Many years ago, Rocky, Zuma, and Marshall went their separate ways. Marshall stuck to upholding the law, while Rocky and Zuma became legendary outlaws. But after a while they got tired of that life and decided to go back to their roots—to build a town free of violence and weapons, where pups and humans live together in harmony with nature. And not alone, of course.
Now Rocky, a sheriff fully committed to recycling everything to build a better city without killing trees, makes sure everyone's safe in the town of Wild West Way, with help from Skye, the fearless train driver; Rubble, the clever city builder; Zuma, the chill and happy labrator; Marshall, whose name is also his position and Mr. Ryder, a quirky inventor who recently came to the town and gives them everything they need to keep the peace—without a single weapon.
Everyone tries to prevent Mr. Humdinger from acquiring the land, since he wants it for the mines that are right underneath.
But one day, a friendly rival of Rocky and Zuma called Chase, the legendary sheriff who walked away from the law to become a lone vigilante, came to the town. And now Rocky's scared he might have to go back down that path too to stop Humdinger.
Welcome! This is a Paw Patrol AU set in the Wild West. Here I'll occasionally upload comic pages, fics, images, character sheets, and whatever else comes to mind. Want to dive in? After the jump, you'll find all the links to browse the Wild West Way!
Paw Patrol is (c) Spin Master. There is no affiliation. This is done simply for pure fun and non-profit. All material you see here, unless otherwise stated, is created by Mastertuki.
Chronology (How to read in order)
Wild West Way is an AU with metamedia. Stories are, sometimes, out of order, travelling between past and future, leaving it to you to connect the dots. This is the "best" order, but remember: it can change sometimes.
INTRO:
Rocky, legendary Oulaw, actual Wild West Way Sheriff
Zuma, legendary outlaw, actual Wild West Way officer
Marshall, federal marshall and supervisor of Rocky and Zuma
Skye, fearless train driver.
Rubble, builder of Wild West Way
Chase, former Sheriff, actual vigilante and lone wolf
Mr Ryder, weird inventor.
City Map
1: THE FIRST DAYS
Character Sheet 1: Rocky
Inauguration
Like old days
Character Sheet 2: Zuma
Fears
Thieves
Character Sheet 3: Marshall
Fire
EXTRA 1: Pup-box
2: CHASE IN THE CASE
Secrets
Character Sheet 4: Chase
Racist
Bad Guys
EXTRA 3: Sunflower
EXTRA 4: The Family Photo
EXTRA 5: The World around town
Snow
EXTRA 6: WORLD MAP
Frozen
Wounds
EXTRA 7: SITUATION
Darkness (Part 1)
Darkness (Part 2)
Darkness (Part 3)
Ryder
Deaf
Underwater
Teeth (Part 1)
Teeth (Part 2)
EXTRA 8: Steam Patroller
Howling
3: FIND OUT
EXTRA 9: FATHER
Music
Character Sheet 5: Katie
Bite
Fur
Chance
Manifest Destiny
Ways (Part 1)
Ways (Part 2)
Ways (Part 3)
Ways (Part 4)
Ways (Part 5)
Freedom
EXTRA 9: Pups
Red
MATERIAL BONUS
Behind the scenes: Moby
Author notes: Skye
Author notes: The Scene
INDEX BY TAGS
This index works with tags, and it's a perfect tool for whose who wants to work only with tags.
Characters:
Rocky, legendary Oulaw, actual Wild West Way Sheriff
Zuma, legendary outlaw, actual Wild West Way officer
Marshall, federal marshall and supervisor of Rocky and Zuma
Skye, fearless train driver.
Rubble, builder of Wild West Way
Chase, former Sheriff, actual vigilante and lone wolf
I know, I know, I'll upload the missing pages of the last chapter. I'm working on it. One of them has a drawing mistake I have to fix before anything else, but I'll try to fix it tonight. For now, I'm alive with my three cowboy idiots!
Sorry to be a bother, but when are you continuing your comic? It's really interesting and I'm excited to know what happens next!
Hey! Sorry for the abrupt stop. I've had a few issues these past few months that have prevented me from continuing, but I'm working on more content. Thanks for waiting!
Rip Current becoming the first OC in the comic is something I never expected to happen. And @larytello actually nailing the character, I didn't either. XD
Buuuut you can read it in advance on this fantastic server of PAW Patrol tonight, if you want, along with a LOT of other AU, original characters, fanart and artist and more!!! Here!
Sorry for the delays! The next comic was only supposed to be 12 pages, but it's getting longer than 50. And there are plenty of reasons for that: there's a lot of slice-of-life and some important details from one of the characters' past. It was supposed to be shorter, but I felt like everything was moving too fast as I was drawing it. I ended up adding pages and pages and… It got out of hand.
(Maybe it was also due to a conversation with @self-indulgent-paw-patrol that made me realize that Zuma needs a very specific tool, which you'll see from now on. A very minor change, but a lot of fun. And a nightmare to draw. Because I don't have enough with the backgrounds and the dogs… XD )
TL:DR: Longer comic coming soon, 50 pages, sometime next month. After that, a fic, and after that, a comic focused entirely on Moby. Expect more Moby-Rocky stories related soon after that.
In the meantime, here's a double-page background of the comic Iim drawing.
I hate backgrounds.
Thanks for your patience! I promise it'll be 50 VERY fun pages!
Next comic will have around 35-40 pages in total, so It will take a while. In the meanwhile, for those who came here I made a FAQ! You can check it here.
Also, I opened the ask box for those who wants to know more about the creativity process, behind the scenes or wants to ask something to the author behind this madness. Hope I won't regret doing this. XD
Look, I know it appears in the Loyalty fic. But I don't want it to get lost in the Tumblr blogosphere. For those who don't want to read the fic, at least you can enjoy this amazing work that @self-indulgent-paw-patrol drew.
She has a lot of Paw Patrol Fanart!!! Go and see it for yourself! (And, while you're at it, you can also leave a comment, wink wink)
I'm still amazed at the incredible detail she put into it. Even Rocky's bedsheets! :D
Fic set between 1895 and 1898.
Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.
