Smokestack Lightning [Western-verse]

[Logan]

The desert heat is no place for any animal, two-legged or four – a waterless wasteland where little may thrive, and energy expended is often energy wasted. It is under the high moonlight that those empty plains and motionless expanses suddenly blossom to cautious, tentative life, and though the black devil that haunts the dunes is no natural occurrence, he is certainly no exception – beneath the filtered blue light he roams, unfettered. Stuffed full on a meal of jackrabbits and mice, the beast is head-down in the sands with a determined will it can’t quite understand, but follows unflinchingly; the dregs of its human goals and purpose slide through the film that separates his two halves, driving the dark creature on. There is a trail in the night that he must find, a scent he searches for with a dogged will and powerful, untiring strides – and only endless ranging will place his quarry beneath his nose.

It is only desperation that has set him free, though he does not know it; would not care, even if his feral brain could process such emotion. There had been no original intent to track Ned Wallace down, not until Nathaniel Hart had stumbled upon him in a chance encounter the week previous, but in the days since it has become a frustrating obsession – a mania carried over to this four-legged form that now charges him to hunt. It had been a particularly trying pursuit, those first few days, plagued by the troubles of a weary man with an ache in his bones that one night of respite could not absolve; a night that had, in all actuality, only made such hurts worse. Sitting his horse had become a whole new lesson in courage. The miles of hard riding that had followed, the bad decisions and worse luck that had laid waste to his plans, had left the marshal with precious few options and a growing aggravation; the trail had grown cold, had died completely, lost amongst the scrub and rock and endless dust.

And so he’d let the wolf free. His hand is played out, his bag of tricks emptied.

Like his wild counterparts, the beast dances beneath the rising moon, wide-spread paws swimming through sand and between brush with the ease of any desert-born creature – a nimble and gangling silhouette that is more shadow than living being. But he is a simplistic being of animal needs and animal desires, all instinct and little real motivation, and however his drive is bound and influenced there are always errors, always margins of unpredictability. It is because of this that the marshal will once again fail, undermined by nothing more than himself – and the wolf becomes distracted from his goal, drawn with predatory curiosity to a warped and twisted cedar, and the secrets it contains.

There is a dead man in the tree. A tongue snakes out over black jowls and nostrils flare, but not with any hunger. He is fascinated, entranced by the sway of the body in the breeze, by the strangely familiar scent of the thing that his consciousness fails to recognize – that in life, this particular corpse was a member of Wallace’s gang makes no difference to him, not when he is so enthralled. A sudden exuberance and excitement overwhelms the wolf; he leaps and whirls beneath the hanging man, comes away with a boot for his efforts. Proud of his catch, the animal makes a show of staking out his little territory – paces out a bristling, stiff-legged walk in a short circle about his tree – before settling to his chest to gnaw and tear at the stiff, rancid leather.

If there is one miserable thing about being a werewolf, it’s the morning after breath.

A wet nose draws close over the earth. A beast huffs, sends a plume of dust into the air and tastes the scents gathered there. The desert speaks her secrets without words, secrets that no man might decipher, but the wolf is fluent in her language. He rises up, greets the night sky with feral grey eyes and spies the silhouette of an owl drifting over the bright face of the moon. There is evidence of predators circulating in the vicinity, but it is not the smell of coyotes that captures the beast’s interest. His ears tuck forward and his attention falls dead ahead. There is something out there, something close, something familiar that has the animal priming for an encounter.

Large paws leave prints in their wake and the beast follows the invisible trail. Curiously the scent aligns with the one the wolf had been tracking earlier, and this makes investigation all the more called for. Ned Wallace is not forgotten because he is the beast’s quarry, and the reason the animal even walks this night. But that smell, the one that harkens back to the sweetest danger, grips at the wolf’s instincts. A chord is struck, it resonates, and the animal brain is not one that questions, but reacts.

A driving intent brings him deeper into the desert where there stands a single, unmoving figure cut dark against the landscape. The cedar, the hangman’s tree – a marker known to the animal’s human half but its relevance does not register. The wolf knows only smell and sound, and on a weaker level, sight. The base senses for a base creature, and this creature knows that what it seeks lies directly ahead. Caution weighs its limbs heavy but that is a human influence, one that the beast shakes off. He makes for the tree.

