Chapter Text
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There were many ways cowboys could be described. Many treated them as some sort of myth – never having the inconvenience of meeting one. But to the common folk sprinkled south, they were brash, brutish and unruly. Outlawed men scraping sidewalks to pull through life year by year by any means.
Luckily for Alfred, his father had clambered up from that lowly status and actually made a name for himself. Unlike many others.
'The Kirkland Ranch' was known by everyone. An empire built from Arthur's bare hands. The apple of his eye, and with his recent passing, the trophy made of crops and cattle was naturally now Alfred's to protect, maintain, and rule.
Arthur knew he could handle it. He'd built the boy's morale up from nothing – shaping him into the charmer he was today. A lady's man, one might say.
But those who weren't as fortunate as his father congregated in gangs and bounty hunting squads. The gangs possessed savagery on an inhumane level. Alfred had only gone through four years of life when he witnessed one of (many frequent) public hangings. They were never imposed by the sheriff, only one's enemies.
And although crime had dulled to some extent as Alfred grew older, it was never safe. You could never get too comfortable with anyone, and Alfred fortunately had learnt that the easy way – by listening to his father no matter what.
.
It wasn't a difficult errand. Moving cattle was as easy as any other mundane task for Alfred. But, as it stood, no good rancher would rely on a crew of adolescents to do so.
The boys working for him were trustworthy, that he was sure. But running a high end ranch always had to back up their profit with their cattle.
There was no leeway for mistakes when it came to business.
Hooves kicked up, small tufts of dust rising just to settle once more over the prairie. The sun never failed to burn on these recent noons, unrelenting beams braided into every inch of land. There wasn't much to see, not out here. The occasional dead bush provided little company to the men riding alongside Alfred's branded cattle wagon.
"Well," Alfred began loudly – flashing his signature grin. "You know I 'preciate ya'll helpin' out."
"We're just doing our job, Sir. We're more grateful you're letting us help after last time." Alejandro mumbled diffidently, his hat sloped down over his eyes.
Alfred's jaw just barely clenched at the mention of 'last time'. He'd missed out on a large profit when a group of workers had somehow accidentally let the cattle go rogue and escape.
But after a harsh beating by those expecting cattle and assets, Alfred promised himself that he'd never let it happen again. He could feel Arthur's disapproving gaze casting down on him on that day, and it disturbed him to no end. He swore that wouldn't let his father down again.
"S' alright, Alejandro. I trust you lot more than those idiots. You wouldn't do that to me." Alfred smirked, riding forward on his steed.
Alejandro was one of the many boys abandoned adrift by fate orphaning them all too soon. In Alejandro's case, he hadn't even been able to bring his parents to America – they'd died in Mexico while he was saving up to get them to a better life he reassuringly promised.
Alfred pitied the boy greatly, still being in his prime years and in such a pathetic situation must've hurt bad.
So, he hired him. Alejandro did much to prove himself worthy of the job he was offered. If anything, he was one of Alfred's best.
Alejandro murmured a small 'Gracias' and the group fell back into a patch of silence. One frequently broken by sighs and pants the abusive sun was to blame for.
Despite this, the situation failed to be awkward. They'd gone through this procedure enough times, spent enough days and nights in silence to the point they passed it as nothing.
They were all family, after all.
.
By the time they'd gotten back to the ranch and all of the cattle had been unloaded into empty stalls, the sky was pushing past into a lazy evening.
Just about everyone had finished with their work, apart from the underlings still toiling over farmer's work west of the Ranch.
"I'm spent." Matthew heaved, carelessly dropping himself down onto one of the wooden chairs scattered on the farm house's lengthy porch. The wooden seat croaked under his weight.
"Tell me about it," Alfred laughed dryly, a clammy hand tugging at the collar of his shirt to send small puffs of cool air down his sweat-clad torso. "My head's splittin' too. Man, I could use a drink."
