The Gunslinger's Code
Chapter 1
The Stranger
The small town of Coalfell was winding down for the day. The sun was setting overhead, and the miners were emerging from their caverns underground, faces stained with grime and lungs filled with soot. They followed each other in a single line, too exhausted to speak. The low, rattling breaths of the miners shifted in the still wind, a reminder of death in a dying town.
The roads had quieted, and the curtains had been drawn. No one but the shopkeeper, sweeping the porch outside, saw the man in the brown duster coat ride through on the back of a large grey horse. He tipped his hat at the man politely, and in doing so the man pulled the reigns until the horse had stopped beside him. The shopkeeper peered up at him warily, taking in his cold stare; strangers were hard to come by in a place like Coalfell, and strangers like this, armed and blank-faced, often meant trouble.
"I ain't seen you round these parts before, mister," the shopkeeper said, feigning pleasantries, though inwardly cursing himself for leaving his gun inside. "What can I do you for?"
"I need money," the stranger replied.
The shopkeeper stared at the revolver rested on the man's hip.
"You lookin' to rob me?" he asked, as bravely as he could muster.
"Looking for work."
The shopkeeper studied the stranger again, taking in the soft lines around his eyes, the faint remainder of stubble on his cheeks. Clean, but weathered, he thought, just like his coat, and the saddle he sat upon was worn, the reigns frayed, but the horse itself looked purebred, healthy and strong.
"This is a minin' town," he said carefully. "You don't look the sort."
The stranger broke their gaze, and looked towards the row of buildings that made up the rest of Coalfell.
"There a sheriff's office here?" he asked.
"Yessir," the shopkeeper nodded, pointing, "next to the gun shop, just down the way there."
"Thank you," said the stranger, and he bucked his feet together, spurring his horse to movement. The shopkeeper watched him go, a million questions running through his mind, but glad he didn't have to ask them.
The stranger continued slowly on the back of his steed, contemplating the silence of this new town. It wasn't long before he was met with the sign for the gun shop, waving loosely in the wind from a hanging beam. Just as the shopkeeper had said, the sheriff's office stood beside it. He got off his horse and hitched him at the post, giving him a light pat before turning and walking to the door.
There was a man inside smoking a large pipe, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed against the table. The stranger did not knock, merely opened the door wide and strode in, as if he were expected. His duster coat wafted behind him, a faint shadow of dust seeping from it in loose coils. The man jumped at the interruption, immediately putting a hand to the gun that was holstered on his right side. The stranger and the man locked eyes, tension already forming and ready to shatter.
"You lost, friend?" the man said, his voice commanding.
"Are you the sheriff?"
"I'm Deputy Victor Henriksen," the man replied haughtily. "Acting sheriff, as Sheriff White is away on business. Again, I'll repeat myself: you lost?"
The stranger and the Deputy regarded each other with keen interest. Henriksen was a well-built, dark skinned man, with a thin line of finely groomed facial hair around his mouth and chin. His right hand remained rested on the curvature of his weapon, his fingers twitching with the anticipation to duel. His left side, however, was cut short above the elbow, his sleeve neatly folded around the stump that remained.
"I'm looking for work," was all the stranger replied.
Henriksen scowled.
"Go bother Jameson, we're not hiring here."
The stranger was not fazed, instead nodded towards something hanging from the far wall.
"That poster; how long you had it up?"
The Deputy allowed himself to look away, observing the piece of paper resentfully.
"About a month. Not one bastard will agree to take it on."
The stranger held out a hand in front of him.
"May I?"
Henriksen shrugged, the grip on his weapon beginning to lessen.
"Sure."
The stranger walked to the poster and ripped it off the wall. He looked over it slowly.
WANTED
$2,000 REWARD
SAM and DEAN WINCHESTER
A reward of TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS will be paid for the capture of brothers SAM WINCHESTER and DEAN WINCHESTER, CONFIDENCE MEN and known affiliates of the SONS OF COLT gang, wanted for, but not limited to GRAVE ROBBING, ARMED ROBBERY and MURDER.
Consider these men ARMED AND DANGEROUS. They were last seen in the SHADY OAK AREA.
