Gideon had said to himself that he would see Abbeytown from the inside, and so he had.
He had snuck across the River Moss that morning, wearing a heavy trail jacket and a flat, wide hat he had found in his father's room. Nobody looked at him funny, nobody bothered him, nothing.
The sights and smells of Northtown were every bit as exotic as he had hoped. With the small bit of silver in his pocket, he bought himself a bowl of the best hotroot soup he had ever had. It was spicy, yet not so spicy as to obscure the taste, which was sweet and zesty.
Which was when he saw the Hunters.
They were perhaps the most impressive-looking things he had ever seen. They wore plain leather coats over the black gun belts on their hips. Both were about seventeen seasons old Their demeanor was friendly and pleasant, as they were in the midst of telling jokes to one another, but even Gideon at twelve seasons could tell that beneath the jovial air was something coiled, ready to spring in an instant.
This is so awesome, thought Gideon. I get away from the shanties for one day, I eat the best soup on Earth, and I get to see real Hunters.
He returned to his soup, pensive.
That was when the overlord spotted him.
The sneering stoat walked over to him. "Say, kid, aren't you Dirk Quinn's son?"
Gideon immediately sensed trouble. He stayed silent.
"Course you are. No other half-breeds in Abbeytown."
Gideon had no idea what the stoat meant, but didn't ask.
"D'you know yer dad was exiled under pain of death from town?"
Again, Gideon was silent.
"And that goes for you, kid. Pain of death." The weasel took out a hunting knife, long, wide and razor-sharp. Gideon could see his reflection in the blade, apprehensive and terrified at the same time.
The stoat made a swipe at his throat. Gideon instinctively pulled himself backwards, grabbing his half-full bowl of hotroot soup as he did so. The knife swished past his neck, slashing nothing but air.
He threw the bowl straight into the overlord's face as he pulled back. As soon as the spicy juices hit the unfortunate stoat's eyes, the effect was immediate.
The overlord screamed, dropping the knife in the dirt as he fell to his knees, pawing his eyes, trying to rid his eyes of the burning, stinging agony they now felt.
Gideon was already on his footpaws, putting as much distance between him and the stoat as he could, but already the overlord was recovering and on his feet.
Gideon was fast, but he was only twelve seasons old. The stoat was on his tail already.
Looking over his shoulder at the stoat, he neglected to see the Hunter he ran straight into.
Gideon collided so hard with the Hunter he was knocked on his back in the dirt. He looked up, awestruck, at the massive killing machine he had collided with.
He found himself staring up at the form of the most massive fox he had ever seen.
The Hunter was a fox, as all Hunters are, with simple black jeans, stovepipe boots, and a dark blue sarape covering his guns. Gideon noticed that his coat was a lush blend of Black, white, and grey, culminating in a jet-black tail. He wore no hat, an odd contrivance out here.
The Hunter reached down and grabbed the startled Gideon by the lapels of his coat, pulling him forcibly on his feet.
The overlord addressed the Hunter, "Lord, this little brat is a convicted exile. He assaulted me and fled capture, as you just saw."
"He's only breaking the law if he's in town without the permission of an Overlord or a Hunter," said the gray fox simply.
"You – you mean – he's here under your protection?" spluttered the stoat.
"Fully," stated the Hunter matter-of-factly.
"In that case," said the stoat as though he had caught the fox into going back on his original story, "why did he run when I confronted him?"
The Hunter's tone was icy, utterly without emotion, passion or pity. "You pulled a knife on him. Wouldn't you run if it meant saving your life?"
The stoat just looked stupidly at the saturnine fox.
"Why don't we find out?" suggested the fox. "Tell you what. My gun's not loaded. If you can run back to that table where you threatened the Dibbun before I've loaded it, I won't kill you. Sound fun? Start running."
At first the moronic stoat didn't know what to do. That was before the fox flung back his sarape, revealing an immaculately maintained black leather gun belt, complete with leather slots teeming with .45 cartridges.
The stoat turned and ran for the table, only about ten paces away.
Before he got three paces, the fox had whipped out the Hunter's revolver. There was a soft click as he eased a bullet into the cylinder, and another click-click as he pulled the hammer back.
Gideon jumped at the noise the pistol made as the fox fired.
The shot took the stoat cleanly in the right calf of his footpaw. With a startled exclamation, the unfortunate Overlord fell to his knees, a full four paces from the table.
The gargantuan fox strolled over nonchalantly, utterly unfazed by the stoat's sobs of pain.
He grabbed the stoat's cheeks, bringing his face no more than an inch from the fox's.
"As long as I am still a Hunter of this side of town, you leave the Hunting to me. Your job is to oversee labor, nothing more. Leave breaches of the law to me. Do this again and you die. Blink if you understand."
