by Adam Bender
The Wanderer fell back into the car seat as Kid Hunter took a hard right onto a twisting highway ramp, taking the turn as fast as possible without sending the sedan into the guardrail. The wheels squealed in protest, but just managed to hang on until they reached the highway proper.
“Look,” said Errol, “I shouldn’t have left. I know that. It’s just … what I do. It’s what I always do.”
Rosie’s expression softened. “So why did you come back this time?”
He thought about it but couldn’t come up with a good explanation. “I had to.”
The back window exploded, raining glass down on the Wanderer’s back. The shards cut, but at least the bullet missed its target, ending its journey somewhere inside the radio.
“And here I was gonna play some tunes,” said the Kid. “Probably something bittersweet, given the mood in here.”
The Wanderer leaned over the backseat and took three more shots through the space where the rear window used to be. That left one slug in the barrel. It was enough. One gangster swerved off into a guardrail, which stopped the bike but launched the rider off into the grass. The female Red Striper hit the brakes, but when her bike finally came to a stop, so did she, and she slumped forward in the vehicle. Erskine attempted to retreat, however the sudden U-turn on the three-lane highway sent him on a path directly in the way of an oncoming sports car. He hollered pretty loud for an old man.
Errol relaxed in his seat and began to peel Mr. Mask’s bandannas from his face. “So I guess what I’m saying is … I’m sorry.”
“S’all good, man,” replied the Kid. “Right, Rosa?”
She shrugged. “I was happy you came for us.”
“So where we headed next, Wandy?”
Errol winced at the nickname, but decided it was best not to make any more trouble for himself. “I reckon it’s time I head back to Vegas. It ain’t right what Gerard did to you, Rosa. He could have killed you! He was goin’ to kill you!”
The Wanderer shook his head with disgust — not only at Gerard for the murder he’d nearly committed, but at himself for the murder he almost failed to prevent.
He continued. “It ain’t right what he did to the gun printer in Freetown, either. Or killing that inventor, O’Brien. I reckon this gun trade with the Red Stripe Gang is just the last straw in a big haystack of reasons to go back to Vegas. My stepbrother ain’t fit to run Breck Ammo … and maybe I ought to. The truth is I’ve been too damn chicken to go back, but I reckon what scares me more right now is what could happen if I don’t.”
The others remained silent, and the Wanderer wondered if they’d soon be parting ways. Well, if the apology wasn’t enough, at least he’d saved their lives one last time.
The Kid spoke first. “I might as well come with you. Seems I got a date in Vegas with El Tiburón … and I figure you could probably use a little backup.”
Rosa chuckled inscrutably. “Have to admit, she said, the pitch of her voice rising, “sounds like a story I shouldn’t miss!”
“Heh,” laughed the Wanderer, struggling to keep his expression serious. “I reckon I know better now than to try and stop you.”
*
Rusty woke up with his head pounding. He could use his cup of joe, even if it was stale and cold, but he couldn’t reach it because his hands were tied behind his back. He was still in the semi’s driver’s seat, but his truck was driving itself. Glancing at the onboard navigation system, he saw that the truck had set Breck Ammo’s main distribution point in Vegas as its destination. Judging by the distance traveled, he’d been out for two, maybe three hours.
There was a note, scrawled in black ink on a Breck-branded sticky note:
Hey man,
Sorry I tranked you.
Your pal,
Kid Hunter
A low rumbling laugh erupted from the truck driver’s belly. So the guns never made it to Union. He hadn’t done his job. Oh well — not his problem!
Rusty closed his eyes. “Good girl,” he told the truck, falling back into a dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
You and What Army?
Ben Martin crouched behind the passenger side of his Ford Police Interceptor with a Pilgrim pump-action shotgun resting between his thighs. Beneath his Army trucker hat, he wore sports shades with reflective green lenses. Dougie sat next to him with his back against the hot car and his legs stretched out on the asphalt. Thick sweat matted the party section of his mullet against the back of his neck. He was carrying a Breck 17 handgun.
