[Author's Note: Time to put this story back in the active lane! Chapter 1 has been touched up with a new introduction added. And to preemptively answer a couple questions: just because I'm continuing this story doesn't mean I won't also be looking at sequels to either ODA or Mercenary Wars to do as well. So without further delay (hey, what's thirty seconds after three years), welcome back to Gunmen of Venom Hill! Thanks for reading everyone and enjoy! ~Foxmerc]
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CHAPTER 2
The Last Free Ground
'
Fox stepped onto the wooden slats outside the sheriff's office and eyed the plaque by the door. He'd seen enough rough towns to expect fading or chipping where the sheriff's name had to be changed numerous times – lawmen seemed to fade quicker than grass in the desert sun the further west he rode. Most were threatened away, others quit. Those that stood up for the law ended up the same place all courageous men retired: six feet beneath a cross, nothing left of their life's work but a crying widow. Whatever happened to them, there was always some damn fool ready to slap his name on the plaque over the last.
But this plaque showed the same undisturbed fading as the rest of the whitewashed building. The sheriff was either very lucky or not too concerned with upholding the law.
Not bothering to knock, Fox twisted the knob and stepped into the office. Dust swirled in the lamplight and sunlight that managed to make it through the crusted windows. The office consisted of the entire first floor of the building, four jail cells lining the left wall – all empty. A trio of desks formed a U in the middle of the room, only one of them manned. Against the right wall stood an array of tables and mounted boards with bounties and official paperwork posted. A couple gun cabinets occupied the closest corner, their doors ajar showing a sparse assortment of rusty shotguns and rifles that Fox would sooner count on to explode in his hand than fire. Fox would've written the building off as abandoned if not for the creaky old hare who shot him a glare and stood from his desk with a scowl.
"I don't want to hear it," the hare stated in a raspy drawl. "You walk in this here town, don't know nothin' 'bout how things work. Stupid sonuvabitch."
Fox looked him up and down. J.J. Pepperidge, if the plaque was to be trusted. "Peppy" the barkeep called him. Age showed without mercy in his face, more age than he probably lived. Age brought on by a hard life rather than time. He wore faded denim trousers and a vest over a stained white shirt, his tarnished star hanging wilted from the threadbare breast. He looked no more able to enforce law in the town than get himself dressed every morning.
"I hear shooting at Oikonney's place and I see you walk out," the hare continued. "I don't care how, I don't care why. But you better not be comin' in here for help. You dug your grave; might's well have just died in the shooting."
Fox ignored him and stepped over to the table bearing the mess of bounties and papers, his spurs echoing in the still room. He gathered up a stack of posts and sifted through them, tossing each back to the table after he'd had a glance. Some faces on the "wanted" posts seemed familiar; outlaws or gunmen from other counties, most killed or arrested months before. Corneria City didn't seem to be keeping up with news, or at least the sheriff's office wasn't.
"You hearin' me okay, stranger? I oughta shoot you where you stand, save me some trouble when Doc Andross' boys come askin' how I let some sand-skirtin' pissant shoot up his men."
Fox found the post he had been searching for and let the rest fall back to the table. He walked straight to the sheriff's desk, provoking a wince from the hare, and flicked the paper toward him. It flitted to the desktop and landed upright, showing an ugly ape's face and the promise of a two thousand credit reward, dead or alive.
The fox folded his arms. "I'll take it in small bills."
Peppy picked up the post and exchanged bug-eyed glances between Oikonney's inked face and the fox as if trying to figure out the joke. Finally, with a belt of a laugh, he crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. "There's a reason them posters are at the bottom of that heap, stranger. The Blood Wolves are the law 'round here. Doc Andross runs the city and the Blood Wolves work for Doc Andross. That ain't too complicated for you to follow, is it?"
"If they're the law, what does that make you?"
The sheriff scowled and narrowed his eyes into a glare but even he didn't seem to believe his indignation. The fleeting anger melted and he slumped back down into his chair with a light sigh. Even the law wasn't immune to the deep resignation that had defined Corneria City to Fox since he arrived. "A relic. A drunk-wrangler and showpiece. It ain't so bad, y'know. The Wolves keep the peace and don't hassle no one who don't get in their way. Wasn't always like this, but…this tin star don't mean nothin' out here."
