The Sheriff and the Bandit

by MetaphoricallySane

An alternate perspective on the events of RDR/UN wherein Marston finds love with the Sheriff of Armadillo.

The relentless sun beat down on his back as harsh as his steed's hooves on the dirt path, sand kicking up a storm behind his gallop. In the height of the day, the heat was blistering, the wilderness resounding with the starved cries of coyotes as they hid among cacti and shrubs struggling out of the ground like the gnarled claws of the undead. The town in the distance seemed to writhe in mirages as he spurred his tireless horse on, and on, and on. His eyes swivelled this way and that, just in case.

Riding into Armadillo, he slowed his stallion to a canter, trot, walk before hitching him outside the saloon. A few strangers wandering past about their daily business tipped their hats and wished him a good day, and he kindly returned the gestures each time, but on meeting the eyes of each man he met the same strange almost-recognition and the familiar "do I know you?" expression. It made him smile, and hope they knew him for a good reason: maybe putting down the notorious bandit Dutch van der Linde, or aiding in the Mexican revolution (although that continued to be a matter of debate as to whether or not that could be considered "good"). Maybe they knew him for all that other stuff he seemed unable to forget, let alone escape.

Either way, it wasn't his business, and he strode on up the main sandy street towards the law office – past the gunsmith, the general store, the doctor's office. Each step he took, his whole body ached: riding from West Elizabeth to New Austin in a single journey was no easy task. But when he'd got that phone call from the Marshal, he knew he had to come down. It seemed no town, no law officer, no God-damned stranger, could survive without his help along the line. He didn't mind. It was all something along the line of redemption.

As he pushed open the door with his gloved right hand, he could hear Jonah cursing loudly about something or other; he paused, shook his head, and then strode in. The dense, warm air of the office met him like a heat-wave.

"Ah, Mr Marston," Marshal Johnson greeted, looking exhausted by his deputy's ranting as he reclined in his chair, his scuffed shoes rested on the desk. Meanwhile, Jonah stood with his hands fisted next to the empty jail cells, his face red. "Finally: someone useful."

He could have snorted like a bull as he turned to John and jabbed a sticky finger in his face. "You call in this bastard, rather than trustin' us to get the job done, huh?" Jonah hissed. Marston arched his eyebrows, decently amused. "As though we're good for nothing better than dustin' floors an' insultin' criminals." John folded his arms, chuckling at the irony. That only angered the deputy further. Meanwhile, Eli cowered in the corner. "Nah. Nah, instead you have to call in this son-of-a-bitch while we run into walls and what-not, right? How do you know he ain't gonna head up there with you and put a bullet in your back, and ride off leavin' you to bleed out like the cock-sucking bandit he is?"

He heard his tolerance snap like a twig, his anger exploding in an instant as he slammed a hand on his shoulder, the other seizing the grip of his Schofield revolver and instantly bringing it to his chin. "Call me a bandit one more time and you won't have a voice to speak with no more," he growled. Jonah squirmed under his grasp, his breath catching in his gulping throat.

"Then prove you're better than one, boy: let him go," the Marshal grumbled. John's eyes flickered over to him, so callous and careless in his chair, knowing he would do as he said. With a clenched jaw he shoved the deputy away and forcefully put away his gun. He could see it in his eyes – "fucking bandit". "Thank you. We don't need any more bloodshed in this town as it is."

"So," Marston huffed, striding over, telling himself not to look at Jonah or else he'd kill him, "what have we got? More of them Walton's boys?"

"Kidnapping and ransoming anyone they can find," Johnson sighed. "And they're in force this time. Our boys have no chance against them." He glared steadily at Jonah, who was now rubbing his lower jaw and watching John bitterly, and Eli, practically trembling and his gaze downcast as though he'd spotted a rat beneath the floorboards. "I knew the only person I could trust to get the job done would be you."

"That's awful kind of you, Marshal," Mr Marston said with a shrug. "And true." He grinned, and Leigh Johnson chuckled dryly. "Where have the bastards run to now?"

"Hanging Rock; I guess they like the irony," the Marshal told him, adding, "the place is like a bad cliché that we just can't seem to get rid of."

"I've known people like that," John teased. "So am I going alone or do I have to deal with this guy aiming his gun at me as well?"

They both turned and watched the man in question, picking at his teeth with a chewed thumb nail. "Nah, I think he's had enough excitement for one day. He can stay here, clean the floors." Jonah scowled, as if he were about to spit. "But I'll come with. Been a while since I did anything useful." He spun round in his chair and stretched himself out while striding towards the door, dropping his faded grey hat onto his head as he went.

Outside, daylight nearly blinded them both. The Marshal mounted his horse while John whistled his own, dashing over in a speeding streak of black and white; he jumped up, and they headed out of town, side by side, north.

"So, how have you been?" the Marshal asked casually, tipping his head back to look at him as they rode.

John huffed. "Well, as best I can, considerin' I'm hounded by the government, mistaken for being one of 'em, and called a God-damned bandit wherever I go."

"Some reputations are hard to shake, but I know you're a good man."

He chuckled gently. "You have more faith in me than even I do."

"Someone has to."

In the distance, they could hear some commotion, and so they spurred on their steeds, keening themselves over their flexing necks as they broke into a gallop.

"And yourself?" Marston called across to him.

"Mostly dealing with this kind of crap... It never ends, does it?"

"Yeah well... some things never change."

"I disagree. All you've gotta do is want it to change bad enough that you make it happen."

A sudden gunshot in the distance caused the Marshal to curse and drive in his heels again, his horse snorting and kicking onward; Marston followed on, juggling his repeat rifle out of his holster and reloading it, ready, squinting into the distance. He could just make out a few men with rifles ready, loitering around the base of the rocks, taking stance as soon as they noticed the two riding up.

"Hold up," Johnson ordered. "If we get too close, they'll kill the hostages." He pulled a pair of binoculars from his pocket, squinting into them.

"Shootin' or hangin'?" John questioned.

"Hanging, if we're lucky; I know how good a shot you are by now." He could have almost felt embarrassed, instead just rolling his eyes. "There we are. You see? The tree there."

"How many hostages?"

"Should be three, but I can only see two..."

"Any women?"

"...One. The one I can't find."

"Fuckers..."

"Unfortunately, yes. Wait a second; I'll see if there's any good route to make an approach."

But the seconds seemed to take hours as his toes curled in his boots and his blood pounded through his veins; John cringed and rolled his shoulders, his hunting instinct taking over his mind in one fell swoop. In a rush of adrenaline, he grumbled, "Screw your waitin' – they could be violatin' her as we speak."

And with his expression steely, he spurred on his war horse and charged into battle, just in time to hear the Marshal's cry of "John! I said "wait"!"

He was done waiting. He'd waited too long while the government abused his family, while his "old friends" continued on their murderous rampages: if it had taught him nothing else, it was to act, not think, or suffer the consequences. Thinking had never gotten him far. Now was the time to act, however he could. As he drew closer the hoof-beats matched his heartbeat, thundering along into the yells of the gang as they drew their guns, steadied their arms, aimed, shot; a bullet whizzed by his shoulder as he raised his muzzle, took a deep breath, and time seemed to slow – his vision golden and sharp as he marked with his eyes their skulls – locking his posture against the canter of his horse – bracing for the recoil – pulling the trigger – dispatching one, two, three, four, five, six – emptying his chambers, exhaling and quickly reloading. He was taking aim again by the time their bodies hit the floor, another five joining them soon after, before his sight blurred; and the nooses snagged around their victim's throats.

Meanwhile the Marshal galloped in behind him, joining the fight as best he could; more shots snapped in the air, and John pressed his chest down to the horse's muscular neck as he charged on, blindly trusting his rider – but just then a bullet struck his flank, buried into his leg, blood bursting from his muscle, and he flinched a second before the pain hit him, and then he bucked and then he leapt, too fast and too violent for Marston to hang on, and he was tossed off and down to the hard track, ribs cracking sickeningly under his fall. For a moment the pain overtook his mind and his tongue arched to suppress a yell, eyes squinting against his flaring nerves. Rolling over with a groan, he saw the victims hanging and writhing in an inverted world, while he wheezed on the ground and told himself, commanded himself to get up, get up, get up – or else they would die. Aching muscles held him down.

Time running out, the Marshal in danger, still too many enemies, he struggled to his feet, taking aim on the rope on unsteady legs - missing. Again he drew breath and stared, eyes narrowed. Missed. Again. Shake it off, shake it off. He inhaled, silenced his mind, regenerated, focussed – shot. One. Two. Three. Two ropes snapped, two innocents traumatised but saved, another bandit collapsing to his death – but still the woman to find, still more of them seething from behind the towering rocks. How many more could there be? No time for self-pity, he ignored the flaring aching, as though hell itself was clawing through his muscle, as he ran forward, dispatching the men who lurched forward from the grasses, blocking out the weeds hitching on his trousers, running on. Where was she?

"Marston! Over here!"

He spun to see Johnson pointing to the other side of the rock, only to catch his eye just as the Marshal realised he'd been bucked off, debating for a second whether to pick him up, then charging on alone. Marston wanted to collapse, but if he did he knew he would never get up again, not in a place like this. And so he ran as fast as his cramping legs would allow him, reloading as he went, hands clenched tight around his rifle, ready to take down however many of them appeared – but as he rounded the corner-

"Git back!" someone yelled, and he stopped dead. An outlaw with one hand gripping Leigh's wrists behind his back, the other holding a handgun to his temple. "Make one move an' I'll shoot. We'll all shoot."

John's eyes darted to see behind the Marshal the woman hogtied on the ground with another gang member standing over her, skinning knife in hand. A third man waited atop the rock with a sniper rifle in his grasp, precisely aimed at his head. A perfect ambush; an impasse. No turning back; no way out.

"What do you want?" Marston asked, his voice controlled and clipped in contrast to his seething heart.

"Legal immunity," the first bandit replied, his smile crooked, "an' all your money, Mr Marston."

He cringed a smirk at hearing the extent of his infamy. "Legal immunity by killing all the law enforcers, I suppose?" He took a step forward just to watch them all flinch, and the Marshal's bright blue eyes widen so much they could have popped out of his head. These weren't ruthless killers: they were mere crooks, pushed as far as they could go. He loathed that he knew what that felt like. "And, ah... wouldn't it be easier to loot me when I'm dead?"

"If that would suit you better."

He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe it would."

And he watched the sniper glance to his superior, just as he'd intended, and the bandit holding the Marshal looked over, and in that split second John raised his gun, pulled the trigger, twice: the first exploded the first's head, mere hairs from the Marshal's own, the second slamming into the woman's holder's chest, pushing him over to the ground as he wildly fired into the air in pain. The third, un-aimed from the sniper, spun into Marston's own ribcage, grinding into his bone, severing muscle and flesh and forcing him to his knees, breathless and red-visioned. The aches of before seemed like a paper-cut to this. Johnson twisted out of his dying captor's grasp, swiped his revolver and downed the shooter with a shot to the abdomen and rushed to the side of his fallen companion.

The awaiting vultures abandoned the trees as Marston collapsed sidewise onto the path, unconscious by the time he hit the ground.

Three times, now, he had been felled.

Three times, he had woken up, astounded to still be alive.

Three times, he had looked up into the concerned face of whoever had found him.

But he'd never been so relieved as when his eyes adjusted to the silver streak amongst the darkness, the sky held within his eyes, and the sweat on his brow.

"You complete ass."

"Good mornin' to you too," Marston chuckled, but glared at his own chest to feel the irritatingly familiar pain spasm through him.

"I told you to wait. I told you they'd grown in numbers. Every time you leave my sight, I tell you to be careful, and what do you do? You still do this. And what's all the worse is that you do it to save me. Now, I ain't worth it: just some old has-been who still has faith in the law, no matter what new hell springs up. But you're someone, John: someone important."

"An' I told you, you have too much faith in me." John tried to sit up, but his body protested, pushed him back to the pillow. "Shit, what happened to me?"

"You got shot, you damned moron," he huffed, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in the wooden chair. "I hefted you onto my horse, brought you back here. The doctor's been checking up on you, poking you with all kinds of things."

"How long was I out?"

"Four days."

"Shit... And the others?"

"Having nightmares, I'm sure. But apart from that, all safe."

"Then we did alright."

"Alright?!" the Marshal proclaimed, outraged. "God damn it, John Marston, you're lying in a prison cell half dead, and you say "we did alright"? You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"Hey, you're a Marshal – you know it's all part of the job."

"But you're not a Marshal, John, you're a-"

All his muscles tensed and a shiver of anger ran up his spine. "I'm a what, Leigh? I'm a what? Nah, go ahead and say it; I know you're always thinkin' it; I can see it in those big blues of yours."

Johnson turned his cheek away, eyes tightly shut. His breath was shaky as he exhaled, while John was nearly trembling with rage: he was so sick of it, seeing it in everyone's expression, when they saw the scars on his face, when they recognised him for the first time, when-

Without warning the Marshal spun, grabbing Marston by his aching shoulders and pulling him slightly up off the bed, slamming his lips against his, at first harsh and firm, then slipping to tender, as the confusion washed over John, as the anger was pushed aside in perplexion, perplexion turning to something akin to desire, and then resurfacing like a resurging wave crashing back to the shore in full force; despite his pains he seized the Marshal with all his strength and shoved him off, his eyes blazing, the taste clinging to his tongue. Scent of tobacco and ink and sun.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he fumed. Leigh couldn't look at him, instead going to stand, but John held firm on his arms, wanting an answer. His body was reeling as he tried to figure out what was going on. "Marshal?!"

"Look, I'm sorry, I just-"

But he didn't allow him to explain anyway, dragging him back down, kissing him again, his usual instinct of trusting whatever his body wanted to do taking over – his body had decided he wanted him. Now it was Leigh's turn to blink in bafflement before sinking down, awkwardly leaning across him on the bed but that didn't matter now: nothing mattered now: just John and his lips and his tongue. Thrilling electricity sparked between their lips like they'd never felt before, as if a circuit had been completed between their hearts; what should have felt wrong had somehow gone wrong itself, because nothing had ever felt so right. He let the bandit take the lead as he always did, his face flushing red as he kissed him deeper and harder, tongues meeting and jousting in fluid foreplay, wishing to hell that he had known what to do next as arousal tugged at his senses, as his own hands fumbled down Marston's chest, only to accidentally aggravate his wounds, hurt him, cause him to bite. He flinched and drew away, gulping hard. Meanwhile John cringed, holding his own body as though to stop it falling apart, blinking himself back into reality, trying to convince himself it was nothing more than a fever dream... but he'd never had a dream this vivid, never felt his heart race in a dream, never desired, longed and hated so much in a dream.

"What the hell am I doing..." Marston mumbled to himself, shaking his head slightly, refusing to look at him. "I ain't no queer... I... I must be delusional. Get out of here, before... something else happens."

