many a slip twixt the cup and the lip [2/2]
fic: many a slip twixt the cup and the lip (AU; Pete/Patrick) 2/2
Rating: PG-13
For
patrickxpeter Historical Ficathon: Time Period # 1: Wild West, dirty, gritty, Young Guns style for 
shadow_shimmer. Many thanks to gamblore for the rapid read-through and the hand-holding. Also, I apologise for this being late. Drinking and shootouts and very very slight slashiness ahead.
Part 1
It was Andy who spotted the Pinkerton man late one summer night, near the fourth month or so of Patrick's content life at the Black Underdog. Up until that point, Patrick lived a sort of comfortable existence: he would sleep until about a hair past twelve, waking up to listen to Pete's discontent rustlings down the hall. He would hear the girls in their rooms, muttering at each other about mysterious lady-happenings that Patrick never ventured to understand. The girls were real nice, but they were girls, first and foremost; they made him more nervous than as if someone had taken away his gun to hide it.
To be sure, he was almost as flustered around them as he was around Pete, but at least Greta and Jill and the others were sweethearts and didn't stare at him until he felt like running out back and stretching out under the pump so he could cool the burn of his skin. Pete would grin through Patrick's internal cussing of his fair skin, blaming it on the warmth of the rooms, what with all the bodies stuffed in there to drink up and watch him accompany Greta.
After Patrick arose in the afternoon, before eating something Charlie had banged up, he would take the Umberto out of the sling and inspect it carefully. His father had loved this gun because it was so subtly different from other wheel-guns. The grip was designed to fit lower in the palm, so that he could cock it easier. 'Course, Patrick hadn't been taught on this gun. He'd been trained on a few others before his father had been satisfied to let him have at the Umberto Bisley...and it had been his favourite since.
After he'd made sure that the Umberto was in proper running order, he'd go down and help out around the place. Usually something needed to be nailed down; Pete had a crazy little corral out back that Joe would spend time in, knotting his lariat with quick efficient moves...maybe to try lassoing Patrick.
Pete found the action of attempting to rope Patrick darkly amusing. Patrick thought he might shoot one or the other of them pretty soon.
When he'd finally finish with outside, always with his hat on, he'd saunter back into the coolness of the bar, to start some rehearsals with the girls. Pete had thought that rehearsals were a laughable waste of time and had told Patrick this very snidely. Patrick had thought that it would have made into a fine argument between the both of them, feeling his temper build up at the time; he had squashed it down, not knowing what he could do when he let his emotions take him over. He'd managed to convince Pete that practice made perfect, after all; the better they were, the more inclined people were to return and stay.
When a body explained things in terms of profits to Pete, they always got their way.
Tonight was a fair night, too. The mood was running sweet like the bourbon and there had been only four fights so far, one so close to him that when a man had landed right beside his piano-stool, he had reached out one booted foot and rolled him away so that the girls wouldn't stomp on him. He had missed a couple of notes for that, but it was fine. He always wondered by what criteria Pete allowed fights: sometimes Pete would go on serving, grinning as the punches flew. At other times, through a subtle signal, both Pete and Joe would head out to the floor, wade right into the fray and drag the men out.
When Andy strolled past Patrick casually and murmured, "They've got eyes here that shouldn't see," Patrick had stiffened on his seat and did an admirable job of not faltering, even though Greta shot him a look of concern. He grinned at her reassuringly and played as hard as he could. When they had a little break, Patrick left the piano for the first time since he had been here and went to the bar.
Pete raised one eyebrow at Patrick shouldering his way between two rough-hewn men, but said nothing as he slid a bottle over. Patrick took a long swig and looked around, spotting the Pinkerton man almost immediately. He was a small, neat fellow nearly in the back, a pair of wire-framed glasses set on his unassuming face. Patrick turned back to the bar, not surprised to see Pete standing right in front of him.
"I see you got a man on your trail," Pete pointed out and Patrick shot him a look that might have been withering had it not been full of a deep fear. "Think he's here to take you in?"
