Sawkill River [Nate]

[Logan]

The sun rises over Bridgewater. It paints the desert sky a bleeding red tinged with orange. Burning colors will eventually fade to cerulean blue and here in Bridgewater, the skies are endless as the ocean. The town is a small one, home to not but a hundred people. Familiar faces and family names are almost as good as gold when it comes to currency, but strangers are not offered any leeway. The town’s lifeblood comes from the pockets of those passing through for supplies, a fresh horse, a good drink and a fine woman.

Faded signs read Saloon, Smithy, General Goods, and Doctor. Down the dusty and compacted road, sits the local jail. The buildings sprung up as the demands of the locals grew, and as such the town is a hodge-podge collection of what they needed then and what they ended up with. The Saloon sees relatively good business because there are always men looking for drink or company, or both. Stanford’s General Store has lasted this long because Bridgewater serves as the only spot of civilization this side of the Copper River. The town lives because the people stay, and they’ll stay as long as the money keeps coming in.

Nothing much happens in Bridgewater, not since the local Lawman did away with the Stanley boys and their penchant for causing a ruckus. When something does happen, the entire town knows about it within the hour. Right now the murmur throughout Bridgewater concerns the recent murder of a young girl. Davis’ daughter, just turned seventeen, was found dead. Her bright red hair was caked with blood, her dress ripped, her inner thighs cut to shreds. The murder itself was a horrible shock, but what had the undersheriff scratching his head, was the fact that the man who committed the crime stuck around the scene.

There were the usual lies. The bastard claimed he didn’t do it, but knew who did. Joseph, the undersheriff, was not about to listen to a fool literally caught red handed. The bloodied knife on the ground that bore the stranger’s name on its hilt was evidence enough. They had a rapist and a murder on their hands, and Joseph was pleased Bridgewater’s gallows would finally see some use.

The supposed murderer sits inside one of the two jail cells, awaiting execution. His cotton shirt is stained with a telling rusty brown and hangs loose at the neck where four gashes that look curiously like claw marks ruin the fabric. His chest bears similar lines but in the mottled red of coagulated blood. The set of his jaw is stern, and his chapped lips form a scowl that manages to etch its way into every line and wrinkle on the man’s face.

Broad shoulders, a thick build, and a naturally pensive expression, along with the disheveled look following a violent scuffle, certainly paint the stranger as a killer. Bridgewater waits in anticipation to see him swing from the noose. It is a fate as inescapable as the iron bars that currently cage him in. He sighs and rests his forearms against cold metal, and leans against the jail door. Grey eyes fall to the desk where the knife bearing the name Duvall on its hilt sits like an accusation.

”This is one hell of a mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, Duvall,” he mutters to himself. ”One hell of a mess.” His eyes slide shut and his forehead presses against one of the metal bars.

Logan thinks with jaded bitterness, End of the line.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Bridgewater wakes with none of its usual indolence. Those men and women up daily with the dawn have a new fervor in their step, a sudden haste in their chores. The rising sun will see a man hanged and justice served; the town is tense with building anticipation, with an eager and vicious sort of excitement that shatters the morning’s peace. The outburst of violence in the otherwise quiet town has its inhabitants out for blood, for retribution for one of their own. Evil deeds will not go unpunished. Davis will see vengeance for his daughter.

The distraction is enough that the arrival of a second stranger nearly goes unnoticed. Outside Stanford’s store is hitched an unfamiliar grey gelding; its rider is nearby, engaged in a heated discussion with the local law enforcement. It is a debate that increases in pitch and petulance as the pair makes their way to the occupied jail, but there is no compromise to be reached on the part of the outsider. He rebuffs Joseph’s complaints, ignores any protests, and into the silence of the jail cuts the sound of two sets of boots and the tail end of an argument.

”—and the county is still my jurisdiction.” The door opens, and beside the frowning undersherriff enters a lean man in a black duster. There is a certain amount of ingrained authority in the casual way he handles himself, in his even-voiced dismissal of the scowling lawman, and it is easily read as arrogance. ”So leave me to it.” Joseph exits with an insolent curl of his lip and a flat stare leveled to the stranger’s back, but the newcomer pays him no mind. He deposits his coat and hat to the desk and lingers until a latched door and fading footfalls signal the deputy’s departure. A calloused thumb runs over the hilt of the knife left on the table, over the inscription carved there. It is only after a thoughtful moment that the man, at last, turns to take stock of his charge.

