Title: Shooting For You Heart

Chapter 1: "It's Him! He's Here To Kill Us!"

Description:

"In my defense, I didn't expect you to get hurt."

"And I didn't expect to be run out of town, yet here we are."

He went suddenly stiff, "Wait...you were run out of town?"

"As if you didn't know," Peter grumbled, but when he looked up he did a double-take at Wade's confused expression. "Almighty, you really don't know, do you?" he snapped the drawer shut, "Well, after that little fiasco by Two-Stone Canyon, a little rumor spread that me and you were in cahoots. The rumor got some ground and it turned the whole town against me. I was run out before I could defend my case. Why'dya think I was out there the other night to begin with?"

When Peter Parker, a deputy known as Webslinger, gets accused of working with the West's deadliest outlaw he finds himself on the run from the people he once trusted. In an effort to prove his innocence, he finds himself captured by the very outlaw tarnishing his name.

Notes:

Hello everyone! This is my contribution to the 2019 Spideypool Big Bang! Before we get started, check out the amazing artwork of the artist who chose to collaborate with me for this event: Jai! (The artwork will also be included in the story, but you should check out her social media anyway!) And another big, heaping thanks to my beta-readers, Jai (again – because she is positively amazing) and   @PeterReidNotParker (he has written for Spideypool as well, so you should check his book, which is written by him and his friend WebslingingWebhead - which is on WebslingWrbheads profile!) I don't know what I would've done without you guys, thank you so much!

Hope you guys enjoy some weird cowboy/outlaw/deputy characters, cause you're getting them

Peter had three problems – his hiding place, the outlaw, and his gun.

From where he was crouched behind a rather small hay-cart, he quickly dropped more bullets into the barrel of his gun, popping out the used shells in exchange for new ones, as a small corner of the cart was blown away into a brief, yet no-less deadly, explosion of splinters. Thankfully, the majority of it blew away from him and the worst he got was a few small sliver's in the back of his hand and arm. The sting was more than enough to push an exasperated breath from his nose as he clicked the barrel back into place.

Outside, the holler of guns and clamor of feet created a crazy, disharmonic music that didn't sit well with how peaceful the morning had started. He could hear the Sheriff ordering the outlaws to surrender, though it was mostly drowned out by the startled squawking and bellowing of terrified animals. Everything about it was loud and hard on the ears, but he's grown used to the loud belch of a gun and all the cacophonous noise that normally followed. Aunt May liked to joke that he'd lose his hearing by the age of 30, but Peter supposed, being 25 now, he had 5 more years of good hearing to look forward to.

But given his circumstances, and how blasted small the hay-cart was, he might not be around to enjoy those next 5 years. Not if he couldn't find something else to use as cover, at least. But in his defense, the large heaps of hay made it look way bigger than it was, and he was in a rush when he picked it out. Bullets ripped through the straw like starving dogs to meat, taking out chunks with each new shot, and by this rate there wouldn't be anything left soon. The only thing truly keeping him safe was the wooden sides of the cart, and even that wasn't reliable. His insubstantial cover is what led him to his next problem – the outlaw.

They'd only be alerted to the attack on the Osborn property barely 15, maybe 20 minutes ago. They'd rode in quick and cautious, intending to take a gentle approach, and found themselves in a shootout before the Sheriff had the time to even try negotiating. The fight had split them up quickly, and as the Sheriff and his two other Deputies-in-training held their ground outside, Peter found himself pinned inside the barn when he went looking for the 4th member of the bandits coterie.

He'd been immobilized rather quickly – just as soon as he spotted a stained, rumpled hat poking from behind the pig pen and only barely managed to dive behind the hay-cart before hellfire began raining over his head. The Almighty must've been on their side though, because these bandits weren't packing heavy fire-arms, and given the panicked – almost headless-chicken-like - state of their actions, they weren't good at keeping cool in a fight either. Still, they were proving more difficult than Peter would've liked.

He took a deep breath, back propped against the cart, and waited. For all the luck he had, he'd been a complete yack and forgot to restock his ammunition belt the night before, and given the rush of this morning, he didn't have time to fill them up before they were being rushed out the door.

Still, while this bandit may have more cover, he still had to deal with the pungent smell of hog waste, so who really had it worse?

Peter waited and listened until the fusillade of bullets stopped, counted to 5 in the silence, before lurching from behind his make-shift cover and making a break for the pig-pen. He had roughly 30-40 seconds before the bandit's gun was reloaded, give or take whether they had the skill of a quick reload. It was a risky move, but he'd never been known for his tactical actions. He vaulted across the straw-strewn floor, jumped over the feeding troughs and leapt over the top of the pig-pen, boots squelching grossly in the mud, in time to kick the bandit down just as he'd lifted his firearm. For half a second, from the force of his kick, Peter's foot slipped, and his heart jumped into his throat when he almost fell into the swamp of thick, brown muck.

Thankfully, at least for the sake of his reputation, he recovered his balance by steadying himself on the pen and was grateful the bandit had been too preoccupied with rubbing pig poop from his eyes to notice his fumble. When they both reasonably recovered, the bandit reached for his dirtied weapon, only to pause when Peter shoved the tip of his own gun between his eyes.

"I wouldn't."

The bandit's face, while stained with muck, screwed up into a pinched expression, as if Peter had told him to lick his boots clean, "Yer not gonna kill me," he sneered, despite the way his arms were slowly rising over his head, "You yellow-bellies never kill the likes of me."

Peter tilted his head, readjusted his grip around the handle, and shifted his gun to the side, "Is that so? I may not aim for the heart, but I do always hit my mark, an' right now I'm aimin' for Mr. Leftie over there – that's your good shootin' hand, right? Can't do much gun-slinging without it, I reckon, and wouldn't that be a service to the county."

The bandit paled and swallowed thickly, raising his hands more prominently in the air, "T – take it easy, Web-Slinger. I can't protect myself without my shootin' hand. W - would you really do that to nother' man?"

Peter snorted, "You'd only miss if cause you wouldn't be able to shoot something else without it, and I ain't talking about a gun," he snickered childishly to himself, "Besides, if'n I had to choose between an innocent life and yours, I think I would take that hand. Now git on up, keep your hands above your head, and get walkin'. Sounds to me like the fights over."

Sure enough, as they walked out of the barn, Sheriff Rogers and the other two members of their justice-seeking posse had the rest of the bandit's rounded up in front of the barn doors, kneeling with their hands on their heads. That's what Peter loved about small-time crooks. They were so much easier to intimidate and take down than real crime-crawling outlaws. Just give them a bit of a tussle – and if you had a big enough reputation – you'd have the bandits surrendering in 10 minutes, give or take.

He shoved his bandit down with the rest of the group and left them to the gunpoint of the 2nd deputy-in-training, Deputy Thompson, and followed the dusty imprint of Sheriff Roger's boots to the house.

The ranch overseer was waiting for them, leaning against the wooden porch rails with a cigar hanging from his thin lips. He was wearing a rumpled shit and a pair of dirty trousers, hastily thrown over his long-underwear, suggesting that he'd woken up recently. Peter glanced at the sky, where the sun was inching toward noon, and scowled back at the man. He had a long, beak-like nose and small beady eyes that sought out flaws like a hunting bird of prey. He had a thin, lanky frame, and a sneer permanently fixed on his face. The scruffy grey hair standing up on the back of his head reminded Peter of a plum of upturned feathers.

Behind his back most people called him the Vulture, but to his face he was known as Adrien Toomes – overseer to one of Osborn's cattle ranches, because when you were rich other people got to do the work for you.