"S-something else?" Leigh stammered, clearing his throat.

Suddenly John glared up, but only for a second. "Get out. And lock the cell behind you." But Leigh just stood there, staring, blinking. "Get out of here. Or else I'll start looking for wherever you've put my gun."

"Alright, alright," the Marshal managed, snapping out of it and backing away quickly, pulling the cell door shut, still watching him through the bars as he laid his head back, pressing the pillow over his red face. He grabbed the key from his belt between shaking thumb and forefinger, turning it in the lock, then holding it for a second while he stared on, reminding himself to breathe.

"Get out, Marshal," Marston muttered through the pillow.

"I'm gone," he told him, and this time he turned and without delay left the office, pulling the door shut behind him. The slam snapped him out of it. Outside, clouds had rolled in, but he felt as though there was a spotlight on his face when anyone turned to look at him. Unsure where to go, what to do with himself, who to talk to, if anyone, probably no one, he turned to his horse, unhitched, mounted, rode. Rode as far away as he could.

He wouldn't return until evening the following day. (John would later find out that he'd ridden all the way down to the Mexican border in Rio Bravo, considered deserting America to hide out away from the prairie, before meeting up with soldiers in Plainview, ending up in a drinking-match-come-arm-wrestle and losing horribly. He'd spent the following day sleeping (or passed out) in an old shack he'd taken to years before as a place of respite, until guilt got the better of him and called him back to Armadillo.)

As he strode back through the main street, the office seemed to loom in front of him like the doorway to hell. Everyone around him seemed to mock him with their stares. But no one knew; no one could know; how could anyone possibly know? In fact, maybe it was a drunken dream. Maybe he'd imagined it all. But for some reason, thinking that came with a bitter disappointment he simply couldn't shake.

He lingered at the door, before shaking his head and stepping in. No turning back.

"Evening, Marshal," the doctor greeted, turning from his patient.

"Ah, evening, Doctor," he replied, and then nodded briefly to his inmate, knowing ignoring him would do no good. "Marston."

"Marshal."

"Who opened the cell?" Johnson questioned without looking over, instead shuffling papers on his desk, papers which were already in order.

"Eli," the doctor replied amicably, redressing Marston's wounds carefully. "Suppose those deputies of yours aren't completely useless after all."

"Hm, s'pose they have some purpose, thank God," Leigh muttered, going to sit behind his desk, and then finding himself helplessly at a loss of what to do. His whole body itched.

"Where have you been?" the doctor asked, keeping up the chat, unaware of whether it broke the tension or increased it, likely unaware of any tension at all.

"I, ah... had some business to take care of," he responded. He was the Marshal; he didn't have to explain himself.

"Anything serious?"

"Oh God, I hope not."

He glanced up briefly, just as Marston looked over: their eyes locked. Neither would tell the other, but both of their hearts were racing. Leigh envied the doctor, touching him. But this would never be the age for that. Homosexuals simply weren't allowed. He could have hanged himself there and then, just to save someone else doing it for him. He'd heard that just over the border, it was pretty commonplace. But that was Mexico, the land of chaos: this was America, the land of the free.

"And how about our idiot invalid?" Leigh huffed, pushing aside his thoughts.

"Well, he'll live. But he needs to take it easy for a few days to prevent any more bruising," the doctor told him, packing up his bandages in his briefcase and standing.

"Him? "Take it easy"? He won't "take it easy" till someone manages to shoot him in the head, I reckon," Johnson teased, and again Marston met his eye, and his tongue ran dry.

"Then keep him locked in that cell like you had – it's for his own good."

With that he nodded to them both, and walked out the door, leaving the two alone in the uncomfortable end-of-day silence, tension filling the air as thick and heavy as the darkness of evening. Without anything else to do, the Marshal cleared his throat and went to lock the cell, keeping a watch on John, sat sulking on the edge of his bed, pulling his shirt back on over his bandaged body. His hand trembled as he slotted the key into the lock, the hefty bar clanking down ringing out louder than a gunshot. He glanced up at him for a moment, before going to turn away again.

"Marshal."

He froze and then carefully looked over, watching Marston stand on lead legs and step over, more cautious than if he'd been approaching a rabid cougar, but Leigh held still, feeling more like prey.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry about... whatever happened yesterday," John told him, his voice sincere, honest – "but then I realised... I ain't sorry. And neither are you."

He had drawn up to the bars now, bars that felt like nothing more than paper between them, yet still the Marshal nervously held his ground. All his words seemed to tumble from his mouth as John reached through and took a fistful of his tie, pulling him closer, just on the verge of being threatening but somehow still so tender. The man was a walking oxymoron, a contradiction, a paradox – and he wanted nothing more than to figure him out.

"Now, Marshal, you might take me for an illiterate fool, but I can read you," he murmured, locking him dead in his black-eyed glare. "An' I'm smarter than everyone around here seems to think."

At that moment the gate which he had only just locked – he was sure he'd just locked it – swung open, and John Marston held up the key in front of the Marshal's face, jangling them slightly, before shoving him backwards, Johnson scarcely regaining his balance before John was out of the cell, seizing him by his shoulders, slamming his back down onto his own desk with a resounding thud that could have awoken the whole town.

"I know that when you were lookin' at me last night, you saw the most dangerous man you've ever known lyin' there vulnerable, helpless, an' it turned you on."

His face blared red, ruddy cheeks burning with embarrassment, as he reached for the pistol in his holster – only to have his hand slapped away by the chuckling man pressing down on his hips with his own, the friction burning. He coughed, just to stop himself murmuring.

"We both know you wouldn't do that, Marshal." His smile drove right through his heart, more lethal than any bullet. Meanwhile Marston laid one unsheathed hand around his hip, tugging at his trousers like skinning a bear. "Nah, you looked at me and you saw a bandit, but a bandit who's changed sides, falling into line with you." He was focused, deaf to Johnson's pathetic protestations, the one hand on his shoulder holding him firmly down. "So you thought "why not?"" He wanted to interrupt, tell him he was wrong, but damn it all, he could have been right as far as he knew. Whatever had happened, had happened: but this was happening now: his fingertips grazed his abdomen and he flinched, his eyes that of a hunted doe. "Or maybe you're more like me than you'd admit – maybe, you didn't think at all." Touches sinking lower, slow enough to be teasing, fast enough to be violent. As soon as he hit his mark, tightened his grip, the Marshal drew breath and found himself unable to let it out again, sweat prickling at his sides. Those big blue eyes swam in lust. "Are you thinkin' now, Leigh?"

"Dear God, if anyone comes through that door..." he blurted, struggling to get up, but to no avail: he was pinned. His skin felt as though it was on fire.

"That's a borin' thought," Marston chided, stroking his callous palm along him till his gaze focused solely on him again. "You know as soon as they turned the handle, I'd shoot them straight between the eyes, with your gun."

"Shit..." he muttered, a laugh catching on his languid tongue, arousal tickling up his skin, along his spine, down his body. His breath seemed to hitch on his lips. As John's nails caught slightly he gasped, hardly suppressing a whimper as he gulped hard. But the man standing over him stared him down, hardly even needing to hold him with eyes like those. He licked his lips, told himself not to look at him: the word "stop" never once crossed his mind.

All the while his hand jerked tirelessly, tight, sharp motions that made the Marshal's head spin, melting into the desk itself, eyelashes fluttering helplessly as the extent of his resistance. Every movement, every drag, threatened to draw another noise from his throat – all thought cast aside, his heart pounded, toes curled, mind throbbed; his breathing broke into panting, his hands clasping the edge of the desk.

"Keep your eyes on me," he interrupted, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes slammed open as he stammered, "Wh-what?"

"Just do it. I want to watch you. Hey! Open them."

His commands bounced around in his head uncontrollably as he struggled to keep himself focused, time and time again wanting to shut them, block out what was going on, keep himself calm – but that wasn't part of Mr Marston's plan. Watching him staring him down, his stare wavering from his face to his hands and- his toes curled, his fingers fisted, hips strained, clenching his teeth so much as to grunt out, squirming on the desk until John corrected him again with a firm shove on his shoulder. His self-control struggled against his carnal needs; to give in or to hold out; to savour or to satisfy.

The gentleman's demeanour fell apart from there as his legs began kicking, his voice groaning, forcing his eyes open until tears beaded in their corners, until logic all but died, arousal taking over every thought and every feeling and – "look at me, Marshal; you look at me" – he was looking, he was looking, when suddenly his body couldn't take it anymore and he grit his teeth and air snagged in his lungs and he felt the rush, the rush of the moment, the rush of blood, the rush of Marston's lips against his own, muffling his moans as climax tore through his veins with his eyes cringing shut in release and pleasure overpowering him such that the defeated was the victor.

He panted for breath through him, that dry, sarcastic chuckle shaking through him, as he pulled back his hand. Shaking it off, wiping it against his own trousers. Releasing his hold on the Marshal's shoulder. His heartbeat pounded in his ears; his mind slurred through dizziness; all else was silent. Then one, two steps on the wooden floorboards.

"Feel better now?" Marston teased, turning his back on him.

The words seemed to drift around his ears long before he could make sense of them. Bringing himself to unsteady feet, he pulled back up his trousers, took a deep breath of sweet, sweet air. Scooped his hat off the desk, pulled the brim down over his scarlet face. "M-me?" he stammered in response. As if he'd been the one to start that! Hell, he'd never intended... never considered... never even thought about it. He'd obliterated his thoughts with alcohol while John... While John had all day in the cell to mull it over, to think, to... plan. And now he wouldn't face him. Leigh bit his tongue as it dawned on him, and after a second of stillness he quietly said, "Turn around, John."

He tipped his head over his shoulder slightly. "Nuh-uh. I don't have to respond to you."

He clenched his jaw, knew how to get a response from him; uttered, "Bandit, turn around."

His fists curled at his sides. "You piece of shit..." But he didn't turn to face him, didn't react how he wanted him to, instead walking briskly onward and grabbing his hat from beside his bed, turning and striding right past him to the door. But he paused with his hand on the handle. "Call me that one more time..."

Leigh steeled himself, a shiver running down his spine. Whatever he said next... He rolled his tongue over the words, tasting them like chewing on expensive tobacco.

"Good-for-nothing bandit."

He turned the lock. Heard it click into place. Turned to face him. The Marshal's eyes flickered up and down him hungrily. Then, he smiled.

"I'm not as dumb as you think I am, either, Mr Marston."

"No, no..." John chuckled, stepping back towards him, staring at his shoes until he was mere inches from him, when he looked up, his dark, dark eyes brimming with desire. "You're dumber."

Striking faster than a cobra he grabbed him dragged him back into the cell, spinning him round and pushing him fast against the brick wall, cheek scraping against the solid stone, adrenaline bursting through his veins, and too fast for him to think, he pulled down his trousers again, this time taking his underwear too; the chill of the room was overruled by the heat burning through his body. Already his head was swimming, his face grazing against the wall irrelevant in light of other sensations. He'd thought he was too old for this. Then again, he'd thought a lot of things that were proving to be dead wrong today.

"I've heard this hurts," John offered in warning, his voice hoarse with impatience as he pressed between his shoulder blades with one hand, fumbling his own trousers free with the other. With a smirk he added, "Maybe you'll like it."

The Marshal huffed a laugh as he snatched back his hands again, holding firm as he retorted, with nothing else by means of struggle, "Maybe you will too."

He heard him spit into his hand, heard him sigh, then snicker, overwhelmed – no time to delay, no time like the present – who knew when someone might knock on that door, press their ear to the grain, hear them panting, groaning, using one another, any moment. Annoyed by its persistence, he grabbed the Marshal's skewed hat, tossed it to the ground with his own, pressing his forehead against the back of his neck as he took his time, braced himself, but he wasn't the one who needed to: Leigh couldn't even bring himself to fidget, his wrists held tight behind his back, his eyes blurring into the dark corners of the cell; this time, he wanted to look him in the eyes, needed his reassurance, but his frantic gazes only met with misshapen brickwork.

"If I said "wait", would you listen this time?"

He felt his breath scathing the back of his ear as he chuckled, "Probably not."

Just then his heart stopped. Just then his blood ran cold. Just for a second, his body took a life of its own, bucking like a barely-broken steed, his jaw falling open and refusing to shut, sweat splitting from his skin, voice breaking. There had been no delay, his question seeming to have provoked action rather than answers; there had been no bracing himself, and now it seemed impossible to have been prepared for this. Marston held him firm, riding with his fighting and keeping him as steady as possible as he pushed deeper, grit his teeth, rested his head on the nape of his neck, urging him with grunts to keep quiet, stay with it, trust him. Meanwhile Leigh coughed and spluttered, struggled and spat, until... until...

Silence, only broken by his touches, his ragged breaths behind him... and the pleasure filling up every nerve. Every thrust, every movement, every pant sank him deeper into intoxication till his knees fell weak, and an arm round his waist was the only thing keeping him upright. He didn't care, didn't care, he didn't... He drove his nails into his own palm, body on fire; gave up his fighting so he could just feel. He wanted to say something but he had no words, only to utter his name over and over again, the taste of it imbuing his soul with every repeat, every murmur, pitch and volume rising steadily as his tongue reached out for something to curl around, until John had to muffle his mouth with his salty hand.

"Hey, keep quiet. We don't need anyone comin' to investigate, do we, Marshal?"

He whimpered through his fingers, his eyes watering, but now he was struggling not to laugh instead; at feeling him giggle, John couldn't help but join in, his chuckle infectious and reverberating through them both as relaxation swept over their limbs, what had only been pain and strain before suddenly becoming ecstasy; indescribable, exponential. The deeper he pushed the more they both wanted, and the more he wanted the more he took him, his voice finally melting into somewhere between a hum and a growl which laced through the Marshal's mind until all sense of time faded away; no obligations, no past, no tomorrow. His feverish grasp clutched onto Marston's left hand, while John's right traced over his wet lips; never so at rest and never so excited, the world revolved around them.

Meanwhile John was astounded by himself, unsure of what he was doing but blindly led by desire, and who was he to refuse his own instincts when they'd kept him alive so long, kept him happy? He'd never experienced anything like this – nothing so raw and powerful, the domination curling his toes and stiffening his body; every flinch from the man shook his very soul until he wanted to kiss every inch of him, to feel every part of his skin. A Marshal – the Marshal – and him, a bandit – the bandit. Maybe he was something more than a bandit after all: he just didn't know what yet. As he rocked his hips, as he stroked down his silver chin, he felt he could be anything he wanted to be, or anything the Marshal wanted him to be.

"Marston-" he grunted suddenly.