Thank you, THANK YOU to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for the amazing fan art she drew. It's at the end of the fic!! Go to see it! (I'll post it later on a stand alone post too)
1895 - Dallas
Chase took a quick swig from his flask and waited patiently. He’d been in position for three hours. Unlike the humans around him, being a dog, he was accustomed to standing guard. His mind did it every night. Like any good pup, he never slept deeply; a part of him was always alert in case something went wrong nearby. Leaning against the window frame, he had a clear view of the entire street. People strolled the sidewalks as if nothing was happening, enjoying the glorious morning, while horses passed by the bank they were watching.
Chase glanced sideways at the closest human next to him. That one looked like he’d lost all patience and was now getting distracted by a fly. The dog held back a sigh of resignation. Humans often struck him as pitiful creatures, but as sheriff, he’d hoped he could make a difference from his new position. The more time passed, the more he realized just how limited they were. Poor concentration, slow reflexes, and injuries that took forever to heal. The only reason they had managed to dominate the world was that they got there first. Pups, like Chase himself, had arrived much later… apparently.
The numbers depended on how they looked at them.
But humans had taken over everything in a ruthless way, crushing anything that was different or went against them. Even among themselves, they had a fake hierarchy imposed solely by religious and cultural beliefs, ridiculous ideas that degraded women or those with darker skin. Worst of all: it was contagious. Humans had made the pups believe that only purebreds were better than the rest. That idea had spread and at some point, it had gotten stuck in Chase’s head.
In his case, maybe it was because he hated a certain mutt.
The dog looked out the window again. Still nothing on the frontier.
C’mon. Show yourself, he thought. He was beginning to doubt the tipoff. It wouldn’t be the first time Rocky’s gang gave them the slip, but this time everything was lined up. He’d double-checked the info to make sure it was legit. There was barely any room for error. He scratched the floor with his claws, already getting a little anxious to throw the whole gang behind bars. It’d be the win he needed to get promoted to Marshal.
C’mon, show yourself, he thought again, as if repeating the mantra would somehow trigger a miracle. But once again—nothing.
“Sir… is this really necessary?” his human partner asked the question of the century.
Chase knew the humans wouldn’t last much longer. They’d been waiting four hours now, spread out across the area. Two were pretending to sip what had to be the longest coffee in history; a third had run out of things to do with his horse and was just walking in circles. Two more were up on the rooftop. One woman on a balcony was fanning herself with a letter. Appearances could be deceiving, and Chase was convinced that, with a setup like this, they’d finally catch the gang. So why hadn’t they shown up?
Had they figured it out?
Chase licked his muzzle, thoughtful, ears low. Rocky was just as smart as he was. That dog had a sharp mind and years of experience. From what Chase knew, he’d been temporarily taken in by a wealthy family, but before that, he’d always been a street dog. Over time, he’d formed a gang to survive—a gang that always managed to slip through their fingers. They’d plan several escape routes or trick them with false tips in unexpected places. They’d been the thorn in his paw ever since he became sheriff. He needed to close that chapter once and for all.
Chase didn’t realise he hadn’t answered his partner until the moment he opened his snout. But before he could speak, the ground shook beneath them. Something hit the building they were using as a hideout, rattling the wooden beams and sending a cloud of dust into the air. Hidden rats bolted in a frenzy, desperate for cover. Chase’s ears shot up. He was already tensing his strong muscles, ready for action.
Only animals sensed danger before it fully surfaced. They were always the first to notice. Humans took longer to pick up on signs. And even when they did, they either ignored them or thought they were above them. That’s how horses got spooked by smoke, or dogs became uneasy at the smell of gas.
Pure instinct made Chase abandon his spot and stick his muzzle out the hideout window, ears raised high, listening for distant sounds. People and pups were suddenly sprinting and shouting. Some were yelling about robbers. As Chase put the puzzle pieces together in his head, the first wisps of smoke began to rise on the far side of the city.
And then he understood what had happened: They were robbing a different bank.
“Damn it!” he growled, spinning to face his partner. “Tell the others! They’re hitting Gaston & Camp! All of them, except two, get moving, now!”
Gaston & Camp was often regarded as the first permanent bank in Dallas, established by Gaston and Camp. Before statehood (and even before the Civil War), there were smaller, unofficial banking operations in Texas, often run by merchants or land speculators, but they weren’t officially recognised as “banks” under U.S. or Texas law because the Republic of Texas, until 1845, actually prohibited most formal banking.
Chase didn’t wait for the human’s reply. He jumped down from the window to the floor below, showcasing his animal agility. The moment his paw pads hit the ground, he broke into a sprint. He didn’t even need to think: his body moved on its own, dodging people, horses, and even a tram that cut across his path. With his incredible dog vision and reflexes, he leapt through one side of the tram and out the other instead of running around it. No human could’ve pulled that off.
He skidded to make a sharp turn, then kept running. The smoke was his guide, and it was growing thicker by the second. In his mind, he couldn’t help but consider how much of a fool he’d been. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might’ve tricked them again and hit a different bank. Chase was furious with himself. It was a rookie mistake; one he’d pay for. How was he supposed to explain to the district Marshal that he’d let them slip through his paws again? With a little luck, maybe he’d still get there in time.
He slowed down once the smoke started burning in his lungs. By the time he reached the scene, Chase’s heart sank at the sight of the damage. They’d blasted open the back of the bank with dynamite and gotten away with several safes. There were hoofprints all over the ground, but he knew it was pointless to follow them. After a certain point, the tracks would blend with others, making it impossible to trace them. Tracks… Chase tried to sniff the air, but the smoke ruined any chance of picking up a scent.
Damn it, he thought, biting his lower lip as firefighters arrived to put out the blaze caused by the explosion. The ground was covered in rubble, but thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any injuries. They’d been careful, like always. This had Rocky written all over it. His partner, Zuma, was a bit more reckless. Rocky’s plans were always sharp. Chase slammed a paw against the ground in frustration. How could he have screwed up this badly?
The horses and the rest of the humans arrived soon after. There was still one last hope, one final shot. If they could just find a single piece of evidence, something that tied the gang to the scene, they could use it. Last time, they’d been close, but came up with nothing. And as usual, the witnesses had been unreliable. This time might be different. All he needed was one detail, one scrap of proof, and he’d have the resources to finally hunt them down. Any judge would be eager to hang a mutt—except the one in this region was unusually soft when it came to canines. Just his luck.
He always got the gentle ones.
