Chapter 19
Once Upon A Time in the West
Part 1
Pistol Smoke

The shrill squealing alerted him to his snare, and it served as the only bit of good luck Erron Black had seen in a while. Lifting himself from the log, he stomped his leather boots towards brush. Raising the hat off his head, he brushed away the sweat that rolled down his forehead with the back of his arm. The midday sun in the Kuatan Jungle relentlessly showered down upon him and the shade from the canopy of trees did little to provide any comfort from the sweltering humidity. Black trekked on without complaint; he was more than adjusted to any hardship the jungle could fire at him.

There were only two places to hide that were the obvious for criminals so close to the capital city: the desert or the jungle— and he knew how to survive both better than who he was chasing. The latter took him longer; trial and error playing a key factor, but now it was as familiar to him like a cantina was to a drunk. He knew most of the nooks and crannies and the local animals that didn't take too kindly to outsiders. After all these years, he knew almost every hostile critter and plant by name and could put them into separate, simple categories of what he could eat and what to stay away from.

Trapped on the snare he set, was something that he couldn't eat and it made him grumble with disappointment, but not as much as his stomach angrily did. The 2-foot-long copper and charcoal colored arthropod twisted into a ball as it worked to remove the leash from around its long, tubular body. The pitched scream cut into his ears he formed a grimace behind his face mask because of it.

It wasn't the first time he had to eat bugs, but the gigantic, mirror image of an Earthrealm centipede was poisonous no matter who was eating it.

So much for lunch.

Crushing the head under his boot heel, he watched all of its many, yellow legs flickered with pain before slacking. Untwining the rope from its body, he flung the dead insect and reassembled the snare.

Erron sat himself on the log and fiddled with his revolver while he waited for something to snag in the trap. There was no use in getting back to his agenda on an empty stomach — especially when he hadn't found a damn clue to where the Edenian was.

It had been six sunrises since he arrived in the jungle and three without a meal besides the fruit he could grab out of the nearby trees; it was the only thing he had managed to find. No Reptile and no Rain. The Zaterran would find him in his own time — they had been on plenty of scouting assignments to know he would eventually pick up his scent. If he had anything important to say, he would have told him by now.

Rain was a different story. There was nothing so far. The river fishermen hadn't seen him, no tracks were left by him and there wasn't anything that belonged to him grabbed by the vegetation.

This is a goddamn waste of time.

The gunslinger knew it when Kotal Kahn gave him the assignment and even more so as the days marched on with the pace of an sick old cow with a limp. He found this task far more irritating than the previous ones as of late. Honestly, it would have been better to beat the information out of Tanya — he would have been happy to volunteer if it saved him from an exasperating and pointless hunt. Having nothing to go on was not his ideal way to start, but the thing that bugged him was how useless the Kahn knew it was prior to their departure. The Emperor was just throwing darts and hoping to get lucky.

Quit bitchin', he reprimanded. You're gettin' paid.

It wasn't the first time he had to remind himself today, and he blamed his hunger for his foul mood. Erron knew it wasn't that, though. He had been sour the minute he left Z'unkaharah.

Don't think about it.

Black grumbled, placed his revolver in his holster and plucked a single bullet from his gun belt. The fire in front of him crackled and the heat it produced caused him to sweat even more; at least, the smoke was helping distract his nose from his own body odor and repel the mosquitos. Besides dripping a towel into water and wiping the blood off from the palace invasion, he hadn't cleaned himself properly for a couple of weeks.

Pulling a knife from his boot, he began to scratch against the surface of the bullet. Even though he was doubtful he would stumble upon Rain this trip, he could always have his name carved ahead of time.

As the tip of the knife screeched gratingly against the smooth surface of the cartridge, a bitter disposition creased on his face when he thought of Reptile getting to his bounty before he did.

As he painted the first vertical line on the bullet, he stopped etching when he realized that he wouldn't be able to use this particular breed of bullet on Rain. There was no point engraving his name if he wasn't going to use it for a kill shot— wasn't his tradition.

Erron bit the inside of his cheek and pocketed his knife in his boot before returning the bullet to his belt. Grudgingly, he ended up focusing on ways to get around letting Rain live. Every reverie he produced ended up coming up short in satisfaction for him. Either it would be a rebuke from the Kahn, a pay cut or both— which was what Black was leaning towards knowing the Osh-Tekk. A displeased frown worked its way on to his face. Rain wasn't going to deprive him of coins even if he did deserve the bullet.

Doesn't mean Rain has to come back in one piece. The rational voice in his head spoke up.

You might as well, you already scratched it in.

With a roll of his eyes, he pulled the slug he was working on back out. Yanking the knife out, he worked on rounding the half circle of the 'R'. Even if the marksman never got to use it, at least, he was making the time pass. Also it kept his thoughts elsewhere and not where they wanted to migrate to despite his constant objections.

Unfortunately, her indignant expression, glancing over her shoulder at him in the middle of the street crossed into his mind once again and he hissed through his teeth when the tip of the knife slip and nicked the inside of his index finger. With a scowl, he stabbed the knife into the log next to him, placed the bullet beside it and unclasped his face mask. He sucked on the cut and spat out the blood he soaked up.

Ever the pain in my ass.

Erron frankly couldn't understand why she still was. He had washed his hands of her finally. They could walk by each other in the marketplace as strangers again. There was nothing left to owe...

I ain't gonna be brought down in her shit anymore. There's nothin' left between the two of us.

His eyes focused back on his work and he found his knife pausing as he finished the 'R.' The cut on his finger caused a small sample of blood to pool in the ditches he dug on the round. He ran his thumb over it and smeared it across the gold metallic surface. His blood darkened it and turned it into rust colored hue. Staring down at it, and ceasing he sighed when Erron found himself recalling the fight that took place in his room.