His mind lagged round to his name and he hummed in response. He didn't need to say any more. He dipped his head and kissed the back of his neck, before thrusting once more, twice more, letting himself be overwhelmed, letting his well-tempered self-restraint be obliterated in a single moment, cringing and unable to stop himself groaning in a sudden moment of self-consciousness as sweat prickled across his skin, all the while trying to stop Leigh doing exactly that, tightly holding his mouth shut again in his careful grip, fearing attracting attention: the door was locked, but the windows were for any wandering eye to look through: too much noise would draw the deputies, and anyone else in the street: and if they saw the new-bandit-in-town screwing the local Marshal, well... the irony and speculation would be too much to bear. But once again his voice betrayed him and Leigh struggled again, futile and meaningless, while John tried to hold him like taming a wild animal who suddenly realised his time was upon him, a tender-handed predator bearing down own him, until the fight fled his limbs; until he stilled, breathless and chuckling and struggling not to pass out from exhaustion and intensity; his senses washed over with the familiar smell of dust and wood shavings; and he leaned back onto him, still unable to form words. What was there to say? John held him up, settling him back on his own feet, catching his breath before slowly, cautiously, pulling back, making him grit his teeth again and cuss under his breath. Both of them wanted to collapse, but only found themselves able to slump down against the wall, mindlessly toppling over against one another's shoulders, sniggering.

"God help us..." the Marshal eventually managed.

"Well... now you can at least join me in Hell," Marston joked.

And honestly, Leigh couldn't think of anything better.

The Marshal slept in the cell that night, too exhausted to find his own bed, too pained to walk straight. When he'd muttered about his new gait, Marston had told him to blame his horse. In this day and age, everyone walked like that. He'd just made it into the neighbouring cell before his legs buckled and he crippled down onto the cot.

Laid on his side in the bed mere bars across from John, Johnson mumbled, "Guess we'll have to get you a new horse as well."

"Urgh, dull... But I hadn't thought of that..." he grumbled. "Guess he bolted after bucking me, huh?"

"He was gone by the time I saw you on the ground. I'd offer you mine but..."

"You've already done enough, Marshal."

He paused for a second, staring up at the worm-eaten ceiling. Then he answered, "My pleasure, Marston."

He laughed his arid-dry laugh; even now, Leigh could feel it. It made him smile as he lightly rested his eyes.

"So, know anyone who'd sell you a horse?"

"The MacFarlanes have done me right; Bonnie would help me out. I'd wrangle one myself but you ironically need a horse to catch up with a horse."

"I could ride you."

"Excuse me?"

"I- ah- I mean-"

He rolled over in his cot to tip his head back and watch him stammering. "I'm just messin' with you, Leigh. That'd be real helpful if you have the time."

Again, he was quiet for a moment, before admitting, "I always have time for you, John." Another break in the talk with no adequate response, hearing an owl screech by in the night. And then Leigh murmured honestly, "I did it because I was so relieved that you'd opened your eyes. After I saw you go down, I... I was so worried you weren't gonna wake up. Four days, John. I watched you for four days."

Marston sighed as the warmth of his sentimentality swelled in his heart, leaving him only to say, "No wonder gang crime is so rife around these parts."

"Shut up."

"Hahaha," he laughed, and then added, "No, really. Those deputies of yours are better at insulting people than shootin' 'em. Maybe you should make me your deputy."

"Me, your commanding officer? You never listen to me."

"Fine: I'll take your job, you be deputy."

"And the people of Armadillo would be very grateful. Hell, you could police all of New Austin, I'd bet. Maybe West Elizabeth and Nuevo Paraíso to boot."

"What do you mean "maybe"?"

Time ticked by as night spread her veil across the Border States, darkness bringing in pure silence, only to be stirred by the cries of wolves and lonesome owls, wingtips shuddering in the moonlight. And when the sun began to raise his dreary head over the horizon, his yawns bleached the sky every shade and hue of red, the crows calling in the dawn. Morning found them dreaming, restful after so many years of restlessness, until duty awoke the Marshal, taking the form of a knock on the door. Instantly he stumbled to his feet, hissing at the ache that seemed to have raised its head with a vengeance that morning, dusting himself down, tipping his charcoal hat over his forehead as though to hide his shameful shamelessness, locking John's cell, triple-checking himself for any "signs" before he dared open that door. Outside he found a desperate report of a lynching; instead of his stomach churning, his wiped his brow with the back of his hand and smiled. It never ends, does it?

"John!" he called back over his shoulder, holstering a rifle across his back from the cabinet. The familiarity of his name warmed his heart better than morning coffee. "Mr Marston!"

"Huh?" he woke with a groan, rolling over to look at him in the daylight, shimmering golden. "Oh, mornin'." He smiled lazily.

"I'm off out, you alright staying here?"

He could see it in his eyes that he wanted to come, but not with his wounds. Heck, it was unfathomable that he hadn't died last night, but that could have gone for both of them... "What about my horse?" he questioned instead.

"When I get back; you'll wait for me, right?"

He smiled wryly. "Of course." Then added, "You locked me in, remember?"

He chuckled. "Don't terrorise the town too much."

"I'll try, but no promises."

He nodded to him briefly, tipped his hat, then strode out the door. Through the walls Marston could hear him greeting Jonah and Eli, filling them in and calling them to follow; mounting his horse and geeing him on, undoubtedly cringing at the motion as he went. John smirked, and then felt an obscure pang of protection for him – if he didn't go with him, who knew what trouble the Marshal would get himself into this time? But he couldn't be there to hold his hand; after all, Leigh Johnson wasn't exactly a bad shot himself, and he'd been a Marshal for what, ever? He could look after himself.

He tried to calm his mind by crossing his ankles and resting his head on his hands, reviewing his memories before his eyes. For once the morning didn't bring with it the aches of humanity, and the crease on his brow had ironed itself out, smoothing happiness over his expression. It had been too long since he'd just waited. As he lay there his thoughts wandered aimlessly across the horizons of thought, until he'd explored every location he could find. In fact, he realised as always that he hated waiting, as he'd proven time and time again. Action was far more interesting. Some people called it peace – he called it boredom. Being raised in a gang can do that to a person.

The day before, his mind had been racing down every path to find out where it led him; and every route had strayed into danger and darkness till he found himself lost. He had no idea what he was getting himself into, but it couldn't be worse than what he'd already been through, right? He knew the risks of being a homosexual; he knew all the allegations, accusations and assertions: it was a form of madness, a disease, a curse. But his theory was that he'd let himself go to Hell if it meant he could find any kind of Heaven on Earth.

He didn't want to regret this, but he knew he had to think about the impacts. Be real about this. He wasn't interested in men, that he was sure of. But every rule has to have an exception, right? Of course, he loved his wife. He loved his son. That was never going to change; he was never going to ride off into the sunset with some small-town Marshal. (Not that he was just some small-town Marshal.) Yet at the same time the idea was so idyllic somehow – to think he could be out here, putting right all his wrongs at the end of a shotgun, rather than herding cattle and shining his own shoes. He'd always wanted to earn an honest living: what was more honest than shooting bad guys?

With thoughts like these and a thousand more, the time raced by until he heard footsteps on the veranda again, and it was all he could do not to sit up in bed, or better yet to cling onto the bars and wait for him to come in. Instead only his eyes ticked over, nonchalant.

"-bloody bastards are getting more and more vindictive every day. What next? Children?"

"We need to root them out, Marshal, like I keep tellin' ya," Jonah grumbled. "Go in there an' slaughter the lot of 'em."

"Unprovoked? Then we're as bad as they are," Johnson argued. "I'm all for sending them all to their deaths, but if we keep up this kind of action we'll end up as bad as the Government. Besides, we'd need an army to take them down. Or John Marston. How're you feeling?"

As he mentioned his name their glances met, a secretive smiled shared between them. "Pretty good, Marshal, thanks for askin'," he answered. "But I'm afraid I actually agree with Jonah this time, much as it pains me to say it. If they won't save themselves..."

He sighed heavily as he collapsed into his chair. "You find where they're hiding out this time and be my guest," he offered, pulling a cigar from the drawer and striking a match. His eyes slipped shut as he took the first drag, probably having needed it for far too long. The smoke curled up over the rim of his hat while John watched, near entranced by his lips. Jonah and Eli loitered in front of him, neither daring to meet Marston's eye as he spun to sit on the edge of the bed, gaze locked on the Marshal.

"So how long are we keeping him for?" Jonah grumbled, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at their prisoner. "Or is this an official arrest?"

"Just until he feels better, good enough to ride on his own," Leigh explained, drawing on the embers again; the deliciously dusty aroma permeated through the room. "Don't get too excited."

John, seeing the irony, dropped his gaze and smirked. "I feel good enough to lasso a horse," he told him, "if you're up for it."

Unsure if he was speaking in euphemisms, knowing he didn't disapprove either way, the Marshal nodded, stubbed out his cigar and rested it ready for later. He unlocked the cell and, without caring to explain to the deputies this time, they both headed out.

"Where are the horses around here?" John asked. "Not too far, I hope?"

The Marshal glanced sideways at him. "You're not actually well enough, are you?"

"I'll live," he replied. "More likely be killed by boredom."

The Marshal unhitched his horse, the steed's muscles rippling from such recent exercise but raring to go again: his muzzle was greying as though in sympathy of his rider, but his flanks were strong and eyes gleaming. Mounting up, he offered his hand to John, who at first scoffed and slapped it away, but when his body refused him he begrudgingly took it and pulled himself up, thanking him under his breath.

"There's normally a herd somewhere north of Ridgewood Farm; they tend to scatter, but if I chase after one, you'll be able to catch him. We'll pick out a nice stud for you, something suitable."

"You flatter me, sir."

"Believe me: I don't."

He drove in his heels, spurring on his horse, trotting back through the main street before turning east along the path; as he kicked into canter and then into gallop, he heard John grunt in pain, before reluctantly holding onto his waist. Leigh tried to ignore him (he had his own aches to grumble about), but couldn't help taking a shallow breath, before forcing himself to focus on the road ahead. This way and that the gnarled plants struggled through the dry ground, the foxes darted with their screeching yelps, vulture-picked bodies eroded into the sand. At Odd Fellow's Rest they glanced over at dead-end graves that even the scavengers avoided in fearful respect. With Ridgewood appearing over the crest, Leigh turned his horse and headed into the scrub, the jolting landscape eliciting sharp groans, and itchy palms.

But there – there! A small herd on the plain beneath Pleasance House, the mares skittishly scattering instantly while the two stallions stared them down, and the choice was obvious: a roan Standardbred, or a glistening pearl Kentucky Saddler. Johnson was almost jealous as he shook his head, scoffed, and spurred his Painted Quarterhorse onward once more, taking chase, again each bump in the path drawing a complaint from his passenger, but he was too in tune to notice now: the Saddler turned and began to flee, but the Marshal quickly pulled up behind him, Marston preparing his lasso and lifting it above his head, twisting it in the air, picking up momentum – just a bit closer, just a bit closer...

And he had him! The horse bucked and reared before trying to charge off again, nearly tugging the man to the ground again (much to the Marshal's fear) but he clung onto him as Leigh slowed his steed with enough time for John to achingly jump over to the steed, bundling its mane into his gloved fists and holding on for dear life, Johnson tossing a lasso round his neck for good measure, holding him on a short rope while Marston took up battle.

First it tried to kick left but found itself to be trapped and so only twisted and tangled itself while Marston forced himself to lie flat over its unsaddled back; then it spun right, slamming back its legs and jolting him but not shaking him (although his yell cursed the air), so it struck out again, threw its flank sideways, but with nowhere to go and no way of shaking him the steed was losing fast, its wild, wild eyes glistening with overcome anger.

"Come on, come on... I got ya..."

The Marshal clenched his jaw, tried to pretend his red cheeks were sunburnt while drinking in his deep voice. The stallion swung himself round once more and then realised it was pointless, and straining its neck in resentment it stopped fighting, and instead let him ride. Duly impressed, if not slightly flustered too, Leigh dropped his end of the lasso, watched as John slipped it off the horse's neck before passing the rope back to him.

"Not bad, for a broken man," he quipped, suddenly realising he was slightly breathless, and Marston, almost wheezing, smirked across at him. "Would you follow me somewhere before you disappear?"

"To the ends of the earth, Marshal," he teased, perhaps less sarcastically than he'd intended, pulling himself upright but again wincing; riding bareback didn't help as his ribs complained against every motion. "Don't make it too far though."

With a concerned smile, Leigh kicked on his horse, and they headed west below the peaking sun, the rims of their hats hiding the beads of sweat on their foreheads. The way was rocky but they could make it, dodging wolf packs and putting down snarling beasts as they went: a deadly duo if the West had ever seen one. Gangs backed away on seeing his glistening golden badge, and the black-tipped feather in his hat. Notorious, they charged on into Gaptooth Ridge, carefully traversing the railroad, the Marshal checking back on him, catching glimpses of him wincing before he would tighten his expression, act tough; he'd smile, already knowing him better than that.

It seemed fast-paced, but without distractions both of them had already delved through all their thoughts and feelings to reach a mutual, unspoken conclusion. Of course, Marston would have to make excuses to ride from Beecher's Hope to Armadillo, but a wanted man like him could run as many undescribed errands as he wanted without anyone batting an eyelid. Abigail didn't have to find out. It wasn't like he was leaving her; it wasn't like he was lying to her. And Johnson knew that: it wasn't perfect, but what relationship ever was? It was far more than he'd ever dared hope for.

When they arrived at Silent Stead, the embers were struggling to draw breath in the grate he'd abandoned the previous day, smoke sputtering from the rooftop of the long-deserted ranch-house. "The residents up at Rathskeller think this place is haunted," he chuckled. "I don't mind them thinking I'm a ghost. Suits me fine. It's only a small shack really but... no one ever knows I'm here."

"Guess I must be no one."

They dismounted and hitched their horses, John's new steed eying him carefully but dropping its gaze to the dusty ground, submissive. Stepping inside, Leigh stabbed into the fire, coaxing it back to life as he prodded in a new log. "Keeps the bandits out," he murmured thoughtlessly, before realising what he'd said. For a tense moment he could sense the man behind him bristling, but then he just tossed his rifle onto the bed.

"Well, I'm here," he commented, "so it can't work too well."

He went to sit back on his behind, but thought better of it, instead just tipping his head over his shoulder as he lifted his hat off, gently fanning himself with it. "You're not going to have a hissy fit this time?"

John shrugged lightly, a flicker of a smile on his lips as if to say "if you were anyone else".

"What happened to "never forgiven, never forgotten"?"

"I figured you've got more to forgive me for. An' you have so much faith in me, least I can do is return that."

"Look at you – the world's most morally in-tune bandit."

His smirk almost became a snarl. "Now you're pushin' your luck, mister."

"Really?" the Marshal teased, standing up stiffly and stepping over, dropping his hat, his eyes level with Marston's, watching them ticker over his face, their woody colour creamy in the pale light. "I'd have thought this was more pushing my luck."

