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Chapter Text

“He slaughtered the entire ranch, starting with his father.”

Byleth doesn’t usually pay that much attention during briefings, but this catches his interest. He looks up from cleaning his gun, looking between his father and Mr. Aegir, who’s come bearing all the usual trouble. 

“Hold on,” Jeralt says. “What do you mean, the entire ranch?”

Mr. Aegir runs a nervous hand through his already-wild hair. “Just what I said, Mr. Eisner. There was only one who managed to get away. He said Emile Bartels just went berserk, killed his father, and then attacked every living thing in sight. Except his own horse.”

Mr. Aegir is an avid horseman, Byleth knows, so this last point is important to him. 

“And you want my men to bring him to justice?” Jeralt says. “He took out how many hands?”

“Ten, sir. The survivor was younger, something like twelve years old. An orphan, looking for work.”

Jeralt frowns. “I can’t spare that kind of man power, Mr. Aegir. This is a small county.”

“You’re the only one I can ask,” Mr. Aegir says, his voice tinged with desperation. 

“Mr. Vestra can’t send anyone?”

“Mr. Vestra is too busy exterminating an… infestation.” Byleth can see Mr. Aegir begin to tremble in distress. “He’s just on the loose. He must be brought to justice. We’re trying to keep the order, Sheriff.”

Jeralt sighs. “Well.”

“And, ah, Mr. Vestra wants him alive.”

Jeralt turns around in the small office, rubbing his eyes. “Is that all?”

“He’s heading west,” Mr. Aegir continues weakly. 

Jeralt shakes his head. “I have people to look out for.”

“I’ll go.”

They turn as one to look at Byleth. He sets down his cleaning cloth and oil, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I can go.”

Mr. Aegir bites his lip. “Are you sure? You know Hubert is quite fond of you, he’d never forgive me if I sent you off on your own to be killed.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Son…” Jeralt begins. 

Byleth starts putting his gun back together. “I’ll be back in a couple weeks at most. It’ll be fine.”

Mr. Aegir wrings his hands. “But don’t you think someone should go with you?”

“Well, Mr. Aegir, are you going to come?” Byleth asks neutrally. Ferdinand von Aegir is physically capable of hunting down a murderer, but his political aspirations have kept him close to home—and directly under Mr. Hubert von Vestra’s dark wing—for some time now. “You say we can’t spare any men, so I’ll just have to go by myself.”

“There must be someone we can send with him,” Jeralt protests to Mr. Aegir. “He’s going to get killed out there.”

Mr. Aegir sighs. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Just make sure you take Bandito Gold, alright?”

Bandito Gold is the stunning palomino Mr. Aegir had gifted Byleth on his twenty-first birthday. He had been making do on their old pony, but Mr. Aegir had insisted the gelding retire and Byleth take the headstrong stallion bred from Mr. Aegir’s own fine stables.

It had taken Byleth some time to build trust with the colt Bandito, and longer to actually ride the wild thing—but in the end, as with most things, he succeeded. Bandito Gold is now a horse any man can be proud of, at sixteen hands and covered in muscle that ripples under his fine yellow coat.

Unlike Byleth’s horse, the men Mr. Aegir sends are less than promising. The one at the front is less like a man and more like a particularly breakable twig. He’s carrying a little briefcase and pushing a pair of half-moon glasses up his nose. “Sheriff,” he greets Jeralt, who answered the door. “We are here at the behest of Mr. Aegir.”

Behind him, his two companions are a stranger and a man Byleth unfortunately knows well: his dearly disinherited brother-in-law, Miklan Gautier.

Jeralt looks at the twig and his fellows, then at Byleth. “Uh.”

“I assure you,” the twig says, shouldering his way into their living room, “I am well-versed in combat medicine. I will keep your son alive.”

He sets down his briefcase and extends his hand to Byleth, who stands to shake it. The other two men filter into the room, looking bored. The smaller one has a ratty, mean look about him. Byleth dislikes him on instinct.

“Miklan Gautier I believe you know, and this is Myson Schwartz,” Twig says, gesturing to the men, pronouncing the w in Shwartz the German way, like a v. “My name is Linhardt von Hevring.”

“Jeralt,” says Byleth’s father. “And this is my son and deputy, Byleth. Come in, sit down.”

They crowd around the sagging sofa and chairs that Jeralt hasn’t replaced in ten years; Twig sets his briefcase down on the floor and then draws a map out of it. “Deputy, you’ll be pleased to note that Mr. Aegir was able to gather more intelligence—”

“Have you ever been on this kind of job?” Jeralt interrupts.

“Yes,” Twig says. “Many times. I am in the employ of the Bergliez family. I assume you’ve heard of them.”

Byleth has, in fact, heard of the Bergliez “clan” to the south—and the name earns a deep frown from Jeralt. “Thugs. You work for thugs.”

Twig pushes his glasses up again; it appears to be a nervous tic. “There is no need to be rude, Sheriff. I know Mr. Aegir because I saved his life many times during the war. He has the utmost faith in me and I in him. Surely that means something to you?”

Jeralt leans back and folds his arms. “And you two?”

Shwartz adopts a simpering smile. “You have my word I will keep our party safe, Sheriff,” he says—too pleasantly. Byleth wonders how many guns he’s carrying.

Gautier shrugs. “A job is a job, Sheriff. I’m obliged to do what I’m paid to do. After all, we’re family.” He grins and Byleth feels a little violent.

It’s clear the men’s reassurances don’t exactly fill Jeralt with confidence; he looks at Byleth. “You sure about this?”

“This man isn’t dangerous,” Byleth says. “He’s just angry. He’ll be easy to catch.”

Twig hums. “Yes. Well. It seems he has already employed several deterrents, Mr. Eisner, that may make our task a bit harder.” He unfurls the map, smoothing it out on the coffee table and pointing to Bisbee. “This is the next town in his northwesterly direction. We have reason to believe he and his newfound friends will hit a stagecoach heading into that town, sometime soon—his gang moves fast. It may even be tonight. The guards may capture him, or they may not.”

“Who are these friends of his?” Jeralt asks suddenly. “This was supposed to be one lone maniac.”

“A posse, a gang, what have you,” Twig says, waving a hand flippantly. “Four or five men he appears to have hired to act as a guard. For whatever reason, he is moving with purpose. He needs money, food, supplies. He is not moving stealthily. In fact, he is quite brazen.”

“So we can afford to be equally brazen,” Schwartz observes. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Twig casts a glance out the window, where the sun has begun to drift toward the western horizon. “You should get ready to leave in the next few hours, Deputy. He’ll attack at night.”

Byleth gestures to his kit, sitting by the door. “I’m ready when y’all are.”

“Excellent.” Twig rolls up his map. “We’re to take him to Contention and put him on the 3:10 train to Yuma. Mr. Vestra will handle it from there.”

Twig has concocted a plan to ambush and capture Bartels’s gang as they, themselves, ambush the stagecoach. The way he says it, it’s all foolproof. Byleth isn’t so sure—there’s holes in their being outnumbered, in the fact they don’t know exactly where Hrym’s camped out, in that Byleth has no clue where he even got this information. Probably from Mr. Vestra, who is a font of secrets, but as good as he’s been to the Eisners, Byleth has never really trusted the man.

They don’t make a fire and the desert’s chill settles deep in Byleth’s bones before he knows it. In the distance, coyotes scream over a fresh kill. Twig has dozed off, huddled in his coat with his hat pulled low. Privately, Byleth thinks it’s incredibly stupid to fall asleep in front of three glorified mercenaries, but it’s not like there’s anyone else to sleep next to. The horses are sleeping behind them, lulled by the quiet drone of conversation.

“—had that bitch screaming like a fucking pig,” Gautier is saying to an amused Schwartz. He makes a truly disgusting imitation of an oink that has Byleth grimacing on instinct. Neither man catches it, too wrapped up in a sordid tale that Byleth is eager to tune out. Inching slightly closer to Twig, he keeps listening for hoofbeats, a gunshot, anything.

They’re blind. This is wrong. 

The stagecoach draws in slowly to Byleth’s line of sight where they sit huddled in the deep shadow of a hill. The horses are huffing, slow, overburdened by the armored coach; Byleth nudges Twig awake as Gautier and Schwartz fall silent. The coach ambles on down the road at a snail’s pace, on and on, for what feels like eternity.

As it nears the the exit of the small hollow they’re encamped in, Byleth hears Twig’s breathing begin to slow. “Maybe they’re no—”

The first gunshot is louder than Byleth expects; he jolts into action, swinging himself into his saddle and spurring his horse as fast as he’ll go toward the coach. The men in the coach are yelling and screaming and there’s an explosion, Bandito rears and he falls from the saddle, this is wrong—

“Deputy!” he hears Twig shout, and then the gunshots are sounding all around him. He hears Bandito bolt, spooked by the fire and the sound of dying men. 

“Stay down!” someone yells. “Stay the fuck down!”

Byleth obeys, half-blind in the contrast of the black night and the inferno in front of him. After a moment, Twig hits the ground next to him with a groan. “Deputy,” he greets, turning his head in the dirt. His glasses are crooked. “We appear to have been bested.”

Byleth blinks at him and looks up as a pair of boots approaches, then stops short just in front of them. “Well, what do we have here?” say the boots. “A deputy?”

“No,” Twig says sarcastically. “That’s a nickname.”

The boots calmly walk to Twig’s side and kick him once in the gut. Wheezing and coughing, Twig grits out, “Son of a fuck.”

“Someone needs to learn when to shut up,” the boots observe.

A new pair of boots approach, spurs jingling. These are better made and so new the dust won’t seem to stick to them. “Leave them.”

“Sure, boss?”

“They’re no threat. Tie them up and leave them.”

“What about that palomino? Charlie caught—”

“We’ll sell it.”

Byleth briefly sees a flash of red that has absolutely nothing to do with the fire, and then he takes a deep breath and stills himself. He’s pulled roughly to his feet along with Twig and manhandled to where Shwartz and Gautier are already being held at gunpoint. “Boss says tie ‘em up!” the little man holding Byleth says joyfully.

“I don’t like the look of that one,” says one of the men holding a gun, gesturing with it to Byleth. “He looks shifty.”

“Let’s knock ‘im out,” says the little man, and then a rifle is coming toward Byleth’s face and the world goes black.