Fox stepped to a window and peered out. A small crowd had begun to form at Oikonney's former property. "Doc Andross came here seventeen years ago. Real estate tycoon. Genius. Started buying up property way out on Venom Hill, least a day's hard ride away. How did Corneria City get involved?"
Peppy grunted. "You know a helluva lot for a newcomer." The fox didn't respond so he continued. "He came to the city sometimes for some shopping or the theater. Corneria City was a boomtown back then, rich in silver and frontier dreams. Real energy in the streets, lots of people lookin' to make their fortunes or settle down. Then came the outlaws. Me and my deputies kept 'em at bay for a while but then the Blood Wolves showed up. The originals, I mean; One-Eye O'Donnell's pop led 'em. I tell ya though, One-Eye's every inch the murderous bastard his pop was. And on top of that, the goddamn Cerinjuns started getting' antsy and attacked our border settlers and stagecoach lines."
Fox glanced over his shoulder at mention of the native Cerinian savages, remembering his last bloody run-in with a few of them weeks before. He returned his eyes to the crowd.
"Didn't take long for things to fall apart from there. The Katina outpost was abandoned under the strain of too much Cerinjun and outlaw attack. Macbeth silver mine didn't fare much better. People left, retreated to safer settlements back east. Their families followed. Their friends followed. Everyone but the most die-hard loyal followed. And Doc Andross took over, put his hired Blood Wolf thugs in charge. Not officially, of course…but everyone 'round here knows who has the last word."
"Why Corneria City?" Fox asked. "Why Venom Hill?"
Peppy shrugged. "My gut tells me he's trying to run us all out in the cleanest way possible. If he out and kills us, that'll get the Army's attention. So he's biding his time, having the Wolves keep pressure on until Corneria City's a ghost town. I ain't got no clue why, and it's just a gut feeling, but…I don't investigate things no more. Not since a dear friend of mine did just that and 'mysteriously' ended up dead fifteen years ago."
Fox's eyes narrowed. "James McCloud."
Peppy's brow furrowed and he leaned forward on his palms. "Who the blazin' hell are you?"
The stranger stood in silence for a few long moments before finally turning with a scowl. He took a few hard steps forward and loomed over the desk like a long shadow at dusk. "You sat in this office for fifteen years. You watched the city crumble, watched people be terrorized. Watched your friend be murdered. And you just sat like a coward. That tin star may be worthless out here but it ain't half as worthless as you."
The hare blinked but didn't back down, his resigned face slowly hardening. "Listen to the self-righteous jackass. You think you did somethin' cuz you killed a few thugs? Live in this town for more than a day then tell me you think anything can make a difference."
Fox kept his eyes locked with the sheriff's, studying the man. Somewhere behind the tired eyes lurked a younger, more spirited lawman, but hell if he had a chance of being resurrected. Lashing out at strangers would have to pass for courage.
"How 'bout you direct me to someone with some more information," the fox said in a slow, even voice, "and I'll be on my way."
Peppy finally broke the stare and settled back into his chair. "The Phoenix Feather Saloon's just a few doors down; try there. Lady Phoenix ain't no friend of the Wolves or the Doc. Now get out and don't cause no more trouble…just some friendly advice."
Fox tapped the brim of his hat down to shield against the sunlight that awaited him and wrapped his fingers around the knob. Before opening the door, he reached into his pocket, produced a coin from the few of Andy's that he kept, and flipped it toward the sheriff. The copper coin rapped against the desk and spun to the ground where it lolled and settled flat.
"Get your windows cleaned," he growled. "Take a good look at folks' faces when they trudge on by."
'
'
The buzz of distant chatter greeted Fox as he stepped back onto the dusty main drag; hushed voices wary of speaking too loud. Some in the crowd around Oikonney's house looked back at the stranger and prodded others to look. Before long, the crunch of his boots on the sand was again the loudest sound in earshot, the people silenced and unsure of how to take the man in the long coat. But soon their eyes gazed past him and what they saw broke their fascination, urged them back on their ways and minding their own business like an invisible master's whip upon their backs.
