Chapter Three -

Getting The Bounty, and Dirty Cowboys Too

Based on the events I blogged about on my Tumblr at tinyurl dot com 7hu3u44w (just remove spaces etc)

New Austin isn't one of my favourite places to travel to. The scenery is stunning, and the people are interesting. Among the last of the true wild west out there and it shows; that part, I enjoy. You could with these people for hours, and feel like you've been brought back in time with the stories they tell; some surely sprinkled with creative adjustments. For me, my issue is with the climate, the heat, the dryness, the prickly things where the needles find places you didn't even know you had, but . . . I'll go wherever my heart takes me, and my heart is with that idiot with the mustache.

Dutch has been enthusiastic about the Bounty role from the get-go, particularly when we bought the wagon and he got an ungodly amount of Bolas which he has frightening accuracy with; he accidentally killed one bounty with them and damn near took me out; he has a technique where he whirls them into a blur no less than five times, and lets them fly. The rest of the family needed a little bit of convincing, however.

Yes, the family.

Particularly John, who had to also convince Abigail to let him have some action with us from time to time, provided were to be heavily armed, which we always are (and we always seem to have infinite

bullets; something I wish we had when we were younger. He also has a tendency to get head-to-head with Dutch on outings, mostly over the direction. Arthur spent a moment or two or three, and then thought, why not?

Our mission for the day was a bounty who had been spotted on the northern part of New Austin, a charming gentleman named Vicente Mora who was known to bury his victims alive. Of all bounties Dutch has picked to go, he decided that was the one to go after. I suggested Henry Shaw, John suggested Harry Shaw, and Arthur suggested Harry Shaw, who was wanted for forgery for using fake gold nuggets, but here we are, all heading off in the direction of where this manic is or should be.

Good old Legend (and her apparent clones) was the mount for the day. A lovely dun Mustang mare, she's as close to bombproof as you could get in a horse. Dutch picked her up at an auction where she would have likely to have been sold for dog meat, like much of her breed these days. He trained her himself and formed a special bond with her. I think he fits the leggier breeds myself, such as Oasis, that firey Turkoman mare who looks so nice with my own Silver Dollar; we're breeding her on her next cycle. Personality-wise, Legend fits him; she gives him a nice settled ride and doesn't buck off in incidents when sometimes I feel it's warranted; the other day Dutch decided that yes, he will follow a waypoint, but he'll take the narrowest path past a wagon; he lightly bumped her into the wagon and he went flying, somehow; exchanges were made and he nearly got a bullet.

Ever the apparent expert on directional abilities, John was the first to pipe up about where we were heading, or where we weren't.

"I think we're heading in the wrong direction. The waypoint - "

Dutch piped up, a grin upon his face, his eye sparkling. His excitement was palpable. A little too palpable. "We don't NEED a waypoint, Jawhn! We'll follow the sun!"

John again, not convinced, couldn't pass on an opportunity to throw some snark at his dear dad. "Could we just set a waypoint in case a cloud covers it?"

Dutch was unphased.

"Not needed, John! We'll follow the sun!"

I saw the shadow of Arthur leaning into me, gripping onto the mane of one of Legend's clones. "Why are all our horses look the same and why don't they have tack?"

I sighed. It was a bit of a strange predicament to be in. I honestly didn't know but the explanation that came to me was the most sensible one that I could think of. "Because it's a strange world we live in, Arthur. Got to admit, I rather like the uniform look. Looks like a cavalry charge as we storm across the desert if you manage to keep ahold of them."

I hold on tight to the mane of my Legend clone, who for whatever reason has a pair of testicles, as we break into a gallop. I thought being a clone you'd have the same odds and ends that your original would have, but nothing is right in the world. Well, maybe Dutch and I, despite me picking on him. He's just a bit ahead of the boys and me, giving a gesture to follow, his voice cracking in excitement as he thinks he's found a lead.

"Going right to the train tracks!"

I nearly fall off as he tears off; these clones almost seem to have a hive mind; the real Legend is their magnet, wherever they go, we go. John comes up ahead of us and not seeing him, Dutch nearly pushes him off balance. He's normally a fine rider, but in his enthusiasm, it's not unheard of for him to get, well, a bit clumsy.

"Do you think this is funny?" John barked, holding onto dear life.

"if I answered 'yes', you'd kill me!" Dutch grinned.

Whilst it was accidental - I saw it all myself, there was a certain impish look on Dutch's face. I think he gets a bit of a rise out of getting a reaction out of John; you kids might call it 'trolling.' Yesterday had another bounty hunt here in New Austin, and John thought Dutch's 'arm lumbago' where his arm suddenly locks in place, was done on purpose during gunfire to get out of it when things too heated. My poor pet is always embarrassed by it, but he did do his part and pistol-whipped the rest of the enemies

He is bound and determined that we are heading to the train tracks - only that we aren't.

