Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny

by Tempe O'Kun

  by Tempe O’Kun

  Acknowledgements:

  Sincere thanks to my tireless editorial posse: Shiv, Robin, Rikoshi, Nic, Kyell, Jeff, Edward, and Angela. Other fine folks: Kendra for interpreting for Brian; Dave, Shane, and Will for firepower and the Table’s approval; and Barb, JD, Keiron, and Jen for validating my book about animal people in fancy hats. Kudos to Joe and John for bringing the book into the digital realm.

  To Jeff, for the chance.

  To Ang, for the gumption.

  Furry Writers’ Guild ~ Cóyotl Award

  Best Mature Novel of 2012

  Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny © 2011 by Tempe O’Kun. All rights reserved. • No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the copyright holders. • Names, characters, and events portrayed in this publication are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is coincidental.

  Cover and interior art © Shinigamigirl • shinigamigirl.com

  Chapter and supplemental art © Yuki • furaffinity.net/user/yuki-chi

  Published by: Sofawolf Press, Inc. • PO Box 11868 •

  St. Paul, MN 55111-0868 • sofawolf.com

  E-book edition: February 2013 • ISBN 978-1-936689-07-1

  Cooler winds breathe through my fur, calling to mind other breath that’s been there.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  My name is Six Shooter, and this gun holds half my father’s echo.

  The other half? Well, this gun’s mate now adorns that damnable lion’s mantle, just another carnivore trophy. He’s past due for a bullet— ah’ll be sure to pay him with interest... one of these days.

  For the most of folks, echoes just give you an edge, a hint of the skills of somebody you lost, tying you to them across the afterlife. Your frontiersman granddaddy’s lucky fire striker might light every time for you, but it that’s the sum of it. Once upon a time, that’s all the guns were for me...

  Paw still lingering on my revolver, I sit in the saddle, watching the Arizona sunset. Cooler winds breathe through my fur, calling to mind other breath that’s lingered there. I slip off my pony and tie it to a scrub brush.

  I stroll past White Rock’s newest landmark — a great washout across the sand. A smile of pride swaggers across my muzzle. I feel like signing my name as I amble through the long shadows the town casts on it.

  It’d be reckless, even by a gunslinging hare’s standards, to walk into town before dark. Nothing helps folk remember your face like a bounty on your head.

  ‘Yote howls rise and fall a ways off. That would unnerve other folk. Other folk’d also give them trouble, whereas I figure they got no shortage and am keen to leave ‘em to it. ‘Course, if ya believe a certain bloodhound deputy, my ears are so pricked to echoes now the ‘yotes might paint me up and have a dance around me.

  I learned more about echoes than I ever cared to, during the business that saw me parted from my other gun. My daddy echoes through his guns— he knew them like the fur of his paws, and I certainly ain’t forgetting.

  Since I’m here for the time being, I decide to make the time be useful. Reaching into the saddlebags, I pull out my cleaning kit and turn it over in my paws. Leather is soft, new, with a fancy foreign word tooled on the back. Lawbat says it means “freedom.” Glad he gets the idea about me.

  Inside, there’s a couple of little brushes, cleaning rod, little bottle of oil, and a whole mess of flannel scrap. I spread a blanket on the sand, draw, and set down my iron, my back to a rock. I’m accustomed to this with two guns, always having one ready at paw. Walking the world with just the one makes a bun a twitch jumpy. I bite my lip and set myself to patience, if not ease.

  Click the hammer back to half-cocked. Swing out the loading gate. Unload with ejector rod. One, two, three, four, five, six. Two’s empty— I feel no urge to blast myself in the hind paw.

  Chill cuts through my fur, leaves me wanting for something warm wrapped around me. Damn blanket itches. I miss my lawbat... I remind myself I’m cleaning a gun, not sitting around a sewing circle. Hit the catch, pull the base pin, and tuck it in the corner of my mouth. Fix one of the little flannel squares onto the cleaning rod, swabbing out the barrel and chambers. Only when the last one comes out clean do I know I’m done.

  Only a fool’d come back here. And yet here I sit...

