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Chapter Text

Chapter One
Heard of the Kingsnakes?

“These bounties aren’t pulling as much as they usually do,” Vicente mumbled with an edge of curiosity, “you think it’s getting too slim around here?”
Abigail held back slightly, patting her horse Kiwi absentmindedly, “definitely. Folks too brave and stupid were tangled and wrangled, now all we’re gettin’ is table-scraps.”
As the last words came from her mouth, the offended bounty on the back of her horse was struck by the back of her pistol, falling into a deeper silence. Vicente coughed slightly, clearing his dry throat and trying to loosen the bits of dust and sand that had coated the inside of his mouth during the chase that had occurred moments before. The cactus-fields and desert-thicket they had rode past many times since they had first met were familiar witnesses to their handy-work, unchanging in the way they watched them ride by since their names were unknown.
There was a mild distaste that seemed to fill Vicente’s mouth, but he weighed its worth before figuring it was at least a decent option, “you figure there’s better folks out there?”
“Worth a hell o’ lot more than this fella,” Abigail snorted, shifting her hat to block the afternoon sun from blinding her, “I mean he’s hardly worth anything alive or dead.”
“Right,” Vicente’s squint was permanently etched into his features from living in New Austin for nigh on his whole life– at least the parts that matter to all of the papers and dime novel men. “Cripp’s will raise hell before he raises camp to another place.”
“He can manage, the ol’ coot.”
The rest of the ride to Tumbleweed was made in a thundering silence of the oncoming night– that would shepherd in the waking lives of many creatures and folks that found it to be more accommodating than the blazing sun that hung in the sky during the day. The town had begun to rest, the dust of the day still clinging to the air that hung in the dying western town– the lights of the dwindling shops still burned warmly from beyond the thick-paned windows as folks drifted around the returning cowpokes. The russet and pinkish colors that washed the turning sky darkened into its midnight garb, the small slitted moon slicing a small home in the sky where the sun had been.
The sheriff’s office and jail stood vigilant at the head of what remained of the town– clinging on to law so that it might flourish. Vicente and Abigail had no dedication to the art of civilization, but they were keen on not being buried beneath it.
“Smell that air,” Vicente took a deep and purposed intake of air, removing his hat to wipe his drenched forehead– wincing slightly as his body was beginning to curse him for the repeated insult and injury.
Abigail sniffed as she nodded to the butcher, who she had a soft-spot for, slapping the side of the bounty’s face as she dismounted to wake him, “Smells like a dollar and some change.”
“Whu-” the man yelped as he was hauled off of Kiwi’s behind, “this ain’t right! I’m an American! I-”
“We all Americans, Huevón,” Vicente spat on the dusty ground before swinging himself down off of his weary horse, patting him apologetically for the constant danger.
Abigail hoisted the bounty onto a shoulder and lumbered towards where the sheriff would either be sleeping or sitting. He was indeed awake, raising his head in an almost expectant way as he greeted the common and familiar company of Abigail and Vicente.
“Shit, thought you both would have drifted by now. I'm finding it hard to find guilty sons of bitches who need hanging.”
“We were just talking about that,” Vicente’s lips twitched slightly into a tired grin, “trouble will find its way back here, I’m certain. If you worried about getting too lonely without it.”
Sheriff Freeman squinted though his voice echoed a joke, “Sure. In the shape of you two lawless bastards.”
The bounty’s further protests were silenced as he was thrown into the cell, Abigail huffing, “what’s the damage? We get enough to at least get a chocolate bar?”
“I’m sure they’ll give it to you for less,” Freeman opened the old and worn drawer– tossing the money onto the chipped desktop. “You want some advice? Since you hellspawn ain’t got so much meaning north of Blackwater, name-wise.”
“We’ve been north of Blackwater,” Vicente took half of the money, rubbing his aching hands together. He could see Abigail ’s expression shift to bemusement, before they were the Kingsnakes she was oftentimes no where other than north of Blackwater. “What have you heard?”
“Not about y’all. I feel like I’d know about that at least– most recognizable bastards in this fucking state,” Freeman reiterated, like crossing those state lines meant the bullets were even more deadly. “Roanoke Ridge, that place is fucked. And that’s coming from me, in this lawless ass-crack of America.”
Both Vicente and Abigail hummed in mock awe from his supposed advice. Freeman’s face became stern, though Abigail spoke first– always quick on the draw, maybe a little too quick. “Roanoke is trouble? Holy shit, who coulda known.”
Vicente smiled at her prodding, “anything new? Has it gotten even more…”
Freeman itched the back of his head under the hat, “I’ve heard they’re trying to organize something in that town they got up there. Annesburg or Van Horn, can’t remember which one they think is worth saving.”
“Mh,” Abigail muddled it over in her mind audibly, her eyes becoming fixed on a train of thought. She knew more of New Hanover than both Freeman and Vicente, so she took center of the dusty stage that was the jail floor. “Probably that Annesburg, less run down and more money from all the minin’.”
“Roanoke Ridge is far,” Vicente said a little hesitantly, before glancing to his partner with a wordless question.
A wild gleam blazed in her eyes as she smiled, “oh, there’s money there. And a lot to be spared if we can help.”
Vicente nodded once, before waving to Freeman, “We- or at least I will come back around these parts.”
“Off to strike it big in cursed hillbilly hills,” Freeman seemed to have a sour taste of the concept of Roanoke Ridge.
Abigail made her way out the door– clearly excited to make camp somewhere other than the desert, to fell new beasts. Vicente too felt that nervous shifting within his mind and fingers as he imagined essentially starting again from scratch, a new place to ingrain oneself into. It could always go poorly. Yeah, and sometimes it went really bad. They had been killed in more ways than one could even imagine, but was it really dying if you never truly…ceased? They walked and lived outside of eulogies or epitaphs, though they should’ve long been buried. Vicente had been shot through almost every inch of him that existed, varying scars had gathered across him like the night sky of New Austin– his body kept a tally of all the ill-will he had caused and been dealt. It was hard to have a soft touch when the world had never been entirely kind, but he could not stop finding some little thing to keep him dreaming. Abigail , too, had been shot, stabbed, blown up– she had been dealt one cruel hand after another, but she too still believed in something beyond the suffering that was handed out freely by others, herself and Vicente.
Vicente mounted Herald who greeted him with a small whinny. Pulling the reins he clicked his tongue to catch up to Abigail– she had managed to cover a good distance, before realizing his intent to catch up, slowing slightly.
“You seem excited, al roja viva.”
It was impossible for her to rid her face of the smile that had flickered across it since the idea of going further north for a while, “what’s not to be excited about? We get to carve our names out of different stones– and think of it, all those crazy bastards meeting bloody ends at the hands of us.”
“Sounds like we’ll be getting a few scars,” Vicente snorted somewhat sardonically, “I haven’t had any encounters with those creeps yet. Surprising.”
“They’re the fuckin’ worst,” she hissed, her smile cracking like ice into a look of disgust, “you ain’t seen sin till you’ve seen those inbred monsters.”
Vicente pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lighting it and taking a deep draw of smoke. “And Cripp’s will definitely approve of this. You sure we’ll get paid for all of this? Sounds like they in too deep to even worry about money.”
“We aren’t there yet,” Abigail protested, waving a hand lackadaisically, “we been shot at before– and yeh, hurts like hell but we ain’t stay down for long.”
Vicente looked to the sky, his body stiff from all of the effort it took for it to function injured like it was now. No matter how many tinctures and herbs he fashioned himself with ever made it feel much better anymore. A little sunny-downside to apparent immortality.
“How far do we plan on getting? We should think about the time it’ll take to move everything.”
“We could probably make it to Valentine,” Abigail yawned, before taking a swig of water she kept around her chest. “That’ll make it easier on tha’ old man. He can meet with them girls he likes so much.”
“Way to sweeten the deal,” Vicente chuckled. “Good place to stock up on provisions too, doesn’t sound like Roanoke gets much foot traffic these days.”
“No trader wants to risk their hide in those hills,” Abigail nodded, “but we sure do.”
Vicente couldn’t help but smile– it seems like ages ago since they had begun this posse. Mrs. LeClerk had summoned them: green, skittish, accused and damned prisoners broken out from Sisika with the hopes that we would inadvertently fix the wrongs that had almost seen the two hung. She had some kind of hope that her vengeance would be guided by unpracticed hands. And somehow, they became the tools of many grievances– but also– they became the harbingers of frontier second chances. Imprecise grace and mercy given to the two damned prisoners by a grieving widow made them feel as though it could be given to others– that mercy could prevail and so could wrath. There were things that could never be changed by the two who have vacant graves, but there were many that could be shifted.
All the more miraculous is the fact that they remained together throughout the months– though they struck it alone for a week or two, they always managed to rejoin once more. The things they had seen perhaps made them feel like they were a part of something other than killing, a sort of family maybe. Red and Black, their hair and the ties that bind; bands on snakes that slither on the ground their part played usually unseen by those who benefit from it. Their chosen name had been more symbolic than they had initially thought.
After a while, as the warmly glowing fire that warmed hearty stew came into view, Abigail made a slightly odd face as she floated a further idea, “maybe we could stop at St. Denis too.”
Vicente quirked an eyebrow, his drifter hat shifting slightly at the movement, “yeah? Business there?”
“Sure. There’s always business there.”
Vicente grinned in amusement, “by the way you look it isn’t Martelli.”
“Not this time. If we’re quick enough,” though she seemed to doubt anything would be quick enough to avoid that ratty-man.
“Sure. Not sure Cripp’s will be pleased with it, but we could stop by to stock up on higher quality fire-power,” Vicente wasn’t in a hurry to reach Roanoke Ridge and that region that had seemingly been damned and fucked over just as much as they had been, so he was willing to take another detour– though the thick air wasn’t appealing. Nor were the gators that littered the swamps. “Maybe we could check in with the locals there too– traders or something. They could give us some information maybe.”
“Our most thorough job yet.”
Vicente sighed, looking forward to the stew that Cripp’s had been brewing, “The bar isn’t high.”
She clasped her hands together as they finally wandered into camp, their horses slowing to an easy walk, “those crazy bastards won’t know what hit them!”
Vicente offered the confused Cripp’s the most apologetic smile he could muster, dismounting before clasping the old man on his back, “we’ve got business in the north now, crujir.”
“But first,” Abigail walked to the stewpot, happily taking the ladle from the steaming contents and slapping it into a bowl, “we dine.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Two 

