Fighting Iron

by Jake Bible

  “But what do you know personally?” Clay asked.

  The large woman leaned across the table and pointed a finger at him.

  “What’s your name, comrade?” she asked.

  “What’s yours?” Clay shot back.

  “Willow Bentbranch,” the large woman said. “You?”

  “Clay,” Clay said. He poured a glassful of liquor and sipped from it, his eyes locked onto Willow’s. “And the only reason I’m here is because you can get my mech back for me.”

  Nasta grunted and closed her eyes. She took the glass out of Clay’s hands and downed it before slamming it into the table, her eyes filled with fire.

  “That’s not being cool, Clay,” Nasta said. She focused on Willow. “Listen, I apologize for the pilot here. From what I know, he’s been out on the range a while and hasn’t had to deal with civilized people for a long time.”

  “Show me some civilized people and I’ll deal with them,” Clay said.

  Nasta grabbed one of his fingers and bent it to the side at a very awkward angle.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” he cried. “Okay, okay, I’ll be cool.”

  Firoa snickered and gave him a sneer then gave Nasta a smile. “Wish you would have let me do that,” she said.

  Hank was busy watching the stage show and ignored everything happening at the table, the duffel bag secured between his feet.

  “I cannot help those that refuse to help themselves,” Willow said, spreading her hands wide on the table. She gave Nasta a sad, condescending smile. “We would love to help you and your cause, but we have very specific demands in order to do that. If your pilot refuses to cooperate then we have nothing more to talk about. I will drink with you, since you are a comrade that understands our collective struggle, but our business is over unless I know the pilot is in.”

  “Can you get his mech back for him?” Nasta asked.

  “We can,” Willow said. “But why? We have our own mech that he can use.”

  “You what?” Clay asked, leaning forward in his chair. “Your own mech I can use for what?”

  “Quiet,” Nasta said. She patted Clay’s hand until he leaned back. “That is a generous offer, but he needs his mech if we are going to make a deal. You have to agree that a mech pilot in his own mech is better than a mech pilot in a strange mech, yes?”

  “I agree with that, comrade, but we do not have his mech,” Willow said. She smacked the man that sat next to her in the chest. “Tell her.”

  “We don’t have his mech,” the man said as he straightened his bandolier. “We have a different mech.”

  “Then I am confused,” Nasta said.

  “Join the freaking club,” Clay snorted.

  Hank laughed hard and all eyes turned to him as he slapped his hands on his thighs. Everyone followed his gaze and stared at the act being performed on the stage. It involved some very intricate contortions. It was hard to tell where one person began and another ended. Although everyone seemed to end in a very enthusiastic young woman on stage left.

  Everyone turned back to the business at the table, forgetting the entertaining violations occurring up on stage. Except Hank. He kept his eyes locked onto every gyration and grunting pelvic thrust.

  “In our last communication, I said I had a mech pilot for you, but he needed his mech back,” Nasta said, focused entirely on Willow. “You said you needed a mech pilot and could get his mech back for him. You specifically said you had the resources to retrieve his mech. There was no misunderstanding with that. So what is the problem now?”

  “No problem, but you are wrong about the misunderstanding,” Willow said. “We can get his mech for him but he has to use our mech to do it. If he wins the tournament then we can demand that the Mister give back the mech he has taken to his ranch. The winner of the tournament gets to set the terms of the spoils. Those are the rules.”

  Nasta frowned and leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed and her brow deeply furrowed. Firoa did the same and the two women looked at each other, a silent communication being spoken between them.

  “How do you get to enter the tournament?” Clay asked before anyone spoke again. “It’s for landowners only, right? That’s what I understood from my fun time with General Hansen.”

  The comunistas all hissed at the name. Clay rolled his eyes.

  “Puta whore,” Willow said. “That woman is nothing but lies.” Then she shrugged and nodded. “But, yes, only landowners can enter the tournament. That is why we have purchased eighteen acres of range land and even put some cattle on it. We are now landowners and eligible to enter the tournament. We have the land, we have the mech, and all we need is the pilot.”

