Enjoy, lovelies!

To Sansa: Well, I watched you steadily read through the entire story, and leaving reviews here and there, so I had to reach you somehow. "Only white men make a fire everyone can see" is a real Native American proverb. Dances With Wolves very cleverly uses it as well. However, I do get my inspiration from various western inspired movies and books. Thanks for pointing out the Spanish grammar mistakes. I had to make do with Google translate, which sucks balls, to have Rosa use atleast some of her mother language. Hey, atleast I tried right? Thank you for all your reviews! ^_^

About Butch's age: Butch is not my character. So I can't possibly know for sure how old he is. Let's start with that before I get myself into trouble. But there are certain things we do know for sure about his age. First of all, we have his wanted poster, which says he's 39 years old. What I know about these posters, historically, is that although they increased the bounties on them as the criminal went uncaught and continued his reign of terror, they never quite cared about changing the little biographical information on it. That, and the age they put on it was usually a rough guess cause how would a local sheriff know the exact age of a man he never met? Which means that Butch was (around) 39 at the time that wanted poster was created, but is older (if not much older) in my story, which takes place a year and a half before the movie's storyline. In my opinion, Butch is in his late 40s. In the movie he says he waited "20 years" to get to his silver, which would make him around 25 at the time he and Latham discovered the mine. I suspect Latham to be about 10 years older than his younger brother. They both may look much older than they really are because of the conditions of living in those times. If people reached their 60s, they were considered ancient. I hope this answered your question.

To Voldemort: No they haven't kissed yet. And you should see my Personal Message inbox for the shit I get for that LOL

Thanks for all the reviews, favs and follows!

Chapter 29

Cast me gently into morning. For the night has been unkind.

They walked straight into the next day, leaving the thick forest behind them, as they made their way down the mountainside. Slowly, the trees grew less in number, and the ground became less rocky under their horses' feet. She knew better than to try and start a conversation now. Butch swayed in his saddle, sometimes she feared he might fall off. His left arm hung unused to his side, and blood dripped from the top of his fingers, leaving a trail of red dots on the thin layer of snow that had fallen throughout the night. The material of his coat reflected the light of the sun there where it was stained with blood. And although he had bound the wound with his shawl, cutting off the blood circulation to his arm, she could have sworn the whole spot got bigger as the morning progressed.

She was happy to be back on the prairie, there where she belonged, with nothing to obstruct her view. It was warmer here, the cold less intense than up in the Apache hills. She closed her eyes for a moment to take in the warm rays of the young sun, and somehow felt like everything was going to be alright now, all would be well in time. Perhaps it was some kind of defence mechanism, taking over her worried mind, soothing her in the only way it knew how. Hearing the popping of a cork, she opened her eyes to watch Butch take a deep swig of a bottle that had undoubtedly previously belonged to the late buffalo hunters. He was trying to stop the pain, numbing his senses, but the alcohol only caused him to grow weaker, thinning his blood so that he would lose it even faster.

Collecting her bravery, she stirred up her horse to walk beside him, and inhaled sharply at the pale and sweated face of the wounded outlaw leader, who did his best to ignore her very presence. "We need to get you to a doctor." She spoke softly, not sure if this was the right thing to say at this very moment. He narrowed his eyes at her comment, and scoffed.

"Good luck findin' one." He mumbled, his voice hoarse.

"We'll find one in that town we're going to, won't we? There must be a doctor around there." She argued. He closed his eyes to calm himself, feeling much for taking out his gun and planting a bullet into the skull of this girl that got him nothing but trouble and aggravation. "What's a town without a doctor? Or are you perhaps worried he won't be willing to treat you? You know they have to.. they swore an oath to-.."

