Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The town of Easy, Wyoming was known for few things. Namely its saloon and the...lively residents.

It was rather insignificant in size, hardly appearing on the map when compared to the bustling city of Laramie, but it was prolific for one thing in particular: Currahee Ranch.

While always in action since its inception, it used to belong to ever shifting, ever changing hands. Some of the owners grasped tightly on to it, some far too much, but now the reins lie in the possession of two men who, most definitely for the best, owned it for good.

Only now was it growing so much closer to that one time of year that proved to be not only fruitful, but immensely stressful all the same. As January came to an end and February began, spring was an always looming subject that required much planning and preparation. The cattle drive.

Dick Winters found the drives to be rewarding in more ways than one, the pinnacle of western living and his purpose in moving out west all those years ago. Lewis Nixon detested the several months of travel and many difficulties of transporting several thousand head of cattle yet still did it all the same. As the owners of Currahee, this was the time of year that was anticipated by many of the ranch hands—their men. And while at one point in time they were once those men wondering if they'd be chosen for that year's drive, it was now their decision to make. It was also their first time making this decision considering the ranch's ownership had fallen to them shortly after the last drive had ended.

The only thing was, with a steadily growing number ranch hands who'd found their way to Currahee, there was a wide selection to choose from when there was only a need for fifteen. Or thirteen, already counting Winters and Nixon.

“How are we going to decide this year, Dick?”

Nix's voice cut through the peaceful quiet of his and Dick's shared office. Nix, predictably was leaned back in his chair, feet kicked up onto the desk and drinking from his pocket flask. Even though he wasn't helping with the situation in the slightest, it was still an endearing sight. It would have been helpful for Nix to actually contribute considering he was the better of them at figuring out the ranch logistics, but Dick digressed.

Dick glanced up at Nix, thankful to have an excuse to look away from the roster he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour. A good deal of their ranch hands had their merits and would do excellent on the drive...only that was the issue. There were too many to pick from.

“I don't know, Lew.” Was the reply he settled on after a minute. There was surely some method that would make the decision easy, but it was one he wasn't privy to.

“How do you think he picked?” Nix sat up straight as he asked the question, a bit of a smirk on his unshaven face.

“He—oh. Him.” Dick could see how his immediate realization made Nix laugh.

“We have a month to figure it out at least.”

“Yeah. We do.” And yet, a month hardly seemed like it'd be long enough. Before the two of them owned Currahee, there was a...much stricter method in which the selection was made. It was effective, at the very least, if not terribly tiresome and borderline demented.

Maybe it would have been easier if the owner in the time between Sobel's and their possession of the ranch had been around long enough to front a drive they could've learned something or had a better frame of reference. Then that whole incident occurred and...no one much liked to dwell on it.

Determining that in no way was this getting figured out right then, or anytime soon really, Dick put the roster aside and stood up, taking the opportunity to stretch.

“We got a new hand today,” he said, recalling the brief meeting he'd had with a fresh-faced arrival from somewhere up east the previous day. Hall, was it? Either way, that just meant yet another person to consider in the arduous process of deciding who went on the drive.

Nix furrowed his eyebrows. “We did?” It looked like he was trying to remember if he'd been there during the meeting—he hadn't—and was wondering if he'd gone at it too hard the previous night to the point he was experiencing an alcohol induced bout of amnesia.

Dick decided to throw him a bone. “You weren't there, Nix.”

“Oh. Right.” And Nix looked immensely relieved at that fact. He reclined in his seat once more, taking another sip from his flask. “Green?”

Looking at his mildly cluttered desk, something he'd certainly have to remedy in the coming minutes, Dick found the loose leaf sheet of paper he'd taken notes on during the meeting. There wasn't too much to go off of, it was a fairly short conversation that left Dick with only half a page of writing. The kid seemed a bit nervous, but Dick couldn't really fault him.

“He had...” Skimming through the neatly organized words, “about a week of employment at a ranch down south.”

“Fired?”

“No, the ranch went down,” Dick replied with a frown. “Let everyone go.”

“Ah,” Nix nodded morosely. “That's a bad box.” Then he got up from the chair, joining Dick by his desk. “You finished torturing yourself with paperwork? Rome wasn't built in a day.”

But it did fall in one, Dick thought. Though he chose to not say that part out loud, well aware of the reaction he would receive for the pessimism...even if it was more suited to realism.

Well, he wouldn't mind the break. “Sure, Nix. What do you want to do?”

As Nix tucked his flash away into his pocket, he shot Dick a grin that instantly gave him away. “I couldn't persuade you to take an early morning trip to the saloon, could I?”

“Not when we've got a job to do.”

“Figured. See who's up working today, then? It could give us some ideas.” He didn't seem dejected by the refusal in the slightest.

That wasn't such a bad plan. The two of them could get some early impressions, even if they did already know a good portion of the men decently well—some of them having worked alongside he and Nix back before they owned the ranch.

Already, Dick could imagine who the frontrunners were. Bull, for one, who'd already grown up doing the same kind of work before he moved to Easy. Talbert, as another, who was one of the most dedicated to the job with a great work ethic and seemed to glow after every interaction with Dick. Obviously that made it somewhat easier, having a good solid few choices in mind, and even then that still didn't eliminate the need to fill up thirteen additional slots besides himself and Nix.

It was going to be a long month.

Thank goodness he didn't have to do it alone.

—

Never before had Carwood felt this exhilarated to be doing something for the farm.

Well, there had actually been plenty of times he'd felt that similar buzzing sensation beneath his skin, a present excitement that jumped right out of him, but it had been harder to feel that way within the last year. Until a few months prior when Speirs showed up.

Something about the drifter—or, farmhand now, he supposed—just made the farm seem like a blessing compared to the burden he'd begun to see it as after...

Spring was to bloom in only a few month's time, meaning Carwood would get to witness the first ever spring harvest at the farm. That was something to be excited over and he knew at least some of it was the doing of Speirs. They still hadn't figured out just what was going to be planted, but as long as it was still cold out they didn't have to worry so much. The thought alone that it was going to be happening was enough to keep Carwood going for the time being.

Speirs really was a magnificent farmhand and while Carwood wasn't sure what exactly he did before coming to Easy beyond the multitude of rumors, he'd be lying if he said he didn't think farm work was one of them. He was just so well suited towards it, Carwood thought, hardly afraid to get his hands dirty and spend hours doing tiresome, tedious tasks.

He found himself at the general store early on in the day, a loose list of items he needed to buy in his mind. There were a few other errands he had to attend to as well, checking the post office being the second most important after the store.

Now that he was living with someone else again, he actually had to cook meals. Nothing too elaborate, just something more than the often measly dinners he'd make for himself once—

Carwood didn't always cook though, Speirs had about as much prowess in the little kitchen as he did, so the duties were split between them for the most part. He'd yet to find a suitable way to properly pay Speirs as much as he was certainly owed for all his work in the last few months. Carwood didn't mind the extra task though, it meant that he was helping someone else out which is exactly what his mama raised him to do.

