Dust flurried like snow, gently gathering in the air between them and faintly glowed luminescent in the twilight canyon air.
The girl stood wide eyed, her gaze transfixed by the incredulous expression of her opponent. In her hand she held an old worn saber, a relic from a time when war was waged with whatever semblance of honor such a thing could have and men did not slaughter their brothers. Dry lightning flashed in the brewing sky above, a warning of the storm to come and the saber gleamed blue in the light of it.
Her opponent gripped his rifle firmer in his hands. The bayonet lanced on the end flashed in the light as well with a cruel hint of crimson. A clap of thunder rumbled down into the canyon, echoing in the space between them.
"You.." he stepped closer. The light of their blades and the waning twilight fought against the midnight black of his long dark cloak that silhouetted him against the sunset amber rust of the canyon walls. He was tall and too solid to be the shadows he cast on the walls behind him. The girl gripped the saber tighter and thrust it forward, halting his advance. He readied his rifle in response and she lunged.
He parried every strike the old saber threw with the lancing cruelty of his bayonet and their shadows danced across the sedimentary stripes of the canyon. Her movements were frantic, his patient and soon she was muscled down to the edge of the cliffside. Dust and stones clattered down into the gorge below. Sweat glistened crowning their temples in pearls of effort as they locked blades and struggled.
"I can show you the way!" He growled through gritted teeth.
The girl's eyes flashed and he could tell a storm all her own was brewing behind them. A storm of revelation. She growled out a small thunderclap of resolve and dug her heels into the clay shoving him forward and knocking the bayonet back.
Soon it was he who was frantic. The girl swung the saber with a new found vigor and a never before seen precision. It took all his strength to keep the blade from his flesh. She threw out cutting arcs and jabbing thrusts of merciless cold anger as the sky opened up over them. It spat drops of thick globular rain that soon quickened into the self righteous baptism of a late summer rain. The canyon floor turned slick, and distracted from the shock of the onslaught, he lost his footing as the girl gave a ferocious swipe to his lower calf. He knelt in the dust turned mud before rising to knock back another blow from the old but deadly saber.
Her fury was too powerful and the storm above and the storm in her eyes rumbled green with the promise of disaster. He tried to parry, tried to knock the saber from her hand, but instead it was his rifle that was hurtled out of reach. With a wide upper arc she cut him down. She pointed the saber at his chest as he lay at her mercy, on his back, in the mud dust. He cast a panicked glance at his rifle then up at the girl. The storm billowed behind her, an aureole, and the sight left him slack jawed. He knew in that moment that she would kill him then and for some reason he could not explain he found that he didn't care.
She did not-kill him and the sky opened up and wailed with the thundering whistling howl of a locomotive. The sky was a sickly green and the rain fell furious to the ground. No longer heavy lazy drops but a series of assaults on the ground below.
The girl cast worried eyes to the sky before returning them to the man laid prostrate before her. She held his gaze. He held her's- he didn't dare look away. Her look was indescribable. The way she looked at him was a mystery and the man had the sudden thought of wanting to solve it then. The sudden feeling of want. The idea compelled him forward. He struggled and failed to stand.
The attempt was enough to break her gaze and spooked she turned away. She fled bounding away down the canyon path in the hurried zig zag strides of a pronghorn until she faded like mist—an apparition into the rain. The man watched her go as blood ran in rain diluted streaks down his face to mix with the reds of the clay below.
He had lost the girl just before the storm hit. The failure had been a terrible blow to his pride and his face leaving a clean cleaved scar across his cheek. Had he known of the result, he had wondered later to himself, would he have ever bothered going after her in the first place? The thought always brought him back to the first moment she had been brought to life as a faded photograph slid cleanly across the rich red of mahogany. Back to all those months ago before the scar and the girl who gave it to him had ever existed.
Waiting patiently in the prim parlor, the streets of downtown clattering with people, horses and god know what else, he had shifted uncomfortably in the overstuffed velvet loveseat until the little housekeeper, clad in the peculiar red from head to toe that was her employer's preference, came to summon him in. He followed her down the narrow hall and had bent his too tall frame through the door into the room.
The room was too small for its rich trappings and he felt stifled standing there in front of the large mahogany desk surrounded by an excess of panelling, velvet and leather. He coughed lightly, an introduction of a noise and the other occupant of the room turned as the housekeeper slipped past him back into the safety of the hall.