"Mighty fine work, Sheriff," Toomes appraised, momentarily taking the cigar from his mouth and leaving a trail of lazy smoke lingering in the air. His voice was thin and raspy, like he spent his time in the hot sun and only ever stopped to gargle on hot rocks. It was a shrill sound that never failed to grate on Peter's nerves. "Can't thank ya e'nuff for capping those poachers. Saved the mayor a whole lotta cattle, you did."

Sheriff Rogers gave a curt nod, though his face was grim and turned down, one hand resting on the gun hanging from his holster and the other planted on his hip. Peter can tell he's not too happy. "None of this would've happened if you had that cattle bein' watched, Mr. Toomes."

Toomes waved the cigar nonchalantly in the air, "Can't win em' all, Sheriff. There's bound to be a few sneakin' past me. M'just glad you got here in time. I'd cap em' myself, but," he gestured to his thin, wiry body, "M'fraid my years haven't been too kind on me."

"Maybe if you actually did somethin' you'd be in better shape," Peter snapped, "Not doing much overseeing if all you can see is your own bed."

Toomes eyes fall on Peter and particularly familiar distaste pulled at his lips. "All these years and you still haven't taught yer dog to quiet its bark," he told Sheriff Rogers.

"He's his own person, Toomes. Now keep an eye on them cows, cuz we might not get here in time again." With that, the Sheriff turned and trudged back toward the outlaws and 2 other deputies. Peter and Vulture glared at each other a few seconds more – Peter contemplated lifting his bandanna just to stick out his tongue but decided that was a bit too childish – and pulled himself away instead.

"He's right though," Steve muttered when Peter jogged up next to him, "You've got to tame that tongue of yours if you plan on taking over for me here."

Peter ignored that, and the unpleasant anxiety that writhed in his stomach every time Steve mentioned the subject, and jogged forward, pulling in front of the older man by walking backward, "I know you're gonna roll your eyes when you hear this, but hear me out," Peter started and Steve groaned, "Look, I think those bandits were hidin' out here, Steve. They weren't even lookin' at them cattle when we got here. One of em' was dozing when I found im'."

Which was true. The farmhand Toomes had sent to get the Sheriff said that a group of cow poachers were attempting to raid the ranch, but when they'd gotten there, Peter had spotted one the bandits on the upper floor of the barn, through the giant doors used to shovel hay through and he looked like he'd been sleeping. By the time Peter had gone in there, the man was awake and had taken cover in the pig-pen. He'd probably climbed down to the first floor trying to get away, rather than keeping the high ground – unlike any smart outlaw.

Steve gave him a long, suffering look, and rolled his eyes as predicted, "Is this another part of your plot against Mayor Osborn?"

"It's not a plot, Steve. It's fact. C'mon, it's on the tip of your nose. We all know Norman Osborn's coal mines are runnin' low, and yet his income stays consistent. I think he's been harborin' bandits on his property in return for some of their thieving."

"Peter, you've always been twitchy around Osborn. Do you even have evidence to support your claim?"

"I'm –" Peter faltered and turned so he was walking side by side with Steve, "I'm working on it. He's crafty as a snake, alright. He washes his tracks mighty good."

"Look, I know you have your hang-ups with Mayor Osborn, but dontcha think your problems might be a little," Steve hesitated and pulled his hat up a little with a sigh, as if prepping himself for the rant he thought was coming, "personal."

Peter's steps slowed and he glowered, "I admit that my feelings toward Norman Osborn are...personal," he acknowledged coldly, "But that doesn't stop me from digging for the truth, no matter how much Osborn tries to threaten, kill, or bribe to cover it up. I thought that's what the law did, after all," Peter ignored the way Steve reached out to him, as if to clap him on the shoulder, and stomped toward his horse, untied the reins from the wooden stand, and led the animal away. He swung up on the saddle and twisted around so they could lay one of the bound crooks across the horses' back. In all their rush, they hadn't even brought along a wagon to haul the bandits back with.

With one last withering look at the ranch around them, Peter twisted his horse around and clicked his tongue, and they headed back to town. It was that time of year when people tended to travel a lot, so the jail was getting packed as it was, full of road-thieves and bandits who robbed those carrying enough coin. Peter didn't know how many more crooks they could fit in there before it bordered on cruelty.

It was a little immature of him, but Peter kept a distance from Steve in demonstration of how he was now giving his senior officer the cold shoulder. He ignored the questioning looks of the two junior ranked deputies, Eugene Thompson and Mary Jane Watson. Two of his oldest friends growing up.

They'd gotten into the deputy game a year or so after him, and Peter couldn't have been happier to have them by his side. He'd known Mary Jane since they were kids, and Eugene a short time later - although his relationship with the other boy hadn't always been the best in their youth. He knew they'd corner him as soon as they got back to town, because his life was the free opera theater they loved to watch, so even if he didn't acknowledge their inquisitive looks now, they knew they'd get all the juicy details eventually. Given the small size of their town, it was their own true form of entertainment.

He could imagine that they'd side with Steve, though. Peter's been pursuing Osborn for a while and he didn't exactly keep his contempt a secret. They understood why he hated him and his reasons for going after the major, but they never missed an opportunity to express their concerns about it too.

"Don't ya think you're gettin' a bit..." Eugene would hesitate, rummaging through his brain for the right words.

"Obsessive," Mary Jane would likely fill in for him.

Peter would cross his arms and tip his hat up, "No," he'd reply stubbornly and ignore the looks of disbelief they'd give him as he walked away, nose turned up.

So, to avoid feeling even more bitter and picked on, he'd satisfy their curiosity at a later date.

They rode their horses down the main road of the ranch, toward the wooden gate near the top field of one of the pastures. They only got a few feet before the bandit sprawled over Peter's saddle squirmed, trying to wiggle his way to freedom despite the fact that he was doing so right behind Peter, and wasn't being too subtle about it either.

Peter sighed and twisted halfway around, rapping the guy mildly on the head with his knuckles, "Cut that out," he said. "I'm not in a very pleasant mood."

"L – look Webslinger," the crook said, twisting his neck to look up at him, "We wasn't doing nothing. I haven't poached cattle in some time."

"Then why were you on Osborn's property?"

He hesitated for the briefest second, before ducking his head, "Cause you were right," he whispered frantically, "We did pay Osborn to let us stay on his ranch, but not because we was hidin' from the law. We was gettin' protection."

Peter glowered at him, turning his focus from the road, "Protection from what?"

The bandit glanced around nervously, as if expecting a knife to come flying at his back, "The Dead Rider," he whispered, hoarse and nervous, as if saying the name would summon some kind of demon from hell itself. "He's been spotted in the area, and given our... our past, he's bound to come after us, and nobody survives a tussle with him. We was just lookin' out for our safety is all."

Peter's heard of the "Dead Rider." Or the "Riding Corpse", or the "Undead Outlaw." Equal parts legend and myth. Old ghost stories Peter's overheard from the bandits they've tossed in jail and the odd tale among travelers and other law officers. Apparently, the Dead Rider was an outlaw like themselves, only he couldn't die. Some claimed they'd seen him take a whole round of bullets to the chest and he'd gotten back up minutes later. Others said he was a demon straight out of the fiery depths of hell and that he couldn't die because the wicked devil itself didn't even want him.

The rumors varied in context and theme, but the message was always the same. The man was dangerous. Peter's heard a few say that Dead Rider was some kind of supernatural creature that killed without mercy, lusted after death, and looked a fully loaded gun down the barrel with nothing but laughter between its teeth. Tantalizing stories said the creature was beautiful, and seduced men and women alike before striking them down and stripping them of mind, body, and soul as offerings to the evil spirits that guided him.

To be honest, the stories twisted and morphed so much it was like watching a snake curl around its own body - hard to determine what fit where, and where it ended and began. But there was always a single, dominant tidbit in every story.

Aside from taking bullets like a champ, the Dead Rider had a particularly nasty habit of hunting. Only, it wasn't wild deer or mountain lions he hunted.

