Unicorn Western

by Sean Platt

  Clint shook his head. This was absurd. He didn’t want to put his foot where it didn’t belong again, but Lee had attacked Whitney alone. Based on the other stories he’d heard so far, Lee usually attacked alone, and only called on his gang when he needed the help. One man. Clint could dispatch a lone troublesome outlaw in an afternoon. When he did, his gang — if he knew gangs, and especially ones that were used to just standing and watching — would disperse.

  And now, after the chili and saloon debacle, he felt he owed the people of San Mateo Flats a favor. Maybe a lot of favors.

  “Constable,” he said, “maybe your town has been beaten to fear this man Lee, so if you don’t want to scuffle, fine. I’ll scuffle for you.”

  “Nar,” said Whitney, “I want him tried according to…”

  Clint held up a hand. “Now hold on a second there, Pilgrim. I understand you want to do law your way, but I don’t have time for it. The way I help is with a bullet. That’s the only way quick enough to get me back about my business. We’re months behind our man already, and getting further behind with each minute.”

  Paulson considered, took a spoonful of chili, then shook his head.

  “It’s a fine offer, Marshal, and I appreciate it, but it’s like my friends said: Lee’s only half the problem. The rest is his murder. You saw the town? The way nothing’s finished? Weren’t always like that. This town was bustling once upon a time, with new buildings going up every month. This close to the Meadows, we’re right on a through-route for rich folks wanting to explore and rough it in the grit. We were expanding the Otel, building out businesses, putting in a casino, creating new stores and whatnot. Repairing roads. Parks. You get me. Then Lee sent his murder to park themselves on every project, and when they’re there — standing on an alloy beam with their black eyes on yours, you know not to build. There’ve been times when men have tried starting up on old projects. Plenty of times. They’ll go for a while, but then the murder shows. Men get killt with their eyes gone. Travelers won’t take our roads, not with the murder lining its way. The paths are treacherous and folks stay away. So you see, even if you take out Lee, we’ve still got the murder to contend with.”

  Clint shook his head. “I’ve seen plenty of gangs, Constable. They talk big, but they’re all weak. Sever the head and the body collapses.”

  “Mister,” said one of the lawmen at the table, “don’t you listen? This ain’t no gang. This is a murder!”

  Clint squinted, nearing anger at the obtuseness of law in San Mateo. “What the sands are you talking about, ‘murder’?”

  “Wait,” said Whitney, realization creeping into his eyes.

  “What’s that sound?” said Stone, cocking his head at something outside.

  “Wait,” Whitney repeated, still grasping for a thought.

  “It sounds like…” Stone paused.

  Clint listened. A low chattering sound began to grow louder. In the space of a few seconds, the relative quiet outside the Liberty Valance was shattered by a tremendous squawking. It sounded like a thousand maracas.

  Or a thousand birds.

  “A ‘murder,’ ” said Whitney, “is a word referring to a flock of crows.”

  A whipcrack sound made every head in the Liberty Valance turn to look toward the batwing doors, where a very tall, very thin man dressed entirely in black smiled his way into the saloon.

  At his feet was a spreading pool of black birds.

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  THE MAN WHO SHOT

  LIBERTY VALANCE

  Lee sauntered into the Liberty Valance like he owned the place, twisting his head in a series of small, assessing glances, sucking in his surroundings like a man making sure things are in order.

  The man was gigantic. He had to duck as he stepped through the doorway — and still the top of the doorframe tipped his hat back on his head. He was thin enough to blow over in a heavy breeze. His fingers were longer than Clint’s, and those fingers were caressing the handle of something in a holster that wasn’t a gun. It had to be the heavy ball — the mace — that the others described. On his other hip, he wore a pistol. Its grip and the edges of the black cowhide holster looked worn, as if the weapon had been drawn over and over and over again.

