Disclaimer: I own very little, especially not CSI NY.

Author: Lily Moonlight

Notes: Thank you very much for reviews, please continue! They're a great help and I love knowing what you think. Thanks to Ballettmaus for all her help, and to Blue Shadowdancer and Sarramaks for reading and commenting on early drafts. Thanks also to cmaddict, Brinchen86, iluvCSI4ever and DNAisunique for discussions and to everyone who has been kind enough to encourage me to post this, I really appreciate it. And seeing as it's been ages and ages since this was updated (I'm sorry) I have written a very short extra story set in Hattanville, which I will send to all reviewers in a review reply. Thanks to suallenparker for letting me use her idea for doing this.

NB This chapter gets a bit darker than previous ones. There are also probably far too many references to Hamlet...

Once Upon A Time In the Old West

Chapter 21: The Wild Bunch

Sid:

To die, to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream...

And from a sleep filled with dreams, that I must own held the shadows of death in them, I wake suddenly, and sit, as the saying goes, bolt upright in bed. Gasping for breath and feeling a cold sheen of perspiration over me, I find myself seized with a sudden horror that I had fallen into the endless sleep of death, and it takes me a moment to compose myself, and convince that I am in fact alive, and not dead. It is unlikely, that, were I dead, I would be still sitting up in my own bed, facing the boot button eyes of my dear Martha's rag doll that sits on the top of the dressing table. A doll that I find has a most disconcerting stare.

Regardless, for some reason I cannot fathom, I tossed and turned restlessly all night. Usually I'm a man who sleeps soundly, untroubled by dreams. So soundly in fact that my dear Martha has remarked upon this on more than one occasion, telling me I sleep more soundly than the dead. This remark is usually made to me when she has been attempting to rouse me of a morning to come downstairs and eat the breakfast that she has prepared for me. A breakfast that, more often than not, has also been prepared for Mr Flack, and so I have learned from experience to be hasty indeed in waking and taking myself downstairs to snatch a few crumbs from the table before Hattanville's Deputy has eaten every last one.

But even as I'm lying here, glad of the warm blankets around me, I'm troubled by a feeling of foreboding. Looking around me, even though without my spectacles my sight is a little blurred, I can see nothing out of place, no sign in the house that anything is amiss, and yet, and yet...

Now, a man in my profession might well be expected to have thoughts of death, and it is certainly a subject that during my life, I have mused upon intently and found fascinating, but this morning, sitting up in bed, feeling my heart gradually return to its regular beat as I watch the pale light of dawn through the window, I am filled with thoughts of wrongful deaths and souls who have departed this life troubled in heart and mind, those who have gone to their eternal sleep not at peace with the world. And I am not a man who believes in ghosts, as I remarked to Mr Flack only two days ago.

Like the sweet prince of Mr Shakespeare's play, a man most sorely troubled by ghosts it must be acknowledged, I hope to have someone to wish me goodnight when my time comes. And should I chance to dream when my great sleep comes, I hope to dream of the happiness in my life, and the woman who has given me my greatest happiness. My dear Martha.

What calms my heart a little more is the knowledge that she is asleep safe and sound next to me now. Lying, as always, curled up on her side; she is turned towards me and in slumber resembles a rather plump dormouse. Mr Flack is not the only one who enjoys her cooking; she is often to be found sampling the items she has made, despite her occasional complaints to me that her clothes seem to have shrunk in her launderings of them.

"Oh, Martha," I sigh and sweep a lock of hair out of her face. She purses her lips and murmurs something incoherent, no doubt dreaming as I believe she often does, of all the chores she occupies herself with. It's true to say that I would not be the man I am today without my dear wife at my side. I would be the first to admit to undertaking some rather wild schemes in the past, but she keeps them from becoming fatal. And though I may be accused of sentimentality, I will attest that the day I met her in that wild and romantic corner of England is a day most dear to my heart, and a day I count myself to have been blessed. We may disagree now and again, but our arguments have never been long-lived.

She is most helpful in the task of comforting the families of the dear departed, and takes care of the stomachs of many folks in town, most importantly, Mr Flack's. And if her concern for others perhaps slips over on occasion into, dare I say it, interfering a little, then it is all done with the best intentions.