Fragments of memories from a heated night lost in the covers of a rented bed pull in and gather. They illicit abstract images that the creature cannot hope to understand and yet finds compelling. This scent is one he has come across before, mingled in, dominated – mated with. A brazen surge of ego blossoms in his barreled chest and the creature moves forward with no trepidation in its step. Grey eyes fall onto the figure of the black demon and the wolf stands there, head held up proud as if he owns the surrounding territory.

His nose twitches in this place where two compelling scents collide. One smell leads directly to the dark animal, the other to the corpse swinging over head. The grey beast is fool enough to assume he commands both those scents and he moves closer. His attention falls onto the shoe, flicks back to the demon and there is no thought here, only reaction. Lips curl back, warning the demon he believes he has conquered to back away. This is his prey, the growl says, and he is not inclined on sharing.

He is a bold, reckless thing that often assumes too much. This, at least, is something he and his human have in common.

For better or for worse.

Much to his human counterpart’s eventual chagrin, the twisted-eared devil has all but settled in to work the sole from his boot for the rest of the night – and is busying himself to that end when the air’s first strange shifting sets his hackles upright. Though he is king of his little world and has never met a creature to challenge him, a wild paranoia exists in that animal’s brain that compels him to protect, to defend; to remain on edge despite the night’s moonlit lull, to never succumb to relaxation. The brute stiffens, his jaws’ hold on his prize unyielding, though claws release the scheming shoe from its pin to settle tense upon the hard-packed ground. He waits before rising, driven by a need to keep still.

In the darkness around him, a predator lurks. It is a knowledge drawn up from wind-borne scents and that sudden telling silence, a thing that drags with it a strange familiarity – one that sets the animal’s brain to working, and he remembers. In bits in pieces, more light and sound than color and clarity; a shared secret that exists between the animal and this approaching danger, one in which the black wolf allowed his will to be bent, to give in to curiosity and strange, carnal attraction. The results of that meeting had been determined more by human influence than the demon’s true colors, an act of submission he is not inclined to repeat – not here, with the moon’s light upon him, and four feet on the ground.

The grey beast appears from the inky night, confident and sure of step, and the black wolf’s wild eyes lock upon him in unblinking wrath. Here, in this world of instinct and impulse, the blue-eyed devil believes – knows – his reign is absolute, and this intruder’s defiant posture sends a clear message of challenge. It is a message he cannot ignore. He is on his feet in an instant, lips raised and teeth flashing around his shredded scrap of old leather, an act driven by insolence and implicitly understood authority. Nothing may stand before him, mate or otherwise, and this bear-like brute is no exception – however he many protest. Where once an inquisitive interest regarding his mysterious partner lurked, now there exists only a need to claim.

Because this grey animal is not his superior; this brazen beast does not possess him.

The wolf charges in a show of skittering speed and fury, boot all but forgotten in their display of dominance; this is not about an item, not any longer, not even about the dead man or the tree the black wolf has marked as his. This is about the creature himself – the wild thing owned by no man, and certainly no beast – that will not be cowed by an upstart’s brash confrontation. If the grey wishes to truly mark the lanky demon as his, it will only be by the latter’s decree, by submitting to his unconditional rule in turn. An uneven exchange, but the only offer; the only way to find balance.

He is small; narrow; quick; all legs and jaws and sunken eyes, and the dark demon keeps that rangy form low as he moves in. His body seeks not to cripple, but to control; his teeth play with intent to capture, not maim. There is no attempt made to close with the larger animal, to be lured into a grappling bear hug he would surely lose – crushed by the grey beast’s superior weight alone – and he strays far to take advantage of his abilities. He seeks only to wear his opponent down, to express his superiority in taunting nips and displayed restraint, in blows delivered with checked teeth to the large wolf’s scruff, shoulders, flank.

Where the human thinks, the animal acts, and his instinct has rarely served him wrong.

The grey beast assumes and the black devil gives his rebuttal. The surge of motion catches the over-confident wolf off guard. Cockiness often leads the hunter into trouble and it appears his wolf too suffers from this fallacy of character. Ears tuck back and in that small gesture, in a moment that spans milliseconds, there is insecurity. This bold and brazen creature has never been challenged. He is a rogue, free and untied – uneducated in the wrongness of assumptions and the dangers of arrogance. The hesitance does not last; the ghostly hound carries with it, and is inspired by Logan Duvall’s insufferable machismo.

