Author's Note: This Fanfiction contains mature content - swearing, explicit violence and some offensive language - so watch it. This is my first Fanfic, so I'll ask if you can please leave reviews with your honest thoughts. Like everyone, I want to improve.
Armadillo, 1904. Seven in the morning. The sun's come up, and yet a cool breeze is still blowing through the town. People have yet to converge in the saloon and make a hellish ruckus, and everything's peaceful. Joseph Byrd and Cecil Helden sit outside, both on fold out chairs and with a large fold out table in front of them and shared between. A newspaper rests next to a plated steak, vacant. Cecil (pronounced Sess-sil, not See-Sil, as he's quick to point out) lifts a mug of coffee to his mouth. He takes a sip, lowers it, then places it on the fold out table.
'Coffee's too hot' Cecil says
'Wait for it to cool down, then' Joseph playfully retorts
'Gotta listen to your cutomers, Joe'
'Well, you ain't a customer 'till seven-thirty, friend'
'Then at seven-thirty, make me a proper coffee' Cecil says
Joseph chuckles.
'How's Amanda?' Joseph asks
'Swell,' Cecil says, 'Only got kicked outta the house twice this week'
Joseph chuckles again. 'How's the store doing?'
'Pretty good. Only Gunsmith in Armadillo, 'course we're makin' money'.
'Ain't that dandy'
'Ain't it, though?'
'Indeed it is. You hear about the new Sheriff?'
'New Sheriff?'
'Wally Sackett.'
'Sounds like a city boy'
'He is a city boy. He were up at Blackwater on the 26th, back in '99'
'Thought only that Ricketts guy got through that?'
'Lotta people think that. Actually four guys. Ricketts, some dude named Oates or somethin', an' our guy'
'What about the fourth?'
'I... anyway, this guy's been transferred from Blackwater. Got here last night. Goin' on the grand tour this mornin'.'
'I-'
Both of them stop, at the sound of chinking boots, as a man walks up the street, a Spencer repeater resting over his right shoulder, his hand on the handle. A sheriff's badge, pinned to his right breast, glistens in the early morning sun. He walks past the General Store, and observes these two peculiar men eating breakfast together, outside, at seven in the morning. He stops, and comes back a couple of steps. 'What're you two boys doin' out so early?' he asks them.
'Nothin' much, Sheriff. You?' Cecil asks, the cynical man speaking with a hint of resentment in his voice.
'Tourin' the place. Don't know nobody. You boys are?' Sackett asks.
Joseph stands, pushes his chair back and walks down onto the sand below to greet Sackett.
'Name's Joseph. Joseph Byrd. I run the General Store 'round here'.
'And him?' Sackett asks.
'Cecil Helden' Cecil says as though he resents the very presence of other human beings in Armadillo. This is friendly Cecil.
'And what's he do?' Sackett asks
'Gunsmith' Cecil replies, somewhat apprehensively
Sackett stands there for a moment, thinking about what to say. He steps back once more, opens his mouth. He rethinks. Closing his mouth, he nods to Cecil and Joseph, and continues his walk. Cecil and Joseph listen for his chinking boots, the sound of which become dimmer and dimmer as the wind begins to pick up. Joseph takes a step back, and leans against the wall. 'See, nice feller' Joseph says, an amused grin on his face. 'Or you sad you had to talk to another person?' Cecil looks up at him in disgust.
The boots continue to chink ominously. Wally Sackett keeps walking along, shotgun over shoulder, not a care in the world. First day on the job's always the best, he thinks to himself. Don't gotta do nuthin'. Just walk around town, meet new people, maybe pick up a drunk. Always gets worse about a week in. Outlaws start rollin' into town, you have to start dealin' with stuff you usually turn a blind eye to in your first week. Within two weeks, you've usually ended up killing a guy, whether it be a kidnapper, a gunfighter, or some dumb drunk who never thought that waving a broken bottle and a loaded revolver at a Sheriff was a bad idea.
The boot chinks stop. Only the sound of the wind fills the air. Sackett stands in shadow. He looks up, his eyes meeting those of a strongly-built man, clad in all black with a bandanna over his face, and riding a black horse. 'Sir?' Sackett asks. The man on horseback continues to look at him. There's not much emotion in his eyes, if any. He just looks. 'Sir?' Sackett asks again. The man doesn't budge. There's creaking in the distance, and Joseph's head pokes around the side of the General Store for a moment. The man looks at Joseph for a moment, the same expression, the same emotionless eyes. Joseph's head darts back, and there's whispering.
The man's eyes dart back to Sackett. Sackett keeps one eye trained on the man's face, the other on his revolver - nothing special, a Colt Frontier not dissimilar to his own. Sackett's wary. This man could do anything, be ready for anything. Rare on the first day, but he's heard stories of other Sheriffs who've been hit with full-blown gang shootouts in the street on theirs. 'State your business here, sir' Sackett says, still wary. No response. Sackett lowers his shotgun, resting the barrel in his left hand and putting his finger on the trigger.
'Sir, state your business or leave, or I'll be forced to arrest you' Sackett says to the man, a hint of anger in his voice. The man, again, keeps his blank expression. Right then, this guy's not gonna budge, Sackett thinks to himself. This could go very wrong very fast and for a lot of people. If I pull the gun on him, he could pull his. Hell, even if I take the gun, he could have another on him somewhere. Fuck it. Sackett cocks the shotgun and takes a step back, pointing it at the man from his hip. He resrs on his right leg and leans back a bit, a more comfortable position. 'Sir, get off the horse'. He doesn't respond. 'Sir, get off the horse right now, or I will be forced to shoot you'.
