Dust and Sand

By Sean P. Wallace

The Wild West has been tainted by the gods of the Triangle, and few humans can fight the twisted creatures they spawn.

It's a good thing Dust isn't human any more because a Senator's daughter has been captured by a Triangle cult. But even with support from her best friend and a lifelong warrior, Dust will struggle to fight hordes of creatures, mercenaries, and a conspiracy to summon a god...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean P. Wallace
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311082466

Sean P. Wallace

Sean is a writer, reader, gamer, and a bit of a self-deprecating self-aggrandizer. In his spare time, he just about manages to sleep.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dust was drinking. Alone. Again.

The Broken Bottle, that's where he was. A little place in Texas, out of the way and unknown, it was the drinking hole of Low Tracks. Low ceiling and sand-crusted windows gave it a gloom that Dust appreciated. Especially when he looked over the empty gambling tables and other solitary drinkers: locals mostly, older than sin and uglier too.

Anyone would end up like them if they had to live in Low Tracks, the kind of small ramshackle collection of buildings that people only see when they're going somewhere better. The homesteads had become decrepit in only a few short decades, just like their owners, and what little money Low Tracks earned went right to the Broken Bottle. Low Tracks was poor because it was right, smack in the middle of nothing. Maybe the town planners had expected a rail road to come through. Whatever the reasoning, its placement meant nothing happened here so Low Tracks was isolated and shunned.

And that was why Dust liked the place.

Dust had taken to drinking at the Broken Bottle because life up at the Solution was pretty dull. The geniuses ran their experiments on him, and he showed them how damn good he was at most things. All day, every day. Shooting, fighting, cheating at cards. Becoming what he'd become had left him with a Hell of a lot of ability and absolutely no freedom.

At least, that's what the Solution liked to think. They locked him up every night to keep him from getting out, not really thinking through who and what he was. Most nights, he let them get away with it as there was no point riling them for no reason. But not tonight. He'd needed a drink tonight.

Behind him, some little wretch started playing the piano. A walking rake with a moustache even thinner than his belly, he somehow eked a decent tune out of the faded white keys. Dust smiled when he recognised it as a damn hymn. Of course it was.

Something caught your humour, Dust? Elaine asked. The barmaid was made up like a whore and overweight in all the wrong places. Most of the profits she took from this place, if there were any, go right to the paint on her jowly cheeks.

Somehow, that thought struck him as funny too. Yes, he said through his smile.

Elaine gave him a worried grin. Anything you'd want to share?

Worry suited Elaine's face. No.

She stared at him. Dust looked back with a blank expression and finished his whiskey.

Another slug, he said.

Another dollar?

Dust reached into his jeans, new things the Solution gave him that hadn't quite worn in, and pulled another note from his pocket. Silently, he slipped it across the greasy bar.

As she always did, Elaine eyed it suspiciously, and then eyed him. You're not giving me no duds, are you?

No. Dust tapped his empty glass meaningfully.

Elaine pocketed the money and gave him more whiskey. The good stuff, not the watered down mess most others drank. She'd learned on his first visit not to stiff him when it came to whiskey. Her finest whiskey tasted like amber or sap from those trees the Unionists are always harping on about. He sniffed it first then took a small sip.

Elaine was watching him still. Normally she'd look away the first chance she could get.

Yes? he asked,

Don't let there be no trouble, you hear? she whispered.

Dust frowned. Turning, he saw three tall men enter the tavern. Travel-worn as the leather they wore, each had the look of someone who'd shoot before drinking, and drink before thinking. Big irons hung from their hips. The desert's pale powder covered their jeans. And they looked around like people itching for a fight.

Dust turned away. He was only there to drink.

What a hole, one said. The youngest, maybe twenty two. A Texan.

Say that a little louder, dipshit, another replied. Then there was a dull thump, meat on meat. Where'd you learn your manners from?

Fuck you, that's where, said the Texan.

Ma'am, three whiskeys, the last one said. Soft, measured, his voice gave him away as being from the Midwest. Dust didn't know the area enough to narrow it down.

Elaine nodded and smiled. She poured three shots from the bottle Dust enjoyed. You don't own a watering hole as long as Elaine if you can't figure out who to serve the good stuff to. She took the drinks down the other end of the bar, away from Dust, laid them out like a king's banquet.

