Sorry about the wait guys! I'm still working on this story, but I did get caught on this chapter. I also had my younger brother visiting for the entire summer. Between him and my sister, I've barely touched my Xbox or laptop in the past two months. I'm hoping to provide a few updates for my stories in the next week or so to make up for it.
The chapter ends a little abruptly but I really wanted to get it out, so I'll continue the scene in the next chapter. Much of the dialogue was taken directly from RDR, although I edited the conversations somewhat, rewording and omitting what I could. Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!
I don't own anything :(
John walked into the Sheriff's office, not quite sure what to expect. What he wasn't expecting was to find the Marshall sleeping in one of the unoccupied cells.
"Excuse me" he tried to wake the man up.
There was a prisoner in one of the other cells, and the prisoner helpfully yelled at the sleeping man. "Hey! Hey! You've got a visitor."
The sleeping man woke up coughing, struggling to sit up on the narrow cot and spitting on the already filthy floor. He already wore a belligerent expression as he reprimanded the prisoner.
"Shut up you!" he gestured impatiently at John. "What you want?"
"My name is John Marston. You wanted to speak to me."
The man tilted his head in confusion. "I did?"
"Apparently so."
"Why?"
John still wasn't sure to make of the idiot, but decided to humor him. "I guess, because we're both in the business of the law."
John watched with mild disgust as the man got to his feet carefully, stretching his arms out as he walked towards him, before settling casually against the railing of the cell. "You that fella from the train company?"
"No," John spoke patiently, willing the man to understand. "I'm from Fort Mercer."
The man's reaction was somewhat expected. "Fort Mercer." He straightened, reaching for his gun. "You them. You one of them Williamson boys."
John pulled his gun out just as swiftly, pointing it carefully. "Calm down." he requested.
The prisoner was on his feet, watching for the outcome eagerly. "Go on shoot 'em, mister! Shoot him." he urged John on.
The man held his gun out with both hands nervously. "Go on what...you getting cute with me boy?"
John stared the man down, barely reacting to the voice that suddenly intruded on their standoff. "What's going on here?"
The new arrival came around John, spitting on the ground as he looked to the man for an explanation.
The man took his eyes off of John, but kept his gun pointed firmly in his direction. "I got me one them Williamson boys." he proclaimed.
John wanted to snort at that, but addressed the new arrival. "I've got me one them idiots who give marshals a bad name." he offered.
The new arrival spoke to the man with the gun. "Jonah, put your gun down." Jonah stowed his gun away with reluctance, John following suit. "You must be the man from Blackwater." John realized with relief that the new arrival was in fact the actual marshal.
"Yes sir. Listen, that dog ain't too bright," he paused in consideration, "but he seems loyal."
"Jonah, get out of here for a minute."
Jonah agreed respectfully. "Yes, sir. Mr. Johnson sir." He spit on the ground, jabbing a finger at John in disdain. "And you. Oh, I done seen enough of your hide around here, friend." Jonah swaggered towards the door, John chuckling at the pathetic display.
"I think there are some school children down the way you could go and frighten." He told him scornfully.
Jonah waved his arms around in mock amusement. "Oh, hardy fucking harr." He turned out the door, grumbling, "Dickhead!" as he walked out.
The Marshal went straight to business. "What are you doing here, Mr. Marston? Apart from frightening my deputies?"
"I'm here to capture or kill Bill Williamson."
The Marshal looked taken aback for a brief moment before laughing in disbelief. "Okay."
"Can you help me?" John asked.
The Marshal spoke around the cigar he had between his lips. "He's outside my jurisdiction; he's in the next county." he pulled the cigar out of his mouth and leaned against his desk. "Of course, Williamson and his boys have tended to keep themselves away from my town."
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So you're happy to have him out there?"
The Marshall shrugged. "Well, I ain't happy, but I also ain't suicidal." he tapped his own chest with a finger. "My job is to keep this town safe, not clean up all of these 3 counties. It's hard enough around here."
"Ya know...I hear you speak and suddenly I'm reminded of how some of the people I respected most in my life had a problem with authority. What's wrong with you?" John demanded, angry at the careless attitude of the one man whose job it was to take Williamson down.
"Well, I'm sure you and your fine friends have enjoyed spending your time running around pursuing noble causes," the Marshal poured himself a drink. "My cause is to keep this town from turning into a living hell for the folks who live here." The Marshal took a swig of his drink, pouring another one in a different cup. "Whole world has problems, mister, and I'm here, doing what I can." He offered John the drink.
