Chapter Text
The general store was quiet in the mid-day lull where most were taking their breaks from their duties in favor of a lunch or at the very least a break. Its shelves were stocked full of goods, ranging from canned foods to tobacco products to dime novels stacked neatly with their spines facing outward. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the wooden building in a soft light that made lamps unnecessary.
The bell above the door gently chimed as boots hit the wooden floor. A man with a brown goatee stepped inside, his weathered hat pulled low over his face, shrouding it in shadow. Jep Hibarger watched the man carefully from behind the counter, his eyes noticing the twin revolvers that sat on the man’s hips and the rifle slung across his back. Jep wasn’t sure whether this man was an outlaw, a bounty hunter, or that gray area in between more and more men found themselves within nowadays, but no matter what he was, the man behind the counter knew this customer was trouble. Jep only hoped he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of it.
The man slowly walked around the general store, each thump of his boots echoing throughout the store, the sound like a ticking clock marking something dangerous approaching. He occasionally paused at a shelf, appraising its contents, maybe grabbing something. He was careful about his selections, grabbing only a few things before moving on.
It felt like an eternity, Jep watching every subtle movement of the man, hoping his neck twitches and finger jolts would not end with the man grabbing his pistol. Then, the man walked up to the counter, laying out the goods he had selected off of the shelf, giving Jep a look from beneath the shadows his hat cast across his face. Jep’s hands worked quickly, the expertise years of owning the shop had given him in such a simple skill, adding up the total of the man’s purchases and reporting back. “Four dollars and eighty two cents, sir,” he said, keeping his voice calm so as to not betray his feelings of distrust and anxiety.
The man silently reached into his satchel, and Jep saw the glint of more gunmetal tucked into a pocket. His heart lurched, but he knew he would not have time to grab the shotgun that sat beneath the counter a few feet away. He was facing death head on, and it came in the form of this goateed man.
Arrangements and wishes flooded Jep’s head, not ready to face the barrel of a gun, but instead a five dollar bill slid across the counter. A soft sigh of relief escaped Jep’s lips as he took the bill, filing it away into the register and handing the man his change in coins. A low grunt of thanks escaped the man’s lips as he put the goods he bought in his satchel.
While the man was busy storing his new purchases, the bell above the door rang again. The newcomer was dressed in a well pressed suit, a short top hat perched atop his hat. This man had a well groomed mustache while the rest of his face remained unshaven. A small badge laid over his breast, reading “Pinkerton National Detective Agency”. The air immediately thickened between the three men occupying the general store.
The man before Jep eyed the Pinkerton from the corner of his eye, his body straightening up. The Pinkerton took in his surroundings, his eyes drifting over the goateed man carefully. Jep knew it would only be a matter of seconds before one of the patrons reacted and that it would not be a pretty sight.
The Pinkerton lazily strolled closer to Jep and the other man, acting as though he were merely another customer. All three knew otherwise. Quickly, the man with the hat low above his eyes reached into his satchel, pulling out a small revolver and firing it at the Pinkerton before dashing out of the store. The Pinkerton collapsed against a shelf, sending cans rolling onto the floor. Jep ducked down behind the counter, grabbing his gun, but the shooter was already gone.
He had quickly mounted his horse, a palomino paint, and kicked the mare into a gallop, whilst Pinkertons were already swarming the streets to chase him.
“Benson Bordeaux, we have you surrounded!” called one of the Pinkertons, chasing him on horseback. Benson lowered his body to his horse, keeping low and riding fast. He ignored the useless words and focused on riding.
From left and right, forwards and backwards, Pinkertons appeared, brandishing their guns while trying to catch Benson. Shots rang out, mingling with the hoofbeats of horses galloping. Benson offered a shot in return whenever an agent made his way a little too close, hitting almost every shot square in the stomach.
