Hello all! Hope you're doing well! Once again, every ounce of anatomical/medical/physical logic states that Josh should and would be dead ten times over but meh, creative license in writing! Thanks so much for reading guys! :D
The night feels tense and unsettled. The air still smells like smoke and blood, even this far south of the town. It will linger and sit like a cloud for several more days, a hovering veil of death and destruction and barely won victory. The soil will be marked red for days to come, innocent and corrupt blood seeping into the earth.
Red Harvest does not find much rest this night. He is troubled and restless, thoughts dark and turbulent. His two surviving companions have traveled north toward Phoenix to collect another warrant, leaving Rose Creek and its citizens behind. They paid their respects to those they lost and tipped their hats to the town, choosing to push forward instead of looking back. The Comanche warrior does not go with them, preferring the plains and mountains to the crowd of the city.
It's not the only reason he remains behind although he couldn't describe the feeling exactly. It was a tug, both mental and physical, that urged him not to leave. In spite of their victory, something felt unfinished, a task uncompleted and forgotten. He can't think of what it might be or if it has anything to do with the town and its people but for some reason he can't convince himself to leave just yet.
Sleep does not come easily and when he does begin to drift off his dreams are chaotic and troubling. He dreams of darkness and thick, black smoke. There's sand mixed with blood, the combination creating a ruddy paste that clings to everything it touches. A black, eyeless raven perches on a severed limb, a grim harbinger in the wake of all the destruction.
The bird looks at him in his dream, meets his eyes even though it has none of its own, and squawks loudly. The noise is distorted though, half-birdlike screech and half earth-shattering gunshot.
The bird leaves its perch and walks toward him, feathers sloughing off in oily, black streaks on the ground. Each discarded feather turns into a gouge that looks like claw marks in the blood stained earth. The raven keeps approaching but all of its feathers have fallen away now and the bird is little more than a walking lump of bloody flesh and gleaming bone.
It squawks again, impossibly louder than before, and the ground opens up to devour him. He falls into a pit lined with bullets and bones and even though he can see the sky above him, can almost touch it, he can't get out. The raven perches on the edge of the pit and watches him without eyes, a grisly reaper over his fate. It squawks again and the earth begins to fall on top of him, burying him deep in bullets and blood.
He awakes with a start, gasping and sitting up quickly. The fire is still smoldering but the embers are dull and orange as they burn down. The moon is high overhead and the stars are bright, illuminating the night in a soft, silver glow. He looks around carefully, fully expecting to see the eyeless raven hovering in the rocks above him. He sees nothing, only shadows and starlight, but the dream digs at him even in the waking world. It means something, he knows it does, he's just not sure what.
He glances over at his horse and stands up slowly, kicking dirt into the remainder of his fire. Sleep will not return tonight but he is less concerned with it now. There's something he needs to do, something he needs to finish. Even if he doesn't know what that is yet.
His Elders had told him once that his path was different from the rest, that his destiny lay elsewhere. Riding away from Rose Creek in the aftermath of the battle, he had wondered, vaguely, if that was what they had meant. He's less sure of it now, less certain that his path has truly reached its end. His journey doesn't feel complete yet, not even close. It still winds before him, long and distant like it's always been. It's pulling him in one direction though and he knows he must follow it.
He gathers his supplies and swings himself up onto his horse, turning him south and away from the mountains. With the moon still shimmering down above him, he turns and rides back toward Rose Creek.
OOOOO
The town is still smoking slightly from the firefight. Windows are still shattered, siding pockmarked with bullet holes, clumps of broken soil and rocks strewn everywhere in the surrounding fields. Most of the bodies have been cleared away already but there are still some littering the fields, gathered together in festering clumps for later burial. The townspeople will get to them eventually after they've tended to their own dead.
He guides his horse silently past one such clump, the smell of blood and decay hovering in the air. These were Bogue's men, murderers and crooks sent to terrorize the town; he feels no sympathy for them. The horse keeps walking and the bodies are left behind.
