ã€ŠWindow Rockã€‹


 Chapter 1

    The sun beat down, brutal and sharp, on the tin roof, and found ways to slither through tiny holes and strike Seen in the eyes. He slapped at invisible flies, too weary to desire more than to roll over and try and hide his face from the glare, but the ground he lay on was just as unforgiving as the morning sun.

    He rose and staggered to the entrance of the baked mud hut. The desert stretched as far as he could see in every direction, a desolate salt pan dotted with rolling tumbleweeds and bloated, greedy cacti. The horizon shimmered and swam like waves on the ocean. A trick of the heat rising off the baked earth.

    Seen dug in his pocket and found a small scrap of newspaper and a pinch of tobacco. He rolled the dry leaf in the newspaper and spent a bit of moisture to lick the edge. This damn habit would kill him someday, if the heat didn''t get him first. Still he struck a match and held it up to his roll. The calm of the tobacco filled his lungs.

    Squinting against the sun, he waddled out to the small garden patch he kept, undid his fly, and watered the corn. His foot hit an ear lying on the ground. Seen kicked it, scattering the kernels that remained across the dirt, and a crow rose out of the corn with an indignant caw. It alighted on the scarecrow.

    Seen glared at the bird as he did up his fly. The bird stared at him with beady eyes. Seen didn''t need the corn, not the way he needed water or air or not to be shot. Even if the damn bird ate every ear, Seen would be okay. But it was his corn and that damn, fearless bird mocked him.

    Seen went inside and filled his bucket from the pump at the back of the hut. After a few pulls of the handle, the pump sputtered out air instead of water, leaving his bucket only half full. He took a long drink, then set it next to his shovel. He decided he was done with that damn bird. He still had three bullets left. That ought to be enough to kill the thing.

    His revolver led the way outside. He pointed it at the bird and pulled back the hammer. The crow tilted its head, still studying him. What did the thing want, anyway? Hadn''t it stolen enough already? Seen squinted. Sun was so bright on the desert, it hurt his eyes. His hand shook.

    Seen fired. The crow launched itself into the air, cawing madly.

    "Fuck," Seen spat, dropping his roll. "Fucking rat with wings, get your ugly black mug down here where I can shoot it." He kicked the scarecrow. "Do your job, Sam, or I ain¡¯t going to pay your skinny ass. All I ask of you is to keep that fucking crow out of my corn. I just want enough to not be hungry for once."

    The crow circled and landed on the tin roof of the hut. "Caw," it said.

    Seen pulled the hammer again, pointing his revolver at the bird. A shot echoed across the salt pan, and the bird fell, rolled down the roof, and plopped at Seen''s feet. Seen lowered his weapon, his hammer still primed. His hand shook too much. He never would have hit it anyway, but someone had shot it. He squinted left and right, and seeing no one, crept around his hut, revolver first.

    If it was another of those fucking Texans here to harass him, he was going to give him what for.

    To the east, a man stood with the rising sun at his back. Even squinting, Seen could make out only a dark shape in the glare. A wide sombrero, and a thin man underneath it.

    "Hey!" Seen shouted. "You, Mexican. You shoot my crow?"

    The dark shape, still a hundred yards distant, approached slowly. Seen spat in the dust. He raised his revolver.

    "You stop there. You ain¡¯t the only one with a dead eye."

    The dark shape paused, and tilted his head. "Your hand is shaking, Shaman."

    Seen glanced at his hand. His revolver rattled around in his fingers. He fired anyway. The stranger''s gun barked once, and Seen''s revolver leapt out of his hand with a stinging blow that left his fingers numb. The revolver bounced against the side of the mud brick hut then skittered into the dirt.

    Seen looked up from his revolver at the ominous click as the stranger drew back his hammer again. Seen''s gun was only a few feet away.

    "Don''t try it," the man barked. "I didn''t come all the way out here to kill you. You have water?"

    Seen glared at the stranger. First the crow, now this. "I ain¡¯t got much but I got water," he muttered. He led the way around his hut, conscious of the gun pointed at his back.

    Once inside, the stranger holstered his revolver and dipped his hands in the bucket, slurping up water like he hadn''t had a drink in weeks. He had another revolver, twin of the first, on his opposite hip. Seen sat back against the opposite wall of the hut. He could probably take the man, then, but if this stranger had wanted him dead, he''d have shot Seen the first time, instead of disarming him. Seen didn''t see the point of it.