We All Got Girls in Valentine

Cripps gave the two outlaws hell, as was predicted. One could hardly hold it against the old man, the end goal of setting up any kind of camp around those cursed hills was an affront against the very concept of survival. And despite their hard way of living, that old trader had managed to build quite the comfort around himself– mostly with the help of the funds generated from their trading business. His most frequent companion that left camp as seldomly as Cripps was Cleetus, a dog that had likely caught the scents of cooking meat and, after indulging in his curiosity, a warm fire. Cripps, who was subject to the company of the dog, had a particularly stubborn dislike of dogs it seemed– though Vicente was quite fond of the stray. 

The sliver of moon that shone in the blanketed night sky was reaching the end of its journey, and morning would soon be upon the Kingsnakes home. It was a little odd to Vicente to permanently pack up– it felt a little wrong, which was something he made known to Cripps who seemed to echo the sentiment. Though, maybe the reasoning was different between the two, it resulted in the same unpleasant unease. 

“I ought to hang you,” Cripps cursed as he wound some hefty cords and threw them into the wagon that he was prepping, “you damned fools. Roanoke? I thought my business partner had a little more sense than-” 

“We’ve been fools since the beginning,” Vicente agreed, straightening in an overexaggerated way which resulted in a pleasant pop in his back, “we might as well do some good while doing it.” 

Cripps groaned, “whawt the hell… what about our business?” 

Vicente fixed the old man with a stern and harsh look– his expression severe. Cripps frowned immediately, before waving a hand in dismissal. 

“You know how I’ve lived this long? Not doin’ stupid shit.” 

“Really,” Vicente glanced towards Abigail– who hummed to herself with an attempt to withhold her excitement as she packed the lingering provisions and weapons. He shifted his eyes to give Cripps a side-eye, “and what about that…what was it…the circus? All that trouble you were telling me about?” 

“Have you ever heard of exaggerating for the sake of storytelling? Or maybe a little embellishment?” 

“The point is,” Vicente interjected before Cripps could continue on his wildfire of a tangent, “if we help with all of the trouble up there in Roanoke then… maybe we could score some more trading routes. I’ve heard it’s been a trading dead-zone outside of imports– which run expensive. Are you gettin’ me?” 

Cripps upper lip shifted as he considered his words, holding the stare before spitting on his hand and shaking Vicente’s– whose hand had not been offered– “I’m holdin’ your ass to it.” 

Vicente nodded, all too eager to pull his hand from the unwanted spit-sworn deal. The final bits of odds and ends were finally gathered and they were free to hit the long road to Valentine– hopefully without running into any foolish bandits, which still roamed West Elizabeth and New Austin, though diminished and disheartened for the time being. 

“And if those spooky hills got your old bones quaking too much,” Abigail’s voice raised to reach the stubborn ears of Cripps, “then you could always stay with Mag.” 

“Oh-ho no,” Cripps rejected immediately, “bad business to go barking up an ol’ tree after so many years again.”

“Come on, Cripps,” Vicente was poised to give the old timer a hard time at least once in a while, “Where’s all that courage you were harping on about?” 

Cripps shook his head like a disappointed mentor, “I was on the hooch. Damn how’d I get mixed up in all this holler.” 

Abigail looked at him in pretend sorrow, “you can drive the wagon, if you wanna feel better.”

Cripps glared at her before patting some of the gathered dust on his coat– puffing out his chest, “I’ve seen the way y’all drive a wagon, I was gonna drive anyway.” 

The two Kingsnakes merely nodded like there was no offense to be had at such a statement. Their luck had been mercurial at best in terms of the quality of their cargo going from the starting point and where their buyers were. One went particularly south when Vicente destroyed the wagon carrying all of the supplies, it was quite the costly mishap but he still managed to deliver the promised goods. And Abigail didn’t receive the alias “Crash” for no reason; in fact the names they were known as by some were quite fitting, which was a relief to the two as they were recognizable in some fashion outside of the general “fugitive” marking. “Crash and the Gallows” or “The Gallows and Crash”, either or worked interchangeably. Abigail had managed to create a terrifying image of herself in the eyes of those who have committed ugly acts, as someone who would quite literally trample over their sorry-selves. Sometimes she too would go flying off of her horse, but it resulted in the marked-for-death being trapped as well. Quite humorous to think of, but when you hear the ground cracking as Crash neared, you weren’t laughing anymore and neither were they. The Gallows received his apt alias by his love of using that rope– an art he got to perfect after becoming a licensed bounty hunter. Some bounties didn’t deserve to see the light of the coming day, and out here that ain’t for them bounties to decide. Cut the middle man and save everybody the trouble, and the Gallows was born. 

Now they were off to Valentine, a needed detour for all of them, for they were on the road to face a giant in acts and in name much like themselves. The cold of midnight was slowly and eagerly shrugged off by the road-bound Kingsnakes as the sun began to warm the ruddy rocks of Cholla Springs. Abigail began to whistle as Vicente humored Cripps to pass the time, and as they drew further from lake Don Julio, Vicente felt a slight pang. These snake infested crags and arid land had been his home for a good time– it was where the Kingsnakes were born– and now they were on the road again. He could always come back. But would he get to? Reality was an everchanging game and he was hardly a consistent winner. He quietly bid it goodbye as he continued to banter with the old man. 

The Kingnakes crossed the river that carved a natural border between the prairies where Blackwater called home and where the rest of West Elizabeth presided over. Valentine was in reach, at least by the coming of the next day– which they would push until before setting up camp. Going through Tall Pines always heightened the general anxiety of both Vicente and Abigail, there was at least always one grizzly bear roaming the region that seemed hellbent on rendering its claws into them. A beautiful place it ever was, this could not be denied even despite the natural dangers that existed. The russet orange soil poked out of the roots of the large evergreens and pines that encased the region– offering shade from the harsh daytime sun, and during the night it was full of a menagerie of songs and crickets. One like Vicente may miss the company of the sky and its open arms from such an enclosed nature but he found it beautiful too. It was far more preferred than crowded cities, but even those held some odd beauties. 

Abigail brushed a hand on one of the lower hanging branches, which sprinkled the ground with needles and dew that lingered still. Kiwi shook her head as the pace slowed somewhat, to allow for safer passage of the main wagon through this rocky and uneven path that marked the ending of the Tall Pines officially. They were nearer to Strawberry now but they wouldn’t be passing through that little picturesque town today nor for a while likely– unless the trouble spreads there, which would not be the best sign. The jagged and randomly scattered rocks and boulders of the Tall Pines became broader and smooth as they wandered into the more mountainous portions of West Elizabeth, this is where the Grizzlies were born perhaps– the unforgiving region that rendered horses almost useless, where it was harsh and cold for almost the entire year around. Not many wandered there willingly, but there was a married couple up there running a ranch– though Vicente and Cripps doubted that it would produce any fruits from all the labor it required. The grass was in full bloom alongside its kin, the flowers waving in the breeze as the sun neared its peak in the sky. There were no clouds besides a few well-meaning whisps that hung without a rush in the sky. It was cooler here than it was in New Austin, the sun was less of a harsh observer here and the wind ushered in the mountain’s cold to further cool the land from the proclivities of the fire in the sky. 