He gave the usual orders, though everyone already knew the drill: ask people who’d been nearby, look for any evidence, check for dog fur… anything that could point to someone specific. Chase wished that someday, there’d be something that let you go back in time to see how things really happened. That way, at least, he’d have something concrete to show his superiors. That was all he needed.
He didn’t sit back and wait, either. His nose wasn’t as sharp as some pups’, but it was still way better than any human’s.
The fact that no one had died made searching for clues much easier. The bank was partly destroyed, and whatever beauty it had once held was now gone. Chase wished he had more pups with him instead of just humans. Watching them trample everything—totally unaware they might be stepping over a vital clue—made his job ten times harder. He gave them orders, sure, but sometimes he wondered if they even took him seriously, even though he was the sheriff. In moments like this, the German Shepherd had no choice but to grit his teeth and hope his nose would catch something useful.
He wasn’t ashamed to stick his snout to the ground, sniffing for traces. He knew Rocky’s scent. They’d crossed paths a couple of times. But there was no trace of him here. Maybe one of his companions, whom Chase hadn’t met yet. Or maybe allies. It was like a chess game between two sharp minds—Rocky knew exactly who to count on to get what he wanted, even forming alliances with other gangs. Meanwhile, Chase kept trying to find weaknesses and stay one step ahead. With little success. It was getting frustrating, and his job was hanging by a thread.
He froze when something caught his eye. He walked over to a table that had been blasted apart by the explosion and, using his strength, lifted it just enough to pull out a white card hidden underneath. The symbol printed on it was unmistakable: a three-toed paw inside a shield. It was the mark of the pup rebellion—those who fought for better laws and rights for pups.
He flipped it over. There was a note. A date. A place. A meeting.
For a moment, he thought he could use it as evidence in court, a proof that Rocky had really been there. But then it hit him: the handwriting. Probably wasn’t even his. And it had changed from earlier notes. Why would Rocky ever use his real one? Pups, generally, did not know how to write. He sniffed the card. No scent. Not even that. He was messing with him. Testing his patience.
But there was a date. And a place.
Chase knew he still had a chance to catch him once and for all.
He looked around. The others were still shaken. An explosion like this shook people up fast. Chase slipped away quietly, leaving the rest to handle the aftermath.
They wouldn’t find anything else.
🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾
The bar Rocky had picked was a total dump, like most dark places in that city. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. Chase had to slip in without his badge or usual uniform. It was safer that way. Everyone knew the sheriff. But if he slipped in low and quiet, he could avoid trouble. He made his way to the bar, where people were chatting, and did what he always did: set the white card down on the counter.
It was like dropping a stink bomb. The voices died down. One by one, heads turned. Within seconds, people were hurrying out the door. When it was all over, only the barkeep remained—a grey-haired man who acted like he hadn’t seen a thing and turned his back. Chase jumped off the counter and sat at a table, crossing his front legs.
It wasn’t the first time that symbol had that kind of effect. Most humans didn’t have much respect for pups, but that symbol had been the source of a lot of trouble. Some believed just seeing it brought on storms. Chase set his hat down on the table and looked out the window as night began to fall and the streetlamps flickered to life.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Another pup stepped inside, his fur gray, dressed in a dark jacket and matching hat, walking tall. His cold, nearly lifeless eyes and his whiskers made him look like someone you didn’t want to mess with. Chase looked at the earring dangling from one of his ears.
He knew that earring.
That was Rocky—no doubt about it. And even if Chase hadn’t recognised him by sight, the smell would’ve done it. Rocky was infamous for hating water.
He let him sit down. The German Shepherd remained calm, knowing that undercover men were stationed all around the bar, just waiting for his signal. All he needed was one slip-up, one piece of evidence, and Rocky would be behind bars for good.
As soon as Rocky sat down, the bartender didn’t even bother offering them a drink or a snack. Even he was afraid of Rocky.
“You’ve got some nerve,” Chase said first. “First, you blow up a bank, then you stroll in here like nothing happened.”
“Don’t know what bank you’re talkin’ about.”
“Rocky, I’m not stupid. We both know what each other’s done.”
“No, I don’t reckon I do,” Rocky said coldly. “And maybe you oughta be careful about makin’ assumptions.”
As usual, Rocky’s voice gave away nothing. It was nearly impossible to tell when he was lying or telling the truth. Chase leaned in a bit, showing just a hint of his teeth. It ticked him off. He was usually good at reading people. Or at least, that’s what he thought. But some still slipped through his jaws.
“You come into my town, blow a hole in a bank, and then act like you had nothing to do with it.”
“You got proof?”
“Forget proof!” Chase snapped. “You always cover your tracks! You know that just as well as I do!”
“Then you got nothin’ to charge me with. And the judge? He’s real fond of me.”
“No, I can’t charge you,” the German Shepherd admitted, leaning back. “So what, did you just come here to rub it in my face?”
Chase fell silent. Rocky didn’t say anything either, though he stared at him from head to paw. His legs were crossed on the table, claws lightly tapping the wood. Sometimes Chase wondered if that gaze had ever shown emotion, or if it had always been that empty.
“You know what I’m after,” Rocky said eventually. “We’ve had this talk before.”
“When pups and humans live under equal rules,” Chase replied, letting out a dry laugh. “That's never going to happen.”
“And yet, you wish it would.”
“I don’t…”
But he shut his muzzle. His whole body was tense. He started wondering if it had been a mistake bringing Rocky here. These mental duels usually ended with Chase on the losing side. Rocky had a way of reading people, but sometimes it felt like he was playing with cards Chase didn’t even know were on the table. Like he already knew the story. Chase knew that wasn’t true, but it was already too late. He’d given Rocky an opening.
He put a paw to his forehead. The alcohol, mixed with sunflower extract, helped him control the transformation—but it also clouded his judgment. He’d hoped this meeting would be easier, since he wasn’t operating at full strength. And Rocky probably knew that. With his sharp nose, he could smell alcohol from miles away.
And that messed with Chase’s ability to tell when someone was lying.
Rocky shook his head.
“Hard to believe you don’t want equality for everyone,” the outlaw said.
“I do. But it’s gotta happen the right way: through the law.”
“And what d’you think it’s gonna take for that to happen? When’s that change supposed to come, Chase?”