Chapter Text

Byleth wakes with his head pounding from what is surely a nasty concussion. Groaning, he rolls over onto his side and throws up into the dust. His shoulders are on fire, wrists full of pins and needles. 

“Welcome back, Deputy,” Twig says from several feet away. In the predawn light, he jerks his head to Schwartz and Gautier, still tied up. “We’ve been waiting for someone to come along and untie us.”

Byleth spits out the last of the bile and struggles to his knees. “Ain’t nobody coming to untie us, Twig,” he says gruffly, and then strains his wrists apart until he breaks the cheap dry rope the outlaws had used. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have your enviable physique,” Twig says as Byleth shakes his hands out. “Help?”

“Yeah, come save us, Deputy,” Gautier laughs, but it turns into a cough. Byleth imagines he got roughed up as well.

He grunts and swings his leg around to untie his ankles, then yanks the rope off the hands of the other men. Twig rubs his wrists and sighs. “We’ll need a new plan now.”

Schwartz smiles his creepy little grin. “I’m eager to hear what you come up with.”

“There’s not gonna be another plan,” Byleth mumbles around his headache. Twig ambles over on shaking legs to examine his temple. “Fuckers stole my horse.”

“Now, Deputy,” Twig says gently, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief, “there are other horses—“

“No, he’s right,” Gautier interrupts. “You heard him. Fuckers stole his horse.”

Schwartz shrugs. “I hear men on the frontier appreciate their horses, Doc Hevring.”

“I appreciate my Jeanie but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go charging an outlaw band—“

“Nobody’s gonna charge,” Byleth interrupts Twig. “They’re going to stop again, in a town, to spend that money. The next town is Bisbee. Get on your damn horses.”

Twig frowns. “Your head.”

“Had worse.” Byleth blinks as Gautier and Schwartz mount up and suddenly remembers he doesn’t have a horse to get on. 

“We can ride together,” Twig says. “There’s no time to get another mount.”

Byleth swallows his dignity and some blood, then allows Twig to pull him up behind the saddle. The mare, Jeanie, shuffles and twitches her ears and huffs at the unexpected weight. Twig shushes her. “You have my sincerest apologies, Miss Jeanie,” he mutters. 

They make it to the outskirts of Bisbee as the sun creeps over the horizon and hangs low in the sky. Through the haze of dust it looks like a glowing red eye and Byleth shudders in his coat, shaken despite himself. 

“Check the bar first,” Byleth says. Twig hums an affirmative and they head as one to the saloon, where there’s a hitching post for the horses. Bandito Gold is waiting there with a bay and a black, wild-eyed and panting. “Hey buddy,” Byleth murmurs. Bandito calms at the sound of his voice, pushing his nose into Byleth’s chest. 

It’s quiet. Makes Byleth nervous. “Twig, stay out here with the horses,” Byleth says as he draws his gun. 

Twig doesn’t respond and Byleth belatedly realizes that’s not actually the man’s name. Schwartz and Gautier are staring at him like he grew two heads. 

“Are you talking to me?” Twig says finally. He pushes up his glasses to better squint at Byleth. “Did you just call me ‘Twig?’”

“You can shoot me later,” Byleth promises and enters the bar with the other two men in tow. 

Gautier whistles at the barmaid, who barely spares him a glance as she polishes a glass. “What can I get you gents this early in the morning?”

“Whiskey,” Schwartz says. As she starts to pour, he continues, “Have you seen a band of men come out this way, ma’am? Maybe with some money to spend?”

She stills, her eyes sliding from Byleth’s gun to the stairwell. He nods at her and makes for the stairs while Gautier slips toward the back of the building and Schwartz continues talking pleasantly with the barmaid as Byleth steps carefully on the outside edges of each stair, willing them not to creak. 

“You got a phonograph?” Schwartz asks, gesturing to one in the corner of the dining room. “Let’s put on some music, Miss.”

She does as she’s told and Byleth creeps onto the landing. The doors up here are all closed, with no way to tell which are occupied. He knocks at one of them at random. “Y’all need some new sheets?”

The man who opens the door doesn’t match Bartels’s description. Byleth has his gun under his chin before the man can speak. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “Take your hand off your gun now, that’s it. Don’t speak. I’m gonna ask you a couple questions and you just nod yes or no.”

The man swallows, his throat bobbing against the barrel of Byleth’s pistol. 

“Is Bartels here?”

A slow nod. 

“Is he in the room behind me?”

Shake. 

“Is he in the room next to you?”

Nod. 

“Are there more men here?”

Shake. 

“Thank you,” Byleth says. “That was very kind of you. Now why don’t you just go back to bed or whatever it is you were doing. I have this building surrounded. I don’t care about you. If you don’t make any trouble, you’ll get out alive. Clear?”

The man nods again and Byleth keeps his gun on him until the door is closed. He waits a moment to the side of the door but the man doesn’t come out or fire off a round, so he moves on the the next room. 

“New sheets,” he calls. There’s no answer. He knocks. “Got some clean bedding out here for you.”

The door doesn’t open. Byleth contains the sigh threatening to escape and kicks it open. “Hands up,” he calls, and there is no reply—no movement, no sound. Byleth crouches slightly and shuffles slowly forward. “Emile Bartels,” he says. “I know you’re in there.”

For all his caution, he doesn’t expect the hand that grabs him by the collar and throws him across the room like a sack of potatoes. He manages to hold onto his gun and tries to level it until a new black leather boot comes down on his wrist, shattering it. Emile Bartels leans down to take the weapon, and then points it at Byleth’s head. 

“Deputy,” he says. “I thought I left you on the side of the road.”

Byleth says nothing. The man before him is tall, with long blond hair and eyes as blue as the sky. If he were a woman, he’d be pretty—and isn’t that a strange thought, Byleth wonders as Bartels surveys him. Not one he’s had before, certainly not about a man responsible for the roaring pain shooting up his arm. He fights not to squirm in pain. 

“You would have done well to go back home,” Bartels goes on. 

“You stole my horse,” Byleth bites out. “Killed your family.”

“You can have your horse back if you like him so much,” Bartels says neutrally. “That wagon had more than I thought.”

Byleth realizes suddenly the man isn’t going to shoot him. He seems bored, distracted. He’s fidgeting slightly. Downstairs, the music is still playing. “Are you gonna pay for the work done to track you?” Byleth asks. “You owe me more than  a horse.”

Bartels frowns at him. “Alright. How many days is that?”

“Ten days, Mr. Bartels.”

Bartels reaches into his pocket and draws out a few bills, dropping them on the floor. “That’s fifteen dollars, Deputy.”

“Obliged,” Byleth says, wincing. The music is picking up; if he strains, he can hear Schwartz’s careful, muffled footfalls through the blood roaring in his ears. “But you broke my goddamn wrist.”

Bartels sighs and spins Byleth’s gun. “I’ll break the other wrist and make it even if you like.”

“Put the gun down,” Schwartz says from the doorway. Bartels stills, the gun still hanging from his finger. “Put the gun down, Mr. Bartels. Your men are being held by local law enforcement.”

Bartels looks at Byleth, his pretty eyes narrowing. He slowly lays the gun on the floor, then stands back up, his hands in the air. 

“Do you have a family, Deputy?” Bartels asks as Schwartz cuffs him. 

“Got a sister,” Byleth says, struggling to his feet as his eyes water. “Married to a rich man. You won’t touch her, Mr. Bartels, she’s far away.”

Bartels looks at him with an odd expression. “So is mine.”

Schwartz hands Byleth’s gun back to him, takes Bartels’, and drags Bartels outside with Byleth close behind. Twig, pacing beside the horses, looks up at their approach and immediately strides to Byleth, pinning his arm to his chest. “Stop getting injured, Deputy,” he snaps. “Hold that there, I need my kit—“

“No time,” Byleth rasps, pushing Twig back toward his horse and Schwartz forces Bartels onto his. Gautier comes running in from the east, gun in hand. “Let’s go.”

“What about the g—“

“Let’s go, Twig!” Byleth snaps, yanking Bandito’s hitch and laboriously swinging into his saddle. “Go, Bandito!”

He doesn’t even need to dig his spurs in. Bandito takes off like a shot, followed closely by Twig’s mare. He spares a glance backward to make sure that Gautier and Schwartz are driving Bartels’ horse, and with that ensured, they don’t slow down until the sun is hanging high and inexorable above them. 

“You only have a small head start,” Bartels says to Byleth later, their horses moving and a smooth and gentler pace. “They’ll catch up soon.”

“Shut up, scum,” Gautier says.

Bartels casts a glance at him. “Do you always speak to yourself in that manner?”

Gautier draws his pistol. “I told you to shut up.”

“Put it away,” Byleth says tiredly. 

“Or what, Deputy? Gonna tell my brother?”

Byleth grits his teeth against a spark of irritation. He’s in too much pain to think clearly. “Ain’t your brother no more, Gautier.”

Gautier swings the gun until it’s pointed at Byleth. Schwartz stays quiet but Twig starts; Byleth holds up his good hand before he can draw his gun. “Easy,” he says. “Just a little friendly teasing.”

Gautier grins. His teeth are a dull corn yellow. He doesn’t move the gun. “Heard your daddy still thinks little Sylvie’s no good for your sister,” he says. “Wonder what he’d think if I went up there and showed her what a real m—“

Byleth has fired a shot three inches to the left of Gautier’s temple before anyone can react. “I said put the fucking gun away.”

Gautier glares but does as he’s told. He always has been yellow when it comes down to it; Byleth’s not overly concerned unless the sorry sack of shit has finally decided to try killing him in his sleep. 

“Deputy,” Twig says after a moment of tense silence. “It will only take me a few minutes to splint your wrist—“

“Tonight,” Byleth promises. “I’ll let you splint it tonight, when we make camp. Okay?”

Twig sighs but subsides. 

“I paid those men well,” Bartels says as though he had never been interrupted. “I’ve known them for a long time. They’ll be coming for me, Deputy.”

“Well, let them come,” Byleth says.

“It makes no difference to us who’s sucking your cock, Mr. Bartels,” Schwartz says in his pleasant voice.

Bartels ignores him, his gaze boring a hole in the back of Byleth’s head. “They’re animals, Deputy. Your sister will be upset if you die out here.”

“You know,” Byleth says, “I’m starting to think you should shut up, Bartels.”

