Author's Note: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, Dynamite Entertainment, Rockstar, etc.
Alright, I'll admit, between Spider-Man 2 and Phantom Liberty, I've been kinda distracted as of late. I managed to get this chapter out on time (more or less) but there may be slight delays in the future.
ian12091995: Glad you enjoyed it. As for long term consequences, I haven't thought that far ahead yet, and they probably wouldn't come up in this story anyways.
New arc, and that means a new bit of western media I'm taking inspiration from, this one's a bit older, but even more iconic than Red Dead Redemption.
She-Devil of the Frontier
Chapter 12: As a Judgement
"Yours are a remarkable people," intoned Sonja, awe in her voice as she watched the sight before her. Peering out from under the brim of her hat, she saw the massive undertaking, dozens, nay, hundreds of men were hard at work with all manner of implements, hammers, picks, and shovels, all working the ground to make it suitable for the wooden beams that underpinned the steel 'tracks' that the magnificent trains traversed the land upon. "To create such things, and with such speed, it is to be commended."
"The results, maybe," Walker replied, and Sonja raised an eyebrow as she looked at his placid features, trying to see the disdain that her ear could detect. "But the methods…."
His words were cut off by the deep reverberating thunder of a dynamite blast, a plume of dust thrown up into the air in the distance. As the echo faded, Sonja waited for the Bounty Hunter to resume, but it seemed the man was in no rush to do so. "If this were Hyrkania, those men would be slaves from conquered nations, or bought from traders," she remarked, nodding towards the work party laboring away. For the last few weeks, the pair had watched the railroad steadily come towards the MacLaughlin Ranch, and each time they had, Sonja could sense the tension from her companion and lover. Despite her efforts, she had yet to learn the reason for his unease.
"We had a war about that, a big one, when I was a boy. I remember hearing about it, seeing the papers, some of the pictures," recalled Walker. "When the news came in about Atlanta, I remember the dinner table that night, silent." The Texan shook his head, "All said 'n done, half a million dead to free the negroes, that's what they said it all 'bout."
"And what say you?" asked Sonja, reeling from the almost casual admission of the toll of this war. America did not come off as having just endured a war of that magnitude, it was one that even the She-Devil could not really fathom, she had seen battles that claimed hundreds, or thousands, or an entire army of twenty thousand perish, but hundreds of thousands of dead?
Her thoughts were pushed aside when she saw movement from Joshua, a mere shrug, "It don't really matter what I think, Calamity Dame. They either work the fields as slaves, or work like slaves on the railroads, don't see much difference, personally. But if it makes 'em happy, hammering away, their choice now. Still not sure it was worth Sherman razing Atlanta…."
"War is never pleasant, yet the victors will always flatter themselves," replied the Hyrkanian, seeing the Bounty Hunter nod but not speak. "Let us return to the Ranch, tis the day of Caroline's return," she reminded before steering her horse back in the direction of the MacLaughlin homestead.
Looking over her shoulder, Sonja saw Tombstone follow her for the ride back. Caroline had sent a letter the week prior, stating that she would conclude her business in time to return on this very day, having convinced the bankmen to not take the MacLaughlin home and land, at least for the time being. Her father was relieved by this, and remarked that there was some project he wished to complete that would help ensure that would continue to be so, but had not been forthcoming about what it was, only that it would commence upon the return of the hands taking the livestock to market, which was to be soon after Caroline returned.
Coming through the gates of the Ranch, Sonja could see that a banquet table had been laid out, draped in a checkered cloth, and the first foodstuffs being carried by the remaining servants, or 'hands' of the Ranch. John MacLaughlin, the aging ox of a man, strode out from the bustle and stopped before the duo, "Walker, Sonja, good," he grunted as they dismounted their horses. "I've had the wagon prepared for you two to take into town. If it's not too much to ask, could you collect some feed from Mr. Mills store? I've already paid for it, you two just need to collect it before you bring Caroline home."
"We owe you that much, sir, for letting us stay here, we didn't mean to burden you for so long," replied Walker, but he was quickly waved off.
"Nonsense," returned the MacLaughlin patriarch, "You haven't been a burden, and I know what you've done for us. If you still don't think we're square, then just get my baby girl home safe, ya' hear?"
