THIRTY-FOUR: all too easy

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing there?"

Milly froze at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. She stifled a scream but there was no doubting the surprise in her big, blue eyes as she stared back at her captor. When she saw him, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, hey Mr. Erickson. Didn't see you standing there."

The big man blinked, trying to figure out who he was looking at. He was getting up there in age, probably in his upper fifties, a heavyset and tall mechanic at the same time. His shoulders were twice as broad as most men. He wore a typical work shirt, faded blue jeans, and an old, grease-stained apron. The leather belt around his waist was filled with tools. His face was plump and slightly red, with a stubbled chin and a bushy mustache as white as the clouds. His grim expression lightened slightly when he recognized her. Milly figured the old man was a real good friend of Stryker, though neither had elaborated on their relationship since their arrival.

When Erickson saw who he was talking to, he smirked. "Oh, hell, it's you."

"I was just coming to check on the bike," she said matter-of-factly as she pulled out her handbag. "And Mr. Stryker wanted to know how much you were going to charge him this time."

"Oh, hell no. I don't charge Sean for nothin'. Man practically put me on the map."

"He did?"

He nodded. "Oh, hell yeah. Not all too often than one man shuts down a gang the size of the Black Raiders, especially in this backwater town."

Milly's eyes grew to the size of saucers. "The Black Raiders? I remember them from the insurance company. They used to cause a lot of damage out here."

"Hell, you don't know the half of it, little missy," Erickson laughed. "I don't know what this place woulda done without Sean's help."

"He's a good man. I've only known him a little while now, but he's been very good to me." The young woman sighed and let her face light up in a pleasant smile. "If you aren't gonna let me pay for the bikes, can you at least let me fix you dinner tonight?"

Erickson gave her a look. "You cook?"

"That's what my friends tell me, but I figure they're just really hungry."

He smirked. "Well then. Guess I gotta see for myself. I'll be there, and I'll bring Sean's bike with me."

"Mr. Stryker borrowed a friend's cottage…"

"Timmy Horn's old place across town."

Milly frowned. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

The old man's eyes twinkled down at her. "Hey, babe, I know."

Dodge Erickson was the big man in Desperation. His grandparents had been among the founders of the old settlement over a hundred twenty years ago, around the same time that the cities of July and December and August, and all the great settlements throughout the history of humanity on Gunsmoke were first erected. Desperation never grew like those over places, but it had succeeded where others failed. Despite all the troubles that the small town had suffered, the people of Desperation had never suffered. Even when the Black Raiders had come to town, Dodge had preserved the piece.

He had received help from Sean Ryker, who had faced the Black Raiders head on and sent them packing. Some had paid very dearly for causing so much chaos for the people of Desperation, but none had died. Ryker had reserved such terrible ends for the men who were truly dangerous to this world, men like Vash the Stampede.

Or so he had once thought. Now, Stryker was a gentler person, and getting to know Milly Thompson, Dodge wasn't finding it difficult to see what had brought the change in his friend. As best he could tell, Sean and Milly had traveled together over the past five days, and she had shared some of her past with him. She was a very precious woman, worthy of the happiness she held inside, a girl who let such happiness flow to all she came to know. Dodge felt at ease near her, and no doubt Stryker felt the same comforts.

And boy, could she cook. Dodge dug into the cornbread casserole as if he hadn't eaten in years. Truthfully, most of his meals came at the bar these days, the same as Stryker whenever he was in town, so it was the first home-cooked meal he had enjoyed since the death of his wife nearly a decade ago.

"What happened to Mrs. Erickson?" Milly asked when the subject came up. She set down her fork and gazed sorrowfully at their guest. They sat crowded around a small cardboard table in Timothy Horn's old, rundown shack, the little house he lent to Stryker whenever the gunslinger came to town.

Dodge sat back, rubbing his soar knuckles. "She got real sick," he said quietly. "It was one of those things that hit her quick and spread like wildfire. The cancer consumed her and within a couple months it had completely deteriorated her nervous system. She held on three weeks longer than the doctor's had expected. Always was a fighter, but she just wasn't strong enough for that one last battle."

Milly lay a hand on the old man's arm, tears welling up in her big, blue eyes. "Oh, Mr. Erickson! I'm terribly sorry."

The old man had to smile. "She didn't suffer long. She died too young, but she was happy with the way she lived her life. I was so proud of her, little missy. Never doubt she had a true heart. My Nessie went before her time, but she wouldn't want anyone to mourn her."

