He glanced from the rip in his fine, expensively tailored suit to the outlandish ruffian who dared to cause it. A glint of anger sparked in his cool, blue jeweled eyes as the aforementioned ruffian smirked in amusement.
Brian Littrell, gambler/con man extraordinaire, brought his hand up to the flaw that now resided in his right sleeve. He fingered the tear, a suspicious metallic shimmer flashed from between the singed edges of the rip and he absently ceased his inspection. He glared through the murky saloon air to the wastrel before him, who still had that aggravating sneer on his fat, greasy face.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” the man laughed from behind his still smoking gun, carefully moving around the saloon table between them. “Did I hurt your poor coat?”
Brian unconsciously straightened, “You, sir,” Brian spat the word, “have better have one hell of a rationale of pretext to ascertain the justification of this external detriment upon my most equivocal person.”
Brian’s calmly voiced, southern accented words reached the rough man standing before him, but that seemed the extent of acknowledgment as the man’s face went blank.
The man shut his eyes briefly and shook his head, “What the hell did you jus’ say?”
Brian just flashed one of his winsome smiles, discreetly moving his right arm into a more ‘comfortable’ position.
The man sneered, not liking the way the words sounded or the snide smile that followed, “I don’ know what you jus’ said, but my next shot will be more precise. Yer not gettin’ away with yer cheatin’!”
Brian rolled his eyes and sighed, declaring in a bored tone, “I do not cheat.”
The man laughed, “Yeah! Sure!” He then goaded a frozen patron sitting in a chair nearby with his elbow, “Hey, lookie here! A gambler that don’t cheat!” The frightened patron just stared, then nodded his head while slinking out of the chair and moving quickly away.
The man ignored him and gripped the gun he still had trained on the gambler tighter, “Sorry, but I don’t buhleev ya. I don’ cotton to no cheater, so say yer good-byes, pretty boy!”
Brian tensed as the click of the hammer being pulled back echoed through the crowded, but silent, saloon. The man smiled, revealing decaying teeth, and began to squeeze the trigger.
The saloon’s batwing doors were thrown open with such force that they slammed into the walls with a loud crack. Brian ignored it as he saw his adversary’s attention was now drawn to the sudden disturbance. Brian swung his right arm out toward the distracted man and flicked his wrist, ejecting the hidden derringer and pressing it against the man’s temple.
The man’s eyes bulged, he felt the pressure of the small gun barrel against his skull. He turned his eyes as far as he could to view his opponent and was greeted with a stone cold face at the end of the arm wielding the weapon, the blue eyes steady and controlled.
A cold smile turned Brian’s lips, “Now, sir, I believe you are in quite the compromising position. Would you be so kind as to relinquish your firearm?”
Sweat was beginning to roll down the man’s fat face; he nodded and with a shaking hand, gave his gun to the gambler. Brian’s smile widened as he took the gun, then he relaxed his arm and released the hammer on the derringer, “Please, do yourself a favor and vanish from my sight before I decide to relieve my itching trigger finger.”
The man needed no further prompting, halfway out of the saloon before the gambler finished half of his sentence. Brian pushed the derringer back into its hidden position and returned to the gaming table to collect his winnings, planning to leave this rustic burg of a town immediately.
“Got yerself out of one hell of a pinch, boy.”
Brian paused in placing his money into his pocket at the quiet, yet condescending voice. Looking up he sees a man in all black clothing with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against one of the saloon’s support beams.
Poker face in place, Brian stares into the man’s steady green eyes, “I am no boy, sir. And that was merely an inconvenience to a very lucrative night.”
The man scoffed, “So yer used to that? A scrapper pulling a gun on ya?”
Brian shrugged, indifferent, “It happens. Some people have the notion that when they sit down at a poker game, that they are not going to lose. A few don’t take the truth very well and... retaliate.”
The man shook his head, “Yeah, well, at any rate... you owe me a drink.”
Confusion was visible on Brian’s tanned face briefly before it disappeared, “And how have you come to that conclusion?”