Three men on horses rode down the main road, the church at the end shimmering in the heat behind them. Fox squinted; they were too far to make out, but what he could see told him plenty. They rode easily, backs straight and heads high. People on the road scurried to the sidewalks and kept their distance. Whoever they were, they owned the air around them, and damn well knew it.
Fox spat in the dust and walked up the middle of the road toward them.
As promised, the Phoenix Feather Saloon stood to his right just a minute's walk from the sheriff's office. Its subdued green paint and gold trim showed a quiet desperation to appear grand, the owner having put more effort into its upkeep than any other building Fox had yet seen. A wide porch held tables and benches and a looming sign above it declared the saloon's name in crimson cursive with a stylistic red feather underlining it. Lamps hung from either end to illuminate it at night and as he neared, the muffled strains of a piano wafted out to the street. A few horses stood tied to the hitching post near the porch stairs…customers. Probably more than the Lylat saw in a month.
As Fox looked the place over, he kept his ears perked at the hooves moseying closer. A couple dozen feet out, the men dismounted and took a few steps toward him.
"I knew Clem was a dirty liar. Ain't no way this dime's worth of dog meat killed Andy. Hey mister…what's your name?"
"Easy, my portly friend. A man is two things: what he is to the eye, and what he is in truth. Perhaps this man's truth is greater than he seems."
"What the hell you talkin' about? Does that mean we string him up or not?"
"It means killing him may not be as easy as your elementary plan suggests."
Fox listened to the two voices banter, one a heavy, guttural trombone weighted with the regional drawl and an animal's straightforward thinking. His more verbose friend spoke with a light, dignified air, like a professor from back east who liked toying with those of lesser intellect and could easily hide his amusement from those he dominated. Fox turned to face them, his right hand lingering beneath his duster near the butt of his revolver.
"Well, look at this here fella," the trombone blared again. He was a pig, shorter than the others and dressed in stained riding gear that stretched to fit his fat. He spit tobacco juice to the dust and continued to chomp loudly, thumbs hooked in his vest and a pistol hanging from his belt. "Looks mighty serious. I don't think Corneria City's ways have been drilled into his head yet."
The owner of the snooty voice stood tall beside the pig, arms folded over the blue pinstriped vest of a luxurious suit, the gold chain of a pocket watch draped from one breast pocket and the ivory handle of a revolver jutting from a leather strapped holster on the other. He wore a gentleman's hat and a condescending grin to go with it on his green-scaled face. The lizard harbored two traits that Fox had rarely seen on the frontier – an educated intelligence and fearlessness in armed confrontation. "He doesn't look like one for rules, dear Pigma," the lizard remarked. "He looks like one who speaks in words of hot lead. Tell me, sir, did you have such an exchange of words with Mister Oikonney?"
As a gust of wind picked up and blew dust about the street, Fox noticed the black kerchiefs around the two men's necks for the first time, fluttering in the wind. Just like Andy's.
"I was just reclaiming what's rightfully mine," Fox uttered. "He tried to stop me."
Pigma spit and grunted. "That's Andy alright. Stupid bastard always pickin' fights without the skill to see 'em through. But that don't change nothin.' You still killed a Blood Wolf, mister, no matter how stupid he was."
Fox kept his fingertips alighted on his pistol butt and waited, his eyes unblinking. The lizard wasn't just folding his arms to relax; his own hand brushed against the ivory handle poking out of his shoulder holster. And though the pig didn't look like the quick sort, another gun set to be drawn wasn't to be taken lightly. Another gust of wind picked up and rustled the fox's coat and the gunmen's scarves, the only movement on the dust road.
"Enough."
Pigma and the lizard relaxed their hands and shifted aside. The third rider who had been cloaked from Fox's view stood by his chestnut horse, patting the animal on the neck. He swiveled his head to look at Fox and had to turn it a little more than any other man thanks to the eye patch over his left eye.
"We can gun him down here, boss," the pig whined. "Andy—"
"Andy got what was coming to him." The wolf turned to face Fox and stepped ahead of his cronies; slow, easy steps, like a man there for a friendly conversation. Fox realized the wolf roused his nerves and kept him on edge more than the other two combined. Stupidity and intellect were dangerous when put to the wrong men, but confidence…confident eyes were often the last thing a man saw when he stared down the barrel of a gun that outdrew him. The wolf has those eyes and the presence to match it.