"Why don't we fetch one, then?" Much to Alfred's surprise, Matthew suggested. Matthew wasn't far from a lightweight, and often ended up hurling buckets whenever he downed more than three shots.
A wide grin swiped clean across Alfred’s mouth.
"Not sure, Mattie, are you sure you can keep up with me?" Alfred quipped, rubbing the pad of his thumb against his chin.
"Shush," Matthew groaned. "I don't wanna hear this again, we could both use something stronger than that cheap booze we got stocked up!"
Alfred then laughed. "Ah, fine, whatever! I ain't doing nothing sittin' here anyway."
.
They strolled down the familiar thoroughfare, dislodged slabs of concrete tossed over the terrain leading them straight to the saloon. Nothing in this part of town had ever been built properly. Almost every house and establishment had a leakage or some sort of structural integrity issue.
The street was unsurprisingly busy. Most establishments were still open, with groups and gangs staring daggers at whoever walked past and dared glance at them.
But the two brothers were used to it all by now. They grew up here, after all, and their father couldn't protect them from everything. Not that he bothered to try. 'Coddling made room for weakness,' as he frequently told their tender-hearted mother.
Despite the violence the gangs were all capable of, as long as you stayed out of their way, they'd stay out of yours. Even lawless lands had their own unspoken rules.
"You're payin', right?" Alfred inquired, eyes skimming past the yellowed street lights that barely lit up the dim path.
Matthew rolled his eyes. Sure, he suggested they get drinks, and sure he was older...but Alfred always was stingy when it came to spending his money. Spending his money on anyone besides himself, that was.
"Yep," Matthew answered lazily. "We both know you won't anyway." He added smoothly, which earned an amused scoff from Alfred.
"I won't pay for anythin' I ain't forced to." Alfred shrugged, and Matthew laughed shortly.
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As they approached, Alfred appreciated the bittersweet sight. The building sat squat along the dusty street, a two-story wooden structure with sun-bleached planks. A sagging balcony hung above the boardwalk, casting the entrance in deep shadows. The swinging oak sign croaked in the dry wind, chipped by years of stormy weather and a stray bullet or two.
It's batwing doors never fully closed, nobody could recall when they did. They swayed back and forth as men strode in and out with thick boots thudding against the warped wooden flooring.
To the left, equines were tied to a jagged rail. A few restless, younger ones stomped and snorted in protest to the scent of sweat and whiskey drifting from the inside. But the majority of stallions had grown numb to the nauseating scents surrounding them.
.
Alfred stepped ahead, pushing the doors aside with his arms outstretched. Both men did well to avoid the sawdust covering the worst of the spills and bloodstains.
"Do you always have to make such an entrance?" Matthew smirked, yanking Alfred's hat over his eyes and sauntering ahead.
Alfred huffed and pushed his hat back up swiftly. He greeted a few, who were surprisingly not blackout drunk, as he passed with natural swagger.
"Yes, Mattie, I do." Alfred clicked his tongue, sliding onto the torn stool beside Matthew.
The long wooden bar splayed thick glass bottles of rye, bourbon, and cheap rotgut along each shelf. The most pricy vodka sat at the top, dust collecting all around it's shell as no man could afford such a delicacy.
Behind the gruff bartender hung a rack of rifles and a cracked mirror reflecting the room’s restless tension. Poker games under twitchy lamplight, yelling matches between drunken rivals, and the best of all – the far back of the saloon where men would wrestle around and fight unpunished.
.
They must've been staring for too long, as the bartender impatiently slammed a dirtied rag onto the table.
"Can I get you boys anythin'?" He coughed, voice littered with the consequences of years puffing cigarettes relentlessly.
"Five shots each. Whiskey." Alfred piped, nodding towards Matthew who was already fishing through his wallet.
The older man grunted and turned away, swiftly prepping the miniscule glasses that had yet to be properly cleaned. Alfred's guess was weeks, but there was no telling. The alcohol served was good enough to make them ignore miniscule details anyway.
