#listen man . It feels wrong to draw him without a leather jacket or sweatshirt .

[tonypostt]

my first exposure to x-men being the movies all the way back in 2019 was honestly damaging because i cannot look at wolverine's usual superhero outfit and think "he is NOT wearing that . This bitch is wearing an extremely baggy sweatshirt he randomly found and hasn't washed since" . And as such i am going to compromise whenever i draw him in his main outfit

[sternbagel]

I’ve been a little stuck on some of my other projects so I decided to flesh out another thing about my RDR OC that’s been sitting in my head for some time.

Notes: set in October 1898

TW: canon-typical violence, period-typical racism, probably incorrect translations Spanish phrases, very little editing

Companion to this

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Winter is on its way. She feels it, icy tendrils creeping into the October air as it whips around her, through the brush and the trees. It’s worse here, up in the westernmost part of the Grizzlies, where the many rocky cliffs provide little to no buffer against the high winds. No snow has fallen yet, too early in the season. But even when it does, it’ll continue to weigh heavy on bare branches long after the lowlands have begun to bloom again. 

She’ll return to lower altitude soon, ride out the worst of the winter somewhere warmer, like New Austin, maybe. Visit some friends, maybe. Take a break, definitely. But first, she has to finish the business that brought her up here in the first place. 

“There you are.”

Behind her, a horse snorts, impatient. She knows what’s coming, been through this enough times. The horse doesn’t enjoy the extra weight placed on her rump during the ride back to the sheriff’s, but she does appreciate the extra sugar cubes and apples she gets afterwards. And the nice, fresh stable she gets bedded down in that night while her rider gets a room at the closest hotel. It’s only ever one night before they’re back in the wilderness. Sometimes staying just outside town, but for that one night, they live in as much luxury as the area allows.

“Easy, Moonbay,” she whispers, standing up from the frozen tracks in the dirt. “Let’s go get him.”

She mounts the dapple black Thoroughbred and combs her fingers soothingly through her white mane. Her legs squeeze Moonbay’s sides three times, urging her into an easy canter. The mare’s got long strides, meaning it isn’t long before they come up on the rider’s target: a nasty piece of work she’s been tracking for three days. He’s only worth fifty dollars, one of the cheaper bounties she’s been after in the last seven years, but once she read that he killed a mother and two children while robbing their small homestead, she’d set off immediately. 

He’s riding with three other men, but she’s not worried. She’s faced far worse odds before and come out with only a few new scars. She just hopes she doesn’t kill the bastard by accident. Giving them shit while listening to them squirm and curse her out on the long ride back is the best part.

She pulls Moonbay to a stop and pats her neck before dismounting, not bothering with hitching her before crouching and continuing forward. Moonbay’s a brave horse, and even when the gunfight startles her, she doesn’t wander too far off, always returning shortly after the firing stops, with or without being whistled for. 

The men have stopped at the roadside, one of them standing amongst the trees to take a piss. She’ll deal with that one first. Removing the bow from its place over her shoulder a few moments later when she’s creeped close enough, she nocks the arrow and makes her slow, silent approach. He’s whistling some tune, completely oblivious to her presence.

One, two, three deep breaths, she peeks around the side of the tree acting as her cover, and draws back the string. A fourth breath leaves her lungs, and the arrow flies. The string flicks against the few strands of her black hair that have come loose from the braid, and she blows them out of her face at the same time the body thunks against the leaf-covered ground.

“Jim? You smack your head again? Dumb bastard.”

They’ll discover her soon enough, so she throws the bow back over her shoulder and reaches for her two LeMat revolvers. Her thumbs run over the AT engraved in the grips of both of them as she waits, still concealed by the trunk.

“Jim? The hell—” He stops once he sees the body, arrow embedded in the temple. “What the hell—Carl, Clyde, we got a problem!”

The echo of her revolver immediately follows the man’s exclamation. He, too, falls to the ground to never get back up. She stands quickly and rushes towards the shouts from the other two men at the road. Emerging from the treeline, she spots both of them. Both of their guns are raised, but they’re facing the wrong direction. Clyde, the actual bounty, is atop his horse. If he doesn’t fire at her after she kills his lackey, he’ll surely take off. So she aims one gun at the horse’s feet—not to hit it, just to spook it into hopefully bucking Clyde off—and the other at the lackey’s head. She pulls each trigger at the same time. The lackey’s death is instant, but the horse doesn’t spook quite as much as she thought it would. The other three horses, however, do, bolting off in different directions while voicing their sudden fear.

She’s quick with her guns, but not quick enough. Once her shots are fired, Clyde turns in his saddle and fires off a shot of his own. She can’t raise her guns to threaten him before a bullet whizzes into and then out of her left arm. The gun in her hand clatters to the ground.

Retaliation is swift on her end, as she lets out a swear of “¡Chingado!” while firing off a shot at his shoulder. Anger and pain tear through her, along with the thought, If I kill him, I kill him. She’ll have to visit a doctor now, so a quiet ride back might not be so disappointing at all.

It doesn’t kill him, but it does knock him back off his horse, who then takes off with a scream. 

Oh, ahora quieres cooperar.

