Chapter 3
No Spot of Ground

The sun went down with no sign of McLeod. Dean fixed supper, and after he and John ate, he settled at the desk to practice card tricks and play solitaire while John kept watching Roman's saloon. John was beginning to get restless when the cell door rattled and Bobby emerged, looking more sober and less pale but still pretty rough. He paused at the door to the office as if trying to get his bearings.

John turned away from the window. "Hello, Bobby."

Bobby squinted a little, then smiled. "Hey, John." Then he frowned. "How long have you been here?"

"Got in last night," John replied, walking over to the stove.

Bobby rubbed his jaw. "Did we have a fight or something?"

John flexed his hand, which still ached a little. "Or something."

Bobby chuckled wryly and walked over to the desks. "Hey, Dean. You an' Caleb survived Elkins?"

"Barely," Dean returned with a smile.

Bobby chuckled again and started opening drawers. "So, uh... why are y'all here, John?"

"Waiting on someone," John answered. "Name's Nelse McLeod."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "McLeod? With the..." He traced McLeod's scar on his own face.

John nodded. "That's the one. Want some coffee?"

"No." Bobby reached across Dean to look in the other drawers of the leather-topped desk, then turned to the roll-top desk.

"We ran into him in Del Rio," John continued. "Asked us to work with him on a job. Range war. But he said it'd be easy. All we had to worry about was the drunken sheriff."

Bobby froze and looked at John, hurt.

John held out a mug. "Sure you don't want some coffee?"

"Yecch," Bobby replied, rubbing his stomach and walking over to John. "Nelse McLeod. And he's working for Roman."

"That's what he said."

"Well?"

"We turned him down."

"So why are you here?"

"Well, for one thing, I owe the Millses. For another, it's not really McLeod, not anymore. Yellow-Eyes has him."

Bobby took a deep breath and nodded. "And Dean's got the Colt?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replied.

Bobby nodded, turned away, and doubled over briefly, catching himself on the bars. Then he turned back to John in a cold sweat. "John, I... I gotta have a drink."

This much wasn't a curse, not anymore. This was addiction, plain and simple. John could tell because he'd been there himself. "You won't find anything around here," he said as Bobby started looking in the wardrobe in the corner.

"Why?"

"I threw it away."

Bobby spun and stared at John incredulously.

"Now do you want some coffee?"

"No, I don't want coffee, idjit! I want a drink!"

"Well, go get one."

Bobby sighed. "Where's m'hat?"

"Is this yours?" Dean asked, picking up a dirty, beat-up hat that had been left on the desk.

"No, but it'll do." Bobby snatched the hat away from Dean, plopped it on his head, and headed across the street to Roman's saloon without stumbling terribly much.

Not thirty seconds later, McLeod and his gang rode into town. John, who was watching from the doorway, quickly pulled the door most of the way closed to hide himself and Dean as the riders dismounted and walked into Roman's saloon. And about thirty seconds after they entered, the saloon erupted in several rounds of loud, raucous, derisive laughter.

Bobby came back not long after that, cradling a bottle of whiskey against his stomach. He walked straight past John and started toward the back, but when he got to the doorway, he stopped and leaned against the bars. "They laughed at me, John," he confessed, near tears, and turned around. "Right in front of McLeod, they just laughed at me."

John sighed. "They've been laughing at you for months. You just haven't been sober enough to hear it."

Humiliation suddenly turned to determined anger, and Bobby dashed the bottle against the floor. "They won't laugh no more! I'll show 'em!" He grabbed his gun belt, only for the revolver to fall out of the holster. He bent down to pick it up—

—and gunshots sounded down the street, followed by a bugle call of "Charge."

Bobby looked up. "What's that?"

"Rufus," John replied, and he and Dean both hurried to the rifle rack.

Rufus blew "Charge" again.

Bobby sputtered questions as he tried to get his gun belt on and dropped his revolver again, but when John and Dean headed for the door, he cried, "Wait for me!"