But if he hoped to find the same defeated spirit as the townspeople in this stranger before him, Fox was eager to disappoint.
The wolf lifted his black hat from his head and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve before returning it. His garb resembled something more respectable than the pig and less pretention than the lizard, just a work shirt and black vest with denim pants. An embossed leather gun belt hung about his waist and the sunlight glinting from the blue steel revolver testified to its upkeep. He kept his right hand dangling by his waist but with no threatening motions around the gun.
"You don't seem too broken up about Andy," Fox said, never letting his eyes stray from the wolf.
"I'm an optimist, stranger," the wolf replied with a cold grin. "I don't see it as a loss. A man comes to town and beats another man at his own game. I see it as…natural selection. An opportunity."
"Opportunity."
"You look like a man without a steady job tying him down. A man in need of some money. Doc Andross is always looking for men who…how did you put it, Leon?"
The lizard blinked. "Speak in words of hot lead, sir?"
"Right." The wolf raised his palms and gestured around him. "This shithole city ain't flowing with money, stranger. Either put your gun to work for Doc Andross or sell yourself out in this whorehouse here. And I don't think you'd look good in a nightie."
Pigma gave a string of choking laughter.
"I ain't here to make money, mister," Fox responded flatly. "And I ain't here to kill for Doc Andross."
"I don't think you heard me right." The single eye narrowed. "You either replace Andy or you join him out in the cemetery. Fair's fair. After all, it's hard for a man to make the claim that he ain't here to kill when he did just that his first hour here."
"I didn't say I wasn't here to kill. Just not for Doc Andross."
The wolf's grin melted away and his lips pursed. "Pity." His brow bunched and shadowed his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. "I…very much despise a man who can't see opportunity."
His gunhand curled.
Fox drew a sharp breath.
The moment Fox knew all too well, when his last breath could be his last and the final thing he would hear in this life was a roar of black powder thunder…and knowing he wasn't finished yet.
But the thunder never came. Instead a voice firm as steel interrupted them; a female voice.
"Now I know I'm not about to see a squabble here on my property."
The wolf hesitated for a few tense moments and a smile gradually crept onto his gray muzzle. His hand relaxed and he stiffened his back, his two sidekicks easing down as well. "What angelic voice is that I hear? Been a long time since I've been welcomed so lovingly into the Feather."
Fox kept his guard up but dared to let his eyes wander to the porch of the Phoenix Feather. A red vixen stood at the top of the stairs; young, probably into her twenties a healthy way, pretty enough to keep Fox's eyes despite the danger in front of him. She wore a full crimson dress with a black-trimmed bodice that left her neck and shoulders bare, save a black choker with a silver pendant. She stepped down the stairs, black high-heeled boots clopping on the wood, her black elbow-length gloved hands set on her waist. The way she moved entranced Fox: fluid, graceful, the kind of sway that left no doubt the body beneath the layers of fabric did the lovely face justice.
"Yeah, about as welcome as the scorpion I ground into the floorboards an hour ago," the vixen replied with a sour smirk at the wolf. "You know I don't allow gunplay on my property, O'Donnell. That includes the ground in front of it."
Fox found himself surprised by her confidence. A spirited person seemed to be a rarity in Corneria City, especially one who didn't want to pull a gun on him.
"Just talking, Miss Phoenix," Leon said with a tip if his hat. "Making sure Corneria City's newest vagrant knows the lay of the land."
"Well, this 'vagrant' is my guest." The vixen walked up to Fox and looked him over, ending with a little sideways grin at him before turning back to face the three gunmen. "If you're not here to drink or get a room, get on your way."
The wolf gave a leering grin at the vixen's cleavage that the low-cut bodice was doing its best to keep contained. "If I get a room, do I get you with it?"
She sighed and cocked her head, looking at him like a big sister would look at an annoying little brother. "No matter how many times you ask, I still ain't for sale. I just manage the girls."
"How can you live here so long and still not realize that I get what I want in the end?"