"Aye, John MacLaughlin, she will be in good hands," vowed Sonja before the pair returned their horses to the stable and set off for Deming.
"God damn this heat," grunted John MacLaughlin, a fleeting thought telling him that it wasn't the heat but that he wasn't as young as he once was. With his daughter gone, he had to run the ranch, and even with a half dozen hands, it required more of him than he remembered, and this was to be the last, and most trying day of his daughter's absence.
Looking around, the elderly gentleman was keen to find anything that required his attention. Seeing nothing, MacLaughlin trudged his way up the steps to his porch, aware of how much he was leaning on the handrail with each step he took before he slumped down into the rocking chair and laid his head back, tired feet thankful for the rest. "Not as young as I once was," he rumbled, voice low enough that none of the hands laying out the table could hear him. Most of them were wives of the men on the cattle drive, helped by the few children on the ranch, and they could cook a delicious looking, and smelling meal.
Closing his eyes, MacLaughlin inhaled the aroma of the food and listened to the sounds of the land around him. He knew that a nap would be the farthest thing from a display of vigor, but couldn't muster enough will to force his weary eyes open for the moment. Rocking idly, the rancher heard the table be set and the hands begin to gather, speaking idly amongst themselves as they awaited Caroline's return.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but John felt rested enough to open his eyes when he heard something unusual, a flock of birds suddenly taking flight. Head swiveling, John saw his hands sitting around the table, eyes upturned, and pushed himself up from his chair to go to the railing. Leaning against the wood, MacLaughlin craned his neck up and used a hand to shield his eyes from the sun high above to see the long-winged outlines of vultures circling overhead. "Damned scavengers," he muttered, wondering if one of his animals had died and attracted the birds.
Still, he didn't want them on his property and made to holler for Billy to grab his scattergun and knock them outta the sky when he heard the distant report of a gunshot. The first thought MacLaughlin had was that Billy was already on the job, but then he saw none of the birds fall, nor scatter. John frowned, the boy was a fair shot with his 12 gauge, and it wasn't like him to miss such big targets, not when he would nail quail from fifty yards.
A blood curdling scream cut through the air, only to be cutoff by another gunshot as John turned to see a woman, Billy's wife, fall to the ground, hands clutching her chest. Beside her motionless body was another, that of Billy, blood dripping from the hole in his head. Instinctively, John reached to his hip and realized he had removed his gunbelt, draping it across a chair beside the table below.
The hands gathered around the table all tried to flee, but a salvo of gunshots rang out, rifle fire, realized MacLaughlin as he staggered towards the steps. Looking up, he watched more of the women and children fall, sniped down from unseen gunmen. Reaching the steps, John set one foot down as more gunshots rang out and he felt a sting of pain, a terrible, awful burning as his leg faltered and the old man tumbled down the few steps, rolling across the ground.
Groaning, John rolled himself over and feebly crawled towards his gun, ignoring the shots that continued to ring out, even if he couldn't ignore the bodies that fell to the ground around him. Exerting every ounce of effort his tired bones could offer, MacLaughlin reached his gun and pulled himself up to grab the pistol, but before he could get at the revolver, another spike of searing pain shot through his back as he let out a scream and slumped down.
Panting, John could feel the sickening warmth of blood soaking his clothes, his blood, as he looked out past the bodies he lay amongst when he saw shadowy figures emerge from behind the buildings of his ranch. Men in dusters and hats, all cradling rifles as they strode forwards, towards the massacre for which they were responsible.
"Pa… please," begged a woman to the man in front, and John couldn't help but see his cold, lifeless eyes, a distinct, bright blue. Looking down his thin, manicured mustache, the man reached to the holster on his belt and withdrew an ornate, unusual revolver, pulling the hammer back and leveling the weapon before firing a single, remorseless shot.
"You bastard!" growled MacLaughlin when he saw the woman's body fall, and the whole bunch turned towards him.
The ringleader took a few measured strides towards John, snakelike smirk on his pale face as he holstered his pistol. "What have we here?" the blue eyed man mused, voice accented, before his eyes widened, "Ah yes, you'll do nicely." Before MacLaughlin could respond, the gunman pulled a sharpened stone tomahawk from his duster and brought it down on the Rancher, burying the implement in his head.