The man smirked and nodded to the batwing doors, one of which was now hanging from only one hinge, “I jus’ saved yer hide, that’s why.”
Brian understood, but was undeterred, “I was handling the situation just fine. I needed no assistance.”
The man nodded, uncrossing his arms and pushing away from the beam, “Uh-huh, sure. He was about to smoke yer ass.”
The man walked to the bar counter, speaking to Brian over his shoulder, “I’ll have a shot of whiskey.”
Brian sighed, “Fine. Barkeep! Two shots of whiskey, please.”
Brian walked up to the bar and stopped beside the tall man. He noticed the nervous glance the barkeep gave the stranger as he set the ordered drinks before them. The dark clothed man grabbed the shot and downed it with a slight grimace.
Brian took his time and sipped at the potent liquid, deciding to introduce himself, “As I have just procured your libation, I feel I should introduce myself. My name is Brian Littrell.”
The man gave him a side glance, nodding to the barkeep for another shot, “Kevin Richardson.”
Kevin jumped at a crash, turning to see the gambler’s stunned face, his now frozen hand empty, the shot glass shattered on the floor before his shiny black boots. Brian swallowed, blinking slowly and looking at the man before him in shock, “Did... did you say... Kevin Richardson?”
Kevin tensed, giving Brian a guarded look, “Yeah, what of it?”
The usually unflappable gambler was searching for words, “Kevin Richardson... the gunslinger?”
Still suspicious, Kevin only nodded, taking his drink from the barkeep.
Brian leaned heavily against the support of the counter, shocked by what he’d just heard. Brian finally regained control. A genuine smile brightened his smooth face, “Kevin Richardson, I’ve finally found you!”
Kevin just looked at him, not knowing what to think.
Brian’s brain turned back on and he pulled himself together, “As I said, I am Brian Littrell. I have been looking for you because, well... I’m your cousin.”
Another crash sounded in the saloon, the barkeep was becoming annoyed at the destruction of his property. Kevin laid his now shot glass free hand on the counter, did he just hear right? Kevin stared at the gambler, his eyes darkening.
“You joshin’ me?” He growled.
Brian had witnessed the darkening mood and the haunted look flooding Kevin’s eyes, “No sir. Honest to whatever God presides over us; I am telling you the truth.”
Kevin turned away, processing the information. His voice was dark and factual when he spoke, “I ain’t got no family.”
Brian worried his bottom lip, then opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.
“I don’t know what yer tryin’ to pull, but you best stay out of my way. I don’t take to cheatin’ liars,” Kevin threw some change on the counter for his drink, and then pulled his black hat lower over his hardened face. Turning back to Brian, his icy green gaze pinned the gambler down, “And right now, you are fittin’ that description.”
Brian stood rooted to his spot, staring at the dark back of Kevin Richardson as he strode out of the saloon and into the night, the clink of his spurs following his haunted form.
Brian absently placed money on the counter for the drinks, caught in a daze. What Kevin had said had hurt. Brian didn’t have the slightest notion why, but... it did. Brian leaned back against the bar, his eyes scanning the saloon. After a while, he sighed loudly and straightened, pulling his navy blue coat down slightly. He turned to the saloon’s damaged doors, determination displayed on his young face.
Brian Littrell marched out of the saloon intent on finding a certain dark clad gunslinger, while in the back of his mind he wondered what possessed him to look for the man in the first place.
An old man’s glazed gray eyes stared up at him; the old man’s breathing was becoming more and more labored.
Howie Dorough brought a hand up to his brow to wipe the nervous sweat away, tossing nervous glances from the struggling old man lying on his cot to the three young men who each had a gun trained on his nervous hide.
Howie didn’t know why this was happening, but he knew he didn’t have the time to dwell on it at the moment. His mind replayed the recent events anyway. He had been minding his own business, sitting at his desk and going through medical books, when his door was kicked open and two of the three young men dragged the ailing old man in.
Snake bit.
