The Wanderer and the New West

by Adam Bender

When Gerard had closed the gap enough for conversation, the Wanderer said, “I tried to do this the right way, you know.”

  “The right way?” repeated Gerard in disbelief. “You mean going behind my back to curry favor with the board?”

  The Wanderer scanned Gerard with his eyeglass, detecting a Breck 17 in the pocket of his suit jacket. “It was the only option you left me.”

  Gerard mimicked Errol, slurring the sentence in the whiny voice of a child. “It-was-the-only-option-you-left-me!” He leveled his tone to its usual calm baritone. “You’ve never treated me with any respect, Errol. You’re worse than Dad.”

  The Wanderer ignored him. “You’re a murderer, Gerard. You just killed four good people.”

  “I’m sorry?” Gerard asked incredulously. “Are we talking about those asshats on the board?”

  “And they’re not the first ones. You killed O’Brien to steal his gun design. You tried to kill Rosie because of a few articles she wrote. You actually made a deal with the Red Stripe Gang to wipe out the competition! And you know what else I found out recently? You —”

  “Would you shut up already? You are so boring when you string more than two sentences together. If you’re asking me to duel, I accept! It will be just like old times. With the Super Soakers, remember?”

  An image returned to Errol of the play fights around the pool. When things inevitably turned sour, his stepmother Iris would get Dad to pull the brothers apart. Dad would always take Errol’s side while Iris took her son’s.

  “Gerard … before we do this … I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t come home when your mom died. I know you didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “You’re sorry?” All of the humor went out of Gerard’s face. “No, Errol, I’m sorry. It’s … it’s too late for you to be my brother.”

  The sun burst through the clouds behind Gerard. In the sudden flash of light, Errol shielded his eyes with his dominant left hand. Gerard reached into his coat.

  The Wanderer’s right hand fell to the bad gun, the Breck 17.

  *

  On the tablet screen, Kid Hunter watched Errol and Gerard Breck line up their shots. He heard two shots, and then the view through the Wanderer’s eyeglass jerked violently and fell to the ground.

  “Errol!” he screamed, not caring if anyone in the surrounding crowd heard him.

  The brutal clouds mocked Charlie through the digital view. He could not see the Wanderer; only what the Wanderer was looking at. He couldn’t tell if he was still alive.

  A familiar cowboy hat dipped into view and Charlie saw the Wanderer peering down at him. There was a deep cut in his right cheek where a bullet had scraped off a chunk of flesh. The impact must have knocked the lens off the Wanderer’s face.

  “Dude!” cried Charlie. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

  “I’m all right, Kid.”

  “Did you get him?”

  A hand reached down and scooped up the image, returning it to its former location six feet above the ground. Squinting at the picture, Charlie could just make out the fallen body of a man in a nice suit.

  *

  The Wanderer wrapped a white handkerchief around the lower part of his face to contain the bleeding. He directed the Kid, “Find someone to clean up this mess, would you?”

  “All right, but do me a favor?” Kid Hunter paused on the other end of the line. “Make sure he’s dead.”

  The Wanderer tapped the side of the lens to switch off communications, and walked toward the still body of his stepbrother. He wanted to be alone for this next part.

  Kneeling down to inspect the body, he discovered that his shot from his Breck 17 had clipped Gerard cleanly through the chest, turning his crisp white shirt crimson beneath the black vest and suit jacket. He was still holding a pistol in his right hand. The Wanderer kicked it away, but turned back sharply when he heard a moan.

  “Errol …” Gerard’s cough sounded thick with blood. “I see you weren’t playing.”

  The Wanderer crouched over his stepbrother and stared into his laughing eyes. “I ain’t been playing since you killed Helen.”

  Gerard looked puzzled. “. . . Helen?”

  “I know you put a hit on me that night. You wanted me dead, but Helen got caught in the crossfire.”

  “No, I …”

  Now Errol was mad. “So you’re going to continue to lie until the bitter end? Is that how it’s going to be?”