Rain had him pinned and he could have ended his life there. The only thing that had stopped him was the knife she used to plant in his back. Even now, Black couldn't piece together why she did that when she was planning on shooting him in the head a day later. Was it a selfish knowledge that she would need a Kahn's guard to eliminate the threat against her in that room? Or was she trying to help him after all?

You know why, Black.

It wasn't any of those reasons and the affirmation of the truth he knew didn't help rid him of the memory from that night— he wished he could though because of that detail.

She attacked him because he killed Bert.

It was revenge.

Before that, Erron would have never considered her capable of trespassing across that treacherous border. He honestly thought of her as naïve and upright despite the mean mouth she used when she wanted to. The terrible veracity of the matter was, one he hated admitting, was that he could relate.

The face goes away after time no matter what. Name... that's harder to toss.

I'm tired of you, Abraham. Bury yourself back in the dirt where you belong.

Black let out a grunt, one that he was thankful that only the fire in front of him witnessed. Her words about guilt, and how she always wanted him to feel guilty, leeched back on him. Back when she had said it, he wasn't ashamed to admit that it wasn't her he was thinking about no matter how much her words had stung him.

It was Abraham and the first time he ever felt truly remorseful about something.

He looked down at the bullet in his palm, letting it roll against the calloused surface of his skin.

Hear my words and let them stew in that fool head of yours, Aaron… you'll remember his face and his name, alright.

He actually couldn't recall the face anymore, but it wasn't a stranger to him. The name on the other hand, that would always be branded into him. Staring down at the single 'R' drawn on the bullet, the muscles in his cheeks twitched as he gritted his teeth. Even the single letter, was enough for him to recall that name he had wasted so many nights trying to forget. Despite the years in Outworld and the efforts that Abraham and himself had mustered forth, it always stayed on his conscious.

The single bullet laid in his hand with a heavy weight and he always found it funny how something so small could have invoked such torment for him. Innocent when away from the gun, but with the right person placing it in the chamber, could change the fate of what a person's character would grow up to be. It wasn't the same bullet, nor was it a descendant, but it might as well have been the very same one from that night.

Maybe it was boredom that compelled him to do so, or perhaps he thought in some way it would help him get the memory off his mind for a brief duration, but he stopped carving Rain's name.

As if he had a hand guiding his fingers, helping him write, he ignored the name of the Edenian...

And inscribed the name of the person he hated the most.

Smokey Hill Trail
1868

Even after all this time of collaboration together, it still didn't help either of them see eye to eye.

The only reason he had agreed to come with him, instead of running off in the middle of the night, was because they were united in their pursuit to kill his father. Over the recent past couple of months, however, Aaron was doubtful he was still concentrating on that mission anymore. Most of the time he had been too tired to argue his suspicion until they reached the way stations at the end of the hauls.

While Abraham quarreled that Aaron was wrong about his cynicism, there was always doubt no matter how much the stagecoach driver tried to persuade him otherwise. Time was always why. It had been too much time spent on things that were irrelevant. Specifically, with Abraham's occupation. He understood that he still had a job to do, and it provided for them, but being dragged around like luggage was not what he had in mind when they had set out to find his father and deliver the same charity he had given to Ma.

There hadn't always been a feeling of animosity between them. In the beginning, they bonded decently after a bumpy start. The worst of his transgressions during that time was when Aaron had swindled a good Christian woman for a train ticket and almost accompanied her far out of Black's clutches. His surrogate jumped on the train before it pulled out, paid the woman the price of the ticket for the inconvenience, and made the 'despondent, lonely orphan' clean the Livery and stables from Atchison to Denver every opportunity he could volunteer him for the task.

Even though their conversations were civil, and they sometimes helped each other with chores, Aaron still gave Abraham trouble every chance he got. Most of it was lighthearted jokes that only got an eye roll out of the salt and peppered haired man but for the first year they were particularly more vengeful than the second. Shit in the coffee can was probably his favorite, but he never managed to get Abraham with it. He was too watchful for the child's pranks. After that, he was determined to get him and each time he failed.

They did grow tolerable of each other. They could talk about the weather and whether the storm clouds in the prairie horizon would turn into a funnel or pass overhead. It was their small game and Abraham always won because he knew the pattern when a funnel was about to touchdown beforehand. The closest they became to friends was when Abraham thought it wise to teach him how to use the Baby Philadelphia Derringer beyond just how to pull the hammer back and squeeze the trigger.

They practiced shooting bottles, and he did decent for his first attempt, even though the pistol hopped from his hand the first time he shot it. Out of the 5 bottles, he managed to miss all of them at ten paces. That was only the first shooting lesson, though, because their time would get eaten up by his work, but he let him carry it on him as long as he kept it out of eyesight and his finger off the trigger. He hadn't had to use it yet, but there had been occasions where he did reach for it.

The Smokey Hill Trail had toughened him while still scaring Aaron half to death with each trip. He had been through the mill with all the trail could throw at him, but the natives still worried him no matter how used to their sight on the horizon he was. Still, they threatened to swarm at them like angry hornets every chance they could after they past Fort Ellsworth and all the way to the Pond Creek Station where they vanished into the tall buffalo grass of the rolling prairie hills.

Aaron hated them, just as much as they hated the white folk trespassing along their hunting lands. At least the coaches frequently came in contact with the soldiers at the forts that would escort them when needed or required. It still never settled his mind, especially when Abraham and Aaron would have arrows whizzing by their ears in the driver's box. However, the worst of it was the bonfires in the distance and body parts they passed from the men that weren't lucky enough to escape them. Even with him sandwiched between the Jehu and the Shotgun, he was constantly reminded by the Cheyenne and the Arapahoes that they were unwelcomed pilgrims— their land as seldom mentioned to him by Abraham and disagreed hotly by his Shotgun.

