Spring is frozen now i'm stuck in low

Wrapped with wire, tapped to the heart

Can't find no poison, now i've got no cure

The fangs are stuck inside my skin

Payne county line

Watching unjust claims

One man's righteousness is another man's

Long haul, sentence carried out

Long haul, counting the miles

To the four corners of the world.

Calexico

Time passed.

The night grew overhead, but Rane Roth remained where she was, lying next to Arthur Morgan, her head resting lightly against his cool shoulder, shivering. The snow continued to fall, gentle, lighting on both of them. Every little while, as it began to accumulate, Rane would reach over and sweep Arthur's coat off, wipe it away from his forehead, brush it out of his hair. It was hellishly cold, and her motions were uneven, trembling and weak. The blood seeping from the wound in her belly had slowed to a sluggish excretion, pooling around her blackly, and though there was pain - quite a lot of it - it seemed distant, vague, almost as if it belonged to somebody else. The world slipped in and out of focus, seeming to cycle; for a moment she was clear, lucid, feeling the rough cotton of Arthur's coat against her arm, watching the clouds ripple and flex overhead, occasionally giving enough to glimpse the stars. In another moment it was dark, and strange, and half-formed faces capered before her eyes. Her father, Harry, Idril, John, Hermione. Many others, but most of all Dutch, and Micah. The thought of those two men, laden with plundered riches and high-tailing it for the territories as she lay dying and Arthur Morgan lay dead, filled Rane with such a terrible, black fury that it seemed to brighten the life within her from its fading glow to a frightful brilliance, turning the slow, weak beat of her heart into a mad gallop. She imagined following them, of sound mind and body again, and cutting them down, standing over them and watching the life leaving their eyes, letting them appreciate why she had hunted them, saying Arthur's name, allowing that name to follow them down into hell on the wind of her own breath.

It was this thought, above almost everything else, that kept Rane Roth on the skin of the earth a little longer that night.

Pinkertons showed up before too long, less than a dozen of them. They were filthy, soaked to the bone, their breath shearing out in front of their faces in white clouds. When they came upon the rocky outcropping where Micah and Arthur had fought, they all stopped, staring around in shock, guns hanging loosely at their sides.

"Jesus Christ!" one of them said, his face long with horror. "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened here? Goddamned blood all over the place! Look at all of it!"

"Where the hell'd it come from?" another said, glancing around. "You don't think Van der Linde bought it, do ya? Got winged or somethin' and bled out?"

"Nah, look." One of the Pinkertons gestured toward where Arthur and Rane lay. All of them lifted their guns at once, tensing. "Blood's that girl's, I'd wager."

"Is she dead?"

One of the Pinkertons approached Rane, staring down his vest at her, gun held loosely before him in both hands. She lay quite still, eyelids fluttering, her breath puffing out of her parted lips in a weak, rapid mist, one hand still clutching Arthur's wrist. He toed her with one boot.

"Just about," he said, glancing back and stowing his gun. "She's gutshot real good. Surprised she made it this long, all the blood she lost. Looks like a damn slaughterhouse around here, she must be plumb dried out."

"Who is she? One of Van der Linde's?"

"That there's Rane Roth, the one that Harker feller is after," said one of the Pinkertons, lifting his chin at her. "And that big bastard beside her, that's Arthur Morgan, Dutch's second."

"He dead?"

"Yep. Some time gone now, from the looks of him." The Pinkerton nearest Rane glanced backwards, the snowflakes catching on his beard. "Whatcha wanna do, Sergeant? Oughtn't we pick 'em up and take 'em down with us?"

Another Pinkerton - this one with a broad ginger mustache and a large silver star pinned to his lapel - shook his head at once, waving a hand. "Hell no, we oughtn't."

"We'll catch hell we show back up empty-handed, sir, like as not."

"Maybe so, but I can't yet be bothered to lug these sorry sods all the way down this mountain, not without a beast of burden," the Sergeant said roughly. "Harker'll just have to be happy with us tellin' him his girl is fixin' to be buzzard bait, and if he gets his tail up about it he can march his happy ass on up here and see for hisself. As far as Morgan goes, we got ten fellers what'll attest to seein' his dead body. Ain't we?"

There was a murmur of agreement.

