Chapter Text
Rand’s oldest memory starts with flickering of flames, chasing away the cold nipping at his nose. He remembers the song, rising and falling to the rhythm of thunderous rumbling: Their Bison herd was migrating, following along the stream that led from the mountains down to the plain.
It would not be the last time Rand witnessed the herd, but it would be the last time they would make the ground tremble; the last time there were so many of them.
A bullet whizzed past, whistling loudly in Mat’s ear.
“Surrender, and we’ll let you live!” One of the lawmen yelled from somewhere behind him, his feeble and cracking voice nearly drowned out by the sound of four horses ripping through the wood’s dense foliage. Faintly, he could hear how the other two men chasing him laughed, wheezing and raspy. Mat cursed under his breath. More shots followed.
Most missed, one or two grazed his arms–and let it be known that Mat Cauthon did not yelp, he grunted–, and one hit Pips, who squealed loudly, flailed, and frantically sped up, breaking out of the controlled gallop–efficient; fast enough to keep ahead without wasting any energy–Mat had held him in. Struggling to redirect the panicking animal through the woods, his mind readily supplied him with a number of insults and curses that he voiced with vigour. He ignored the intense burning on his arms–how many bullets had grazed him?–clamping his legs around the horse’s middle and gripping the reins for dear life. Damn him if he got caught because Pips ran against a tree!
They tore through the underbrush, leaves and twigs whipping against his face harshly. It slashed cuts into his face, and the spring’s growth, fresh, green, and only barely peeking out of the dirt, was crushed underneath the horses’ hooves. For such a small wood, it sure was dense as hell.
The idiots in uniforms were shouting, tearing through the underbrush without finesse, creating a cacophony of noise loud enough to scare the birds into the sky and leaving a trail of destroyed foliage behind them so obvious that even the most inexperienced bounty hunter could track it.
Mat fought to steer Pips through the path of the least vegetative resistance, but only barely succeeded. It took a few minutes and multiple near run-ins with trees, but eventually, the damned horse slowed down again, exhausted. Mat cursed under his breath. They couldn’t rest now. Resting was what had gotten him in those men at his heels.
He’d been losing them– Mat had been careful about covering his tracks, and them big-city lawmen ain’t any good at tracking besides. A stroke of luck on their side, or a failure of luck on his, had been what let them catch up.
Incompetent they were, but their asses sat on good horses; with deep chests and alert brains. Fast, agile, and not easily scared. Pips may be fast and agile as well and far more used to shootings than them besides, but Mat didn’t have good feed, didn’t carry medicine with him– not even a lousy bandage. And Pips was exhausted, had been exhausted for days. In all likelihood, this would be his last ride on the gelding. Even if the gunshot wound didn’t cripple or kill Pips, Mat would still be forced to abandon the half-dead animal and continue on foot, skulking around the countryside. And then those idiots on their well-fed, well-bred horses would run him down.
He regretted not stopping in a town to restock, even though it had been out of the question. He didn’t need any more pigs chasing him around the country more than he needed supplies. But Pips was a good horse.
Fucking damn it! The chase wouldn’t have gone on as long as it did if the Band hadn’t been scattered, if Mat hadn’t shot the damn brother of the captain dead, if he’d woken up earlier and hadn’t let them catch up, if, if, if! He ain’t got no time to think about ifs!
Huffing and whinnying nervously underneath him, Pips sounded like he was close to a heart attack; of exhaustion or fear or both. He was used to bullets and chases, but the week-long chase had reduced the usually unmovable horse to a wreck of nerves. Mat could imagine how the gelding’s eyes were rolling around, showing the whites of his eyes, how his mouth was foaming. He wouldn’t be able to run much longer, and though they had gained distance through the mad sprint, the lawmen were catching up, their hounds, slobbering and running alongside the thundering hooves of their horses, were already barking in excitement.
The occasional bullet still whizzed past, but the lawmen were careful with them, apparently having finally run low on ammunition. Their merry-band had left a trail of bullets scattered on their trail like Hansel and Gretel had left breadcrumbs, and neither had time to restock.
The foliage lightened. They were nearing the treeline. Mat had been in this area before, and he knew that there was still a stretch of plains before he’d reach the mountains. He wouldn’t make it.
Pips was slowing down. “Only a little further,” Mat encouraged him through gritted teeth. He drew his rifle from his back. He did not prefer killing as a solution to his problems, but he’d given them enough chances to turn tail.
They burst out of the woods, right into an open field. He did not have time to take in the scenery, the mossy, green and yellow grass carpeting rolling hills only an unimportant blur. The lawmen followed after him a second later.
Immediately upon gaining a clear aim, shots rang out behind him. Mat could see the looming mountains, but they were impossibly distant. Then everything happened very quickly.
A shot hit true, Pips collapsed with a loud, shrill sound, and Mat barely managed to jump off the horse fast enough that he didn’t get crushed, but went tumbling ass over kettle instead. He registered the jubilant screaming of the lawmen, tried to climb back on his feet– then the hounds were on him. He ain’t had time to get a right grip on his rifle, ain’t had enough space to aim, so he used it to beat the slobbering maws–stinking and full of teeth–away.
The dogs scattered with a choir of loud, offended barks when one of the lawmen bodily threw himself on Mat. It knocked the air out of him, and he punched the guy in the nose more on instinct than anything else. The impromptu wrestling match was short-lived and ended–the rifle pressed flat between Mat and the idiot–with a gun pointing at Mat’s head, the captain looming over him with a sneer.
“We got him!” The idiot–youth? The guy couldn’t be older than eighteen–stated the obvious, watching like a hawk for the captain’s approval, Mat forgotten underneath him.
