DISCLAIMER: The rights to How to Train Your Dragon remain with Cressida Cowell and Dreamworks. "A Fistful of Dollars' (1964) is a copyrighted work distributed by United Artists and is based on the film 'Yojimbo' which I have never seen.

A/N: Wild West-style AU.

Based partially on 'A Fistful of Dollars' starring Clint Eastwood (the sexiest man in a poncho)

The idea came to me while watching 'A Fistful of Dollars', definitely one of the greatest Westerns of all time and one of my favourites. Admittedly there were fewer dragons and more men being shot when I last watched it but I could just see the Man With No Name having green eyes, auburn hair and severe sarcasm. Of course, this story deviates quite a bit from the cinematic work but that's all part of the fun. And I always felt the idea of two gangs fighting for control of the town was worth exploring as well...

Anyway enjoy. And no, I am still not giving up on any of my other fictions!-hp

One: A new man in town.

The echoes of the shot died away as the solid thud of the body hitting the ground sounded. The wind sent a swirl of dust over the new corpse, the unfired pistol dropping from his limp hand. With a satisfied smile, the killer holstered his weapon and gave a small crazed laugh.

"Nobody calls me Deranged!" he shouted.

"Um...you call yourself Dagur the Deranged!" his brother, Savage pointed out.

"Nobody else is allowed to..."

"Well, you always like us to..." his other brother, Vorg, added.

"So nobody except me and my brothers..."

"And the men, don't forget them..." Savage added. Dagur the Deranged rolled his pale green eyes, rolling his powerful shoulders impatiently. Sheathed in black, he looked every inch the villain...until you glanced at his two yak-brained siblings.

"So nobody except me, my brothers and the men-thank you, brother-are allowed..."

"Er what about Astrid..."

"Well, that goes without saying..."

"And Dragonmaster Fishlegs?" Vorg piped up.

"Good point..."

"Mayor Stoick?"

"Alvin the Treacherous?"

"Those idiot twins?"

"The town council?"

"RIGHT! No one except me, you, the men, Astrid, Fishlegs, our enemies, the town council, the townspeople AND that old crone out on Ravens Point Butte-before you bring that up, Savage, I could see you-are allowed to call me 'Deranged'!" Dagur was simmering with rage. The people of Berk were hard-wired to argue about everything. It made running the town very trying. "My point is that HE didn't have permission to..." He did a double take. Where he had gestured was empty: the corpse was gone. "And where the Hel did he go?" he shouted.

"Um...while you were arguing...sorry, correcting our stupidity...those idiot undertaker twins took the body!" Vorg explained. Dagur growled, straightened his black hat over his short carrot hair and stalked off back towards the compound. The dragons were howling and it was getting close to feeding time: maybe checking the profits from the last dragon auction would cheer him up.

At the far end of the plaza, Young Gustav was already scrubbing out the number by the town population figure and reducing it by one. It was just another normal day in Berk...

oOo

Dust swirled in the face of the stranger as he slowly rode towards the isolated town. He was out of money, out of luck and definitely out of friends as he felt Redwing limp. The dragon was willing and loyal but he was old, lame and unable to fly due to a damaged wing. With a sigh, the stranger swept his forest green gaze over the ramshackle collection of buildings and hoped they would have a dragon master...or at least dragon healer. Somehow, he would find a way to pay for Red's treatment because Gods know, he couldn't afford another dragon.

He pushed his old hat back a little to squint at the settlement. Berk. Not a name famous for anything...but he knew a little about the place...and what he knew gave some hope he could turn a profit. All he needed were his wits, his ability to get along with folks and the fastest draw and deadliest shot this side of the mountains. He ruffled the dust out of his dark auburn hair, pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth against the swirling grit and kicked Red on. No point waiting: the town wasn't getting any friendlier and his dragon was getting hungrier so he put his head down and rode into town.

The first person to greet him was a young boy, maybe ten or twelve. The lad was in clothes verging on too small with holes at the elbows but his grey eyes were bright and his black hair was tousled. "Welcome to Berk!" the boy called. "I'm Gustav! And you are...?"