“How much are they paying you?” Bartels asks, and Byleth turns in the saddle to face him. 

“Look here,” he says. “I’m getting a little tired of you trying to talk your way out of this. You’re going to Contention, and that’s final.”

“Contention?” Bartels asks. “What’s in Contention?”

“The three-ten to Yuma,” Byleth says, turning back to the horizon. “Where you will hopefully hang for your crimes and be out of my hair forever.”

“Deputy,” Bartels says slowly. “You can’t mean that. I thought you liked me.”

“Not everyone is a faggot like you, Bartels,” Schwartz says, spitting into the dirt. Byleth narrows his eyes; he’s beginning to feel like he’s missing something. Twig glances between them. 

“Enough,” he says. 

“Aw, Doc, don’t feel bad,” Schwartz says. “You’re one of them good honest faggots, ain’t you?”

Twig frowns at him. “I d—“

“Stop talking,” Byleth says. “Everyone stop fucking talking.”

He doesn’t say it just for his own benefit; whatever predilections Twig and Bartels may or may not have are better left undiscussed. The idiots that Mr. Aegir had sent to accompany Byleth do not need fuel for their jackassery. Blessedly, the group falls silent for a further fifteen minutes. 

Then Gautier begins to sing. 

“Goddamnit, Gautier, shut the fuck up.”

Chapter Text

    Ferdinand rides for Bisbee as soon as he receives the telegram, Edelgard and Hubert hot on his heels in her little coach. The town’s tiny jail is only just big enough to hold Bartels’s gang and he doesn’t want to push his luck.

    When he arrives, however, he finds his luck already pushed.

    The jail has been painted with the blood of men. He crouches and checks the pulse of each to find a survivor and finds none. Behind him, the door opens, admitting his two dearest friends and possibly the people he fears most in this world.

    Hubert hums in distaste. “It would appear they have escaped.”

    “Yes, Hubert, thank you,” Ferdinand snaps. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

    Edelgard tilts her head, holding a handkerchief to her nose. Privately, she hates the smell and look of death. “They’ll be riding hard. We have to do something or they’ll free Bartels and kill the deputy while they’re at it.”

    “What can we do?” Ferdinand asks.

    “You catch up with them,” Hubert says. “We’ll send word to the marshalls.”

    “Me?” Ferdinand stands up, folding his arms. “I have responsibilities.”

    Hubert shrugs. "And now you have one more."

    Ferdinand looks at Edelgard, slightly desperate, but she only nods. "That is probably the best course of action.”

    He glances between them. “You really want me to—to join the posse?”

    Hubert takes a moment to look dramatically about the room. “I’m sorry, do you see another Ferdinand von Aegir here? Perhaps I’m confused.”

    Edelgard smiles tightly at Ferdinand. “I’m sure you will be fine, Ferdinand. You are very capable.”

    “I didn’t pack!”

    “It’s only a couple of days, don’t be ridiculous.” Hubert opens the door and gestures for him to walk through it. “Your horse will be grateful for the adventure.”

    Hubert places a hand on the small of his back to guide him toward the horses and coach. Ferdinand glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “What will you do?”

    “I’ll stage a decoy,” Hubert murmurs, too quietly for Edelgard to hear. “Don’t worry. Just get to the deputy before the gang does.” Ferdinand mounts his horse, and Hubert places one hand on Ferdinand’s shin. “But do take care to come back to us.”

    Ferdinand swallows his trepidation and nods, turning his horse in place and touching his spurs to her sides.

    “Are you sure about this?” Edelgard asks Hubert as Ferdinand disappears in a cloud of dust.

    “No,” Hubert says heavily. “I need to act quickly. His horse isn’t that fast.”

    Finding someone to stand in for Bartels proves impossible, and in the end, Hubert hands his responsibilities off to Edelgard and does the damn thing himself. The coach is tearing across the plains before nightfall.

    “Do you see them?” Hubert calls to the driver as they approach Bisbee again. “Anyone?”

    “No!” the driver yells back.

    Hubert ducks back into the coach. They’ll be hiding in the shadows surrounding the road, trying to track Bartels. If his plan works, they’ll swing to the east following him and the palomino hitched to the coach—and the bars on the windows should be a dead give away.

    Then he hears a gunshot.

    “Yah!” the driver roars, and the whip cracks, and Hubert sinks very, very low in his seat.

    “Deputy!” Ferdinand shouts when he sees Bandito Gold’s telltale yellow coat and white socks. Byleth turns in his saddle and calls a halt so Ferdinand can catch up; his horse slows gratefully. “Deputy, the gang—”
    “Escaped,” Bartels says. He is not what Ferdinand expected. He sits tall astride a black horse, with long hair that looks almost silver in the moonlight. He has a pleasant, if neutral, expression. “I did warn you, Deputy. There’s still time to let me go.”

    As Gautier tells Bartels to shut the fuck up and whatever else it is men like him talk about, Ferdinand hurries to approach Byleth’s horse and draw him away from the others. “What?” Byleth asks. “We knew this could happen. We still have a head start.”

    “Hubert said he would send a decoy to cover you,” Ferdinand murmurs. “But the way those men were killed—it was like animals had done it, Deputy. I’m not sure we should make camp tonight.”

    “We?”

    “Hubert insisted I come along,” Ferdinand says regretfully, casting a glance over his shoulder. Gautier has progressed to rude gestures. “How have they been treating you?” Byleth shrugs and Ferdinand finally notices he’s nursing his limp and swollen right hand. “What happened?”

    “He surprised me,” Byleth says, jerking his chin toward Bartels. Ferdinand follows his gaze to see the man staring at them, nearly burning a hole in Byleth’s skull. “Broke my wrist, took my gun.”

    “He’s dangerous,” Ferdinand realizes. “More than we knew.”

    “We’re here now,” Byleth says. “And we don’t have the option not to make camp, unless you want to kill Twig and the horses.”

    “Who is Twig?”

    Byleth blinks. “Oh. Doc Hevring. He’s an anxious little fellow, you know? I’m surprised he survived the war.”

    Ferdinand looks at Linhardt, who is inching his horse firmly away from Gautier. “Yes. Well. He is sturdier than he looks.”

    “Deputy,” Bartels calls. “Could you quiet your dog, please?”

    “I’ll show you a fucking dog,” Gautier says nonsensically.

    Byleth uses his good hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Good God,” Ferdinand says. “Has it been like this the entire time?”

    They ride until they can’t anymore, and then camp a ways back from the road. Byleth hisses and winces as Twig splints his wrist. The doctor glances at him apologetically and Ferdinand hands over a flask of whiskey. Byleth takes a grateful swig, the burn itself a welcome distraction from Twig’s ministrations.

    “Did you serve in the war, Deputy?” Bartels asks.

    “Don’t tell him anything,” Schwartz advises. “He’s a slippery creature.”

    “I did,” Byleth answers Bartels. 

    “Which side, Deputy?”

    “North.” Byleth spits. “Not that it matters anymore.”

    “Were you conscripted?” Bartels says.

    “Yes.”

    Bartels hums. “And now you’re a lawman.”

    “Geez, Bartels, where’d you get that idea? Do you think we call him ‘Deputy’ for fun?” Gautier says. “Is there a point, or are you just talking out your ass?”

    Bartels ignores him to fix Byleth with his cold, blank stare. “Did you believe in the fight, Deputy? Do you believe in it now?”

    “The deputy here’s a killing machine,” Gautier interrupts. “Belief ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, unless it’s you trying to get right with God before he guns you down.”

    Bartels settles back on his elbows as Twig finishes with Byleth’s wrist. “I’ve heard of you, Deputy Eisner. I can’t imagine what you’re doing out here, with lowly prey such as myself.”

    Byleth drinks more of Ferdinand’s fancy whiskey, to the congressman’s visible chagrin. “Someone had to do it.”

    “A Western Sharpshooter, out here running from a band of thieves, transporting a single prisoner,” Bartels goes on. “Does it leave a bad taste in your mouth?”

    Byleth sighs and takes his hand back from Twig’s incessant fussing. “Go to sleep.”

    “Do you have a wife, Deputy? Does she know you’re wasting your talents on a lawman’s salary?”

    Gautier snorts. “Ain’t a woman alive who’d marry this nasty sumbitch.”

    “Be quiet, Gautier,” Ferdinand hisses.

    Bartels’s gaze slides only momentarily from Byleth to Gautier and back again. “No one to provide for, then. What a shame. You might have understood me, otherwise.”

    “What do you mean, understood you?” Schwartz snorts. “No one will ever understand you.”

“What kind of man guns down his daddy and the entire goddamn ranch, anyway?” Gautier says.

“A man with nothing to lose,” Bartels says quietly. “Perhaps you can relate to that, Deputy.”

“I don’t believe the deputy can relate to you at all,” Ferdinand says stiffly. “He’s an honorable man who makes an honest living—”

“Is this what you call living?” Bartels asks Byleth. “You have friends in high places, who abandon you until they need something. Isn’t that right?” He jerks his chin to Ferdinand and Twig. “Where did you meet such soft, yellow men, anyway?”

Twig gapes, affronted.

“I’d treat you better,” Bartels says, reclining onto the ground and nestling into his coat. “Could always use a sharpshooter.”

“Go to sleep,” Byleth repeats resolutely. “Gautier, it’s your watch.”

“Damn it, Deputy—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Byleth snaps, and settles into his own bed roll, which is missing a blanket that he charitably gave to Ferdinand. Twig squirms on the ground like a worm, trying and failing to get comfortable.

“They’ll be hanging me in the morning…”

Bartels looks up at Gautier, who has his rifle trained on him and wears a shit-eating grin. “Before the night is done. They’re gonna hang me in the mornin’; I’ll never see the sun.”

Bartels’s eyes narrow. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for a little quiet.”

“Way I see it,” Gautier says, “I’d be home in my bed if it wasn’t for you. So I figure, I have to stay up, you do too.”

Bartels frowns as Gautier continues his horrible off-key singing, just quietly enough that the others won’t wake.

Chapter Text

Ferdinand wakes to a crunching and squelching sound that he can’t immediately place. Bleary-eyed, he struggles out of his cocoon only to be knocked over by Schwartz in his haste to get to Bartels—and now Ferdinand knows exactly what that noise was.