Fucking hell, Mat thought. If he fought back, did as much as twitch a muscle the wrong way, he was sure to be shot– the captain was slobbering as much as his hounds for an excuse to kill him. He’d have to play the long game, this time. How hard could it be to escape a group of big city lawmen lost in the wilderness?
It was fine. Mat could still get out of this.
Handcuffed and tied to a tree–one of the few in this grassland–, he sat a little bit away from the circle of tents the lawmen had erected. Far enough away that he couldn’t hear much more than garbled voices, close enough that he was an unwilling observer of everything they did. Not much of anything, that was. They were idly going through the motions of setting up camp.
They’d given him a guard, insofar that the third lawmen was warily watching him from the edge of the camp, a safe distance away, as if Mat would bite him if he got too close.
The quiet was useful for getting a little rest, Mat supposed. No point in escaping before nightfall; there was nowhere to hide on a plain while it wasn’t dark, and the guards were sure to celebrate by getting drunk off their asses tonight.
He closed his eyes, and wished they’d at least had left him his hat so he could have some damn shade.
The sun had not quite sunken yet when Mat woke up. He’d been asleep for four hours, he estimated. His legs had fallen asleep and tingled uncomfortable, he’d sat his ass flat on the hard ground, and that was not even to mention the bruises and cuts he had accumulated.
The camp had been fully set up. Three simple tents and a campfire; the ground was already littered with empty cans and small liquor bottles. There was a poorly constructed spit positioned over the fire, a large slab of meat roasting on it.
The idiot and the captain were speaking on the other side of the fire, where Mat could hardly see them, the third sat turned in his direction, still at a distance, still watching him warily. Upon seeing the prisoner awake, he turned and said something to the captain, who briefly glanced in Mat’s direction and then continued with whatever mindless conversation he was having with the idiot.
Beyond the fire, they’d strung up a massive pelt between two pegs of wood. Large and brown, a bison’s, Mat thought. Even from the other side of the camp he could see that the pelt was in poor condition, full of holes and shrapnel. They must’ve hunted it with a shotgun or somethin’. These big city folk wouldn’t know a proper hunting rifle if Mat shot them with it.
But Bisons were big and their hides were tough. Enough meat on them that at least some of it wasn’t contaminated by shrapnel. They’d be eating well tonight, gloating their victory right in his face.
Mat was patient, but it felt like night took forever to come. The sun sunk ever so slowly, the lawmen drew their dinner out like their life depended on it. Mat resolutely ignored the smacking lips, the smell wafting over, the sloshing of beer.
God, he could use a drink himself. A strong whiskey, that hellish stuff Thom had once gifted him, whatever its name was; Mat had forgotten it after downing… eight? …enough shots of the stuff.
He bided his time, taking stock of his bindings–ridiculously long rope, handcuffs he only needed to dislocate his thumbs to get out of–, then when that got boring he looked up at the sky, searching for the constellations his ma had pointed out to him, forever ago.
Of course, revenge and alcohol mixed as well as it usually did, which was to say that it didn’t take long for the captain to wobble over to him. The other two stayed back, snickering and whispering at the fire, staring at the spectacle-to-be.
The captain came to a stop in front of Mat. He leaned forward, swaying slightly. Mat hoped he didn’t fall over; he’d had enough unwashed men on top of him today.
“Mat Cauthon, the Lord of the Band Of The Red Hand,” the man slurred. He was breathing a foul smelling odour of alcohol mixed with beans and meat into Mat’s face. “It’s been a long chase, I’ll give you that. But you sure are better at running than at fighting, hah…”
A retort was at the tip of his tongue, but Mat held his mouth. He was no longer twenty and stupid enough to fall for a drunk’s taunts.
“We’ll hang you in Denver, make a…” he stopped his jeering, visibly thinking about his next words, “...a right spectacle out of it.” He finished his speech by crossing his arms, then kicked him in the side; weakly. Mat swallowed an instinctive grunt.
He spit on the man’s boots.
“You think you’re so high and mighty, eh?” The lawman angrily slurred at him, and kicked him again; harder, but with the signature sloppiness of a drunk. “But I’ll show you, I’ll make you pay, dirty rat.”
The man continued ranting, but Mat stopped listening; his focus was drawn to movement in the dark, a tall silhouette creeping towards the camp.
It did not take long, a few seconds from Mat noticing, until quietly, a figure peeled itself out of the shadows, stopping right outside the circle of light the campfire cast. He stood with his back angled halfway to Mat, but judging by the badly disguised fear on the lawmens’ faces, Mat figured things were about to get interesting.
“You were the ones who killed the bison,” the person stated calmly, almost neutrally, but it was undeniably an accusation. The calm, boring atmosphere of the night grew heavy.
A brief silence stretched, the fire crackling away happily in the background as the lawmen drew their guns. Mat could hardly make out what exactly was happening with the bulk of the captain right in his line of sight, nonetheless he was certain that the person was not of the Band or anyone that owed him a favor.
“Get lost, will ya?” The captain spoke up first, the bravest despite being the only one unarmed. The most idiotic, perhaps. Strangers turning up at your camp in the middle of the night with an accusation on their lips often had a quick draw. Mat would know, it had happened to him enough times.
“What are you, some kind of Indian fanatic? If you wanted some bison, you should’ve hunted earlier. Scram, ‘less you want me to put a bullet through you,” the unarmed captain threatened further, talking himself into a rage.
It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.
With a flick of the stranger’s wrist, the ground erupted. Whatever the intruder had shot or thrown, it created a shockwave that catapulted the captain upwards and back amidst a wave of flying rock and dirt. In the dark and within a split second, Mat had no time to comprehend what he was seeing before the shockwave reached him and his head cracked against the tree with enough force to knock him out.