The old man was snake bit. The three young men were his sons, they said he was bit an hour’s ride from town. Too long, there was nothing Howie could do. When he told the three sons this, they were a tad upset and ‘suggested’ he do something to save their father.
Now, as the old man was breathing his last, Howie found his sorry butt in a mess of trouble. His liquid brown eyes darted about his room, searching for something to turn the tables in this currently one-sided situation. His eyes landed on his desk where his guns lay, then the back door behind it. He was going through the distance and how long it would take to get to his guns and the door, while trying to figure a way to go about it without becoming the human version of Swiss cheese, when one of the sons spoke.
“How’s pa?” he snapped out.
Howie’s attention was brought back to the old man. He closed his eyes as he said, “I’m sorry, he’s gone.”
All three sons straightened, the same one as before speaking, “What! You’re a doctor! You were suppose’ to save ‘im!”
Howie backed away toward his desk, hands out as the sound of hammers being pulled back filled the small room, “Now, I never said I was a doctor. I’m only a healer, I try to help people the best I can, but I’m no doctor. I told you it was too late, I could do nothin’ to help him.”
“Bullshit! You’re gonna pay for what happened to our pa!”
Howie’s heart raced as he dove for his desk, his small clinic room filling with the sound of gunfire.
Kevin stepped outside of the saloon and leaned his frame against one of the wooden supports to the balcony above him, his haunted eyes staring at the starry night sky.
He didn’t know what possessed him to help that gambler. All he’d wanted to do was have a few good drinks and was about to enter the saloon when a shot echoed from within. Kevin had took a glance in the window and saw a rough looking man holding a gun on a young gambler. It was obvious to Kevin that he was a gambler, he wore the duds. He had black dress pants and an expensive looking navy blue pin tailed jacket, worn over an embroidered vest and white silk shirt, topped off with a black river boat hat. Definite gambler attire.
Kevin ignored them, always had. He’d seen plenty of them in the multiple saloons he had visited, always sitting at their poker tables and fleecing the locals of their money. He was intending to ignore them again, but something stopped him. He’d be damned if he knew what it was, but it was enough. Kevin trusted his gut instincts and right then they were telling him to help the gambler. So he did.
Kevin’s mouth turned into a smile as he continued to stare out at the quiet night, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned further into the wood beam. The gambler sure was fast with a gun, he thought as he shook his head.
Kevin frowned as he recalled the gambler’s name, Brian Littrell. Kevin closed his eyes. He wasn’t gonna get his hopes up. As far as he knew, the last of his family had died with his father.
“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”
The soft southern drawl cracked like a whip in the quiet solitude Kevin was lost in. He whirled around, drawing his gun. There stood that damned gambler, Brian Littrell, with a smile on his face. Kevin sneered and made no move to holster his gun, or to divert its aim from Brian’s heart.
“Thought I told you to bug off,” Kevin growled shortly.
“Ah, that you did,” sighed Brian, ignoring the gun pointed at him and walking to stand opposite Kevin, his eyes gazing into the darkness beyond the glow of the saloon. “Normally, I heed such advice, but I find myself not willing to ‘bug off’ just yet.”
Kevin opened his mouth to reply, when gunshots resounded from down the street. Both Kevin and Brian became alert, glancing at each other before running toward the commotion.
They slid to a stop beneath the balcony of a building, just in time to see a man crash backwards through the second level’s door to the wooden deck with a bang, his arms outstretched with guns in hand, and firing into the doorway he just fell through. Kevin and Brian both drew their guns and started up the stairs, but the man stopped firing and rolled toward the stairs, scrambling to his feet and half running, half falling down the stairs and into Brian. Both fell to the dusty ground, but soon regained their feet, not without a muffled curse from the gentleman gambler though.
Each now stood at the bottom of the stairs with guns drawn as three young men burst out of the second floor door, their heads whipping back and forth in search of the man. They froze when they found two men along side their quarry, now six gun barrels trained on them from below.
The tallest spoke, “We got no beef with you two, just him. Go on yer ways and no harm will come to ya’s!”
