Chuck vs the Wildcat

by dettiot

It's the 1870s in the American Southwest. Charles "Chuck" Bartowski, after avenging the death of his sister, falls in with gunslinger John Casey. There's a range war in El Dorado, and Chuck finds himself on one side of the war. And on that side is a woman named Sarah Walker.

2. Chapter 2: He Met a Pilgrim Shadow

Title: Chuck vs. the Wildcat 2/?

Author: dettiot

Rating: T

Summary: It's the 1870s in the American Southwest. Charles "Chuck" Bartowski, after avenging the death of his sister, has fallen in with gunslinger John Casey. There's a range war in El Dorado, and Chuck finds himself on one side of the war. And on that side is a woman named Sarah Walker.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck or El Dorado. No copyright infringement intended.

Author's Note: The chapter titles come from the poem Eldorado, written by Edgar Allan Poe.

XXX

Chapter Two: He Met a Pilgrim Shadow

XXX

Four days went by and Chuck could feel the tension growing within the town. Everyone was talking about the war between the Walkers and Daniel Shaw. Casey organized nightly patrols, walking the streets to make sure the town stayed safe.

The day after Casey and Chuck arrived in El Dorado, Ty Bennett and his men rode into town to join Daniel Shaw. Morgan, who was a living grapevine, told Chuck about Bennett. He had served in a black regiment during the War, and then had been a Buffalo soldier. "But something happened-no one really knows what-and he got kicked out. Then he started working as a gunslinger, traveling all over. He's really good. As good as Casey."

"That's what Bennett said," Chuck said, standing with Morgan on the small front porch of the sheriff's office as twilight fell over El Dorado. "That he'd never seen anyone as fast as he is, until he saw Casey."

"Good thing, too," Morgan said, sounding a bit glum. "With how the sheriff's doing . . ."

Chuck winced. Sheriff Beckman hadn't taken kindly to the sobering cure. Even though he had warned her, she insisted on drinking. Even though it always lead to her getting sick, she kept throwing back whiskey.

"She's gotta figure it out," Chuck said, trying to be optimistic. "I've told her that drinking leads to puking, and she can see it for herself. She's just stubborn."

"That's putting it mildly," Morgan said. "She's famous for how mule-headed she is."

"Well, we've just gotta wait her out."

Morgan looked dubious. Chuck shrugged his shoulders and turned to watch the dusty streets.

"At least we've got you and Casey to help with patrols," Morgan said. "Makes it a lot easier. And the word's gettin' out that the sheriff has help."

"Yeah?" Chuck asked.

The bearded man nodded. "Oh, yeah. I mean, between me and Miss Gertrude, everyone knows what's going on. Everyone feels better knowin' that John Casey's here to help. And you, too, Chuck, of course."

"Oh, is that so?" Chuck asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Well, most people, they think you're really young. And pretty green. But I told 'em about how good you are with a knife, and that you're the one soberin' up the sheriff, and they got more positive."

He sighed as Morgan turned and stepped into the jail. Everything Morgan said was right. He was young and green, at least compared to Casey who radiated confidence and know-how. Even Morgan knew more about keeping the peace than he did. Chuck had asked Casey for help, for advice, but he'd brushed him off. Told him to practice shooting and the rest would come if he kept his eyes open and his mouth shut.

Chuck squared his shoulders. He knew that there was some truth in what Casey said. He just had to get more observant. He'd have to start looking at things more carefully.

Morgan came out, fastening his gun belt tighter around his waist. "Casey said you and me should do the first sweep."

"Right, buddy," Chuck said. He reached into the office and got his hat, mashing it down on his head.

"You need a bigger hat, Chuck," Morgan said.

"I know," he said, looking down at Morgan. "But this hat was my dad's. He left it behind when he went after my mother."

Morgan nodded, not needing any more explanation. As they stepped off the porch and started walking, Chuck had to admit he was grateful for finding a friend like Morgan.

XXX

Chuck followed Morgan into the jail after their patrol, taking a seat in one of the chairs by the stove. Casey was sitting at the sheriff's desk, one of his guns spread out in front of him as he cleaned it. He spent most of his free time cleaning his guns. And if he wasn't cleaning a gun, he was eating.