Chase cursed silently. Bad move. Rocky was steering the conversation somewhere else, and he had no tools left to pull it back. So, he decided to cut straight to the point.
“Why’d you bring me here?” Chase asked.
“I came to tell you we’re leavin’. From Texas, I mean. Thought you should know: we won’t be botherin’ you no more. Though technically, we never caused a problem you could prove.”
Chase’s ears perked up. That should’ve been good news. But he knew it wasn’t. If they left without consequences, someone else would have to deal with them. His bosses wouldn’t be happy that he’d let them go. Most sheriffs would be thrilled to see trouble vanish, but for Chase, it was a disaster. His job was on the line. If Rocky left, he’d lose everything. And catching him wasn’t in the cards.
“You’re leaving,” Chase repeated.
“That’s right,” said the outlaw.
“You’re just walking away.”
“That’s what I said. Chase, are you—”
“And you think I’m just going to let you go?” Chase growled. “I’ve got thirteen men posted around this place. One signal, and they’ll come down on you like bloodhounds. I don’t care if I don’t have proof, I’ll make sure you rot in a cell for as long as I can keep you there.”
He hoped Rocky would feel threatened. That was the plan. But the only reaction he got was a raised eyebrow, like Rocky didn’t have feelings at all.
“Chase,” he said, calm as ever, “if you throw me in a cell, you’ll have every gang I’ve made a deal with all over this town like a plague. Ain’t gonna leave nothin’ behind but ashes.” He paused. “You really think I’d come here without guarantees?”
Chase froze. He couldn’t tell if it was a bluff or the truth. He did know Rocky made deals with other gangs. He was a skilled negotiator, a mind shaped by the streets and survival. So yeah, it was possible. Maybe he did have people posted, ready to turn the whole place upside down if anything happened to him. He might even spare Chase’s life just so the sheriff had to live with the shame.
Chase swallowed hard. He was in a tough spot.
He’d lost every advantage.
“Your bosses want you to throw me in jail, don’t they? Or you’ll lose your job,” Rocky said, with his strong accent. Rocky never hid it, not like Chase, who faked it perfectly so nobody could tell where he was from. “But you can’t, ’cause you ain’t got a single piece of proof.” He paused, watching Chase closely. “And without that badge, you’ll be a nobody. The shame’ll follow you everywhere. You’ll never be a cop again. Best-case? Maybe they just demote you.”
Chase swallowed again. Rocky caught it.
“There’s another candidate for sheriff,” the mutt continued.
Chase took the bait. To hell with it.
“That ain’t your business,” he growled.
“There is one,” Rocky repeated. “A human. Been chasin’ your job for years. And now, you’re cornered. If you lock me up, they’ll promote you to Marshal. If you don’t, you’re out. Either way, that human gets your job. You’re just an obstacle. They only need to move you, up or down. Am I wrong?”
He wasn’t. That was how things worked. Chase clenched his teeth, furious.
“You…”
“Ain’t my fault, Chase,” Rocky said quickly. “I ain’t the problem—you are. You’re playin’ their game. You play a stupid game; you win stupid prizes. What’d you think? That they’d keep you around forever?” The gray pup kept going. “You know they’ve been usin’ you.”
“I earned this job,” Chase barked. Maybe it was the moon, or maybe that wild side he’d been hiding for years, but he couldn’t stop now. “I earned it!”
“That’s what you tell yourself in the mirror every night,” Rocky said, waving a paw.
“I worked my tail off just to be recognised!”
Rocky went quiet for a moment, as if thinking carefully about what to say next.
“Let’s test that,” he finally said. “Let’s see who’s right, me or you. Sit down.”
Chase hadn’t even noticed that he was standing, front paws planted firmly on the table, teeth bared. Embarrassed by how animal he’d gotten, he sat back down, shoulders tense. Rocky was bringing out the worst in him.
“The governor here’s a human, just like always. Franklin Pierce Holland,” Rocky began. “But I reckon he wasn’t in a strong position, huh? He had to face three other guys: Bryan T. Barry, Frank Wozencraft, and John B. Louckx. I read The Dallas Morning News. I stay informed. Anyway, he needed support, right? So, I bet, thanks to him, you got promoted to sheriff right before the election. And if I remember right, a lotta his support came from well-off pups who encouraged humans to vote for him.”
“I know where you’re goin’ with this. And you’re wrong.”
“Is that what you believe?” Rocky raised an eyebrow, one ear twitching toward Chase. “Be honest with me now, Chase. Is that really what you believe?”
For a moment, Chase didn’t want to believe it. But then he remembered how few options he’d had back then. He’d never expected to become sheriff in that town. Thought he’d be just another beat cop, nothing more. Then one day, after meeting that man, he got the promotion. Said the previous sheriff was moving up. From there, everything snowballed. Chase had been so focused on serving the town that he hadn’t even looked at the politics behind it. Truth be told, he never cared much. It was all...
“...human business,” Rocky said, like he was reading his mind. “Deep down, you’re like me. You got beef with the humans ‘cause they look down on us, even though we should have the same rights. In fact, they’re the ones who oughta be waitin’ at the door, not takin’ over this land and throwin’ out the natives who lived here first. You’re playin’ their game, but you got a different goal. Must be a real important one for you to keep grindin’ away as sheriff.”
It was, but he couldn’t explain it. Not without telling Rocky he was a Mexican and a werepup. That would blow up not only his credibility but his entire reputation. A pup with Mexican heritage would be instantly stripped of his badge. He’d be demoted to the worst jobs if he were even hired again. People saw a German Shepherd and assumed things. His accent was buried deep. No one had figured it out. Not even Rocky.
Or so he thought.
Jesus, said like that, he sounded as if he were ashamed of his family heritage.
“I can change the world. I can change them,” Chase insisted. “If I stay in this position and do good, I can open the door for others.”
Rocky stared at him, as calm as ever. Just listening.
“So, you think your example will inspire others to follow your path,” he said flatly.
“It’s a start.”
“A needed one.”
“And as Marshal, I’ll set the tone.”
“Right,” Rocky nodded. “From some dusty office out back, dealin’ with cases nobody wants or cares about.”
Chase narrowed his eyes.
“You mockin’ me?”
