by J.M. Thomas
had, and it crashed into Ventura’s steed. He fell from the vehicle as Wallup came around the dumpster, blasting, and rolled through the filth while removing the pole strapped to his back.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Wallup let another round go, blasting away a chunk of the building to which Ventura was scrambling. The focus on Ventura, pulling his vibrabow from his back, allowed Old Man Craig to crash into Ventura’s parked steed and in the pile up to pull Wallup away from his charge at Paul.
“Who are you?”
Wallup turned and brought up his shotgun. Two shots: one to the face, one to the chest, and Old Man Craig was out of the fight.
Ventura finally got off a shot from his vibrabow. The red laser hit Wallup square on the left shoulder blade and spun him around. Ventura got to his feet; he limped to his one-time associate, who aimed his shotgun and pulled one final time on the trigger.
It was empty.
Ventura went to check on Old Man Craig, but he knew what to expect. Wallup immediately went into damage control.
“Look, Paul, we have two steeds. Think of what we can do with them?” He held his shoulder blade as best he could, but it had already started bleeding.
“And what can we do with them?”
Ventura stared at Old Man Craig. He knew the man for virtually no time at all; the old man was nothing more than a stranger. But there he was—dead, just as Jody was dead, just as his brother, even though he hated his brother, was dead. This was all at the hands of the man who administered regular beatings who even now tried to find a shell to end Ventura’s life.
It was time to look away from Old Man Craig.
“What can we do with them?”
“We can rule the Four Corners! We can take whatever we want! We’ll never have to work again—just like we always talked about!”
“It’s interesting that you haven’t even asked who sent me to kill you.”
For the very first time during their relationship, Ventura caught Wallup with nothing to say. He pulled the vibrabow and aimed it.
“You could let me go.”
“They asked whether I would let you go. I said ‘no.’”
Rage. Wallup couldn’t hide the rage as his bloody hand searched everywhere for another shell. Ventura walked over, grabbed the shotgun, and threw it aside.
“You owe it to me to let me go.”
Ventura raised the vibrabow.
“I’ve never owed you anything.”
“They’ll kill you next.”
“Then, at least I get to take care of you.”
Ventura pulled back the vibrabow, and he killed Wallup.
There was a large man, hulking, crusted with grease and all sorts of engine goop. He opened the hanger door and waved Ventura in. He told Ventura to wait while he called for Mary. Ventura flew the steed over to its bay, parked it, and pulled Old Man Craig’s body off the fuselage to the ground.
The large man came over. He clapped a paw on Ventura’s shoulder.
“I’m Frankie. How did it happen?”
“I was knocked off my steed; he was shot covering me.”
They stared at the body until Mary Vernon arrived. She asked for an explanation, which matched what Ventura gave Frankie.
“And Wallup?”
“Dead.”
She nodded.
“Let’s get him over to Fowler’s for the cremation. Frankie?”
“Of course.”
She started to walk away. Ventura pulled the vibrabow from his shoulder and hobbled after her.
“Do you want this back? Can I go?”
“No, and no. Wallup was a bad man, and you took care of him. You stay as long as you want.”
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