"Ah, there you are my boy," the occupant grinned enthusiastically, "have a seat, I've been waiting for you."
He had kept the flinch internal as he crossed the room and folded himself into one of the crimson armchairs standing sentry in front of the throne of a desk. The man behind the desk sat haphazardly regal, his back bent by the years, but the flint glint in the wizen man's eyes made quick mincemeat of any notion of fragility. The old wolf might be crippled by age but the teeth were still there.
The old man's eyes hardened. "Skywalker's back."
He didn't respond. He cared little for his uncle. Skywalker was a fool and had long ago abandoned him to hermit himself away in the pursuit of gold. The old man had baited him with this subject before. Neither of the men claimed any sort of soft feelings for him. The mention of it was a barb. A subtle reminder of the hatred they shared that bound them together and of the debts he owed. That was the real reason he was here. The old man only called upon him when he needed him. He let his eyes fall to the surface of the throne of a desk and met his own gaze there in the reflective surface of the overly polished wood. He studied his reflection cast in reddish browns and grimaced at the too large ears and prow like nose he found there. The nose wrinkled a grimace back in response. He looked back up reluctantly to meet the old man's gaze.
The old man shrugged. "I expected more of a reaction," he clicked a sliver of a smile darkening the harsh creases on his face. "It hardly matters, I have a task for you boy." That was when he reached into the lining of his gold silk vest and slipped the faded portrait across the blood red of the table.
The picture was scuffed and faded around the edges. Not faded from age but from the brutality of travel folded up in some unknown pocket. A lean scrawny soft looking young boy stared defiantly at the camera holding a long coil of ship rope, the knotted bends looping around his thin lanky legs and nearly as thick.
He let a black leather clad thumb slide over the edges and set the photo back on the table. "I hunt bounties Mr. Snoke," he shifted in the narrow chair, "not cabin boys."
The old wolf settled back in his chair and peered at him in that appraising way he had done many times before. He reached over and slid the photo back. "Girl, Mr. Ren," he chittered snidely, "if you look closer, and I can assure you she's worth a pretty penny. Bounty is $10,000."
Ren's eyes widened. Ten thousand dollars for such a slip of a thing? Now he was curious. He picked the photo back up and studied it carefully. She was thin but her features were delicate. The baggy rags hung from her frame obscuring any obvious signs of curves but the old wolf was right. If you looked closely you could tell that those defiant eyes were that of a young woman.
"What has she done?" He asked, careful to keep his tone even. Snoke waved the question away with a dismissing hand.
"She's a thief, but her crimes are hardly your concern my boy. It's easy money for someone of your skills and as a favor I've asked the county to hold on posting the bounty till tomorrow."
Ren eyes narrowed. "That's generous of you sir," he rose out of the chair and set the photo back down on the table. "Though I hardly think I need such a head start."
Snoke snapped up the photo and held it out to the younger man. "Keep it, having the original will come in handy I'm sure." Ren gingerly picked the picture of the young girl out of the gnarled hand and slipped it into the safety of his cloak pocket. He nodded an acknowledgment to the vastly older man. "Thank you sir."
Snoke only grinned another hard cold smile. "No thank you, Mr. Ren. I look forward to your success."
The housekeeper appeared as if summoned through some unknown force and Ren found himself ushered back into the hall. The housekeeper handed him a tidily packaged file wordlessly, just as she had done for all of the special bounties he had taken from Snoke over the years, and Ren had made his way equally wordlessly out the door. He saw no sense in breaking their tradition as odd as this new job seemed to be. As he made his way out to the street side where his horse was waiting he paused to consider.
She hardly seemed worth the effort and ten thousand! With that sum he could finally hang his hat and buy a plot. It bothered him to know so little about a bounty but for that price? He figured he could overlook it. He did owe Snoke. The old wolf had taken him under his wing and made him the man he was, one of the best and fiercest bounty hunters in territory. Find a young girl, cash her in and retire? It sounded almost too good to be true.
He unhooked his horse and slipped a practiced foot into the stirrup letting his long legs swing up and over into the saddle as he had done many times before. He tucked the file into the worn leather saddlebag hanging off the left side and clicked his heel coaxing his horse into a brisk trot towards downtown.
He shielded his eyes against the just setting sun and urged the horse forward. He wouldn't miss this chance. Not when he'd been given the opportunity of a head start.