Yes indeed, we make quite the partnership and complement each other well. There are not many couples who can truly say that, perhaps the only other couples I know who can are Mr Messer and Miss Monroe, and most especially, Hattanville's Sheriff and his beloved Saloon Owner. Taylor and dear Miss Stella are two halves of one whole it seems, and it would be difficult to imagine one without the other. As I cannot even begin to imagine my life without Martha; for almost thirty years she has shared it, and I hope that we have many more to come before we are called to wherever we are called to at the end of our lives.

Something of a feeling of reassurance settles over me then and the wisps of my nightmares start to fade away. Maybe I should go downstairs to start preparations for breakfast myself? On second thoughts, that might not be quite the thing. Having attempted on one occasion to surprise Martha with breakfast made in my own style, I ended up in a sad situation indeed. It would be the truth to say that we are fortunate to still own a kitchen after I did some experimentation in the poaching of eggs. Seems paraffin is not the thing to use to encourage a fire, at least not in the quantity I used, and not in a small domestic fire. I faced Martha's wrath in a quite terrifying display that day. Even more terrifying than the sight of the conflagration I had caused. Perhaps a certain possessiveness with regard to her kitchen is a tiny fault of hers also...

It is probably best then if I settle back down for another hour's sleep, so I'm fresh and rested to face the day, and whatever it holds for us. At least all the citizens of Hattanville are once again safely accounted for. Maybe Taylor will want me to continue my research, I certainly want to do everything I can to assist the town and prevent its destruction at the hands of this most pernicious Railroad Company. With that thought, and my mind a little more at ease, I lie back against the pillows, close my eyes and prepare to fall back to sleep.

Except the moment I close my eyes, I am jerked awake by a sound that drives fear into my heart and wakes me up faster than anything else.

Gunshots

Three shots in quick succession. And then silence. A terrible silence. It jerks me upright in bed, and suddenly I cannot catch my breath, it's choked in my lungs, and a feeling of dread is clutching at me. That is not a sound that should be heard at this time of day, not unless something is badly wrong!

"Sidney!" Martha, come to life beside me, grasps my arm and her eyes are wide as any remnants of sleep disappear rapidly from her. "Tell me I didn't just hear what I thought I did!"

"Martha, my dear..." I swallow and blink at her, trying to find some words of reassurance. "I'm afraid that what you thought you heard was likely the truth."

She turns pale and her eyes widen. "Shots fired! My love, there shouldn't be shots fired in Hattanville at this time of the morning..."

"Exactly my thoughts, my dear," I tell her as I'm already swinging my legs out of bed and fumbling for my spectacles on the bedside table. Seems to take me an age to find them, but I do, finally and put them on and welcome the room coming into focus.

Martha is also heaving herself out of bed, and stands opposite me in her rather voluminous nightdress, looking at me with an expression of fear.

"What if someone's hurt, Sidney? We must wake Doctor Hawkes, straight away!"

"It's likely he will have heard the shots himself," I tell her as I dress as quickly as I can, not caring about how I look. I don't even stop to remove my nightshirt, instead my shirt and trousers are pulled on over it, knowing that will give me some extra warmth on this cold morning. Martha still looks worried, so I hasten to offer a solution. "I will go and call on him, but I think the sound was loud enough to have woken the whole of Hattanville,"

She nods fearfully and looks about her for her dress.

"Over on the chair my dear," I point it out to her and she grabs it and drags it over her head. Normally a lady who takes much care in her presentation, and in mine, at this moment Martha does not care a jot about what she or I look like.

My jacket is the last garment I put on, with an eye to the bitterly cold weather, and as I button it up, I raise the curtain to cast a glance out into the street.

All along Main Street I can see curtains twitching and windows being opened. Seems as if we were not the only ones to be woken. As yet though, I can see no sign of where the shots may have come from, and no one is visible outdoors.

Upon leaving our bedroom, we run straight into Miss Higgins who has come rushing out of her room, her hair loose round her shoulders and her pistol held out in front of her.

"Y'all all right?" she asks us breathlessly, her cheeks pink and her eyes a little startled. "Heard shots and feared the worst. Y'all gonna go see what's happenin'?"

