Title: Shooting For Your Heart

Chapter 2: "And yet, I'm not dead."

Notes: No notes. Continue.

With nothing but stars and moonlight guiding him, the loom of the canyons emerged from the ground up and Peter slowed their gallop to a careful walk, so the clop of hooves didn't bounce so eagerly off the rocky walls. The canyons were much harder to navigate in the dark, even under the circumstances that he was using of a torch or lamp – which he wasn't, and that just made it SO much harder. No one liked going through them at night for very obvious reasons, like getting lost or accidentally riding off a cliff. But, he supposed, he at least had that going for him. There were less chances he'd run into someone.

At least, that's what he assumed; but as he hiked farther in, he cautiously slowed the horse to a stop when a yellow dot of light appeared farther up the trail, barely obscured by the many rocks and shadows.

He was positive this was the trail him and Uncle Ben took to the shack, and the only trail Peter knew of that went that far up into canyons; and not many people knew of it either. The flickering of the dot implied that it was a fire, and judging by its size, probably a campfire. Skepticism aside, he didn't want anyone catching sight of him so early in his departure. What was the point of hiding when Osborn and his rats could just ask a group of travelers what they've seen and get pointed right in Peter's direction.

But he couldn't just turn around and take another trail. There was no other trail. Besides, he was too far along already and turning back now would seriously cripple his speed and time was of the essence. He'd just need to be careful, was all. As long as they didn't know he was scooting by, there'd be no harm done.

For this, Peter climbed off the horse and led him by the reins, shushing him softly when the horse nudged his nose between Peter's shoulder blades. It wasn't his horse – nor was it the horse he normally used. He didn't really have one of his own, but Steve had a lot of friends and managed to find him one that he could borrow; jut until he could pay for it himself. But his steed had been nicked with a bullet today, and while the wound might not be deep if it was just a skim, they weren't going send him out again. If Peter had to guess, this looked like Steve's horse – from what he could tell in the dusty light anyway. He may not have ridden this horse very much, but they knew each other, and he followed Peter obediently.

The closer they crept toward the camp, the more details Peter began to make out. The travelers were partially hidden by a cropping of high rocks, of which their fire-light illuminated in a soft yellow glow. Their group was neither large nor small – around 4 people that Peter could count. They sounded like they were in a very heated discussion.

He slowed their trek even more. He thanked the Almighty that the group made camp behind such high rocks, otherwise they might've been able to see him in the light. The scuffle of his feet and the faint thud of hooves went unheard against their rambunctious murmuring and given a few long minutes, Peter managed to slide by the camp without a hitch. He silently congratulated himself, allowed a mental pat on the back, and was preparing to climb back up the horse and continue on his way when a particularly loud burst of their conversation caught his attention.

"-THIS CLOSE TO KILLING THAT DEPUTY AND HE JUST BAM! SHOT HIM LIKE THE STUPID ASS HE IS!"

Peter paused, turning an ear toward the camp.

For a bunch of travelers, they sure had some strange stories. Strange and familiar stories. Just how many deputies had almost been killed today within this region? What were they doing up here anyway? Why were they camping out when there was a town just a few miles south of here.

A sinking feeling in his gut told him that there were too many odd elements in this scenario to be normal. They didn't get travelers this far up in the canyons. All the main roads went in the other direction - so what in Almighty's name were they doing so far up?

Maybe because they ain't travelers.

The sinking feeling turned into uneasy fluttering and he had swallow down the sudden turbulence creeping up his throat. But because he was the biggest dumbass in the west, he wasn't even surprised when he stepped toward the camp. Unease gurgled in his gut, but curiosity was burning wildfire in his brain, alighting it with questions and theories. Just a quick peep and his questions would be answered and he could go on his way – no problem.

No. No, no, no, no, no, he quickly rebuked himself, shaking his head and put a foot in the stirrup. He had one hand on the pommel and paused.

There wouldn't be any harm if he snuck a peek, right? Just to see who these campers were. It'd be simply; just a glance and then he'd head out. It wouldn't even take as long as reloading a gun if he was careful.

Peter nibbled on his lip in thought, staring down the black expanse of the trail awaiting him. With the glow of the illuminated rocks, the trail seemed so much darker and bleak than before.

Eyebrows furrowed, Peter took his foot out of the stirrup and led his horse a small distance away, hiding him behind the subtle curve of a rocky bend. Angled so no one would be able to see him, and there were plenty of weeds for him to snack on in the meantime.

With that taken care of, Peter slunk along the shadows on the wall and crept behind rocks, hunching low. When he was in a closer proximity, he fell to his hands and knees.

When he was next to the first boulder, he crouched low in the underbrush with his belly to the ground and squinted through the small gaps between the weeds. The angle was off and he couldn't see anyone from this position. Glancing left and right, he got back to his feet and carefully climbed up the rock and flattened himself against it, peering over the top and down at the camp below.

The people around the fire didn't look familiar, but there was something about their demeanor....

They were eating biscuits and hard slabs of dried meat, passing around a water skin that could've had whiskey or brandy in it for all he knew. When they weren't grumbling or arguing, they were joking crassly with each other and calling each other vulgar names. One went as far as threatening to kill another in their sleep, but Peter supposed it was all in good humor because no one seemed concerned by it.

