Gunsmoke & Dragonfire: A Fantasy Western Anthology

By Aradia Publishing

From the drought-plagued plains of Mars, to a post-apocalyptic Canada, to the familiar American West and Mexico, to other dimensions and other worlds weird and wonderful, an international cast of bestselling, award-winning, established, and emerging authors brings you 25 strange western tales:

Robert Lee Beers: A hardboiled PI&

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aradia Publishing
• Release date: Mar 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999575700

Book preview

Gunsmoke & Dragonfire

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A FANTASY WESTERN ANTHOLOGY

Edited by Diane Morrison

aradia publishing logo

Published by Aradia Publishing

Aradia Publishing

5583 Silver Star Rd.

Vernon, BC Canada V1B 3P7

© 2019 by Diane Morrison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, website, or journal.

Printed in Canada & the United States of America.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-9995757-0-0

Cover art © 2018 by Aaron Siddall

Typesetting and cover design by Claire Ryan

http://www.dianemorrisonfiction.com

Acknowledgements

This book, more than any other project I have ever worked on, was a team effort.

Thank you to our cover artist Aaron Siddall, who not only provided the cover illustration, but who also provided original art for our Kickstarter. I urge you to check out more of his work at his website, www.aaronsiddall.com.

Thank you to Claire Ryan, our cover designer, graphic artist and typesetter for creating a beautiful image with Aaron's amazing art; but more than that, for creating endless variations of it as conditions changed, as well as endless variations of social media graphics. Her patience with me is appreciated.

Thank you to Jamie Field, who edited all of my contributions to these pages, including all bios, my foreward, and my story.

Above all, extra thank yous are due each and every contributing author! They have all been working tirelessly behind the scenes to help make this project a success. They have gone above and beyond the call of duty, and they have my gratitude and deep respect.

Special Thanks to Our Kickstarter Backers: Alan & Jeremy vs. Science Fiction, Hilary Anderson, Stephanie Barr, Andrew Barton, Zach Chapman, The Creative Fund, William DeGeest, Rob Easton, Spencer Estabrooks, S.A. Gibson, Paul Alex Gray, Alexander Gudenau, Geoff Habiger, Deb E. Johnston Holberton, Stephen Hunt, Barbara Johnson, Dawn Landry, Ryan Lester, James Lucas, Jesse Matonak, McGhiever, Stephanie McNamara, Erin McRoy, Evan Miller, Susan Mitchell, Cat Neshine, Heather Norcross, Jennifer 'Bidlingmeyer' Osterman, David Perlmutter, J.I. Rogers, Leslie Ann Rogers, Christine Thomson, Tasha Turner, and Devinne Walters! We deeply appreciate your support!

Copyright Acknowledgements

Foreward: The Many Faces of Western copyright © 2018 by Diane Morrison

Inheritance copyright © 2019 by Ethan Hedman

When the Bell Strikes Three copyright © 2016 by Joachim Heijndermans

The Case of the Vanishing Unicorns copyright © 2015 by James Blakey

A Different Kind of Law copyright © 2019 by Eric S. Fomley

Red Tide Rising copyright © 2017 by Sara Codair

Pinkerton copyright © 2019 by Liam Hogan

The Teeth of Winter copyright © 2018 by Diane Morrison

Fallen Horseshoes copyright © 2015 by G. Scott Huggins

Raiders of the Lost World copyright © 2019 by Ron S. Friedman

No-Sell copyright © 2019 by Ricardo Victoria

Blazing Beamard copyright © 2017 by Stanley B. Webb

Rick and the Green Gunslinger copyright © 2017 by Zach Chapman

One Hell of a Game copyright © 2018 by Robert Lee Beers

Orcus Express, Derailed copyright © 2017 by Russell Hemmell

Glorious Madness copyright © 2011 by Jude-Marie Green

El Diablo de Paseo Grande copyright © 2011 by Milo James Fowler

By Way of Answer copyright © 2015 by Sean Jones

The Sound of One Shoe Tapping copyright © 2014 by R. Daniel Lester

Balthazar Beausoleil's Blink Wolf Basher copyright © 2019 by Paul Alex Gray

The Burning Plains copyright © 2019 by Brent A. Harris

A Prayer for the Reaping Season copyright © 2019 by Mackenzie Kincaid

Rollo's Herd copyright © 2019 by Claire Ryan

Riders of the Rainbow Ridge copyright © 1997 by Diana L. Paxson

Lonesome copyright © 2019 by Carrie Gessner

Rattle of Bones by Robert E. Howard first appeared in Weird Tales in June, 1929. It is in the public domain in the United States and Canada.

Foreword: The Many Faces of Western

Most of us are used to the concept of a science fiction western by now. However, as a writer who works in the blended genre, I find that fantasy western is a harder sell. But I think it's a natural fit.

