A cool breeze blew through the town, drying sweat and giving a momentary reprieve from the heat. 

Dahteste knocked back the shot of whiskey she’d measured into her flask’s cap, wincing for a moment as the liquid burned its way down her throat. She looked around, marveling at just how uneventful the town was right now. No shootouts, nobody pistol whipping the other, just the occasional tumbleweed rolling by or buzzard gliding lazily on the winds and warm updrafts. And no blue uniforms to despoil the barren wastes. Wiping the accumulated sweat and grit from her face and tilting her hat over her face she prepared for a nap, already reclining in her chair when she heard shouting. 

Starting, she jammed the headgear down and jumped to her feet, looking down the cracked and dusty dirty road to see a young boy running into town, alone, and shirtless, and seemingly ready to collapse. She jumped down from the porch she’d been resting on, rushing towards the gathering crowd. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to end happily, that much was obvious. 

She initially hung on the outskirts of the crowd, but perked when she heard him mention an attack, and then Indians. Immediately shoving her way through the crowd she looked down on the boy and the woman who had apparently taken it onto herself to tend to him for the time being. “What happened?” She demanded of one of the onlookers, and received a shrug in return. 

Sighing in exasperation, she made her way away from the crowd. She doubted she’d need any tracking skill to trace the boy’s route, but there appeared to be precious little movement to investigate things even as she unhitched her horse. It wouldn’t be much use waiting around for the boy to wake up, chances were he didn’t know a whole lot else anyway, and it was better to leave him and the woman attending to him alone for now.

Jumping into the saddle, she pulled her rifle from its saddle mount and confirmed that it was indeed loaded, her pistols sat on her sides, just in case. She rode past the crowd and scowled fiercely as she rode by, nobody else seemed in a hurry. Spurring her horse along, she cantered onto the trail, following the plain as day tracks the boy had left in his run.
__________

Smith rocked himself to his feet. He was reeling back from a blow to the jaw and had staggered back against the bar of the tavern he had entrenched himself within for the past week, dislocating several bottles of liquor from their homes on the counter and sending a slosh of the liquid down to the ground.

"Goddamn Smith, you need to learn to back down you crazy bastard. You can't win this one, just give up already." A tall, leanly muscled, ranch hand said behind a big, toothy, grin. "How many times 'ave we been through this? Once, twice, a week at least?" The taller man spat down at Smith's feet and laughed heartily.

Smith wasn't done though, he rarely backed down in a fight against guys like this- the ones who laughed in your face when they fought ya, and ganged up on you with their buddies when no-one was around to see it. Smith's hand found the neck of a bottle, and what happened next brought forth a rallying cheer from the on-lookers of the tavern.

Most people were fond of Smith in the town just out of sheer respect for what the man did for a living- he put people in their place, and in the turmoil of Texas that was a profession that many could respect. Lawmen didn't appreciate Smith, and the Union patrols occasionally gave him some trouble, but in general the townsfolk were fond of the man. Fond enough to cheer him on in a bar fight, at the least.

Smith brought the bottle up and took a long swig from it, before rocking forward onto his feet and spitting out a thick spray of the bottle's contents into the Ranch hand's eyes. Smith wasn't about to kill him or hit him with the bottle, but he was definitely going to knock him on his ass. Smith's now blinded opponent wasn't able to see the punch that connected square with the bottom of his jaw and sent him sprawling back, nor was he conscious enough after the blow landed to feel the pain of it. A resounding cheer went up in the tavern and Smith laughed harshly as he slowly picked his way away from the fight scene as his fallen foe's posse stepped in to clean up the mess.

The joviality in the tavern was rendered obsolete by the sudden bursting in of a short, squat, man. He burst into the tavern's door and shouted for the all-quiet.

"Hey, listen here! Boy, damn near dead he is, just ran into the town and collapsed- word's spreadin' that it's an Injun attack on his family. Nurse Harriet's got the boy in her care, and some of the other fellas are rounding up a posse to go and hunt the red-skins. I heard it happened up by the river- boy damn near died running here."

The tavern went quiet as the news set in. It was always grim to hear of these attacks, especially when children were involved- even if they survived it wasn't gonna be pretty. Smith stayed silent, but moved back to his seat where his rifle lay on the table. He downed the last of his drink and nodded to the bartender- Smith's tab wasn't crippling in its debt, but with how often Smith had to be dragged out after a fight or dashed out after hearing of bad news in town, it was a steadily climbing figure.