"Shut up!" He rounded on her, turning his horse towards hers in a violent movement, causing her own mount to stagger in surprise. "For once in yer goddamn life know when to shut up! Know when to stop! The last thing ah need is hearin' yer voice tellin' me what ah've known for decades! Long before ye even saw the light of day! You have to know when you messed up.. and you messed up! So get back! Behind me! NOW!" as she halted her horse, getting behind him, he grabbed the knob of his saddle to steady himself. "Ah don't want to see you right now. Be smart and stay outta mah sight." He continued pitifully. "Ah don't want to hear another word comin' from yer smart mouth."

Now forced into silence, she followed his swaying trail, fighting back tears of fear, shock and the gnawing hollowness of guilt. She no longer bothered to keep up, and her horse fell back in slow steps. The distance she had created between her and the wounded criminal gave her a false sense of safety. There was no kindness in this man. Just toleration, patience and an almost ancient form of wisdom she could not place. But no one ever claimed the devil was stupid. Everybody always seemed to agree he was smart and cunning.

Never before had her own prairie, her own tall grass fields she called home, felt so foreign, so distant in its never ending enormity. She watched the sun rise till it was straight above her. Her rays cool this time of year, spreading only little warmth. A wind struck up, blowing cold air down from the mountains, the clouds carrying the winter's snow seemed to follow them across the frozen plains. Slowly, Butch and his horse turned into small dots on the horizon. But she felt no desire, or need, to keep up with him. All she needed to do, was follow the trail of blood he left behind in the snow.

They came across a grazing herd of Longhorn cows, closely monitored by a team of cowboys. If they had recognized Butch as a wanted criminal, they didn't show it, and went about their business as was custom of these parts. Dressed in thick woollen coats, their beards long and their faces weathered, they tipped their snow covered hats as she passed them by. They kept their animals moving, as to prevent them from freezing to the ground. She didn't know what to say to them, and so, she nodded back. The idea to ask for help hardly crossed her mind. There was no one that could help her now. She made her way around the moving livestock, dodging the paths of young calves, jumping and running in pure joy, like children seeing snow for the first time. And behind the herd, Butch was waiting for her. His horse halted, its side facing her path. But when he saw she was on her way, he turned his mount toward the horizon again. As always, he was keeping an eye on her, in his own curious and unpredictable way.

He mind wandered to her mother again. Fearing the worst now that the snow had made its entrance. If she was in Colby's windy sheriff's office, behind the bars of a prison cell, there was nothing to protect her from the cold. Eleanor hardly believed mister Dan Reid could be that cruel, but then again, he didn't seem to be making the calls in this situation anymore. That ranger's star on his jacket a pointless reminder of what he no longer represented. She thought of Henry Elton, and felt a wave of rage wash over her, balding her fists despite the freezing cold. She felt her knuckles crack, bending suddenly after holding her horse's reins for so long. She whimpered in pain, and looked down at what she had done to herself. Her fingers a dangerous shade of blue. She sniffled back tears, and tried to spot Butch in the far distance. But the fog of the frozen ground made the air hazy, and obstructed her vision. This goddamned desolated place. This desert of nothing, that played with your mind, and turned men into beasts. She cursed it now. Every rock, every snake, every hot day, and every cold one too. Why would anyone ever decide to live here? What is it that moved men to travel across plains like this one, just to see what was on the other side?

A crudely crafted wooden sign, tilted until it almost touched the ground, came into her view. STANDING FAITH: 2 MILES. POPULATION: 67 NO GUNS ALLOWED BY ORDER OF SHERIFF JONES.

Sheriff Jones was going to have a field day. That much was certain. She had no idea how old this sign was, how many people had passed it, knowing the laws and rules had changed, but not the sign. A little up ahead, Butch waited for her again, and this time, he remained still as she approached. She had seen corpses, during open casket funerals, that looked better than him right now.