  On that question, Gerard thought a bit too hard for the Wanderer’s liking. “What? What is it?”

  “It was …” With a sharp exhalation of breath, he gasped, “. . . hell …” Then his head drooped sideways.

  Finding no pulse, Errol got up and strode numbly to the edge of the building. He was still carrying the Breck 17. Now he paused to study the plastic semiautomatic. The bad gun. Even if his stepbrother was responsible for sending a hit man to Errol’s house, he still wasn’t the one who had pulled the trigger on Helen.

  A GUN TO KEEP US SAFE

  An editorial by Rosa Veras

  Sometimes it feels like America is spinning in an opposite direction from the planet Earth.

  Gun control laws, including everything from limits to outright bans, are present in every other civilized country in the world. They have been for years, and the data shows these places have far fewer gun deaths. Leaders of these countries look at America and are aghast, not only at the high death rate, but at our unwillingness to do anything about it.

  No matter. In America, we don’t care what the rest of the world thinks.

  The Born-Again Patriots asked for our isolation. America was tired of foreign products. So we shut down international trade and made guns for ourselves alone. America was tired of diplomacy and fighting other country’s wars. So we called back our diplomats and gave our troops’ weapons to the American public.

  Now America is a self-made island that thinks itself safe from the outside world. But what about the rot from within? What about the Red Stripe Gang and other gun-toting psychopaths who continue to do harm and kill our loved ones?

  “Don’t worry!” Albert Breck told us. “Here’s a gun to keep you safe.”

  For so long, we have fought fire with fire. But change could be on the horizon. There is a new king of guns in America. Errol Breck — the man who fought injustice as the Wanderer — is not his father, and he is definitely not his stepbrother. It may be too late for the government to reduce gun violence in this country, but perhaps there are still actions that can be taken by the gun monopoly. It will be up to Errol Breck to take them when he sits down in his Vegas throne room.

  Will he? The New West will watch closely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Battle Scars.

  Peering into the mirror, Errol snapped an eyeglass into place above the bandage on his right cheek. The doctor had stitched up the wound, and it didn’t hurt much anymore, but he knew the damage to his face would remain long after he healed. It would forever be a reminder of all the ugliness that had defined the Breck family.

  He adjusted a white Stetson atop his head. His face was freshly shaved, and he had on a clean blue shirt with rhinestone snaps. He picked up his Lassiter from the dresser but hesitated to slip it into the holster, considering the gun like a favorite shirt that no longer fit. He opened the cylinder and dropped the silver revolver’s six bullets into the palm of his right hand, then gently tucked gun and ammo into the top drawer.

  José met him on the front drive and pulled open the door of the Breck family limousine. A bouquet of yellow wildflowers waited expectantly on the backseat. Helen’s favorite.

  *

  The streets of Vegas didn’t look much different from when Charlie was just a kid on the wrong side of the tracks. He kept his wits about him as he meandered through his old neighborhood, passing a pawn shop offering cash for gold, a store offering cash for checks, and a Dollar Express offering junk for cash. He lingered by a condemned casino themed after the circus, remembering the bad
years when he had to live inside those striped walls with his family. It wasn’t so bad, actually. Derelict, maybe, but at least they had shelter. Startling at the peeling white face of a clown, painted on what used to be the grand entrance, Charlie hurried onward.

  A tall, gaunt man on the other side of the street stared. Charlie recognized him as a skilled grifter from his childhood. He was a lot older now, but he used to be a master at conning wealthy folk into giving him money. The problem was that he was even better at losing money. Charlie shouted hello, but the grifter just kept staring, showing no sign that he remembered him.

  Turning down a familiar alley, he saw a burned heap of a newspaper and other trash, the remnants of a campfire. It smelled of piss. Not far ahead, a group of children played beneath the dusty black stairs of a fire escape. They watched him closely as he approached. One, a small boy of about eight years old, saw Kid Hunter’s wristband and pointed.

  “How much for that?” the boy asked.

  “It’s not for sale,” Charlie replied.