Against the backdrop of society Nathan appears as a feral creature, possessing the wild look of an individual prone to long stints spent outside civilization. There is a week’s worth of beard gracing his cheeks, a dry grit that speaks of recent hard riding ground into the lines of his face and the folds of his clothing. Upon the man’s chest, obvious and sure, is pinned a circled silver star – but the U.S. Marshal emblazoned there is as much a target as it is a shield. Whether it speaks of his own integrity or corruption has yet to be seen.

”You’re goddamn lucky they didn’t string you up where they found you.” Despite his frown and the irritation that rings as clear as honesty in his voice, the look Nathaniel affords the accused murderer is borderline sympathetic. Curiosity is a driving force, truth a hard-earned reward, and his own sense of justice – one that does not always agree with the glittering bauble fastened to his vest – has allowed his interest to be captured. ”—And lucky that I don’t think any woman,” he nods in indication to Logan’s torn shirt and bloodied chest, ”went and did that to you.”

Nathan pulls a stool close to the bars and settles himself upon it, heels of his boots drawn up and forearms resting lazily on his thighs. He projects an image of patience, of tired serenity, but there is a hard edge to his font of tolerance. ”Deputy says you claim to know the truth of it, but the words of a damned man don’t mean a whole lot.” A shrug; the undersherriff is more than correct, but where Nathan is wary, he is also thorough.

Bridgewater was not meant to be more than a pit stop, a break in the trail to restock and indulge in the rare luxury of a clean bed, but the morning’s chaos has chewed Nathan up and refused to spit him out. He cannot rest until the job is finished. ”So why don’t you go ahead and tell me your side of things.” From a different man the words might simply be obligatory and mocking, his judgment all but made – but from the Marshal’s lips, they fall with only a weary sort of concern.

[Logan]

Logan Duvall is no stranger to fear. He has faced monstrosities that the majority of the world believe restrained to the realm of nightmares and overactive imaginations. The scars on his back are tokens from near-death encounters with skin walkers. A jagged line of white tissue running the length of his abdomen sits as a reminder of the night he was nearly disemboweled. The lesson; pixies, despite their reputation, are not to be trifled with. The newest additions to Logan’s history of violence were inflicted by a beast the hunter considers his specialty.

He was afraid then, during each and every one of those encounters, but Logan had his expertise to fall back on. There were actions he could take, weapons he could use, and as long as he could fight, there was reason to ignore fear. Trapped inside a jail with the verdict of guilty hanging over his head is a battle Logan can make no play in. The dread that weighs heavy in the man’s gut spreads cold through his veins until it poisons his blood with resignation.

Thirty –eight years is a good run, he thinks. At least he won’t leave a child fatherless, he justifies. They are thoughts of a man preparing for the end, and they are interrupted upon the arrival of a traveling lawman.

Grey eyes flick upwards and Logan’s immediate response is an ugly scowl. The law and Logan do not have the best of relationships. They tend to assume too much and they never know enough. Authority breeds corruption and it is in the hunter’s experience that the so-called upholders of law become the most insidious criminals.

A baleful glare leaves the glinting metal pinned to the Marshal’s chest and Logan meets his gaze dead on. ”Well, that makes you the only one with half a brain around these parts.” The gashes torn through the hunter’s chest did not come from human hands; it is an observation the undersheriff failed to make. ”I didn’t kill that girl. I was trying to save her.” The declaration is allowed to stew and Logan watches the Marshal with an assessing eye. ”By the time I found her, she was gone. Dead.” This is said through the gruffness of honest regret. No further explanation is immediately forthcoming; Logan is unsure how to proceed.

Truth amounts to nothing when it is delivered to an unwilling mind. The Marshal might be playing the part of the able listener, but Logan knows as soon as the word werewolf passes from his lips, it’ll be a straight march to the gallows. White lies and vague realities shoved into a palatable size will have to do. ”Marshal, the thing that did this? He ain’t like you and I.” Flashing teeth, rumbling growls, and vicious claws cut fresh into the man’s recollection.