A devil strikes and a silver beast retaliates. He circles around, keeps those wild storm-grey eyes trained onto the challenger. The lanky animal is quick, nimble --a clever fox compared to the grey’s lumbering bear. When the hound snaps, his jaw is jarred by the force of it, because teeth do not find purchase in fur and flesh. Time and time again he comes away biting at nothing but air. This poor show of retaliation does not accurately portray the hound’s prowess. He is holding back, curiously reluctant, because though the beast does not remember, there are suggestions of memories pulling at his strings.

Each careful strike the dark creature delivers inspires a dual and warring reaction within the grey wolf. Fury bids him to attack, to wrestle the damnable animal to the ground until there is no longer a question as to who is in charge here. Curiosity and a driving need born from his human’s hidden predilections towards a certain blue-eyed stranger, suggests that he relent. An image-- a commanding hand on a hunter’s wrist, actions that rankled his reluctant pride and yet elicited a heated response. The wolf does not remember but it feels. Logan Duvall thinks he knows what he wants but his wolf, free from thought, knows the truth of it.

Reluctance burns away under sudden resolve. The grey wolf charges forward, meets the demon with a new, energized attack. This is the true challenge, not so much a contest, but a test. He pushes, he chases, he draws out their dance over the sand and through the brush until he is breathing haggard. If he is to give into this black devil, then he will only do so after it has proven its worth. The speed of his opponent quickly runs the beast ragged – he is not built for contests of agility – and yet he persists. His greatest strength, and perhaps his greatest weakness, is the dogged determination also known as stubbornness.

Paws slide over sand and together the dueling animals leave haphazard patterns written into the desert floor. Growls and snarls send the nightlife into hiding but the world goes unnoticed. For this night, in the grey wolf’s eyes, only the dark demon exists. Ned Wallace is a distant presence that no longer even registers. The test continues and he refuses to have his back to the challenger, but it is clear that the black wolf has him in retreat.

The dance wears on with the desert as their arena.

Boldness strikes at the onyx demon, driving him to acts of arrogance as his opponent folds before him; in the wake of the grey’s retreat he presses on, eager to bring this to a swift end. He is almost put off by the lack of retaliation, by the confusion and curiosity that has stuck his partner dumb, but this only serves to encourage him. If the beast cannot even make a show of countering, of matching him blow for blow, he deserves being ground to dust beneath the blue-eyed devil’s paws – if not for his mistaken audacity, then for his ignorance.

It comes as a surprise, then, when the grey wolf at last seeks retribution, and the black sets to his task with renewed vigor. The silver ghost dances away and strikes back, rises to meet him with tooth and claw, and the demon feels a splendor in this – in proving his own worth, in testing the challenger’s strength. This is an animal that was allowed to dominate him, once, and it is only now that he can see the spirit that made such a thing possible; it is only now that the silver seems deserving of that act. But the wolf is not tireless, and his efforts are exhausting; their drawn-out trial, having not been won in the first tangled steps, wears on him in signs growing increasingly obvious. His attacks grow wild and less precise; his tongue lolls from his jaws in a cascade of saliva and froth. He relies more heavily on caution, seeking an opening, and takes a blow or two in return for his sapped energy.

Nathaniel Hart may be a mild man, but he lays ownership to a certain a wolf-wrought strength, and it is this half that serves as the home for every resisted urge, every instinctual drive; a nightmare brought to life in shadow and ink. None of that genteel softness has a place here, where rationality comes to die, and what is left behind is only base need: fight, conquer, mate. The desire to simply subdue and edify through power has been replaced, as their ballet continues, with a strange attraction that is as foreign as it is familiar – a thing he has felt but once before, in a human encounter with the shell of the animal before him. The wolf’s goals are the same but his reasoning, however simplistic, has altered: pin not to cow, but to impress, and court the ghost with that display of dominance.

But mistakes are made as energy flags; one slips, or another, and at last the animals close in a flurry of noise and colliding bodies.