"We're about to go into town." He said, panting as if he had just ran a mile. Sweat dripped down his face, which was an ashen grey. "Once we're there, ah need ye te leave me be fer a while. Ye think ye can cough that up fer me?" it almost sounded like he was pleading, begging, to please, keep her distance. Refusal seemed almost torture. "Think yer brave enough?" She nodded, raising her chin proudly, wanting him not to worry about her right now. He studied her for a minute, as if trying to figure out if she was being truthful. "Alright then." He rummaged through his pockets, and handed her a handful of coins. "Tis all ah got." He remarked as she stored it away in several pockets of Frank's jacket. "But it should buy ye a bedroom, a bath, a meal, a drink, whatever the hell it is ye want."

"Can't we share one like we did at Rosa's?" she asked softly. "Maybe you shouldn't be alone with this." He shook his head and coughed, blood covering his lips. Like it was nothing, he wiped it away roughly, impatiently.

"yer goin' te get a room for yerself at the Fifth Massachusetts Grand Hotel directly on your left." He explained her calmly. "Yer going to tell the man runnin' it, ah guy named Claymore, te keep an eye on ye on mah behalf." She listened intently, and waited for him to catch his breath before continuing. "And keep ye there, until ah come te collect ye."

"You want me to ask a man to keep me prisoner?" she asked sceptically. "I hardly think that's necessary."

"Ah'll be the one te decide what's necessary, and what isn't." he told her sternly. His eyes warned her not to fight him right now. Their piercing shade of blue now a pale grey of sickness.

"And how do I know for certain you will come to collect me?" she asked carefully, looking down at her frozen hands.

"Ye don't." he wheezed. "Yer just gonna have te trust me. What choice ye got?" she said nothing, and refused to look at him. "Hm?" he urged her rudely. She bit her bottom lip, and shook her head. "Did ah ever abandon ye before?" she felt tears well up. "Did ah ever break one promise?"

"You will." She nodded to herself, enforcing her crude words. "Some day."

He gazed at her tiredly. "some day." He told her. "Not today." Thinking he had said about enough to appease her fears, he turned his horse away from her, urged it into a gallop, and took off into the hazy fog of winter. Now truly left to her own defence, the cold suddenly seemed more intense, and she shivered violently, huddling into the collar of Frank's thin jacket. She decided to take her time entering the town. Thinking over what she was going to say to anyone asking her a question about who she was, and where she came from, and who she travelled with. Two miles seemed half a day's ride. And the cold followed her like an unwanted dog.

Then finally, the wooden structures of the small town erected in front of her. Like Colby, it lay in the middle of nowhere, vulnerable to all elements and threats the desert had to offer. Due to the coming storm, there was no one out on the streets, and she considered herself lucky to be spared from curious glances. Like Butch had said, the Fifth Massachusetts Grand Hotel was directly on her left. It took on three buildings, and the banisters were decorated in banners bearing Union colours. It seemed to be the largest structure in town. Music could be heard from behind the foggy panelled windows.

Gathering her courage, she dismounted stiffly, her muscles almost frozen into place. With stiff fingers, she tied the reins of her horse around a post, until she noticed the sign next to the front door.

HORSES AROUND THE CORNER.

A badly drawn horse and a hand pointing to the right informed those that could not read of the same message. Untying her exhausted mount, she lead him around the corner of the building, where a big stable was put there for customers. The two big barn doors were closed, but there were lights on inside, and a young boy came out to take her horse from her.

"How many nights?" He asked, petting Bobby's cold muzzle.

"One.. I think." She answered. Her doubt didn't seem to surprise the child, and he nodded, holding up his hand.

"That'll be fifty cents."

Had it been any other day, she would have bargained for a better price, but right now, she didn't have the energy, or willpower, to start an argument. Wordlessly, she paid him, and watched him lead Bobby into the warm, cosy stable, where he would be fine and well taken care off. For a second, she wondered where Butch had brought Annabel. But he never seemed to care much about his loyal mare, and she was probably tied to a hitching post somewhere outside a building.