"I wouldn't know," Patrick said, and considered another bracing mouthful of the sharp rye. He decided against it. "Would you turn me over?"
Pete's stare was formidable; Patrick actually squirmed under it.
"No," he finally replied. His voice was gentle in a way that Patrick never heard before, almost inaudible; usually Pete was yelling hoarsely at everyone. "I wouldn't do that to you. Nor to me."
His gaze was fixed on Patrick's, who couldn't think about anything other than how the colour of Pete’s eyes was very nearly the same as the bourbon bottles he served. Then Pete's gaze shifted to a point behind Patrick, breaking whatever hold he had on inflicted and his lips tightened.
"Watch out now," he murmured, right before the Pinkerton man settled himself beside Patrick.
Pete smiled expansively; Patrick noticed that his eyes were hard.
"What'll you have?" he asked and the Pinkerton man gave Patrick a sidelong look before ordering whiskey. Pete served him with equanimity and did something unheard of: he stayed in the same spot, right in front of Patrick and his unwanted companion. Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick could see Charlie throw them a hurried glance before continuing to serve. Pete folded his arms over his chest and regarded them both.
"Nice playing," the Pinkerton man said in an off-hand manner. Patrick nodded at his own bottle. "Where'd you learn to tickle those ivories?"
"All over the place," Patrick said, gripping the bottle tightly. The Pinkerton man nodded.
"Funny. You play like someone I've been looking for. Son of a sheriff from a town far from here." The Pinkerton man looked thoughtful. "People said he killed a whole bunch of innocent people because of his pa. Corrupt man he was, too, I would say."
Patrick tried to keep his breathing slow and steady. The man was trying to goad him, no doubt about that, because Patrick never shot at innocents; at least, as long as they kept out of his line of fire. He flicked his eyes up from their fixed gaze on the bottle and latched on almost desperately to Pete's face, feeling himself relax as Pete's mouth quirked up in a slight smile.
"I heard 'bout that," Pete put in, his tone light, not moving his eyes from Patrick's. "Heard tell that those innocents were a gang of thieving, raping bastards that tried to run their way through the town...and when they tried to rid themselves of one hurdle, they got saddled with another. Shot them near to bits, so I hear." He finally looked at the man, smiling perilously.
The Pinkerton man shrugged.
"I don't know the story so well," he said. "All I know is that I was hired for a search. And I think my search is over."
Pete gave his skewering grin to the man and leaned forward a bit.
"A few other things might be over if you don't get the hell out. I'll tell you what, too: I don't like conversing too much, unless I'm telling you with buckshot."
"You threaten easily," the Pinkerton man bristled and Pete actually laughed, tilting his head back. Patrick watched the tanned line of his throat with bemusement.
"I shoot easier. Why are you still here?"
They both watched the Pinkerton man thump his bottle down hurriedly and throw few coins on the bar-surface. Patrick released the breath he didn't realise he had been holding as the man exited.
"What now?" he asked, suddenly feeling bone-tired. "You know Bossman Kane is probably only a few days away. Three, tops. So maybe if I leave now--"
"You have a piano to play," Pete said abruptly, pulling the bottle out of Patrick's hand. He looked a little exasperated. "You live here. Why would you leave?"
"I don't want to put you all in any danger. It might be better that way." Patrick looked down at his fingers, lacing them together, pale against the deep-brown of the bar-surface. He could barely hear Pete's sigh over the excited babbling of the crowd.
"Go play," he said, before Patrick could formulate any other argument. "The crowd's getting restless. And this argument is over."
"I might just run away in the night," Patrick threatened, but there was no heat behind it. Pete wanted him to stay; that was enough. Pete rolled his eyes and slid another bottle down the bar to a waiting patron.
"I'll just make Joe rope you to the piano," he said archly and Patrick actually found himself laughing as he went back to the piano.
