🌾Boothill

Boothill had woken up in a cold sweat, his hand instinctively reaching for the empty pillow beside him. His eyes widened for a moment, only to settle back into a calmer state. He was used to this by now, at least when he was awake. In his dreams, he was always chasing after them. It was his mind’s fucked-up way of making sure he never forgot—not that he ever would.

It was the same song and dance: him and his late lover. His mind would torment him with memories of their sweetest moments together, like how the sun would kiss their skin just right while he helped them haul in the harvest they worked so hard to get before each winter. Those winters were usually spent tending to the animals together and warming each other up inside.

Now it was all just cold. It didn't matter the season, the time of day, or what Boothill did to try and warm himself up. They had been his source of warmth, both body and soul. And losing that was hard on him, it made him a little colder on the inside. But he had to keep moving, with or without his darling.

Today was supposed to be like every other monotonous day for him: wake up early, tend to the crops and animals, and address whatever else needed his attention. And it would have been like any other day, except he discovered something had gnawed through some bags of fertilizer in the shed. Great, a vermin problem.

With no cats around the farm to handle it, Boothill had no choice but to head into town to buy some traps. Unfortunately, the trip was long, and by the time he was ready to make it back home, the sun had begun to set, turning the sky orange. If it wasn't one problem, it was another. As he took the dirt road, it was impossible to ignore the yelping of someone mixed with the sound of other voices shouting about who knew what.

Boothill wasn’t one to stand around and do nothing if people were in trouble. There had been a long-running bandit problem in the area where he lived, and he’d never forget that—especially since bandits were what had taken his one and only away from him years ago. He’d be damned if he left someone to that same fate. After all, he didn’t carry a revolver on his hip for nothing.

It only took a few strides to reach the scene before him: two men on horses, tugging at someone—or was it an animal? Boothill couldn’t quite tell, and the hair hanging over one eye didn’t help. It didn’t matter much at the time; they looked enough like bandits for him to take action.

"Well now, what in the hell do y’all think you’re doin’?" Boothill’s voice cut through the air, dripping with undeniable venom. He took a step forward, his hand resting casually on his revolver. "If y’all got somethin’ to say, now’s the time. Otherwise, I reckon we’re fixin’ to have ourselves a bit of trouble." His words made the two men pause in their actions, but the one struggling in ropes continued to squirm, prompting one of the men to tug at them again.

One of the bandits, a burly looking fellow, scowled at Boothill and drawled, "Well, lookee here, if it ain’t the local hero comin’ to play. We ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, just takin’ care of our own business." He nudged the other bandit, who grunted in agreement. "Might be best if you turn yourself around and head back to wherever you come from. This here’s none of your concern."

There weren’t any real laws around these parts, which was exactly why crime ran rampant. So naturally, Boothill felt no reason to hold back. Whatever "business" they were up to really didn't matter, and he’d never hide his disdain for scum who fancied themselves as bandits. He had a bias against them, and he wasn't about to make exceptions now.

With two gunshots ringing out on the otherwise silent road, the bandits’ bodies slumped over and fell from their horses. Clean headshots. Boothill had been practicing for a good while now. The person tangled in the ropes struggled even harder, probably fearing he’d take a shot at them next. 'Course, that wasn’t the case.

Now, Boothill wasn’t all too familiar with those Foxian critters that inhabited his planet—or whatever they called ’em, the folks with those tall animal ears and bushy tails. It definitely surprised him to find that one of them had been the bandits’ target, it was rare enough to see one up close. That was the only part that was surprising, he figured people might hunt them like any other animal.

"Oh, quit yer squirmin' already. Said I wasn’t gonna cause you no harm, didn’t I?" Boothill had no real reason to be taking the damn thing in, but something about their face... The way they carried themselves, even when frightened, felt oddly familiar. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it tugged at his heart enough to make him do something as foolish as this.

Besides, they were hurt. One of their legs was injured beyond what could just be walked off—if they could even walk at all. His guess was that if they could’ve, they would’ve scampered off as soon as he’d undone those ropes constricting them. But those what-ifs didn’t matter anymore. By the time the sun had fully set, Boothill was home with them still struggling in his firm hold.

The way he’d let go of ’em had the poor Foxian hitting the floorboards with a thump. Boothill might’ve been a little annoyed about the holes they’d torn in his good shirt during their frantic bid for freedom. He didn’t even get a simple 'thank you' for saving the damn brat either, and he knew they weren’t mute. Not with the screams for help they’d given.

Grumbling, Boothill left them unattended in the living room to fetch some medical supplies. "Mighty lucky I don’t leave you out there for another pair of bandits to come skinnin' you alive. You stay put, or you’ll be losin' your head the next time you’re out there."