TALES OF THE FAR WEST

by Scott Lynch

  Cheen reappeared, an examiner’s bag in his left hand. He set it on the counter next to the jian and took out a variety of tools.

  “You’re not going to mess it up, are you?” Dunephy placed his hand over the sword protectively.

  Cheen chuckled. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of harming such an important piece of history.” He unsheathed the weapon and placed it gently on its cloth. He secured a loupe into his right eye and turned a crooked smile toward the gunslinger.

  “Please, Mr. Dunephy,” Cheen pointed at a chair. “Make yourself comfortable. Relax. Would you like some tea?”

  Dunephy dragged the chair closer to the counter and sat down. “Yeah, I’ll take some tea. Not too sweet.”

  Cheen called to his wife in his native tongue. She snapped back a long string of harsh-sounding words.

  “Ah, the tea will be ready shortly,” Cheen assured the man. “Now, let’s take a look at this.”

  The merchant dipped some gauze into clear spirits and rubbed the surface of the sword vigorously. His fingers glided over the instrument delicately, lovingly.

  “The craftsmanship,” Cheen said, “is very impressive.”

  “Good,” Dunephy said, shifting in the chair. “I plan to sell it when I’m done.”

  “Sell it?” Cheen looked up, surprised.

  “Should get a pretty coin for it, too,” the gunslinger said. He looked over some of the bric-a-brac scattered on a small wooden display case. “What with its, y’know, historical value and all. The fact it’s a good sword on top of it, well, that’s even better. Proper value on top of it.”

  Cheen fought back a scowl. “Proper value. Hm.”

  “What’s that?” Dunephy said, turning a crystal sphere in his hand.

  “Tell me, Mr. Dunephy,” the merchant said, wringing the rag over a clay pot. “How did you come by this sword?”

  “You losing your beans there?” the gunslinger scoffed. “I just told you.”

  “Ah, you told me the facts. But this, well, this is a story, Mr. Dunephy. One you will tell a hundred times. Best to practice it. Many will want to hear about the man who killed Red Phoenix.”

  “Heh,” the man grinned. “I suppose you’re right.” He looked over Cheen who was dutifully drying the steel with a fresh rag. Dunephy had no idea what the merchant was doing but he knew that sword had better not get damaged. “Sure, settle in. I’ll spin you a yarn.”

  Dunephy leaned back and spoke.

  I had come to Painted Valley following the Bulk Line, knowing it was a favored target of Red Phoenix and his gang. Folks had been telling me for months how Ol’ Red was on the lam—hiding away, they said—but I knew the varmint was biding his time. That’s how outlaws operate. They never stop and they never retire, just take a breather now and then. Trust me, I’ve known more’n a few.

  Stakes as published were, anyone able to stop Red Phoenix, stop him dead, would get their prize in this town right here. As it was Painted Valley that put out the call for the scoundrel’s head, I decided to stop in and see what folks knew.

  The townspeople were surprisingly tight-lipped, as you well know there, Cheen. Something about them here, secretive, but it was one person, Miss Maddy Crane, former courtesan to our Mr. Phoenix and ancillary to the Loyal Oak, who gave me insight into the devil.

  “His greed is only matched by his vanity,” Maddy said. “He does nothing without the prospect of notoriety.”

  See, that’s the kinda tip a man like me can flip into silver, son. No way a man like that can lay low. And with the Bulk Line on its way one town past, after its gold stop on the rail, I knew Red would be waiting there. A job of that level, with that much reward, guaranteed to make the papers like, he was already itching for it.

  I knew then I needed to beat that train. I checked with Phan over at the yard, made sure of my timing with the Bulk Line, and plotted my course.

  The Bulk Line was half a day’s chug from here and another league to Pale Water. I could wait for it to pass through or I could lie ahead in its destination. I figured this: Red was persona non grata here in this town. He wouldn’t come back, not yet. But with a good stretch of trail between here and Pale Water up north, he’d lie in wait somewhere in between.