He laced his hand around the back of John's neck, the other grazing his scarred cheek as he pulled himself closer and then, flicking his hat off he kissed him on the lips again, feeling the tickle of his stubble on his face; without hesitation this time, Marston held his waist, again finding himself craving the feeling of his skin which had already become so familiar. The respect they had earned by each other over the months seemed to have easily slipped into something akin to adoration, despite the harsh circumstances and overcast skies: here they found respite. As tongues met, blushes rose, lips upturning into smirks, pulling on one another's shoulders as lust spread through their bodies, before hands clutched at their own belts and their partner's, casting aside holsters and ammunition, such violence having no place here; fingertips found the buttons of waistcoats, shirts, trousers, picking them apart with ease and dexterity, before his touches met with bandages and he stopped with a sigh, tugging his lips away and staring for a second.

"Why... are you stoppin'?"

"I... this can't be a good idea in your condition."

He chuckled gently, stroked his sleek silver hair. "I'm tougher that you think, Marshal."

And with that he kissed him again, deeper, longer, nipping at his lips until Leigh drew a short breath, rolling his shirt off his shoulders and gently tracing down his chest, again reaching the bandages and flexing his hand before John grasped it in his, holding on tightly while he drew him into his kiss again and again. Time and breath became irrelevant, the cloth hanging off of them like tatters of forgotten sins, their own pasts tossed aside as no more than shreds; Leigh felt along the scars down his cheek in a mixture of respect and disbelief, wondering how the man who was touching him so tenderly now could ever have given into the brutality that lures in all outlaws, and in time, all men who lose sight of morality: but one good man is another's enemy: one bandit, another's hero. The sheriff was not so blind as to think all criminals were the same, as though united by a common disdain for the law, but this one... this one was so different. Hell, he'd never known a man like Marston; never wanted a man like Marston; never needed a man like Marston. Perspectives blurred in his head and he became dizzy with the realness of reality once again, just as a hand firmly clasped his crotch, just as his skin flared red.

"Y'alright?"

Leigh scoffed gently, bashfully turning away. "Yah, just... it's never felt like this before."

"It?"

He paused for a second to compose himself, noticing how his shirt was hanging off his sloping shoulders and his trousers just managing to stay on his hips, and the same for himself. Before their lips met again he hesitated to savour the buzz of energy between them, whispering, "This."

John smiled softer than he ever had before. Nothing needed to be said. Every sentiment tingled across the backs of his palms, and as he gazed into those big blues, he couldn't see a spot of cloud. There was no room for doubt in this tiny, falling apart cabin: just space for one another. He'd never known anything like this before, and he wanted to make his acquaintance with this new idea of love.

By the time the sun reigned over all the sky, silence had fallen over the Stead again; stillness found them lying side-by-side in the cot that was scarcely big enough for one grown man, hard to tell where one's hand ended and the other's began: sleep-soothed fingertips rested together, eyelashes gently flickering. The bandit murmured slightly, and then cruel daylight drudged him awake again. He stretched out wearily, cringing, smiling.

"Now, I reckon, we're even," Leigh yawned, feeling him stir.

"Hah! Never," John teased, wincing as he sat up, tiredly looking around for whatever clothing he could find – a shirt here, sock there, hat somewhere... "So, what next?"

The Marshal wiped his brow as he huffed, "Boy, I'm flattered, but I ain't that young anymore..."

"What? No, no, I mean... you must have work to do, right?"

The prospect of that made him even more exhausted, collapsing back onto the bedsprings again. "Rustlers. Thieves. Blackmailers. Common killers. Rapists. Drunks. Any new crime they've managed to invent since we left."

"Sounds better than herdin' cows," Marston muttered. After all, he couldn't weave too many more excuses to stay away from his own responsibilities.

The truth of him leaving was as cold as the barrel of a gun; Johnson felt his heart sink and tried his best to ignore it. "You're welcome to come help me out some time."

His smile was one of barely disguised regret at not being able to accept the offer immediately and not leave at all. "You have my number."

He continued to dress himself without another word, neither of them having anything else to say on the matter. There was nothing they could do. They'd gotten themselves into this; now they'd have to just buckle down and get on with their lives. There was no point lingering on the idea, yet he seemed unable to shake it off.

After a while, a niggling thought brought itself to his tongue: "When I first walked into the saloon in Armadillo, I met a guide to lead me up to Fort Mercer, said you'd hired him after getting a call from my "friends" in Blackwater. What did the Bureau tell you to expect of me?"

The Marshal now got out of the bed, pulled his trousers on, then proceeded to help Marston with the buttons of his shirt, taking care around his bandages just as before: after a little uncertainty, John let him, after all, it was hardly intimate compared to all else. "Ross told me you were a bandit and nothing more. He said you were going to be killin' Bill Williamson for them, and going after Dutch van der Linde after; I was to get you to them. More than that, I was to use you. Seemed to think you were... expendable, a commodity; a weapon."

He had expected as much, and could do no more than sigh and continue to flex his hands while the sheriff straightened his shirt, looking past him at the cobwebs. "And, uh... what changed your mind?" he questioned idly.

Leigh looked up at him, and with the honesty of a priest told him, "Seeing your eyes. Seeing them made me realise a few things – no man is expendable, be they some bandit or, I don't know, a man of the cloth... no man is worthless."

Marston looked deeply back at him, a proud smile bubbling to his lips, murmuring, "You are the most unlikely marshal I've ever met."

"And you're the most unlikely bandit."

With that, he placed his feathered hat on his dishevelled head.

Outside, they mounted up and rode back to Armadillo in mutual amicability, admiring how the sands glistened as though land-locked pearls, and how the silhouettes of cacti stretched out their lonely arms. As they drew nearer to the town it felt as though they drew further apart from one another, sketching over them faces their own disguises. Marston said he'd visit the livery, sort out a saddle, hang around for a while before heading back to West Elizabeth – take a breather before he took himself on that punishing ride. He'd need one hell of a comfy saddle if he was going to be making journeys like this more often (and not just in sympathy of bullet wounds: his body seemed to protest in the wake of pleasure). They parted ways at the doctor's office with a nod and a brief smile, and not a word more, decently content that they would see one another again soon enough.

John slipped down from his saddle with a cringe as he strode up into the office, watching the sheriff ride off to his own over his shoulder as he stepped through the door.

"Ah, Mr Marston. I'd almost hoped never to see you again," the doctor welcomed humorously. "What can I do you for?"

"Just some medicine for my travels," he replied, leaning on the desk. Then he glanced around, eyes drifting dozily over the shelves of jars and tubs, till an idea filtered through his brain. "Is there, ah... anything else I could do to make sure this wound heals up?"

He scoffed as he picked out the bottles from under his desk. "You prob'ly know better than I do these days," he answered. "There are all kinds of fancy new things you can use for wounds, just to seal the skin or keep it from getting infected. Have you tried Vaseline?"

"That petroleum jelly stuff? Heard of it but I hadn't thought of it." He chewed the inside of his lip as he tried not to smirk at his white lie. "I'll take some of that too, I reckon."

"And are we paying in cash or pelts today?"

He chuckled lightly as he pulled a wodge of notes from his pocket, flicking through as much as he needed and handing over the dollars, picking up four bottles between his worn fingers and the tub in his palm, leaving his other hand free to tip his hat as he left. His freshly-broken horse stamped its hoof till it saw him, when it dropped its gaze and refused to meet his eye. He patted its tense neck, murmuring, "I ain't gonna hurt you. We're partners now, huh?"

Untangling the lasso and leading the steed over to the livery, bottles still in hand, he kept an eye out for the blacksmith, praying he hadn't gotten in a fight with him at some point: you can't call in a favour with an enemy, or worse yet, a dead man. Thankfully a man in a soot-stained apron strode out of the old barn, and even more luckily, with a smile on his face.

"Mr Marston!" he welcomed. "You're the one who got rid of that Irish fella, if I'm not mistaken. I owe you one for that: man was a damned nuisance."

"I was hopin' you'd say somethin' like that," John chuckled. "I'm in need of a saddle."

"Well, you came to the right place. Lead him over, let's have a look."

While the blacksmith measured up and began to size the leather, John rested on a bale of hay outside, thinking about what was going on in his life. It seemed as though everything had changed, even though it was all the same. Funny, how a perspective could do that. He wasn't sure whether he liked that: he'd stuck to his guns all this time: that men don't change, not really – the situation does, but... a man can't fight his nature, as Dutch had proclaimed. But what about discovering your own nature? Being ignorant of it? Had he just not known?

Now was not the time to be ambiguous. If he wasn't free anywhere else, he was in his own mind. Had he been interested in the Marshal before? Sure, respect, but... romance? Romance, around here... Ha! Jack might read about it in his books, but the truth was far harsher – that romance was often nothing more than a story around here, born of the bored imagination and too long staring at the horse-trodden trail. And romance between two men? It made him squirm to think about it but his idle thoughts left him staring down the way, as if expecting to see his Quarterhorse round the corner at any moment. There was no denying or inventing that.

He wasn't experienced in this – one of the few things he'd never experienced, again unsure if that was a positive or not. He and Abigail... they'd run together, for years, before they suddenly both realised they were aiming in the same direction; then they'd stuck together, supported one another, and broken free of the gang, and still somehow been together. Got married, had a kid, started the ranch... This was something different, something new – and he had no idea what to do next. It was kind of exhilarating, and kind of terrifying.

Hours passed, the blacksmith hammering and crafting, nipping out and back between the general store and his workshop, the horse still watching Marston suspiciously but the man measuring him even more so. He'd need a name, John thought. But all he could think was Leigh. And the thing about being an outlaw, a loner, a cowboy – there was far too much time to think. He read the labels on the medicine bottles a hundred times; prodded the surface of the Vaseline with a devilish cringe and a shake of his head in disbelief. He had to be out of his damned mind..! But if you're lying on a bed of needles, may as well bring a pillow.

As the sun began to set he watched it over the rooftops of Armadillo with his rim tipped over his expression as he dozed until he heard footsteps approaching.

"How much do I owe ya?" he asked before he'd even looked up.

"As much as you want to," the answer came, and he flicked his hat up to find himself staring at the very man occupying his thoughts. Suddenly the sun seemed as bright as midday; his smile returned without him willing it to. "Noticed you hanging around here. Thought you might like some company."

"Not normally," John replied, shifting over on the hay, collecting his bottles at his feet, "but for you, I'll make an exception. Don't you have work to do?"

"Eh, you're more interesting." The Marshal sat down next to him, cigar burning between his lips. Marston glanced over jealously. "What's on your mind?"

"Same as you, I'd bet."

He hummed in evident concern, lowered his voice to nearly a growl. "I shouldn't be here, right?"

"Nope. But now you're here..."

Just then a drunkard stumbled out of the saloon, yelling something garbled at one of the ladies-of-leisure, looking as though he might turn violent. Johnson reached for his handgun, lacing his hand around the hilt, but the man just collapsed, instantly blacking out. "If anyone asks, I'm here keepin' an eye on him."

"You got it, Marshal."

Tension prickled between them, craving one another's heat, so close next to them, yet the blacksmith's threat nearby was enough to keep their hands in their laps. Eventually, Leigh sighed and uttered, "Look, there's nothing I can say that'll make this easier for either of us. All we can do is not make it harder for each other."

That time he couldn't resist it; he tipped his head and looked dead into his eyes, licking his lips briefly, watching how the man watched him as though intoxicated. "And would that be such a bad thing, sheriff?"

For a second, he forgot to smoke, until he spluttered and chuckled again, face gleaming. "Here, yes, Marston, it, ah... No. It would be a very bad thing. I'd have to arrest us both for indecent exposure, for a start."

"Sharing a jail cell with you? I can imagine worse fates." He inched closer to him, pretending it was due to discomfort from the hay, rather than with the intention of 'coincidentally' resting a hand on his upper thigh, squeezing gently.

"Now, stop it, boy, or I will lock you up," the Marshal threatened playfully, seizing his wrist and forcing his hand back to his own legs. "Although maybe that would keep you from running off to wherever duty or boredom calls you. D'you think Abigail would believe if I gave you a life sentence?"

He actually considered it for a second, then scoffed at himself. Knowing his luck, she'd probably ride down to check on him, barge in and find them... Then she'll have wished the Government had kept hold of her. Then she'll have wished he'd been killed by all the bullets that hadn't quite done the job. The notions preyed on his optimism, stole his enjoyment of the moment.

"Hey; you're somewhere else, aren't ya?"

"Hm? Oh, right, sorry." He wiped his brow and glanced around, muttering, "Never changes, does it, Marshal?"

He sighed. "No, Marston – it always changes. Whether we want it to or not."

The drunkard by now had dragged himself to his wobbling legs and slumped off the path, vomited in the road and was shouting again, but this time he was challenging some dubious-looking figures in slightly-skewed top hats to a brawl. The two gunmen recognised them instantly as members of Walton's gang, and knew they weren't going to turn down the chance to fight, but not necessarily with just this inebriate. John went to stand but the Marshal grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down, now pulling out his revolver and narrowing his eyes.

"They mightn't be here for him, John. Stay down."

For once, he took his advice, and stayed hidden, watching Leigh Johnson restrain his trigger finger as he stepped out of the shadows, gait measured, his gun just a casual warning; as soon as they clocked him, their swagger increased, knowing he couldn't outright attack them unless they made their affiliation with the gang evident, such were the drawbacks of the law. John Marston never had that problem.

"You gonna clear up this mess, Marshal?" one of the men sneered, pointing at the drunken man and the contents of his stomach on the path.

"Depends on how much more gets made," he replied, impartial, emotionless.

"Is that a threat?"

"Do you want it to be?"

They paused for longer than either party was comfortable with, before slowly snarling, "No, sir."

"Good."

He carried on past, turning left as though heading for his office, glancing back at Marston as he went with a resolute nod; as soon as he was out of sight, he stopped, hid inconspicuously, watching the outlaws, as they stared down the path towards the livery. John felt his blood boil with the usual distinctive need for defending oneself, but this time he put his trust in the Marshal, stayed low, waited. Footsteps, scuffing in the dirt. He clenched his fists and toes and forced himself not to look up, knowing instinct would take over as soon as he saw their faces. The shadows ensnared his silence; in front of him, a low fence was all that separated him from them. If the sheriff wasn't quick enough they find him and slaughter him like a doe – but he couldn't act until there was evidence against them, lest he make a scandal in the centre of town. His heart was screaming at him that a scandal was at least survivable; a bullet to the head wasn't.

"You sure you saw him down here?"

"Sure. He was half asleep a few minutes ago, but then the Marshal came over."

"Might have tipped him off. He could be anywhere by now."

"Nuh-uh – his horse is still here. The one that was outside Silent Stead earlier."

"So where is that son-of-a-bitch?"