"I haven't properly thanked you both yet," said Caroline suddenly, causing Walker to take his eyes off the road ahead of the wagon he was steering to look at MacLaughlin. Her train had been delayed, meaning it was well into the afternoon before they could return to the Ranch, and with the woman exhausted from her long travels it was Walker who was driving them back. "The bank," began the blonde rancher woman, "They weren't gonna let me talk my way outta that one, there's a railroad that wants our land. They were the ones pressuring the bank to call in our debts early. If I didn't have the money you gave me… I might be delivering very different news."
Walker grimaced, "Which railroad, if you don't mind me askin?"
Tapping her chin, it took Caroline a moment to recall the answer, "Southwestern Union, the man said. They're based outta…."
"I know the one," cut off Walker, unable to hide the scowl from his face.
Tombstone saw the looks on the faces of the two women he was driving, his vitriol noticed, but neither commented on it. "The banker also told me that my father had some sort of arrangement made, but since Pa wasn't there, he wasn't permitted to say what it was. Hopefully Pa will be a might bit more forthcoming."
"We should be able to ask him soon," intoned Sonja, because Walker's frown only deepened and he was in no mood to talk on this matter, too focused on forgetting bad memories. "But I wish to hear more about your travels. Once our business here has concluded, I hope that Joshua will show me more of this land."
"I think that sounds like a marvelous idea, Miss Sonja," replied Caroline, though Walker caught her giving him a look in the corner of his eye. "The cities are… well… they're different, you see. Folks there look down on us country folks 'cause they think they're more 'civilized' than we are, the lying snakes. Sure, there are some honest folks there, I suppose, but out here, at least the fellas trying to rob you have the decency of being honest about and putting a gun in your face rather than smile and hand you a pen."
"I have dealt with their ilk before, contemptable men, the lot of them," replied Sonja with an emphatic nod. "Yet I still wish to see what your cities are like, and how they compare to those of my land, even if they are occupied by the same sorts of people."
"They are," drawled Walker as he urged the horses over the last hill before the MacLaughlin Ranch. As soon as the wagon crested the rise, Tombstone stiffened with a new sort of tension, one hand relinquished its grip on the reins and went towards his hip. Eyes narrowing, Walker looked over the Ranch, seemingly bustling when they had left, but was now still and silent.
The women didn't share in his unease as he steered the car down the hill. "The cities, they just aren't for me, too full of fast men and loose women. I'm too used to the quiet, simple, country life," mused Caroline as the wagon rolled through the gates of the Ranch, Walker still ill at ease with the stillness.
Coming around the bend, Walker's eyes fell on the farmhouse and the grisly scene outside of it, "My god…" he breathed, shocked by the sight.
Caroline turned to look at the tables that had been arranged for her arrival, and the bodies strewn around them, all still, all lifeless. Walker pulled back on the reins, the horses slowing, but Caroline had already leapt from the wagon and was racing towards the bodies, and Sonja was quick to follow. Joshua slid from the driver's seat, gun in hand, his eyes were searching, appraising every window, every rooftop, searching for some sign of those responsible, but he saw nothing, and all he could hear were Caroline's wailing screams.
Easing his way towards the women, Walker examined the bodies more closely. All had been shot, accurately, and only one woman had any powder burns on her skin, and they were covering her face, the mark of a close range execution. Part of the Bounty Hunter acknowledged the skill of the shooter, no, shooters. There were too many victims, bunched too closely together, no one man with a repeater could have gunned them all down before some had scattered and fled.
Moving towards Caroline, taking care to give the dead a respectfully wide berth, Walker got a look at the body of John MacLaughlin. The man's daughter was on her knees at his side, sobbing into her hands as Sonja stood over her, reassuring hand on the rancher's shoulder as she gave Walker a vengeful look. Giving her an acknowledging nod, the Bounty Hunter's eyes went to the body of John MacLaughlin, and the grisly wound he had sustained on his head, his scalp taken as a trophy.
"Wha… wha… what do I do?" sobbed Caroline, looking up at the pair with tear stained eyes.
"You get inside, get a gun, and sit tight," instructed Walker before he turned to the Hyrkanian. "Grab your horse, Calamity Dame, ride to town."
The redhead opened her mouth to protest, "But I…."
