Archive of Our Own ^beta

Baylock wasn't waiting with any of the other horses when Micah made his way over to catch and tack him up that morning. He wasn't at the hitching posts, wasn't pestering Arthur's big mean bastard of a Shire and trying to bite chunks out of his tail, wasn't even wandering around harassing whoever was on guard duty for treats, as he'd been known to do on occasion. Baylock was a very distinctive animal, a stunning black Missouri Fox Trotter with four white stockings, a striking bald face, and bright blue eyes; he wasn't exactly easy to miss. 

Yet despite this, Micah couldn't see him anywhere in camp, and that was the first sign that something might be wrong.

The second, when he finally managed to spot his wayward mount a few hundred feet inside the trees surrounding Clemens Point, was that Baylock didn't respond when he whistled for him, not even when Micah stepped very deliberately into his field of view and did it again.

"Baylock!" Micah growled in frustration, eyebrows drawing together in confused irritation as he made his way through the clearing. The stallion flicked his ears toward Micah for a moment, showing he'd heard, but otherwise didn't move an inch. 

It was completely out of character. As carefree and playful as he could sometimes seem, especially when roughhousing with the rest of the herd or pickpocketing for treats, Baylock was fiercely loyal to his master, and as strong and ferocious as a bull when the situation demanded it.  A little over a decade had passed since the outlaw stole him right out from under the nose of some upper-crust show breeder with more money than sense. He'd started the leggy two-year-old under saddle right away and trained him every day for the next couple of years, patiently waiting 'til he matured enough to replace the string of nameless stolen horses Micah typically rode. 

By five, the black Fox Trotter was already a more fearless and reliable mount than any lawman's nag could hope to be, and he only improved with time. This was a horse who had galloped headlong through dozens of firefights without missing a single stride; stomped a rattlesnake into paste when it slithered too close to Micah's tent as he slept; and spent many miserable nights lying on the hard, snowy ground, lending his rider some of his warmth when the law tailed them so closely that the light of even the smallest fire risked getting them caught and killed. And in all their years together, despite having ample opportunity to do so, he had never once ignored Micah's call.

Micah may not have had the same general affinity for horses that Morgan or even Marston did, but he didn't need it in order to know that something wasn't right with Baylock now. The stallion's posture was strange, his weight shifted backward but his neck stretched out and held rigid. As he drew closer, Micah could see sweat dampening large patches of his coal-black coat, his nostrils flaring wide and the whites of his eyes standing out clear as day. Even when he got close enough to pat his shoulder, Baylock stood tense and shivering, not leaning into the touch the way he always would have before.

"What's the matter, boy?" he asked, starting to feel the first stirrings of concern in his gut.

Baylock didn't give him an answer, of course, but it almost felt like he was trying to when he shook himself from head to toe, raising one rear foot up and then stomping it back down into the soggy soil. He lifted his head a little and arched his neck, lips smacking and teeth moving as if he was chewing on something, before quickly lowering it again and making a bizarre hacking noise, almost like a retch. A trickle of white, slimy fluid dripped out of his mouth and nostrils afterward, puddling on the ground in front of his hooves, and when Micah looked around he could see a few other small pools like it scattered around the clearing.

"What the hell?" He moved around to stand in front of Baylock and slid his hand under the stallion's chin, nudging his head up to get a better look at his face. What he saw wasn't reassuring. There was some kind of pale brownish-white foam crusted around his nostrils, and a thicker layer of it coating his lips. Streaks of it stained his chest and forelegs, and as he watched, Baylock continued to grind his teeth, slinging more of the froth onto Micah's arm and boots when he tossed his head and coughed again.

Micah bit his lip, feeling completely out of his element for the first time in years. He'd been around horses his entire life, and had probably spent just as much time perched in the saddle as standing on his own two feet. He knew how to care for his mounts, and always made sure they were well-fed and healthy, coats gleaming and hooves trimmed and clean. At the end of the day, the two most important possessions for a man in this line of work were his guns and his horse. Let either of them fall into disrepair, and he might as well save the law the trouble and slip the noose around his own neck, for how fast he'd find himself swinging. Nearly four decades around horses also meant he knew a lot of the things that could go wrong with one, and how to fix a good many of them, too.

Whatever was ailing Baylock, though, was something he'd never seen before, and he wasn't sure how to even begin to handle it. It could be colic, maybe. He'd seen that a few times before, had even seen his father shoot one of their horses to put it out of its misery after it colicked too badly to save. Baylock wasn't acting like Micah Jr's gelding did back then, though; he wasn't kicking or biting at his belly, or rolling on the ground over and over just to get up and pace in endless miserable circles.

