Quickly, he turned the corner as the man scrambled to his hands and knees. He was bringing the pistol up, just as Patrick threw a soccer kick to disarm him. The toe of his shoe struck the man's hand with enough force to send the gun flying toward the front counter. Both men watched it soar in slow motion down the length of the aisle. Just as Patrick took a step forward, he was caught right in the solar plexus with a text book shoulder tackle. The stocky attacker was strong, and he hit like someone that had put in many hours bringing down other players on the gridiron. The two men crashed into the cooler with the missing glass, hitting the racks with full force. Patrick brought his arms up to shield his head as he felt several blows raining down. One solid shot got through his defense and caught him on the ear, causing the left half of his world to suddenly start ringing.
His vision was blurry, so he wasn't sure why the punches stopped at first. He shook some of the fuzziness away, and noticed the other man running toward the front counter, where the gun had landed. There was no time for Patrick to stop him from reaching it. He pulled himself upright, as the assailant looked around frantically for his lost trinket. Patrick realized he was leaning against the milk cooler. He didn't have time to regret his next action as he reached up and grabbed one of the jugs, twisted the top and chugged as much as he could. He found the flavor of the milk quite refreshing, as he felt the pain, grogginess and fatigue melting away. He dropped the jug he was drinking from, grabbed two more, and twisted his head to each side, popping his neck to relieve some of the tension left behind.
He strode confidently toward the man, just as he found the gun, and spun back around. As the gunman brought the weapon up, Patrick's heart raced, and he felt as if they were moving through a viscous time stream. Every muscle in his upper body tensed as he slammed the two bottles together, splitting the plastic at the seams. In one smooth, recoiling motion, Patrick released the handles and pulled his hands, palms still facing in.
Four shots rang out in rapid succession, striking the white wall erected between the two combatants. Each bullet, drained of all energy, passed through the field and dropped harmlessly to the ground. The wall slowly melted into puddle on the ground, before splitting in two, with each half snaking its way up to each of his arms.
Keeping his head low, he stared up from under his brow at the dumbfounded attacker. Panic-stricken, the man searched his jacket pocket for more ammunition, only to find it empty. He tossed the empty gun, like a villain from an old Superman episode, only to see it snagged from the air by a shimmering white mechanical gauntlet. Patrick looked at the piece of metal as he crushed it, feeling the grips snap, and the frame and barrel bend slightly. Turning his gaze back to the now self-disarmed perp, he dropped the deformed revolver, and took several steps forward, clearly invading the man's personal space.
Trying to match Patrick's pace, the frightened man had no idea what he was witnessing as he back pedaled. He tripped over his partner in crime, and noticed the knife sticking out of the plastic jug as milk drained from the “wound”. He pulled the blade free and scrambled to his feet, lunging to strike.
Patrick morphed his right gauntlet into a shield, and held it at an angle, allowing the blade to glance off the surface, redirecting the force to the side. The attacker regained his footing, and tried to whip his hand in a backhand slash. Patrick matched the swing, striking the man's hand squarely with the shield, fracturing the small bones causing him to drop the knife. A robotic hand snagged the man by the neck and forced his back against the nearest wall. He looked on in horror as the shield on Patrick's right arm slowly pulled itself into a more narrow shape, forming a sharp point and edge. The tip of the unnatural blade dug itself into the flesh under the man's chin, even through the thick scarf, forcing his head up.
Looking into the eye of the man that held him pinned, The disarmed attacker saw two clouded orbs, pupils barely visible, under a film of white. He held both hands up to surrender, his left hand open to show it was empty, and his right curled into a broken mockery of a fist, unable to open any further.
“Please...please, man don't kill me. Just call the cops.” His voice was strained from the pressure of the vice-like robotic grip around his neck.
Patrick snapped out of his haze, the color returning to his eyes as he released the man. The blade and gauntlet seemed to pull themselves apart, and fall to the ground, splashing on impact. He took a step back and pinched the bridge of his nose, as the once-intimidating armed robber slumped to the floor, holding his damaged hand.
The faint sounds of sirens filled the awkward silence in the room. Patrick looked up to see the store clerk cautiously reentering the room, eyes wide, like he had just seen a ghost. He wondered if the guy would be able to keep this whole situation quiet, but then glancing upward noticed the security camera that watched the whole battle play out.
Out of reflex more than anything, he reached up to run his fingers through his hair, remembering that he was wearing his street clothes, and not his super suit. His head and face had not been covered at all. He took a deep breath as his stomach started churning.
His life just took an interesting turn.
# # #
POWERS THAT BE
Claude stood in the middle of the well-worn dirt road. His was a slightly thicker build than most, and his hair was salt and peppered. More salt than pepper nowadays. Still, he was an imposing figure. He chose this spot because of its elevation, knowing that a team of horses would have a hard time building up any speed at crest of this particular hill. It also afforded him a great view of the approaching stagecoach, giving plenty of time to set up the ambush.