A figure moved in the corner, where a large tree and rock cut Peter's view, and a new man strode back toward the group, likely finishing taking a piss in the bushes. The man didn't even have to make it to the fire before Peter's breath caught in his lunges; he recognized those square shoulder, that bulky, looming height, those clothes. He just saw him in person that morning.

He had stumbled upon Dead Rider and his camp.

Peter's joints locked, feeling like a buck that had just glimpsed a mountain lion. The sudden urge to stay as still as possible overwhelmed him and he felt his body collectively freeze.

But with this new revelation cane its own brand of fury. Peter was terrified they'd see him, but it was his damn encounter with Dead Rider and his crew that put Peter in the position he was in now. If he wasn't injured, tired, and outnumbered - or if he had no brain at all - he'd storm down there and sack the asshole in the jaw again and cart his ass to the jailhouse. But the circumstances weren't exactly in his favor.

He scoot back, preparing to climb down and leave the way he came when a voice belonging to the scrawny, gangliest of the bunch gave a loud groan of boredom and turned to Dead Rider, who had just sat down on his bedroll, "Kay, we killed your target and kidnapped the deputy of the most renowned sheriff in the county, what's the plan now Dead Rider." He said the name mockingly.

"Yeah," another agreed, this one was a gnarly looking man with marred features, a lazy eye, and a chunk of his nose missing. "What's the plan now? You just gonna ride off and leave us ta deal with the mess you stirred up?"

"Settle down," Dead Rider huffed, sprawling against his bedroll with his hands tucked under his head. Unlike the rest of his group, he still wore his bandanna and hat, the latter which was set low over his eyes. "Meetin' the sheriff and his deputies there wasn't the best, but there was no way we was gonna get him if he was carted off to the jailhouse like that. I did what needed to be done."

"Right," the same man drawled, "And it wasn't because that deputy was about to get his head smashed in."

Peters lips pursed, and he leaned in a little closer.

Dead Rider pushed his hat up his head just enough to glare at the other man, "Shut your trap, Terror. The crook was in full view; it was an opportunity and I took it. The deputy just happened to be there."

"Sure," said the gangly one, long and drawled out.

"Not that any of that matters," Dead Rider sniffed, "Let's focus on our actual mark, eh? This one's higher up in the food chain, so we need to move fast now that he knows we're in the area. Get your asses in gear else I'm gonna leave ya for the coyotes."

Peter drew back from that, fingers digging into the rock. The crook wasn't even Dead Rider's actual target? Just a side project? Then why the hell did he shoot him? If he was going after somewhere else – someone higher in the system, apparently, than what was the point in bringing all this attention to himself?

"Gettin' close to Mayor Osborn isn't gonna be easy," said a man closer to the fire, who was warming his hands. He looked like the most honest of the bunch, with easy, almost uncontrived features; but there was a tired look in his eyes and a scowl on his face; he reminded Peter of a librarian. "You gotta plan that's not pulled outta your ass at the last second?"

"Osborn's rich," Dead Rider said, "Not invincible."

"But he's rich and can hire guns to protect him. C'mon, Wade, you've gotta actually put your back into this one."

Oh. This was interesting.

Mayor Osborn is their target. Well, that was that. Peter figured he'd best just get to the fishing shack and wait out this rumor and hope for the best. If Osborn got caught up in a fight with Dead Rider, well there wasn't much Peter could do about it, now could he? It'd make his job easier, anyway.

But...

Peter inwardly sighed. As much as Osborn deserved it, Peter supposed it was his duty to protect and serve. He didn't condone useless killing, but he did believe in giving people a fair trial. Besides, Osborn had a son. Harry Osborn, one of Peter's longest friends. Norman was a snake of a man with the trustworthiness of a rabid dog, but Harry was nothing like him. He was kind and good-humored and loved his dad a lot - even if he couldn't see what an absolute troll he was. Besides, if they killed Norman, then all of his assets would fall on Harry, and he definitely wasn't ready for that kind of responsibility.

Peter hated Norman Osborn, but he also knew what it was like to lose a parent. He wanted Osborn in jail, getting a trial for his crimes. He might even be hanged if the charges are bad enough - though Peter was begrudging to admit that most rich folks never got the rope. Still, he couldn't let Harry go through the same thing he did, and he couldn't just shove all his morals to side because of his dislike for one man. He was raised better than that.

He'd have to get word back to Sheriff Rogers or Deputy Watson, or Deputy Eugene – whoever visited him first. Peter shuffled backward, taking extra precautions to make sure he wasn't heard, and dropped to a silent crouch on the ground. He paused, then slowly rose to his feet and tiptoed backwards. When there was no alarm or fingers-pointing at him, he took a breath, turned, and abruptly came face to face with a red and black potato sack. A gun was pressed to Peter's middle and his spine went rigid, heart jumping into his throat.

The newcomer didn't say a word but grabbed Peter by his poncho and shoved him down the small path that led to the makeshift camp. He stumbled in the firelight, barely managing to stay up on his feet, and looked up as everyone face around the fire snapped toward him.

Dead Rider peeked out from behind his hat and sat up so quickly it flew right off his head. "Que demonios, Masacre," he said, in what Peter recognized as Spanish. He's heard it from travelers and immigrants traveling the land and was learning it bit by bit. He wasn't good enough to follow a fast conversation though.

"Lo encontré escuchando. Todos ustedes deberían ser más cuidadosos al hablar sobre nuestros planes," the man - Massacre, Peter assumed - said and pushed Peter forward again.