An intrinsic hatred instilled by his father, and his father before him, color Logan’s next words with disdain. ” He’s not thinking. He’s hungry – and it’s a kind of hunger we’ll never understand. The bastard is going to take and take, until someone puts him down.” Terminology is important here; Logan sounds as if he’s talking about nothing more than a rabid dog. ”And you can bet your ass, until that happens, more girls are going to end up dead.”

Logan is certain that the werewolf is nursing his wounds. He managed to land a shot on the animal before his damned revolver jammed and left him with only a knife as defense. He watches the lawman carefully and knows that he is in no position to barter, but a rope hangs from the gallows with his name on it. Logan has nothing to lose. ”I know you ain’t got no reason to believe me, but that’s the truth of it.” He grips the iron bars and inclines his chin in subtle challenge. ”Now, Marshal, ask yourself – are you willing to let this backwater town lynch your only hope of tracking the real killer down? If you are, I’m gonna have to take back the half a brain comment, cause you ain’t got none.”

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Not a soul in Bridgewater has seen fit to give the Marshal anything resembling a warm welcome, and Nathaniel Hart feels close to foolish for having expected otherwise here. This is yet a jail; its prisoner is yet a criminal. That he has come as the only sympathetic ear the bastard is like to find is a kindness he nearly regrets extending, and when that withering stare meets his patient gaze, Nathan can do little else but sigh. He shifts upon his perch with some measure of resignation, all but prepared to have his morning wasted for the mistake of his nagging suspicion and one stubborn man’s scorn.

For his part, Nate thinks he understands. The badge shining bright upon his chest is no guarantee, and he is more than familiar with the dishonesty of his ilk – and more than used to sour receptions. Routine defenses crop up like weeds and though the Marshal holds the accused man’s eyes, it is not until the conversation breaches into new and unexpected territory that he shows a sign of genuine belief. A tongue runs over his lower lip, his posture stiff; Nathan absorbs the information with a coldly analytical air.

What slips between the cracks in Logan’s words is a language neither man knows the other speaks, and implication has the lawman riveted. His eyes draw again across the marks carved into the prisoner’s chest, and though a piece of him urges to just walk away – to let an innocent man hang for the suspicion that he knows, for the danger that awareness implies for Nathan – his own arrogance cannot, will not, succumb to self-doubt.

Paranoia is an ingrained survival instinct, but in the end it is trumped by a troublesome and wholly human sense of honor – and emphasized by an animal’s territoriality.

”He’s mad, then. Crazy,” Nathan questions, testing the word for an agreeable half-truth with narrowed eyes. The Marshal has met those men found wandering in the hills, those poor souls cast out and lost from civilization, and he has seen the horrors inflicted upon their minds. For now, the concept provides a safe disguise for the possibility of a darker reality. ”Makes things mighty difficult.” A work-worn hand scrubs across his face. Spinning this into some measure of reasonable doubt for the townsfolk will be hard enough without evidence, and he does not relish the task.

Rising, Nathan steps to the desk and leaves his revolver atop it, returning to the occupied cell with a set of keys and a threatening stare. ”Insulting the only man ready to listen to you ain’t the wisest move,” he drawls, pausing outside the bars. The challenge sticks and sees a subtle curl of his lip for its success, but it has the Marshal’s hackles up and his nerves on edge. ”Get against the wall. Arms behind your back.” He nods in indication, and only enters once the man complies. ”Heaven help me, if you so much as move, I will not think twice about gutting you.” Trust is not a concept Nathan is familiar with, not without hard facts to rely upon, and he makes short work of hitching the captive’s hands up behind him.

”Sit tight,” he instructs, locking the gate as he exits. Blue eyes roll towards the door; handling the undersheriff’s disapproval will not be the highlight of his day, and he grimaces before taking to the task. It is an agonizing set of minutes before Nathan returns, henpecked and haggard and feeling all but through with this little dose of civilization – but seemingly victorious in his cause.

”Right, Duvall. You’n me, we’re gonna take a little ride, see if your story checks out.” The Marshal retrieves his revolver, slips into his coat, and stows Logan’s knife before unlatching the cell door. Caution and mistrust mark his body language, his hard expression – like the other man is little more than a half-tame dog, and he will not risk a bite. ”Things line up, you win your hands back. You start acting dicey, well.” Nathan rolls his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. ”You won’t have to worry about that lynch mob anymore.”

