#denail

When he came around again, he was coughing up water. He was fading again, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he could breathe underwater– Oh wait. Someone kept his head above the water and was currently swimming in a direction.

“Oh good, we got a Mexican.” A voice said dryly. That, itself, should be alarming enough. It should’ve been enough for him lash out and fend off his kidnapper, but he couldn’t even open his eyes, forget about even moving limbs.

The person grunted, shifting his grip on him, “Come on, muchacho. Almost there…” His back hit land, the person dragged more of it onto the dirt as water sloshed against his legs, threatening to drag him under again. Something heavy was pressed against his chest, making a humming noise before it pulled away. Something wet brushed against his face like a hand yet it didn't feel like one. It abruptly pulled away when he coughed.

His fingers twitched and he groaned as he tried to open his eyes pass the excruciating throbbing of his head. As if reading his mind, the hand gently stroked the back of his head where his injury was. Soon the throbbing faded into a dull ache. The frown lines he didn’t know he was making, smooth out gradually.

“I got you. You’re gonna be alright.” Soft and gentle the voice was, opposed to the grumbling and quips the stranger made while dragging him to shore. Most of them flew over his head or he just wasn’t able to catch.

Peering through slitted eyes, he could vaguely make out a red cloth of sorts hovering over him, the bright sun overhead and his hazy vision make it impossible to make out the stranger’s face. His eyes fell shut again, an alarmed voice echoed from afar as he floated away.

The next time he was awake, he wasn’t even sure if he was conscious or just another dream. He was in the woods or a place with a lot of trees. The scent of burning firewood caught his attention, making him sluggishly turn his head to see the figure’s back to him, donning a red feathered cloak. From the tone of their voice before, he was sure the person before him, was a man. Was he an Indian? But the fair-skinned hand the tossed another piece of wood into the fire told him otherwise.

He seemed to be cooking something but obviously, he couldn’t see what it was with the figure in the way. If the stranger knew he was awake, he showed no indication. The figure started humming. After a short while of listening, the man drifted off again.

When he woke up again, he felt refreshed as if the whole incident never happened. There was no pain, no blood, no indication that he just went tumbling down the slope to his death only to be saved by a red-cloaked figure that is nowhere to be seen.

He quickly patted himself down, settling down when nothing was stolen. He sat in silence, contemplating.

If it wasn’t for those cooked fishes laid out on a leaf, he would believe that it was all just a dream.

Or was it? Vasquez wondered. But this incident would fade from his mind with time, he had to keep moving in search of jobs. But if he ever came across whoever saved a person such as he… well… Thank them of course and pay them back. He never did like owing anyone.

✢✢✢✢

Have you ever believed in the tales that traveled through the air? Tales of ghosts, spirits, creatures that hide in plain sight. Like how you can still hear the dead miners’ footsteps, running through the tunnels, still trying to find a way out. Or how the wife of Victor Jones mourns for her deceased family well after death. Or creatures that drain your blood dry at the dark of the night.

Or even a particular one. They say that a beautiful voice could be heard at a nearby river or stream. A song that beckons stray wanderers far from home, never to be seen again.

“You don’t really believe in shit like that, do you?” A voice laughed, clear and sweet, almost like a melody. If one would even bother to listen closely. The sounds of glass being set down on the table was heard on the man’s far left.

“Who knows,” He chuckled gruffly, “I have yet to see such a thing with my own eyes. But I don’t doubt that there are things out there that hide from us.”

A different voice piped up, “Like outlaws and animals, right?” The whole table broke into snorts and chuckles. Some threw down some more coins to the pile at the center of the table.

The man shifted through his hand, adjusting the cards to where he wants them, “They say if you come across one, death is afoot.”

Some shook their heads at the claim as the first voice spoke up again in mirth, “Death is only afoot ‘cause some are foolish enough to wander deep into the woods where there are wild animals waitin’ to feast!”

The hefty laugh erupted around the table, “So some say, so some say.”

The owner of the first voice took a swing of his glass, a mischievous glint flickered in his eyes as he set it down, “If there’s one thin’ I believe in,” He spread out his cards on the table for all to see, “It’s that I won.”

Loud groans and grumbles sounded as those who haven’t folded, threw down their cards. Some looked at their hand in annoyance.

The chair made a loud grating noise as it slid backward, “Well, good sirs, it’s been mighty fun playin’ with y’all, but bedtime is callin’.” The figure tipped his hat slightly. He just set one foot out the door before a voice from the table.

“Ya ain’t cheatin’ are ya, son?”

Amusement flickered in the man’s green eyes from under his hat. His lips curled into a wicked grin, “No gentlemen. You’re just poor at the game.” And he bolted out of there before it could turn into a fist fight with him in the middle.

His giddy laughter rang loudly to the night sky.

♠ ♧ ♥ ♢ ♠

Joshua Faraday is many things. A gambler, a drunker, a magician, a free spirit and one hell of a gunslinger with a self-proclaimed title as The World’s Greatest Lover.