"Why?" John shot back and ran out with Dean hard on his heels.

It wasn't hard to find the scene of the crime; a crowd had gathered, at a respectful distance, and Bess Mills was bent over her husband, Garth, sobbing her eyes out while his adopted brother, Mark, kept pressure on the gunshot wound in Garth's shoulder.

"John!" Rufus called from the nearest corner. "The men that done it took off this way!"

"Just a minute!" John called back and pushed through the crowd to meet Jody Mills in the middle, next to Garth.

"Winchester," Mrs. Mills said by way of greeting. "Seems like you're always around when one of my children gets hurt."

John flinched but asked, "How is he?"

"He's alive. Your boy Sam, he and my Charlie went for the doctor."

"Who did it?"

Mrs. Mills turned to her third adopted son. "Jimmy, you were with Garth. What happened?"

"It was three of Roman's men," Jimmy replied, blue eyes sparking. "They came up behind us. One of 'em took my gun, and they started picking on Garth. When he turned around, one of 'em grabbed his arm, and the other one shot him. Then they ran away."

"What did they look like?" John asked.

"One's tall, one's short, and one's got a bad leg."

"Let's go find 'em," Mrs. Mills ordered and turned to go.

"Just a minute," Bobby interrupted, pushing through the crowd. "Y'all aren't gonna go find anybody."

Mrs. Mills looked at him in disgust. "A little late, aren't you, Singer?"

"What'd you do," asked Jimmy, "stop off for a drink?"

"All right, I'm late," Bobby shot back. "I may be too late. But that's no reason for the rest of you to get gunned down."

Mrs. Mills' look shifted to confusion. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you're outclassed."

"He's right," said Dean. "Roman's had you beat the minute Nelse McLeod and his men rode into town."

"Nelse McLeod?" Mark echoed.

John nodded. "You go up against him now, you'll be playing right into Roman's hands."

"So what should we do?" Mrs. Mills challenged.

"Ask the sheriff," John replied.

"You think I'm gonna wait on him?"

"Just give me an hour," said Bobby. "You can wait that long to die." He turned to go.

Mrs. Mills turned back to John. "You backing him up?"

"No," Bobby stated. "He's not." And he pushed his way back through the crowd toward Rufus.

John sighed. "Let's just say I'm on your side, and this is no job for civilians." With that, he and Dean followed Bobby over to the corner where Rufus was waiting.

"They went down this street and turned left," Rufus reported quietly as they walked up to him. "Too many for one man to chase. And they acted like they wanted to be followed."

Bobby nodded. "Well, I'll go down this side." Then he registered John behind him. "What are you doin' here?"

John pointed. "Going down the other side." And with Dean behind him, he suited the action to the word.

"Well, remember I didn't ask you," Bobby called after them.

Slowly and cautiously, the four hunters made their way down the street, warning each other of hazards with whistles. But Bobby really wasn't in very good shape, and John kept just as wary an eye on him.

That probably explained why it took him several feet past an alley to realize that Dean wasn't the only person behind him. He spun—and to his relief and annoyance, he saw that Sam had fallen in beside his brother.

"Where'd you come from?" he demanded in a whisper.

"Back there," Sam replied, pointing over his shoulder to the alley. "I sent Charlie on ahead; she's faster than me. I've been watching our men. A girl said—"

"A girl?!"

"Pa," Dean warned.

"The men ran down that street," Sam continued, pointing with a shruiken, "to the old church. She hadn't seen them leave, and neither have I. If she's telling the truth, they're still there."

"Won't take much to find out," John noted and got Bobby's attention with a whistle, then motioned to the corner of the street that dead-ended in front of the church. Once all five of them had reached the same spot, John passed on Sam's information.

Bobby nodded. "Let's get closer."

Together, they dashed for the next corner down that street—and someone in the bell tower took a shot at them.

"They're still there, all right," Dean stated.

"Got me in the bugle," Rufus complained.