When Eleanor entered the establishment, the grand downstairs bar turned silent, and heads turned toward the snow covered girl in man's clothing. It was as she had expected then. She was a sight to see, but right now, she didn't care. She made her way toward the long, beautifully made counter. It's top of a shiny copper. A large, well build, coloured man stood behind it, dressed in an Union army uniform. He eyed her with seemingly no emotion on his face. Behind him, several framed pictures of soldiers posing decorated the wooden walls. And several artefacts, all related to the Union army, hung carefully preserved around the main hall, along with the usual hunting trophies of buffalo and deer heads. The large fireplace roared with a giant fire, and all customers had gathered their chairs around it, desperate for warmth. Consequently, the entire counter was hers, and no one would listen to what she had to say to the owner.

Shyly, she placed her hat on the counter, and swallowed thickly before speaking. "Are you Claymore?"

The big man looked down at her like she was a fly he was about to send to the next world with his dishwashing towel. "who wants to know?" His voice was deep, and dark, and told her this was a man not to be messed with.

"I came here with Butch Cavendish. And he's got a message for you." The man said nothing. "Do you want to hear it?" No answer. His uncooperative manner started to bug her, and she sighed, gathering her bravery. "He wants you to know I'll be staying over for tonight. I can pay. But he wants you to keep.. an eye on me.. until he returns."

The man raised one dark eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed. "And when will that be?"

She swallowed thickly. "I don't know. He's in town, but I don't know where he's staying. But I-"

"If he in town. I know where he be staying." The man interrupted her. "And if he don't want you to know where that be. You will not hear it from me."

She let out an annoyed huff. "Fine. Be that way. Both of you." She rummaged through her pockets, taking out some coins. "How much do I owe you for tonight?"

"Bedroom is two dollars. Company another two dollars. Any drink one Dollar. What will it be?"

She placed three dollars on the counter. "I would be delighted with a cup of warm milk." She ordered. Taking his time, he picked up the coins, and put them in his pockets.

"Do I look like a dairy cow to you?" He asked. "I don't serve milk. Much less if it's warmed."

She rubbed her tired eyes. "Fine. Give me whatever you think I'd like." Minutes later, a shot glass of whiskey was roughly clanked in front of her, spilling most of its contents on the copper counter. With her order, came a set of keys.

"Room six is yours for tonight. No company after midnight, no horses in the rooms, if I hear complaints about noise, I'll tear off your head and feed it to the Chinaman's pigs." He told her. Giving her the same set of rules he entertained for any customer.

She grabbed the keys, offended by his treatment, and chucked back her drink without breaking eye contact. "You ever got someone who tried to bring their horse into their room?"

He refilled her glass slowly. "You'd be surprised."

She chuckled and placed another two dollars for him to take, before turning around in her tall bar stool, taking in her surroundings more calmly. The men by the fireplace still shot her curious glances over their shoulders, and undoubtedly discussed her unusual form in hushed tones. The women that kept them company were dressed in their fineries, and giggled at her appearance. All in all, it was the same sort of setting as Rosa's fort. But the mood was more unforgiving, more judgemental. And where Rosa had tried everything in her power to make her feel welcome, these people did their outmost best to make her feel like a freak that didn't belong here, or anywhere. The men weren't criminals. They were cow herders. Much like she had seen on her way here. This wasn't a town ran by outlaws. It wasn't that transparent. This was a town with a secret agenda. And it was never clear whether you talked to a friend or a foe. With this knowledge, this town seemed worse than any other place she had ever been to.

She turned back to Claymore, who was now drying a stack of freshly washed shot glasses, still eyeing her with the same unforgiving expression. "Where can I get something to eat?" she asked softly. Taking his time, Claymore finished drying and polishing his glass, and put it behind him with the others. All as spotless as the one he just added.

"How long have you been travelling with the captain?" He asked.

She tilted her head at his question, puzzled by his knowledge of Butch's military past. And then it hit her. Behind him, on the decorated wall, was a photo of a much younger looking Butch, dressed in a military uniform, proudly standing next to a much younger looking Claymore, and several other men she didn't recognize.

