Day 8 - Prisoner Trade
A/N: Instead of trying to hang the stranger, Buford decides to use him to bargain for a fellow gang member's life. An alternate version of Part III.
If he didn't have white hair already, Doc knew today would've been the day he earned it.
He'd emerged from his workshop for a mid-morning stroll to clear his mind from the smoke of his furnace, only to be surprised at the number of officers swarming the town square. They were stopping almost everyone they passed by, asking questions about something that the rest of the town had seemingly witnessed. Some were eager to talk, others appeared traumatised by the experience.
"You'd think the president himself had come to town or somethin'," Chester had joked, pouring Doc a glass of water. "Didn't make for great viewin', in my opinion."
"Mind letting me in on the secret?" Doc inquired.
"Did you seriously miss it?" The bartender chuckled before realising Doc was serious. "You must've been buried in that shop of yours to miss Tannen and his gang stormin' around!"
"Tannen?! What the hell was he doing here?" Bastard still owes me money!
"Didn't even get to find that bit out!" Chester lamented, throwing his hands up. "They'd just come in here and were harassin' me when this kid walks in, and before I know it there's bullets flyin' all over my bar, and they gots so cheesed off with him that Buford knocks his lights out before carryin' him off to God knows!"
Oh God. "A kid? How old?! What'd he look like?!" He didn't care that he was babbling an unusual set of questions; if it was who he thought it was, then his situation was about to escalate quickly.
Chester was too busy wiping down the counter to notice the scientist's sudden change in demeanour. "Young-ish lookin' lad…I'd say twenty at most? Had the strangest clothing I've ever seen; some sort of ugly pink suit with frills. Thought I was dreamin' at first, 'cause he looks so much like Seamus that I thought it was a relative of his-"
The rest of the bartender's words faded as Doc abruptly slammed into the floor.
Damn that kid…
"…didn't even have a drink today, just the water!"
Doc's head was swimming, the timber of the saloon ceiling gradually coming into focus. Strange, I don't remember having any-
His brain seemed to come alight, with one emotional thought after the other bombarding his cerebral cortex. Great Scott! Marty!
First the damn kid disobeys my explicit wishes and comes back here, endangering the space time continuum even further. And then he has to go and get himself kidnapped by the most notorious outlaw in California!
I'd almost say this was an achievement of some kind…
"Emmett? You with us?"
Doc groaned as he accepted a hand from Chester to extract himself from the floor of the bar, trying not to think of how much dirt and grime he'd been lying in. He decided he could waste no time in denying his extreme reaction, and wracked his brain for a cover-up story while ignoring the shocked stares from concerned patrons. "The boy who was taken-"
"Yeah, why the hell were you so alarmed?" Chester laughed. "He's not a secret son of yours you've been hidin', is he?"
Doc shook his head, giving the bartender the most serious expression he could muster. "He's my nephew."
Chester's jovial manner quickly disappeared, replaced with embarrassment. "Oh. M-My apologies, Emmett-"
"No need, Chester. You couldn't have known. I was expecting him to visit, but…" Doc rubbed his forehead. "It seems he's arrived earlier than I anticipated."
He tipped his hat to the bartender before marching out of the saloon, his steely eyes locked on to Strickland's office. Marty's obviously managed to come back here for a reason, and I'm sure this wasn't part of his plan…
Marty McFly, you are not allowed to become another statistic in Buford Tanner's criminal record.
Guess I'm a danger-prone damsel at this point.
The coarse rope fibres had already begun cutting into his wrists, the thickness of his shirt apparently being inadequate to protect his skin. Though they weren't tight enough to restrict blood flow, it was enough that he had to keep prompting himself to flex his fingers to prevent them from tingling. He could already feel the thick layer of dirt and grime that had begun forming under his fingernails, and his palms stung from stopping his face from being smashed along the ground, though whether his pounding headache was from Seamus's fence or Buford's pistol whip, he couldn't tell.
A high-pitched sneeze flew from his face, prompting a bout of laughter from his captors on the far side of the campsite. Marty growled quietly to himself, trying to shuffle away from the flowers of the bush he currently occupied. Damn allergies…Haha, yeah. This is hilarious, Tannen.
He kept unconsciously biting into the sooty rag that had been roughly shoved in his mouth, frustrated that his attempts to spit it out were quickly stopped by a second cloth being secured around his head. All of his protests and threats towards the outlaw had been reduced to pathetic squeaks, which embarrassed him so much that he decided to stay silent and stare despondently at the leaves surrounding him. This is just humiliating. I feel like a trussed-up chicken.
Once he'd been dragged onto Buford's horse and whisked into the outskirts of town, he'd rapidly accepted the ever-growing prospect of his death; Tannen was going to take him out into the desert and make sure his body was never found. There would be no record of his death, or of his existence in this time period at all, and his family would go on in the future without knowing where their youngest boy had disappeared to.