*
Patrick watched Andy unfurl his whip and give it a testing snap, wrist turning with rattlesnake ease. The girls had been sent away, Greta cursing at Pete as he stuffed her in the coach with the others. She yelled at them through the small window, reaching for Patrick's waving hand before he could step back and grasping onto it.
"Promise me we'll find you when we come back," she'd demanded, holding on so that Patrick had to jog a little beside the moving carriage. She gave it a painful squeeze. "I've always wanted me a brother like you, so you better be here when I come back. Pete, I'll kill you if you die!"
"Get gone!" Pete had hollered over Patrick's awkward promises. "Drive them out of here, Charlie."
Now Patrick wished the girls had stayed, if only to allay the deep dark sensation in the pit of his stomach. They were seated complacently in front of the bar, on the narrow raised patio, Pete sitting with his shotgun perched in his lap.
"A whip isn't much against a bullet," Joe observed and Andy snapped his hat off, neat as a pin. "Hey!"
"It's good enough when the gun isn't in your hand anymore," Andy smirked and Patrick felt the heavy feeling shift and break a little.
"Why would you all stay here with me?" he said low to Pete as Joe glared and went for his hat; Pete let out a long-suffering sigh.
"Why wouldn't we?"
It was usually the waiting that was always the worst part for Patrick; he remembered sitting so still to ambush the Low River gang and his impatience, fuelled by fury, had nearly undone his whole plan. He had sworn that starlit night, as he watched the line of murderers filter into their little hideaway, that he heard his father whisper one of the first things he ever taught his youngest son: Patience, Patrick. It can be that one thing that decides whether you live or die. You'll know the right time and when you find it, that's when you stop thinking and start acting.
Now, as Joe and Andy slunk into the shadows of a nearby storehouse and the entire place was silent, anticipating, many of the townspeople hiding behind closed shutters, unsupportive of the bar they frequented. Patrick waited.
He felt so much calmer, since this time, he wasn't waiting alone.
*
Pete felt like laughing out loud as Bossman Kane rode up with the bunch of hoodlums; he thought the Bossman would be a massive man, too much for any horse. Instead, he was as short as Pete and a lot fatter, his face red with the strain of riding too far and too fast. Sometimes, Pete decided, revenge was not really a worthy thing.
"Well, here we are!" Kane called with false cheer and Pete made a quick count of his twenty men, obviously low-life types willing to go gun-running for a price. Pete was the type of man who could measure up odds and come to a surprisingly quick and accurate conclusion, which was why he didn't play any card-games; people always assumed he cheated. He tried to stop himself from grinning too wide, because these were odds he could have taken a fair bet on. Apparently, Kane thought he could manage Patrick and his friends with just this amount of men.
"So we see," he answered in a level voice, but there was a thread of amusement in it that caused Patrick to shoot him a quelling glare. "And how about if you turn around and head back out? I have a business to run."
"My business is with the young man, there." Kane slid off his horse and his men followed suit, slapping their horses out of the way. "I have no argument with you."
"You have business with him, you have business with me," Pete replied. "And as far as he tells it, you're all even. So why are you here?"
"We're not even," Kane hissed, losing his calm even as he unbuttoned his vest to reveal a very fancy gun-belt, tooled smooth leather. "Near all of my men! Four of them-four!- were my brothers."
"My father and my two brothers were worth much more than that," Patrick finally spoke up, not moving on the piano-stool he had lugged out of the bar; the chill in his voice sent a shiver down Pete's spine. "I'm glad you brought more men for me to balance it out. Although I don't shoot anybody in the back, the way you did my kin."
"If I have my way today--" Kane started and then pulled without warning. Sonafabitch, Pete thought, tumbling out of his perch and onto his back, aiming from his awkward position. Beside him, he could see Patrick rising casually; and the Umberto was roaring.
