Chapter Text
The wind howled and the flakes of snow whistled by Javier’s ears faster than bullets. He was surrounded on all sides by a fog of white, which turned him both sight and sound blind. The sudden storm had caught him and Arthur by surprise, coming down from the high peaks with a frosty vengeance; as if the mountain were offended to find two strangers lolloping about on its slopes.
Javier called for Arthur, once, twice, several times – but he struggled even to hear his own voice. There was a chance he wasn’t too far ahead, so he carried on, urging Boaz foreword. The stallion struggled in the deep snow, head low, panting and shivering.
“Meirda…” He was so cold now that his nose, fingers and ears had gone numb. If he lived through this without getting frostbite, it would be a miracle. Javier couldn’t turn back now. Returning to camp not only without John, but without Arthur too would be beyond shameful. He wouldn’t abandon his friends to the elements, even if it meant freezing to death himself. He wondered if Arthur had any luck finding Marston; maybe they were safe, tucked away somewhere waiting out the storm.
That thought gave Javier a bit of heart, and he pushed on.
But soon enough, fatigue began to take over. He hadn’t had a proper meal in days, and the constant cold made a man not only miserable, but tired. Javier could feel himself nodding off in the saddle, but he fought his body’s instincts for a little while longer.
Boaz whinnied with concern when Javier slipped from his back, landing with a soft thump into the snow. He hopped up and down before settling, nudging at the body of his master with his snout. Javier didn’t respond.
There the horse stood, alone, and being battered by the sleet; his coat slowly being covered in crystal snow.
Then, from the distance, a dim orange light could be seen. It swayed back at forth, flickering uncertainly in the flurry, but slowly getting closer. There were voices, calling to each other in Spanish; each man struggling to make himself heard over the sound of the wind.
Flaco Hernández appeared like a great bear out of the storm. He was trudging through the snow with immense effort; his fur coat ruffled and dusted white, holding a lantern in one outstretched hand. The Del Lobos had the misfortune of getting caught in the squall just as they were returning from a hunt. They had not taken their mounts as they were not that far from camp; before they’d managed to catch anything, the weather had turned.
Flaco was surprised to find a lone horse out in this, and more surprised even to find the body of a man at its feet.
He called for his men to stop, and knelt down to inspect the stranger; fully expecting to find him dead. Putting two fingers to the man’s neck, Flaco not only to felt traces of warmth, but also a pulse. “Not gone yet, eh, friend?”
Flaco turned him over, and although pale, he could see that the young man was Latino; possibly Mexican, like himself. This was puzzling; as the old gunslinger had been sure they were the only Mexicans in these parts.
He was not a man frequently moved to pity. Flaco knew he was not a kind man, and made no pretences. Life was hard up here; there was no time for kindness or softness of any sort. Maybe if this was a white man, Flaco would have left him.
Ramón, his second, trudged over and loomed over Flaco’s shoulder. “Boss? We can’t linger, the weather is getting worse.” He said, and then paused before he spoke again. “We don’t have a lotta spare food, boss, and this one looks half dead already.”
“Yes, half-dead, but not wholly dead yet,” Grunting, Flaco lifted the stranger up and over the back of his horse. He weighed little. The animal nickered, tossing his head back and forth – Flaco soothed him with a hand on the stallion’s muzzle. The man came alive just a bit, mumbling into the flank of the horse; a string of Spanish and English nonsense.
Ramón stewed in resentment at being ignored, his lip twitching, but said nothing. Flaco had no time to worry about him, he had to lead his men back safely, and get the stranger in somewhere warm.
With a whistle, Flaco rallied the Del Lobos and mounted the stallion, slowly turning the grey and white beast in the direction of their camp.
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Javier came around in degrees. First, he was aware that the sound of the harsh wind was muffled. Then, he realised that his body, though shivering, was in fact warming up. He was lying on a cot – one with a lumpy mattress – but it made a better bed than the freezing snow.
Opening his eyes, the four walls of a cabin came into view. It was somewhat rickety, judging from the occasional creaks that he could hear; but for now it seemed to be holding up.
There were a few furnishings, a table piled with some melted candles, empty bottles, some pelts hanging on the wall, and a chest.
Nearby, a log fire was burning and crackling away.
Slowly, Javier rose, a blanket falling from body; someone had carried him here, and put him in this bed. Chances were that the same person was somewhere around. Javier was thankful to still be fully clothed, though he spotted that his poncho and hat and been left at the foot of the cot. More importantly, his knife and pistol had not been taken from him.