The truth is that the Wild West, as visualized in the North American consciousness, is a myth. And like all myths, it has a certain universal human appeal; at least, if it's done well. Fantasy also deals primarily in myth. Many of the themes common to both milieus are older than remembered time.

In curating these stories, I decided that there would have to be more than a thin veneer of cowboys grafted on to a speculative fiction story. In addition to its fantastic elements, each story would have to be a western at heart. The question then becomes: what, exactly, is a western?

Westerns focus on the myths of settling the wild frontier, although they share much with the Knight Errant tales of Europe, the ronin stories of Japan, and sometimes, trickster-heroes of a variety of cultural myths from around the world. Stories focus on survival in a hostile and alien environment, whether they tell of pioneering, running away from something, bringing elements of the civilization left behind to the wilderness, or fighting for the land's possession. Outlaws flee justice, and sheriffs or vigilantes dispense it. Settlers and native folk compete, often violently, for space or resources. Above all, codes of honour are personal, because the only law is the law of the gun. In these stories, the landscape itself becomes a character, lending its favour to the protagonist, or dispensing its wrath; or often, both.

Author and screenwriter Frank Gruber identified seven main plots of westerns:

the Union Pacific story – establishing modern technology or forms of transportation, such as a telegraph, railroad or wagon train;

the Ranch story – a ranch defends itself against rustlers, rich landowners, or the environment;

the Empire story – a rags-to-riches story about establishing a financial empire (or trying to);

the Revenge story;

the Cavalry and Indian story – taming the wilderness for settlers, or fighting back against them;

the Outlaw story

the Marshal story.

In all of these plots, clear divisions of good and evil are frequently subjective or non-existent. For example, it might be the Outlaw who is the moral character and the Marshal who is immoral; or the one who dispenses justice now may have been a cold-blooded killer in their youth. While I prefer not to emphasize the problematic elements of these tales (for instance, I do not find genocide heroic,) I think you'll find that all of the stories I've selected fall into at least one of these patterns.

There are several recognized subcategories of western, mostly defined by change of location or time period, a blending of cultures, or a mix of other genres or genre elements. One example is the Weird Western, which is when westerns meet the supernatural, most often in the form of horror. Space Westerns are stories of wagon trains to the stars— space, after all, is the Final Frontier. Apocalyptic Westerns explore western plots and characters in a post-apocalyptic setting, with a collapsed central authority, that serves as a new hostile environment to survive or tame. Cattlepunk stories are western-steampunk stories. This anthology has a selection of all of the above, and a few things that defy these labels besides.

Like a western, my motives for putting this anthology together are morally ambiguous. I wanted to draw attention to this unique blend of genres because I write in it. However, I recognized that I could not be alone in this. So, I also hoped to draw attention to other writers who share my interest, because they're fun and interesting and I think they deserve recognition!

In these pages, you'll find an international cast of traditionally published and indie writers, established and emerging writers, award-winners, and one or two who are brand new. You'll find that frequently, standard tropes and stereotypes are challenged, subverted, or upended entirely. You'll find stories that take place in the past, present, and future, from the familiar American West and Mexico, to a post-apocalyptic Canada, to the drought-plagued plains of Mars, to other dimensions and other worlds weird and wonderful. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

Diane Morrison

December 6, 2018

A Note on Spelling and Grammar

Because I wish to celebrate the international scope of our authors, I have chosen not to standardize spelling, punctuation, or grammar. Stories will appear in whichever dialect of English is appropriate to the author's background. When English is the author's second language, stories will appear in the dialect they were originally submitted in.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Copyright Acknowledgements

Foreword: The Many Faces of Western

A Note on Spelling and Grammar

Inheritance by Ethan Hedman

When the Bell Strikes Three by Joachim Heijndermans

The Case of the Vanishing Unicorns by James Blakey

A Different Kind of Law by Eric S. Fomley

Red Tide Rising by Sara Codair

Pinkerton by Liam Hogan

The Teeth of Winter by Diane Morrison

The Gathering Storm

An Unexpected Visitor

A Hungry Spirit

A Biting Wind

Dusk

The Cabin

Swift Runner

Haunted Wood

Trapped

Firewater

Frozen

Hunting the Hunter

Sanguine Humours

Heart of Winter

Fire in the Blood

Alive

Fallen Horseshoes by G. Scott Huggins

Raiders of the Lost World by Ron S. Friedman

No-Sell by Ricardo Victoria

Rattle of Bones by Robert E. Howard

Blazing Beamard by Stanley B. Webb

Rick and the Green Gunslinger by Zach Chapman

One Hell of a Game by Robert Lee Beers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Orcus Express, Derailed by Russell Hemmell