Here you go fellas, she said, a bright tone masking her fear.

Three sets of spurs rattled as they collect their drinks. Dust looked straight ahead but could see them from the corner of his eye; three outlaws, if he was not mistaken. There couldn't be too high a price on the Texan, but Cut Throat – he had a scar across his neck, one that doesn't come from a shaving accident – and Midwest look like they'd fetch a good amount.

Dust sipped his whiskey.

The Texan breathed out loudly and slammed his glass against the bar. Damn but that is some fine whiskey.

Thank you sir, Elaine said.

Your own recipe? asked Midwest. His eyes crinkled in suspicion.

Elaine shook her head. A gift.

Cut Throat laughed, shook his head. The long, black hair surrounding his face swished with the movement. Bullshit. I know whiskey and that's a hundred dollar bottle. It fell off a wagon, didn't it?

Stolen property? the Texan said with mock surprise.

It'd have to be. Clever to hide it in a plain bottle though, Cut Throat said.

Dust'd suspected Elaine wasn't serving from the right bottle too. The cheap drinks were in more fancy holdings than they ought to be, and the good stuff was, as Cut Throat had noted, in plain, unmarked bottles. These outlaws had good eyes, were perceptive.

The Texan grinned. He only had four teeth. Well then, what will we do with this here outlaw, gentlemen?

Elaine took a step back. A bad move. Now, I don't want no trouble...

Then give us the bottle, Cut Throat said.

The Texan nodded. And twenty dollars.

That's...

And then Elaine made the mistake of looking at Dust, as though for support. He didn't react, was too old to panic like some teenager, but he wanted to swear. Loudly.

What're you looking at him for? the Texan asked.

The barmaid looked at the outlaws in wide-eyed terror. Dust would've thought her too old to panic as well. Obviously, he'd been wrong.

Hey, 'sheriff,' you have a problem with us claiming what ain't rightly hers? the Texan called out.

Dust slowly brought his glass up to his lips. I'm just here to drink, he said before sipping at the hazel glory.

Then why does this pig think you can save her?

I don't know.

There must be a reason, Midwest said. Which was a shame: Dust felt certain he could've eased the situation with someone as stupid as the Texan, but Midwest was much smarter than that. Barmaid?

Elaine swallowed. I thought he... I thought he might be a good man...

Clearly he isn't. He's not even a man, Cut Throat said. The Texan laughed like a mule.

Dust sipped his whiskey again.

What's that on your hand? Midwest asked.

There's nothing on my hand... Elaine replied.

No, not you. Him.

Dust looked down at his hand. For the second time in five minutes, he wanted to swear: his wandering tattoo had slunk up his arm and was sitting on the back of his wrist. Again, Dust was too old to blink or panic, but that'd probably settled it. There would definitely be some trouble.

A tattoo, he said.

That weren't there a minute ago, the Texan said. At least the cocksure sass had drained from his stupid voice.

Midwest stood. I know.

The worst thing about Dust's abilities was how much they tempted him. He knew he could pull his pistol and down the three of them before they could so much as blink, without spilling a drop of the good whiskey. That knowledge was like a woman in heat, dancing naked in front of him. But he couldn't kill in cold blood, not even outlaws. If he did, he would deserve his reputation.

I've heard about a man with a vanishing tattoo, Cut Throat said, standing as well. I'd thought it was just a myth.

The Texan pulled his gun from his belt and twirled it around his finger, a ridiculous move. Then he stood. Seems it ain't no myth.

At this, the locals decided to leave. It was a wonder it'd taken them so long. They charged out of the door, left Elaine and Dust alone with the three outlaws. Nobody paid them any mind as they ran. They certainly wouldn't be going to get help. Midwest kept his eyes on Dust the whole time. Then he led his two friends around the bar and over to Dust.

It seems, my friends, that what we have here is the infamous 'Wanted Man.'

Dust corrected himself. The worst thing about his abilities was that damn nickname.

You're mistaken, Dust said.

Cut Throat pulled his gun on Elaine. Is this The Wanted Man?

Elaine looked at Dust, tears forming in her eyes like morning dew. Then she nodded. Dust couldn't blame her for giving him up.

Midwest drew as well. He placed the cold steel on the back of Dust's neck. Now there might be a price on our heads, but it's nowhere near what some folk would pay for you.

