Chapter Text
He came from the west, riding towards the rising sun. Between his broad brimmed hat and the sun faded red bandanna, little of his face could be seen. He was more interesting than cattle though, and so the ranch hands watched him as he made his way along the trail.
He was slumped in his saddle, clothes wrinkled and dusty. He held the reins of his mare loosely in his hands, barely seeming to give any direction. The mare moved at an easy walk, her hide obscured with the same dirt that draped her rider.
A rifle rode in a sling on his right, and the well worn grip of a pistol protruded from a belt holster. A bedroll was rolled up and tied behind his saddle, and a pair of saddlebags bulged.
“Know him?” one hand asked another.
“Could be anyone,” was the reply.
Beneath the bandanna that kept the dust from his lungs, Steve smiled. Maybe he'd stay a while.
He'd ridden north to south, border to border. He'd ridden east to west, sea to shining sea. But in all his travels, of his time spent in each and every state, he had never been back to Texas.
Until now.
Out in the wilderness, borders were just lines on a map, they weren't substantial, barely existed. But the second he set foot on Texan soil, he knew.
Oh, how well he knew.
“Remember the Alamo,” had been their battle cry. Smoke and cordite had filled the air along with the screams of the dying. By the time the battle was done, the ochre soil was red with blood.
Memories he had blocked out had come swarming back, and even now they hovered on the edge of his mind, itching for full recollection.
He shifted his weight in the saddle, feeling the pull of the scar tissue under his shirt. He should have been dead when he crawled away from the battlefield. Age should have killed him, or a stray bullet from one of the killers he hunted.
And yet he still lived, and this was his homecoming.
From his left, down an offshoot of the main path came the sound of galloping hooves. Two young men like night and day raced past him without a glance, carolling wildly into the wind.
A homestead or ranch, he would assume.
The main track would onwards across the plains and Steve let his mind wander and drift in his memories of the past. Not on the bad times, but the good. He was a gun-slinger, a vigilante, but he only ever helped the innocent. He chose when he would draw his gun.
He'd been hearing the rattle of wheels for a while now, but hadn't really registered them until now. The stagecoach thundered past him, the driver standing on the seat, wielding the whip with an expert and deft touch. His, no, her red hair blew back in the wind, and she looked alive.
Some people were just not meant for living in the towns or the cities. Some were meant to roam the land, to feel the wind in their hair, to find out what lay over the horizon.
Steve chuckled raspily, and urged his horse into a canter. Being home again was making him
downright philosophical. Nothing a few shots of whiskey wouldn't cure when he got to the next town.
The church bell sang out through the dry dusty air of the town of Absolution. The name was carved into a piece of wood that hung from the arch that spanned the road.
It wasn't the largest of towns, Steve thought as he passed underneath the arch. Houses lined the street he was on, interspersed with a few stores. The church, sheriffs office, saloon and stables all sat around the crossroads that formed the heart of the town.
The dark haired preacher was standing outside the church, and Steve politely touched the brim of his hat as he rode past.
The stagecoach that had passed him earlier was pulled up outside the saloon and the red head was watering the horses while carrying on a conversation of stares and monosyllables with a blond haired man.
There was something about the cast of his features that suggested to Steve that the man had Indian blood in him, either a parent or a grandparent.
Steve dismounted and dropped his horses reins over the hitching post, feeling his body aching. He untied the bandanna and shook it out before retying it around his throat.
His spurs jingled with each step as his boot heels rapped against the well scarred wood of the steps. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the saloon, and to take in the layout.
It was very like every other saloon. A long bar stretched along the back wall, with a staircase to the upper floor on the right. Everywhere else there were tables.
The place wasn't that full. Four men played cards at one table, a lone man lurked in a shadowy corner. The barman was chatting amicably with a black haired man, a stack of glasses in front of him.
It was quiet, sleepy, peaceful.
Just the place to get to know Texas again.