The vixen took three slow, imposing steps so she was practically nose to nose with him and looked him in the eye. "The day you have me is the day I can look into your face without dry-heaving."
O'Donnell's smile grew wider and he chuckled deep in his throat. But in the blink of an eye, the mouth twisted and his brow furrowed with sudden anger. His hand whipped up and grasped her muzzle, choking off a yelp. His voice rumbled, dark and cold.
"That pretty mouth of yours is gonna get you into trouble some day."
Struggling against the hold, Phoenix recoiled back when the wolf released her, deftly keeping her footing on the now-dusty high-heeled boots, her eyes burning a glare into him. But the wolf's amused face returned as quickly as it had gone, joining his men in a bout of laughter at the woman's expense. With a mock-polite farewell tap on the brim of his hat, the wolf mounted his horse and shot another glance at Fox. "Come on, boys," he said, pulling the reins to the side. "Nothing at this rundown shithole we can't get better at the Paw. You two have a nice day now."
Phoenix squinted through the cloud of sand the three horses left in their wake and growled an angry curse. But she took a calming breath and kept her composure, returning her attention to Fox with a wary eye. The muffled piano music beckoning them once again now that the noise of horses and threats had gone, Phoenix gestured to the stairs and took the lead. "Well, don't just stand there. Get inside before you can attract any more trouble."
Fox followed close behind, silently enjoying the view.
'
'
The Feather greeted Fox like a woman in her death throes still clinging to hope; painted up, active, and still smiling despite the pain and weakness underneath. Red and gold dominated the décor in the theme of the mythical phoenix, with a couple dozen oil lamps keeping the place bright from rafters to scuffed floorboards. A blazing chandelier fought the lamps to dominate the saloon's shadows, creating an effect that Fox rather liked; after weeks of staring at his own gloomy shadow in his travels, he welcomed a little change. Curtains – of red velvet and gold trim, naturally – hung draped at every window, allowing in more light from clean-scrubbed windows.
But even the polished wood banisters and veneers couldn't hide the rough times the saloon obviously faced. Yet something about the place – and Phoenix herself – convinced Fox that she wasn't trying to hide anything or fool people into thinking more of the place with decorations and light. She was just trying to keep it alive.
"Take a seat," Phoenix offered as she whisked herself behind the bar to stand before the shelves of liquor bottles. "Name's Fara, by the way, Fara Phoenix. Manny! Something a little more up-tempo, eh? We got a new customer here."
The piano player near the staircase smiled and started in on a livelier piece, the upbeat notes a backdrop to the tired but heartfelt cheers of the ten or so patrons sitting at the tables. Fox gave them a quick glance: working men, there to forget their sorrows but not drown them like the men at the Lylat.
"You'd think I offered to buy a round," Fox said, sliding onto a stool near the middle of the bar where he could see the front door better out of the corner of his eye. "Loyal customers?"
"Only three watering holes still up and running here in the big CC." Fara retrieved an amber-hued bottle from beneath the bar and set it on the wood along with a shot glass. Her practiced movements told Fox that she'd opted to work the bar herself rather than hire a man. "The Feather here, the Lylat down the road, and the Cat's Paw over 'round the corner. If I close up shop, my customers either wallow in Grey's little dive or go to the Paw to be harassed by the Blood Wolves that hang out there." She popped the cork on the bottle and poured a glassful. "So, yes, they like seeing a new guy willing to spend his money here…even if I did coax him in rather shamelessly by saving him from three nasty guns."
Fox found the friendly grin beneath her green eyes contagious and gave a little one himself. He took off his hat, tossed it on the stool beside him, and downed the drink in one fiery gulp. With a sharp breath to cool his inflamed throat, he said, "You got something against the other two saloons?"
"Not Bill, no." She sighed and leaned over, resting her elbows on the bar. When she moved, Fox noticed a gleaming lever-action rifle mounted as decoration above the bottle shelves...and looked to be just within the woman's high reach. "Poor man. His father ran that bar before him. I've been here for twenty years, since I was seven, and seeing the Lylat slowly crumble broke my heart. Nice fellas, Bill and his pa. Bill used to be a cavalryman, stationed at Katina fortress. Once it fell…well, with the city's decay and his own awful war stories, it's a wonder he only serves drinks rather than pouring them down his own gullet. Offered him a job here, but he won't leave that bar for nothing. Can't fault him for that, I'm the same way."