Horses couldn't vomit, he knew that much - it was part of why getting a bout of colic was so dangerous for them in the first place. But where was this substance coming from, if not his stomach? Hydrophobia could make a horse foam at the mouth, but it also caused staggering and disorientation and aggression, and Baylock was showing none of those. Besides, there had been no mad animals anywhere near camp in recent months, and Micah checked the stallion over every day; he'd know if anything had bitten him. So what, then? A poisonous plant? Disease? Some kind of venomous bite or sting?

A gusty sigh escaped him and turned into a growl as he gritted his teeth, terribly frustrated by his inability to puzzle it out. No matter what, though, he clearly wasn't going to get anywhere just standing here. "Stay," he told Baylock - although he really doubted he'd try to leave anyway - before spinning on his heel and making his way back to camp at a jog. He grabbed the coil of rope from his saddle, which was still draped over the hitching post, and then returned to the little clearing. Just as he expected, the horse was exactly where he'd left him - albeit with what looked like even more white froth splattered down his chest and legs than before.

Micah quickly looped the rope around the top of Baylock's neck just behind his ears, tying it off under his chin before adding another loop over his nose to complete the makeshift halter. He'd thought about retrieving his bridle instead, but he wasn't sure if putting a bit in his mouth would make things worse or not, so a halter seemed the safer option. "C'mon boy, let's go," he said, with a gentleness in his voice that no one else in the world knew he still possessed. Baylock, despite his obvious discomfort, shook himself again and then fell into step beside Micah without hesitation, not even requiring any pressure on the rope to convince him to follow. 

They made their way out of the trees and down to the shore of Flat Iron Lake, some distance away from camp. Micah stepped out into the water until it was nearly over the tops of his boots, and Baylock still followed, although with some noticeable hesitancy now. He scooped up a few handfuls of water and splashed them over the stallion's chest and legs, washing away the worst of the mess, and then filled his cupped hands and raised them toward his muzzle. 

He knew how the old saying went, of course, "You can lead a horse to water..." and all that. But in fact, Micah had taught him to accept water from his hands and even out of his hat on command years ago, mostly for a laugh but also just to see if it was possible. It was, and that little party trick wound up serving them well many times over the years. The law and bounty hunters could only ride so far without stopping to find a source of water large enough for their horses, especially on the miserable, sun-baked trails of the Southwest, while Micah and Baylock could outlast them with ease. They'd continue on for miles after the last pursuer was forced to abandon the chase, and then finally share the few gallons of water he had packed along, Micah sipping directly from the canteen and Baylock slurping up the lion's share from his upturned hat like a dog from a dish.

He tried it again now, on the off chance that Baylock had just taken a bite of something absolutely disgusting or slightly irritating, and maybe a drink of water could help wash it away. It wasn't likely, he knew, but he was out of other ideas. The black stallion apparently detested this plan, however, jerking his head back and snorting as if Micah held a venomous snake coiled in his palms instead of a tiny sip of water.

"Whoa now, easy," he soothed, taking his hat off and dipping it quickly under the water. The crown could easily hold almost a gallon, and again, he tried offering it to Baylock, hoping maybe he would be more willing to accept it this way. "Come on, 's just water, you know how this works." But Baylock reacted even more strongly this time, stamping his front hoof down into the water and then tossing his head so violently that his muzzle knocked the hat from Micah's hands.

The first true wave of doubt washed over Micah, then, and his heart began to pound against his breastbone as a horrible thought finally occurred to him. What if this wasn't something he could fix? What if Baylock was deathly sick, or injured internally? What if it was already too late? For all that Micah Bell was a nasty, hard-hearted sonofabitch, he made an exception when it came to Baylock. He truly loved that horse, as deeply and fiercely as he had ever loved anything in his life. And the idea of losing him now sent a pang of icy-cold, helpless fear through his chest, the likes of which he couldn't remember feeling since he was a tiny child and hadn't thought he ever would again.

"Hey, uh... is he okay?"

Micah startled slightly, not having noticed anyone else nearby when they came down here out of the clearing. He whipped around to look, hands already drifting to his holsters, but relaxed marginally when he saw it was just the O'Driscoll boy, perched on a flat rock with a fishing pole clutched in his hands.

"Baylock, I mean," the other man continued, as if Micah couldn't figure that out on his own.

"Does it look like he's fuckin' okay?" he shouted, lips curling back to bare his teeth in a snarl. The O'Driscoll had never been someone he had any particular grudge against (or even remembered most of the time, truth be told.) But being caught unawares had never sat well with him, and the confusing mix of long-buried emotions tumbling around in his chest had completely drained his already shallow pool of patience, leaving him raw and ready to snap. Anger was easy, it was simple and familiar, and it centered him again as he glared daggers at the man who had set down his fishing pole and was now walking toward them.

