#slowed down brightened and butchered with filters :)

[onebraincellfan]

[coffeeandtin]

Exile on Main St.

This was requested by the magnificent gift to our fandom, @redharvestthough. (Thank you for trusting me with your boi!) She asked for anything with Red Harvest. “Maybe a woman from Rose Creek tries to find a way to say thank you to him after the battle? Maybe he opens up and shares a story or two around the campfire with the rest of the Seven?”   This is sort of a combination of those suggestions; and is set a few weeks after the events of the movie. It’s a story wherein Red slowly acclimates to not being on his own; and he is heroic in a bunch of small ways when warrior-like badassery is not a necessity. I hope you enjoy! (Oh, and the title is from the album by The Rolling Stones!)

           Red Harvest rolled his shoulders as the late summer sun beat down on them. He filled his lungs and exhaled, enjoying the heat and solitude for a moment longer. The herbs he’d gathered would be a welcome addition to the doctor’s stores. Now he had only to deliver them, and that meant returning to town. Red spared a glance backward at the creek bed before approaching Jack. Lacking any activity, Faraday’s stallion had begun to make a nuisance of himself around the stable yard, and so Red was happy to intervene. Jack was stubborn, but once Red had negotiated the horse’s ticklish flanks, riding him without a saddle presented little difficulty.

           Red swung himself onto Jack’s back and set off toward Rose Creek at a slow trot. The stallion wasted no time in asking to be allowed to move faster, and Red reluctantly let him. Jack’s gait was shorter than his horse’s, but it was also smooth. The return trip was faster than Red would have preferred.

           Rose Creek bustled in the hours of the early evening. It had taken a few days for the town to collect itself after the battle but even in their weariness, the people of Rose Creek set to rebuilding the town at a feverish pace. Now, three weeks later, the work had become routine. The sounds of conversation and laughter slowly filtered back. Under the scent of fresh-cut lumber the smell of smoke remained even as the town endeavored to heal itself. Red settled Jack in the stable and gave the town’s doctor the contents of his satchel. Unencumbered, Red found his way back onto the street.

           Red cut down an alleyway on his way to the boarding house and a dog found its way into his path. He hadn’t realized before that moment how few were in Rose Creek. Red greeted the animal in his own tongue, and asked where it had come from. He crouched, and scratched under the dog’s chin, behind its ears, then down the sides of its neck. The lop-eared mutt gave no reply. It panted and looked up at Red with half closed eyes, and its tongue lolled in canine gratitude. Red gave it a final pat on the back before continuing on.

           Goodnight and Jack sat on the front porch of the boarding house. Aside from the cut on his face, Red Harvest had physically suffered little by comparison. The bandage around Jack’s left hand was the only immediate hint of the tracker’s injuries, but it was his other wounds that were keeping him from productivity. Jack boasted a ruddy, healthful complexion; and he watched the activity on the street with what Red Harvest recognized as longing. Or maybe Jack was intent on prayer. Either, Red thought, was perfectly likely.

Goodnight sat with a dog-eared book closed in his lap, and a pall on his features that hinted at his former nearness to death. Bullet wounds and broken bones had slowed Goodnight, and Red had noticed a resultant moodiness in the usually jocund Cajun. Or, perhaps that temperament had always been there and Red had only taken note of it because he was becoming familiar. There was something unsettling in the thought, and Red shoved the notion aside as he climbed the stairs and greeted Jack and Goodnight with a nod.

           “Red,” Jack welcomed him.

           “Evenin’,” Goodnight said.

           Jack produced a flask of whiskey and offered it to Red, who accepted a drink before handing it to Goodnight. The liquor burned pleasantly and Red thought that it seemed like years instead of weeks ago that he would have taken joy in the infliction of Jack’s wounds. In his death.

The silence in which the three found themselves was comfortable enough, but Red didn’t care for the way Goodnight fidgeted with the book he held.

           “How’s Billy?” Red asked.

           Goodnight’s expression brightened at this.

