Chapter Text
They barely make it past the town’s name sign – a nigh unreadable five-letter word scratched crudely on a wooden plaque – when one of the back wheels comes off. The wagon tips to the left, suddenly and ungracefully. Max almost tumbles out of his seat before Sam loops one huge arm around the rabbit’s small black-garbed frame and pulls him closer – instinctively, unconsciously. The horses stop in their tracks, alarmed.
The moon is high in the sky, hanging over the greyish roofs and faintly glowing street lanterns. The place is a little bigger than the previous town they stayed at, but it’s a far cry from St. Louis or even Tombstone nonetheless.
“Looks like this is as far as we go, lil’ pal,” the hound concludes, watching the horses impatiently beat up the dust. The lagomorph in the holy vestments still clings to his side, little paws tightly wrapped around Sam’s arm like he’s terrified to let go.
“Things work together for good to those who love God, lawdog. Perchance, ‘tis a blessing in disguise?”
“Too good a disguise, I’d say. Can hardly see the blessing underneath. ”
They drag the stagecoach to the nearest flophouse – the only one they can see in this tiny burg, to be precise. It’s hard to miss: the biggest building in the vicinity, two floors of brightly lit windows. An upbeat piano tune mixed with chatter and laughter is spilling from behind the saloon doors. Sam walks through them first. His companion follows close behind, hands unconsciously feeling the slender shapes of two twin revolvers snug securely in their holsters under his black overcoat.
The patrons turn their heads briefly and return to their card games. The painted ladies offering company for moderate fees give the two a lingering up and down. The bartender regards the odd couple for mere seconds before asking what they’re having.
“Our stagecoach is in need of repair. You know anyone who can help?” Sam probes after ordering the cheapest whiskey he can spy on the shelf behind the bartender’s back. The latter’s face sours as he fills the hound’s glass.
“Outta luck here, buddy. The only mechanic who fixes wagons in the entire town is away. Ain’t gonna be back until tomorrow morning.”
This time, it’s Sam’s expression that sours. He empties his glass fast to numb the frustration. His long-eared companion hops on the barstool beside him with a grin sharper than a butcher’s knife.
“Ill fortune is but a prelude to great miracles, Samuel. Don’t let the temporary setbacks bring you down. If we must spend the night in this fair establishment and tend to our miserable vehicle in the morn, then so be it…”
The bartender eyes Max again with new-found interest bordering on slight suspicion. It clicks only then – black clothes, white collar, flat-brimmed hat, and a small rosary peeking out of his button-up’s chest pocket under the menacing criss-cross of bandoliers.
“Wait a minute… You’re a priest?”
Max’s grin widens enough to make the bartender uncomfortable.
“Guilty as charged, my son. Any sins you’d like to confess?”
Sam keeps a straight face throughout their exchange and marvels at how well he’s learned to do it over the years of traveling with that pint-sized pastor who was, frankly speaking, as crooked as the devil’s horns. Max would absolve people of sin with one hand while pilfering their coin pouch with the other; wring donations to a church that never existed out of people and in the same breath recite The Last Rites for anyone who dared oppose his brand of justice before putting a bullet through their vitals – normally, followed by many, many more bullets and way fewer rites.
Simply put: whoever granted that lagomorph his clerical title was appointing a wolf to be a sheep town sheriff. The sins he carries would outweigh anything he's ever heard in a confession booth (if indeed he’s ever been there), and Sam knows this all too well. He’s seen blood on those white-furred paws way more often than he’s seen the Bible in them. He acknowledged the fascination in those beady black eyes whenever they stole careful gazes at the dog after a shower, or a dip in a lake. He witnessed the little guy succumbing to everything, from greed to pride, like a heathen, and still having enough shamelessness to preach about resisting temptation.
There was, however, one sin Max has never surrendered to in Sam’s memory.
Lust.
The pursuit of carnal desires.
The need to hold and be held in the most unpriestly manner imaginable.
If Sam were to explain why, he’d just shrug his shoulders. As long as the little guy's aim kept getting them out of shoot-outs and pursuits, he couldn’t give a hoot.
Which isn’t to say that Sam had no idea why. Oh, he had. He wasn’t blind nor stupid.
“It wouldn’t be right to charge a man of God… You can stay in the corner room at the end of the hallway tonight.”
“The Lord will be most grateful to you for this sacrifice, my son.”
Sam smirks to himself under the brim of his hat: here the little fellow goes again, milking free stays at pestholes out of pious saps like a con pro he is.
“Is your companion also…?”
“Oh, thou needst not worry about him. He’ll take the rug beside the bed.”
The hound’s smirk falls in a second.
“Don’t drink too much, lawdog. We got business to take care of in the wee small hours of the morning. I’ll go inspect tonight's lodgings.”
The rabbit’s fingers brush the dog’s shoulder in a silent “see you soon” as he gleefully swipes the room key from the bartender’s palm and hops down on the floor. Sam sighs and orders another round.