Contents
1 – RUM-HOLE
2 – OLD MAD JACK
3 – ONE WHEEL AND TWO BODIES
4 – THE BOUNTY BOOTH
5 – THAT SAME DAMN JOURNEY
6 – BAD FOR BUSINESS
7 – THE BURG
8 – THE SCENT
9 – THE HUNT
10 – CHASING KITES
11 – HOME TURF
12 – THE BONE PATH
13 – THE SAWDUST SPARROWS
14 – KNOWLEDGE IS A DANGEROUS WEAPON
15 – A DEAL
16 – MONSTERS IN THE MINES
17 – ON THE RAILS
18 – THAT UNFORGIVIN' SUN
19 – THE RUBY DISTRICT
20 – NOT EVERYONE WANTS A SAVIOUR
21 – DEPARTURE
22 – CAMPFIRE CHAT
23 – BAD DREAMS
24 – THE WALL OF THE WEST
25 – THE WILD OF THE WILD NORTH
26 – SNAPPERS AND STINGERS
27 – NO COUNTRY FOR LIVING MEN
28 – WHAT THE DEAD TELL US
29 – WHAT THE LIVING DON'T
30 – SCAVENGER
31 – THE ANTIDOTE TO THIEVERY
32 – WORKSHOP
33 – PREPARATION
34 – THE DEADMAKERS' DEN
35 – THAT DANGEROUS DRAW
36 – TNT
37 – A WHOLE LOT OF HOGS
38 – SANDSTORM
39 – GHOST TOWN
40 – BOOBYTRAPS
41 – LAST MAN STANDING
42 – BURYING THE PAST
43 – DEBT COLLECTOR
44 – WHAT'LL YOU DO?
COILHUNTER
A COILHUNTER CHRONICLES NOVEL
DEAN F. WILSON
Copyright © 2017 Dean F. Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Any person who makes any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The Moral Rights of the Author have been asserted.
Cover illustration by Duy Phan
First Edition 2017
Published by Dioscuri Press
Dublin, Ireland
www.dioscuripress.com
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1 – RUM-HOLE
His boots made a rhythmic thud against the floor, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. His boots were the first thing you noticed. Then the eyes travelled up, saw the long, deep blue coat and the holstered pistols, and turned away swiftly again when they spotted the mask and tubes beneath that deep blue hat.
Thud.
The people who recognised him had a dozen different names for him, and all of them were grim. The Coilhunter. The Sandsweeper. The Masked Menance. The people who didn't recognise him would come up with new names of their own very soon.
Thud.
He kept an even pace, slow and steady, the kind of pace that was at odds with the frantic heartbeats of the onlookers at the inn. One of his arms swung like a pendulum, and it reminded people of the fleeting pace of time. The other arm did not move at all; it stayed at his side, close to his gun.
Thud.
A little mechanical duck waddled along behind him, creaking and squeaking, its wide eyes matching those of the people who dared to look. It was a toy, a kind of wind-up device full of springs and cogs, and yet many knew that it was a dangerous toy.
Thud.
He scoured the room with his eyes, piercing everyone, almost piercing the walls as well. The mask accentuated his stare, as did the black lines around his eyes. The brim of his hat cast a shadow that made the whites of his eyes stand out even more.
The final thud seemed a little louder. He halted, then reached for his coat pocket, and people flinched. He held up a rolled-up poster, and let it unfurl noisily in his hand, revealing the mugshot of a criminal, Old Mad Jack, the ominous word Wanted, and the prize of one hundred coils beneath. Cold, hard coils, traded for the cold, hard dead.
“This man,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask, yet not muffled enough to hide the grit. “Ya seen 'im?” He prodded the paper with his dust-covered finger, the kind of finger exposed almost constantly to the sand and the sun. The kind of finger that spent a lot of time on a trigger.
