Chapter 1: Cowboy Up

An explosion rocked his hearing and blurred his vision, knocking him to his back. The frozen ground felt wonderful against his overheated body, but he didn't have time, time never froze, he rolled to his side to see his second to last fellow officer in his navy uniform and black armor vest. The officer was smiling, pulling another pin off a grenade and tossing it over the barricade.

"Psycho," getting to his knees he brought up his rifle against his own black ceramic ballistic vest, "breath, just breath." He let the last two rounds go and hit their targets, before he could reload however; two leather and metal clad native Americans rushed his barricade. One swung a bat that knocked the rifle from his hands and the other swung an ax high behind him. Pulling out his revolver he fired three shots into the attacker's body, and did his best to roll out from under the falling ax. The bat came back around toward his head, but he scarified his forearm to muffle the blow, sending another two shots into the second attacker.

The last other officer in the tower jumped down, running toward him. He motioning the officer off and barely made it up to his knees again, when something struck his chest and shattered the ceramic plate within his ballistic vest.

A couple more shots rang out in the night, striking him in the face and knocking his already unsteady body to the ground. His leg hurt, his chest hurt, his shoulder hurt, his neck didn't hurt at least...wait, yeah it did. The chilling breeze bit at his exposed face as it passed over his beaten body, his heavy brown canvas winter jacket protected his core from the cold. Hunter, lay on his back staring up toward the night sky. His dirty blonde hair had blood clinging to the tips, luckily not his own, but the trail draining down from the bullet graze on the side of his face under his blue eyes was. A struggled cough and leaves barely rustling a few yards away, encouraged him to get moving. With a groan, he rolled to his side, reached out for Buena his .44 revolver and got his back against a stump. He surveyed the blood, the two bodies next to him and searched himself for holes while he braced against the tree. Nothing had punctured his skin besides the graze, but his jacket had seen better days as he flicked an empty syringe away.

"Just walk away, Hunter," a man called out in the night from the garage ahead of him, "no need to make it personal."

"Oh Crankshaft, you know me better than that." Hunter internally chuckled, "You made it personal when you stole my girl, Crankshaft."

"You can have her back, I'll leave her here if you give up the bounty." There was a sense of panic in his voice as it slightly muffled in the wind.

The woman with the sledge had gotten a solid hit in on his chest before he put her down, without a doubt bruising some ribs, and dislocated a couple fingers as he tried to stop the blow. The man with the pipe wrench got a good hit on his leg, but thankfully nothing strained or popped as he hobbled from tree to tree. The second hit might have possibly fractured his shoulder however. "Guess they call them Wreckers for a reason," Hunter thought while he struggled to load six new rounds and flicked the cylinder closed on the revolver, "at least my right hand isn't busted."

Hunter heard Crankshaft whisper, "Get up Sammy, you stupid lug-nut...", to the man by the rusting truck beside the garage.

Hunter saw a flicker from the window, tried to run but ended up diving beside a disassembled motorcycle as a shot rang out. The bike wasn't much cover, but it was cover as a second shot clang off the frame. Though bruised up, really only his leg was the most problematic as it slowed him down. He rolled out fired a shot toward the window and scrambled behind the truck that Sammy was still rolling around. Holstering Buena on his hip, Hunter tossed off his torn gloves, grabbed his fingers and gave them a quick jolt to popped them back into place. There was a sharp pain, a temporary sense of relief that then turned into a dull ache. Withdrawing the revolver with his right hand, he continued to keep flexing the renewed left handed fingers. A couple more shots struck the truck, not too concerning since the engine had been removed long ago, so the risk of explosion was eliminated.

"Watch your fire!" Sammy scooting for his short pipe rifle, fumbling as he searched for the new clip with his injured arm.

Hunter saw that his shots from the exchange earlier had found solid hits in Sammy's left arm and leg. Though he didn't know Sammy's story, it probably went along like this; stupid kid rebelled against his farming family, got the shit kicked out of him during standard raider initiation and had been trying to prove himself to the leader for some hint of acceptance. Hunter fired a shot that hit the pipe rifle's frame and shifted it out of his reach a little farther. "Should have just drilled him in the back of the head, make him just another dead raider in the Wasteland. No one would miss another raider...maybe his parents...if he had parents out there." He shook his head at the thought, "Lock it up, and focus."