"You were one of his men." She concluded, more to herself than to the man in front of her. He nodded slowly. She smiled despite herself, having discovered yet another piece of the puzzle that made the man she had reluctantly put her trust in. "He looked so different." She added softly, gazing at the black and white photo.

"He's the same." Claymore corrected her calmly. "Be the world that's different." With that, he walked away, done with their conversation. He abandoned his counter without warning, and disappeared behind a door. Leaving the tired girl with her new found puzzle piece. She sipped her drink in quiet humility, no longer complaining that she was once again forced to drink something she absolutely loathed. In fact, for now she welcomed its strong, numbing taste. It dulled her senses in a pleasant, welcome nothingness. Emptying her mind, and at the same time, brought her back to earth. She was unable to tear her eyes from the photo. Butch stared back at her with a weary expression she had come to know so well. It wasn't the war that gave him those empty eyes. It was something she didn't know anything about. Something that went unspoken, something he hid behind the wall of his inner self, never to be seen by anyone.

Finally able to look away, she dropped her eyes to her half empty glass, making it spin between her fingers on the smooth copper top. Lost in thought, she didn't realize the commotion behind her. A young man was dared and taunted into making conversation with her. And was pushed in her direction by much older colleagues. He chuckled and laughed, already half drunk, as he made his way across the saloon, putting on his hat and dusting off his trousers.

He slammed his elbow on the counter top, trying to put on his most impressive pose, leaning casually next to the girl. "Howdy" He started, full of confidence this was going to work out. Her numbed senses caused his words to reach her with some delay, and she frowned at the rude volume he used, and the sheer annoyance of the situation. Stunned by her silence, he looked over his shoulder to his buddies for help. They made movements to tell him to try again, keep trying. He cleared his throat, now made nervous. "Ah said howdy." He tried again. "Sure aint ladylike te keep a man waitin' like this."

She downed her drink and looked at him. His goofy smile only increasing her aggravation. "You want ladylike?" she asked. His smile faded slowly. "How about I tell you to go to Hell? Is that ladylike enough for you? Cause I doubt any real lady would say something else to the likes of you."

His smile turned into a frown of offense, and he changed his pose quickly. "Well, dog gone it. How dare ye say somethin' like that?! Women aren't even supposed te be in a place like this! Don't matter if ye parade around in trousers like some tom boy!"

"Get lost." She said again. "Or get in trouble. Your call."

He huffed, letting out a breathy chuckle. "Trouble? The only trouble ah foresee is the poor man blockheaded enough to marry ye! He's in for trouble, alright!" she said nothing, her rage building slowly. "Girls like yerself should be put in jail if ye ask me. Ye aint man enough to call yerself a whore, but ye trudge around in pants till someone had it, and all that's waitin' fer ye is gettin' yer honor stolen in some alley, give life te another bastard that'll turn out to be some criminal." Again, she tried to concentrate on her breathing, as the insults rained down on her. "It's women like yerself that give these parts a bad name." His voice had turned into a menacing whisper. "It's women that doomed the earth ye know."

She had it. without realizing, she reached over the counter, grabbed a bottle, and slammed it as hard as she could across his face. He screamed in pain and terror as glass shatters dug their way into his skin. He fell to the wooden floor, writhing around in the puddle of blood and booze. The other men got to their feet, knocking over their chairs, to come to his aid, and teach her a lesson. Still holding on the neck of the bottle, she held it in front of her as a weapon.

"I'm with the Cavendish gang!" she called out to the group of furious cow herders, who stopped dead in their tracks. The sheer power Butch's last name held over anyone who called the west their home, now manifested itself to her benefit. And she felt tall, she felt strong, she felt untouchable. "Anyone who messes with me.. answers to him." if looks could kill, she would have been dead. But looks was all she got. She dropped the bottle neck to the floor, and sat back down, turned her back toward the crowd and smiled to herself. She just tossed herself over the edge, landing harshly into the outlaw world, and there she'd stay.

R&R!