"Not really, no," Kieran said, a thoughtful frown on his face as he approached the pair of them and studied Baylock carefully for a moment, seemingly ignoring the dangerous expression Micah wore. When the stallion dropped his head and coughed again, and another stream of fluid immediately ran from his nostrils, Kieran's eyes widened slightly. "How long's he been doing that?"

"The hell's it matter to you, O'Driscoll?" Micah snapped, wishing the man would just piss off while he sorted himself out enough to do what he needed to.

"Because he wasn't doin' it when I made the rounds to feed this morning," Kieran said, ignoring the "O'Driscoll" part for the time being. "So if it hasn't been going on too long it's more likely we can still help him."

"Help him? You're sayin' you know what's goin' on with him?" Micah asked, lowering his hackles just a little but not willing to trust any tiny spark of hope just yet.

"Yep, pretty sure, anyway," Kieran answered. "Just at a glance, and hearin' that cough, it seems like he's gone and got himself choked on something, more than likely his feed or someone else's. I'd have to look closer to know for sure, but -"

"What do you mean 'choked?' It's been at least half an hour since I found him like this - shouldn't he be dead already if he was chokin'?"

"If he was a person, sure," Kieran said patiently. "But horses don't have their food pipe and windpipe right in the same place the way we do. They can still breathe alright, usually, just can't swallow any food or water 'til whatever gets caught either comes up or goes down. And since they can't swallow, all their spit comes back out of their nose and mouth -" He paused, another dribble of liquid from Baylock's nostrils illustrating his point. "Like that. Anyway," he turned to look at Micah, leaning toward Baylock but not yet taking a step closer. "Can I look at him?"

The younger man seemed a lot more assertive than usual - not that Micah had spoken to him often enough to really know what "usual" was for him. But his sudden confidence was reassuring, in a strange way. And it wasn't as if there were really any better alternatives left; after all, even if he was wrong, it couldn't leave Baylock in any worse of a position than he'd already been. So in spite of himself, Micah found himself nodding, wordlessly stepping aside with a hand on the halter so Kieran could get closer.

"Okay, let's see what's goin' on, boy," Kieran murmured softly, placing his hand under Baylock's jaw and applying a little bit of pressure while he slowly ran it down the underside of his throat. The stallion was clearly uncomfortable, but a few quiet words from Micah and his hand on the halter kept him in place without issue. A few inches down Kieran paused, brows furrowing, and squeezed his hand a bit tighter around that spot a couple of times. 

"Yeah, there it is." He removed his hand and patted Baylock's shoulder gently, turning to meet Micah's eyes again. "He's definitely got something hung up in his throat, bad enough he most likely can't get it out on his own. I've seen it before, growin' up, and dealt with it in a few of the O'Driscoll horses too. 'Long as it ain't compacted too bad, I should be able to fix it. I'll need you to hold him for me though, he's prob'ly not gonna like me very much while I'm doing this. Just a second, I'll be right back."

Again, Micah found himself unable to do much more than nod and look on in silence, keeping a good grip on the rope beneath Baylock's chin while Kieran walked back over to his fishing spot and picked something up off the ground near his pole. When he got close enough for Micah to see that it was just a canteen, he raised an eyebrow, confused. 

"What's water gonna do? I already tried to get him to drink and he wouldn't. Besides, I thought you said he couldn't drink anything when he was like this."

"He can't," Kieran said, removing the cap as he spoke. "I just need to get a few drops down him, so I can try to work it into whatever's blocking his throat and loosen it up. If he brings it back up that's fine, he probably will. We'll just keep trying until it either works or... it doesn't."

Micah's heart dropped again at that implication, and he fell quiet once more.

"Alright, boy, here we go," Kieran said, coaxing the mouth of the canteen through the corner of Baylock's lips. He immediately tried to jerk his head back, but Micah held him tight, grunting with the effort, and Kieran managed to get the barest amount of water into his mouth. "I know, I know, I'm sorry," the young man murmured when Baylock made a high-pitched sound of discomfort and coughed again, one hand rubbing vigorously against his throat over the hard lump that didn't belong. "I know it's uncomfortable. But we're trying to help, I promise." He kept it up for a good minute or so, and then backed off to give Baylock a little bit of a break.

"Walk him around a little bit, try to keep his head low. We'll see if he can bring anything up," he instructed.

"C'mon, Baylock, with me," Micah said, clicking his tongue. Just like before, Baylock fell into step beside him, still trusting Micah enough to listen to him despite his obvious discomfort. They paced slowly up and down the shore for a couple of minutes, but nothing seemed to change for either better or worse, and soon Kieran called them back, beginning the entire process over again. 

