<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Nathan Hunter<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 2nd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Night<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Camp Gǒu<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Margeurite, Closed<br/><hr/>He saw the terror in her eyes when she turned back towards him.  His skin reddened by the sun, his dark suit and the powerful black horse presenting a terrifying specter, to be sure.  He was grateful when she slowed, minutely, when she seemed to recognize a rescue instead of some devil bearing down on her.  Her natural limberness made it all the easier to pick her up instead of knocking her down and driving the wind from her, and he was grateful his one armed catch hadn't ended with a broken rib and knocking the damsel on her backside.<br/><br/>Her supple waist and slender ribs were a temporary distraction from the agony of his side – the blade had missed the lung, to be sure, and he hadn't smelled the cloying stench of an organ that would mark his lifespan in hours – but the cut through solid muscle still meant that every use of the muscle made every muscle want to knot and contort in pain.  He didn't smile at the squeal, his eyes already set on the shadows of the road ahead, and when she offered her thanks he gave a grim nod.  He slid the reins around an arm, drawing his pistol and a speed-loading cylinder with his free hand.<br/><br/>It was the horse's instinct to bear down on the heavier man, not his own.  Ergo wasn't the fastest horse he'd ever seen, nor the strongest – but he'd never seen the horse flinch in fear; not from gunshots and not from darker denizens of the west.  He counted weapons by rote reflex – noting the pistols drawn near the rifles, and he took a deep breath, his weapon coming up steady.  If Margeurite had seen his face, she would have seen his own fear and tension slip away.  For a moment, time seemed to dilate and slow, his mind working a hundred miles an hour.<br/><br/>The rifles were harder to aim at a moving target.  The pistols were familiar, easier.  At close range they'd be more dangerous.  He waited until Ergo's hooves raised and kicked, the hat flying into the air, the chinaman going down with a grunt, and then the flat of his palm came down across the hammer of the Peacemaker, the trigger squeezed back tight.  Most men preferred the double action; the click and release of the hammer's automation made firing rapidly easier, and men could carry two guns, filling the air with bullets.  Fanning a hammer took careful precision, hours of practice, but in the right hands, six bullets could come out faster and deadlier than twelve from a matched pair of peacemakers.<br/><br/>Nate had hours of practice.  Entirely too much experience when the stakes were higher, as well, and his hand was swift and sure as it slapped the back of the pistol.  He sat as tall as he could, making his shoulders and his height a shield against bullets for the woman riding behind him.<br/><br/><em>Bang.  Bang.  Bang.</em><br/><br/>Three of them men fell back, as he walked the muzzle across the line of men aiming pistols at him and the lady.  With the surge of adrenaline he could almost see the bullets racing through the air, the lines of them as they shattered a shoulder, buried into a hip, and caught a man through the hand.  It wasn't inaccurate shooting; some part of him knew that a string of eight bodies left in his wake would mean more trouble than Gomorra could handle.<br/><br/>The gun's cylinder still spinning, he walked the muzzle over the horse's head, tilting it upward as the steed raced for the barrier.  Then it came down, the world still slowed in his mind's eye, barely aware of how tightly she clung or the press of her breasts against his back or the pain in his side or the hammering of his heart.<br/><br/><em>Bang.  Bang.</em><br/><br/>The bullets crisscrossed through the two men with rifles.  He didn't dare be merciful.  They'd be racing down the road, and a good rifle and a good shooter could take them out from a hundred paces.  Those bullets sank into a throat, went clean through an eye, bodies jerking and snapping back as the horse raced up and over the barrier.  The injured chinamen were screaming, but still firing.  But the black clad man bearing down on them, the sudden volley of death and pain, the injuries and chaos worked to ensure it was trembling hands the held the pistols.<br/><br/><strong>“Good boy, Ergo,”</strong>he whispered, as the horse landed and the world sped up.  He kicked its flanks and slid a hand over hers, pulling her tight as the horse galloped down a road.  He could tell from the gait his steed hadn't been shot, and he felt a wave of gratitude.  He kept Ergo at a run, his mind ticking off bullet counts, then calculating the time it would take them to reload his weapons.  He slid the single live round free, shaking out the empty brass with a flick of his wrist, the weapon loacked and reloaded with the blink of an eye.<br/><br/>Then his heart was slowing, the adrenaline fading, the stitch in his side flaring once again to genuine pain.  He could feel warmth soaking through his shirt, his vest, his suit jacket, but he stoically set his jaw, just as keenly aware of the press of her body against his as she panted.<br/><br/>Did he do that often.  He almost chuckled.  The question made him think, though – think about all the times he'd ridden with JP or Nash, the deputies who'd died fighting alongside the law dogs.  He'd been surprised and humbled when J.P. had made him a senior deputy.  Nash, of course.  Nash made sense.  The man was deadly.  But Nathan had never felt entirely comfortable with a gun in his hand, never much cared for taking a man's life, and never did it without a wash of guilt, not matter how justified or necessary it had been in the moment.<br/><br/><strong>“More often than I'd like,”</strong>he admitted.  He turned slightly in the saddle, wincing as the tendons in his ribs reminded him just how poor an idea it was, but he needed to look back at her.  He slipped the gun back into place in the holster with a practiced ease, unaware of the simple grace of the action.<br/><br/><strong>“Are you alright?”</strong>he asked, his voice soft.   He slowed the horse a little more, to a trot, tying the reins to the saddlehorn.  A hand slipped to her side as he twisted himself in the saddle, the concern coloring his voice, just the pads of his fingers daring to touch her side.