Cripps clearly enjoyed the cooler air, as the sweat that had begun to naturally accumulate due to life in New Austin had less function here. He seemed to have more energy, which was a quiet relief to Vicente who had no urge to break up the gang in the slightest. The one he was sure wouldn’t abandon all followed excitedly, barking curiously at the heels of Herald and Kiwi, before eventually jumping onto the wagon beside Cripps while having to wait for a train to pass. Cripps, of course, made a scalding remark of protest at Cleetus as the dog joined his side but he made no effort to shoo him. Despite the risk of wildlife attacks during the night, the area didn’t usually pose much of a danger for travelers. Though for those in the assorted work of the Kingsnakes, there was always a general threat that came with living– including rival gangs in the area: local and/or roaming. Back in New Austin you’d usually come across off-shoots of the Del Lobo’s at most and smaller-time or unaffiliated gangs– up this far north you’d usually run into the O’Driscoll’s, who Abigail would trade blows with quite frequently and without hesitation. 

Lemoyne had the Lemoyne Raiders, a bunch of old and bitter losers of a war about their “Gentlemenly occupation of Slavery” and loss of “property”. The Braithewaites and Grays practically ruled alongside those depraved old fools and eager to stand for something young men that were in the Raiders in Rhodes. Lemoyne was a land scarred by that war, carried over by the people who remain who blame differing folks for the short-comings of their once beautiful town of Rhodes. If you hear some old man of former distinction speaking sadly or wrathfully about the “loss of property” here he likely was talking about a fellow man rather than a home. It was a harsh land to live on, whether man be your enemy or the many creatures that roamed the general area in the swamps or dusty forests. The men of Angelo Bronte and Guido Martelli were in Lemoyne too, of the current high society– the new civilized criminals. Though they were not in the old blood money of slavery, they were in St. Denis, a confusing place. That’s where they were heading next, at the bequest and interest primarily of Abigail. They had done work that brought them to that great man-made wonder of the New World, mainly for the jobs dealing in the return of “Capitale”. To the Kingsnakes it was a blunder that harmed the overall machismo of the whole new civilized way of crime– if it was so fragile to be threatened by their “money” or whatever capitale was to them getting where it wasn’t supposed to be. Sounds like they were outclassed by those they so often looked down upon as being barbaric or something. The typical accusation of polite society. 

Vicente had no misgivings about the city. It offered many things to many people, that he could recognize whenever he had been within it. But it had the lurking tendency to tighten an invisible noose around his neck if he stayed for too long. He didn’t quite know what it was about the city that did it, and he was altogether all too willing to depart it rather than trying to figure that out. Abigail had mentioned that she had been the victim of bounty-men in St. Denis before the Kingsnakes were even a concept in their minds– before LeClerk even. She had been rescued or nursed back to health by someone, she mentioned it being folks that didn’t charge her for it so Vicente doubted that it was a medical man of some sort. Her fondness might’ve stemmed from that but her fellow Kingsnake couldn’t know for sure and in truth it was her business. One that seemed to make her look forward to going to such a busy place, which is rare in their line of work. 

The travel was slow as they passed by Riggs and then eventually Wallace Station, the cool mountain breeze making it easier on the draft horses who bore the brunt of this journey. At some point Cripps grew tired of filling the air with his past and delightfully (and sometimes less so) colorful renditions of road songs so he moved to his classic harmonica. It might’ve been an annoying sound to some, but the Kingsnakes were used to it being a marker of home. Life was harsh as it ever was, though more eyes were watching, yet a silly old tune on a harmonica could make one feel a bit better. They continued on through the valleys that transitioned West Elizabeth to New Hanover proper, and the distant lights of Valentine flickered across the darkening horizon. The trees began to dwindle as the Heartlands grassy fingers started to reach towards the journeying gang. 

The lanterns rattled on the wagon as Cripps soft playing continued, a rather peaceful mood had descended upon the Kingsnakes which was accepted by the weary band. Abigail stretched from where she sat on her saddle, straining to feed Kiwi some crackers, “we’ll get there early, I think.”

Vicente nodded, his head nodding to the slow rhythm of the harmonica. Taking a deep breath in he could smell hints of the sheep that made that town famous, the notes were subtle but present in the cool air. “Smells like it.” 

Halfway through a yawn, Abigail snorted, “you sure it’s not jus’ Cripps?” 

There was a humorous chortle of offense from the old man but he continued to play his tunes. 

Vicente shrugged amusedly, adjusting the way he sat so that his pistols weren’t pressing against his hip so harshly, “I guess we’ll find out.”

It took until the sun had completely vanished behind the raised plateaus of the Heartlands that rose in Valentine’s shadow and across the tracks that ran alongside the town's face to reach it. The town still bustled, mainly with folks trying to get to the saloon quickly enough to get a spot at the bar before it got too busy. 

“I was around here abouta’ week ago,” Abigail glanced at Vicente, “said the O’Driscoll’s have been roaming the Heartlands quite a bit.”

Great, Vicente thought quietly before meeting her gaze, “You run into any?”

“Signs of em’,” her voice didn’t sound panicked, though he was hoping she was, at least, slightly concerned about the safety of their cargo.

“We should try to avoid any spots they’d bushwack from,” Vicente advised somewhat cautiously, “you didn’t get into anything with them, ey?” 

“Nah.” 

He nodded, she didn’t have a reason to lie. He didn’t have any reason to doubt. They’d likely run out of travel luck given today’s fortune, but that was tomorrow's problem. 

“We’ll get there,” Vicente stifled a yawn that tempted his weariness, “plus we’ve got dead-eye driving the wagon.”  

Finally the harmonica ceased and was immediately followed by old dead-eye himself, imparting his wisdom, “only need one shot and those bastards will hit the ground running or they’ll hit it dead!” 

Both Vicente and Abigail offered an affirmative western ‘woop’. While the old man had likely been a true terror in his younger days and had mellowed considerably, he was still a force to be reckoned with surprisingly enough. They pulled the caravan to rest near the makeshift picture-show theater near the stables, with Cripps heading to the saloon to get some well-earned entertainment and libations almost immediately after ensuring Vicente and Abigail would handle things. 

“I’m gonna pay that funny sheriff a visit,” Vicente stretched stiffly, his legs getting acquainted with the ground again, “maybe he’ll have more information bout where we are going.” 

“Malloy,” Abigail asked almost questioningly, before shrugging, “he may. Wish that grizzled marshal was still around here, he’d help us.” 

“I bet he’s a outlaw now too,” Vicente spoke with a wry amusement, kicking the dirt before he turned to check on Herald. Quietly muttering as Abigail departed to visit the stable for the horses, “el pobre bastardo.”

The creaking of wooden wagons as they passed by the hastily set-up camp lulled the outlaws to sleep– Valentine staying awake until around the earliest point of the next day. The drunk wandered home if they were able, some would pass out in the middle of the muddy streets that struck through the main avenue of the town– hopefully lucky enough to avoid being run over by a distracted wagon driver. Everything was typical of Valentine from what Vicente knew about it, though his sleep wasn’t exactly comfortable. While death was seldom permanent with the Kingsnakes, it was still extremely painful– even more so than death typically was since they returned from it consistently. It was on his mind in places like this– new and unknown to him unlike how New Austin was. 

The meeting with Sheriff Malloy was slightly more enlightening than the one with Freeman. He knew the stories around the Northern most region of New Hanover– said some border on more supernatural mysteries than your typical western outlaw gang or brigands. Referenced the main antagonistic forces being “wild folk” called the Murfree Brood– called them hillbilly white trash, inbred for hundreds of years and vile in every way. He used a host of colorful descriptives for these fellows in the mountains of Roanoke Ridge, all while Vicente looked at him carefully– his permanent squint offering a slight guard to his rising concern. They were a force to be feared by the men they aimed their weapons at, the Kingsnakes were, but they had limits. And these men they were to face likely would offer them death in ways they hadn’t experienced yet. But Vicente had committed himself to the silly belief that they could change something. After meeting with the Sheriff, he made the walk back to the tent that had been assembled– Abigail doing one last check over the draft horse. 