He felt sick with impatience. Surely that was enough evidence. They were looking for him. They'd followed them both. Seeing that he and the Marshal had taken out several of the gang earlier, it was obvious they'd be after his life in return. If they walked forward any more they'd see him, and then it'd be all over. But he slammed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, tried to stop his fingers curling round his gun, clenched his jaw, tried to fill his mind with the image of Leigh, just in case it was the last thought he had.

"Lookin' for someone?"

Now he dared let himself look as they spun round, found themselves staring down two Cattleman revolvers, one in each hand of the Marshal. Marston felt a shiver run down his spine as he smiled again.

"What is it, sheriff? You got some personal attachment to John Marston?"

"He's in my town, so he's under my protection. Now either both of you leave right now or you never leave at all."

"We just wanna talk to him."

"By tracking him down and waiting till you know he's alone?"

Now one of the black-toothed bandits had drawn up to the Marshal and was grinning at him as he uttered, "Well, he's one of us, after all."

He didn't ask for any more evidence: he flicked his wrist pulled the trigger shot his right gun bang into the left side of his hip crippling him to the ground while the other outlaw fled round the corner straining to see in the darkness as he pulled his revolver and scanned for Marston amongst the hay only to receive a sharp sweeping kick driving him into the dirt and just recovering from the fall when he felt the muzzle of a shotgun on the back of his skull.

"Still wanna talk?" Marston snarled, yanking his wrists up behind his back and tying them tight, then shoving him out into the road alongside the Marshal's captive, clutching at his waist with blood-red hands, in such pain that he didn't need hogtying.

All eyes of the town were on them as they marched them to the jail, all eyes except the drunken man who was face-deep in a water trough.

Maybe things did change – but it was never easy. They confiscated their weapons and slammed them into the slammer, muttering over whether they should have just killed them. Jonah happened to be leering through the bars, and of course put in his opinion.

"We can use them to find the others," he suggested. "Nip it at the bud, as they say."

"I've told you a thousand times, Jonah: we're small in numbers, we can't go after a whole gang. We'd need to pull in at least 5 more deputies..." But he trialled off, glancing over at Marston. "Or, perhaps, one tame bandit?"

"Tame? Bandit?"

"What do you say, Marston? Need an excuse to come here more often?"

He knew he couldn't refuse. "Just give me a call when you've tracked them down, Marshal." And then he smirked, tipped his hat, and went to find his saddled steed in the livery; saddlebags packed up with medicine, he rode on through the night, all the way home.

Beecher's Hope, and never so hopeful. He sat by the phone, puzzling at it, scarcely able to believe it would ever ring. The telephone wires had been put up from here to Blackwater, to Manzanita Post and down towards Thieves' Landing: he'd seen the lines clinging to their posts across Hennigan's Stead, but Cholla Springs seemed so far away now. He seemed to have left behind the only safe lawman he'd ever known – those Government boys had put that phone in place in his house to keep an ear on him, and until now he'd despised it. Hell, he still did, all the while it wasn't ringing.

"How much did that horse cost ya?" Abigail sparked up conversation idly; they'd been sat around for some time now. "Mighty fine one, that. Saddle must've set you back."

"Half as much as the medicine," he answered distractedly. "Funny: now I actually got some money in my pocket, no one wants to take it."

"Don't complain, now," she chided. "Never know when it will come in handy."

"But there ain't nothin' to spend it on," he sighed, "nothing we'd need, anyhow. Can't buy security. Hell, we're probably more in danger 'cause of it."

"The ranch never were about gettin' rich, John: you know that. It's about makin' an honest home for ourselves."

"Honest..." he uttered with a scoff. He watched her for a second, her delicate hands weaving wool, wondering if he should say something. But what would he even say? He scratched his chin, glanced out the window, then right back to the receiver. Its silence seemed to tease him. He would have tapped his foot, if it wouldn't have been the loudest noise in the house.

He'd arrived back in the early morning, collapsing into bed with a groan. The next day had been spent moving the herd around, out to pasture, around Broken Tree, back to pen, staring at them, debating taking them out again. Killed a few hours. Lassoed and broke damn near every horse out on the Great Plains. That took him till mid afternoon. Spent some time explaining all the important details of his travels to Abigail: how he'd gone to help the Marshal, been shot, and not much else. Would have taken Jack out hunting in Tall Trees, if he hadn't been holed up in his room scribbling. Now as the sun went down he felt as though he hadn't seen action for a week. His trigger finger itched; his eyes searched for a face far away; his hips were seized with loneliness.

And he knew he couldn't expect the call right away. He should have been thankful for some peace: taken boredom as a blessing. But he felt so useless out here – at least back in the town, at Leigh's side, he had a purpose. Maybe he should have become a lawman, even if the irony would have been so damn heavy as to near break his back, even if it were mostly for the company.

He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat, folding his legs. Thinking about him wasn't helping anyone.

Armadillo, and never so armoured. He was bristling with suspicion and tension, emotions so pent up as he tried not to rejoice. Their victory was bitter-sweet: to find a friend in times like these only meant you had someone to lose. And John Marston always seemed one to be trying to die, as earnestly as possible. Boy, he'd picked a bad one... yet never a better one. He chain-smoked cigar after cigar till his sweat turned to ash.

As night rolled in, he watched the skies rumbling over with misshapen portents, not once letting his eyes droop with tiredness all the while plans and ideas washed over him. He interrogated the prisoners with a steely jaw, thumping on the bars, threatening them at gunpoint, but there's no point in threatening men who don't value their own lives. Time and again they only mocked him with their numbers, declaring that the gang would take over this town and "finally have some fun". The described in detail their planned treatment of him and Mr Marston till he felt his stomach clench and his voice choke in his throat. He spat on the ground in anger, wished he'd aimed for their heads instead; all he'd learned was that John was in horrendous danger just to show his face in Cholla Springs, but that was nothing new, and nothing which would stop the man coming here, he was sure.

As morning bleached the horizon, he was desperate to get out of the office; normally he would send out the deputies in search of gangs, but now he felt compelled to ride out, either with Marston or in sweet loneliness. This was his responsibility now. So he went, kicking dust into the rising sun.

He rode up to Twin Rocks, but found the place deserted spare a few vultures. He checked Rattlesnake Hollow but the cougars chased his steed away, and likely any outlaws as well. Pleasance House was inhabited by some madman with a stick. Odd Fellow's Rest was eerily silent; Jorge's Gap tracked him in-between like a hunted animal; Mercer Station housed only a few lingerers kicking the rubble. The Marshal had every expectation that they would be hiding out just beyond his jurisdiction – they were dumb bandits, but they weren't suicidal. Anyone who had John Marston on their side was untouchable. Two Crows remained in ruins. Riley's Charge a scattered mess. The cabin at Lake Don Julio empty. Rio del Lobo...

Smoke rising. Leigh grit his teeth and rode on, heart kicking up. He could hear the distant yips of wolves, before gunshot overruled and punctuated the day. He rounded onto the brow before the drop towards the shack. Slowed his horse. Narrowed his eyes.

"Gotcha," he whispered, and then turned and spurred his steed back home.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the phone rang and he fought the urge to scramble for it; standing on shaking legs, he strode over, falsely yawning as he went. As soon as his palm curled around the transmitter he felt his lips tremble into a smile.

"Hello?"

"Marston? Can you hear me?"

"Just about. Who's this?"

"Who do you think?"

He chuckled gently. "Just checkin'. Need me?"

"As always. They're holed up down at Rio del Lobo. There must be thirty of the bastards."

"Here I was thinking you'd be callin' about something else."

"Sub-text, surely."

"Now, you know I ain't that good at reading."

"No, you're good at other things, though."

"Stop it, you'll make me blush."

"Good. Get over here, would ya?"

He sighed as though he didn't adore the burden. But he could feel Abigail staring at him from across the room; that blushing comment had captured her attention, plus the way he was leaning against the wall, tying his fingers in knots with the cable... he straightened his posture, grumbling, "I do have a ranch to run, y'know. Can't keep maintaining the law for ya."

"But you do it so much better than I do, John."

He gulped, rubbed the back of his neck. He knew full-well they weren't talking about policing anymore. "If you, ah, need me so badly, though, I can hardly refuse. I'll be there as fast as my horse can carry me."

As he replaced the transmitter on its hook and ended the call, settling the phone back on the table, he could pre-empt her inquiries before she even made them.

"Where they calling you off to now? Guess that weren't Ross; you ain't never happy to hear from... well, anyone on that darned thing. Always brings bad news..."

Her jealousy stung all the more now he knew it wasn't in vain. "Marshal over in Armadillo," he answered, carefully excluding his name, same as before. "They've got something of an outlaw problem they need a hand with."

"They paying you?"

"How else d'you think I get money?"

She shrugged, continued with her sewing. "But you said yourself, we don't need it. Why not just stay here?"

"It ain't about the money, it's about the doin' the right thing," he uttered, trying to ignore the brutal irony as he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back to bring the cows in, don't you worry. Maybe Uncle'll even sober up in that time."

The route from Beecher's to Armadillo seemed lonelier than ever that afternoon. He felt caught between two worlds once again, cutting himself into two lives when he'd just managed to get out of that same bitter situation. He knew it could not end well, but the alternative was already unthinkable. Three days it had taken; just three days to obliterate whatever security he had spent month establishing.

Time and time again he considered turning back; he stopped in Thieves' Landing, slugged three shots before taking stock again, dragging himself back out. By then it was night, and a man, Oliver Anthony, spat on his shoes and challenged him to a duel. How could he refuse? But less than sober his arm swayed and his concentration staggered and although he aimed for his gun he shot his wrist. Veins exploding as his revolver fell from his grasp he slammed his palm over his wound, knowing in that instant that he was dead; the man stared up with as much respect as a snarling coyote as it limped away in the knowledge that it could do nothing to stop itself bleeding out: all it could do was try to find dignity as it dragged its corpse with the fast-fading will to live, find somewhere quiet to die, and hope the vultures wouldn't find it before its soul could escape its failing limbs. Marston watched the wounded man shuffle away in the same manner, his skin feeling like stone of a sacrificial altar, witnessing a terrible omen.

Did it matter at all what he did next? He knew that Edgar Ross was biding his time. He knew he was already bleeding from a hidden wound; he just didn't know when death would finally take him. What was the point in moping around waiting for the final showdown? Why shouldn't he love while life was left in his broken body? He drew his calloused fingers to his split lips and whistled his horse. The white steed as though greeting his hero charged towards him, and carried him like a spirit through the night, his chest aching and his sight blurred.

He didn't see another thing until his eyes met the lantern lightly illuminating the word "SHERIFF", and the door waiting just beyond. Slipping down the saddle, he patted Oliver's side reassuringly as he hitched him, already feeling like he knew this horse well enough that he would wait for his return without needing to be tied. Maybe it was just sentimentality, but as he patted the white stripe running from his forehead down his muzzle, he could have swore he batted his thick eyelashes in admission of loyalty. Maybe he was dehydrated; as he stepped up onto the veranda, he wished he carried a flask of water with him; maybe that would help stop any more bullets aimed at his chest too. The Marshal's horse greeted his new friend with a swish of his tail.

He could hear movement outside, and his heart began to beat a little harder at the suggestion it could be Marston. He heard a quite murmur, and his ears craved the sound of his voice; he was talking to his horse again. Leigh smiled softly, but carried on writing his reports, well aware of the two (well, one and a half, considering the wounds on one of them) bandits they'd rounded up earlier glaring at him. Eli was slumped in the chair in the corner, drooling as he snored. When the door opened, he didn't even look up. When he felt his footsteps reverberate through the floorboards towards him, he couldn't restrain a shiver.

"Well," John uttered. "I'm here."

"I noticed," he responded, finishing his sentence: "and so provoked a county-wide search for other gang members." Only when he'd dotted the i's and crossed the t's did he look up, and instantly grinned, unable to help himself. "I found them, Marston."

The better-off outlaw now charged towards the bars. "No you ain't. We're everywhere. We'll take over this God-forsaken-"

"Quiet down; nobody cares," the Marshal barked, turning to stare at him. "I already told you: there's no bounty on you. If I killed you, no one would notice. In fact, since you're not telling us anything useful, it'd actually be better if you were dead: then you wouldn't be taking up space, or air. Besides, your friend in there needs a doctor. Be nice, or I'll tell him not to come." His snarl was enough to back the bandit away from the bars, whichever approach had worked, but he continued to watch them as though his eyes could spit fire. Meanwhile Marston had folded his arms over his chest, decently amused, and seeing his tack: insinuating the man was worthless alive, yet still not believing it wholly himself, and so not killing him. It was a fine line between respect and threat, and the sheriff was striding it like a professional. "Anyway... Y'know what, Eli! Eli, wake up!"

Eli snorted awake, glancing about bleary-eyed, expression brightening briefly then clouding over with concern. "M-Mr Marston, you're back..? Everything alright, Marshal?"

"Everything's fine, Eli; just need you to man the fort for a while. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir. For how long?"

The Marshal's eyes were locked on John's now as he told him, "Oh, a couple of hours, at least."

"At least?!" John blurted, and then cleared his throat, lowered his voice, but maintained a stare which said, "You must be joking, old man."

He returned it as if to say, "Oh ye of little faith." "We'll be back before sunrise, don't you worry, Eli," he confirmed. "You've been asleep all afternoon; I'm sure you can keep awake."

He gulped as he glanced at the bandits glaring at him, but nodded his ascent and watched them stride out the door; both men walked with fisted hands into the early morning, not saying a word as they both mounted their horses and headed south then west out of town.

"Where to?" John yelled after him as Leigh kicked his horse into a gallop, leaning up from his saddle, as if he were in a hurry to get somewhere. "Can't tell if this is personal or professional, if I'm honest."

They crossed the railroad, continued south.

"They'll abandon the camp if we're not quick," the Marshal told him eventually. "Rio del Lobo was filled with the bastards. I wanna take care of them before sunrise."

Before sunrise. Of course. Marston nodded more to himself than to Johnson, who was charging on ahead all the more, not even looking back at him, as prickly as the cacti. Well, at least his priorities hadn't changed. "Come on," John grumbled, spurring on his horse to try and keep up with his companion. He knew he shouldn't feel put out by it. But then, had they been flirting or talking shop before? Just when he thought they were on the same wavelength...

They followed the road as far as Riley's Charge before veering into the wilderness; columns of smoke rose in the distance as they aimed themselves at the encampment, rifles clanking against their shoulders. Still they did not speak, only sighing to themselves occasionally. Neither of them could quite get their heads around the need for defence versus offense: they could hardly preach the values of man when here they were, hunting men. The divide between vengeance and decency was as blurred as the moon that night – if they didn't kill these men, they would sooner or later come round to kill them. If they gave them a chance, they were playing on fool's luck. If they didn't give them the benefit of the doubt, they were just as bad as them. Paranoia made murderers of good folk; Western States twisted the honest into killers, all in the name of preservation. Redemption became both a virtue and a sin. No wonder atheists would turn their eyes to the sky and pray: there was nothing else they could rely on but faith.