He remembered he needed to get kerosene for the lamps as he passed by the shelf. The can at home was running low and he quite did enjoy being able to see inside at night. Hefting up the gallon, he brought it up to the counter and smiled kindly at Toye who was working.

“Mind holding onto this for me?”

“Yeah, no problem, Lip,” Toye nodded, a slight grin of his own on his face. It was nice how the men of and formerly of Currahee maintained a strong bond, even as time went on and their paths diverged from the ranch.

As Carwood continued to meander throughout the store, he picked up some other things: flour here, some coffee beans there, and even a bit of tobacco for Speirs because he wasn't too clear on the next time Speirs would head into town himself or if it'd be a night where Grant was working.

He turned to head into the next aisle.

“Does Speirs still live in your shed?” Luz's sudden appearance startled Carwood, nearly causing him to drop the handful of items stacked in his arms. “Whoops, sorry,” Luz said, sounding not the slightest bit like he meant it. “So does he?”

Carwood could only give him a perplexed look, half agape, because where in the hell did that question come from? More importantly, where did Luz come from? He hadn't even heard the door open or bell jingle. “Yes, Luz,” He sputtered out after a moment longer of confused staring. "I haven't gotten a new house in the last six months he's been here. There's still only one bedroom."

Luz hummed a sound of mild interest. “Alright then.”

“Why are you even asking?” It wasn't like Speirs could live anywhere else. Getting a house of his own was hardly realistic when the majority of Easy was half an hour away from the farm and living in the hotel would just serve to add unnecessary expenses. The commute for either of those wouldn't make sense either with the hours they tended to work on the farm, especially when the days they did so were somewhat erratic. It was convenient that Speirs was right there, only feet away from his front door...even if it was in the shed.

That was still something Carwood felt bad about, despite the fact that it did look more like a bedroom rather than a place to store things now that Speirs occupied it.

“I'm feeling curious today, is that a crime?” The bartender rolled his eyes and peeked around Carwood, casting a glance over towards the front counter. “You gonna go and get Dike to arrest me?” He teased, looking straight back at Carwood as he said it.

That was certainly a way to sour the mood.

While Easy certainly had its wide assortment of lawmen over the years, not too many stuck around for too long. Unfortunately for them, the newest marshal chosen by the town of Easy was Norman Dike who was proving to be a major thorn in everyone's side. Or a pain in everyone’s ass.

No one was sure why Dike became the town's marshal, many assumed he must have had familial connections that factored in. Either way, he was hardly a competent one and it was a miracle that nothing really happened in Easy.

They had Sheriff Sink, but when the man was only there a few odd days of the week every once in a while he wasn't the most reliable in terms of acting quickly. The rest of Easy's deputies were better suited for handling the town's issues and occasional dangers. That's all they were though. Deputies. Marshal Dike had a responsibility to protect the town and yet no one got the feeling that he'd actually be willing to do it.

Carwood had become acquainted with Dike, much like everyone else, not too long after his appointment as Marshal back when he was still at Currahee. The ranch had occasional problems that mainly revolved around injuries and rowdiness. Dike happened to show up to the 506th during a particularly excitable night where a large portion of the ranch hands had been gathered—someone's birthday. He'd shut the entire thing down, citing a nuisance ordinance, and promptly made everyone involved vacate the premises.

No one liked him after that, obviously.

However, Carwood's real problem with him was born after an incident involving two drunks getting in a shootout in the middle of the main street. He'd been with Margaret at the time, standing on that very street when the first shot rang out. Guns weren't a common fixture in Easy, he knew plenty of people who owned one, but they didn't shoot them. Not in broad daylight at least. And certainly not without good reason to be doing so.

He worried that his wife might get hit by an wayward bullet, so when he pulled her onto the boardwalk to a place with more safety, it was surprising to see Marshal Dike right there with them. Dike hadn't even taken a step towards the commotion, instead just standing there, watching.

Faintly, Carwood could remember saying something to him, asking if he was going to arrest them, take their guns, or at least do something to stop the potential danger. Dike just shook his head, citing some regurgitated firearm regulation that said he didn't have to if no one was injured.

When the drunks cleared out minutes later, neither of them having gotten hit and no one else in harm’s way, Carwood hoped that something serious may never happen in Easy as long as Dike was marshal. Surely someone would get hurt if he wasn't willing to step in, even in a situation as minor as that.

Carwood tried to keep his distaste under wraps, not needing others to develop a complex against the law enforcement when they were meant to be protecting Easy and its people. Apparently even then, people like Luz could still tell that he didn’t trust Dike much either.

“Maybe a night in jail would do you right, Luz,” Carwood jested in return, shaking thoughts of Dike from his mind.

“Oh, c'mon Lip. You know I wouldn't last a day in there!” Luz whined. “You know they'd throw me out for talking too much.”

“Or send you to the widow,” he suggested with a shrug.

“You really think they'd string me up?”

Carwood grinned, “Yeah, boy.” It was all joking. He couldn't imagine Luz doing anything gallows worthy...and he didn't think that Easy had one handy either. Not that he’d seen at least. “What are you doing here, aren't you supposed to be at work?”

Luz, for once, went silent and looked around again, attention drifting back behind Carwood towards the counter. Ah. So that's what it was.

“A social visit then?”

“You could say that,” Luz responded coyly.

Carwood shifted the stack of things he was holding, his arms a bit weary from being in the same position for so long. “I'll leave you to it, Luz. Talking goes a long way, you know.” He flashed another smile towards Luz before turning to go to buy his chosen items. He was sure he had everything he and Speirs needed for at least another few days.

“What, like you'd know?” Luz’s voice floated towards him.

He just sighed and shook his head. Carwood was convinced that sometimes, Luz just spoke without thinking, because he didn't even know what that was supposed to mean.

By the time he'd purchased his things and was heading down the street for the post office, Carwood was already back to thinking about dinner. Speirs wasn't too picky, thankfully, and neither was he. Back when he and...

Carwood frowned. His mind just kept wandering off towards her today. He knew why that was, he was intimately familiar with the exact reason his thoughts kept redirecting themselves away from the task at hand. In only a few weeks it would be the anniversary. The first one. A whole year without...

Dinner. He wanted to think about dinner instead and what might be good. Carwood in two weeks time could deal with the anniversary and Carwood of the present wanted to decide what he and Speirs would eat after another afternoon's worth of work. Today was going to be a good day and any errant memories of what was and wouldn't be any more could find a new home, far from him. This beautiful morning had no need to be wasted on such dwellings.

—

George Luz had every intention of bothering Toye today.

So what if he told Martin a little white lie about going to the store to buy bread and whatever other food items they might need to stock up on for the lunch options...and maybe a few extra glasses. It had become somewhat of a ritual for George to head to the store every few days or so with nothing on his mind but to bug the absolute shit out of Toye when he was working there—a very necessary thing to do when Toye did the exact same thing to George at the 506th.

It was still hard to tell what exactly Toye thought of him. George wanted to be an optimist, really, but half the time he was sure Toye might invite him into the ring and slug him a few times with those brass knuckles he brought up every now and then. Actually...no, George wasn't going to think about that.