It was other outlaws.

At first it seemed like some wild tale cooked up among the crooks to inspire a little hearty fear. A outlaw vigilante who killed and maimed the people the law never could and took his own justice with cold, merciless judgement. But that was where he went wrong. Peter could excuse hunting down outlaws in the name of justice, but killing them on the spot, without a proper sentencing or case before a judge, that's what set him off. No one should play judge, jury, and executioner. That's not how the system worked. It was biased and unfair. Besides, the recounts of this man weren't detailed with heroism or justice, just lunacy, chaos, and cold-blooded murder.

Still, when Peter first heard those stories, he never really believed them. They were ridiculous. A man who could take a shot to the heart and keep living and breathing? If only such miracles were true.

But this Dead Rider? A fairy tale. A haunted story. A romantic poem – for some. The outlaw came in the form of many different story-telling, but that was all it was. Fiction. A conjured muse of the mind.

There was no way a man like that existed.

At least, that's what Peter thought until one particularly gruesome night, up in a town in one of the mountains. A clear starry night filled with the sound of gunfire, screams, and blood.

But Peter shook that memory away and dismissed the cold shiver threatening to scurry down his spine.

He glanced back down at the crook, who was looking around the bushes and looming cliffs of the canyons as if waiting for someone to pop out and yell "BOO!"

"Why'd you think Osborn could save you?" Peter asked.

"Cuz, he knows how. Has a whole underground railroad for hidin' crooks like us. Though, you snatchin' us up like you did is going to hogscrew his reputation."

That left a happier, tingly feeling in Peter's chest. "Fantastic."

This was great. He finally had a lead. Some real evidence. Steve needed to hear this and Peter was going to accept his apology so they could finally start on a case against Osborn. This was the kind of breakthrough he's been waiting on for almost 8 years now, and he should also probably relay the information that Dead Rider had been spotted in the area.

That couldn't be good.

He jerked on the reins to steer his horse toward Steve's just as a shot echoed sharply through the air. For a moment, the cool tenor of the morning froze, as if petrified by the sudden commotion. Peter felt the bullet zip by him, cutting the air like a knife, and clipping his horse in the rear. The steed gave a pained, whinnying shriek and bucked wildly, throwing both Peter and the bandit off as it tossed its head and kicked, before bolting away with a trail of blood running down its flank. Peter managed to roll with the fall and came back up on his knees, both guns out and aiming for a threat he couldn't pin-point right away, whereas the bandit hit the ground heavily, the sound like a bag of potatoes.

"Get down!" Steve bellowed, "We've been ambushed!"

Peter tucked one gun away so he could grab the bandit by the collar and dragged him behind another cart loaded with hay, while the other kept his second gun out and poised. Whatever this thing with hay barrels was, it was getting on Peter's nerves, but it happened to be the closest thing he had for cover.

"It's him," the bandit sobbed, desperately trying to pull the ropes apart on his wrists, "He's here to kill us."

"Well he's not going to," Peter snapped, "Keep your head on and listen, and you might just live through this." To his relief, the bandit took his advice and ducked close to the ground, whimpering.

Peter peered over the side of the cart and ducked just as quickly when a sharp ping sounded close to his hand. He took a deep breath, scooted a little more to the right, and looked over to shoot off a few bullets of his own before sinking back down again.

He looked for Steve, Mary Jane, and Eugene to make sure they found a hiding place but didn't have a good enough vantage point to determine whether or not they made it. And if he'd been paying a little more attention to the crook, he might've noticed the desperate way he was struggling to loosen the ropes with his hands and teeth.

Peeking over the edge again, he grumbled sourly when he was unable to pin-point the locations of all their attackers. There was one behind the tree planted at the edge of the property, he knew that much, but there definitely had to be more than that. Peter couldn't get over to the tree without leaving himself vulnerable and unprotected, though.

Frowning, he reached for the bandit and started when he only felt open air. Something jerked in the corner of his eye and Peter barely had time to look up before he was getting bludgeoned in the head with a large rock. The crook had managed to shimmy his way out of the ropes, and despite Peter's attempts at keeping him alive, he was still very willing to smash his face in. The hit wasn't enough to knock Peter out, but it did make him see stars in the sunny, morning sky.

"You're not gettin' in my way, Slinger," he said hysterically, raising the rock again. "I ain't dying here."

"I saved your life, you rat," Peter growled back, holding his pistol wobbly. His head was swimming and the side of his head was panging painfully. The blow hadn't been enough to make him bleed, but he felt the beginning of a large bump building on his skull. Before he could attempt to shoot the crook's knees, a blast shot over his head and the bandit stumbled as a bullet hit the exact center of his forehead. It went out the other end in a spray of blood and soft-pink brain matter, and he looked down in surprise, the rock slipping from his hand and barely missing Peter's head as fell forward. Right on top of Peter.

Peter gave a high noise of surprise, going stock still from the sudden weight over his body. His brain flashed to a different time. A different body. Not on top of him, but in his arms, it's weight in his hands and the blood staining his clothes. He remembered how cold that night was and how warm the blood felt.

He snapped himself out before he got too drawn in by throwing the body off as quickly as possible. A pair of dull eyes stared at Peter, seeing nothing. Frozen pools of shock that could no longer registered the happenings of the land of the living. It sent a rolling ball of nausea in Peter's stomach when he felt pieces of blood and brain flecked onto his face and shirt, but since he'd been shot from the front, most of the gore had landed near his feet.

The hard crunch of boots on gravel grabbed his attention with two meaty fists, and Peter snatched his gun before he even looked up. A hand seized his wrist before he could pull the trigger and twisted it hard enough that the gun dropped; a foot kicked it away.

Wincing from the pinch of his skin from the grip, Peter looked up at the large, looming figure and his heart stopped. It couldn't be.

Speak the devils name and it shall appear.

The figure dragged him roughly to his feet, his grip hard and his stance strong. Before Peter was even sure he was seeing right, he lashed out, twisting his wrist crudely out of the man's hand and swung his fist, landing a solid hit to the covered face. Whether or not his eyes were playing tricks, he wanted as much distance between him and this man as possible.

Peter's gun had been kicked away too far to grab, and the other was under the bandit's fallen body, pinned beneath the corpses chest, so he snatched a gun from one of holster hanging from the man's hip, pulled back the trigger, and aimed it at his head.

"Move and I'll pump your brain fulla lead!"

The man rubbed at his jaw hard, but Peter was rankled to realize he was laughing, "Damn, you punch harder than I remember," he looked down at Peter, eyes bright and amused above the thick handkerchief tied around the bottom half of his face. It was red, like the one Peter wore, only its color was more rustic. Less like the blooming poppies in Aunt May's garden and more like the red sands of Arizona cliffs.

Peter's always been a believer in carrying a gun around, especially when you were out traveling these lands by yourself, but this man brought it to a whole new level. Where Peter had two guns always holstered loyally to his hips, this man had four. Two in the front and two in the back. Slung over his shoulder were 2 rifles as well. Ammo hung off his frame like armor and Peter could see the hilt of a knife hidden in the man's boot; more were likely concealed in his cowled hood too.

What was he planning on doing? Fighting an army? Taking over a city?

But Peter knew all too well who this man was and what he was capable of. The name bandits and law-biders alike have spit like snake venom. A man Peter had only seen once before.

The Dead Rider was on the hunt again.

He was still rubbing his jaw but looked Peter up and down as if sizing him up. It reminded Peter of their last encounter and he clenched his jaw. His head still throbbed from the hit the poacher gave him, but he fought back a wince, this was no time to be worrying about his injuries. Not if he wanted to avoid ending up worse.

He's seen the Dead Rider's work and he wasn't going to end up as another bloodied body in the dirt.