           “Resting,” Goodnight said as he shifted to a more comfortable position. “At least, he should be.”

           Red’s mouth twitched at this. He’d had little occasion to spend time around Billy, but he hadn’t assumed his fellow outsider would take recovery lying down.

           “And Faraday?”

           “He’s spending more time among the living,” Goodnight said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you paid him a visit.”

Red nodded, and made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. It struck him that he hadn’t been to see Faraday since he’d become lucid enough to carry on a conversation. Red knew there was no good reason not to see Faraday. The man had, after all, sacrificed himself and saved what remained of the population in Rose Creek; Red Harvest counted among them. The three fell silent again, and Red was about to take his leave when Goodnight spoke up.

           “You stickin’ around, then, Red?”

           Red saw the glance Jack and Goodnight shared, and he wondered how often his continued presence in Rose Creek had been the subject of speculation. He crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to think of an answer to the question that had lately been plaguing him.

           “Thought I’d stay until Sam gets back. Say goodbye.”

           Jack and Goodnight’s faces fell. Clearly, it hadn’t been the response the older men were expecting. Across the street, Red spied a small child pulling at a woman –his mother’s? –arm. The two looked familiar in the same, vague way all the residents of Rose Creek appeared to Red Harvest. He’d seen most, if not all of them, in passing; but he didn’t engage them. The child’s efforts redoubled and Red thought that he was not the only one with the urge to escape.

           “Oh…well,” Goodnight said. “Sam should be back any day now.”

           Jack nodded, and straightened his posture. He winced a little, but it did nothing to remove the dour expression that took up residence on his face.

           “Sam stayed here for a few days before he set out,” Jack observed.

           Red beat back the annoyance he felt at the heavy-handedness of Jack’s words; though, in his mind, Red admitted that he could not argue the point. He’d had a chance to say his farewells to Sam if he’d truly intended to leave.

          Fair enough, Red thought.

          Across the way, the child’s custodian gave his hand a small, admonitory squeeze, and the child ceased his pulling.

          Just over two weeks prior, Sam had left to serve a warrant. While Red hadn’t expected to be invited, he’d found that he’d had to quell a sense of unrest at the prospect of remaining in Rose Creek in Sam’s absence. He’d followed the man into battle, and The Seven had gained an unlikely victory. Red frowned. He could admit only to himself why he stayed. Surely, it was not some misplaced sense of filial obligation.  No, taking up arms with Sam and the rest of The Seven had been the first time in a long time that he’d felt a sense of direction.

           “I tell you what,” Goodnight interjected. “I almost feel sorry for the poor sonofabitch when Sam catches up to him.”

           Jack and Red nodded in tacit agreement. Red wondered, and not for the first time, if Sam had taken to the road so soon because he had been deprived of that final revenge against Bogue. Red supposed, by way of some funny little quirk of existence, that his slaying of Denali had facilitated Emma’s wrath, which had, in turn, prevented Sam’s vengeance…and his death.

           The child began tugging again. This time he pulled free, and began to make his way onto the street. The rapid approach of a horse-drawn cart spurred Red into action. Both Goodnight and Jack attempted to follow Red, but pain dutifully reminded them of their injuries. With sure, quick strides, Red reached the boy and easily scooped him up with one arm before bearing him away from any potential danger.

           “Oh!” The woman said before bustling over, her expression stricken.

           Red stood stock-still. It was a mistake. He shouldn’t have gone anywhere near the child. Even though he’d helped save them, he would now face the woman’s ire (and likely that of the rest of the town’s) because they thought he was a savage and that he was dangerous, and…

           “Thomas! What have I told you about running away from me?!” The woman cut her tirade short, relief and a bright smile replacing her fear and agitation. “Thank you so much! Mister…Harvest?”

           The woman paused as she realized that Red Harvest’s name was, perhaps, not so easily paired with proper forms of address in the English language. Something that looked like embarrassment flitted over her face before she continued smiling. Her features were both soft and handsome. While the gray in her red-gold hair, and wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes hinted at her age, the spray of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose lent her the appearance of a more youthful woman.