"That we are," I tell her, and with a decisive nod, she joins us.

"Then I'm comin' with you. Ain't gonna be hearin' gunshots and stayin' cowerin' in my room. If folks are in trouble, then I wanna be offerin' help."

"There speaks a girl after my own heart, my dear," I say as we move quickly to the stairs.

Making sure Martha is behind me, we hurry downstairs and stopping only to throw our coats over our shoulders, we leave the house, Miss Higgins leading the way. It seems indeed, I pause to consider for the merest second, that she is almost recklessly eager to be hunting down the source of trouble. Seems to be something she shares with many of the women of this town.

But this is not the time to be light-hearted, because running through my mind is the dire thought that my dreams of darkness were a foreshadowing of death visiting the town.

The snow has settled overnight and the sky is clear, but it's left an iron hard frost on the town. We hasten onto the street just as more folk emerge from their houses, all of them looking as hastily dressed as Martha and I, and there are some interesting sights to be seen. Mrs Wildman, closely following Doctor Hawkes, seems to have thrown one of the good Doctor's coats over her shawl and nightdress and has neglected to remove the curl papers from her hair, and Daniel Messer appears to have forgotten to put on his boots as he comes hopping out into the snow.

There's no more time though to marvel at such sights as it seems as if the whole of Hattanville has come flooding into Main Street. Miss Higgins runs over to the good Doctor, and Miss Monroe who appears from her doorway with a blanket over her dress catches the arm of her fiancée and lends him some assistance in walking.

Our natural progression is towards the Sheriff's Office at the end of Main Street, always the place to go in times of trouble, closely followed of course by the surgery of Doctor Hawkes, but as we move en masse, it becomes strangely apparent that there is no sign of Taylor, Mr Flack or Miss Stella. Which strikes me as most unusual, and most concerning too. Those three are usually the first people at the scene of any trouble, especially trouble involving shots being fired. I see Miss Angell and her family hurrying at the side of us, and the young lady has a most worried look on her face, and from that I draw the conclusion that she is also missing the presence of her young man.

It does not take many minutes for us to reach the Sheriff's Office, where we are met with nothing but a mass of footprints in the snow. Indeed it is considerably churned up, and a feeling of dread begins to creep through me at what that suggests. There is silence too, no sign of anyone and all of us stop and stand there, unsure of suddenly of what to do. All of us know that something is very wrong, and that the silence and the stillness are concealing it from us, for the moment.

That moment, however, does not last as the door to the office creaks open and a figure emerges, flanked by six other men, all armed, all with cruel intentions in their faces, and, I do not think I exaggerate in this, all with a look of death in their eyes. A gasp ripples through the crowd and the dread that has been creeping up on me, now seizes me by the throat. I suddenly and most dreadfully fear the worst for the Sheriff, Miss Stella and Mr Flack; and fear that something rotten indeed has come to the town of Hattanville.

That fear only increases as the first man makes his way down the steps and struts forward to meet us, his thumbs hooked in his pockets and a swagger in his step that disgusts me to see it. Tall and skinny, with greasy dirt-brown hair that hangs below his hat brim, he wears even blacker clothing than Taylor does, including a leather coat that swirls and flaps around him like Death's dark garb. His companions fan out behind him and pistols are pulled and aimed at the crowd. Then, stepping forward, he spits out a stream of tobacco juice that stains the snow and turns to us, grinning cadaverously.

"Well now, looks like we got the drop on all of you, don't it? So now we got a whole bunch of people joinin' the party. Ain't that sweet, men?" He turns to the bunch of outlaws surrounding him and is answered with a disharmonious chorus of jeers and laughter. Turning back to us, his grin now ruthless and cold, he unhooks his thumbs from his pockets, showing us clearly the pistols and bullets in his belt.

"Gunshots wake you all up, did they?" he asks and stares round at us all with a sneer. "Guess you're all mebbe wonderin' where your Sheriff and Deputy and the pretty lady who was accompanyin' them are, hey?" His grin widens as he beckons to one of the men.

"We're gonna show these good people what happens to folk when they go disagreein' with what I gotta say to 'em. Bring 'em out here and show these people we mean business,"

The man nods and makes his way back into the Sheriff's Office.