  Light’s fading. Could be the iron’s clean, but I get finicky with time on my paws. Coat the brush in oil and twirl it through the works of the gun, always pushing clear through before I pull back. Wouldn’t do to ruin Blake’s fancy present.

  Blake. Who names a kid Blake? Doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of criminals. You can tell his parents wanted him to be a fancy lawyer type.

  I give the gun another going-over with fresh flannels. Once I’m satisfied, I click the barrel back home and fix the base pin.

  Smartest thing would have been never to come here. Second best would be riding out this very instant, never looking back.

  Like to think I’ve got a good down-to-earth sense about me. So what in Sam Hill am I doing here? Not drowning in dinero, that’s for damn sure.

  I never had this manner of trouble ‘til six months ago...

  This is my way in the world.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  My paws rest on matched guns, touching the barest hint of an echo. The echoes are nothing direct, mind you, more like feelings, instincts. But I’ve gone through the mill more than once, and I’ve learned to trust ‘em. I’m faster with this iron than some poor farm bunny ought to be, which is the better part of why I’ve survived out here on the wilder edge of the world. The other part is being cautious.

  Take this town for example. Whenever I decide to hit up a burg, I always like to take some time an’ study it first. Watch the here and there of it. This little stop in White Rock’ll be no different. Smallish place, maybe a hundred people, maybe two hundred. Most are the decent sort of folk, though there are hard cases aplenty. Rough sort makes all the noise and most of the money, but that’s just the nature of the Frontier.

  The desert sun bakes my fur. During my little look-see, I catch glimpses of the usual fare of faded wood: general store, city office, and a pawful of saloons. Those last are the real places of business for a bunny of my skills. Pockets get a mite looser when people get drunk. To save them worries, I usually have the decency to rob a game of cards. Besides, I only steal from folk who deserve it, mostly, and it’s rare for me to find a saloon without some manner of jackass in need of his wallet being lightened.

  I mosey on past the stables, eyes open for a pony I might want on the way out. I’ve been walking since my last business engagement ended with me getting a hop on before I could get to the stables. Some folk take it so hard when you steal from them.

  My paws caress the handles of my guns. I know every angle and groove on them, like they’re a part of me. They’re ace-high jobs, all silver and finery. Most expensive thing I ever laid paws on— my inheritance in whole and sum. Mother a’ pearl handles gleam over etched silver. Some folk get taken by the notion of relieving me of them, a notion that draws bullets. Can’t say as I blame ‘em entirely; draws the eye when they shine silver as twin moons out the top of my holsters.

  I choose a saloon. Doesn’t pay to get too particular; good luck and a quick draw can get me in and out of the right sorts of trouble. Breezing in all casual, I order a beer, even though I hate the stuff. Something about the bubbles disagrees with my nose, makes it wiggle something fierce, but folk send hassle your way if ya nurse the same glass of whiskey for an hour. I settle in with my drink and let my ears do the work.

  This is my way in the world; I listen. Unli
ke the most of hares, however, I run toward trouble instead of away. See some shave-tail get roostered and slip on his own spilled booze, then filch his pocket-watch while you help him up. Wait for some brutes to get into a brawl, then steal the purses off their belts as I shove ‘em off my table. Hell, once I even palmed the gold tips off a deer’s antlers. Cost me a bottle of Kentucky Red-Eye, but the buck kept trying to make a mash on the bardog’s daughter, so he had it coming.

  Really, it’s a good life. Not an excess of comfort, true, but not an excess of rules either. If any real difficulty ever kicks up, I just shin out. Ain’t no place like the out of doors for a hare and besides, I look harmless. Just another bunny you’d pass on the road, a little tall maybe, but what’s another tall fella to the world?

  Settling in casual-like, I take in the bar. Fresh sawdust on worn floorboards. The stench of rotgut whiskey and unwashed bodies soaks the air. I chance a sip of the beer— swill as expected, warm and going flat. Some folks are losing their pay at the poker table, and the saloon girl is making her rounds, conning the menfolk into buying more drinks with winks and charm. The old border collie behind the bar keeps asking the same patrons if they’d like a drink from “genuine echoed” glasses in his breathless, excitable way.