The night proceeded till this very point when his sleep was vanquished fully as he heard the giggles and harassing calls of what surely belonged to the O’Driscoll’s. Catcalling some poor woman, by the sound of it. There was no response from her, which made the outlaws feel sorry for themselves and their image. Vicente debated waking the others so that they were aware– and it was almost time to start on the road again anyway. 

“Women o’ the new age are so fussy,” one of the men complained, “don’ they know what we’ve done far their sorry town?” 

“Naw,” the other more gruff voice responded quickly, before being interrupted by a lazy spit of tobacco, “frontier women ain’ never grateful.” 

“They outta be.” 

“They ain’,” the man repeated again, before snorting, “that’s why ya gotta make em’ grateful, kid.” 

The men both laughed, it was slightly muffled from where Vicente laid in the tent. Abigail snored loudly next to him, until she was interrupted by a quick jab from Vicente at her hip– who immediately put a finger against his own mouth, pleading to her to not yell at him quite yet. 

She fixed him with an interested look before hearing the voices of the O’Driscoll’s outside of their tent. The light in her eyes shifted somewhat in the early morning darkness, there was a stillness around this time in these parts, where everything was either just about to wake or just going to sleep. Well, outside of the men hollering outside and the occasional drunk ramblings. Vicente tapped his holstered pistols, before looking at her expectantly. They still didn’t know how many were out there, but they might as well stick their hands into more fires as was customary. They didn’t know how to exist outside of trouble, might as well be productive trouble. 

Abigail smiled and nodded after a mere moment of consideration. She dipped her head to the exit of the tent and then to Cripps, who was snoring for the most part only interrupted by moments of muttering random grievances he had in his dream. Vicente kicked him with his heel slightly, earning a disgruntled grumble. 

“Silencio, arrugas,” Vicente immediately whispered, “you can yell at me later.” 

Cripps stared at the two indignantly, though he accepted those terms without fuss, clearly only being pissed off that he had to be woken. “Why?” 

Abigail patted her holstered pistol with a sideways smile, mimicking the motion of a shooting gun, then gesturing with her thumb over her shoulder and towards the voices of the O’Driscoll’s. 

Cripps blinked blankly before nodding slowly, poking himself in the chest after a moment, “backup?”

Both Vicente and Abigail nodded resolutely. Cripps reached for his repeater. 

Gesturing at the exit, eyes serious and ready despite the humor present in his words, “after you, ladies.” 

Vicente dipped his head and moved through the tent’s flap, the smell of mud, rotting wood and sheep filling his lungs and mouth immediately. Immediately to his right, he spotted the men leaning against the hotel across the muddy road in and out of town. They sported green bandanas, which meant they were sure as shit O’Driscoll’s. Well well. En punto. Vicente thought to himself as he stretched to his true height, his back shifted from his odd posture he had to sleep at while crammed in the tent. The two men he had heard were accompanied by another man, who seemed more green than they were. Probably a new recruit or someone who had the unfortunate perpetual rattled disposition. The anxious one noticed Vicente emerge, his eyes darted to him and to his pistols. Both of the other O’Driscoll’s noticed their companion’s attention shift suddenly, and seemed to have the same idea that they had towards most. 

The one with a lighter voice and accent slightly stronger than Abigail’s rose a hand to the side of his mouth to make it louder, “hey big man! The cows are ova’ at Em’rald farms!” 

Vicente blinked at the man, brushing some dried mud from the lower hem of his coat. “I know.” 

It was funny to see the O’Driscoll make a befuddled look at his blunt and dry response. 

The other man, the more gruff entitled one, pushed towards Vicente slightly– a challenge. “You tryna be funny? Just take it and go, like the other yella folks ‘round here.” 

“Just take it,” Vicente questioned, scratching the back of his neck. After a moment of pretending to consider it, he spat on the ground, “vago folladío de ovejas.”

“The fuck you say-” before the grizzled O’Driscoll could finish his sentence, Vicente drew his pistols and fired two shots at the man– the first went through the man’s hip, striking through bone and likely splintering it; and the second struck right under his chin causing his noise of pain at the initial shot to be rendered a mindless gurgle as he collapsed to the muddy ground below as the other two threw themselves behind a shoddily made fence and discarded boxes. 

Abigail dove out of the tent with wild eyes and Cripps crawled from out the other end– rushing for their own cover. The formerly quiet town of Valentine was the site of more blood spilled as the Kingsnakes engaged the O’Driscoll’s. 

“You hear that,” Abigail shouted over the sharp notes as guns were exchanged, “y’all ain’t own shit!” 

The bolder O’Driscoll seemed to be an alright shot, but his companion didn’t dare poke his head from beyond the boxes that guarded him. He screamed a scalding response, “crazy bitch– you had it comin’!” 

The rally of shots jolted the town awake, and the startled folks that were nearby rushed away or towards the Sheriff’s office. Vicente and Abigail took turns rushing closer to the remaining O’Driscoll’s– which became more difficult as the more cowardly one realized he would have to fight back in order to leave alive. Vicente was skimmed as he fired over the slowly disappearing cover he shielded himself with, he hissed to himself in pain as his shoulder burned. It could be worse. Abigail fired at the same moment as the O’Driscoll, and it knocked him back– but from the response of the more seasoned one it sounded like it didn’t kill him. Cripps snuck around slightly and lined up a shot on the more skilled of their opponents– catching both of them unaware as a piercing shot struck true right through the O’Driscoll’s skull. He dropped like a brick into the mud, not even having the chance to struggle against death– his body stiffening almost immediately in a death spasm. The younger and new O’Driscoll seemed horrified at the sight. 

The voice of the Sheriff blustered through the slowing chaos, the whole frenzy pausing to address him. He pointed a rifle at the young O’Driscoll– his eyes staring at Vicente and Abigail hard; not too harshly as the victims were O’Driscoll’s but more of a general “you gotta go” for disrupting the tenuous peace of his town. “You folks better scatter. Before I put this bullet in the chamber.” 

Vicente and Abigail stood from their cover, holstering their pistols reluctantly– the little coward may run back to a hideout, complicating their traveling luck going forward deeper into O’Driscoll territory. The remaining O’Driscoll shakily stood. Whether or not he was shaken by death in general or only the death committed against fellow O’Driscoll’s couldn’t be determined or gleaned– he hadn’t spoken at all. Probably what had saved his hide until this very point. 

The O’Driscoll attempted to scurry away before Vicente whistled at the fleeing man, earning a frightened look in return and a warning glare from the Sheriff. Vicente pulled at his own collar, where a dully red bandana was hung around his neck, “take that off.” 

The O’Driscoll did so without hesitation– throwing the green bandana to the disrupted mud beneath him and his now dead former gang members– and continued to run after Abigail lifted her chin quickly– bidding him to fly and fly fast. 

“Alright,” Sheriff Malloy began with a measure of worn exhaustion, swinging his rifle to the side and “exit” of Valentine, “You folks better hit the road. Without charge, accounting for all the help in the past.”

Abigail winked at the weathered lawman before turning towards the wagon and tent, eager to hit the road once more after that brief wake-up call. Vicente dipped his head towards the Sheriff before joining in to assist in disassembling the make-shift camp. 

Cripps whistled, slinging the repeater over his shoulder, “surprise he didn’t put on a show and chase us outta town.”

“He ain’ a federal,” Abigail sniffed, heaving the guides onto the slightly spooked draft horse, “well… he is, but he ain’ interested in tustlin’ none with us. We helped this town enough in recent memory I guess.” 

“I don’t think he thinks much of the O’Driscoll’s,” Vicente packed the tent quickly but carefully enough so Cripps wouldn’t give him trouble for ruining the state of it more than mud already had. 

“Who does?”

Before the sun reached its perch in the sky at high noon the group managed to pack all of their camp onto the wagon once more, and she was once more ready for the road. It was a longer and more arduous one than the day before, and had already begun with gunsmoke. They would worry about O’Driscoll’s and then the Raiders over in Lemoyne– but the Kingsnakes mounted once more, the sound of bellowing sheep and disappointed ranchers becoming distant as Cripps started on that harmonica again. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

The Outlaw and Mercy Meet Again

The road from Valentine to Rhodes– which they would briefly pass through and hopefully not have to stop at– was scenic if you were lucky enough to be unassailed by brigands. Of course the main threats, or at least road blocks were the O’Driscoll’s which they had just earned the attention of, in theory at least. 

Abigail looked over and beyond the horizon around them, scanning the land carefully, “I’m surprised more law hasn’t been sent to Annesburg already.” 

Vicente nodded slowly to her remark– which seemed out of the blue, but his mind was on the town too. Though it was Vicente that offered a response but Cripps instead, who seemed to want a distraction from Cleetus, who was panting hot breath onto him in the driver's seat. 

