sneered. "If it is all this impressive, I am in for a very fascinating evening, which is something to be grateful for at my age." Eleanor couldn't help but giggle softly at the chief's sassy comeback, and received a warning glare from the gang leader, telling her to be quiet.

"Don't get cocky with me, Red Elk." Butch mumbled, pouring some of the hot, thick liquid into a cup, handing it to the old man. "Before that girl starts thinkin' ye might actually know what yer talkin' about." The outlaw handed a cup to Eleanor, who thanked him with a small smile, something that was obviously picked up by the old chief's keen eyes.

"We should cherish youth." He spoke wisely. "But trust old age." He winked at the shy young woman, and gave her the lightest of smiles, the many wrinkles in his face becoming more prominent.

"Yea well..ahm no spring chicken, chief. Ah think ah know what ahm doin'" Butch mumbled gruffly, chucking back his own cup of coffee impatiently. Red Elk seemed to think about that statement for a moment, before nodding slowly.

"Apache tribes took back the North side of this mountain last winter." The old man explained, pointing at the grey, rocky peak of the mountain, standing out in the moonlight, against a much darker, clear sky. "We have not retaken it yet." He continued. "Many of my tribesmen think I should try and take it back from the Apache, but I think, we are more benefited by peace than war." He was quiet for a moment. "And this side of the mountain is much nicer anyway. I'm sure the Apache agree. They would trade lands if I offered them. But I won't."

Butch shook his head in boredom. "Still the ramblin' old crook ye always were." He grumbled. "Some things don't change, huh?"

"It would not be wise to bring this woman into Apache territory." Red Elk said. "With only you to protect her. Unless you plan on selling her."

"Oh go chase yerself.." Butch protested, slightly offended. "Ah aint never dealt in women. There's easier things te kill, and there's certainly easier things to sell too." He chuckled.

Red Elk nodded in agreement, and took a calm sip from his coffee. "When I told my tribesmen I had seen signs of your return, and I was going out to talk to you, many advised against it." He spoke, dismissing the last subject. "They don't think an evil spirit can be reasoned with. But I think, it is better to try and speak to an evil spirit than ignore it." He gazed at the gang leader vacantly. "It might just be in need of guidance. And we should always lend guidance to those that are lost."

Butch scoffed. "Ahm gettin' so fed up with this evil spirit bullshit, ye have no idea."

Red Elk nodded again. "I know. But most spirits go through life without ever realizing their spiritual value." He explained. "It is not very hard to see. Especially not when we look at the people surrounding them. Those that are drawn to the spirits, and those that are warded off."

Butch followed the old chief's gaze to the girl beside him, slowly nodding off while her head rested against a tree, her cup only half empty. Not even the strongest coffee could have kept her awake. It was late, and she was tired, not used to travelling and living outdoors. He knew he was exhausting her, but there was no helping it now.

"She probably don't fear me half as much as she should.." Butch mumbled. "But ah owe that girl, chief."

Red Elk visibly welcomed the silence that followed, and encouraged it until he had found the right answer. "The coyote did not protect the child because he thought he owed it. He protected the child because he knew this deed would repay itself when the child grew up." He started carefully, rubbing his chin in thought. "We often mistake favours for good deeds. But only so many of them come from the heart. The ones that do, repay themselves in other ways."

The gang leader said nothing, growing weary with the heavy subject. He sighed tiredly, and leaned back against the tree, careful not to stir the girl from her sleep. "Ah was never good at deciphering yer injun bull talk.." He complained gruffly. "Knowin' ye as well ah do yer probably aint givin' me a pep talk, are ye?"

Red Elk said nothing, for everything he needed to say, had been said, and the old chief wasn't one to repeat his lessons.

"Thought so.." Butch concluded. "Alright, what do ye want me te do about those buffalo hunters of yers?"

R&R!