What he hadn't expected was running into Lip at the store. Sometimes George forgot that it wasn't just there as means for him to bother Toye and had an actual use in selling things.

He not so subtly tried to listen in to the conversation between Lip and Toye as the former bought his items. George was mostly sure that Toye hadn't seen him enter, which meant that he had a bit more time to think of what exactly he aimed to do. There was a bit of a half-baked plan in place when he claimed to Martin that he needed to step out, but really the majority of that plan involved the simple concept of terrorizing Toye as much as he possibly could.

George thought he'd done a pretty decent job at staying out of sight...until he looked around the side of one of the shelves for another quick glance at the counter and made full, prolonged eye-contact with Toye.

Shit.

Toye didn't say anything, but with the way he scowled in the general vicinity of where George was standing he just knew he'd been found out. When Lip looked back up at Toye to hand him the money, his expression shifted back to a pleasant one geared towards customers. Maybe that was just Toye's resting face...maybe George hadn't been spotted.

He was acting like this wasn't a weekly occurrence. Usually he was better at prolonging actually getting caught though.

When Lip finally left, Toye spoke up, shattering any illusion of staying hidden. He'd definitely been seen. “You better be in here to buy shit, Luz, or I'm gonna throw you out.” It wouldn't be the first time that particular threat would be made. It also wouldn't be the first time that said threat was actually carried out. George didn't have enough fingers to count just how many times he'd been tossed out on his ass from the store.

“Hey, I'm the customer here!”

“Not until you buy something.”

“Look, I'm browsing right now, Toye. Give me a chance.” And to prove his point, George pointedly turned to the shelf he was standing beside and tried as hard as possible to look like he was intently analyzing the variety of stock laid out.

That didn't sway Toye's suspicious stare, but he also didn't say anything else or leap over the counter to force George out so...a win?

The bell over the door jingled and when he glanced over, he saw Guarnere entering. Toye shot another glare at George before looking away. Perfect, a distraction. George still hadn't really thought out the whole plan for this excursion.

Toye started talking to Guarnere. George pretended to be really interested in the store's supply of loose nails in one of the floor bins. “You working today?”

“Yeah, I'm headed up to Currahee. The Bull said some of the horses needed new shoes.” Guarnere responded. Something clattered on the countertop—his kit full of tools most likely.

“Are you gonna be at the fight Friday?” Now that had George's interest.

“Can't.” George almost missed Guarnere's response with how focused he was on the fact that Toye had another match coming up. “Frannie and I got plans.”

When he wasn't working at the 506th, bugging Toye as much as he humanely could, or fucking around with whoever, George found himself on the outskirts of Easy...which also just so happened to be where there was prizefighting taking place—boxing. Now George wasn't a pugilist himself, Toye and Guarnere on the other hand?

While he certainly attended every single one of the matches that happened to feature Toye for reasons that may or may not have included wanting to watch the man he also may or may not have been pining over in his element, George also considered it to be a bountiful investment for himself. Toye was a damn good pugilist which meant that with each match George attended and made a bet on, he was more than likely to get a return tenfold of what he'd put in. That certainly helped with the abundance of money George also happened to lose to Toye during their bets at the saloon. It was a...moderate win-win scenario.

Toye didn't actually know George went to the prizefights and he aimed to keep it that way.

“Damn,” Toye rasped. “I'll catch you at the next one then.”

“Sounds good to me, I'll just take these.”

George tuned out of the conversation after that, mind immediately sifting through his plans for Friday. He was supposed to work at the 506th that evening, but if he got in really good with Martin in the next few days he might be able to convince him to take that shift and George would work two of his in its place. Surely Martin would bitch about the extra work and complain that George really needed to do his own job for once, yet he'd still agree to the deal and George would get have the evening free to go and watch the fight.

The bell chimed again and George quickly grabbed a handful of something before rushing over to the counter. If he wanted to get Martin to agree he'd probably have to actually return to work now.

“This is what you're getting?” Toye grumbled as he started to count up the total.

“Yup!” George grinned.

“Thirty cents.”

“What?”

“This is a fucking store, Luz. You're buying things.”

“Uh...” Okay, not his best moment. “Use what you took off of me the other night. Consider it a payment in advance. See, I'm a good customer, I pay in advance!” Because he had definitely anticipated this very moment and allowed Toye to completely wipe the dirty saloon floor with him in faro.

“I'm not going to barter with you.”

“I'm not trying to. Split the difference?”

“Thirty cents, Luz.”

“Twenty?“

“Now you are bartering.”

“Maybe, but you're really considering letting me use my store credit now, aren't you?”

“You don't have store credit.” Toye's eye seemed to be twitching and George knew he'd sufficiently riled him up. Things were finally going to plan.

And now, the winning bet.

“The faro winnings, Toye! My advance payment!”

“Fine,” Toye ceded, looking none too pleased and far too exasperated. “Twenty five cents and you get the hell out of here.”

George laughed. “See Toye? Those who don't risk don't snack.” He proudly placed down a quarter dollar on the counter.

Toye just shook his head, grumbling as he flipped the lid of the cash box open and threw the coin inside.

“Thanks, Toye! See you tonight,” George took his items off the counter as Toye slammed the cash box shut. He already knew that Toye would show up at the 506th even if he was pissed at him. Though...now he was more likely to bet him in another game...maybe faro again or something stupid like those glasses...either way George would participate, like always, because he just couldn't resist.

He didn't get a goodbye, but that seemed fair enough. Toye had lost this round and George had succeeded at his goal. All was well.

It finally registered as George stepped outside of the store that in his mission to bother Toye, he'd neglected to actually check what he’d gotten. Looking down at his haul, George saw that he’d bought penny candies, thread, and a chalkware figurine.

Fuck, Martin was going to kill him.

—

New town, new job, and hopefully much better prospects.

That was John Hall's motto going into Easy, especially after the last ranch let him go before he even really got a chance to do anything. He wanted the experience, but considering he was going into his second week out in the west and had naught to show for it, he really hoped that making the move from New York to Wyoming wouldn't be as big of a mistake as everyone back home made it out to be.

When he'd stepped out of the stagecoach depositing him in town, he felt confident. Maybe a little too confident, if anything. Things had definitely taken a dive in Cheyenne...he considered himself lucky enough to have heard about Easy's Currahee Ranch that seemed to hire year round. This was it, surely. John liked the man that interviewed him—Winters, he reminded himself, that was his new boss. There'd been mention of a second one, though at that point he'd frozen up and got a bit nervous. Were questions too much? Winters had asked if he had any questions, but that could have just been a courtesy. Everyone asked, and no one ever meant it.

John shook his head no and was a confused mixture of pleased and frightened when Winters smiled at him and welcomed him to Currahee. He told John that he could put his things in the first bunkhouse and the next morning he could get his start with one of the foremen to learn the ropes.

Good...that was good. John could do that sort of thing. In Cheyenne he, at the very least, got a basic understanding of what ranch hands did, so he wouldn't be totally hopeless. Or so he thought.