Claude cradled his shotgun in the crooks of his elbows as he finished rolling a cigarette. Once finished, he held the shotgun in his right hand, resting the barrel across his shoulders. The clip clop of the hooves and the creaking of the coach wheels slowly grew louder as he struck a match off of the butt of his pistol. Cupping his hand, he shielded the flame and lit the cigarette with practiced ease, and shook the match to extinguish it.
The brim of Claude's hat drooped low, so he cocked his head slightly to the side, and looked up with one eye as the driver pulled the reigns, stopping the team of horses. An angry fellow sat next to the driver, with his coach gun aimed in Claude's direction.
“Claude Batten.” He said, pulling back both hammers on his shotgun.
“So you've heard of me?” A smirk was on his face as he plucked the cigarette from his chapped lips and blew out a long stream of smoke.
“Curly Wolf Claude. Of course I've heard of you.” He spit a trail of tobacco stained saliva to the side and readjusted the shotgun in his grip. “Your worth two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred? Maybe you should lower that scattergun then.”
“Dead or alive.”
“Hmm, well then I guess you don't need to worry about it.” He opened his jacket a little more, hooking it behind his holster, and gave a slight nod.
Two figures emerged from behind cover. Claude's gang, Rollie Greb and Sean “Wheel gun” Wickwire. Rollie was a twitchy scrawny man with a creepy grin and a Henry repeater pointed at the shotgunner. The dingy hue of his teeth matched his leather boots almost exactly. Sean was rather unassuming, except for the pair of Colt Navy revolvers in his hands, aimed up at the driver from his hips. He was clean shaven and had a look in his eye so relaxed, you would have a hard time telling if he were in a standoff, or watching cattle on the range.
“How about now?” Claude asked, pulling a long drag off of his cigarette.
The gruff man, next to the driver shifted his gaze at each of the three men. “Now sounds like a good time to me.”
The muzzle unleashed lighting and thunder, as the buckshot from both barrels tore a hole into Claude's chest. He fell straight back leaving a cloud of red mist and dust floating where he once stood. The driver seized the opportunity and drew his own gun. The four men remaining were tensed, ready for the next move. The man riding shotgun exchanged menacing star
es with Rollie, while the driver and Sean held each other steady in their sights.
“It don't need to go down like this.” The driver said, as his voice cracked.
“Don't worry,” Rollie said, as he cackled with glee “It ain't goin' down like you think.”
Before the man could respond, two unexpected booms shook everyone in their boots. The shotgunner clutched his stomach and doubled over, dropping his weapon. The driver spun to face the front where the blast came from. Another shot filled the air as the man's weapon was struck by an expert shot from Sean, disarming him.
The driver held his hand close to his chest, his thumb bleeding from catching a ricochet from the well placed shot. He ignored the pain for the most part. His attention was on the dead man slowly getting to his feet. His jaw hung in disbelief, as he watched Claude stand with the same smirk like it never left his face. His shirt had a large hole where the buckshot struck him square in the chest. The frayed edges were still blood-soaked and slightly blackened. But the flesh underneath was unscathed, like another man had put the shirt on.
Claude saw where the driver's eyes fell, and he glanced down, giving his shirt a nonchalant brush with the back of his left hand.
“I never really cared for this shirt anyway.”
His gaze rose back up as he broke open the breech of his weapon, swapping the two spent shells with fresh ones. He approached the stagecoach and addressed the stunned driver.
“Let's have a look at what you're hauling into town today.” He struck another match to relight the cigarette that had gone out while he was dead.
* * *
The bounty hunter's horse approached the group of lawmen gathered at the end of the town's main street. He turned his quarter horse, giving the men a better view of the man draped behind his saddle.
“Hundred and a half.” The bounty hunter said, foregoing any official greeting.
“That was one hundred and fifty, alive.” The deputy said
“He's still breathin'. Poster don't say what shape he's supposed to be in, except alive.”
“Pay the man.” The sheriff said.
One of the lawmen slapped an envelope of bills into the bounty hunter's outstretched hand, as another pulled the unconscious man off the back of his horse.
“What's your name, son?” The sheriff asked.
“Storch. Miles Storch.”
“Well Mr. Storch, if you plan on sticking around you'll have to check your irons.” The sheriff said. “You can't go in heeled beyond this point.”
Miles nodded as he removed his gun belt. He tossed it to one of the deputies and pulled the Winchester carbine from under his bed roll and eased his horse forward. He handed the rifle over to the sheriff, directly.
“Thank you, son.”
“Any place a fella can bend an elbow 'round here? I've been out of town for a while and could use something stiffer than camp stove coffee.” Miles said.
“Saloon's just down the road a ways. You can get yourself a room next door if you need a place.”
“Much obliged.” Miles tipped his hat and headed into town.
It was late in the morning, and the town was bustling with activity. Miles nodded and tipped his hat to greet several people as he passed by. At the saloon, he tied his horse to the hitching post out front.
He walked into the saloon and approached the bar. There weren't many people in here at this time. One or two sad sacks sitting around with their drinks. In the back a game of Faro was in progress. Miles never learned how to play, but from what he saw the game was getting pretty rowdy.
