Chapter Text
The place they had set up camp in was – well, it was miserable. Quite a fitting description, not only for their current situation, but also practically everything else in Kieran’s life at this point. This place was miserable, he was miserable, hell, the whole gang was miserable. And, perhaps most pressingly, so were their horses. The past weeks had not been kind to them; food was already scarce this high up in the Grizzlies, and the raging blizzard outside their rotting cabins really didn’t help the situation, making any supply runs or hunts exponentially more difficult. No one had been able to bring in any food for days now, and supplies were steadily dwindling day by day, not just for the men, but also for the horses. The poor creatures couldn’t even graze outside to supplement their meager rations, partially because of the biting cold, but mostly because there was virtually no grass to speak of.
There were talks of a real big score coming soon, a train robbery, if the men Kieran had been eavesdropping on yesterday were to be believed. Sure, the promise of more funds coming had lifted some of his worries, but that didn’t solve the issue of no one going out to buy the supplies they needed. All the money in the world meant very little if they couldn’t leave this damned place to spend it. And Kieran would still need to figure out a way to keep the horses alive and fit until then, the gang would need them strong if they were really going to rob an entire train.
All that and more was nagging at him as he trotted along a snowy path on his mare, Branwen. Earlier, he had decided to go directly to Colm O’Driscoll with his concern, practically begging the man to send someone, anyone, out to fetch some supplies. It was a stupid decision, in hindsight, but there had been no other gang-authority around for him to turn to, seeing as they were practically running on a skeleton crew; Kieran was the only one there to care for the horses, and they had one other man to cook for the gang and hunt, weather permitting. Everyone else was only there for the robbery, plenty of fighting men and, of course, Colm himself. The latter had already left camp earlier after giving Kieran a thorough beating for the audacity to ask for the supplies he needed to do his job, sending him off with a stern “Figure it out”, and a threat - or maybe more of a promise - of more pain would he fail. His cheek was still red and throbbing where Colm had struck him, backhanded. The force of the hit had been enough to make him stumble, and Kieran was sure it would leave a mark. Colm loved doing that, leaving behind visible evidence of his discipline, it kept his men in line, he would say, and obedient.
Colm knew just as well as Kieran that there was nothing to find out in these mountains; no grasses, no berries, no roots or vegetables the man could dig up for the poor creatures. Still, he had set out on this fool’s errand, because who was he to disobey the Colm O’Driscoll himself? Kieran had long since learned to just keep his head down and obey, it kept Colm’s ire, and more importantly, his attention, away. He shuddered, more than he was already shivering, at the thought of what used to await him following any disobedience, back when he was still foolish enough to try. Suddenly, he had become much more aware of the cold, and how it was seeping through his thin jacket and gloves.
When he came to a fork in the road, he just picked a direction at random, not really having any sort of plan on where to go anyways. His eyes scanned his surroundings, drifting to the spruces dotting the otherwise pristine, white landscape. Maybe he could cut off some branches, feed the horses the bark and needles. He didn't know if they were anything close to edible, even for horses, but he wasn't exactly spoiled for choice. Thinking back on it, he could almost remember where he heard that they could. But he couldn’t quite recall, most of his memories being largely a blur. Well, it would probably be better than having them starve.
As he steered Branwen off the path and towards one of the trees, he suddenly heard something in the distance. Gunshots, he was sure of it. There was no doubt about where they were coming from, either, that was definitely the direction of their camp. It wouldn’t have surprised Kieran if the shots he was hearing were just from target practice, though those were an awful lot of shots for that to be the case. Then again, there were an awful lot of men at camp. Any other option of what could be going on might have spurred a braver man to hightail it back to camp, see what was happening, help his comrades if they were being attacked.
But those men were no comrades of his, not really. And Kieran was no brave man. He was smart, though, at least more than people usually gave him credit for. Smart enough to stay put for now and not panic. Or at least not panic any more than he already was.
What did he stand to lose if the gang was in trouble, really? Kieran didn’t care for the O’Driscolls, he outright hated most of them, Colm making the top of that list … easily. Another shudder ran through Kieran at the memories bubbling up, but he pushed the thought down and out of his mind, trying to quell the sick feeling in his stomach.
Now was not the time to be thinking about any of that.