John took the offering. "Why what's happening?"
"Right now?" The Marshal began to list off his problems matter-of-factly. "I got the railway, the people who pay my salary, trying to get me to turn a blind eye to them burning down settlements up there. I got a bunch of cattle rustlers out near box canyon need shutting down, not forgetting the gang that keeps murdering homesteaders out in the back country and I got a bunch of hoods over in the saloon; drunk, threatening to shoot up the whole town. That's all I got today, but it's early yet. Give it a couple more days and there'll be more."
John didn't envy the man, noting the defeated slump of the Marshal's shoulders, the weary glint in his eye.
John straightened, squaring his shoulders in determination. "So where do we start?"
The Marshal laughed outright, staring at John in disbelief. "You're serious?"
"I wasn't aware I was laughing." He stared the Marshal down.
The Marshal conceded with a tip of his hat. "Well, I'm not going to argue with an offer of help." He paused, watching John with consideration. "I promise that when it's all said and done, I'll help you with Williamson and his gang. Fair's fair."
"Thank you, Marshal." John said simply.
XX
John knew that the time he spent with the Marshal would mean time he had to spend away from Bonnie. And the regret he felt was entirely inappropriate. Miss MacFarlane was a friend, was slowly becoming one he considered dear. So he thought it was only right to pay her a visit before he set out to rid this county of the bandits, thieves and gangs that had led the Marshal on a merry chase to exhaustion.
He approached her home when the sun was setting, the fiery embers of dying light striking against her fair hair. He admired it as he approached, almost missing her greeting to him.
"Hello Mr. Marston. I've been hearing about your plans." She stood at his approach, leaning casually against the railing of the porch.
"Have you, Miss MacFarlane?" John wondered what she was speaking of.
"Yes, of course. From Leigh Johnson. I hear you plan to settle here and build a life for yourself." She spoke as if she hardly believed the words, John finding it hard to stomach himself.
"I'm afraid you've been mislead. I already have a life, or...I did, and I'm trying to reclaim it." John could feel himself becoming flustered under Bonnie's studied gaze, her brow raised in confusion. "Or I guess you could say I have two lives, and I'm trying to end one of them so I can live the other one..." He trailed off, uncertain where he was going with this, faintly embarrassed by Bonnie's mocking smile.
"You do so like to talk in riddles Mr. Marston. Do you do that to avoid actually having something interesting to say?"
John conceded her point with a deprecating smile. "Probably Miss MacFarlane."
Bonnie threw her hands up, turning away from him as she implored him, "Oh, call me Bonnie you fool!" She sat on a bench, sighing in exasperation. "Call me Bonnie."
And the hope he saw in her eyes teared at him, and he wanted nothing more than to agree with her, to call her by her first name but he could not. Not when he had a son to return to, not when his wife was barely months in the cold hard ground. But he wanted the right, even if it was only the smallest of intimacies. He had to make her understand.
"Miss MacFarlane," John spoke slowly, deliberately emphasizing her title. "I'm married, or I was, not three months ago. My wife Abigail is dead. I have a son, I had a daughter, but she died as well." He gauged her reaction, noting the flinch at his mention of Abigail, but he continued. "Years before that, I rode in a gang. We robbed people, banks, trains, held innocent people for ransom. We killed people we didn't like. Bill Williamson was in that gang. Now, I have no choice but to capture him or great harm will befall my son." He turned away briefly, not ready to face the condemnation that was sure to be in her eyes. "I don't suppose any of this would mean much to you but I hope it explains my reticence at speaking about it." He waited for her censure, surprised when Bonnie stood up and moved beside him, her arm brushing against his.
"No, it does mean something. I do understand. You poor man."
Something in him broke at the genuine sympathy in her voice, and he could not look at the woman who was so generous not to condemn him for his previous life. He spoke aloud, his tone contemplative. "Even in this new country, memories don't ever fade. My father was an illiterate Scot born on the boat into New York. He talked of his parent's home as if he was born and raised in it, hating the English for their actions against grandparents he'd never met. Nothing ever gets forgotten. People never forgive."
"Maybe that's true," Bonnie agreed. "Especially when it comes to money. Even now, after all my father's years of labor, his debt is still unimaginable. I worry all the time about the possibility of losing the ranch. It would kill my father, sure as a shot."