"Cooper's deputies need to know what happened here, that there's a band of killers on the loose, good ones," cut off Walker. "You're the fastest on horseback, ride like the wind, once Caroline's safe, we'll run these bastards down and hang 'em from the nearest tree, I guarantee it."
"I shall hold you to your words, Joshua Walker," answered the She-Devil before turning and sprinting towards the barn. Trusting in the Hyrkanian, Walker wrapped his hand around Caroline's arm and gently, but firmly tugged her up towards the house, the still sobbing woman trudging up the stairs behind him. Reaching the front door, Walker heard the pounding of hooves from Sonja's horse as she galloped out of the barn and down the trail towards Deming.
Opening the door, Schofield in hand, Walker guided Caroline inside and to the couch, where the woman immediately collapsed into a heap. Working his jaw, the Bounty Hunter searched the house, clearing each room in turn until he was satisfied it was otherwise empty. Collecting a shotgun and shells from the MacLaughlin's gun cabinet and bringing it with him when he returned to the parlor, and Caroline. "Take this," instructed Walker, offering the woman the scattergun, which she reluctantly took, along with the ammunition. "Stay here, Imma have a look around."
"B… be careful," managed Caroline as she cracked the gun open to ensure it was loaded.
"I will," promised Walker before he slipped out the back door and went through the farm. A theme the Bounty Hunter had noticed in the ranch house quickly became a recurring one as he looked through a few of the crop fields and animal pens, that being how nothing had been taken or even noticeably disturbed. No livestock had been killed, the crops were intact, and nothing it seemed had been looted. Jogging to the chicken coops and peering in to find the poultry similarly unmolested, Walker's suspicions about who was to blame for the massacre only grew.
Coming to the other side of the chicken coop, Walker looked down to see a smothered cigarette sitting on the dirt. Leaning down, Tombstone picked it up and inspected the spent tobacco, eying it for a moment before flicking it back to the ground. Scowling at the spent cigarette, Walker stormed back to the house, grousing over the suspicions that were morphing into certainty.
Folding his hands on his desk, the railroad baron eyed the blue eyed Prussian in his employ while smoking his pipe. Pondering the report he had just received as he sat back in the chair, the finely dressed businessman looked out the window of his mobile office, a lavishly furnished railway carriage that could take him where he needed to go, while still allowing him to handle his affairs efficiently. Just to the rear was a sleeper carriage that would shame many four-star hotels in New York City, but looking out on the vast dusty plains of New Mexico only reinforced the necessity of the carriage's expense, especially since the baron was not one to squander resources frivolously.
"Tell me," he began, looking back at his subordinate and removing his pipe, "Was it really necessary to kill all of them?" The unrepentant Prussian didn't so much as twitch at the rebuke, which did nothing to calm the baron, "I only told you to scare them!"
"People scare better when they are dying," replied the gunman with calm certainty that came from having done this many times before.
Taking a calming breath, the baron pushed the thought aside, it was not the reason the Prussian had been sent to the MacLaughlin Ranch. "And what of my son? I see he has not returned with you. I trust he was not a victim of your massacre?"
"He was not there, Herr Walker," replied the Prussian, Frank Steinhoff, the hesitation in his words slight, but noticeable. "I… did not expect this. It happens sometimes, in business, something we did not plan on."
Jerimiah Walker made no efforts to hide his displeasure, pushing himself up onto shaky legs and snatching the crutch that leaned against his desk. "I have no time for surprises, Frank," reminded the baron as he shambled forwards, head straining against the brace around his neck, "I got on this train with one goal in mind: To see my son again, and to bring him back into the fold."
"I was there when you got on," replied Steinhoff, "I remember why you asked that I come along. 'To remove small obstacles from your path,' you said. And there have been a few, yes, but I have seen them dealt with swiftly along our journey."
"Even tuberculosis of the bones travels swiftly," retorted Walker, wincing as he leaned up against the wall.
But Steinhoff only smiled as he strode across the car, "Do not play the sick man with me, Herr Walker. Not two months ago you were barely limping," he said as he sat in the chair behind the big cherry desk that belonged to Walker, opening a bottle of brandy from his homeland. "Now, watching that dry rot work its way up your legs? It is enough to make a man put a bullet in his brain, but you? No," continued Frank with a shake of his head, "You just became a little more hasty. Otherwise, you have not changed," asserted Steinhoff before sipping his brandy.