His thoughts must've shown through his eyes cause Dead Rider held up his hands in a placating way, as if he were even capable of soothing, "M'not gonna hurt you," he said it as if Peter were being silly, "I'm just here for that yellow-bellied snake you had slung there over your saddle. I've got nothing on you, Web-Slinger."

The fact that the bandit knew of him left Peter feeling conflicted. On the one hand, that meant his reputation was growing, which meant people would be a lot less likely to do crime in his presence. On the flip side, it made people less likely to underestimate him, which was a tactic Peter counted on when he was facing someone he wasn't comfortable fighting head-on.

Dead Rider was someone Peter wouldn't mind underestimating him. It'd make it easier to bring them down in the long run. Unfortunately, apparently, Peter's reputation preceded him.

"He was in our jurisdiction, Dead Rider," Peter snapped back, making it a point to say his name so he was aware that Peter knew of him too. It put them at equal ground. "Sheriff Rogers and I will take it from here."

At the mention of Steve, Dead Rider stopped massaging his jaw. He blew out a huffy breath, looking somewhat irked.

"Ya know, I really didn't want to do this in front of Rogers," he admitted, placing his hands on his hips in the way Aunt May did when Peter tracked mud in the house, "But a job's a job."

Strange logic for a strange man, but Peter didn't have time to dwell on it when Dead Rider gave a shrill whistle and the next thing Peter knew a sharp pain was slicing across his shoulder. He dropped the gun with a hiss, clamping his hand on his arm, where blood was already staining the white shirt beneath his poncho. Not a moment later, the gun was in Dead Rider's hand and their positions had switched.

Peter glared down the barrel, despite the way his heart jack-rabbited, blood leaking shrewdly through his fingers.

Instead of putting a bullet between his eyes, as Peter would've expected, he was hauled back on his feet. Dead Rider clutched the back of his shirt and touched the tip of the gun to Peter's temple, and walked them both forward, positioning Peter directly in front of him in the equivalence of a human shield.

"Hey," he shouted. "Sheriff!"

Peter saw Steve peep out from behind his cover - a large trough for livestock to drink from - and his eyes widened. "Hold your fire," he ordered, and the gun-fire instantly ceased, from both sides.

Dead Rider hummed appreciatively in the following silence, "Good. I didn't want things gettin' too ugly now. Here's what's gonna happen, Sheriff - me and my compadres are climbing back on our horses, all easy like, and if any one of us gets shot, including myself, Imma put a bullet in this deputy's noggin."

Peter saw Mary Jane and Eugene watching with white knuckles, peering over a large rock near the fence, barely big enough to conceal both their bodies. He noticed the others now too. Six others, to be exact. Outlaws spread around the battlefield, all peeking from behind makeshift hiding plces. One grimaced when he spotted Peter, another slapped an exasperated hand over his face, and another went as far as restocking his gun in a bout of irritated grumbling – as if expecting a fight real quick. If that wasn't a bad sign, then Peter was as green as freshly minted leaves.

"Whatya doing here, Dead Rider," Sheriff Rogers asked coolly, but there was a hard note in his voice. "Release my deputy."

"Sorry Sheriff, but he does make a lovely shield. 'Sides, I'd hate to lose the protection of the law," he said it wryly and Peter would feel the smirk floating in the air, hovering like a bad stench, "But here's what we're gonna do. Me and your deputy are gonna walk back to my horse, all nice and slow, and we're gonna climb back on. Me and my posse are gonna leave and if I see any of my men fall, or I hear a shot, then your man," he shook Peter, "gets the same fate. You understand my terms?"

Steve was glaring, his knuckles white where he was clutching his gun. He never liked losing his allies. Peter's heard his old war stories, about all the lives that were lost and the risks he'd taken in battle, and he knew Steve had a particular dislike when the prospect of losing someone was brought up. Still, he said, "I understand."

Dead Rider nodded to his posse who slowly, with stiff shoulders and tightly clenched weapons, emerged into the open. The smallest of the group, a twiggy man (boy?) with wild red curls and a pasty pale face collected a group of horses that had been kept behind one of the large rock collections dotting the outside of the Ranch. Peter liked them because they made for good cover if you got to them in time, and because were tall enough that it gave you the higher ground. Unfortunately, its perks weren't reserved only for him. Many of the rock congregations were large enough to hide a fair amount of people, and animals, so long as they stayed put.

The twiggy-man didn't bring a horse to the Dead Rider, which wasn't much of a problem when the man himself whistled again, this time a quick rhythmic sound, and a moment later a large black horse came jogging up to him. "Atta girl," he murmured, patting her nose. "Well deputy, git on up," he pushed Peter toward the horse.

Peter turned briefly to scowl at him, looked up at the gun still pointed toward his head, and looked away. Maybe if he was fast enough, he could disarm him. Depending on how slow the rest of his posse was, he could use the horse as a distraction and make a break for Steve. Without a gun he was defenseless, so maybe he could knab another one if he could get close enough.

As if he'd been thumbing through his thoughts, Dead Rider dug the tip of the gun into Peter's head, "Nah, you better not be getting any ideas," he whispered, so close it made the hairs on the back of Peter's neck rise, "One of my best shooters has their gun trained on you. You so much as flinch and your sheriff will be digging bullets outta your corpse for a month."

It was true enough. A large figure with dark skin – and what looked like a painted potato sack on his head - had his rifle trained on Peter's chest. His hands were steady, and Peter could feel hidden eyes pinning him like a butterfly to paper.

So, begrudgingly, he climbed on the horse and Dead Rider followed after him. With quick hands, Dead Rider produced a rope from one of the saddlebags and wound it quickly around Peter's wrist, fingers deft as they pulled, twisted, and knotted it tightly. When he let go to grab the reins, Peter tested the rope's strength. It was strong and tight, but just loose enough. It wouldn't be easy wiggling out of them, but it wasn't impossible.

"Whatya doin' with my deputy?" Sheriff Rogers demanded.

"Don't worry, we'll drop him off once we're at a safe distance," Dead Rider said, "Don't follow us, now. I'd hate to see the life drain from those pretty brown eyes of his," He snaked his arms around Peter's middle and grabbed the reins, pressing their bodies tight together. Too tight for Peter to turn around and knock him in the head. His breath tickled Peter's ears when he whispered, "Good to see you again, Webslinger." then he clicked his tongue and they surged away. The rest of his posse following in suit.

With his hands tied the way there were, it was rough finding a steady rhythm to the horse's gallop, and it was particularly irritating when he was resorted to using Dead Rider as support to keep himself from careening over the side. If Dead Rider found it as irritating, he didn't say so.

Peter tested the ropes again, moving subtly with his hands close to his chest so his fidgeting wouldn't be noticed. The knot and rope work were good, but not that good. He wiggled his fingers, using the bumpy gait of the horse to hide the shift and jerk of his hands, and in record time, he was sliding his hands out of the ropes. It positively bugged Eugene when Peter wiggled out of ropes that he couldn't figure out, especially because he found it so much harder to do. He liked to argue that he had bigger, thicker hands (unlike Peter's more wiry ones) and that it should be easier for him. Peter didn't have the heart to point out that it was probably because of Eugene's bigger hands that make it harder for him.

Besides, Peter had a reputation to uphold. As the rumors about Webslinger liked to say – a spider never got caught in another's web.

The landscape around them grew and altered they neared the gorge up a head. Two-Stone Canyon as it was called, christened with that name because of the precariously stacked stones on top of a high rocky pillars that marked the canyon entrance. Honestly, it was less of a canyon and more of a gorge - but Two-Stone Gorge didn't sound as good. It rose above the ground in high cliffs and mild mountains – the tail to the mountain range that stretched across the western side of the plains. There'd be plenty of cover and hiding places inside, which Peter was wholeheartedly willing to use to his advantage.

