It was a field of cows. There were a lot of cows in this field, minding their own cow business, the only sound being an occasional moo. Farmer Brown and his family were herding the cattle back to their pens when suddenly they heard the sound of a carriage rattling into their field. Without warning, the back of the carriage opened up. The rattling of a gatling gun filled the air, followed by the sounds of dying cows as the bullets tore them apart. Farmer Brown and his family could duck for cover behind a thick rock formation as their field was flooded by shredded beef. As the smoke cleared, and the gun revved down, the Brown family stepped out from their cover with their hands up. Stepping out of the carriage was a bulky, muscular man with a devilish set of facial hair. He wore an overcoat saddled with weaponry along with a top hat adorned with the carved off bits of dead cattle. It was none other than the Terrible Cowtipper.
"Aw, Jaysus! Please don't kill u-ugh" Followed by a crack as the Terrible Cowtipper smashed his rifle butt into Farmer Brown's cheek, and Farmer Brown was writhing on the dirty ground as he spat out half of his teeth. "Pl-pl" The Cowtipper kicked him, taking out the other half of his teeth.
"A family of three. One man, one woman, one boy. Perfect." The Terrible Cowtipper smiled, his teeth white and reflecting the sunlight so strongly it blinded the Brown family when he opened his mouth.
Their screams echoed across the empty west for miles.
A few days later
"Jesus Christ…. looks like I was too late here." Jack shook his head as he gazed at the carnage ahead of him. There was a gaping hole in the fence, where the Terrible Cowtipper's carriage had smashed through. The entire field stank of rotten crap and gunsmoke, filled to the rim with the torn-up corpses of cattle which had been torn apart by the Cowtipper's Gatling gun. And in the center of it all, arranged like a pretty vase of flowers, were the desiccated bits of the Brown farmers.
Jack's eyes focused on the corpses for just a fraction of a second, and he whipped his head around, keeled over and vomited. Dear lord, he thought he had seen some fucked up shit in his life, but this… this was the work of master sadists. He wondered if his Pa had ever seen anythin' this sick… hell, done anythin' this sick, during his outlaw or bounty huntin' days and wondered just how he managed to handle all of this without goin' crazy.
He investigated the area, mucking his way through the carnage. At least there were wagon tracks, so he had a clue of where the Terrible Cowtipper was heading next. Well, looks like he was not going to have more luck besides that in this place. Jack whistled for his horse. It was time to get moving again, and hopefully this time he'd catch up to the Cowtipper before he managed to hit another ranch.
He followed the wagon tracks through the dusty trails, not stopping even to catch a quick wink of sleep. But as he had expected, he couldn't follow these tracks forever. A few miles from Armadillo the tracks became mixed up with other tracks from other carriages and wagons. And as he got to Armadillo, the tracks split off into all different directions. West, South, North, and East. He had no idea of telling which one was the right direction, and he supposed that pursuing each lead one-at-a-time would only waste time and cost more lives.
Jack decided to ask around town. Surely someone would have to have remembered a shifty looking carriage passing through town, and would have a good gander of where it had gone. He walked into the bounty offices, only to see that the walls where the tellers would be were splashed with blood and bullet holes. He stepped outside, and approached the man selling papers.
"Um, excuse me sir, but would you mind tellin' me why there's nobody alive inside there?"
"Well, you see, a few days ago, a carriage rolled through town and the people ridin' it just waltzed in there and blew them workers to hell. They rode off with all of Armadillo's lawmen on their tails…"
"You see where they go?"
"Nah, I was too busy… um… hidin' here, if you get what I'm tryin' to say here."
"Well, thanks anyways." Jack sighed and walked away. He had little luck with the rest of the town. The shopkeeper in the general store offered him little help, and his cryptic rambling launched into a full-blown tirade regarding how the Cowtipper's reign of terror was all a collaborative plot by the Jews and their nigger underlings. When he asked the guy playing five-finger fillet, he caused the man to lose concentration and slice off his own finger. Jack quickly slipped out of that area before things turned real ugly. He dare not ask the actual lawmen since he after all still was a wanted man.
Then he heard a voice. Sickening sweet, female. He didn't have to guess who it was coming from. Jack turned around and saw a skimpily-dressed hooker, baring her breasts and smiling her cherry-red painted lips at him. "He-ey, sugar. Hear you've been asking around for a Terrible Cowtipper."
"Is that so?"
"Well, ah thought ya might like ta know somethin'. Every month or so, the Terrible Cowtipper rolls into town with money he took from the people he's murdered."
"And the lawmen don't do anythin' to stop him?" Jack asked. This lady had to be full of steaming horseshit.