The thin man with the square jaw stared at the blue-eyed boy next to him with a discontent tug at the corner of his mouth. Glaring down at him with stern brown eyes, the coach guard turned back to the road as Aaron did the same — both of them looking for silhouettes against the midday horizon. Despite that the Shotgun didn't like him, he hated the Indians more — understandably because they were more bothersome than the 7-year-old was no matter how much he wanted to wring his neck lately.

The older, broad-shouldered Missourian thought he was a nuisance before he provoked him at Pond Creek last hitch, now he wanted nothing but to 'throw him, make the ponies buck and leave him for the Reds to trim' as he told him after he had sampled the coffee. Aaron stifled his laughter as the springs on the bench rocked him between men. Even if Zachariah wasn't his target, he was still proud he gotten him to swallow horse shit. The only reason he had was because he had accidently drank from the same pot of coffee that had been nefariously intended for the driver. As always, Abraham had caught on to Aaron's game quicker than Zachariah, who paid the price for his obtuseness.

Now he hated him even more.

Who hated him, whether it was the soldiers, the upright folk on their way to Denver City, or the miners headed there for the looted creeks and thought 'a boy had no business being on treacherous travels,' never once crossed the kid's mind. Aaron reached into his brown pants pocket and pulled out the piece of paper he always carried with him, besides the Harper's Magazine article on James Butler Hickock, as if it were his own attached limb.

REWARD!
FOR ARREST OF WELLS FARGO and CO'S EXPRESS ROBBERY
Roger Owens, Harold Henson, Samuel Buchanan and Joseph Jones
KNOWN CRIMINAL PRINCIPALLY IN
ARKANSAS, MISSOURI AND TEXAS.
$200 each and one-fourth of the Treasure recovered will be paid for the arrest and conviction of the robbers.

Each one of them had height, weight and facial descriptions and past criminal activity (with murder appearing multiple times) but it was the rough sketch of the four's faces, one in particular, was the reason for snatching the note from the station in Denver.

"Fold that up, I'm tired of starin' at it," Zachariah's gruff voice ordered.

Zachariah, who was aware of the coach driver's vendetta, couldn't really agree with his pursuit; to him woman were disposable hourly luxurious since he never felt the need to keep a wife around. However, the only thing the ex-Confederate could agree on— the only thing he and Aaron did— was that getting reprisal for a loved one, was a hunt worth chasing down. The only problem, was he didn't think it shouldn't be done by a kid.

The blonde orphan disagreed entirely. The sooner the cocksucker saw his end, the better he would be. His blue eyes drifted over to the Abraham whose black brimmed hat shadowed his focused his eyes on the road ahead. It was a cold stare that he was confident he could feel, even if he didn't acknowledge it. The driver's eyes always stayed ahead of the trail and on his job like a Christian's devotion during prayer.

The sonovabitch was on the trail south of theirs, attacking Wells Wagons and here they were, on the road back to Atchison without a discussion on the matter besides Black telling him to 'forgo the subject'.

Aaron pocketed the paper and sulked into the seat the rest of the trip. There were a couple of shadows sitting on painted horses, but they didn't attack with a substantial supply of revolvers and rifles outnumbering their party 5 to 1. Still, he found himself digging in his pocket until he felt the comforting weight of the pistol in his hand.

Even though he was a poor shot, he loved that memory of Abraham teaching him how to fire—mostly because it was the first time he got to shoot anything. It was an obsession really, mainly because he was angry that he didn't manage to hit any of the bottles. He blamed the Baby Philly because when Abraham lifted his revolver and hit all the bottles from the fence ledge, he made it look as easy as if he whistling a tune. That ended up being the only shooting lesson for the longest time...

'You're lettin' you get the better of you. You'll never acquire a sharp eye if you see red every time you miss the target, son.'

'I'm not your son.'

After that, the lesson was over and every one following it always acquired a bitter aftertaste in the youngster's mouth. If Abraham felt the same, he never showed it and kept on with the lessons. However, he didn't get to shoot anything. On the trail, the driver taught him about how to breathe, aim, how wind affected the shot, how to clean it and how to follow the target. Aaron hated those exercises and thought it was better to learn with a sight aimed at something. Most of the time, his words ran through one ear and out the other, however, he endured them because he needed them. After all, at least, someone was making an effort for Ma.

Following the discussion at the Pond Creek station on the way to Denver City, there were no more words that were shared between the pair for the longest duration. It was a painfully awkward time, probably the roughest patch they both endured and worse than silent looks of discontent being passed to each other.

'If ya cared about Ma, you would have shot him ages ago!'

Abraham took more offense to that than he should have for reasons he didn't explain to the boy.

It wasn't that Abraham wasn't taking care of him, he did very well, actually. The older man kept him clothed, fed, safe, taught him how to read and even tried his best to talk to him despite Aaron ignoring him after Pond Creek. The older driver knew he wasn't happy with him, but his patience was as tenacious as a fire in a hayfield. He was certain that Aaron would forgive him. That would never happen because of one, particular reason— the only one in Aaron's mind and the thing he had thought they both had in common.

The woman he claimed he loved was not worth avenging anymore. All he seemed to care about was his coach and whatever money he could get for his troubles. Aaron should have seen it for a while now and he blamed his own ignorance. The boy should have known he wouldn't have cared about a whore. He knew how men treated the doves; he had a front row lecture to it since he was old enough to communicate and he should have know Abraham was no different no matter how much he claimed that was false.