"Last chance Crankshaft," Hunter didn't expect him to give up, "save yourself some injury."

Throwing a glance through the cab and toward the garage, he didn't see anything. "Fuck..." He rounded the truck, jumped the pile of tires; well, tried to with a tumble. He wasn't able to get the necessary height to clear with his bruised leg and caught his foot on the pile. Being use to bruised up combat situations, he just continued the roll until he slammed into the building. Hunter remained on the ground, but pushed open the door and searched for Crankshaft with his revolver. Nothing, at least that he could see right away. There was a few places to hide, but Hunter figured he had fled out the hole in the wall into the courtyard of rusty cars.

Hunter held his trusty revolver at the ready, searching for the raider leader. A big door slowly swung back and forth on the workshop across the way. Sleet had started to fall on this cold spring night, just encouraging him to finish the fight and rest up for a wet day ahead. A shot rung out, not the petty .38 round from the pipe rifle that Crankshaft used before, but a large .50 caliber round that blew a hole in the aging worn wood wall of the garage. Moving low and fast, Hunter only rose for a second to fire two shots toward the workshop door. He slid behind another pickup, this one more intact than the last. Two more shots hit the truck, one going through the hood and catching part of the engine making a rattle inside. He pulled out his last dose of Med-X, jammed it into his leg feeling the warmness of the painkiller working immediately. Another two shots slammed into the engine, causing it to start on fire.

"Empty," Hunter once again rounded the truck, heading full steam toward the workshop. Crankshaft peeked out and fired a couple shots with his pipe rifle, one striking Hunter in the side. It didn't slow him down with the painkiller flowing through his veins, Hunter drilled a shot into Crankshaft's right shoulder sending him back a step. As the raider struggled to regain his aim, Hunter had closed the gap, used his arm to push the rifle out of the way and brought his body into a tackle. He had knocked the wind out of the raider, giving him a chance to kick the rifle away and stand over him, barrel baring down.

"Where is she?" he demanded, both men locked eyes but only Crankshaft showed fear. As the raider pointed inside the building, Hunter kept the gun on him as he walked just inside the workshop. There she was, laying on the ground next to the spent casings, Vista. Her body was dirty and wore the scars from the rough life she has lived, but she still looked as deadly as ever. Holstering his revolver, Hunter picked up the .50 caliber rifle, dropped out the empty magazine and swapped it out for another from his belt. "Missed you girl."

"Come on Hunter, let me go," Crankshaft put pressure on the wound as he rolled into a sitting position, "we have history man."

Hunter knelt down to level eyes with him, "You keep making it personal...besides, you know I always get my man." It was true, Hunter had a reputation as never failing to collect on a bounty that he went after. One of a handful of bounty hunters that always brought in a body, though his were usually alive. It would seem easy enough to collect on a bounty, but in this frozen Wasteland of the North, the gunfight or capture was the least of your worry.

"Might as well kill me now then, you know Lucky will." Crankshaft looked at his rifle. No doubt the idea of trying to shoot his way out was going through his mind. He began to shiver as his hoodie became soaked under the few pieces of metal armor that covered it.

Hunter didn't say anything. He just looked at the freezing, bleeding man. He had the advantage in this weather, his jacket was insulated, thicker and had a number of metal plates; like the one that took the shot earlier. Crankshaft was hunkered down and thought to be safe here at his compound.

"Get up Dave, no sense dying from sickness today." Hunter dragged the wounded raider into the workshop and out of the rain. He pulled him next to a fire barrel giving off heat and a few sleeping bags laying next to the heat source. He tossed him a couple bandages and gauze from his pockets, swung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled out the revolver, reloading it one shell at a time as he looked around. "Anything to eat here?"

Dave, aka Crankshaft, didn't respond, just took the bandages and tried to doctor himself up.