Most heads turned away. A few braver souls gave the slightest shake of their heads. There was no one brave enough to talk. The duck shuffled up to the Coilhunter's foot and gave an ominous little quack.
A puff of dark smoke came from a vent on the left side of the Coilhunter's mask. No one knew why. On the other side, pipes connected the mask to a cylinder on his back, where he also kept a strapped guitar and a four-barrel shotgun.
“Ya see,” he croaked, “I know this man came this way, and there ain't no other rum-hole for miles. They say Old Mad Jack's a drinker, and I say a drinker cannot pass a rum-hole without poppin' in for a drink.”
The barmaid tensed up at the bar, polishing a dirty glass a little more vigorously than before.
“So,” the Coilhunter continued, “let me repeat this, and let me tell ya that I don't like repeatin' things: this man … any o' you here fine fellows seen 'im?”
Three men playing cards in the corner exchanged nervous glances. The Coilhunter caught them, and strolled over. The duck stayed where it was in the centre of the room, watching everyone.
“You boys,” the Coilhunter said, gesturing with the chin of his mask to them. “Good game, is it?”
“J-j-just a game o' Don,” the oldest replied, the cards trembling in his hands.
“You wan' in?” the youngest asked. The others scolded him with their eyes.
The Coilhunter drew real close, close enough that they could see the cracks in his weathered skin. “I want an answer to my question.” He hammered the poster onto the table, over the cards. Old Mad Jack stared up at them. “Get a real good look-see, and each o' ya tell me one by one that you ain't seen him 'fore I put his ugly mug down on this table.”
The youngest looked like he was about to say something. Only the stares of his companions stopped him. The Coilhunter placed a hand on his shoulder and turned his chair around. The youth held up his cards before him like a shield.
“You look like a smart boy,” the Coilhunter said. “The kind o' boy with a good memory and a good eye. Maybe a good eye for faces. Maybe a good mouth for speakin' who those faces are.”
“I might have—” He cut himself short, silenced by the glances of the others.
“Where's your manners, boy? You're talkin' to me. You look at me.” He gestured with his hand towards his own grim eyes. The exhaust in his mask let out another menacing puff of smoke.
The young man looked back, keeping his cards up. They wouldn't help him.
“I ain't got all day,” the Coilhunter told him. “You ain't got all day either.”
“H-h-he's out b-back.”
The Coilhunter smiled. He knew they could not see it behind his mask, but they could see it in his eyes.
> “He ain't out back,” a voice said from far across the room behind him. As the Coilhunter turned, he saw Old Mad Jack standing behind the bar, rifle in hand. “He's right here.”
2 – OLD MAD JACK
Old Mad Jack fired, and the Coilhunter threw himself to the floor, his guitar giving a twang to follow the overture of the gunfire. The bullet tore through the table of the cardplayers, and all three men leapt up with the splinters, casting their cards—even the ones up their sleeves—into the air.
The Coilhunter was ready for the second shot, his own right pistol in hand. The barflies scattered at the sight, and Old Mad Jack was already halfway on the trigger. Both guns fired in almost perfect unison, but Jack wasn't just old and mad—he was quick. He dived behind the bar, pulling the barmaid down with him. The Coilhunter knew he didn't do that for chivalry, and he knew Old Mad Jack would show why he did it soon enough.
The two bullets whizzed by each other, Jack's punching a hole in the wall, the Coilhunter's smashing through a row of bottles behind the bar. The beer and wine cascaded down with the shards. What a waste. The Coilhunter never thought that about blood.
The other people in the saloon bolted for the door. It was get out now while everyone was in their trenches, or get stuck between them in the no man's land. The Coilhunter was glad they left. There were no Wanted posters for them, and if they wound up dead, he'd feel it only just that he pose for one of his own.
The Coilhunter stood up slowly, letting the dust of the gunpowder pour down his coat. Some of it stuck, mingling with the sand of the desert. He pointed his gun towards the bar. He could have taken the other one from its holster, or the one on his back, or the one up his sleeve. He didn't bother. He only needed one to do the job. The other hand could haul the body outside.