"Let's guarantee your pa' pays his condolences, as well."

Aaron remembered Abraham's words well since they laid her to rest, and it was the only reason he had stayed. In truth, he was still afraid to face the blonde haired man and had hoped the stagecoach Jehu that loved his mother, would have been his Archangel's sword, sent to him to smite the wickedness that plagued his life. Now he knew that it wasn't the case.

In spite of whether Aaron wanted to believe him or not, his decision had been made after that private conference. If Abraham wasn't gonna get off his ass, then he would. It was time to grown up and be a man, to take charge and settle his vendetta. Also… to leave the man who dragged him all over a trail he wanted no part of in the first place. So far, Abraham was ignorant to his plot.

After a night's rest in St. Mary's Mission, where they fed the cargo and changed the four horse team, they continued on the plains towards the end of their trip without an Indian in sight. His stormy blue eyes could have set the grass ablaze by the anger he felt coursing through his veins.

Three years since his mother was stolen from him.

Three years of being dragged along the trail under the guise of his guardian's long lost son.

Three years of daily bouts of fear along the trail without him even being allowed to protest.

Three years wasted on a false promise.

He would make sure he wouldn't lose anymore.

Whether he had Abraham's help or not.

It was night when Erron came to and with a grunt, he rubbed the back of his head with his palm as he sat upright. The fire by his feet was already beginning choke out its last slender columns of smoke as he sat himself back on the log. Bending his neck to the side and cracked it to unstiffen the bones.

Black didn't recall when he went to sleep, or even moving to lay his head against the log, but he must have needed it even though his stomach still argued with him. Gathering dry leaves and brances from the jungle floor he restarted the fire before walking towards his snare. The bug bites along his arms and the headache that pounded against his forehead wasn't enough to distract his memory from where he left the trap. Even in the jet black curtain that encompassed the rainforest, turning innocent shapes into villainous dark mirages, he could make out the outline of the small animal snagged in the loop with its neck broken. Grabbing it from its noose, he reconstructed the snare and walked back towards the glow of the fire.

It didn't take him long to skin the animal and cook it on the spit rod he constructed. The rodent quieted his hunger but it wasn't the most appetizing of things to eat even if they were in abundance. Reminded him of eating squirrel which wasn't his favorite of meat to eat.

Satisfied for the moment, he leaned his head against the log and tried to gather more sleep. There was no use hunting in the dark with the umbrella of leaves blocking the stars up above.

With his hands clasped over his stomach and roped together, he saw something glinting out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he narrowed his eyes before he reached over and grabbed the metal bullet shining at him for attention.

His thumb brushed over the bullet as he tried to recall how it got on the ground in the first place. Erron could feel the indents on the back and it came back to him; he had been carving it before he knocked out.

The gunslinger turned it over and frowned when he saw the name on the back

That's right… he had carved that name.

Spinning the bullet in his fingertips above his face, he scorned the reason, or rather reasons, why he had bothered writing that name. Damn Bert, damn the girl and damn Abraham for continuing to bother him with the past. This fixation was growing exasperating and deep down, Black knew why it was. He wasn't going to shake it no matter how much he tried to think of other things or gave it the awareness it wanted to silence it for good.

It was conjured up and was going to remain until he settled what he needed to do to shut it up. That would be difficult since there was no reason to. The marksman already admitted he was eating crow for his treatment, and he showed to her he was. Erron had freed her without her demanding it or even a thanks for his efforts. So why the tenacity to keep her on his mind?

Gritting his teeth, he realized he had been wrong to compare her brush with death to his mother's demise, although they were still connected by coincidence. Like looking in a goddamn mirror. The answer was clear enough. It actually enraged him how he couldn't help but compare the similarities…

Erron was the one that was supposed to have attacked Rain— not her. She had snuffed it from him and took it upon herself. In all honesty, he understood why she looked to Bert with her real father not being the bravest or most reliable of sorts and Bert's devotion to her hadn't helped any.

He crushed the bullet in his palm and rested it in a fist against his chest. Glaring up at jungle's ceiling, he scoffed.

Whoever is writin' this comedy— I ain't laughing.

His best bets were on Abraham, and even though the mercenary wasn't laughing, he was sure that the stagecoach driver was.

Aaron… you'll remember his face and his name, alright.

Atchison, Kansas
1868— A Few Months Later

The boy regarded it as kismet— it had to be. Lady Luck had planted a kiss on his cheek that night. It was pure serendipity that if he had stopped for one second to look in the guns in the shop, he would have missed him completely.

Standing outside the glass window on the wooden walkway, he pressed his face against the transparent plane to see both Abraham and the man that shot his mother, inside the same building sipping whiskey. They weren't near each other, both men were engaged in their separate conversations with their own acquaintances, but it enraged him beyond measure that Abraham didn't see him at all! There he was— plain as day!

His denseness was unbelievable, and it was enough to want to storm in there and pummel Abraham with his fists— that was after he unloaded his gun into the man's stomach.

As he stood outside, the boy felt himself reach into his brown coat pocket and fondle his fingers around the Derringer.

You gonna shoot me, you little shit?"

Immediately, he thought of his mother being strangled, him holding the gun and the only thing it did was tremble in his hands and the deranged blue eyes that stared at him with the utmost malice. Sniffling back hot angry tears, he wiped his eyes with back of his brown coat-sleeve and stared back into the window. It was busy that night, with most of the crowd situated at the bar.

He could see the back of Abraham's dark hair that settled on top of the shoulders of his weathered black overcoat. Every so often, the flat brim ivory hat would tip forward before leaning back as he laughed at Zachariah's words. Both of them sat at a table by the door with half empty glasses at their fingertips, while the blonde-haired monster stood at the far end of the bar with doves and his male companions.