Glorious Madness by Jude-Marie Green

El Diablo de Paseo Grande by Milo James Fowler

1. Barn of Horrors

2. A Premature Birth

3. The Goat-Sucker

4. A Blazing Inferno

5. La Chupacabra Grande

6. A Solo Mission

7. All Is Well

By Way of Answer by Sean Jones

The Sound of One Shoe Tapping by R. Daniel Lester

Balthazar Beausoleil's Blink Wolf Basher by Paul Alex Gray

The Burning Plains by Brent A. Harris

A Prayer for the Reaping Season by Mackenzie Kincaid

Rollo's Herd by Claire Ryan

Riders of the Rainbow Ridge by Diana L. Paxson

Lonesome by Carrie Gessner

About the Editor

Inheritance

Ethan Hedman

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Ethan's story was one of the first submissions I received. He's a young emerging writer with a disarming smile, whom I found to be friendly and easy to work with. His science fiction story, Impact Imminent, was an Honorable Mention for Mythic Beast Studio's Icarus contest in December 2018. He has a penchant for flash- and microfiction, so I'm pleased he wrote us such a lengthy tale! His work has appeared in Drabbledark, Tales of Ruma, Unrealpolitik, Lucent Dreaming, Horror Tree, and numerous flash- and microfiction publications. Ethan comes from Cutler Bay, Florida, the land of, as he puts it, heat, humidity, and hurricanes, and he tells me he gets more grief from being an atheist than he does for being bisexual. You can find him on his website www.ethanhedman.com, or on social media on Twitter or Instagram.

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A string of bells chimed softly as Charlie Galloway strode into the tiny store. The sign swinging outside indicated this was B. Whitaker & Sons' Enchantorium, a proud name for this ramshackle building tucked snugly against the backside of a saloon. He heard a clatter from the room behind the counter as a short man with a long, golden beard emerged.

Welcome, welcome! the man said, sporting a warm smile. How might I assist you today?

I'm lookin' for Barnabas Whitaker.

Ah. I'm afraid you've found the next best thing. I'm Archibald Whitaker, his second of four sons. Our father passed away a few years ago, you see. I had the honor of inheriting the family business and continuing in his footsteps. His reputation precedes us, and I can wholeheartedly say we still offer the finest enchantments money can buy.

Well, Archibald Whitaker, I'm Charlie Galloway. Ever heard that name?

The shopkeeper stroked his beard thoughtfully. I can't say it rings a bell.

Charlie snatched a revolver out from underneath his coat and slammed it down on the counter. How 'bout now?

Goodness gracious! Archibald recoiled. Is this a robbery?

Charlie snickered. 'Course not. This here's my daddy's gun, he said, gesturing at the pistol. Go on and take a gander.

Archibald sighed in relief. He pulled a pair of small spectacles from his breast pocket and leaned in for a closer look. The revolver was long and made of dark metal. It seemed as though the weapon had seen better days; its wooden grip was badly scuffed and the barrel had the beginnings of rust spots. Ah, yes, well, I must admit, I'm rather lacking in expertise when it comes to firearms...

Take a good look at the side of it, fella.

Archibald gingerly lifted the gun, squinting at the engravings. They were worn but still clearly decorative, showing a dragon flying through wisps of clouds. Beneath the scene lay a tiny string of words. He finally made them out: B. WHITAKER ENCH.

I don't understand, he whispered, mostly to himself. My father never dealt in arms.

Charlie snorted, leaning on the counter. "Guess that there's what they call an exception. Your daddy left you this shop? My daddy, Charles Galloway Senior, left me this gun. Said he got it from a wizard who magicked it up for him special. This here's one of a kind."

Well, the evidence is certainly in your favor. I can't imagine anyone fabricating my father's name for this sort of thing... Archibald trailed off, lost in thought, before setting the revolver back down. Ah, well, regardless, I'm sure you didn't come here just to flavor my family's legacy with a hearty dash of mystery.

Yeah. It's broke.

I see, but I'm hardly a weaponsmith—

Shoots bullets well enough, but it ain't magicked anymore.

Oh. Well, then, depending on the enchantment—

My daddy left me this here, too, Charlie said, sliding a folded piece of paper across the counter.

Archibald unfolded the document. An eternal guarantee?!

Signed by your daddy hisself, Barnabas Whitaker.

I... see. Give me a moment to examine this, if you'd be so kind. He scanned the words carefully, mumbling fragments of the sentences. Hereby granted in perpetuity to Charles Galloway and members of his lineage... for repairs and refinement... to be serviced immediately... well! Archibald abandoned the paper and wiped the sweat from his brow. I must admit, this document appears quite genuine.

Sure does.