They repeated this five times over the course of nearly half an hour. By this point Micah was starting to lose hope that it was going to work at all, and he could tell Kieran was too, although he seemed either too polite or too afraid to say so. But the younger man still didn't give up, force-feeding another mouthful of water to an increasingly resistant Baylock.

"Come on, boy," he almost pleaded, tipping the canteen between his lips again. "You won't get any better if you don't get this out, and I can't do it for you. You can, though - you're a big strong boy, I know you can."

Whether it was incredible timing or pure coincidence, Baylock almost seemed to respond to Kieran's words. A moment later he stretched his neck out again, so far it looked almost painful, and shook his head before giving an extremely wet cough that sent a soggy mess of... something... splattering across the ground and Kieran's legs. 

"There we go, that's a boy!" Kieran said enthusiastically, patting Baylock's sweaty neck as he smacked his lips and shook his head again.

"Was that it? He - he got it cleared?" Micah asked, his sudden feeling of relief so strong it made his words come out a little faster than he'd intended.

"I think that's got it, but let me see." He felt along Baylock's throat again, brows drawing together again, and then a hesitant smile made its way onto his face. "Feels like it, yeah. But I'm gonna try one other thing, just to be sure." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a couple of sugar cubes and holding them up for Micah to see. Baylock saw too, and his ears pricked forward immediately. "If he's willing to eat these, that's a good sign. But if there's anything still blocking the way down, the sugar will just dissolve on its own eventually, so it at least won't make things any worse." 

He held up his open palm to Baylock, offering him the sugary treats, and the stallion gobbled them up like he hadn't been fed in weeks. Seeing how easily they went down, and the way Baylock immediately began sniffing both men's pockets in search of more, he sighed in relief.

"Yeah, that's got it. He should be just fine now. This looks like mostly oats and a little bit of barley," he said, gesturing to the slimy mess all over his trousers, "and I didn't feed him any barley this morning. So my guess is he got greedy and tried to wolf down his neighbor's breakfast the second our backs were turned, and wound up swallowing it all too fast. I'll make sure to start feeding him farther away from the others at grain time, and I'll let Arthur and the others know to do it when they feed too. I've seen him nosing around the other horses' buckets before, so we don't want a repeat of this."

"No, we sure as shit don't," Micah said, looking at his horse in disbelief as he continued sniffing all over his master's clothes in search of treats like none of the horrors of the last hour had happened at all. 

Kieran chuckled at the sight, then he looked down at himself and grimaced. "Phew, yuck. Need to go change my clothes now, I think. If the girls get mad at me for this, I'll tell them to take it up with you, alright Baylock?" And then, just as quick as he had appeared, the younger man was gone, walking back up into the trees to go back to camp and leaving Micah and Baylock alone once again.

Micah just stood there for a moment, still trying to process what the hell had just happened, before shaking his head and fixing his horse with an absolutely withering glare. "I don't even believe this. You had me turnin' into a goddamn milksop, gettin' all worked up and thinkin' I'd have to shoot you, and all you did was eat your breakfast a little too fast? I should make sure you don't get another morsel of grain the rest of your goddamn life, you greedy bastard!" 

Baylock ignored his tirade and nudged his hat off his head instead, lipping at his hair and coating it with horse slobber until it stood up in all directions. Micah couldn't help but start laughing then, a true, deep, body-shaking chortle from all the way down in his belly that reddened his face and left him weak in the knees. By the end of it he was gasping for breath between peals of near-hysterical giggles, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks and his forehead pressed against Baylock's while he scratched under the stallion's chin. After a moment, he sighed and moved forward to wrap his arms around Baylock, burying his face in the side of his neck. 

"Don't you ever sca - do that again," he corrected himself, stroking the damp fur as he tried not to notice the slight tremble in his hands. "I've put too much work into making you an outlaw's mount for you to get taken out stealing Old Boy's grain, you hear me?" 

Again, Baylock seemed to ignore his words completely. Instead, Micah suddenly found himself being hugged back, the stallion's heavy head laying gently on top of his own. He hid his face in that shiny black coat again, taking a moment to just stand there and breathe. And if his exhales got a bit shuddery and a few of the tears on his face were from something other than laughter after that, well, no one would ever know except the two of them.

When Kieran Duffy awoke the next morning, it would be to find Micah and Baylock already gone, having slipped away in the middle of the night in search of some new leads for Dutch. But in their place, when he finally sat up, he would find a bottle of some very good Tennessee whiskey lying just beside him on the ground, as well as a brand new pair of glistening silver spurs.