Come morning, he was startled awake by an assortment of loud conversations and scrambled to get ready. “Shit,” John couldn't help but swear when he finally got outside of the bunkhouse and saw that there wasn't anyone there waiting for him. Was he seriously late on his first day? This couldn't possibly be happening to him. He knew that the foreman was supposed to meet him out there, but—

“Hey, you lost or something?”

Quickly, John snapped his head in the direction of the voice. It was a jovial looking redhead, two other guys stood slightly behind him.

“Uh...no. I'm supposed to talk to a...Ranney?” At least he was pretty sure that was the name Winters had given him last night.

“Oh,” The guy frowned and looked back to the two behind him, “You guys go on ahead, I'll help...”

“John Hall,” he provided.

“Hall. I'll catch up soon,” He elbowed one of them and grinned before turning to John again, his friends saying their goodbyes then leaving. “I'm Malarkey—Don. You just started I'm guessing?” He nodded and Malarkey gave him an appraising look. “Ranney's not here today, but I can help you out.”

“Thanks.” That didn't dispel any of John's unease. He could make this work, though, at least someone was offering help.

“No problem, Hall. Currahee's a great place, I'll start you off with a tour and we'll go from there, yeah?”

“Sure.” John didn't plan to argue, he'd take what he could get.

For the next hour Malarkey showed John around the main parts of ranch. Of course he was already acquainted with the bunkhouses, but there was also the main house where Winters and the other boss, Nixon, lived and had their office—that was where John had his interview, the barns, storage sheds, the working pens, the front fence of the main pasture, and at last, the stable. Distantly, John wondered if they could have just gone to the stable first to save them all the walking, but then he realized that if he was going to succeed as a ranch hand he'd have to get used to that kind of work.

Regardless, Malarkey wasn't half bad at explaining the routines, but he did the tendency to start talking about people John had no clue who they were. All in all, he felt pretty confident that he'd be a great fit at Currahee, this was the western living he came out for.

“So, Hall,” Malarkey chirped as they entered the stable, leaning against one of the stall doors. “How familiar are you with horses?”

“Not very,” John replied honestly. He'd gotten about five minutes total with one during his tenure at the ranch in Cheyenne. Although…that really should have been a sign that things weren't going so well there. He grimaced internally, but pushed it down in favor of listening to Malarkey again.

“Right. Okay then.”

Before Malarkey could say anything else, someone that John had taken note of and mostly disregarded spoke up from another stall. “That Quaker hiring mail-order cowboys now?”

The man had previously been leaned over, a caddy beside him as he worked on shoeing a stocky bay. Though, now he was glaring with disdain towards John and John only. Who the hell was this guy? And what the hell did Quakers and the mail have to do with any of it? All John could gather was that the man clearly didn't like him being there in the slightest.

Malarkey came to his defense. “Ease up, it's his first day.” Yet, he still chuckled all the same.

“What? Cowboy over there looks like a fuckin' juniper dressed up like that,” the man protested, shooting another glower at John. When that didn't garner a response he huffed and went back to his work.

John felt himself scowl a bit. He didn't even know him. What was wrong with his clothes? They were mostly new, the outfitter at the shop in Cheyenne had said that men coming out west often bought these sorts of things. Then the nickname registered, was he really trying to make fun of John when they'd just met?

“What's that guy's problem?”

“Gonorrhea,” Malarkey shrugged, like that explained it. Well...actually, if it was true then—

“Really?” He found himself asking.

Then Malarkey scoffed. “No. It's his name, goney. Guarnere, gonorrhea...get it?”

Still though. “Okay, besides having a shitty name, what's his problem?” It couldn't possibly be John's fault for being new. Maybe it looked like he was trying too hard, but at least he was trying!

“None of your fucking business, Cowboy,” Guarnere called out. Once again, another dirty look traveled his way.

He tried to argue back, but even to him it sounded weak when all he managed was a “My name's Hall.”

Guarnere was quick with a response that only served to make John feel a bit pathetic. “That so?” It didn't help that the man hardly even seemed to care, still focused more on his work than the conversation.

There was a stretch of silence where no one said anything else. Malarkey shifted and John focused back on him.

“Good old Gonorrhea, he's on the shoot. Just gotta give back what you get from him,” Malarkey sighed. “He just learned that his—”

Guarnere cut in, standing up and shutting the stall door with more force than necessary. “Malarkey, shut your bazoo.” He brushed past the two, the caddy in his hand jingling with each step as the tools inside knocked against one another.

When he turned the corner, heading into the other half of the stable Malarkey continued, “His brother bit the ground recently...got the news the other day.” John felt a bit bad at hearing that. He didn't have any siblings of his own, but that didn't mean he couldn't sympathize with the grief he was probably experiencing. However, that didn't really mean he had to take it out on John either. “Guarnere worked here for a while, he did most of the farriery for the ranch until he became a full-time blacksmith about a year ago.”

“And he's here now, because..?” If he didn't work at Currahee, what the hell was he doing there?

“Shit, Hall, why do you think?“ Malarkey looked at him as if the answer were obvious. When John didn't respond he groaned. “He's the best farrier in Easy by a mile, just 'cause he doesn't work here anymore doesn't mean he doesn't care about the ranch. If you're gonna work here, you have to know that once you're a Currahee hand, you're always one—even if you find something else to do.” He could only really bring himself to nod before Malarkey then directed John's attention over to the roan stallion standing in the stall they were in front of. “Anyways, this is Dodge. He's kind of testy, but he'll work for now. Can you saddle a horse at least?”

“Yes,” and John could say he was sure about that.

Malarkey gave him a few pointers as he put the saddle on the horse, but for the most part he did pretty well on his own.

When they got outside of the stable, horse in tow, Malarkey helped John mount. “Here, get a feel for riding. It's not that hard and you'll be doing it at some point or another while working here.”

He barely had a chance to move much when, “He even rides like a juniper!”

John quickly saw that, once again, Guarnere was there and watching. Couldn't the guy just leave him alone?

In an instant, Malarkey's advice from a few minutes prior rang loudly in his mind and he quickly spoke without thinking about it for too long.

“Hey, Gonorrhea, shut the hell up!” For a moment, John thought he might've fucked up, but then Guarnere's stunned expression shifted as he barked out a laugh.

“Not bad, Cowboy.”

Briefly, he felt pretty damn proud of himself. A job, some confidence, what was he going to get next? Easy really was looking like a good place to be.

He sat up in the saddle, back just a bit straighter as he felt lighter than he ever had, and smiled to himself. At some point mere minutes later, Malarkey said something to him about being back soon and that he had some duties to attend to. John responded, he was sure he did. He was still quite giddy though, and didn't even notice when the horse suddenly stopped moving.

And then there was weightlessness and a flash of wood in front of him, growing ever closer in far too short a span of time and—

John felt the world blink out on him for an eternity, a raging tempest of pain reverberating throughout his skull, before his vision was encompassed in a bright blue with white splotches.

Oh. The sky.

“Shit, Cowboy, that looked like it hurt,” A rough voice whistled from somewhere above him, cutting through the hurt in a way that only amplified it further.