Aaron could tell even with the bar patrons blocking the gang, the fair-haired Curly Wolf that tried to kill him, seemed more groomed and not as crazed as his tattered and soiled clothing broadcasted he had been 2 years ago. His attire was decent, more refined and much too rich for the crude character he truly was.

Atop his head sat a fresh new gray Derby hat that looked like it was about to fall off the side of his head. Also gray, his cutaway coat hid the crisp white shirt and red tie as one of his fingertips fiddled with the gold chain of the pocketwatch tucked in the vest pocket. The other men also wore new regalia and out of the 4 of them, his bastard father dressed the most modest.

The child's teeth painfully gritted together at the sight— no doubt the Wells Fargo Wagon paid for their new wardrobe. Seeing the man he had been hunting for years, content with his life as if that night never occurred, denied Aaron of being able to smile at the thought of those fancy duds soaking up his blood from the Philly's plug.

However, even all the anger in the world couldn't sway the trepidation he felt numbing him. Summoning the memory that was the subject of most of his nightmares, he couldn't muster the gall to walk into the bar. Even now, after years of confidence that he would get the job done no matter what, lifted out of him and evaporated into the night's sky to absorb.

Aaron pulled away from the dancing ribbons of the candle and lantern light coming from inside the tavern. Concealing his shame in the dark, he crossed his arms over his chest and let his tears drop like rain on to his entwined sleeves. He couldn't understand his sudden weakness and why it balled him up. The only thing he could muster to do was fire harsh words of rebuke at himself for his cowardice. If any deserved killing it was the man inside wearing his best wardrobe that he bought with stolen money.

If anyone deserved it, it was that son of a bitch that placed a gun into his face and almost pulled the hammer back.

If anyone deserved it, it was that yellow-haired slimy limey cocksucker that shot his mother!

Wiping his hands over his face, and removing all the evidence of fear he still felt within his chest, he turned back towards the window and glared inside. With his eyes darting from Abraham to his father, he quickly repaired the dwindling anger that his gutlessness tried to douse.

He wrapped his hand around the pistol in his pocket. Lifting his free hand, he opened the door and entered into the boisterously loud arena. Aaron felt his nose curl up at the repugnant odor of the tobacco fogging the air and felt his ears ring from the deafening chorus of chattering overlapping each other with the piano belting out a tune.

The boy closed the door behind him and stared into the chaotic scenery, trying to find the strength to lift his feet from the ground and move towards his mother's murderer. The circus of smell, noise and crowded bodies bumping into him, overloaded his concentration. His breath caught in his throat and no matter how many attempts he willed for it to exit, it still refused to budge.

It wasn't until he took the first step was he able to inhale. Settling his nerves for the moment, and began to slowly inch his way towards the bar; nearing Abraham's table to pass it. Sweat slicked the handle of the Derringer, and he hoped it wouldn't slip when he fired it…

A secure grip encircled his bicep, crushing briefly and painfully only to gather his attention before it slacked. Aaron knew the owner before he turned towards him, and when he saw the look in his eyes, the child felt both panic and hatred mingle in the pit of his stomach — he was unsure which emotion was stronger.

Abraham's eyes glossed over with indignation like an angry wind whipping across a frozen lake, even though the rest of him appeared as cool and collected as if he was sitting in mass. With a firm grip, he spun him so his back was facing the bar.

"Get goin', Aaron," he demanded with a sharp whisper. "I know you ain't in here to sneak a taste at the corn juice."

Zachariah watched the two of them in silence from behind the whiskey glass.

The youth's nerves flared, the driver's words setting them ablaze with hatred. His jaw clenching, he bared his teeth at him. "You're gonna let tha' cocksucker live! When he's sittin' right there!"

Unmovable as a castle wall, he never darted his eyes from him. With a stony gaze, he picked himself from this chair and began to drag him towards the door. As soon as they were away from curious eyes, he fought to get his arm out of the man's grip.

As soon as they crossed the boardwalk into the street, Black released him with a slight shove. Aaron spiraled on his heels, lost balance and landed on his rear in the dirt. A small look of remorse cruised over Abraham's indomitable demeanor before his eyes narrowed gravely at him with a warning. Lifting a finger, he pointed it at him before it ended at in the direction of the Butterfield Stagecoach Office.

"Don't think of wanderin' back," he warned lowly, dangerously before he turned on his heels and headed back towards the tavern.

"You lyin' sonovabitch! Goddamn you!"

Even with the barb Aaron stabbed at his back, Abraham's pace never faltered as he reentered the establishment. Jumping back to his feet with dirt clouds billowing around him, he grabbed the nearest rocks by his feet and threw them at the building. They only got as far as the walkway and skipped harmlessly across the boards. The lids of his eyes brimming with tears again, he let them run like acid down his face as he turned tail and returned back to the Butterfield Station. Each footfall was cumbersome as he forced them towards the office and not back towards the saloon where he knew they wanted to go.

He reached the station eventually but stopped before entering. His reflection in the glass window of the office was masked by a layer of dirt from rubbing his face after hitting the dirt. Clear lines ran down his face from the wet trails left behind due to his frustration. His small hands reached up to erase the rivers and its tributaries off his face. Nobody would know he was caterwauling, especially not Abraham when he returned. The only thing he wanted that good for nothin' to know was how furious he was with him. He denied him his one and only chance to get even and he didn't even bother to tell him why!

All of it was horseshit! Abraham never had the intention of settling the manner — it was just a show. Aaron didn't dig any deeper for why he would do it, perhaps it was to keep complacent, and was adamant in the fact that he had been swindled for three years. All this time, he thought Abraham was the one to help him get the job done. Though his previous doubts in the past months pointed to this outcome, he still didn't want to believe it and gave the bastard more months to change his mind. Turned out he had the wrong pig by the tail all along.