“I've got young Billie here,” Jack shouted.
The Coilhunter couldn't see, but he heard the barmaid's muted whimpers.
“You let me go free now, and I let her go free, y'hear?”
“I hear ya,” the Coilhunter said. He heard him all right. He just didn't agree.
“I wanna hear you promise that, cross yer heart an' all that.”
The Coilhunter cocked his gun. “Hope to die?”
“Don't you go mockin' me with words or I'll make a mockery o' you with this here sweet lass' brains. I know you, Nox, and I know what'll haunt yer dreams. It'll be your downfall one of these days, mark my words, it will.”
“And what will be yours, Jack?”
A finger rose above the bar. The Coilhunter could have cleaved it off with a bullet, but he waited. “That's up to him above,” Jack said. “But it won't be here, I swears ya.”
The Coilhunter made a slight adjustment to his mask; the straps on the back bore into the sunburnt marks of his neck. “Then why don't we go outside, and you can keep your promise, and I can keep mine.”
“You go out one way, and I go out the other, and poor Billie here doesn't come to no harm.”
“You say you know me, so then you know I can't let you go.”
“But you know me, Nox,” Jack replied.
He did, and that was what worried him. Poor Billie was barely eighteen. She looked like she hadn't been long behind the bar. It looked like she wouldn't be long behind it in the future either.
“If I let you go,” the Coilhunter said, “you'll go on to rape and kill elsewhere.”
“What's it to ya?”
“Well, I can't allow that.”
“You go around playin' sheriff,” Jack said, “but you ain't no sheriff. The Wild North's got no lawmakers an' no lawkeepers. That suits us all just fine. Leave it to him above, Nox. Give it up, 'fore you give up the ghost and have to face him.”
“I'll face him with head high,” Nox said. “Will you?”
Jack did not reply. Maybe he thought about his crimes. All those rapes. All those murders. All those women. He didn't kill men if he didn't have to. Only women, because he wanted to. A hundred coils wasn't enough for someone like him. Nox didn't do it for the money. Justice was payment enough.
“This'll be ugly,” Jack said, shifting behind the bar.
The Coilhunter could hear Billie's whimpers escalate. He could only imagine that Jack had just pressed a gun against her head. It suggested he had swapped his rifle for a pistol. That'd make him faster. Old Mad Fast Jack. He kept getting adjectives added to his name.
“It's always ugly,” the Coilhunter replied.
“I'm gonna come out now,” Jack said, “and you're gonna put your pistol away.”
Old Mad Fast Psychic Jack.
The Coilhunter didn't reply.
Jack rose slowly, hauling Billie before him as if that mattered. She wasn't big enough to shield all of him. It was the pistol to her temple that mattered more. His other hand was wrapped around her mouth to stop her from screaming. Funny that. He didn't mind them screaming before.
Nox slowly lowered his weapon.
“You put that there back in its box.” Jack urged him with his eyes.
The Coilhunter holstered the pistol, and he did it real slow, slow enough to let him hook a little canister from his belt onto his little finger, and slow enough to hide it in his hand.
“None of yer tricks now, y'hear?” Jack warned, burrowing the barrel of his pistol into poor Billie's head, eliciting a louder, yet still muffled, cry from her. Her eyes were wide with terror. The kind of terror of the young who hadn't seen enough of the Wild North. Jack's eyes had no terror. They didn't even have hate. They were empty. If the eyes were the window to the soul, then that emptiness wasn't at all surprising. The soul didn't last long here. The Wild North killed it in everyone, sooner or later. Sooner for most.
Again the Coilhunter didn't reply. That way, he didn't have to lie.
Jack shuffled out slowly from behind the bar, dragging poor Billie with him, over the broken glass and spilt gunpowder, over the splinters and cards. He was out in the open now, and the Coilhunter could see a lot of places he could have landed a bullet. Too bad Jack was quick. He'd have one in Billie's head too.