  “Oh, you have got to be joking,” Clay laughed and laughed hard. “Comunistas are now landowners? Am I the only one that sees the irony in this?”

  “What’s your mech like?” Nasta asked when her and Firoa’s eye contact conversation was over. “Is it in good condition?”

  “The best,” Willow replied. “I have had it looked over by six different mechanics. All support the revolucion so I know they were honest in their assessments. It will hold up in a fight, no problem.”

  Nasta looked over at Clay. “What do you think?”

  “About what?” Clay asked. “This isn’t what was promised to me. I never agreed to fight in the tournament and I certainly never agreed to use some strange mech I haven’t even seen.”

  “We can fix that!” Willow announced and slammed her palms on the table, nearly knocking the liquor bottle off into Clay’s lap. “We will take you to it now!”

  “Yippee,” Clay said and twirled a finger in the air. “But you aren’t listening to me, flower girl.”

  “Ah, you have guessed my heritage,” Willow said and smiled.

  “Wasn’t hard,” Clay said. “But I think you have your movements mixed up. The Flower People are for peace, not revolucion. Whoever named you forgot to pin the guidelines to your crib when they dumped you in the gutter.”

  “That’s harsh,” Firoa said, but she was smiling.

  “All movements are one,” Willow said, the smile gone. “And we cannot have peace without a fight.”

  “You are killing me here,” Clay snickered. “Here’s what it comes down to, so listen closely. I want my mech, not your mech. If you want me to fight for you then the only way that is happening is if I’m in my own cockpit with my tons of metal around me. Not your tons of metal. Mine.”

  “Come see the mech first,” Willow said.

  “Don’t see how that will change things,” Clay said.

  “Maybe not, but if you see what we have prepared then you may decide that winning the tournament is easier than going to retrieve your mech,” Willow said.

  Clay let out a long, annoyed breath.

  “Fine, let’s look at your mech,” Clay said. “A look only. If I don’t like it then there’s no deal. I’ll figure out how to get my mech back myself.”

  “Clay, if you don’t fight for the comunistas then they won’t open their routes to our needs,” Nasta said, leaning in close and speaking directly into his ear.

  It wasn’t a whisper since whispers were impossible over the noise of the saloon, but it was intimate communication and Nasta’s warm breath on his skin chipped away at some of the obstinacy he felt towards the whole situation. He slowly turned his head and her face was right there, an inch from his own. Her eyes peered into his and he didn’t flinch.

  “Those routes your only needs?” Clay asked.

  Nasta held her position then nodded slowly as she drew back.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Clay rubbed the stubble on his cheeks with both hands then pushed up and away from the table.

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “We look at your mech. But you will listen to my professional opinion. If I don’t think it’s combat worthy then there is no deal. I don’t care what cause or movement or whatever it impacts. If I say the mech can’t fight then it can’t fight. Got it?”

  No one replied.
In fact, no one was even looking at Clay. All eyes were locked onto a spot behind his right shoulder.

  “What?” Clay asked and turned around.

  He came face to scarred face with the Captain.

  “Hello there,” the Captain said. “I was just coming over to speak to some suspected cattle rustlers and look what I found instead.”

  Clay never saw the punch coming.

  Nineteen

  Strength wasn’t exactly Clay’s strength at that moment.

  He’d had a hard couple of weeks. His body felt like hell and he was quite drunk, if he did say so himself. Not that he did say so himself since he was too busy lying in the beer and liquor soaked sawdust at the feet of the Captain.

  His jaw hurt almost as much as his shoulder and guts. He rubbed at it and tried to speak, but he didn’t get a chance as a boot connected with his temple, sending him tumbling against the table where the comunistas and Underground Railroad folks still sat, staring in disbelief. The Captain leaned down and picked Clay up by his shirt, dragging him away from the table and back through the crowd.

  A crowd that could give a shit about some drunk being hauled across the floor by the Captain. They knew her, all of them did, at least by reputation. The drunk was on his own.

