Smith and Sheriff

ATTENTION! This story contains sexual content of a homosexual nature between consenting adults. Everyone in this is fictional, and if any of the activities in this story, namely sex between men (specifically between adult men in the mid-1800s), happen to offend you or are in violation of what your jurisdiction deems appropriate for you to read, you should probably not continue. Feedback, suggestions, and comments are more than welcome to be sent to shawndilf@proton.me , along with if you enjoyed it enough to get off (love hearing that I made you cum hard). And I will never turn down photographic proof of your erections or loads shot. ;)

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Copyright 2024, all rights reserved by the author.

Smith and Sheriff, Part IV

"I fucking hate goddamned Creekdale."

There were some benefits to being alone. Or rather, effectively alone. For one thing, it meant Marcus could use language freely without concern for the ears of the precious folk. He hated lots of things, but the way that people minced around words in order to pretend that they were all polite was highly ranked. Everyone in the world acting all civil and honest to hide their depravities deeply irritated Marcus as a man who knew very well what sins could be shaded by sweet niceties and graceful acts.

He may have hated it almost as much as Creekdale, come to think of it. The difference being that trying not to say something worse than 'darn' and watching his 'damn's amongst a crowd did not involve flying lead. Lead that had just shattered the window above where he had fired his last shot from as he scrambled across the saloon floor.

"Two more minutes now," he muttered as he lifted his gun cautiously to be in line with where his line of sight would be if there hadn't been a wall right there. The lanky blond man adjusted himself so his body was angled halfway towards the door.

"One-and-three, one-and-two, one-and-one!" At his last hissed count, he almost leapt up to the foggy glass. There were two dark shapes he could see standing in the street.

"Perfect. Ninety-seven." He twisted just a touch more, and the hammer and trigger did their work in the blur that was dark justice in the second before he dove for cover.

He came down with a hard thud, cursing some more as he scurried across the floor to the bar. The saloonmaster was too busy pissing himself behind it to be a help. The bullets would only come half as many now. There was only one reason that those two would be be engaging in a shooting match with his through a window, and if he was right, it was just about time to deal with that.

"Fifteen, fourteen," he muttered, painfully aware that his drawl was becoming exceptionally pronounced the angrier he got. Marcus had spent a lot of time trying to make himself sound half-respectable, even if he couldn't pull every trace of his birthplace out of his voice. It just came out a lot more the angrier he got and less in line with a genteel charm. Frenchmen bastard outlaws pulling an ambush on him and his associate was something that really raised the sheriff's hackles, it turned out.

He watched the back door of the saloon from just beneath the edge of the liquor shelf. He remembered what this shithole saloon was like. The stockroom and kitchen was on its own side, because some peckerwood jackass decided to maximize how many tables he could have and put the rear entrance right close to the bar. It made for a convenient place for a spittoon to be emptied or a sick drunk to be tossed. A wicked smile crossed his face as he prepared to fire. He took a moment to thank God for the gift to the world that was the single action revolver.

"Three, two-"

The door slammed open as if on cue. Another bullet left the sheriff's gun, and a second later came the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Marcus was already jumping towards it.

"One." So he was only almost right in how fast it would take that bugger to get around the building and try and ambush him.

"Thank you, Saint Michael," he said with a sigh that was filled with far more twang than he ever wanted to hear in his voice. The patron saint of law enforcement probably didn't like that it was technically a muttered thanks that was coming while his devotee was pulling things out of a dead man's hands. His momma probably would've been upset that he was thanking Catholic saints, but her and daddy should've lived longer if they wanted a different road for their boy. The Holy Mother probably would've been happier if one of their mendicants hadn't converted an impressionable young outlaw, since it meant that they wouldn't be the ones saddled with a man whose opinion on faith was that it was best handled privately and with intense flexibility on which beliefs were paramount.

"And I thank your sweet bosoms too, Saint Barbara," Marcus said under his breath with manic glee as he fired the bandit's rifle into the roof as soon as he had both hands free. She had been nice enough to load the dice for him today and let his filthy soul get the credit for taking a Colt Model 1855 out of villainous hands. It was nice, loud, and didn't need to be immediately reloaded. Just what he didn't know he wanted. Thank you, patron saint of artillery, there were even still three more shots. It wasn't a cannon, but until that lazy pope decided to actually earn his pay and canonize a patron of guns proper and let a foul-tempered lawman know about it, she got to deal with his sometimes inappropriate gratitude. Besides, a revolving carbine was close enough for Marcus' tastes to count as heavy munitions in the right hands. Not even bothering to duck, he fired again, this time into the floor as he continued in a near sprint towards the front. He came up right beside the large door, and then waited a moment as he positioned himself next to the big broken front window.

"Jerome! Qu'il-" Whatever the outlaw was going to say in his rasping shout was lost in the crack of the rifle as the sheriff put a bullet straight through the eye of a supremely irritating man. Predictably stupid foes were always the best kind. A man that assumed that it was his ally that was shooting off a rifle was a man that let down his guard. If it had been one of those damned single-shot pieces of firewood, then maybe things would've been harder. But it wasn't, and Marcus promised he might even say a prayer tonight in thanks for that little gift if he remembered.