“I see you brought yer pet,” Jack said, nodding towards the little mechanical duck, standing as still as the Coilhunter in the centre of the room. There was no terror or hate or soul in its eyes, those painted on eyes. It did what it was told. To it, the Coilhunter was God. “You're a fruit, y'know that?” Jack continued. “I've met eccentric bounty hunters in my time, but you're somethin' else.”
“Yes,” Nox said. “I'm the law.”
Jack stepped out further, pushing Billie in front of him. “Not today you ain't.”
The Coilhunter eyed him coldly. He knew what Jack would see in his eyes. There was hate there. And there even was a soul. But it was covered in a shell of loathing. Maybe that was the only way he got to keep it.
Jack sidled towards the door.
“You leave her behind when you get out,” the Coilhunter told him.
Jack smiled at him, revealing his blackened teeth.
The Coilhunter turned with him, his hands raised, yet half-clenched, hiding the little round capsule beneath his fingers.
Jack backed out of the swinging doors, pulling poor Billie through with him. How many times had he done that with a young woman? How many people had watched on?
As Billie's feet disappeared through the doors, the Coilhunter cast the orb across the floor behind her. It rolled through just as the doors swung shut. He walked to the nearest window and peered outside. Jack was still backing away slowly, waiting for the Coilhunter to follow, waiting for the gun. The gun wouldn't come just yet.
The little orb rolled up to Jack's foot and stopped. He looked down, confused, and his confusion grew when it cracked open, and out came half a dozen little butterflies. Mechanical butterflies.
The Coilhunter suddenly launched himself through the window, aiming a grappling gun at Billie. He fir
ed, while Jack was still distracted, and the hook took a hold of a strap on her dungarees. He pulled hard. She stumbled forward, out of Jack's arms, and out of the line the bullet made as it left Jack's pistol.
The butterflies flapped around the criminal. He swatted them as they came near his face, knocking one of them into the sand. Then they started to release a green gas, and he shook his head as the fumes made him weak. He turned away, half-running, half-staggering, making for the large black monowheel parked nearby. The mechanical insects pursued him, landing on him, digging their little claws into his face, and releasing more of the gas in their tiny bodies, until he fell face-first into the dirt, one hand reaching out for the vehicle.
Two of the butterflies came for Billie and the Coilhunter, releasing the same noxious gas, which made Billie faint. It did nothing for the Coilhunter, and he eventually crushed them both between his hand.
“Sorry, girl,” he said to Billie, as he let her down gently to the ground. “It'll wear off.”
He walked slowly over to Old Mad Dirt-faced Jack and kicked him onto his back. His smug smile wasn't there any more. His eyes were closed, so you didn't have to see the emptiness. Not that it really mattered. The Coilhunter had stared many straight in the eye.
Nox took out his pistol with his right hand and made an X with the index and middle fingers of his left over his chest.
“Cross my heart,” he said, before pulling the trigger.
3 – ONE WHEEL AND TWO BODIES
“You, boy,” the Coilhunter said, pointing to a child of about five years, playing nearby with marbles in the cracks of the earth. The child looked up, surprised. He'd been staring at the bodies, letting his marbles drop one by one from his hands.
“See this woman,” the Coilhunter continued. The boy looked at Billie and gave a dumb nod. “You find someone to look after her.” The boy continued to stare at him until Nox flicked a coil over to him, which dislodged one of the marbles from the dirt. The child took it up with both hands. A whole coil. He probably hadn't seen one in his life. He stared at the iron currency, a flattened coil stamped with the face of the Iron Emperor. That sense of wonder was precious. Pity it wouldn't last.
Coilhunter - A Science Fiction Western Adventure (A Coilhunter Chronicles Novel) (The Coilhunter Chronicles Book 1) Page 1