Hell, he even made all of the Black Jackets wear badges, even if they had to cut one out of the bottom of a soup can, his men wore them. They carried nightsticks and other clubs, another sign of their authority. They even carried fucking whistles. Whistles! His men did these things and in general, did their job of keeping certain areas and streets in town relatively safe. He wasn’t an inspiring leader, but he was tough and seemed to honestly care about his Black Jackets. It was the kind of thing that made men want to follow him. Coal had found out later, through Councilman Jackson of all people, that Rincone had paid Coal’s bounty out of his own pocket, not the town’s. It had been a sizable number of chits.
The more Coal thought about it, the more he wanted to go talk to Rincone himself. The two had never been friends, but at least seem to carry a mutual respect for each other’s position, working for the Council. Hopefully, that would be enough to get him in to see the Police Chief. But what then? Try and convince Rincone to support the council again? Why? Why should he care?
The line of thought was enough to stop Coal in his tracks. A street urchin in a nearby ally saw the Indian stop. He turned and ran, in fear the Indian would kill him simply for being too close. Coal ignored him, shaking his head still deep in thought. Did he care if the council folded up? Sure they had been a decent source of income over the years, but his ranch paid most of the bills. The bounties would definitely stop though. Sure he had worked the one for Rincone and a few others for Murphy, though that was before he had put together his “Rangers.” The bulk of the bounties had come from the City Council, and those had built the Indian’s reputation. Coal had to admit he liked his reputation as a killer, people respected him or at least feared him for it, whatever, same thing.
The real problem Coal realized was losing the bounties. Without them, he would have one less excuse to go out into the wastes. To be able to step away from all of the bullshit responsibilities the ranch had created for him. Sure he would still go out to hunt, but if Charlie had his way he would eventually lose that as well, replaced by the very men he trained. Then he would be stuck, held in a prison of his own making, a prisoner of his own success. He could just ride away, couldn’t he? Leave it all and let Charlie figure out how to make do without him. Could the little man pull it off, without his gun and horses? Maybe, but it seemed like a lot of lives to risk on a maybe. There were dozens of families living out at the ranch that depended on Coal.
“Fuck,” he shouted and started walking again.
He would do it he decided. He would go out and talk to Rincone. At least get a sense of what the Chief had planned. Maybe see if he could get him to start guarding the council again. Point out that if Coal noticed, that it would only be a matter of time before someone else would. That in the long run, it would serve the Black Jackets best interest to keep the charade up for as long as possible. Maybe buy the council time to get their shit together, and try to figure out a way to reestablish their power. Then they could continue to issue bounties, to be able to pay Coal. Makes a lot of sense, he chided himself, help them make money so you can work for them, bravo, a real fucking captain of industry right here.
As Coal rounded the corner, the ranch came into view. A pair of riders stood in front of the main gates talking down to a smaller figure standing in front of them; that would be Charlie. Coal could see a pair of his men on the top of the wall, each carrying crossbows.
“Murphy, just great,” Coal said aloud.
Coal recognized the riders immediately, the first hint was they had horses, the second was that they weren’t his. The only other person in town with horses was Murphy, these would be some of Murphy’s outriders or as the men had started to call themselves, his Rangers. Murphy had started the group less than a year ago, inspired in no small part by Coal’s success in tracking down bounties out in the desert. The former Councilman had even offered Coal a job, he had wanted the half-breed to train and eventually lead the little Cavalry unit. The Indian had politely refused, something that most folks only got to do to Murphy once, before meeting a violent end.
As Coal approached, he could make out the lead rider, the man that had been talking to Charlie. His name was Rory, and he now led Murphy’s Rangers. The man was in his late 40s, with a bald head and an unwieldy huge beard. The beard was black with slashes of white turning to gray, most would think it just an odd coloring, Coal guested the man let the beard grow out to cover a heavily scarred face. As if sensing Coal’s approach Rory turned in the saddle and faced him. His face lit up with a wide toothy grin.
“Well hey, there he is right there! Howdy Coal!” Rory shouted with a laugh. Turning his horse to meet the approaching Indian.
When Rory turned Coal got a chance then to see the man’s most striking feature. His right eye socket was an angry red hole. The side of his face was crisscrossed by red scars left from whatever violent action had removed the eye. The eye, or more accurately the lack of the eyes wasn’t what bothered Coal about the loud and always jovial man. It was the other eye, the left eye. It was light blue almost gray and no matter what Rory said or did. Whether he was laughing and joking with street kids or torturing innocent wanderers to death just for the sport, that left eye never changed.
During one of his visits to the Nation, Coal had discussed the Rangers with the Chief and the Elder Council. It seemed several bodies had been discovered just inside of the Nation’s lands. These bodies had been brutally tortured, sometimes skinned or burned, some with fingers and toes removed, never the same thing twice it seemed. But in each case, the eyes had been gouged out while the victims had still lived. When Coal had described Rory to the council and mentioned his unnerving left eye, they had dubbed him a “Skinwalker.” A deadly creature from ancient legend, that wore the skins of men to hide and that killed unsuspecting humans for food and pleasure. Now even the Elder Council wasn’t superstitious enough to actually believe that the Ranger was a mythical monster in human form. But the analogy fit and looking into Rory’s one good eye, knowing what the smiling man had done, and what he was capable of, Coal could almost believe it.