"That's five." Marcus said the words with a heaving breath as he forced himself to breathe. Not wanting to let the fire die out of his blood yet, he made himself move rather than sit down. All five of those upjumped robbers that called themselves La Main Gauche Noire were dead. "And thank you bloody Saint Julian for that small blessing." That was the last of the three Marcus usually invoked when he was forced to ride off the rails like this. The patron saint of murderers was probably the one that was going to have to advocate on his behalf when the last day finally came and he was forced to answer for his life. He enjoyed killing these ratfaced scum of the earth types that ruined his county far too much for it not to count as murder, so Marcus hedged his bets. He might've been a ornery bastard, but at least he was a pragmatic one. Besides, if these didn't count, there were plenty more that unconditionally did.

The lawman considered the rifle, and decided that he didn't need to turn over this particular confiscation. The thing looked to have been lovingly taken care of by a man who had taken pains to ensure that the notorious flaws of the weapon didn't come back to bite him. Or rather, explode in his grasp thanks to a chain fire. "My thanks, Monsieur Finger," he nodded his head to the dead bandit, "I'll take care of your girl from now on just like you did." The rifle had seen more than enough use for Marcus to carry on the torch, and he really did need to start carrying a spare that was more than a second pistol. He gave the stock a kiss before setting it gingerly down on the bartop.

His coat was almost thrown across one of the abandoned tables as he ripped it off, the left arm of it torn from landing on the glass. While his own left arm was only a little sliced, the same couldn't be said of his shirt. He ripped the sleeve off and tossed it onto the floor without a second thought. Getting it fixed would be too much trouble for this cheap thing. The only thing that really mattered about the shirt was that it kept him warm and clean.

At least it was still warm enough that his choice to wear a sleeveless undershirt meant that just two pieces of clothing got damaged this day. His coat would be mended, there was no question of that. The greatcoat was almost like a second skin to the man, and if it didn't wear out before he did, he would make sure that he was buried in the thing. It was a good coat, and more importantly, it didn't bind over the shoulder and restrict his draw.

Superficial, he noted as he considered how little blood there really was, and not even down to the muscle. He still had full use of his fingers, he checked by flexing them out a few times. No stiffness.

"Good," he muttered as he took a bottle off the shelf and ripped the cork out with his teeth. There was a stack of cleanish rags for wiping down the glassware behind the counter, along with the glasses. He grabbed a rag, soaked it in the spirit, and then began to wipe his arm down.

It burned. It always fucking burned, but Marcus Corbett wasn't going to let himself die from an infected wound in bloody Creekdale. No, that was a bother too far. He held it against the slash for a second before wiping it clean. As he expected, it wasn't too deep. The irate blond grabbed for another cloth, and after laying the first one against his hairy arm, used the second one as a bandage wrap.

As soon as he was done, he took a long gulp from that same bottle. With a sneer, he slammed it on the bartop nearly hard enough to shatter the bottle. It was truly a terrible whiskey, and he judged that it just might be acceptable if you needed to strip paint.

"Hey. Hey!" He snapped the fingers on his right hand at the cowering man behind the counter.

The bartender looked to be about forty, though he was pale as death from what had happened today. His dirt-coloured trousers had a large wet stain that had expanded to the size of a lake on the front.

'What a chickenshit,' Marcus thought to himself, letting a scowl cross his face. 'You pissed yourself and you didn't even get shot at.' At least the bandits had an excuse for pissing and shitting themselves once he had plugged them.

"Sir?"

"They're dead. I'll deal with everything later, but right now I want sarsaparilla. Can you take care of that for me?" Marcus sat down at the end of the bar on the public side, and hung his head with an exasperated sigh. It had been a long day. He felt his sweat-dampened blond hair begin to droop over his forehead, and didn't even have a single care left to sweep it back.

Whimpering, the man searched the cabinet behind the bar and retrieved two bottles. He put them in front of the sheriff and quickly opened one. He didn't bother bringing a glass, and then he looked down at his pants.

"I'm, I mean-"

"Go!" Marcus' barked permission was all the bartender needed to exit his presence, and he scurried over to the stairs and up to the second floor nearly as fast as a man could.

"Go wring your pissy drawers out, and then get out your broom and start cleaning this mess up," the blond muttered. The bottle didn't comment, but that was because it was a good bottle. The dark liquid was sweet and cool against his tongue as he swilled it down.

"This is really actually very good," he said to himself with another sigh as he looked at the bottle. He probably had at least a quarter hour until Ward showed his face again. He had heard the scream from across the street right before he ducked into the saloon, so he knew that his favourite deputy had managed to deal with the one that was holed up top. It had been too high-pitched and froggy of a note to have been Ward that ended up dead, though he needed to have a talk with that boy about accuracy. He should've been able to pick off more than just a second one from that perch, not left all three to the sheriff.

Marcus liked Ward. Marcus needed to make sure that Ward didn't get himself killed, since there needed to be at least one competent person able to hold the gold badge instead of silver once Marcus' dice rolled low. That was the whole reason behind him coming out to this blasted shithole, since he did have to take people by the hand and show them what they were going to have to do in much the same way that he had been shown. Or rather, should have been shown. The tall man thought it might be novel if he actually passed on his knowledge proper rather than letting the next man figure half of it out from a manual on what they were supposed to do.

He had been the last next man, and it had been a lark on par with smallpox. If he hadn't been raised on a road that ran from bad to worse, Marcus might have just eaten his gun rather than deal with it all. Instead, he just killed the lot of them that thought that they would have easy pickings out here. The rail police were a help, but between them and the local constabularies, the only saving grace for Marcus' sanity was that it wasn't densely populated yet. Not until they blasted through the mountains and linked up to the coast, he figured, since the real money out here was coming out of the fur and gold trades further north. And it was a hell of a lot quieter than south of the border, that was for damn sure.