Miss Gertrude stopped by pretty much every day, bringing a basket of food for them all. Although so far, no one but Casey had gotten much of the food. Morgan assured Chuck that this was no great loss, as Miss Gertrude and her cook were both "awful-really awful. But no one goes to Miss Gertrude's for the food. They go for other things. Like the liquor, and seeing how she treats drunks."

Once he met Miss Gertrude, Chuck understood what Morgan had been talking about. She was tall, imposing, and downright intimidating. She was tough as nails and very savvy, and she seemed like the perfect match for Casey. Neither of them were the sentimental type, and whenever they were together, Chuck just sat back and watched. He was afraid if he said anything or made himself obvious, one of them would shoot him.

It was almost fun to see Casey straighten up when Miss Gertrude came into the jail. Casey was already very manly, but whenever Miss Gertrude was present, he became an even manlier man. His voice got deeper, he stood up straighter, and Chuck was convinced his muscles got bigger.

Watching them together, it made Chuck feel a bit wistful. The story of his life seemed to be watching other happy couples. First Ellie and her fiancee, then the couples he'd seen on his travels, and now Casey and Miss Gertrude. The closest he'd come to romance was watching Jill Roberts in church, but she had never noticed him.

Was he ever going to find love himself?

"Look alive, Bartowski."

At the sound of Miss Gertrude's voice, Chuck looked up and saw her holding a basket of food. "Got some sandwiches here, if you're interested."

How could anyone screw up a sandwich? Chuck nodded and took one, only to discover that it was possible to not get a sandwich right. But somehow, he managed to get down the stale bread, greasy meat, and strange tangy spread.

"How's Diane?" Miss Gertrude asked Casey as she leaned against the edge of the sheriff's desk.

"You can ask her yourself," Sheriff Beckman said, walking slowly out of the jail's anteroom. She swiped a sandwich from the basket of food and took a large bite.

The sheriff still looked pretty bad, Chuck thought privately. Although she hadn't drunk anything today, as far as he knew, so that was a good thing.

"You look like crap, Diane," Miss Gertrude said. "You think your boy woulda wanted you to act like this?"

Chuck sat up in his chair. This was something. No one had ever mentioned the sheriff's dead son in her hearing. Everyone avoided talking about, for fear of what Beckman would do.

The sheriff harrumphed. "Sensitive as always, Gertie."

Miss Gertrude narrowed her eyes. "You know that no one is allowed to call me that."

"Make me stop, then," the shorter woman challenged, taking another bite of her sandwich.

"Ladies, ladies!" Morgan said, standing between the sheriff and the saloon-keeper. "No need to fight. Sheriff, you're looking great-you've got roses in your cheeks. And Miss Gertrude, my, these sandwiches are mighty tasty."

Both women rolled their eyes, practically in unison. How did women do that, Chuck wondered.

"Grimes, stop sucking up."

"Morgan, you lie worse than Bartowski."

Beckman looked around the room. "Who the hell's Bartowski?"

Chuck lifted his hand in the air. "Me. That's me, Sheriff Beckman. Chuck Bartowski? We met the other day? And . . . and every other day?"

Beckman's face was blank. She looked over at Casey. "You vouch for this fellow, Casey?"

The other man shrugged. "Fellow can't shoot at all. But he's not bad with a knife, and he's here, after all, even with what's goin' on with Shaw."

"Hell," said Beckman. "Guess we gotta do somethin' about that."

"It is kinda our jobs," Morgan said.

"Ain't my job," Casey said. "I'm just passin' through."

Miss Gertrude snorted. "You should just go ahead and deputize him, Diane. Him and Bartowski. Might as well make it official."

"But there's something to be said for keeping it unofficial," Chuck said. Him, a deputy? He didn't even know how to shoot, like Casey said!

Beckman looked at Miss Gertrude, then shrugged. "Aw, we'll figure it out. Besides, if they wanna put on a tin star an' give outlaws somethin' to aim at, it's their funeral."