“No. I’m tellin’ you the truth,” Rocky said. “Look, Chase, the world is what it is. One little gesture won’t change a thing in four days. It'll take years. You won’t see it happen. Maybe, in a hundred years, we’ll still be in the same place. It takes somethin’ bigger to make people wake up. The humans came to this land as invaders. And you—you’re helpin’ ’em.”
“Never.”
“Really? Let me ask you this. How many Native Americans have you arrested in the past three years? I’ll make it easier. How many Black folks have you thrown in jail? Easier still,” he leaned in, “how many mutts like me have you kicked out of bakeries?”
Chase’s throat tightened. He knew the numbers. Five. Twelve. Twenty-three. He’d done it without thinking—just trying to prove that, as a pup, he could enforce the law. The newspapers praised him. Some humans even respected him. He walked the streets proudly. Some feared him. Others didn’t take him seriously. But he kept working every day to prove that his kind mattered. That they were more than just dogs.
Maybe he’d lost his way. Or maybe...
“Every one of ’em broke the law. They did somethin’ illegal,” Chase said.
Rocky pressed his lips together, nodding slightly.
“April 13: Dog kicked out of a grocery store for stealin’ vegetables,” Rocky began.
“See?”
“‘Police never found the stolen food,’” Rocky went on. “‘Native man caught diggin’ up graves.’”
“He was takin’ jewellery off a woman’s—”
“‘But anonymous sources say the body had been uncovered for two days already, and he was tryin’ to bury her again.’” Rocky raised a brow. “You just read the headlines to make yourself feel better, huh?”
He wasn’t going to deny it. Yes, he’d skimmed the headlines: never had much time. Rocky, on the other paw, had the full story memorised. He’d come prepared. Every excuse Chase offered, Rocky knocked down with something stronger. Chase clenched his jaw, unsure how to escape this. He was tempted to signal his men to arrest Rocky—but then remembered what he’d said: if he wasn’t bluffing, locking him up could put the whole town in danger just for one outlaw.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Chase said, shrugging his shoulders and fixing Rocky with a steady look. “Let’s lay all the cards on the table. We can both agree humans aren’t exactly… capable on their own.”
“In that, we’re on the same page,” Rocky replied.
“They need horses, livestock in general… and they even must cook their meat cause raw it makes them sick.”
“That’s right.”
“They’re fragile creatures. Weak. Prone to sickness. We, as dogs, we come from wolves, and we adapted because they chose us and shaped us.”
“I see you’ve been readin’ up on Mr. Charles Darwin’s notions,” Rocky said with a raised brow. “Go on.”
“We’re a whole lot more capable than they are.”
“That’s true.”
“And yet they deny us our rights.”
“And we ain’t doin’ nothin’ to change that.”
“Isn’t it better, maybe, to do it within the law?” Chase leaned forward, eyes locked on Rocky, voice steady and serious. “Prove that we’re capable. Make small appeals, get society on our side... but always stay within the law. Chip away at that wall between us, piece by piece. Nobody ends up in prison and everyone wins, inside the framework of society, instead of…” His tone sharpened. “Instead of spending your life, like you’re doing now, robbing one bank after another.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, c’mon, Rocky! I ain’t stupid. Since ’92, we’ve been sniffin’ each other out. We know exactly where one of us leaves a trail and the other picks it up.”
“And you think they’re going to listen to you? You think sittin’ pretty is gonna get you heard?”
“You think looting folks and stealing from others is going to make them see us as more than just animals? ’Because that’s the picture you’re painting’.”
“You ain’t helpin’ either. You’re keepin’ ’em happy with ear scratches and belly rubs. You’ve gone and humanised yourself.”
Chase bared his teeth.
“Don’t say that again.”
“Then deny it. Deny you’re just playin’ to please ’em.”
“I’m as much a pup as any other.”
“Well, for one who says that, you’ve lowered yourself plenty. We deserve a place in this world—and they ain’t givin’ it to us.”
“And what’s your plan? An all-out revolution? You want ’em to come hunt every last one of us down? ’Cause that worked out real well for Sitting Bull, huh? For all the natives?”
Rocky paused, weighing his next words carefully. Chase felt a flicker of satisfaction, thinking maybe he’d managed to make the outlaw see how little sense his proposal made. Changing the world through violence was never easy and rarely successful. Rocky was leaving too much destruction in his wake. If Chase could get him to consider a ceasefire, even temporarily, he’d count that as a win. It would buy him time.
The outlaw’s gaze drifted away. He looked at the bartender, a white man, who was scrubbing the same glass for the fourth time, watching them intently. It was obvious he was listening, but Rocky didn’t seem to care. Instead, he lowered his eyes to the planks of the bar counter, then up to the thick wooden beams above, and finally down to their own table, where deep claw marks scored the surface.
“So, your grand idea is we bow our heads, lick their boots, and beg for scraps,” Rocky said.
“Even so, we’ve still got more rights than the rest.”
“No. You got more rights. Purebreds got more rights. But mutts like me, we get thrown into the mines, haulin’ coal like pack mules. And if we drop dead, they toss what’s left of us out for the eagles. That’s the same thing they do with the Black folks,” Rocky said, shaking his head. “Easy to tell you come from a good family. I'm sure you're quite the gentleman who's been on dates with quite a few pups. Are you already a family dog, with little "Chase" running around?”
He wasn't going to deny it. He'd been on dates, yes. He was a handsome pup. He'd turned out well.
“You don’t know a damn thing about my father or my mother, or even my grandpa, Rocky.” Chase answered.
“And yet you think you’re worse off than me, bright-eyed sheriff?” Rocky leaned forward slightly. “You think I chose this life for the fun of it? Tell me, Chase: what do you reckon would happen if I tried to fit into your society? Let’s say they wiped my record clean if I even had one. What would happen then? Would they hand me a fine house? Let me choose my mate? Let me live the life I wanted? Could I walk into a restaurant without folks givin’ me the evil eye?”
Chase didn’t answer. Truth was, Rocky had a point. Even Chase got looks when he walked into a human-owned bar—unless it was run by another pup. Rocky would have it ten times worse. Being an outlaw had been more than a choice for him. It was in his blood. It was carved into his skin.
“Have you ever heard people talking about eugenics on the street? Because that's what you pups are doing by playing the humans' game: breeding only among yourselves.” Rocky said.
He was right.