Still, things had quieted down enough that this little ambush seemed mighty suspicious. He would have to see if anyone was going to be stupid enough to try and muck something up while the big dogs were out on the range. Marcus really hoped that someone would be stupid enough to try something during these few days. The idea of presiding over a hanging absolutely warmed his heart today in a way that usually only a certain blacksmith could usually do. It had been far too long since the gallows were exercised for his tastes. He didn't need any more excitement from outlaws now, just something nice and simple like an arsonist that got himself caught with intent before setting the fire.

"Fuck my arse," Marcus said as his body grew tired and heavy. He could feel the sweat cooling inside his clothes, but at the moment he had no intention of standing up and retrieving his coat. He also hated the words as soon as he said them, because it had been far too many days for his liking that he had been intimate with more than his right hand.

"At least I'll be back in one piece," he said with a belch as the drink made its presence known from his stomach. What a day. What a fucking day. What a fucking useless day. Those stupid bandits had no idea how much headache they had caused. Three dead townsfolk, a dead constable who was deader than dead, and they probably were behind those dead miners too. It made Marcus almost wish he smoked, but not quite. Tobacco never sat well with him, smoke or chew.

"I hate Creekdale," Marcus fumed as he continued to empty the bottle. He was still too furious at the world to keep the hills out of his voice, and that aggravated him intensely at this juncture. "I fucking hate this town so much." There were so many things he still had to do. There were going to be so many reports over this pathetic gang of idiots that were finally done.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in his nice office in Highford, dealing with all the glory that came with being able to read and not being dumb enough to get caught with his hand in the safe. Or rather, all the hand cramps from signing reports on local idiocy and all the strained eyes from reading directives from men that had never worked an honest day's labour in their lives. But he was also expected to do regular tours through the smaller towns and actually make sure that everything was on the level and running well, or usually just go collect taxes.

Marcus quite liked collecting taxes. He understood why it made people resent him, but since people seemed to resent him most of the time already, that only made it more satisfying. He also wasn't as stupid when it came to greed as the last few, so people resented him a little less when they realized that he wouldn't look too hard into their ledgers if they made the effort to act realistic in their underselling. And if they were smart, they would ensure that a proper gratuity was in order to thank a very hard working man for everything he did on their behalf. Since by and large only dullards would ruin such a nice deal on the edge of civilization, it meant that Marcus never really had to touch the pay he received.

He also liked that it meant that he was the man that got to make sure the courts were running well and the hangings were nice and smooth. Prosecutors were all the same to deal with, since they all wanted to do their time and figure out a way to get back to a big city posting. It made them predictable and easy to deal with as long as the made sure everything was running fine. The judge was very amenable, at least. The old bastard knew the law, and applied it properly.

The only problem is that things had been running fine for a little too long, so some feckless children always thought that it was a signal to start trouble. Especially in a glorified mining camp that took a few days for news to get out of and back to a real place. Everything ran in cycles, someone had told him once, and he had his suspicions on that something more was going on. This was just too special of an ambush.

Marcus knew he was going to spend the rest of the next few days mad. He took a lot of pride in keeping this county as clear as crime as he could. He didn't like the local police to take care of too many things that they really couldn't handle, and he also didn't need folk with a national mandate to stick their noses in where they really had no need to mess about. There had been rumblings lately about wanting to set up some damn service out here like what those idiots he'd left behind had. That would be very bad for business, but unfortunately for Marcus, the stupendous annoyance that was having a civil war right next door did amazing things to accelerate bad ideas. He really disliked things like law enforcement spreading. Cost of being civilized, or some other bullshit excuse from men in suits that had no idea how liberating it really was to live where the world was still fresh.

"I better look for that hat," he said with a groan as he stood up, in a low, unpleasant tone that promised violence that only a previous age could match for viciousness. He knew exactly where he had lost it, and that might just be the last spark to light the munitions barrel if it wasn't there. He still had bullets left, and a damn fine rifle to try out. It had shot true down the sights once, but God willing, he wouldn't have to confirm that it wasn't a fluke until he was back home.

The unopened bottle went with him.

By the time that night had fallen, Marcus found himself walking back out of the saloon for a second time that day, because in a shithole like Creekdale there wasn't much else to do. He had spent most of the afternoon dealing with the aftermath of the mess and helping the locals sort out what they needed to do. They had found some nice boards to put over the holes in the windows by the time he returned, at least. There wasn't going to be much light, but at least it was something. The only reason any place in a cesspool like Creekdale had nice big windows was because it was built when people thought it might actually blossom into a real town. The more recent buildings were more realistic about what a trash heap this mining town had been destined to become. They were at least more realistic about what winters were like.

Behind him, with a bit of a hangdog expression, was a broad shouldered man of average height and with long, light brown hair done up in a loose tail that was streaked with a sandy blond from sun exposure and a few touches of age creeping up here and there. His two handspans of heavy beard were noticeably greyer than the rest of his hair, making him look far older than his years, since the man was over half a decade younger than his boss. Even his eyes were of a tired, pale grey that seemed more suited to a gloomy sky.

Ward Bennett was a moon-faced man who had the misfortune of being too late for everything in life. He was the youngest of five sons, meaning that he had little to rely on when it came to his family's ranching and his own future. That had led him down several paths, and eventually into the employ of the law once he realized that his skills were best suited there. And despite having a broad back and arms thick as rail ties, Ward was generally a soft-spoken man with an even temper who only resorted to violence when required. That was probably for the best, since by Marcus' reckoning, Ward had a talent for it that was probably born of having to put down animals with a sledgehammer.

