Legend Killer

Author's Note: This is a direct continuation to Law Dogs. I recommend you start with that to avoid being confused. Also, there will be tons swearing and violence, because Dean, Roman and Randy.

See the end of the fic for author's notes.

Helena, Montana Territory 1875

The territorial capital of Montana territory was moving from Virginia City to Helena soon. With the influx of people migrating to the young city, doubling its population every year, the energetic air gave the city a unique feel like it was vitally alive. Unlike other boom towns that sprang up like weeds, only to die down after a couple of years when the gold ran out, Helena already felt more...permanent.

At the end of a side street, rowdy noise spilled from the many saloons. One of the smaller saloons was filled to capacity with miners, ranch hands, and various other citizens looking for fun. The windows and doors were wide open, letting light spill into the darkening street and allowing the cool June air in. The piano player played a lively ditty on the battered out-of-tune piano. A drunk group of miners sang along with it, even more out of tune. The watered-down drinks were flowing freely, sometimes ending up on the dusty wooden floor. Cards and dice games were being played. It was payday and time to enjoy the fruits of their labors.

At a tiny corner table, former US Marshal now outlaw Randy Orton sat with his back to the wall and wrote notes on the piece of paper. He was taking a chance being out in public, with his face plastered all over wanted posters around town, but he had been going stir crazy in his cabin. Besides, there was a chance he might get lucky tonight and finally verify the identity of the last few members of Nexus, which he couldn't do while hiding out.

After nearly two months in Helena he thought he had identified the members of the Nexus collective. He had written down several names and descriptions, but two still had question marks. He had to be absolutely sure he had identified them all, or else Nexus would get away…again. That would be unacceptable. The challenge was that in a city of several thousand people it was hard to get a good look at any demons who may be laying low. And without the Saint's direct presence it was especially tricky, but Randy had mastered the art of identifying demons without the Saint of Killer's unwelcome presence.

Looking at the names of the people on his list he did know for sure were Nexus, the situation was bad. Nexus had already infiltrated the local government, including the sheriff. This needed to end quickly.

He couldn't help his scowl as he felt the Saint of Killer's presence. "What the fuck do you want, old man?" he growled in a low voice that didn't disguise his irritation. He really wasn't worried about being overheard with the chaos and noise in the rowdy saloon, but he hadn't make it this far by being careless. "If you're here about Nexus, I'm still making sure that I found them all, so go away."

"Not here about Nexus, son. My latest recruits are coming in," the Saint said. He gave Randy a brief rundown of the events the new guys had survived. "There they are," the Saint said."Teach them how to survive."

Randy looked up and saw two men walking through the door and looking around. "What makes you think they will listen to me any more than Swagger did?" the outlaw asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. Still a young man, he had spent too much time being a teacher only to watch his students being slaughtered. The horrific deaths of Ted and Cody still ached like a festering gutshot. Jack's end was almost as bad after Hunter got his hands on him.

"For one thing, they are smart enough to know they are in over their heads," the Saint replied. "Two, these two have a background that will come in handy. They have worked together for a while and trust each other. And as much as you want to deny it, you need help son. You know you can't take on Nexus alone."

He hated it when he couldn't argue with the Saint. Not with what he knew about what the Nexus was doing. "Fine," Randy growled. "If that's all, go away." He didn't see the regret that crossed the Saint of Killer's face as he looked at him. Their relationship had started off rocky and gone straight to hell ever since. The only time Randy called on the Saint was for demon-disposal. Otherwise he wanted nothing to do with him. And he made that very clear.

The Saint of Killers shook his head and vanished back to wherever the hell he went to when he wasn't bothering Randy.

Both of the new guys were about Randy's height, give or take a few inches. One had long dark hair and a dangerous air that made most people in his vicinity edge away nervously. The other was a sandy blond, also scowling, but he mostly just looked deranged. They both had the unmistakable look of having been on the trail for a while. Eyes narrowing, Randy leaned back in his chair. He saw the blond scanning the room and waited until they locked eyes before jerking his chin up in a silent invitation/order to come over. Blondie nudged his partner's arm and they threaded their way through the drunken throng and, snagging a couple of chairs, they sat down at Randy's table. Blondie rode his chair backwards.

"So you are the Saint's newest recruits," Randy said. "You got names or am I going to have to give you ones?"

"Dean Ambrose," Blondie said. He was cocky one, Randy thought, although he might have just been insane. Randy made a mental note to not turn his back to him. Dean had a large healing scar on the side of his head. It looked like someone had tried to blow his head off recently, and damned near succeeded. The guy was still a bit pale, and he looked like he needed at least three good meals and a week's worth of sleep.

"Roman Reigns," said Roman. "And I take it you are…"

Randy interrupted him. "It's best if my name isn't spoken where people can hear it. Hearing it makes them act like idiots." He looked down at the piece of paper and folded it up and put it away in his pocket. He wasn't going to get anything else done tonight, so he might was well get to know his new students. Leaning forward on his elbows and keeping his voice low he asked, "So, Dean, Roman what were you before?" Before whatever had almost killed them before the Saint of Killer's stepped in. But he didn't ask that out loud.