Fox filled his glass and fiddled with it, turning it around and around and watching the whiskey waver. "And the Paw?"
Fara's expression turned sour but before she could say anything, a shrill voice pierced his ear from the other end of the bar.
"The Paw! You don't want the girls at the Cat's Paw, cowboy."
Fox looked over to see a white-furred female collie finish her evocative descent of the staircase, her skimpy dress and sheer robe leaving no doubt of her profession. She let her fair hand slide off the edge of the banister and alight to her head where her finger played with a red bow bound in her fur. A black and auburn lynx stepped down beside her, equally comfortable showing herself publicly in clothes a decent woman would consider a first layer. Their smiles gleamed with the same come-hither lust that whores put on like a sign in a window, in every town Fox had ever breezed through. They seemed attractive enough to Fox, definitely better than some he'd had the misfortune of seeing while sober.
"The girls at the Paw just do what they need to and raid your pockets," the collie continued as she and the lynx sauntered down the bar toward him. "Us? Well…we're artists. We can tease parts you never knew you had."
"Besides," the lynx added in a deeper, sultrier voice. "Would'ya really want a girl that's been wrapped around a sweaty Blood Wolf?"
Fox nodded in greeting at them. "Can't say I want any girl at the moment. Just talking with your…" He returned his eyes to Fara where her own smoldered, daring him to liken her to these ladies of the night. "Mistress?"
Fara smirked, a hint of the venom she'd given O'Donnell creeping into it. "Good choice of words. She's Miyu, the collie's Fay…the two and only two comfort women here at the Feather. Girls this is…" She raised her brow at him.
"Just call me Fox."
She blinked with a shrug. "Okay then, Fox the fox."
"Come on, now," Fay pouted, sidling up next to him while Miyu stepped around to his other side. "What talk is more important than a little relaxation."
Fox felt a hand snake under his coat and caress his thigh, passing over his left-hand Ridgefield holster.
"Oh, my," Miyu purred into his other ear. "Is that all the heat you're packing?"
Fara snickered as she took to tidying up the shelves beneath the bar. "I'd do what they say if I were you, Fox the fox. They'll twist an innuendo out of anything and you're gonna be stuck there having to hear 'em."
Fox nursed the whiskey and glanced at the girls each in turn. "Just here to talk."
"No one never had no fun just talking." Miyu's hand continued to creep about his gun belt, sneaking toward his back. "My, my, what have we—?"
Her cooing ended with a sharp yelp that snapped every eye in the bar to her direction and silenced the piano. Fox's hand had grasped the girl's wrist quick as a rattlesnake's fangs. He pulled her hand out from under his duster where her fingers were clutched around the dusky wood handle of a silver revolver, frozen probably more out of sudden fear than anything. As a few still moments passed, Miyu's face a mask of slack-jawed shock, Fox realized his he was trembling and his teeth hurt, clenched in what must have seemed like a demon's visage to the woman. His knuckles began to ache and he loosened his grip, tugging the pistol from her fingers. It all had happened so quickly, before he even knew what he had done.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Fox muttered, feeling his quickened heart rate begin to relax.
Miyu snapped her muzzle shut and glared at him while she rubbed her assaulted forearm. Fay comforted her and took her away, spitting a blunt, "Bastard!" before the two retreated back up the staircase. After another bout of silence, punctuated by a cough or scrape of a chair leg, the piano player cautiously started up again and the drone of hushed conversation filled the tavern.
"That was quite a face, stranger," Fara said, her own eyes narrowed with disapproval. "You can try frightening anyone you want, but don't manhandle my girls again, y'hear?"
Fox placed the pistol on the bar and watched the trick-shadows of the lamps and chandelier catch its meticulously polished steel. Another suckle of his whiskey helped calm him. "I apologized already. Maybe your girls should keep their fondling away from a man's weapons."
"You didn't seem to mind too much when she touched the one at your hip there. Why so protective of this one?"
The stranger drew another sip.