"Good talk." Hunter scoffed as he walked over toward a carton of dirty water and an old lunch cooler, opening it to find a 200 year old can of Cram and a lone Fancy Lad Cake. A couple empty beer bottles lay around the place, with a single Nuka-Cola bottle laying next to a knocked over vending machine. Trying to stay within range of his captive, his search was limited to a couple metal boxes. Some containing parts, others some tools or nothing at all.. Upon returning to the fire barrel he noticed two yellow chem boxes next to a sleeping bag closest to the wall. "Jackpot!" He walked over, popped one open...a dose of Psycho and Buffout, "Damn it." Second one contained what he was looking for, two syringes of Med-X, a Stimpak and a lone beer. Retrieving the contents he tossed a couple scraps of wood into the fire and settled down on the bed roll near the rusting car frame. Leaning Vista against it, he heaped his findings in front of him, pulling out a bottle of purified water to add to the pile.

Dave looked up, "Going to give me a last meal?"

Hunter cracked open the can of Cram and used his fingers to get a bite, "Of course," he chewed the processed, food, if it could be called that. "Here you go." He tossed over the bottle of Buffout and the carton of dirty water. Dave gave a quick fuck you before grabbing the drugs and water. Nothing was really said the rest of the night, not even a thank you as Hunter split the beer between them. He might have been a professional bounty hunter, who didn't think twice about putting a bullet in someone's head if they proved to be more trouble than not, but he still had an oath to uphold; Justice, Integrity and Service. Dave was wanted mainly for murder of a counsel member at Seven Clans Casino, but he was also guilty of other crimes as a raider. He deserved to be brought to justice, but he was at one point a friend of Hunter's who used to do good. Hunter was an honest man, and because of Dave's past life, he saw him as a person and couldn't treat him as another Wasteland psycho raider bent on killing. In the morning Dave would get his last true meal.

He didn't come up with the oath, a bounty hunter when he was younger had told him it. Bring criminals to justice, have the integrity to follow your word by bringing them in alive, do what is right, not what is easy and perform the service to protect those who are unable to protect themselves; or something like that, been years since he had heard it last. Hunter grew up in a chapel along side a couple houses near the Blackduck ruins, wasn't anything special but quiet enough. Raiders usually left the place alone on the account of the Enforcers maintained an old pre-war checkpoint, just outside the settlement. Chapelwoods, as it was called, provided the Enforcers with food, freshwater and the occasional bottle of home brew, Fire-water as the natives called it, in return a patrol would usually swing wide to scare away any hostiles. Dave, Katti, and himself always dreamed of growing up and joining the Enforcers, protecting the weak and doing good. One day raiders hit, so did Enforcers, tore the small community to pieces as they battled each other. Raiders took Katti, Enforcers took Dave and he got trapped under a raider he killed while trying to protect his father. A bounty hunter named Pike, rescued him, fed him up, taught him how to survive, shoot, and track...raised him in a way. His father was a religious man, taught Hunter the basics of morals and such...but no else followed them; Pike did, but now he's dead.

A thud brought him back to reality, Dave had passed out from the drug high, which Hunter expected being exhausted and on an empty stomach. He walked over, bound up his arms, patted him down and took a better look around. Didn't find much else, worth hiking back. Couple rolls of duct tape, a gold plated flip lighter, two packs of smokes, handful of bottle caps and two ammo boxes adding up to about fifty rounds of .38...but not much else besides the suit of raider power armor which wasn't worth taking without a fusion core.

"What do we have here?" Hunter grinned and picked up a battered cowboy hat off the floor next to an engine block. Fit alright, and looked a lot sharper than just a shaggy head of hair. If nothing else, just sell it for caps. Returning to the soft glow of the fire and bathing in it's warmth, he added more wood before laying down and pulling his new prize over his eyes.

It was cold on his back, no...it was getting colder, but the water on his hand was so warm. Wait, it wasn't water but blood that was flowing from his chest. It was a beautiful crimson against the snow and cloudy sun backed sky. He coughed, droplets of the crimson life fluid spurted up. His breath, visible in the winter air, but was fading with each struggled gasp. Something was cold and heavy in his other hand, his revolver. It bit at his skin as he struggled to grasp it.