He nudged Branwen back into an easy trot, she had slowed down while Kieran was distracted with his thoughts, walking lazily back on the path. He couldn’t even blame her if he tried, Branwen was underfed and tired, like all the O’Driscolls’ horses. With a quiet “I’m so sorry, girl”, he patted her on the neck, sighing. Branwen mirrored him with a heavy huff, protesting at the extra effort her rider made her exert, but obediently speeding up. “Good girl … Won’t be much longer, I promise.” As they continued on their path, Kieran debated what exactly he was going to do now. He certainly wanted to take the opportunity of what might have been a shootout to run away from the gang, but the risk was far too great. He knew, all too well, what Colm liked to do to traitors and turncoats. He had seen it plenty of times. The most merciful fate was a bullet between the eyes, but for Kieran … something much worse would await him if he was found out. And if he just ran away now, without making sure the hideout had truly been attacked – well, he just couldn’t risk it; Colm would find him. The man had a special talent when it came to finding rats.
So, he decided to wait. Either the camp was just fine, in which case running was not an option, or they had been attacked, and he could run. People would be none the wiser, since he could have very well just died in the shootout, no one was going to check the corpses or count them. Colm didn’t care enough about his men for that. But even then, he would still need to wait a while to check the O’Driscolls’ fate, wait for any potential dangers to run off.
He just hoped he could stave off the cold long enough for that.
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It had been a good half hour now since the shots died down, and Kieran thought this was as good a time as any to make his way back to camp. Though, shortly after he set out, he got distracted by something poking out from the snow by the river he rode along. It looked like a bulbous flower, which got Kieran’s hopes up. There wouldn’t even be close to enough bulbs for all the horses, not even for most of them, so he would just keep them stashed away for Branwen. He felt bad for the other horses, of course, but he had to prioritize her, no matter how fond he was of them. He jumped off Branwen, carefully making his way towards the riverbed. It took a little longer than he would have liked, but he had to be extra careful not to slip, since he couldn’t really feel his feet anymore. Falling into the freezing river in this weather would spell certain death. A painful death, at that. Kieran could imagine it, almost; the cold water pushing the air out of his lungs, numbing his limbs as he flutily struggled to keep his head above water. And then, darkness, peace.
He gently slapped both his hands on his cheeks, snapping himself out of the gruesome fantasy. He didn’t want that to be his end, so he had to focus on where he placed his numb feet. Crouching down by the riverbed, he pulled out his knife and gently started digging at the frozen ground where the flowers bloomed.
Kieran heard the thundering of hooves on the ground before he could look up to see a group of men riding in his direction. They stopped a good bit away, on the opposite side of the river that he was on. Their eyes were on him, but their faces were all covered by hats and bandanas. The lack of the telltale green Kieran had grown to hate told him they were likely no allies of his, if the O’Driscolls could even be called that. That, too, he could tell from their body language, the men were tense, and they were focused. The figure that Kieran would guess to be the leader of the little group pointed at him, turning towards the man in the blue coat on his right. He said something that the harsh winds did not carry over to Kieran. But he didn’t need to hear the man’s words to know what he had ordered his men to do. Most of the group immediately rode off, only the man with the blue coat and the frankly gorgeous Tennessee Walker staying behind.
No, not staying behind – coming towards him!
‘Shit.’
Kieran’s stomach dropped as he scrambled onto Branwen, who was already galloping away before he had even fully swung himself up into her saddle. She didn’t need much encouragement to run with all her might; Branwen was always in tune with how Kieran felt, his panic surely already apparent to her. He didn’t know what exactly the man wanted, but he would hazard a guess that it wasn’t anything good, and Kieran didn’t even have anything to defend himself with. Though, he really doubted he would have managed to shoot the man even if he had a gun; his fingers were already too stiff and aching from the cold. He barely managed to hold the reigns at this point, making up for a lack of fine motors skill with a grip hard enough to bring feeling back into his fingers, though mostly a dull stabbing. He steered his mare up and away from the river, his pursuer keeping almost perfect pace, thankfully not gaining on him. That didn’t surprise Kieran, his Branwen and the other man’s horse were the same breed, after all.
