A/N: I was going to wait until the entire thing was done to start posting. However, my prereaders are really enjoying it. As for the tone, one said, it's more of a oneoreleven work than one by you (Spoiler, I am one of the authors for oneoreleven) The thought was to release it daily, but without it being finished, I can't promise that. So let's go one a week, until it's done, and then, we'll see about moving up the schedule. ADHD meds, kid in college, my job changing, it's leading to a slowdown of me writing but I'm still here. Okay, I'll shut up now. I really hope you enjoy it.
A/N 2: Welcome to a very different Charah tale from me. Now, understand, this is a different time in the world then when my normal AUs take place. So, grab you a seat by the fire, make sure that flame is burning, and listen to a tale. It was a hundred and twenty-five to a hundred and fifty years ago….
Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck
Peering into the darkness, he wondered if he had made a mistake.
"Probably shouldn't have left that town, huh, Peaches?"
He was talking to his horse.
What kind of man talked to his horse? What kind of sane man talked to his horse? He gave a gentle flick of the reins, and Peaches picked up the pace. The small wagon made its way down the road, creaking as wagons are wont to creak.
He listened closely; both to the wagon, to make sure everything was okay with it, and to the sounds of nature. He was in a different part of the country. He was heading east from California… well, north first, then east. "Charles, you're a lunatic," he muttered, mocking his sister. "Why would you want to go where it's cold?" It was cooler here than it was in southern California, especially in these Sierra Nevada hills.
He had read about a ranch that was for sale in Beecher's Hope, and he thought it was time to try to live… to move on with his life.
"It's been six years," Chuck said softly to Peaches. The horse whinnied. "Not only am I talking to a horse, but the horse is answering me." He shook his head and sat back against the backrest of the seat. He had married at nineteen, had a wonderful job as a wagon builder, and then…
"Best not to think about it, right, girl?" Chuck asked Peaches. "So, you never answered me. Do you think they were going to try and rob me?" The horse snorted. "I completely agree."
He had stopped in a town for dinner and a place to sleep. Entering the local tavern, he had felt the eyes on him. He ate, went outside to check on his horse, and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He had quickly taken off, trusting his gut and the uneasy feeling he had.
"Woah," Chuck said softly, pulling the wagon to a stop. Was that a gunshot he had just heard? Chuck reached under the seat, feeling the comforting coolness of his rifle there. He sat back up, and touched one, then the other pistol he had in the holsters strapped to his person.
He didn't like using guns, but he knew what would happen if he didn't.
The irony of his opposition to guns caught him just right, and he chuckled. "Famous bounty hunter, who doesn't like to use guns." He reached up to scratch the beard that had grown longer than he was used to. He had been traveling for two weeks, and now that he was close to his first destination, he figured he should stop for a bath and a shave.
That's what had led him to stop at the inn in the town, until the feeling of the patrons in said inn urged his hasty departure, resulting in his current situation.
He sat up straight; that was, in fact, a gunshot. He peered into the darkness. It was light enough by the moonlight for him to see the road, but not much else. "I don't like this," Chuck muttered. He heard something in a nearby bush, and his hand moved to the handle of one of his revolvers.
"You touch that gun, it will be the last thing you touch," a woman's voice hissed at him. Chuck knew that tone. That was the tone of someone with nothing to lose. He raised his hands, and a figure stepped out of the bushes, a rifle pointed at him.
Chuck's eyes went wide, and he tried to look away. "Hey! Don't move!" the woman yelled at him.
"Uh, ma'am, I don't know if you're aware," Chuck began.
"I said, don't move, look at me," the woman insisted. Chuck shook his head. "I said look at me."
"You're naked!" Chuck hissed. And then it dawned on him what else he had seen, and he did turn towards her. "And covered in blood." He started to move towards her, but the look on her face, plus the way she jerked the gun, made him stop. "Are you okay?"
"Do I look okay?" The woman snapped.
"Probably not the smartest thing I've said today," Chuck muttered. "Are you cut? Do you need stitches? I'm not as good as my brother-in-law, but I have done a stitch or two in my time… and-and I didn't pass out."
The woman looked at him, incredulous.
"Listen," he said, jerking one of his thumbs toward the back of the wagon. "I have a shirt and trousers back there that you could put on. It's a little cool out here."
"You do realize I have a gun pointed at you?" the woman asked.
"I do," Chuck said.
The woman paused, then blew out a breath. "Yeah," she said, sounding defeated. "You're obviously not one of them," she muttered.
"One of who?" Chuck asked, having turned and began to rustle through his clothes, looking for something for her to wear. He found something and turned back to her, putting his hands up, the clothes in them.
"The Shaw gang," the woman said. "They just killed my husband. It's his blood."
"I am so sorry," Chuck said. "Are you… did they… What I'm-"
"Toss them to me," she said. Chuck tossed her the clothes, and she laid down the rifle. Chuck kept his hands up. "You can put down your hands, I'm unarmed."
"You seem like someone who is never unarmed," Chuck said. The woman snorted. She had the trousers on, then shrugged on the shirt.
"I used to think so," the woman said, a heaviness in her voice. She blew out a breath, emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "They didn't touch me," she said. "They… they were going to…"
"I'm glad they didn't," Chuck told her.