He is a veteran, and in his political career has seen things worse than war. But those facts somehow fail to lessen the nausea roiling in his gut at the sight of Bartels hunched over Gautier, bringing a heavy stone down into what used to be his face, over and over again. Blood and brain matter has spattered all over the ground and Bartels himself.

It’s almost animal, the manic precision with which Bartels brings the stone down, the crunching giving way to rhythmic, methodical wet thumps.

Schwartz swings the butt of his rifle into Bartels’s face, sending him flying—and then keeps going, blow after blow. “Enough,” Ferdinand says as he finally finds his voice.

Schwarts, his eyes alight and mouth twisted in sadistic glee, doesn’t stop.

Then Byleth is there, yanking him back by the collar and sending him stumbling away. On the ground, Bartels spits blood into the dust. Byleth levels his pistol at Bartels’s face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Bartels rolls over, grinning with red teeth. “He was talking about your sister.”

Byleth lowers his gun as Linhardt scurries to Gautier’s side. “He’s dead,” he says, looking as sick as Ferdinand feels. “We need to bury him.”
“No time,” Byleth says shortly. “Pack up, let’s go.”

Ferdinand sits still a moment, watching the way Bartels’s eyes, glittering blackly in the embers’ glow, follow the deputy’s every move.

Gray light of dawn. A boy, no more than twelve, sits astride a Bartels pony. A gift given by a tall, gallant man. Like a storybook hero, more than a cowboy—more like a knight or a prince, with long blond hair like a woman’s, only the strong jaw and broad shoulders could never give the illusion of femininity.

His sister looked like him and their momma, but had been softer, gentler. She had given him sweets and taught him to read before she left.

The boy stares blankly at the lightly smoldering body of Miklan Gautier, then at the trail the posse had taken. Hesitantly, he taps his heels against the pony’s sides, moving toward Contention.

From the west, far but not far enough, rough men ride fast in the same direction. A lone and grievously injured horseman follows, too many miles behind.

Schwartz lowers his binoculars. “Shit.”

“I did warn you,” Bartels says, and then works his jaw for a moment. “It’s not too late to just leave me behind, Deputy.”

Schwartz openly glares at Bartels, still unsettled by Gautier’s death, Byleth knows. “Shut up.”

“Is that all you know how to say?” Bartels asks idly, his horse shifting her weight, both of them the picture of casual grace. “Shit, shut up, shut your mouth—”

“Enough,” Byleth says softly. Bartels closes his mouth immediately, looking at Byleth with a pleased air, like he only wanted to be noticed. It sends a shiver down Byleth’s spine for reasons he cannot quite place. “I want details, Mr. Schwartz.”

“Ten men about fifty miles away,” Schwartz recites. “One lone rider closer to us, could be a scout.”

Byleth watches a strange expression cross Bartels’s face. “How close is the one closest?”

“Five miles, maybe.”

Byleth holds his hand out and receives the binoculars, glassing the country methodically until he sees the rider. He can’t make the rider’s features out, only his existence, inexorably crossing the plains. Riding hard. “Bartels,” Byleth says after a moment, giving the binoculars back. “Is there something you want to share with the class?”

Bartels holds his gaze for a moment. “I’m being followed.”
“No shit,” Schwartz says as Ferdinand sighs. 

“By a boy, not my men,” Bartels clarifies. “He’s been following me since I left. Don’t hurt him. He’s no threat. I imagine he’s… confused.”

“Wait,” Ferdinand says. “Cyril? The one you left alive?”

Twig casts his gaze vaguely in the direction Byleth had been looking. “Does he need medical attention?”

“No,” Ferdinand says slowly. “No, he—he didn’t have a scratch on him.”

Byleth studies Bartels’s expression, the hard set of his jaw. “This boy, he’s loyal to you? Is he armed?”

“He’s eleven,” Bartels spits. 

“I’m not going to kill him, Jesus,” Byleth snaps. “But if he’s following you, it stands to reason he’s trying to protect you.”

Bartels says nothing, just stares at the ground like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“We should keep moving,” Twig says in the ensuing silence. “We have too far to go still. They’ll catch up if we don’t ride hard.”

“There’s a shortcut,” Schwartz says. “Through the pass. It goes right to Contention.”

Byleth feels a frown start to creep across his features. “No.”

Schwartz’s glare is turned on him this time. “I’d like to leave this little venture alive, Deputy. Or at the very least buried.”

“Apaches won’t give you no burial.”
Twig looks between them, palpably concerned. “We can’t take that pass if it’s been claimed by Apaches, Mr. Schwartz.”

Ferdinand takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair, wincing as his wedding ring catches. “I don’t know, boys. It could be the only way we outrun that gang.”

“Listen to your deputy,” Bartels says. “I know which bet I would take, Mr. Congressman. We take that pass, none of us are getting out alive. The Apache are skilled warriors and marksmen.”

“I thought they were given land,” Twig says, a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“They were,” Ferdinand says. “These are the ones who stayed to fight for their settlements. I can’t say I blame them; they were here first. They are formidable opponents, Deputy, but we may be able to move through undetected—if we move quickly.” He sighs. “Perhaps, had they not been antagonized, we could have brokered a deal…”

“They won’t deal,” Bartels says. “Those men are going to kill us, Mr. Aegir, and for a government man like you, they’ll be sure to make it painful.”

Ferdinand frowns at him. “Well, I didn’t pass the damn bill.”

“Does it make a difference?” Bartels asks, gesturing broadly between them. “Here we are, five white men, four of whom are obviously armed, moving into a pass known far and wide to be the last stand of the finest Indian warriors this side of the Mississippi. Do you honestly think we’re going to make it?”

Byleth looks at Ferdinand, who can only look back grimly. “Mr. Vestra told me to come back, Deputy, but he didn’t specify whether I should wear a wooden overcoat.”

“I’ll see Mr. Vestra in Hell,” Byleth says. “We’ll take our chances.”

Byleth tries to distract himself from his imminent doom by taking in the scenery on the lip of the ravine. It’s breathtaking like only Arizona can be; he closes his eyes and inhales the scent of the desert and when he opens them Emile Bartels is staring at him.

“Can I help you?” Byleth asks tiredly.

“You look nervous, Deputy,” Bartels says. “Is it the Apaches?”

“No,” Byleth lies. “But let me ask you something. You’ve been mistreated by everyone in this posse. Why’d you pick Gautier to kill in his sleep, if you could’ve been killing us all along?”

“I don’t need to kill you, Deputy,” Bartels says pleasantly, his eyes slowly tracking down Byleth’s body. “Did you like him?”

“Didn’t have to kill the son of a bitch,” Byleth mutters. “Don’t know what I’m gonna tell Sylvain.”

“Who’s Sylvain?” Bartels asks. “Is this the brother-in-law? Rich man?”

Byleth says nothing, sensing a trap.

“Married to your sister, right?” Bartels hums. “Yes. Well. I think he would appreciate the service, if he knew the vile things his brother said about his wife.”

Byleth would put nothing past Miklan Gautier, but he’s beginning to become concerned that he’s developing a bias for the charming man beside him. “That can’t be the only reason you killed him.”

“What other reason does a man need?” Bartels smiles at him. “Do you have a sensitive conscience, Deputy? You wouldn’t think so, the way men talk.”

Before Byleth can answer, Schwartz falls back to join them. “Don’t spew your lies at him, scum,” he says. “That’s enough talk from you. You can tell the Lord your excuses when he sends you to Hell.”

“You’ve expanded your vocabulary, Mr. Schwartz,” Bartels says. 

“Deputy,” Schwartz says, ignoring Bartels, “you shouldn’t have to deal with him after he killed your brother-in-law. You can just let him talk to me.”

Byleth wonders when Schwartz decided he had any authority in this operation. Ferdinand seems to be thinking the same, but again, Bartels answers. “I don’t like talking to you, Mr. Schwartz.”

“I suppose you don’t like talking to anyone who has a gun on you,” Schwartz snaps.

“No,” Bartels says, rolling his neck. “It’s just that you’re not very interesting.”

Byleth hears Twig try and fail to stifle a sharp laugh.

“That’s right, Doc. Laugh it up,” Schwartz says. “Until he guts you like a fish.”

Byleth’s brain logs something inconsistent, incorrect, before Bartels can even say it: “Oh yes, you’d know all about me, wouldn’t you, Mr. Schwartz? How long did you work for my father?”

Byleth shoots a glare at Ferdinand, who seems just as surprised. He looks back at Byleth with his eyebrows raised.

Schwartz scoffs. “Surprised you remember, with how young you were. No telling what you imagine you saw.”

“I have a good memory,” Bartels says. He turns back to Byleth. “My father liked to take me out on excursions with Mr. Schwartz, you see. He thought it was good for a young man to develop a taste for blood.”

Byleth feels his heart sink as he suddenly realizes exactly why Schwartz has been so hostile.

“He wasn’t a good man, my father,” Bartels goes on. “And he didn’t like Apaches. That’s how I know how skilled they are with their bows—but I digress.” He grins, but it looks more like he’s baring his teeth. “Once he hired Mr. Schwartz and some other men to kill thirty-two Apache, women and children included.”

Byleth can practically feel Ferdinand about to combust behind him.

“Insurgents who were cutting down railroad men and ranchers— and their families,” Schwartz protests. “Picking them one by one off the road. Scalping them. If you have such a good memory, surely you wouldn’t be lying like the dirty sinner you are—”

“Babies running around, just toddling along, crying and screaming in the chaos,” Bartels interrupts, and the still desert air affords the statement too much gravitas for Byleth’s liking. “No more than three years old. And my father and Mr. Schwartz here, they and the boys, shot all the little ones down and pushed them in a ditch. Some of them were still crying.”

He looks back Schwartz, smiling. “I suppose the Lord hates Apaches as much as sons who kill their fathers.”

Ferdinand rides forward to put a preemptive hand on Byleth’s good arm. “That’s enough,” he starts, but Schwartz, looking murderous, says, “You just keep talking. All the way to Contention, on that train to Yuma, right up to the noose. And when they hang you, you’ll answer to the Devil.”

Bartels’s smile doesn’t fade. “Hell is home for men like me.”

Byleth turns to check on Twig, who’s been suspiciously quiet, and finds him looking over his shoulder, shaking. “Deputy,” he whispers harshly. “Deputy. Is that—?”