Walker scowled, "I'd say you've changed, Frank, a lot. You used to take care of certain… things personally. But now? You're keeping to the background. Soon, you'll end up giving orders."
"It is because I do not wish to leave you alone with our guest too much," refuted Frank with a perfunctory smile. "You will need someone more and more every day to stay near you. Like a Freund."
"Or a partner," corrected Jerimiah, eliciting a slight hum from Frank, but not a retort. "How does it feel, sitting behind that desk?"
"It is almost like holding a gun," answered Steinhoff, finger running idly along the finely finished timber. "Only much more powerful."
Scowling, Walker hobbled his way back towards his desk, and Frank began to rise from his chair before helping the baron into it. "I pity you, Frank. You're doing your best, but… you will never be like me."
Jerimiah could see the Prussian's eyebrow twitch, "Why?" he asked coldly before turning his back to the businessman.
Reaching to one of his desk drawers, the baron spoke plainly, "Because there are some things you will never understand." As soon as Jerimiah had pulled the drawer open and reached for its contents, Steinhoff had spun around, finely polished Gasser revolver in hand and pointed at his employer. As the two men stared down, Walker couldn't help but smirk as he slowly withdrew the bound stack of bank notes from the drawer and held it up for Frank to see. "This is one of them. You see, Frank, there are many kinds of weapons, and the only one that can stop the one you have there," Walker dropped the limp stack of bills onto the desk, "Is this."
Glaring, Steinhoff holstered his gun and straightened his vest, schooling his features back to a stoic neutral. After a moment of tense silence, the Prussian spoke, "If that will be all, Herr Walker…."
"You can go, Frank," dismissed Jerimiah before following up, "And tell Mr. Gath I wish to speak with him, and tell him he was wrong about the whereabouts of my son."
"C'mon you fucking savage," growled the bearded man, "Get up!" The exclamation was followed by a swift kick to the back of Kai-Sa, causing the Zuni Indian to wince in pain before using his bound hands to push himself back to his feet. "That deputy in Deming put out a bounty on the redskins responsible for MacLaughlin Ranch and, buddy boy, you're the only injun' for miles around, you had to have sumthin' to do with it."
"I did not! I assure you!" retorted Kai-Sa as he feebly tried to shake off the grip of the bounty hunter, only for the man to give him a non-too-gentle shove that nearly knocked him off his feet once again. Managing to stay upright, only just, the man his Protestant Missionary teachers called 'Matthew Red Moon' spat at the shoes of his captor.
In reply, he got a backhanded slap across the face, prompting a loud chorus of laughter to erupt from the rest of the band before the man driving the wagon Kai-Sa was tied to flicked the reins, the sudden movement of the horses causing the Zuni to tumble into the dirt once more. "Hey! Hey! Hey!" shouted another, "Why don't you go on and tell us where the rest of your redskin friends are? We'll let you ride on this here wagon all the way to Deming, should make you comfortable until the Deputy puts a rope 'round your neck, rat bastard Comanche."
"I am no Comanche, sir!" snapped Kai-Sa vehemently, "I am a scribe of the Zuni people, and you are making a big mistake!"
"Then what're you doing all the way out here? No, savage, you ain't no Zuni, you're a member of a Comanche raiding party that got left behind," retorted a bounty hunter before the group resumed their forward march. It didn't last for very long before it ground to a halt and Kai-Sa heard the same man shout, "The hell is that?"
Looking in the same direction his captor was, the Zuni saw two figures approaching on horseback, and as they drew nearer, he was bewildered by their appearances. Looking through the sunlight, the captured Zuni saw that one was a white man, clad in a grey duster and hat, stubble on his chin and piercing blue eyes that caused Kai-Sa to shrink when their gaze fell on him. The man drew a hand back to brush his duster aside and reveal the gun belt on his waist, cartridges sitting in the loops and the grip of a pistol sticking out of the holster.
The woman riding beside him was even stranger, she too had a wide brimmed hat, but other than that, her manner of dress was unlike any he had ever seen. Her only garments consisted of cups of an unusual, scaly material over her bosom and another hanging from her waist, down between her legs. Besides this scanty clothing, the only other thing she had on was a pistol belt around her waist with a cross-draw holster, another holster strapped to a thigh that contained a cut down shotgun, and a leather scabbard dangling off her belt on the other side, the cross guard of a sword hilt prominently visible.