Dust swilled the glass around under his nose, enjoyed the rich, varnish-like scent. No, they wouldn't.

Pardon?

Another sip. They wouldn't. Pay, I mean. They'd kill you. Then take me.

We'll just have to see about that, said Cut Throat.

Stand, you son of a bitch, the Texan demanded.

Dust shook his head and smiled. Can I finish my drink?

Midwest shrugged. Dust felt the gun at his neck rise and fall. You might as well. We'll bring the bottle for you. Call it your last request.

Thanks.

He downed the whiskey and let it slide down his throat. It really was damn good whiskey. Being stolen explained how Elaine'd got a hold of something that fine. He put the glass down and made a note to ask Elaine the make next time he was there.

Stand, you son of a bitch! the Texan repeated.

You're not too bright, are you? Dust asked.

The Texan growled. What did you say?

Easy Clarence, Midwest said to the Texan. 'Clarence.' What a name.

To Dust, Midwest said, Nice try. But it won't work. Now stand.

Dust eased himself from the stool and stood. Cut Throat moved in at his side and pressed a gun against Dust's arm. Clarence did the same to his other arm. They had him well-covered, it had to be said.

Mind if I ask you something? Dust asked.

You talk too fucking much, Clarence said.

Midwest sighed. So do you. What do you want to ask, Wanted Man?

Dust caught Midwest's gaze in the dirty mirror behind the bar. His cold grey eyes held Dust's as he said, A hundred men have tried to take me. None succeeded. What makes you any different?

We got the drop on you, Cut Throat said, pushing the barrel of his gun into the flesh of Dust's arm to punctuate his point.

We got more skills than them, Clarence continued.

Midwest had enough sense to look concerned. Still, he said, And we've got three guns on your skin.

Dust smiled. Is that all?

What do you-?

Dust lashed out, sending Clarence and Cut Throat flying across the bar. Midwest pulled his trigger, but Dust had already ducked before the bullet roared from its chamber. Then Dust kicked Midwest on the shin and broke it clean in two. Midwest went down screaming, holding his leg.

Moving with his inhuman speed, Dust took Midwest's dropped pistol and shot Cut Throat in his gun hand. Cut Throat moaned like a bull, stared as blood poured from the wound. Dust would've thought a scarred man would be more used to the sight of his own blood.

This barely took a second, but Clarence had moved with the speed of a coward, made a run for the exit. His back was turned. He was a clear target. An outlaw and a scoundrel. People might die if Dust didn't take the shot. It was so tempting. Dark parts of him whispered how sweet pulling the trigger would be. His tattoo felt warm.

He couldn't shoot a man in the back though. Clarence? he called.

Thankfully, the outlaw stopped. He had enough sense to know Dust had a gun on him.

Turn around, Dust said, approaching.

Clarence turned. His jeans were stained with urine.

Are you gonna kill me too?

I haven't killed your friends.

Clarence's eyes darted behind Dust. No, you haven't.

Dust spun, saw that Midwest had pulled a second gun, and shot it from his hand. That's when Clarence pulled the knife and charged.

Thankfully, Clarence was shaking and nervous and yellow as a daffodil. His swing cut through the cloth of Dust's shirt and only grazed his ribs, giving him a bright new scar. Dust elbowed him in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground, and then broke his hand with a well-placed kick. Clarence screeched like a girl.

Then the doors to the tavern opened. Dust turned Midwest's gun on the newcomers but spotted the light green uniform of The Solution.

He dropped the weapon to the floor. Evening Tom, Bill.

Tom and Bill looked at Dust. Then at the mayhem around him. Then back at Dust. Their expressions were sweeter than any whiskey.

Bill, a man built as thick as a tree with freckles at odd with the size of him, sighed. Jesus, Dust, what've you started this time?

Nothing. Just ask Elaine.

Dust pointed over to the bar but Elaine was nowhere to be seen. He walked over and saw that, during the brief fracas, Elaine had fainted. She had good survival instincts but it didn't help him much.

You're really in the shit this time, Dust, Tom said with a friendly smile. Dust liked Tom.

They're going to crucify you. Jesus Christ... Bill sighed again.

Dust shrugged. He threw the stolen guns aside, finished the outlaws' whiskeys and slammed three dollars down on the bar. Then he walked over to the two of them, took his hat from the coat stand and settled it on his head.