The town streets were busy, but people quickly cleared a way for the outlaw on the palomino and the army of Pinkertons following him. A particularly well-aimed shot nearly hit Benson, luckily only tearing its way through a billowing part of his jacket, but Benson felt the warmth and power it carried. He quickly navigated down an alleyway, attempting to throw off the agents behind him. His horse darted with the abilities he had long spent training her for, carrying him throughout the town and eventually away, out onto the prairie.
Although the prairie was open and gave little opportunity for cover, it was just what Benson needed. The rolling hills offered spaces where he could confuse, and thus lose, the Pinkertons. He rode fast and dashed over the mini peaks and through the mini valleys of the hills. The gunshots ceased, and he was able to slow to a trot.
Benson had been on the run for eight months now, though the government had been hunting him long before then. He occupied New Orleans for most of his life. As a child, he would steal for food, occasionally nabbing a rich woman’s brooch for extra money. The crimes escalated as he got older. Fighting. Bigger robberies. Murder. The first time he killed someone, watching the life drain from their eyes, he felt powerful. So many times in his life, his power had been stolen from him by those who were bigger than him. Death gave Benson the control he had lost from him.
He was careful about it, always quiet and secluded. He was good at cleaning up after himself after years of working small cleaning jobs around the city. He was careful about who he killed, too. Never anyone random. Always those whom he believed they deserved their fate, according to Benson’s own morals.
The police had searched for him, but they were never able to get a certain lead- Benson was effective.
Until he had encountered Elliot Shepherd on the street. The man was a school teacher at one of the Church sponsored schools, a school Benson had once attended as a boy due to the graciousness of the nuns. He resented that graciousness.
Elliot Shepherd died a bloody death, right in the streets of New Orleans. The police watched Elliot Shepherd bleed out while Benson ran away down the street. Witnessing Benson’s attack on Shepherd allowed the police of New Orleans to string together the deaths they had been failing to investigate, all leading to Benson. After Benson escaped, there were a few other strings of deaths in his wake, and it was not much longer until the Pinkertons were taking over Benson’s case, hunting him across state lines.
Now, Benson rode through the plains of Colorado, the Rocky Mountains looming in the distance, his mare occasionally giving a huff from underneath him. The plains stretched out for miles and miles, the world before him open and vast. Occasionally, a couple of deer or a herd of buffalo would cross his path, and he'd give the creatures a wide berth, leaving them be.
The encounter with the Pinkertons in the last town had gotten a little closer than Benson would have liked. That bullet that had hit his jacket singed the edges, leaving Benson a small reminder of just how close the hot bullet was to his skin.
Benson needed to lay low for a while. The Pinkertons were tracking him too easily, simply looking for the string of people who were suddenly dead in every town Benson passed through. He needed quiet. He needed to be isolated from busy towns.
And the ranch that sat upon the top of a hill in the distance seemed like the perfect spot.
The Bradley Ranch sat in the middle of the plains, a dot of civilization surrounded by miles upon miles of untouched land. Cattle ambled lazily around the pastures surrounding the plot, while chickens clucked within the fences surrounding the home built simply from wood.
Mr Bradley was away for business, driving some of the cattle around the surrounding towns to sell, leaving Mrs Bradley to run the ranch herself, something she had grown very capable of throughout the years. She was able to strike the fear of God Himself into the ranch hands, and even her own children, making everyone at the ranch bend to her beck and call.
Randy Bradley was doing one of those tasks that his mother had tasked him with. He was out in the pasture, herding the cattle closer to the barn for the evening. They mooed lazy protests as he drove them away from the green, flowing grass, cattle dogs nipping at their heels. Randy’s gelding let out occasional snorts as the boy rode it, keeping up with the moving herd.
Randy wore a thin flannel, covering his freckled skin to protect it from the overbearing sun, but thin enough to keep him cool. His hat sat comfortably atop his head, shading his bright blue eyes from the light.
He was accustomed to ranch life. He had been for years. As a kid, his parents had allowed him to attend the small school that was located five miles away from the ranch, he and his father making trips every morning so he would be able to attend, but that had been short lived. Randy had once accidentally hit his teacher, a sweet woman named Ms Beard, in the eye with a quill he had been playing with. She lost the eye, leaving a malformed pit in its place, and Randy had never returned to that little white schoolhouse.
