MAGNIFICENT Guns of Seneca 6
Chamber 3 of the Guns of Seneca 6 Saga
Bernard Schaffer
CONTENTS
Chapter 1: The Coward
Chapter 2: Sand Inside
Chapter 3: The Original People of Seneca
Chapter 4: Thasuka Witko’s Vision
Chapter 5: The Devastator
Chapter 6: The Grind Wheel
Chapter 7: Men in Masks
Chapter 8: The Preacher
Chapter 9: Treat 'Em Like a Million Bucks
Chapter 10: And Have a Plan to Kill 'Em
Chapter 11: The Passing of Betsy Clayton
Chapter 12: Gone Again
Chapter 13: Orayvi
Chapter 14: For Someone Else's Better Tomorrow
Chapter 15: The Man That You Fear
Chapter 16: Is Your Back Against the Wall, or Just Across the Line?
Chapter 17: Personal Jesus
Chapter 18: Thunderstruck
Chapter 19: Aquayanderen
Chapter 20: Prayer is the Key
Chapter 21: Wabash River
Chapter 22: I'll Be Home Come Hell or High Water, and I Know I Will See You Soon
Epilogue: Bart Masters' Decision
Chapter 1: The Coward
The wagon approached. It came over the ridge shimmering in the heat, the driver unaware he was being watched. Bob Ford looked at the man standing next to him and tried not to smile. "Just like you said it would, Jim."
"It’s not magic, Bob. Any fool can read a transport manifest."
"Yeah, I reckon that’s true, but you knew just before it was coming. Like you got a gift." Bob’s eyes glazed over as he spoke. He looked like a young poet about to break into sloppy verse.
Gentleman Jim hiked his black scarf up over his nose and said, "I told you not to believe any of that nonsense you read about me in the papers, Bob. I’m just a thief."
Bob adjusted his mask, trying to get it right. Just a potato sack with mismatched eyeholes, he had to keep his head tilted to the left to see through it. The wagon was nearly on top of them when Gentleman Jim unsnapped the holster for his Colt Defeater and said, "Come on!"
They rode hard, working their mounts until they caught the wagon, having to shield their eyes from the billows of dust and dirt kicking up from its wheels. The two bandits, Bob thought. He had a newspaper article tucked in his shirt pocket that read Gentleman Jim Strikes Again! Bob knew every word of the article's fourth paragraph.
The first paragraph recounted the incident of a stagecoach, struck mid-day by the aforementioned Highwayman. The second, victim’s accounts of the infamous outlaw, including the woman (there was always a woman) who said, "He looked mean and cruel at the other men, so that I swore he was about to send them to their maker, but when he turned to me he held out his hand and whispered, ‘You tuck away those pearls, ma’am. If I don’t take ‘em, people will begin to suspect I’m going soft.’"
The third paragraph recounted all the other descriptions of the bandit. Eyes blue enough to ladle water from. A young man. An angry young man. A polite, handsome, young man with six-guns that blazed like hellfire.
And then, the fourth paragraph.
Its words were burned into Bob Ford’s mind like someone etched them there with a laser. It was the one that reported Gentleman Jim was accompanied by a bold, mysterious assistant.
Mysterious, Bob thought. Bold. He adjusted his sack-mask and snapped his reins, charging forward around the side of the wagon to get the drop on the driver.
"What are you doing?" the bandit shouted.
"Come on!" Bob shouted, whipping his destrier’s neck until it screamed and charged ahead of the wagon’s rear wheels.
The driver heard the animal’s noise and turned in his seat, immediately sticking his hand between his legs for his double-barrel shotgun. He lowered the barrel directly at the top of Bob's head.
Gentleman Jim cursed and kicked his animal in the ribs to race around the other side and get a clear view of the driver. It was too late. The wagon veered left as the driver pulled the trigger, firing a storm of buckshot flying past Bob’s ear.
Gentleman Jim yanked his Colt Defeater free and leaned into the saddle, pushing his animal as hard as he could until the driver’s back came into view. "Put it down! You’re caught!"