No one amongst us has dared to speak yet, but our silence is eloquent indeed. Though it pains me to say it, the sight of those pistols has put fear into all of us, and if the fate of Taylor, Miss Stella and Mr Flack is still uncertain, then none of us wish to do anything to antagonise these people. Somehow, it seems they have been overpowered by the gang of outlaws in front of us. All we can hope and pray for is that they have not met their deaths at their hand. The sound of those shots is ringing round and round in my head. Three people, three gunshots. Oh no, no...

And then the door creaks again and a sight most disturbing is revealed. Taylor emerges over the threshold, fury in his face, no doubt due to the fact that his hands are bound behind him and a pistol is held to the back of his head, but at least he is alive and my heart calms a little. He's shoved roughly down the steps and barely manages to keep his balance, before he is seized again by the man marking him and pushed to stand in front of us all. Martha clutches my arm, her nails digging into me, and I hold my hand over hers, knowing that she is desperate to protest at this treatment of Hattanville's Sheriff, but as we are both aware, any protests may do much more harm than good. Miss Stella, also with her hands tied behind her back and a pistol to her head, closely follows Taylor. She at least is treated a little more gently and is allowed to make her own way down the steps before being brought to stand a few feet away from the Sheriff. Her head is held high with defiance, but there is also a glimpse of fear in her eyes as I study her face. She, however, has eyes only for Taylor and I see the look that passes silently between them both and hope that they can gain strength from each other.

My last fears of death are finally laid to rest when Mr Flack is pushed forward out of the Office in the same position as his friends a moment later. But this is a most cruel and humiliating displaying of three of the most esteemed citizens in town! As he is moved forward in no gentle fashion, the barrel of the pistol being pressed cruelly into his skull, there is finally a shout from the crowd.

"Don! Don..." the cry of Miss Jessica Angell though is smothered and I turn to see her mother gripping tight hold of her with her hand firmly over her mouth. I hold my breath and hope desperately that she has not drawn any untoward attention to herself as the leader of the outlaws turns slowly and his gaze flicks over everyone.

"Sure hope that weren't someone about to disagree with us," he drawls and fingers the butt of his pistol. "We ain't men who like bein' disagreed with, as your Sheriff and his pals will confirm."

He sends a mocking grin in the direction of Taylor who meets it with an icy stare, his face immobile, but fury radiating from him. Miss Stella sends him a glare although she says nothing, and Mr Flack's face is grim indeed.

"Bring out our other two friends," the leader calls out and I exchange a puzzled look with Martha as all around us, people do the same. As far as I can tell, from my assessment of who is standing in the crowd, I had noticed no one else missing. Who else could have been taken hostage?

We soon find out as two more figures are manhandled out of the Sheriff's Office, similarly held with hands tied behind their backs and pistols to their heads, and I recognise them as the two men who were responsible for the kidnapping of Miss Monroe and Mr Messer. Both look subdued and frightened with their heads bowed. Mr Messer, of course, immediately recognises his brother and a yell in his distinct voice rises from the crowd.

"Hey! What the hell do you..."

Like Miss Jessica though, he is suppressed, this time by his fiancée as I see Miss Monroe, with a look of terror on her face, dragging him back to her side by his arm.

"Danny, please..." I hear her hiss frantically. She succeeds in silencing him, though his clenched fist remains raised and his face is tightened in anger. It seems fraternal loyalty is deep indeed, considering that only a day ago, he was being held hostage himself, by the brother who has befallen that same fate. I feel a certain, perhaps inappropriate, feeling of irony here.

But I, along with the rest of the crowd, have my attention turned back most hastily to the gang of outlaws and their leader as another shot is fired. My heart pounds and more exclamations arise from my fellow citizens as he lowers his arm and a still-smoking six-shooter, after having sent a bullet up into the atmosphere.

"Guess that got your notice real fast," he sneers. "Maybe that's the only kinda' thing you people are gonna listen to, 'cause your Sheriff here ain't been listenin' so far when I tell him this ain't his town anymore..."