Faraday was never afraid of walking straight into the line of fire. He was confident in his aim, confident that no bullet could ever touch him.

He was a gambler and that’s how he always won, one way or another. He ain’t no fool, but it benefits him that others think so. They never know what was coming before it was too late. The boy cheated death more times than one could count. Devil’s luck as one would say.

Faraday was many things, but he was no settler. He would be in town one week only to vanish in the next. No matter where he disappeared off to, he would always reappear in a saloon, holding cards in his hands as he sipped on his glass of whiskey.

And so he will continue to travel as such, with Ethel and Maria by his waist, Jack the Horse by his side and his trusty deck of cards in his pocket. And of course, the small bag slung over his shoulder that he always carried around. The one that he never let anyone take from him. Ever.

Until he met Bartholomew Bogue in 1878, soaked to the bone like a wet cat, held at gunpoint while the item in his bag was wrapped around the man’s fist like a prize.

He dreadfully stared at his precious cloak as he was violently dragged into Bogue’s care.

✢✢✢✢

1879 - Rose Creek

He stood in the back as Bogue droned on to the townfolks about land. McCann was beside him flicking around his knife with a threatening air. Also babysitting him, per usual. Well, if it wasn’t him then it was Denali. He actually prefers Denali over McCann because at least he’s quiet and wasn’t looking to start any fights unless Faraday started shit. But Denali was still a bitch, just the lesser of two evils.

His hands curled into fists as voices raised to protest against the man’s offer. Theft more like. Of course, he would’ve joined in as well, if it wasn’t for the lower face mask that prevented him from speaking, much less move his jaw. He turned his glaring eyes at the floor as Bogue drawled on above the voices. Gunshots rang in the air, making Faraday flinched involuntary, something that didn’t go noticed by McCann who smirked.

If only his glare could burn holes.

A hand curled around the back on his neck, the unexpected touch made him flinch. The ginger tensed as fingers brushed against his brand before Bogue was satisfied enough to push him forward, “Come.”

He resisted in making a growling noise. He didn’t need Bogue to guide him out, thank you very much. What he saw when he stepped outside was infuriating. He took an unconscious step towards the group beating the preacher. As if reading his mind, Bogue pushed him over to his right-hand man, who kept a firm grip on his arms.

McCann shook him once to cease his struggling, the tightening of his grip was his only warning. Faraday closed his eyes briefly when Bogue’s men ran past with torches to set the church ablaze. He swallowed the lump in his throat, fist clenching and unclenching as he pushed his Irish temper down.

Bogue’s voice rang through the commotion, slimy and oily as it always is. Sometimes Faraday wondered if Bogue ever heard himself and hated his own voice. Faraday struggled a bit when McCann pushed him forward. He got two working legs, thank you. He wanted to say, but all there was, was a grunt. This goddamn shitty mask.

“Move faster then, boy.” At least McCann got the message.

The Irishman rolled his eyes but complied. The faster they get out of here, the less he got to worry about Bogue spilling innocent blood because foolish people tried to rebel without a plan.

“What kind of man are you?”

Dread seeped into the pits of his stomach when they turn to see one of the townsfolk standing tall with righteousness and anger for his people. An admirable thing, but oh so foolish.

“What these people ever do to you?!” The man was too focused on Bogue to catch the warning look Faraday was giving him. Faraday whipped his head to Bogue instead, reaching out to stop him but McCann’s grip was on him again.

“Behave.” He was told in a low mutter. He growled in response.

Dread increased with every step Bogue took, his breath caught in his throat when Bogue pushed his coat aside to reveal his gun. Faraday wrenched out of McCann’s grasp when the man went down with a bullet hole in his chest. A woman’s cry of grief rang in the air along with gunshots.

His hands were over the man’s chest, over the wound, the man’s body was still warm. He tried to focus, tried to gather the sparing warmth to his fingers, to save this man’s life.

Fingers gripped the back of his mask and jerked him back to temporary catch Bogue’s eyes before he backhanded the ginger so hard he toppled to the ground. The iron piece in his mouth prevented him from biting his own tongue.

As he pushed himself up to his knees, he watched helplessly as Bogue fired another bullet into the man’s body, followed by another cry of grief. A woman ran over and threw herself over her husband. He turned his face to the ground and shut his eyes from the scene.

A burst of pain bloomed where a foot connected with his bum leg, his fingers dug into it as his head curled into his chest, unsuccessfully holding back strangled cry. He didn’t get the luxury to recover as he was pulled to his feet with a death grip on his arm. He found himself staring into Bogue’s furious eyes.

“Looks like I still need to remind you who you belong to.” He growled. From afar, McCann’s lips held a cocky smirk while Denali’s expression was flat, bored and ready to move on. As he stumbled along, he refused to look behind him. The cries of grief were far more painful than the ones in his leg.

“Leave the body where they lay.” Bouge murmured to the sheriff, “Let them look at them for a few days.”