A hill sits in the distance overlooking the town. It's clear and elevated and there are four wooden crosses hammered into the sun-baked soil at the top. He's drawn to the hill for reasons he can't explain, that overwhelming tug settling in his chest. He turns toward the hill and pushes his horse into a trot. In spite of the feelings driving him, he knows what he'll find up there.
The climb is not steep but he slows his horse to a walk as they ascend the slopes of the hill. The crosses are more visible now, standing tall and proud like benevolent icons in the warm, clear night. He approaches them from the back and stops his horse a few feet away from the line of crosses, sliding off and walking the rest of the way.
The mounds of dirt are still fresh and raised, each cross marked with the name of the town's saviors. A proper burial; it was the least the townspeople could do for the men who helped them save their town. The makeshift graveyard is strewn with flowers and bright red windmills, decorations for the dead. Rose Creek was a poor farmer's town but they made sure their appreciation was known.
One of the mounds beneath the crosses has been disturbed though, dirt pushed back and shoved away from the grave. The hole beneath it is not deep, a combination of hard soil and baked clay making a deeper burial nearly impossible. The Comanche warrior frowns and approaches it carefully, looking down into the hole and seeing a broken lid and an empty coffin.
He frowns again and looks at the name inscribed on the cross above the grave. Josh Faraday. The fast-talking man with the cards. The gambler. The one who sacrificed himself for the town, destroyed the gun at the cost of his own life. Red Harvest witnessed his death from the rooftops of the town, he's sure of it. So how was his grave empty now?
The clumps of dirt leading away from the grave create something of a trail and he follows it a few feet down the other side of the hill. It's leading back toward the town. There are dark smears of blood in the grass meaning whatever was making its way down the hill was still alive enough to bleed while doing it. He follows it down a bit further, coming to a stop when he notices a dark figure crumpled in the grass a few feet up ahead.
He hesitates for a moment or so more before approaching the figure cautiously. He takes in the mud/bloodstained clothing and the dirty skin, the broken fingernails and the light, dusty hair. He recognizes the man but it's impossible for him to be alive. The last time he saw him was seconds before the dynamite exploded, taking out the gun and everyone around it. But he's here now, crumpled at the base of the hill he was buried under.
Red Harvest crouches down beside the man, eyeing him carefully. The gunman had collapsed in what looked like mid-drag, sprawled face down and fingers still dug into the tall grass. It was horrific enough that he had been buried alive but even worse that he had apparently clawed his way out of his own grave. He might have been crawling for help, going back toward the town that tried to honor him by giving him a proper Christian burial. From the looks of his legs, dragging himself was the only thing he would have been able to accomplish.
The moonlight is bright but he can't tell if the other man is still alive or not. The bloodstains in the grass are shiny and tacky so they couldn't have been made too long ago. He can't hear anything though, breathing or otherwise, and he wonders if this is what his dreams had been about. Maybe he was too late; maybe the raven had been a messenger of death instead of a warning. He reaches out slowly and touches the other man's shoulder.
He's not expecting a response; he figures the man is either already dead or so close to death that he won't be able to react. But he gets a groan and a curse instead, the man shifting just slightly beneath his hand. In a mixture of surprise and disbelief, the Comanche warrior flips the other man onto his back carefully.
Josh Faraday blinks up at him, very much alive but dazed and in an incredible amount of pain. His face is covered in dirt and sweat and the bullet holes in his clothes are caked with bloody dirt. He's conscious though, which is amazing in and of itself.
"Oh hey," he mumbles, his voice a dry croak that quivers like dry leaves. He blinks several times, squinting and trying desperately focus on the man above him. He winces and shifts and winces again. "Did we win…?"
Red Harvest nods slowly, still not quite believing what he's seeing with his own eyes.
"Great," Josh groans, swallowing convulsively. He grits his teeth and coughs painfully, grimacing as the movement jars his injuries further. "I'd hate...to 'ave blown m'self up for nothin'..."