We might as well get going then, he said to Tom and Bill.

They stepped either side of him, took him arm in arm, and marched out of the wreckage.

Dust left the Broken Bottle. In company. Again.

Chapter 2

The posse rose with the sun. Winston Grainger, Maintenance Overseer for the Texan Telegraph Concern, rolled out of his rawhide tent and stood, blinking at the coming day as his hired guns packed up their encampment. They complained, these mercenaries, but the pay was good enough for them to put up with a little busy work.

Enis, an engineer from Germany who worked for curiously little, came and stood next to him as the sun crept up the sky. He was almost the opposite of Winston: where Winston was overweight, Enis was slim; where Winston was bald, Enis had hair especially as the German had a full beard he could almost plait; and where Winston looked shrewd, Enis seemed wide-eyed and naïve.

Are you feeling ready for this? Enis asked.

Winston reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes. He didn't offer one to Enis; the German didn't smoke. No, he said. Are you?

Only because they pay so well.

The overseer nodded, took in a breath of deep, rich tobacco. The TTC had to pay well to get people into the Badlands, the black heart of The Dixie Problem. Winston's last few trips had practically paid for his new home with Abilene, his sweet little Mexican wife. Drawing deep on his cigarette, he wished he didn't have a couple more payments to make and could wash his hands of the TTC.

Two minutes later, the Sawyers, young brothers distinguishable only by the lengths of their hair – Adam long, John shaved bald – left their tents. Stretching almost in unison, they scratched themselves, and then silently joined Winston and Enis.

Winston took in his little team now they were all upright: three engineers, ten mercenaries, the absolute minimum for a repair job in the Badlands. Even if a pole had sunk in a flash flood, you needed a posse and you made sure the job was done well before sunset.

Sunset was some way off though. A sky pure enough to adorn a Cathedral stood behind his rabble, holding not even a whiff of cloud as it healed from the bruise of sunrise. The morning was cool, but promised heat to come. There were rises and mountains below that clear sky, brown and honest, and the air was pure enough to please the Lord Himself.

Still, Winston shuddered as he took in the horizon. Although you couldn't tell, those rises were the start of the most dangerous place in America. That was what he hated most about the Badlands: they didn't stand out. Yes, they weren't what they once were, but somehow it'd be better if the sands were black and the sky red, the air sulphurous and foul-tasting. Instead it looked exactly like the rest of Texas, unassuming and hard and American.

The Badlands were dishonest as well as deadly: a cruel mix.

Old Red, leader of the mercenaries, approached as Winston cursed the lands. Maybe fifty, he had a thick moustache, hair like sugar and gunpowder. Old Red was older than you'd expect a hired gun to be, but an old mercenary must be a good mercenary. It was Winston's first time working with the man. He seemed capable enough. Time would tell. His men didn't give a good account of themselves though, calling themselves the 'Red Bullets.' Seeing how young and green they were, Winston called them fodder.

We're ready when you are, said Old Red.

Good, Winston said. Saddle up.

Within ten minutes, they were charging ahead at a good pace. The horses weren't ruined in their haste, but they weren't spared either. Three of the Red Bullets took the lead. Three more covered the rear, and two each side covered the flanks. Inside this ring, Winston and Enis were on horseback. Adam and John manned the carts, looked after the spare wiring, components, and replacement poles: everything needed for any kind of damage.

The Red Bullets had cheap horses, except Old Red, who'd learned the value of a good ride. Enis had a strong mongrel, but Winston had the biggest, most impressive beast – a black colt called Thunder – though that was only because he needed a beast like that to carry his frame.

Old Red looked back at Winston as they rode. This your first time in the Badlands? he shouted.

No. Is it yours?

Nah. I'm in and out like a horny teenager.

That's what the whores say of him too, one of his men chimed in.

Old Red cackled. A God-fearing man – and who wouldn't be after so many trips into the Badlands – Winston didn't approve of such talk. Not that he'd say such a thing.

The old mercenary's eyes twinkled with humour. You ever faced one of them?

Yes, thank God, Winston replied.

Why thank God? one of the faceless Red Bullets asked.

Old Red cackled again. Because he's still alive!