The assailants fired again, and Rufus fired several shots at the bells, making them ring... and making the shooters visibly duck out of the way. That let Bobby and the Winchesters move forward to a wagon that would give them cover and a better angle to return fire. Once they were in position and shooting, Rufus ran forward to join them, and everyone reloaded before Bobby and the Winchesters advanced again to the porch of the building nearest the church.

"All right, Dean," John whispered. "Watch that roof and watch it good. Sam, get around back and watch the other door. Bobby, you—" He broke off, seeing that Bobby was slumped against the wall. "You all right?"

Bobby looked at him, breathing hard and visibly nauseated again.

"No, you're not."

But no sooner had John turned back to Dean to give him further instructions than Bobby pulled himself together and charged for the front door. John had to hurry to keep up with him, and Sam disappeared into the darkness to watch the back door. But one of the gunmen was already on his way down from the tower and managed to get out the back way despite Bobby shooting at him. John killed the other two, and he and Bobby took off after the one who escaped.

They found Sam at the corner where the alley came back to Main Street, hanging onto a post and gasping for breath. "I'm sorry, Pa," he wheezed. "Dunno what happened."

"Did you get him?" Bobby asked.

Sam nodded. "Didn't... kill 'im, though. Got his side. Couldn't aim."

"Pamela," John growled as Dean ran up. "Where'd he go?"

"Roman's. Follow... follow the blood."

John nodded. "Dean, get your brother back over to the jail."

"But—"

"Go on, son," Bobby confirmed. "And watch to see if they've got anybody outside at Roman's. If so, you wave to us as you go inside."

Dean sighed. "All right. C'mon, Sasquatch," he ordered, pulling Sam's left arm around his shoulders.

Sam murmured some insult as Dean hauled him away, but his breathing seemed to improve markedly as John watched them cross the street. And John's suspicion was confirmed. Pamela hadn't just taken Sam's ability to shoot a gun; she'd taken his ability to kill anyone who was strictly human. John didn't know if that made him feel better or worse about Sam's deal.

"I dunno," Sam said, helping himself to a cup of coffee now that he was completely recovered. "It could be that, or it could be that I can't kill except in self-defense. Brady was trying to draw on me, after all."

Dean sighed but didn't take his eyes off Roman's saloon, which he was watching through the window in the jail's front door. There hadn't been anyone on guard in front, so Pa and Rufus had split off—presumably to take the back door—while Bobby had gone in the front. "Either way," he said, "it's a hell of a handicap right now."

"I still say it was worth it to avenge Jess."

"But she's only half avenged, Sammy. The other half's sittin' in that saloon over there. And Pa didn't even ask me for the Colt this time."

"I've got the knife."

"Yeah, but Pa doesn't. And even if he did, he's certain the Colt's the only weapon that can kill the thing that killed Ma."

"What's he figured out about it? Do you know?"

"Not enough. He just calls it Yellow-Eyes. Reckon it's a demon, but—"

He was interrupted by a burst of gunfire from the saloon. There was a pause, then another shot.

Sam came up behind Dean. "Think we should go over there?"

Dean shook his head. "No. Until we figure this thing out, you're stayin' in here where it's safe. And until Pa gets back, I'm stayin' with you."

"Dean, I told you, I don't need a minder."

"Like hell you don't."

The budding argument was cut off by a bark from Pa that carried just enough that they could hear it but not make out the word. A moment or two later, the saloon doors swung open, and the elder hunters came out guarding a tall, thin, dark-haired man in a grey suit who had to be Dick Roman. Roman looked sulky and had a black mark across one eyebrow, like someone—Bobby, probably—had punched him or hit him with something. Dean stepped out on the porch with his rifle to provide covering fire if needed. Bobby walked to Roman's right, while Pa untied Roman's horse from the hitching rail to serve as additional cover from the left, and Rufus brought up the rear. The procession made it across the street safely, but as Dean stepped aside to let them pass, he glanced to his left and saw a rifle barrel sticking out of a window at the livery stable catty-cornered from the jail.