"Me too. It's bad enough about Bryce…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I mean, I love him, don't get me wrong, but I thought I was gonna die, and I did what I had to do."
"As anyone would," Chuck said. Something she said, clicked with him. "Excuse me, did you say Bryce?" She nodded. "Is your name, perhaps, Sarah?" Her eyes narrowed at him. "I'm Chuck Bartowski." Her eyes went wide at that information. That was all he needed. His eyes went dark. "Would you mind telling how far it is to your farm?"
"It's only a mile that way," Sarah said, pointing off into the distance. "I don't think there are but three left alive." She moved to get on the cart beside him.
"Sarah," He began.
"They killed my husband," Sarah said. He nodded. "They also threatened to…" Again, she trailed off.
"Let's go," he said, snapping the reigns.
}o{
They rode in silence, stopping the wagon some distance from the house. "Go in quietly?" she asked, in a voice just above a whisper. Chuck nodded once. They eased off the wagon, and Chuck went around to the back. Finding what he was looking for, he came returned to where he was.
"What is that?"
"A weapon I built," Chuck told her. "It shoots darts."
"We need something more than a child's toy," Sarah told him.
"You said there were three men, right?" Chuck asked. Sarah nodded. "This… this will allow us to incapacitate them, and question them."
"I see," Sarah said.
"You mean to kill them," Chuck said. It was a statement, not a question.
"I do," Sarah answered.
"If we leave them alive, we can still turn them in," Chuck told her. The look on her face was hard. He sighed. "I know you loved him, and he was your husband," Chuck began.
"They are going to get what they deserve," Sarah said simply. She turned, and began to creep toward the house. Chuck followed. He knew what she was doing, and why she was doing it. He knew society would find nothing wrong with her erasing these three men from the face of the planet. Hell, he didn't blame her, or judge her. But he couldn't. Yes, they had killed his childhood friend, and no telling what they would have done to his bride, had she not gotten away. He was sure they would have killed her… or worse.
Ellie's words ran through his head. "You don't understand Chuck. Death… it's permanent. If you survive something brutal, it stays with you. Maybe not every day. Maybe only very few days, but one day, when you least expect it, it attacks you and makes you relive every moment of it. And you spend all your days, worried, in the back of your mind, when is it going to come back, and assault you."
As he followed behind, her hand went up in a closed fist; the same signal he and Bryce used to practice when they hunted together. She lifted the rifle, took a breath, and he heard her fire. He heard the body hit the ground, and the gasp of two others. She drew a line of one of the other two men and fired. The third man raised his gun, aimed at Sarah. A dart hit him in the hand, making him drop it. A second dart hit him in the chest. He looked at the dart, confused. Though still conscious, he was stumbling like a drunk man. He went down to a knee, and then toppled over.
Sarah walked over to him, and cocked the gun. Chuck looked away as the man looked up at Sarah, confusion on his face. Chuck heard the gun go off. "Could you retrieve those two darts for me?" he asked. He looked over as she was doing something to the body, apparently pulling out the darts.
"Those worked," Sarah said. "How?"
"Well, have you ever heard of a Russian scientist named Alexander Zaytsev?" Chuck asked. Sarah shook her head. "Long story short, one of his associates that worked with Alexander knew a guy my brother-in-law knows. The associate was testing a chemical, and found out it causes… let's just say, confusion, in a person who digests it, or has it in their blood stream. My brother-in-law's friend and the Russian associate traded information, and that is how I found out about it and its effects."
"Nice," Sarah said, nodding.
"Is that all of them?" Chuck asked. Sarah nodded. "Well, I don't know if we have enough room in my wagon for all of them. We'd have to make two trips," he began.
"Wait, what are you talking about?" Sarah asked.
"There's a bounty on these men, dead or alive," Chuck told her. "And I'm guessing you probably could use the money with Bryce… dead."
Sarah nodded. A tear came to her eye, and Chuck realized that with these men dead, it might actually be the first time for her to grieve.
"Listen," he said gently. "Why don't you go wash up, and try and get some sleep in your bed-"
"They stabbed him and killed him in our bed," Sarah cut in.
"Okay, don't sleep in that bed," Chuck said. "But…"
"I do need to wash up," Sarah said. "I have a wagon in the shed over there," Sarah said. "Why don't you unload your cart into the front room, then hitch your horse and my horse to the wagon. Then we'll get these bodies into the wagon and take them into town. I need to report Bryce's death."
"Okay," Chuck said softly. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry you lost your friend," Sarah said, heading to the house. She paused. "He talked about you often, and fondly."
"Thank you," Chuck told her. She nodded, then headed inside. He heard the sniffle, and suspected it might be some time before he saw her again. He wished he knew her well enough to offer comfort, but seeing as they had just met a short time ago… "Bryce, tell me you didn't do what I think you did?" he said softly. He began to walk to his cart to bring it closer to unload his few belongings.
A/N: I told you it was different. Grab your sleeping kit, I'll burn down the fire, and we'll meet back tomorrow night for more of our tale. If you git time to write one of those fancy reviews, they sure are appreciated.