Roman mimicked Randy and leaned in close. He at least, seemed to have some sense of self-preservation. That was good. "Deputy Marshals," he said.

Randy's eyebrows climbed and he sat back and cursed quietly. "Fuck. Oh, god. Hunter's going to love this," he said.

"He thinks we're dead," Dean said with a challenging stare. He hadn't taken his eyes off of Orton, even to look around the saloon. Orton ignored that. If Ambrose thought Randy could be intimidated by a nutbag staring at him, well, he would soon learn otherwise. Randy had brought in Mick Foley back when he was still a US Marshal.

Still, getting Hunter to believe they were dead was impressive foresight. "How'd you manage that?" Randy asked.

Despite the dark circles under his eyes, Roman smirked, "We have a friend who's telling Hunter of our demise right now. He will also let us know what Hunter is planning next."

Randy almost smiled. They were better and more prepared than he could have hoped for. He nodded to himself, "That's good," The two of them not being pursued by Hunter was one less thing to worry about. It was bad enough that Hunter was out for Randy's blood. "So you know the basics in tracking and gunfighting. And you know law enforcement techniques and how to avoid them, because believe me, they will eventually be on your trail. But you have no idea how to identify and take down demons. That's what I am going to teach you how to do without getting yourselves and everyone around you killed." He was getting an uneasy feeling that he had been out in the open too long but there was nothing concrete, yet.

Dean snorted, the arrogant jackass. "Both Roman and I have already killed demons," he said. Then he involuntarily flinched back as Randy fixed him with a dead-eyed stare, his blue eyes flat.

"You killed one each. AND there were no civilians around to get in the way, and the demons didn't know about you. You got lucky," Randy snapped. "That's not always going to be the case. For example, Nexus is a collective that knows about the Saint of Killers and about us. They are on their guard. How would you handle it?" he asked.

Roman frowned. "Pick them off one by one," he ventured.

"Nope," Randy said. "What we do is identify exactly how many there are, who they are and where they hide. Because when we kill one, rest will go to ground. If any get away, we start back at square one and I am tired of dealing with this shit." Abruptly, he glanced around the room. His instincts were ticking over that something was coming. The jovial air in the room was beginning to take on an almost frenetic feel and Randy's hackles began to rise. It was time to bail.

"We need to get out of here," he said, keeping his voice low. He pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up. Dean and Roman did the same, looking a bit confused but taking their lead from Randy. "You guys got horses outside?"

They exchanged glances and nodded. Randy could tell these two had been riding together for a while and were able to communicate without speaking. Thankfully, Dean and Roman didn't ask questions, they just followed Randy through the crowd of people, but as Dean brushed past a smallish man with a large chip on his shoulder, the man turned and shoved him forcefully, causing Dean to fall back into a not-so-friendly game of poker. "Hey! Watch it," one of them shouted. The poker men were on their feet, dragging Dean up by his shirt collar and getting ready to beat the shit out him when Roman grabbed one of them, spun him around and hauled back to sock him in the face. However, Randy intercepted Roman's fist with his hand. The piano stopped playing and the singers stopped singing. There was a tense silence in the saloon as everyone waited to see if the guns would come out. Roman and Randy stared at each other for a few seconds, Randy shook his head and Roman backed off.

Randy let his fist go and turned and spoke to the poker players, "Gentlemen, I apologize for my friend. It was an accident. He was pushed into your table. I'm sure we can solve this situation without bloodshed." He was met with a skeptical stare from the poker players, so he smiled. It was more of a weapon than a reassurance however and the poker players looked a bit nervous. "Tell you what, lets forget about this and let me buy you a round of drinks." They looked a bit surly, still wanting to brawl, but Randy was projecting an unmistakable sense of danger that they were reluctant to tangle with. And besides, he offered them free alcohol. They looked at each other and nodded and let Dean go. Randy threw the barkeeper a silver coin who nodded, grateful that there was no imminent property damage.

Randy jerked his head at Roman, signaling him to get Dean out of there before the situation blew up again. As Roman took hold of Dean's shoulder and guided him to the exit, Randy took one last long look around the room. He didn't see any Nexus members yet, which was good. But by the surly mood of the crowd, it was coming closer. Then he turned and started to follow Roman and Dean, only to freeze dead when someone exclaimed, "Oh my gawd! You're on that wanted poster!" If someone had dropped a pin, it could have easily been heard. Randy didn't move a muscle except to close his eyes in frustration.

Shit.

One man was reacting more strongly to the demons' vicinity than the others. Too bad for him that Randy didn't particularly care if it really wasn't his fault. Roman and Dean were staring at him and he shook his head slightly, indicating that they leave him to deal with the situation. Three men, none of which were the poker players, had pulled their guns and pointed them directly at Randy. Everyone else got out of the way, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

It was the small man who pushed Dean and started this whole stupid scenario. "Take out your guns, mister and hand them to Mike there," he gestured at the two Smith and Wesson Model Threes that Randy was wearing.

Randy narrowed his eyes and the muscle in his jaw jumped. The small man went a bit pale, but held his ground. "You heard me mister, ease those guns out, butt first," he insisted.