Martin peeked over the top of the Interceptor at the bright red drive-through window of the Wells Fargo bank. Ducking again, the sheriff brought a handheld radio to his lips and clicked the PUSH-TO-TALK button. “How’s the front looking?”
Static.
“We got four guns trained on the entrance,” Joe Lin then radioed back. “They’re not getting out this way.”
Static. Pop! “Who’s with you?”
Static.
“Got Larry, Alyssa, and Rico.”
Static. Pop!
“Okay, good. Dougie and me are positioned by the teller window. In a second I’m gonna give them a scare. Should send ’em running to you.”
Static.
“Roger.”
Static. Pop!
“And Joe, tell the others I want these bastards alive.”
This was important. He wanted to make an example of them. Martin put down the walkie-talkie and stood up with the butt of the Pilgrim rested against his shoulder. He fired at the drive-through window, smashing in the glass. A woman inside screamed. Martin figured it was the teller.
“Keep down!” he yelled.
A man in a black ski mask appeared in the window with a Breck 17. Martin pressed up against his vehicle and trained the Pilgrim at the man’s heart. “I wouldn’t,” the sheriff warned.
The bank robber hesitated.
The reports had indicated there was one more bandit inside. He’d have to tread carefully. “The name’s Ben Martin — Sheriff Ben Martin — and you’re under arrest. How about you drop the gun on the road right here, and I meet you and your buddy out front?”
Martin was excited. It was like a feeling from the past, long forgotten, had woken up again. The thrill of the chase. He knew the adrenaline would soon be followed by the ultimate satisfaction that came with a successful arrest.
“You and what army?” sneered the robber.
The deputy popped up with his semiautomatic. “That’s my cue, right, Ben?”
Martin cringed. Dougie sure was a dum-dum, sometimes. The bandit looked unimpressed until a volley of shots rang out from the other side of the building. Jolted by the noise, the robber turned from the window to look back inside the bank. He called out to someone, presumably the other robber, and received a muffled moan in reply.
“Hey!” the sheriff shouted to get his attention.
The bandit turned shakily. “I-I think he’s shot. Oh God, they said this town didn’t have law enforcement.”
“This town is under the protection of Martin’s Militia. Now throw out your damn gun. Based on his bitchin’, it sounds like your pal is still alive. If you surrender now, maybe we can help him keep livin’.”
Dougie tapped the sheriff on the shoulder and gave a look of consternation. “Why would we do that?”
Martin exhaled sharply in frustration. That idiot could sure run his mouth. “Would you shut the hell up for a minute?”
The robber looked back and forth between Ben and the inside of the bank. Finally, he tossed the Breck 17 out the window, and the gun skidded under the police car. Ben Martin caught it with his foot on the other side. He radioed Joe to let him know the standoff was at an end. The criminals were coming out.
*
The blank boxes on the page stubbornly refused to fill themselves in. Steve the station manager held a palm tightly against his forehead, straining to come up with an answer. He clutched a pencil in his other hand, absentmindedly tapping the eraser end on the ta
ble to the beat of “God Bless America.” A dusty wire fan blasted machine wind through what was left of his hair, then turned away. This repeated every few seconds, with each gust reminding Steve that he still had not come up with the solution.
Ten down, ten down … why was it always ten down?
Steve counted through the eleven spaces and mumbled the hint. “This deadly creature carries a musical instrument.” He rapped the fingers of his other hand against the table. Harp fish? No, not enough letters. Whistling duck? No, too many. And besides, it didn’t work with three or six across.
The station manager gazed out the ticket window as the red-and-white gates rang out in warning. What started as the drum roll of a marching band grew louder until it was more like thunder, and great boxes of rusted green, blue, and maroon shot from right to left over the rails. On a few he caught the logo for Breck Ammunition, but he failed to recognize most of the other symbols. With a final blast of horn, the colorful parade disappeared into the bleak desert.