John inclined his head in sympathy. "My father died when I was barely eight years old. He was blinded in a bar fight south of Chicago. My mother died giving birth to me." He laughed bitterly. "She was a prostitute, and my father was...I don't even know what they were to each other. When I was sent to an orphanage, I hated the place. So I ran off and fell in with a gang."
Bonnie shook her head, trying to take in how terrible his early life must have been. "What a difficult life you've lived John."
John tried to shake off his melancholy, tried to show her the good that had happened as well as the bad. "The leader of the gang taught me how to read and write, to see all that was good in the world. He was a great man, in his own way."
Bonnie smiled sadly. "But you've killed people."
"Yes," John did not deny it. "And my conscious has suffered greatly for it. But I'm trying to leave that life behind me..." he groaned. "I've said too much Bonnie. I'm an uneducated killer, sent here to do what I do well. Kill a man in cold blood so another man can cut crime in an area, while a rich man can be elected on the back of my deeds."
"Civilization is a truly marvelous thing, Mr. Marston." Bonnie paused. "Listen, can you help me?"
"I can try my best," John assured her, happy that she'd changed the tone of their conversation. "What do you need? Money?" he wondered, willing to give her every last cent he had to offer.
Bonnie chuckled. "No, nothing so convoluted. I need an extra hand taking the cattle out to pasture."
John smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders at her smile. "Sure, just point me in the right direction."
Bonnie directed him towards the pen they held their cattle, both of them mounting their horses with Bonnie leading the way. Though the solemn moment had been broken, Bonnie still felt the need to acknowledge John's confession.
"Thank you for telling me all that."
"You're welcome, but I'm sure I needed to get it off my chest." John felt lighter than he had in days.
"I never knew you had a son...or a wife, though I never thought to ask you," Bonnie admitted with a little guilt. The truth was that she'd hoped he'd been unattached, and she'd kept her questions to herself so she could remain in blissful ignorance on the topic. It shamed her that she was somewhat relieved, if not glad, that his wife was dead. And what type of person did that make her? Certainly not the killer John had confessed to being, but not a hell of a lot better in any case. "Your son is lucky to have you." She said it with all honesty, because despite John's faults, she could see that he loved his son and that he would do anything for him, was already doing everything he could to keep him safe.
"I'm not so sure about that," John admitted. "But, thank you."
They had little time to speak after that, Bonnie showing John the ropes of guiding a herd from one destination to another. Strays escaped and it was up to John to return them, which he did with little difficulty and a small sense of pride. When they'd finished, Bonnie had beamed at him, her hair windswept and cheeks red from the wind.
"Ranching just might be your true calling." She smiled slyly at him, teasing lightly. "Either that, or you were a cow in a past life."
John laughed in surprise, "Thank you, Miss MacFarlane."
She raised her hand in a final wave as she turned back towards the house. "I'll see you later. I have more work to do at the ranch."
John watched her ride off, trying to ignore the warmth in his gut. He'd done his best by Bonnie, but now was the time for action. Though he felt better by confessing many of his immeasurable sins, he still had work to do, and he'd promised the Marshal some help. So instead of heading towards the ranch as he wanted to do, John turned his horse towards Armadillo, riding off into the dark of night.
XX
The next several days were rough. John made it back to the MacFarlane ranch as much as he was able, but he was often too exhausted to do anything but set up a fire at the side of a road and hope for the best. The Marshal rode them all hard, eager to face down rustlers or gangs with an effective gun beside him. Not that Jonah or the other deputy Eli weren't competent, but they were a slower shot and it was always a comfort to have at least one more man.
The rustlers were dealt with quickly, the cattle farmers eager to show their gratitude. John hadn't considered the benefit beyond gaining the Marshal's eventual help. But he was given money for every rustler he shot down, for every animal he'd saved. It was enough to arm himself more than adequately and to pay back Bonnie, when he had the chance to see her.
And the chance hadn't presented itself yet. He sensed that she was perhaps eager to place some distance between them after their last conversation, even if it had ended on a somewhat positive note. John knew some of what he'd said had troubled her, but he hoped it hadn't offended her. She had yet to rescind his invitation to remain at the ranch, either in person or sending Amos to see him off, and he considered that a good sign. He told himself to let sleeping dogs lie, to forget the woman with the pretty face and warm laugh, to do his job and return to Jack. But his mind wasn't as cooperative as he'd hoped, thoughts of Bonnie MacFarlane plaguing him at the most random of moments. He figured that she'd see him when she was ready, and not a moment sooner.
