COWBOY UP • TnT Duo Western AU

LONE SALOON

Fleeing a city with no idea as to where the next town is was risky as is, but after losing all of his belongings and his horse, Wilbur starts to think he may die out in the desert.

It's been days, Wilbur is pretty beaten up and hes running out of water, so when he sees a couple of buildings off in the distance, it takes everything not to start running. He entertains the idea that maybe its just a mirage- hes so dehydrated- but no. The closer he gets, the more the town expands. There's a sign, though it takes Wilbur a minute to figure out what the beaten up letters say. Dread Wood. Sad name.

His legs and arms are killing him. He'd gotten into a little bit of a scuffle at the last town and ended up with a bullet in one leg, shrapnel dug into his hands and back, and a fresh round of bullet holes in his coat. That, and Wilbur is all out of bandages, so each injury was open to the elements.

Wilbur stumbles ever closer, hoping the townspeople don't recognize him. He's not sure if he can take another chase, not like this. His waterskins are drained and his last horse had been caught in the crossfire of that scuffle. He'd been dragging what little he managed to grab in his pockets. A few more steps and he's in front of a saloon.

Wilbur can hear people chattering away inside, so he fixes his hat before stepping up a few stairs and through the doors.

Talking continues, but a few steps in and Wilbur stumbles, drawing a great deal of attention. What was left of the coat luckily covered the bullet wound on his leg, but that doesn't mean he doesn't reek of blood. Staring hard at the floor, Wilbur manages to find the bar. He sits, looking around for the bartender.

It takes a second, Wilburs vision is a little blurry and the room is dark. There's a man behind the counter with a huge scar across one eye, cleaning a glass with a ragged cloth. He looks up when Wilbur clears his throat, sitting the glass down behind him and walking over.

The man leans down on the counter in front of Wilbur, elbows resting on the surface. Wilbur takes off his hat, sitting it in front of himself with a curt smile. He's got a gun holstered on one hip, and one good eye, one bad eye. The good eye is a dark brown, almost black, staring directly at Wilbur. The other was unmoving in its socket.

"When you're done staring, let me know what you want." The man says, standing up straight and letting his hands settle on his hips. "Unless you've just come to marvel."

Still, he continues to stare at Wilbur. Hard, like he's expecting trouble. Wilbur can't tell if the man knows who he is- an outlaw with well over 10,000 dollars on his head- or if he's just untrusting in general. Wilbur swallows again, becoming more and more aware of how dry his throat is. Hed gone without water since yesterday night, so without this town, he might've just died. "Water," he manages.

The chatter had slowly begun building up again, though there are more apparent whispers. One good look at his face could set someone off and the whole place would go up in flames.

He fidgets with the rim of his hat as the man pours him a glass of water.

"Not often we see drifters like yourself, what brings you to Dread Wood?" The man prompts. "Heading somewhere?"

"Yeah. Daemarrel." Wilbur fixes his hair, wanting nothing more than the stinging all over his body to stop. Now that he's able to sit down, his body feels like its on fire, and his throat has been burning since forever. He shuts his eyes, opening them again when the glass is set in front of him. Eagerly, he drinks.

"East? Ah, I wouldn't. Heard some big shot cowboy went and got half the town blown up." The man leans back against the counter behind him, raising a brow. "I bet they put up a pretty big bounty."

Wilbur hums. In his defense, there were no immediate casualties, Wilbur had made sure of it. Just a lot of rubble. Half the town? Why, it had only been one building! Wilbur shakes his head, sitting the half drunk glass down.

"You sure were thirsty. Where are ya' from?" the man asks. Wilbur begins to wonder if he talks this much with every strange man he meets.

"Snakeridge, heard of it?" Wilbur asks, lying through his teeth. His hands draw into his lap, where he feels the bullet burning. The skin around the entry point has gone numb. He winces when his sleeve accidently brushes over top of it. The man shakes his head, looking up when someone else comes in.

Wilbur spends the rest of the afternoon in the saloon, either talking to the man- whos name is Quackity, he learns- or drinking and eating and almost sleeping. Wilbur has spent as much time as he could walking for the last three days, so he would've stayed forever if he could.

But eventually, it's time for the saloon to close, real late into the evening. Wilbur decides on seeking out a hotel or something similar, seeing if they got any medical supplies and maybe making off with a horse early in the morning, riding until he finds a good place to make camp.

As Wilbur watches the last person bid farewell to Quackity, he stands. On his way to the door, his leg gives out, and he lands heavily on a knee and his hands. A gasp escapes him.

This is it. Quackity will surely kill him now. Now that he knows Wilbur is injured and weak. All he would have to do is pull the gun from his hip and shoot. Wilbur bites his tongue.