Nevertheless, we use certain security measures in the Whitaker family to verify the nature of such claims. Our guarantees are always fireproof, you see. May I attempt to burn a corner?

The gun's broke, fella.

Yes, I heard—

So who's to say this paper ain't broke, too?

Ah, well...

You might just burn up that pretty old signature while you're at it.

Archibald furrowed his brow. Are you suggesting I would try to weasel out from honoring my own late father's guarantee?

Charlie looked him hard in the eye while scratching the back of his neck. Yup.

My dear fellow, if you would—

Figured we'd keep this between us, mister, but I can always come back with some fancypants lawyer.

Oh, there's no need for—

Heard there's a court n' a judge right here in town; I reckon a few of them law-bendin' dandies'll be prowlin' around.

"Really, this is entirely uncalled for! I only wish to clip a small corner from the document which I can then attempt to burn."

And if the paper's broke?

My good man, our fireproofing enchantments have always been the finest in the land. Put simply: they do not end. Not once has any customer of ours complained of a single fireproof item being so much as singed! Not once, and I have no doubt a judge would see the truth of it. I only wish to avoid the hassle and costs associated with a law-bendi—er, with a serviceman of the law. Archibald took a deep breath. Now, then, he said, retrieving a pair of silver scissors from beneath the countertop, with your permission, may I proceed?

Nope. Charlie grabbed the paper from the counter and tore a piece away. No tricks, wizard. He brought a match out from a tiny box and struck it against the counter. My fire, not yours.

Archibald sighed. Fine, fine.

Charlie held the match beneath the torn scrap for ten seconds, counting them under his breath as they passed. Not so much as a wisp of smoke ever appeared. Well now, he said, dropping and stomping on the match, you weren't lyin' 'bout the paper.

Yes, yes. I'll honor my father's guarantee, of course. May I see that again? Archibald gingerly took the document back in hand. This item was enchanted twice. The original enchantment is protected behind something of a barrier. It can only be used successfully — with its magical properties intact — by one person at a time. The moment your father passed away, it returned to a state of—

How 'bout fixin' it?

Actually, I'm quite sure the enchantments are working perfectly.

Not for me, they ain't, and I need the damn thing more'n you know.

I merely have to bind it to you. Fret not, it's a simple process. Archibald scanned the paper for a moment before finally putting it down. He gently tucked his spectacles back into his pocket. I hope you'll pardon me for asking, but...

Charlie snorted. What now?

Well, as I said, I'll honor the guarantee, but my father failed to indicate the nature of the gun's original enchantment.

So?

He spoke often of how he loathed violence in the world. He was the type of man who gave goods and services for free to those who truly needed them. In short, he was a charitable, peaceful soul. I simply don't understand why he would have chosen to enchant a weapon.

Charlie smirked. Well, that all sounds right enough to me. This here gun wasn't no purchase. The guarantee was free of charge, too. These're gifts, and we damn sure needed 'em.

***

Archibald escorted his customer outside. What a remarkable story, he said, clapping Charlie on the back. I must say, today has been an unexpected pleasure.

Turned out all right for the both of us, I reckon. Charlie wrapped a long blue scarf around his face, tying it tightly in the back. You got a story, I got my gun workin' right. He strode to his steed and stroked its mane before lifting himself onto the saddle.

Truly a beautiful animal, if I may say so, Archibald said, admiring the sleek chestnut stallion from a distance. Oh, if you can spare half of an hour, I'd be more than happy to enchant that saddle before you leave. I can assure you beyond any doubt, it will always be warm and comfortable.

Nah. Charlie strapped his legs to the saddle with a series of small belts. Always suited my daddy just fine. Suits me just as good. Thanks all the same. He grabbed the reins and turned his mount away from the Enchantorium.

You're always welcome here, you know, Archibald called.

Charlie nodded, turning his back. We got work to do, he whispered. Come on, now. The horse sped into a gallop before unfurling its wings, flapping a few times for stability before climbing high into the air.

He closed his eyes and thought about his father. He remembered how he used to shoot bottles for Charlie's entertainment when he was just a boy. Charlie once asked if his father ever missed. Can't afford the luxury, kid,Charles Senior had said, twirling his lucky revolver. What I do is too goddamn important to miss.

He touched the handle of the gun strapped firmly at his side. Dragons beware, he thought. The people below could rest easy as long as a Galloway patrolled the skies.

When the Bell Strikes Three

Joachim Heijndermans

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Joachim hails from the Netherlands. He was also a contributor to Drabbledark, and his work has appeared in Metaphorosis, Econoclash Review, Mad Scientist Journal, Asymmetry, Kraxon Magazine, Exoplanet Magazine, Aurora Wolf, Longshot Island and the anthologies Enter the Aftermath and A World Unimagined. On top of everything else, he's a talented artist and cartoonist! He's got a penchant for the creepy, as I'm sure you'll see with this story, which was originally published in the November 2016 issue of Under the Bed Magazine. But don't let that fool you; really, he's quite friendly. Nice, even. If you're looking for him online, you can find him on Goodreads, his Tumblr, or his Twitter, and I promise you, the visuals alone are worth a look.