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Now that his eyes had adjusted, Seen could see some details of the face under the sombrero. Dark eyes, mustache. A full beard. The man looked like a proper vaquero.

    "You''re a long way out in nowhere, gunslinger," Seen said.

    "So are you," the man said. "I''m surprised to find you like this. I expected more feathers."

    Seen scowled. "You come all the way out here to make fun of me, gunslinger? Cause I''m the only man stupid enough to play shaman? As if every half-wit didn''t play gunslinger."

    The man laughed. Seen hadn''t made a joke and his scowl deepened. With his crossed bandoliers and fancy ivory revolvers, this man was obviously a gunslinger himself. And probably a half-wit.

    "Aye, I''m a gunslinger," the man said. "And you''re Seen Mighwood, the Shaman of Window Rock."

    Seen shrugged. "So?"

    "My name is James Sniper. I''ve been looking for you."

    "I''d like it if you went and unfound me."

    The man took another drink, saying nothing.

    "Where you from, anyway?" Seen asked. "I know all the players in these parts."

    "Jaurez," he said.

    Seen snorted. As likely Jaurez as Boulder. "Jaurez is gone. The Texans destroyed it, killed everyone."

    "Almost," James said with a small smile. "What are you doing out here in the desert, Seen? This isn''t the place for a Shaman." His eyes flitted to the shovel next to the bucket. "You looking for something?"

    "Aye, I''m looking to be left alone. I shared my water, and I ain¡¯t got anything else. So why don''t you git?"

    The man stared at him, as if measuring him.

    "There''s miles more of this desert waiting for you," Seen continued. "Ain¡¯t nothing out there but snakes and holes."

    "You feeling inspired when you built this mud hut?" James deadpanned.

    Now Seen laughed. His throat was too dry and he ended it with a cough. "I found it like this," he choked. "Corn and Sam and all. And the crow. It comes back, ya know. Shooting it don''t do any good. Thought the designer was feeling a bit inspired myself. Right in the middle of goddamn nowhere and don''t make a bit of sense but it has a pump that works."

    James smirked. Maybe he saw the reference too.

    "Truth was I was never a fan of King, but I enjoyed that series."

    "You talk too much, Shaman."

    Seen was about to go on, and instead he shut his mouth. James looked proper for a Mexican, but he was also baked Navajo red by the sun. He could have easily been a white boy out of Austin or Boulder.

    "So what do you want, anyway?" Seen asked. He had a sense that he was doing far too much of the talking in this exchange, but if he didn''t prod James, the man might say nothing at all.

    "I told you the truth," James said. He took two strips of hard tack from his pocket and offered one to Seen.

    Seen snatched it. He hadn''t eaten in days, and this would do nothing to fill the hollow in his stomach. He couldn''t starve, exactly, but that didn''t make it pleasant.

    James tore a chunk off his strip. "I need a shaman. Not just any. Luckily for me, the last shaman in the game is the same man I need. Do you remember the last Halloween?"

    Seen spat his half chewed tack onto the floor. He grabbed his gun, but didn''t draw it. Not yet. "You sure you didn''t come out here to make trouble?" he growled.

    James raised a placating hand. "Sensitive topic, is it? I know what you did that night. How long had you saved up?"

    "Four months," Seen muttered. It had turned out to be just a special event, but at the time, it had been done so well - why hadn''t he looked at a damn calendar? Then he would have known.

    "I''m here because of the ability you bought that night," James said.

    "If I''d known - that ability crippled my build. I maxed it out, and it''s completely useless."

    "But for one night, you were the hero of Window Rock."

    "I tried to get the mods to give my points back." Seen eyed the wad of tack sitting in the dirt, having forgotten the anger that made him spit it out. Well, he wasn''t so far gone yet. He tore another chunk off his strip instead. "They said no, of course. Laughed at me. Told me to start over. They never should have added an ability to control the undead if there weren''t going to be any more undead, but for them it was more about pride than good game design. And then," he held out his arms to indicate everything around them, the hut, the corn, the desolate wasteland. "this."

    "It''s not useless," James said. He leaned close and lowered his voice to a whisper. "There are undead left. At least one."

 Chapter 2

    John Bearcat bit down on his cigar and grinned the devil''s grin as he cranked his Gatling gun. Hot brass casings flew from the ejection port and bounced against his arm, leaving little red burns. Each sizzle sent a thrill running down his spine. They reminded him that he was alive, in an abbreviated sense, in a way that other worldly pleasures no longer did. Each crank made his barrels spin, each crank fed a little more of the long belt of bullets that draped over his arm through the firing mechanism.