Or so he'd thought. The fact he was still alive with no bullet holes in his flesh was almost mind-boggling. What the hell could he use me for? He doesn't even know my name! Maybe he'll just beat me up for shits and giggles and then just let me go…
Marty wasn't stupid when it came to westerns. He'd watched enough of these fictionalised hostage situations to know that a bit of roughing up and some rope was expected with being kidnapped by an outlaw - especially by one as ruthless as Tannen. What he hadn't expected, however, was Buford possessing a couple of extra braincells than the villains he'd seen on TV. There had been no interrogations, no clues given away and no opportunities for him to ask what was going to happen to him.
The rest of Tannen's criminals had barely spoken two words to him since they'd snatched him from the front of the courthouse, apart from telling him to shut up a few times during the lengthy ride out of town. Once they'd arrived at their current campsite, they'd quickly restrained and dragged him into his current hiding spot, which Marty had worked out was very deliberate. Even if the sheriff found his way here, they'd assume I wasn't here…
Damn my genetics. Dave would be sticking well out of the top of this bush.
He couldn't seem to find a comfortable position, though he mostly attributed this to the lack of a tree to lean against. To pass the time he'd twisted and contorted his body into various positions, desperate to take the strain off of his back without having to lie flat in the dirt. He could hear the rest of Buford's group taunting him from their seats around the campfire, though most of the time their conversations were quiet enough that he couldn't make out anything. At one point he thought he'd heard them muttering about a prisoner, but whether or not they meant him specifically was up for debate.
Wonder if I was meant to be one of the twelve men Tannen said he killed…
Marty's body involuntarily shivered. He forced his torso upright and lifted his head as high as he could above the bush, blinking in surprise at the beginnings of inky blackness enveloping the horizon. Is it that late already?
"Ay, it's Buford!"
Marty's head snapped up. Tannen? He squinted in the twilight as the telltale sounds of a horse and its pissed-off rider came charging towards the campsite. He's been gone for hours! What on earth was he doing?
"You're back, boss!"
Tannen roughly dismounted his horse, huffing as he pushed past his eager crowd of welcomers towards the campfire. He snatched a half-eaten bowl of stew, ignoring the dismayed sighs from one of the goons as he drank the rest of the meal. "…That sheriff is a gutless coward!"
"W-Why, uh, why do you say that, Buford?" The shortest gang member asked nervously.
Buford wiped his mouth on his grotty sleeve, the thunder in obvious in his face. "He's agreed to give us Ryans back, but he's not gonna release him until he sees the runt is alive!"
Marty couldn't help but scoff. What did you expect, dumbass? The sheriff isn't dumb enough to let you make the rules.
"So we're not gonna dump the kid here then?" The soup-less gang member asked, still eyeing his stolen meal. "He's comin' with us to get Ryans tomorrow?"
"If we wanna see Ryans again, we have to bring him!" Buford snapped.
An resounding chorus of disappointment echoed throughout the campsite, as did various complaints and expressions of frustration. One gang member said something about having the noose already prepared; another commented how it wasn't a good week without a dead hostage.
If he'd seen this exchange on TV, Marty swore he probably would've laughed. But he suddenly found being at the centre of this particular discussion was anything but funny.
"But," Buford tossed aside the empty bowl, "it doesn't mean I'm gonna give up the kid without a fight!"
The gang member's moans were quickly replaced with triumphant cheers and clinking bottles, though Marty was distracted by the sight of Tannen slowly making his way towards him. Shit shit shit, don't tell me he's gonna strangle me now or something!
Tannen knelt in the dirt next to his captive before grabbing him by the chin, his uncut and filthy fingernails digging into Marty's skin. The young man found himself staring directly in Buford's eyes, the familiar psychotic smirk that he'd come to associate with the family sending panicked chills down his spine.
Of all the Tannens he'd met up, Buford was by far the one he feared most.
Even the law couldn't stop him. What hope did he have that Doc could?
"You're damn lucky, runt," Buford whispered menacingly. "Sheriff tells me you're the blacksmith's kid. Means I have to keep you alive if I wanna see my man get released."
Marty couldn't help but let his eyes widen. Doc! He knows I'm here?!
Tannen suddenly tightened his grip on Marty's face, chuckling at the frightened squeak his captive made in surprise. "Hopefully I still get to kill ya anyway."
The teenager stared in disbelief as the outlaw dropped him and walked away, his chest tight with emotion. He tried to curl in on himself, though it did nothing to stop the goosebumps from rising, or his aching stomach from growling. That soup looked super shitty, but damn I wouldn't mind some right now…
He ultimately found his tears to be warmer than the rest of his body and welcomed them gladly.
I just wanna go home…