Chapter Text
The well standing three miles out of town is dry as a bone. Just his luck. Erik Lensherr pushes his hat back on his forehead, wipes his brow and sighs. This means he has to actually go into town which he wasn't really planning on. He tends to avoid them unless he knows it's worth his while.
Still, it would be nice to spend the night in a bed, and maybe have a bath and a hot meal. He needs more bullets anyway. That decides the matter. He mounts his horse and rides toward town.
It's a dusty shithole of a town, just like the last seven towns Erik's passed through. Pockets of humanity trying to eke out a living in the middle of nowhere. They're always the same, always populated by the same people. Half of them honest, stubborn folk who foolishly believe they can survive out here. And then there's the rest, greedy violent souls who will do anything for money, the gamblers, hunters, thieves and whores. Erik isn't particularly fond of the lot, but they're more his sort than the farmers.
Each town is always built the same, springing up from the dust and the dirt. There's the usual assortment of buildings. Train station, now that the railroad finally reaches this far, blacksmith, general store, saloon. A handful of houses on both sides of the street, ramshackle at best.
Erik dismounts at the livery stable where he pays a small boy two bits to stable his horse for the night. “Any chance you know where I could get a room for the night?” From what he can see there doesn't appear to be a hotel.
The little boy looks thoughtful. “Try the saloon.”
“Really?” Erik glances at it.
“Mrs. MacTaggert runs it. She rents out rooms if you want 'em.” The boy grins up at him. “They come with women if you want them too.”
“I see.” Erik tosses the boy another coin. “Take good care of my horse.”
“Yessir.”
Erik throws his saddlebag over his shoulder and heads down the street toward the saloon.
The faded sign hanging over the door says The Red Rose. Erik pauses and looks around a second before pushing through the swinging doors. The room is fairly empty. There's a woman drying glasses behind the bar. A quiet card game is going on in the corner, three men, none of them a threat. A blonde young man is leaning against the piano at the opposite side of the room, having a smoke.
Erik goes up to the bar. “Who do I talk to about getting a room for the night?”
The woman turns around. “That would be me, Moira McTaggert.” She's pretty, although there are already worry lines around her eyes, and Erik wagers she is not one quick to smile. “Three dollars for the room, six if you want a girl.”
It's not unappealing. It's been a while since Erik's lain with a woman, but he shakes his head. “Just the room.” He needs to concentrate tonight.
Moira hands him the key and he passes over the three dollars. “Straight up the stairs. Third door on the left.”
“Thank you.” Erik takes the key. “How much would a bath cost?”
She looks surprised for a moment. Erik reckons not too many of her clientele care about bathing. “Four bits. Shall I have some water sent up?”
Erik nods. "Thanks,” He goes up the stairs. Behind the first door he hears a low, breathy murmuring. Behind the second, the sound of a squeaking mattress. Despite the afternoon hour, it looks like business at The Red Rose is already bustling.
Erik enters his room and closes the door. He hangs his hat on the bedpost and slings his saddlebag over the chair in the corner. Finally, he hangs up his gun belt, his hand passing over the butt of the gun, reassuring himself that it's there.
He strips down to his trousers, and gets out his shaving kit. Tonight he needs to win at poker, if only to pay for supplies to the next town. With any luck there will be enough men willing for a game. Chances are there will be. Erik's long since discovered that no matter how small the town, the men are usually up for a game of cards.
There's a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” He can reach his gun in three seconds if he has to.
“Your bathwater.” It's a young man's voice. Erik steps over to the door. He has a knife in his boot just in case. He pulls the door open to find a young man holding a large basin.
“Technically, it's just the basin. I'll bring the water up next.” The young man looks hesitant, but nonthreatening.
“Go ahead.” Erik pushes the door all the way open.
“Thank you.” The young man enters the room and sets the basin down. Brown-hair, blue eyes, and the smile that his sister didn't inherit. Bar owner's younger brother, Erik wagers.
The young man goes out again. Erik has started shaving by the time he returns with two buckets of water. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing muscled forearms. He pours each bucket carefully into the basin, looks at it and mutters, “One more,” then goes out again.
