Chapter Text
The first time that Faraday woke up with any sense of lucidity, he found Chisholm to his left reading a book and Vasquez on his right propped up in a chair dozing in a restless sleep. Chisholm’s voice was the first that Faraday had heard since the Battle of Rose Creek. The older man read aloud with a low timber, careful not to wake Vasquez but with a pleasant rhythm that tickled the ear. In the morning light, his brown skin grew warm and, with his full mustache and manicured sideburns, he gave an impression of paternal authority. With a book in his hands, Chisholm was the very picture of a father reading to his children.
“‘Consequently, she was quite unprepared for the velocity with which the telegraph alphabet of sounds in dots and dashes rattled over the instrument, appropriately termed a ‘sounder.’--”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Faraday asked, head pounding.
Chisholm startled, setting down the book. “You’re up.” Relief was stark and clear on his face.
“I guess.” Faraday blinked at him, far too achey to do much more. “Why’s the inside of my mouth taste like shit?”
“Laudanum,” Chisholm said. “Lack of food.”
“How long have I been out?” Faraday asked. His voice sounded scratchy from disuse.
“Four days.”
Faraday hissed under his breath. He had a million questions, but energy for only a few. He glanced over at Chisholm, his eyes fixated on the book.
“Whatcha reading there?”
Chisholm dutifully recited the book’s title: Wired Love: A Romance of Dots and Dashes. “It’s new.” As if that was all the explanation needed. “The ladies suggested talking to you while you were out,” Chisholm said. “Vasquez did most of the work with his folk songs but, as I am not so musically inclined, I chose this.”
The idea of Chisholm singing was pretty damn funny. Faraday graced Chisholm with a sloppy grin. “You reading me a love story? Some folks might get the wrong idea.”
Chisholm snorted. He jerked his head toward Vasquez. “I think he’s the only one that matters in that regard.”
From the way that Faraday’s chest constricted a little at the thought, that was probably true. Chisholm may have just been busting his chops, but the comment still hit close to home. “He been there the whole time?” Faraday asked, quiet.
“Most of it.” There was a hint of worry in the furrow of Chisholm’s brow. “Been a struggle getting him to his own bed at night.”
Faraday forced himself to sit up, grunting at the strain. Right, he’d been shot, multiple times. The bandages wrapped around his torso and plastered to the side of his face pulled on his skin. He craned his neck to look around Vasquez and yup, there it was, a cot set up in the corner. The implications of that settled in like a warm blanket. “Jesus.” Faraday settled back down, slightly annoyed. “Damn fool needs to take care of himself.”
He remembered the blood on Vasquez’s arm, one of the dread Gatling gun’s many victims.
“True.” There would be no argument from Chisholm about that.
The noise roused Vasquez from his uneasy sleep. When his eyes settled on the now awake Faraday, he scowled at Chisholm in annoyance. “You were supposed to tell me when he was up.”
As a warrant officer who had faced down the orneriest of men, Chisholm wasn’t intimated in the slightest. “It hasn’t been long.”
Vasquez practically launched himself out of his chair, his uninjured hand fussing over Faraday, the other tucked against his chest in a sling. He murmured to himself in broken English and smatterings of Spanish, not caring whether or not he was understood.
Faraday took the mother-henning like a man, sighing in annoyance and slapping weakly at his would-be caretaker.
“I’ll get you something to eat,” Chisholm offered, getting to his feet. “Keep that strength up.” He then did as a brave dutiful officer of the law would do and beat a hasty retreat.
“Coward!” Faraday called out before Vasquez gently took hold of his chin.
Dark eyes burrowed into his, more emotions than could ever be explained by words passed through that stare. “Don’t ever do that to me again, güero,” Vasquez said. There was a fear there, one that seemed out of place on that handsome, scruffy face. He was usually better at hiding it, but Faraday’s brush with death had pried that terror out into the open.
That wicked part of Faraday, the yapping dog that hid the wolf nearly won out, almost ruined the moment with a joke, a jab or a tease. But the laudanum had run its course and Faraday was in too much pain to take any joy in mischief. It’d have to wait for another day.
“Not planning on it,” Faraday said. Neither of them had to clarify their meanings.
Vasquez relaxed then, his hand dropped into his lap. Exhaustion bled into every line of his body. Chisholm hadn’t been exaggerating about the man’s lack of sleep. “The doctor will want to look you over.”
“I imagine so.” Hell, Faraday wanted to look himself over too but his stomach growled and his torso ached, he’d let someone else take care of that. “The others?” he asked.