Apparently that showed on his face because he heard a muffled curse sound from the same direction before someone different asked if he was alright from his other side.

Things were still spinning a bit disconcertingly and the rough patch of rocks beneath him, digging into his back, were keeping him from finding the words needed for a coherent answer.

“Hall?”

John opened his eyes again...they were closed, huh...and found the strength to push himself up into a seated position.

Right...he reminded himself as he took in the picture in front of him. A wooden fence, a concerned looking redhead...Malarkey? No, that wasn't right—his new boss, there it was, an equally concerned looking man holding the pommel of the saddle John had been sitting on only moments prior, and a bright trail of blood streaking down his face and pooling right onto his new chaps. Damn it.

“I'm...” Talking hurt a lot more than John thought it would, his own voice sending a railroad spike through his brain. “Fine,” he bit out after another moment, half whispered.

“Doesn't look like it. Damn good dusting right there.”

His boss—Winters glanced over at the other man with a slight bit of discontent—Guarnere...that's who it was. The mouthy, pissed guy who'd been bugging him this whole time. He wasn't so bad though. Prickly, but John could stand up against that. Already had. “Hall?”

It took a second of thinking to realize that Winters was prompting John. “Yes, sir?”

Winters frowned, helping John stand up. “You'll have to get checked out, I'll bring you into town.” When had Winters gotten there—John had watched Malarkey go, but he never saw anyone else approach. Though...the last ten minutes were a muddled blur in his head. He really shouldn't be trying to figure things out when his head was dripping blood and the likelihood of his skull having been cracked open was high.

“No, sir it's...” John stumbled a bit when a wave of nausea passed over him, nearly making him topple back over. The final word died before it even began.

“You might have a concussion,” Winters said insistently, still looking concerned.

“I...” He couldn't think of any objections...or much else to be frank. God, his head ached something fierce. Not to mention there was all the blood too.

Before Winters could say anything else, Guarnere chimed in, still holding the pommel of the horse who'd bucked John. “Don't sweat it, I'll bring Cowboy to the doctor.” Guarnere...wanted to help him out?

“Are you sure?” Winters asked, seeming very well like he was willing to bring the new fuck up hire all the way into town. John didn't know why considering he was just wasting his boss's time at this point. On his first day to boot.

Guarnere waved him off. “Eh, don't worry about it, I was heading back anyways. Horses got shoes now, don't they?” He gently guided the horse in the direction of Winters who took control.

“Thanks, Guarnere,” Winters nodded in his direction before looking to John. “I'll have someone bring you your things and pay for today. Sorry about this, Hall.”

Winters was...apologizing to him? John wondered if the head injury was making him hallucinate, but he managed to squeak out an, “It's fine sir” before his boss—was he still John's boss?—led the horse away, back into the stable, while Guarnere put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Happens to everyone their first time. You aren't special,” Guarnere grinned, pushing him lightly towards the horse he had tied up to a nearby post. “Most don't go down like that though.”

“Yeah...sure...“ John was still feeling a bit woozy, he hoped that this ride into town wouldn't be the one to finish him off.

“Some first day. You're gonna fit right into Easy, Cowboy, I can tell you that.”

John lamely retorted, “Shut it, Gonorrhea.”

And even then, it still got a friendly laugh in response.

—

Johnny Martin was sick and fucking tired of this goddamn saloon.

It had never been in the plan to start working there, in fact he quite enjoyed his tenure at Currahee and often wished he were back working the ranch like he once did. If he was still working there, he'd at least know there was someone, Bull, who was competent and didn't make him regret ever moving to this bullshit town in the middle of nowhere.

Unfortunately for him, life was never the kindest mistress, so when his knee started to lose its reliability—buckling under minimal weight, locking up at inopportune times—Johnny knew it was for the best that he hang up his chaps, resign, and find some place else in Easy where he could work that didn't send him into an early, pain-filled retirement.

That somewhere became the 506th and Johnny often wished that his past self just let a herd of cattle trample him all those years ago.

At the very least he could still see the guys from the ranch when they stopped by most nights. They'd tell him about whatever shit was going on at the ranch and never once acted like he still wasn't one of them.

But most of the time he regretted ever getting hired at the saloon because the majority of the patrons were not from Currahee and they also had no semblance of respect for the one man that he was.

Case in point: the three assholes in front of him.

Now he'd seen them around the 506th plenty of times, but he'd never had to serve them. They were Luz's customers. Considering that Luz wasn't there, something about buying supplies for the saloon that just couldn't wait for their usual shipment, they were then automatically designated to be Johnny's to handle until they left.

And they were the absolute worst.

Not only were they loud, rambunctious, and inconsiderate of the fact that it was only eleven in the morning, much too early to be slamming back drinks like they were, they also sat at one of the tables near the front of the saloon. In other words, it meant that every single time one of the three started calling after Johnny, demanding more drinks, he had to walk to the opposite side of the room to give it to them!

He'd bitch about the unnecessary walking any other time, especially when they could very well come up and ask him like a sane customer would, however his internal bitching felt justified for once when the usual, mild pain he felt in his knee began to increase.

It always did that sort of thing with the changing of the weather. It was still cold out, enough to keep a bit a snow on the ground and a bitter chill in the air, but it was warming up. Not by much though, which really should have meant that Johnny's knee shouldn't have been acting up like it was. The thought of what that might mean was troubling.

While he wasn't as active as he was during his days at Currahee, he still moved around at the saloon and behind the bar.

He—

“Hey, barkeep! 'nother round over here!”

Johnny Martin needed a new job...now.

Regardless he grabbed the bottle of cheap whiskey the group had been drinking from all morning. He'd offered several, several times to leave it with them, but he was quickly refuted that they weren't going to drink that much. They had. There was probably only enough left inside the bottle to last them this round. He hoped to God that they'd finish, pay, and get the hell out until the inevitable next time they came in. Only then would Johnny make sure that Luz was there to deal with them.

Gritting his teeth, whether to bite back a curse or disguise the sharp pop he felt in his knee, Johnny made it over to their table and not so kindly poured the three their drinks.

They couldn't even have the decency to be charming assholes like Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala. It was why they got to continuously waive their tab with the promises of paying another day. That and he actually knew they were decent people...even if they were annoying.

“There.” Johnny pulled back the bottle as he topped off the last glass, the whiskey finishing with a small drop before running dry. To give them a hint, he then set the empty bottle onto the table. The movement rattled the three glasses laid out.

Only a few more hours, Johnny reminded himself as the group waved him away once again with nary a thanks, and Bull would be in. His friend was consistent and always got an early start to his day at the ranch before heading into town to go to the saloon and visit with Johnny at the first sign of evening. The promise of getting to see Bull is often what made sure Johnny didn't storm out, never to return. Whether it be the saloon or the entirety of Easy was still up in the air. The best part was, Bull didn't fucking talk just to talk.

As he returned back behind the bar, he leaned against the counter, taking a bit of the weight off his leg as he stared out at the rest of the mostly empty saloon. When Luz got back, and he'd better return soon or Johnny would absolutely kill him, he'd duck into the back for a bit—or a while depending on how much he was really hurting—to take a much needed and much deserved break.