"Those are some mighty fine horses y'all have there," drawled one of the bounty hunters, "Interested in selling? We will give you a fair price."
Kai-Sa did not need to know the man as his captor to tell that he was not being sincere, and judging by the less than amused expressions on the new arrivals, they came to the same conclusion. The man leaned over and spat onto the ground, looking back at Kai-Sa before the stranger's steely gaze focused on the Zuni's captors. "You boys wouldn't happen to have seen a buncha real mean looking fellas riding this way, would ya'?"
The bounty hunters chuckled together, "You two wouldn't be lookin' for them redskins who did the MacLaughlin's in, would ya'? You're too late, we already caught one of them, right there. He won't tell us where his savage friends are."
"That boy?" asked the woman, her voice colored by a foreign accent, "He is responsible for nothing, open your eyes and look at him, man! It is plain that he has not the constitution of a killer."
Bristling, the bounty hunters all shifted before one replied to her, "Dressed as you are, I bet you know more about fucking than you do fighting. What could you possibly know about killing?"
"More than you," bit back the redheaded woman, causing the bounty hunter to shift and lower his hand towards the revolver on his leg.
"Just get off the horse," growled one of the Zuni's captors as he reached for his gun, but his hand never reached it. With incredible speed, the newly arrived man had his own revolver out and fired a shot that sent one of Matthew's captors stumbling back, clutching his chest while he fell to the ground. Even as the echoing thunder of the gunshot hung in the air, the stranger fired a second shot into another of the white men, causing the man to clutch an arm before a third shot sent his head snapping back.
The woman was not idle, Kai-Sa saw, only instead of reaching for her guns, her gloved hands went to her blade and the Zuni gawked at the sight of it, shimmering in the sunlight. Mouth agape, he could only watch the woman lift a foot from her stirrup and rest in on her saddle before launching herself at one of his captors, swinging the massive blade down at him and driving the point through his belly as she knocked him to the ground. Yanking the sword free, she slashed the edge across his chest before rounding on another bounty hunter and pressing the blade to his throat before drawing her revolver and pressing the muzzle to his head before she pulled the trigger.
Panicking, the two remaining bounty hunters scampered behind the wagon Kai-Sa was tied to, but the pistol wielding stranger urged his horse forward, guiding his horse right before suddenly changing direction and coming around behind the men, shooting one in the back before the last one leapt at the Zuni. Raising his bound hands in a futile attempt to defend himself, Red Moon felt the white man's arm wrap around his neck as a pistol barrel was placed against his head. "Do…don't come any closer!" stammered the bounty hunter.
The only reply came as a gunshot, and Kai-Sa felt a splash on the side of his face as the grip around his neck loosened. Turning around the Zuni scribe saw his last captor crumple to the ground in a heap, half his head missing. It was a sight gruesome enough to cause Kai-Sa to wretch, and the Zuni hunched over and threw up what little food was still in his stomach.
Spitting the foul taste out of his mouth, the Zuni man saw a shadow loom over him and looked up to see the formidable woman looming over him. Even with the bloody sword still clutched in her hand, Kai-Sa was struck by her womanly features that were prominently displayed by her minimal attire. When she cleared her throat, Matthew realized he'd been caught staring and noticed that she was offering him a water skin, which he happily accepted and downed a draught from. "You have my thanks, miss, and you as well sir. Those men, they were…."
"Incompetent fools," finished the woman, flicking the blood off her sword before replacing it in the sheath on her hip. She then reached for a smaller knife and held it out expectantly, only for Kai-Sa to take a moment to realize what she was offering before he extended his own hands and she cut the binding rope loose. "What of you, boy? What is your name?" she asked, eyes narrowed.
"To my people, I am Kai-Sa," he answered with what dignity he could muster, taking another drink to quench his aching throat. "Your people, your people call me Matthew Red Moon. I am a scribe of the Zuni Tribe, and I am no boy, I am a man of seventeen winters."