"Shouldn't we put her outta her misery?" one of the Pinkertons asked, somewhat timidly. He was looking down at Rane with something like pity. "Might could be hours, Sergeant, maybe even 'til dawn before she succumbs. She's in a real bad way, I reckon she's in a lotta pain -"

"Mister Huxley, Rane Roth is personally responsible for executing twenty-four of our own men in Saint Denis and another twelve in Eris Field some days prior," said the Sergeant roughly, casting Rane a cold look. "Some of them boys was burned so bad we couldn't even identify 'em. Hell, one of 'em had his head chopped clean off. If that truly is Roth in the snow over there, I ain't one bit sorry to see her tail feathers trimmed, any more than I'm sorry to see this damn mountain painted with her blood. Far as I'm concerned, she can bleed out real good and slow. She don't deserve no mercy from the likes of anybody."

A brief silence fell amongst them, in which Rane's faint, ragged breathing could be heard, hoarse and grating and rapid.

"Come on, boys. We still got Van der Linde to apprehend. Get a move on, the lot of ya. Ain't nothin' to see here no more, all this action's done and dusted."

They moved on then, their footsteps fading into the whistling wind, and then Rane was alone once again, shivering faintly in the cold, her lips pale and blue and her eyes rolling in her head, blood crusted against her cheek. For a little while, it was dark again.

SOME time later, Rane came to again. This time it wasn't Pinkertons, it was the soft, velvety muzzle of a horse, exploring her face and her neck, nibbling, the breath hot against her skin.

She opened her eyes. Eli stood there, head lowered to hers, tail flicking behind him. Both his ears were pinned against his skull, and his dark eyes were large and frightened. Rane turned her head a little, resettling her tongue in her mouth. It felt as dry as carpet.

"Eli," she breathed.

Eli whinnied, ear-splittingly loud so near to her face. Rane cringed against the sound, her head pounding evilly.

"Eli, get out of here."

Eli nudged her chin, hard enough to fling Rane closer to Arthur. She gasped, coughing hoarsely.

"Quit."

He lowered himself to the snowy earth, moving close to her, placing his body against her own. Rane lifted a hand, stroking him, feeling the firm flesh beneath his coarse hair. She grasped at his mane.

"Eli . . . Eli . . ."

With a terrific effort she pulled herself nearer to him, and somehow - even in retrospect she could never understand how, when she was so weak even drawing breath was an Olympic effort - she swung her body over his back, placing her foot into the opposite stirrup, her head lolling bonelessly over Eli's neck. He rose at once, whickering, and the motion caused the saddlehorn to drive against Rane's gunshot wound. She cried out, low, feeling the warm rush of fresh blood flowing out of her and onto the saddle.

"Arthur. Arthur." Rane reached out weakly, her face against Eli's mane, glancing towards Arthur as Eli trotted away, his hooves sliding in the snow. She looked once more at his face as he lay there in the snow, his hands lax and palms-up, his dirty blond hair tousled and damp, his eyelids a little bruised, his mouth still stained with a scrim of blood, devastatingly handsome even in death. It was the last time she ever saw him. "Wait, we . . . we have to . . . Arthur . . . Eli, wait, what about Arthur . . .?"

Eli tossed his head, starting down the mountain. Rane's eyes fell closed, her fists still grasping Eli's long mane, and for a little while longer she knew no more.

ELI cantered for nearly four miles. They passed no one on the trails, not even transients, probably due to the hour, and Rane managed to stay in the saddle by some obscure miracle, slumped over and bleeding steadily. Eli reached Annesburg around midnight, trotting through the muddy streets amidst the sounds of faint, waning drunken cries in the pubs nearby. He came to a halt at last in front of a physician's office, and not because he knew that he ought to be heading that way. The doctor's assistant was sitting on the porch steps, smoking a cigarette, something he was expressly forbidden to do during business hours. Had Eli arrived five minutes before or after, he would not have been outdoors, but cloistered in his quarters, bedding down, and things may have turned out very differently indeed.

The assistant - his name was Clayton Cole, a kid of nineteen, fresh off the train from West Elizabeth - got to his feet, spotting the large, heavy black horse trotting down the ill-lit dirt street, fetlocks matted and filthy against the cobblestone. As he passed beneath one of the dim streetlamps, Clayton saw the side of the horse was shining with fresh blood, and he was leaving a scant trail of it behind him. It stretched back past the eye could see in big, wet splotches. And its rider was slumped over in the saddle, hair wavering in front of her face, still and silent. Not the horses's blood, then, but that of his mistress.

"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ -" Clayton staggered to his feet, thin arms pinwheeling, his cigarette falling into the dirt in a spray of sparks. "Oh Jesus Christ, hey! Hey, whoa there, fella! Gee, now, whoa! WHOA, I said!"

Eli spooked a little, eyes rolling, as Clayton approached, grasping at his lax bridle and touching his nose gently. Rane jerked bonelessly on his back as he did, hair rippling damply over the saddlehorn.