           “’Red Harvest,’ is fine,” he said, allowing himself a sigh of relief. “Or, just ‘Red.’”

           “I’m Stella Hawkins; my husband Ned’s the butcher. And this is Thomas, my nephew.” Red recalled bringing a deer to her husband and realized that was how he recognized her. “Good to finally meet you, Red Harvest.”

           Red nodded, and hoisted Thomas higher in his grip. The boy had the same dark eyes as is aunt, and they regarded Red Harvest with honest, open curiosity. Thomas smiled at Red Harvest, and Red found himself unreservedly smiling back.      

           He handed Thomas back to Stella, and while the boy settled for resting his head on her shoulder, his eyes continued watching Red Harvest.

          “Thank you,” she said.

          Red nodded again.

           “No, I mean it, Red Harvest,” Stella’s expression became earnest. “Not just for corralling my nephew, here. Thank you for everything. Anything you need, you just have to ask. You’re always welcome here. And I hope you know that.”

           “I…”

           And there it was: the hateful dissonance between knowing and accepting. Red floundered for words. What could he say? That he’d fulfilled his purpose in Rose Creek and wanted to move on despite the numerous times it had been professed that he was welcome there? He thought that maybe a small part of him did belong to them; he was now an indelible part of Rose Creek’s story, after all. Could he tell her, or anyone else, that he remained on the outskirts of town, and broke bread within its confines only rarely because staying there made him ache so horribly to see his own family?

          “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, managing a smile before walking away with uncertain steps.

           Red was entertaining thoughts of going on a hunt when his feet led him to the lumber yard.

           “Hey, mano.”

           Red Harvest lifted his head to see Vasquez approaching. It surprised Red that Vasquez had stayed in Rose Creek; but if Red was glad of anyone’s company, it was the Mexican’s. Red joined him and they worked in companionable silence until darkness filled the valley.

           “Hungry?” Vasquez’s voice followed Red as he began to make his way to his little camp outside of town.

           “Yeah,” Red said; because he was.

           Vasquez tilted his head to the side, indicating that Red should follow.

           Red looked back toward his camp, but then trailed after Vasquez.

           They had the dining room mostly to themselves. Even if that hadn’t been the case, Red had noticed on occasions when he did take his meals in town that members of The Seven were generally granted deference where seating arrangements were concerned. Vasquez spoke about construction plans, and listed the progress that had already been made.

           Red wondered what made Vasquez stay. A respite from a life of running, Red guessed, was likely motivation enough. Even so, Vasquez hardly seemed the type to settle down for any duration of time.

          Vasquez carried the conversation, and Red nodded in the appropriate places as he mechanically chewed his food. Taking a bite of bread, Vasquez chuckled, as if conceding that current events in Rose Creek had become decidedly less dynamic.

           “You good, Red?” Vasquez’s voice had a more serious tone than his expression might have suggested.  

           “Mm-hmm,” Red answered, as he focused on the opposite wall and spooned an irresponsible amount of beans into his mouth.

           Vasquez’s gaze narrowed, and the corners of his moth turned downward. His eyes still smiled, though. Red thought he heard Vasquez mutter something that sounded like, “Very mature, little brother,” but Red’s attention was drawn by Sam Chisolm’s arrival.

           “Hey,” Sam said before joining them.

           Sam’s typically immaculate, dark clothes were laden with dust.

           Vasquez had finished his own dinner; and the rest of Red’s sat, forgotten, on its plate. For his own part, Sam ate heartily and silently. There was an ease about Sam’s expression that had not been there before his departure from Rose Creek. The two younger men watched, and kept themselves from disrupting Sam’s meal. It occurred to Red that he had not been the only one waiting for Sam to return, and he felt the pull of fraternal sentiment.

           Sam ate the last of his food, wiped his mouth, and pushed his plate away before standing.

           “Good to see the two of you,” Sam said before walking toward the door and casting a glance backward. “Thought I’d go see Faraday now.”