  “Hey…” Clay mumbled as his heels thumped on the saloon’s uneven boards. He struggled to right himself, to get free of the Captain’s grip, but he just didn’t have it in him. “Hey…”

  “Oh, this is rich,” the Captain said. “Rich, indeed. The General is going to be so happy. Yes, he is. So happy.”

  “General’s…a girl…” Clay muttered. “Not a…he.”

  “General Hansen is a woman,” the Captain snapped. “Show some respect, you lazy, double-crossing coward.”

  “Huh?” Clay asked as he saw the saloon doors come into his view. Only two groups of people stood between him and the street outside. “What?”

  The Captain gave him a hard slap across one cheek then a backhand across the other. She pulled him close, face to scarred face, and showed him her yellowed teeth.

  “You are General Hansen’s property, boy,” the Captain said. “Time to go back to your owner where you belong.”

  The Captain shoved through the groups of people and was at the double doors when the saloon echoed with an earsplitting crack. The woman stopped and let Clay fall to her feet as she pulled her pistol and spun about.

  Clay was able to push up onto his elbows and the crowd parted down the middle from the Captain to the table where the comunistas and the undergrounders sat. But one of them wasn’t sitting. He was standing upright, a shotgun aimed up at the ceiling, plaster dust raining down on him from the holes he had put in the cheap tin that lined the space above. Hank regarded the Captain with a blank, almost bored look.

  “That’s a big gun you got there,” the Captain said. “But it’s pointed in the wrong direction.”

  The Captain had her pistol aimed right at Hank, her hand steady. Clay could see the tension in her finger as it began to squeeze the trigger. But another crack rang out and the pistol went flying from her hand. The Captain cried out and clutched her hand to her chest then turned to regard the woman standing on the stage with a revolver in each hand.

  “You know the rules, Captain,” Mrs. Ventura said. “No gunfights inside my saloon. You want a showdown, you take it outside and make it official. I already sent a runner to find Sheriff Trang.”

  “I’m right here, Haggie,” Sheriff Trang said from the double doors. “Had a feeling this one was going to be trouble.” He nodded down at Clay. “Smelled it on him.”

  The crowd was developing whiplash as they turned their heads from the Captain to Hank, up at Mrs. Ventura, over to Sheriff Trang then down at Clay and back to the Captain.

  “I have a legitimate claim on this man,” the Captain said. “He was caught trying to thieve grey from our water tower. That gives us jurisdiction over his person. General Hansen has ordered me to bring him back alive, so no showdown is needed.”

  “Proxy!” Clay shouted. “I call proxy!”

  He gained enough wits and strength to point over at Hank.

  “I’m not going back with this woman so I make that man my proxy,” Clay said. “He can shoot for me in the street.”

  The Captain glared at Clay and almost brought a boot back to kick him again, but she stopped herself and held out her injured shooting hand.

  “I’m in no shape for a showdown, Sheriff Trang,” the Captain said. “I probably won’t be able to wipe my backside for a week.”

  “You agree to be this man’s proxy?” Sheriff Trang asked as he ignored the Captain and his eyes went to Hank.

  Hank cocked his head. Firoa came up in front of him and signed what the sheriff had said. Hank nodded.

  “Yeah, he’ll be this dumbass’s proxy,” Firoa said. “I don’t why, but he will.”

  Hank made a series of signs. Firoa smiled, but didn’t say anything until Hank glared at her and pointed the shotgun towards the Captain.

  “He says that he’ll do it because he’s sick of looking at this ugly bitch’s face every time he comes into town,” Firoa said.

  “Oh, Peekachu’s ghost,” Nasta moaned.

  “I call for my own proxy!” the Captain shouted. “Nuggins!”

  “What?” a man called from the far end of the bar where he was busy feeling up a working woman that giggled at his pawing with vacant, blank eyes. “I’m busy right now, sir.”

  “Get unbusy!” the Captain shouted. “Ain’t you been paying attention to anything that has been happening here?”