Thankfully, they had managed to be fed decently that day. The man who ran Creekdale's supply depot had given them seats at his table in thanks for what had earlier transpired. And they had found that his wife had been a more than passable cook when it came to a hearty stew with fresh bread. The only thing that hadn't been good was their distinct lack of any good libations. Hence leading them back to the saloon.

"You won't appreciate yourself if you bring lice back," Marcus warned when Ward had been considering taking up one of the rooms for rent above the common area. There was a distinct possibility that lodging at that establishment was a way to make tiny new friends, the sheriff had pointed out. That was mainly why he intended to sleep at the mining company's expense. Creekdale was just close enough to a major vein that it needed an eye kept on it from the people with money, but just far away enough from everything else that nobody with a choice would ever choose to live there. Hence, the company had set themselves up a permanent reservation of the best room at the local boarding house for use of those that were only in every couple weeks.

The boarding house was actually fairly well kept, since the miners were all on good behaviour when it came to where they lived. Liquor was prohibited as a rule, but it was cleaner by far than what they could've expected at the saloon. It was also closer to the local station, where the local constable and his wife had volunteered to take care of their horses for the evening. Marcus was glad that his horse hadn't gotten shot this time, since he was getting fond of the pewter-coated gelding.

Marcus had found the owner to be an amenable sort. The sheriff had dealt with him before, and the man understood that releasing the key for the reserved room was in everybody's best interests. Ward's expression lightened when the owner confirmed that there were still two beds in the room

The tall blond made a dismissive noise with his tongue. "Imagine wanting to sleep in that dump just because you didn't want to listen to my snoring."

Ward didn't say anything to that. Growing up, there had been multiple times where he had to share a bed with his brothers, let alone a room. More times that he had been sleeping in the barn when the weather allowed, since it had always been crowded during his raising. "I'll take your snoring over the baby crying," the other man replied happily as they walked up the stairs to their lodgings.

"Is he not sleeping through the night yet?" Marcus asked the question idly as he opened the door to their lodgings. Having been there before, he knew exactly where the lamp on the wall was and flicked the striker. Illuminated, it was basically a large closet with a set of shelves at one end and two beds of decent size forced to the walls with a small passage between them. But it looked to be taken care of, with clean bedding that looked warm and comfortable. He hung his coat and hat on the left side, then proceeded in so that Ward could enter.

"He is, but Artie wakes up earlier than almost anyone and lets us know that he's a growing boy." Ward said as he passed Marcus' pack and then his own to the sheriff to store before handing over both of their rifles. He hung up his own coat after taking care of everything else. Unlike his superior, Ward's leather coat was short and brown and it was visibly scarred from years upon years of use.

The sheriff gave a sigh of relief as he unbuckled his holster and tossed it on the lowest shelf. "I'm sure that your son will let you rest eventually. It's your own fault for turning out such a healthy set of lungs." Marcus knew without looking up that Ward would be beaming with pride. This was his first to survive, so it was easy to improve the man's disposition by bringing up his favourite thing in the world. Marcus' favourite thing was probably busy snoring up a storm over his smithy, so the sheriff was forced to find a substitute in the bottle of rye that he had procured from the saloon earlier. After such an irritating day, he didn't even feel like pulling the harmonica out of his pocket and trying to distract himself with a song.

"Winnie says the same thing," the deputy said with a proud tone. Winifred was the woman who had been gracious enough to nurse young Artie over the past year, and Marcus found both her and her priest husband to be good folk. Unfortunately, Ward's wife hadn't been as fortunate as their son, and had passed not even a month after birthing him. He had been able to find a small mercy that someone else had been fruitful just a touch earlier that year, and had found himself a de facto part of their family after they insisted on helping the young widower. "I can't wait until he's old enough to do even more that I can get blamed for." Ward began to unbutton the faded flannel shirt in order to hang it up on a hook, then did the same with his trousers and long-sleeved undershirt. By the time he sat on the bed, he noticed that Marcus had shed his own clothes as well, though they were wadded up on the shelf next to his pack.

"How's your arm, boss?" Ward noticed that Marcus was adjusting the bandages after passing the bottle to the deputy, his bare chest and arms glinting gold as he moved and performed some deft retying.

"It's fine. I just want to make sure nothing's too loose." The last thing that Marcus wanted to do was have the dressing come apart in the night. It looked like the bleeding had stopped, and the whiskey soaked rag hadn't stuck to the wound, so it was more about maintenance than concern.

"You've got the devil's luck, you know. I don't know how those men knew we were coming, and you still came out on top."

Marcus was silent for a moment as he tilted his eyes up to the roof. He looked at window above the shelves, one that didn't provoke any worries about security due to them being on the second floor. That was the direction of the saloon and the way they approached the town this morning. He had his suspicions about why today had played out the way it did.

"I think I know why they knew," Marcus said softly and with barely concealed venom. If he was correct, he would have to deal with the problem once he was certain. And there would be no need for a trial for such a traitorous individual if facts shook out the way he figured they would.

"It was John Falher at the railroad, wasn't it?"

The sheriff's head snapped back to face the deputy. "Very good," he said in approval. There had been a little too much interest from that man into things that hadn't concerned him. Many people were busybodies, but only a few lined up just right for a message at full speed to have outpaced them.