"That's 'cause it ain't and it ain't never gonna be neither!" Taylor retorts and the man holding him shoves the pistol hard into his head, provokin' a hiss of pain from the Sheriff, and an angry exclamation from Miss Stella. The gang leader laughs at both of them and my blood begins to boil.

"See, that's where you got it wrong, Sheriff," he says as he polishes his weapon with his sleeve. "But maybe I oughtta do a bit of explainin' to all you folks so there ain't no misunderstandings between us all. Lou, go fetch the letter."

One of the men hurries back up the steps and into the Sheriff's Office, then re-emerges carrying a piece of paper which he hands to the leader. Silence has fallen again as the man makes a great show of holding the letter up and scanning it with narrowed eyes before he turns to us with his face split into a twisted smile.

"Seems you got an unexpected reply from this Railroad Company that's been threatenin' you. Now that's a real interestin' thing. Bet you weren't thinkin' they'd be replyin' so soon did you, what with all this bad weather we've been havin'? Guess you were suspicious 'bout that too, weren't you, Sheriff?"

Taylor does not deign to reply, merely shooting a glare at him, which leaves no impression on the man in black who gives another laugh and holds the piece of paper up to the crowd.

"Take a look at this, all of you!" he raises his voice. "And listen up good to what I gotta say 'cause this is real important, if you all want to survive till sunset that is."

He pauses to look round at all of us. It seems no one is even moving a muscle and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears as we wait. The pressure of Martha's hand on my arm increases and I am most grateful for it, particularly as I see Mr Sinclair, one of the town's confirmed bachelors, standing by himself. I note that he seems almost frozen in place, and there is what I can only describe as horror in his eyes. A wave of pity washes over for the poor man then, that he has no one to comfort him at this time.

All around us, our fellow citizens are wide-eyed and fearful, their eyes darting between those held hostage and the man standing in front of us; a man who seems to have a liking for the sound of his own voice and a flair for the dramatic.

Having decided he has waited long enough for his words to sink in, he continues. "It may surprise most of you to hear this, but I got some real interestin' information about this supposed Railroad Company..." Again he pauses, and his eyes, I note with some interest, fall on the very man I was considering a few moments before; Mr Brigham Sinclair. A man who seems to be in a state of some distress; his eyes are locked on the man in front of us and his hands are clenched at his side. Even at the distance I am from him, it is clear from his flared nostrils and parted lips that his breathing is rapid and shallow. The poor man seems gripped by terror...

"Real interestin' indeed," the man speaks on and a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. "I also know a whole lot of information about this here letter. You see, I know who wrote it, and I know who wrote the first letter your Sheriff got and all. What do you say to that, hey? Anyone wanna make any remarks yet?"

The breathless silence holds sway over all of us, and as Martha and I look at each other, we are both baffled. How could this brute of a man possibly know anything about the letters Taylor received from the Railroad Company? How?

Unless...

"Glad to hear that none of you do," he sneers. "'Cause I don't like bein' interrupted when I'm addressin' a crowd and revealin' secrets. 'Cause you know, there's someone amongst you all that's holdin' back one hell of a secret. Kinda' secret that makes a man do real rash things. Kinda' secret that gets a man into a whole lotta trouble and debt. Guess you could even say you got a traitor in town."

And with that word, the possible I had been afraid of becomes probable.

Still no one says anything, and now my eyes are drawn once again towards Brigham Sinclair as the man in black seems to have hooked him like a fish on a line, drawing him towards him helplessly as his eyes bulge and his mouth gapes open, gasping for breath.

Oh surely not? No, he would not...

"You know what I'm talkin' about, don't you?" the man says, stopping a few feet in front of Sinclair and regarding his victim with his head on one side. "In fact, mebbe you oughtta be the one tellin' your fellow citizens all about what you've been up to. Or ain't you able to do that? Seems like someone's gotten hold of your tongue, hey? Course, I got ways of loosenin' it for you..."

Taking his six-shooter, he places it against Sinclair's forehead and the poor man almost collapses. His eyes are closed and his breathing is ragged; at his side his hands are clenching and unclenching and his whole body is trembling. The man holding the pistol regards him with a smile on his face and spits out another stream of tobacco. It lands on Sinclair's shoe, but he does not move.