“Alive,” Vasquez told him. “You got the worst of it but Horne, Goodnight and Billy are still in bed.”
“Sam looks fine.” At least from what Faraday had seen.
Vasquez raised an eyebrow. “Sam?”
Maybe that yapping dog wasn’t as silent as Faraday thought. He squared his jaw in defiance. “As you have yet to give me your first name, you have no right to complain.”
“Really?” Vasquez looked puzzled. “Not even when we—” He then proceeded to attempt a very vulgar hand gesture, which was difficult with just one good hand.
“Nope.” That first night in Rose Creek, Faraday and Vasquez had come to an arrangement of sorts, one involving hands, mouths and various other body parts in combination with each other. Most of the available women had fled and Vasquez, well, his swagger and ability to keep up with Faraday’s teasing had made him an appealing bed partner. That Vasquez had kissed him before Faraday had even finished making his thinly veiled offer had been another pleasant surprise.
Though Faraday had discovered, to his distress, that he was growing attached to Vasquez and he half-feared the other man would not respond to a more intimate connection. Six nights entangled in the sheets and in each other did not guarantee anything other than a good time.
Judging from that momentarily flash of jealousy and this bit of banter, it seemed that Vasquez might be interested in continuing their arrangement. Interesting.
Chisholm arrived with a tray laden with a bowl of soup; the smell of it alone made Faraday ravenous with hunger. “Gimme.”
“Eat slowly,” Chisholm ordered, setting the tray down on Faraday’s lap. “Or you’ll make yourself sick.”
It was a tall order to follow but after the first few bites, Faraday could see the wisdom in it. Slow would be the order of the day, if only to show that, even injured, he had better table manners than Vasquez.
“I have a proposition for you,” Chisholm said.
Faraday wondered if the man had purposefully waited until his mouth was full. He swallowed carefully, deliberately. “What kind of proposition?”
“Perhaps this little band of brothers should stay together.” Chisholm eyes darted between Faraday and Vasquez, gauging their reactions. Upon seeing no immediate rejection, he continued. “We could do a lot of good out there and I think you’ve got a taste for it.”
Faraday’s tongue ran away with him. “I won’t have to blow myself up again, will I?”
The attempt at levity did not go over well. Chisholm’s voice was flat with disapproval. “No. And if you try anything that foolish again—”
A pair of too pale hands raised in surrender. Faraday had gotten the point. “Fine. But you know I’m not going to be much good for a while.”
“We all need time,” Chisholm said. He glanced up at Vasquez. “And you vaquero? Up for another adventure?”
Vasquez was more reluctant than his sometimes bed partner. “That warrant’s still good.”
“Harder to enforce with five sets of guns watching your back.” It was a statement filled with such certainty that it seemed foolish to deny it.
It was enough for Vasquez to relent. “Fine. Someone’s got to watch this idiot.” He smacked Faraday’s shoulder just as he took a bite.
Faraday scowled around his mouthful of soup. “Now that we are in agreement,” he said, “what’s a man gotta do to get some whiskey?”
“No whiskey for at least a month,” Chisholm said with a hint of glee. “Doctor’s orders.”
Being forced to dry out was probably good for his liver, but it would be hell on Faraday’s temperament.
It would be two months before Faraday was up and about again. Even then, he used a crutch and the doctor refused to take off the plaster walking cast til the following Sabbath. Faraday hated having the white plaster monstrosity weighing him down, but at least with it, he could hobble about to regain his strength.
He was never going to walk without a limp again, that was for damn sure. Between the Gatling gun and the force of the explosion, Faraday was lucky he hadn’t blown his whole damn leg off. Still, it was better than being dead. The recovery was exceedingly unpleasant but the refrain “Better than being dead” kept him going during the worst of it.
Billy and Goodnight had mostly rallied from their gunshot wounds and were busy retraining their hands in their respective arts of warfare. Faraday had kept his own hands occupied with his cards while he was considered an invalid and had, with Vasquez’s help, started back in on target training.
Much to his delight, Faraday’s hands were as steady as ever but his cursed leg was another story. It seemed that, in the future, he was going to have to be more prudent about picking his battles. At least, if they were going to involve walking.
Horne and Red Harvest had taken to hunting in the surrounding valley; Red had insisted on procuring red meat for his recovering allies. As for Horne, well, he was a man who lived in isolation and could only handle so much company at one time. Camping on the outskirts of town suited him just fine.