Morgan's eyes widened, as if he'd never realized that unknown purpose to his deputy's star. And Chuck resolved that he wouldn't become a deputy.

XXX

Saturday dawned bright and hot. When Chuck woke up on his cot in the sheriff's office, he opened his eyes and saw Casey staring down at him. Chuck jerked up. "Casey!" he bleated. "What is it?"

"Get moving, kid," Casey said. "We need to be out on the streets. Word is the Walkers are comin' into town today. Gotta make sure no trouble gets started."

"I thought you didn't want to be a deputy," Chuck said, trying to untangle himself from the blanket that had gotten wrapped around his legs in his sleep.

"I ain't," Casey said. "Doesn't mean I wanna see things go to hell 'round here."

Chuck supposed that made sense. He finally got free and stood up, stretching a bit. "So what's the plan?"

"Gonna make a loop between Granger's store, the hardware store, and Gertrude's," Casey said.

"Any of these places have coffee?" Chuck asked, holding back a yawn.

Casey shoved a mug into his hand. "Drink fast."

With a sigh, Chuck downed the lukewarm, bitter brew. He missed breakfast. Sitting around, talking about what the day would hold, greeting the day with enthusiasm while eating flapjacks and salt pork. He guessed there wouldn't be any of that in his future, not any time soon.

Picking up his hat, Chuck followed Casey out onto the street. He squinted against the bright light, noticing there seemed to be a few more wagons then there had been last week. Perhaps people had some hope that the war between Daniel Shaw and the Walkers wouldn't happen, thanks to Casey.

When they stepped into Granger's General Store, Chuck shook his head, trying to adjust to the dim light. He noted that things seemed pretty busy. Several ladies, wearing bonnets and carrying children, clustered around the counters. There was a low hum of feminine voices, with the louder pitch of Mr. Granger and his two male assistants cutting through the buzz.

As he swept his eyes over everything, Chuck tried to improve his powers of observation. Casey must have thought there wasn't anything worth noticing, because after looking around the room, he turned towards the store's exit. Just as he reached it, a man opened the door and stepped inside.

The stranger was well-dressed, wearing an immaculate black suit that didn't show any signs of dust. He looked like he was between Chuck and Casey in age, his dark hair showing no signs of gray. Chuck's eyebrows lifted when he noticed the man didn't have a gun, unlike pretty much every other man in El Dorado.

"Shaw," Casey said, his voice low.

"Why, it's the famous John Casey," said the man who must be Daniel Shaw. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Casey."

Casey ignored the social niceties like responding to Shaw's greeting or shaking his outstretched hand. "Awful brave of you, walkin' around with no gun. Still hirin' it out?"

"Mr. Bennett's otherwise occupied. I'll let your old instructor know you asked after him. He is your former teacher, isn't he?" Daniel Shaw's voice was silky, perfectly measured and unruffled. It was creepy, Chuck thought. He was like the automatons that Chuck had read about: machines that looked like people and tried to act like them, too. "And I don't think I need a gun just to visit the local general store, do I? We're all law-abiding, God-fearing folk here in El Dorado. Or, at least, we used to be."

Casey grunted. Chuck stepped closer, trying to hear more. Casey had been taught by Bennett? That was a new and slightly worrying wrinkle to this whole affair.

"Who's your friend, Mr. Casey?" Without waiting for an introduction, Shaw held his hand out to Chuck. "I'm Daniel Shaw. Pleased to meet you, Mister . . . ?"

"Chuck Bartowski," he said, shaking Shaw's hand quickly. It was awfully smooth for a man's hand. He let go of it quickly.

Shaw looked back and forth between Casey and Chuck. "The cycle continues, I see. Mr. Casey has to go face to face with his master, all the while teaching his own student. It will be interesting to see whose methods succeed." With a tip of his hat, Shaw moved into the general store.

"Easterner," Casey grunted, making it sound like an even bigger insult. He pushed his way out of the store and out onto the street. Chuck hurried after him.

"Casey-Casey, what Shaw said . . . was Ty Bennett your teacher?"

"Yep," Casey said, his eyes scanning the street.