Luz eventually pushed through the doors after another ten minutes, hands full of...

“What the fuck did you buy?”

Not one thing that Luz was carrying looked like something they needed at the 506th.

In lieu of a response, Luz instead gave him a world-weary sigh and dropped everything on the counter.

“Actually, don't even bother, get those fuckers by the door to pay for their bottle of red-eye and tell them to get out.” Johnny needed to be rid of them before he did something that'd get him fired. Though, that prospect was starting to look more and more appealing by the day.

“On it, Martin,” Luz replied, the dismal expression on his face vanishing in the blink of and eye as he moved over to that table and began conversing with its occupants.

Johnny took the chance to rub at his knee. The pain was starting to die down, but it was still more of a bother than usual. Luz fucking owed him. When he looked back up, the three were thankfully gone and it seemed like the sun may shine another day.

When Luz came back to the counter, he started to dig through the pile of what was frankly, total shit, and huffed like a petulant toddler. He kept at it for a few minutes until Johnny couldn't take it any longer.

“What's your problem?” He snapped. Luz dropped the couple of pieces of penny candy he had in his hand and huffed again.

“You ever argue with Bull, Martin?”

Out of everything Johnny could have imagined being asked in that moment, that was something that wasn't even on the list of possibilities.

“Huh?”

Luz slipped behind Johnny, moving to the other side of the bar to start opening drawers at Grant's station. “You know,” he said while pilfering a cigarette that was technically the saloon's property, acting like Johnny very well knew what he was talking about when he didn't. “You two have known each other for...forever now, basically. I mean, I gotta work for the two of us when Bull comes in here 'cause you're attached to his side. So, you ever fight with him or what? Can't imagine you never have.”

“No. Why the fuck would I fight with Bull?” The idea of fighting with one of the only guys that had a decent head on his shoulders was almost preposterous to consider. They'd never really gotten into an argument—nothing serious at least. At most, it was just the typical ribbing between the two, Bull would say some shit that barely made sense and Johnny would make fun of that folksy wisdom of his. It's what friends were for after all.

What did that have to do with whatever Luz had going on?

“Shit, I was just asking!” Luz said, holding his hands up. Then he sighed, sticking the stolen cigarette into his mouth before lighting it. “Just wondering if I'm going about things the wrong way with Toye.”

“This again?” Johnny would have to be stupid to not notice what Luz had with Toye. After far too many broken glasses, wasted beer, and covered shifts he was practically an expert in knowing how fucking whipped Luz was for him. “If you break something else you're covering me for the next month.”

“Hey—that was months ago, Martin! Come on, gimme a break.”

The batwing doors swung open, a new patron entering, and Johnny crossed his arms, turning to Luz. “You owe me for the last hour. I'm taking my break now.”

Luz agreed, a bit too eagerly, and put on his usual grin as the patron approached the counter. Johnny watched for a moment before finally going through the curtain separating the saloon from the back room.

The thought to ask what Luz's appetence had to do with him and Bull never even crossed Johnny's mind as the idea of getting away from the bar and off his feet took precedent.

—

After a few months at the ranch, Babe was sure that he was getting the hang of things.

Sure, a lot of the guys still looked down at him and the rest of the still a bit too green behind the ear hands that'd shown up around the same time he had, but it was safe to say that he wasn't half bad at this whole thing. It also helped that he wasn't alone, Hashey, Garcia, and Miller were just as new to the whole ranch hand business just as he was. They had their own little support group thing going on—safety in numbers or whatever it was they said.

They still weren't the most trusted group of guys, so naturally that meant they didn't get to do much more than the tasks that no one really wanted to do. Babe wondered when the day would come where he or some of the other replacements (a name which they'd been dubbed for a reason that no one wanted to tell them) might get a chance to do more than just fix things around the ranch.

Like mending the fences of the pastures. Apparently some of the cattle had been wandering a bit too close to the perimeter and there was a bit of worry that some of the fences might not hold up enough to keep them in. No one wanted to do a round up if there wasn’t a necessity to do it.

Babe, Garcia, and Hashey had been assigned to go around and make sure that all the barbed wire and wooden rails were where they needed to be. And they'd been at it for hours.

The sun was out and it was hardly a cloudy day, but that didn't mean that it wasn't still cold out. Babe thought ruefully about his warm bed back at the bunkhouse as he walked down to the next section of fencing.

They'd been taking turns on who had to do what, and right now Babe was in charge of the fifteen or so yard stretch of barbed wire before them. He kneeled down to where there actually was a broken length of wire and gratefully accepted the fencing pliers from Garcia. He cut off a bit of wire from the spool that'd be able to bridge the gap between the ends.

After he looped the broken ends, he threaded the wire between them and began to tie off one of the sides. It was as he was pulling the wire tight that Babe found his hand caught in the jagged metal of the barbed wire—the skin snagging in it before it cut a line down his palm.

“Shit!” Immediately, blood began to leak from the cut and he struggled to get the wire to detach from his skin lest he make it worse. The pliers dropped from his hand and he fell back, falling onto his ass as he tried to figure out a way to put pressure on it that didn't include using his other, dirt covered hand.

“Jesus, what happened?” Hashey quickly got next to him, pressing the bandana he'd had tied around his neck into the wound.

“Hand got caught—fuck,” He winced when the pressure made it sting.

“Might need sutures for that,” Garcia frowned, “I'll go and get Bull.”

Luckily enough for the three of them, or maybe just Babe, they'd been allotted one horse to help them out. While it wasn't exactly useful in getting out there considering only one of them could have a go at riding at a time, it was useful right then when the center of Currahee was a mile out and someone needed to get help.

Garcia mounted the horse and took off, leaving Babe and Hashey to sit and wait. It'd take less than ten minutes for Garcia to return with Bull in tow, and while Babe knew he was far from bleeding out, he couldn't deny that it hurt like a bitch.

“Think this'll get me off of fixing duty for a bit?” Babe asked after a minute of quiet, punctuated only by the periodic mooing of cows in the distance.

“Yeah, and every other duty too,” Hashey snorted.

“Ah...shit.” He hadn't thought that far ahead. Maybe there'd be something else around the ranch he'd be able to do...he didn't know how long it'd be until his hand healed up properly.

As expected, Bull and Garcia were back in no time at all. Babe was still sitting in the frostbitten patch of grass he'd fallen in and Hashey had decided to make use of the time by finishing off the fence Babe hadn't finished before moving on to another section.

Bull, in all his calm and reassuring demeanor, took one look at Babe's bleeding hand and nodded. “Yup, gonna need some sutures.” Babe sighed. “C'mon, let's get you into town. I'll be back for you boys later, alright?” Bull ushered him towards the horses while looking back at Garcia and Hashey who agreed readily.

“Thanks a lot,” Babe said as they reached the entrance to the ranch. “I can head into town by myself, sir.”

“You sure?” Bull shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Uh-huh.”

After a once over, Bull let him be on his way.