  Then I hear it— whispers though the wall. I’m led back by the ears, leaning back ‘til they’re flat against the wall. I listen. In the back room, I can hear a deal brewing…

  I ain’t keen on that mine.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I snarl. We lions aren’t known for our patience.

  “Let’s keep this simple.” I interlace my fingers, paws on my chest, feet on the table, like Father so often did. Shows I’m at ease, in control, powerful: everything a lion ought to be. “Since tomorrow’s the Fourth, I’m going to be out enjoying the festivities. You go in, rob my store, leave with the cashbox. Got it?”

  The lynx takes another gulp of whiskey. No wonder his voice grinds like grit. “I ain’t some soft-in-the-brainpan prey, Hayes. I get the plan. When do we get paid?”

  To his left, two cats make a show of checking their guns, trying to look tough. To his right, a boar smokes his pipe and doesn’t have to make a show of anything.

  The shorter of the two cats squirms. “Why’re we stealin’ from you? Can’t ya just give us the money right now?”

  “I’m paying out a large amount of cash all at once, enough that it would be noticeable to anyone who looked over the books.” I smile. Stealing money from myself is a properly devious plan. That’s why I’m the boss: predator cunning. “Now, when Morris meets you out at the old mine, he’ll pay you half. When you finish delivering the cash to everybody on the list, you get the other half.”

  Morris hands the lynx a slip of paper. That dandy rodent’s one of the few leaf-munchers I can tolerate. He’s local, and showed up around the time I inherited the mine, like he could smell the money. His wits make him damn useful —he even threw a bunch of small bills and cards around the table in case some fool walked in on our little meeting— but his constant twitching and chittering gives me the nerves. Rodents...

  The lynx snatches the paper away, making the little marmot jump back and straighten the vest over his wide belly. The feline twitches his tufted ears, scouring the list over. “Blazes! There are damn judges on this list! Even the mayor down in Chance Canyon. You reckon we can just walk in and make a social call?”

  I laugh. “They’re all expecting you. Just take a bath first, they’ll let you in.”

  He growls, but stuffs the list in his pocket. That’s the way with him: he’ll bitch and bellow, but he gets the job done. For close on three years, he’s been one of my best and knows it. The boar is for muscle. The two scrawny cats are a fairways useless, but I know where their families live and made it clear living’s a precarious thing out here. They’re going to make sure nobody gets greedy. Best of all, none of them have been in town much and won’t be recognized by the sheriff. Simple.

  The lynx leans back, copying my posture. “I ain’t keen on that mine.” Years back, a rumor just happened to spring up that the mine was cursed, which keeps folk from pointing their noses where they don’t belong.

  The other three shift and look at each other, suggesting it’s a common sentiment. You’d think they believed the very rumor we spread.

  I spread my wide paws, looking all reasonable. “Gentlemen, I have money. I pay you to make things happen. That’s life. If you don’t like it, find somebody else to pay you. The difference is, it won’t be as much.” I lean forward, my claws carving furrows on the table as if it were soft leather. Or their hides. “Now get to work.”

  The four of them leave. Even that lynx knows he can only press me so far; the fang marks scarring his spotty throat serve to remind him.

  Morris scoops the cards and cash off the table, sorting each with twitchy little paws. Once finished, he gnaws at a blunt claw.

  “I tell you, varmint, the wind’s blowing my way.” I slap him on the back, knocking him forward. “In six months’ time, I’ll have all the money I want. And all the manpower to back it up.”

  He steadies himself, brushing the reddish dust off his clothes. “Best we don’t get ahead a’ ourselves.”

  I ignore him, smiling. “Who would’ve thought I’d dig up something better than gold?”

