Phoenix Chapter 2/?

[pdglyph.livejournal.com]

Phoenix

Disclaimer: I own the story and original characters, that's it.
Rating(per chapter): PG13 for language, some violence, and a puma attack
Pairing(p.c.): None yet
Summary(p.c.): There's a new Sheriff in town
A/N: Hellooooo!!! Just wanna shout out to the mods who gave me a story tag so quickly, that was awesome and freakishly prompt lulz XD and also to everyone who read and gave me such positive feedback for the first chapter, as I'm uncommonly nervous and thin-skinned about this one. That doesn't however, mean I can't take good critiscim!

So lemme have it! And I'll cry in a corner while Glyph learns from the experience XD

<3
-Pd



Meetings

March 27th, 1861

Hooves, the grunting breaths of the horse, the smell of sweat, dust, and rain on the horizon were the traveler’s only companions in the pre-dawn quiet out west. The horse, Spud, a black mustang of indeterminate origin, navigated through the cacti and shrubs easily, and the man astride the massive beast realized with a pang of sadness that there wasn’t any rain coming, just the creosote bushes perfuming the air.

He sighed, watching the vapor cloud disappear and he pulled his thick coat closer for warmth, trying to ignore the cold trying to find its way to his skin. He was the new sheriff, and as such he had to get to his new little town as soon as physically possible. Unfortunately, it was summer in the newest territory of America, Arizona, and it was rapidly approaching 108 in the shade during the day while the temperatures plummeted dangerously at night, sometimes too dangerous to stop for the night.

He’d been traveling for three weeks now, one of them by horse, and had slept for three nights since.

The man growled and spurred Spud up to a trot. After an undignified snort, the mustang did so, picking a pace that jarred the man’s bones and made his already tender rump smack painfully into the saddle. “Okay, okay, you win,” came the man’s soft grunt, slowing him back down to their pleasant walk and shifting delicately on the saddle. Spud whuffed smugly and tossed his head, ambling around a large growth of cholla cactus.

Why was this man being sent to Arizona, the middle of nowhere where small bands of Indians were still known to raid, steal, and kill everything for fun? Because he’d insulted a lady friend of President Buchanan. Not that anyone really cared, he supposed, since the fat bastard was on his way out and that bean pole fellow was leading the Presidential race… but since she was a prostitute and he was, after all the President of the United Territories… well, you could see how he’d gotten in so much trouble. That and getting drunk and calling the President ‘Doughface’ might’ve had something to do with it.

So to the Arizona territory he went, to protect one of the new railroad towns, and to watch farmers try to scratch out a living in the dust.

It was depressing.

He reached behind him and pulled his flask out, taking a deep swig of some rotgut he’d filched from a handful of bandito’s. They didn’t notice, though. They’d been visited by a wandering tribe of Comanche, judging from the leather straps around their throats, and well… they wouldn’t be noticing much of anything anymore.

Spud’s ears pricked at the sound of the flask and he shook his mane, looking back at his rider with a baleful eye. “Don’t look at me like that,” he sniffed, taking another drink. “I have every right to a drink. I’m in Hell!”

The horse snuffled, ears twitching.

The man sighed. “Okay, fine, I’ll stop drinking until we get to town. Then it’s a whole bottle of the local stuff.”

Spud whinnied angrily, going down the side of a wash daintily and into the loose gravel of a dry river bed. “Hey! I’m the rider, you’re the horse. You do what I say, that’s how it goes!” the man said impatiently. Spud stopped in the middle of the wash and the man groaned. “I’m sorry Spud… I’m just tired, you know? I didn’t mean it…” he glanced up, watching his horse’s ears swivel forward. “What is it?”

Spud snorted, backing away. The man pulled his gun, a nice little six shooter, and pointed it in the direction his horses ears were pointed. A pair of yellow eyes appeared, and just as he took aim, it squealed and Spud took off, the man clinging desperately to his saddle as a litter of javelina piglets and their irate mother burst from cover behind them. “Spud you asshole!” he shouted as he put his gun away, grappling with the reigns.

Nothing chased and the man pulled up on the reigns, trying to get the frantic animal under control when Spud jumped a barrel cactus and landed hard, and the man’s nose smacked into the back of Spud’s head with a small crunch, and he tasted hot salt. “Shit.” came the soft curse, grabbing his reigns and pulling him short. Spud snorted and champed at his bit, pawing at the ground before he gave in to the mans cooing. With a heartfelt ‘thank you’, he chuckled, patting the sweating neck while spitting out blood. “You shitkicker, it wasn’t chasing us-”

Something smacked into his back like a kick from a stud bull, making Spud rear and shy. He fell off the saddle with a grunt as something rolled off of him, carried by its own momentum. He turned, scrabbling for his gun and hat to see a puma growling at him. It smelled blood, and he was in deep shit. Spud was nowhere to be found, and his gun had dirt in it. He drew anyway, standing, trying to intimidate it, but it was hungry, and the man smelled good.