“Ok, enough with that. What’s your goal with all that money?” Chase asked, folding his front legs across his chest. “And don’t tell me you ain’t got one. I don’t buy it.”
“If I did have one,” Rocky said slowly, “I’d buy a great stretch of land, give it a name, lay down my own rules, and make the humans watch how we can live just as good as they can.” He shook his head. “But since that ain’t the case, my goal’s to keep wanderin’, movin’ from place to place. I’d rather live out in the woods where our ancestors roamed and be free than bow to the humans’ poison words and stupid laws.”
“Humans can make fine things, y’know. They can build.”
“Other than takin’ land that ain’t theirs? Killin’ natives, stealin’ farms, lootin’ towns, and tearin’ down forests? Must be somethin’ real big to make up for all that.”
The truth was—there wasn’t. On that point, Rocky was right. Humans were the reason werepups were so scattered. They were the reason Chase had left his family in a hurry, chasing an opportunity that might’ve changed their lives. They were the reason Texas was no longer independent—his homeland, the place he still longed for.
Chase lowered his head. No, there was nothing that could make up for any of it.
“I admire that fire in you, you are all I hate: the law, the order, the truth” Rocky said at last, his tone almost a symbolic praise. “You’ve tried. Huntin’ us down, repeatedly, without rest. Always on my heels. Always watchin’ me with those bright, sharp eyes of yours.”
“You still haven’t told me why you came,” Chase insisted.
“I want you to come with me,” Rocky said. “I want you to leave all this behind. You’ve got potential, Chase. You’re strong. You’re smart. With the right trainin’, you’d be somethin’ incredible.”
Every offer Chase had ever gotten before had been some kind of bribe. He’d ignored them all. He was a decent pup, with a clean conscience and a strong sense of justice. Then Rocky showed up with the wildest offer yet. Join his gang. Become an outlaw.
Chase raised an eyebrow. Maybe he’d lost his mind. Or maybe he was desperate. Either way, Chase laughed right in the mutt’s face. Rocky didn’t even flinch.
“You’re outta your mind,” Chase said.
“I ain’t jokin’.”
“Then you don’t know me at all.” Chase straightened up, his muscles tense. “Take a good look. I will never—you hear me? Never betray the laws I swore to protect. I will never be like you. And if you were a decent pup—maybe even as a mutt—you’d do somethin’ right with your life before you die.”
Rocky didn’t seem surprised.
"It must be difficult to make a vow. I made one. With Zuma. Probably the only one I can keep. Anything that forces me not to be who I am... It would be difficult for me to keep." Rocky claimed.
But the long sigh he let out said enough. Chase felt a flicker of pride. He’d defended what he believed in. Justice. He didn’t even stop to consider how harsh his words might’ve sounded to the mutt across from him, who calmly adjusted his hat and stepped down from the stool with the same slow dignity as before.
“Guess I got here too late,” Rocky said, turning away. “I thought I could save you, but you’ve been tamed. Ain’t nothin’ left to save. I hope you never run into another German Shepherd, broken and lost, and lock him up thinkin’ humans’ll give you a belly rub and a nice dinner.” His voice wavered slightly. “’Cause if that day comes… you’ll already be gone.”
“Get out of my town. Don’t come back.”
“I won’t. Good night, Chase. Goodbye.”
That was the last time they ever saw each other.
🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾
1898 — Wild West Way
In Wild West Way, two pups woke up.
One in the comfort of his home. The other, buried under a pile of old wooden boards that barely passed for shelter.
One made himself a proper breakfast, got dressed, and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He had a full day ahead: plans to keep the city safe and under control. The other investigated his reflection in muddy water and wondered where his youth had gone, even if his clothes now looked somewhat respectable.
One stepped outside and saw a few humans peeking obscenely through a window. He barked at them, and they ran off, leaving him satisfied. He knew not all humans were bad, and he trusted that this project he was part of might help them see that they could live under the same laws. The other, meanwhile, had just stolen a bunch of grapes from a fruit stand—his breakfast for the next few days—so he wouldn’t have to spend the little money the human had given him.
One strolled the city streets, heading toward the port. He wanted to visit Zuma and catch up, but decided to stop by the lookout tower first to check on some paperwork. The other simply started walking through the muddy, crowded streets of Wild West, following Humdinger’s plan, and trying to charm Zuma into going along with it.
One was content with what he was doing. And even though his conscience wasn’t completely clean, he was trying to make up for his mistakes. The other was sick of everything he’d become and questioned, day after day, if he had ever made a good decision in his life.
One’s name was Rocky. He had been an outlaw. Now, he was trying to be a good person. The other’s name was Chase. He had been a good sheriff. Now, he was lying to someone who genuinely cared about him.
Neither of them was what they truly felt they were.
But both had become what society had forced them to be.
Art by @self-indulgent-paw-patrol!!
And a third pup, named Zuma, was just one step away from becoming the center of a conflict between two quite different and very broken ideals.
Short-Fic (2K words) set between 1895 and 1897. You can read it after the "Read more"!
Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.
—1897—
Zuma couldn’t see. The blindfold covered his eyes completely. He was trusting Rocky, who had tied a rope around his body to guide him. The rest of his senses remained alert, offering extra information: he could hear birds waking up at dawn; beneath his paws there were rocks and branches of all shapes and sizes; his nose picked up the scents of nearby animals, along with the smell of fir and pine. He was in a forest—he just wasn’t sure which one.
“Stop,” his companion said.
Zuma halted immediately, his heart pounding. He’d been blindfolded for two or three days already. It was getting annoying. At first, he had flat-out refused to let anyone cover his sight, knowing it would leave him more vulnerable to outside threats. But once the pain eased, he realised it was worth it. His mind was clearer now. He could think straight. Every thought glided through the folds of his brain like a surfer riding waves. Everything flowed, instead of stumbling and crashing like it had for years.
He felt his companion move behind him. He didn’t resist. Normally, he didn’t let anyone get that close to his back—except for Rocky. That’s why he felt safe: because his soul brother would never betray him.
“Close yer eyes,” Rocky ordered, his voice flat and steady. It had lost that easy-going tone it once had. Zuma still wondered why—or if it would ever come back. “We gotta take it slow.”
“I doubt this worked,” Zuma muttered, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“In that case, there’s no deal. Got it?”