Rufus noticed his reaction, and as they eased inside together and shut the door, he asked quietly, "What? What are you lookin' at?"

"Somebody over in that livery stable, pointin' a gun at y'all," Dean replied just as quietly and went to the window to the left of the door.

Sam slipped up behind him again. "Too soon for it to be McLeod, at least if he's still trying to pass for human."

Dean nodded his agreement. "Think I'll take a look."

"I dunno, Dean."

"I'll be careful." Dean shut the window and headed back to the door. "Sam, you stay here, help Pa."

"Go around the back way," Rufus recommended. "When you go out the door, turn to your right. If you're not back in five minutes, we'll come after you."

Dean nodded his understanding and left, making a loop around the block and coming up behind the stable. Slipping inside was no problem; the would-be shooter was still focused on the jail, shifting in a way just shy of stamping a foot in frustration. There wasn't enough light for Dean to make out much more than a silhouette, but the shooter's build seemed to be small and slight, the dusty jacket and pants ill-fitting and the hat seated at an awkward angle, too far back. Overpowering this person wouldn't be hard as long as Dean could create the right opening. So he edged forward to hide behind a buckboard, then found a tin cup and threw it to draw the shooter's attention in the wrong direction. The clink and clatter of the cup landing and knocking over something glass made the shooter turn away from the window, and Dean pounced. The rifle went flying, and the shooter rolled over to fight back...

... and long auburn hair spilled out of the fallen hat as wide green eyes glared up at him above a snarl that shouldn't have looked as cute as it did.

"Hey, you're a girl," he observed unnecessarily as he stopped himself from throwing a punch.

"Of course I'm a girl!" she shot back, still struggling to throw him off.

"Whoa, stop!" He pinned her and sat on her stomach. "You'll lose your clothes if you keep that up!"

She huffed and went still. "All right. How'd you know I was in here?"

"Saw your gun barrel stickin' out that window. Who were you after, anyway?"

"Roman. But they were so close around him, I couldn't get a clear shot." She paused. "You gonna keep sitting on my stomach?"

He shrugged. "I'm comfortable."

She tried to hit him, but he pinned her again.

"What's your name?" he asked then.

"Charlie."

He blinked. "Charlie?!"

"Charlotte Mills." She huffed. "Used to be Celeste Middleton, but... well, she died in the carriage accident with my parents. Ma says I can be whoever I want to be now. And I like being Charlie." She raised her chin in defiance.

"Oh." He digested that a moment, then got up and held out a hand to help her to her feet. "All right, c'mon."

She let him help her up with bad grace and started brushing straw out of her hair.

"If you really are a Mills, I reckon you've got a right to want to shoot Roman." He handed her her hat, then bent down to retrieve her rifle.

"And if you're working with the sheriff, I reckon I ought to be thanking you for helping us. May I have my rifle back?"

"Not just yet. Not until we find out who you really are."

"I told you who I am!"

"Lady, I can't take anyone's word for anything. C'mon, let's go."

Sulking, she let him take her elbow and lead her across the street, where he knocked on the jail door using the family's coded knock. Sam opened the door and shut it again as soon as they were inside.

"Dean, what—" Pa began but broke off with a sigh when he saw who else was with Dean. "Hello, Charlie."

"Mr. Winchester," Charlie returned, sounding a little shy. "Sheriff."

"Charlie," Bobby acknowledged.

She turned to Dean and held out her hand, into which he placed her gun. "Can't be too careful," he noted, and she smiled.

"Just who were you aimin' to shoot, Charlie?" Bobby asked as he and Pa came closer.

"Roman," she replied.

"Didn't the last time you shot a man teach you anything at all?"

Dean felt his eyebrows inching toward his hairline.

"It did," Charlie stated flatly. "But there's no mistake about Roman. We didn't have much hope you were gonna get him, so Ma and the others are waiting for him at different places around the street. To be honest, we didn't think you were good enough to get him."

"Sober enough," Bobby corrected.