Javier thought he detected movement out of the corner of his eye, and he tensed, waiting.
“Awake, at last? Good, good…”
It was not so much a voice, but a rumble. Javier turned his head towards it, and saw a bulky shape sitting in a corner – sipping whiskey, partially obscured darkness.
The huge man had spoken to Javier in Spanish, which was both comforting and somewhat disquieting at the same time. “Where the hell am I?” He asked, throat rough, in English. He was as thirsty as the desert.
“You’re in my camp, I found you out there in the snow-” The chair groaned, almost in relief, as the mountain of a man stood up his full height and approached the cot.
Javier’s hands flew to his pistol, pulling it out quicker than a blink. “That’s far enough.”
The giant looked down at him, and then laughed, his chuckles rolling from his chest like thunder. “Fiery one, eh? I like that.” He sat down on the edge of the cot.
This close, Javier got a good look at him. He was scarred, with deep circles under his eyes, and pitch black hair slicked back and cut short at his neck under a sombrero. “I’m Flaco Hernández.” His eyes were amber, glittering mischievously in the firelight. “Now, you gonna introduce yourself, or you gonna sit there looking pretty?” He accent was thick, thicker than Javier’s, though his grasp on English seemed decent enough.
The name was familiar. “Javier Escuella.” He said, keeping his gun aimed at Flaco’s chest. “You’re the leader of the Del Lobos.”
Flaco smirked. “And you are far from home, amigo. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of…?” He frowned, seeming to be having trouble finding the right word. “Revolutionary? What are you doing up here?”
Surprised, Javier lowered his weapon. “You’ve heard of me?”
The older man nodded. “Sure, I’ve heard some things. Freedom fighter, trouble maker back home, eh?” He scratched a hand across his face. “Thought you’d be taller though,”
Tired as he was, Javier didn’t have the energy to rise to Flaco’s bait. “I was looking for my friend who’d gotten lost in the snow.”
Flaco seemed amused. “Then you got lost yourself? eso fue estúpido.”
Now bristling, Javier switched to his native tongue to snap back at Flaco, “I would have been fine if not for the storm! Me and my own are loyal to our friends. We don’t abandon each other.”
Flaco looked none the more perturbed by his tone. “And who are these friends of yours, hm?” Something unpleasant flashed across his eyes. “This side of the mountain belongs to the Del Lobos. And we don’t like to share.”
Javier kept his pistol ready; he could probably get a shot at Flaco’s eyeball if he was quick. “We ain’t trying to move in on your turf-” he explained, his heart was pounding. “We fled from the law, had no choice but to come up here.”
The older man looked contemplative, and was about to speak when Javier’s stomach gave an almighty grumble. Instinctively, Javier crossed his arms over himself to muffle the noise; embarrassed heat spread up to his ears. “Ay…”
“Hungry?” Flaco chuckled and got up, going to the chest and pulling out one of what looked like several cans of food – he then went to the table and retrieved a knife, opening the can with ease and putting it in Javier’s hands. “Eat, then.”
The smell of fish wafted up into Javier’s nose, and he began to devour the salty contents with ravenous enthusiasm. Bits of offal got caught up in his facial hair, and a blob even ended up on the bridge of his nose. Before Javier could react, Flaco reached over and flicked it away with his thumb.
Javier startled, freezing like a rabbit, scowling at the man before going back to his food. He even drank the salty water that was left, a spectacle that made Flaco wrinkle his nose. After that, his thirst was even worse, and at that point he was not above asking for water. “Can I… get a drink?”
Flaco handed him the opened bottle of whiskey. “Help yourself, Beba despacio.”
Raising the bottle to his dry, cracked lips, Javier took a long and much needed drink. The burn was good, sending a quake down his spine. However, eating so quickly, combined with the heaviness of the alcohol, all came together; bringing Javier down into tiredness again.
He swayed, and his lids felt heavy. Hands began to guide him back down onto the cot, and then tugged off his boots. Javier sulked a little about that; he could take off his own boots. “Sleep, amigo, you are safe here.”
There was talking, but he couldn’t understand much of it; lying on his stomach, Javier was already on his way to dozing. Fingers tugged at his hair, freeing it from its tie and toyed with the free strands.
Then, Javier was asleep.