The ride into Easy was a little tricky when he still had to keep pressure on his hand, but he made it decent enough. Blood was starting to soak the bandana though and he made a reminder to wash it before giving it back to Hashey.

Babe had never been to the doctor's office in Easy before, lucky enough to have only experienced minor scrapes and scuffs and never having gotten hurt or sick enough to warrant a visit since his arrival. Despite that, he knew it was only a few buildings before the saloon after entering Easy when coming from the ranch.

Once inside, Babe set foot into a quaint little waiting room mixed with shelves of various...things. Medicines, maybe. There was a desk in front of all the shelves and a friendly enough looking guy who went on alert once the door shut behind Babe.

“Let me write your name down, things are a bit held up back there.” That was definitely a greeting of some sort. “Oh, and what's wrong with you?”

“Uh, alright.” Babe stepped up to the counter. “Edward Heffron—Babe, don't write Edward down, please.”

“Got it, someone'll get ya.” The guy took the paper he'd written on and headed towards the back. Babe didn't even get a chance to explain what happened to his hand. He clutched the bandana a bit tighter against the wound as he just kind of stood there.

“Hey, kid.”

Babe's head shot up in surprise. “Yeah?” He turned to face the voice. The guy talking to him looked familiar...that's right, he came to the ranch sometimes to shoe the horses. Babe didn't think he knew his name though. He was seated in one of chairs by the door, Babe had missed seeing him when he came in.

“You from Philadelphia?”

Was he that loudmouthed that someone could pick up on it?

“South Philly, who's askin'?” He hadn't gotten any real trouble in Easy before, he couldn't imagine that today of all days would be the one—especially when his hand was still oozing blood and the risk of infection was higher than the zero he'd rather keep it at.

“Figured.” This guy...on the day his hand was busted.

He opened his mouth, intent on mouthing back off to him, when the guy grinned. “13th Street. You're Heffron, ain't ya?”

“No shit? Front Street!” Babe stuck his hand out, only then recalling that that was the injured one. He switched arms and the guy firmly shook it.

“Bill Guarnere, I've heard about you. Currahee treating you right?”

“Yeah, great place.” Babe took a seat next to Bill before gesturing towards the counter. “Is it always like this here?”

“Nah, Ralph's new. He doesn't usually work the counter.”

For a few minutes, the two of them just talked. To Babe, it felt like he'd known Bill for years even if they'd just met. It was a bit of crazy coincidence that he'd meet someone else from Philadelphia in a small Wyoming town of all places.

And then he was taken out of it by a, “Heffron?” A voice called his name, preceded by creaking hinges on the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the doctor's office. Babe perked up and stood.

He followed the doctor back into another, smaller room.

“Spina ain't write down why you're in. Bettin' it's that hand, huh?” The doctor dipped his head down at Babe's wrapped hand, he pulled a bit of a face at the dirtied bandana and removed it when Babe offered him his hand.

“Yeah, doc. Was workin' on the barbed wire fence when it snagged me. Think it got me pretty deep.”

“I'm no doctor,” he shook his head, wiping down Babe's hand with a wet cloth and some warm water. “I work behind the counter—I do the pharmaceuticals with Spina. Renee and Augusta, you can call 'em doctors.”

“So why am I seein' you?” Babe meant it with curiosity, but he cringed when he realized how snappish it sounded. The doctor...not doctor just gave him a tight little smile, still completely focused on working on Babe's hand.

“They're dealin' with someone else. He got hurt real bad, head injury.” Oh. That's probably who Bill had been waiting for then. At least, he figured Bill was waiting, he didn't look too hurt to Babe. “I know enough to help out when they're caught up.” A medic, then.

“Huh. Well, I appreciate it!” He tried to inject as much enthusiasm into his thanks as he could, an attempt at an apology for his brashness.

“'s just my job, nothin' to it, Heffron.” The medic pulled out a small little case with a needle and some thread-looking stuff inside. Babe tried a bit fruitlessly to get more conversation going, but the medic's attention was towards suturing up Babe's palm with careful precision only.

Eventually, he finished up and Babe flexed his hand, hissing when it produced a small sting. “How long am I gonna be out, doc?”

The medic's eyebrows creased at the use of the nickname again, but he still answered regardless, standing up. Babe followed suit. “Two weeks, Heffron. Make sure you're washin' your hands too, don't want it gettin' irritated. You can come back to me 'n I'll take 'em out for you.”

“Got it—and uh, you can just call me Babe,” he said, beaming. He really liked this medic, even if he did seem a bit close-lipped.

“I'll see you in two weeks.”

“Right, two weeks.”

The medic nodded his way and opened the door for Babe...and didn't follow him back into the waiting room. Bill wasn't in there either, so Babe assumed whoever he'd been waiting for had finished up too.

It was outside when Babe had already untied the reins of his horse when he remembered that he never asked for the medic's name.

“Goddammit,” he mumbled.

—

“So what?”

They were at it again—rightfully so.

Joe was just so over Webster coming into his shop to talk about his stupid fucking book and whatever else he thought he knew about Easy.

Maybe this time Webster hadn't actually come in...okay, this time around Joe had seen him walking outside and decided to say something. It had only been about ten minutes since the whole argument began, but Joe didn't actually remember which he’d brought up first: Harvard, the book, or the fact that he could just see the pretentiousness exuding from Webster.

“So what? You have to be kidding me, it's like you don't even listen to what I say.” Webster crossed his arms, frown pulling deeper at his still boyish features. He'd been hovering by the door to the shop since the argument got heated, though he'd since taken a few steps towards Joe, properly engaged in the fight.

“It's all sensationalized bullshit, Web!” Joe spat out. “You're just trying to make things up and I'm the only one with balls enough to call you out on it. I've read enough of the shit the rest of you greeners fucking write.”

“That—” Webster cut himself off with a sigh, a long exhale rife with frustration. It was always like this, but everyone always acted like Joe instigated it when technically, Webster started it when he decided to move to Easy from his shitty university while on his leave. Some kind of stupid break from higher education so he could write his sorry excuse of a book. “I write what I see, I write what I hear, I talk to the people living here, Joe. There's nothing made up.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Joe rolled his eyes. He knew that plenty of the guys in town didn't want to talk to Webster either, they were as familiar with his type as Joe was.

Shaking his head, appalled, Webster responded. “You act like I'm here to personally besmirch your name, Joe.”

“With the shit you say about Easy and the west, you basically are.” In an attempt to rally agreement, Joe turned to their audience, Skinny seated in the barber's chair and Tipper behind him, leaning on the back. Neither of them offered up any commentary. In fact, they both really seemed like they rather be anywhere but Joe's shop. Fuck them, Skinny could wait on his haircut. It wouldn't kill to have a bit more patience.

“What shit do you think I'm writing about?”

“Oh, probably about how we're all simple-minded fools who'd gape at the sight of your obvious superior intellect and Harvard education. It's not that hard to assume, Web, you aren't the first asshole to pull this kind of thing.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe you're jealous, Joe? That you don't like the fact that I have something going for me while you're in the backveld where you plan to keep living until you die?“ He then took a breath, lowering his voice. “I'm done.” Webster stated with emphasized finality, like he was trying to act like the bigger person. “Goodbye, Joe, I'm going to converse with the residents of Easy. Not exploit them.” Joe already knew that residents really just meant Hoobler. He didn't know how Webster managed to get Hoob wrapped around his finger like that, but he and the bounty hunter had become far too good of friends for Joe's liking.