She tilted her head to acknowledge it. "Well, we were wrong."

"You'd better round up your family," Pa said, "go back home and stay there 'til this thing's over. You can also tell your ma we got the men that shot your brother. How is Garth?"

"Doc says he's got a good chance."

"I'm glad. Your ma's lost too many children already."

Charlie sniffled a little and nodded. "You gonna be able to hold Mr. Roman, Sheriff?"

"He'll stand trial," Bobby replied.

"Will he get what he deserves?"

"No telling. I'm just the sheriff, not the judge."

She nodded thoughtfully. "May I talk to him for a minute?"

"Sure. Just let me have that gun."

She smiled a little. "Never mind." She started to leave but paused at the door and looked back. "I guess you're doing what you think is right. Thanks, all of you."

Rufus let her out.

"She would have shot Roman," Sam mused once the door was closed.

"She shot me," Pa noted and chuckled at the way both brothers stared first at him, then at the door.

"Well, we got away with it," Bobby announced, probably not for the first time, and plopped down in his desk chair.

Pa started toward the stove. "Want some more coffee?"

Bobby shook his head. "Nah. That last cup's puttin' me to sleep already."

"Been through a lot tonight."

Bobby snorted.

Rufus chuckled. "Go on an' lie down, Bob. We'll holler if we need you."

"All right." Bobby got up shakily to go in the back but paused at the door and turned back. "John, boys... I'm glad you're here. I don't know what got into me the last few months, but Roman and McLeod had me right where they wanted me. And I don't even want to think about what might have been—I'm sick enough already."

"Then don't," Sam said. "We're here, and you'll mend. That's what matters."

Bobby smiled. "And Rufus—"

"Save it," Rufus interrupted, his gruff tone belied by the fondness in his eyes. "Just get your ugly mug to bed."

"All right. Idjit." And with an equally fond sparkle, Bobby went to bed.

So Sam and Dean settled in for a game of poker, using bullets for chips, and Pa and Rufus cleaned up the broken whiskey bottle and took turns guarding Roman, who fell asleep, and watching for McLeod and his men to leave the saloon. They did so, rather too peacefully, shortly before midnight, at which point Rufus said he was going to wake Bobby.

"Why?" Pa asked.

"'Fore Meg got her hooks into 'im, we used to make a patrol this time o' night."

"Let him sleep. Dean and I can take the patrol while you and Sam keep an eye on Roman."

"If you're gonna do that, you might as well wear these." Rufus opened one of the drawers in the top of the roll-top desk, pulled out two tin stars, and handed them to Pa and Dean, who pinned them on. "Raise your right hands," he instructed. "Do you solemnly swear to uphold law and order here in El Dorado and all the rest of it?"

"I do," Pa and Dean chorused.

Rufus nodded once. "Mazel tov. Now you're deputies."

Sam snorted.

"Lock the door after us, Sam," Pa instructed, and he and Dean walked outside. "You take a look at Roman's," he ordered Dean then. "I'll take this side."

Dean nodded and crossed the street, very far from certain what he was supposed to do if anyone at Roman's was a demon. The Colt had only eight bullets left, of which five were in the cylinder and three were in his belt—but if there were more than five demons, he probably wouldn't have time to reload. However, he couldn't smell any sulfur or discern any other standard signs of a demon's presence when he glanced over the saloon doors, so he cautiously continued down the sidewalk to try to keep pace with Pa.

They'd barely gone a block when Dean heard something that sounded like the call of a screech owl, except that it was too high-pitched. He looked across the street at Pa, who motioned for him to stay put. And seconds later, four men on horseback came galloping down the street, whooping and shooting their guns in the air. Dean shot one with his usual sidearm; Pa shot another; and Bobby ran out into the street as they passed the jail and got shot in the leg but still managed to kill a third. Dean started to run across the street but tripped coming off the boardwalk and lost hold of his gun.

Then the fourth gunman wheeled around and charged back toward Dean.