  Every man in the saloon reacted to Lee’s presence. Some physically backed away. Others turned their chairs, eyes wide. Conversation stopped at every table. Men who didn’t back away at least watched the bandit, fear in their eyes. Lee clearly felt in control and apparently usually was; his manner said it, as did the manner of every man and woman inside the Liberty Valance. Even a giant of a man in the corner that Clint had been eying earlier — a behemoth who was easily eight or nine feet tall and five feet wide at the shoulders, about the size of a tall closet — had set his brew to the wood and made his face wary.

  Lee took a few slow, measured steps across the wood plank floor, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on the townsfolk. Birds milled at his feet, deftly avoiding the toes of his boots as he walked. There were ten birds at first, then twenty, then thirty, then forty. Once they’d covered the entryway like a black tide, they began to bird-hop up onto chairs, shelves, and tables. They squawked randomly, causing diners to jump. One flapped into the middle of a table filled with coins and cards, and all six of the poker players at the table shambled back as if the birds were bombs.

  Lee pulled the mace from its modified holster and twirled it in his hand.

  “Well, don’t stand on ceremony,” he said to one of the servers. “I came for chili.”

  The girl immediately pulled out the nearest chair, then returned her body to its ramrod-straight position.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” said Lee with a mock bow. He walked to the chair, crows following behind him. Here and there they flitted around the room, effectively surrounding everyone in it. They were only crows — ordinary crows — but they were clearly bent to Lee’s will. It reminded Clint of the rats in the cathedral beneath Precipice.

  Halfway to the chair, Lee stopped and looked to his right. A table of men wearing beaten-up hats and mutton chops stumbled back, two of them tipping onto the floor. Another man with his back to the bandit was too engrossed in something to see him approach. So Lee grasped the man’s chair by its back.

  “I’d prefer a chair closer to the window,” he said to the server, yanking on the seat and sending the man crashing to the floor. The man rolled to face his attacker, then crawled back like a frightened animal when he saw who it was. He had trapped himself under the table, and so had to scamper around another man’s feet to get free. Lee watched and laughed, now swirling the large weapon within inches of the table’s top.

  “You don’t mind if I take this table, do you?” he asked the remaining men.

  “No, Independence,” said one. “It’s all yours!” The man stood and backed away from the table until he found himself in front of the doors. He squeezed by the crows and ran. The other men backed their chairs from the table, joining their neighbors to give Lee his space.

  Instead of sitting, Lee took another long look around the room. He stretched, looking at the giant in the corner before seeming to decide that the big man wasn’t going to cause trouble (birds were at his feet and on the bar beside him, and Clint couldn’t help but admire him for not flinching) and moved on.

  When Lee’s glance reached Clint’s face, he paused. What sounded like thousands of crows made an increasingly loud racket outside. When Lee wasn’t speaking, the murder’s squawk was the only sound in the air, and it rang aplenty.

  “Well, now who are you, stranger?” he said.

  Clint remained seated, his guns hidden. “Just a traveler. And you?”

  Lee chuckled, ignoring the insult of ignorance. He looked at Stone, sitting beside Clint. “And you travel with a clown?”

  Stone flexed to rise, but Clint held a subtle hand to his arm. There would be plenty of time to take out this one man — this only one man — in a moment. For now, Lee might have things to say that the g
unslinger wanted to hear.

  The bandit shrugged at Stone’s impassive face. Then he saw Whitney and broke into great gales of laughter. “Well, if it isn’t my old friend!” he bellowed. “It’s been a long time. We’ve played games before, yar?”

  Whitney didn’t have Clint or Stone’s restraint. He popped up from his seat, knocking his chair back. His posture and face were righteous and indignant. He shot an accusing finger toward Lee.

  “Constable!” he said. “This is the man who attacked me on the path outside of town. I would like to file a complaint!”

  Lee threw his head back, erupting with laughter. The birds began to titter and ruffle their wings as if laughing along with him. Then Lee stopped, and the birds stopped too. He took a few steps toward the fat constable with both of his arms forward, wrists up. One hand still held the mace.

  “He’s right, Constable! He’d like to file a complaint, so I guess it’s your duty to do so. Take me into custody!”

  The constable looked up. His face twisted through a range of emotions, most of which were kin to fear. “Really?”