Ward made a thoughtful sound. "I never liked him," he said plainly.

"Agreed." There was little else to say on the matter. Business had been settled in town, which was an unfortunate parcel that came with being on the side of the angels. Pleasure always came after business. Come the morning, they would ride out from Creekdale and there would be a dead man if he was foolish enough to remain where he was. "I would appreciate your help in the matter."

"Arms or legs?" The thick man wasn't green to the ways of the world, so he knew that they would take a price from John before his final punishment.

Marcus looked up at the ceiling for a moment as he absently scratched his collarbone through his undershirt. "Legs," Marcus said pleasantly, "then arms. It's very hard for a man to escape with busted knees if anything happens to sour, remember." He pulled off the undershirt and tossed it to the shelf in short order, annoyed that he wasn't able to get at the itch satisfactorily. "If he can give us a good reason for a clean death though, you can be the one to let him drop."

The whiskey bottle was tipped up in a salute to that from the other side of the room before Ward took another swig. It wasn't normal for either of them to drink like this when out in a professional capacity, but both of the men were still backing up from the edge of their internal precipices. Both were still incredibly dangerous men at the end of this day, and as they had only just passed beneath the shadow of death, it still weighed heavily on their minds.

They swapped the bottle back and forth while talking for a while, on various subjects, the favourite of which was how the barkeep had refused to look Marcus in the eye during their liquor procurement. Marcus made sure that his deputy knew exactly why that was, which set both of them to laughing on it again and again.

"Imagine having to walk around smelling of piss all day!"

"It'd kill me," Ward agreed. "I can go a week easy without a bath as long as I'm not too dirty, but if there's any sort of manure or piss or anything else, I can't take it."

"A man has to have his dignity."

"Mary always let me know when I went too long," the broad shouldered man said as he scratched at his hairy chest. Most of his muscular front was covered in a fine layer of light brown and occasional frosted grey hair that turned to a heavy trail that disappeared into his worn grey long johns. "And usually that was every night."

"That's just some," Marcus said with a shrug as pushed the bottle to the back of the shelf. He was lying through a choice in words, since he was a man who was far more concerned about what men cared about. "There's some out there that like the smell of a man after a long day." The fact that he had only encountered men that truly appreciated a hearty male musk was something Ward didn't need to know.

"Huh," the broad man said thoughtfully. "I guess it makes sense. I just thought it was me, since I-" The man cut himself off and suddenly stared towards his feet. "Never mind," he finished lamely.

"No, no, no. Now I have to know what you were going to say." There was a lazy bite to the sheriff's words as he laid back against the wall and smiled. It was a smile that declared that he wasn't going to let the matter drop until that sentence was finished.

Ward looked like he wanted to eat his gun at that moment, even as he finally gave in, "I don't want you to make light of me."

"I may be a bastard, but I care for you like a brother and not just as a minion. I can't promise that I won't have an opinion, but you should know by now that I do not gossip." Marcus' response came quickly, since it was the truth. He was a man that hoarded secrets for his own use and pleasure, not for petty malice. Malice and spite were far too delicious to be wasted on someone he considered worth his time, let alone someone so close to being a friend.

"Alright." The younger man looked like he was seriously considering the bullet option again. "Sometimes, when it's been a really long day, I find when my smell gets strong that I like it."

"And?" Marcus gave an exaggerated shrug. He was waiting for the revelation.

"Well, that's it. I mean, I like it and it gets me to a certain mood."

"That's it?" The sheriff was intensely disappointed. "You're embarrassed because you get randy from your own musk? You are not the only man alive who thinks that way. You are not even the only one in this room." Marcus hadn't intended to say that last bit, but the way that Ward was so bashful about such a basic part of just being male being worrisome had annoyed the sheriff intensely after a day that both of them had brushed up their mortality.

The brown haired man's head snapped up at that comment to look Marcus directly in the eye, as if he must have misheard something.

"That's normal. Just because a woman likes soap better doesn't mean that you can't prefer a more natural scent," the sheriff added, trying not to roll his eyes. "A man can't help what he's aroused by. And, well, men just wouldn't have hands to take care of it if we couldn't enjoy our own body." For all that they were both grown men, the world had given them far different educations on the road to maturity. Sometimes Marcus forgot that, and other times he very much felt like he was talking to a schoolboy in a man's body.

"Do you want the lamp turned down first to take care of that?" Ward politely flicked a finger in the direction of the other man's groin, which had become very noticeably tented while he had been talking.

Marcus was silently cursing himself. Even though he had set the lamp to barely a candle's worth of light, that did nothing to hide that there was something significant in his own long underwear. Worse, the long shadows had put the peak of his tent in stark relief, he noticed as he looked down at his state.

"It has been a trying day, and dwelling on things that make me randy has necessitated relief," the lanky blond said defiantly, as if daring Ward to admit that he wouldn't be doing the exact same thing once the light was extinguished. It wasn't the first time they had shared a room together. The only time that at least one of them hadn't satisfied himself in the dark had been those rare occasions where they had to share a bed. "Besides," he added, "I can see that I am not the only one with timber to be hewed."

The deputy made a very lewd gesture with his hand, but brought it down to rest on his undergarment. He began to idly milk his hardness through the fabric, his large hand covering the dark, moist patch that had let Marcus' comment hit home. Most of Ward's face and parts of his chest were flushed from the drink, which had removed many of his usual inhibitions, and he had a strange unfocused expression on his face.