  I’m a hell of a bunny.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  As sheriff, I’ve never taken to drink much myself. Makes my wings burn and, besides, a lawman needs to maintain a certain command of his faculties. Doesn’t seem to stop others. The entire town seems to be out in the street, celebrating the Fourth of July. Rowdy folk, loud for my tender ears, but that’s good. Let them get it out now, rather than in the saloon later. The roughness of their voices stirs a longing in me for the nights when my family would sing together after dusk, when the air is clearest. The sweet melodies, too high for other species to hear, permitted us to sing as loud as we wished and not disturb the neighbors.

  I buy a sarsaparilla off Doc Richards, and he offers to twist the cap off for me. I politely decline and get it with my hind paw and wing. Most folk never understand why bats don’t take issue with having wings in place of arms. Most folk haven’t ever flown either. Dangling from a rafter by one leg, I take a swig. Feels good to drink upside down again. Another joy of being a flying fox. Just have to keep it out of my nose.

  Doc opens one up as well and sips at it. “Tell me, Blake...” His fine white coat gleams against his auburn fur. I can see how he used to be mayor— he looks the part. “You ever going to take Charlotte and me up on that offer for dinner?”

  Fiddling with the badge my uncle gave me, I try to think of a way to decline.

  He fluffs his tail, shaking out the dust. “Come on. What’s the hitch?”

  “I don’t know... Don’t care to have folks thinking I play favorites.”

  “Glory be, Sheriff! It’s food, not money. Oh, and on that, I promise we’ll tell you if there’s meat in anything. I know how you fruit bats get.” He nudges me with his elbow.

  I smile. Doc means well— I’ve never seen him do anything but good for others since I got here, despite his charming vulpine ways —but if I start getting overly companionable with the locals, where do I stop? As it stands now, nobody can claim I ignore anybody’s offenses. I’d never turn a blind eye, of course, but that wouldn’t stop people from talking. Better to just leave that whole tangle be. Simpler this way.

  The fox looks a touch put out at my silence, and again I try to drum up something to say.

  Just as I open my muzzle, the sad eyes of my deputy catch me through the crowd. Harding’s a damn good tracker. Could’ve taken the post after Sheriff Collins bit a bullet, but he likes life as a deputy. Can’t blame him. Folks are less likely to shoot you.

  “Blake! You’re gonna wanna come see to this.”

  I toss Doc the bottle, drop from the rafter, and run through the crowd, following Harding. Already, the hound’s wagging at the excitement of the c
hase. Once I get up a head of steam, I jump, kicking off his shoulders and taking to the air. Houses and people blur below me, a few merrymakers raising their cups to me in drunken excitement. Few enough bats around here that I’m still something of a novelty. I startle old Harland Myers into spitting out a fresh quid of tobacco as I wing over him.

  Harding and I get to Hayes’ General Wares in time to see Tanner Hayes turning all different shades of furious. Hayes is the nephew of an old lion who bought out the mine years ago. Darn fool’s stomping around like his mane’s in a twist, still in his best bib and tucker. His expression is one of shocked disbelief, perhaps that somebody would dare deprive him of money for a change.

  I land, stirring up a mess of dust. “What’s the ruckus here?”

  “I’ve been robbed!” He bustles toward me, his portly frame pushing onlookers out of the way. Crowds kick up fast when you start yelling in the streets while half the town is out to celebrate.

  “When?”

  “Just now! I came back to the store and my strongbox is gone!” He roars in frustration. “One of the staff saw a fella run down the alley just before I arrived.”

  I hear Harding catch up to me. I turn to him. “Deputy! Head on up to the stables. Search anybody who could be carrying large amounts of cash.”

  Harding pants, jowls drooping more than usual. “W-where are you goin’?”

  I jump to the overhang of the general store. “I’m gonna fly the outskirts, see if anybody leaves.” I dive off, pumping my wings and making a mad dash for the edge of town. I needn’t have bothered.

  I get within a block of the Town Office when all hell breaks loose.

  Gunshots and muzzle flashes. All four ponies in the town stables explode out of their corral. The few townsfolk not at the celebration scream and clamor out of the way. Night is falling fast, but I have good eyes. One of the ponies has a rider. There’s my thief. On my pony. A few fools cheer at the gunfire, thinking it’s the start of the fireworks.