"Poor little Hunter, always stuck looking up at the sky," a beautiful native American woman walked over to him. A smoking sawed off shotgun in her hands, she released the breach allowing for the two empty husks to eject out. She pulled out two shells from a pocket, next to a couple grenades attached to her thick white sturdy metal armor chest plate. A black puma with a red 13 in the middle was painted across the front, covering the dents and scratches it had seen over the years.

He brought the weapon up, she knelt down beside him. "Only one round left, sure it can penetrate?" She pulled the barrel up to the metal armor. "Count of three," With her other hand she put the sawed off barrels against his forehead. "One...two..."

A scream broke the silent morning, Hunter jerked awake revolver drawn. Dave was scrambling inside dropping his pipe rifle as a fast creature pounced on him. A single shot dropped the wolf on top of him. Moving toward the door he fired four shots before finally picking off another two wolves coming from the garage. No doubt they had been feeding on the other raiders and caught their scent.

"It's empty Dave," Hunter replaced the spent rounds before holstering it once again. "took the rounds out last night, even the extra two clips on your belt."

Dave pushed the dead creature off of him. "They could have fucking killed me!"

"Well, I wasn't going to take the chance you wouldn't try to kill me," Pulling out a trench knife Hunter cut off some meat from the wolf. "Oh yeah, happy last meal." He tossed Dave the Fancy Lad Snack Cake and what was left of the Cram. Not much else was said, Hunter cooked up the wolf meat eating some and saving the rest. It wasn't the best tasting thing, but food was food.

"So, we going the long safe and easy way or the short and hard way?" Dave wrestled with his bindings, but knew he couldn't get them off. More of something to do, than a real attempt at escape.

Hunter didn't answer, he had thought about it but still wasn't sure. The long way would take an hour and was to follow the road back Northeast until they hit 89, then follow that South till they made it to Seven Clans. It was easier to travel, but would take longer and probably also meant running into some of the natives that wanted Dave dead. They were in Native territory, which for Hunter wasn't a big deal, he had earned...most of their respect and trust, some still wanted to gut him for just being an outsider and others because of his past interactions. The short way, the way Hunter chased them down, was through a marshy, muddy forest, for about 500-700 feet, into what was probably once a field or clearing...then on to some old road that lead straight into Seven Clans, in about half the time. Most people stayed clear of the road, mainly because slavers used it as their trade highway and didn't take well to people messing in their affairs.

After giving a look over the salvaged power armor frame, covered with the raider metal plating, and once again figuring without a fusion core it wasn't worth it, they made their way toward the torn up dead bodies. Beuna was safely in her holster, Vista comfortably swung across his back and Dave's pipe rifle rested in his arms. He didn't see Sammy's body as they made it through the garage and back to the old truck, figured he probably made it a little way before getting hit by the wolves.

"Son of a bitch, took my gloves before he died." Hunter looked around the truck where he had discarded his gloves.

Dave gave a chuckle, "Lug-nut was never too bright, huh...Lug-nut...would have been a good nickname."

"You and your need to give everyone a nickname," Hunter whispered as he looked at his ransacked duffel. "That dead son of a bitch!" He had dropped it off before beginning his assault on the compound last night. He looked through it; his food was gone, water gone, nearly all his ammo, grenades and medical supplies were gone. A couple loose rounds of .38, .50 and .45 rolled around. Along with a roll of duct tape and an empty clip for his rifle. Before giving another curse, he quickly checked the secret pocket between the shoulder straps, "missed a box, thank god." A box of .44 was still in the slim pocket he had sewn on.

"Fucking idiot," Dave kicked his dead underling and laughed, "should have just took the whole duffel, well guess that is why I called the shots."

"True enough," Hunter thought, "should have shot him last night too..." Thinking of his options; he could gather up some of the junk here and use it to trade, plus get the bounty caps, or just collect up on the bounty and replace his loss from that. The dull ache from his body reminded him that, he probably wasn't in the best of shape to carry a bunch of stuff back; plus watch a deadly captive and going back through the hostile wastes. "Here is to hoping you are going back home kid," Hunter thought before giving a sigh.

"Happy trails Lug-nut."