  But, see, this here is where things get sticky. The Iron Dragons have kept mum about the true toll Red Phoenix and his men have taken on them, not only by making the tracks inhospitable but the loss of life as well during robberies previous. Dragons hold secrets like politicians hold liquor but I’ve gotten both out of either in the past. Learned a few things about our man Red.

  ‘Course I also know better than to step on a Dragon’s claws. So I took care to avoid their trailing routes. I stuck to the clusters, moving fast but not making a spectacle of myself.

  Said and done, it was a fair easy ride through to Pale Water but I didn’t see any good place for Red and his men to shadow, no bottlenecks or overcast passages, so I couldn’t say just yet where they might strike.

  Traveled the whole run between the two towns and heard from the teller in Pale Water that the Bulk Line was held up by broken trucks. This was after the gold stop though which meant they were dead on the line, prey in the trap.

  I knew my time was limited. I had to get to that train fast. Dragons weren’t dummies, the gold would be offloaded, but was there a place they could take it that Red couldn’t find them?

  I rode hard as I could toward the downed train, not stopping for nothing. Came to a rest atop a bluff overlooking the line. Night had come, and the train slumbered there like a fallen giant. Tracks cold ahead of it. Then five horses came from a cloud of black on the other side. Red and his men.

  I hitched toward the rails, going hard as I could, but the old girl took a tumble and went ass over end onto the sand. This pitched me forward and I tumbled as well, coming to a stop against a rock.

  The clatter of a tray broke the man’s concentration. Hano watched as Cheen’s wife set down a tea serving. The merchant himself was staring at the gunslinger intensely, drawn into the story.

  Dunephy thanked Mrs. Yergen and took a sip of the olive-tinged water. It tasted like pure sugar. Far too sweet for his tastes, but he did the polite thing.

  Cheen’s wife went to the door and fussed with something. The merchant cleared his throat, urging Dunephy to continue. Hano took another sip, the final polite third, and set the cup down.

  The girl had broke her leg in the fall. Couldn’t do nothing for her but mercy. Thankfully the tussle at the train covered the sound.

  Red’s crew and the Dragons were clashing steel to steel. I ambled toward but my feet had gone all twisty and I could barely set straight. Cursing myself blue, I held back, knowing I couldn’t take on the Phoenix in this shape.

  But I wasn’t going to let them just go. I hid best I could behind the rock I’d landed against, and watched as the dozen or so able men clashed on the field.

  The battle was over far quicker than either side would have liked. Red stood victorious, down one man, and the Dragons, down three, retreated.

  Most-revered guardians out there won’t stand toe-to-toe with Red given the option. Now what does that tell you?

  All I could do was sit and watch. Turned my stomach. I saw Red and his men grab some crates, tip off the lids, and plunge handfuls of something into large sacks. Couple of the men walked the far side of the train.

  Took no more than a few minutes before the four were off and away. By this time, the sky was pitch.

  Chancing my ankle, I strode up to the mess. The fallen lay out like scrying stones, the portent of something awful on the wind. Taking what ammunition I could use from the bodies, I set about following the tracks. Most of the horses had skittered off but one remained.

  The conductor was dead, the pitchman too. Splinters from three broken crates scattered the landscape.

  I rode hard that night, eyes set on the horizon, knowing Red Phoenix and his men were over the hills, somewhere. The trail was still warm from the hooves
that carried them. Their sweat still sizzled on the sand.

  But the way soon enough ran cold. I wandered that desert for what seemed like hours, cursing my luck. I was half a tick from heading back when a howl split the distance and snapped my neck toward the north.

  That’s when I heard the shot. A whimper followed, like a strangled beast. I drew my gun and skulked forth, using the dark to shield me. I left the horse, my ankle healed up alright by then, and went ahead on foot.

  I could smell the sulfur on the air. Soon enough, I saw the creature’s body. One clean hole through its neck. Shock knocked it out; the pool of blood around it took its life.

  I saw the light then, partially hidden by some stone columns. The superstitious remnants of one of the old religions. I crept up, gun up, doing my best not to shake the sand.

  Red was hunkered by a campfire, that there weapon you’re eying at his side. His men were gone. Now whether he killed ‘em, left ‘em, or they were just making water, I had no idea.