Kevin glanced at the man now standing beside him, seeing something familiar in his brown eyes. Kevin’s icy glare returned to the men above him, “I ain’t goin’ nowheres. You jus’ bought yerselves a heap of trouble if’n you don’t back off, right now.”
The tall man scoffed, “Who are you to butt in anyway?!”
Kevin smiled, “Name’s Kevin Richardson.”
The man and his two brothers paled, their smiles wiped away, “R- Richardson?”
“Yeah!” yelled Kevin, “And this here’s a friend of mine, you don’t have any problem with ‘im now, do ya?”
The tall man stuttered, backing away and motioning his brothers back into the clinic, “No, no Mr. Richardson. We jus’ had a diff’rence of opinion, sorry to of bothered ya. We didn’t know he was a friend of yours, we’ll leave ‘im alone. We swear.”
Kevin smirked at the babbling man, “You best get on out of town, ‘fore I decide to extract a little of my own kind’a justice!”
The man nodded vigorously, “Consider us gone.”
Then he ducked into the clinic after his brothers, their footsteps clambering loudly as they scrambled through the clinic and out the front door, back into the night.
Kevin holstered his guns, the smirk still present on his hard face. Brian holstered his guns also, then leaned heavily against the rough support of the building, gradually letting his heart calm to a normal rate. What the HELL was I thinking? Brian thought as he rubbed his head. Maybe I’m losing my good sense...
Kevin turned to the stranger beside him, his eyes looking him over. He wore simple clothes, dark cotton pants and off-white cotton shirt and a brown leather vest, he had black hair that curled to his shoulders. His eyes are what got Kevin’s attention, they reflected what he saw in the mirror everyday since his father died.
“So,” said Kevin, “What’s yer name stranger?”
The stranger’s face turned away from his clinic door to he dark man who spoke, “Howard Dorough, call me Howie. And you’re the infamous Kevin Richardson, thanks for the help.”
“No problem,” smiled Kevin, he liked this Howie. There was just this manner about him that Kevin liked, it was like he was saying ‘Here I am, take it or leave it.’
“Well, Mr. Richardson,” a sarcastic southern drawl voiced, “With the effect you have on the bad element, I think I’ll stick around you for a while.”
“And if I refuse the company?” asked Kevin, turning to the smirking gambler.
Brian’s blue eyes twinkled in ire, “Tough.”
Kevin glared at Brian, but soon dropped his head, shaking it as he hid the smile tugging at his lips.
Brian stepped away from the wall, reaching a hand out to Howie, “Brian Littrell at your service, Mr. Dorough.”
Howie smiled at the sophisticated man, shaking the offered hand, “Nice to meet ya, but please, call me Howie.” Turning, Howie addressed them both, “I owe you both a debt of thanks and an explanation, please come up to my clinic and I’ll explain everything.”
Kevin nodded and followed the healer up the stairs, but Brian hesitated. He looked up at the ascending backs. Ahh, to hell with it, he thought. I’m curious. Brian walked up the stairs and followed Howie and Kevin into the clinic, all the while the obstinate part of his mind kept repeating, Curiosity killed the cat, remember?
Okay, this is a tiptop situation I got myself in, Nick thought. All right, just take deep breaths, you can handle this. Heck, this is nothing compared to the last time... Okay, not going back there. You can do this, don’t be a wuss.
Nick stiffened at his own mind calling him a wuss, his increased tension causing the hands twisting his arms behind his back to tighten. He winced and then grimaced when a raspy voice hissed in his ear.
“Don’ get no ideas, kid,” it growled, “You jus’ come with us, no fightin’. Maybe you’ll stay in one piece.”
Nick craned his head around, trying to get a look at the two men that had jumped him in the alley, “What the hell do you want?”
Branson laughed, twisting Nick’s arm more, “That’s for us to know. You bes’ keep yer mouth shut!”
Branson’s cold gray eyes glanced at his other man, nodding his black haired head out of the alley, “C’mon, lets get out of here.”