They made good time to their target, a stretch of land between a nothing town called Crucifix and Texas's Colorado River. The break was in a key line to Austin. It was hard to know where the break might be, but Winston could narrow it down from experience: any engineer learned the quirks of their line after a while. He figured it'd be somewhere down a deep valley worn by some long-gone river. The valley had no name, as only Indians named parts of the Badlands.

Rather than go charging in, the Red Bullets led them to the foot of a tall verge so they could check Winston's hunch and spy any trouble. Winston prayed it was something obvious, not a pissy wire.

Only a third went to climb the ascent: Winston, Old Red and a couple of mercenaries. The rest were left in the shade of the rise so the horses could rest and have some water.

It was sheer and rocky, their verge, and unforgiving as the walls of Hell. Winston was not a fit man and he found every step difficult, especially in the rising heat. Soon, he stank of sweat. But, if that were the worst of this trip, he'd thank the Lord for a week solid.

On their way up, they made an unpleasant discovery. Or, rather, Winston did. He stayed at the lead with Old Red despite his trouble with the climb and looked around constantly, nervous as a virgin bride. That was probably why he saw the body first.

It was too small to be an adult. Slumped, one arm splayed out, it rested on an outcrop like some heathen shrine. Winston doubted there could still be life in such a discarded-looking frame. Which made things worse.

He checked no-one else had noticed, then tapped Old Red on the shoulder, pointed to the corpse. The old mercenary looked up, and then called the climb to a halt with a raised fist.

Before the overseer could wonder how they'd handle it, Old Red pulled his weapon and shot the corpse three times. One bullet missed, two hit. The corpse jolted with the impacts and fell from the outcrop, destined to land in a disgusting pile fifty feet below them. It had been a little girl, one badly mauled long before Old Red had shot her.

But, before the corpse landed, two grotesque wings sprouted from its back. Glistening sinewy things, black like a demon's tongue. They flapped in unnatural ways, raised the girl's corpse into the air, and they then swooped down. The girl's dead face was as limp as her arms.

Old Red and his Red Bullets were ready for it. It seemed they weren't fodder after all: their guns rattled off shots, perforating the demon's wings so they couldn't support it. The corpse fell to the ground ten yards ahead of them and skidded along in the dust.

Wasting no time, Old Red pulled a thick glass bottle from his backpack, one with a short fuse coming from its cap. Inside was a mix of accelerants and holy water. The old mercenary lit the fuse and threw it at the corpse, which went up in flames just as the creature inside tried to escape, distending and tearing in order to flee. There was no satisfying squeal of protest, no shriek of agony as it died. Only the sizzling of flesh.

Good shot, one of the mercenaries said.

Wasn't it? Old Red asked.

They turned to go back to the climb. Before he joined them, Winston knelt and said a prayer for girl the demon had inhabited.

At the top of the verge, they were doubly blessed. Not only could they see nothing that might trouble them, but there was also a very clear break in the line: about a mile south, one of the telegraph poles lay useless on the ground, its wires trailing like entrails.

It ought to be a clear run, Old Red said, still pleased with himself after their encounter with the creature. The man's lack of decency wore at Winston's nerve worse than Thunder's saddle wore at his thighs.

God never likes a man to say ought, Winston said. Why else would one pray if 'ought' were enough?

Old Red shrugged.

They climbed down without speaking, and appraised the rest of the crew of the situation. To save time, they left the cart filled with parts they wouldn't need behind and tied four horses to it in case they needed a quick exit. Winston didn't like leaving TTC property unguarded, but any bandits brave enough to operate in the Badlands were welcome to it.

Anyway, they'd come back for it unless things really went south.

So they struck out, racing like angels on God's command, and were quickly at the downed pole. Repairing it was a matter of routine, something the engineers had done a thousand times as the creatures of the Badlands often knocked poles over when they shambled or slithered around. Winston and Old Red barked out orders, presided over repair jobs, but nothing either could say would make a man in the Badlands quicker or more vigilant.

The Red Bullets not securing the area grabbed shovels from the cart and dug a slot for the new pole. This done, they took the most solid-looking pole and stood it up with Enis's and Adam's help. The two engineers then worked on connecting it, replacing torn wiring and testing the signal after. The job ran like clockwork, smooth and fine.