  But Red Phoenix was alone. I aimed my gun and sauntered forth.

  He knew I was coming. But I ain’t no coward who’d shoot from behind a rock. I wanted him to know who it was what done him in. Hano Dunephy. I wanted my face to be the last thing he ever saw.

  He drew on me—and I fired. He fell there, into the campfire. His body went up like nothing. And I couldn’t believe my luck. The Scourge of the Bulk Line, feared more than death, taken out by a single bullet.

  My bullet.

  Dunephy took another sip of his tea, biting through the sweetness and glanced over at the merchant.

  “And that was it?” Cheen asked. “That was the end of Red Phoenix.”

  “Sure and truly,” Hano nodded.

  “How did you know it was him? So few who have seen him come out alive.”

  Dunephy shrugged. “His sword, like I said. Famous as anything. What are you—are you getting at something, Cheen?”

  “No, no,” Cheen said. “You’ve told a fascinating tale. Indeed.” The old man flashed his gapped teeth at the gunslinger. The clapping rang hollow in the still scented air.

  “Indeed,” another voice said from the back of the shop. Dunephy’s hand flew to his gun but Lojin already had his piece drawn and aimed. The sheriff parted the dense beading that separated the front of the shop from the back and strode into the main room. “Drop your iron, boy,” the lawman commanded. Dunephy held his weapon level.

  “What’s this about now?” Dunephy stood slowly, aiming at the sheriff’s belly. He knew he’d had to get a second shot off to make it count but a gutshot would buy him the time to do that. He couldn’t afford to adjust his aim just then.

  The gunslinger dared a glance at Cheen. “This some kinda scheme, merchant? I expected better.”

  Cheen set the sheathed weapon, Red Phoenix’s famed blade, behind the counter and replaced it in his hands with a double-barreled shotgun.

  “You slimy sonsabitches,” Dunephy spat. “This how it is? I do you a favor and you what? You’re gonna kill me?”

  “A favor, huh?” Lojin looked over at Cheen and chuckled. “Now, Mr. Dunephy, you did it for the money. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

  Dunephy’s blood was bubbling up in his throat. He tasted copper, hot and red.

  “Funny thing,” Cheen said as he stepped around the counter. “You say Red Phoenix is dead.”

  “Deader than shit,” Dunephy kept his gun on Lojin but darted his eyes toward the shopkeeper. “Now I ain’t leavin’ without payment or that sword.”

  “You say Red Phoenix is dead,” Cheen repeated. He spread his arms wide, hands flat toward Dunephy. “Yet here I am.”

  Dunephy stammered a bit, forcing a smile. “What? What in the fortunes’ names are you talking about?”

  Cheen walked toward the gunslinger, taking slow careful steps. Dunephy’s eyes went swimmy.

  “That man you killed was named Hollus Gat,” Cheen rocked back the twin hammers. “He was a good man.”

  “What the hell?” Dunephy staggered. His hand dipped, involuntarily lowering his gun. Lojin took the shot, sending the man’s shoulder rocking back.

  Cheen approached Dunephy slowly. “When I retired, Mr. Dunephy, and came to this town, I was forced to leave many things behind. My name, for one. And that,” he gestured toward Laughing Wind, “was another.”

  Lojin loaded another round into his gun.

  “I passed my name onto Hollus. He took up the mantel. He took up the blade. But it was stolen from him. By a man named Dunephy. Stolen in the middle of the night like a common thief.”

  Dunephy got to his feet, spots dancing in front of his eyes, and clawed his way along the wall to the door. He tried the handle but it didn’t budge. He fumbled at the draw lock but his fingers didn’t respond. He could barely see.

  “Four men left that train, Mr. Dunephy. You killed one. The three that were left came back. Saw how you had butchered Gat’s body. And one of them arrived in town hours before you did.”

  Cheen turned the gunslinger around.

  “You killed a friend of mine, stole my sword, and then came to brag about it in my face, Mr. Dunephy. What kind of man does that? Killing Red Phoenix. Ha!” The merchant shook his head. “A man like you. You really think you could kill a man like me?”