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They stood there up on the hill, which granted them a good vantage point of the entire valley. From there, the Kid could see the town clearly, nestled safely among the evergreens that decorated the foot of the mountains. He never heard of a town being out here. Hadn't figured on anyone to be crazy enough to settle so far off the beaten path. Nearest city was miles out west. Weren't no ranches around either, just empty prairies that led to cold mountains. They'd been riding for days now, and it was by simple luck that they stumbled on it. Weren't exactly the type of place they were accustomed to, but this place was good enough to rest. The horses needed feed and water, and they needed a place to lay low. And with something this remote, the less likely the chance they would run into a marshal. Hell, he'd be amazed if their local sheriff was up to snuff.

What you reckon? Buck asked, peering down at the town. He pulled out his gun to replace the bullets he had fired when they ran out of the last place they'd stopped for the night. Some peckerwood deputy recognized the two of them and tried to be a hero. Buck pulled three bullets from his belt, replacing the two that were now lodged in the deputy and the one he shot into the air during their escape, scaring off the regular folks.

What do I reckon about what? the Kid asked.

We gonna git any trouble from them folks down there?

Please, the Kid scoffed. Look at it. Their idea of a good time is prolly the church picnic. Them folks is likely to have a fit the moment they get their eyes on our guns.

Good enough fer me, Buck chuckled. With a kick of his boot, he ran his horse down the hill. The Kid followed suit.

The terrain was rocky, even for being so close to the mountains. There were plenty of grasslands all around, but it didn't seem like there were any steers or crops being raised anywhere. You'd think the townsfolk would do something with it.

Both of 'em rode into town as if they owned the place, passing by a lone plow that was rusted in the dirt. Not a nervous bone in either of them. Why would there be? Anyone asked, they were just two fellers who came down to visit the good folk of this lovely town. A town, the Kid noticed, that didn't seem to have a name of any sort, with no post to tell them where they were. Just a handful of houses, a handful of woefully-supplied businesses, a stable that lacked in any horses, and a church that was in desperate need of repairs. It was an empty place, with not a single soul to welcome them either, if one discounted the lone drunk that huddled under a tree beside the destroyed church they just passed.

The dumb bastard seemed to be chatting up a storm with himself, mumbling incoherently in tongues. Neither the Kid nor Buck gave the feller much thought at first. Just another wino. Hundreds out from where they'd just come. It was when the man spotted the two riders and scurried towards them, practically on his hands and feet, that he caught their attention. His black clothes, which had faded and turned near brown from the dirt that clung to it, hung loosely from his body, as if they once belonged to a much fatter man. His beard was rough and unkempt, and he seemed to be missing all but one of his teeth.

Masons! he belted out with a dry heave. Masons come to the trees when the hooves bury the dirt. I see the dark now, and its jaws eat the acorns of the blue!

The Kid chuckled. What's this dumb son-of-a-bitch blabbering on about? he asked.

The man spun around in a circle. Smoke! Smoke in the hill. And teeth. Smoking teeth! They come for all our souls!

Buck leaned down toward the man. Hey, what town is this? This place got a name?

The man stopped spinning. He looked at Buck with the widest eyes the bandit ever did see on a man. For a moment, a hint of color seemed to return to the wino's eyes. With trembling hand, he pointed toward the remains of a burnt pile of wood. The ground around it was singed black. Just looking at it sent a chill down Buck's spine. A sense of dread lingered around this whole place, like a bad taste that fouled up the air.

Look, you drunk bastard. My friend asked you— the Kid snapped. But it was for naught, as the man in black ran off and screamed something fierce and unintelligible. What's he saying? the Kid asked his partner.

Dunno. Somethin' about carcasses.

***

The two riders rode further into town. The streets were empty, as were most of the homes as far as they could tell. Only the peering eyes from the odd window every now and then gave the town some proof of life.

Buck halted next to an old-timer, on his way across the street with a bag of oats under his arms. Hey, what town is this here?

The man's eyes shifted from side to side, as if he was spotting the horizon for rabbit. We used ta be Sweetwater. But we ain't been that for a long while, he muttered. Not in the longest of times.

Well, where can we get ourselves a drink? the Kid asked.

The man pointed towards an establishment that the Kid had completely overlooked at first glance, with its upper windows boarded up. It was then the Kid finally noticed the red paint, spelling out the word 'Saloon'. Globs of dried paint ran down to the ground, as if bleeding from an open wound. Underneath the red letters was evidence of a better crafted, wood-carved sign that once denoted a hotel. Whoever owned the establishment must've been in a mighty hurry to change their title.