The gun clicked, but didn’t fire, and the puma crouched down, its hind legs coiling like a spring.

He swallowed hard, ignoring the taste of his blood as it streamed from his flattened nose. He’d go down with a fight. It leapt, and the man had a moment to marvel at its grace when Spud pranced up and kicked it square in the chest with a sickening crunch. Spud danced around a bit more as the puma struggled to run away, stomping it into the dirt and kicking it away when it tried to swipe with paws the size of Ryan’s face. It finally managed to get away, a definite trail of blood in its wake. It wouldn’t get very far. The man dropped to his knees, the rush leaving in a hurry. Spud came over and snuffled at him, lipping his dirty jacket and snorting. “Thanks boy,” he sighed, using the saddle to help heave himself to his feet.

His legs were shaking from the fear rush, his respective hurts, and from being so damned tired. He picked up his hat gingerly, wincing at his back, and smacked it against his legs before jamming it back on his head.

“Just another day out west,” he sighed, trying his damndest to get on Spud’s damn back, but all the sudden his limbs wouldn’t work and he slowly sank back onto the ground, watching Spud whicker. “Laugh all you want, shitstain,” the man growled from flat on his back. Looking chastened, the horse got down and lay next to his master. “Apology accepted,” the man pulled out his blanket, and after much effort pushed Spud’s saddle off his back, throwing the blanket over them both and cuddling in close for the heat. “‘Night Spud,” the man mumbled.


“Shhh…. He might be an outlaw here to cut our throats and steal our cattle,” a whisper floated through his thick brain. He remained stock still, feigning sleep.

“Why would he cut our throats? We don’t have anything,” another voice whispered.

Great, he was being studied by two kids.

“I dunno!” the first whispered indignantly before a sharp hush from the second calmed him.

“He smells real bad.”

“All rustlers do, remember? Let’s just get his gun and teach him not to mess with Arizonans,”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the man rumbled thickly, tilting his hat up, “since that would be stealing and I’m five times your size.”

The scrawny little brats yipped and scrambled back, hiding behind an idly grazing Spud. The man grunted and rose gingerly, feeling somehow more tired than when he went to bed. He dusted himself off as much as possible and turned the saddle upright, fishing out some jerky and eating it. “You guys want some?” He offered.

The two kids glanced at one another, then nodded quietly. “Who’re you?”

“Who’re you?”

“I asked you first!” the taller one said smartly.

“So?” the man retorted with a smirk. That deflated him.

“I’m Billy, and this is Emma,” he pointed at his little friend, a girl in a dirty, torn dress with a mass of blonde curls.

“Where you from Billy and Emma?” he asked, pulling out his flask and taking a healthy swig.

“Phoenix.”

“Really? What’s it like in Phoenix?”

They looked around the area. “Like this,”

“Ah good, then I made it.” I sighed. “How far from town are we?”

“Why? Whatcha want with our town?” Billy scowled.

“I’m your new sheriff.”

They took in his filthy appearance, not missing the fact that his coats were sticking to his hide, nor his incredibly strong odor of horse. “Are you sure?”

“Very. I’m just dirty.”

Billy jerked his head in the direction of the blood trail, now brown, and one could see buzzards spinning lazily ahead and down the other side of the hill. “Did you kill that puma?”

“Yup.”

That must’ve made the stranger’s case, because their eyes brightened. “Woohoo! Come on, we’ll take ya ourselves! We’ve been needing a new sheriff for a while now anyway!”

“Good, then help me saddle up Spud and we’ll get-”

“Billy! Emma! Where are you guys!” a new voice sounded. He rose, and the kids did too, flushing with shame. The tall stranger just grinned, sticking his little bit of jerky in his mouth and shaking out Spud’s blanket. A man in a bowler hat puffed up the hill, cheeks flushing from the effort, a huge muzzle loader in hand. He looked like the local black smith, sleeves rolled up past his incredible looking forearms, soot smeared all over his face and burn scars prevalent on his skin. “There you are!” he grunted, eyeing the stranger warily as he pulled the children close, keeping one eye on the tall stranger saddling his horse. “Don’t you know there’s a puma on the loose out here?” he scolded.

“Not anymore! This nice man killed it!” Emma beamed up at the stranger.

“Yeah, and he shared his jerky with us!” Billy nodded, holding up a piece before eating it.

The man looked over at the man, smiling warily. “I guess we owe you one. We’ve been trying to get rid of that thing for ages, now,” he offered his hand.

The stranger took it. “No problem, the thing almost got me, too.”

“What happened to your nose, Mister?” he asked. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name…”

“Oh,” he scowled at Spud, who snorted. Smug bastard. “I met the back of my horses head, and it’s Sheriff. Sheriff Ryan Stiles.”

“Well Sheriff Stiles, pleased to meet you. I’m the black smith, Colin Mochrie.”