    He breathed in time to the recoil, enjoying the way his gun let him reach out and kill someone. His bullets chewed through the stagecoach at the bottom of the hill, kicking off splinters of wood. They made sparks when they hit metal. Some of his shots went completely through the coach, and made puffs of dirt where they hit the road behind. Others hit the dead bodies of the men who had thought they could hide from him.

    Wholly unsatisfied, John let the barrels slow to a halt. Everyone on, or in the coach must be dead or dying by now, and that included the horses which had stopped screaming fifty rounds ago. He descended the hill he had ambushed the stagecoach from and approached it. He drew his revolver, just in case, and pulled open the door.

    It fell off in his hand and he dropped it onto the dirt. Nobody appeared in the dark opening to challenge him, though it wouldn''t have been the first time. Bullet holes decorated the interior in constellations, and John squinted into the darkness.

    A girl sat on the forward seat, her breath as ragged as the bullet chewed curtains. She clutched at her middle, where a red stain oozed between her fingers. Her face was pale. The girl looked at him, the stunned expression of someone who knew they were dead on her face. Gut wound, it looked like.

    "Yar a player?" he asked.

    "Please sir, I''ll give you anything, anything," the girl sputtered, spraying a fine red mist as she spoke. "There ain''t much but you can take it."

    Wrong answer. John raised his revolver and shot her dead. He didn''t have time for any damn cpu. There should have been players on this coach. Americans. He climbed into the coach and looked out the other side. Had he killed the guards he expected in his first volley, when they had tried to hide behind the stagecoach? He didn''t think so. Players usually shot back.

    He kicked the seat opposite the dead girl, making the cushion pop into the air and revealing the compartment underneath. Inside was a small wooden box that turned out to be heavier than it looked. He opened it and saw the glitter of gold. So it hadn''t been a complete waste of his bullets, but he''d hardly call this endeavor profitable. Eventually, the Americans would start guarding these damn cpus, and then things would get interesting.

    Thinking of rolling his bullets across actual players for a change, and unable to keep his devil grin off his face, John slung his Gatling gun over his shoulder and trekked back up the hill. His horse waited on the other side. It was probably spooked by all his firing, and if it had gotten loose again - well, maybe it was about time he found a new horse. One with a bit of backbone.

    As soon as he crested the rise, he spotted another shape standing next to his horse. A man in a sombrero, and a pure black stallion. The man held the reins of both horses. Oh, hell no. John swung the Gatling gun down. He dropped the box, ignoring the way it burst open. Spanish coins scattered across the ground, mixing with the spent casing from earlier. He needed that hand free for the crank.

    The man below pointed a revolver at John. "Don''t turn that crank!" he shouted.

    Caught in the open with no cover, John could kill this idiot in a few turns, no matter how high level he was. But not without risking his horse. "Why shouldn''t I?"

    "I''ve been looking for you."

    "Lots of people looking for me. What do you think you''re going to do with that little gun?"

    The man looked at his gun, then put it away. "Fair enough, John. It is John, right? Or do you prefer Bearcat?"

    So this man knew his name. It wasn''t like John was hard to recognize, with his dark Navajo face and the skull tattoo that covered most of it. He sneered.

    "You were recommended," the man continued. "Your friend Seen Mighwood spoke highly of you."

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    "You find him scratching in the desert again? He''s no friend of mine."

    "He said you were angry, John. You never got it, and could never accept it."

    John spit out the nub of his cigar and ground it under his heel. All he had to do was crank. Hell, he''d walked further. He''d find another horse. But it was fucking hot out here, and he''d have to deal with snakes and banditos and whatever fucking else he ran into if he didn''t get back quickly. "How about you head back and tell him to shove that spirit quest nonsense up his ass? I don''t want what you''re selling and I''d appreciate you letting go of my horse."

    "I didn''t come looking for you just to kill you, Bearcat."

    "Good cause you ain''t going to. No point in being spiteful and forcing me to walk, is there? So just as soon as you let go of my horse, I''ll get on with the murdering."

    "There''s a price on your head. Four hundred dollars. I won''t be the only one looking for you." The man drew a rolled poster from his pack and held it up, letting the bottom uncoil to reveal John''s grinning mugshot. "The mods want your head."

    "The mods smile on us all, gunslinger. When these others come, I''ll shoot them too."