Besides, he knew the canyon like the back of his hand, having scaled its cliffs and explored its junctures as a kid. It doubled as his own personal playground.

He took a small breath in waiting. It wouldn't make a lick of sense if he struck out without a plan. That'd only result with a bullet between his eyes and a whole lot of rotting stupid between his ears. He didn't climb his way from farm boy, to town fighter, to deputy by reacting on instinct alone. Uncle Ben used to say that if you got a good brain on you, it was a greater gift to use it then let it go to waste; and getting himself killed because being around this outlaw made him twitchy was the same kind of stupidity Uncle Ben warned against.

Besides, waiting was always half the game. Peter couldn't name all the crooks he's lured out of hiding just by waiting for the right moment; biding his time, until they lulled themselves into a false sense of security, thinking they'd got away. Like a cat catching a mouse, almost.

Yeah, sometimes he needed action and went out looking for a fight, but trouble didn't like to sit around and wait for you to find it; it was more than happy to stir itself up with or without you.

They made their way into the beginnings of tall walls and jagged cliffs. As they rode, Peter sought out the rough grooves and indents chipped into the rocky walls; the little crevices that most people failed to notice. The farther in they went, the steeper the slopes would get, and smoother the walls would become. It was harder to find hand-holds that fit close together when the walls got bigger, so if he was going to make a move, he needed to make it soon.

The Almighty still must've been pitying him, because he recognized the trail the outlaws were taking. This had been where he'd spent most of his time climbing when he was younger. The cliffs and trails were high and narrow, but there were plenty of ledges, hand-holds, and crevices to grab onto. A lot of good hiding places too. He's spent hours exploring every surface of these rocks and cliffs; there to adapt to their changes as they weathered and eroded, so he could describe each rock, nook, and fissure with fine-detail and point out any chain of hand-holds that most would gloss over.

And sure enough, farther up he spotted a slim trail of grooves that ran up the side of a wall that they were riding along. It led to a plateau of stone, a ledge, jutting halfway up the wall where several large rocks and bushes would make an ideal hiding spot.

That would be his escape.

He waited for the horse to get a few steps closer, counting every breath passing through the beast's lungs to keep himself patient. 1 breath...2 breath...3 breath....4 breath...GO!

He let go of the ropes he kept bunched around his wrists and grabbed the reins from Dead Rider, pulling hard. The horse whinnied shrilly and rose onto two legs and Peter used the sudden imbalance to jab Dead Rider in the gut; fast enough for the outlaw give a startled grunt and hard enough that he slipped right off the horse's back. As Dead Rider fell on his ass, Peter winced, struggling not to rub his elbow. Either he had abs like steel under that shirt of his, or he was secretly built of metal, because hell that hurt.

He didn't have time to contemplate either theories. He had a millisecond debate on whether he should take Dead Rider's horse and make a run back to Steve, but figured he'd get a bullet in the back before he made it that far. Instead, as soon as the horse fell back on all fours, he lurched off her, hit the ground in a crouch, sprinted, and was climbing up the wall side before any of them had the chance to so much as scratch their ass, much less take a shot at him.

"What the shit?!" he heard one exclaim, and snorted.

The amused part of his brain was aware that the hand holds were generally small and unnoticeable, especially if you didn't know where to look, so to those who haven't seen him climb before, it may very well look like a regular man scaling the side of a wall like a lizard. Or a spider.

Their shock was short lived, and a shot embedded itself next to his hand a few seconds later. Frantic, Peter increased his speed until he was pulling himself onto the plateau and throwing himself behind a large rock. He took a small, greedy moment to catch his breath and settle his heart, before he peeked out from behind the rock, just far enough that his eyes and hat could be seen. The members of Dead Rider's posse were clambering down from their horses, guns drawn, prepared to attempt the wall or find some trail to lead them up to his plateau, but Dead Rider waved them to a stop as he got to his feet, shrewdly dusting the dirt off his pants and shirt and rearranging his many holsters and weapons.

He secured his ammunition reserves to their places and glanced up at the plateau, instantly catching Peter's eyes and Peter disappeared behind the rock again.

"Let's go," Dead Rider said, whistling to call back his horse, who trotted back to him obediently. She pushed him with her long nose as if to ask, 'what the hell had happened'. "Aye, sorry 'bout that. Those law-abiders have the worst manners." To his posse he said, "C'mon, we ain't got time to hunt down a spider," it was followed by a prominent "HII-YEAH" and the clop of horses running off.

Still, Peter waited several minutes before he peaked out again.

They were gone. Or, at least, they wanted him to think they were gone. They could be hiding behind the curve of the canyon or a jutting rock for all he knew. All it took was one bullet to bring a man down, and Peter wasn't going to take the chance – not everybody could be like Dead Rider. Instead of climbing back down, he ascended. Going farther up the canyon, using shrubs, rocks, and shadows as his cover till there was a safe distance between him and his potential killers.

Despite the numerous scolding's of Aunt May and Uncle Ben, Peter scaled these canyons all the time when he was a kid. Their combination of high cliffs and sheer walls were dangerous, and a 9-year-old boy had no business climbing them like they were trees, but he'd done it anyway. He liked climbing, always had and always will. He climbed houses, terraces, even the trees around town that were big enough to suit his weight, but his favorite was the canyon. There were always enough handholds hidden in the rock, and if not, he carved them out with the knife Uncle Ben bought him for his 10th birthday. He'd fallen more than once; one time bad enough to sprain his wrist, earning the righteous wrath of Aunt May as she'd bandaged his hand. But that never stopped him.

Climbing was like seeing the world from a whole new perspective. Folks were so busy going about their lives on the ground, they never took the time to look up. He could observe so much more from above. See things that others couldn't, and that was a precious skill to have when you worked within the law. And, if he were being honest, there was a touch of sentiment behind it too. He liked how quiet it was. It was just him, the open sky, and the hawks and vultures roaming the clouds. He could almost pretend the world was better up there; peaceful. A place where people didn't get shot in the back for doing the right thing.

Now, Peter was thankful for all the time he spent climbing. He was lucky he hadn't fallen to his death or been knabbed by bandits as a child, but it was these skills that saved him today. What were the chances that the Dead Rider would've let him walk away unscathed – aside from the burning scrape in his arm already.

About as good as the last time he let you go. Peter grimaced, rubbing his neck softly.

He met Dead Rider once before and he'd nearly been killed.

It was almost 2 years ago when he'd come face to face with that outlaw for the first time. It'd been during a big operation in a town farther into the mountain ranges. The town was a relatively small one, but it was harboring important members of one of the most dangerous outlaw gangs known throughout the West – Firearm X. Steve had gathered the other law enforcers from other towns for one epic operation. Take down Firearm X when they least expected it, hopefully for good.

But the night of the attack had gone horribly wrong. Dead Rider showed up and stirred the entire gang into a tizzy, and it didn't take long for the law enforcers to get caught up in it too. A fight broke out. A mighty big one too. The sheriffs and deputies got involved, the gang got involved, and Dead Rider had been involved – it'd been a major bloodbath.

So many people died that night; so many innocent lives of the town folk who had gotten caught in the crossfire.

Peter had been pinned in the back room of a store sometime that night, exchanging shots between a gang member who was hiding behind an upturned table. He was running low on ammunition and his movements were getting slower, thanks to the nasty cut he'd gotten in an earlier fight when an outlaw pulled a knife on him. Behind his makeshift cover, he managed to tie a strip of his shirt over the wound on his thigh, to cut off the bleeding, but it pulsed with pain and blood was soaking into his pants and poncho. He was lucky the cut wasn't deep, but the gang-member was quickly gaining the upper hand and he wasn't sure he was going to make it to daybreak.