Chuck stared at the other man. "Why haven't you told anyone?"

"Ain't anyone's business, is it? And how d'you think people would take it, hearin' I've gotta go up against my teacher?"

"It'd be bad." Chuck had to agree with Casey on that.

Casey looked at him as if he'd just said water was wet. "Yeah." He turned and started walking down the street, towards a collection of mounted riders around a wagon. Casey nodded towards a late middle-aged man on one of the horses. "Walker."

So that must be Jack Walker, Chuck thought. He had a smooth look about him, like he could sell ice to Eskimos. But he also had a weatherbeaten face, worn hands, and sat his horse like a real cowboy. He seemed trusthworthy to Chuck.

The man made a salute by touching two fingers to the brim of his hat. "Morning, Casey. Any trouble around?"

"Nope, unless you folks go to the general store."

Mr. Walker nodded. "Understood." He turned to the women in the wagon. "Ladies, why don't you do your visiting, then we'll stop by the general store on the way outta town. Adam, Matt, you go with 'em. Rest of you, let's go take a look at that horseflesh."

Chuck watched as the Walker party broke up into two smaller groups and went on their way. Casey grunted.

"Jack Walker's the smoothest con man around."

"Con man?" Chuck asked as they started walking towards Miss Gertrude's.

"Half his land he got by snookering people. Convincing them that it was to their advantage to sell. Other half, he won in poker games."

Chuck frowned. "But he's the good guy in all this?"

Casey looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Walker only went after the people that shoulda known better. Not our place to protect the stupid."

"But . . ."

"Shaw's already tried all the legal ways to get Walker's water rights. Now he's movin' on to the ones that ain't so fair and legal," Casey said. "Walker, though, if he couldn't talk someone into selling, he gave up. He was doin' us all a favor, weeding out the greenhorns who weren't gonna make it."

Chuck thought this over as they kept patrolling. To his mind, it seemed that both Shaw and Walker were in the wrong, even if Shaw was more wrong than Walker. But maybe that's what being a lawman was all about: figuring out who was the most wrong, the most dangerous.

"Either way, gonna need plenty of patrols tonight," Casey said. "Shaw won't be alone-he'll have brought his men in, and probably paid 'em too. That means drinking."

Chuck nodded. "Yeah. Do you think anything might happen to the Walkers?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Casey said.

XXX

By the time evening rolled around, Chuck was already feeling the increased workload. Sheriff Beckman and her deputies, official and otherwise, had broken up two fights and looked into several thefts and petty crimes. The town felt like a powder keg, ready to go off with the slightest spark.

He slumped down in a chair, yawning. "Is this normal?"

Morgan shook his head. "Nope. Town's too riled up. People who normally wouldn't try anything feel like they can get away with it, since there's the range war goin' on."

Casey nodded. "Yep. Get plenty of coffee-it's gonna be a long night."

Morgan started filling cups of coffee and passing them around. He looked at Casey. "How's the sheriff doing?"

"She ain't done any drinkin' today. Seems like she got the message."

Chuck grinned. "Knew that no one was that stubborn."

"Speak for yourself," Beckman said, coming out of the anteroom. She was definitely looking better, Chuck thought. Her face had a bit more color, and she was moving and talking with more vigor. So even though she couldn't seem to remember his name, Chuck was glad that the cure seemed to have worked.

The sheriff looked at Casey. "We ready to go?"

Casey nodded. "Yep. Long as Bartowski doesn't fall asleep on us."

"I'm up!" Chuck protested, just fighting back a yawn.

"Look alive, man," Beckman said tartly. She turned towards the gun rack on the wall, taking down a rifle to go with the revolvers strapped to her hips. She was loading it when everyone in the jail heard the sound of gunfire.

Chuck jumped to his feet, but Casey and Beckman were already out the door by the time he reached it. With Morgan, he ran after the sheriff and Casey, who were heading down the street towards the less-nice saloons.

In the middle of the street were a knot of people, surrounding a man who was laying on the ground. Chuck felt his heart in his throat. Was the man dead?