  A girl who looked the oldest of the group stepped forward with a Breck 17 in her hand. “Then give it to us.”

  She reminded him a little of Lindsay, and a little of his sister, Jane, too. He used to be part of a gang just like this, sticking up strangers and taking their possessions. It was how you survived here. Kid Hunter laughed as he suddenly recognized her as the cute little girl on his block who liked to draw pictures of pop singers and movie stars. He remembered when she was just a baby.

  “Hey there, Mona,” he said, “what’s Teresa gonna say when she finds out you shot me and stole my favorite wristband?”

  Surprised by the mention of her mama, the girl lowered her gun. “Who are you?”

  “They call me Kid Hunter. I used to live around here.”

  The eyes of the little boy who first accosted him lit up like Christmas. “You’re Kid Hunter? Like, Kid Hunter and the Wanderer?”

  He grinned, particularly pleased at the order of the names. “You got that right, my man.”

  “Kid Hunter … here?” another boy about the same age exclaimed.

  With a grand bow, the Kid responded, “At your service, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Charlie,” said Mona, smiling as a memory clicked into place. “Here to visit your sis?”

  He said yes, but then again, maybe a visit would be too short. These were good kids, these dreamers and survivors, who happened to have been brought up in poverty to a violent life. Like Lindsay, like Jane, and like him. But maybe it didn’t have to be this way. Maybe he could give them a second chance, like the Wanderer gave him. Errol hadn’t wanted Charlie’s thanks; he’d just wanted him to pay it forward.

  “What’s with your arm?”

  Kid Hunter followed the end of her small index finger to his own bulging T-shirt sleeve. “Aw, you know, that’s just muscle, girl.”

  Mona raised her eyebrows. “Just working out on one side these days?”

  He laughed and pulled the sleeve up so she could see the blood-stained bandages beneath. “Battle scars.”

  The arm still felt a little sore when he moved it, but the wound was healing up nicely.

  “Charlie!” cried a familiar voice from a window up above. It was Jane, looking like a real grown-up. “You gonna stay down there all day and play games with the little ones?”

  He addressed the kids like little soldiers. “Well, men, women, I’m afraid Kid Hunter’s got to run. But don’t worry, I’ll be around!” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two about how to be awesome.”

  *

  THE NEW WEST, proclaimed the website header in big block letters. Rosa smiled warmly at the blank document on the screen. It felt good to be back at the keyboard, on her own terms, in her own place, with no one telling her what she could or couldn’t write. She had no regrets about turning down Errol’s offer to be the editor-in-chief of Our Times. It had been tempting, but she knew she would never feel independent if she had to rely on the money of Breck Ammunition. It didn’t matter who was running the company.

  Rosa jumped when something smacked against the other side of the wall. It was followed by a muffled argument between a man and woman. Rosa pulled on her headphones to play some music.

  So this wasn’t exactly her own place. It was a motel about twenty miles outside the hubbub of Vegas. The walls were paper thin, and this was hardly the first time she’d been interrupted by her neighbors. She couldn’t decide if she preferred them fighting or having bombastic sex.

  Rosa’s phone flashed with a message from Jack. It was a picture of the Church of Santa Maria with one key difference: there was a massive Red Stripe flag hanging on the flagpole between the two bell towers. It was still difficult to believe — Liberty, a Red Stripe town. But the craziest thing was that Jack planned to stay there. She couldn’t persuade him otherwise. There was just no arguing that he shouldn’t stay close to his boy. He made his case as Jackson Veras, star attorney. Well, she could never win against that Jack.

  The picture was a reminder that she couldn’t go home. But she knew she couldn’t stay with Errol, either. She was a vagrant. Perhaps this was just how the life of a New West journalist was lived. She’d figure something out, but first she needed to write another article or two about Errol taking control of Breck Ammunition. She had interviewed him yesterday before hitting the road. She already knew her lead would be about how he planned to cancel the commercial release of the Breck 100X. It was a baby step, but it was important. It showed that under Errol Breck, America’s favorite gun company might just have a conscience.