They tumble, then, in grappling limbs and clacking jaws, to the dust and grit below them; the sand flies in their struggle, their feral mockery of a similar night shared, and the black wolf’s teeth find purchase amongst the chaos. There is a delicacy in his grip, however tenacious: a warning impaled upon the ends of pointed fangs that do not delve into tender flesh. Instead, the animal clings, white teeth bared to the night around his mouthful of scruff and skin, eyes wild and wide; he bears down upon the other wolf with his inferior weight, heavy though it still is, and wheezing, wet gasps are drawn his nose, pressed tight into the grey’s thick coat.

He will hold until the monster grows still, unwilling to relinquish this final prize through either struggle or pain – and it is only with that act of submission that the black demon will relax. His clutch loosens, releases entirely with a stuttering hesitation, and should his silver ghost – now sufficiently passive – make no effort to crawl away, the victorious animal will draw his face in long passes along the wolf’s shoulders, his neck, his head, marking him well claimed and mingling their scents. And for the first time in long hours will he settle, possessed by a gentleness so unnatural, and place his great head atop the silver’s neck. His tongue washes over the animal below him in slow sweeps, laving and grooming, speaking a language of comfort and reassurance now that the conquest is complete. In this, he is not a begrudging creature.

Because there is no shame in this defeat; the grey wolf is now his, after all, and to be lead by the arrogant black demon should be the greater joy.

There is power beneath that jagged black coat, a wild and intrinsic strength, and with every continued assault, the grey wolf inches towards bowing. Hot, haggard breaths roll out of the creature’s throat and the buzz of adrenaline tapers off. The absence of fuel has his muscles aching, his body increasingly prone to missteps. And still he fights on, determined to force the dark wolf into showing all of its cards. The ghost falters, nearly trips, attempts to find his footing but is derailed by the force of his opponent’s body slamming into his.

Equilibrium is lost among twisting limbs and rolling vision. Strong jaws snap open seeking flesh but the challenger proves his quickness by attacking first. Teeth settle against the vital skin of his throat and the grey wolf gives a spitting, growling rebuttal. Jaws clack and a tongue runs over his fangs and nose. He attempts to push up, to dislodge the devil at his jugular but this serves only to increase the pressure riding dangerous so close to his pulse. With a heaving sputter, the grey animal finally relents. He falls still beneath the champion and slowly, under the onslaught of a grooming tongue, the tension bleeds out of his body.

The silver beast shifts his head, rests in atop a massive, black paw. There is a quietness that overtakes him, one that reads of calm and more subtly, of satisfaction. If he were capable of such an action, the impish thing would be smiling – like it just got exactly what it was after. He curls in closer, lifts and angles his head to press his nose against the black animal’s muzzle. In a single, brazen action, a tongue darts out and delivers a fleeting lick. The dance is done.

Desert mornings are ushered in by the call of diurnal birds chattering away from hidden locations within the brush. It is that tell-tale noise that has a certain bounty hunter stirring. He first becomes aware of the ache in every molecule of his body, the pounding in his head. The first, bleary thought that enters into his mind is regret for apparently having drank his weight in whiskey. Grey eyes slide open then wince shut at the sight of the morning sun peeking out of the horizon. Moving seems like the most difficult thing imaginable and so Logan, often given to laziness, sidles in closer to the warmth at his side.

The warmth at his side.

His eyes fly open and he is greeted by none other than Nathaniel Hart. The reaction is immediate – Logan scrambles back and puts a good number of feet between them. His heart beats wildly and this only compounds the dull, thudding ache banging against the inside of his skull. Logan shoots a look around, searching for answers, finding nothing. The instant the marshal gives indication he is awake, the hunter rises to his feet and in an act of bewildered modesty, cups his hands over his groin.

”What the hell did you do?” Of course this bizarre scenario is the lawman’s fault because Logan clearly never makes mistakes. He wracks his brain for memories, solutions, and only manages to draw a complete blank. There is no question as to why he is naked but this is wrong – this is bad – because he has not awoken at his campsite. He throws another frantic look around, tries to get his bearings because, right, campsite. The campsite with his guns and horse, his money and his goddamned clothing.