Ahead there isn't a train track, but a steep rock incline, but Dutch disagrees, there is indeed a train track there. The time has come soon for a bit of reality, as Dutch, John and Arthur are now up on that incline, and look like a bunch of goats and looking utterly ridiculous, particularly my beloved. I didn't follow them up; I saw it coming. Dutch swears, John swears, and Arthur states the obvious.

"SHIT!"

"The fuck?"

"We went the wrong way, Dutch.'

Dutch rubs the back of his neck, a subtle gesture he did when he felt sheepish but not quite wanting to admit he was wrong, whilst carefully easing Legend down. "The sun lied!"

John was exasperated. I could almost hear every fibre of his being to not reach over and strangle him as Dutch eased his horse down past him. "So you're blaming the sun now?"

"Who else am I to blame?"

John snarks back.

"I'm surprised you haven't bought Evelyn Miller in here!"

That stupid grin of Dutch just grows. "Waiting for the opening!"

John just shook his head, opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out as he and then Arthur carefully eased their horses down. There is never a time when things go smoothly in our family bounty-hunting missions. In yesterday's outing, there was that time when in the midst of a gunfire between our bounty's gang and us when Dutch got a case of arm lumbago; Dutch of course was mortified but did his part and pistol whipped the rest of the gang. When John and the mustache brought the bounty in (dead, the way John apparently likes them even if he gets less pay), a firefight erupted between the lawmen of Tumbleweed, Arthur and me. I still don't know what started it but it ended with John and I pointing out sawed-off shotguns at each other. But, we keep doing them anyways.

"Next time, *I'll* put the waypoint up, and we *will* be following " I firmly insisted, with no argument from my pet who I see a flush on his cheeks when he returned by side; I'm certain he means well, likely trying something different, but . . . FUCK! He just manipulated me into not staying angry at him for long; he absently played with a strand of hair as he did in our last chapter; he knows how that little gesture of appeasement affects me, it's always worked and why change what works?

"Damnit, Dutch."

He gives me puppy eyes, and grins, moving Legend away just out of touching distance; he knew what was going to come. "You love me."

I tease back. "Someone has to."

Damnit, I do. Oh, I do. I will take the Collector Role over these wilder bounty hunting missions, but . . . Seeing him so happy, is music to my soul.

At last, we reach the train tracks, with a bit of navigational tweaking. The sound of the train ignites some sort of hunger in Dutch; he's literally drooling. He puts Legend in a fast gallop (he'll be feeling it later), and what you'll be soon witnessing is a perfect blend of luck, stupidity, and brilliance all wrapped up in a bundle of insanity. By a stroke of magic or something, we've had something done to us so that no matter what kind of stupid thing we do, we'll survive it, and in this case, very much comes in handy.

Mustangs are about as surefooted as any breed of horse you could get; our Thoroughbred stallion, Dynaformer, bless him, would have run for the hills if he was assigned to be the mount for this. Along the there was some loose shale and rock, there's a bit of an incline along the railway and I jinxed her. Down she goes but without a scratch (another one of those funny occurrences here, our horses also can't die; I won't complain), along with her passenger who goes right under the hooves of her clones who got more than a scratch. Cusses were issued by all in the family. No big though; Dutch dusts himself up, ego bruised perhaps but still bound and determined to get that unsavory character.

Second attempt?

This is a cargo delivery train and a rail goes along the perimeter of the flat carriage to protect the shipment boxes. Now I have seen Dutch jump from his horse and onto these cargo trains with success; he always lands like an octopus falling out of a tree but still usually manages to get the job done. This time though?

"SMACK!" Goes his body against the railing, plinking off like he weighs nothing.

Arthur gets to Dutch before I can, and helps him up onto unsteady legs. "I think we should just . . . Call it a day."

He meant well, he really did, and Dutch knows it too. Truthfully, despite what you see, Dutch is not particularly strong. His health and stamina stats are equivalent to the Scrawny Nag's; the stock for Miracle Tonics must be at an all-time high. But there's this look of determination in his's eyes, that without saying a word, says it all. No, he's gone too far into this to turn back no. hH gets up back onto Legend and gallops out towards the train once again, and after timing this one better, manages to get on the cargo, albeit awkwardly, but he got there. We gallop alongside the train

"I WILL TEAR YOU IN TWO!" I hear him yelling as he cuts through the Vicente Mora gang like butter with his dual Schofields, as of yet no arm lumbago, and I'd lie if I said that with all that passion and fury he is speaking with isn't doing things to me, voice cracks and all, but I won't disturb you. Well, maybe that's too late, I apologize. Maybe.