The stoat did, several times. The fox let him go; he crawled inside the bar for help as soon as he did.
The gray fox turned to the young Gideon, frozen in place with fear. "I'm not going to hurt you, Gideon."
The young creature breathed a sigh of relief. "How do you know my name?"
"Oh, didn't your father tell you? You were named after your grandpa. He said he'd always do that, when we served together."
Gideon cocked his head. "You knew my father?"
"Oh, absolutely!" said the fox. "We were thick as thieves, Dirk Quinn and me."
"I – I need to go home," said the still-terrified Gideon.
"Oh, no problem!" said the fox with a cheerful tone. "I'll even take you there. No offence, but this isn't the best place in Abbeytown for a Dibbun to be on his own."
He put his paw around the young Gideon's shoulder. "Oh, and by the way, my name's Morgan. Morgan Vallance. Did you ever here the joke about the squirrel in the bar?"
Gideon smiled up at Morgan. "Never."
"Well, a squirrel walks into a bar and orders a glass of Scotch…"
They walked down the dusty street, back towards home with what seemed to be an old friend.
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If anything, Miriam's business had taken a turn for the better.
Gossip had circulated around the small working-class section of Abbeytown like wildfire. This creature that carried big iron, and had dared to violate an Overlord…well, everyone wanted a glimpse of that beast. Miriam's bar was pleasantly full.
The stranger stood behind the bar, his one eye utterly emotionless. He wiped a shot glass clean, and poured himself a glass of Tam. Sipping it, he eyed the customers of the bar. If he knew the Overlords, a swift reprisal could be expected once Rosa went bleating to her superiors.
But the inhabitants were all woodlanders. While that meant he was safe from gunfire, he was not beyond the eyes of the Overlords. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that a woodlander was not automatically a friend.
However, he had to compliment himself. So far he had avoided a conflict with the Hunters.
He resumed his sentinel-like surveying of his clientele, and brooded over the current state of things.
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Miriam sat up and looked at him. "We're out?"
"Completely out of gin, yes."
"But I just bought a whole case last week!"
"I seem to have attracted a larger clientele for you", the stranger said simply.
"Okay," said Miriam, accepting but not really believing. "Just run on down the street, take a right, and there's the brewery I get everything from. Take what you need from the till."
He smiled at her and walked downstairs again.
He didn't have it within him to make her pay for the gin, so he checked his own money purse for a gold coin and walked towards the door.
As he was leaving, he heard a slight sniggering noise coming from the tougher drunks in the corner.
He turned towards them, slowly.
"If I come back and find a mess, I'm personally going to beat you all to death."
That did the trick. The toughs shut up, and the stranger was out the door.
Rosa was standing in the middle of the street.
She had shed her black lacey fineries for a plain black blouse with blue jeans and a leather riding jacket. Over her back was a .22 rifle in a leather back holster.
Had she wanted to kill him, she would have reached for the rifle by then. Rosa was a creature of rage, not reason; she wouldn't have waited to have her revenge on him. The stranger deduced that she wanted him alive, for whatever reason.
By the way she was shaking from anger, he could also tell that it was her bosses who wanted him alive, not him.
Alright, then, he thought. I'll take advantage of this little protection I seem to have earned.
"Morning!" called the stranger in a jovial tone. "Out for a stroll?"
She didn't respond, unless grinding one's teeth counts as a response.
"You know, you really must take more care around here. There's all kinds of badbeasts out here who might like to take advantage of you."
Still no response. The stranger walked towards her, stepping onto the dusty street. "May I, perhaps, recommend an escort for you? Someone respectable? Not some bit of half-breed drifter trash that would violate you."
Still nothing. The stranger was enjoying himself. "I could recommend me. I do have a pretty face, if I do say so myself."
Rosa's paw began inching towards the stock of the rifle on her back. The stranger inched for his own gun. "Oh, please, Rosa, you're breaking my heart. I thought we really had a – connection yesterday. Something…really lasting." The stranger was now no more than a yard from her.
Rosa lost her self-control then. "You're disgusting," she spat.
The stranger smiled. "But Rosa – you were wonderful." And he kissed her, lips-on-lips.
It was a kiss of mock tenderness, the final insult to Rosa's already unbalanced temper. With a low growl, she let off a string of phrases, words, and contexts that do not deserve to be written here or anywhere else. After she was done, she breathed deeply. "I've been told not to kill you, but once I get the chance to –"
"Yeah, yeah," said the stranger. He sniggered at her, and then set off for the brewery. Rosa followed, still cursing him under her breath.
The whore's just mad, he thought, because I didn't come back for seconds yet.