The Comanche smirks a little then, shaking his head in disbelief. He didn't know much about Josh or the things he stood for; all he knew was that the man fought bravely to protect the town. He'd gambled with his own life in the hopes that the people of Rose Creek might extend theirs and he'd given his life for them. At least that's what they had all thought. Impossible as it was, Josh Faraday was still alive and he planned to keep it that way.
Keeping one hand on the wounded man's shoulder, Red Harvest turns and whistles for his horse. The horse trots over a few seconds later and comes to a stop beside them, standing still and patient as its rider hoists his wounded companion onto its back. He drapes Josh across the front of the horse and hops up behind him, lashing the wounded man to the horse's body to keep him from falling off.
Josh grimaces and grumbles something and goes silent again. The warrior puts his hand on the other man's back, feels him breathe, and guides his horse away the hill. He no longer thinks of raven or paths or what his destiny entails. He has a singular purpose at the moment and he focuses on that.
Keeping his grip on his injured companion, he turns north and gallops toward Phoenix.
OOOOO
Josh is pretty sure he's dead and if he's not he definitely should be. He's not exactly sure where he is; he only knows that the room is warm and smells like iodine. He frowns and tries to open his eyes but everything that greets him is white and far too bright to be acceptable. He closes his eyes again.
He doesn't remember how he got here or where exactly here is; his memories are frayed and disconnected like bits of rope loosening at the end of a coil. What he does remember seems distant and hazy, a smoky mirror that obscures more than it shows.
He remembers waking up in the coffin and the sickening panic of being buried alive. There wasn't much room for movement (obviously, because corpses aren't supposed to move) but he managed to fumble for his holster and grab one of his guns, pressing it to the wooden lid. The townspeople had been kind enough to bury them with him and if his math was correct he had maybe one bullet left. If not then he was going to just suffocate and die in this box and no one would know any different. He positioned the gun, braced himself, and fired.
The blast was loud and jarring and kickback smacked him in the face painfully. He was pretty sure if his eardrums weren't already ruptured from the dynamite blast earlier then they definitely would have been then. The dirt came pouring in a split second later and he was just fast enough to cover his mouth and nose with his shirt before the dirt covered his face.
He didn't have much strength and he certainly didn't have the stamina necessary for a subterranean escape but he wasn't about to roll over and die either. He was weak from pain and blood loss but the coffin was only buried about two feet below the surface of the ground so luckily it wasn't too difficult to escape. He figures the shallow grave was part of the reason he hadn't suffocated already (that and the fact that his breathing had been shallow enough for the townspeople to assume him dead and bury him) and he's never been so thankful for tough soil before.
He clawed his way to the surface of his grave, one handful of dirt at a time, and dragged himself out of the ground breathlessly. His legs were still in the hole, boots just barely brushing over the edges of his coffin, and he suppresses the urge to shiver in the warm, balmy night. Buried alive; definitely not something he ever wanted to do again...
Everything else became a blur after that. He vaguely remembers dragging himself down the hill toward the town and collapsing halfway. He remembers a man, a face he recognized, and a horse. He remembers pain and running and pain. He doesn't remember anything else.
He tries opening his eyes again and finds it's a little easier to do so now. The room he's in is small and lit by a single electric lamp in the corner. He's in a bed, naked saved for the sheet draped over him, and there are thick patches of bandages all over his chest and torso. His legs are still broken but they've been set and possibly reset and now they're splinted and bandaged as well.
He frowns and bites back a wince. He should definitely, absolutely be dead.
He hears a muffled noise to his left and turns his head slowly to see where it's coming from. Vasquez is asleep in a chair beside his bed, arms crossed over his chest with his boots resting on the edge of the mattress. There's a bible resting on his lap and it occurs to Josh that he might have been reading to him at some point. The outlaw's hat is pulled low, covering his face, and he's snoring quietly. Or it might be loud as a grizzly bear; Josh is pretty sure his eardrums are still damaged.