“Probably cuz no one is crazy enough to waste time up there,” the older man huffed, pushing Cleetus’s snout away from his knee as he switched the reins, “not even all the coal and ore in those damn hills could convince most rich fellas. There’s quicker bucks to make yonder.” 

Abigail clicked her tongue and Kiwi quickened her pace to match up with Cripps, “when we was messing with all that moonshine business there were plenty of federals.” 

“We killed them,” Vicente remarked with dry humor. 

Abigail winced but without much remorse. Though there was a quiet acknowledgment between the two that some of the chaos done in the region had been committed and added to by the Kingsnakes themselves. 

Abigail waved a hand after a moment, “well- that’s because of that stupid fella. Lem. That’s the one.” 

“Sounds like Lem,” Cripps interjected, with an old tone that meant he clearly remembered when the man was younger. 

“Fuckin’ kil’t us that one time,” Abigail threw a hand up in the air– still pissed off a measure about that incident. 

Vicente grimaced at the memory before a somewhat unruly grin struck his face, “that was pretty fun. Hardly a loss to kill all those feds and raiders.” 

“Those folks are just hurtin’ cause your ‘shine is better than theirs,” Cripps seemed resolute in his words. Neither Vicente or Abigail doubted him on this opinion stated as fact due to his frequent presence at the bar underneath the shack. 

Vicente chuckled softly, “right. We should probably keep an eye open for those prickly bastards.” 

“We gotta be on the look out for just about ev’ryone these days,” Abigail exclaimed, with no particular guilt. 

Vicente clicked his tongue, “we aren’t picky ones, are we?” 

Surprisingly enough the journey through the Heartlands didn’t strike the roaming Kingnakes with any threat, though they moved through them with a vigilance that expected many. It wasn’t quite as bad as the paranoia they were likely to be inspired by when they make it to Roanoke Ridge or even Tall Pines. Their shoulders weren’t tense yet, which was a rarity due to their constant antics of both heroics and deviance. 

“Hey, roja viva,” Vicente eventually whistled to Abigail, who glanced back to look at him, “you wanna pay that angel a visit? The one that helped you?” 

Vicente didn’t even know how on the mark he was with that guess. He wanted to know, more or less, how long they were to stay in St. Denis and if they would have to flee in a storm of bullets. 

Abigail’s eyes glimmered slightly at the question, “I was hoping to, at least fer a bit.”

“It’s been a while, ey?” 

“Must b’ over 8 months ago now,” she nodded after a moment, squinting slightly as she tried to factor in on the time passed, “hope they’re alright. You know me, buddy-buddy with trouble and hell.” 

“Don’t I know,” Vicente chuckled. After a moment passed, “you wanna go alone?” 

She looked at him, somewhat confused at what he meant. 

“You want me there? Or is it, you know,” he explained slightly more, trying not to put words into her mouth. 

“Oh,” Abigail laughed after a moment, before shaking her head, “naw, you don’t have to trouble yerself with all that. Plus, I got these guys to protect me.” 

Vicente sniffed a laugh at her patting her pistols, “right. Right, I know– just be sure to check that draw since you gonna be in a big city.”

She rolled her eyes at his smart-ass remark, opening a can of beef-mince to eat, “hey- how d’ I call ya a jack-ass in Spanish?” 

He let out a more hearty laugh, smacking his lap, “guapo.” 

Abigail narrowed her eyes and through a can of now empty beef at him, “damn guapo.” 

Vicente laughed, rubbing the spot on his temple where the can had hit him, “I’ve been called worse.” 

“Kids, kids,” Cripps hollered at them, “stop all that damn racket! You gettin’ the hound all wound up!”

Cleetus had been barking next to Cripps on the wagon– his tail wagging wildly at the two bickering outlaws– before becoming entranced by the discarded can. He leapt off of the wagon, rounded back to pick up the can and followed closely behind the caravan– chewing on it happily. 

“Ah,” Vicente smiled warmly at the dog, who looked up at him as he trotted next to Herald without a care in the world, “we should see if the butcher near Rhodes has any bones for you.” 

The sharp crinkle of the can between Cleetus’s teeth and a wagging tail were all the responses he got. 

“You spoil that damn dog,” Cripps muttered. 

“He’s a hard worker,” Vicente remarked easily, rolling his shoulders which were finally feeling slightly better since being shot earlier that morning. 

Cripps scoffed, begrudgingly letting that conversation end without a fight. 

Abigail seemed displeased, “We stoppin’ in Rhodes now?” 

“You both can keep going if you want,” Vicente offered with a shrug, “figured I’d continue my thorough streak and bother the Gray there too.” 

“He don’ know shit,” Abigail snorted with a general contempt at the sheriff. 

“Of course not,” Vicente chuckled, before his eyes narrowed slightly, “but he owes me some money besides. Moonshine.” 

“Oh,” Abigail whispered, eyes knowing. 

“Stop fuckin’ whisperin’ back there!” 

“Thought you didn’ want us to rile the dog,” Vicente fired back. 

“Didn’t ask you two to turn all creepy-like either,” Cripps protested as he switched the reins, “you two alr’dy don’ fuckin’ die right, now ya start whisperin’. Eeesh.” 

“Good thing we don’t or else you wouldn’t have a job,” Abigail snorted, waving a dismissing hand. 

“Just stop sayin’ odd shit quietly,” he relented gruffly. 

Abigail quirked an eyebrow, sarcastically, “You want us to yell it instead?”

Cripps groaned.

Vicente laughed through his words, “be nice to the viejo compañero.”

Abigail rolled her eyes, before slowly, “I’m sorry, ol’ timer.” 

Cripps hmpfed but his eyes twinkled with a fondness towards friends. It had been years since the old man had these kinds of talks and fights– he wasn’t a young man any more but at least he wasn’t an old man alone. 

The traveling caravan made the correct turns that would lead them into Lemoyne and Rhodes beyond. It would only be a brief pit-stop with the gang chancing their luck to reach St. Denis in one trip– not wanting to stop in Rhodes for rest, nor the surrounding area. Their moonshine business, well, Vicente’s moonshine business had caused quite the turmoil in the region– being the only other competition for the Braithewaites. They regarded themselves as kings around here, and forgot that the Kingsnakes have a wide appetite. 

The ruddy, dry hills and forests of Lemoyne greeted the Kingsnakes with thick and humid air– it was like breathing oil which made Vicente’s vision blur slightly every time he focused on it for too long. They all immediately became more on edge and watchful now, these hills could hide many shades of a racist man– most belonging to the same clubs. The moonshiners, the raiders, those Antebellum families, and the Klan were all likely the same people in different garb; and likely roamed about the very town they were about to enter. 

“How much ol’ Gray owe ya anyway,” Abigail’s tone hid none of annoyance at having to go to Rhodes. 

“A lot,” Vicente answered with an edge. He wasn’t eager to spell out the price owed in case there were folks watching them. 

“An’ you think he can afford ‘a lot’?”

“He better,” Vicente spat some of the tobacco that had remained in his mouth after smoking. His last roll had been a little sloppy. 

Cripps interjected, “I’ll wait at the post office for y’all, I prefer to stay outta Rhodes business if ya know what I’m meanin’.” 

“Sure,” Vicente had no issues with that. The post office was close to the butcher anyway– not a bad spot to have the wagon wait.

Cleetus had stuck by Vicente, and by proxy Herald, the whole way– and was only tempted by the smells of the town; the Saloon down the main thoroughfare was clearly prepping some sort of meal for dinner. They finally arrived in the waning southern town, Cripps almost immediately pulling over in front of the post office and train station. Vicente and Abigail continued on for a bit, only stopping briefly at the butcher for spare and discarded bones which were given for free. 

Before continuing to the sheriff’s, Vicente tossed a bone to Cleetus, who happily traded it for the now heavily punctured can– barking once in thanks. “De nada, Cleetus. You stay with Cripps, mh?” 

Cleetus wagged his tail and obliged happily. 

The two then made their way down the dusty mainstreet, Abigail tipping her hat to the regulars around town, “you wanna bet he’s blackout drunk?”

“No.” 

“Coward,” she challenged, a mischievous look in her eyes. 

“Always,” Vicente grinned at the attempt to goad him into losing money, “not my kind of betting.” 

The man who was always in the mood to be a general annoyance to them leaned against the support in front of the Sheriff office porch. Vicente flicked the tip of his flat-brimmed hat with a sarcastic warm smile. The man spat on the ground. 

“Where ya bounty at, greaser,” he rasped.