Patrick really didn't miss. Also, Pete noted, he must have been taught tactical manoeuvres by his father, because he aimed for Kane first. Patrick was holding the Umberto with his left hand, something that delighted Pete even as he rolled and dived away from the line of fire. Patrick simply weaved and stepped, quickly cocking back the hammer with his right hand for every shot.
If Pete wasn't in the middle of dispatching men, he would have stopped to gawk at Patrick.
Patrick's first slug found its way into Kane's large soft belly and the man doubled over, his pearl-handled gun slipping in his grasp. Patrick then proceeded to ignore the dying man completely, taking out the eye of the man to his left and hesitating only for a split-second before shattering the kneecap of a too-young man on Kane's left-hand side. He bent and grabbed Pete by the ankle, dragging him backwards into the saloon as Pete still fired the scatter-shot from his rifle. Before they went in, they heard gunfire coming from behind the group of hoodlums; Patrick may have had qualms about shooting men in the back but Andy, even for a medicinal type of person, had no such misgivings. Joe probably wasn't aiming to kill, but he was aiming and he was firing and that was all Patrick asked for.
"Get down," he said to Pete, kneeling and peering out of one tall window to snap out the four remaining shots in the wheel of the Umberto. He retreated to reload, slumping with his back to the thick wooden walls and Pete took his up his own aim at the window left open for this very purpose, laughing like a hyena.
"I declare, I've never had so much fun in a long time," he chortled; Patrick rolled his eyes and leaned back out beside him; Patrick didn't really have good vision, but it never seemed to matter with him when he was firing; his father had always claimed that Patrick seemed to have a sixth sense as to where his targets where standing.
Pete grunted and lurched backwards, catching a ricochet in his shoulder. Patrick followed the now-scattering line of men caught in the cross-fire with his eyes, emptying the Umberto once gain, not wasting a shot.
Patience, his father whispered in the back of his mind as his left-trigger finger curled over and over, the palm of his right hand burning from rocking back the hammer so fast. Don't let the gun rule you. Control it...don't forget to breathe. Remember each breath might be your last.
A few were scampering away, dodging past Andy and Joe's spot. Andy decided to have a little fun while he was at it and his whip whistled out and snapped right-quick around a man's dirty neck; when another raised his gun in their direction, the whip unfurled so smoothly and snatched the gun away like the hand of a ghost. Patrick could hear Joe's high laughter from where he sat, thumbing more bullets into his gun.
"You alright?" he yelled at Pete, who had his hand clamped over his shoulder, blood dribbling crimson between his tanned fingers. Pete grimaced, lying on the ground, but he nodded.
"I'll live."
Patrick gave him a quick look and then listened carefully as a hush fell. The silence was almost too loud after this thunder of the guns and then he heard Joe whooping in glee. He was probably out there lassoing the survivors together. The Umberto was hot in his hands and for the first time since his father had died, Patrick felt he could put it to one side and not have to look at it again.
"Goddamn!" Pete yelled, struggling to sit up. "Oh, that's what I'm talking about. Help me up...stop looking at me like you're gonna cry. You only shot twelve men, Patrick...you're losing your touch."
"Oh, shut up," Patrick said, putting aside his gun so he could help Pete. In the heat of the moment, or because he was feeling glad that Pete was still around to gripe at him, he made some sort of mistake and kissed Pete right on the mouth. Pete didn't look too shocked; as a matter of fact, he looked sort of pleased.
"What the hell are you doing?" he said with a gleam in his eye. "I'm not Greta, or anything. And you're going to have to stay here and work off all them bullet-holes in my walls. For a very, very long time."
"I'm not too sure if it matters if you're Greta or not," Patrick muttered, pressing in the wound with the flat of his hand. Pete's hand rested on his own.
"Between you and me, it doesn't matter," Pete murmured. "Although, between me, you and that gun, we can make it not matter to anybody else."