“How are things Coal? It’s been awhile since we seen you down at Murphs,” Rory said looking down from horseback, a wide grin barely showing through his beard. The second man sat back in silence his face a blank slate.
“Oh, you know; things are so-so. I go out and do a little hunting, sometimes animals, sometimes men. I come back, get paid, and spend the chits. Not too much to tell really,” the Indian replied in a slightly bored tone.
“That’s what I hear,” replied Rory. “I also hear that the bounties are going to be drying up.”
Rory knew about the council then, which means Murphy knew as well. So much for Rincone’s secret.
“Perhaps, always people willing to pay for dangerous work. Your boss included,” Coal replied.
“Maybe that was the case at one time, but now, not so much I think,” Rory said leaning back with a grin.
“The Rangers are that good huh?” Coal asked with a grin.
“We are and getting better every day. That’s what happens when you track just men and not animals, day after day. You learn quick,” Rory replied.
Coal had crossed the Ranger’s trail several times while out in the wastes. It was hard to miss a dozen riders that liked to ride hard and didn’t care about leaving any sign of their passing. But Coal knew they never went out more than a half a day’s ride, choosing return to the security and comfort of town at night. Murphy used them in town as much as out, a mounted man was as intimidating now as it always has been, and the Rangers loved to ride people down.
“That’s true, that’s the best way to learn, by doing. The problem is that you have to pay for those lessons,” Coal said.
“That’s true, as always, pay for them in blood,” Rory replied, his voice had a hint of regret.
“The trick has always been living long enough to actually learn something,” said Coal.
The Indian regarded the Ranger in a b
it of a different light just then. Maybe the two had more in common than he thought. Coal wondered if under a different set of circumstances if he would have turned out more like Rory, or perhaps Rory more like him? Coal didn’t lie to himself, he wore his own masks, sometimes that of a clown, sometimes that of a killer. For Rory though the clown was a mask hiding a killer. The difference was subtle, but it was there, and to Coal, it made all of the difference.
The moment passed, and Rory spoke dispelling the silence. “Well Coal, we could sit here all day philosophizing, but I’m here on business. Murphy would like a word,” Coal nodded expecting the request the moment he had seen the Rangers.
“When?” he asked.
“Now Coal,” Rory replied.
The men rode together across town. Coal had entered the ranch just long enough to mount the horse Charlie already had prepared. He hadn’t bothered to take his rifle. He would be walking into the middle of Murphy’s power, if they wanted to kill him, one gun wouldn’t make a difference. However, he did drop a set of brass knuckles into his jacket pocket, that and his hunting knife were are all the weapons he would carry.
As Murphy’s men escorted him, Coal rode in silence, then with a grin, he let his horse drop back a bit, riding a few feet behind the Rangers. It had the desired effect. The second Ranger, Rory’s nameless blank-faced friend kept glancing back at the Indian as they rode. Having the killer Indian at the man’s back was something he apparently found unsettling. Rory, on the other hand, didn’t glance back once and looked as if he hadn’t even noticed. The bastard, Coal thought.
The view did give the Indian a chance to size up the Rangers a bit though. Murphy had them dressing all alike, an attempt at a uniform it seemed. Both Rangers wore military desert camouflage jackets. They each also wore a type of chest rig, a nylon thing that had been intended to carry weapons mags, as if anyone had that many bullets left these days. These were a light sandy tan color. Each man also carried, if you can believe it, a sword. Rory’s was a shiny Calvary styled saber that always hung in a sheath from his pommel. The other rider carried a long thick bladed broadsword that he wore on his hip. Coal guessed trying to find a dozen or more matching swords had been something even Murphy’s deep pockets hadn’t been able to accomplish. While Coal thought the idea of using a sword in a fight was maybe a bit comical, he didn’t doubt that from horseback, even a decorative wall hanging with barely an edge to it could be deadly. The perfect weapon for riding down people on foot.
The trio’s trip across town was uneventful. Apparently, the sight of three armed men on horseback was enough to dissuade even the most desperate and foolhardy. They crossed town quickly, riding straight down Main Street, in the direction of the faded blue water tower. The communities’ savior, the tower was starting to show its age, it was actually equal parts green and even rust brown at places as the tower slowly corroded.
More than a block away from the base of the blue behemoth the line for water began. Men, Women, Children, entire families would stand in line for hours. Everyone clutching a plastic water bottle, an old wine bottle or even just an empty tin can fill. Some carried trade items as well, odd bits of junk they hoped would earn them some water. Others carried nothing, obviously exchanging chits for water. These few were nervous, even the line could be a dangerous place, and more than one person had been stabbed to death for a handful of chits. Coal had never had to stand in the line for water. Before he had established himself, he had gotten his water from the council, now after Murphy had established himself, Coal had Murphy’s men delivering water to the ranch in bulk regularly.