The rest of the group was on their feet by now, their behavior shifting from something less like violent friends and more like the bandits Peter knew them as. Their assortment of weapons appeared in hand, from a long rifle, to a small cutting knife, to a rock (that just seemed mean, all things considered).

"How longs' he been there?" The librarian-man demanded.

"He probably heard our plans," the scraggly one pointed out.

The man with a chunk out of his nose spit on the ground at Peter's feet, "I ain't losing another job 'cause of these law-biders. I say we slit his throat and dump him inna ditch," a rumble of agreement followed, and Peter backed up, fists coming up.

"Just try it," he snapped, wincing afterward because he didn't have a gun and they did. The only defense he had was his own two fists, but he'd be damned if he tucked his tail between his legs and let them just kill him.

Dead Rider jumped to his feet, and surprised Peter by stepping in front of him, arms out – almost shielding him from his gang's weapons. "Calm your stirrups," he shouted, staring them down one-by-one, "we ain't gutting one of Sheriff Rogers' deputies. Do you know how many other law-biders that'll attract?"

"Oh, can it!" One of them snapped, gripping his knife more eagerly, "you're just sayin' that cause you're sweet on the deputy."

Peter balked, fists falling slightly. "What?"

"That is NOT true," Dead Rider argued, shooting Peter a brief glance, "I'm thinking about the well-being of this group. We won't get paid a cent if we have every sheriff and deputy gunning for our necks. We're not killin' him and if you try, it'll be your neck on the rope, not mine."

They stared each other down for a few more minutes before the man withdrew with a grunt. "Fine," he said, "then what do you propose we do with him, boss?"

Dead Rider looked at Peter again, but his eyes were hard and guarded this time. "Tie im' up and gag him for now," he said, and Peter grunted as two of the men grabbed his arms, "we'll see how I feel come morning."

"Get off me!" Peter snapped as one of them yanked his arms behind his back and the other tugged his bandanna down his face and secured it over his mouth. They dragged him backward, shoved him against a tree and bound his arms behind it. They must've learned their lesson this morning because they bound his elbows, knees, and ankles too – extra tight.

"You're not gettin' outta that," the gnarled one laughed, pushing off the tree - Dead Rider had called him Terror, "but in case you do, I'll have my gun trained on ya. Try to run and you won't make it too far. Not like last time."

Peter glared at him, then down his own hat which had been knocked off his head in their man-handling. That, combined with his bandanna being used as a gag, made him feel too open and bare, and while he reasoned none of these outlaws would know his face, the prospect of them ever recognizing him again left his stomach churning – in the event he made it out of this alive.

He stared at his hat sorrowfully.

He just had to come across Dead Rider again. He just had to sneak up on their camp because he couldn't let well enough alone. He just had to be the biggest dumbass this side of the country. Steve would be at his wits' end if he saw Peter now and Uncle Ben was probably writhing in his grave.

Terror and the other bandit returned to the fire. Masacre muttered something to the dark-haired fellow scribbling in a journal – the librarian-like one, which one validated Peter's observations - and he huffed and got up, striding out of camp. It was probably his turn to stand watch or something. Peter should've known they wouldn't leave their camp unguarded.

He tested the ropes and found them expertly done, more so than they had been this morning. It wouldn't be easy slipping out of them, if at all. They really learned their lesson. He struggled anyway, twisting and wriggling his wrists almost to the point of breaking the skin, but they wouldn't come loose. With a defeated huff, he lay back against the tree.

What would he have done if he got loose anyway? They would notice it the moment he tried untying his legs, and Terror made it perfectly clear that he'd shoot Peter the instant he tried anything.

Ultimately, he was stuck.

He tried not to let that bother him, as good as that did, and leaned his head back, staring through the breaks in the foliage. Despite the glow of the fire, the stars glimmered unnecessarily bright and cheerful for his predicament. He glared at them too.

The ropes were already chafing his hands and his bandanna was getting gross and wet from spit. The bound life was not for him, he reasoned. Couldn't go 5 minutes of sitting still before he felt like ants were crawling through his clothes. His fingers tapped rigorously behind his back and his foot swayed from side to side to keep himself from going completely insane. It could've just been his unease though.

The group was talking again, but their conversation went exceptionally quieter. He tried listening in, but they wouldn't be fooled a second time.

At long last they must've come to an agreement, though not all of them looked very pleased. Terror was scowling so heavily, the shadow casts over his face made his countenance almost ghoulish. His hateful eyes landed on Peter, as if whatever he was mad about was somehow his fault. He plopped down on his bedroll, gun tucked under his arm, and stared in Peter's direction, scowl never lightening.

Peter tried not to let that bother him either.

The rest of the group was settling down too, but Dead Rider stood up from his bedroll, stretching long and hard before he fixed his hat more firmly on his head; he snagged the food rations the small scraggly man was trying to sneak away and strode over to Peter.

Pete wasn't sure where to look. Glare at him? But the glow of the fire made his stature more dark and looming. Refuse to acknowledge him out of spite? Sounded kind of childish. He's never really been a captive before, and he wasn't sure what actions to lead with. He didn't want to it be like last time, with Peter too scared and stunned to even say anything.

As long as Dead Rider knew that Peter didn't plan on giving him an easy time, he supposed it didn't matter what he did.