"This from the man who talks like a tornado and aims like a fish," Patrick said and tried to laugh as Pete's rough mouth pressed his again.
fin
A/N: Information on six-shooters taken from an article inPopular Mechanics; Information on the Pinkerton men found in this wikipedia article (I know, I know...); and information on lassoing found here
Rating: PG-13
For
patrickxpeter Historical Ficathon: Time Period # 1: Wild West, dirty, gritty, Young Guns style for shadow_shimmer. Many thanks to gamblore for the rapid read-through and the hand-holding. Also, I apologise for this being late. Drinking and shootouts and very very slight slashiness ahead.Part 1
It was Andy who spotted the Pinkerton man late one summer night, near the fourth month or so of Patrick's content life at the Black Underdog. Up until that point, Patrick lived a sort of comfortable existence: he would sleep until about a hair past twelve, waking up to listen to Pete's discontent rustlings down the hall. He would hear the girls in their rooms, muttering at each other about mysterious lady-happenings that Patrick never ventured to understand. The girls were real nice, but they were girls, first and foremost; they made him more nervous than as if someone had taken away his gun to hide it.
To be sure, he was almost as flustered around them as he was around Pete, but at least Greta and Jill and the others were sweethearts and didn't stare at him until he felt like running out back and stretching out under the pump so he could cool the burn of his skin. Pete would grin through Patrick's internal cussing of his fair skin, blaming it on the warmth of the rooms, what with all the bodies stuffed in there to drink up and watch him accompany Greta.
After Patrick arose in the afternoon, before eating something Charlie had banged up, he would take the Umberto out of the sling and inspect it carefully. His father had loved this gun because it was so subtly different from other wheel-guns. The grip was designed to fit lower in the palm, so that he could cock it easier. 'Course, Patrick hadn't been taught on this gun. He'd been trained on a few others before his father had been satisfied to let him have at the Umberto Bisley...and it had been his favourite since.
After he'd made sure that the Umberto was in proper running order, he'd go down and help out around the place. Usually something needed to be nailed down; Pete had a crazy little corral out back that Joe would spend time in, knotting his lariat with quick efficient moves...maybe to try lassoing Patrick.
Pete found the action of attempting to rope Patrick darkly amusing. Patrick thought he might shoot one or the other of them pretty soon.
When he'd finally finish with outside, always with his hat on, he'd saunter back into the coolness of the bar, to start some rehearsals with the girls. Pete had thought that rehearsals were a laughable waste of time and had told Patrick this very snidely. Patrick had thought that it would have made into a fine argument between the both of them, feeling his temper build up at the time; he had squashed it down, not knowing what he could do when he let his emotions take him over. He'd managed to convince Pete that practice made perfect, after all; the better they were, the more inclined people were to return and stay.
When a body explained things in terms of profits to Pete, they always got their way.
Tonight was a fair night, too. The mood was running sweet like the bourbon and there had been only four fights so far, one so close to him that when a man had landed right beside his piano-stool, he had reached out one booted foot and rolled him away so that the girls wouldn't stomp on him. He had missed a couple of notes for that, but it was fine. He always wondered by what criteria Pete allowed fights: sometimes Pete would go on serving, grinning as the punches flew. At other times, through a subtle signal, both Pete and Joe would head out to the floor, wade right into the fray and drag the men out.
When Andy strolled past Patrick casually and murmured, "They've got eyes here that shouldn't see," Patrick had stiffened on his seat and did an admirable job of not faltering, even though Greta shot him a look of concern. He grinned at her reassuringly and played as hard as he could. When they had a little break, Patrick left the piano for the first time since he had been here and went to the bar.
Pete raised one eyebrow at Patrick shouldering his way between two rough-hewn men, but said nothing as he slid a bottle over. Patrick took a long swig and looked around, spotting the Pinkerton man almost immediately. He was a small, neat fellow nearly in the back, a pair of wire-framed glasses set on his unassuming face. Patrick turned back to the bar, not surprised to see Pete standing right in front of him.
"I see you got a man on your trail," Pete pointed out and Patrick shot him a look that might have been withering had it not been full of a deep fear. "Think he's here to take you in?"