"Too tired, too hungry and too suspicious to give my name to a stranger," the stranger said. The boy's expression fell a little.

"Oh..." he managed in a disappointed voice. "Um...do you have a place to stay or are you heading for the Outcast or Berserker compounds?"

"Imagine I just arrived, kid," the stranger said sarcastically. "I need a place to stay..." Red gave a pained rumble and the stranger could see that his damaged wing was bleeding from the effort getting his rider here.

"Um...old Gobber's is the only hostel in town, stranger," Gustav said. Pulling his scarf down, the stranger inspected him carefully.

"Any good?" he asked more quietly. The boy shrugged.

"Um...it's the only hostel in town..." Gustav admitted. The stranger scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and scanned the dusty plaza. The lad gestured to a building that was leaning ever so slightly, a forge bolted onto the side which looked considerably better cared-for and with a sign outside proudly proclaiming 'Gobber's Place.' Absently, the stranger flipped a silver half-dollar to the boy and Gustav's face lit up. The stranger flicked a glance-and a wink-to the boy before fixing his sights on the hostel and gently kicking Red forward. Grumbling slightly, the old Monstrous Nightmare limped along, putting as little pressure as possible on his lacerated wing joint.

But as he was distracted by his dragon, the stranger didn't notice the men sitting on the wooden railings of an old corral, eyeing up the lanky newcomer as a cat eyes a new mouse. All were in black leathers with grey shirts and all were armed.

"Hey, stranger!" One called-a thickset hairy man with narrow blue eyes and a bushy beard. "Not got a greeting for us?"

"I can honesty think of nothing to say to you!" the stranger growled, feeling himself tense.

"Yak got yer tongue?" a second-equally big and hairy-laughed.

"I'll give you one dollar for yer dragon-and I expect change!" the third sneered. He was an older, skinny man with mean eyes, wild hair and a grating voice.

"Aw...he looks like he's going to cry..." the first man scoffed as the stranger swung his head round and blinked at a swirl of dust in his eyes.

"Riding that dragon, who can blame ''im?" the old man sniped.

"Does he want his Mommy?" the second taunted him.

"You know there's a tax for entering town?" the fourth man asked him coldly, drawing his pistol.

"You don't look like tax collectors," the stranger commented, his hand tightening on the saddle.

"Looks can be deceiving..." the fourth man snarled and fired. The others all joined in, a hail of bullets dancing around Red's paws and wings. Surrounded by the cacophony, the Nightmare startled-for bullets were still dangerous to dragons-and roared, rearing onto his hind legs, almost throwing the stranger. But as the dragon threw himself forward, his useless wing spreading, the stranger knew what was coming next and threw himself forward, his hands grasping the sign of the hostel. He swung away as Red burst into flame, roaring and galloping away down the plaza to the laughs of the men. Green eyes narrowed as he memorised their faces and the device on their leather vests and then he swung to land agilely outside the hostel.

A bulky man leaned against the wall, wearing a leather apron and narrowing his blue eyes. What was striking about him was the fact he was a double amputee-his right lower leg was replaced by a simple wooden peg while his left hand was a fearsome hook. His long blond braided moustache swung as he pushed himself upright and hobbled over, his bald head covered by an incongruous brown bowler hat.

"That's a fine way ter get yeself killed, laddie!" he commented.

"Gee, thanks...like I hadn't figured that out!" the stranger replied automatically.

"Sarky streak of piss, aren't yer?" the large man shot back. The stranger narrowed his green eyes and flipped his grubby greeny-brown poncho back to offer the man a hand.

"I do my best," he admitted. "Gobber, I presume." The proprietor stared at the proffered hand for a long moment and then grasped it.

"And ye would be trouble, I guess," he sighed. The stranger whistled through his teeth and Red slowly limped back from the other end of the plaza, leaving little patches of blood where his lacerated wing-joint landed. Without hesitating, the man turned and quietly rubbed the hideous, greying muzzle, murmuring to the dragon. Red gave a pained croon and the stranger's head turned to glare at the laughing men, who were walking back to the compound. Eyes narrowed as he heard the dragon whimper again.

"You can call me Ryder," he said.