Dirty boots stopped in front to him as Dead Rider crouched, head tilting as he looked Peter over. His eyes glanced at Peter's shoulder, where a red, blooming stain was growing just beneath his poncho, on his sleeve. In their hauling the other two must've reopened his wound and pulled the bandage out of place. The skin around the injury felt hot and it stung when Peter put too much thought toward it. So he tried not to think about it.

Dead Rider didn't mention it, so neither did he.

The man fiddled with the food he took before leaning forward. Peter recoiled from his hand, but Rider only yanked the bandanna down so it settled around his neck.

With Peter's ability to talk restored, Dead Rider settled down more comfortably and said, "You know, I've heard a lot about you, Slinger. Even before that little escapade with Firearm X. Just some tall tales here and a few rumors there. A lot of crooks are startin' to get twitchy with ya. I mean, I thought they were all a bunch of hogwash myself; scaling walls like a lizard was kinda pushin' it, you know?" He talked conversationally, as if they were two friends having a chat over coffee.

Peter raised an eyebrow. He had planned on staying silent, but his inborn desire to argue wasn't one to leave a discussion alone.

"Says the guy who apparently can't die."

Dead Rider shrugged, neither confirming nor denying it. "Well, that's different," he opted to say instead, as if that was all the explanation Peter needed, "But after watching you climb that wall this morning, I couldn't believe my eyes. You gotta be part lizard or something, because," he whistled.

Peter rolled his eyes, "Were you goin' somewhere with this or did you just come here to stroke my pride?"

"There are some other things I could stroke if you want," Dead Rider sniggered. Peter was less impressed. "Nah, I'm gettin' there. Point is, I was told you was something to fear. A real bullet, if you will. Which is why I gotta know why you thought creepin' on my camp was a smart idea?"

Peter's glower deepened, "I didn't even know it was your camp till I saw you stompin' around," he bit, "And you're lucky it was just me. Your camp could be found from miles around if anyone with a pair of eyes was looking."

"Well, aren't you the law?" Dead Rider cocked his head, amusement visible in his eyes. "Wouldn't I consider it unlucky to have you stumblin' 'cross my camp?"

Peter blew out a harsh breath. "Alright. You got me there."

"Anyway, my point is, Web Slinger, if you're so smart, why did you think it was a good idea to try and get the jump on us."

"I wasn't trying to get the jump on anyone," Peter huffed, "Wouldn't have caught me if I was tryin.'"

"Right."

"Spiders go unnoticed for a reason."

"They also get squashed for a reason."

Peter raised his brow again, "And yet, I'm not dead."

That seemed to put Rider on the spot. He leaned away from Peter, expression becoming something unreadable; but instead of answering the question, he dangled the bag of stale food in Peter's face. "Got some food."

"I can see that."

"Does everything that comes out of your mouth have a snake bite to it? Or is that just my charms?"

Peter snorted, "You say that as if you haven't been probbin' at me since you came over here."

"So it is my charms?"

"Not on your life."

It was Dead Rider's turn to lean forward, "Haven't you heard?" His voice dropped and through the firelight illuminating the edges of his form, Peter could vaguely see his narrowed eyes. "I have more than one life."

Peter wasn't one to back down from a challenge though. He tilted his head up, staring back. "I don't believe things I don't see with my own eyes. Give me a gun and I'll test that out myself."

Dead Rider was quiet for a moment before he erupted into loud laughter. Shaking his head, he untied the cloth and held out a piece of dried meat. Peter's stomach grumbled, having not eaten anything since that morning, but he stubbornly turned away.

"What? Our measly outlaw rations not good enough for you?"

"I'm not hungry," Peter replied stiffly, hoping his stomach wouldn't take his fib as a challenge. It didn't grumble, thankfully, but Dead Rider still didn't look like he believed him.

He probed the meat closer to Peter's lips, pushing it against them, and Peter shut his lips tighter. Rider must've accepted the determination on his face, cause he didn't push it. He shrugged and pulled Peter's bandanna back up, retying it snugly before tugging his own bandanna down to bite into the meat himself. He rose as he did, so Peter didn't get the chance to see much of his face.

But as he turned, the campfire light illuminated the left side of his head and Peter spotted rough patches of skin and scar tissue that ran along his cheekbones and jaw. The fire caught a pair of blue eyes that glanced down at Peter one last time, before he tugged the tip of his hat down and returned to his bedroll.

Peter recalled the stories that painted Dead Rider as an incubus, with a face that no one could resist. Of what he's seen, Peter figured it was definitely a face no one could forget.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Peter still struggled against the ropes, in hope of loosening them and making his escape while everyone slept, but he was disappointed every time they didn't budge. Oh if Eugene could see him now.

Despite his inability to loosen his restraints, he had a feeling it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Terror kept a firm watch on him, even when the embers of the fire burned low and the heavy breathing of his compadres filled the silence. And when he got tired, he woke another member of the posse and they switched, that way Peter was constantly being watched.

So, Peter gave up on his chances of escape and settled down for a bit of rest instead. He was plum-tuckered from the events of the day and his arm was a steady, pulsating heat of pain. He prayed that it wouldn't get infected.

The tree was hardly comfortable to lay against, but with some fidgeting that earned him the weary grunt of the man watching him (his features too shadowed by the night for Peter to recognize) Peter found a semi-comfortable position and looked up at the sky. It was late summer, so the night wind wasn't so biting, but it still chilled the tips of his fingers and raised an army of goosebumps over his body. He shivered and curled in as far as he could, which wasn't very much.