Then, as he was checking his bullet count, Peter registered the bark of a gun that wasn't his, followed by the silence of his assailant and a thump of a body. A pair of thick, heavy boots walked into the room, jingling from the spurs on its heels and thudding from its owners' weight. Peter peered out from behind the barrel of molasses he was kneeling behind and recognized the weapons and the cowl he'd seen on wanted posters, and didn't waste a second pulling the trigger. The bullets hit Dead Rider's chest, then dropped to the floor. One ricocheted off his body and struck the wall not far from Peter, leaving him to stare in stunned silence.

"You're Deputy Webslinger, arencha?" the voice behind the rustic bandanna rumbled, there voice was smooth and deep, and he didn't wait for Peter to respond before he was striding forward.

Peter stumbled back, thigh trembling when he forced himself onto his feet, and shot again - damn the repercussions - but the gun barrel was empty. He kicked the molasses barrel with his good leg, toward Dead Riders feet, and reached for the feeble remains of his ammunition. He'd gotten one bullet into the chamber when a hand grabbed his wrist.

"I wouldn't," warned Dead Rider, backing Peter up against the wall. "Looks to me like you're injured enough, and you should probably save some of those bullets for Fireass X, hmm," He crowded in close, looking Peter over as if assessing him. Looking for weak spots maybe? Debating the quickest way to gut him?

In a feat of desperation, Peter swung his fist and clocked the man in the face, but instead of letting him go, the grip on his wrist tightened.

"Gotta say, you're something, Slinger," Dead Rider laughed, rubbing his jaw, eyes glinting above the bandanna, "Got a quick hand on you, and good aim too. If you ever decide the law has too much of a stick up its ass, then come find me. I'm sure I can find a place for ya," he winked, blew Peter a fleeting kiss, and was out of the room by the time Peter was reteaching himself how to breathe. When he looked down at the gun still in his hand, he realized Dead Rider had dropped a box of ammunition in his palm.

The outlaw's words officially registered in his brain later, when he wasn't high off the panic of getting caught defenseless and the surprise of making it out alive.

In the end, Firearm X retreated and managed to escape into the surrounding forests. The only one who seemed unscathed was Dead Rider, and he'd disappeared from the fight as quickly as he'd shown up.

He had contemplated telling Steve about it on their way back home, but the man was so focused on helping the wounded and chasing the gang stragglers, that by the time they were riding back into town, the interaction between him and Dead Rider seemed like an unimportant detail in an otherwise terrifying night, and the opportunity of bringing it up with relevance was gone. Besides, Steve was already feeling terrible for how his operation had gone and Peter didn't want to make it worse.

The only person he's even told that story to was Mary Jane, and they'd been drunk at the time. She'd dismissed it as alcohol influenced thoughts the next day, and Peter didn't want to put forth the effort to convince her otherwise. It's not like it mattered anyway, because soon after that fight Dead Right disappeared and hadn't been seen for 2 years since.

Until today, of course. Because by some chance of fate, Peter had come face to face with Dead Rider a second time and survived the ordeal. That's not something many people could claim, and while he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, he couldn't help but wonder why. Both times Dead Rider had the opportunity to kill him, and he hadn't taken it. Given the outlaw's reputation, that didn't seem right.

Then again, the man's never killed law enforcers – at least, not usually. There were a few exceptions, but Dead Rider normally kept to other outlaws and bounties.

Peter sighed and shielded his eyes, glancing up at the sky. It was reaching noon now and he knew his way back to town well enough – why Osborn chose to build his ranches so far from civilization was beyond him – but worrisome thoughts had him tugging at his hair and collar, and he couldn't tell if it was just sweat or his nerves.

What if Dead Rider came looking to finish his kill?

Peter hadn't stayed alive for so long by being careless. He would keep to the shadows and take the long trails back to town. He didn't have his guns on him, thanks to the showdown and the poacher turning on him, so it wasn't like he could defend himself in the case that someone with ill-intent found him. He'd take the cautious route. It would take him a while and he'd probably hit the town somewhere around night-fall, but it was better than dying face-down in the dirt as a robber rummaged through his pockets for money.

With a long, heavy sigh, Peter pushed the bottom of his hat over his head, ripped a strip of his shirt sleeve to use as a makeshift bandage for his shoulder, and started the careful walk back home.

<><><><><><><><><><>

It was just past nightfall when Peter made it back to town.

He had one hand clamped over the burning tear in his arm and the other dangled feebly as he tiredly trudged among the dusty buildings that made up their small establishment. Beneath the fabric of his shirt and poncho he could feel the heat of his inflamed skin, likely on its way to being infected due to lack of proper treatment. Dammit, Steve was gonna put him on bed rest for a few days – maybe a week – before he was allowed back in the game. Sure, there was no point in showing up to a gun fight if his quick-draw wasn't at its standards. It only took seconds between gunfire to determine life and death, and if Peter could out-draw his enemies, he'd live to see another day; but even the slightest hitch in his arm, the smallest hesitation, and he'd be corpse before his guns were out of their holsters.

But that didn't mean he wanted to lounge around all day when he had a very rich snake to hunt down,

He thought about going down the main road and finding the nearest tavern and getting the strongest drink they had. He wasn't much of an alcohol drinker – didn't like the things it did to his head – but he enjoyed a nice cup of brandy here and there. And after a long day of slinking from shadows and walking in the high heat with no water, he needed a good, strong drink to ease his aches and concerns.

The smart thing to do would be to grab some water and find real treatment for his arm, the sooner he did the latter the better. Which is what he planned on doing, because ugh, responsibility.

Besides, when it came down to it, he didn't want to draw attention from the town folks, so it was probably best if he kept to the shadows for a while longer. He was plum-tuckered and getting pulled around to answer their questions or talk about his day sounding like literal torture. He wanted to get out of his dusty clothes and fall into a food-induced sleep. So, maybe bed-rest didn't sound so bad.

Keeping his shoulder close to dark corners and buildings sides, he made a bee-line for the jailhouse. It was located closer to the edge of town, so that in the circumstances there was a jail break, there wouldn't be much cover for those trying to flee and not many innocent towns-people to get caught in the crossfire. More than one bandit has tried busting their friends out, only to find themselves with a bullet in the leg and a jail cell next to their pal. Steve usually whittled the hours of the night in there too, going through the day's work of cleaning his guns and holsters, and tidying up the small kitchen in the main room.

That's usually how he spent the night anyway. But unlike every other night, Steve wasn't inside when Peter pulled the door open.

The jailhouse was larger than it used to be, having gone through several renovations as they put away more and more outlaws and poachers, all waiting to get a trial. The main room was toward the front, where Steve normally rocked in his chair, whistling an old tavern song as his cleaned his long barrel rifle.

Tonight the chair was empty. The main room was doused in shadows with the only source of light coming from a single lantern sitting on the small oak table in the corner. Eugene was inside. Or Flash, as he liked to be called. Said it'd be his law name, like how Peter had been dubbed Web Slinger - that it could symbolize the flash of his gun being the last thing any crook would see. He was trying to make it stick, but not many folks were going along with it. Peter called him Flash just to make him feel better because he couldn't stand the sad kicked-puppy eyes Eugene got when he wasn't referred to by his "deputy" name.

Peter limped inside the room, feeling the aches of his body swell to the front of his brain now that he was so close to a medical bag and a bed. Eugene whirled around the moment the door creaked open, Steve's rifle in hand and centered on Peter's chest.

"Whoa, at ease," Peter chuckled, "Just me, Flash. S'been a long night, and I'm not up for a shoot-out, if you don't mind."

Instead of an easy-going laugh and a clap on the back as he helped him bandage his shoulder, Eugene's eyes widened, and he quickly stepped past Peter to make sure the door was shut and steered him away when he was certain it was.