He is naked in the middle of the desert. He is naked in the middle of the desert with a lawman he may or may not have had sex with some nights ago. ”Why are –“ -- we here. ”What –“ —the hell is going on. ”You’re –“—a werewolf. A garbled series of stuttering thoughts and unfinished questions. Logan sends a heated, accusatory glare onto the lawman. ”Where the hell are we?” He demands and that cool, collected hunter from the previous night is nowhere to be seen.

”Shit,” he seethes when a worrying thought hits him. Bewildered grey eyes meet blue. ”We didn’t--” --screw like two dogs in heat, ”… did we?” He wonders if that counts as bestiality, wonders what circle of hell gay bestiality will deliver him into.

Crazy thoughts for one hell of a crazy morning.

Nathaniel Hart has woken to worse things, certainly – he just can’t really put his finger on any.

His thoughts are sluggish, compounded by a fog of stiff joints and lack of real rest; even as Logan scrambles away and the lawman sits up, a palm to his face to block out the sun, he can make no sense of his surroundings. He exhales slow, blinks tired eyes to the bounty hunter, and takes stock. Positives: waking up next to another living person. That person being male, and possibly the only man he’d like to find himself in a waking-up sort of situation with. Negatives: that man is shouting far too loudly. His mouth tastes like the southbound end of a northbound mule. He is naked, and not for any sort of good reason that he's able to recall; his body hurts like he’s lost a fight, and he is in the middle of desert with none of his things.

A subconscious thought flicks to water, to sunburn in places a man has no right to experience in his lifetime, and suddenly wakefulness doesn’t seem terribly far off. Right. Nate’s brain kicks into gear, rumbles to life with a low groan, and he decides to throw the morning right back on top of the pile of worst things, ever.

The marshal’s own attempt at modesty is both more ridiculous and less successful – a hand claps to his neck, where a purple bruise has almost finished fading into the backdrop of skin (though the sentiment remains), and he stares at Logan with a fearful suspicion in his eye. It’s only after a long moment of slow realization that Nate makes any effort to cover himself up – to rise to his feet with the support of one hand, the other offering only the barest minimum of privacy. He spits, because he’s pretty sure he ate shit last night, but it does nothing for the vileness on his tongue.

”I have no goddamned idea,” the marshal snaps back. ”Why don’t you ask your – your animal, since it brought us here and all.” Or so he assumes – because nothing makes sense, otherwise. His wolf has never had such a piss-poor survival instinct, and the only thing that changed is the introduction of Logan; a sneer draws itself across his features, brow furrowed. Eye contact is broken to allow Nathan to process their surroundings: an endless, circling horizon with nary a landmark to be found, save for the close hangman’s tree with its strung-up bounty. The dead man is missing a boot; the sight of the item on the ground fills the lawman with a strange unease. He dismisses it; kneels down to pick the thing up, abandoning modesty for forethought. Craning his head back, Nate sizes up the dead man’s hat – only to fall to distraction at Logan’s awful allegation.

Blue eyes go wide before narrowing with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose, all drawn up on one half of his face; there is shock mingled there, like he’s half appalled Logan would even think of – of that. ”No—” —maybe, because hell if he can remember what happened last night. The marshal has a pretty good handle on that black monster, on its instincts, but animal memories of an evening spent hunting are dredged up only in garbled images that a human brain has no way to interpret. Feelings, visceral and vague, more than anything tangible. ”No,” Nate adds a little more firmly, because he’d probably remember that. Or feel it, maybe. But his wolf’s rumble of satisfaction – of conquest – when he allows his thoughts to focus on the missing night is more than a little disconcerting.

”…I think we’d know.” Hopefully. There’s a a lack of conviction in the statement that gives away his uncertainty, but Nate decides to go with a sound policy of don’t remember, didn’t happen. With a clumsy show of balance, the lawman hoists himself back to his feet – aims with a squinted eye for the dead man’s head, and throws his boot with remarkable accuracy. The hat floats to the ground, and Nathan moves to collect his prize.

His hand stills mid-motion, eyes drawn to the signs of the night’s scuffle strewn across the packed earth – rough furrows drawn into dust, scuffmarks and thrown litter and a collection of grey and black hairs. Nate shoots the gunman a clever look, an impish smile growing on barely-upturned lips.