Something about the absurdity of the situation made Marcus feel absolutely petty, so he thrust his right hand into his last article of clothing before raising his left arm and loudly inhaling once his face was as close as he could manage. He gave his rod a noticeable squeeze as he did so, and had to let out a sigh of appreciation as the heated spice of his scent filled his nose. "Go turn off the light, or I'm gonna make good on this threat."

"You weren't lying when you said that you were like a brother," Ward said, shaking his head as he suddenly laughed heartily. "This is just the kind of dumb antic he would pull." The last time Ward had seen another man prepare to fire his weapon deliberately in front of him like this had been when he still shared a room as a youth. There had been an unspoken agreement that what a man does in his own bed was his business, and one just didn't comment on a man getting his relief while you needed your own. One also usually had the politeness to extinguish the light before starting.

The blond man responded with the most arrogant smirk he could manage, as if inviting Ward to tell him to stop as he continued to grip himself within the covering Marcus was almost taunting his deputy as he proceeded to rub his nose moustache-deep into the golden thicket under his arm and take visible pleasure in the action. This time as he did it, he jutted out his tongue in a long, languid flick reminiscent of a snake tasting the air.

Ward just slipped his thumbs down and promptly slid his gear down to his knees in a quick motion. Instantly, the man's pole was revealed to be at full attention, and he began to milk himself in a deliberate motion while keeping his eyes on the sheriff. At the end of that trail of brown hair that ran down the broad man's chest and midsection was large thatch of chestnut curls with a piece that was seven inches of solid heft jutting out of it. Even at this level of arousal, the purple head was still fully covered by his hood, the large shape of it visible under the skin and then seeming to almost flare out in aroused glory as he slid the skin back. What looked to be an exceptionally large and low-hanging set of hairy nuts were framed between his thick, furred legs.

Marcus' proceeded to fully remove his own underwear not long after, and the tall blond sat himself down on the edge of his own bed and began to stroke himself vigorously. His hand was wet from a copious amount of his sap that seemed to drip constantly from the tip of his engorged cock. His foreskin slid easily as he worked his fist steadily over his mast, pausing occasionally to leer at the other man as he proceeded to pleasure himself. His own seven inches were just as turgid as he hungrily compared himself to the other man.

The brown haired man was having little trouble copying what he had seen before. Even as his left hand kept working his dripping prick, he kept adjusting his right arm to give him better access. Each time the younger man brought his face in as close as he could, there was a loud inhalation followed by a sigh of enjoyment. He then would twist back to face the blond man with a satisfied grin plastered across his round face.

Both of them watched the other with rapt attention. Marcus' expression was a mixture of equal parts lust and pleasure, as he was thoroughly enjoying seeing his deputy's naked form. He had seen Ward unclothed before, but this was different. That had been something to appreciate from a distance like a fine work of art, not this feast for the senses. He made an amused grunt to catch Ward's attention, then flashed him an appreciative grin. The other man seemed like he had relaxed after the initial taunts, and sent back a slightly less confident yet just as intense version of the same expression.

Marcus took a deep breath, savouring that the air was starting to become heavy with both of their scents mixing from their activities. It wasn't quite the miasma that would come about from full-throated carnal activities between two lusty men, but it was still a heady blend that pleased his nose. "Can smell both of us now," he muttered, sticking his tongue between his teeth in an odd smirk.

Ward made a sound that could only be described as contented agreement that was paired with a very approving nod. He had begun to very noticeably breathe only through his nose in deep and long breaths, the very action that had prompted Marcus to take a long sample of his own. The sheriff noticed that both of them were pretty much sitting as close as they could across the gap. It wasn't a large distance, but they were leaning in. And when Ward's big stocking clad foot brushed up against Marcus' leg for the third time, he decided to do something more than just lean in.

His getting up surprised the deputy a bit, especially as Marcus' throbbing member came right up to his face. He sat down on Ward's right and took a big sniff of the deputy's shoulder. Both of their scents had permeated the room deeply, but this close together Ward's scent dominated his senses. It was thicker and earthier than his own, the salty tang of his sweat seeming to play counterpoint to that complex aroma. His tongue dragged across the man's skin in a deliberately slow movement, dragging stray hairs as it completed its journey.

"I-" The words died away as Ward saw the approval in the blond's features as their eyes met and knew that he need not ask permission for what he wanted. He let Marcus lay down for him as they arranged themselves on the bed as best they could, and then Ward set his face into the sweat soaked hair that the lean man had first buried his own moustache in earlier.

Marcus groaned as he felt the soft rasping of Ward's facial hair against his skin, the sounds he was making reminding the blond of a young piglet he had seen snuffling around it's pen earlier in the year. "That's right, little brother. Take what you need." He had his hand wrapped around his shaft, softly pumping himself as he watched his friend's hand furiously working his own prong.

Even as he felt his body approaching release, he felt Ward's tongue begin to lap at the sweat-soaked patch of hair. After a day of treachery, that was more than enough to send Marcus over the edge. The first volley managed to hit him square on the tip of his nose, leaving a long streak straight down the centre of his chest. Five more joined it, white trails glistening as they crossed his golden fields of fur.

As Marcus had begun to indicate his climax, Ward had flipped onto his back and watched happily. The bigger man's own trigger was pulled by the sight, and one last stroke was enough to launch his own flood. It was almost as large in volume as the sheriff's even in the aim was a little different, though only four massive pulses of his seed issued for from that turgid cannon. The first landed on a clean shaven cheek, while the rest just painted a trail between the sheriff's face and the deputy's still oozing piece.