“What was I doing again?” Steve asked the fan. As he pondered the question, he noticed the pencil and crossword puzzle lying on the table and figured he might as well work on that.
Steve stroked his chin thoughtfully. Ten down, ten down … why was it always ten down?
A tap at the counter broke Steve’s concentration. Realizing it was a customer, he slapped shut the orange book of crosswords and let go of the pencil. The pencil rolled back off the desk and dropped softly onto the worn carpet. Steve strained to reach it.
The tap again, this time followed by a stern voice. “Hey, grandpa, I haven’t got all day, okay?”
Abandoning the pencil, Steve looked up with his best smile. The man across from him had an irritated look on his face, but what caught Steve’s attention the most was the silver six-shooter the man had left on the counter with the barrel facing into the ticket window. “Wh-where you headed?” he stammered.
“Liberty police station,” the man said.
Steve scratched his head. Another puzzle. “I reckon you don’t need a train to go there.”
The man laughed. “I know that. I mean I need directions.”
Looking him over, Steve had a sudden bout of déjà vu. The slim man wore a Stetson and a plaid shirt. That, combined with the Lassiter on the table …” Hey, I remember you. The Wander Man, right?”
Steve spotted another guy smoking by a pair of black motorcycles in the parking lot. He was surprised he hadn’t heard them come into the lot, but figured they must have arrived while that loud marching band was coming through.
The Wander Man waved his hand in front of Steve’s eyes. “Did you hear me, old man? I asked you a question.”
Steve pointed over his shoulder. “Say! Is that Kid Hondo over there? You boys sure are a sight for sore eyes!”
The Wander Man responded with a narrowing of the eyes. “I don’t have time for games, old man. Okay? The police station. Where is it?”
Steve clapped his hands together and provided enthusiastic turn-by-turn directions, recounting the exact number of traffic lights before each turn and excitedly describing a few shops along the way. The Wander Man turned away before Steve could finish listing the pies available at Betsy’s Diner.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find one you like. I’ve yet to have a bad pie from there, I’ll tell you that.”
When the Wander Man was halfway down the walk to his bike, Steve snapped his fingers. “I’ll just call the sheriff, let him know you’re coming.”
The fingers on the Wander Man’s right hand, hanging languidly by his hip, coiled around the handle of the Lassiter. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
The flat delivery sent a chill down Steve’s spine. Or maybe that was just the breeze from the fan. Either way, he was worried. What if Sheriff Martin didn’t want to see this Wander Man? A picture came through the fog like a remembered dream. The sheriff and the deputy, caught in a standoff with the Wander Man and Kid Hondo. He’d seen the whole drama from the station window. How could he have forgotten?
Well, he was sure of one thing. Martin would want to know about this Wander Man asking for directions. The station manager reached for the phone. “I really think I should. Will only take a second.”
“Yes,” hissed the gunman, “only a second.”
There was something reptilian about the Wander Man’s eyes as he whipped his gun arm around. With a gasp, Steve realized he had the answer to ten down. “Rattlesnake!”
The Lassiter flared, the glass of the ticket window shattered, and Steve’s whole world went black.
*
It was only two lawbreakers, so Ben Martin and Dougie took the men in the sheriff’s car while the other militiamen headed for the saloon. Martin promised to buy ’em all a round in an hour’s time. Turned out Alyssa Carey had struck an artery when she’d shot the second robber. He died spraying out his insides in the car. The other one, the one they’d faced off with in the back of the bank, started bawling.
“Fuck, let’s just toss him out,” said Dougie.
Martin smirked. “Which one?”
That got Dougie laughing real loud. “Good one, Ben. That’s a real good one.”
The sheriff made a U-turn and drove a few miles out into the desert. He turned on a dusty service road. When the land looked sufficiently empty and the town of Liberty was out of view, Martin stopped the car. The sheriff and deputy got out and looked around.
“This’ll do, I reckon,” said Martin, popping open the back door. Ignoring the cries of the other criminal, they pulled his partner’s corpse out onto the red sand. The body landed with a pleasing thunk.