The Kid and Buck entered. The cheerful chimes of a pianola welcomed them in. That was the only welcoming thing about the place. The barman studied them with suspicious eyes. The few patrons present only had eyes for their drinks. There were even a few whores, but they weren't nearly as pretty as the girls the two had seen in other towns. In fact, if it weren't for their way of dress, they wouldn't have seemed like whores at all. They looked like they would be at home as the wives of judges, or maybe some lawmen. The youngest among them, a short black-haired girl with dark eyes, seemed to be drunk, as she rocked herself back and forth like a metronome whilst she cradled an empty bottle like a babe. A stranger selection of women than these would be a rare find.

Two whiskeys, Buck said, dropping a dollar on the counter. The barman gave them their drinks, but neglected to take his payment. Buck was mighty pleased at this unexpected sign of hospitality. Thanks, barkeep. That's mighty neighborly of you.

The man said nothing. Not a single word was spoken inside the saloon by anyone. The Kid felt their peering eyes in the back of his head. His fingers ached for his gun. If any of these yokels tried anything, they'd all be dead men.

Barkeep, Buck called out. How much for a room— no, make that two rooms, he chuckled, eyeing one of the younger whores. We'll be wanting our privacy.

The Barkeep's eyes darted towards a man at the other end of the bar. He was a portly man with deep circles under his eyes and a half-empty bottle of gin within his reach. He returned the look. Something about the fat man seemed to scream 'lawman', but Buck couldn't see a star anywhere on his person.

Two dollars a night per room, the Barman said. But I would advise you an' your friend to move your business to another town.

The Kid's eyes grew wild. The fire in him was ignited once more. That fire that kept getting him into all sorts of trouble, where bullets flew and men ended up dead. He placed his hand on his Colt and growled. Our money ain't good enough for you, old man? Or are you aching for trouble?

No sir, we don't want no trouble here, the Barkeep said with panic in his voice. It's just, our accommodations ain't what they used to be an'—

We'll take what you got, Buck said, slamming four dollars on the bar. We'll also need a bath. And a whore each. You savvy?

The Barkeep just nodded, and reluctantly took the money. The portly man at the end just shook his head and turned his attention back to his gin.

Well, what d'you think? Buck asked. Good place to lay low?

Meh. The Kid shrugged. Good enough. But somethin' feels off. 'Bout this whole place.

What'd you mean?

Well, this saloon fer instance. It looks like some greenhorn's idea of a waterin' hole. Like what folks out East think saloons are supposed to be like. It's as dodgy as a three-sided bill.

Does it matter? It's just a place to lay low and git pissed. We lay low, then move along when the smoke dies down. So don't you get carried away again, you hear me, Kid?

He nodded, but Buck's words began to lose all meaning soon enough. The fire roared again. The Kid, still restless and aching for action, turned around to get himself a good look at the establishment. Nothing much to write home about. A run of the mill watering hole, like you'd hear about in stories. Hell, it might as well have leaped from a dime store novel cover, with the hokey pianola and the way the tables were set up. The four gents in the corner playing cards was just the icing on the cake. That's when the Kid saw him.

I'll be damned, he mumbled. He walked over to the table near the pianola. Seated there was a man dressed in grey. Although he his hat was tilted downward, the Kid recognized that chin from the posters. He peered down at the man's belt, seeing those famous silver shooters hanging from the man's hips. The gloved hands were the signature that signed the piece. You're...you're James Gaffe! The Colorado Highwayman!

The man raised his hat. The Kid stepped back, as the man was not as he expected him to be. His sunken-in cheeks and pale skin gave him a gaunt look. His mustache was near white, as if it had been painted so. It was Gaffe, all right. But he was but a shadow of the man the Kid remembered from the Wanted posters. A man long past his prime. Only his sky-blue eyes, which seemed to peer right into the Kid's soul, betrayed that this was a dangerous man.

You're him, ain't ya? the Kid growled. The one who robbed the train to El Paso! Shot and killed four marshals in one day. Last survivin' Gaffe brother. You're him, right?

The man in grey sighed. I am. Who wants to know?

They call me the Tuscon Kid, he said, practically beating his chest with cocky pride.

Do they now. Gaffe said, clearly not impressed.

The Kid began to get riled up. He was not one to take disrespect from any man, no matter how famed of a killer he was. He slammed his hands on the table and leaned in close.

Perhaps you've heard of me, ol' man. I done an' killed me ten men. Me and my friend robbed the Austin bank down in Texas just last spring!