He looked for sleep.

It was one of the most uncomfortable nights of his life. He woke up periodically throughout the cold hours, sometimes unable to go back to sleep when growing knots burrowed into his back, and sometimes he only managed to doze. The occasional night-crawling bug skittered across his fingers or the sleeve of his shirt, and he was unable to do much to brush them off other than jerk his arm or wiggle his fingers.

It felt as though the night would never end.

So when the light brushing of dawn finally began painting the sky above, Peter nearly sobbed with joy. It still didn't come fast enough though and brightened the sky as lazily as Vulture would when given the prospect of getting out of bed. Peter's frustration with the sun's slug-like behavior only worsened when the rest of the outlaws began to stir.

The smaller man who'd been keeping watch of Peter took particular enjoyment in rousing the others through loud talking, making as much noise as he could, and even throwing dirt and rocks on those who weren't getting up fast enough.

This behavior earned the wrath of his entire group, particularly Dead Rider as he woke up to a mouth full of dirt, and Peter watched in equal parts amusement and bewilderment as they chased the man around, scrambling for anything sharp that was within arm's reach.

But judging by the fact that none of their guns were pulled out, Peter figured they didn't intend to really harm him. In fact, quite a few of them resigned themselves to cleaning up their bedrolls after just a few minutes of chasing, and Peter came to the conclusion that they were actually used to this kind of behavior.

While he's never been woken up through rocks and dirt, Peter could recall torturous mornings when he was bluntly pulled from sleep by either MJ pouring a cup of cold water on him, or Flash jumping on him while he was in bed. Steve was the more merciful of them and usually woke Peter up with a freshly brewed cup of coffee and a pleasant "Good morning!"

Unless you got on his bad side. That's when he snuck MJ and Flash on you.

Dead Rider was the last to give up on chasing the man, and didn't stop until he had him trapped in a headlock and was forcing him to apologize or 'else he was eating dirt for the next few days'.

"Don't push me, Slappy," Rider warned as the man flailed helplessly. "Apologize and I'll let you go."

"Eat ass!" Slappy choked.

Rider didn't seem as offended by this comment than he did by the fact that he hadn't been issued an apology yet and tightened his hold. Slappy lasted a few seconds longer before he gasped out an apology. True to his word, Dead Rider let go and Slappy instantly put space between them, flipping Rider an indecent gesture as he went.

If Dead Rider saw it he didn't comment, or even care, as he scooped up his fallen hat and tugged on his gun belt, where it had been folded carefully by his bedroll. He unwrapped his many guns, most which had been swaddled in its own cloth to protect them from the sand, but the rifle had been left within arms-reach and a hand-gun had been tucked under his shirt-pillow.

He looked them over with the gaze of a man in love and refit them at his waist with a loving kiss bestowed to each one. Peter could understand the safety a gun brought, but crooning at them like a love-sick teenager?

He shook his head. Crazies. All of em'.

Massacre, the one of the potato sack over his head, left the camp only to come back with Steve's horse in tow. Peter watched in anger as the bandits all whooped and grinned as they trifled through his saddlebags.

His extra ammunition was the first thing that landed in Dead Rider's hand, followed by his guns, and then his rations of food and extra clothing.

"Cheese!" Slappy exclaimed, holding the two oiled cloths in hand, "I haven't had cheese in weeks! Months!"

He snarled and bit at Terror's hand when the man tried to snag them for a look.

Peter mumbled something into the bandanna, too angry to care that his words went unheard. Dead Ride noticed his outraged muttering, but his only response was to give Peter a hearty thumbs up as he added Peter's ammunition to his belt.

"Got us a fresh horse, too," he mused, rubbing Steve's horse down. "Had these here saddles on all night did ya," he cooed, "Poor thing."

A flush of indignation. Peter hadn't intended to leave his horse out during the night, still saddled up and in need of rest. He was taught better than that.

"We'll have someone rub you down and groom ya before putting the saddle back on," Rider soothed, patting the horse's nose. "There's a good boy." He handed the reins to the man with the knife and finished rolling up his bedroll before sauntering over to Peter. His hat and bandanna were fixed snugly over his head again.

"You know," he said, crouching in front of Peter, "You really should take better care of your animals."

Peter glared at him over the bandanna, not caring to hide his contempt.

He didn't say anything though, refusing to give Dead Rider another thing to laugh at. Dead Rider's eyes gleamed in amusement anyway, but instead of poking at Peter more, he produced a wedge of cheese and some of the stale jerky from the night before.

"You hungry now or are you still chewing on your pride?"

Peter glared harder.

"Pride it is," Dead Rider rolled his eyes, "Hope it tastes good, then. Soon as you're ready to spit it out and get some real food in your belly, give me a holler. Or, well," his fingers tugged lightly on the bandanna over Peter's mouth, "a muffle, I guess."

Peter jerked from his touch and didn't drop his glare till Dead Rider was back by his things. As soon as the man was gone, his stomach dropped its façade and growled hungrily, as if reminding Peter that he was starving.

I know, I know, Peter grumbled to himself, But I ain't takin' their damn food.

Technically it was his food.

Still, he was going to escape before long and he could eat when he got to the shack. He wasn't about to let them lead him off to his own death. No thank you.