“I suppose I’d feel the same way,” Schwartz spits, “if I came from the rancid womb of a whore.”

Bartels closes his mouth and tilts his head. Byleth looks back at Twig, who is fumbling with a spyglass. “That shut you up,” Schwartz observes in triumph. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” Bartels murmurs. “I just don’t want to be shot by the Apache on the ridge.”

Byleth’s head whips to follow Bartels’s gaze at the same time as the posse’s, and in that moment, Bartels leaps from his saddle with startling agility for a man so large, tackling Schwartz off his horse before Byleth can react. They go scrabbling through the rocks, and the horses spin, trying to get away from the commotion, fucking Byleth’s aim up as he draws his revolver—

Bartels only needs a moment to haul Schwartz up and aim his pistol at Byleth, tsking. “Drop that pistol, Deputy. Rifles, too. Doctor. Mr. Congressman.”

Byleth and the others slowly lower their weapons, finally tossing them down as Bartels presses his forearm more firmly into Schwartz’s neck. In close quarters, Schwartz is far too small to compete with the sheer mass of Bartels’s frame, even with the bigger man still wearing handcuffs. Bartels begins walking them both to the cliff edge and Byleth thinks he perhaps should’ve taken his chances. “This was always your problem, Mr. Schwartz,” Bartels says darkly, dragging Schwartz along. “You never knew when to stop talking.”

He lets up the pressure on the other man’s throat for just a moment, just long enough to look him in the eye and say, “Even bad men love their mommas.”
And then Schwartz is gone, sailing over the cliff edge, his scream cutting off abruptly at the first thud of impact. They sit there in silence on their horses as Bartels palpably savors the sounds of Schwartz’s body hitting every rock on the way down, his gun still pointed at Byleth.

Bartels hums as he turns fully. “Well,” he says. “Perhaps it’s time for everyone to just go home.”

Byleth’s mind is racing, trying to figure a way out of this, when a gun cocks from somewhere in front of them, behind Bartels.

  He inhales very slowly. “Cyril.”

“Don’t you move, Mr. Bartels,” says a tremulous voice. “And you put that gun down.”

Bartels turns and steps aside, giving the others a view of the child holding a pistol, trained on Bartels’s heart. “Cyril,” Bartels repeats. “Do you even know how to work that thing?”

Cyril fires a shot to the right of Bartels’s temple, exactly the way Byleth had done to Gautier the day before. “Yes sir.”

“It’s over, Cyril,” Bartels insists, though he raises both his handcuffed hands, gun pointed skyward. “Half the deputy’s posse is dead. You are not an adequate replacement. And I don’t believe you’re going to shoot me.”

Cyril keeps his gun level. “I saw what you did to that man at your camp, Mr. Bartels.”

Byleth slowly dismounts and retrieves his guns, aiming the rifle at Bartels. “You heard the boy. Put the gun down.”

Simmering in rage, Bartels does as he’s told. Byleth roughly pulls Bartels back over to his horse. “No more issues from you,” he mutters to the outlaw. Bartels, now tall in the saddle, leans down, one hand gripping Byleth’s jaw. He doesn’t know why he allows Bartels to do it, or to whisper in his ear, “I think you like it.”

Chapter Text

Byleth would never admit it, but the quiet that’s descended on the camp—in the absence of two men who are now dead—is relieving. In fact, if he looks to his three o’ clock, he can almost pretend this is some field exercise. The tall grass surrounding them on all sides sways soothingly in the wind, almost lulling him to sleep.

Twig nudges him to hand him a piece of bread, jerky, and the water canteen. “Eat, Deputy,” he murmurs. “You need your strength.”

Byleth thanks him and takes the provisions; unfortunately, Bartels takes this as an invitation to speak.

To Cyril, who has been sitting mutely shuffling a deck of cards, he says, “Have you ever been north? Maybe to Leadville?”

“No,” Cyril says. “This is the farthest I’ve ever been.”

Bartels shakes his head, idly sketching in a little book Byleth had allowed him to keep. “That’s a shame. They know how to shuffle cards in Leadville.”

“Mr. Bartels,” Ferdinand admonishes.

Bartels ignores him. “Best Irish whiskey outside of Ireland, I’m sure. And the women there are unforgettable.”

“Bet the venereal diseases are unforgettable,” Twig says under his breath.

“A little money, and you can have whatever your heart desired,” Bartels goes on. “I was your age when I first went there. I left with irreplaceable worldly experience… and the start of the gang which now pursues us.” He flashes Byleth a smile.

Cyril’s eyes are wide with wonder. Irritated, Ferdinand says, “I’ll thank you to resist influencing this child.”

“Relax, Mr. Aegir,” Bartels says easily, his charcoal making swift and sure strokes in the book. Byleth doesn’t know how he sees anything, or if the handcuffs are hindering his work. “After silver crashed, Leadville fell. It’s all gone now, making way for the railroad.”

Cyril looks as if he’d like to ask more questions. Before he can, Byleth says, “How many men have you killed since then, Bartels?”

Ferdinand shoots him a grateful look. Bartels says, “Many, Deputy. I’m a bad man.”

“And how have you gone undetected?” Twig snaps. “Was the ranch not your first crime?”

“Maybe my first crime of note,” Bartels muses. “I have been killing people a long time, Doctor. Perhaps some of your favorite mysteries were my doing.”

“Stagecoaches?” Ferdinand guesses. “Is this a habit of yours?”

Bartels’s smile widens. “Trains.”

Cyril is obviously delighted by the stories of the captivating outlaw. Byleth scoffs. “A coward’s living.”

“A man has to take what he needs in this world, Deputy,” Bartels says in that infuriatingly even tone. “I have to go.”

“You ain’t going nowhere,” Byleth says tiredly.

“You misunderstand,” Bartels says. “I have to go.”

Ferdinand, Twig, and Cyril look at Byleth like triplet owls. Obviously, this is his duty. Rolling his eyes, Byleth grabs his shotgun, hauls Bartels to his feet, and together they shuffle off into the grass. 

“You shouldn’t fill that boy’s head with your shit,” Byleth hisses to Bartels as the voices from camp fade.

“He’s deciding which path to take,” Bartels answers, going about his business. “He should know his options.”

“He’ll decide better without your input.”

“You know,” Bartels says, “I really thought he was going to kill me in that ravine. He has wild eyes. That spirit will serve him well.”

“It’ll make him decent,” Byleth insists. “He was protecting a lawman.”

“Decency,” Bartels snorts as he turns back to Byleth. “Yes, you do one good deed in the name of decency, and feel all that hopeful warmth inside you. I’m sure it’s habit forming. And before you know it, you’re a slave to your decency, never knowing what you want or who you are. You just keep being good and decent until you’re hollow and dead.”

Byleth can feel Bartels’s burning gaze in the darkness. Discomfited, he glances back at the camp, toward the young boy. He starts to say, “You’re wrong,” but when he looks at where Bartels should be, there’s only a patch of mildly trampled grass.

Byleth gives chase immediately, trying to figure out what’s a game trail and what’s a recent track, and then something heavy knocks into his side and brings him down hard. Byleth, the wind knocked out of him, screams soundlessly as he lands on his shattered wrist—and then tries not to black out as Bartels’s heavy body pins him to the ground.

“Shh,” Bartels says, right next to his ear, and Byleth shivers despite himself. Bartels is scanning the rocks around and above them, clearly sensing something, and then a shot rings out.

Bartels mutters a curse and eases off Byleth. They both sit up. Byleth hefts his shotgun, trying to listen for movement, but another gunshot is all the warning he gets before pain blooms in his shoulder.

Between his wrist and the gunshot wound, Byleth is seeing stars. Sensing his apparent uselessness, Bartels hauls him through the grass and back to camp, depositing him roughly at Ferdinand’s feet as the other two panic. Gunfire sounds all around them—they’re surrounded. The horses, whinnying and stomping, only add to the confusion.

“What—” Twig starts to say, but Bartels holds up a hand, listening.

“There’s three of them,” he says after a moment. 

“Gentlemen you know?” asks Ferdinand.

“If they were, the Deputy would be dead,” Bartels says, gesturing to where Byleth is sprawled on the ground, trying to steady his breathing. Twig scurries over to tend to him, finally noticing the blood staining his shirt.

“I need the gun,” Bartels says, moving toward him.

Byleth scrambles backwards. “No.”

Bartels, clearly attempting patience, presses his advance. “They are going to kill us. They’ll kill Cyril. Give me your gun.”

Byleth glances at Cyril, who looks horrified at the announcement of his impending death. Against his better judgment, Byleth lets Bartels take the shotgun from his hands. Bartels checks the shells and, seeing only two, holds his hand out for more ammunition.

But Byleth, wincing in pain as Twig applies pressure to his wound, shakes his head. “We’re dead men either way. You’ll—” He stops, fighting back a whimper as Twig presses harder. “You’ll fuckin’ make do.”

Growling, Bartels skulks off into the grass. They wait, holding their breath, and hear one shot. After that, the gunfire from their left stops; another moment, another shot, and the gunfire on their right is gone.

Byleth lets his head fall back. One left. Ferdinand and Twig can take one. But then there’s the sound of struggle, of impact and pain, before the wet sound of blade meeting flesh ends the noise of the night.

The silence, after so much gunfire, is almost as deafening. Byleth watches, almost delirious, as a dark figure glides toward them. For one wild moment, he almost thinks Death has come for them, and then the moonlight glints off Bartels’s hair—and the barrel of the feathered Apache rifle he’s acquired.

“Fuck,” Byleth says.

“I told you not to come this way,” Bartels says, his gun aimed unwaveringly at Byleth’s face. He’s clearly enraged, only his years of experience keeping his hands from shaking in anger. No one dares move.

“Give me the key,” he tells Byleth.

Slowly, Byleth slides his relatively good hand into his pocket, and extracts the key to Bartels’s handcuffs.. He holds it up so that Bartels can see it, and then uses the last of his strength to throw it as far as he can.

“You—”

Bartels can’t even finish the sentence. The last thing Byleth sees before he blacks out is the butt of the Apache rifle, aimed straight for his face.

When he wakes again, Twig is leaning over him, pulling his eyelids back. “Oh, thank God,” he says. “I can’t see a damn thing. I thought you might not wake up.”

“Where is he?” Byleth croaks.