Thus, he was destined to the life of the ranch. He dreamed for more. He wasn’t sure what “more” entailed, but he knew that he did not wish to herd cattle around for the rest of his life. That uncertainty, and the anxiety of harming others just as he had harmed Ms Beard, left Randy stuck at the ranch. The place had been the only home he had known in his twenty one years of life, and it seemed it would continue until his death.
As Randy drove the cattle, he heard the faint thump of hoofbeats in the distance. He looked over his shoulder and saw a man on a palomino paint mare trotting towards him.
Benson hadn’t expected to meet an inhabitant of the ranch so soon, but as he approached the younger man, he was a little glad he had. Benson tilted his hat up, revealing more of his face in the light, and gave a small, easing smile. “Hey, there, partner. These your cattle?” he asked, looking at Randy with an assessing gaze.
Randy gave a slow nod. “My father’s, yes.” He was uncertain of the man before him. He had not missed the guns that rested on his hip and back.
Benson tilted his head towards the herd, his eyes drifting towards the farm. “Are y’all looking for a ranch hand?” he asked. “I can work. Just need somewhere to stay.”
Randy was hesitant, unsure of the man and how to respond to his request. He froze up slightly, shifting on the saddle of his horse, the leather creaking beneath him. Randy’s eyes searched Benson’s, before darting to the herd. His mother had been talking about how she wished she had more help on the ranch while his father was on the road. It could be something.
Slowly, Randy nodded. “You’d have to ask my mother, but I’m sure she’d say yes. We could always use the extra hands.”
An easy grin teased Benson’s lips. He tilted his head. “That’d be great. Let’s go talk to your ma after we herd these cattle.”
The two men eventually brought the cattle into the evening pasture close to the ranch. They mostly rode in silence, Randy’s tense and awkward while Benson’s was calculating. When they finally arrived outside of the house, Randy’s sister stepped outside, holding a small embroidery hoop.
Haley wore a simple calico dress, her blonde hair done in a single braid down her back. The girl gave Randy a smile as he dismounted, then her eyes went to Benson. Her eyes widened slightly, clearly intimidated by the gruff looking man adorned with metal. “Randy. Who is this?” she asked, watching Benson carefully.
“He, uh, wants to work for Mama and Papa. I was just going to talk to Mama about it,” Randy answered. He walked inside of the house, Benson following. Mrs Bradley stood at the basin, washing dishes while quietly humming to herself.
Randy interrupted, hesitating as he did. “Ma,” he began. “Mama, I met a man while herding the cattle in. He wants to work for you and Papa, he said.”
Mrs Bradley straightened from over the basin, looking back at her son. Her heart did an unexpected leap as she stared at the man beside him. He looked-
Before her assumptions could run wild, the man took off his hat, his deep blue eyes staring into Mrs Bradley’s. “Ma’am, it’s just a simple request. Y’all don’t even have to pay me, I just need food and a place to sleep at night. I ain’t here to cause no trouble. Just honest work.”
Mrs Bradley’s defenses slowly came down with the easing words, his stormy blue eyes and earnest expression winning her over. The man looked intimidating, sure, but he seemed true in his words. She gave a slow nod. “Sure, of course. We don’t have any spare rooms in the ranch hand quarters, but… we have some extra blankets and the barn stays decently warm at night.”
A smile teased at Benson’s lips. “The barn would be just fine, Mrs…” He trailed off, prompting the woman for her name.
“Mrs Bradley. And you are?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Ben Grier,” Benson answered easily, the pseudonym he had used for years something familiar at this point.
“Ben Grier,” Mrs Bradley echoed, nodding to herself. “Randy, show Mr Grier the barn and help him get settled. We are kind and hospitable to our guests.”
Randy gave a soft nod to his mother, leading Benson out of the house, towards his new home in the barn.