The man hoisted the old sniper's rifle up and slid its bandolier over his shoulder, before stepping out of the tavern and into the sun's light. He lifted his head and peered into the sky for a few seconds, before clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Indians were crafty, and even if he did track them down on his own it'd be tough to pin them down long enough to get a shot on them.

He had no doubt he could track them given enough time, given that others didn't beat him to the scene and ruin any of the tracks. He teetered on the edge of trying to round up a few people himself, before shrugging the feelings off and finding himself settling back into the hollowness and melancholy he often operated under.

He reached a hand down to the handle of his revolver and rested it there, turning on his heel as he swiftly marched himself away from the tavern, still a little woozy from the fight he was just in, but steadily clearing up as the sudden introduction of a task to complete interjected itself into his brain. His brain worked itself steadily as he walked, and soon he was striding with the quickness of purpose; He was going to head out to the river alone to try and find signs of the family, Indians, or combat- and then wait for others to show up and organize a hunt with them once he felt satisfied with his findings.

Now all Smith had to do was head to the river and find signs of combat- Indians often left behind rather gruesome visages, so Smith figured it wouldn't be too difficult to find the scene, even if he had set out alone.
__________

Dahteste gritted her teeth as dust blasted her face, bringing up a hand to wipe the muck off her brow again as she followed the trail to the river. Knowing what she did, where things had happened would be easy to determine. 

Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed another figure, apparently another rider. She slowed the horse to a trot, making her way over to the man as she adjusted her hat to better block out the sun. “Hey! You going to investigate the river too?” She called over.

__________

Peering around beneath the brim of his hat, Smith settled his gaze on the approaching woman riding towards him. He appraised her for but a moment before reaching up and pulling the hat from his head, gripping it tightly in his hand as he sat up straighter in the saddle and nodded to the woman.

“The name’s Smith ma’am, Adam Smith- I heard talk of the attack and set out right as soon as I could. If you’re headed the same way I wouldn’t mind the company, ma’am, I just didn’t want the mob to crash the site before I could get a feel for what happened myself.” He placed the hat back upon his head and lowered his face once more. The man opted to shield his face after that initial greeting, He was watching his surroundings, not the woman, for threats. She had a few very obvious dangers on her, but it wasn’t obvious dangers Smith was worried about. Indian attacks put the man on edge- they were crafty and fought with many of the same tactics Smith did when he had the chance to employ them.

He set his horse back to its trot, expecting the woman to tag along after his introduction.

Dahteste watched him for a moment, the man seemed extremely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She spurred her own horse along, coming to trot alongside him as they made their way to the river. “If we meet anybody who isn’t white, let me try to do the talking, if talking can be done. I speak the language.” She surveyed the land in front of her, looking for signs of the river and the attack.

She had absolutely zero hope that they would find anybody alive, but she did hope that there would be enough evidence left to track down the raiding party, what would happen then she couldn’t say. 

She looked towards her recent companion, not able to shake the feeling of familiarity. Eventually she broke the monotony, “You look familiar.” She said plainly, “And the name. Adam Smith. Were you perchance a part of General Lee’s Army?”
__________
“Aye, that I was. I served as a sharpshooter and skirmisher.” He spoke shortly, as if the subject was one of disinterest for him- an object of the past, one he didn’t like being identified by. He looked at his newfound companion once more, studying her. “How would that make me familiar to you, ma’am? I spent a majority of my life in the woods, some bar, or hiding behind an army. I’m afraid my memory’s not that great after these years spent covered in gunpowder, so if we’ve met in the past I do not mean any insult to you.” He offered the last apologetically, and simultaneously as an afterthought- and the lilt in his speech made it apparent it didn’t occur to him to apologize for possibly forgetting the woman until after he’d already said his piece.

He coughed into a fist as he finished speaking, and reflexively adjusted his hat- a defensive mechanism of his, that told of his lack of social skills.
__________
Dahteste’s eyes widened in surprise. “So it is you! Fancy that.” Not saying anything for several moments more, she looked ahead, still not seeing any sign of the river and unsure of when they would find it. The boy had looked completely exhausted, and even if much of that was trauma from his family being slaughtered, he had nonetheless assuredly run a good distance. The tracks he had left in the ground were plain as day - rocks kicked up by a mad run, the scuffs in the dirt itself, the odd bush here and there trampled down. She was confident they would reach the river in less than half an hour, if that. 