As soon as the rest of the camp was packed up, Terror and the library-man finally untied Peter and lifted him to his feet. His legs were dead from lack of blood circulation and wobbled loosely as he walked. He yanked the soggy bandanna out of his mouth as soon as his hands were free and rubbed his sore wrists where the ropes chafed his skin.

"Get your hands off me," Peter snapped when Terror grabbed for his arm, "I can walk on my own."

"You sure about that, deputy?" He glanced at the way Peter was using the tree as support.

"Yes," Peter insisted, though he didn't let go of the tree right away. He took a few more seconds of rubbing his wrists and letting the blood run back through his legs, even if it made him feel like he was walking on cactus needles, before allowing himself to be walked toward the cluster of horses that were being saddled up.

They stopped him in front of Dead Rider, who had been busy strapping his saddle to his horse. The outlaw raised an eyebrow when he noticed them. "What?"

Terror gestured to Peter, and Dead Rider made a show of looking him up and down, all slow and observant in a way that had Peter flushing, "Yeah, and?" Rider asked.

"What do you plan on doing with him?" Terror huffed. "We can't have him tagging along while we snuff out-" he paused, glancing briefly at Peter, "while we're doing our job. So what are we doing with him, right here, right now?"

Dead Rider turned back to the saddlebags as if this conversation didn't interest him, "We'll ransom him," he said easily, "Off wonderin' on his own, his Sheriff will probably pay a handsome sum for the safe return of his pretty head."

"We can't ransom him now," library-man said. "It'll ruin everything."

"Well, I didn't say we'd be doin' it right this minute," Rider drawled, finishing up the straps and giving his horse a gentle pat on its hindquarters. "We'll stash him for now and when we're down with our little "job" we'll fetch him again and hold a ransom."

"That's mighty big tricky," library-man warned, holding his chin thoughtfully, "If this...'job' goes right, then we'll have a lot of law-biders on our tail. Would dangling one of their deputies in their face be a smart move?"

"It'd be a mighty fine distraction," Rider laughed, "While you yellow-bellies head east, I'll hold the Deputy for ransom and give you plenty of time to get clear of the war-zone. I may have been gone for 2 years, but I've handled my fair share of tricky situations, and I can handle this too."

Despite being called a "yellow-belly" Terror seemed to like this plan, "As long as it's your neck in the noose," he mused pleasantly, "Sounds like a plan to me."

Normally, Peter would've objected to being talked about, especially when he was right in front of them. But if they were so keen to spill their plans in front of him, who was he to complain?

Were they careless?

Or were they just confident they could keep him holed up?

Either way, he chose to stay quiet and soak in as much information as he could.

"Then it's agreed," Dead Rider said, finally acknowledging Peter, "If his deputy would be so inclined to honor us with his presence for a time longer," he winked.

"Does he actually get a say in the matter?" Peter returned.

"Nope."

"Then why ask at all?"

Dead Rider shrugged, "Figured it was the courteous thing to do."

"Keep your courtesies to yourself and spare us both the torture."

Terror snorted and library-man quickly covered up his laugh with a weak cough when Dead Rider scowled at them both. When he turned back to Peter though, he didn't look offended; more appraised.

"Alright," he said holding his hands up, "Consider all my courtesies gone," but he stepped closer so they were face to face with barely an inch between their feet to spare, "So don't start bellyachin' when you can't handle it."

Peter didn't back down. He crossed his arms. He'd feel a lot more confident if he had his bandanna on; facing off against someone bare-faced made him queasy. But he'd hogtie himself before he let this outlaw know that.

"The only bellyachin' you're gonna get is this," and Peter promptly punched him in the stomach, pushed him to the side, and grabbed the nearest saddled horse. Neither Terror or library-man were prepared for the action, nor did they have their guns fastened to their hips. Slappy and Stinger were still squabbling over Peter's rations of food. Masacre was tending to the horses farther off and had his shotgun slung over his shoulder, but Peter figured he could make it far enough to use the canyons walls and bends as cover. This was the perfect time.

The horse he picked was a big, sturdy black mare that did little to stop Peter when he swung himself over her back. He gripped the reins and clicked his tongue to urge the horse to go and she lurched forward. A burst of triumph ignited in Peter's chest. Third time escaping the Dead Rider - that had to be a record.

But his victory was short-lived.

The horse skittered to a dead halt only a meter or so away when a low whistle followed them on the wind, and wouldn't move an inch despite Peter's promptings. It was if the horse had been replaced with a big stubborn donkey within the seconds that he'd blinked.

Dead Rider picked himself up off the ground with a loud laugh, dusting himself off with ease. The rest of his posse gathered around Peter only seconds later, guns trained, and Peter sighed, lifting his hands.

"You know," Rider said, snatching the reins from Peter's hands, "That might've worked if you'd picked anyone else's horse but mine. Then again, figured you might try something given the first opportunity. Guess it's a good thing I had Bea so close."

Peter's resigned irritation turned flushed and red. Had Dead Rider anticipated that? Had he figured Peter would take his first chance of escape and kept his horse close to trick him?

Peter scowled, but climbed down when Dead Rider gestured him to, more so because Terror was favoring his gun with a rather eager look in his eyes than because he wanted to. He kept his hands up as he stopped in front of Dead Rider, shoulders rolling slightly, "Can't blame a guy for tryin'."

"True," Rider shrugged, but gestured offhandedly and Slappy offered him a long string of rope, "But it did prove that you can't be trusted with your hands free. So let's see them, Web Slinger."