  Lee laughed harder. The birds laughed with him. “You’re a spitfire, aren’t you, dude?” he said, taking a long step toward Whitney. Whitney looked up at him, defiant. “Well, I’ll make you a deal. If you can catch me, you can take me in. Same goes for you, Constable. And same for any of you. Catch the big man and make him go away. Sound good?”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Whitney declared.

  “Really, dude? Then you’re dumber than you look. Maybe my mace could teach you a lesson.” And with that, he slammed the heavy ball onto the table between the Constable, Whitney, Stone and Clint. It made a satisfying crack and splintered through the table’s center.

  “That’s not a very impressive mace,” said Stone. “It doesn’t even have any spikes.”

  Clint elbowed him, but Lee was already looking over.

  “Oh, but you’re wrong,” said Lee. “A ball with spikes is a morning star, not a mace.”

  He slammed the ball into the table again, directly in front of Stone. Stone didn’t flinch, and held the bandit’s gaze.

  “And a ball on a chain? That’s called a flail.”

  Again he slammed the table. The ball had to be unbelievably dense and heavy. This time, the impact broke an entire section from the table. The wedge of wood fell into Stone’s lap.

  “I have all three, but this is the one I like best. It does damage without killing, and is easily controlled. It has a way of persuading people that I’m right about things. How about you, dude? Do you think I have a point?”

  Stone sniffed. “It’s always nice to learn new things.”

  Lee smiled, jerking his head in satisfaction. He stood tall. Very tall.

  “You’re new to town. Not hard to see that. You with your hair and those big guns. I’ll bet you couldn’t draw before I caved your head in and turned it to chili. And you, with your dumb flat hat.” He nodded to Clint.

  But Whitney was behind him, still remonstrating. In an astonishing display of stupidity, he tapped Lee hard on the shoulder. Lee spun, his mace held high. But when he saw who he was facing, he just laughed again, taking a few steps toward the door and into the murder of crows, taking his time, enjoying the show.

  “Your tap startled me,” he said. “I figured maybe Pompi finally decided to get up and face me. But he’s smarter than that. Aren’t you, Pompi?” He raised his eyebrows to the giant in the corner. The huge man met Lee’s eyes, said nothing, and took a sip of his brew.

  Whitney was undeterred. “You can’t tell these people what to do. You’ve no right. You killt my stagecoach driver, a man who never did anything to hurt anyone. This isn’t the wild Sands! This is on the doorstep of Elf Meadows! They’re building railroads through here soon, and when they do, your kind won’t stand. They’ll need law and order and…”

  Lee started walking toward Whitney, bumping him with his chest, forcing him to back up.

  “I told you, dude. You want to take me in? Then take me in. I promise I won’t kill you. Just hurt you real bad. You’re too entertaining to kill.”

  Clint was about to stand and confront Lee — who only held a mace, after all — but something else happened first. From the bar’s corner, the giant stood. He was much, much larger than Lee, and as he stood — unhurried, brushing his mug of brew down the bar as if it were a flea — it became apparent just how much bigger he was. Not only did he have to duck every time he passed one of the roof beams, but he was as wide as eight Lees standing side by side.

  Something flickered across Lee’s features as he watched the giant approach. It wasn’t quite fear or concern — more like indecision. He wasn’t going to face the big man with a mace, and even if the birds could be summoned for attack, they would probably only be an inconvenience to the giant. Lee didn’t back up, but his expression did. He stowed the mace by reaching across himself to place it into his left holster. Then, seeming to not know what else to do, he pulled his six-shot revolver from his right hip and leveled it at the advancing wall of man.

  “Well, look who grew some hair,” said Lee, chuckling in a way that didn’t sound at all confident.

  “You are too mean, Mister Lee,” said the giant.

  “Sit down, Pompi.”

  “You go. You take your birds and go. Leave us alone, Mister Lee.”

  “I said, sit down, you big idiot.”

  The giant bared his hands, which had thus far been behind his back. Clint, who usually couldn’t be shocked, gasped. The man’s hands were half as wide as his chest. Clint wondered how he could have held his mug of brew.

