La Corrido del Coyote, by G.M. Atwater (PG-17)

[the-hobbet.livejournal.com]

Fandom: THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN
Pairing: none
Author on LJ: erinrua
Author Website: Black Raptor listing
Why this must be read:

Some readers don't like Original Characters. I think a well-written OC can open up the often incestuous arena of fanfiction and give us new insights, or just new adventures, for the characters we love. Often a good OC leaves us wanting to see more of him or her. Sam McLachlan is the best kind of OC.

Skittish as a wild thing, proud, distrustful of kindness, but willing to work hard, Sam quietly earns a tentative place in Four Corners, under the protection of Inez and the Seven. Until a shocking act of violence turns all assumptions upside down.

La Corrido del Coyote is vivid story-telling, highlighting each of the Seven, and making you care about the outcome.

The author rated it PG-17. I would call it PG-13 at the most.

Sample La Corrido del Coyote

"Fifteen cents."

Vin said, "He just come on today's stage."

Sharp eyes swung to catch Tanner, measured, came back to Chris. "So I wanna work. Fifteen cents."

Chris then noted the details; fine, boyish features drawn close to slender bones, like a colt left for too long on poor feed. The kid held his careful distance in a tight stance, as if he might either bite or run like hell. Too much wear frayed the edges of baggy britches and brogan shoes. If Larabee were to feel of those stubborn-set shoulders, likely he wouldn't find the heft of a house cat. Damn.

Buck answered his questioning glance with a shrug, and Chris sighed.

"Fine. Ten cents. Take it or leave it."

In the musky-sweet dimness of the stable, Larabee heaved his saddle onto its rack, and flopped the sweat-damp blankets on top. Heavy steps heralded the kid's return from the corral, awkwardly sloshing a bucket of water to rest outside the stall. Neither spoke, Chris choosing instead to watch. The youngster picked a brush off a window ledge and stepped into the open stall with a soft word. The horse turned its head just enough to eyeball the newcomer, but under the firm, luxurious strokes of the brush, the animal turned its attention back to the oats in its grain bin. There was quiet sureness in the boy's manner, ease only born of long familiarity.

Chris took a step, then paused. The long habit of distrust nagged with tiny, silent claws.

Across the horse's back, the boy's eyes suddenly met his. Light hazel-brown, in an errant beam of light.

"Don't worry, mister," he drawled. "I ain't gonna steal no lame horse." And for the first time there was humor on his fine-boned face.

Chris suddenly found himself thinking of a little coyote he had seen on the road. Shortly after the hog debacle, he spied it trotting easily apace and some yards off the road, amongst sagebrush and yellow grass. The narrow amber eyes had stared straight back at Chris, bold as brass, until the mouth dropped open in what looked for all the world like silent laughter.

"No, you won't." Larabee held the boy's gaze for a beat, pinning him with a silent threat. That coyote hadn't blinked, either. "There's a sponge and a couple clean rags on that shelf by the door."

La Corrido del Coyote