After a minute in which I do not believe anyone has taken a breath and the waiting tension has become almost unbearable, the man in black slowly pulls back the catch on his pistol and his voice, when he speaks, has lowered in pitch to a brutal whisper.

"You'd better start talkin', Brigham, otherwise your brains are gonna be spread all over the snow, and guess you ain't gonna want that to happen, are you?"

Three seconds fall with the weight of tombstones and a whimper escapes Sinclair's mouth before the pistol is pressed harder into his head.

"Start talkin', now!" the man hisses and Sinclair jerks in fear before his mouth opens and words stutter out of him.

"All... all right... please... please, just don't... don't kill me..."

"Better keep talkin' then, so I don't have to. Though I'm warnin' you, I got a real itchy trigger finger on freezin' cold mornings like this."

A faint, icy breath of wind lifts his coat and a sob comes from Sinclair. Martha's face has tears spilling down it as I turn to her.

"The poor man," she whispers. "The poor, foolish man..."

"Talk!" the man shouts and a shudder runs through the hardware store owner as he continues in halting sentences, punctuated by gasps.

"I'm sorry... I'm real sorry... didn't... didn't mean for any of this to happen, Sheriff, please, you gotta believe me...."

"The good Sheriff don't know what happened yet, does he, so you best tell him, fast!" the man snarls.

"Gambling!" Sinclair blurts out and a sigh escapes from the crowd, and in my mind, things begin to fall into place. "It was gambling... got myself into debt, couldn't.... couldn't pay them, even with the store doing well. Had to get money to pay them somehow, had to, else they... they would've killed me... I'm sorry Sheriff!"

"Tell him what you're sorry for! Tell him what you did!" the man barks and his pistol rams into Sinclair's forehead, provoking a gasp of pain.

"I sent the letters!" he cries. "Me, I did it! I needed the money, fast, these... these people were gonna kill me if I didn't pay them, so... so I sent the first letter, setting things up, and then I sent... sent the other one, knowing you'd rather pay whatever was asked for than let the town be destroyed. I'm sorry!"

A deathly hush falls amongst us all as we take in what has just been revealed to us in the most shocking way: there was no Railroad Company wanting to demolish the town; Taylor and Miss Stella almost got themselves killed in the gunpowder works for nothing; the deeds were never needed...

Oh Mr Sinclair, what have you brought upon us?

He has fallen to his knees now, his hands over his face, sobbing and shuddering in the snow as the man holds his pistol over him.

"You're pathetic!" he sneers. "But I ain't gonna kill you, you ain't worth killin' like this."

Then spinning in a slow circle he looks at all of us. "Guess I'd better finish this tale off then, seein' as your Mr Sinclair don't seem able to do so. Yeah, he had a plan, that he was gonna get the money he owed us from trickin' you folks into payin' money to a non-existent Railroad Company to spare the town. Then he was gonna pay us. Trouble is, we ain't patient people, but we're smart people. Way we see it, we can get a whole lot more money from this town by comin' direct to it. Your hardware store owner's very kindly been keepin' us informed about events in town whilst we been hidin' out round by the gunpowder works. Your Sheriff and his lady friend almost disturbed us there, guess they were both real lucky their little accident with the roof fallin' in didn't kill 'em," he laughs at that long and hard and angry rumblings run through the crowd at the thought the accident Taylor and Miss Stella suffered was no accident at all, but I am almost dazed with shock at what has been revealed to all of us - that one of our own has betrayed Hattanville! I'm looking now at the two of them and Mr Flack, and were it not for the pistols held to their heads by the men behind them, I can tell by the fury on their faces that they would not be standing for this disgraceful display.

The man has not finished though. "And if you're wonderin' about the fellow who came runnin' back to town with a bullet in his chest, then I ain't ashamed to admit responsibility for that and all. Got too close to us, so we sent him away with somethin' of a warnin'..."

"You killed an innocent man!" the Sheriff, able to be silent no longer, shouts out, and the crowd is silent again as the man turns on his heel and strides over to him with his gun out in front of him.

"You sayin' somethin' to me, Sheriff?" he snarls.