"I wouldn't know," Patrick said, and considered another bracing mouthful of the sharp rye. He decided against it. "Would you turn me over?"
Pete's stare was formidable; Patrick actually squirmed under it.
"No," he finally replied. His voice was gentle in a way that Patrick never heard before, almost inaudible; usually Pete was yelling hoarsely at everyone. "I wouldn't do that to you. Nor to me."
His gaze was fixed on Patrick's, who couldn't think about anything other than how the colour of Pete’s eyes was very nearly the same as the bourbon bottles he served. Then Pete's gaze shifted to a point behind Patrick, breaking whatever hold he had on inflicted and his lips tightened.
"Watch out now," he murmured, right before the Pinkerton man settled himself beside Patrick.
Pete smiled expansively; Patrick noticed that his eyes were hard.
"What'll you have?" he asked and the Pinkerton man gave Patrick a sidelong look before ordering whiskey. Pete served him with equanimity and did something unheard of: he stayed in the same spot, right in front of Patrick and his unwanted companion. Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick could see Charlie throw them a hurried glance before continuing to serve. Pete folded his arms over his chest and regarded them both.
"Nice playing," the Pinkerton man said in an off-hand manner. Patrick nodded at his own bottle. "Where'd you learn to tickle those ivories?"
"All over the place," Patrick said, gripping the bottle tightly. The Pinkerton man nodded.
"Funny. You play like someone I've been looking for. Son of a sheriff from a town far from here." The Pinkerton man looked thoughtful. "People said he killed a whole bunch of innocent people because of his pa. Corrupt man he was, too, I would say."
Patrick tried to keep his breathing slow and steady. The man was trying to goad him, no doubt about that, because Patrick never shot at innocents; at least, as long as they kept out of his line of fire. He flicked his eyes up from their fixed gaze on the bottle and latched on almost desperately to Pete's face, feeling himself relax as Pete's mouth quirked up in a slight smile.
"I heard 'bout that," Pete put in, his tone light, not moving his eyes from Patrick's. "Heard tell that those innocents were a gang of thieving, raping bastards that tried to run their way through the town...and when they tried to rid themselves of one hurdle, they got saddled with another. Shot them near to bits, so I hear." He finally looked at the man, smiling perilously.
The Pinkerton man shrugged.
"I don't know the story so well," he said. "All I know is that I was hired for a search. And I think my search is over."
Pete gave his skewering grin to the man and leaned forward a bit.
"A few other things might be over if you don't get the hell out. I'll tell you what, too: I don't like conversing too much, unless I'm telling you with buckshot."
"You threaten easily," the Pinkerton man bristled and Pete actually laughed, tilting his head back. Patrick watched the tanned line of his throat with bemusement.
"I shoot easier. Why are you still here?"
They both watched the Pinkerton man thump his bottle down hurriedly and throw few coins on the bar-surface. Patrick released the breath he didn't realise he had been holding as the man exited.
"What now?" he asked, suddenly feeling bone-tired. "You know Bossman Kane is probably only a few days away. Three, tops. So maybe if I leave now--"
"You have a piano to play," Pete said abruptly, pulling the bottle out of Patrick's hand. He looked a little exasperated. "You live here. Why would you leave?"
"I don't want to put you all in any danger. It might be better that way." Patrick looked down at his fingers, lacing them together, pale against the deep-brown of the bar-surface. He could barely hear Pete's sigh over the excited babbling of the crowd.
"Go play," he said, before Patrick could formulate any other argument. "The crowd's getting restless. And this argument is over."
"I might just run away in the night," Patrick threatened, but there was no heat behind it. Pete wanted him to stay; that was enough. Pete rolled his eyes and slid another bottle down the bar to a waiting patron.
"I'll just make Joe rope you to the piano," he said archly and Patrick actually found himself laughing as he went back to the piano.