“¡A tu polvoriento culo, paleto,” Vicente responded with a sharpness. The man hissed, but his brows furrowed when he noticed Abigail. 

“Bitch,” was the only thing the man could muster. 

“Ya look better than the last time we saw ya,” she smiled, teeth glinting in the lamp-light, “afraid ya were shatter’d completely from our little fight.” 

Vicente’s smile at that annoyed the man further– to the point where he straightened as though he was poised to fight. 

The men to his side only groaned, “Bobby, come awn-” 

Bobby shot a fierce glare at the portly man who must’ve been a friend, earning a small remark before he quieted. Bobby glared daggers at Abigail then to the both of them, “no bounty no entry.” 

“That’s not how this works, pueblerino,” Vicente plucked a cigarette from his vest pocket, pushing his poncho to the side slightly. Bobby eyed his exposed pistols wordlessly. 

“Betta’ go on an’ scoot,” Abigail whispered a taunt, grinning. 

“I don’t take orders from no lesser animals,” Bobby spat, nose wrinkling with disgust at the audacity of the outsiders, “you ain’t gettin’ on this porch or through that door till y’all wrangle on in a bounty. ‘Bout all yer good for.” 

Vicente dismounted Herald as he puffed smoke from the lit cigarette held in the corner of his mouth, “we’ll take one to go.”

Bobby stood unmoving, glaring at Vicente who put a boot onto the first step. 

Vicente raised his eyes to meet Bobby’s, narrowed eyes glinting, “lárgate de mi camino, Bobby. Move. Outta the damn way.” 

The man’s upper lip trembled in barely suppressed rage– before he relented with a restrained growl, moving to the side, but remaining to watch. 

“Shit Bobby,” Abigail snorted, her voice dimming slightly as Vicente closed the door behind him, “you need’ta calm yer ass down! We’ll pick a damn bounty!” 

Sheriff Gray clumsily sat up in his chair, “Whaut? Somethin’ happenin’ out there?” 

Vicente shook his head, “you got a regular idiot standing out there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sheriff Gray’s voice stammered and wavered like it usually did, “Bobby been mad since his wife gone up n’ left him. Real sorry stuff-” 

“I’m sure,” Vicente interjected, tapping one of the half-empty jugs of moonshine with his skull ring, “long way to deliver.” 

Sheriff Gray blinked blankly at the threat, before chuckling nervously, “awh, yeah. New Austin, right? Run a mighty fine business to uh…you know, travel so far… safely…good… methods!” 

Vicente stared at him for a long moment before a smile cracked his face– a terrifying look in the dim and flickering shadows of the night-struck sheriff’s office. “Such a good job deserves…mh…what is the word.” 

“Uh..props? Congratulations,” the Sheriff offered. 

Vicente shook his head. “No…that’s not it…” after another moment, he gave up and rubbed his fingers together– looking at the sheriff meaningfully, “la plata.”

The Gray smiled nervously before nodding expressively, “oh! Yes, payment!” 

Vicente waited patiently for the sheriff to gather together the funds owed, “you know anything about the Murfree Brood?” 

The sheriff blinked at him over the desk where he was digging around in for money, “excuse me?” 

“The Murfree Brood in Roanoke Ridge,” Vicente repeated, the light of his cigarette briefly making his features visible, “do you know anything about them? How they work. Beyond the supernatural.” 

“Uhh,” the Gray thought for a long minute, standing with a stack of cash in his hands, “I know St. Denis was supposed to send some law up there to help. I was asked too, but I ain’t really got the man power for that.” 

Too busy. ¡Eso es, joder! Because all of them are in the raiders, Vicente thought ruefully, “who asked for them? Why not the Marshals?”

“Marshal’s ain’t wanna deal with those crazy bastards,” Sheriff Gray seemed like he couldn’t blame them, “except for that crazy ol’ bastard that was up there fer a while. He was’a marshal, I think.” 

That piqued Vicente’s interest, he drew closer, “where’s he at?” 

“I ain’t heard of him in a bit,” the sheriff answered uncertainly. 

“What’d you hear last, then,” Vicente pressed. 

The man thought about it for a second before slowly, “If I’m ‘memberin’ correctly he was close to Annesburg. Was runnin’ the show up there since…maybe 75?” 

Vicente blinked at him as he thought quietly, “what’s his name?” 

“Uh,” the sheriff squinted, “he had an odd first name….can’t remember…” 

“Last name?” 

The sheriff’s brows knitted together as he thought hard, before gasping, “Wickham! That’s it. If ya go to Van Horn or Annesburg they may be able to guide ya to em’. They an ol’ family in those parts.” 

Vicente nodded, committing the name to memory. Grabbing the collected money, he tipped his hat to the sheriff and blew smoke out the side of his mouth, “g’night sir.” 

Sheriff Gray dipped his head quickly as he sat quickly in his chair– both confused and relieved that the conversation was over without too much loss. 

Vicente pushed out of the office, glancing around to see that Bobby had drifted off. He quickly spotted Abigail who was standing at the bounty board, sifting through all of the wanted folks. 

He posted up where Bobby had been to take a moment to unwind with his smoke, “Find anything?” 

“Naw,” Abigail muttered after a second, the fluttering of the posters being frequent, “just basic shit.” 

“Damn,” Vicente took a deep breath of smoke, sighing into it as it warmed his throat, “sufferin’ from success.” 

“Doesn’t mean much to folk like us,” Abigail huffed, “we could turn this creep in…then again we’ll be dealin’ with creeps for months maybe…nevermind.” 

“We must be moving up in the world,” Vicente chuckled softly, rubbing his fingers which were giving him some trouble, “we’re gettin’ picky.” 

“We deserve to be-” 

Her sudden stop made Vicente flick his eyes to glance towards her. She had stopped short, her face suddenly stoic and her face even paler– if that was even possible. 

“Abigail?” 

No response. 

He strode across the porch and hopped down to stand beside her, staring over her shoulder as she made no move to acknowledge him beside her. Her eyes were glued on one of the bounties. St. Denis, Vicente thought quietly, eyes flicking back to look at her with a slightly confused concern. 

“Abigail,” he tried again, “what?” 

Her mouth moved, mouthing the name on the bounty poster. 

“You know her?” 

Her eyes glinted oddly in the lantern light and she finally spoke through gritted teeth, “Shit. Shit, man.” 

Vicente lowered his voice and stepped back to give her a bit of space, eyes narrowing, “She do something to you?”

She spun around to face him suddenly, crumpling the poster and moving to shove it into Kiwi’s saddle-satchel, hissing quietly, “no. No- she- no, she’s the one that help’t me. Them months ago.”

Oh, Vicente was dimly surprised, not having enough time to be fully surprised. “These must be hung everywhere- what’d she do?” 

He mounted Herald quickly, as Abigail was already on the move– her eyes wild. “Exactly. That’s why we gotta find er’ quick. Now. We gotta find er’ now else she gets caught or…they’ll kill er’ for sure. ‘Round these fuckin’ parts.”

“Did the poster say where she was-” 

“No,” she answered sharply, “no, of course not. God wouldn’ give us that kinda luck. Course not.”

Vicente followed closely behind her as she blazed a path forward– uncertainty and wrath hung in the thick air like carrion birds. 

“We should try to listen around,” Vicente offered after a couple of minutes in thundering silence, “we could have better chances that way.” 

“Ev’ryone’ll be asleep by now,” she hissed back, but relented soon after, “no…roaming patrols of law or raiders. We might have somethin’ there. We might.”  

“That old church may have some lingerin’ raiders, ey?” 

She nodded but offered no more words as her hands gripped the reins tight enough to sever the leather. They were on a hunt like they had been many times– but now to wrestle the bounty from the jaws of certain eternity. 

It had begun to rain. The drops were as thick as the humid air– the leaves bowing and falling under the weight of each drop. Vicente and Abigail laid in wait like lightning ready to strike. Abigail hadn’t said a word in that whole time and neither had Vicente. He didn’t understand what was happening, though by the nature of everything and the nature of his friend he knew it was important. He didn’t need an explanation yet, though he had been tempted to force one, but that was before he noticed the glassiness of her eyes. She was close to tears– whether wrath, fear, or deep love of some kind he could not quite tell. The Kingsnakes were independent but this world was lonely enough as it was for folks like them, that were hard to love and who found it hard to love, so he would remain with her through this fight that he didn’t yet understand the depths of. 

Eventually a light emerged from the roads that carved around the ruined church, as a group of men clad in gray wool uniforms steered a wagon fully of what was most likely weapons towards it. 

One of them yelled to a younger blonde man, “Harrison! Get yer ass o’er here an’ grab the heavy shit!” 