His heart was pounding in his ears, mixing with Branwen’s hoofbeats and her heavy breathing to form a sick melody that drowned out all other sounds around him. He could barely even think, that’s how loud it all seemed to him. Trying to ground himself, he started rationalizing the situation; they wanted him alive, that much was easy to figure out. There had been plenty of opportunities to shoot him, after all. Mainly when he hadn’t been aware of their presence yet. And there were many moments where his pursuer, even with hands numb and shaking from the cold, and the rocking of a galloping horse beneath him, would have been practically guaranteed a clean hit. But the man hadn’t even tried to shoot, and that scared Kieran.
After all, death was preferable to capture in the life of an outlaw.
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They had been sprinting along the snowed-in mountain road for a good five minutes now, and Kieran was fully and utterly lost at this point. His surroundings seemed completely unfamiliar to him, though he didn’t really have time to orient himself anyway. He didn’t have a plan, either, but to keep running. The rational part of his brain urged him to stay on the clear path through the snow, away from any obstacles and dangers that could hurt his already exhausted horse. He almost did, too, after all, there wasn’t much in this world more important to him than Branwen’s safety. But something in the back of his mind told him to try his luck in the sparce forest lining the path on his left. Surely, with some luck, he could shake the man, lose him between the trees, veiled by the heavy snowfall. What other option did he have? Branwen wasn’t in the best shape; she was malnourished, sure, but more pressingly, she hadn’t gotten any exercise in quite a while.
So, there was no way they were going to outrun the clearly healthier horse and his relentless rider.
With a sharp tug of the reins and fear for his life coursing through his veins, Kieran quickly steered his mare into the woods. “Come on, girl!”, he encouraged her, leaning into her neck, stomach flush with the saddle and practically pushing his face into her mane. He couldn’t see where they were going like this, but the position shielded him from any stray branches threatening to gouge his eyes out. Consequently, he couldn’t direct Branwen, either, but the rhythmic rocking of his hips and squeezing of his thighs was all she needed, she could find her way on her own.
A quick glance backwards revealed his pursuer still trailing him with reckless abandon. Perhaps he was not so concerned with the safety of his horse, or himself for that matter. Unlike the man, Kieran struggled to ignore the way his horse was suffering. Branwen was panting even heavier beneath him now, spit foaming at her mouth from the exertion. Through his thin pants he could feel her sweat, sticky and thick, but already ice-cold from the unforgiving temperatures. Kieran wasn’t doing any better, either; ears throbbing from the biting wind, fingers prickling and gripping the reins like they were his lifeline, legs cramping. His eyes were tearing up, from the cold and from fear and his lungs felt like they were on fire.
It felt like death itself was chasing him though the forest, hot and relentless on his heel, closing in on him, grasping at him. Something about that man was deeply terrifying, on a primal level. All of Kieran’s instincts told him every other fate was better than falling into his hands. The man’s presence chilled him to the bone, more than the blizzard already did. He wasn’t terrifying in the way others, like the O’Driscolls, were – there was more to it. Cold efficiency and burning rage radiated off the man in equal measures.
Both focused purely on Kieran.
“Just leave me be, please! I don’t know nothin’!”, he cried out, noticing the man had gained enough on him to be in earshot. If his pursuer heard him, he gave no indication. That icy stare was still focused purely on Kieran, tunneling in on him. Burning right through him.
Just then, before any of them even had time to react, something dashed out in front of Branwen. Usually, the mare was rather hard to spook, but the chase had drained her. She had already been panicking before, her exhaustion apparent, and that seemed to be the final straw. She skidded to a stop, throwing Kieran towards her neck, his stomach digging painfully into the saddlehorn, threatening to make him hurl.
And just as quickly, she reared up, the sudden shift causing Kieran to lose his balance and fall backwards.
He was gripping the saddlehorn now, holding on for dear life. Not even two seconds had passed, and when he had just about managed to steady himself, he felt a strange tug around his waist. It was an odd sensation, not something he ever felt before. Looking down for a split second, he saw … a rope? Before he could even process anything else he was forcefully yanked off his rearing horse by that very rope. He landed on the frozen ground with a thud. And a crack.
A crack?