The gang that was killing homesteaders was another problem altogether. Unlike the cattle rustlers, they were ruthless and cruel, uncaring of who they hurt or killed. Rape seemed to be a favorite of theirs, John haunted by the numerous women they hadn't saved who wore looks of utter betrayal and shook with terror when they approached. And it was made worse that every woman wore Bonnie's face. John didn't know the reason, only that his mind was manipulated into hearing her voice every time the women cried or shouted at him angrily. The gang was large, organized and they had yet to find a pattern to their attacks. It was only by chance that they put a stop to them, stumbling on them in the middle of another spree of violence.
John was in Armadillo after completing another bounty for the Marshal, when the news was delivered. A trail of bodies that could only mean the gang of bandits was once again on the move. They rode to the first campsite, Eli and Jonah both gagging at the smell and evidence of blatant disrespect to the bodies. It was more than simply gunshots the victims died of, their bodies bearing the marks of severe beatings. It was torture, plain and simple. It made John sick to see. His own past may be unworthy of redemption, but he could say with all honesty that Dutch had never let his men turn into rabid animals, always holding them to a specific code of conduct. People had died, but death had never been the goal and had been avoided at all costs. John would live with the burden of innocent lives for the rest of his life. Clearly these men could care less.
The trail of desecration led them to Ridgewood Farm. They searched the surrounding grounds grimly, hoping to find at least one survivor. The search was futile and the Marshal called their attention to the barn, where he hoped to find either the bandits or any survivors. What they found was a horrific display of blood, slaughtered animals and even a stripped body hanging from the rafters of the barn.
John was turning his eyes to the farmhouse when a young girl ran towards them. He raised his gun in reflex, noting that the Marshal and deputies followed suit.
"Please! Please don't shoot me!" the girl cried. John was dismayed to see that she couldn't have been much older than her early teens, her hair pinned back with a bow. "Some bandits took us hostage. They're holed up in the farmhouse." the girl's hands were clasped beseechingly in front of her, tears streaming down her face. "My family's being kept hostage inside." As the gravity of the situation dawned on her, she collapsed on the ground, sobbing into her hands. "Please."
And the stalwart Marshal responded to her plea with immediate action, turning towards the farmhouse with an uttered, "Come on! We need to get into that house, right now."
John entered a state of centered concentration, and he saw nothing but the men he needed to kill. He couldn't say how or why his focus sharpened, but it was fueled by rage, by the blood pumping in his veins, blood that pounded in his ears and drowned out everything but the sound of his gun and their dying cries. It was why Dutch hated to lose him, why he'd been able to get out of more scrapes than were physically possible. He hated the need to kill, hated the darkly inherent thrill he got out of killing men who clearly deserved it. But he would not change it. It had kept him alive, and it would bring him home to Jack.
It was always hard to snap out of the sudden bloodlust, to shove that part of himself away when the shooting was done. By the time the bandits in the farmhouse were all dead, his bullets had cut through over half of them. It was the Marshal who brought him out of it, with a hefty slap to his shoulder, his booming voice forcing John to focus.
"Let's check on the farmers."
John shook his head clear, following the Marshal to the waiting farmers, one woman immediately stepping forward and gesturing towards the hilly expanse outside the farm's gates.
"Some folks tried to escape to the south. The robbers started chasing them down like wild dogs." She glared at the Marshal, "I thought you were supposed to protect us Marshal. You folk ain't men, you ain't nothing. You're just some man on the government payroll, taking money that the rest of us have to pay for with our lives."
The Marshal turned to his men, "The man who kills the leader of that gang gets fifty dollars," he declared with renewed vigor.
But it wasn't enough for the woman, already covered in the blood of her family. "It ain't about the money! These are people's lives." She turned towards the women barely restraining her, all three of them erupting into anguished sobs.
It was a cry John was well familiar with, the sound of Jack's cries upon discovering Abigail's prone body ringing in his ears. Never again, he vowed. Not these men.
Like I said, a little abrupt, but the next part is a confrontation with Bill Williamson and if I continued on, the chapter might never end. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought with a review! :)