The Indian and his escorts reached the base of the tower. The legs of the tower had been boxed in with sheet metal walls, the tops of which were lined with razor wire. Years ago, then-Councilman Murphy, had been placed in charge of “Infrastructure” had argued that the town had to protect their most precious resource, the tower, and the pump. The rest of the council had agreed, and the walls were constructed and guards commissioned. Guards that Murphy would hand pick, of course, guards that when the time came, would be loyal to him. A dozen of those guards now managed the line of desperate people, each carrying a length of steel pipe. Water riots had happened before, and the guards stood ready to deal out swift brutality.
Directly across Main Street from the tower was the heart of the former councilman’s power. It had been a small strip mall, with less than a dozen storefronts. Now a large plywood sign adorned its roof, in 3foot high green letters it read simply “Murphs.” The councilman turned kingpin had first taken the place over to keep his men close to the tower should anyone, particularly the City Council try and take back the precious real-estate. As time passed and it became apparent the council wasn’t going to try anything of the sort, Murphy decided the place needed a bit of a makeover. He now stylized it as a nightclub, it was a display of his wealth and provided a simple form of distraction for the big man, his cronies, and any citizen stupid enough to enter.
When most parking lots in town were still chocked full of long abandoned and useless cars, the area in front of Murphy’s place has been swept clean. A half dozen men milled about most keeping to the shade of the building’s eve. They were all Murphy’s men, and each wore a green strip of cloth tied around the right bicep to mark them as such. Most of the windows had been covered with plywood, though a few were still glass. To a man they all carried a gun, a few pistols, a shotgun, one man by the door carried some type of M16. Coal doubted they had ammo for all of them, but the message was clear enough. This was Murphy’s place, and if you start trouble, we’ll end it.
At the side of the building stood a length of tin roofing and a rail. It was a newer addition to the club and gave the Murphy’s Rangers a place to hitch their horses in the shade. The men dismounted and tied their horses there.
“Stay with the horses,” Rory commanded the other Ranger, without even a backward glance.
Coal followed Rory to the front of the building. A series of stanchions set around the front door, they looked like they had been stolen from a movie theater, and held a dingy velvet rope in place. The guard shouldering the M16 unhooked the rope as Rory and Coal approached, and the men entered without a word spoken. Coal had never been inside of Murphy’s place during the day, and the entire building was dark. Only light from a few partially uncovered windows lit the large space.
“Wait by the bar, I’ll tell the man you are here,” Rory commanded and strode off in the direction of Murphy’s office.
Coal considered following him for a moment just for spite. He resented the Ranger ordering him around, but Coal knew this wasn’t the time or place. He and Rory would get their moment; it was just a matter of time. So Coal just grinned and moved to the bar.
The club was dead, with only a half dozen lost souls were scattered about the place. At night dozens of lanterns would be lit, and the space would be filled with bodies. Most would be Murphy’s men, burning through the Tears he paid them in. Even now a solitary man sat at the end of the bar, his head lay on a black trash bag, and he rocked gently back and forth. Coal watched as the man raised a shaking arm and the scantily clad serving girl approached.
“Again sugar, you want the gold standard?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the man hissed.
The serving girl selected a gold colored spray can from a shelf behind the bar of many colorful spray cans. She gave the can a quick shake and sprayed a shot of paint into the patron’s plastic bag. He immediately dove his head into the bag and began inhaling deeply. The serving girl saw Coal watching and tried to give him what she probably thought was a sweet smile.
Coal nodded to the girl, but sprays had never been his thing, though as alcohol became more and rarer and in turn expensive, few could afford it. Murphy offered his customers other vices though, with tables for gambling including poker and roulette. There were some drugs still around, mostly Meth but occasionally weed and Peyote would be offered. Though as far as Peyote went Coal had his own sour
ce for that. The oldest trade was also well represented, a whole section of the once strip mall was now devoted to sins of the flesh. Even now Coal could see three of Murphy’s whores trying desperately to separate one of his off-duty guards from his Tears. If one of them succeeded, a series of small spaces, just large enough to hold a twin mattress lined one wall. Dirty sheets hung from lines creating the illusion of privacy during the brief visits. This of course never appealed to Coal, he was after all a married man four times over now.
Coal heard a door open and turning he saw Rory wave him over. Coal took a breath and tried to mentally prepare himself for the inevitable bullshit to come. The Indian then rose and followed Rory through the door into Murphy’s office. The former Councilman sat behind a large mahogany desk. As Coal entered Murphy stood.
“Coal, it’s a pleasure to see you again, please have a seat,” Murphy said gesturing to a single wooden chair across the desk.
The man always wore a suit with a vest and a tie, today they were silver over black. He was tall, just over 6 foot and though most men were taller than Coal, the former councilman carried himself in a way that made him seem taller. His hair was black going to gray/silver at the temples, it was a distinguished look that aging statesman dreamed about. He looked, moved and even sounded like a politician to Coal. One that would win an election year after year, until you forgot that it was even possible he could lose. Coal took the offered chair, and Rory leaned up against the wall near the door.
“So, first off I would like to thank you for taking this meeting with me. I understand how busy you are, in fact, you just got back in from another successful hunting trip I’m told,” Murphy started.
To Cross a Wasteland Page 12