Dougie pointed up at a black vulture circling the cloudless sky. “They always seem to know, don’t they?”
*
Upon returning to the station, two militiamen brought the surviving robber down the stairs to the holding cells. He was still covered with his friend’s blood. Martin put him in the cage across from the Red Striper with the burned face. The gangster, looking slightly gaunter than before, whimpered slightly as Martin locked in the new prisoner.
The sheriff frowned. That was two cells filled. If the other bandit hadn’t died, the place would be full, and the next prisoners to come in would have to share cells with the ones already here. This jail wasn’t designed to be permanent — just a place to hold criminals until they could be transferred to state prison. Martin would have to come up with something, and soon.
Dougie’s voice, calling his name from upstairs, pulled Martin out of his head. “Ben! Get up here quick!”
The deputy was standing by the window facing the parking lot. There were two motorcycles parked across the handicap spots, and a gangster leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette. They hadn’t been there earlier. Before Martin could speak, the front door swung open and a second Red Striper entered the station.
“Anyone home?” the stranger boomed.
Dougie reached for his Breck 17, but Martin called him off with a wave of the hand. “Let’s see what they want first,” the sheriff ordered.
The gangster brought a cigarette down from his lips and stubbed it out on the surface of the dusty reception desk. “You Martin?”
He looked cleaner than your average Red Striper. Not nearly as bulky, either. He wore a pair of regular-fitting, dark-washed blue jeans and a red flannel shirt with rhinestone buttons. Something about his appearance struck Martin as familiar, but the sheriff couldn’t place it. “That’s Sheriff to you.”
The gangster chuckled like it was a joke. “Okay, Sheriff. And what should I call your boyfriend?”
“Deputy,” spat Dougie, wearing the bristled expression of a dog around unfamiliar house guests.
Again, the gangster snickered. “The name’s Slim. I’m with the Red Stripe Gang. You killed one of my men. The other one’s here, and I want him back.”
Killed one of their men? What was he … “Now wait one second. Tweren’t us who killed your man. It was that no-good Wanderer.”
&nbs
p; “The Wanderer,” Slim repeated flatly. If he cared, he didn’t show it. “You know, this town of yours — what’s it called?”
“Liberty.”
“That’s right. Liberty. On my way in here, I was looking around at all the nice houses and thinking to myself, ‘This must be a mighty fine place to live.’ I told that to my man outside, and he reckoned I was right. So now the both of us are thinking, maybe we’ll move here. And maybe we’ll tell our friends, and maybe they’ll move here, too. Imagine that, Sheriff? You and me. Neighbors!”
“Now you listen here,” Martin replied sternly, “your men tried to kill one of my people. A good woman from my town. I can’t just let you waltz in here and —”
A Lassiter seemed to materialize in Slim’s hand. The silver revolver fired and a spray of warm liquid struck Ben Martin across the right side of his face. Feeling no pain, the sheriff lowered his head like a bull and charged forward. He tackled the gangster before he could shoot again, sending both him and Slim crashing to the dirty tile floor. Martin pinned the gangster with his knees and wrestled the Lassiter out of the man’s hand. When he looked at the man’s face again, he saw the Wanderer.
“You!” he cried. The sheriff lifted the Lassiter high over his head and made to swing it. The Wanderer gasped an apology, but the sheriff was like a train that couldn’t be stopped. The steel pistol swung down devastatingly into the gunman’s face. Once, twice, three times …
Martin held up once the other man passed out. He reckoned another blow might be fatal. He checked himself for bullet wounds. When he didn’t find any, he looked over his shoulder and saw Dougie. There was blood oozing out of his head, forming a crimson pool on the tile. With a groan of effort, Martin pushed himself onto his feet and took a closer look. Dougie was dead, no doubt about it. Martin took off his Army hat and held it over his heart for a moment of silence. He went to put the hat over Dougie’s contorted face but his hand kept shaking and he dropped it into the puddle of blood.
“Shit!” screamed Martin. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”