"Oh, boss. I'm so sorry." Ward didn't know what else to say after he recovered from the sensations of their intimacy. It wasn't a convincing apology, since the deputy was holding back laughter while saying it.

"It's fine," Marcus said with his own chuckle. He grabbed at what he thought was his underwear and began to wipe down his face before remembering that he had swapped beds. After he realized his mistake, he chose to continue and drop his ruined shirt wet side down directly on Ward's chest. "You may need this, I believe."

"I deserved that," the brunette replied, as he sat up to mop his own mess before passing it back. He laid right back down with a dopey smile on his face. Sitting up had taken a lot of effort, and his head was whirling.

Discarding his shirt for the moment, Marcus chose to stay where he was. "Feel better?"

Despite being obviously intoxicated, Ward managed to flush an even deeper red. "Somehow, I do. But please don't mention what I like to anyone." The man made a snuffling sort of chuckle at that. "I nearly messed up today boss. I didn't think there was going to be a third one up in that general store when we split up."

"I already told you I'm not going to hurt you, little brother." He reached over and gave Ward a rap on the chest. Marcus wasn't that stupid, even when liquored up. He knew very well that his deputy's head wasn't on straight at the moment and that strange times made men act in ways that they might regret later. He knew for sure that his head wasn't working right either. "So those bastards call their gang after a hand, and brought a sixth. Typical of those bloody animals," Marcus growled as he responded. That had explained exactly why it had taken Ward so long to take care of that man playing sniper. He'd have to get the reward adjusted accordingly, but that would be easy enough to do with the local reports being in concordance with his own.

"I thought I was gonna die today, or worse, let you down."

Marcus slid down beside Ward and put his arm around man's bare shoulder, bringing him in close. He needed to do something eventually about Ward's need to prove himself all the time to authority, but that could wait for another night. It was one of those rare times when he didn't have something to say just for the sake of being harshness and just let himself listen in understanding.

"I kinda miss him, you know." Ward had his eyes closed and seemed like he was lost in his own mind, with his words in a tired rambling.

"Who's that?" Marcus was sure that the man was talking about one of his siblings, not that the sheriff had met any of them. Two of them were dead, if he was correct in his recall.

"Luke," came the confirmation. "He got gored by a bull years back. I miss him the most, I hate to say."

The blond man was silent as he sat up a bit and gave the other man a pat on the head. "I think he'd be proud of you, same as me. You did good in town today."

"He was the best of us. He was the one that showed me what to do. We did lots of things together, lot like tonight. Said he'd teach me how to romance a woman proper when I was grown, but it never came around." There was a sad smile on Ward's face as he trailed off.

"I'm sure that the others did their best," Marcus replied quietly. He knew well enough what it was like to have only memories to keep one company with regards to kin.

"Geoff and Will were too busy using the goat, and Charles was gone by then," Ward said absently. Marcus was very glad that his deputy wasn't looking at the world, since he was unable to keep the sudden disgust off of his face.

"The goat." The sheriff had no other words.

"Luke and I didn't like that neither. I mean, it's not even a person and someone's gonna eat that poor goat one day. That's why taught me what to do when we're on our own instead. He always looked out for me."

"Well, I look out for you too. I just didn't think it would be this way." He blinked a few times, not liking that his vision had blurred for a moment.

"Mmmm. Real good of you." Ward moved in a little closer, letting his powerful body curl up to Marcus' lean form. His long beard tickled against the blond's skin as they lay there, two men exhausted from living. "It was nice feeling someone else's touch. I missed that."

Marcus shifted his lean form, and gave Ward an embrace where his own chest touched up against the bigger man's. "Even it coming with bristles all over?"

"You got more than me, but it's still not bad. I used to feel his scratchy chest against me all the time when we'd practice kissing." Ward hiccuped after stumbling through his disjointed thoughts, then he surprised Marcus by leaning in until their facial hair merged and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. Emboldened by the lack of resistance, he repeated his actions, but this time found an open port.

They shared a long moment where Ward's thick tongue thrust awkwardly into Marcus' mouth a few times before withdrawing. "I gotta teach you everything, do I?" The sheriff's words were almost certainly fueled from the whiskey running through his veins as he reciprocated, and gave Ward an example of how a man was supposed to use his tongue. When he was satisfied with himself, Marcus withdrew and laid back with a smirk. "Now that is how you kiss someone and mean it."

"Mmmmm." The sound was content and happy. Ward didn't say anything after that, so eventually Marcus got up and extinguished the lamp before getting back to his own bed. He stopped to pull the wool blanket out from under Ward and cover him up as well as he could before sliding under the covers.

"Boss?"

The blond sheriff was pulling on his long johns for a bit more warmth as he responded. "Yeah?"

"You got family?" It sounded like Ward was half passed out already as the words slurred into each other. The rustling made it sound like the big man was tried to wrap himself in the blanket better.

"Nah, just me. I'm the last." Those words had been rattling around his brain for many years now. The sorts of things that people took for granted weren't for Marcus, and he tried not to dwell on them.

The sheriff tossed around in his bed for a bit, trying to get comfortable while he listened to the heavy snoring coming from the other side of the room. Too many things were running through his head as he tried to let the darkness take him and let him sleep. He hated that he liked Ward enough that he actually cared about someone else's life. He hated that his first thoughts through everything were worrying about who would take care of Rich if he was dumb enough to die. Most of all, he hated that he wanted to stop feeling this way rather than just accepting the fact that maybe, somehow, there were people in the world that actually gave a rat's ass that he existed and might just be more than pieces on a board to be used and discarded.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis..." Marcus' whisper was barely audible as he made good on his promise from earlier. He needed to do something to clear his mind of turbulent thoughts before he could drift off to sleep. Anything.