We hear a man yelling instructions in Spanish and my heart races fast. Dutch, whatever the hell you have planned, do not let this man bury you alive, that is my job. More gunshots go off as he races through the train in a blur of black, red and white. Arthur and John pick off some surviving gang members, as do I, what else is there for us to do?

"I WILL KNOCK YOU STRAIGHT BACK INTO THE GUTTER!"

Damnit, Dutch, you're distracting me. *I* want to pounce Dutch the way Dutch is pouncing Vicente Mora and swiftly take him down with a bola and hogtie him because he's been a very naughty boy who needs to be punished. He has a thing about being punished, and I have a thing about punishing him.

There I go, sharing too many thoughts again. My apologies. You didn't need to know that. Back to this story, that one will be for another story.

So we get our man and now the trick is ts to get him off the train without killing him; the bounty rewards will keep us well and John will get more money than what he'd ever get at sheep herding (heh). Dutch then gets the idea, stop the train! He trusts us that we wouldn't let the bounty go as he makes a dash to the locomotive, awkwardly skips over the coal carriage and disappears into the conductor's compartment. I hear some squabbling and then the conductor throws himself out of the caboose as the train slows but is not willing to stay until it stops. He grabs hold of his arm and swears incoherently as he tumbles down the track embankment and then gets up and takes off, grabbing some random passerby's horse and taking off with it, leaving them at a standstill until one of our clones passes by as the boys and I get onboard. Not sure what went on in there, but, then . . .

"Damn dirty son of a bitch bit me!"

John and Arthur are dumbfounded and disgusted, but somehow, I'm not.

Now I have been bitten by that big sonofabitch (and still do from time to time), but I'll refrain from getting into too much detail unless you want me to, and then I'll let loose. Let's just say, it HURTS and for certain, that was no bite being delivered in an intimate setting. I felt a bit sorry for him but I didn't have time for pity; we have a train to get to Tumbleweed where we'll drop off our bounty, collect our savings and spend the night in what seems to be the only hotel in the state. It's a bit shady, I've got into one of the most wicked bar fights there, but it'll do and it has a bath; something that we all are in desperate need of.

John takes control of the train as the rest of us stay with our angry bundle of Vicente Mora, swearing at us in Spanish. We take turns in giving him a kick here and there, just to get him to shut up for more than a few minutes. Poor Dutch, though; he's exhausted, battered and bruised and it shows as he winces while giving Vincente his third and final kick to knock him out cold. He stumbles over to a wooden box to sit down, still pride on his face.

"We did real good there, boys. Not our smoothest operation, but - " He stops to try to hold back a wince.

"You're gettin' too old for this, Dutch - " Arthur sighs.

"Nahhhhh, son, I've got it in me!" Dutch manages a crooked smile, patting him on the shoulder. "Those boys didn't have a chance!"

Well, they did, but . . . We got them under control.

The rest of the ride goes off without a hitch; the bodies left on the train were dumped off for the vultures and coyotes as Dutch got some rest on top of some cargo. Some ribs were cracked, and there was bruising over much of his body; he took quite a hit.

Never thought I'd be looking so forward to that grungy hotel as much as I did. Legend comes trotting up to us as we get off the train, while Arthur and I help Dutch on getting down the stairs. John carries our bounty over his shoulder, places it on our mare and leads the way to the sheriff's office. He's woken up from being knocked out and I can hear his swears coming, and a thud from John punching him.

Dutch still trying to be stoic, not wanting me to be worried about him. He's in considerable pain, but he's holding his head high, his chest even puffed out.

"I'll see about getting us a bath. If anyone gives us any issue I'll deal with them, you got it?" I've never found anyone to be particularly against our kin

Warm water and a bit of rest should help a long way; there won't be any travelling until he's well and good to travel. As much as I love the smell of a man's musk, particularly Dutch's, which is a delicious blend of cologne imported from Europe, tobacco, leather, hair pomade and a delicious scent that comes off of his own form; a rich, almost earthy flavour, we're both getting a bit rank. So many days on the road will do that. We normally get ourselves a bath at the hotel in Valentine from time to time but our lifestyle doesn't permit that to be an overly common occurrence. We mostly just wash in whatever water bodies we come upon on our travels; it's a lovely treat though to get a proper wash in a proper bathtub.

Oh, it sounds good. Oh so good.

The hotel is much in the same state as we last went in it, but it'll do for a bit. I hear Arthur settling some things upstairs. We don't have much ourselves, but we'll make do. I turn to the hotel owner.