"Easy, there, boy, easy now, lemme have a look. Set right there, now, be real still. Whoa, now." He turned, glaring back towards the building behind them. The aging sign over the door, swinging in the wind and creaking, read MEDICINES AND AID, DR. SAMUEL EARP, III. "DOC, WE NEED YA OUT HERE PRESENTLY!"

There was a scuffle inside, and a light came on, casting its scant glow onto the damp porch outside. An old man with wild white hair appeared in the doorway, grasping a pistol, clad only in a nightgown. When he spoke, it was with a faint Scottish accent.

"Clayton, just what in the holy hell are you hollerin' about, then -?"

He stopped, spotting Rane astride Eli, who was stamping restively. Clayton was struggling with his bridle, looking backwards.

"She's hurt real bad, Doctor Earp, I think she might be dead but I can't rightly tell."

"Get out of the way. Keep that horse calm, boy." Earp shoved Clayton aside, yanking Rane towards him by the scruff of her shirt. Her head lolled back, her mouth hanging open. He placed an ear against her chest, jerking her shoulders nearer to him to do so. After a moment he drew back, grasping her beneath the armpits and yanking her laboriously down. She came without fanfare, her arms flagging.

"She dead, doc?"

"Not yet, but she ain't a far cry from it, her heart ain't got much more fight. Tie that horse up and get indoors with me." Earp lifted Rane into his arms with surprising strength for a man his age, her long hair dangling over one elbow, rippling damply in the faint wind. "She's been shot up fair bad."

"Ought we should send for the doctors in Saint Denis?"

"Nay, nay, belay that. They can't do jack shite in time to help her, with her state. Gotta be us. Fasten that stallion and get indoors, like I said." Earp was striding into the office, his nightgown already stained with Rane's blood. "We've some work to do, if this lassie is gonna walk outta here."

The two of them were at her most of the night. Earp was asleep in the corner of the operating room by the end of it, his thin chin on his breastbone, scant arms crossed across his chest. Doctor Earp remained at Rane's bedside for a few hours after the bullet had been removed and her popped rib was put to rights. He'd given her enough anesthesia to dumb down a bull moose, but still she was lucid, her eyelids fluttering, watching him with full awareness as he packed her wound. His eyes cut to hers frequently, unnerved by the presence in her gaze.

"What's your name, girl?" he asked her at length as she stared up at him, abandoning pretense. Her eyes were hazel, bright and aware. She was beautiful in a way he had never seen, with her full lips and dark brows, no older than thirty. She seemed ethereal, somehow. "Can you tell me your name?"

Rane groaned, low in her throat, shifting. "My name."

"Yes, your name." Earp grasped her hand gently in his. "My name is Sam Earp. I'm a doctor. Your horse brought you here."

"Earp." Rane smiled faintly, her head rolling away from his. "Like Wyatt."

"Wyatt?"

"Wyatt Earp."

"The gunslinger?" Earp shook his head, smiling a little. "No relation, my dear. Much as I might like."

Rane sighed roughly, shaking her head. "At least you know who he is."

"What's your name, dear heart? What happened to you? Who did this?"

Rane turned her face from his, saying no more, her eyes falling shut and her breath lengthening. Earp leaned back in his chair, its wooden parapets squeaking, sighing.

"Alright. So be it, lassie. Rest up."

He drew the blankets over her scant chest, getting up and turning from her, pulling off his white coat. He hung it on the door, glancing briefly at Clayton - he was still fast asleep, his boots crossed in front of him - and then left the little room, blowing out the lantern as he went. The sword that had hung on the girl's belt rested on the table nearby. It was nearing four in the morning.

The sun rose the next day on a fresh, light coat of snow. Earp woke to Clayton's voice, once again.

"Doctor Earp! DOCTOR EARP!"

Earp made his way downstairs, flinging his robe about his bare shoulders, his hair in disarray. Clayton stood by the door of the clinic, his young face drawn.

"What is it, Clayton?"

"She's gone! That girl from last night, she's gone!"

Earp scoffed. "She can't be gone, that wound -!"

"She's gone and so's that horse!"

Earp pushed past him, looking out onto the streets. The black stallion was indeed nowhere to be seen, and a trail of hoofprints, faint but fairly fresh, led off toward the outskirts of town. The bed where Rane had lay was empty save the scrim of blood she'd left from her wound.

"Christ almighty, she won't make it a day," Earp muttered.

"How the fuck did she get up and leave, doc? She was gutshot, she couldn't hardly even move!"

"I don't know," said Earp faintly, clutching his robe to his chest and staring at the hoofprints in the snow. Already the new fall was beginning to obscure them. "I sure as hell do not."

Two years went by.