The driver spun in his seat with the gun in front of him, bearing down on the bandit with its wide barrel.
Gentleman Jim fired once and the driver’s head snapped backwards. He slumped to the floor and the destriers pulling the wagon panicked and crashed into one another, sending the carriage up on two wheels. Gentleman Jim grabbed the forward carry’s lift bar and jumped into the front seat, throwing himself to the other side until it was back on four wheels. He took the reins from the driver’s twitching hand and stomped on the brake pedal, pressing it to the floorboards until the animals finally stopped.
Bob Ford rode around the side of the wagon, face white as marble under his lopsided potato sack that was now scored with black gunpowder. His mouth twitched stupidly inside the mask, moving constantly but nothing came out until he gasped, "I can't believe it. That son of a bitch almost shot me."
Gentleman Jim snatched the riding whip off of the seat and grabbed Bob by the collar, holding him fast. He whipped Bob viciously across the top of the head until the sack’s fabric split in a mess of tangled, bloody hair. Bob squealed like a pig but the whipping continued until blood leaked out of his shoulder blades and neck.
Bob screamed for mercy and covered his head with his hands and begged Jim to stop. The bandit snapped the whip in two and tossed the pieces on the ground, needing to bend forward to catch his breath. He looked at Bob in disgust and said, "You ever…disobey me again…and I’ll gut you like a fish, you dumb son of a bitch."
Bob Ford could do nothing but whimper. His raw flesh stung all over, his shirt suddenly felt like steel wool scraping against his wounds in the damp mixture of blood and sweat and heat.
"Go fetch my ride," Gentleman Jim said as he lowered himself from the forward carry. He pointed his pistol at the wagon’s rear compartment and said, "Get that door open and come out slow. I will put a hole in the first person who tests me."
A voice called out from inside, "It’s just one man in here. I’m not armed. I’m coming out now, so don’t shoot."
The bandit stepped back, keeping his gun ready. The door opened slowly and an old man stuck his hands out, showing they were empty. He stepped down from the carriage and stood there, observing the scene around him in wonder.
Gentleman Jim looked at the man’s face like it was something to be studied. Suddenly, his eyes widened in horror.
"Don’t do anything foolish, boy," the man said.
The bandit grabbed him by the shirt and jammed the barrel of his pistol into the man’s jaw, using it to lift his head until they were eye to eye. He inspected the long thin scar across the bridge of the man’s nose, a line of ruined flesh that ran from the center of his brow to his cheek. The bandit sucked in air through clenched teeth and the gun shook in his hand.
"Listen to me, friend," the man said slowly. "I ain’t got hardly two cent, but you are welcome to it. I got no problems with you lot. If I was any younger I’d be right out here with you’s."
The bandit thrust his hand into the man’s vest for a folded document. He kept his gun on the man’s chin as he opened it and read it. "It’s a pardon letter from the Sheriff of Seneca 6," the man said quickly. "I had to pay him almost every cent I had to let me back inside. I got kin there I ain’t seen in twenty-five years."
Gentleman Jim looked the name printed on the letter and said, "Peter Phillips." He looked back at the man and said, "They called you Whiskey Pete."
Phillips smiled at him in confusion and said, "That’s right. How the hell you know that?"
Gentleman Jim took a deep breath and let go of the man. He holstered his gun and handed the letter back to Phillips, then turned to look over his shoulder.
"You all done blubbering, Bob?"
Bob Ford reached inside of his mask and wiped his eyes clear while he held onto the rein of the bandit’s destrier.
Gentleman Jim shook his head and said, "Pardon my temper, Mr. Phillips. You can see the quality of associate I am forced to truck with. Take a good look, Bob. This here’s an outlaw from back in the old days. Back before the rest of us got soft."
Bob Ford held up his hand quietly and waved at Peter Phillips. Phillips was dressed in a torn shirt he’d stolen from a sleeping drunk. His toes wiggled through his broken shoes. He stunk like roadkill and hadn’t bathed in weeks, but he stuck out his chest at the handsome bandit’s words and said, "That’s right. That’s just how we did it."