From the overlook, the ramshackle shack was seething with men; the two ditched the horses, crawled prone to the edge just so as to keep their heads down.

"Spotters, there, there and... another, there."

"The plan is to kill everyone, right? No survivors."

"They've left us with no choice. They're gathering forces, trying to assassinate you, pressurising all of the state... If we don't wipe them out, they'll take over, John."

"You don't have to debate reason with me, sir. But can't we try to reason with them?"

"They'll kill you, John. I can't let them do that."

He almost felt honoured, realising this wasn't about Armadillo at all: the Marshal was scared for his life. Would he have gone after these outlaws if they hadn't put Cholla Springs in danger to boot, or was that the driving force? Would he go after Edgar Ross too, if he knew? He wanted to tell him, but at the same time... some things just have to happen.

"Ready? If we can take out a few from here, there'll be fewer to deal with; they'll scatter though, so be ready. Stay in cover whenever you can."

"Yes, pa," John teased in his best impression of his own son, taking out his repeat rifle, staring down the sights. "Three, two..."

The first shot rang out like a church bell calling in the reckoning; the outlaws scattered as one of their own fell, diving behind cover as the horses strained on their hitches, but John ignored their yells, his vision sharp as a blade as he marked them off, three, four, five of them, hissing through his teeth to maintain his focus.

"Up there!"

"Get 'em!"

Like a termite mound stirred up they writhed about in the valley; when a dozen bodies had toppled, the enforces drew themselves to their feet, rushing down the slope and skidding to a halt behind rocks, peering over the top – one there, another there, a third there, fourth, fifth – till they seemed everywhere, and they fired off rounds blindly over their cover, reloading rapidly and trying again. A hail of bullets rained towards them, snapping at the boulders, skimming past them; Marston nodded to the Marshal as he changed position, charging forwards once more, taking one, two down as he went; they seemed to come from everywhere, rising out as though from the ground, hiding in the crevices and surging forward. Lost in the sound of his own blood coursing through his ears, John stood and shot, then ducked down again, hearing cries of his name, death threats tossed at him from afar exploding through him like dynamite, filling him with rage.

All was chaos; all was anger; all was contrast when he caught the eye of his partner, cringing and wheezing in regret of the war they had waged. Did he see blood? Sweat clotted in his clothes; but for a moment, silence reigned. How many had they felled? How long had they been here? His heart pounded; he lunged over the rock, gun already before him, finger locked to the trigger; fire blazed in his eyes. Grasses split through the ground in red arrows; a horse lay sucking in air through a stained muzzle, ribs protruding through cross-fire wounds. He darted to the Marshal's side; he drew breath; he shot.

There had to be more. There had been so many. How many had fled? The cabin watched them through its broken window.

"Y'alright?" he panted, checking Leigh urgently.

"Hah! Never better."

He chuckled dryly. "Should I be concerned?"

"Oh, definitely."

Another wave charged towards them, shouting and insulting as best they could manage; the small plain before the shack had become a mass-grave, and yet the battle raged on. John popped up and took down three more: one shot to the neck, another to the chest, another to the head. "You can't win this!" he yelled out. "Give it up, and we'll leave you be!"

But they wouldn't back down; he knew that. People like this made him feel smart just for knowing when to give up.

They didn't give up, not until every one of them was dead or escaped. Maybe four horses rode off, straining themselves and protesting at their riders' kicks; one actually bucked his tormentor off, only to be trampled by his fellow gang members. Leigh and John stood amidst the slaughter, sickened but safe. The Marshal took off his hat, wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve, whispering "God help them all" under his breath.

"Well, the wolves will eat well tonight," Marston muttered, glancing around, then lightly resting a hand on Leigh's shoulder. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he responded with a slight laugh. "Don't know about you, but I feel a lot more relaxed now I know no one's watching us."

"I'm glad. But, an' not that I'm fussy, among a load of dead guys..."

"God, Marston, I have more taste than that."

"Well, you chose me, so I doubt that."

He shoved him playfully, grinning, and heading back up the slope. Towards the east there was only sweet darkness, sunrise still hours off. They rode side-by-side through the night, treading familiar paths up to Silent Stead, living up to its name in beautiful solitude. They settled their steeds, stepping inside already clutching one another's belts, buckles falling free as lips met, too briefly to be satisfied; pain seemed to have abandoned them now along with all hesitation and all tension, tossing off hats and tugging at one another's hair, stroking down stubbly chins and picking at buttons hastily before pausing, already breathless, laughing softly, realising that for once in their lives there was time to take things slow, here in respite in each other's arms, here in their safe haven – they seemed as far away from Armadillo as possible.

They carried on like this for months, Leigh calling up John, John pretending not to sweat whenever he heard his voice growling across the lines; he would ride all day or all night just to get to him, whatever time he heard his summons making some excuse or another to leave at the drop of a hat. One time he arrived so thirsty that the Marshal give him a silver flask, and told him he could keep it; he would keep it in his breast pocket for the rest of his days. After they took care of whatever menace had enforced itself on the county they would retreat to their part-time home: one time, they found outlaws prodding around the Stead, took down the gang and lassoed their leader, leaving him outside while they celebrated their success, true to style. Their days apart stretched on like waiting for a storm to pass; day by day, Marston's fear for his own life grew, knowing that peace and safety could not last while men like Ross waited in the next town. He couldn't tell the Marshal, no matter how many times he questioned his slumping mood, no matter how much he worried about what was troubling him. Some nights they stayed up drinking and shooting the breeze, while others they collapsed against one another, too exhausted by daily life to live the one they wanted to; on nights like that they would huddle together, fingers intertwined, listening to their breaths in the small shack. Other nights they were infused with lust, kissing and biting and panting, hands straying across skin as if they could own each other, as if, if they tried hard enough, they could become one individual, one heart, one soul. Morning always pulled them apart. It was never any easier to bear, aching worse than any bullet; but thankfully nothing else changed, and for a while it seemed a blessing that would never end as well.

One night as he drove back to Beecher's on his carriage, having stopped by at the MacFarlane's ranch to trade grain and other supplies, he pondered to himself whether a man can ever truly escape his past. It felt to him as though Ross was waiting around every corner; hell, sometimes he wondered if that rat bastard was watching them through the windows of Silent Stead (and it always put him off). But with Leigh at his side, he was a man ready for anything.

Almost anything.

So when his wife and son started trying to bite chunks out of one another, he had to laugh and try to figure out what new demons he was dealing with. As soon as the undead started clawing after him, his natural instinct was to run and check on the Marshal and restore order in Armadillo, but he had to tend to his family first: that was the rule he had made months ago. In Blackwater he found a mess which seemed to him to be the spirit of the town itself writhing up from its grave, but the declarations of the apocalypse struck a different chord in his heart, fearful of what mortal sins could be to blame. He saw men, women and children trying to believe it was their own faults; across the Great Plains he found broken minds, cursing their own pasts as responsible for God's judgement to crash down in fury upon this land, before sucking on the barrel of a gun – only to twitch back into a twisted version of life and come charging after him in their shattered-spine gait.

The world had changed; only time would tell if it would end this way too. He had a sick feeling in his stomach that maybe Ross wouldn't be the end of him after all – but then again, maybe this would be the end of Ross. That brought a cruel smile to his lips.

The survivors in Blackwater had seemed to think that some "snake oil merchant" or "the freak with the glass eye" were behind whatever was going on, and Marston didn't doubt it for a second: he was only surprised that Irish wasn't caught up in this mess too, but then again maybe he was too drunk to even realise what was happening right now. Honestly, John felt he couldn't quite take it in sober. He stared up at the moon and prayed that Leigh was alright: he had a few things he needed to take care of first. He'd need to check on Bonnie, for starters, but getting there meant traversing an unstable land swarming with monsters, tattered flesh falling off their bones, their eyes just as dead but somehow still managing to hunt him down wherever he went: Manzanita Post was overrun, Thieves' Landing was overrun, and nowhere to be found any kind of doctor, let alone one who could find a cure for this outbreak, if it could even be called that.

As he scavenged bullets of a dead man, all his fretting of before seemed like a gnat compared to the hulking beast facing them all now. All he could think was that he had to get to Leigh. As he shot Drew MacFarlane in the head, as he saw the tears brim in Bonnie's eyes, he had to get to Leigh. As wretches staggered towards him, as he watched them devour a lost, screaming woman and he was forced to ride on to conserve ammo, he had to get to Leigh. As he arrived in Armadillo and found it crawling, dispatching dead men and women, crying out to the survivors in hope he'd reply, as he saw the ground littered with disembodied limbs... as he shakily took hold of the doorknob...

"Come on! Let him go!"

He breathed a sigh of relief, told himself to relax. He'd heard his voice; he was alive. But there was still screaming and struggling inside. John frowned, listened in for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell was going on in there.

"Come on, boy, think! Well, try to."

He turned the knob and pushed inside; Leigh glanced back over his shoulder, and, seeing him, pulled his revolver from his holster, easily shooting both man and monster in the head, muttering, "Sorry boys; you didn't give me a whole lot of choice." Suddenly he wished for the days where there was some moral debate over killing people: now it was just... survival. He was in no mood for small-talk; what little joy he felt at seeing Marston was replaced with perplexion over what was life, and what was death. "Hello, John," he greeted coldly, striding past him. "Welcome to paradise."

"Hello, Marshal," John returned, stepping over to look at the mess in the right cell, deciding that boredom and curiosity was a potent mix for Leigh Johnson, to be watching men tearing each other apart on what he could have considered a rare day off.

Leigh chuckled briefly, his fears for John seemed petty now, seeing him striding around, nonplussed as ever. "Might've known you'd survive."

"What's goin' on?" Marston asked quickly.

"Do I look like I commune with the undead?" he snapped, pouring them each a shot of what God knew they both needed: alcohol.

He perched on the edge of his desk, grumbling, "I don't know."

"Well then, how would I know?" he bit back. "My job is-"

"Take care of the folk who live here," John muttered, his heart dropping. Once again, the man would putting his responsibility before his partner – and again, he knew that was the way it should be, but that never stopped him feeling disappointed.

"Ah, you've, ah, heard that one," Leigh sighed, handing over and clinking their glasses, wishing there was something more he could say. But that was the agreement – John would always put Abigail and Jack first, and he would always put Armadillo first. That was the way it had to be. It was all the more important now; and all the more painful to stick to.

They downed their drinks in a single swallow.

"How's that goin'?" Marston asked.

"How's that goin'? Well, let me put it to you this way: cattle rustling, bank robbery, are at an all-time low. But murder, blood-drinking and psychotic episodes seem to be somewhat prevalent. Either that, or I'm dreamin'."

"That's what I'm hopin' too."

Their eyes met for a second, wishing things could be different. Hell, wishing things were the way they were before. Even that was better than whatever was going on. In that second, Leigh realised that John had fought his way through the town just to get to him; he'd fought his way through West Elizabeth, Henningan's Stead and Cholla Springs just to get to him.

"How was it, gettin' in here?" he asked, softer this time.

"It was crazy," he answered honestly, hoping for some kind of thanks.

But the Marshal was preoccupied with grim thoughts. He stood and paced to the window, sighing, "They must be hidin' again... They come in, then just disappear. Town's been nearly overrun a couple of times. Now we're low on ammunition, and I'm two men down."

"I'll help you clear the place out, if you like."

"You're a good man, John Marston," he assured him, feeling his eyes on him but unable to look over himself. Once again, priorities pained him. "But before that, I'm gonna need my deputies back."

"What happened to them two clowns you had before? Gone?"

He shifted uncomfortably, perched on the other end of his desk. "Maybe. I sent Jonah off to look for Eli." He met his gaze briefly. "They both been gone for several hours now."

"Who'd wanna eat one of them?"

He chuckled warmly this time; God, he needed Marston's humour. Without it, he'd simply rot in his own troubles. "That's a good question." He smiled now, and John smiled back, relieved to see him at least slightly amused.

"Where'd you send 'em?"

"Out near the general store. Jonah's got one of these new guns," Leigh turned, picked up the Sawed-off Shotgun on his desk, rolling it in his palm before standing and handing it to John, "I'm sure he can't have run into any trouble. These things, they'd stop an elephant."

Johnson watched him investigating the shotgun, testing the sights, how it felt in his grip, before he looked back round at him and said, "Thank you."

"No, thank you," he replied, keeping their eyes locked dead, cautious and nervous now. He didn't want to see John leave, but he knew he couldn't keep him here. He knew John could handle himself. "I'm sure you got your own troubles."

Marston nodded briefly, smiling weakly, wishing there were something more he could say, but he turned and stepped out the door without another word, the Marshal holding it open for him, watching him go. If he could call him back, what would be the point? He wandered back inside, only to stare at the corpses in the cell, flies circling, like around decomposing memories. He knew John wouldn't rest until the dead did again.

Outside, John glanced up and down the streets, checking all was clear, before strolling down towards the general store, a gurgle coming from nowhere causing him to pick up his feet into a jog, looking back over his shoulder. Nothing was "just nothing" now. Inside the store, he found a man in a white apron, casually watching out the window.

"Hey, mister!" John called, stepping up to the counter.

"Hey, pard'."

"You seen a couple of deputies nearby? Marshal's boys, Jonah and Eli?"

The shopkeeper paused for a second, then, as if chewing on the words, asked, "Are they Jews, mister? They sound like Jews."

He blinked a few times. "I don't know, why?"

"Why? This whole thing is nothing but a Jewish plot. You do know that, don't ya?"

He could have laughed. No wonder Leigh was so dismissive of the people he was supposed to protect. "I find that highly unlikely, amigo." He leaned forward over the counter, intrigued as to how he'd spin this.

"Well, I don't like Jews. Or coloured folk. Or natives, now that you mention it."

He hadn't mentioned it. "Well, you're a nice kind-hearted man to meet in a time of trouble."

"'Kind' does not come into it."

"Why?" John protested. Kindness was all they had to go by. "What are you talkin' about?"

"Why?" he repeated. Looking him up and down he deduced, "I bet you like Catholics. I can't stand them neither. Nor women, Fabians, socialists, homosexuals, Asians or British." John felt his eyes roll. If this asshat knew... "Between them, they've ruined this country! Ruined it! It was a good country once, now people are eating each other, and it's all the fault of the Jewish British Catholic homosexuals and their ideas! Well, I for one won't stand for it."

He twisted his tongue in his jaw to restrain his unruly sarcasm before questioning, "Have you ever met a Jewish person?"

"Haha! Thankfully not."

"Or a... British Catholic homosexual?"