Cyril comes into view, holding Byleth’s gun. “Gone. Took the horses. Here.” He hands the rifle back to Byleth, who takes it, wincing when the motion pulls at fresh bandages.

Ferdinand points somewhere vaguely northwest. “He went that way. It’s the fastest way out of the pass.”

“He’ll need help with the handcuffs,” Byleth says. Then, to Cyril, “Track him.”

With a sharp nod, the boy starts surveying the ground, even as the sun starts to rise.

Finding the blasting camp is just dumb luck. Emile isn’t going to question it, riding slowly with his bevy of stolen horses through the camp. He starts a little when an explosion heralds the march of Progress, that great lady to which all men bow. Ahead, a tunnel is being dug right into the side of the mountain, gouging out her insides and boring through her flesh.

Dozens of Chinese workers mill about the camp, looking thin and haggard. Emile spares a moment to pity the obviously overworked and underpaid men, and then keeps moving.

He dismounts and slides into a tent at random, pleased to find it occupied only by women and girls. They freeze as he enters, but he’s hardly looking at them, pointing instead to a hammer and chisel sitting on a stool.

“Hammer the handcuffs,” he tells the nearest woman, who appears to be the grandmother. “Help me.” He tries to make his voice pleasant, and though he recognizes that she understands him, she makes no move to pick up the hammer.

Sighing, Emile tries again. “I need the handcuffs gone. Please. Help, with the hammer. Break the handcuffs.” He holds up his wrists.

She seems like she might answer him, when a volley of gunfire shatters the relative quiet of the tent. The family hits the floor, screaming, and Emile is hauled out by the collar of his shirt. The barrel of a gun is immediately shoved into his face.

“Well, well,” a raspy voice says. Emile slides his gaze to the left of the barrel, finding an unfamiliar face looking at him with far too much recognition. “If it isn’t Emile Bartels.”

“Do I know you?” Emile asks neutrally.

“You killed my brother,” the man snarls, and then Emile is being dragged off to a train car.

Somehow, he doubts this is going to be a fair trial.

They ensure he stays upright by hanging his handcuffs from a hook on the wall. “This is going to be so much fun,” says a red-haired woman, who appears from the shadows and rips his shirt open. 

Emile raises an eyebrow. “You will regret taking advantage of me.”

“Oh, baby, don’t worry,” the woman coos, gesturing to where two other men are fiddling with some sparking wires. “We’re not planning anything untoward. But you do deserve to suffer.”

His eyes widen involuntarily as the men approach him with the wires, taping them to his bare chest. The leader nods at one of them, and he follows a wire back to the blasting box they’re all connected to. A switch is hit, and Bartels experiences the single most horrific agony he can imagine. His entire being vibrates and everything is somehow both searing and frozen; he physically cannot contain his scream.

And neither can the woman contain her laugh.

The deputy’s goddamn palomino, too distinctive to hide, might have just saved his life. He has no idea how long they’ve been shocking him, but that insipid Congressman’s voice is like heaven.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Mr. Aegir yelps, starting forward, but everyone in the train car—save Emile, who is sagging in pain—whirls around with guns drawn. Mr. Aegir is forced to stop, his hands in the air. Byleth peers over his shoulder, and Emile finds it within himself to spare an apologetic smile. The bruise on the deputy’s jaw is ruining his rugged good looks.

“Mr. Aegir,” says the man in charge of the whole affair. 

“Mr. Solon,” Aegir replies, his tone icy. 

“What brings you to my neck of the woods?” Solon says with false pleasantness. 

Aegir lowers his hands slightly to point at Bartels. “That’s our prisoner.”

“I don’t see any prisoner,” Solon says, looking around theatrically.

Aegir huffs. “That’s Emile Bartels, the man who killed an entire ranch of men.”

“Emile Bartels gunned down my brother in Abilene six years ago,” Solon replies sharply.

Emile casts about in his head for the file labeled Abilene, 1879. He comes up mostly empty, with only one incident worth any kind of remembering. “Your brother was a lying card shark, if I recall. I could be remembering some other scum I stepped on.”

Solon snaps his fingers and the woman gleefully shocks him again. By now, he’s learned to contain the scream; he only stares the woman down, gratified to see a spark of fear in her eyes.

“Stop!” Aegir shouts. “You can’t do this. It’s—it’s immoral!”

The good Congressman says this like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Emile laughs. “There are no morals here, Mr. Aegir.”

Byleth, evidently growing impatient, shoulders his way in front of Aegir, followed closely by the doctor. “This is cruel and unusual punishment and this man has had no trial. I can arrest you right here.”

“Oh?” Solon says, gesturing to the men still pointing guns at the posse. “Is it worth dying over, lawman?”

Byleth catches Emile’s eye. Just get out of here, Emile thinks, not quite desperate, but having no desire to see the deputy dead. Cut your losses.

“At least give us back the horses,” Byleth says finally. Emile smiles again at how much the deputy loves his horse. 

“That’s fine with me,” Solon says dismissively. “As long as you get on them and ride away.”

The last phrase is said with considerable venom. Byleth nods slowly. The posse quickly retrieves their horses, leading them back to the front of the train car. Emile nods at Byleth one last time. “Nice knowing you, Deputy,” he says.

Byleth opens his mouth to answer, and Emile glances down, just in time to catch a flicker of movement from the doctor. Solon’s eyes have been glued to Byleth. “Away,” he reminds them when Byleth continues to hesitate.

The doctor swings a shovel directly into the face of Solon’s enforcer. Emile’s eyebrows shoot upward as the slender man turns to the other enforcer before anyone can react, kicking the man in the groin and bringing a knee up into his face even as Byleth springs into action. As the deputy lands a hard blow in Solon’s gut, Emile leverages his hooked handcuffs to swing his legs into the woman’s chest, sending her flying.

Aegir unhooks him and drags him back to the horses while Cyril provides cover fire. Ducking the boy’s bullets, they mount up and ride like hell, but the camp is mazelike and clanging and confusing. Men throw themselves out of the way of the sprinting horses; they only have a minute’s head start before that annoying woman’s laughter starts up behind them.

Emile spares a glance backward to see her shooting at them with wild abandoned, Solon firing off slightly more controlled shots. Byleth is in the lead, heading for the tunnel in the mountain and Emile realizes suddenly that none of them are going to make it.

The doctor shouts as he’s hit; Cyril steadies him in the saddle as they enter the tunnel. With considerable effort, Emile scoops up the nearest dynamite and waves it at Byleth. “Shoot it when I throw it!”

Hoping the deputy heard him, Emile throws the TNT toward a support scaffold and keeps riding. He’s ridiculously proud to hear the explosion and cascade of rock and stone, sealing the tunnel from their pursuers—and even more proud when he turns and sees Byleth riding hard from a cloud of billowing smoke and dust.

Emile wants to say it, to congratulate the deputy on sharp shooting indeed, but all at once the past few hours catch up with him and he slumps in the saddle. His body feels like it’s going to give up and it’s all he can do to stay on the horse.

Byleth helps him down and shoves him onto the ground, thrusting a canteen of water in his general direction. Emile takes it, watching the deputy as he pulls the doctor from the saddle. Aegir is fussing, retrieving the doctor’s medical kit from the saddlebag.

“Am I bleeding?” the doctor whines, contorting to look at the gunshot wound in his side. “Oh my God! I’m bleeding!”

Aegir hushes him as Byleth cuts away the doctor’s shirt to look at the wound, turning the doctor slightly even as he babbles in hysteria. “It went through clean,” he says. “Given that you can talk, I don’t think it hit anything vital…”

“I’m bleeding,” the doctor repeats faintly, and then mercifully passes out.

Byleth looks panicked for a moment but Aegir shakes his head, unrolling a bandage. “Chin up, Deputy. He’s hemophobic.”

“What?” Cyril asks, hopping down from his horse.

Emile can’t help it; he laughs, nearly spitting out his mouthful of water. “He’s afraid of blood.”

Byleth stares at Aegir, uncomprehending. “But he’s a doctor.”

Aegir just sighs as he cleans the wound. “I know.”

Emile looks at Cyril to observe his reaction, but the boy has forgotten about the doctor in favor of taking in the view: ten miles of brand-new railroad track, leading to the bustling town of Contention.

Chapter Text

Contention is nothing short of iniquitous. Emile watches the deputy shift uncomfortably in the saddle, avoiding the leers of several scantily clad women outside the bar. There’s not even a church to set the poor man’s heart at ease. He follows Byleth’s gaze to see the marshal’s office is boarded up, with a hastily painted sign over the entrance: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS.

“Congratulations, Deputy,” Emile says, strangely eager to put a smile on Byleth’s face. “The train station is over there. Six blocks. Brand new, too.”

Byleth doesn’t reply, but his face relaxes slightly. Aegir says, “We should lay low.”

“The hotel,” Twig suggests, gesturing to the building with his chin.

Byleth turns to Cyril. “Can you stay here and keep watch?”

The boy nods, pointedly not looking in Emile’s direction. “Deputy,” Emile says. “He’ll be the first target when they catch up.”

Byleth refuses to engage and they head as one toward the dusty, ramshackle hotel. Various shady characters loiter under awnings, not a law man in sight. It’s Emile’s kind of place, but he can see the deputy tensing again, rubbing his horse’s neck in a nervous tic.

“Nice horse,” someone calls to Byleth, but the way he says it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Emile cuts the man a glare and watches him slink away with some satisfaction.

“Remind me,” Aegir says heavily, “to buy you a spare horse, Deputy.”

Byleth’s mouth tightens. “I don’t need one. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Just head around the back,” Aegir says as they reach the hotel. “I’ll check us in.”

The back of the hotel, being in the shade, is slightly cooler. The deputy dismounts and ties Bandito to the provided post with a simple clove hitch. A horse with half a brain could untie it, but Bandito is so well-trained that Emile doubts he’d bother. Emile’s own horse, Rio, has a different, but just as diligent, spirit. Instead of discouraging knotwork, Emile had rewarded Rio for getting himself out of difficult constraints, and instead trained him to stand until called.

With the doctor preoccupied and Byleth scanning the horizon, Emile ties his own horse accordingly. Moving quickly, his back to the deputy, he hooks Bandito’s lead to Rio’s headstall, and then leaves Rio’s lead loose.