           “I find myself in some illustrious company, don’t I?” Faraday asked when he saw that all of The Seven had congregated. “That’s the right word, ain’t it, Goodnight? ‘Illustrious’?”

           “Suppose it depends on what you think you mean,” Goodnight said.

            Laughter rumbled through the makeshift infirmary.

           Red rested the small of his back on a chest of drawers that stood between Faraday’s and Jack’s beds; and took stock of his company. Faraday had far fewer bandages than the last time Red had seen him. Goodnight sat on the foot of Billy’s bed, and Billy sat whittling a piece of wood; though, what shape it would eventually take, Red could not tell. Jack sat on his own bed, and Vasquez leaned on the wall by the door.

           The darkness that was not banished by candles was kept at bay by the moonlight that slanted its way through the windowpanes. Sam was cast in both warm and cold light as he sat in a chair by the window. Conversation was stoked, and the longer it continued, Red found himself caring less and less that the subject of an exit from Rose Creek had not been broached. The moon rose higher as they all laughed harder, and life seemed to Red Harvest to be less complicated than it had for the past few weeks.

“No, no! Now, if I were a gambling man,” Faraday said, jerking a thumb in Red’s direction. “I’d say Red’s never done anything stupid in his entire life.”

           “What do you mean, ‘if’ you were a gambling man?” Red asked as he arched his eyebrows at Faraday’s assertion.

           “Good point,” Faraday granted with a bark of laughter. All others in attendance nodded. That Red Harvest was a sensible man seemed to be the consensus.

          Faraday’s hands wandered to his bandages then flattened themselves on the bedclothes. Even with the sense of bonhomie emanating through the room, Red saw self-consciousness flicker over Faraday’s face. Red decided that if their positions had been switched, Red would have lost his mind.

           “Maybe once I did something stupid,” Red admitted, as he smiled and looked down at the floorboards.

           “Twice,” Goodnight said. “If you count following Sam.”

           “And we’re all grateful you did,” Sam pointed out, as sounds of agreement echoed.

           “I went against my elders’ wishes,” Red said, realizing that the muscles in his face were smarting from smiling more than they were accustomed to.

His words gained the attention of the others. It might have been a trick of the light, but they all could have sworn that the lone wolf in their ranks looked sheepish.

           “One of my brothers and I decided to have our own raid,” Red began. “We were young. Neither of us had killed our first buffalo yet, but we were eager to prove ourselves.”

           Red thought back to that night. Clear sky and a moon that was nearly full.

           Just like tonight, he thought as he remembered mounting a fleet-footed, red mare and following his older brother beneath the moon’s silvery guidance.

           “We were going to make a competition of it; see who could bring back the most. We both knew it was foolish, but we goaded each other on anyway. Swift Talon was the better rider, and I was the better fighter…”

           Red paused. It felt good to say his brother’s name aloud, even if it was the English facsimile thereof. What he elected to omit from the story was that disease took Swift Talon two winters later; and from then on, Red resolved to nourish all of his talents equally until he was a peerless warrior.

           “Who won?” Faraday asked.

           Red looked from face to face, and realized that he’d lost himself in the memory; and worse yet, that a lump had developed in his throat.

           “No one,” he said, forcing air from his lungs in an imitation of laughter. “No one won. Bright Eagle, a warrior from our tribe, caught us. Brought us back to our camp.”

           Red remembered the sound Bright Eagle’s horse made when the beast came to a halt in front of him and Swift Talon. It was more a roar than a whinny, and its rider was equally suited to the act of war. But there he was, interfering in the mischief of children who were too impatient for battle.

          “He didn’t say a word the whole way back.” At the time, Red thought it would have been preferable if Bright Eagle had viciously upbraided them. Save for the occasional glance to where Swift Talon sulked atop his horse, Red had kept his eyes forward for the duration of the journey. “I don’t think he ever told anyone, though.”

         Then again, Red realized, I hadn’t shared that story with anyone, either.