Gaffe just sat there. He looked the Kid in the eye and gave him the once-over. The Kid got the feeling that he was an open book to Gaffe, as though thousands of young bucks like him had stood there, just like he was now, posturing like they could take him on.

So, what's a highwayman like you doing in a shithole like this? Never pegged you for the kind to settle down. Least of all in a place called 'Sweetwater', the Kid continued.

One of the women gasped. Most of the other patrons shared frightened looks with each other. The gents in the back paused their game of cards and turned around. That name seemed to unnerve them something fierce.

One, Gaffe began, raising one finger, this place ain't been called Sweetwater since afore I came here. And two, don't you go thinking you know me, boy. You ain't got the slightest idea of what you've walked into here.

The Kid laughed. He looked to Buck, both amused and shocked by the sheer amount of grit this old-timer was showing. I'm afraid it's you who ain't got a clue, friend. I'm the Tuscon Kid. And this here is my friend, Buck Williams. We're wanted in seven states for murderin' an' robbin' banks. I reckon we done killed a lot more men than you ever did, Jimmy!

Ain't no banks here, Kid, Gaffe sighed. And with that temper of yours, I'd suggest you move on to some other town, afore the clock strikes three.

Is that a threat? the Kid hissed.

A friendly warning. The last you'll get, Gaffe said.

The Kid exploded. In his fury, he heaved the table aside. Wood and glass shattered, yet Gaffe simply sat there. This infuriated the Kid even more. Around them, gasps of shock were heard. Buck pulled his gun to get them to back off, but no-one seemed to be in a hurry to interfere.

Get up, you son-of-a-bitch! the Kid bellowed. I don't care who you are. We're doing this! I'ma beat the living shit outta you!

The man in grey gave the Kid another good look. Mostly, it was the gun in the youngster's holster that seemed to interest him the most. Like he was counting the bullets on the kid's belt.

The Kid was growing more and more impatient. In another display of his bravado, he kicked a second table over. His boots stomped on the broken glass, the sound of which rang through the saloon. Git up, you dumb bastard! You gon' be spittin' teeth!

Gaffe looked up to the young man and squinted. I thought you was a killer? Or ain't you got the balls to draw your gun?

Oh, you got sand, ol' man, the Kid laughed. I give you that.

Then let's take this outside, Gaffe grunted, finally standing up.

Jim, no! one of the whores said. Gaffe turned to the woman, and simply smiled and nodded to her. No one else seemed to get riled up. They just threw each other worried looks, nervously peering from the corners of their eyes.

C'mon, boy. I ain't got all day, Gaffe said as he walked towards the entry. His spurs sang solemnly with every step. His two silver Colts gleamed in the light of the sun, even nestled in their holsters.

You in a hurry to die, ol' man? laughed the Kid. Gaffe said nothing. He stared back at his challenger for a moment. To the Kid's puzzlement, the famed highwayman smiled. Not just at him, but at all the men and women inside the saloon. He tipped his hat and walked out into the street.

It was then that more townsfolk came out from their hiding spots. The old timer from earlier, two gentlemen and a crone from within the general store, and a tall man with a leather apron and massive arms who seemed to be the blacksmith. Even the rambling man in black joined in, running toward Gaffe and flopping down before his feet.

Pines! Deep pines and the roaring flesh that dances!

It's all right, Gaffe said. Me an' this young'n have a disagreement, is all. And we're about to settle.

The Kid walked into the street, about twenty paces away from Gaffe. The gaunt man in grey opened his vest and took a silver flask from his pocket. After a single swig, he handed the rest to the rambling man.

Here you are, Reverend. Enjoy.

Reverend? the Kid wondered. Was the madman that rolled around in the middle of the street this town's preacher? But the Kid had no time to ponder the fates of crazy men. More pressing matters took the forefront of his mind. Today he'd go down in the history books, for he was gonna gun him down a legend.

When the clock hits two, we draw. That fine with you, Kid?

The younger man spat onto the dirt. Fine by me, ol' man.

He peered at the clock on top of the church. Two minutes till two. His hand hovered beside his Colt. Gaffe did the same, only his did not tremble in the slightest. A bead of sweat rolled down the Kid's brow. The legend was calm. He stood there as if made of stone, his cold eyes locked on the young challenger. For a moment, the Kid wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Jim, please! one of the women in the saloon cried out.

Gaffe raised his hand, silently telling her to stay back. It's all right, Jeannie. It's all right, he said with a gentle but tired smile.

One minute left. The Kid's fingers ached for his gun. His lips dried up and his tongue felt like it was lodged in the back of his throat. He was afraid to blink, should the highwayman get any ideas of beating him to the punch. In either case, Buck would have his back. He'd gun that bastard down the minute he drew his silver pistols.