”I think I kicked your ass, is what happened.” There are pictures – tastes – that lend his statement support, a thing unremembered and yet drawn up out of the story written into the ground. Slapping the hat against his knee, Nathan grimaces at the dust that falls from it, but is pleased at the general lack of smell – and he sets the thing on his head, because sometimes there’s a good goddamn reason for thieving a dead man’s possessions. Reasons like showing up Logan in any way possible, and other very important principals.

”You ready to do some walking, Duvall?” There is a smugness to his tone, a confidence built out of his wolf’s arrogance and strange sense of possession. Before them, leading out into the horizon, are a matched set of half-eroded trails; one wolf or the other, differing by smell alone. ”I’d be happy to give you a Marshal’s escort back to camp, sir.” Nate tips his hat with a curt nod of his head, smirking wide and pleased as a pig in shit.

There are questions unanswered and mysteries yet unsolved, but Nathan has higher priorities – ones that involve not dying in the desert, naked beside Logan Duvall.

”Like hell my animal would pull something like this,” the hunter returns sharply. His wolf has never done something so foolish as to leave him stranded in the middle of the desert. Every night, without fail, he has woken up tucked safely in or near his campsite. There is no question within Logan’s mind that whatever the hell is going on here, is wholly the marshal’s doing. It’s just a matter of figuring out what the hell is going on here. He draws a heated look over the lawman and through the surrounding area, and takes note of the clear indications of a scuffle etched into the sand.

Other than the ache in his muscles, Logan suffers from no other pain. Strange. ”You don’t sound so sure.” Logan isn’t so sure. When the hunter presses his mind for last night’s happenings, he is met only with an odd bloom of satisfaction. He shakes his head, all out of sorts, as the lawman takes to chucking a boot at the swinging dead man’s hat. There are signs of a fight all over and yet he has no wounds, and looking at the marshal (his eyes certainly do not linger on the man’s ass), he doesn’t have any wounds either. Some fight that must have been, for both of them to come out unscathed. He thinks his theory of wild, wolfy sex has more weight, given the evidence (or lack thereof).

”Kicked my ass.” That’s one sure-fire way to get a rise out of the bounty hunter. ”You think you kicked my ass.” No way in hell the night played out like that. Logan Duvall never loses a fight, unless he does, but in this case he surely hasn’t –probably. Uncertainty lurks at the edges of his mind because something happened –something big—and Logan’s just going to have to wait for the other shoe to drop. ”Like hell you kicked my ass,” he mutters grumpily. Arguing buck-naked under the rising Nevada sun isn’t the best plan of action and so Logan reins in his temper and sends a look over the landscape.

He has enough presence of mind now to read the landmarks, and in the distance, he spies a familiar outcropping of stone. If he is lucky –which he clearly isn’t. If the good lord has any mercy, Logan’s belongings will still be where he left them. ”I’ll give you a goddamned escort,” he shoots back, then pauses because that didn’t make a lick of sense. His weight shifts from one foot to the other and Logan sets off towards the outcropping but not before muttering out an ineffective shut up.

Tucked and hidden within a nook created by weathered old stones are the remnants of a campfire. An old bay mare wanders nearby, grazing on the yellow desert grass. Everything is just as he left it and for the first time this morning, Logan allows himself to feel relieved. He immediately makes for the canteen, unscrews the top and takes a long, desperate drink. Water dribbles out of the corners of his mouth, down his chin, where it falls wasted onto the thirsty Nevadan soil. He throws a look over his shoulder, wipes at his lips with the back of his hand, then tosses the canteen towards the marshal. ”Don’t say I never did anything for you.” With that, the hunter begins to dress and with each article of clothing he tugs on, he starts to feel better about the situation.

”You want to know what I figure ,” he says in such a way that makes it clear that even if the marshal doesn’t want to know, he’s going to hear it anyway. Logan pulls on his shirt, begins to button it shut. ”I figure that you got a taste of this,” he waves a lazy hand indicating himself then, fully dressed, turns around the face the marshal. ”And you couldn’t stay away.” The cocksure grin is back on his face and the arrogance is written into the cool grey of his eyes. ”Your animal dragged your sorry ass after me like a lovesick pup.” Little does the hunter know that what transpired was the opposite – his own wolf was the one that sought after Nathaniel Hart’s scent. His eyes drop, he looks the naked lawman over and smirks. ”It’s alright, perfectly understandable.” Like the marshal owes him an apology and Logan’s a big enough man to accept it preemptively.