Peter grit his teeth and kept his hands resolutely by his sides out of sheer pride. Dead Rider nodded toward the knife-man, who grabbed Peter's wrist and forced them up. Dead Rider bound Peter's hands again, making them a little tighter than what might've been necessary; maybe his stomach was still hurting from that punch he gave him - though Peter's hand probably hurt more. Why the hell did it hurt so much to hit him?

"Alright," Rider said as he tied the last knot, "Let's get ridin. Stinger, watch the deputy. Don't let him try any more funny business."

'Yeah, I'll succeed where you failed," library-man - or Stinger - grumbled as he grabbed Peter's bound wrists and pulled him along. Peter was kept under lock and key as they finished packing up their hastily made camp. Terror rubbed down Peter's horse before fitting him with the saddle again, and had Peter hoisting up there in no time. He tied Peter's hands to the saddle pommel, before pulling himself atop his own.

Dead Rider was the last to mount up and he looked back over his posse. "Let's go," he said and knocked his spurs into his horses' flanks and they were off. Peter kept a tight hold of the saddle pommel as they ran and did his best to shift with its gait, so he didn't fall off and get dragged a couple miles.

He's mastered the art of softening his landing in the case that he fell from his horse, but even if he wanted to purposefully jump, he couldn't do so with so many rocks around to knock his head on, nor could he do it somewhere where he didn't have a hiding place. It didn't help that his hands were tied either.

His shoulder was aching terribly now. It was now obvious that the bandage and come undone and the wound had now reopened several times. But it was still tolerable. He needed to get it rebandaged as soon as possible, as soon as he got clear of these outlaws, and hopefully there wouldn't be any permanent damage.

The posse did not ride quietly, and the journey was spent through jeering comments over the snapping of the wind. Occasionally they'd slow down to let the horses rest up. Despite late-summer, the heat was still absolutely unbearable, so whenever they crossed a small brook or watering hole they let the horses drink.

Giving their direction, Peter figured they were heading toward Costa Loca. A relatively large town some way from the cliffs and a good long ride from his hometown. It wasn't near the coast, as Costa suggested, but it was built around one of the largest running rivers in the West. It was a power town that was as much trouble as a tavern full of trigger-happy drunks. Shady people ran the taverns and gambling houses, and there were prostitutes and harlots around every corner, dressed in clothes unbefitting for the public. Peter's been there a few times with Steve, usually to track down a few of their own outlaws who'd taken up residence there.

The Sheriff of the town was a wryer looking man who went by Justin Hammer. He wasn't impressive, but he was rich, second only to Tony Stark. He wanted to be mayor, but everyone knew that Costa Loca had no mayor. They barely even had a Sheriff, given that Hammer barely lifted a finger to keep the peace. It was a town that didn't make sense. It ran on no system and it was every man for himself.

Still, it wasn't the worst place in the West.

Regardless, Peter couldn't be spotted there. His poncho was too well recognized. Made with brightly died colors of red and blue, with an old Indian spider-symbol right in the center. It was a gift and he wore it proudly – but going into a town of cut-throats and outlaws with it on and it was like wearing a bright and shiny target on his back, especially being on his own. There would be no Steve and his terrifying reputation as a law enforcer to keep the bandits at bay. No one dared lay a hand on Steve Roger; but Web-Slinger wasn't as revered yet.

What were they thinking taking him to a place like that?

He needed a way out and he needed it soon.

Peter bent down to straighten his hat, but kept his head tucked low so the wind wouldn't blow it off. It was already so blasted hot, he didn't need the full power of the sun bearing down on him too. He used it to his advantage to get a good look at the ropes. They were tied well, but not as tight as they'd been last night. He could wiggle out of them; he just needed a way to break off from the group without being spotted right away. The canyons were falling quickly behind them, with only the occasional hill or rock to break up the plains of dirt and weeds – and maybe the occasional tree.

Still, the closer they rode to Costa Loca, the more likely they'd run into more bandits.

The next time they stopped, it was to munch on Peter's food rations.

Peter edged his horse a bit closer to Stinger's this time. He played it off as an accident, but when their backs were turned, he tugged and loosened the reins to his horse, which had been fastened to Stinger's saddle. Not enough to come undone completely, but given a good tug, Peter could pull them free. He didn't dismount and sullenly turned down Dead Rider's offer of a slab of cheese and dried meat when the man came over.

"You need to eat something," he said with a sigh. "You can't really live off flies and lizards."

Peter scoffed, "Those rumors are a bunch of hogwash," he glanced briefly at Rider and corrected, "I eat bandits and outlaws. Just waiting for the right moment before I pick you all off. Maybe wait till your all plump off my food before I devour you."

"I think you're puttin' your expectations too high. We'll be wrinklier than ol' Blind Al's ass if this heat has anything to say about it."

Peter snorted, "Maybe I like my food a little dry. Good with a cup of whiskey to wash it all down."

Rider leaned lightly against the horse, "As fun as it is word-playing with you," he mused, "You're not distractin' me from that the fact that you need to eat."

Peter exhaled roughly and looked away. Usually he could veer people off track when he talked, but perhaps Rider was a bit more focused than he realized. And determined.

"C'mon," he continued when Peter didn't answer, "You're probably starvin' by now, and by the looks of ya, you probably need some water too."

Now that he mentioned it, Peter was feeling over-heated – ever since they left the canyons behind, actually. And his tongue felt as dry as the desert.

