Author's (brief) note:
Spring's here, I'm feeling frivolous, and more than a little mischievous! Enjoy...!
For those who missed it: Gun Frontier featured Harlock and Tochiro wandering around the Old West having some totally Not Safe For Work adventures whilst trying to track down Tochiro's sister - a delicate little thing who's apparently a master swordsmith.
(Don't blame me... I didn't write it!)
Along the way they come up against the dastardly Organisation, which appears to be trying to take over the world (tm). Let's see if Our Heroes can get their act together long enough to stop them...
No. I wouldn't bet on them either. But you never know...
Now: Once upon a time, in the West... (or, about 1875. Give or take a Leijiverse timeline or three)
Traders' Fork.
It squatted like a carbuncle lost somewhere along the coast between San Francisco and Los Angeles. A tiny pimple of a port not even marked on the map. Calling it a town was too generous: it was a collection of rough shacks built of driftwood, as transient as those who passed through it. A collection of drifters either washed up by the tides of the Pacific into its sheltered bay, or sauntering in on bony nags barely a breath away from the knacker's yard.
The gold fevers tended to pass it by in favour of the bigger cities. No roads led there. But if you drifted in on the tide or rode in on the dusty winds, down on your luck and thinking there was nothing worse the world could throw at you, chances are within the day you'd be quickly disabused of that notion. As well as relieved of anything even remotely of value.
In Traders' Fork, everything was for sale. Not necessarily by the person who thought they owned the item in question. And if you could survive the dusty spaces between the tumbledown buildings that passed - barely - for streets - there were places that would relieve you of your cash or possessions in a marginally less violent manner, in exchange for booze, food, sex, a bed - or a chance to turn your luck around.
One of these places was one of the more robust buildings not far from the harbour. Just far enough away so that the stink of rotting seaweed, fish and the sewage which poured into the bay via one of the two streams didn't intrude too much on the stench of stale tobacco smoke, stale beer, cheap whiskey and cheap whores that hovered inside the doors. This building had miraculously survived two large earthquakes, and seventeen owners in the past five years.
Its present owner, as dusk fell over the town and some of its less savoury clientele began to arrive, was seated at a circular baize table in a corner, a bottle of genuine scotch whiskey to his left, a half-full tumbler next to it. He held cards in his right hand, had a buxom brunette perched on his left knee, his left hand comfortably tucked into her lace-trimmed decolletage and around one plump breast, and a cigar clamped firmly in the side of his mouth, which so far he'd yet to light. Like the other two men at the table he was well dressed. His black knee length coat thrown casually over the back of his chair showed barely a speck of dust, his ruffled silk shirt was pristine white, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal brawny, tanned arms dusted with wiry gold hairs - like his broad chest, somewhat at odds with his attire. His right forearm bore the outline of a skull and crossbones and the word "Arcadia" on a sun-faded red scroll underneath it.
Under a wide brimmed flat black hat, his hair was also blond - sun-lightened and curling down to the top of his collar. His shirt was unbuttoned slightly, revealing a glimpse of still more short gold hair, currently being explored by the deft fingers of his brunette companion. He was clean shaven, apart from long, thick, neatly trimmed sideburns which curved down to his chin, and his face wasn't handsome - he had the rough, wary look of a dockside brawler on the wrong side of thirty. But a close glance would have revealed little to no fat on that muscled torso, the white silk was stretched over rock hard biceps, and the black pants fitted snugly, outlining hard, lean muscle on his thighs when he shifted position, briefly repositioning the brunette.
'You gonna just look at those cards all evening, son, or get round to making your call before the rest of us die of old age?' The speaker was an old man, short, thickset with a neatly trimmed white beard. A ripple of laughter from a gathering group near the table greeted his teasing.
The blond man grinned, and shifted his cigar neatly over to the other side of his mouth with a practiced shift of his tongue. He removed his left hand from its resting place on the brunette's bosom, and reached for chips from the considerably large pile in front of him. 'Sorry, LeVary. I just gotta see that hand.' He flicked two hundreds onto the pile in the middle of the table. 'Call.' His hand tipped back the brim of his hat as he sat back in his seat, revealing blue eyes with a hard glint in them at odds with his amiable tone. A wicked, white scar stood out starkly against his tanned skin, cutting his right eyebrow in two. Completing the image, he wore a large gold hoop in his right earlobe.