"We'll rent a room, please. And the bath."

I scowl at the look we get, but the bearded idiot takes our money all the same and hands us the keys. After that, the first priority, the bath. I prepare it while Dutch undresses, and I cringe when I saw the bruises on his form. Black, blue, bruised and battered all over. He frowns as he looks at himself in the mirror.

I speak gently, placing my hands on each of his shoulders, and kiss him on his right cheek. His hair has been tousled after such a rough day and I love the look of it. "You'll heal up well, Duchess. And you'll heal up even more when I kiss every inch of your body."

There was a look of vulnerability though as he kept looking at himself, judging himself. "It's not that, 'sea, it' - " He spoke quietly, looked away and then gestured at his lower body.

"This."

"What about it?" I spoke gently, pulling him close as I take a moment to admire him in the mirror; I very much liked what I am seeing, but with a foot I push the mirror away after a moment, considering how he was feeling.

"We're both getting a little older, Dutch. But . . . I think you're as gorgeous as ever."

"You really think so . . . ?" A soft plea, absently twirling a strand of his hair, something he did not only for when he was appeasing, but when he was uncertain, or sometimes when he's deep into reading a book.

"I do think so."

He's referring to a softness to his belly (that he still shaves) these days that's formed into a little paunch, and I love it. It's lovely to rub, something that he often drifts to sleep with, and something I often drift off to sleep while doing. I feel deeply pained to see him think that, and I have to address it.

"Perfect for kissing!" I grin and a rather not Dutch-like sound comes out of him when I kiss him on his belly button - and a massive smile.

"'Sea!" He blushes when he just realized he made; another tender spot that he acts stoic about, except when I catch him unaware. "I did not make that sound!"

I get that sound out of him again when I repeat that kiss. "But you did!"

I just hold him tight and hug him for a moment, then soothingly stroking his hair with one hand, and his slight potbelly with his other. He melts like butter with my touch. "I won't have you talking like that about yourself. My beautiful boy." I'm gentle but firm.

Wordless, but saying so much, Dutch accidentally hits his nose against mine as he kisses me. I just gently grab it and give us a very light shake before I take him by his hands. "Best we get into that tub before the water gets cold."

I lead in but he pauses as he carefully steps in, his gait stifled a bit in pain. "I want to wash you, Old Girl. I've dragged you all the way out here . . . " His voice is soft . . . I can't say no. But I'll wash him as well because damnit, he needs a wash because he smells like a devil's armpit.

Dutch gets into the sudsy bath first and then I follow when he's settled, and I sit close but careful with his ribs. A strong arm reaches around me and starts washing my chest, and I close my eyes when he moves his hand down to my belly; it too has got a bit soft over the years. His touch is so tender, so careful as if I was the one that had been battered against the cargo train rail. A big smile forms on my lips as he rests his head on my shoulder and I feel his mustache brush alongside my neck he kisses me, a funny, tickling feeling and I let out a light life. His voice was tired, but . . . His heart was in those words.

"You're too good to me . . ." He spoke softly, and I close my eyes as he starts washing my hair and scalp. "I bring you all 'round the country, here and there, searching for some bounty, running 'shine, gettin' into trouble . . . "

"And I wouldn't want to do all of that with anyone else."

I could tell from his posture that he's in a lot of pain, and I help guide him to switch places where he'll be having his back facing, and start scrubbing on him, starting from his shoulders and minding his bruises as I move down to this spine. Dutch pouts, though I know he's loving it.

"I wasn't even done cleanin' you yet."

I kiss him on the back of his head. Dirty or not, his hair still smells amazing, but I still give it a good wash; it's a great excuse for me to run my hands through it. "You'll get to me when I'm done cleaning you, you filthy animal."

Dutch laughs, and what a wonderful deep laugh it is. "I thought you liked it when I was dirty."

I just smile, shaking my head as I start to work on his chest. He leans his weight into my touch, letting out a happy little sigh. "No, I like it when you talk dirty. There's a difference between talking dirty and smelling like dirt."

"What if I'm dirty while talkin' dirty?"

I could hear the grin, the spark in his eyes and I kiss him on that spot between his neck and shoulder, and just hug him. "You're distracting me from what I'm doing here, mister." I grin, poking that freckle by his cheekbone.

Dutch gives my hand a squeeze, and I feel his smile when he kisses it. "Maybe it's an intent."

I know it damn well is, he's being cheeky. The water's a little less than clear now, but we're a few layers short on the dirt now. He leans back against me and . . . Just lets his head and weight flop back against me, falling asleep against me in this gradually cooling water but . . . We're together.