The younger, red haired man nodded while keeping his gun pressed hard in Nick’s right side. He walked along side Branson as he forced Nick to walk, keeping his hold on the young blond’s arms.
Nick swore to himself, stumbling out of the alley and into the dark main street. This was not good. Nick threw his body back and forth, trying to break free of Branson’s iron grip, ignoring the gun gouging his side. He heard Branson laugh, his grip not lessening.
The red headed man’s eyes darted around nervously, “C’mon, Branson. Lets get out of here, its too quiet.”
“Don’ worry, Mac,” smiled Branson, “There ain’t no one around this one horse town. We’re fine, no one’s gonna see us.”
Nick continued to struggle as Branson and Mac dragged him toward the livery at gunpoint.
A white shape slowly materialized out of the darkness of the prairie, gradually forming into a horse and rider. They stopped at the livery doors, the buckskin clad form dismounting, patting his mare on the neck as he lead her to the stable doors.
He was halfway through the doors when a sound reached his sharp ears. He stopped, tilting his head and listening. Slowly, he turned around and looked up the main street with a hawk-like gaze. His dusty face turned down in a scowl, the image of two large men dragging a struggling young man shown before his eyes.
AJ McLean turned his mount into the livery and slapped her rump, closing the door behind her. Turning back to the men approaching, he pulled his dark brown hat lower over his eyes and pushed his long buckskin coat away from the mare’s leg at his right thigh. A smile played at his lips as he listened to the men curse as the young man continue to struggle, kicking one hard in the shin.
“Ow!” cried Branson, “Goddamn it, kid! Knock it off ‘fore I knock YOU off!”
Nick just smiled, “Like to see you try.”
Branson’s face turned red, “Why you smart mouthed... You need to learn when to shut up, boy.” Branson jerked on Nick’s arms for emphasis.
Nick grunted, “I ain’t no boy! You better let me go or I’ll-”
Branson snorted, “Or you’ll what?”
Nick’s blue eyes turned cold, “Let me go and I’ll show you.”
“You ought to listen to the kid,” came a placid voice, “Ya might learn somethin’.”
Branson and Mac froze, both staring at the stranger before them. “You ain’t seen nothin’,” declared Branson, “jus’ go on yer own way. Let us go about our own business.”
AJ smirked below the shadow of his hat, he cocked his head to the side, “Now I can’t do that, not when yer takin’ that kid against his will. Just ain’t right.”
Nick remained silent, observing this new stranger with a critical eye. Most of his face was hidden under the brim of his hat, Nick didn’t trust someone who wouldn’t show their face. The stranger wore a long buckskin coat over a tan shirt and buckskin pants, a navy bandana hung loosely around his neck. Nick heard Branson laugh.
“Don’ matter if its right or not. You jus’ walk away and no one gets hurt.”
AJ shook his head and unholstered his mare’s leg, “’Fraid I can’t do that.”
Branson narrowed his eyes, switching his hands so he held Nick’s wrist with one large hand, the other resting on his revolver slung on his hip. Mac just kept his gun against Nick’s side while his wide eyes darted between the stranger and Branson.
AJ watched as Branson’s eyes flickered, then he drew his mare’s leg up and fired. Nick rammed his shoulder into Mac, causing both of them to crash to the ground. Mac’s gun twisted in his hand and went off, Nick pushed himself up on one hand and brought the other around to slam into Mac’s jaw. Mac went limp.
Breathing hard, Nick pushed away from Mac and looked up to see what became of the stranger and Branson. Branson stood with his hand grasping his gun arm, his revolver on the ground at his feet. AJ stood with his gun still aimed at Branson.
“Best get on out of here,” toned AJ’s flat voice, “An’ don’ forget yer friend.”
Branson sneered and backed away from AJ, slowly reaching down for his gun. He then went and grabbed Mac’s half-conscious form and dragged him to his feet. Branson gave AJ and then Nick one last glare, then turned and disappeared into an alley.