The young man groaned loud enough for both of the outlaws to hear, as he jogged through the rain to try and lift the waterlogged crates. This carried on for what seemed like around half an hour before Vicente and Abigail figured that it was only these two. Abigail began to sneak forward without a word, to which Vicente followed at an angle. The older man talked to the younger with an air of familiarity as they drew closer and closer. The two raiders entered the old church to find cover from the down-pour. This felt shockingly similar to their giant conflict with the revenue men and raiders over moonshine– though this whole deal felt startlingly alien to him. There was a different kind of weight to every movement. He couldn’t imagine what Abigail was feeling– it was probably worse given that she likely knew more. 

“You…uh reckon I’ll get a chance to shoot grand-daddies gun someday? For our cause?” 

The older man remained silent before sagely, “one day…you still ain’ proven yerself yet. Ol’ Lee would see potential in ya, son, though…yer just young is all.” 

Vicente’s severe expression only deepened. They were a part of the same family, son and father probably. What a nasty family business. But it could be used against them if they played this right– though they very well could know nothing about the bounty they were after. Vicente looked at Abigail who paused, trying to figure on what she was planning and when she was going to act. 

They listened to the rain and distant thunder rolling in the distance– the wind ripping through the trees and howling through the ravaged church and battle-scarred field beyond it. The only light was from the infrequent lightning and the lanterns brought by the raiders– who had become silent besides a few shared words and anecdotes relating to the glory of their purpose and goal. 

Vicente crouched patiently, quietly wondering if Cripps had set up camp somewhere safe– before his attention was ripped once again to the present as the old man spoke again. Loud enough to pierce through the heavy rain and gales of wind. 

“Remember– watch out fer them feds,” his voice was duty bound. Oddly so. 

“Why we gotta do all this anyway,” the younger man asked, clearly not being so keen on whatever they were speaking on. 

“Orders from the high ups,” the senior man said sternly, “them feds don’ deserve this justice– we the ones that lost the brave soul due to that bitch-” 

Before he could even finish what he was saying, a shot crackled out as Abigail drew her pistol, the bullet striking the back of his knee and striking the stone wall beyond him. He yelped out as he fell to the slick ground beneath him on one knee. Vicente swore to himself as he reached for his lasso– she wanted answers though they’d have more leverage if both were living– quickly he swung it, his target was briefly surprised at the shot but aimed his rifle towards the dark silhouette of Abigail who was in the middle of slamming the older soldier into the mud. The younger man let out a choked yell as Vicente’s rope fastened over his neck. He grabbed for it desperately before Vicente forced him to the ground too– wrapping the lasso around his forearm to hold firm yet keep the man alive. 

Abigail’s eyes were glassy portals to hell as she fixed the elder man a look the devil would flinch at, “where are y’all holding her.” 

“Who-” 

She struck him with her pistol viciously. The young man struggled violently and Vicente tightened his hold on him. 

“You know who I’m fuckin’ talking about.” 

“Naw,” the older man growled back, an uneven smile spreading over his face– his graying hair plastered to his now bleeding forehead, “ain’t got a damned clue, yankee.” 

She struck him again, her frown causing her lips to tremble with the amount of wrath she held within her soul. “You don’ answer and all yer folks are dead. I’ll find em’ all and turn em’ to fuckin’ char.” 

Vicente watched quietly like a statue– the young man gasping for air as he tightened the rope against his airways. 

“You’ll do ‘at anyway,” the soldier slurred, “the boys prolly executed the pretty whore already any-” 

She placed the shot directly through his forehead and let it fall to the ground with a thick thud– the mud cushioning the corpse as it settled. She advanced on the now irate remaining son– who fought against Vicente like a wild beast. Abigail pressed her pistol to his forehead with gleaming eyes, like she longed to end his worthless life at this very moment but she paused. 

“Where.” 

The man choked out a swear and bit at her pistol– his legs kicking towards her violently before being slammed into the ground firmly by Vicente who was dirtied with mud. 

“Killing you is like steppin’ awn a fuckin’ ant,” she hissed with venom, “where y’all keepin’ her?” 

“T’ fu-hk’n g-rve,” the young man choked out with fiery eyes, “nx’t t’ ot’r cra’y bit’ch.” 

Abigail fixed Vicente a serious look. 

Vicente quickly pulled the lasso, a sickening and deep crack came from the man as his neck was snapped so utterly that his body immediately became limp. He removed the lasso quickly, whistling for Herald to emerge from where he and Kiwi were hiding. Vicente lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the rain as he called to Abigail, “where?” 

“Graveyard. Think he means that ol’ plantation,” she said without much emotion as she swung herself onto Kiwi. 

Vicente swallowed hard as he mounted up and followed closely behind her– the brim of his hat blocking the worst of the rain, which seemed to be falling so fiercely that Abigail was quietly convinced God was trying to flood the earth again. This only fueled the wrathful fire that blazed within her as they soon would descend upon that old Belle to find her savior who delivered her first mercy. 

The dilapidated corpse of the Shady Belle waited beyond them as the Kingsnakes leaned against the outer wall that remained as the front gate of the property. Vicente’s face was set in a severe expression– quietly preparing himself for the pain that he was about to experience as he peaked beyond the wall towards the small, well-armed army they were about to take on. He glanced across the slightly overgrown road leading to the plantation to Abigail, who stared forward brandishing her pistol. He whistled softly, luckily catching her attention as her eyes quickly moved to look at him. 

“We should go in quietly,” he almost pleaded with her. 

She didn’t respond, her eyes only drifted over to the Shady Belle, where the bounty supposedly waited. Her bounty. 

“I know,” Vicente pleaded once again, “if we don’t do this at least somewhat right there’s no going back. We’ve gotta do this right.” 

“They’ve got to suff’r,” she almost snarled, though her eyes glittered with a red-hot rage where it burned to hot that there were tears. 

“And they will,” he promised, “you know the cost. And I’m ready to accept it if we try to do this right.” 

She stared at him hard, and he held her piercing gaze before she nodded once– holstering her pistol and unsheathing her knife instead. He felt a small bubble of relief, though somewhere deep down they knew this would end in death that was not in the least quiet or smooth. When you were in business like them, good or for bad, things never did go quietly. 

The two of them moved in silence, aided by the whirlwind nature had provided, their steps falling silently against the raging storm that ravaged the surrounding bayou that the Shady Belle was sinking into. In one hand, Vicente held onto his bow— painstakingly taken care of— as he created the property line, sending arrows into the necks and heads of raiders foolish enough to feel safe alone. Abigail stalked the stragglers with little patience, though she forced herself to be thorough as quick as she could. Each man she felled with her knife lived just long enough to see her face before they were tossed aside, their eyes dulling as they watched her advance. 

Finally they reached the side door of the plantation, the two raiders that had been guarding it being dispatched with a throwing knife and an arrow. Vicente ran low to the ground, putting his bow around his back as he joined Abigail at the door— its paint chipped and faded from years in the sun, much like the rest of the house. 

Abigail’s face was slick with water, drops of rain and sweat sliding down her cheeks as she nodded to Vicente. She placed a hand on the door, and just as she began to press against it— a raider barged out of it, screaming as he barreled into her, “We’re bein’ sieged, boys!”

Vicente drew both of his pistols in a moment— firing a shot into the man’s head before throwing himself into the building. They would only have minutes to get to her, the bounty, now. He charged into a raider who attempted to turn the corner of what must’ve been their kitchen— slamming into him and crashing into the ground. They struggled for a brief moment before Vicente struck the man on the head with his pistol before executing him with a clean-flush shot. 

Moments later he was joined by Abigail who fired three shots at two men using furniture for cover— one shot sparked against the destitute fireplace, and the other two found their targets earning a yelp of pain. The two outlaws converged near the hall that led to the stairs until they were intercepted by three more men. One of them wielded a shotgun, firing at the both of them and striking on target. Vicente hissed in pain as his vision flashed out briefly, the pain was made worse as the man tackled him. Abigail grunted as she pushed through the burning bird-shot in her gut; she'd deal with that later, firing at one of the men closest to her and striking him near his kidney. The raider screamed out in pain and anger, as the other rushed to cover him in a practiced manner. Vicente fought wildly against the raider who had engaged with him— catching the man on the chin as he swung his elbow. Blood gushed onto Vicente, warm and sickeningly sweet, as the man bit off his own tongue. 

Using the sudden freedom of movement as the raider was now in shock, Vicente flicked his knife into his hand and brought it up swiftly to the side of the man’s neck. More blood proceeded to drench him as he pushed the bleeding-out raider off of him to rejoin Abigail. She was still stuck trading shots against the two other raiders that had obstructed them from ascending to the second floor— cursing at the men viciously for wasting her time. 