The gun she’s still holding is holstered before being replaced with the lasso attached to her hip as she strides purposefully to where he’s landed in the dirt. Her left arm screams and throbs with the pain, and she faintly registers the blood rolling down and off of her hand, but she has work to do. The man rolls around, pulling his knees up under him to attempt to stand up, looking frantically for his own dropped gun. His heels are just digging into the ground and he’s almost stood back up when her lasso tightens around his torso. A hard yank, and he’s stumbling towards her before landing on his back again.

“Bitch!” he spits. 

She keeps the rope taut as she approaches. “Heard that one before.”

“Greaser cunt! Fuck you!”

Baring her teeth and sucking in a furious breath, she yanks the rope again. He grunts painfully and she halts her approach, his head in easy kicking distance. “Better watch your mouth, asshole, or you’ll be headin’ back to the sheriff’s as a corpse.”

A devious grin that she does not like spreads across his face then. “Only place I’m headin’ is out of here, after I finish with your corpse, that is.”

The rope instantly becomes slack and in a swift movement—swifter than she figured he’d be able to move after being shot in the shoulder and thrown off a horse—he stands up, charging at her with a knife drawn in his right hand. He’s smart enough to come at her left side, but she’s also smart enough to throw her right side forward. There’s not enough strength in her left arm to be able to fend off the knife, so she reaches for it with her right arm instead. Her left fist collides with his stomach, though it’s not much help, only forcing out a quiet grunt and leaving a bloody fist print on his jacket. Then she grabs his left wrist with her own; two weakened arms wrestling with each other. He sneers as they struggle, and it only makes her madder. 

Anger in most situations actually helps her, gives her some clarity and more power behind her movements. In this one, however, it proves to be a detriment. Rather than use the rest of her body to throw him into the ground and wrench the knife away before grabbing her own, or her gun, she reaches for her knife with her bloody hand. It’s enough of an opening for Clyde to yank his arm back, away from their bodies. Her fist is still clenched around his wrist, so she’s pulled off balance. Wrapping his weakened left arm tightly around her neck and pulling his back flush against his chest is a task, as she’s not going down without a fight, and she’s stronger than she looks. She hasn’t let go of the wrist holding the knife, but while having the tables turned on her, he was able to position the knife less than a foot from her head. The rising pressure around her throat forces her to choose between the immediate danger of the knife or trying to loosen his arm with hers, still throbbing and leaking blood.

Her knife is sheathed on her right side, and the gun that belongs in her left holster is laying uselessly on the ground, far out of reach.

Fuck.

He opens his mouth to say something, no doubt some terrible snark or string of curses at her, but at the same time, they notice the wagon caravan come into view. 

Thankfully, he seems just as surprised as her, so it’s not his backup. Plus, he swears, “Shit,” under his breath and in her ear as he continues to struggle with freeing his hand from her grip. 

There are two riders in front of the first wagon, and neither of them look happy about the scene they’ve stumbled upon. The white man is in a brown leather coat barely hiding his burly frame with a worn black leather hat sitting atop his head, a few strands of dirty blonde hair peeking out from underneath. His dark bay Andalusian stamps its feet underneath him, smelling the blood, but doesn’t move otherwise as he dismounts swiftly, carefully. The other man to his left also dismounts his gray Appaloosa, who only snorts and throws her head, not moving either. He’s brawny as well, though his shoulders are broader, and he’s wearing a thick hooded black sweatshirt, no hat. She thinks he might be mixed race, black and Indian, maybe, long raven hair tied into a loose ponytail similar to how some of the Navajo men she’d met years ago wore theirs, but skin much darker than them. Closer to Josephine’s, she thinks a split second later, along with I need to write her when I get out of this.

Both men approach slowly as Clyde flashes the knife in his hand. He struggles to push the knife closer to her face, but she keeps it still, muscles whining with the strain.

“Easy, partner,” the one in the brown coat says calmly, accent something close to a southwestern if she had to guess, holding his hands out and away from his guns. There’s an underlying threat in his tone. “Let her go, and we’ll let you go.”

There’s very little in this world that she hates more than being a damsel in distress and being used as a bargaining chip or hostage. If he lets her go before she frees herself, there’s no way in hell she’s not shooting the bastard right in the face. 

She bares her teeth again and spares a glance at the other man. He’s already watching her like a hawk with deep, perceptive brown eyes, and shakes his head subtly as if he knows what she’s about to do. 

“And why should I trust you bastards?” Clyde asks with a sneer.

Slowly, so as to not alert Clyde, she shifts her weight onto her left leg. Then, once satisfied that she’s anchored enough, she makes her move. Throwing her right foot back quickly, she tucks it behind his ankle and kicks forward, throwing him off balance this time. Her left hand joins her right and she pulls his arm downward, her shoulder digging into his chest as she throws him to the ground, hard. The dirt beneath her boots shudders with the impact and she hears the breath leave his lungs. In a swift move, one she’s practiced many times for moments such as these, she reaches for her right holstered gun with her left, pulling the hammer back before it’s left the holster, then shoots him in the face, point blank, before he’s able to even begin trying to scramble to his feet.