  “I said…” Lee began.

  “Go away, Mister Lee,” the giant repeated. His right hand moved behind his back and re-emerged with a gigantic hammer. It was as long as Edward was tall, with a beveled block of stone on its end. It had to weigh a literal ton. Looking at the thing, Clint couldn’t imagine how he’d been wearing it on his back and sitting at the bar at the same time.

  “Now, Pompi, do you really want to…”

  “Your birds don’t scare me,” Pompi said, tapping the hammer in his giant palm. It was astonishing — his hands had to be mighty powerful to tilt something so large up from one end so casually. “Those birds are full of the bad stuff from Meadowlands, but it’s all just little bits.”

  “My quarrel isn’t with you,” said Lee, but now he was the one falling a step back. His gun was still out, still leveled at the giant’s chest. But how much damage could it possibly do?

  Lee cocked his gun. “Don’t make me hurt you, Pompi.”

  Across the room, Stone barked laughter.

  “Go,” said Pompi, still advancing. He held the big hammer in one hand so he could make dismissive shooing gestures with the other. The gesturing hand was, when open, as big as the poker tables in the saloon. The fingers on it were as big around as Clint’s legs.

  Lee — probably because he knew shooting the giant would only make things worse — fired a warning shot to the side, into the saloon. Patrons gasped and shrieked. The bullet struck one of the framed portraits of the thin-faced man directly between the eyes.

  “Back off, Pompi,” said Lee.

  But Pompi gave no indication that he realized a shot had been fired. He shifted the hammer and slowly raised it.

  Lee looked at Pompi with defiance, then holstered his gun. Pompi lowered his hammer, but continued taking small steps forward. The crows around the room began to flutter back to the pool on the floor, and soon the entire murder was shuffling out the door. Then, once the birds were gone, Lee began to back out as well. It was as if the birds knew what he was going to do before he did it.

  Before leaving through the batwings, Lee turned and shouted across the saloon.

  “This big galoot knows he can’t end me!” he yelled. “Don’t forget that! And don’t forget that he won’t always be here to protect you!”

  Clint stood. Lee’s eyes darted toward him, then widened as he took in the tw
in seven-shooters on the gunslinger’s hips.

  “But if that happens,” said Clint, “they’ll have me.”

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  WHAT BREWS IN

  THE MEADOWLANDS

  Once Lee and his murder were gone, the big man called Pompi swung the hammer behind his back, where it seemed to vanish. Then he plodded to his seat at the bar, picked up his brew, and resumed drinking.

  “Your head is too hot,” said Clint, looking over at Stone. He reached into Sly’s lap, picked up the wedge of sheared table, and tossed it aside.

  “Mine?” Stone retorted, not particularly annoyed. “Your head is too cold. In case you missed it, that was the bad guy we were just talking about ending. You could have done him in before he blinked. And so could I, if you hadn’t backed me down.”

  “Yar,” said Clint, “but so could that giant.” He gestured to the big man, who’d more or less vanished back into shadow and obscurity. “But he didn’t. And he had something going that neither of us did. You saw Lee. He knew the giant had him and wasn’t afraid. So why didn’t the giant end him?”

  The constable, who’d ducked under the table during the standoff, came back topside and sat in his chair.

  “Like I said, you fellers don’t understand the way things is here,” he said. “That’s Pompi Bobo, one of the giants what used to work on the railroad up in Elf Meadows, in the city of Meadowlands. What you just seen? That’s happened before. Lee can’t hurt Pompi. Not even a bit. His birds probably couldn’t hurt him if they tried, even all at once, and they won’t try because those birds are afeared of him. Every once in a while, Pompi gets his britches up and puts Lee in his place, but he won’t poof him off with that big hammer of his because he’s afraid of what we was talking on earlier — that the murder, who aren’t like a normal gang, would come back at the town once their leader was gone. Right now we have a man controlling all those birds. But with him gone, we might face a flat-out bird epidemic and never be able to go outside again.”