Patrick watched Andy unfurl his whip and give it a testing snap, wrist turning with rattlesnake ease. The girls had been sent away, Greta cursing at Pete as he stuffed her in the coach with the others. She yelled at them through the small window, reaching for Patrick's waving hand before he could step back and grasping onto it.
"Promise me we'll find you when we come back," she'd demanded, holding on so that Patrick had to jog a little beside the moving carriage. She gave it a painful squeeze. "I've always wanted me a brother like you, so you better be here when I come back. Pete, I'll kill you if you die!"
"Get gone!" Pete had hollered over Patrick's awkward promises. "Drive them out of here, Charlie."
Now Patrick wished the girls had stayed, if only to allay the deep dark sensation in the pit of his stomach. They were seated complacently in front of the bar, on the narrow raised patio, Pete sitting with his shotgun perched in his lap.
"A whip isn't much against a bullet," Joe observed and Andy snapped his hat off, neat as a pin. "Hey!"
"It's good enough when the gun isn't in your hand anymore," Andy smirked and Patrick felt the heavy feeling shift and break a little.
"Why would you all stay here with me?" he said low to Pete as Joe glared and went for his hat; Pete let out a long-suffering sigh.
"Why wouldn't we?"
It was usually the waiting that was always the worst part for Patrick; he remembered sitting so still to ambush the Low River gang and his impatience, fuelled by fury, had nearly undone his whole plan. He had sworn that starlit night, as he watched the line of murderers filter into their little hideaway, that he heard his father whisper one of the first things he ever taught his youngest son: Patience, Patrick. It can be that one thing that decides whether you live or die. You'll know the right time and when you find it, that's when you stop thinking and start acting.
Now, as Joe and Andy slunk into the shadows of a nearby storehouse and the entire place was silent, anticipating, many of the townspeople hiding behind closed shutters, unsupportive of the bar they frequented. Patrick waited.
He felt so much calmer, since this time, he wasn't waiting alone.
Pete felt like laughing out loud as Bossman Kane rode up with the bunch of hoodlums; he thought the Bossman would be a massive man, too much for any horse. Instead, he was as short as Pete and a lot fatter, his face red with the strain of riding too far and too fast. Sometimes, Pete decided, revenge was not really a worthy thing.
"Well, here we are!" Kane called with false cheer and Pete made a quick count of his twenty men, obviously low-life types willing to go gun-running for a price. Pete was the type of man who could measure up odds and come to a surprisingly quick and accurate conclusion, which was why he didn't play any card-games; people always assumed he cheated. He tried to stop himself from grinning too wide, because these were odds he could have taken a fair bet on. Apparently, Kane thought he could manage Patrick and his friends with just this amount of men.
"So we see," he answered in a level voice, but there was a thread of amusement in it that caused Patrick to shoot him a quelling glare. "And how about if you turn around and head back out? I have a business to run."
"My business is with the young man, there." Kane slid off his horse and his men followed suit, slapping their horses out of the way. "I have no argument with you."
"You have business with him, you have business with me," Pete replied. "And as far as he tells it, you're all even. So why are you here?"
"We're not even," Kane hissed, losing his calm even as he unbuttoned his vest to reveal a very fancy gun-belt, tooled smooth leather. "Near all of my men! Four of them-four!- were my brothers."
"My father and my two brothers were worth much more than that," Patrick finally spoke up, not moving on the piano-stool he had lugged out of the bar; the chill in his voice sent a shiver down Pete's spine. "I'm glad you brought more men for me to balance it out. Although I don't shoot anybody in the back, the way you did my kin."
"If I have my way today--" Kane started and then pulled without warning. Sonafabitch, Pete thought, tumbling out of his perch and onto his back, aiming from his awkward position. Beside him, he could see Patrick rising casually; and the Umberto was roaring.
Patrick really didn't miss. Also, Pete noted, he must have been taught tactical manoeuvres by his father, because he aimed for Kane first. Patrick was holding the Umberto with his left hand, something that delighted Pete even as he rolled and dived away from the line of fire. Patrick simply weaved and stepped, quickly cocking back the hammer with his right hand for every shot.