The chocolate lab thought it over for a moment.
“Got it,” he finally said.
“Alright then.” True to his word, Rocky gently removed the blindfold, undoing the knot with his teeth. Zuma felt him place his paws on his back and clenched his jaw to resist the urge to turn around and snap at him—he’d become far too defensive since the fires of ’92.
He felt the cloth fall from his muzzle. It was freeing—and terrifying. Zuma sensed light filtering through his closed lids. It was the first time since the experiment that woman named Prioba had performed on his eyes. Marshall, the dog who had connected them with her, had pitched them the deal of the century: a cure for Zuma in exchange for following instructions—leave the gang and reunite the three of them for a project unlike any other. Accepting the offer had been an act of desperation from Rocky, who had fought tooth and nail to convince his friend to go along with it.
Because Zuma hadn’t been the same in years…
—1895—
Rocky watched the massive mansion go up in flames. Even from a fair distance, and despite the night’s darkness, the heat and glow of the fire reached him. He sat impassive, cold, as always. Mounted on his faithful horse, Alicante—an American Standardbred—Rocky could smell the burning wood mixed with the flesh of the people who once lived in that house. His ears picked up the howls of victory from the gang, cheering with all their might over what they’d accomplished.
His saddlebags held a good haul of valuable jewellery—more than enough to trade for a solid sum from any shady dealer. That money, once back in their hideout, would be split among the gang members. The deal was simple: anyone who wanted to leave later could do so without trouble. The rest had to move on, too—but that wasn’t a problem either. The gang was nomadic. They never stayed more than two days in one place, unless circumstances demanded it.
Rocky had founded this gang. He had set the rules. And yet, he’d never felt so ashamed of what they had just done.
Killing wasn’t off the table, but it was meant to be rare—only when absolutely necessary. Some members, like Zuma, didn’t care if their paws got bloody at that point, when desperation transforms people. Others, like Dwayne, preferred to avoid such situations altogether. And while the latter had made progress (he’d gone hunting once or twice), it was the former who worried Rocky the most. He had sparked all of this. He had created the chaos.
Rocky glanced sideways at his companion. The chocolate lab, next to his own Saddlebred, Palencia, smiled with satisfaction as he watched the fiery spectacle. His dark eyes, glowing green from the fires of ’92, gleamed with a kind of malice. Deep down, Rocky knew Zuma hadn’t always been this way. He had known him since they were pups, long before the disaster that wiped out Howdy Creek and left it in ashes. Back then, Zuma had been kind and gentle. Open-hearted.
But pain had dragged him straight to the edge of madness. Rocky had witnessed the toll it took. The gang hadn’t caused this kind of destruction so frequently in a long while. Things were escalating. Zuma was taking control, and anyone who got in his way ended up with a bullet between the eyes—courtesy of the pup-boxes they’d acquired from Cody Industries. To Zuma, the mansion’s destruction made perfect sense: the landowners hadn’t agreed to his terms, after all.
So, under Zuma’s orders, the gang had slaughtered every inhabitant. Then they’d looted the jewellery and finally made sure no one was left alive.
“Satisfied?” Rocky asked from atop his horse.
“Ain’t you?” Zuma replied with a wicked smile.
Rocky didn’t answer.
Zuma stepped closer, his cold, black eyes locked on him. The grin had vanished from his muzzle, replaced by a grim seriousness—one more fitting for a psychopath than for the chocolate labrador he once knew. Rocky didn’t even feel afraid—only sorrow. Sorrow for losing his best friend. For not knowing how to stop the unraveling. At first, a little compassion had been enough to steer Zuma away from his darker plans. But now, Zuma couldn’t feel anything. Not even sorrow. In fact, he didn’t even sleep anymore—because of the pain.
Those eyes. That accident. It haunted Rocky. It had happened years ago, but it clung to him day after day. A memory lodged in his body like a thorn he couldn’t remove. He clenched his claws, feeling the scar in one of his paw pads. That pain, sometimes, reminded him of the brutal decision he had made on the night of the fire in ’92.
He had chosen Zuma. Left Marshall behind.
Left his brother behind. Left his family to their fate.
Everything had died. The laughter. The playful shoves. The music.
That’s why Rocky believed he wasn’t any better than Zuma. And for that very reason, he let the chocolate lab keep showing his grief. At first, he thought it would help—like reaching for air after nearly drowning. But it hadn’t. The pain in Zuma’s eyes only grew worse. Since the fire, he had only been able to see in reds, oranges, and browns. The first days had been terrible. But then came the real agony. It spread, evolving into a constant headache that only got worse. Now it was part of him. Part of his life. The chocolate lab could no longer tell what was pain and what wasn’t.
And that’s why Rocky knew—he wasn’t talking to Zuma.
He was talking to Zuma’s chronic pain.
And he had to cut out that cancer before it destroyed everything.
“Well?” Zuma asked again, this time colder.
“Guess they had it comin’,” Rocky replied at last, turning his back on him. “Now let’s git, ‘fore Sheriff Chase shows up an’ hunts us down.”
For once, Zuma didn’t argue. He howled, pleased, and the others joined in. All except Rocky, who—though he felt the wild instinct stir in his veins—held back this time. Things had already gone too far. And until he found a way to fix it, there was nothing he could do but watch, heavy-hearted, as his old friend kept sinking deeper and deeper into madness.
Until there was nothing left of him.
—1897—
Rocky stepped aside with great care. Zuma still hadn’t opened his eyes. He was probably itching to do so. The fact that he was being obedient—for once in a long while—confirmed Rocky’s suspicion: the pain had loosened its grip on his lifelong friend. In his eyes, that alone made it worth agreeing to Marshall’s request to leave the gang. But he knew Zuma wouldn’t be satisfied with just that. He wanted more. Much more.
So the mutt sat down on his haunches beside the chocolate lab and brushed one of his whiskers with a long claw.
“A’right,” he said in that flat, quiet voice of his. “Open yer eyes. Slowly. Tell me what ya see. Take yer time—no rush.”
Zuma inhaled deeply. Yes, he was in a rush. A big one. But the process had been long and gruelling. They had come this far through sheer effort, and they couldn’t ruin it now just because of impatience. He began opening his eyes slowly, painfully slowly. After keeping them shut for so many days, it wasn’t easy. He resisted the urge to rub them with his dirty paws—he didn’t want to cause a new infection. The medication Marshall had provided through that mysterious woman was said to work wonders. He was about to find out.