All information or reward claims to be addressed to SHERIFF ALASTAIR WHITE, or in his absence DEPUTY VICTOR HENRIKSEN, COALFELL SHERIFF'S OFFICE.
The stranger studied the faces of the two men, the illustrations fairly crude but legible enough. The man on the left, Sam, was young, barely out of boyhood, with a clean-shaven face and dark messy hair that fell past his ears. He had a harmless, doe-eyed look to him; as if it were impossible for him to have done the things he was accused of. It was a foolish thought: the stranger knew only too well the evilness of man, for he had seen it many times before. His eyes drifted then, to the illustration on the right. The man drawn next, Dean, was older in years, with a look in his eyes the stranger could more easily understand. His hair was short and light, his jaw pronounced and his lips full. He looked proud, rebellious, his shaded eyes looking right through the stranger in sentience, as if mocking him.
"Don't let their good looks fool you," piped Henriksen, interrupting the stranger's thoughts and letting a stream of thick smoke fill the room. "Those brothers were spat right out of the bowels of hell."
The stranger's eyes drifted from the two faces, to the reward printed in large black letters above.
"Two thousand dollars," he recited. "That's a lot of money."
Henriksen scoffed.
"There's a reason for that. You heard of 'em?"
"The brothers? No. I've heard of the Sons of Colt, though."
Henriksen scoffed again.
"Everyone's heard of the Sons of Colt."
"I thought they were disbanded?" the stranger questioned, ignoring the Deputy's tone.
"Oh, they are. Their leader, John Winchester? He's been dead going on half a decade. God only knows what happened to the rest of 'em. His piece of shit sons, though, have carried on his legacy of murder and debauchery."
Henriksen finished his pipe with a lengthy drag, putting it on the table carelessly and letting the tobacco fall from the end and litter the wood.
"So," he said with condescension, "fancy yourself a bounty hunter, do you? Reckon you can catch 'em, bring 'em back alive?"
The stranger merely blinked.
"I've had some practise."
"Well all right, then," the Deputy said, his single hand waving the stranger out the door. As he turned to leave, however, Henriksen cleared his throat quickly.
"Ah, before you go," he said conversationally, "what's your name, fella?"
The stranger sighed.
"What does it matter?"
"I think at least one person should mourn your passing," the Deputy smiled wickedly. "Way I see it; might as well be me."
"You don't think I can do it?" asked the stranger, his patience wavering.
The Deputy let out a small chuckle, licking his lips in preparation.
"Let me tell you a story, son," he said. "Two years ago I was working down the Aston area, near Bury—you know it? I heard a woman in the street, crying, screaming bloody murder. Those sons of bitches had robbed the bank her son was working. Killed him, and everyone else inside. Slit their throats, one by one. By the time the men and I gathered arms and stormed the place, they were already fleeing. A few of the men went after 'em, but I stayed behind with the others. We went inside, through to the back where the vault was. There was a girl there, pretty young thing; she'd been left gagged and hogtied in the corner of the room. When she saw us, she started screaming, thrashing her head around like a rabid dog. We had no idea she was trying to warn us."
"Warn you of what?"
"Dynamite," Henriksen answered bluntly, "under her dress. I woke up days later in a hospital bed. Couldn't even remember what happened until I looked to the side of me and saw this," he waved his stump limply, his expression one of contrition. "Naturally," he continued, "I've been tracking them ever since, and after years of absolute fuck-all nothin', we get word they've been sighted not far from here. I'll tell ya'," the Deputy laughed, "it was like music to my ears. Of course, I wanted to be the one that went after 'em, but... I must respect the sheriff's wishes."
The Deputy's face had sobered, hardening at his reality.
"So," he said, after a pause, "I remain here, in my cosy little shit-hole, the thirst for revenge gnawing at my soul like rot."
The stranger raised his brows limply.
"That's quite the story, Deputy."
"Well I do like the sound of my own voice," replied Henriksen, smiling without warmth. "Anyway," he said, turning his back to the stranger to re-light his pipe. "I won't keep you. Good luck, Mister…"
"Novak," the stranger finished indifferently. "Castiel Novak."
"Wait," Henriksen said, choking on the smoke. "You're that—"
But Castiel had shut the door before the Deputy could finish.