Something else catches his attention and he looks over to see Sam standing in the doorway. The warrant officer is leaning against the door with one shoulder, watching him like he's been expecting Josh to wake up at that exact moment.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," he says by way of greeting, smiling softly in the dim light.
Josh frowns because he can't hear him very well and looks around the room again. "Where are we?" he asks, unsure if he's whispering or shouting.
Sam takes pity on him and steps into the room, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. "A hospital in Phoenix," he says simply, resting his hands on the foot end of the bed frame. "Red Harvest brought you here a little over two weeks ago. He's camped out on the outskirts of the city, waiting to see if all his efforts to save you were in vain. Doctors were amazed you were still alive."
"Pretty surprised about that myself," Josh replies with a suppressed groan. "Really wasn't expecting to walk away from that."
"Well, technically you didn't," Sam reminds him, nodding toward his bandaged legs. "You had more breaks than bones when they started working on you. Docs don't think there was much nerve damage; surprising considering the extent of the damage. They said you should heal up pretty good, so long as you don't break them again."
"I'll keep that in mind," Josh grumbles, letting his head fall back against the pillow. "I'll try to avoid dancing for a while."
Sam smirks but there's another expression on his face that's harder to read. It's in his eyes mostly, deep and untouchable like a sinkhole. "That was a pretty crazy stunt you pulled," he says finally, shaking his head a little. "Would have killed any other man ten times over."
Josh shrugs one shoulder, which hurts, and looks back at him. "What can I say? My mama used to always tell me I was forty pounds of bad ideas and dumb luck. Guess that paid off in the end."
Sam smirks again and raps his knuckles on the foot of the bed. "Dumb luck," he repeats like he's testing the words out and seeing how well they stick. "Bad ideas and dumb luck saved the entire town. I'd be more impressed if you hadn't nearly blown yourself up in the process."
Josh huffs slightly. "Hey, it worked, right? Can't be too mad at me for that. And cut me some slack, Sam, I practically died taking out that gun."
"Practically," Sam repeats again, equal parts disbelief and bemusement.
"Practically," Josh agrees, slumping back again.
Vasquez chooses that moment to wake up, looking at the bed and coming face-to-face with the injured gambler. He looks surprised for a split second, like maybe he's dreamed this exact same scenario several times before, but that surprise quickly fades into irritation and he fixes Josh with a warning glare.
"Crazy, stupid idiot," he mutters before breaking off into a string of Spanish that most definitely includes several curses and colorful threats. Josh doesn't speak Spanish but judging from the gestures and the tone of voice, he knows when he's being called a stupid asshole.
He waves one hand weakly at the enraged Mexican. "Nice to see you too, amigo."
Vasquez's rant finishes with him swatting Josh with his hat and nudging him in the hip with his boot. It's probably supposed to hurt more but he's mindful of the injuries and settles with a light push more than anything else. Finished, he slumps back in the chair and crosses his arms again, his foot still resting against the gambler's hip as if to reassure himself that he's there.
A companionable silence fills the room for a few minutes, interrupted only by the sounds of the city outside the window.
"You take care of my horse, Sam?" Josh asks after a minute, turning his attention back to the warrant officer.
Sam looks at him and smirks a little. "You mean my horse?"
Josh has just enough energy to look shocked and appalled. "You said we were even."
"Yeah, that was before you went and got yourself blown up. We thought you were dead so I regained custody of the horse and let Teddy keep it."
Josh groans and slumps back in defeat. "Damn…"
"Hey," Sam says, catching his attention and nodding toward a small table in the corner of the room. Two guns are sitting on one end, cleaned and polished and gleaming. "Kept your guns for you, at least."
Josh manages a smile and settles back onto the mattress a bit more comfortably. "Magnificent."
Hope you all enjoyed it! Y'all are the best! :D