Ever since the fire of ’92, Zuma had seen everything through a red haze. No matter where he looked—red, orange, and brown were the only colours that came through. A filter clouded his sight, keeping him from seeing the world clearly. In time, Zuma had accepted it: this faded, cold, bloody world was his new reality. He had lived with it for years. The other colours had vanished—not just from his eyes, but from his imagination too. Pain, ever-growing, had sealed that fate.
Green. Gray. Yellow. Blue. Pink. Orange. Blue again. Green again. A different green.
In his culture, colours had always held deep meaning. Red had always symbolised violence, war—and that’s how he had lived. The rest of the colours, with their meanings, had been locked away deep in his mind, far beyond the reach of pain. Now, they were coming back. And he welcomed them. The world had changed again.
He stepped forward. Looked beneath his paw. Grass, greenish and bluish. Tiny white drops of dew. A yellow-toned bird fluttered past his nose, pecking at something brown on the ground. The blue of a river in the distance blended with the hues of dawn behind the grey mountains, which shimmered in the light. Shimmer. He hadn’t seen that in years. All he had seen, all that time, were smudges.
“Well?” Rocky asked.
And then Zuma turned to him. And for the first time in a long while, Rocky felt genuinely surprised. His spirit had dimmed over the years, almost in tandem with Zuma’s pain. But to see him smile—foolishly, even—was a shock. He hadn’t expected to see him happy. He’d figured Zuma would just sink slowly into madness, and one day, end it all. And Rocky would follow. Because they had a vow carved in their very bodies—Rocky on his front legs, Zuma on the back.
Where the Labrador went, the mutt would follow. One after the other.
But Zuma’s expression shifted slightly when he looked at him.
“Your fur. It’s gotten lighter.”
“We all get old.”
“You’re not even twenty yet.”
“That’s nearly half my lifespan.”
And that’s when Rocky noticed, almost at once, the difference between Zuma’s voice and his own. The chocolate lab spoke with ease. Rocky, on the other hand, sounded flat. Lifeless. He had lost himself along the way, dragged down by Zuma’s pain, clutching at his own heart and pulling him straight toward hell. Now that the pain wasn’t there between them anymore, and all that remained was an abyss. And he wondered: could I ever be the same again?
He sighed.
“Then it’s settled,” the scavenger muttered, turning toward the horizon. “Tomorrow at dusk, we leave the gang.”
Zuma said nothing. They’d had this conversation before. Rocky was determined. He had made the decision while Zuma was weakened from the medicine—it was the only way to get him to agree. It was sneaky, even underhanded. But it was the only way the mutt felt his travel companion would listen.
Zuma nodded and looked out over the green meadow. The mountain range before them was stunning.
“We should cover your eyes again,” Rocky said.
“Can I have… one more minute?” Zuma asked. “I want to remember this. Just in case it doesn’t come back.”
Rocky didn’t answer. He couldn’t take away his hope—not like snatching candy from a pup. He gave a slight nod, though he didn’t expect Zuma to see it. The Labrador was far too focused on the beauty laid out before him.
Rocky took the moment to memorise this version of Zuma—calm, serene, almost joyful. Where his clothes didn’t cover him, Rocky could see the marks the fires of ’92 had left on his fur. Scars that would never fade.
Zuma rested his head against him, peaceful and still. The calm around them was overwhelming. For a few minutes, they weren’t tense, they weren’t arguing with the rest of the gang, they weren’t planning the next hit. They were just the two of them, back to being the pups they’d once been. Sneaking away from their families just to be together.
“Are you thinking’ what I’m thinking?” Zuma asked.
Rocky nodded. The bond between them went beyond that of brothers. It was almost spiritual. The vow between them was a formality—what one thought, the other followed. They knew what they wanted, what the other needed. They didn’t just watch each other’s backs: if one killed, the other would too. If one dropped the weapon, so would the other. If one chose a mate, the other would make sure it was the right one. They slept together. Dreamed together.
They needed each other.
And Zuma’s pain had almost shattered that bond.
“Do you think we can leave this life?” Zuma asked again, accepting silence as an answer.
“I dunno. I dunno if I can. It’s in my blood,” Rocky said, closing his eyes with unease. “I’ve always lived like this. ‘Cept for them three years with Marshall. But I’ll do it… I’ll do it for you.”
“It’s too risky. They’re still hunting my kind. Sooner or later, they’ll find me.”
“Then they’ll have to go through me first,” Rocky snapped. “Look at me, Zuma: they ain’t gettin’ away with it. If somethin’ happens to you, they’re comin’ down to hell with me.”
And he didn’t believe in any of that. But if there was a hell down there, he’d drag anyone who laid a paw on the chocolate lab straight into it with him—first-class ticket—to the deepest pit of canine damnation he held inside.
They looked at each other. No more words were needed. Zuma, knowing it was time, let himself be blindfolded again. Darkness returned. But in that darkness, he knew there’d be light. Sooner or later, the colours would come back. When Rocky finished tying the cloth and stood beside him again, the chocolate lab let out another sigh.
They would be free soon, he told himself.
And that’s when their lives would begin.
“I’m sorry,” Zuma said suddenly. “For all the pain I’ve caused you all this time. My words. My actions. I’m sorry.”
Rocky pressed his lips together. It had been too long since he’d heard the real Zuma. The Zuma he used to play with back in the day. That Zuma. His best friend. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back tears. He had promised himself he wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t show weakness—not as an outlaw. If he did, the rest of the gang wouldn’t take him seriously.
He let out a sigh.
“And I’m sorry I couldn’t save ya sooner,” he replied, his voice rough, burdened with a sorrow he knew he’d carry from that moment on. “Now come on—we better move ‘fore the others start gettin’ suspicious.”
Zuma said nothing. But for the first time since this journey began, he felt Rocky’s voice shift again—felt the tone soften, just slightly.
That pain, the one that had chained both their hearts like heavy shackles, had loosened its grip—out here, in the middle of the plains. Giving them a chance.
They didn’t need to say anything more.
Their bond went beyond any known form of friendship or brotherhood.
And both of them knew that, for the first time, they had a real chance…