  The journalist sifted through a pile of records on Gerard’s activities during his short tenure as CEO. It wasn’t hard to convince Errol to give them to her; she just had to explain how it would show why his stepbrother was unfit to lead. One document caught her eye immediately — Gerard’s last will and testament. The bastard didn’t seem to have a friend in the world, let alone an heir, so she wondered what would happen to all his wealth.

  Finding the relevant section, Rosa gasped when she saw who stood to inherit everything. “Elza?” A few seconds later, the reporter added to the outburst, “Wife?”

  She buried her head in her hands and began to think. If Elza was married to Gerard, why had she slept with Charlie? No, first, when did Elza marry Gerard?

  She checked through the documents and found a form with the couple’s hasty signatures. Gerard and Elza had married not long after Errol had left Vegas, and they’d done it at a small, local chapel known for officiating impulse marriages.

  It was suspicious, but then again, Elza didn’t kill Gerard. So unless she knew he was going to die, she couldn’t have … wait! Maybe that was why she went to Charlie. It was from Elza that the Kid learned Gerard was responsible for the death of Helen Breck. When he passed that information on to the Wanderer, it made Errol want to kill his stepbrother. Then, Elza told Gerard about Errol’s plan to oust Gerard, which, in turn, had made Gerard show up to the board meeting with guns blazing.

  Rosa stared out the window without seeing what was on the other side. What was she saying? Elza slept with Charlie just so she could set up a duel between Errol and Gerard? So that she could get Gerard’s money? That sounded way more complicated than it needed to be.

  She typed out all these thoughts in an attempt to pull them together into one cohesive timeline, then sat back and read over everything, digesting the information. Something still wasn’t clicking. If it was just Gerard’s money that Elza wanted, why had she stood by while he spent absurd amounts of money building the Breck 100X and making deals with the Red Stripe Gang? Why had she let him tear the business apart from the inside? It was almost like … she wanted him to.

  Rosa snapped to the screen and began searching for information on Elza Meller. But she couldn’t find anything on her before her time leading communications for Breck Ammunition. Well, of course there wasn’t anything. Elza had probably made up her name, just like when she had told Charlie her
name was …

  On a whim, the reporter searched for:

  Miranda Meller AND guns.

  The browser spit back:

  Do you mean, Miranda Zeller?

  Heart pounding, Rosa went along with the suggestion.

  She gasped at the results. Miranda Zeller was a direct descendant of the owner of what used to be the world’s top gun company. The European company had been the world’s leading gun manufacturer until Breck Ammunition pushed it out of the world’s biggest gun market — America.

  So it was revenge. Elza wanted Gerard to ruin Breck Ammunition. Things got tricky when Errol came back to save the company, so Elza set up a situation where the stepbrothers would want to kill each other. It would have been easier for Elza if Gerard had won the duel. Things would have gone back to normal; Gerard would have gone back to destroying the business. But the Wanderer had prevailed.

  That meant Elza had only one move left.

  Biting her lip, the reporter snatched up her phone and dialed Errol. She had to warn him before it was too late.

  The call went straight to voicemail.

  *

  Gravel crunched gently underfoot as Errol trod through the cemetery. The grass looked unnatural among all this death, growing green on a great hill in the middle of an arid desert. Technically, he was still in Vegas, but one had to drive far to rest in peace. He had been here before to bury his father. Once was enough, or so he had reckoned.

  He knew the way to Helen’s grave almost instinctively. Even though he’d never come to see her in person, he had practiced this walk a million times in his mind. The marble monolith floating into view looked different than he had imagined — not as big, not as bright. Holding the yellow bouquet tightly, he read the epitaph:

  Here lies Helen Breck,

  beloved wife, treasured daughter.

  Violence took her life,

  but now in death, peace will find her.

  Gently, Errol laid the flowers on his wife’s grave.

  As he stood up again, the Wanderer’s eyeglass lit up in warning.