He was done.

Aaron could get out tonight. Get out of this damned town with the damned men that ruined his life. His father... he would find another time since the stagecoach driver was guarding the door.

Nodding his head with determination, he entered the station to collect his things. There wasn't much to his name expect the spare set of clothes and the ones on his back. The only things additional were the Harper's article, the Derringer, a deer antler knife and some one dollar bills that he swiped when nobody was looking.

Swinging the sack over his shoulder, he exited the empty station but paused when he saw Black's Butterfield stagecoach parked out in front. It would be loaded the next day and set out for the trail again. Only this time, he wouldn't be apart of it. A scowl sat on his face as he stared at the wagon. His one regret was that Abraham wouldn't be around to know just how livid he was, but with the coach sitting unattended, there was a way for him to get the message.

Dropping the bag with his clothes in the dirt, he pulled out the knife in his belt as he walked over to carriage's side door. Opening it and stepping up on the foot step to climb in, he closed the door behind him and sat in the leather seat.

Aaron bit with hesitance as he hovered the tip of the knife over the seat cushions. The importance of what the stagecoach meant to Abraham ran through his mind and made him pause. He couldn't understand it. Why was he not doing it? There was every reason to. It took him a moment, but then he realized that he knew the reason he was stalling was because he knew how low it would be. The coach was everything to him.

Abraham hadn't been all that bad to him, he still treated him right all these years...

A spark of anger ignited in the pit of his stomach when he remembered one glaring fault.

Still, he never did the one thing he promised.

With a deep exhale, he pushed his anxiety from his body and set to work on the leather seats. Culling sections apart with his small knife, he ripped apart the seats. All he saw was the men he hated in those seats and when there was nothing left to trim, he was still angry. The blonde boy turned his vehement eyes towards the leather curtains that were rolled up. Sawing through the straps, he watched as the sheet unraveled down. Plunging the knife down, he left tattered keyholes in each one. Still, it wasn't enough to calm him.

In fact, the only reason he stopped attacking the carriage was because the door to the other side opened and someone grabbed him by the ankle. At first, he thought it might have been the wagon's driver, but when he was thrown out and carelessly discarded on the boarded walkway, he knew Abraham wouldn't have been so harmful to him.

The first thing he smelled was the tobacco smoke before the ensemble of snickering men above him. The well-dressed roosters of his father's gang circled around him like coyotes gazing down at a wounded rabbit. With their cigarettes between their teeth, they smiled down at him as Aaron felt a hand lift him up to his feet.

The bulbous red haired man grasped him roughly underneath the chin, bunching his skin uncomfortably as the blonde-haired man held him with an arm around his shoulders; keeping him steady.

"Why ain't he just a mirror's reflection of you, Buchanan!" he roared with mocking laughter. "No wonder yer were able to pluck him from the crowd!"

Aaron groaned as he was assaulted by the odor from his whiskey soaked hands from his face, but at least, it smelled better than his breath. As they laughed, he could smell the same residue from all of them. Buchannan, his father, moved to cup the top of his head and tousled with amusement.

"As handsome as I was at that age!" he boasted with pride. Aaron tried to worm his way out of his grasp and the red-head who still had a hand on his face. Finally, getting an idea, he raised the knife and tried to slash the back of the man's hand with it.

Buchanan grabbed his wrist and twisted it. The 7-year-old whimpered so loudly he was uncertain if he heard his bones snap or not— it certainly felt as if he had. The knife dropped after the potbellied man jumped back, retracting his hand from his face. The other two men, a willowy brunette with long hair, and stout but strong man with dark eyes as black as his thin wiry beard laughed at the red-head who growled under his breath at him.

"Don't you be doing nothin', son," threatened the blonde with almost a humored expression, his hand still clasped around his wrist. "Ain't no way to begin new friendships."

Buchanan moved to stand in front of him and felt his hand slacken as he observed him. The young child stared in disgust at him and flinched away from his touch when he patted his cheek.

"My you've grown some," he said with astonishment. However, even with his pleasant tone, Aaron could still see the resentfulness that presided in his eyes. "I been lookin' everywhere and elsewhere. I heard you were on the trails with a feller and it took me a while to catch up. I've been smiled down by providence, son! Now you'll be comin' along so you don't have ta attend with the wagon driver."

With his teeth gritted and the pain in his wrist burning he glowered at the man that spewed the poisonous words at him. If he didn't have his hand on his wrist, he was certain he would have reached down and gutted him with the knife.

"Be fucked you nancy dressed cocksucker!"

Laughter escaped all of them except the man he hurled the insult at, and for doing so, his hand left his wrist to grab the lapels of the boy's jacket. Aaron found himself shuddering under the steely eyes that could freeze the hottest of a blacksmith's fire. "You got a nerve to run your mouth off to me in such a manner, boy. Do so again and I'll paint red across your cheeks!"

"I ain't your boy!"

The angular features on his face softened the same time his hands relaxed on his jacket. "Like it or not, I'm your father. Now that I got more than dimes lining my pockets. I can start acting like one. I ain't sour with you."

The boy's eyes darkened. "Were you my father when you donated the knife to Ma's neck?!"

A thunder cloud darkened over his face as his own cyan eyes glared back in offense. "Let me tell ya somethin' about your momma. Your Ma was so crooked she'd swallow nails an' spit out corkscrews. You may think my timin' was ill, but even a broken clock can get the time right at one point. My actions were proper settlement for the wrongdoing down upon me by your ma."

"You're nothing but filthy road-agent cocksucker!" the young boy seethed as he reached into his pocket.

