Chapter Text
Pete spits out the blood beginning to well up in his mouth, glaring at the man who’d just landed a fist on his lips.
“Ya done speakin’ to me like that?”
“Only if you are,” Pete growls.
The man laughs. “No, you worthless piece of horse crap, I’m not,”
He didn’t want to get punched again, his mouth stung, and the feeling of blood dripping down his chin was mildly unsettling, him having been in fights before, he was unfortunately used to it more than others would be.
“Then let us settle this like gentlemen, shan't we?” he says.
“You ain’t even got a hat, there ain’t nothin’ bout you that’s gentlemanly,”
“Well then, I back down, take my drinks and my acceptance of your disgraceful words,” Pete says, half astonished at the words leaving his mouth.
“Acceptance?!”
He nods once, stepping back.
“Why you-”
There isn’t time to blink before he’s punched Pete again, knocking him into the bar-top, pain erupting from his nose and lower back.
“The hell was that for?”
“Nobody accepts it from a Morgan,” he snaps.
“Then let me be your first, go back to your lady friend over there and let me on my way,” Pete states with as much certainty as this Morgan did.
“Ah ah ah,” he narrows his eyes, holding up his finger. “You ain’t paid,”
“I think I have,” he says, holding up his hand to his dripping nose.
“Excuse me, what’s all this?” A clink of spurs from the door over to the left accompanies a drawl not unlike the notorious peace-maker – yep. Course it is. Damn Thomas Kazansky.
“What chu want?” Morgan leans up from where he was in Pete’s face and towards Thomas’.
“What do you want, Bart Morgan?” He asks smoothly.
God this guy was… good. Pete had to admit.
“This juniper was backin’ down from a fight,”
That was an unnecessarily low blow, Pete thinks. “What’s the problem with that?”
“You’re my problem with that,”
Obviously this Morgan didn’t care for his sentences actually making sense.
Thomas looks between the two of them, ice-cold gaze swiping easily over the both them. “Is there a problem here?”
“I just said!”
“I don’t personally see any issue with wanting to leave the saloon without injury,”
Pete exhales quietly.
“You pansy,” Morgan crows, shoving Pete’s shoulder. “Pathetic,”
He frowns, not wanting to be pushed into landing a punch on Morgan, certainly not with Kazansky of all people standing right next to him.
But Thomas puts his hand in front of him all the same, halting him in case he tried to, and he looks up at him, confused.
“Get outta here Morgan,” Kazansky says almost tiredly. “You and your lady too,”
“What chu gon’ do if I don’t?” Morgan glares at him, entering his personal space as if it was an open door.
Kazansky was the least open person Pete had met, so how Morgan had the guts to get that close to him, he would never know.
“Try me,”
In the dusty light that falls through the doors, Pete catches the glint of a pistol at Kazansky’s belt, in full view of Morgan, because he'd scooped his overcoat around the side of it.
“But I only came here for a shot of whiskey,” he finishes.
Pete swallows.
Bart Morgan clicks his teeth, mockingly, sort of, if Pete got that right. “Just kidding, I know you’re always soft on the easts,”
Kazansky presses his mouth into a line, looking at Morgan for a second longer before turning and leaning his arms on the bar-top.
Morgan spits at Pete’s feet, and he moves his foot at the last second to avoid it.
“Next time, you pansy Mitch or whatever the hell your name is,”
“Morgan,” Kazansky says lowly.
He doesn’t even have to turn around again to get Morgan to go away.
Pete swipes at his nose again, it was still bleeding and it hurt quite a bit. “Thank you,” he says quietly, looking at Thomas from the corner of his eye.
Thomas looks in his direction with a slight incline of his head, before sipping the whiskey the bartender had got him. His expression was unreadable, just like every other chance encounter he’d had with him in the week he’d been here.
Pete tries his hardest to hide his disappointment of the sudden halt that their conversation had suffered before Kazansky had even replied, fishing around in his pockets for his (slightly) moth eaten and (very) dirty napkin to hold to his steadily bleeding nose.
And Morgan had taken his drink too, great.
He sighs, and Kazansky picks up on it. “What?”
“Nothin’” Pete mutters, still holding the cloth to his nose.
“That looks awful,” Kazansky says.