”Should probably find your things.” He moves to hoist a saddle onto the mare’s back and starts to prepare her for the day. ”You know, before you start getting any other ideas.” The hunter regards the lawman with a narrowed set of grey eyes. ”I’ll even let you ride my horse.” A saint, that Duvall, one with clever eyes and an insufferable smirk.

He may be nothing more than a no good, cocksure son-of-a-bitch, but Logan isn’t about to leave a man stranded in the desert. Especially a lawman. Especially a blue-eyed lawman that has the back of the hunter’s neck flushing hot when he delivers those authoritative glares.

Whatever that means.

”That’s an awful lot of protestin’ for a man who didn’t get his ass kicked,” but it’s said beneath his breath and eaten by his smile, directed at the man’s receding – and attractive – backside. Nathan may not be the wisest of men, not certainly around Logan Duvall, but he’s got enough of his head back on his shoulders to avoid a wrestling match in the rising sun – though he’d like to think it’s not for lack of ability. He shifts back on his heels with a shake of his head and a sigh, and with one last stolen look at the man’s retreating form, the marshal follows along behind.

It’s a success that dims in the light of Logan’s camp, of the hunter clearly regaining confidence with every article of clothing he slides into, and Nate breaks eye contact with a snort. He drinks from the proffered canteen, slow and needy, and does not say thank you. It’s one thing to be buck naked in similar company, but it’s another entirely to go it alone – and the marshal stubbornly refuses to give in to modesty. He will be naked and he will like it.

”Your wolf agree with that tall tale of yours?” Nate wipes a drip of water from his chin with a thumb, and sucks the moisture from his finger. ”’cause mine sure as hell doesn’t. Or can’t you feel it?” Oh, Nathaniel Hart might be a bit of a liar – might be willing to lead the man on to prove his point, of which he’s certain – but stretching the truth never sent a man to hell. It’s the condemning thoughts that lurk in his head regarding just how he’d like to prove it to the bounty hunter that have a thing like eternal damnation covered. Lies don’t even factor in. ”My wolf thinks it owns you.” Earlier words had been stayed to save his own skin, but there’s only so many insults a man can stand; and where Logan’s authoritative demeanor may have bent him beneath the light of the moon, with the sun on his back (and no mind towards copulation), the marshal stands firm.

He scratches at the side of his nose; sniffs in a lengthy pause. ”And with the way you keep makin’ eyes at me,” Nate shifts his weight; plants his feet like he’s got nothing to hide. Because he’s not naked – he’s got a hat. ”I’d say I’m not the one head-over-heels. So maybe your story’s a bit backwards, if you read me.” Caution is thrown to the wind because there’s something about the feel of the other man’s gaze on him, the sense of calm control that radiates warm from his wolf, which lends itself to an easy confidence. ”But if you’re done mooning, I’ll take your coat to make up for it.” Nate holds out his hand expectantly, and matches that cocksure grin measure for measure.

With enough time, he figures he could talk the man back out of his trousers, too. It just wouldn’t be with the intent of putting them on.

And though his wolf is sending him signals, low growls and a prevailing itch that demand he punish the man for – for impudence, apparently – Nathan drops the subject. There are worse things than allowing a man to think he’s won an argument, particularly when the other option is to burn up in the desert sun. The lawman eyes the bay mare warily but accepts the reins with a brush of hands – because he does not trust horses, and he trusts Logan about as far as he can throw him – before shooting the gunman a narrow-eyed gaze.

”I might have learned me a thing or two about accepting rides from strangers.” A tongue drags slow across lips, and he hoists himself up gingerly. ”And if this horse so much as bucks, Lord help me, I will end you.”

And so they ride. Or Nate does, uncomfortably and with the good, stubborn sense not to show it. It is a longer trek to return his camp; they circle back around to the hanged man and start again from scratch, following tracks in the dust and the marshal’s instinctive sense of direction, born from his wolf. He may not know how far he rambled on all fours, but the animal does, and it has the good sense – now, at least, with his prize beside him – to return him home. The sight of his horse picking its way amongst the brush may be the most welcome thing the marshal’s seen in a week.