Rose Creek slowly rebuilt around their new heroes, buildings and fences were mended, and life started healing to a new normal.
Sam Chisholm, though, had not seen the last few weeks of progress. He had taken off early, claiming he wanted to get a lead on their next assignment. As far as he was concerned, the second the cast was off of Faraday’s leg, they would leave Rose Creek behind. Faraday found the sentiment agreeable, he was growing restless and fewer locals were willing to risk a turn at the poker table with him.
It was sunset one autumn night when Chisholm rode back into town. “I found something.”
The seven reunited in the bar of the Imperial as Chisholm held court. It had been the first time they’d all been in the same room since the Battle. The moment held a simultaneous mix of nostalgia and anticipation.
“Our target,” Chisholm explained, “is the mining town of Personville, Montana.”
“Personville?” Faraday raised an eyebrow. “That is a terrible name.”
Chisholm smirked. “Heard some call it Poisonville as well.”
Faraday didn’t miss a beat. “That is an equally terrible name.”
“For a reason,” Chisholm explained. “I’ve decided we should clean it up.”
“It’s that sinful a place?” Horne asked, strangely delighted. Being shot full of arrows and nearly dying several months before had not dimmed his wild enthusiasm in the slightest.
“Poisonville is a hotbed of corruption and violence,” Chisholm said. “Bogue was a mere bully by comparison.”
“And why do you want to interfere?” Goodnight asked. It was a reasonable question which appeared even more so coming out of the mouth of a well-heeled Southern gentleman.
Chisholm slapped a telegram on the table. “The owner of the local paper, one Donald Wilson, is desperate for the assistance of law enforcement. Any law enforcement.”
Goodnight snatched the telegram to peruse it with his own eyes. “This has been sent to multiple destinations.”
“Every major hub,” Chisholm said. “As I said, desperate.”
“Takes coin to send that many telegrams,” Billy pointed out.
Faraday was no fool and picked up on Billy’s line of inquiry. “You think this Donald Wilson has stakes in more than just a newspaper?”
The glint in Billy’s eyes and the tiny mischievous curve of his lips was answer enough.
Vasquez, though, had concerns. “Montana’s not exactly close.”
“It is not.” Chisholm plucked the telegram back from Goodnight’s fingers. “We’ll ride to Sacramento and take the train, there’s a line running with cars for horses. We can be in Personville in a little over a week.”
The image of Jack being cooped up on a railroad car stuck in Faraday’s craw. “Jack’s not going to like that.”
Vasquez bumped him with his shoulder. “He’d like to be left behind even less.”
And wasn’t that the hell of it?
Then Horne spoke up again, his words quiet. “Look therefore carefully how ye walk, not as unwise, but as wise; redeeming the time, because the days are evil. Wherefore be ye not foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”
The others all glanced between themselves. Of all of them, Horne was sometimes the most difficult to understand, if only because his motives seemed indiscernible.
As if sensing the others’ confusion, Horne raised his head. “Montana was my home, and it was my wife’s home,” he told them. “Prudence must lead me in my endeavors.” He then spoke directly to Red Harvest. “The Crow are the enemy of my blood, the Salish my kin.”
“I understand.” Red Harvest was the most taciturn of their group, but that simply meant that his words had more weight when he did speak. He addressed Chisholm in Comanche, and, judging from his tone, he would stand with the others.
“Then we’re in agreement,” Chisholm said. “Tomorrow morning we ride to Sacramento, then to Personville.”
They shared the table, breaking bread together but without the sense of dread that had lingered over that last meal before the Battle of Rose Creek. This dinner was one of anticipation and of daring; it was one punctuated with good humor amongst good friends.
The night grew long and the candlelight low. The seven men parted, each to their own respective beds though Vasquez gallantly volunteered to assist Faraday up the stairs. “You know I can do this by myself now?” Faraday asked, without peevishness.
“Si.” Vasquez’s arm was firm in its hold on Faraday’s waist as they made it through the door to Faraday’s rented room. “But this might be the last night we have a real bed for a while.”
“Why Vasquez,” Faraday’s smile was slow and deliberate. “Are you asking to take advantage of my person?” His fingers curled into the hair at the base of Vasquez’s neck. The taller man shivered.
Vasquez’s hand trailed from Faraday’s waist, past the curve of his hip and down to the swell of his ass. He leaned forward to whisper into Faraday's ear. Though his words were in a foreign tongue, Faraday had no trouble discerning his meaning. They let their fingers do the talking for the rest of the night.