"Before me I see but a boy. Hold no illusions over yourself, Matthew Red Moon, the measure of a man is not his years, but his experiences," refuted the woman, voice sharp. It was enough to cow Kai-Sa, and he returned the water skin while turning his gaze instead towards the man, who had dismounted his horse and was examining the corpses of his deceased captors. "The men we seek, they are responsible for the deaths of many innocents. We have tracked them from MacLaughlin Ranch, have you seen a group of men, dangerous ones, traveling in this direction?"
Kai-Sa snickered, "Indeed I have, and you have already dispatched them," he replied, briefly glancing at the bodies of his captors before he felt his stomach twist and looked away. When he did, he realized the woman had said the same name the dead man had. "You are after the same bounty that these men were, are you bounty hunters? The Comanches who slew that family?"
"They weren't Comanches," drawled the man, causing Matthew to look up at him and see that he had lit a cigarillo, the tobacco glowing softly. Removing it and blowing out a puff of smoke, the man met the Zuni's gaze. "Who said they were?"
"These men were certain of it," answered Kai-Sa, "Spoke of the Deputy of Deming, and how he placed a bounty on the heads of Red Men."
The man shifted his eyes to the woman, "Where'd he get an idea like that, Calamity Dame?"
Turning his attention back to the redhead, the Zuni watched her cross her arms and answer, "I merely recounted what I had seen. When I spoke of the brutality done to John MacLaughlin, Cooper's man took that to mean the Comanche were responsible. I have heard you speak of them as if they were."
"They were, alright," answered the man before taking another drag, "But if it were Comanche, it wouldn't have been just John who got scalped… it would've been all of 'em. People thinking it was the Comanche, that's just what he wanted… You, take that horse, get on outta here," ordered the man.
But Kai-Sa shook his head, "You will not be rid of me. You see, I have heard of you two, Tombstone and the She-Devil, you're them, aren't you?" Neither of them answered, only exchanging a look with the other, and so the Zuni scribe prattled on, "I didn't believe the stories, about how you dress," he said, pointing at the woman who could only be Sonja before his finger shifted towards Walker, "Or how fast you are on the draw, but now that I have seen it… I wish to see more. I will travel with you. Record your exploits."
Despite trying to sound sure of himself, the scribe could hear a quiver in his own voice and cursed his own fraying nerves as both vaunted killers stared at him with intense, hardened gazes. Kai-Sa made to speak on his own behalf when he saw Tombstone shrug and blow a puff of smoke. "Hell Calamity Dame, I figure this goes three ways. The kid chickens out 'fore we get where we're goin,' he turns coward when we get there, or he turns brave and gets himself killed."
"Aye, you speak true, Joshua Walker," replied Sonja, her attention now focused on her partner. "Will he hamper us in any way?"
"I won't be a bother!" interjected Red Moon, "I know the risks of this undertaking and it is not one I choose lightly. You need not worry about me."
"Then grab a gun and a horse, we're burnin' daylight," replied Walker as he returned to his own mount and the Zuni rushed to do as ordered, eager to embark on the grand adventure he was sure awaited him.
"The sun sets, we had best make camp," called Sonja as the heat of the day gave way to the chill of the desert nights, pricking at her exposed skin, not that she was unused to such things. Their pace had not slowed since leaving Caroline with one of Deming's deputies and a few of the townsfolk who had offered their aid to the distraught woman while Sonja and Walker set off on the trail of those responsible for slaying the family.
Her partner brought his horse to a stop at her words, but his gaze remained on the horizon, fighting against the fading light to discern if their quarry lay within reach. "They can't be far off…."
"And if we find them as we are now, weary from the day's travel, then they will have the edge over us. But no, their pace was no doubt faster than ours; I would suspect our foe is some ways off yet." Sonja watched Tombstone spit angrily before wheeling his horse around and returning to her, though his anger was plain on his face. "We will depart with the sunrise, the trail is good, and we have had little trouble following it so far.
"That's what worries me," drawled Walker, voice low, before he swung a leg over his saddle and slid from his horse. "Get down kid, you'd better pitch in now, ya' hear? Go find some brush for a fire, the drier, the better." Given a task, the Indian, with his red hued skin and pitch black hair, jumped awkwardly from his horse and scampered off into the darkening night in search of materials.
Dismounting her Kentucky Saddler, Sonja spoke as they laid out their camp in a well practiced routine. "This Indian, he is not like those I have heard so much about."