Before he could grab the handle of the pistol, the older blonde's hand came up and backhanded him across the face. His teeth cracked together painfully as he sailed to the side with a cry. Pushing his hands against the boardwalk, he sniffled at the pain that exploded all along his jaw.

"You were told about that crude talk at me, boy!"

"Shit!" called the redhead.

Aaron looked over his shoulder when he heard the sound of guns cocking. Behind the three, slinking out of the shadows of the alley between the buildings stood Zachariah with his sawed off shotgun pointed at the base of the stout man's neck. Behind the fat redhead, the Sherriff's deputy, a slim man with a round face marred and tanned by the sun kept his Winchester rifle at his back. The Sherriff himself, a silver-haired man with strands as bright and thin as a fiddle's bow strings glared from behind at the willowy brunette who already had his hand clutching around the butt of his revolver under his burgundy overcoat.

"Get your hand off your irons, son," the Sherriff ordered with an orotund voice. The brunette complied and raised his hand out of his vest as his lip flickered with contempt.

Standing tall and confident, Buchanan lifted his hands up in defense as a show of good faith he wouldn't reach for the pistol in his belt. "I'm afraid I'm blind to the reason for this disturbance. Is there a crime in disciplining my own sprout that warrants such a show of irons?"

The older man gave a scoff. "Besides layin' a hand on him for callin' what's true, the show of cannons is so you trot to jail without pitchin' a fit."

Buchanan narrowed his eyes hatefully. "For what conviction?"

Abraham's Griswold cocked at the back of the blonde-haired man's head. "Well…" the stagecoach driver shrugged with a smirk. "I think you can talk to Wells Fargo about the conviction."

The tip of Abraham's barrel lifted the brim of the gray beaver hat. "Nice Derby, but it don't belong to you I think."

"I didn't know you were using bounty hunters, Sheriff," Buchannan shot as his eyes slid in Black's direction.

"Actually, I just drive the ponies for the wagon you skinned," was Abraham's blasé response. His eyebrows darted up as a sardonic chuckle left him. "The pay is only compensation for the slaughter to my seats and curtains."

"Blame the damage done to your coach on account of the little shit you been hauling around," Buchanan retorted acidly. Abraham's brows bridged into a hard line. The road agent gave a bitter chuckle at the drivers' expense. "That's right, I know you had my boy. Keep him then, but he won't provide warm thoughts about what was never yours to being with."

"They were never your's either, otherwise she and him would have never of been mine in the end," Abraham condescended with a dark tone. Grabbing him roughly by the back of the collar, he dug his pistol into the back of his neck. "If I were weaker, she'd already be tellin' you that herself — if you weren't already goin' straight to Hell by sunrise."

"I'll meet you there soon enough," Buchanan growled.

"Get ta movin'," the Sherriff barked.

As if he was as familiar as a Bible in a church, Aaron had been ignored the entire time. Though he was thankful that the men had showed up when they did, the boy was still crestfallen at what had just happened. Aaron felt less than satisfied seeing him carted to jail instead of having his head blown off which is what he thought what Abraham was going to do when he placed his revolver to the back of his skull. Why didn't he?! His opportunity was set out in front of him and he had openly refused it! He had promised he would kill him— why wasn't he?!

Was he the only one that actually cared to see his mother's murderer given his much long overdue reward for that night? Buchannan had called him a bounty hunter, was money the only thing that meant anything to Abraham?!

With the men already heading towards the Sherriff's office, towing the gang with guns aimed at them, Aaron stood up to see Buchannan flash a dirty look at him. Abraham, who had him by the back of the collar, turned to see who he was staring at, before giving him a hard shove with his gun into his neck. The driver looked back at Aaron, gave a nod to beckon him to follow them.

How dare that son of a bitch tell him what to do! After every promise he went back on! Aaron stormed behind them, trying to pump his shorter legs to catch up with them. A cascade of burning hot tears ran down his face as he dug his fingers into his pocket for the Baby Philly.

"Whore! Cunt! You left me for this? To spread legs for any Jayhawker lookin' to spend a bit!"

"Are you even mine or the bastard of another man's fuck?"

"You gonna shoot me, you little shit?"

The spiteful words from that night echoed so loudly in his head that they could have made his ears bleed. Bouncing like voices in a canyon, it was the only thing he could think of, that and Abraham's unforgivable betrayal to him. No other man would have done what he was doing and if the Aaron was going to be the only one crazy enough to fight a rattler to get the first bite, then so be it.

"Take THAT, goddamn you!"

All he saw was a blur as he cocked the hammer back, and the briefest of seconds, he thought he was aiming at the wrong person. Regardless, he pulled back the trigger with clammy and trembling hands. The Derringer bucked harshly in his hands and the gunfire made him almost jump out of his shoes, but not as much as the men who whirled around in the direction of the shot.

As if it was some an overdramatic actor on a stage, Buchannan was propelled forward as if someone had hit him squarely in the back. At first, Aaron thought that was all the bullet had done before a dark spot formed right under his left shoulder blade, further northwest to where he was aiming at. Buchanan groaned, clutched the spot over his chest before his knees buckled forward and he landed face first in the dirt.

As he lay there, gurgling out his last breaths of life, Aaron watched it all with morose horror. The weight of his actions barreled down upon him as both the outlaws and the lawmen looked down at him with shock. The measure of alarm expressed at him was minuscule in comparison to what he felt internally. Aaron gulped as he lowered the smoking gun, the tiny firearm feeling as heavy as a bag of horseshoes.