Stryker took a bite of his meal and chewed thoughtfully. "My foster parents were much the same way. I mourned them, but they would have been devastated if I had let their fate be my own."

"No," Milly whispered. "You could never've done that."

Stryker nodded. A small smile touched his lips.

Dodge lifted his glass, giving his friends a nod. He held the stein out toward them. "A toast," he said. "To good friends, old and new."

"Friends forever," Sean echoed, holding out his glass.

"And to loves lost, and hearts cherished through the end of time." Milly wiped her eyes and offered the two of them her best smile as she held out her glass. After the toast, they drained their beers. Milly wiped her mouth on her sleeve and stared to the tabletop. Dodge had to smile, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder. "I miss my family. I know you have to miss Nessie very dearly."

"There's not a day that goes by that I don't wish I could have one last moment to tell her how I truly feel."

Milly smiled. "She knew. You have to believe that."

The big man laughed, patting her arm. "Preach on, little missy. Preach on."

After the meal, the three of them cleaned up together, discussing the future. Stryker spoke of the troubles they were having with the remnants of the Gung-Ho Guns, though he didn't go so far as to admit that he had joined Vash the Stampede. He knew, of course, the truth of Vash the Stampede and how his own brother had used the dangerous band of outlaws to tarnish his name toward the ghastly end of mankind.

Of course, Dodge listened without fail. He trusted this man with his life, and he knew Stryker trusted him.

Regardless, that wasn't his concern right now. There were other, more concrete things to worry about.

"The Gung-Ho Guns really aren't my area of expertise," he said as he dried the last of the dishes and handed Stryker a cigarette.

The young man looked at the smoke for a moment and grabbed his matches.

"Do you two mind putting those things away?" Milly asked. "I really can't stand the smell of them."

Stryker sighed and returned the cigarette to his friend. "Here," he said.

Dodge gave Milly a look. "One of those types, hey, little missy?" He was smiling.

"It really is a nasty habit, Mr. Erickson. I'm sure Nessie would want you to live a long, fruitful life. Don't you think, Mr. Stryker?"

He grinned. "Yeah, I think so."

"What about another beer then?" Dodge asked.

Milly grinned and grabbed for the beer steins. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind a bit!"

"You have to tell it to me straight," Dodge said after a time, nursing his third beer since dinner, his fifth overall. His two friends were only one drink behind.

Stryker leaned forward. "Yeah, what do you want to know?"

"Tell me why you're all decked out in that getup, Sean. You can't tell me you dressed like him for nothing."

Stryker shared a look with Milly. The girl shrugged. He looked back to his friend. "Bait?"

Dodge had to laugh at that. "Bullshit, Sean. You're protecting him, aren't you?"

Stryker lowered his mug. The two young friends shared a look. Dodge slowly rose to his feet. For a moment, the laughter faded from his eyes.

"It'll only be a few moments. Just relax, Sean."

The young gunslinger narrowed his eyes. "What's going on? Dodge?"

"Hell." A sinister grin slid over the big man's face. "Isn't it obvious? I'm doin' my duty to the big man."

Milly fidgeted. "Mr. Erickson?"

Stryker started to rise.

"That's about enough," Dodge said.

In the moment following, Stryker stumbled and fell face first into the table. Milly shot to her feet with a cry of surprise. Dodge spun toward her and delivered a right hook that knocked her flat on her back. She hit her head against the floor and lost all consciousness in that moment.

Grinning, Dodge shook his head. All too easy.

A dark shape appeared in the doorway. "Erickson."

"He's down. Send word to Quinn. I have the Alpha Sample."

The man in the doorway, one of the Quinn's hired guns, smirked. "Good job, old man. Didn't know if you had it in you."

"Quinn's been paying me for three years to do just this sort of work." Dodge Erickson, known amongst the Gung-Ho Guns as Eric the Watchman, lit his cigar, eyeing his handiwork with a growing smirk. "Think I've earned myself a little raise."

As the sun slipped down over the western horizon, Jet Black tossed his wrench and pliers back into the toolbox and trudged grumpily to the main living area aboard his ship. He found Edward in the corner, leaning over Tomato with the lazy pooch atop her head, lost in a flood of information that was no doubt useless to the mission. Rolling his eyes, Jet considered his question. He knew before he asked how fruitless the answer would be, but he needed to hear it for himself.