The barkeep whipped a towel over his shoulder and addressed Miles. “What can I get for you, son?”
“Just a beer.” He slapped a coin onto the bar and slid it over.
The stout older man glanced down at it, grabbed a mug and poured a beer from the tap. He slid it over to Miles and scooped up the payment. Miles hoisted the mug and took a long pull of the slightly cool, bitter liquid, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He brought his mug over to one of the tables and sat down. He chose what he felt would be the best place to pick up on some rumors once this place filled up. By this time the faro game in the back looked to break out into some good old fisticuffs. One man accused another of cheating. Several other players took sides, yelling and debating. After a while it died down before any hands flew.
The place filled up around lunch time, with all manner of folk coming in for something to eat and drink. Miles order something to eat as well, so he didn't stick out too much. Once the conversations started, it was difficult to hear anything over all the singing, hollering, and clanking glasses.
Miles closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He reached out for any conversation that sounded interesting, focusing his hearing throughout the saloon. He turned his head left to right and leaned his head side to side, adjusting to pluck out the juiciest bits of what was being said.
He picked out stories of cattle rustlers, cheating faro dealers, and other problems most people around here were dealing with. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that he needed to look into any further. He kept scanning the room, listening for something to tip him off.
“That coach got hit early this morning.” A man said.
“What'd they get?” Another asked.
“Nothing much. Just some blankets and other goods'n such.”
Who robbed it?”
“That new gun fighter, Claude.”
Miles opened his eyes and looked for the table where the two men sat. He left his beer behind and approached. He sat down and eyed the men that were talking.
“Uh, can I help you, young fella?” One of the men asked.
“Curly Wolf Claude.” Miles replied. “Where can I find him?”
“I don't know. I just heard he's been on a tear the past month.”
Miles looked the men in the eye, switching back and forth.
“Look mister, we don't know nothing about Claude.” The second man said.
“Yeah all we know is that he's been trouble 'round these parts lately. They upped his bounty to two hundred dollars yesterday.”
“Who was driving that stagecoach this morning?” Miles asked
“Frank. He was the whip on that coach.” The first man said “He just got back into town, and he's talkin' with the sheriff now.”
Miles tipped his hat, dropped ten dollars on the table. Five for each man.
“Listen, you don't want to tangle with the curly wolf. They say he can't be killed.” The first man offered up. “They say the devil himself sends Claude back, whenever someone tries to send him ta Hell.”
Miles turned away, talking over his shoulder as he left. “Looks like I'll be in good company.”
* * *
The crackling fire took the sting out of the cool night breeze. Claude, Rollie and Sean sat close to the radiating warmth as their shadows danced on the rocks behind them.
“All this stuff is useless, boss.” Rollie said. “It's all miner's gear. There ain't a gold mine anywhere near these parts.”
“Silver mines. That's what this stuff was for.” Claude answered.
“Well, seein' as how there's no silver in here, it does us no good.” Rollie said.
Sean sat quietly with one of the blankets from the morning haul draped around his shoulders. He reloaded the spent chamber of his revolver, and pulled the plunging lever on his Colt Navy to seat the lead ball home. “Train's scheduled to come in tomorrow.”
“What train?” Rollie asked almost lunging forward off of his bedroll.
“Sean's right.” said Claude. “That train should be bringing the payroll for the boys laying down new tracks.”
“Might be a large haul too. They've been falling behind, so it could have some backpay in there as well.” Sean said.
“Think we could take it?” Rollie asked. His wicked grin was even more sinister in the light of the flickering flames.
“It's not like we can get by comfortably with this
stuff.” Claude kicked one of the spare blankets. “Well, I mean, it's a comfortable blanket, but that's not what I mean to say.”
Each man looked into the fire, contemplating how tomorrow's events could change their lives. Rollie's lips curled into a snarling smile. Sean's stone cold features refused to offer up any hint of his mind state. Claude Batton brought his thumb up to his mouth, biting down on the nail as his brows furrowed.
“This is probably a bad idea. It won't be easy to pull off with such short notice.” He said. “What time does the train arrive?”
“Two fifteen.” Sean said.
“That means we should plan to take it well before it arrives. We're not going to be getting any sleep tonight, boys.” Claude got to his feet to stretch. “Put some more coffee on, Rollie. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”
They broke the arrival into stages. Too early, and the train will have a full head of steam, making it impossible to catch. Too late, and the law could very well hear of what's happening and show up to thwart the heist. They could put something on the track to stop the train, but then every gun slinger on board would be ready to work. They had to get on board the train without anyone realizing until it was too late. They had to reach the train at a bend in the tracks when the engineer had to slow down to make the curve.
The sun was starting to bleed over the horizon. Its reddish golden glow burnt the purple night sky away. The three men didn't miss the sleep they had skipped, and were ready to ride out. It was going to be a long morning, waiting for the train.
“No one's gonna expect us to hit this train, right after we took that coach.” Rollie seemed twitchier than normal. A mixture of too much coffee, and not enough smarts to know how dangerous this was.
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