“Fuck you, Web,” Joe sneered to his retreating form. He’d get the last word in, that’s for sure. The door to his shop slammed shut, glass rattling in its pane as Webster walked down the boardwalk, away from the building. Away from Joe.

Joe glanced back towards Tipper and Skinny. “I'm telling you, Web's got nothing but malice for us here.”

“Sure, Joe.” Tipper didn't look like he agreed and with the way he could see Skinny's own expression reflecting identically in the mirror, Joe figured he felt the same.

Fuck that. They couldn't see that Webster was just trying to use Easy. It was all the same for so many of the greenhorns who thought they knew better, what with their fucking universities and high society. It was a crock of shit and Webster was no better than any other Easterner that tried their hand in Easy. Some of them were better than others, plenty of the guys at the ranch who'd moved from the east coast at least made the attempt and acclimated. They didn't come into town with the expectation that the simple folk living there would bend to their whims and divulge everything to them.

Only problem was that Webster hadn't bowed out like the rest of those greenhorns.

It had been months since he showed up and like an insistent horsefly, he never fucked off.

At first, people treated Webster with the same disdain Joe held for him. Distrustful of his motives. Now that he'd been in Easy for over half a year? People were getting soft on Webster! It wasn't right, he was in it for the long game and Joe could see right through him.

The sooner Webster left town, the better it would be for all of them. Joe didn't care if he finished writing his stupid book or not, he just wanted that pretentious prick out of his home for good. Fuck, he'd celebrate when he left. Throw a whole goddamn party, even.

“Come on, Skinny. Let's get you your haircut.“ Joe, finally, moved to stand behind the chair, Tipper stepping away to give him room. They were lucky Joe liked them. The two of them eased up, relieved at the fact that he was done with all the Webster related talking and fighting.

For now at least.

—

By the time night came, Lewis was dead tired after a day of doing...well, mostly nothing. After he and Dick walked around the ranch and checked in with all the foremen, Lewis headed into Easy where he'd ended up for the rest of the morning and afternoon. Most of that time had been spent at the bank—waiting at the bank, speaking to the teller, filling out the paperwork. Payday was soon. Lewis handled the financials because Dick basically did everything else for Currahee; he might as well pull his weight somehow. And maybe one day he could figure out how to write off nights at the 506th as a business expense.

When he entered their house back at the ranch, he was ready to collapse straight into bed. Actually, have a drink or two first and then he'd pass out for the night.

That thought was halted when Lewis noticed a weak, orange light spilled through the crack between the door and the frame of the office onto the floor.

Lewis opened the door and entered, not at all surprised by the fact that Dick was sitting there at his desk, pouring over the rosters, a ledger, or whatever other else he decided was important to be reading at half past whenever. In his opinion, far too late to be doing any kind of work, substantial or not.

“You planning to douse the lights anytime soon?”

Then he saw the troubled look on Dick's face. Something was wrong then. Even in the dim lighting, Lewis was pretty good at reading his expressions.

Dick gave him a weary glance before picking up the pencil on his desk and scribbling something down in his notebook. “Two people got injured today, Lew.”

“So? That kind of stuff is bound to happen.” Lewis leaned against the wall, tempted to take a pull from his flask before deciding that it wasn’t an appropriate time to do so.

“The ranch could be liable.” It wasn't anything new. Plenty of ranch hands got hurt every day, why did these two today matter?

“You want me to talk to Buck tomorrow? I'm sure he can clear things up.”

“No...no, it's fine. I don’t think they’ll give us trouble.” Dick just sighed quietly, focusing back onto the notebook and papers.

Lewis had that little feeling that Dick was probably thinking about the Blithe incident again. He was a good kid, a bit nervous, a bit flighty, but he'd found his groove at some point along the line. Then, of course, he got hurt and it kind of was Currahee's responsibility. Dick blamed himself for it sometimes, Lewis could tell.

Last he'd heard Blithe was still working, just in town. It didn't seem like there were any hard feelings. Lewis was sure that if there were, they'd probably end up in a court—paying some kind of settlement. They hadn't needed to do that since they got ownership of Currahee although they kept Buck on retainer regardless. They might have yet to get into real hot water, but that didn't mean the ranch hadn't ever been in trouble.

“Okay, tell me about who got hurt then.” Dick was bound to get himself worked up over the whole thing, even if he was good at hiding it. Lewis dragged the chair from his desk over to Dick's, setting it at the other side so they could have their little tête-à-tête.

“The new hand, Hall.”

Lewis still hadn't met him even though he distantly remembered Dick's mention of him that morning. “Right...”

“He got thrown—concussion. He'll be fine, but he won't be back to working here for a while.”

“Ah.” He might've heard about that. One of the guys surely brought it up at some point. Say what one would about Lewis, he did actually get out and see the hands every once in a while. It helped to know who exactly was being paid.

“Heffron got his hand cut open while mending a fence. He needed sutures.”

“What, you think either of them are going to come for you? Dick, come on.”

“I know, Lew.”

“Accidents, Dick. They didn't happen 'cause of neglect or—or some kind of malicious intent. Unless you did plan for that kind of thing to happen...” Dick looked up at him, the worry lines creasing his features shifting to a hint of amusement. “None of it is your fault, you feeling bad about it just goes to show that.”

Dick's expression told Lewis that he wasn't quite convinced, but he didn't say anything else regarding the matter.

Until, “What are we going to do about the drive?”

“Oh, that old thing.” Lewis had tried to not think about it today and mostly succeeded in doing so. There was a lot banking on them this year considering it was their first time planning it. He trusted Dick's ability enough to figure it out—and Lewis would help too—even when it felt like Dick doubted himself.

“Yes, that old thing,” Dick murmured. “Only the most important thing this ranch does every year.”

“I know, trust me. I know.” He could already hear Sobel's voice ringing through the room, his neurotic expectations regarding how each and every trail drive represented Currahee Ranch and how they couldn't fuck things up bouncing between the walls. “I think we both learned the importance of drives.” Dick didn't answer and Lewis leaned forward, hoping to get him to listen. “Hey, what do you say we go and talk to Harry tomorrow? I'm sure he's got some hidden insight that can help us out.”

Sounding far too defeated, Dick finally agreed with a quiet, “Sure.”

“Great, now go to bed. Work will still be here in the morning.” The drive was still weeks away. They had time.

Lewis watched as Dick blew out the candle at his desk, the room plunged into darkness. The only light now was the faint glow coming from the doorway. He walked beside Dick down the hallway until they reached the end where their rooms lay. Dick mumbled a soft goodnight to Lewis before disappearing behind the door to his bedroom.

For a few moments, Lewis just stared at the closed wooden door for a moment before he sighed and went into his own room.

Tomorrow was another day.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.