AJ lowered his gun and approached the young man still sitting on the dusty ground, still breathing hard. AJ went down on one knee, laying his mare’s leg on the ground. He reached out to the youth, only to have him jerk away.
AJ waited, letting the man calm down. He took the moment to get a good look at the young man. Really young man, he couldn’t be more than 18 or 19 years old. His black hat had fallen off in the struggle and AJ could now see short blond hair over a tanned face. AJ frowned when he looked into the youth’s blue eyes. They held more than they should at such a young age, and right now they glared at him under sandy eyebrows in an intense stare. They actually made AJ uncomfortable. The rest of the young man wore worn black jeans and leather vest over a light gray shirt. AJ froze momentarily as he noticed something. He reached a hand out and pushing the vest aside before the man roughly brushed him away.
“Don’t touch me!” he hissed.
AJ’s eyes were concerned when they locked with the stern blue orbs, “You were hit. How bad?”
The youth pushed away, “Its nothin’, I’m fine. Now leave me alone.”
“Nope, I’m stayin’ right here.” AJ pushed his hat up, “What’s yer name, kid?”
“Name’s Nick Carter, and I ain’t no kid!” Nick glared up at the man, “Who are you?”
“AJ McLean. Now let me see your wound, I gotta see how bad it is.”
“I said it’s fine,” Nick stated through clenched teeth while using everything he had to hide the pain.
“Nick, yer bleedin’ pretty good, so you ain’t fine.” AJ shook his head. He just had to be a stubborn brute, “There ain’t no doctor in this backwater town, but I know someone who could help in the next town.”
AJ stood and holstered his gun, then reached down and grabbed Nick before he could protest. Nick couldn’t stop himself from voicing a yelp of pain.
“See?” said AJ, scooping Nick’s hat off the ground and mashing it on Nick’s head. “You ain’t fine. C’mon, we’re goin’ right now before you end up dead.”
Nick could only fix AJ with a rebellious glare as he was hauled to the livery. This AJ guy was dragging him to some friend of his and he couldn’t do anything about it, and right now he hurt too much to really care.
They soon stood in the livery doorway. AJ glanced around, “Which one’s yer horse?”
Nick pointed to the dark bay still saddled, then watched as AJ approached his horse. He smiled as AJ jumped back with a yelp of pain, holding his hand, “Goddamn it! Yer damn horse bit me!”
Nick leaned heavily against a wooden pole, “Journey don’t like strangers.”
AJ glared at Nick, “And you couldn’t have mentioned that before I traipsed up to ‘im?!”
Nick shrugged, wincing when the motion caused pain to flare from his wound. He walked to Journey and swung into the saddle before AJ realized what he was doing.
“Damn it, kid! What did ya do that for?” That had to hurt like hell, thought AJ as he glared up at the boy. He just didn’t understand the young man. He was determined to do everything himself.
Nick’s hand gripped the saddle horn as he hunched over. He forced himself to straighten, “Lets go if we’re goin’. Otherwise, I’m lightin’ out of here on my own way.”
AJ swung onto Ghost’s back, his eyes watching Nick, “You up to this?”
“Do I have a choice?” was the clipped reply.
Nick and AJ rode out of the livery, leaving the backwater town behind. Branson stepped out of the shadowed alley, his gray eyes watching the two fade into the night with a sneer.
AJ chanced a look at Nick beside him, seeing him leaning far over the saddle. AJ turned back to the town now looming before them, speaking to himself, “Hang on kid, jus’ hang on.”
They galloped into town, neither slowing as AJ led Nick to a building in the center of town. He reigned Ghost to a stop and jumped off. He looked to the second floor as he yelled, “Howie!”
Seconds after his call, Howie opened the door and after one look at Nick slumped over in the saddle, raced down the stairs. Kevin and Brian stepped onto the balcony, curious as to what was happening. They followed Howie’s steps at the sight of Nick.
Howie reached Nick’s horse as AJ was reaching up for the youth. AJ’s eyes widened when Nick suddenly fell from Journey’s back and into his arms.