"How the hell did they burn the bacon that badly?" The skies were steely and cold while the two men were stopped by a slough. Their mounts were busy drinking their fill as the lawmen took the opportunity to drain themselves.

"Beans weren't much better," Ward grunted. It took talent to ruin beans like that.

Marcus took off his hat for a moment to rake his hand through his blond hair. "Are you starting to understand why I wish that a star would fall on that town?"

Another grunt came as confirmation. "Why do they all have to be so hostile? That mine headman really didn't like you."

"That's because he's doesn't know what he's doing." The excitement of their trip had overshadowed the basic reason that Marcus took these little jaunts to the smaller settlements. It gave him a chance to check up on things, meet people, and make sure that locals were pointing the right direction.

"I'll write something to the mine inspector and let him know that he should take a look." Marcus had absolutely no idea whether the mine was actually being mismanaged or not, but he had a feeling in his gut that something was off there. It was always good for those acting guilty to have someone take a good long look at them, as it kept them honest if it turned out that they were that way in first place.

The deputy folded his big arms across his chest, the dark leather softly squealing from the action. "You much don't like that man either, do you?"

"I barely recognize that he exists," said the sheriff flatly as he undid his trousers. With audible relief, he began to let loose a torrent of rank yellow into the scrubby plants that were huddled by the slough.

"You shouldn't do that so close to the slough." There was nearly five feet to the actual edge, but Ward still didn't like seeing a man piss this close to useful water.

"Birds shit in it," came the retort as Marcus shook the last bit of stream loose.

"And your horse is drinking it right now."

The blond didn't even dignify that with a response, only a quiet snort. Ward shook his head at that but continued to look directly at the sheriff after.

"You look like you have something to say," Marcus said quietly. "Do we need to talk?" He had deliberately not mentioned anything yesterday or today, and neither did the brown haired man.

"Yeah," Ward admitted. "I just wanted to say thanks for-"

Marcus growled at that. "Edward," he warned, using the deputy's proper name deliberately.

"-for saving my life." There was a sudden flinty overtone to the words, to express the man's displeasure at being interrupted. "I thought I should give you some gratitude for telling me to come around from behind that building with the gang."

"You're welcome. Anything else?" The tone was slightly less than conciliatory, considering the blond man's provocation.

"Not right now," the deputy smiled before adding, "unless you're gonna tell me I did good out loud a second time."

Now Marcus had the hint of an amusement. "If you remember that, than you know that I said that I wouldn't say anything once sober."

"You actually said you wouldn't hurt me," Ward corrected.

"Same thing, and I won't."

The other man nodded. "I know. It was kinda sweet the way you said it, not like the normal boss way. Usually you're stomping around town all mean-like, smiling like a jackal and everything. This was more like you were a normal person."

Marcus' smile broadened in a way that reached his eyes. "When we get back, I should fire you. But I won't, since I guess you're mostly competent and like family now." He paused for a moment before frowning and adding, "I do not stomp around town."

The deputy couldn't help but laugh at that. "Sure you do. Everybody knows when you're coming because you got that stomp in your step. Even the rhythm's different with how quick you go, so it's real easy for people that know it's you. And if you're not wearing your coat, you can even tell it's you from far away because the stomp's noticeable in how you move." Ward had a bit of a satisfied look on his bearded mug.

"Is there more?" The sheriff managed to make the question into a command with words cold as steel. He was still smiling, but now his eyes held a hard, glittering cast to them.

Ward nodded, then licked his lips nervously as he weighed whether or not he had to be completely honest. "I know it's not my place to say, but if we were out on the road as men are, I wouldn't be upset if you and I..." The big man trailed off as he tried not look his boss directly in the eye.

"...took relief together, as men tend to do when they can trust each other?" Marcus said the words in an even neutral tone, thoroughly entertained by how uncomfortable his deputy had made himself.

"Yes sir," Ward mumbled.

The sheriff pretended to think on that for a moment before responding. "I suppose that if we find ourselves travelling like this, it would only be sensible." There was visible relaxation in the big man's posture at that, and unless Marcus was mistaken, it looked like Ward's body had also signalled its approval of the idea. Unfortunately, he had to ignore the urge to act on that right there in an open field. "Now, do you have anything else to add about how I exist or walk?"

"Some folk say you walk that way 'cause you got bad piles, and that's why you're usually in a nasty mood."

The blond man's face froze and his eyes went curiously blank for a moment. His lips formed a couple words but no sound came out before he closed his eyes and made a rasping and choked exhalation, his moustache visibly twitching as he did so.

"Boss?" Ward suddenly felt a bit of chill go down his spine. For some reason, it seemed like everything dimmed for just a moment before returning to normal.

"Who goes around talking about me like that?" Marcus said the words far too sweetly, in a strange, almost sing-song cadence that had each word drip with a suddenly thick drawl. The blond man was still smiling, but this time the only thing his smile promised was teeth.

The deputy suddenly found the worn toes of his leather boots very interesting.

"Get on your horse, Ward. We're losing daylight, and you and I are going to have some very long discussions about what you need to be telling me from this day on." There was a lot of backwoods suddenly in Marcus' words.

As he moved to saddle up, Ward couldn't help but laugh.