Under the cold sheets of sweat that covered his pale face, the child felt his lip tremble with trepidation. He had killed a man… he had shot man in the back. He has shot his own flesh and blood in the back…

Where was the instant contentment that he was supposed to be given after committing his heinous deed? Where was the gratification in seeing him lying in his own blood like his mother had? Why was there such an immense hollowness in his chest as he stared at the man he hated and had killed?

The first to succumb out of the stupor was Zachariah, who glimpsed at Abraham with a worried and remorseful expression. The driver looked about as dead as the man he was looking down at, before his eyes connected with Aaron's. They boy shivered under his stare. It was the only time Abraham had ever regarded him with such an abhorrent demeanor. The Griswold at his side wobbled against his thigh as his knuckles turned white around the handle. He was madder than any man he had seen, and the look he bestowed upon him, was enough to scare away a whole tribe of charging Cheyenne. That look alone was sufficient to convey to Aaron that he had committed a most unforgivable transgression — he just couldn't understand what it was.

The Sherriff, who had walked over to him, grasped the boy softly under the arm and let out a disheartened sigh: "C'mon along, son."

Aaron knew where he was being led to, even if he knew it would be an iron birdcage all to himself. Zachariah came forward and replaced the Sherriff's hand around his arm; he winched at the pressure he applied. The Shotgun Messenger turned to Black, who was the only one who hadn't lifted his feet from the ground.

"Abraham…" Zachariah called out. The driver gave no response that he had even heard him; his eyes still cast down at the body before him.

Zachariah grumbled and pulled Aaron along, all the while with the boy's thoughts in a hurricane of confusion about what was going on. Perhaps he saw the battle in his eyes, or maybe he was just enraged at his actions as well, but Zachariah yanked his arm to garner his attention.

"Is that a bluff boy, or can you really not discern the precarious nature of your fuckin' folly?" Zachariah fumed.

Aaron hissed heatedly though his teeth at him: "Abraham wasn't gonna kill him, so I did! I did what he should have done!"

Zachariah shook his head irately at him. "He had killed him. Your Pa' was gonna be hung he next day for dispatchin' the driver of the Wells carriage— not to mention robbin' it! That's why we brought out the Sherriff to see that it would be conducted. He had always planned to kill him with a noose, not a pistol."

The retort he planned beforehand vanished with the seasoned older man's avouchment. Aaron stared at him with perplexity, as if he had spoken a foreign tongue to him. Zachariah could see his disorientated mug and leaned down at him like a hawk with a field mouse. "By planting brass in his back, you just secured the noose around yer own neck in his place."

There weren't enough words that could render how stupid and afraid he felt when he listened to the reveal of Abraham's plot. The biggest emotion, out of the many that were hard to decipher, the ire for having it withheld from him was the most sinking. Even that encompassed the fear of being taken to the cell at the moment. Swimming through his rippled thoughts, he was able to fish out the only question he needed to ask.

"Why?"

"Because Abraham didn't want'cha in the mess," Zachariah answered. "And still ye found a way to get shit on your hands. Black had every animus for your Pa, Hell, Abraham was more of a Pa to you from what I've seen! You ruined that man's requital for your mother and life he had set forth for you with the money we be collectin'."

His declaration was as brutal as his tone and Aaron felt every sting he intended. The heaviness of his shame was indescribable and he wanted nothing but to bury himself in the earth for the worms to eat. There was still hard feelings about the information that went unspoken, because if Abraham had bothered to tell him, then he would have withheld from pulling the trigger and executing what he was regretful of now. However, there was also remorse about how he had unknowingly sabotaged Abraham's form of justice. The more he thought about it, the more cowardly and dirty he felt. The man that had adopted him, brought him in from being alone in the world, and had constructed a way to have their hands unsoiled. He had planned it to finish their unsettled business after all, in a more honorable and patient method. More so than the bluntness of just pulling the trigger and ending his miserable life.

Aaron looked over his shoulder towards the brimmed black hat that hung towards the ground and saw a disconsolate look enter his eyes when he looked up to meet his. There wasn't anger, which he would have welcomed more than comfortless solemn watching the boy heading towards the jail. The child for the first time in years saw someone who looked at him as if they gave a damn what happened to him.

Beneath the depths of his roughened exterior, there was anguish starting to rise from underneath. Worry about what would happen to him. Aaron realized how much effort he had put forth for him and his mother. With diligence.

Aaron had been wrong about him, he did still care and wanted to make sure that Buchannan knew it was him that was the reason for the rope around his neck.

Now, they both wouldn't be able to gloat as they should have. They would have both watched as he was strung up for all the crimes he did, not just the slight against them.

It was worse than just getting quickly shot.

Aaron had made a terrible mistake…

Erron Black had no more remorse about shooting his father that dusty night in Atchison; the nightmares stopped sometime after Abilene years later even though he thought back on it from time to time. After that night, things did change with Abraham but he could never understand was if it was because Erron or Abraham had. It was a subject that never went mentioned again after the affair and every time it did get brought up it, all it did was leave them both embitter for the rest of the day.

For the first time in decades, why did he force himself to request to remember it? It meant nothing to him like it was someone else's story vaguely told to him around a campfire. It was a rough stone he had worked out of his shoe for a while now.

That boy was long forgotten until now, and it would have been better if he had remained so.

Standing up and placing the name of the bullet towards him on the log, the gunslinger took a couple of long paces forward until he was an adequate distance away from it. With it gleaming at him and with no desire to place the damn bullet back in his belt, Erron lifted his right revolver from his holster and obliterated the bullet with his own from the chamber.

There was no grunt of pride for hitting his target. Instead, he silently turned his back and continued on his way through the jungle as the first morning's light tried to stab its way through the canopy.

Leaving the only evidence of the bullet with the name AaRon Buchanan littered in shrapnel on the ground of the Outworld jungle.