No one notices. And Aegir opens the backdoor before the deputy can glance at the lead ropes again.

“Let’s go,” Aegir says, and they file into the stuffy hotel lobby. The bartender stares openly, his scowl plain as a day as he goes through the motions of washing a glass. Emile suspects the alcohol is the only thing keeping the dishware clean.

“Only the bridal suite was available,” Aegir mutters in apology as they climb the stairs. 

Byleth’s mouth twists and Emile smiles. “We could just leave the deputy there. He’d be every young girl’s dream.”

The doctor snorts. Aegir shoulders the door open, and when the doctor has crossed the threshold behind Emile and Byleth, he says, “I’m going to find the marshal and get some backup. Stay here.” He hands Byleth a shiny pocketwatch before he leaves, the door closing with a foreboding air of finality.

Byleth leaves the watch where they can all see it, on a table by the window. He claims the chair next to it as Twig perches primly on the edge of the bed. Bartels remains standing, looking entirely too smug for a man about to get on a train to hell.

“Deputy,” Bartels begins, and Byleth braces himself for another threat, every nerve on fire. But the next sentence isn’t at all what he expects: “Run away with me.”

Byleth barks out a short laugh and Twig visibly starts in surprise. “What?”

Bartels ignores him, staring intently at Byleth’s face. “Name your price.”

Twig comes immediately to Byleth’s defense. “The deputy cannot be bought,” he says, and while that’s true, Byleth is uncomfortably aware that Bartels wouldn’t need to resort to underhanded tactics.

“I like you,” Bartels says to Byleth. “I like you very much. I meant what I said, about treating you better.”

“Bartels—” Byleth starts, feeling an uncomfortable flush in his cheeks. He resists the urge to smack his own face into submission. 

“I would offer incentive,” Bartels repeats. “Whatever you want, Deputy. It’s yours.”

“Stop this farce,” Twig cries. “Deputy, you cannot trust this man.”

Byleth forces himself to maintain eye contact with the outlaw, who appears oddly earnest. “I have a sworn duty to protect people from men like you.”

“Then I won’t be a man like me.” Bartels steps forward, as though he could convince Byleth by proximity alone, and then abruptly backs off. He glances out the window, and Byleth follows his gaze, half-expecting his gang to leap through the glass. “That’s alright, Deputy. You’ll be changing your tone at two fifty-five.”

Byleth checks the watch. It’s 1:30.

Hubert von Vestra is a man who’s hard to kill. A cunning jack of all trades, he is made more dangerous by his extensive armory, poisonous apothecary, and Ferdinand von Aegir’s fastest horse. Despite all these things, the stitches he hastily sewn himself back together with are coming undone, and Ferdinand failed to breed his current steed for gait.

He gasps as the mare lands heavily and jolts him again in the saddle, his hand flying to his abdomen. He’s pretty sure his organs are trying to leave his body. The agony is exquisite, unique, and terrifying. 

Hubert looks over his shoulder, at the plume of dust rising over the hill he’s just crested. He can taste the copper in the back of his throat, and he spurs the mare. She snorts in minor protest, but puts on an extra burst of speed.

“Get me through this,” he tells the horse, “and I’ll retire you forever.”

The lone horseman, pursued by Emile Bartels’s gang, is spotted easily by the boy watching from the main road. Cyril wheels his horse around, unwilling to stick around and see if the man will shoot first and ask questions later.

This event—marked by Byleth at 2:15—coincides with Ferdinand’s knock on the door of the bridal suite. Byleth doesn’t move except to draw his gun. “Been gone a while, Mr. Aegir.”

A tin star slides under the door and across the floor, tapping innocuously at the toe of Byleth’s boot. Picking up the star, Byleth opens the door and finds Ferdinand unharmed on the other side, accompanied by three armed lawmen.

“Deputy,” Ferdinand says as they step inside. “May I introduce Marshal Ordelia and two of his most capable men.”

“I’ll pay you double to let me go,” Bartels drawls from the corner of the room, leaning against a wall and sketching fastidiously in his little notebook. 

The men remain silent and stoic, though one looks a little too squirrelly for Byleth’s liking. “So there will be seven of us,” he says. “That’s good.”

“Not enough, Deputy,” Bartels murmurs.

Cyril thuds frantically up the stairs just before Byleth shuts the door again. He stumbles into the room and then leans over, wheezing, before he gasps, “They’re here.”

“How many?” Twig asks, crossing toward the window.

“Ten or eleven,” Cyril says, sitting on the bed in exhaustion. 

“Well, which is it, boy?” Ordelia says. “Ten or eleven?”

Cyril doesn’t answer except to glare. To Byleth, he goes on, “One of them is far in the lead. I don’t know who. Fast horse.”

Ferdinand looks at the boy sharply. “What color?”

“Black,” Cyril says. “Near as I could tell, anyway.”

“Fuck,” Ferdinand says inelegantly, running a hand through his hair. “Let that man through when he gets here. If he gets here.”

“Who is it?” Cyril asks.

Twig frowns. “It’s probably Mr. Vestra. Considering how quickly the gang caught up, I can’t imagine his diversion worked very well.”

“He’s tall,” Ferdinand tells the marshals. “Probably wearing black. Dark hair. Likely injured.”

“That could be anyone,” Ordelia argues.

Ferdinand rolls his eyes. “Then take up firing positions, and I’ll tell you which one he is. Let’s go.”

A smile starts to curl Bartels’s lips. Byleth watches from the window as a crowd begins to gather below, curious at the approaching band of outlaws, and the guns sticking out of windows. Not a single respectable man is among them, Byleth can see, and he can sense Ordelia’s men growing more nervous.

“Sure are a lot of them,” one of them mutters, wiping his palms on his pants. Byleth scoffs.

“There!” Ferdinand says as Hubert flies into view, throwing himself off his horse and skidding into the lobby. Ferdinand quickly goes to retrieve him; on his heels, the gang approaches at a more sedate pace.

Metodey, the de facto leader in Bartels’s absence, lets Hubert go. It makes no difference—it never did. He makes brief eye contact with the bartender in the crowd, who glances upward. Metodey rides around to the second storey window and calls, “You alright up there, boss?”

Before Bartels can answer, Ferdinand opens the door and drags Hubert into the room. “Linhardt, help me, quickly—”

“Boss?” Metodey calls again, and Bartels glances at Byleth.

“What should I say?” he asks, lips quirking.

“Tell them you’ll write them every day from prison,” Byleth says.

Bartles steps quickly to the window to wave his manacled hands. “I’ll be down soon,” Bartels says. Behind him, Twig is frantically trying to stop Mr. Vestra from bleeding out on the floor. Bartels glances at the scene with something approaching sympathy.

Below them, Metodey shouts, “Five hundred cash dollars to the man who shoots anyone escorting this man, Emile Bartels, to the train station!”

The crowd grows restless and Byleth ducks away from the window. Emile wisely does the same, silently cursing his lieutenant. It’s not like the drunken idiots can tell who he is.

“Five hundred cash dollars, guaranteed!” Metodey repeats. Guns start to point out windows.

“Gotta be thirty or forty more now,” the squirrely deputy says, and Byleth pinches the bridge of his nose.

Ordelia shuffles awkwardly in place for a moment, before he says, “To hell with this. Let’s go, boys.”

Ferdinand, still helping Twig sew up Mr. Vestra on the floor, splutters, “Now wait just a minute!”

“This ain’t a fair fight,” Ordelia says gruffly. “There’s just too many. I’m not asking my men to die for this.”

Ferdinand, red with indignation, spits, “You yellow-bellied coward, I ought to—”

“Let him go, Mr. Aegir,” Byleth says tiredly, tossing the marshal’s star back to him. Ordelia catches it, nods at them, and he and his deputies shuffle quietly out of the hotel.

Bartels is palpably amused by this development as he regards Byleth. “Well, Deputy, how about it?”

“Shut up,” Byleth snaps.

“Next your Congressman’s going to walk out,” Bartels breezes on. “Everybody wants to live, Byleth.”

“You gonna let your boys kill this child?” Byleth bites out, jerking his hand toward Cyril, pale and trembling against the far wall. Vestra groans on the floor and Twig hushes him gently.

“I’m almost done,” he murmurs.

“They’re animals, Deputy,” Bartels says. “I can hardly control them, and they like me. The only one risking Cyril’s life is you.” He turns to the boy and jerks his head toward the window. “Why don’t you look down there, son?”

Cyril looks at Byleth, who shakes his head. Nevertheless, the boy creeps forward, and Byleth clenches his jaw as the boy recoils almost instantly from the grim sight of a small army, hyper-focused on their room.

“Call them off,” Byleth says.

“Why should I?” Bartels asks as Twig ties off the last stitch in Vestra’s abdomen. 

“You’re not all bad,” Byleth says, a tad desperate. “You saved us from those Indians.”

“I saved myself,” Bartels corrects, tone neutral. 

“In the tunnels,” Cyril pipes up, “you helped us get away.”

Bartels tilts his head. “If I had a gun, I would have used it on you.”

Cyril glares. “I don’t believe you.”

Bartels only smiles again. “I wouldn’t last a second leading that outfit if I wasn’t rotten to the core.”

“Goddammit,” Ferdinand mutters from the floor, staring at his friend’s deathly pallor. “God dammit. Deputy, this position is indefensible and Hubert is half dead. I’m—I’m calling it off.”

Vestra moans something about authority and Ferdinand covers his mouth. “Silence, you wretched man.”

“Mr. Aegir,” Byleth growls, “we’ve brought him this far—”

“And I’ll make sure you and your father are paid handsomely for undertaking such an endeavor,” Ferdinand interrupts. “But I can’t ask you to do this.”

“It’s just you and Cyril now,” Bartels muses.

“Shut up,” Byleth barks. 

“I’ll double your pay to drop it, Deputy,” Ferdinand says, his face regretful.

Byleth folds his arms. “Mr. Aegir, with all due respect, men are dead. Their lives are not worth four hundred dollars.”

“Their lives weren’t worth anything,” Bartels says under his breath.

“I’m not letting him go,” Byleth insists. “He’s getting on that train.” He turns to Cyril. “You. Stay here and help Mr. Aegir guard Twig and Mr. Vestra.”

Twig huffs at his nickname, wiping his hands as he looks at them. “What are those men going to want with a grievously injured politician and a doctor? Let them leave, Deputy. I can keep Mr. Vestra safe.”