"Yeah I'm sayin' somethin'," Taylor spits, his face contorted with disgust and anger. "I'm sayin' you ain't nothin' but a low-life murderin' coward and you ain't gonna get a penny from this town!"

There's a pause as the man looks the captive Sheriff up and down. "Is that right?" he says softly. "'Cause I'm afraid I'm gonna disagree with you there."

And without warning, he seizes him by the throat, dragging him away from the man marking him. "Got anythin' to say to me now, hey? Can't hear you talkin', but maybe I oughtta put a bullet in your chest and all, stop you talkin' for good," his hand tightens and the Sheriff starts to gasp and choke in his grasp.

"Get your hands off him!" Miss Stella screams. "Leave him alone!"

She twists about in the hands of her captor, who seems to be struggling to hold her. After swinging a vicious punch to his ribs and face, the man lets go of Taylor who drops to his knees doubled up and struggling to heave air back into his lungs, and then he walks over to face the Saloon owner.

"You coward!" she shouts, her voice shaking with fury. "Why, you're nothin' but..."

His hand cracks across her face, and she cries out as the force of the blow almost knocks her over.

"You have entirely too much to say for a woman!" the man breathes hard as he aims his gun at her. "Keep your mouth shut and know your place or it'll be the worst for you!"

It is only Martha's hand on my arm that prevents me from running over and striking the man himself. How dare he? How dare he hit her? Mr Flack is struggling now against his captor, wrath in his face and rage now begins to buzz amongst the crowd; the rumblings are getting louder following the despicable treatment of the Sheriff and Saloon Owner.

Miss Stella is hauled upright by her captor, but she still hasn't lost the defiance from her face.

Frailty, thy name is not woman.

There is blood on her bottom lip and she runs her tongue over it before she gives a hollow laugh. "Guess we can all see what kinda' man you are!" she spits at him. "You don't scare me. You ain't the first man who's laid a violent hand on me..."

"But he'll sure as hell be the last!" Taylor's managed to pull himself to his feet, his breath wheezing in his chest, but with a cold, a deadly cold rage in his eyes even as he's seized again and the gun pushed into the back of his head. "And if you lay so much as a finger on her again, it'll be the last thing you ever do, you piece of dirt!"

The moment hangs by a thread of ice as the man with the six-shooter and the black coat turns a slow stare on Taylor.

"Wanna say that again?" he drawls and flexes his trigger finger.

"He ain't gonna say it again, 'cause I'm sayin' it!" a voice yells from the crowd, and I see Daniel Messer broken free from his fiancée and standing in the middle of the parted crowd, fists raised; even in his stocking feet he is nevertheless a figure who means what he says. "You ain't gonna get away with that sorta' thing against Mr Taylor and Miss Stella. You're a real yellow-bellied coward, strikin' a woman and threatenin' folks who ain't even got their hands free. Make you feel real brave does it? Does it?" his voice rises and there is fury flushing his face.

The six-shooter turns away from Taylor and towards his new opponent.

"You folks don't seem to understand do you?" the man says in a voice which carries to all of us on the still air. "I don't like bein' interrupted and I don't like insults!"

His arm raises and Mr Messer closes his eyes, a scream comes from Miss Monroe and then everything happens in a blur. The man squeezes the trigger, a shriek of denial rips through the air, and then before we can fully take in what is happening, a bullet has fired, someone has leaped, and someone has fallen.

"No! Oh no!"

A cry breaks from Martha and is echoed all around us as we see Mr Messer standing as still as death over the unmoving form of Brigham Sinclair.

"He jumped in front of me," he whispers and staggers backwards, caught by his sobbing fiancée. "He... he took the bullet..."

Doctor Hawkes comes pushing through the crowd and drops down beside Sinclair. He presses a hand to his neck and it only takes a moment before he looks around at all of us and makes his pronouncement in a horrified voice.

"He's dead..."

I've had this written for a while, but I wanted to get a few chapters finished so I can post more regularly. I'd really love to know what you thought of this chapter if you can spare a moment to review, and I'll send the short story. I'll update again on Friday, and in the meantime, I have a new four part story which I'll post the first chapter of either tomorrow or Tuesday. Thanks, Lily x