Erik wipes his razor off and continues shaving. Slowly, he starts looking less like a creature of the desert and more like a civilized person again. The transformation is always strange. He feels more like the creature of the desert.
The young man lugs the last bucket in and empties it into the basin. “There. You'd probably better bathe before it gets cold.”
“Thank you...” Erik glances in the mirror. He wonders if he should tip him, but the young man is already gone.
Erik wipes his face with the towel and then quickly removes his trousers and underclothes. The bathwater is soothing against his skin. He leans his head back and soaks until he feels more human.
* * *
By the time Erik's out of the bath and dressed again, it's early evening. His stomach grumbles at him, reminding him that it's been over a day since he's bothered to eat. He fastens his gun belt and goes downstairs.
With the coming of night, the saloon has taken a turn for the lively. The pianist is playing a jaunty tune in the corner. Half the tables are now filled with men drinking and gambling. And there's a lovely young redheaded woman, in a dark blue velvet dress, singing a song about the moon. Erik makes his way to the bar.
“Brandy, please.”
Moira gives him a look. “Now don't you clean up nice.”
“I try,” Erik says in mock seriousness.
That actually wins a smile from her, and he feels mildly triumphant. He sips at his brandy and listens to the girl sing. She has a pleasing voice and an even more pleasing figure. He wonders if she's one of the girls he could have had tonight.
“Charles,” Moira calls into the backroom. “Where are those glasses?”
“Coming.” The young man, Charles, apparently, appears with a crate of clean glasses. “Here.” He catches sight of Erik and whistles. “Fancy.”
“Am I?” Erik looks into the mirror across the bar at his reflection. He's wearing his slightly nicer (read: slightly cleaner) shirt, with a silver waistcoat, black coat and trousers. His boots gleam now that he's wiped the dust from them, as well as the polished bone handle of his gun. He wonders how he looks to other people, when all he sees in the mirror is blood and shadows.
“Could you tell me where I could get a meal around here?”
“Well, depends on what you're looking for. If you want a nice dinner, with all the trimmings, go up the street a ways. There's a place called the Blue Diamond that would suit you splendidly.”
“Sounds expensive.”
Moira shrugs. “If it's just food you want, you can have a plate of stew here for a dollar.”
“I'll go with the stew.” Erik takes his brandy over to a corner table. He'd rather eat here so he can stake out the playing fields. He sips it slowly, studying the faces of the men around him.
After a minute or two, Charles comes out of the back room with a bowl of stew and a plate of bread. He brings it over to Erik. “Here you go.”
Erik nods, swallowing the last of his brandy. “Bottle of whiskey and a glass?”
“Sure thing.” Charles goes off.
Erik tastes a spoonful of stew. It's good, spiced just right, hearty and filling. He tears off a piece of bread and dips it in the stew. He hasn't eaten this well in years. Charles comes back with the whiskey and glass, setting them down in front of him.
“Tell your sister she's a good cook.”
Charles pauses. “Actually...it wasn't her.”
“Oh?” Erik dips another bite of bread in the stew, letting the juices soak through it before he puts it in his mouth. “Who then?”
“Me.” Charles says, almost defensively as though he expects Erik to mock him for it or something.
Erik swallows his mouthful of bread. “Then may I say, you are a very talented cook,” he pauses, since he knows Charles's name, but they haven't actually been introduced.
“Charles. Charles Xavier.” Charles tells him. He almost starts to raise his hand, but halts the gesture awkwardly.
“Xavier,” Erik repeats, “Thought McTaggert was your sister...”
“Half-sister.” Charles says, his face tightening slightly. “Excuse me, I have to get back to work.” He disappears into the back room.
Erik shrugs and returns to his meal.
Charles returns to the bar after a little while and starts polishing glasses. Erik spares him a glance now and again while assessing the room. The three old ranch hands playing five card stud in the corner are no good to him. Another table with four men engrossed in their game might be right, but the stakes are fairly low at this point in the game, so he'll wait.