With a morose glance at the silver pistol, he palmed it from the bar and shoved it back into his gun belt's rear-draw holster where it slept again under the cover and shadow of his duster. "Pepperidge said you have information about Doc Andross and the Blood Wolves. Is that true or not?"
"Down to business, huh?" Fara folded her arms and leaned her thigh against the bar. "Why should I tell you anything?"
Fox drained the last of his whiskey and slid the glass across the wood toward her, following it with the tinkle of a few coins from his pocket. "Because I'll need drinks and information for as long as I'm here and if I can find both in one place, I just might become one of those loyal customers."
The vixen perused him with sharp eyes, a frown of study etched on her muzzle. Finally, she took the coins from the bar and poured once more with a hint of a grin sneaking through. "The Feather needs all the help she can get. What do you want to know?"
"Let's start with the welcome committee out on the street."
Fara scowled. "They lead the Blood Wolves, bunch of thugs with the Doc pulling their strings. The fat one's Pigma Dengar. Used to be Peppy's deputy. Peppy suspected him of corruption but couldn't prove anything. After the murder of…a good man, Pigma abandoned his position and joined the Wolves."
"What good man?"
The vixen hesitated. "James McCloud. What difference does it make, you don't know him."
Fox's eyes darkened at the new information. He gulped from his refilled glass and noticed the sorrow in her eyes when she spoke of James.
"Anyway," she continued, blinking the sorrow away, "The fop is Leon Powalski, a former surgeon who never had a license to practice and scoffed at the concept of anesthetic. That should tell you all you need to know about him. Don't let the get-up fool you, he's deadly fast with that pistol on his vest. Then there's One-Eye O'Donnell. Mean son of a bitch, just likes to kill and trot around like he's king of the place. I guess to most people he might as well be."
"But not you."
Fara's jaw set. "I was all alone as a child here and I knew I didn't want to be left in the dirt my whole life. This isn't just a saloon, stranger, this is my way of being part of Corneria City. But then I watched everyone around me suffer, be driven off, be gunned down, give up…and I waited for a tragedy to come for me. I scraped by and kept an eye out the window for Andross' thugs. Corneria City may not look like much to you, but it's my home and I ain't never being scared away. This here place is probably the last free ground in the city."
Fox nodded. "If they don't have a problem killing, why do they tolerate you and the Feather?"
"Same reason they tolerate Peppy and Bill: keeps the town functioning, at least to some degree. They know we can't pose a threat so they let us scrape on by and harass us now and then. Besides, even in a town like Corneria City, the Paw ain't enough to fill everyone's drinking needs come evening." Fara sighed and gazed distantly down at the bar. "But I'm no fool; I know it can't last like this forever. One day the money will run out or Andross will flick his finger and the Wolves will burn it down. I can tell you one thing, though." She looked Fox in the eye. "I wasn't raised to go down without a fight. You see that rifle behind me? If the Wolves want to send their men to run me out, they'll have to bury a few of their own when they're done."
The stranger shot another look at the impressive rifle above the liquor bottles. "I hear Doc Andross is buying up barren land on Venom Hill. What's he doing there? What does he get from running people out of Corneria City?
"Couldn't tell you," she said with a shrug. "The last man who might have known died fifteen years ago: James McCloud. He worked for Toad Railway and Engineering as security-for-hire on trains. Good friend of Peppy. Beltino Toad ran the company but he died a while ago and the company pulled out once Corneria City started drowning. His son's still around though, runs a place up by Aquas Lake. A workshop or warehouse or machinery or some such. I see him every couple weeks, comes down for supplies. Nice guy. No ally of Andross. He could tell you more about James' professional life than I could."
"Reckon I should pay him a visit then." Fox stood, letting the initial daze of his whiskey-soothed nerves wash over him and pass. "Should I assume you have a vacant room for rent?"
Fara shot a cunning smile. "Of course. In fact, if you're willing to go apologize again to Miyu in a language she appreciates better, I may just make up a map and help you on your way to Aquas Lake tomorrow."
The stranger placed his hat back on his head and returned the grin from the shadow under the brim as he turned and headed for the stairs. "Ma'am, I'm starting to see why the Feather's endured so long."
'
-Chapter 3 Coming Soon-