When he reached the group, he drew in a breath in relief. The man only had a shoulder wound, and although there was a lot of blood-blood that Chuck was trying not to look at-he seemed okay.

"What happened, Adam?" the sheriff asked, and Chuck realized that the two of the men were Walkers. He'd seen them this morning, escorting their women on their visits.

"We were walkin' out of the saloon," Adam began. "Three men came up behind us, and they started makin' fun of Matt. Then one of 'em grabbed my gun. Matt turned around, and they shot him. Then they ran away."

"You get a look at 'em?" Casey asked gruffly.

Adam shrugged. "One was tall, one was short, and one was pretty fat."

"Which way did they go?" Beckman asked.

"Down that way," Adam said, pointing further down the street.

Beckman and Casey exchanged glances, then stepped aside as the town doctor and a few women came forward. Chuck stayed still, watching the doctor work and the locals talk quietly about the range war.

"Bartowski, Grimes, get over here."

Chuck looked up from the Walkers and moved over to join Casey and Beckman. Casey spoke softly. "Looks like the men who did this went over to Miller's Saloon. That's where Shaw's men drink. Seems like these men were hired by Shaw."

"So-so what are we gonna do?" Chuck asked, feeling nervous.

"Arrest those men. Find out who hired 'em. And arrest him." Beckman's plan was simple and precise.

"Right," Chuck said. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his pants.

"Casey, you and these two will go in the back way. I'll go in the front," Beckman said.

"Are you sure about that, Sheriff?" Morgan asked, sounding worried.

Beckman glared at him and turned on her heel, heading towards the saloon.

Morgan looked at Casey. Casey shrugged. "They've been laughin' at her for months. And she knows that now. She needs to show 'em that she's not a joke." With that, Casey started following Beckman down the street.

Chuck walked with Morgan in Casey's wake. He looked at the bearded deputy. "Don't worry. We'll be there to back her up."

"Yeah . . . yeah, you're right." Morgan seemed to have some extra courage now.

As Chuck took up his position with Morgan and Casey in the back room of Miller's Saloon, he hoped he hadn't been lying.

XXX

Chuck ran out of the old church, following one of the three men they were chasing. They had attempted to arrest the three men in Miller's, but they had hightailed it out of the saloon and headed towards the nearby church. Beckman had lead the deputies into the church, guns blazing. One of the men, the fat one, hadn't made it to cover before a shot from Casey took him down.

He crouched in the back of the church with Morgan, doing his best to not get shot. Midway through the gun battle, he saw the short man scamper out the back door of the church. Casey and Beckman were pinned down, and Casey nodded to him. So Chuck had made his way to the door as fast as he could and followed the man.

He caught sight of the man, short and slim with a dark complexion, as he ran down the street. Chuck clutched his gun, readying himself. Then, he fired.

The recoil knocked him back, nearly sending him to the ground. He blinked, trying to see through the smoke that hung in the air after his gunfire.

So . . . he had shot a sign. It looked like the sign had at least hit the man, but . . . but he'd shot a sign.

Casey was gonna love that, he thought with a sigh.

Fortunately, when Casey, Beckman and Morgan arrived, they were too occupied with finding out what happened to the man for Casey to rib him much. The tall man and the fat man were both dead, Morgan whispered to Chuck.

It seemed that someone had winged the man that Chuck had chased, since there was a blood trail from the spot where the sign had hit him.

With the blood trail, it was easy for them to follow the man to another saloon. He idly wondered just how many saloons a small town needed. This was the third one he knew about, and they all seemed pretty much the same. Sure, Miss Gertrude's place was nicer, but it was still a place to drink bad liquor. Chuck shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside. He had to focus.

This time, Chuck accompanied the sheriff by going in the front door, while Casey and Morgan took the back. Beckman walked in, acting like she owned the place. Chuck tried not to give away what he was feeling when he saw who was sitting right in the middle of the saloon: Daniel Shaw and Ty Bennett.

With the entrance of the sheriff, the piano player stopped playing and edged away from the instrument. The conversations in the room died, creating a heavy silence until broken by Beckman.