Leaving them to get on with it, Winston and John examined the damaged pole. He trusted John to assess the damage more than his brother: the man had an eye for poor work. And if another team had done a shoddy job, there would be Hell to pay: the TTC don't like spending this much because some two-bit moron couldn't dig a proper setting.

But, after examining it for five minutes, they couldn't tell what had befallen the stricken pole. Or, at least, it was clear poor workmanship wasn't to blame.

What do you think happened? John asked, wiping his bald head with a rag.

Winston knelt. I don't know. It looks like, like the pole was just ripped up. See where the ground's disturbed back there? This wasn't done by a storm.

Out here, anything could have made such a mess of the pole.

Why only this pole? he asked. Normally they'd take a couple of them out, right?

God only knows, Winston said, standing. Maybe the demons were fighting each other and accidentally knocked it over. Maybe it looked funny to one of them. I don't really care. I'm calling it a code nineteen: blame the Dixie Problem.

John nodded. Good call.

The new pole was working again soon after. Enis and Adam both confirmed it by sending small messages either way: Adam sent a passage of the Bible, Enis an unflattering sentiment about Adam. Winston made a note to deduct a few dollars from Enis's paycheck. Not that the German would notice, but it was the principle that mattered.

Ready to move out? Old Red asked. The boys are getting nervous.

Winston held his hand over his eyes and looked to the sky. Noon had come and gone, rolled along the placid blue sky. Whilst they weren't yet in danger, it was always better to get away early. If he were a prouder man, Winston would have made fun of Old Red for being a bit yellow.

But Winston kept himself pious. Enis, we good to go?

Enis always knew when a job was done. It was why Winston didn't want to check into his past, even though it was clear he was running from something: the man was thorough as a Saint. I am thinking yes, we are good to go.

Then tell your men-

Red, something's coming! one of the mercenaries shouted.

Old Red span. Where?

The mercenary, a young man with a wispy beard on his chin, pointed with his gun, a massive calibre pistol that could down a mountain if needs be. North, just entering the valley.

Winston pulled out his binoculars – Abilene called them his Far Eyes – and scanned the horizon. Sure enough, a figure approached. It looked like a man, but then so did many things that weren't. Wearing black, it had a black face and black hands. Fear rippled through Winston: if he didn't know better, he'd have said he was looking at Lucifer.

What in the Hell is someone doing out here? Old Red asked.

Winston didn't lower his Far Eyes. Not quite running, not quite walking, the figure was moving with an insistent speed that suggested it would be with them soon.

Thieving? John suggested.

Lost? another Red Bullet said.

He doesn't look lost, Winston said. More like he's found what he was looking for.

Old Red cackled, though there was tension in his voice. Don't be so melodramatic. Come on, Abe, take him down.

You can't shoot an innocent man! Adam cried, long hair swishing in dismay.

What is this, your first trip? No man willingly shirking the Dixie Problem can be innocent. Abe, you got a sight on him?

Winston risked a look away. Abe, a Mexican lad, was now laying by Old Red's feet. He had a long rifle, which leant on a stand built into the barrel. It was a sniper's weapon, another with a huge calibre. He even had a cushioned metal plate slung over his shoulder to deal with the kick. Nothing living could survive a shot from that beast.

Yes, Abe replied.

Then fire, you damn moron!

The shot rung out. Winston's ears complained in shrill tones, but he barely noticed: instead, he went back to watching the dark figure. The bullet struck true, smacking into their chest, but it didn't faze them. The monster just kept coming. For surely, after shrugging off such a shot, a monster it was a monster.

Damn it, Abe, hit, will you!

Winston licked his lips. He did hit.

Then how is he still walking?

It's no he, Red. Abe replied. That's how.

There was a silence as Old Red considered this. Then he shouted, Right, we're out of here. Gather everything. Move quickly. Go!

Winston was inclined to agree. He dropped the Far Eyes into his waistcoat pocket and ran to Thunder, who was spooked almost out of her mind. Climbing onto her, he spurred her into running, and they charged away south. His engineers followed after him, and the mercenaries were last. None spared their horse as they fled.

Thankfully, the black figure did not speed up or give chase. They got back to the cart pretty sharply. Adam and John leapt from their horses to prepare it. It did Winston proud that they'd known he wouldn't want to leave the cart.

You can't be serious! Old Red roared when he saw them preparing the cart. "We've got to