"Stay away from the windows, Pete," he said, holding the rifle more securely, though less toward Peter and more toward the door, as if he expected a monster to burst through at the drop of a hat. "If they catch sight of ya, they'll string you up faster than MJ guzzlin' her morning coffee."

"What are you prattling on about?" Peter asked, looking between Flash and the door and nervously inching away.

"Did anyone see you come here?" demanded Eugene. "Anyone at all?"

"I – uh," Peter rummaged through his brain and shook his head, more out of confusion than anything, "uh – no, I reckon they didn't. I was pretty careful."

"Good," Flash exhaled, and his gaze finally settled on the shoulder Peter was holding, "Stay there. Keep in the blind spot, and I'll go fetch the medical bag." He sat Peter in the chair in the corner, put there specifically because it was the one spot in the room that was out of sight of the window. They called it the blind spot for that very reason, and because it made a superb knucker-hole to hide in whenever outlaws were attempting to break out their buddies. It was helpful to have a spot they couldn't see from outside.

"Eug – Flash, what's going on?" Peter called after him, watching as Eugene's shoulders disappeared into the next room. "What's goin' on? Why can't people see me? And where's Steve and MJ?"

Eugene returned a moment later with the small box of medical supplies they kept underneath the bed in the other room. It wasn't as intricate or detailed as a doctor's bag, but it had enough of the essentials to take care of themselves in the circumstances that the Doc wasn't around. Flash unclipped it and took out the small container of plant-gel, a bottle of raw alcohol, a rag, and a few bandages, and told Peter to take off his shirt and poncho before he answered.

"You're wanted, Pete," he said, after soaking the rag in the water pitcher near the stove.

"Of course I'm wanted. I'm quite the catch," Peter laughed, but it cut into a wince as Eugene gingerly began cleaning the crusted blood.

"No time for jokes," the blonde-man reprimanded sharply. He dropped the rag as soon as the blood was rubbed away and dabbed a new clothe with the alcohol, cleaning the wound again. His jokes weren't always the best, but Eugene's always enjoyed them anyway; telling him to stop must mean it was a truly serious situation. "You're a wanted criminal, Slinger," he continued, unscrewing the gel-container and spreading a thick glob over Peter's red skin, "The whole town's gunnin' for your head."

Peter withdrew from the other man's touch to look at him more squarely, unsure if he was hearing right and whether Eugene wanted to run that by him one more time. Eugene dropped his hands a tad and opened his mouth as if to repeat himself, before grimacing and picking up the gauze and motioning for Peter's arm. Peter held it up again, feeling suddenly numb.

"What?" He demanded after a few seconds of open-mouthed floundering. "A – a criminal? But I've only been gone a day! How in the Almighty did I become a criminal?"

"It was the Vulture," Eugene spat, drawing the gauze a little too tightly around Peter's biceps to be necessary, "It had to be."

"What's that ol' turkey got to do with anything?"

"You should've seen the way he was raving in town," Eugene shook his head irritably, tying the bandage off with a firm knot, "After you were nabbed by the Dead Rider, he came riding into town, goin' on and on about how you're in cahoots with him."

"Bu – but that's a bunch of hogwash!"

"I know," Eugene agreed, sitting back in his chair now that his work was done. "We didn't think anyone would listen either, but it was...something was different this time. I don't know why, or how, but that geezer got people talkin'. He's claiming you planted those outlaws on Osborn's ranch and was splittin' the reward money with the Dead Rider."

Peter opened his mouth to object, when the door swung open and they both jumped up. Steve bustled inside, looking dead on his feet, but he froze in doorway once he caught sight of them, and when his eyes landed on Peter his shoulders almost dropped clean off his body in relief.

"Thank the Almighty," he breathed, sweeping Peter up into a quick hug that quickly turned gentle when he noticed Peter's recently bandaged arm.

"Steve, everyone thinks I'm-"

"I know," Steve muttered bitterly, "We've tried explainin' the truth, but Mr. Toomes has convinced enough of the story to the right people that it didn't do any good. He's got "evidence" too, and Osborn's backing his claim."

Peter pulled away from Steve's arms, feeling more anxious and puzzled than ever, "What evidence? What's Osborn playing at?"

"A piece of paper was found in the barn not long after you were nabbed, back where those poachers was hidin' out. It was addressed to them, sayin' you'd help them sneak onto Osborn's property. But since you helped take em' down this morning, Toomes' saying that you brought the Dead Rider to them, knowing there was a price on one of their heads, and that you were planning on splittin' the money with him. Rider taking you off like that was just part of the plan, or some horse shit like that."

"But that's – that's not true," Peter exploded, running a frantic hand through his dusty hair. "Why would folks even believe that? Why would I ever help an outlaw onto Osborn's property? Especially if I was just gonna kill em' afterward? And who are they to assume that those bandits could read in the first place?"

"Because of revenge," Eugene said, grabbing Peter's shoulders to turn him towards him, "Vulture and Mayor Osborn are sayin' it's cause you wanted revenge on him and you couldn't find any other way to get it. Finding outlaws on his property and then attracting the attention of the Dead Rider would spoil the Mayor's reputation."

Peter's resolve slowly crumbled as that sank in. He pulled himself from Eugene's grip in order to pace the floor rapidly, mind racing as he muttered to himself. In a convoluted sense, he could see how that story would gain some ground. It wasn't a kept secret that Deputy Web Slinger despised Mayor Osborn, and that'd he do just about anything to see Osborn punished for a crime he "allegedly" didn't do. But he'd never do something like this. The townspeople had to know that.

But if the Vulture has gotten to the right people first - people of vocal influence - he could easily sow the seeds of distrust. Besides, in a place like this, some people waited for just a smidgen of drama and seized it eagerly when it happened to cross by. Their town wasn't like the big cities. There were hardly kept secrets and hidden agendas hiding behind closed doors. It probably didn't help that few people in town even knew who Web Slinger was.

Everyone knew Peter Parker, the orphaned boy who lived on his Aunt and Uncle's farm. As Peter, he had a trustworthy reputation as an innocent farm boy with a love for knowledge and books. But as soon as he became his alter-ego - Web Slinger, the mysterious wall-crawling deputy to Sheriff Rogers - that trust began to wither. He always wore a thick bandanna and a wide brimmed hat to keep as much of his face hidden, and adorned a hand-woven poncho given to him as a gift from one of the Native's in the area, after he saved her from a group of road-robbers harassing her for valuables. The town's trust in Steve was enough to get most of them off his back, but Osborn knew better than to blindly trust someone else's reputation. He knew Web Slinger was going after him.

That's why Peter didn't reveal his name; so Osborn didn't have a face to go after. That way, Aunt May wouldn't get caught up in the fight and Peter could keep his discretion.

But that was coming back to elegantly bite him in the ass.

Nobody wanted to trust a faceless man. Not really. He could save them all he liked, but no permanent trust would ever take root unless they knew who he was. In a twisted way, it made sense that they'd turn on him so quickly. He wasn't exactly known for being good-mannered either, now that he thought about.

"I can't believe this," he said anyway, "How many times have I helped this town? How many times have I saved their asses?"

"I know," Steve said, clapping a hand on Peter's good shoulder to stop his pacing, "But for now, we need to get you outta here. Mr. Toomes riled everyone up mighty good and they're looking to get you unmasked to face trial. I know how you are with your identity, and why you choose to hide your face, but not everyone'll understand."

Peter nodded in bitter agreement. Unfortunately, this world wasn't blessed with more people like Steve.

Eugene returned, having left the room sometime in Peter's panic, and held out Peter's twin pistols - already cleaned and oiled by the looks of it. It was almost enough to raise his spirits again. He grabbed them eagerly, twisting them over a few times, sliding his fingers along the BP engraved on the hilt, and checked to make sure the barrel was loaded before sliding them into their holsters. Feeling their weight back on his hips was like meeting a long-lost friend. He felt considerably better knowing they were back in his possession.