"A man ran in here. Short, dark complexion, wounded," Beckman said, her eyes running over the assembled men.

"Nobody ran in here," said the man sitting to Shaw's right.

"That so?" Beckman said. "Then why's there a trail of blood leadin' up to your table?"

The man who spoke stayed silent at that. Beckman looked at Shaw and Bennett. "The man we're chasin', he was involved in a shooting earlier tonight. Winged one of Jack Walker's sons."

"Really?" Shaw asked, sounding shocked. "How unfortunate. It's a shame El Dorado doesn't have lawmen that can keep us all safe."

Beckman gave Shaw a look that only a woman could pull off: a look that seemed to ask a man what the hell was he trying to pull.

"Martin?" Beckman called out, looking over at the piano player. "You seem awful anxious to get away from that piano."

"Um . . ." said the small, twitchy man, speaking with a British accent. "No-no reason, Sheriff."

"Well, you wanna get away, then move!" she said, raising her gun and shooting at the piano.

Chuck knew his eyes had become as big as silver dollars. What the hell? Was craziness some weird side effect of getting sober for the sheriff?

Beckman took a few steps closer to the piano. "Move!" she shouted, firing again.

Martin threw himself to the floor and crawled away as Beckman fired a third shot. To Chuck's surprise, he saw the piano get pushed away from the wall and the short man move out from behind it, bleeding heavily. He slumped down on the floor, and Beckman turned to Shaw's table.

"So no one came in here, huh?" she asked, pinning the men with a glare. "Daniel Shaw, I'm arrestin' you for arranging the shootin' of Matt Walker."

Almost faster than Chuck could see it, Ty Bennett reached for his gun. But a loud crash from the back of the saloon stopped him.

"I wouldn't do it, friend," Casey said, stepping out of the back room followed by Morgan.

Shaw slowly stood up, his smooth mask not able to conceal his anger. "You gonna just sit there, Bennett?"

Chuck saw Bennett sweep his eyes around, taking in the guns pointed at the table, and then he looked at his boss and shrugged.

"I'll pay you a thousand dollars when you get me out of jail," Shaw hissed.

"Enough of that, Shaw," Beckman said. She gripped one of his arms, her gun pointing at him. She lead him out of the saloon, Casey taking up position in front of them. Morgan and Chuck brought up the rear, Chuck sweeping his eyes around.

When he saw moonlight glinting off the gun barrel, sticking out from a window in an old barn, Chuck almost groaned. Someone wanted to take a shot at them? He didn't know who was aiming at them, or who they were aiming at. The last thing he wanted to do was bother Casey and the sheriff right now.

Once they got into the jail, Casey and Beckman lead Shaw to a cell and locked him up. Chuck peeked out through one of the front windows, confirming that the gunman was still in the barn across the street.

He turned to Morgan. "There's someone across the street who had a gun on us. I'm gonna check it out."

"You sure, Chuck?" Morgan asked, sounding anxious.

Chuck smiled at him. "I'll be fine."

XXX

Chuck stepped out the front door, moving quickly to cross the porch and enter the alley that ran alongside the jail. He looped through back yards and alleys, making his way to the barn. Fortunately, it wasn't very well-built; there were plenty of gaps between the boards allowing him to see inside.

The gunman was still there. He was pretty slim-looking, about eight inches shorter than Chuck. He couldn't see many more details about the fellow, beyond the well-used rifle he was carrying.

When he found the back door to the barn, Chuck weighed his options. He could just let this go, or he could confront the gunman, try and figure out what was going on.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Chuck eased open the door, grateful that the hinges didn't squeak. He moved as slowly as he could, thinking back to the time Devon had tried to teach him how to hunt rabbits. The key was not lifting up your feet, but sliding them over the ground, in order to not spook the rabbits. Chuck had done okay at that part-it was killing the rabbits that hadn't gone so well.

Once he was fully inside the barn, he searched for some way to approach the gunman and not get shot for his troubles. Chuck wanted to get the gunman's firearm away from him before they started talking. His eyes fell on a high shelf, lined with old bottles and tin cups. Perhaps Chuck just needed to distract him for a minute, and then he could take the gunman's weapon.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up one of the cups and tossed it towards the gunman's left. At the sound of metal hitting wood, the gunman turned, his gun up and his back to Chuck.