"Food and water," Peter said blandly instead, ignoring his suddenly parched throat, "Just what every human being needs. Glad you know the basic needs for living."

"Heh, I'm only dead in spirit, Web Slinger. But the rest of me," he gestured loosely to himself, "Is very much alive."

"Good to know I'm not talking with a ghost."

"You're doing it again," He held out the food, "Take it or else I'm gonna stuff it in your mouth instead."

They met each other's eyes and Peter knew they were both holding back their own retorts to the concealed innuendo. After a long moment, Peter sighed and took the slice of cheese with his bound hands, if just to get the man off his case. He made a point of taking a bite and chewing.

"There," he said, "I'm eating."

"Good. Now let's see you chew and swallow and we'll see what other tricks you can do."

Peter gave him a vapid look but contemplated spitting his food at him. But it really was good and he was starving. So, instead, he knocked Dead Rider with his boot and took another bite of cheese. Satisfied that he was eating, Rider tipped his hat in a show of mock chivalry.

"You'd said you'd drop the courtesies," Peter remarked as he walked away.

"Yep! Startin' now."

Peter shook his head and nibbled on his cheese. Even with something in his belly, it did little to ease the sense of dizziness that had been creeping up on him since they started riding. The heat was probably getting to him. Maybe he was getting a little too dehydrated.

He accepted the drink Stinger offered, swallowing as much as he could, before handing it back. Then they were on their way. The water helped for a little while, but it didn't fix everything.

Peter was starting to feel very flush and sweat was beginning to drench his shirt. Perhaps staying tied to a tree all night and eating and drinking nothing for more almost an entire day was a tad unhealthy.

Still, he didn't draw attention to himself. He didn't need them investigating him while he was preparing to escape. He needed their attention away from him.

After riding a little more distance, when there showed no valid signs of cover or miles, Peter decided it was now or never. When he and Stinger ended up at the back of the group, Peter cautiously shimmied out of the ropes and tugged at the reins, so they came undone. Stinger whirled to the side when Peter's horse was slipping away but Peter slapped the hindquarters of his horse so it took off, and effectively startled the rest of the group into brief chaos.

Using the distraction, Peter gripped the reins and twisted the horse around, and urged it into a run with a loud "HiYEAH!"

There wasn't much cover out here, but if he could just get out of their bullet range, he'd be fine. He could hear them arguing at his back and his nerves ate away at him, dreading the moment he'd hear a gun-shot and feel the biting pain of a bullet.

When nothing came, a thrill of victory ran up his spine. But another crash of dizziness over swept him just as suddenly and combined with the sudden speed, his vision blurred. Peter groaned, nausea hitting him hard, and found himself tipping off the saddle, becoming light-headed. His arm hurt so bad. He felt flush with heat and his head was hot with pain. He barely managed to roll with the fall when he hit the ground, but it was rough and knocked the breath out of him. His head smacked against the Earth.

He must've knocked himself unconscious, cause when he came to, he was surrounded by the outlaws again. At least he thought it was them. The sun bore down, blinding him, and it took him a moment to realize he was trembling. His breaths were shallow and loose in his chest.

"Is – is he okay?" Slappy asked uncertainly, bending over to get a better look at Peter.

"For a big ol' deputy, I figured he had the skill to stay on his horse," Terror grumbled, but there was something in a voice. A doubtful tinge.

Then Dead Rider's bandanna appeared in Peter's blurring line of sight, "Hey, you hear me Slinger? You okay?"

Peter couldn't reply in any other way than a loud groan and Rider fidgeted uneasily. His hand hovered over Peter's forehead before he realized he was still wearing his gloves, and pointed sharply at Stinger, "Feel his forehead! Does it feel hot?"

A hand touched Peter's forehead, warm to the touch, but a lot less warm than it should've been. "Everything's hot out here," Stinger huffed, "But he does feel a little overheated."

Dead Rider's fingers grazed Peter's injured arm, but he didn't say anything. After a moment he motioned toward Terror, "C'mon, help me get him up."

Hands curled under Peter's armpits as they hoisted him onto his feet. As soon as he was back on his own weight, Peter swayed, and Dead Rider quickly caught him again.

"Creo que está enfermo," Masacre mumbled. "Necesita un doctor, Wade."

"Come on, then," Rider said sharply, and he leaned Peters weight onto himself as helped him over to his horse. "He'll ride with me."

Peter's thoughts swam in and out of clarity, but he did register when he was hoisted onto a horse, then someone following him up. Peter managed to ride with his back straight for a few feet, before he slumped back against Dead Rider's chest, trying to swallow past his dry tongue. A canteen of water pushed against his lips and Peter drank.

"There you go," Dead Rider mumbled, "Let's just keep ya hydrated, alright."

Peter groaned again, shying away from the heat of the sun. It was so hot out, yet he was trembling so badly. He knew a fever when he felt one and it made him crave the gentle touch of his Aunt's hand when he was sick. She'd make him soup and keep by his side until he was better. Almighty, he missed her so much. He hadn't even been able to say good-bye to her when he left town.

"Just go to sleep," Dead Rider whispered near his ear, "I won't let you fall."

That was debatable. Illogical. Even downright stupid, but for some odd reason, Peter believed him anyway.

End Notes: 

Uh-oh....

Also, a beautiful picture of Peter in his Web-Slinger outfit.