Ferdinand glances between them uncertainly; he doesn’t want to leave, Byleth can see, so the deputy ignores Twig. “Find a room down the hall. Go.”

“We shouldn’t move him—” Twig starts, but Byleth holds up an impatient hand.

“Move him or die,” Byleth reminds them, and watches as the doctor and Ferdinand silently haul Vestra away, aided by Cyril.

Chapter Text

It’s 2:55. Byleth throws the watch at the wall.

“Deputy,” Bartels chides, sketching in his little book. “Pull yourself together.” At Byleth’s petulant silence, he continues, “Have you ever read the Bible, Deputy?”

“No.”

“I read it once. I was eight years old.” Bartels’s pencil moves surely, quickly, the sound of the tip scratching the paper only barely reaching Byleth’s ears over his own heartbeat. “My mother decided we were going to start over somewhere, away from my worthless excuse for a father. She readied my sister, and she gave me the Bible. She told me to start reading it while she took my sister to buy train tickets.”

Byleth edges nearer to him, against his will and better judgment. “And?”

“I did as she said,” Bartels says tonelessly. “Read it cover to cover. Took me three days.” He pauses, tilting his head as he studies his drawing. “She never came back.”

Byleth’s heart, already heavy, sinks like a stone. “What are you drawing?” he asks, just to say something—anything—else.

Wordlessly, Bartels flips the book so that Byleth can see. There on the page is the deputy’s perfect likeness, staring stony-eyed out the window.

Byleth swallows. His fingertips are tingling. “It’s time to catch the train.”

Downstairs, the bartender pours them two shots as they brace themselves. Bartels nods his thanks, and Byleth, having never been a drinker before, decides against declining the gesture. As he sets the glass back down on the counter, the whiskey sears its way down his throat and burns in his belly.

“Let’s go,” he says roughly, leading Bartels back into the alley with their horses. He hefts his pistol and scans the street, but fails to notice the man on the roof until it’s nearly too late—at the flash of a muzzle in his periphery, he propels himself into Bartels and they both land in a stack of crates. The shot misses; the horses spook, whinnying in alarm. Wincing at the splinters digging into his flesh, Byleth pulls himself up, pulling Bartels with him.

The street is dead silent after the first shot. Byleth’s ears begin to ring as they bolt from the alley to a flurry of gunfire, scurrying into the shelter of an overhang. He brings his pistol up, intent on returning fire to the man on the roof.

“Deputy.”

At the sound of Bartels’s voice, Byleth turns just in time to shoot the man who had just snuck up on them. “Thank you,” he says to the outlaw, puzzled.

“I’m returning a favor,” Bartels says. “For the blasting camp. You’ll get no more warnings from me.”

Rolling his eyes, Byleth turns back to the street. They have five blocks to go with no cover, and still no sign of the gang—only the man on the roof. “Where are the rest of them?”

“They’re waiting.”

Ignoring Bartels’s smug tone, Byleth presses himself more firmly to the wall as local gunmen open fire.

At the hotel, the sound of the hell raining down on the deputy sends Ferdinand’s heart into his throat. 

“Go,” the doctor says from Hubert’s side. “I can take care of Mr. Vestra.”

Ferdinand flies.

“One of those drunken idiots is going to hit the boss,” Metodey mutters to himself. 

“What should we do?”

Metodey aims his guns and shoots—one, miss, two. “Nothing for it.”

Under Metodey’s inadvertent cover fire, Byleth hauls Bartels out from the overhang and they sprint into the first open door they see. It’s a small mining shop; a bullet flies before Byleth can get his bearings, but he fires on instinct and then the shop owner is on the floor.

Byleth fumbles with his belt to reload his pistol, and doesn’t even have time to look up when Bartels rushes him. They crash to the floor and Byleth nearly bites through his tongue—and then blood does fill his mouth because Bartels socks him hard enough for his teeth to cut his own flesh.

Pinned beneath the much larger man, he has no choice but to stay still. Eyes burning, Bartels says, “Let me go.”

“No.”

Bartels backhands him soundly. Byleth blinks hard against the spots of color dancing in his vision. “You will die here, Deputy,” Bartels says, his hand digging painfully into Byleth’s throat.

Byleth spits the blood in his mouth onto Bartels’s face. “I’ve seen worse.”

Bartels, red saliva dripping down his cheek, stares at him—and then smiles. “Alright, Deputy. Come on.” He hauls Byleth to his feet and steadies him, and then they’re moving again, up a ladder, onto the roof, and every muscle in Byleth’s body is pleading for deliverance. Below, Metodey and his men are sprinting like bats out of hell, trying hard to outrun them. They jump the last rooftop before the train station ticket booth, Byleth colliding with Bartels’s back and both of them crashing soundly through an awning.

Byleth wheezes a little as he comes out of his roll, stumbling under his own momentum. Bartels drags him toward the booth and they burst through the door, Bartels slamming it behind them. He drives Byleth by his shoulder to the floor. There they sit for a moment, panting, badly bruised and bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts and scrapes.

The ticketmaster stares at them, surprised, but only mildly. “I hate to tell you this,” he says slowly, “but the train is late.”

Outside, one of the cattle milling in a feedlot lows mournfully. Byleth’s head rocks back and slams into the wall as Bartels laughs. 

Ferdinand sees the deputy go careening off the roof and into the ticketbooth, apparently aided by the outlaw, and is nearly relieved until the gang surrounds the tiny building. Frowning deeply, he creeps into the feedlot with the cattle, keeping his eyes down as they regard him curiously. “Don’t say a word,” he murmurs to them. “Not yet.”

“You can’t rely on trains, Deputy.” Bartels looks at Byleth with a small smile that looks out of place on his severe features. “Come with me.”

Byleth shakes his head. Bartels, brow furrowed, wipes the blood from Byleth’s face with a miraculously clean handkerchief. Byleth catches his wrist. “You live in a fantasy world, Bartels. Do you know what you need to do?”

“What?”

“When you decide to bust out, find the rest of your family. And stay there with them. Settle down.” Byleth lets his head fall back, thudding against the wall. The motion makes his vision swim, so he closes his eyes. “Leave this behind.”

Bartels doesn’t ask what “this” is—it’s painfully clear, even in their pocket of hard-earned peace. Unmindful of the ticket clerk, still reading his newspaper, or Byleth’s reputation, he holds the deputy’s hand with both of his. “Visit me, then,” Bartels says, voice husky and low. “I meant what I said about treating you right.”

Byleth raises his eyebrows, grudgingly unsurprised to find himself warmed by the request. “I will.”

Bartels lights up in a way Byleth hasn’t seen before, and he realizes abruptly that all the smiles the outlaw had worn were fake. This one, this real expression of joy, is just for Byleth. 

The train’s whistle shrieks as it finally begins to approach the station. Ferdinand straightens, whipping off his belt and swinging it wide. He gives a short, startling cry, and the cattle begin to panic as one. Still shouting and swinging his belt like a lariat, Ferdinand whips them up into a frenzy just as the train slows, sending the cattle stampeding for the ticketbooth with rolling eyes and hanging jaws.

Some of the men wise up in time, but Metodey isn’t one of them, too focused on the booth’s door. Unable to flee the flood of cattle, he’s caught in the raging tide; Ferdinand takes cover again just as the deputy bursts from the booth with Bartels on his heels.

Emile allows himself to be led by the deputy to the jailhouse caboose, catching with approval the flash of copper signaling the politician’s presence. A stampede is always a clever trick. He jumps up into the traincare and looks to Byleth.

“I’ve got a prisoner to go to Yuma,” the deputy says to the baffled jailer, and Emile feels the smile creep onto his face without his permission.

“Deputy,” Emile begins, and then is interrupted by a gunshot and a spray of blood from Byleth’s skull.

The jailer leaps backward with a shout and Emile lunges to catch Byleth as he falls to the ground, feeling his chest flare with terror as they both plunge to the ground in a motion that seems to last forever. He hunches over Byleth’s body, trying to protect him from any other gunfire, and then looks over his shoulder.

Metodey staggers up to the train car, smeared with dirt and sweat and blood. He spits out a globule of red saliva as he holsters his pistols. With nonchalance Emile once greatly valued, he takes the key from the stunned jailer’s trembling hands, and unceremoniously unlocks Emile’s handcuffs.

“For some small town deputy, you was one tough sumbitch,” he says to Byleth’s corpse, and Emile feels something deep inside him bend, crack, and then snap.

He takes the rifle off Byleth’s body and levels it at Metodey’s face. The man freezes, unsure, just in time to lose most of his head.

The rest happens very quickly. Someone tries to shoot Emile and clips him; he retaliates with better aim. Before the body hits the ground, he ducks and rolls into Metodey, coming up with both his Schofields and firing them with unerring precision, and then all of his men are dead, and the world is very quiet.

Turning slowly back to Byleth, he frowns at the adrenaline still rushing through his veins. He wills himself to feel the anguish at the sight of blood pouring from Byleth’s temple. He wants it to hurt. He needs to feel this unique agony, and commit it to memory, and feel it for the rest of his life. 

“Byleth,” Emile says, and wonders that he even managed to get the word out. “I’m sor—“

The deputy’s eyelids flutter, and Emile’s heart almost stops. He scrambles to check Byleth’s pulse, his fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise. Byleth’s heartbeat surges steady, if elevated, under his skin; Emile chokes back what might’ve been tears and gathers the smaller man up. 

“Hey!” the jailer says as Emile throws Byleth into the train car and then clambers after him. “What are you doing?”

Emile shrugs. “The deputy has an appointment.” The train starts to move. There is no need to say the appointment is with Emile himself, and in any case, his non-explanation seems to mollify the guard. He busies himself applying pressure to Byleth’s head wound, relieved to see the bullet had only clipped his skull. It would give him a nasty headache, but it would heal. He leans back, Byleth half-sprawled over his chest, and closes his eyes. After a few moments, he lets out one long, shrill whistle.

Ferdinand jogs after the train, incensed that the damnable outlaw would take the deputy, and is quickly overtaken by two horses—one of which he bred himself, and which is tied to Bartels’s big black stallion.

He slows as the train picks up speed, watching as a trailing cloud of dust eventually swallows everything. Despite himself, he smiles.