  “Not really,” Nuggins called out, his attention still on the tits and ass before him. “What’s up?”

  “You’re my proxy, stupid!” the Captain shouted. “Gonna need you to kill some deaf boy for me!”

  “Right now?” Nuggins asked.

  “Right now!” the Captain hollered. “Then you can dip your wick in any one of Haggie’s fine ladies. My treat.”

  “Damn, you got yerself a deal, sir!” Nuggins whooped.

  He pushed the whore away and shoved up to the front of the saloon. He caught sight of Clay still on the floor and grinned.

  “Hey, I know you,” Nuggins said. “I didn’t think you was deaf though.”

  “Not him, idiot,” the Captain said, grabbing Nuggins by the neck and turning him towards Hank. “That one. The big dummy.”

  Hank obviously read the Captain’s lips that time because he took a step forward and almost squeezed the trigger of the shotgun, but Firoa intervened and calmed him down.

  “I wouldn’t call him that again,” Firoa said.

  “Listen, we really don’t want any trouble,” Nasta said as she stood up and tried to decide who to talk to first. “This was a misunderstanding. Simple as that.”

  “Too late for backing out now,” Sheriff Trang said. “Your boy here called for a proxy and one was provided. The Captain called for a proxy and one was provided. The showdown is happening now. I want to get this over with and be home by ten, if y’all don’t mind. Been a long day and tomorrow is fixing to be longer.” He pointed a finger at Nasta. “And if you ain’t looking for trouble then I suggest you don’t associate with comunistas. I mean, look at them damn hats. Cheeses and crackers.”

  “Clay, stop this,” Nasta pleaded as she pushed through the crowd towards him.

  “Like the sheriff said, it’s too late,” the Captain snarled as she put herself between Nasta and Clay. “The proxy will die, and per the rules of engagement and showdowns in Del Rado, Mr. MacAulay will die as well.”

  “Not with Hank as my guy,” Clay said and slowly, painfully got to his feet. “The man knows his guns.”

  “Oh, Clay,” Nasta said. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  “Not my first showdown, Nasta,” Clay said. “I know exactly what I’ve done.”

  “No, you don’t,” Nasta said. “Hank is a great shot. At close range. But he’s near sighted and refuses to get glasses. He w
on’t be able to see Mr. Nuggins, let alone be able to draw and put a bullet in him.”

  “Just Nuggins, ma’am,” Nuggins said. “But I thank you kindly for the courtesy of adding a mister to my name.” He ogled Nasta from top to bottom. “Maybe when this is over you and I can celebrate. Maybe a threesome with that fine lady at the end of the bar.”

  He gave the whore a wave and she gave him one back then belched.

  “Are you insane?” Nasta snapped. “There will be nothing to celebrate if you kill my friend.”

  “Oh, right, good point,” Nuggins said. He shrugged and looked around. “So we doing this or what?”

  “Outside. Now,” Sheriff Trang ordered.

  The Captain sneered at Clay then led Nuggins outside as the saloon basically emptied in three point one seconds.

  “We stand with you, comrade,” Willow said as the comunistas filed past him and out with the rest of the crowd.

  That left Clay, Nasta, Hank, and Mrs. Ventura in the saloon. Even the dancers and the bartender had vacated.

  “Did you say he’s near sighted?” Clay asked.

  “Yes,” Nasta replied. “Severely.”

  “But he read the Captain’s lips,” Clay argued.

  “No, he read the lips of the people close by that were repeating what the Captain said to their neighbors,” Nasta said. “It’s a trick he’s learned over the years.”

  “You have to be kidding me,” Clay said and rubbed his swelling jaw. “I’m dead.”

  “Nah,” Firoa said. “You still have a chance. You’ve got mech pilot eyes, right?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Clay said.

  “You have keen vision,” Firoa grumbled. “That’s what that means. You be Hank’s eyes. Tell him where to fire and he’ll fire there. He won’t miss. The rules say you can stand by your proxy’s side during the showdown. That’s your chance.”