  “What’s going on?” Dunephy said, his mind ascatter. “I don’t--” The gunslinger dropped to the floor. After one last gasp, he went quiet.

  Lojin looked down at him for a moment. He touched his boot to the gunslinger’s thigh and kicked. The man’s leg wobbled back and forth dully.

  The sheriff knelt down and checked the man’s breathing. It was faint and fading quickly.

  Mrs. Yergen brought a shovel from the backroom and yelled at Cheen in her native tongue. Cheen squawked a sharp response.

  Lojin watched the two bicker for a moment, finally grabbing the shovel from his friend’s hand.

  “I’ll set it up,” the sheriff said. “If we’re lucky, he’ll still be breathing when we drop him in. Serve him right.”

  The town was asleep by the time the two men piled the last of the soil atop the shallow grave. Lojin patted it down with the flat of the shovel and ran over the top a few times to smooth it out. While the lawman worked, Cheen rested on a small stone column to catch his breath. Lojin chuckled, knowing he had done twice the work of the shopkeeper. He couldn’t imagine what the merchant must have looked like back when he was an outlaw. How such a legend stemmed from someone so frail anymore baffled the man.

  “Now you told me,” the sheriff said, pitching the shovel intot he ground and leaning against it, “that Hollus Gat was a liar and a cheat.”

  Cheen wiped the sweat from his neck with a thin cloth. “The dirtiest kind,” the man huffed. “Stole my name. And my sword.”

  “So what in the good graces was all that you told Dunephy?”

  The merchant flashed his wide, gapped smile. “It’s the fear. You see it in their eyes and it makes,” Cheen leaned back a bit. “It makes me feel young again.”

  “You are peculiar, my friend.” A silent pause passed between the two. “We’ll have to explain to everyone about Dunephy’s disappearance.”

  “What’s to explain?” Cheen shrugged. “I declared the sword a fake, he got angry, we ran him out of town.”

  “So what about Red Phoenix. Anymore of him out there?”

  Cheen slid off the statue and stretched. “Just one.”

  “Last of the old group, huh?”

  The old merchant nodded quietly.

  “How you handle it?”

  “Just like the others.”

  “You sure you don’t want to take ‘em out yourself?”

  “Haha, sheriff,” Cheen laughed humorlessly. “Were I in my prime.”

  “We’ll have to put another call out then. Find ourselves another would-be hero.”

  “Yes, yes,” Cheen smacked some dirt off his pant legs. “A hero.”

  “Alright then,” Lojin said, pulling the shov
el from the dirt. He waved to his friend as he passed. “I’m heading off to sleep. I’ll put up the sign in the morning.”

  _________________________________________________

  Jason L Blair has been a fiction writer, game designer (video and tabletop), scriptwriter, comic book author, graphic designer, book publisher, poet, and amusement park ride operator. He is an IGN Best Story of 2011 Award Nominee and won’t shut up about it. You can keep tabs on him at JasonLBlair.com.

  (Bumper cars, if you’re curious.)

  CRIPPLED AVENGERS

  By Dave Gross

  Despite her predicament, Pei Pei couldn’t help but laugh. A few hot drops flecked Pei Pei’s cheek, but the wind had shifted the instant Denson spat. A ropey brown strand curled up over the gunslinger’s lip like the waxed moustache of a flicker-show villain.

  The men laughed too, all except Denson. Like the scavengers they had become, they pounced at the first sign of injury among their own.

  Denson wiped his sleeve across his mouth. His glare fell not on his fellows but on the helpless Pei Pei. He limped across the tracks, raising a dusty boot above her head.

  “No,” said Presteign. His pale blue eyes mirrored the cloudless sky. A word was all it took to stop Denson from kicking the captive. A word from Presteign was like a bullet from any other man. He didn’t carry a gun himself. He employed men who carried guns.

  Pei Pei knew Presteign didn’t stop Denson out of any sense of mercy. He was reminding his men of his authority. No one made a move without his say-so. Pei Pei would suffer in the manner that he alone chose: to have her bound to the tracks, legs across the sun-heated rail, waiting for the train.