Nate dismounts without a word – though maybe a bit to obvious in his eagerness – and stumbles straight for his pack. A glance over his shoulder assures him that Logan hasn’t simply run off (though why he’s concerned over that, he doesn’t even bother to question), and tugs his pants upwards pointedly. ”You, uh – you still after Ned, then?” Distracting, idle conversation to draw in a man who’s liable to slip away. He shrugs on his shirt, buttons it clumsily. ”Figure we must be on the same trail.” Or had lost the same trail, but he won’t admit to that, even if it’s true for both of them. Nathan replaces the dead man’s hat with his own and turns in place.

”Two men’re better than one, is what I’m thinking, and I’ve got no interest in the bounty.” The marshal pretends it’s for logical, innocent reasons. That Ned has men with him, too many to take on by himself. That Logan may have had better luck picking up the trail. ”You interested?” And he fixes the gunman with a hard stare – one that can’t stand up in the force of the smug grin that grows to replace it.

”'cause I’ve never had a deputy.”

No sense, that Nathaniel Hart. None at all.

When the back of his neck flushes red and hot, Logan blames it on his temper. The marshal is talking big and bad and there is no way in hell that any of it is true. But there is a responding thrill and a longing pang that hits the hunter square in his gut and he wisely decides to drop the argument. ”Ain’t no one here that has things backwards but you – and your goddamned wolf.” Despite his grumbling words, Logan obliges and tosses the lawman his duster. It would serve him well to cover up temptation, because Lord knows Logan Duvall isn’t one for moderation – even when the object of said temptation is currently rubbing him the wrong way (in all the right ways).

The low smolder sticks to his gut and Logan can’t shake that flustered feeling. It helps when he does not look at the lawman and so he trains his attention into the Nevadan desert. ”I knew you’d be feeling me for days,” he delivers with cool satisfaction and a cocksure smirk. Fortunately for the lawman, the old mare provides a smooth ride but Logan does not say as much. Together they make for Nathan’s campsite and Logan pretends he is tagging along out of the goodness of his heart. He chooses to ignore the niggling sensation that rings of both curiosity and need weighing at the back of his mind, a need that dictates he stay close to this man.

”Yup.” Logan gives a simple affirmation as he moseys through the campsite, taking stock of the area. ”Would explain why our wolves bumped noses last night.” It is a better explanation than a bloodless, woundless fight and a more palatable one than two dogs rutting under the moonlight. Logan swallows, rubs at his neck, and wills his wolf down because the animal is jumping at the thought. His beast has always been a hungry, gluttonous thing, but this is different and Logan knows why but he’ll continue to pretend like he doesn’t. He steals a glance towards the dressing marshal. ”No interest in the bounty,” Logan deadpans like he can’t believe it.

”You’re that desperate to keep me around, huh?” Bravado is an easy excuse to hide behind and helps him ignore the embarrassing bloom of victory that sprouts in his chest. Logan runs his boot over the sand and sends a squint towards the horizon. ”Ned’s been giving me the slip for a good long while,” he admits with an edge of frustration. ”I figure he has no chance with two dogs on his trail.” Ned Wallace is a blight on society, one that Logan wants nothing more than to snuff out. Working alone is a method born out of habit and ego, but a change in plans has been long overdue.

The hunter pivots on the heel of his boot to face the lawman, and looks out from under the brim of his hat with narrowed eyes. ”Now, I sure as hell ain’t going to be your deputy,” he swaggers towards the marshal with languid steps, ”But I reckon you can call me partner.” Logan extends his hand with a brazen, lopsided grin. Once they shake on their new arrangement, the hunter turns to his horse and mounts it. The old mare fidgets like she is ready to get out of this particular patch of desert.

”There’s a homestead not far from here. We could ask around, hole up there for the day. Might catch wind of Ned or his men, if we’re lucky.” Logan leaves out the part where he is sore as all hell and wants nothing more than an actual bed to sleep in. ”That’s where I’m headed, unless you got any better ideas, partner.”

Under the Nevadan desert’s morning sun, Logan Duvall grins like he’s just won the lottery. Feels like it, too.