A/N: Hello there! Below you will find the intro to a new fic I'm working on with my husband! It's part of a series we're writing together. I'm really just posting this here to get the attention of anyone who follows me on here. The rest of this fic, as well as the others in the series, will be posted on his account, CourierN7, since they were primarily his idea and his work. He did all the heavy lifting with these ones. Storyboarding, and such. All I did was flesh out his outlines. BUT! NEW CONTENT!

These are also cross-posted on AO3 under CourierN7 and LtSarai (my AO3 name).

So go forth and read the rest on CourierN7's account. Don't forget to leave a review over there! You can also leave one here, if you feel like it. I'll read them in both places, but it's better for stats if you review his account instead. ;)


Deadwood, Dakota Territory, August 2, 1876

"Wild Bill" Hickok knows in his heart that today is his last day on this earth when he walks into Nuttal & Mann's No. 10 saloon and his usual seat against the wall is taken. He knows Jane would say he's off his rocker. She never believes in his sense for the kind of thing no matter how many times he's been proven right. Nevertheless, he trudges onward. If this is to be his last day, so be it. He's tired.

The only available seat at his usual card table places his back to the door. It's become habitual in his life, partly through self-preservation and a general distrust of anything with a pulse, that he never places his back against the door. He briefly considers leaving or sitting at one of the other two small tables and not playing at all. With an exhausted sigh, he pushes himself deeper into the building. In the time it takes to walk to the table in the cramped, but familiar saloon, he glances at the tiny bar counter with a small tinge of cowardice sparking in his heart. He shakes it off and straightens his spine out of spite. He'll sit; he'll play cards. To hell with it.

As he approaches the table, Charles Rich looks up at him from behind his hand with a knowing smirk. Charlie is in his damn chair and he well knows it. He's always been a good friend to Bill and never shirks an opportunity to give him some guff, but he's never before taken Bill's chair.

"Mind if I sit?" Bill asks expectantly in a gruff tone full of gravel.

Charlie looks down at his cards, then glances back up at Bill from underneath his blue cap. "Sit where ya like, Bill. You know yer always welcome ta play." He chuckles.

"You know damn well where I'd like to sit, Charlie," Bill accuses.

"Relax, we're all friends here," Charlie responds, offended. He lays his cards down and the other two plays sigh with frustration before dropping their cards in kind.

"With all due respect, it's not you fellas I'm generally concerned with," Bill snaps back. Charlie laughs heartily.

"Well, if ya'd like me ta move, all ya gotta do is ask, Bill," he taunts.

"Would you please raise up and let me take my seat?" Bill asks politely.

"Hell nah," Charlie claps back quickly. He got just the response he was looking for. Charlie smiles at him menacingly. "I was here first. All these chairs are tha same. Why doncha just plop down inta tha empty one there?" he suggests, motioning to the empty seat Bill is currently leaning on. Bill grits his teeth, but thinks better of making any further of a scene. The three men sitting around the table wait with bated breath. Finally, Bill jerks the chair out from under the table with purposeful drama. The chair's legs squeak against the hardwood, drilling into Bill's ear drums. He drops onto the hard seat and pulls himself up to the table, his back to the door, then places his buy-in on the table. Charlie is going to be the death of him.

After playing a couple hands, Bill is on quite a winning streak. Charlie keeps his mischievous smile despite his losing. After all, it's just a friendly game to pass the time. The buy-in is low and they're keeping the bets modest. Bill's heart is still racing a bit. As Charlie gets ready to deal the next hand, Bill gets an idea. After the first couple rounds, the only two left in the hand are Charlie and Bill.

"How about a wager?" Bill asks him, leering over his cards.

"Ain't that why we're here?" Charlie asks rhetorically with a small chuckle. "I'd swear, Bill, somethin's off 'boutcha today."

"How about, if I win this hand, we switch seats?" Bill asks through a forced smile meant to hide his nerves.

Charlie sighs with an offending gaze. "Oh come on, Bill! Don't tell me yer still on 'bout that?!" Charlie knows how fond Bill is of the wall seat and relishes the chance to deny him of some small comfort just this once. "Hell no, Bill, just make yer damn bet," Charlie replies with a smirk. Bill nods in acceptance and takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his nose. He's got a good hand regardless. Beatable, but good.

The door to the cramped saloon squeaks open from behind him. Bill just realizes how on edge he has been this whole time as the sound of the door cuts through the noise of the saloon like an owl call cutting through the dark woods. Somehow, Bill knows they're here for him. He doesn't know who it is, but they're here for him.

"Jack," the bartender greets, "been out on a hunt? Haven't seen you since Bill dressed you down last week." So it's Crooked Nose McCall, then. He should've know it would be that rat bastard. Jack is a sore loser with a cunt mouth and Bill had put him in his place pretty roughly just the other day. Seems he made his own bed in the end.

Guess it's time. He sets his cards down face-up; two pair: aces and eights. He doesn't even shift when he hears Jack's boots thud up behind him. He doesn't turn when he hears Jack draw his pistol with a dull, leathery swipe. Jack yells over the noise of the saloon patrons. "Take that!"

The shot rings out in the saloon and the high pitched echo surrounds the table as the sound bounces back and forth from window to hardwood floor, walls, and ceiling. Charlie's ears begin to screech as blood, bone, and brain splatter the card table in front of him and cover his face. He drops underneath the table in a panic and starts to scramble away like a startled coon. He can't see a damn thing through all the gore in his eyes. Charlie's only thought is to get the hell out of the way. He silently wishes he'd traded seats when Bill had asked him to. After he bumps into something, he reaches up and wipes his eyes with his sleeve, revealing he hadn't gotten far and just bumped into the table leg. He glances over at Bill and the cards he had laid down as he scrambles to his feet. He vaguely notes he would've lost.

Before anyone can do much more than gasp, Jack drops his pistol to the ground with a smirk. The pistol clatters onto the floor as he bolts out the back door. There's a moment of utter shock. Charlie had only meant to get a rise out of Bill, but now he's killed him. After a short delay, the shock passes and Charlie looks over the patrons in the saloon.

"He killed Bill!" someone shouts. The patrons begin clamoring toward the back door and file out into the street. "Jack McCall killed Bill Hickok! Get him!" they yell to the rest of the town.