"That's 'cause he's a Zuni, Sonja, not Comanche, different people, 'bout as different as can be," answered Walker. "Comanche are plains riders, nomads, they hunt the buffalo, and are vicious, tough fighters. The Zuni are a Pueblo people, farmers, but to be honest I don't know much 'bout 'em. Never had much cause to deal with them, they mostly keep to themselves out in their villages."
"A different tribe then, if this was to be one of the Comanche, I would have been disappointed," hummed Sonja, unpacking her own provisions. "And it is these Comanche that we seek? What are they like?"
"They can be brutal, savage people, raping and stealing women, scalping the men," returned the Gunsligner.
Sonja's eyes widened, her mind focusing on a single word until its meaning became understood, "Scalping? That is what happened to John MacLaughlin, is it not?" His wound had been distinct and gruesome, and it had stuck with the Hyrkanian so completely that it was a detail she had relayed to Cooper's deputy when she arrived in Deming.
Walker nodded, "The savages take 'em as trophies. But…" he hedged firmly, working his jaw as he mulled his next words. Sonja waited patiently, hands on her hips, and then listened as her partner continued. "It wasn't no Comanche raiding band that did what we saw to the MacLaughlins. If it was… they'd have scalped more than just John. The Comanche wouldn't have left everything as it was, no, they'd've taken the horses, the food in the house, the weapons. Whoever did it wanted people to think it was Comanche who did it," explained Walker before shaking his head, "That was always one of his favorite tricks, plantin' evidence, misdirection."
"You know more than what you have spoken," stated Sonja, placing a hand on the man's shoulder and turning him to face her. "Speak plainly, this knowledge plagues you and I would not have you carry its burden alone." Walker tried to shake Sonja's hand off, by the Hyrkanian's grasp remained firm, determined to not let the cunning Bounty Hunter evade her questions. "Joshua," she implored lowly, "I have shared more with you than I have with any other man, I hope that you can find me worthy of sharing what you have on your mind."
"It ain't that I don't trust you, Sonja, it's that I don't know for sure. I just got this feeling, that's all," he answered, but the Swordswoman could hear that he was trying to verbally evade her. Her grip on him remained firm as she met and held his gaze. "It's probably nothing, just drop it."
"If it were nothing, then it would not bother you so," retorted the Hyrkanian, now growing more anxious as the continued reluctance of the man to speak on this matter.
Taking a deep breath, Walker's shoulders slumped as he spoke, "While taking a look around the Ranch, I found a cigarette, a European one. I know a killer, a man who smoked those: his name's Frank, Frank Steinhoff. He was a Prussian calvary officer who fought the Dutch and Austrians, he's good on a horse, great shot with pistol and rifle, and a damned cunning tactician. He is utterly ruthless and will kill anyone who gets in his way."
"If the man is such a deplorable criminal, why is there no bounty for him? We could pursue him," suggested Sonja.
Walker shook his head, "There's no bounty because Steinhoff isn't a criminal, he's an enforcer for the Southwestern Union Railway. He gets people off land the railroad wants, sees off people who try to get in the way, protects the build crews from bandits, Indians, stuff like that." The man fidgeted for a moment before he reached for a stick of his favored tobacco and stuck it between his lips. Striking a match, casually flaunting the display of alchemy as he brought the flame to his cigarillo and lit it, Walker took a deep drag before continuing, "Frank answers directly to the head of the railroad company. Hell, he can't do up his own fly without being ordered to."
Blood boiling as she grasped the implications of his words, the Hyrkanian fought to keep her own voice low, "Then it is this man who bears responsibility for their deaths, so it shall be he who feels our furious retribution. So help me Scathach," vowed Sonja, her hand coming off the man's shoulder and clenching into a fist. "This vile man, a coward who sends wretched men to trample the innocent underfoot for his own enrichment, what be his name?"
Walker squirmed, removing his cigarillo and blowing a puff of smoke before taking another deep drag. "The head of the Southwestern Union Railway is a pompous old baron by the name of Jerimiah Walker. My father."
Closing Notes: Second arc of the story is now under way, though it will be much shorter than the first. Hopefully I didn't give too much away, but I'm hoping it's enough to keep y'all interested.
See you guys next time, Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.