[Logan]

”Crazy. That’s a word for it.” Logan cannot disguise the distaste that seeps into his voice. The burn clawed into his chest only fuels the man’s anger. Animals parading around as men have no business living in or near civilized societies. Calling Bridgewater civilized might be overly generous, but Logan cannot leave the gentlefolk at a beast’s mercy. A hunter’s calling is not easily dismissed; he was born and bred into the chase and Logan has seen firsthand what those monsters are capable of.

Grey eyes follow the Marshall’s movements in the way of a wary hound. Distrust is a natural sentiment when one man is caged and the other holds the key, but there is more to it than that. Authority is a concept Logan has never dealt with well unless the figure in charge bore the name of John Duvall. ”I apologize,” he drawls and brazenly holds the lawman’s gaze, ”If the truth offends you.” It is a barb the hunter immediately regrets but he does not let it show. Logan holds his ground even behind the metal bars, and he stands with a proud bearing.

It is to the hunter’s fortune, that the lawman does not prove to be of the petty sort. The Marshall takes Logan’s prickly nature in stride, which the hunter should be grateful for. Should does not translate into is until Nathan gives his order, and indication that he may have listened. Logan takes a moment in which he sizes the other man up, gaze moving from boot to eyes in a show of guarded skepticism. ”If that’s what you’re into.” The smirk that curls at the corner of Logan’s mouth is sharp and lacks humor. He pushes away from the jail door and ambles his way to the wall. ”Who am I to judge.”

The hunter realizes he is winning no friends here but that was never his intent. As long as the job gets done and as long as he avoids an unwarranted lynching, Logan will call the day a success. Rope irritates at his skin where the Marshall tightens the bindings and Logan mutters, ”Like I have a choice,” as Nathan leaves to deal with the undersheriff.

His back hits a wall with enough force to elicit a grunt. Logan is a patient man but that does not mean he enjoys waiting, particularly when it’s his life on the line. A sidelong look lingers on the doorway and the man tests the integrity of his binds. The rope gives nothing and he is left to count the minutes until Nathan’s return.

Logan is mulling over the wolf’s whereabouts when the lawman steps back into the room. ”You convinced that bastard to let me out? Marshall, you must have a way with words.” The statement teeters between compliment and accusation. ”Better a bullet in the head than a rope around the neck,” he comments bitterly and makes the wise decision to behave. ”Right, right. You’re in charge. I’m just the guy who’s capable of tracking the real killer down.” Behaving, it appears, does not mean extinguishing the sarcasm.

Outside Logan is met with the baleful glares of the locals. He keeps his eyes trained forward and says nothing until they are mounted on their respective horses. ”I think we’d do well in starting from the scene of the crime.” The lead from Logan’s gelding is under Nathan’s control. It is the Marshall who dictates the direction, speed, and path they will take. ”I know he couldn’t have gotten far – I shot the mongrel right good. Last I saw, he was limping something awful.”

Behind Bridgewater’s chapel and locked behind disturbed brush, the sand is rusted with a girl’s blood. There are the typical signs of a struggle; a story written within the lines etched into the earth. Logan is silent as he regards the scene, now much more readable thanks to daylight. Amongst the still chaos there are the footprints of various desert animals. Foxes, coyotes and bobcat have all come during the night to investigate the smell of blood. The hunter pays these markings no heed. He focuses in on the obscenely large prints disappearing towards the incline of a hill.

There, at the top, is an outcropping of shaded rock. Logan thinks, eureka, and sends a look over his shoulder at the lawman. ”Up there.” The hunter motions with a jerk of his head. ”He’s hiding in those rocks – I’m sure of it.” Logan struggles to get into the saddle again and waits for Nathan to get the horses moving. As they make their way upwards, more signs emerge. Blood spots paint rock and dried grass. More prints that are doglike but far too large pop up in the sand.

”Best get that gun of yours ready, Marshall,” Logan warns as they near the natural structure. ”A cornered w—” a pause as he catches himself, ” – crazy person…is a dangerous one.” The dark shadow cast from jagged stone gives nothing away to human senses but Logan chooses to run on instinct. A natural fight or flight reaction has adrenaline seeping into his veins; his heartbeat picks up fractionally and he licks his lips in anticipation.