"Well, they all scared of him. Ever since Marshal Johnson retired, ah reckon their balls shriveled real bad. Last time he roll into town and shot up a few folks, they didn't even bother pursuin' him once he reached the outskirts. They didn't even bother firin' any shots while they was at it, too."
"So what does the Cowtipper do while he's here?"
"Blows his money away like it was the rapture. Mostly he loses his greenbacks playin' cards but sometimes he indulges in one of us workin' ladies. Last time, he picked me and ah showed him my goods. He said some things to me… like the possibility of branchin' out into other sorts of crime. Mentioned hittin' the bank in Blackwater, fa instance."
"Tell me more." Jack said, mildly intrigued.
"Well, ah don't give away information for free, honey. But ah'm certain you'll be willin' to work out a deal with me. What sorta scarred 'nd rugged bounty hunta such as yourself don't enjoy a bit of casual fun?"
"I'm the exception, I guess. Surely I can just give you some cash and you'll spill whatever you've been hidin' behind those repulsive lips of yours?"
"Ah, yer a funny one. But yes, ah might be able to do that… but we do that in my room. If anyone sees me takin' the sum of cash I'm gonna need from you, ah might be puttin' myself inta danger."
"Fine then, have it your way." Jack followed the prostitute into the Armadillo saloon. The sound of glass breaking and rinky-dink piano music hit his hears, followed by the overwhelming smell of booze and urine. He carefully stepped over the brawling men, narrowly dodging a chair thrown across the room. He was lucky he made it to the stairs in one piece. He followed the prostitute upstairs, and into a room she opened. As he did, he swore he heard another door nearby unlock.
He walked into the prostitute's room, where she was bending over the bed and pulling something out of a bag.
"Well, how much is your price?" Jack asked.
"You see…" She whipped around, a revolver pointed directly at Jack. "It's gone be the price of your head, ah'm afraid."
"Jesus Christ! What the hell, woman?" Jack asked. She didn't answer him but she shouted to someone else. "Hey fellas! I got a bounty hunter right where the Cowtipper wants 'im!"
Jack heard the door behind him being busted down. He heard the cocking of two weapons. A shotgun and two revolvers. He reckoned there were either two or three guys behind him, and one crazy lady with heat in front of him. In other words, they still didn't bring enough guns and guys to take down a Marston.
Jack fired at the prostitute's revolver, blasting it out of her hands. He managed to catch the shotgun goon in the chest, throwing his aim off just as he pulled his shotgun's trigger. Out went the lights as the shotgun pellet hit it. Jack leapt over the bed as the other guy opened fire with his revolvers, ducking below the mattress. Damn idiot was actually trying to kill him with two guns at once. It didn't seem to be working. He hadn't seen someone's aim this off since he saw a cat accidentally discharge a rifle. He then heard clicking of empty chambers.
"What the hell? It worked in that penny novel I read!"
"Well, life ain't a penny novel, dumbass." Jack said as he fired one shot from his revolver. There was the sound of lead hitting flesh, followed by a body slumping to the floor. Then came the crying. Jack saw a bit of sheared flesh on the prostitute's leg. One of two-gun guy's bullets had managed to catch her. She had led him into a trap, he ought to have shot her for that. But hey, she might still know something.
"Sorry lady, but I prefer to keep my head on my shoulders."
"Don't kill me!"
"Tell me what you know, and I'll let you live."
"Head… heading to Beecher's Hope!"
"Beecher's Hope? But there ain't no cattle ranch there!" But at least he finally had a location. He descended down the stairs. The saloon was deserted. All the brawling men must've deserted the joint as soon as the gunbattle upstairs had started. Jack made it outside, expecting lawmen to start firing at him at any second. But Armadillo was deserted. Jack boarded his horse and rode off towards Beecher's Hope.
He'd have loved to have stopped for a quick drink at Macfarlane's ranch, but he was urgently driven back to his childhood home. He wondered if this had been all campaign of vengeance by the Terrible Cowtipper. Had all this senseless campaign of carnage been just to attract Jack's attention? John had been the one to put the TC away the first time, but now that John and Abigail were both dead, the outlaw had only one outlet for enacting his vengeance.
Jack was laying still on his stomach, hiding in the grass with a pair of binoculars, on a small hill overlooking Beecher's Hope. It seemed that the Terrible Cowtipper and his posse had access to more than one of his gun-mounted carriages. Two of those hulking horse-drawn vehicles of destruction were waiting there, in the clearing where his father had made his final stand, waiting for Jack to come. Well, he saw no sign of the Terrible Cowtipper. Just a whole bunch of goons waiting about. That left him the problem of taking out both the carriages and all the thugs walking about. Jack was certain that the goons would be no problem, but those Gatling guns looked like they could tear through him in a matter of seconds.