Randy's eyes were hard as diamonds and he never took them off the small man. With painful slowness, he pulled the Smith and Wesson's out of their holsters, butt first as instructed and extended them towards Mike. No one noticed that his index fingers were in the trigger guards of each gun.

Mike stepped forward and reached for the proffered handles. His fingers were just about brushing the tips when the guns spun on Randy's fingers with a slight twist of his wrists. With the speed of a rattlesnake strike, the guns were reversed, barrels pointed at the small man and Mike, but they never saw it. He shot the small man first, the top of his head exploding in a splatter of bone and brains. Before the other two could react, the two Smith and Wesson's boomed simultaneously, and their chests caved in, crimson. There were screams of panic, but no one moved, not wanting to test Randy's amazing reflexes any further.

"You obviously can't read. There's a reason the wanted posters say do not attempt to disarm," Randy snarled at the small man's corpse. He looked around at the silent saloon and asked, "Anyone else feeling lucky tonight?"

No one moved. He huffed a sigh and warned, "Do not try to follow me." He stuffed the guns back into his holsters and stepped backward through the door. Jumping lightly down off the boardwalk and to the hitching post, he untied his big roan and mounted up. Roman and Dean, their eyes wide, grabbed their mounts and followed as Randy kicked his horse into a canter and headed to the edge of town. He didn't slow down until the saloon lights had fallen far behind. Randy was quietly swearing at himself for being stupid. He should have known better than to admit he was on the poster. His temper had gotten the better of him. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Where did you learn to do that?" Dean demanded, breaking him out of the self-flagellation he had been wallowing in.

"What?" Randy asked absently, still a bit distracted. It was obvious that man had recognized him from the picture, but maybe Randy had been right about his lack of reading ability. He hadn't named Randy himself, just mentioned the poster. Maybe they had actually gotten lucky and the news wouldn't get out that Randy was in Helena. Randy snorted to himself, no, there was no way he would ever get that lucky. He now had a deadline to work under as well. Ah, Randy, he thought to himself, you wouldn't know what to do if even one thing went your way.

"The thing with the guns! How did you do that?" Dean asked again, his eyes fever bright. He had never seen such a sneaky move.

"I rode with the Missouri volunteers during the war," Randy said. "Its called a border roll." He didn't tell them he had only been a teenager when he learned that particular trick.

"Oh god, you have to teach that to me," Dean practically begged.

"Sure, but it only works on idiots." Randy explained. "A smart lawman insist that you drop the gun belt, or just drop the guns, so the border roll won't work. But sometimes you get lucky," he shrugged, mentally working on a list of things he needed to teach Dean and Roman. They were nearing the edge of town and the population was becoming sparse. Pulling his roan down to a halt he looked around carefully, making sure they weren't followed. Roman and Dean also stopped and waited, each of them taking a look around as well.

"Why did we leave?" Roman asked. It was obvious that the dark-haired man had a lot going on upstairs.

Nodding in approval at Roman's question, "The Nexus was near," Randy said. He also noticed the way Roman slumped in the saddle. It was obvious the man was hurt more than he let on. The horses breathed loudly in the still night air.

"So why didn't we just call up Mark and take care of them?" Roman wanted to know.

"Who the fuck is Mark?" Randy asked, baffled.

"The Saint of Killers," Roman told him, giving him a strange look, like Randy should have known that.

Randy shook his head. He hadn't known the Saint had a first name. He filed that information away to address later. "I need to be absolutely sure I have identified all of them," Randy said. "Still need to check a few things before we kick this particular anthill over."

"How the hell did you know they were nearby?" Dean asked, forcibly pulling his mind from the elegant beauty of the border roll. He was actively resisting the temptation to pull out his own gun and try to do it.

Satisfied that they were being unobserved, Randy turned his roan and headed up slope of the nearby mountain. Dean and Roman followed. "Humans, even though they can't see demons like we can, will react to their presence. One big tell is that a crowd's mood started to shift," Randy explained. "With practice, you will be able to sense when one comes close. And that may be enough to save your life." He turned off on a hidden trail, relying on the horse to know the way and not let them go tumbling over the steep side. He had a small cabin hidden nearby, and he needed to get his new students fed and rested.

They had work to do and the now the clock was ticking down before Hunter extended his reach and tried to remove Randy from the land of the living again.

Notes:

So here we go with Legend Killer. As always, if you would like to leave a review, I would greatly appreciate it! And if you have any questions, please contact me. I love to discuss writing, story development and characterization. ~ Belle

The Border Roll, (or Road Agent's spin) is an actual gunslinger maneuver. If you want to learn how it is executed, you can see it demonstrated on YouTube. And you can see Clint Eastwood do it in the movie The Outlaw Josey Wales. Fun fact: Clint Eastwood's guns in that movie are Colt Walkers.

Randy's Smith and Wesson's Model 3's are the same model of guns were used by Wyatt Earp at the Shootout at the OK Corral.

The Saint of Killers is (very loosely) based off the character in the Preacher graphic novel series by Garth Ennis. But my version's personality is very, very different. And if you are easily offended/horrified, you might want to steer clear of Preacher.