Once done, he tossed the ten shots onto the bar – not looking down to see if he spilt any, because he didn't have to. Matthew slid a few bills across the table while Alfred downed his first shot.
The bartender gathered his money and left to serve elsewhere, the energy felt lighter.
"Y'know," Alfred swallowed, leaning forward against the bar as the alcohol streamed through his system. "There's actually somethin' I forgot to tell you."
"Oh?" Matthew raised a brow behind his glasses. "What?"
"Jackins' Railing wants to lay out tracks by the ranch – says it'll triple cattle profits. Ain't that somethin'?" Alfred smiled contentedly, another shot shooting down his throat.
"Really?" Matthew blinked, sitting up. "You said 'triple'? That would help us a ton, Alf. Have you accepted it yet?"
"Nah, but I plan on it. They're gonna send a rep over to further survey the land next month." Alfred coughed into his balled fist and then downed a third shot...which only worsened the coughing.
Matthew reached out and pat his back firmly, which easily subdued his hacking.
The two languidly downed their shots, chattering and laughing loud enough to amount to a whole group of men. But by the time the day had grown old, Matthew was gagging a storm outside of the saloon.
Alfred was yet to join him, too busy observing the brutish men scattered around. The older cowboys slotted into one booth, drinking loud and proud without a care in the world.
He'd never failed to find them alluring, and could clearly remember days of his childhood he'd spend admiring them. They'd grown past their prime, but it was hard to forget the way they rode grand stallions. The way work-ensued sweat clung to their bodies, rolling down their defined muscles.
Alfred cleared his throat, averting his gaze onto his lap. Mentally berating himself for the arousal stirring within.
He'd never told anyone about it, not even Matthew, and he knew he never would. But seeing those men on horses made him tingle with something more than a thrill. They were impossible not to look at, he felt like a mere moth drawn to a flame.
Alfred didn't just wish to do the same one day, it was something else entirely.
Something deeper.
Something immoral.
Something better off buried.
.
A firm arm hoisted Matthew into his brother's side.
"C'mon, let's go home." Alfred sighed, beginning to trudge back up the path with Matthew clinging onto him.
The sky was charcoal with speckled stars peppered overhead. The thoroughfare had shrunk in crowdedness with the hours dragging on, but the 'night folk' were out now. Men that sat around till dusk, looking for any kind of trouble. Far more dangerous than the drunkards slumped around during the day.
Alfred could list a few off by name. The Iron Mesquite Ring, The Black Vultures, and The Palo Duro Lot were by far the main players. They didn't work in small unruly groups, no. They had proper structure and discipline, making them the most unspoken of for a goddamn good reason.
He tried his best to ignore them. To focus on getting Matthew back to the ranch so they could both catch some well-needed rest.
"...I feel horrible." Matthew stated with a gag of emphasis, turning his head away from Alfred.
"You should've let me finish your shots. I offered a ton'a times but you refused...and now look at 'cha."
Matthew did not respond, he didn't want to admit that Alfred was right. Often times, Alfred was not. He was frequently corrected on a day-to-day basis, even by the lowest of workers they had. Yet he, unsurprisingly, never let it tarnish his morale. An ego like his was hard to burst, perhaps near impossible.
Alfred smirked at the silence that followed. He knew he'd proved himself right when all Matthew did was huff a pouty breath.
His eyes skimmed over the silent path, calm puffs of wind smearing dust over his boots. His eyes accidentally caught one of the Vultures'. Alfred tried to look away before the others noticed, but he was a moment too slow. He snapped his head away, barely catching the men turning to glare at him.
Alfred glanced down at Matthew, who had dozed off and wouldn't be much help if he were conscious.
...Shit.
He tightened his grip on Matthew.
But no confrontation followed.
Alfred exhaled smoothly and quickened his pace, dragging Matthew along. He wanted to tell himself he wasn't scared, yet his heart jumped from each tidbit of chatter his ears caught. He pursed his lips and focused on getting back to the ranch, as home and a warm bed sounded better than anything right now.