Jack checked his inventory. He had a few sticks of dynamite on him in addition to his guns. Yeah, these could certainly help in taking down those carriages. He crawled closer towards Beecher's Hope, when inexplicably a pack of wild wolves ran into the ranch and began to attack the goons. Well, he hadn't counted on that, but he reckoned that was the distraction he needed to move a bit faster. He heard the Gatling gun on one of the carriages wind up and begin to fire. Well, this was a long shot but if anyone could make it, he supposed it could be him. Peering into the scope of his Carcano, Jack aimed at the Gatling gun and fired. The bullet struck the side of the spinning gun and caused it to jam. It blew up in its gunner's face, knocking the carriage onto its side. The carriage caught on fire, becoming a flaming coffin for its inhabitants. Jack made his move as the Cowtipper's henchmen began to go hysterical in the chaos.
Jack lit the fuse on his dynamite and threw it underneath the second carriage. Before the Gatling gun even had a chance to begin spinning, the carriage blew high to the heavens. The remaining henchmen noticed Jack and pulled out their guns. But Jack was quicker than them. With lightning-fast reflexes, and pinpoint accuracy, Jack used his revolver to gun down nearly all the henchman in the span of a half a minute. The last goon seeing Jack, grabbed a hostage. Which just happened to be a cougar wandering through the area. Jack looked away as the goon was torn apart, before scaring the cougar off with a gunshot. With all the goons dead, Jack took a quick breather. He heard the steps of someone creeping up behind him, the sleek sound of a knife being unsheathed.
"You're gonna look mighty funny with that knife sticking out of your ass." Jack commented as he wired around to face the Terrible Cowtipper.
"No, it shall be you!" The Cowtipper lunged at Jack Marston. Jack rolled out of the way, and fired off one bullet, knocking the knife out of the Cowtipper's hands.
"Terrible Cowtipper, I'm bringin' you to justice!" Jack proclaimed.
"Wrong. This day shall end with your death, and I shall finally have my vengeance and the fame that I have always craved!"
"Are you serious?" Jack asked.
"All my life, I have been nothing. Your blasted parents prevented me from enjoying the infamy that I so rightfully earned in my original campaign of terror! Do you have any idea what it's like being tossed in the slammer, and the only thing that prevents you from offing yourself is knowing that one day, you will make it out strong enough to kill the fucker that put you there in the first place?"
"My pa was the one that put you away. You ain't got no quarrel with me."
"You helped! And now that John Marston has died, it is only fitting that you, the last remaining vestige of him on this Earth, falls at my hands!"
"C'mon! It's not like tipping cows was gonna get you much fame anyhow! At best, you'd be remember as that eccentric nuisance!"
"Fuck you, Jack! Did you know how meticulously planned my cowtipping was? It was a novel concept! I was the first of my kind!"
"I'm just saying you could've done somethin' really frightenin' like robbin' a bank or killin' the governor, that's all."
"That's exactly what I'm planning to move onto… once I kill you, Jack! Jack Marston, I challenge you to a showdown!" The Terrible Cowtipper motioned to his gunbelt.
"If that's what you want… sure I'll give you a showdown!"
Jack and the Terrible Cowtipper stood across from each other, surrounded by the remains of carnage in the spot where this bizarre feud had begun. The air was silent. The atmosphere tense. Not even a bead of sweat fell. And then, the Cowtipper made a move for his guns. Jack rapidly snatched his revolver and fired off a shot. The Cowtipper screamed as the bullet shattered his hand, knocking his gun out of his hand. Jack moved quickly as the Cowtipper started to run back, and used his lasso to catch the fleeing outlaw. Working just how his pa had shown him, Jack had the Cowtipper tied up in matter of seconds.
"Fuck you! Why didn't ya kill me! I could've at least had a bit of infamy that way!"
"Well, y'see, I reckoned that you ought to be put in the ground for all the innocent folks you've murdered. But y'see, there are a ton of folks who probably need a bit of cash to rebuild after bein' caught up in your little ride of carnage. And the way I figure, I'll get a bit more cash bringing you to Blackwater alive. Then I might actually have a bit to keep for myself to make my own name clean, and all the folks who lost friends and family to you will have the pleasure of seein' you hang."
"I hate you, Jack Marston! Damn you and your family!"
"Yeah, many have." Jack sighed as he hoisted the cursing Cowtipper onto the back of his horse. He struck the Cowtipper on the head, knocking him out. It was only a moderate ride to Blackwater, but he didn't quite feel compelled to listen to this moron jabber on any longer. Without a further moment's hesitation, Jack spurred his horse and he rode with his bounty off into the sunset.