The first ring of the bell. The Kid felt as if his heart had stopped. The wait for the second ring seemed like an eternity. Gaffe stood there, poised and ready, that smile on his face. He weren't afraid to die. It would all come down to the Kid's speed against his.

The second bell struck. The Kid's speed did not fail him. His hand flew fast and drew his Colt. A shot rang through the air. Gaffe keeled over onto his back, kicking up a cloud of dust as his body hit the street. For a good minute, the Kid couldn't believe it. He'd won! He'd shot the bastard dead!

The Kid ran towards Gaffe. The gunfighter lay there, slowly breathing his last. The bullet had gone through his belly and must have come out through his back, as blood seeped out of him like a river. He didn't struggle, not even for a moment. It almost seemed as if he were embracing death, like one would a lover from days long ago or a friend that had finally come for him. The man in grey raised his head to meet the Kid's eyes.

T-thank...ya...kid..., he gasped. I'm...sorry...

His head fell back, hitting the dirt like a heavy stone. Gaffe's eyes rolled into the back of his head as his ghost left his body. The Highwayman from Colorado was no more.

You bastard, cried the woman from the saloon. How could you!

Now Jeannie, said the portly man, taking the weeping woman into his arms. That young man there did him a kindness.

But she was inconsolable. How could you? How could you shoot an unarmed man?

The Kid turned around. What did the whore say? He leaned down and frantically pulled Gaffe's revolvers from his holsters. The gleam of the sun's light nearly blinded him, but that did not stop him. He opened the chambers of each pistol. Empty! Not a bullet in either of them. He looked to Buck, who shrugged his shoulders. The woman was right. Gaffe was unarmed. Then why in God's name why did he agree to the duel? Why was he the one to suggest pistols over fists?

The gleam from the silver guns faded away. Clouds hovered over the town, blocking the sun's rays. The air grew colder. All those present for the gunfight scurried away once again, back into their hiding places. Taking the silver pistols, the Kid walked back to the saloon. On his way, he saw the mad reverend again, drinking and leaning against a wall.

Gobble them up! Nom nom! Little bones that crunched. Gobble gobble! he ranted.

Buck approached the Kid, slapping him on the shoulder. "Well, how does it feel to kill a gen-u-wine legend?" he asked.

The Kid shrugged. Same as killing any man, he lied. Shooting Gaffe wasn't like any of the shootings he'd done beforehand. There was a sad emptiness about the whole affair. A feeling that made his skin crawl and his bones ache, as if he'd been stuck out in the snow for a week. Even his prize of Gaffe's famed silver pistols didn't feel right. Rather than having stolen something beautiful, he felt he'd inherited something sinister. A dreadful sensation clung to the six-shooters that brought a lone word to mind: evil.

Barkeep, Buck shouted, as he dragged the Kid back inside the establishment. Give us the whole bottle. My friend here done an' killed him a legend! Make it snappy.

The portly man approached the two bandits. His face changed. It had 'lawman' written all over it now. I'd suggest you both leave, before the clock strikes three.

Why? laughed Buck. Is the sheriff gonna show?

"I am the sheriff, he said, as his face drooped into a sad grimace. Or I was. But that ain't the problem. I—"

But the Kid wasn't interested. As soon as the barkeep brought out the bottle of whiskey, he swiped it and headed towards the women in the back. Five of them in total. The one who cried over Gaffe shot daggers from her eyes, so he passed on her. Two others were practically old crones, with lines in their faces and gray in their hair. The youngest seemed to be a drunk or a retard, as she kept bobbing her head back and forth while she stared off into nowhere particular. So, he settled for the brown-haired woman, who came along without a fight as he dragged her along by the arm. Let's do this, the Kid grumbled.

Buck cheered him on from the bar, while he ordered another bottle for himself, the lone happy man in a group of mourners.

***

The Kid laid there on the creaky mattress. He was still restless, but he doubted he had another round in him. The painted cat splashed her face with water, cleaning his filth from her brow. The Kid looked at her, somewhat fascinated. The girls in the big cities seemed more at home in their trade. This woman was as alien to whoring as a prairie dog to ice fishing. It didn't add up. Most of this town didn't add up.

What's your name? the Kid asked.

Isobel, she said, as she rinsed her mouth.

To his own surprise, he asked. So why do you do this? He couldn't remember the last time he was interested in another person, least of all a whore.

The woman shrugged. But it was a dishonest shrug. She knew exactly why she did this.

The Kid grabbed her wrist. Why do you do this? he asked again.

She ignored him. Instead, she repeated what others had told him before. You need to leave. Before the clock strikes three.

"I ain't going nowhere, sweetheart. Me and my friend, we on the run from the law. That means we'll be hiding in this here town for a long while. So I know that you and I will be seeing lots of each