Moira tends bar with ease. She's confident and civil to her patrons. Now and again one of the men disappears upstairs, into one of the rooms, but there's never any disturbance or crude interruptions. It's almost a pleasant atmosphere, for a saloon. A rare thing, Erik thinks to himself, as his gaze trails back to Charles.
The first thing that Erik noticed about him earlier was that he wore no gun. Despite being dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, apron tied around his waist while he hauled crates and moved glasses back and forth, he looked strangely undressed in Erik's eyes. He could be anywhere from nineteen to twenty-five. Erik thinks about Moira, who looks to be in her late twenties, and guesses the younger brother is twenty-two or three at the most. Young, Erik thinks, too young, too green, and not at all suited to the life out west.
He starts to look elsewhere, but then the redheaded singer makes her way over to the bar and starts chatting with Charles. Light, easy conversation as Charles pours her a drink. It's casual, but there's something about it, and the way the redhead smiles, and Erik guesses then, she's another sibling. Three of them altogether.
There's something about the thought of the three siblings sticking together working together, that makes his throat go a little tight. Erik swallows his whiskey fast and pours another shot.
Around ten, the game he's been watching is finally up to his standards. He moseys over with his whiskey, asks if he can join, and the men welcome him to the table. Erik takes a sip of whiskey and watches the cards get dealt.
* * *
“What do you think?” Raven nods to the man now sitting at the card table. “Gambler?”
“Maybe.” Charles says. “I'd say he knows how to play, but it's not his profession.”
“Gunfighter then,” Raven studies the gun belt, the make of the weapon, “It certainly looks as though he knows how to use it. Look at how the holster's all worn.”
“Infinitely more probable, and yet.” Charles can't pin the man down. Earlier, he'd just looked like another scruffy ranch-hand, and now here the man was, all cleaned up and looking mighty fine for a gambler, let alone a ranch-hand.
“Did he ask for any of the girls?”
“Nope.” Raven grins at him. “Why?”
“No reason.” Charles polishes the glass he's already polished twice before. “Just curious, that's all.” It was rare that their guests didn't take advantage of the handiness of having a girl right there. The convenience was too inviting.
“One of these days, Charles,” Raven starts and he just shakes his head and pours them both a drink.
One of these days, maybe he'll meet someone, someone who wants what he wants. But it's hardly going to be some poker-playing gunfighter. That's just not in the cards.
* * *
The evening is going fairly well for Erik. He has the players up to the level he prefers to play at. The pot isn't bad. It will tide him over till the next town at least. He's examining his hand, while assessing his opponent's next move when it happens.
There's a man standing in the doorway of the saloon, looking around. He nods to the men behind him and then enters. Moira turns to face them behind the bar.
The music slowly stops as the piano player catches sight of the man. The saloon falls silent as the man makes his way to the center of the room. “Now, I didn't say stop.” He grins at the piano player disarmingly. “Go ahead and play, son.”
The blonde does, shakily at first, keeping it low. The man turns back to the bar, to Moira, as his men fan out around the room. Erik tracks them, watching them position themselves. They're waiting for something, the word from the man to act.
“Now,” the man leans on the bar. “You know what I've come for, Moira.”
“And I told you I'd have it at the end of the year, Shaw.”
Shaw shakes his head sadly. “That's not how loans work. Your time is up. Now, are you going to pay me, or do we need to find an alternative?”
“Such as?” Moira says civilly.
“I can take it out of your girls,” Shaw says just as civilly. His grin is wide and unpleasant. “Starting with Raven.”
“She's not,”
“Oh, she is.” He says, turning to look at the redhead, who's watching him. “Look at her. Now, what do you say, Moira?”
“I'll have your money at the end of the year, like we agreed.” There's a strain in her voice, but she's keeping calm. Erik admires her for that.
As for himself, Erik had frozen as soon as the man spoke. That voice, he knew that voice. Of all the towns he's spent the last decade of his life wandering in and out of, now...here, of all places...is this man. His fingers itch to reach for his gun. But he has to be sure, he has to be calm. So he waits, and listens and remembers that voice from another time.