That was his opening. Chuck ran forward and grabbed the man around his waist. The gun went flying out of the man's hands as Chuck wrestled him to the straw-covered floor. The gunman's hat fell off, revealing a tangled mess of long blonde hair.

"Hey-you're a girl!" Chuck gasped as he tried to get the gunman-gunwoman?-under his control.

"'Course I'm a girl!" she hissed. She kicked and squirmed, trying to get out of his grasp, but somehow, Chuck managed to pin her to the floor, straddling her waist and holding her hands down.

His face was only a foot from hers, revealing that the mysterious shooter was actually more of a woman than a girl. She looked about the same age as him, and there was something about her face-the big blue eyes that were full of anger, the clenched jaw covered in pale, smooth skin-that caused Chuck's heart skip a beat.

He swallowed. "Okay, okay. You wanna tell me why you had a gun on me and the sheriff and the rest of us?"

"I was after Shaw," she said, her voice firm. "But you all were so close around him I couldn't get a clear shot."

Huh. She wanted to shoot Shaw?

"What's your name?" he asked, the pieces starting to fall into place.

"Sarah Walker," she said, wiggling her hands a little in his grasp. "You gonna let me up?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he was comfortable right where he was, but he thought that discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this instance. So he got up and held a hand out to her. Ignoring his hand, Sarah Walker rose to her feet and started brushing the straw off her clothes.

Chuck shook his head. "I guess you've got a reason to want to take out Daniel Shaw," he admitted.

"Gee, thanks," she said, glancing at him.

So this was Wildcat Walker. She didn't fit in with the mental image he'd come up with. He'd imagined someone with short hair, large muscles, maybe a scar on her face: obvious things that marked her as different. But Sarah Walker looked very normal. More than normal-attractive, in a strong, fearless kind of way.

"I'm on your side here," he reminded her. "There's no need to be so . . . testy."

She arched an eyebrow, then sighed. "You're right. But I take care of my brothers. I always have. And Shaw-the sheriff's not gonna be able to hold him."

"I've been surprised by the sheriff," Chuck said. "She might surprise you."

Sarah let out a pft of disbelief, then eyed him, measuring him up. Chuck had the feeling that he was found wanting in her eyes, because her next words were, "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh!" Chuck held his hand out to her. "Chuck Bartowski."

There was a strange expression on her face as she shook his hand quickly. Like she didn't understand him. "The new deputy. The one that's good with a knife."

"That's me, although I'm not a deputy. Not officially," Chuck said.

"You'd look better with shorter hair."

"You were doing so well until that," Chuck said, leaning down and picking up his hat and her gun. "C'mon."

"My gun?" she asked, holding her hand out.

"Oh, no. First, we're going to the sheriff's, find someone to confirm who you are."

"I told you who I am," she said, a touch petulantly. It was not cute, Chuck told himself. Not cute at all.

"Yeah, well, you insulted my hair. I take that personally. Lifetime of kids teasin' you about something will do that," he said, taking her elbow and leading her towards the jail.

"I'm not saying cut it all off. Just get a trim. You do realize the curls make funny animal shapes, and while it's kinda cute, it's also not exactly intimidating."

He looked down at her, feeling very confused. She definitely wasn't what he expected. She had smarts, with the way she kept surprising him. Most men wouldn't be able to see her appeal past her clothes. But even dressed in dirty trousers and an old leather jacket, he could see that she was pretty. Sarah Walker was intriguing. He wanted to learn more about her. But how to do it? Even now, he could feel her tugging her elbow, trying to get out of his grip. Her nickname was pretty apt.

Well, he was a smart man. He could figure out a way. Because wildcat or not, Sarah Walker was someone he wanted to get to know.

End, Chapter Two

Author's Note Two: I'm having a great time writing this story, so I hope you're enjoying it! Get ready for a surprising revelation in the next chapter, and some definite romance. Also, you get a cookie if you know who the three gunman were.