Logan will never admit to the thrill he achieves from the hunt. That would place him too close to the animals he has vowed to put down.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

”Convinced is the polite term,” the Marshal drawls beneath his breath as he adjusts his hat, and the pair steps into blazing morning sunlight. ”Way with words will do.” Thinly veiled threats and more blatant reminders as to his station in comparison to a certain undersheriff had worked well enough, and he is hardly above muscling his way into a position of authority by subversive means. He will have to deal with the man’s wounded pride later – and worse should his charge’s promises not prove sincere – but for the moment, Nathaniel clings to stubborn hope.

Regardless of the outcome, Bridgewater will have little love for one Marshal Hart. If it spares an innocent man the noose, he supposes the trouble will have been worth it.

Despite their uneasy dance of bristling and posturing, Nate helps his cantankerous companion into his saddle, and says little as they take to the desert just outside town. The man’s face is stern and impassive, blue eyes locked in silent consternation upon the scene written across the ground; it is an unpleasantly grisly sight, but it is the smell that chills the blood in his veins. Curiosity had lead to questions that morning, and questions had lead to suspicion – a worry amplified by Duvall’s state, by his take on the story. The iron scent of blood mingles with a darker odor that only Nathan can recognize between them, but it has the horses anxious and wild-eyed.

A level gaze follows Logan’s lead. ”You’d best be,” the Marshal replies doubtfully, but at the prompting he does not hesitate to run his hand over the revolver at his side. Whatever appearances he must maintain regarding knowledge and secrets will matter less in the next few moments, but a niggling paranoia and intense mistrust keeps him in check. ”Let’s hope you got him good.” Nathan is well aware of the dangers; it is how to approach the situation that he cannot grasp.

He does not often deal in his own kind. He neither hunts them nor actively seeks out their company; if anything, Nathaniel Hart eschews the companionship of his kin with an unconscious drive, a human need to distance himself from that half labeled monster. It has the unfortunate side-effect of leaving him remarkably flat-footed regarding this encounter, despite his supposed knowledge – it is not a disadvantage that shows, not in the steady grip on his Colt or in the resolute grit of his teeth, but he can feel that flicker of uncertainty flare up in his gut.

The animal beneath him balks and refuses to climb any further; with a muffled curse the man dismounts, and his horse backs several feet down the hillside before coming to a stop. They will be on foot from here on, and in stubborn acquiescence to the trouble Nathan rummages in his pack for Logan’s knife and, at last, cuts the other man free. The Marshal is a man of his word, or so it would appear. ”Don’t make me regret this.” The knife and a second revolver are handed off, accompanied by a stern glance. ”You got one shot, Duvall. I’m trusting you’re smart enough to not waste it on me – so make it count.”

The other man may not be intelligent enough to quit running his mouth when his life is on the line, but Nathan has met worse men. The heavy musk of wolf on the air as they ascend is more than enough confirmation for Logan’s tall tale, and that lends some small credit to the hunter’s nature. At the very least, he has faith that their quarry will be higher priority than his own head.

Rock crumbles away beneath his foot and Nathan reaches out for balance, stone clattering down the hillside behind them; from within the overhanging shadows a rumble sounds, and with its utterance his last hope that they would find a man – dead or wounded, either would suffice – tumbles away just as surely. A warning cry builds and dies on Nathan’s lips as something moves in the darkness. Whether the creature’s mind is gone or it simply remained to nurse its wounds is irrelevant. What matters is that the animal is well aware of their presence – and that despite the garish wound carved along its flank, despite the exhaustion and fear that must run bone-deep, it flashes from its hide with all the speed and confidence of a predator that knows no equal.

”Get down—” comes the barked command, one far too rational for their situation to have come as a strict surprise.

Nathan sidesteps the wolf’s rush with an easy fluidity; though it leaves him off balance and stumbling, he raises his revolver. Duvall is the remembered threat, Duvall is the target out of fear and an animal’s take on vengeance, but it is the thunderous report of the Marshal’s Peacemaker that will first echo down the valley.