"Not in my store!" he proclaimed. Then he narrowed his eyes. "Oh, oh, I get it; I see you acting clever. Well let me tell you this: the Jews killed Lincoln. That's why there is a triangle on the money. And they run Europe like one of them Arabian harems. Now they've sent this here plague to kill all us decent folk." Marston eyed him till he added, "Yep."

"You, sir, are truly a remarkable fella."

"Thank you kindly."

"I must say, it's a rare pleasure to meet someone with such a grasp on human history," he said, this time the sarcasm taking over in full power. "You take care of yourself. I'd hate to see you get savaged by someone and watch the life-force drain from your hate-filled body."

The obscene man had hauled up a box of supplies, and followed him towards the door, calling after him, "Hey, hold on there! Why don't you join me in my fight, sir? It's not too late."

A fight on Jewish Catholic British homosexuals? He scoffed. "I fear it is for me."

"Then I will fight them alone," he declared. "All of them! America is the land of the free! And that means free to people like me, Herbert Moon!"

"Absolutely."

He watched him stride down the veranda, not bothering to warn him about the small horde awaiting him at the end; he watched him yell as they dragged him to the ground, listened to him shouting his name, as if that could stop them. And when he lay in tatters on the floor, Marston strode over, headshotted them all, and carried on his way. At least there was some kind of justice left in this world, even if it had to be carried out him.

With no lead to go on, he wandered around what used to be Armadillo; he strode to the livery, and the pile of ash that had been their hay pile. Stupid, to think so sentimentally in a crisis, but what else could he do to keep himself sane? Five men rode by – be they bandits or good men, the apocalypse didn't care – they rode by in search of somewhere safe, and John knew they wouldn't find it. He wondered if it was the same down in Nuevo Paraíso. He was sure his search would take him down there soon enough. For now, he had to find those two dunderheads. He didn't exactly want to see them torn apart like Herbert Moon.

Fate had other ideas.

He found them on top of each other, mauling one another in some kind of brutal foreplay with rotted limbs and peeling faces.

"Hello, boys. Marshal sent me, he needs some help."

They looked round on clockwork necks that never seemed to stop turning. Their eyes held nothing but hatred and bloodlust. John held up his hands.

"Guess you've got other plans. Seriously, enjoy your meal, no problem."

But they were already stumbling to their lifeless feet, clawed hands reaching out for him. He raised the Sawed-off Shotgun the Marshal had lent him, not wanting to shoot, just in case there was a cure (he had to hope, considering his hogtied family back at Beecher's). "Easy now, gentlemen. Remember all the fun times we had?"

They did not. With a clenched jaw he backed up, watching them stumbling and staggering forward, and then he raised the gun and shot twice, calling into the abyss, "I miss the old times, fellas!"

He hated that he was forced to tug at their ammo belts for any rounds they might have been carrying; he hated all the more the relief he felt when he seized their supplies, knowing their deaths could save his life. He picked up Jonah's gun, shaking his head.

When he pushed open the door to the sheriff's office, he found the Marshal aiming his revolver at him, froze in the doorway as his heart skipped a beat, knowing one flinch and the man he trusted more than anyone else would shoot him dead. Leigh knew it too, quickly holstering his gun and greeting him to reassure him, "Hello, John."

"Hello, Marshal," he responded, same as before, shutting the door behind him and remembering to breathe. The formality of his title seemed appropriate in trying to stave off sentimentality.

"So, you find the boys?" he asked, fearing he knew the answer.

John played the gun into his grasp to hand over to him without any chance of accidentally shooting. "I found 'em."

He took the gun, eyed it for a moment whilst muttering, "I understand. Hope it was fast for them."

"It was fast," he responded with a nod, "and they died with their bellies full. Well, one of them did."

"Huh... good." He kept his stare on him, in his mind debating whether now was the time to... no. He should be mourning, not... but the thoughts played in his mind. This could be the last time he saw him. Seemed a shame to waste the opportunity.

John knew the way he was looking at him; they'd shared that look a thousand times before. Instead he tipped his hand, focusing on the priorities, saying, "That there's Jonah's gun." He turned to leave, when that sombre voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Here, you keep it," he told him, handing the gun back to him, wishing he could give him more. But delaying his noble quest wouldn't end this nightmare. "After all, you earned it."

"Thank you."

Again, they stared each other down, tension grinding at their nerves as Leigh nodded to him. If he gave him any signal, he'd grab him and pin him against the wall, tell him things he should have done a long time ago. But as always, he was running off to grander purposes. He rubbed a hand down his thigh with a heavy sigh.

"Take care of yourself, John."

He held the door open for him.

"You too, Marshal."

He watched him go, sighing again, instantly regretting not stopping him.

And John knew full-well what he was thinking, because he was thinking the same thing. When should duty overwhelm desire? 'Cause that was all it seemed to do. Every time he needed comfort, he had to take it on the chin, and head off again. Every time some new shit went down around here, he was the one to ride off into battle, against whoever he had to, be they a friend or an enemy – because everyone around here was an enemy of someone. While inside in comparative safety was his friend, his partner, his tame Sheriff. He stood on the porch, jaw clenched, Sawed-off Shotgun still warm from the Marshal's hand.

He could either carry on and try to end this, or he could embrace the snippet of good he had found in the world.

As soon as he turned round, blood surged through his veins. He could have kicked that door down, storming back inside to see the Marshal staring blankly at the cell-bed he'd once laid on, as soon as he turned smirking, striking forward, slamming the door shut with John's back to it, gripping him by the lapels and kissing him as hard as his wavering lips could; in an instant Marston murmured in relief, overwhelmed with the need to hold him, seizing his hips, but not good enough; he swiped off his own leather gloves and untucked the Marshal's shirt so he could feel the skin of his hips against his hands, stroking across his abdomen, picking at his belt buckle with familiar ease; this time, he would feel everything, hear every breath, pant, moan, savour the taste and the touch as best he could, fearful there would not be another chance.

Meanwhile Leigh parted his lips and drove their tongues together, breathless and hasty but for once not giving a damn if anyone saw or heard; what were a couple of queers to the dead rising? He forced the buttons of his shirt open with dextrous fingers, scathing down his chest, still somehow expecting the bandages but meeting only hot skin and flecks of hair; Marston gasped through his lips as his face flushed red, body pulsing with such cravings for his tender palms that he'd only felt a few days before but it seemed a lifetime ago; already he felt the strain of clothing, and hastily switched from undressing Leigh to undressing himself, needing to alleviate some pressure or the moment would be lost; as the sheriff chuckled at his impatience he felt his knees go weak, his waist burning with heat, trapped up against the door, desperate.

"Whoa, boy; I got you."

The brief time apart from their kiss allowed him respite, meeting his blurry blue-eyed gaze as the Marshal's hand grazed his groin, slowing down his speeding mind to a halt; he watched him, brimming with respect, toss off his hat that had been hiding his expression all the while, to see his ruddy cheeks as he licked his lips. Questions darted through his mind, leaving the mighty bandit stammering, as he watched him lower himself to his knees. If he'd had the voice to speak with, he still wouldn't have stopped him. His breath intoxicated him, his tongue entranced him, his mouth... he felt his mind slip away in an instant, his jaw falling open as he leaned his head back against the wooden door, hands knotting into Leigh's silver locks, holding on tight, letting his shoulders slide into satisfaction. Eternity embraced him, ecstasy bolting up and down his body in waves of pleasure with every draw, every bob of his head, every smile; the temptation of climax rushed over him and he jerked back awake with a tug at his hair, and the man hummed in understand, un-laced his lips, glanced up at him, seeing him reduced to a state of primal relaxation like this – yet denying him the end. John knew he wouldn't leave him like that, and instead of anger rising in him, he only smirked as Leigh stood, staring him down.

"Wh-what next, Marshal?"

"You know my name. Use it."

"I'm- just trying to show respect for authority," he managed, dizziness washing over him again. He sniggered in the throes of adoration. Those big blue eyes...

"That don't play into this, John. You know that."

He scoffed a laugh. "Alright, Leigh – me or you?"

"There; was that so hard?" he whispered in his ear, taking hold of his shoulder, urging him to turn around. He resisted for a second, then conceded.

"Y'know what: it really was."

Leigh reached into John's pocket, taking out the tiny tub of Vaseline before dragging his trousers to his ankles; Marston waited with what little patience he could muster, his pulse racing and toes curling in his boots. As always, the cold didn't bother him; he was already sweating enough to compensate. He shut his eyes; flinched at the warmth of Leigh's lips on his tailbone; laughed again. He'd have thought that the gentle touches would have been easier to take. When the man stood behind him again he rested his forehead against the door, breathing deeply as though trying to take in enough air for the next few minutes in one go. But the Marshal was fairer than he'd been that first night together, whispering, "Ready?"

He inhaled once more, forcing himself to relax on the exhale. "Never am, Leigh."

He favoured the slow method, the clenched-teeth and curled-fists method, but at least he could take time to adjust, rolling his neck and complaining quietly, one hand slammed against the door, the other clutching on the sheriff's hand on his own hip, fingertips lightly pressing into his abdomen; all the while uttering phrases to calm him down, reassure him, words he could scarcely hear over the pounding of his own heart. He took it slow, rocking his waist back and forth, kissing the nape of his neck, but in his anxious mind even the slightest hitches sent him to the edge, causing the Marshal to hush him gently, telling him to hold on just a moment longer; in a few minutes, his eyes were watering, his pants desperate, his nails digging into Leigh's hand; in twice the time, he was near comatose, lost in arousal, trying to tear his mind this way and that to keep his self-control, but knowing he couldn't last much longer, and so he murmured in a halting voice:

"Leigh, Leigh, please, I..."

He'd never begged before. Leigh had to chuckle, gulp.

"It's alright, John... I got you... I got you."

And with that his knees buckled, his body gave in, release taking over him and letting go of him, exhaustion taking its place so that his limbs betrayed him and he practically collapsed forward, if not for Leigh's arms around him, settling him to the ground as lightly as he could through urgent apologies as he pulled back and made him curse. He watched him anxiously for a second, his face cringed, before the pain fell away into near-psychotic laughter. Then the Marshal felt his legs give out too, and joined him on the floorboards.

Slumped over, they both sniggered to themselves, as though the outside world could no longer touch them. There was nothing left to fear. Marston clasped his hand all the same, refusing obstinately to let go. Not just yet. Just a moment longer. The tears rolled from his eyes without him caring to stop them.

After a while, when they'd recovered their breath, just before John would lean onto his shoulder, Leigh managed quietly, "You know that thing we never said to each other?"

John looked round, his eyes searching his. Of course he knew. They both knew. That was why they'd never said it. But that meant that all the more he wanted to hear it and return it two-fold. The Marshal smiled wryly, all the same sentiments filling his heart. He stroked John's scarred cheek with a delicate finger.

"Consider this me sayin' it."

He leaned over him again, their lips pausing just before meeting, kissing as gently as they could manage, purely and lovingly, holding one another there in still rapture. The words whispered on the wind: they didn't need speaking.

And then it was time for him to go. Still, he would not let go of his hand until he was at the door, one glove on, the other gripped tight. For a moment he refused to meet his eye, knowing that as soon as he did, he'd say goodbye. Leigh knew too, but he also knew that Marston had a destiny to see to: he knew he was going to go end this apocalypse and save the world, so he tipped his chin up, smiled at him.

"Don't go being an idiot, now, Mr Marston."

"I'll try not to," he answered. And never had he tried so hard to keep a promise.

Their hands slipped apart, and John Marston carried on with his mission; he pulled his glove over his hand, hoping it would preserve some of his warmth for a little while.

His travels led him across paths he knew too well, yet with an unfamiliar twist. He broke the scheme with West Dickens when he found him stealing faith from the survivors at Fort Mercer (a place that still made his skin crawl). He leered at Seth when he found him waltzing with the undead, although he couldn't help but be amazed by the fact they didn't seem to want to rip his veins open. Maybe they recognised him as dead already. The leads led him exploding into Mexico, only to find lifeless beings stumbling around there too. Meeting a Mother Superior who knew how to shoot a gun – that was interesting. Time and time again, he liberated overrun towns, rescued lost souls, and saw others taken down by despair and hopelessness. He drank from the Marshal's flask; somehow, it never seemed to run dry, never seemed to rust or wear. Everywhere he looked he saw a woman, just out of the corner of his eye, just vanishing behind a corner. He was sure he was losing his mind.

And what if there was no cure? Would he run through the world alone, killing every man he saw to prevent the disease spreading, if it even was a disease? And if he returned to Armadillo to find Leigh... he couldn't bear the thought, but it returned to him time and again like a curse.

He'd make it quick, he decided. He'd have to.

But there had to be a cure. Days, weeks passed, scouring the land, dispatching dead men and digging through corpses for ammunition. He rested alongside his horse, as though Oliver were his connection to Leigh in these unknown lands. The steed seemed just as scared upon seeing bone-thin stallions with skeletal heads, muscle and spine exposed by famine and pestilence. War seemed to rage everywhere he looked – with no allies, no enemies, no purpose, no victory to be won. Only death remained. He sipped from his flask, and carried on.

Eventually his path led to Reyes. He should have known. The mysterious woman told him of Reyes' betrayal of the old gods, stealing the mask, a curse... he was sure he'd lost it by this point, but her face... as they patrolled ancient tunnels, the dead writhing with red eyes, lurching at him from all directions, she seemed to ward them off. When they reached the temple, when he replaced the mask, when the corpses lay still again... he breathed a sigh of relief, spun to find her; she was gone. She said her name was Ayauhtéotl, and that there was a horse waiting for him, to take him home.

Back at Beecher's Hope, the world was normal again. Abigail and Jack washed their mouths out and rested their heads, recovering from whatever had happened. The dead remained that way; they were re-buried, mass funerals held across the counties coupled with rebuilding projects. Within a month, it was as though nothing had ever happened. The strange horse Ayauhtéotl had sent him, with its sharp eyes, dipped-black head, white mane and trail of destruction in its wake, faded into mist, and Oliver returned up the path as though he had been on holiday. John patted his neck, and rode into Armadillo. They drank and celebrated the restored normality of life and death.

But there could never be a happy ending.

He always kept that in mind. It kept him cautious; kept him humble; kept him thankful for every moment where he lived to see the next.

"Aim for the chest. I want to see his eyes as he draws his last breath."

When he saw them coming over the hill, they met his expectations.

When Uncle collapsed to the porch, he knew his end wasn't far behind.

When they trapped him in the barn, when he said goodbye to his family, he knew he'd done all he could; he knew he was lying when he said he'd catch up with them.

When he pushed upon the door, when he saw their guns trained on where he would step out, he had no regrets.

When he took that step out into their aims and drew his gun and tried to take as many as possible down with him, he knew it was worthless.