"Get down off that destrier, Bob," the bandit said. "Mr. Phillips, I’d appreciate if you rode with me for a spell. I’ve got some business to discuss with someone who has knowledge and experience in such matters. I think you’ll find my proposition to be profitable."
"Proposition?" Phillips said, but the word he was thinking in his mind was profitable. "Certainly. I’m happy to oblige."
Gentleman Jim smiled in relief, "I studied all the old greats from the time I was just a little kid. Read every newspaper I could find to see what you boys were up to. In a way, you turned me into the man I am today."
Phillips took the reins from Bob’s hand and said, "It’s nice to finally meet young folks who respect the past."
Bob Ford watched both men mount their destriers and said, "What am I supposed to ride?"
Gentleman Jim looked down at him and pointed at the dead driver in the forward carry. "You are gonna take that poor bastard’s body back to Seneca 5 and find out if he has any kin." He reached into his vest and pulled out a small sack of severian, "Tell them you found him all shot up out here and this was in his pocket." He tossed the sack at Bob and said, "So help me, it had better all get to them too. Every speck. I will know otherwise. I will verify."
"All right," Bob said. He climbed up into the wagon and moved the driver’s body over. "Should I wait for you in The 5?"
"I like how you conduct your affairs, sir," Pete Phillips said. He looked at the small sack of riches in Bob’s hand and said the word to himself again. Profitable.
Gentleman Jim thanked him and said, "Wait until you hear what I got in store for you."
"Pardon me," Bob Ford said meekly.
"What?" the outlaw said.
"Should I wait for you in The 5?"
Gentleman Jim sighed and said, "I suppose so, Bob. If I left you there alone I expect you’d die of a broken heart waiting for my return."
Both men laughed as they rode off, leaving Bob alone with the dead body in the wagon.
Less than a month later, the inmates at the Beltran 6 Interstellar Penal Colony watched the new prisoner arrive with grinning, leering interest. They called out to him and whistled, laughing as he staggered forward wide-eyed. "Keep moving, Ford," the guard said, shoving him across the back. The chains connecting Bob Ford’s wrists were tied to the ones connecting his ankles, rattling as he shuffled barefoot across the cold concrete floor.
Levels of inmates rose on both sides of him higher than he could see. He looked up at hundreds of floors of jail cells and the thousands of arms waving and grasping for him through the bars. The guard put his hand on Ford’s shoulder and said, "Okay, that’s far enough."
It went dark, except for the cone of a white, glaring spotlight centered on Bob Ford. The cacophony of the massive prison fell silent. "Here comes," the guard said.
"Here comes what?" Ford whispered.
"On the count of ten they’re gonna open all these cell doors and let the inmates play with you for a little while. Kind of a welcoming party if you will."
"Unchain me!" Ford shouted. "Unchain me you son of a bitch!"
"What’s the fun in that?" the guard said.
"Ten, Nine, Eight," all of the prisoners began to recite in unison.
"Give me my hands to defend myself at least!" Ford screamed.
"Seven, Six, Five."
"Go to hell! All of you!" Ford’s voice broke, going hoarse and cracking like he a schoolboy’s.
"Four, Three, Two. One."
The spotlight went out, and Ford’s voice rang out in the dark, a single horrific scream of terror that echoed along the never-ending walls of the prison.
There was movement in the darkness and the shuffling of feet all around him. Ford dropped to his knees and covered himself, feeling his insides bubble and turn to water. He mewled and sobbed until someone grabbed him by the shoulder and said, "All right, that’s enough whimpering out of you."
The lights came back on and Ford saw that several guards were standing around him, watching as he rolled around on the floor screaming for everyone to get away. Ford opened his eyes to see that all of the jail cells were still shut and all of the prisoners were pressed against the bars, watching him intently. "Wha-what?" Ford panted.
The prison erupted with laughter and the prisoners waved their hands at him in disgust and returned to their bunks. One of the guards yanked Ford back to his feet and started dragging him down the corridor toward the office at the other end. "Aw, Christ, he’s leaking piss all over the floor," he said to the others.