A beat passes while she pants and slowly holsters her gun. “Fucking bastard,” she says between pants.

“Huh,” Brown Coat breathes. He grabs his gun belt, suddenly the picture of a relaxed cowboy. “Nice move.”

She looks at him, nodding silently, before turning to grab her discarded gun and lasso. She whistles loudly for Moonbay.

“Ma’am,” the other man says, taking a cautious step forward. Only when she looks at him, brows raised, does he continue, voice deep and baritone. Soothing, in a way. “Can we ask what that was about?”

At first she doesn’t answer, just regards them warily. They are dangerous, that much is apparent in the way they carry themselves, the way they dress, and the weapons they carry. But they don’t seem to present her much danger at the moment. The threat in Brown Coat’s voice was gone when he spoke. Nothing but worry, confusion, and intrigue show on either of their faces. So she relaxes. A little. “His head’s worth fifty bucks.”

Black Sweater chuckles lightly and Brown Coat opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by two other voices as they come up beside the men. The first belongs to a much older white man with deep lines but bright perceptive eyes, the second to a white woman in a plain dress, blue eyed, her black hair pulled into a high and tight bun. 

“Arthur, Charles, you two okay?”

“What happened?” 

Brown Coat turns to them and holds up a calming hand. “Everyone’s okay. ‘Sides the bounty she was after.”

The woman perks up once she lays eyes on the other. “Oh, hey, you been shot.” She sounds genuinely worried. About what exactly is unclear.

“Ma’am, you should go see a doctor about that,” the older man says gently.

“I will,” she replies with a one-shoulder shrug. “Gotta collect my money first.”

As if on cue, Moonbay appears in the treeline with a soft nicker. Once she sees the other people, she stops, ears flicking forward and nostrils flaring curiously.

Black Sweater takes another few steps forward, hands still raised harmlessly. “It won’t be easy to get him back by yourself.”

She can tell he means no offense, but it still pulls her lips into a slight frown. “No, but I’ll do it.” Then her mouth twists into something uncomfortable as a memory surfaces, but she quickly plunges it back under and pulls her face back into a neutral expression. 

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

A strange offer, from people she doesn’t know. It must show on her face, because the woman speaks up again.

“We’ve got some space in our wagons, and we can get ya stable until you get to the doctor.” The woman motions back to the wagon caravan, and it’s then that she notices the other four wagons and riders, hanging back at a reasonable distance but watching with interest. “And Arthur can stow your bounty on his horse.”

Brown Coat looks at her sharply. There’s no malice in his voice or face, rather amusement and surprise. “Why you volunteerin’ me, Abigail?”

“Why not?” she shoots back with a teasing smile. “You got experience takin’ bounties in, don’t’cha?”

“That’s true, but—”

“Just stow her on my horse, Moonbay,” she interrupts the two. She doesn’t notice that her mount has stepped closer, so she startles when the mare nudges her good shoulder, expecting a treat or checking up on her. Or both. “Hey, bonita.” As she reaches up to stroke Moonbay’s nose, a sudden wave of exhaustion rolls over her. The fight hadn’t been long or particularly bloody, but it’s been a long three days and the numbness in her arm is starting to fade away post-battle. Meaning all the pain will start to register, and she has no medicine that’ll ease the pain nearly enough. And this bullet wound is bleeding more than usual. 

“Okay,” Black Sweater—Charles, if she heard the name right—agrees, taking more steps forward until he’s at Clyde’s body. “Think she’ll be okay next to a wagon, or you want one of us to lead her?”

“I didn’t agree to go with you.”

Nobody seems convinced by her tone. 

“You don’t wanna bleed out on the way there, do ya?” Arthur asks.

She frowns more at that, like a petulant child. They’re right. They know it, she knows it. And something tells her that these people won’t bring her any harm. That their offer of help is genuine. She can’t deny that getting her wound tended to while sitting comfortably in the back of a wagon doesn’t sound enticing.

“Come on,” Arthur waves her forward before making a move to go to one of the other wagons. “I’ll go speak to Dutch. Uh, what’s your name, anyhow, ma’am?”

For the first time in a long time, her real name worms its way to the tip of her tongue. She quickly bites it back. Why, why now? Not that the name would mean anything to them, but still. It’s a part of her past she keeps locked away for a reason. These strangers have no business knowing her business. So she takes a deep breath, watching them for a moment, before relaxing her shoulders and nodding. 

“Alberta Taylor.”

“Well,” Abigail says, holding out her hands, “I’m Abigail Roberts. Come on, Alberta Taylor. Let’s get you taken care of.”

She nods again. “Just Al is fine.” Then she turns and announces over her shoulder, “Best one of you lead her. Moonbay, esta bien, hermosa. Buena niña.” 

Moonbay throws her head up once, snorts, then lowers her head as Charles approaches. She still seems a bit wary, but doesn’t flinch under his gentle touch and soft words. Satisfied that she’ll behave, Al turns back to Abigail, who is leading her past the first wagon. She’s uncomfortable with the many sets of eyes now on her, but ignores that feeling and the pain.

Besides, after they get her to the doctor, she’ll likely never see these people again. So she can stomach this unease for the time being.