When they obliterated his body, when he collapsed to his knees, when he kneeled, wheezing, throat rattling, life escaping him, sight fading, limbs chest head aching, a hand finding the flask before his heart... he wished he'd said those words to him. In the fast-draining sky, he saw a glimpse of those big blue eyes, washing away.

And when he died, a rightful hero, he died a bandit's death.

Edgar Ross shook his head, as though he'd expected more.

And when his eyes – or rather, eye, as only one worm-eaten orb remained – cracked open again, and he saw earth piled over him, he dug out of his grave, thrusting a clawed hand into the fresh night air... well, what was there to think? He didn't breathe – didn't have to. His heart didn't beat. Blood didn't flow. His tongue, rotten and dry, refused his words. His broken arms rejected functional movement, cracking and snapping as he patted himself down, only to find the flask in his breast pocket: it was the only thing warm about him now.

He tried to walk but found himself moving in that sickeningly familiar gait of the undead, yet his soul persisted: he knew who he was, what he was, what he had to do. If he was, for lack of a better word, "alive", all the other dead men must be too. And that was no place for the living; the curse had resumed, and he was damned sure he was the only one who knew how to and had the intention to end it. But he stumbled and slumped over, staggering across his own grave, realising he couldn't do this alone.

He glanced down towards his ranch. The lights were on inside: he watched until he saw Jack cross by one of the windows. On his head was John's old hat. He would have smiled, if he had been able to – his jaw no longer existed, his blood-stained teeth bearing through his leathery skin. He was a wretch, and for once he had no qualms over his own identity. He was dead, and he should have stayed that way.

But he could hardly ask his son to travel with him like this. No, there was only one man who would be able to interpret him without diction on his side. He hated the idea of him seeing him like this. It felt disrespectful. He had no choice.

As he tried to get used to his splintered legs, he saw a stallion charge towards him: the black head, the misty trail, the pin-prick eyes of Death. Glancing down the slope, he saw an aged white steed whinny at him in greeting as he mounted up and rode away from the dawn on a pale horse.

How long had it been since he was buried? Did Leigh even know? Heck, was Leigh even still alive? It turned his stomach. Well, it didn't. He didn't have one anymore. The rats must have taken that too. Across the Western States, the undead reigned once more. It was as though no one appreciated his hard work. Someone had stolen the mask, hadn't they? He had a fair guess who. A man who missed his undead buddies. A man who needed more than a glass eye. Ayauhtéotl seemed to sigh at the troublesome affairs of such insolent mortals, slap Death's behind and send him into a faster bolt.

Armadillo. He was almost tired of this place. There was no point in lingering in the doorway; there was every chance that if the Marshal was inside, he would shoot him as soon as he entered anyway. He turned the handle and stepped inside to instantly meet the muzzle of his gun, a steely glare through cloudy eyes; the trigger clicked, and he held still.

He looked into his eye; dropped his revolver; backing away quickly till his back met the cell bars. Then he shuddered a sigh.

"Hello, John."

"Hello, Marshal," he said with a blink.

Leigh's throat stopped up as he tried to convince himself to walk forward, telling himself that it was safe to approach. His silver hair was dull grey these days; his wrinkles deep, the bags under his eyes heavy. Those big blues were pale, as if tears had drained the colour from his soul. But he still looked a hell of a lot better than Marston. "What did I tell you, John? Every time you left here. "Take care of yourself." "Don't do anything stupid." You... dumb bastard."

He could not reply; try as he might, only gurgles and growls escaped him. He wanted so much to smooth the pain from his cheeks, but couldn't bear to look at his own twisted hands. He wanted to embrace him but was repulsed by his own body.

"All this time, I hadn't believed the rumours. Guess I have to now. So, why are you here? Why aren't you tearing me to pieces?"

"I am the only one who knows how to stop this, but I need your help," he wanted to tell him. But he could only grunt and gesture to his horse. Leigh peered through the window and, seeing Death, uttered, "Good God, tell me I'm insane. Tell me the grief got the better of me an' turned me mad. John..."

But what could have once been John Marston simply strode out the door again, mounted up, waited for him to follow. Leigh shook his head, pulled a rifle from the cabinet, shut the door behind him, saying, "To the ends of the earth, John."

It felt as though they travelled that far; Leigh had never travelled much further than Plainview, yet now he was being led into Mexico, where, unable to ask questions himself, John scrawled notes in the sand for him to read. He managed to convey to him that they were searching for a crazy son-of-a-bitch with a glass eye, a man named Seth, and a jade mask. They had to return that mask to a shrine, and that would end the curse.

"That's what you did before?"

He could nod.

The Marshal missed his smile more than anything.

At night, when they stopped to rest (Marston no longer needed to rest, but he noticed Leigh's stamina decreasing; grief had aged him far worse than time), Johnson would mutter to himself, lamenting the time they wasted. Why hadn't he told him? He had to have known his life was in danger. He would have protected him, no matter what it took. But then he realised, that was exactly why he hadn't told him.

"Dumb bastard," he'd curse again. But his insults were endearments; John knew that much. He missed being able to smile at him. Missed being able to hold him, kiss him... He still saw that look in Leigh's eyes every now and then, but it was quickly replaced by him grumbling about losing his mind again.

One night, while John was watching the perimeters, he heard the sheriff murmur, "What will happen to you, when I replace that mask?"

He could not answer.

But first, they had to find it. Whenever they asked anyone, they would stare at John's wounds, at his green-ish face, too distracted to hear the Marshal's words. "Hey, I asked you a question. Crazy man with a glass eye – ring any bells?"

"No, señor, no lo sé." Some would then run away. Others would question his health in dubious English, or partial Spanish, leading the Marshal to shrug and just assume they meant "no", they hadn't seen Seth.

Spending time with an undead Marston was no compensation for the loss of the man himself, but still he feared losing what little contact they had left. If he held his hand, would he feel it? If he touched him, would he be moved? Would he appreciate it? The Marshal stabbed into the fire to keep it alive, but the warmth didn't reach him.

It took them just shy of a fortnight, but finally they got a lead: several reports of a madman hiding out in Sidewinder Gulch. Again, Leigh followed him as he charged through the charred lands into the cliffs, twisting and turning through never-ending corners, knowing every one could hide bandits, rebels or worse. From the depths of the gulch, laughter radiated; they followed the chuckles further, and at the furthest reaches, there was Seth, surrounded by his truest friends, prancing around the mask. Both men dismounted, sharing a knowing glance.

"Seth Briars?" the Marshal asked, as if he had to.

He stopped dancing, his hands held in front of his chest, seeming just as crippled as the cadavers. His bright green eyes twitched as he exclaimed, "Oh, a Marshal? Tell ya, that job must be fun right about now! And who's this fella? Tell ya, now, I recognise you... Well, if it ain't John Marston! Haha! Come to join us at last, have ya, John? How's death treatin' ya? Aw, see, I like you a whole lot more dead; ain't that funny!"

John seemed to sigh to Leigh, seemed to say, "Shoot him." Leigh snickered, then wondered if he was as mad as Seth here, laughing at a joke no one had made. Still, he had learned he had to laugh, or else he might break down.

"You have something that don't belong to you, Seth," he told him coolly.

Seth's response was anything but cool: his face flared, eyes near bursting from his head as he scrabbled to the ground, seizing the mask and holding it to his chest. "Naw, this? I found this, mister, this is mine. Y'know – finders, keepers. I found it, I'm keepin' it, a-and there's nothin' you can do about it!"

"Whoa, there," the Marshal soothed, holding up his hands, cautiously watching the five undead hanging around the man. Why were they calm? Had he trained them somehow? Never mind that now; he told him, "So, ah... where did you find that thing?"

"What's it to ya?" he spat, shuffling back away from him again, hiding amongst the hulking corpses.

Leigh had no idea what to say; he glanced to John for inspiration, but only found regret. If he shot Seth now, would the undead come against him for the loss of their leader? He searched that one brown eye for permission, holding the grip of his revolver – "Wh-whatcha doin' there, Marshal?" – seeing him nod briefly, then, without aiming, shooting and hitting him in the kneecap. If his expression could have shown that he was impressed... Meanwhile Seth cried out, still clutching at the mask while the five bodies growled and lumbered towards them; John drew his own gun and with the skill he'd had when he had lived took down three while the sheriff took the other two. Alone now, Seth tried to crawl away, hissing vile insults, but the Marshal clobbered him with the grip of his gun and snatched the mask from his clawing hands; he grasped onto his ankle threatening to gnaw at his leg until Leigh kicked him off, scowling down at him, then clambered back onto his horse, and they rode on again.

"Should I have killed him?" he asked casually as they headed for Escalera. Marston replied with a grumble, which he took for a chuckle, and a "probably". He glanced over, still hoping to see the man he'd once known, still wandering if he was going insane. He gave a laugh and muttered, "Probably."

As they neared the town, it seemed as though they were riding to the Devil's door – here, the undead seemed faster, stronger, and as ruthless as living men, chasing after them with vengeance in their black marble eyes. The Marshal checked his ammo anxiously, fumbling through his belt, finding he was on his last round; his mind on other matters, he accidentally wasted it into the gut of a hulking mass of rotten flesh, before the gnarled grasps of dead men dragged him from his horse. He cried out, striking out in all directions, yelling out John's name while staring into the snarling jaws of Hell when another snatched his arm and made to bear down- grey matter exploding from his skull, the other knocked back by the impact, crusted blood splattering his face, he lay there hyperventilating. Marston snatched him up with a bony hand cracking against his shoulder, urgently checking him all over for bite marks, grunting in relief and then stomping off again in his awkward broken gait. Leigh dusted himself down with a huff, staring after him.

"John," he barked. "John, wait."

He stopped dead, and for a flickering moment of memory Leigh saw him, standing in front of the door to his office, turning the lock as he told him to turn around, bandit, turn around. When he turned this time there was only anguish and shredded scars. He wanted to collapse to his knees, and wish for one more bullet. But he held his ground and told him, "I'm out of rounds, John; one more wave and I won't make it through. We need to end this now or it'll be the end of me, and not to seem egocentric but if I go down, the world comes tumbling down with me. An' I know what happens when I replace that mask. You already died once, John; don't know if I'll be able to take it again."

He strode back as best as his shattered body would let him. The closer he drew the more clearly he could see the shots that had killed him. He looked away, but John slammed a crippled hand to his arm, imploring him with his one good eye. They were so close now.

He sighed. "God damn it, John. What are you puttin' me through..."

He almost swore he saw him smirk.

Leigh followed him into the catacombs, his spine shuddering as the darkness enveloped them both, drowning out all light; lit torches seemed to smoke rather than hold their fires, and the air was dense with death. He spluttered and covered his mouth, while John continued un-phased. The winding corridors led them deeper under the earth, where the walls seemed to seep blood, and Satan himself feared to tread the trembling ground. Time and time again Marston dispatched the squirming demons, checking back on Leigh, holding onto the mask, eyes wide in the gloom.

Suddenly the cavern opened up before them, the shrine awaiting with gaping mouth. The Marshal hesitated in the entrance. A new brooding of creatures dug through the sands; Marston took them down, nine, seven, four, three, two- click. He snapped the barrel of his Sawed-off Shotgun open to see that he was run out too. But one still lurched onward; Leigh scuttled back into the shadows, clutching the artefact, but it was headed right for him and there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. It was then that the instinct of the undead overcame his partner: John surged forward, arms hands fingers outstretched into talons, seizing his attacker from behind and tearing him to the ground, ripping him apart with brute force, burying his bearing teeth into it and snapping its neck, biting out chunks of decomposed flesh and tossing it aside in a display of brutally he had never known before; then, from the ground with filth-smeared face, he nodded to Leigh, ashamed of himself. Now was the time to end this.

The sands shifted under his step, forcing himself to look straight ahead, then into the eyes of the mask. His breath hitched in his throat; don't look back, he thought. Look back now, and you'll want to die with him. He doesn't want that. The plinth awaited, seeming to drag on the emblem in his hands, craving to have it back. But he did turn, seeing John stagger to his feet, one last time. He exhaled shakily, but the ground was creaking open again. It had to be now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and set the mask in place. He stared at it once more, watched it glow in welcome, then radiate energy which rippled across the room, turning the growing creatures into ash, and he heard a crunch as once again John Marston fell to his knees. His mind pleaded for him not to turn back, but his heart refused to listen, spinning and skidding to the ground where he kneeled, allowing him to collapse into his arms while he urgently, senselessly, tried to stabilise him, ordering, "Don't do this to me, boy. Don't make me watch you die."

"I'm already dead, you old fool," his weakened stare seemed to say.

The words tasted so bitter as he finally said them. "I love you. Alright? Is that what you needed to hear? Now stay. Stop this. Stop it, John. Stop this!"

Desperation wracked his body as he grappled for his splintered hand, hearing bones crack under his grip. All around them, sand trickled down the walls; the earth groaned as the dead returned to their graves; and his body fell limp in his arms.

"No... No..."

Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Still he could not tear his tearful gaze from that one glassy eye. He didn't care whether it were man or monster.

"Legends never die, Marshal," she whispered, pacing round him but not leaving a single footprint. She bent down on one knee beside them; he glanced up, seeing in her eyes the reflection of his own wet cheeks. She reached out to John's body and Leigh pulled him tighter to his chest like a possessive child. She smiled, then untucked his breast pocket, retrieving the flask he had given to him so long ago. "I believe this belongs to you."

He didn't want to take it; he had given it to John and wanted him to keep it; but she held his gaze as if to acknowledge that John wouldn't need it any more. As soon as the flask touched his palm, the silver glistened. When he looked up to ask her who she was, she was already gone.

He resolved to leave Armadillo behind, retiring not long after. He unpinned the tarnished badge from his chest and rested it on the desk he had known so well. The flask still gleamed as brightly as his eyes used to. When asked where he was going, he simply replied, "As far away from Armadillo as possible."

Silent Stead seemed to find a new meaning for its name in the lonesome quiet. He'd spend the days preserving the memories. At nights he'd ride to Rathskeller Fork to retell his legends from the bottom of a glass. When his hands grew cold, the flask remained warm, pressed next to his heart.

One night he met a young lad in there who shared his eyes. Jack, his name was. He'd asked him if he'd known his pa – probably had, being the Marshal and all. He'd chuckled dryly. He could tell him a thing or two about his father.

After that, every time Jack rode by he'd stop and ask him to tell him about John Marston, and he'd willingly oblige, but have to leave out all the stories he held dear. Those were his to keep.

When Jack stopped by one day, he knocked on the door to the collapsing cabin. Told him he'd duelled Edgar Ross.

"He's dead?"

"Of course."

He'd lit up a cigar, offered a shot to Marston's son. "Atta boy." He'd winced as he drunk, and Leigh managed a smile, before his eyes were drawn to the eagle feather in his father's hat. With a sigh, he lifted his own glass; drank, but didn't taste the liquor.

"You've got a lot to live up to, kid."