"NO!" cried Sam from the jail door and flung an empty hand out toward the gunman.

The gunman pulled the trigger—and the gun exploded in his hand, killing him instantly.

Pa ran to get Bobby back inside, yelling for Rufus to go get the doctor. But Dean retrieved his gun, and he and Sam both ran wide-eyed toward each other.

"Sammy, what the hell did you do?" Dean demanded.

"I dunno," Sam replied. "I swear I don't know. Dean..." He started shaking.

Dean pulled him into a rough hug. "It's okay. I'm okay. We'll figure this out. C'mon."

Sam didn't even protest as Dean hustled him back inside the safety of the jail, with its iron bars and its wards. In fact, he was too rattled to notice when Dean swiped one of the knives he had hidden in his belt and handed it to Pa to cut Bobby's pants away from the bullet wound, which Pa pronounced not as bad as it looked but still bad enough to need professional stitches and some goldenseal.* So Dean just got Sam some coffee and took him in the back to sit guard over Roman and not talk while Dr. Robert and his new assistant, a lady named Dr. Visyak, patched up Bobby's leg and talked to Pa about the bullet in his back. Dean spoke up only once, when Pa tried to deny that the bullet was causing problems, but he tuned out whatever bad news Dr. Visyak gave Pa about his symptoms. Pa did at least promise to let her take it out once the mess with Roman and McLeod was taken care of.

The fact that Pa sounded like he wasn't sure he wanted to live through either the fight with McLeod or the surgery worried Dean almost as much as whatever was going on with Sam.

By the time the doctors had left, however, and Bobby had sent Rufus to get enough supplies for them to hole up for the next four or five days until the marshal could come deal with Roman, Dean had decided what to say about Sam. And sure enough, Pa came back a moment later and sat down at the table with a sigh. Sam looked at him anxiously.

"Care to tell me what you did out there, Sam?" Pa asked, his voice deceptively even and quiet.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, sir."

"He saved my life, Pa," Dean said flatly. "That's what he did."

Pa held up a hand. "Let him answer, Dean. This have anything to do with what Pamela did?"

Sam shook his head again. "I don't know. I don't think so. I just—it felt like something popped in my chest, and this... this surge of power just came out of nowhere. I don't think I could do it again if I tried."

Bobby rolled the desk chair over to the door. "Whoa, what—Pamela Barnes?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir. I went to her after a demon killed my fiancée. She gave me a knife that kills demons in exchange for my gun and my ability to use it."

"What did she look like?"

Frowning in confusion, Sam shot a glance at Dean before replying, "Petite, blonde, blue eyes."

"And where was this?"

"New Orleans."

Bobby rolled closer, his face grave. "Sam... Pamela Barnes was about 5'7", dark brown hair, green eyes. She lived in Cincinnati. And she was murdered three years ago—by demons."

The color drained from Sam's face. "Wh-what about Missouri, then?"

Pa sighed. "Last I heard, she was in Canada. If the 'Mademoiselle Pamela' you met wasn't really Pamela Barnes, there's a good chance the 'Missouri' you met wasn't Missouri Mosely, either."

Sam buried his face in his hands with a quiet curse.

"Reckon that's why they wanted him isolated, Pa?" Dean asked.

Pa nodded. "Could be."

"What did they do to me?" Sam asked, voice quavering.

"I don't know." But something in the way Pa said that made Dean suspect that he could guess and wasn't going to share, which probably meant it had something to do with Yellow-Eyes and why he'd killed Ma over Sammy's cradle.

Before Dean could erupt at Pa, though, Bobby put a trembling hand on Sam's back. "We'll figure it out, Sam. Once this thing with Roman blows over and we get McLeod taken care of, we'll figure it out. Don't you worry."

Sam sniffled and looked up, barely managing a wan smile. "Thanks, Bobby. I'm glad you're back."

Bobby chuckled a little. "Me, too, boy. Me, too."

.

* Tincture of goldenseal was used as an antibiotic.