She rode along in silence for a few more moments, “You might know me as Duncan Grey.” She said plainly, “The one who arrived on the evening of Spotsylvania carrying a Sharps.”
__________

Smith’s silence carried for a minute, and for a while it seemed as if he had missed the comment entirely. Then he looked up and studied Dahteste closely, as if scrutinizing her appearance. He looked her up and down once solidly- similar the once-over males typically give most women, but this one was far more analytical and scrutinizing than simply a masculine gesture.

“...I’ll be damned. I can almost see it too- I never talked to Duncan much ‘cept over a hand of cards or in some down time, but I can’t deny I can see him in you now. Or I suppose, you in him. Huh. Who’da thunk a woman was parading around in the army all that time.” He let out a low whistle as if appreciating the act.

“Can’t say I’d have taken that news well three years ago, but now I don’t damn well care if someone was a woman or not if they could hit a shot at five hundred yards consistently.” He chuckled at that, shaking his head and looking at Dahteste once more. “Duncan Grey…” He muttered, staring at her incredulously. “I can’t believe it.”

Overall, the news seemed to tickle him into a very...very amused state. He let his humor fade soon enough, and his demeanor shifted from one of nostalgia and humor back into the hollowness he exuded in his typical moods. He was focused on the tracks now.

“You speak indian?” He asked, recalling her earlier declaration. “I’ll let ya do whatever you want, but I won’t get near them myself- I’ve had to hunt them down far too much for me to have any sort of trust in a conversation.”

“I speak the Apache language, yes.” She gave him a look before continuing, “And unfortunately this will probably end in gunfire, but if there is a chance for peaceful resolution, I’d like to take it.”

She carried on riding for another minute, “But yes, I’m the one you would’ve known as Duncan. Seems like it’s been ages since then.” Not a woman of many words, at least for the moment, she continued riding in silence as the ground passed by beneath the horses’ hooves. 

Suddenly she perked up in the saddle, looking ahead to something in the distance. “Wait, I think that’s the river.” Spurring the horse along to a brisk canter, she left Adam in the dust for a moment as she neared the river, giving the area around a quick visual sweep. Nothing seemed off, aside from the scene of the attack itself, and she slung herself off the horse, pulling her rifle out of its mount as she crept down to the site.

Carnage. That was the best word to describe what she saw, the corpses of a man and some bullocks, all filled with arrows, a wrecked wagon, and… little else. Blood leaked from the carcasses, and it seemed the carrion birds hadn’t made it to the scene yet, or they’d been scared off by her arrival. However, she could only find the one body, and the boy had made mention of his family. Closer inspection revealed that the man has been scalped, and his rifle had been fired. She called up to Adam, “Can you see any tracks? There’s only one man here, scalped. Anyone else was either run down somewhere else or carried off.” 
__________

“Give me a few to look around.” Adam called up to her, dismounting his horse a bit further away and walking the beast up rather than riding directly up to the scene. He was much slower-going at this than Dahteste was, and he seemed to absorb the carnage in a slow sweep. He paused at the edge of the attack site and simply observed it with his eyes, his jaw moving as he mumbled to himself silently. After a few moments of this careful deliberation, the man began to slowly pace through the area, guiding his horse carefully alongside him, and studied the ground closely for a while. Every so often he would lift his head and look at the arrow filled bullocks, then off in the distance. He was walking through the attack in his head.

“The boy ran to town before the attack was fully under way.” Adam concluded. “His pa must’ve sent him scrambling when he caught wind of the danger.” He worked his jaw again, and finally just clenched it tight. “Must’ve come from the north then, ‘cos he sent the boy running south. The boy’s tracks were in a straight line too, probably just ran straight until he couldn’t run anymore. But I’m tracking the wrong people- We already know what happened to the boy.” Smith grimaced and continued cautiously walking through the attack site, studying the wagon and- finally- the body that was scalped.

Smith crouches down to look at the body, and inhales deeply to steady himself.

“You hear anything else from the boy before you rode out, or did ya just spring to action like I did when you first caught wind?” Adam asked evenly. “I can make out that there were definitely more people here than just this man, but there’s too much damage to distinguish anything specific.” He looks over a shoulder, away from the body. “I can make out some tracks heading away, and seein’ as we’re the first ones to get here, I think it’s safe to say it’s the indians and missing bodies we’re looking for.”

Dahteste nodded, “I left once he’d fallen unconscious. So no, nothing more. He just mentioned the river.”

She climbed back up to her horse, turning to Adam, “I say we give it a little while before we ride off like knights in dusty leather, there’s probably a posse forming up already, we can meet up with them and guide them along the tracks.”