“I guess it's true what they say,” Shaw shrugs. “Women just don't understand business. Maybe I need to give you an example.” He nods to two of the men. “Bring out her brother.”
“No!” Moira starts, but Shaw holds up a hand.
“Now, don't do anything foolish.”
The two men bring Charles out of the back room. He's struggling, but can't pull himself free of their grasp. Moira looks at him helplessly. Raven has left the stage, and is halfway across the room when Shaw turns to her. “Stop right there, missy, unless you want me to put a bullet through your brother's skull here and now.”
Raven stops dead, not moving another step.
“There's a good girl.” Shaw turns his attention back to Charles. “Somebody got that rope?”
Another man steps forward and tosses the rope he's carrying over the beam. There's a noose at one end. Charles stares at it, as the men pull him forward, fastening it around his neck.
“Now, if I can just borrow this chair a moment.” Shaw snags a chair from the nearest table and brings it over to where Charles is standing. “Step right up, sonny.”
“Shaw, stop this, let him go,” Moira's hands are clenched against the bar, as she though she's forcing herself to remain there, and not fly forward to rescue her brother.
“I said I was going to give you an example. I happen to be a man of my word. Unlike some people.” He laughs, and Erik stills.
He's sure now. There's no mistaking that laugh. Erik downs his whiskey, letting it burn. He watches as Shaw's men force Charles up onto the chair.
“Up you go. There.” Shaw steps back. “Now...that's a pretty picture.” He grins and draws his gun. Moira goes white. Raven takes half a step, her hand outstretched as though trying to snatch her brother out of danger. The man holding the rope jerks on it, until Charles is forced up on the tips of his toes. He can barely balance straight, as he struggles for breath, hands pulling futilely at the rope around his neck.
“Stop moving,” Shaw says, firing. One of the legs on the chair goes out. Charles wavers some more, trying to stay upright. Shaw fires again. The chair is going to collapse at any moment. Charles's breath is ragged and harsh in the silence of the bar.
“Shaw, please,” Moira begs.
Shaw ignores her, and fired for a third time. The chair crumples beneath Charles's feet, but instead of being choked, he merely falls with it as the rope above his head is shot neatly in two.
Shaw turns his head to look for the man who dared interrupt his fun. He finds him, sitting calmly at the poker table, gun resting on his thigh.
“And what, the fuck, do you think you're doing?” Shaw inquires pleasantly.
“Speeding things up, I hope.” Erik says. Behind Shaw, Charles has managed to get to his feet, but the two men have seized him again. Now they're just standing there, holding him, waiting for Shaw's orders. Charles's eyes are on Erik. Erik ignores this; he keeps his focus on Shaw.
“I beg your pardon.” Shaw's about two seconds away from shooting him just for the hell of it.
“You interrupted my game,” Erik says, his tone light, easy-going, “His dying would have taken longer. I merely quickened the point you were making.” He's not quite sure Shaw will buy it. But there's a chance. If there's one thing Erik's learned over the years, there's always a chance.
“Well, now,” Shaw studies him. “That wasn't a bad shot.”
“Thank you.” Erik slips his gun back into his holster, even though it goes against all his instincts. Instead he reaches for his cards.
“Gentlemen,” Shaw smiles. “Please continue your game.” He walks over to the bar to face Moira. “We'll finish this discussion another day.” He tips his hat to her. “Have a pleasant evening, Mrs. McTaggert.” He turns to his men and nods. They release Charles and follow him out of the saloon.
For a moment there's silence, and then slowly things return to the way they were before they were interrupted. People like to pretend things haven't happened, that they haven't just witnessed anything out of the ordinary. They follow their patterns and ignore the things that stand out and cause trouble. People, Erik thinks viciously, are nothing more than sheep.
“Shall we continue, gentlemen?” He smiles thinly as he reaches for his whiskey glass.
One of the men mumbles something about needing to get home and leaves, but the other three are still willing to play. As they pick up where they left off, Erik glances toward the bar. Moira has her hands on Charles's shoulders, talking to him quietly. The red burn from the rope is visible around his neck.
Erik looks away.