"Get him cleaned up and then make him come back and mop it up."
Ford hung his head and wept while laughter fell down on him from floors of prisoners towering higher than he could see.
At night the only option was to stuff your head under the thin pillow and hold it down over your ears. The crazies never slept. They screamed and chanted and gave radical political and religious speeches in full voice until the guards came along and zapped them with an electrical prod. There were screams and quarrels and the sounds of violations occurring in cells that there were not nearly enough guards to deal with.
During intake processing, they shaved all of the hair off Bob's body with a dull razor. His nether parts stung from the various nicks and cuts. His underarms were raw and sore and he had to lie on his back with his legs apart. There were no blankets on the bunks. Bob Ford covered his ears and rolled over to press himself against the cold wall.
That was the first night that Gentleman Jim came to speak with him. His blues eyes shined beneath his mask as he looked Bob over and said, "Hey partner. God damn you look more miserable than a seasick sailor."
"I'm not talking to you," Bob said. "It was you who put me here."
The bandit kneeled down next to Bob's bunk and said, "I'm real sorry about that, Bob. But in all fairness, you did try and sell me out the first second they clapped irons on you."
"That was just talk," Bob said. "I wouldn't have let them take you and do this to you. Never."
"I know, Bob. That's why I'm coming to bust you out. All I need you to do is be patient. You think I'd forget my partner?" Gentleman Jim smiled at Bob kindly enough to melt butter and then he was gone, vanishing into the grey stone walls of the dark cell.
Bob waited, keeping the flame of hope in his heart. Relying on the words from his guardian angel. Always faithful. Always patient. And then things got nasty.
There were no windows inside the facility. No sun. No sky. The only indication of time passing was the bright fluorescent lights that went on and off intermittently. Bob lost track of time. He lost track of himself.
One day a guard opened his cell door and said, "Come on Ford, you got a visitor."
"Who is it?" Bob said.
"Like I give a damn?"
Bob slid off his bunk and followed the guard, keeping his eyes down in the hallways. He ignored the men who sprang forward against their cell doors. "Got some visitors, piss pants?"
"You and the screw going on a date, Bob?"
"Time for some privacy with your boyfriend, pissy?"
"I bet his wife’s come see him. Send her in here, boy. She don’t want you. I’ll take good care of her."
The guard used one of the dozen heavy iron keys on his belt to unlock the block’s door
. He held it open and Bob said, "Thank you kindly, sir."
The guard just shook his head and said, "They’re down here in the office."
Bob saw a man sitting inside, tapping his fingers on the desk impatiently. The guard closed the door behind him and Bob sat down without speaking.
"How you doing today, Mr. Ford?"
Bob said nothing.
"You want some food? A smoke maybe?"
Bob did not speak.
The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a short cigar. He puffed it a few times before he could get it to light and he said, "My name is Johnny Saringo. I spent a good deal of time looking for you up until you wound up here."
"Why were you looking for me?"
"Because that’s what I do, Bob. I look for outlaws like yourself and bring them to justice. For a fee."
"You’re a bounty hunter?" Bob thought for a moment, "There was a reward for my arrest?"
"That’s right," Saringo said. He could see satisfaction and pride spreading across the boy’s face like a crop fire. Of course, there was no reward. Just tactics. "Guard told us you been having it kind of rough in here. Some kind of incident in the showers."
Bob flinched but did not look up. "Did you come here to press me for details about my troubles or is there something specific you need?"
"Well, since you asked. I came to make you an offer. It’s a one-time thing and if you decline, you’ll do the rest of your time here on this rock. No parole. No minimum time served."
Bob looked up at him. "I’m supposed to do nine years."
"Is that right? That’s a long time to be caged up with these animals, Bob. A whole lot of showers."
"So what do I have to do?"
Saringo smiled and said, "Something you won’t mind very much. I want you to help me capture and kill your old friend Gentleman Jim."
Guns of Seneca 6 Box Set Collected Saga (Chambers 1-4) Page 22