Vicente risked another shot striking him, and advanced to engage hand to hand against the uninjured man— kicking the other one that had been shot by Abigail, causing him to become briefly immobile. Vicente yelled as he struggled with the man, “go! Abigail go-“ 

She obeyed like she had been set loose, firing a shot into the doubled over man on the floor as she ran for the stairs. As she did, a man rushed down the stairs, firing his revolver wildly— his shots finding purchase on the outlaw, but none fatal enough to stop her fully as she returned fire desperately. Vicente slammed the man against the ragged wall before slicing his throat in a jagged motion— the cut was ragged and uneven. He turned to see the raider that had shot wildly and without abandon in an attempt to stop Abigail tumble down the stairs. In one last effort he aimed his revolver towards her, and in response she kicked his hand away as he married his finger to the trigger. 

He missed. Instead his bullet struck one of the crates— filled to the brim with dynamite. Vincente’s eyes widened as the explosion sent him careening into the next room— his insides rupturing in a half a seconds time; the white hot pain of death rendering him limp on the ground. Blood that had poured out of his mouth and wounds earlier in the fight had stained his skin with dark red— but the blood from his mouth and eyes now was the color of oily pitch. He only sputtered for a moment as his fingers twitched desperately for his pistols— which were now scattered across the room. The oily blood glinted unnaturally in the dim flickering lantern light of the plantation's front room— as his dull and unfocused eyes clouded with death. 

Abigail was sent into the wall that bordered the stairwell— her shoulder breaking through the slightly rotted wall. Her vision faded briefly, near death, but she forced her eyes to focus. She knew Vicente had been killed by the blast. She had to make his effort— his trust— all of what they had done to get here count. Camille, she felt the aching in her chest when she thought of her, Camille. The name repeated in her mind as she leaned against the wall that ascended with the stairs. Camille. Merciful lady. Camille. A devotion fostered by merciful care— a desperation that Abigail had tried to bury for those who she would some day have to dig a grave for. Camille. Love that shouldn’t be. Love that isn’t right. Abigail despaired and felt disgust at her own wrath— the bitterness in her throat. 

Her brother, her fellow outlaw lay battered below her, for someone who could die by getting bitten by a snake unseen. Camille. That name wouldn’t leave her alone. The fear she had felt when she saw her name on that bounty poster. My Camille. The months spent in that damned Sisika. She had spent it there for her, in a way. She didn’t regret it, but she regretted that it had to be for silly love. 

Camille was wanted for something else now. Killing a wealthy donor— to both St. Denis and to the church she so loved and served. A man supposedly connected to the raiders as well, which was proven true just by the very fact that they are fighting this hard to get the chance to execute her themselves. Merciful Angel. God's servant who loves more than he. Her thoughts pounded in her mind as she fired through men without blinking. She moved through the rooms like a force of nature. Like a harbinger of death. These were the Kingsnakes that were oh so feared. 

She slammed herself through the double doors— the last room. Evidence of a recent struggle. Blood. Abigail rounded the corner quickly, pistol trained ahead of her, though her finger was steady. She would only shoot the ones deserving. She would be sure of that now. Splatters of blood and knocked over worn furniture guided her search. Abigail stepped over a broken and tipped stool, and nearly tripped over the body of a dead raider. 

“You ain’ taking me alive.” 

Camille. Abigail’s pistol lowered as her tense shoulders flexed. “I am.” 

Wide and familiar eyes looked at her— the barrel of the rifle held in Camille’s bloodied hands glinted in the dim lighting of the closet she had shoved herself in. Camille’s face fell in shock. 

“I am,” Abigail repeated again. 

Camille blinked, taken aback. She rasped finally, “I thought I had heard…they were gonna hang you.” 

Camille had thought she was dead. 

“They coulda,” Abigail attempted humor. But if she allowed herself to feel anything she felt in that moment, she would’ve shook. 

Camille rushed suddenly, and embraced the haggard and bloodied outlaw. They held onto each other for what felt like eternity and too little. Shouts from outside began to pour through the downpour outside. There's always more. More more more. 

“We gotta go, Angel.” 

Vicente buzzed, the droning rain and thunder that shook the wooden house made his returning vision sway. I’m…Vicente…del Toro…. Mi mamá está... ¿cómo se llamaba ella? His head swam with memories, as he tried to understand which memory was him and which wasn’t. Footsteps thudded past him, voices whispered to each other between the crackling of gunfire. He winced. 

Sheriff… he thought in a daze, I’d kill them again if I could. I’d do it again. I’d- his eyes widened as his blurred vision cleared as his mind returned to him. Just in time as it seemed, as a stranger dressed in fine government clothing vaulted through the tall window near where he had died. The federal ran towards the other room before being shot once in the back with a gasp. Smoke came from Vicente’s pistol before he finished the agent off with a final shot from where he laid still. Abigail’s face peaked around the corner she was using as cover, eyes brightening when she noticed him coming back to life. 

“Vicente! We need t’ go,” she yelled to him urgently. 

He nodded and heaved himself to his feet. He could feel the blood in every inch of his body. His hands were darkened by his now oil-like blood— which had poured from his nose, mouth and eyes while dead. The stranger beside Abigail peered around her shoulder and fixed Vicente with a slightly odd look. To reassure her he waved slightly off-kilter, shooting her an apologetic smile for how he must look. She merely blinked before offering a small warm smile. His organs were a mess in him. It will take days at most for them all to find their place again. He felt sick. And he felt alive. Euphoric. Complete. Burdened with endless energy. 

It took half an hour for them to carve a path that they could reach the horses— agents and raiders alike assailed them now. The woman that was a stranger to Vicente was clumsy in a fight, not yet accustomed to handling a fight of this scale, but she was holding her own. 

They mounted their horses and fled the plantation grounds with an unyielding speed. Pursued continuously through the waning early morning as the storm began to dissipate. The outlaws traded shots with their enemies until none saw a point to continue chasing them. They would have to make camp— both Vicente and Abigail were barely holding on by the coming morning. The Kingsnakes rode until they escaped Lemoyne— the haunting hills and ridge rested beyond them now. Closer than ever. This would have to do. 

“We gotta stop,” Vicente rasped, his voice low and weary. 

Abigail looked back to him in a daze, Camille holding her waist. “Yeah. Yeah.” 

Kiwi and Herald coughed and sputtered— the constant running having worn the steeds considerably. They had to rest. The outlaws pulled off the road and set up a camp that would have to work. Vicente’s body didn’t want to obey him, his fingers felt numb and cold. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his oil-slicked vest, trembling fingers striking the end to light it. He took a desperate breath of smoke into his lungs— his body craving it. Something to light the thick pitch in his veins— something to warm it. Vicente shivered as he braced himself against the tree trying to get warm. He wheezed until he filled his lungs with enough warmed smoke, the soupy oil that replaced his blood slowly thinning to where he could ignore it. 

Abigail slumped against Kiwi— who had been so thoroughly exhausted that she had laid down in the grass. Abigail was joined by a worried and worn Camille, who likely would have that price on her head doubled due to her actions that night. She carefully began to tend to wounds she recognized, leaving Vicente to foster his own since they were a mystery to her. And all she could do and want for was to remain closer to her old outlaw. It was her fault in the first place she wound up in Sisika way back when. 

Eventually only Vicente was awake, having agreed to watch for any unwanted visitors. He fell in and out of sleepiness brought on by the exhaustion and cold, until the rustling of bushes put him thoroughly on edge. He reached for his pistol, preparing himself. 

But to his utmost surprise and delight, it was Cleetus who emerged from the underbrush. His loyal stray waddled up to him with gentle and excited brown eyes. He sniffed him carefully, before he licked his face— trying to help wash off all the muck that had been left there. Vicente chuckled softly, rustling the hounds ears and fur fondly before embracing him gently. Cleetus was warm, a welcome comfort overall. 

He whined slightly but Vicente shushed him softly, “we got into a little trouble. But it’s okay now.” 

Cleetus sniffed at his ear, his cold nose making Vicente shudder before he chuckled softly as he began to lick a lingering wound from the fight. 

“Don’t you worry about that,” Vicente pressed a kiss into the dog's fur, before pushing him back, “could you keep us safe? Just for a couple hours. Not too long. I need…you can tell I’m tired, ey? 

Cleetus stared at him before pressing his back into him and sitting at attention. Vicente’s face turned  warm as a tired smile flashed across his weary face. Somehow, despite how wrong they were and how wrong they did things, the Kingsnakes clambered to victory.