"Where are they now?" Jet asked.

Ed shrugged. "It's been pretty quiet, Jet-person. Ed and Ein are sooo bored."

"Not them," Jet muttered. "I'm talking about Vash the Stampede and his grin. Quit playing around, will ya? Surely you have something about them."

"Still nothing, Jet-person. They walked out into the sandy place and disappeared. Edward can't find what Edward can't see."

Jet sighed. He leaned against the wall and shook his head. "All right, all right. I understand." The old man crossed his arms and sighed. Things hadn't been going well. He was to a point in repairs where he needed more than what he had at hand. Things that the people of this rock didn't very well have. At least, not at this point in their history.

Over the past week, he had sent Faye back to the city twice, once for fresh supplies and once more to pick up on the local news. While the information had given them quite a bit in terms of how the people this world lived from day to day, they still had no more on the one called Vash the Stampede than they had from the very beginning. It was all more than just a little unnerving.

From behind came the definitive sound of a lighter strike.

"Ya know, it's damn hard to get any sleep around here with all the racket, you two." Jet glared at his younger partner. Spike watched back with an almost neutral glaze in his eyes.

"You should be damn well rested, Spike! I haven't seen you all day long."

Spike grunted. "Maybe."

"Shit," Jet muttered, and pulled out a cigarette of his own. He checked his pockets, but was unable to locate his lighter. With a groan, he looked to his friend, who seemed barely awake and was nonetheless puffing on his cigarette. Jet needed just a few drags, to soothe his thoughts. "Hey, Spike, can I see your lighter?"

Spike tossed him the lighter, never lifting an eye or saying a word. As the old man lit his cigarette, his partner pulled his cigarette from his lips and exhaled. "Why is it I have a feeling things aren't going according to plan?" He flopped down on the couch and spread his arms along the back, leaning his head to gaze at the ceiling.

"Shit. Things haven't been going 'according to plan' since we left Ganymede." The old man shook his head. The only thing they had going for them, it seemed, was that the money was good even if the bounty was brought back in a million tiny bits, so long as the identity of the deceased could be proven. In the desert, where the man had to be, Jet was pretty sure there was no real chance at survival. He took a drag of blissful, calming nicotine. "Where the hell is Faye?"

"Do you really care?" Spike asked. "How touching."

"I'm serious, damnit. We gotta start somewhere if we're gonna make the money count."

Spike smirked, revealing that casual cockiness he had carried along with him over the years. Through the obvious pain he had endured through injuries and lost hope, it was a wonder he still did this for a living. It had to be the money, Jet thought. The money, and the thrill.

"By the way, they use a different currency here, right?" Spike scratched his head. He was thinking again, never a really good sign. "I mean, how do we know all this is worth it? It's not like we've seen an exchange rate on a damn double-dollar."

"Well, Faye spent forty double-dollars on groceries, and she got quiet a bit."

"We don't even know how she got the forty double-dollars."

"Faye-Faye is a tooty-fruity, great big knockers, sexy booty!"

Spike gave Ed a look. "Huh?"

"It's Faye," Jet translated, grinning ear to ear. "She probably just shook her ass a little and conned some gambler out of a pile of chips."

"Oh, that. Yeah, I guess." The young man ran his hands through his hair, groaning. "You're probably right."

Jet nodded his agreement and glanced to Ed. "You're sure you can't use this thing to find Vash the Stampede?"

"Nope. No signal Jet-person. Edward has tried everything, but there's some sort of interference with the scanner." She rolled about on her backside, staring at Tomato through her internet goggles. "Edward doesn't know what else to try."

"Well, if we can't find them digitally, we'll have to send the Redtail—"

"Uh-uh. No good!"

Jet stared. "Whaddaya mean, 'no good'!"

"Faye-Faye has the ship and she's not responding to her comm. She left three hours ago."

"Oh no…no no no! You've gotta be kidding!"

"No bullshit, Jet-person."

"Why didn't you tell me?" No response. Jet was moments from pouncing the kid and strangling her. "Well, where the hell did she take it!"

Ed shrugged. "North, I think."

Jet felt as though he lost a few more hairs as he flopped down on the couch next to Spike. "Sonuva…"

Spike chuckled as he shook his head. He leaned forward, resting his elbows and forearms against his knees. "Ya know, I'm not a bit surprised."

Jet glared at him and crossed his arms, disgusted. "Any bright ideas?"

"Not a one."