Now the world was spinning, even though Kieran was reasonably sure he was lying motionless on the cold dirt. He tried to turn on his side or sit up, suddenly nauseous and afraid he would throw up, but his arms were restrained to his waist, so it was no use. The man in the blue coat had already hopped off his horse, out of breath from the effort of the chase, and he was furious.
Both horses were panting and exhausted. But Branwen was doing much worse, eyes wide with panic, stomping her front legs and throwing her head around wildly. Kieran was almost afraid she would stomp on him.
Damn, his whole body hurt. And he could feel something warm on the back of his head. It was almost … nice. He was so cold. And so sore. Maybe he could just close his eyes, rest for a bit …
“Shit”, the man muttered, muffled by the thick, black bandana on his face. Then, he bent down, putting one knee next to Kieran’s chest. The giant, now looming over him, gripped him by collar. Then, Kieran was ripped out of his daze by a slap. Right where Colm had hit him earlier. His head swam and his tongue felt numb in his mouth, so he could only whimper in pain at the sensation. “Don’t you go die on me now, O’Driscoll. We’ve got a lot more planned for you.”, the man practically spat at him. Then, Kieran suddenly felt hands on him. First, on his chest, then his waist, roaming, searching. He froze, eyes wide and unfocused, the sensation of big, aggressive hands on his body making him sick.
“W-Wait, please no! Don’t do this!”, he begged, quietly. Burning hot tears welled up in his eyes again, but he had stopped shaking. Maybe, if he just stayed still –
Then a hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, the quick roaming coming to a sudden stop. Digging around for a few seconds, the man pulled out the small amount of money Kieran had stashed away.
“There we go!”, the man sounded like he was grinning, though Kieran couldn’t tell with his lower face hidden by his bandana.
‘Oh. He was just look for valuables, I guess.” What exactly had Kieran expected? Well, nothing he was going to dwell on. The man, seemingly satisfied with the few dollars he got, dropped him back down, letting go of his collar. Then, Kieran was flipped on his stomach, only barely feeling his hands and feet being tied together. “You’re coming with me, you little piece of shit.”, the blue-clad man muttered as he hoisted his weakly struggling prisoner onto the back of his horse, tying him to the saddle to prevent him from falling. That was kind at least, Kieran thought. When the horse under him started running, he could feel blood start to slowly trickle from the back of his head to his face.
Right, blood. He hit his head earlier on an unfortunately placed rock on his was down. That’s why his head was feeling so warm. But now there was also a sharp, throbbing pain back there. The rough jostling of the ride was doing Kieran no favors either, every bounce of the horse’s rump sending a jolt of pain straight through his head. “Please slow down, Mister …it really hurts.”, he whimpered, but the horse kept its steady gait, his captor might have even sped up in response to his plea. Kieran couldn’t quite tell, but it certainly felt that way. Lifting his head a little, he could see Branwen in the distance. She had calmed down a bit, feet now planted firmly on the ground, but the rest of her body language still betrayed how nervous she was. Branwen …his poor girl was all alone now, confused and scared in the cold mountains. He just barely caught a sob threatening to make its way out of his sore throat at the thought of what might happen to her out here, and he was debating begging the man to take her with them. But who knows what these people would do to her to make him talk? And they were frankly too far away already to go back for her, so Kieran could only pray his sweet Branwen would find her way to safety on her own.
After a few minutes of silence, the man suddenly spoke up. “What’s your name, boy?”, the last word betraying a heavy drawl in the man’s voice. Kieran hadn’t even realized he had been addressed, the ringing in his ears stopping him from processing the question. When no answer came, the other man took to threatening him, “I don’t make a habit of repeating myself, O’Driscoll.”
There was that name again. Kieran hated being called an O’Driscoll. He was barely part of that gang, only really there to care for the horses and to be pushed around and hit when someone needed to let off some steam. They hadn’t even given him a gun; he was only ever lent one the few times he was taken out on a job.
“I – I don’t know.”, Kieran stammered, his voice weak and hoarse. He didn’t process what the man had said to him but surely, he had asked something about the O’Driscolls. Then, feigning ignorance was a safe bet. It usually was, anyway.
“You don’t know your own name, boy?”
‘Oh.’ He would have been embarrassed, in any other situation.
“I-It’s Kieran …
Kieran Duffy.”