If Pete wasn't in the middle of dispatching men, he would have stopped to gawk at Patrick.
Patrick's first slug found its way into Kane's large soft belly and the man doubled over, his pearl-handled gun slipping in his grasp. Patrick then proceeded to ignore the dying man completely, taking out the eye of the man to his left and hesitating only for a split-second before shattering the kneecap of a too-young man on Kane's left-hand side. He bent and grabbed Pete by the ankle, dragging him backwards into the saloon as Pete still fired the scatter-shot from his rifle. Before they went in, they heard gunfire coming from behind the group of hoodlums; Patrick may have had qualms about shooting men in the back but Andy, even for a medicinal type of person, had no such misgivings. Joe probably wasn't aiming to kill, but he was aiming and he was firing and that was all Patrick asked for.
"Get down," he said to Pete, kneeling and peering out of one tall window to snap out the four remaining shots in the wheel of the Umberto. He retreated to reload, slumping with his back to the thick wooden walls and Pete took his up his own aim at the window left open for this very purpose, laughing like a hyena.
"I declare, I've never had so much fun in a long time," he chortled; Patrick rolled his eyes and leaned back out beside him; Patrick didn't really have good vision, but it never seemed to matter with him when he was firing; his father had always claimed that Patrick seemed to have a sixth sense as to where his targets where standing.
Pete grunted and lurched backwards, catching a ricochet in his shoulder. Patrick followed the now-scattering line of men caught in the cross-fire with his eyes, emptying the Umberto once gain, not wasting a shot.
Patience, his father whispered in the back of his mind as his left-trigger finger curled over and over, the palm of his right hand burning from rocking back the hammer so fast. Don't let the gun rule you. Control it...don't forget to breathe. Remember each breath might be your last.
A few were scampering away, dodging past Andy and Joe's spot. Andy decided to have a little fun while he was at it and his whip whistled out and snapped right-quick around a man's dirty neck; when another raised his gun in their direction, the whip unfurled so smoothly and snatched the gun away like the hand of a ghost. Patrick could hear Joe's high laughter from where he sat, thumbing more bullets into his gun.
"You alright?" he yelled at Pete, who had his hand clamped over his shoulder, blood dribbling crimson between his tanned fingers. Pete grimaced, lying on the ground, but he nodded.
"I'll live."
Patrick gave him a quick look and then listened carefully as a hush fell. The silence was almost too loud after this thunder of the guns and then he heard Joe whooping in glee. He was probably out there lassoing the survivors together. The Umberto was hot in his hands and for the first time since his father had died, Patrick felt he could put it to one side and not have to look at it again.
"Goddamn!" Pete yelled, struggling to sit up. "Oh, that's what I'm talking about. Help me up...stop looking at me like you're gonna cry. You only shot twelve men, Patrick...you're losing your touch."
"Oh, shut up," Patrick said, putting aside his gun so he could help Pete. In the heat of the moment, or because he was feeling glad that Pete was still around to gripe at him, he made some sort of mistake and kissed Pete right on the mouth. Pete didn't look too shocked; as a matter of fact, he looked sort of pleased.
"What the hell are you doing?" he said with a gleam in his eye. "I'm not Greta, or anything. And you're going to have to stay here and work off all them bullet-holes in my walls. For a very, very long time."
"I'm not too sure if it matters if you're Greta or not," Patrick muttered, pressing in the wound with the flat of his hand. Pete's hand rested on his own.
"Between you and me, it doesn't matter," Pete murmured. "Although, between me, you and that gun, we can make it not matter to anybody else."
"This from the man who talks like a tornado and aims like a fish," Patrick said and tried to laugh as Pete's rough mouth pressed his again.
A/N: Information on six-shooters taken from an article inPopular Mechanics; Information on the Pinkerton men found in this wikipedia article (I know, I know...); and information on lassoing found here