For the longest time, just being near a gun made him sick to the stomach. Their deafening crack when fired had made his heart race and his brow break into cold sweat. But now they felt like a comforting weight. A tool that could harm but was under control in his hands.

"Mary is arrangin' a horse and supplies for you," Steve said, leading them out toward the back, "We figured you'd make it back here on your own, so we needed to get you prepared to leave."

Just as they slipped into the narrow hallway, a loud knock slammed against the door and they paused, almost against their own free will. It was silent for a few seconds, then there was another knock, one that rattled the door on its hinges, followed by an old, gravely voice.

"Sheriff!" it barked, hitting the door again, "SHERIFF! I know you're in there. Open the door!"

Steve swore under his breath, "It's Jameson."

Peter bristled.

J. Jonah Jameson, the human incarnation of dog poop. He was a journalist from the city with enough opinions to fill a whole gossip column. He owned a successful newspaper outlet and with his wealth, bought a fine house in town that acted as his summer get-away. But under the advice of his doctor, he'd be staying there for little over a year - maybe two. Apparently, the bustle and clamor of the city was straining the old man's heart, and unless he wanted another heart attack, he should spend time getting some "fresh air."

But Peter knew that was bullshit. Jameson was a crass man who spoke his thoughts loudly and didn't give you room to speak your own. He'd probably strain the very heart of the city before he showed signs of bending – he was much to stubborn for that.

Besides, he'd taken an almost instant dislike towards Web Slinger and pulled his name through muck and mud whenever he could - and he's only been there for 5 months.

Peter wouldn't be surprised if Jameson has latched onto the Vulture's accusations with withered hands and used all his cunning persuasive power to prove them right.

Steve pushed Peter down the hall, shoving his bandanna back in his hand and tossing him his hat, "Get him outta here," he told Eugene, "I'll handle Jameson." With that he disappeared into the main room.

They didn't wait to hear the proceedings; they hurried down the hall and slipped past the door at the end. They passed through the barred enclosures in the next room, where outlaws and crooks still waiting to get a trial were stretched out on cots or leaning against the wall. It wasn't a desirable route, but it was the fastest way to the storage pantry, where a small, secret hatch led outside the building.

On of the crooks sat up, giving a barking laugh, "If it isn't the desert spider," he preened, curling his fingers around the bars separating them, "hear ya been dealin' with the Dead Rider. Guess there's a bit of spine under that poncho of yours after all."

"Shut it, Dan," Peter snapped, striding past his cell.

"Don't start actin' all high and mighty," The crook sneered at his back, "you're no better than I am, Slinger. You'll be sittin' in a cell next to me by morning. Plenty of time to get back at you for throwin' me in here."

Peter could feel that sinister grin on his skin but ignored him despite the way his stomach writhed. Even the jailed prisoners knew this rumor. Was it really that bad? Had it really spread so quickly within the hours he's been gone?

Having been a part of the law for so long, it was downright twisted to be pushed to the opposite side against his own free will.

Osborn will not get away with it.

They stepped into the storage pantry and Flash peaked out once, before moving aside the boxes in the corner and pushing open the hatch. He ushered Peter out quickly before crawling through himself and closing it behind him.

They hustled across the ground, heads ducked low, hats pulled down, as they slipped into the shadows. They slunk along the roads, taking the back routes and pausing behind buildings whenever a person crossed their path. Most were drunks tootling their way home from the tavern, escorted by a friend or one of the tavern's workers.

They almost made it to the edge of town, jittery from not getting caught, when a shrill biting voice broke the tenor of the night, "It's the Web-Slinger," Vulture crowed, already limping across the road, waving his crooked walking stick in the air, "IT'S THE WEB SLINGER! HE'S TRYIN' TO GET AWAY!"

Eugene swore and pushed Peter in head of him, "Run," he whispered, "I'll distract him!"

Whirling on his heels, Eugene straightened and approached the old man with open arms. "Ah, Mr. Toomes! Been hittin' the barrel again? Too much to drink?" He said it loudly, so those that were peering out of the windows and doorways could hear, probably hoping they'd dismiss Adrien's rattling as the influence of too much alcohol.

Peter would've laughed but his nerves were too on edge. He took the opening heartedly and sprinted fast. As much as Eugene could try, after the show Adrien put on today, people were bound to go investigating. He stuck close to the buildings, but his time was hitting a stretch.

Mary was waiting for him at the edge of town, hidden by the overcast of a building and the shadow of a large tree. Beside her, a freshly packed horse stood. When she spotted him, she waved him over.

"Did the others fill you in?" She asked, handing the reins to him.

"That the town wants to see me hanging?" Peter asked, bitterness seeping, "They did."

"Hey, don't worry," she helped him up on the horse, "We'll clear your name before you know it. Vulture's cookin' up trouble, but he ain't about to pull one over on us. We've got your back, Pete."

Peter believed it. Mary Jane Watson was as tenacious as any law officer in the county, you cross her path and you don't win. Peter's learned to never challenge her in a game of cards.

She handed him the reins again and through the light of the slitted moon, her green eyes glinted like hardened emerald. "Stay safe out there and keep your head down. Head out to the old shack Uncle Ben used to take you for fishin'. I'll ride out to meet ya when your head's not on the chopping block."

"Thank, MJ," Peter said and tried to smile, however tight and grim it felt. "And when I get back, I'm stringing Osborn's hide over the jailhouse door."

Her smile was a lot more natural than his, "So long as I get to help. Now git."

Peter jerked on the reins and maneuvered the horse around. He added over his shoulder, "Might want to go save Flash before the Vulture strings his hide for 'supposedly' aiding my escape," before clicking his tongue and spurring the horse into a run. He didn't look back at the town and hoped that the slim moon wouldn't be enough to give away his fleeing.

With each meter he rode away, the weight of the situation fell more on his shoulders. This was insane. Crazy. Completely bonkers. He was being run out of his own town under a crime he didn't commit. People he's known all his life were wanting to see him hanged because of the word of one man.

And it was all Osborn's fault. The Vulture never acted any way unless told to by Norman. What was that snake playing at this time?

Peter rode out a distance with no signs of trouble, but even then, he waited a little while longer before daring to slow his horse. Despite the treatment Eugene gave his arm, it was burning and pulsing under his sleeve. He'd need to take it easy until it was fully healed.

He glanced over his shoulder, where the only evidence of the town was a faint glimmer of light, and something bitter seeped into his chest. After all he's done for that town, they were ready to run him out the moment a little dirt got on his name. He grew up there, knew its people inside and out. It honestly hurt to know that they were so quick to turn on him.

Feeling as though he was swallowing cactus needles, Peter pushed his hat more firmly over his head, adjusted the bandanna over his nose, and spurred his horse into a run again.

The sooner he got to Uncle Ben's old fishing shack, the safer he'd be, and while the sheer thought of skipping out on clearing his own name made his stomach churn, it was the best he could do given the circumstances. There was a short-cut through the canyon that he could take, and if he kept a steady pace, he would be there by daybreak.

The terrain was dark and foreign under the veil of night, but he's been on enough stakeouts to know where he needed to go.

He urged his horse toward the canyons, forcing himself to not look back.

End Notes:

I don't think you guys realize how close I was to just giving Peter and Wade a one-night stand as their history – and just being suuuuuuper awkward about it cause Wade's an outlaw and Peter's a deputy and yeeesh, that'd be bad with someone found out XD

There are a few more pictures colored for this story, but I decided to spread them out so they weren't all piled in one chapter.

Thanks for reading the first chapter! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story! If you do, please leave a review because they fuel my inner writer.