'Too much for me,' the only other player still holding a hand placed his cards on the table and began gathering his remaining chips.
''Going so soon?' The bar's owner waved over a long-legged red-head wearing little more than most women considered underwear. 'At least enjoy some of our other delights - the evening's barely begun…' He smiled around his cigar as the mark stared into an impressive amount of flesh floating on top of a tight black corset, and accepted being led to the bar to begin being fleeced of what remained to him. He turned his attention back to the game, and the prospect of a considerable profit for the evening. 'Now - where were we?'
'Fine. You think you have me?' LeVary laughed and placed his cards face down in front of him. With both hands he pushed his entire stack into the middle of the table. 'All in. Let's see whether you've got the cards to match your stones, lad.'
There was a murmur from the small crowd gathered around the table watching the game.
The bar's owner shrugged. 'Suits me.' He didn't bother to move his chips, and laid out his cards. 'Two pair.'
'Ha!' Levary laid out his full house. 'I knew you were bluffing…'
A hard, callused hand flattened his as it reached for the pile. 'Not so fast.' He laid down the ace of spades. The ace of clubs. 'Aces.' Ace of diamonds, ace of hearts. 'And aces.' He released his opponent's hand with a grin. 'Nice doin' business with ya.'
LeVary stared at the cards, then at his nemesis, and sighed. 'Ah well. Maybe next time?' He tipped his hat as he stood up, and sauntered away into the crowd, which was dispersing now that the excitement appeared to be over for the time being.
The owner sat back in his seat, and gave his lap warmer a pat on the bottom. 'Tidy up for me, Luna, would ya?' He switched his cigar back to the other corner again. 'Start workin' 'em once they've had a few more. LeVary'll pick out the more likely marks keen to fleece an old man with more money than brains.' He tossed his fifth card down onto the table. The jack of spades. He'd given it a bit more of a flick than he'd intended, and it slithered off the four aces and fluttered to the floor. With a muttered curse, he bent down to pick it up.
There was a metallic click next to his left ear, and he froze, his fingers barely touching the upturned, smirking face of the knave. 'Still parting fools from their money?' The muzzle of the pistol was cold against his cheek.
'You know, if I owe you money…'
'You owe me a lot of things, Jones.' The muzzle of the pistol tapped his cheek slowly. 'Stand up, slowly, keep your hands where I can see 'em.'
He obeyed, a puzzled frown building around his well chewed cigar. 'I know that voice…' He sniffed. 'Man - I don't know that smell though - what is that? Fermented horse shit?'
'Could be. I've kind of lost track over the past few months.'
The voice had a deep, sarcastic drawl. The accent was unplaceable, but it was a voice he knew. All too well… 'Captain?!' He just couldn't keep the incredulous note out of his voice. He turned round.
Oh yeah. He knew that damned voice. And that unkempt mop of dark hair that the bastard never could keep from falling into his eyes. It was currently buried under a shapeless wide hat held together with bullet holes that - like most of what its owner was wearing - had seen better days. The hat shaded eyes he knew were a dark sherry brown, but didn't quite hide the scars that scored both cheeks. Or that smug, shit-eating smirk he remembered. He quickly took in the tattered green jacket, sun faded and grimy over a shirt that might have been blue once, but now hovered somewhere between sand and ash. He added to the list of fashion atrocities a pair of canvas pants that may or may not have been brown when they were made, over scuffed, worn boots better suited to the prairie than the deck of a ship. Dust caked his clothes, and filled the sun-drawn creases of his face where it was visible making him look considerably older than his twenty-eight years.
And he was staring down the barrel of a surprisingly - considering the state of its owner - well maintained colt held in a gloved hand.
That smug, mirthless smirk grew even bigger. 'Now that I have your undivided attention, Aristotle - where's my fucking ship?'