The man sits there for a moment, completely idle. Sackett takes a step forward. The man then mercifully dismounts, pulls out his Colt and hands it to Sackett. That was easy, he thinks. 'Now, come on, sir, let's take you up the road' Sackett says. The man starts walking. 'Walk in front, sir' Sackett says to the man, and he follows the instruction. Sackett follows about three or four feet behind him, shotgun trained on his back lest he try and escape. 'Caught one already, Sheriff?' Joseph asks as Sackett and the man in black pass the General Store. Cecil, for once, looks interested in something beyond the paper and his morning coffee. 'Maybe' Sackett says dismissively, continuing the walk.
'You ever been to Armadillo, son?' Sackett asks when out of earshot. The man in black doesn't have a response. Sackett doesn't need one. 'Because here in Armadillo, we don't take kindly to strangers turnin' up unannounced and uninvited, comin' in here and causin' all kinds of trouble'. Sackett's lecture continues for some time, until finally they reach the jail. 'Open the door' Sackett says to the silent man. He complies, and the door swings open with a creak. The two walk inside, past the sleeping Deputy Hughes, and to the complimentary cell provided with every visit by troublemakers. The door opens, a metallic scraping filling the room. Hughes fidgets in the wooden highchair that's served as his bed for the past three years.
Sackett swings the cell door shut, and takes a step back, leaning against a table on the other side of the room. He puts his shotgun up against the wall in a holder, about five feet away from the cell, and looks at the man. 'What's your name, boy?' Sackett asks him curiously. No answer. 'Where you come from?'. Again, no answer. He continues with these questions for quite some time, and the man simply sits on the bed and looks blankly out the window in the corner of the room. And each and every time, there's no response, not so much as a grunt.
'You know what, boy?' Sackett says, finally, 'I don't like it when people don't tell me what I wanna know. I don't like that one bit. So I am gonna leave you in this cell until I do. I'm gonna let you sit in here and rot. If in a week you don't feel like talkin', you'll still be in this cell. If, in a month, you don't feel like talkin', you will still be in this cell. If, at the goddamn end of days you don't feel like talkin', you will still be rottin' in this fuckin' cell, do I make myself clear?' he says with the anger and authority that's broken a hundred men before him. Hughes fidgets again. The man looks at Sackett and raises an eyebrow in an "I dare you" fashion, the most human emotion that's come out of the man since arrival.
'Fine. Fine then. I'll see you' Sackett says, turning to the door, about to leave the room. He comes to a dead stop as his hand hits the handle, however. A hoarse voice fills the room. A voice that sounds as though it hasn't been used in years. So, naturally, the owner of said voice has a hard time getting his words out the first time around. 'Beg your pardon?' Sackett says, turning. He absent-mindedly drops the man's Colt on the table, and steps forward. 'What?' he says again? 'Walton Last' the man says in his coarse voice. 'Name's Walton Last' Walton looks at Sackett.
'Walton Last. You ain't gonna be causin' no trouble now in my town, are ya, Walton Last?' Sackett says. 'Not intentionally' he replies, suddenly becoming interested in a crack in the wall. 'Well, I gotta keep you in here for at least a day so I don't look like a damn fool. I'll let you out tomorrow, unless you cause us any more trouble now'. Sackett looks at him, as though he knows some trouble's going to get caused. Sackett observes him. What IS this guy up to? he thinks to himself. You don't just ride into town and get arrested if you ain't up to nothin'. This guy's got something up his sleeve, I just don't-
BANG BANG BANG!
Sackett wheels around, and Hughes bolts up, struggling in his seat. Sackett grabs his shotgun and Walton's Colt, then makes for the door. 'Hughes, take this' he says, tossing the deputy the Colt. He takes his own gun out of the holster and puts the Colt in there in its stead, then rushes out the door and onto the porch behind Sackett. The two look up. A man with a gun walks backwards out of a house, a screaming young woman in his arms, used as a human shield. The man has blood on his face, as does the inside of the open door from which he had just appeared. The woman continues kicking and screaming, but to no avail. He wheels around, and a bunch of people file out onto the street to see the events unfold.
Sackett and Hughes come forward, towards the man. 'You boys throw your fuckin' guns down right now or I'll blast this lovely lady's brains all over the goddamn street!' he yells. Throughout the crowd, there are murmurs of things like 'the pastor...'. Yes, indeed, that is the pastor's daughter, and that was the pastor's house. The pastor himself is likely splattered across the hostage taker's face. 'Throw down yer goddamn guns!' he screams. Sackett and Hughes do as the crazy gunman says. 'Boy, what're you doing?' Sackett yells at the man. 'What's your name?'
'Clay Hewitt' the man calls back, both in anger and fright. 'Get away! Everyone! Get the fuck away!' he continues to scream. 'Come on, Clay, we don't wanna hurt you' Sackett says, trying to calm the man down to no avail. 'Just let the lady go and we can settle this like men'. 'NO!' Clay lets out a furious scream. 'You listen to me, Mister, I don't know who you are but you can't-' BOOM! Clay stops dead in his tracks. Quite literally, actually. Everyone looks around for the shooter. In the very center of Clay's forhead is a single bullethole. Blood splatters the right of the woman's face, and she screams in terror. A stream begins to run down Clay's own face.
The gun falls to the ground with an thunk. Clay soon follows, his arms outstretched. His leg begins to twitch uncontrollably, and his eyes start darting around. Whether this is a conscious movement, or if Clay is even alive at this point, is debatable. The real issue is: who is the gunman. Sackett turns around and faces the jail. He sees something. About a hundred feet away, in the jail cell, there is Walton Last. His jacket is off, and a holster, designed to hold a pistol hidden on his back, is empty. In his right hand is a smoking, silver LeMat revolver.