“What does?” He turns his head again.
“The napkin,”
Pete attempts a scoff, which was easier said than done given the current state of his nose. “I’ll get outta your hair,”
Kazansky shrugs indifferently and watches him leave from under the brim of his hat.
Outside the slightly cooler saloon, the temperature was immediately hotter. God he wished he had a hat, just to shield his face. At least he’d left his horse by the water trough, out by the side of the saloon that was shady for longest.
Lo and behold, Kazansky’s buckskin tobiano paint was there too, right next to his black mustang mare that he’d named Thunder.
“Hey girl,” he says, reaching out to run his hand down her face, the white snip just above her nose looking dark with dust.
Thunder snorts, blowing hot air into his face.
“Thank you,” he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
Pete sniffs, his nose was still sore, but at least it seemed it wasn’t bleeding any more. He bet he looked a mess though, no hat, dirty red shirt and hair frizzed up, like it was constantly. He could never tame it, no matter how hard he tried.
There’s a soft nicker from Kazansky’s paint, asking for attention, and he notices the white on it’s coat shone. It was hard not to notice, especially as the sun had started to shine in their direction now that it was getting late. Obviously. Kazansky had money to spend cleaning his horse’s coat, Pete did not.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” He apologises as he unties Thunder’s reins from the wooden fence in front of them.
“Dollar,”
Pete snaps his head up at the voice. “Huh?”
“Her name, it’s Dollar,” Kazansky explains, coming over to her.
“Oh- oh right,” He swallows. “Nice,”
Kazansky’s lips turn upward just at the edges. “Yours?”
“Thunder,”
Thunder pushes her head into Pete’s knocking him almost off balance, snorting again, as if to impress him.
“Hey-”
“Feisty one, she? Is, then,”
“Mhm,” Pete felt awkward as he attempts a smirk, standing there holding the reins. “She is,”
“Reminds me of someone,” Kazansky says under his breath, turning his head to undo Dollar’s reins.
He said it so quietly it was probably meant only for himself, so Pete doesn’t reply.
“Well, I’ve got to get going, said I’d meet some people over the other side of town at nine,” Kazansky says as he lifts himself up onto Dollar’s back.
“Oh okay, that’s alright,” Pete shrugs.
“I’ll see you later,”
“You can count on it,” The words were out before he could stop them, but then again, so was he.
Pete slams his hands over his face, covering the heat that shot onto his cheeks that was surely complimenting his shirt. “No, oh god why did I say that!”
Thunder shakes her head, dusting Pete with the muck.
“I’m an idiot,” he groans, standing there resting his head on his horse’s neck.
She pushes her nose into his shoulder.
“Okay, okay, I know,”
He’d said to her that he’d take her for a ride around the fields that surrounded the town before he’d gone into the saloon, and it very much seemed so that she understood.
~~~
Having had the four year old mustang for most of her life, he felt confident enough to take both hands off the reins, although he does hook them around the horn of the saddle, just because.
The setting sun shone through the grasses, shocking that there was grass around these parts, despite it being more like hay than the grass he was most familiar with, with was the chlorophyll rich green that was the grass anywhere either more south or more north than wherever this was.
There were a few fleeting memories he had of playing in the grass in his home-town, New York, with his mother before she had passed. He used to get mud all over himself, the cool wet earth all over his hands and face and in his hair.
He smiles fondly at the memory. There wasn’t anything out here like mud. It was all dust, dying grass, the smell of whiskey and burnt metal from the occasional gun shot.
Pete sighs, running his hand through his hair and dragging his hand out dusty. He rolls his eyes.
Thunder stops suddenly, ears pricked forward at the sound of something only she’d heard.
“Thun, what is it?” Pete asks, picking the reins back up as he scours the open field.
There’s a moment of silence before he spies a bird, then two, then the entire flock fly upwards and away from them, making a hell of a noise as it exploded the field in sound.
Thunder whinnies, slightly agitated and shaking her head.
“Oh-” Pete runs his hand over Thunder’s neck, soothing her. “Just a few birds, girl,”
She looks around at him, then snorts, and turns her head back.
He allows her a moment to make sure all was safe before nudging her on and turning her around to head back, the sun now just above the horizon.