    "Don''t you want to know why the mods put a bounty on you?"

    "Not really, no."

    This perturbed the stranger. He took off his hat and fanned himself. John had had enough, he decided, and had already let this fellow ramble on too long.

    "Wait," the man said, "If I release your horse, will you hear me out?"

    John ground his teeth. This fellow would look good dead, and he probably had some decent loot. "No promises."

    The stranger nodded. He dropped the reins of John''s horse and slapped the animal. It tossed its head and trotted a few steps away from the stranger, just far enough that John wouldn''t have to worry over much about hitting it.

    "Now get talking," he ordered.

    "These coaches you''re hitting," the stranger said, still fanning himself. "They''re all going to Boulder. You''re hitting the mod''s coaches."

    "Aye, so what?"

    "They ain''t getting their gold, and they know it''s you. Pretty soon it will be American soldiers guarding these coaches, then actual players. What are you going to do then?"

    John shrugged. So he''d have more people to kill first.

    The stranger shook his head. "I thought so. Haven''t planned for it at all, have you? Well, it''s a pittance John, and a real shame, to see a soldier of your caliber out here hitting coaches for - what? A handful of Spanish gold? How many whores is that worth back in Window Rock?"

    "You come out here thinking to get that four hundred dollars for yourself?"

    The man chuckled. "No. Not interested in it."

    "You want a cut of the gold, then?"

    "No, John. You wouldn''t share it. I know you better than you could expect, because in a lot of ways, I used to be like you. You don''t know what to do with yourself. You''ve had a hole in your life since we''ve been trapped here, and you''re trying to fill it with the only things you understand. Shooting, drinking, and fucking."

    Well fuck. John wondered why he hadn''t shot the man earlier, before he''d let the man talk so much. It would have been easier then, before his words that felt too accurate not to be true. He gripped the crank of his gun so tightly his knuckles turned white.

    "I came looking for you to offer you a lot more gold than you''re getting here," the stranger said. "Actual loot. I want you to come with me on a raid."

    John Bearcat laughed, the tension draining away. This man was a loon - an insightful one, maybe, but still mad. Nobody went on raids anymore. It took dozens of people. There weren''t enough players left in any given faction to raise a posse that size. Maybe the Texans could - maybe. If they managed not to descend into bickering half way to their target.

    The stranger was staring at him, squinting, and still fanning himself. "It''s not a joke, John. A real raid. I need you to come with me and do what you do best, and I promise you''ll get first cut of the loot."

    Raids did mean good loot, more than the few coins scattered around his feet. He hadn''t been on one in years, and this piqued his interest. He set the butt of his Gatling gun in the dirt and leaned on it. "Alright gunslinger, I''m listening. Tell me about this raid."

 Chapter 3

    "Iron Marge!" the gunslinger on the street yelled. Another shot echoed outside, making Margaret Tanner flinch where she crouched behind the bar. Above her, a bottle exploded and rained shards of glass. The gunslinger knew she was in the saloon, but so far, he hadn''t actually shot anyone. He''d ridden into Carson on a big black stallion waving around the Texan flag. There was nothing to do for it, the brass star on Margaret''s breast obligated her to go out there and face this hooligan.

    "Give me my hat, Thomas," she said to the teenage boy hiding at the far end of the bar.

    Thomas reached onto the counter and picked her hat off the top, then scurried over. He also carried a rifle.

    "Don''t fire at him unless I die. Understand? Pass the word to the rest of the posse."

    "Iron Marge I know you''re in there you yellow bellied bitch!" His next shot hit the player piano in the corner and the drum began to turn, ticking out a slow mournful dirge.

    Margaret settled her hat on her head, drew her revolver, and walked quickly for the bat doors. "I''m here, gunslinger. Stop shooting up my town."

    The gunslinger stood in the street with his nonchalant horse behind him. He held a pole in his left hand, on which flew the lone star. Margaret scanned the street. Most of her lads were up on the roofs, crouched behind crenelations and rain barrels. The npcs had scattered to their usual places, cowering inside shops and alleyways. They wouldn''t help, even the ones armed were useless in a fight between players.

    Margaret stepped to the center of the street, her spurs clicking. The gunslinger wore a wide sombrero and two crossed bandoliers on his chest. One of his revolvers was still holstered, and he lowered the other and slid it away. Margaret nodded. She holstered her own weapon. It was going to be a quick draw.

    Margaret imagined that he stared at her from under that sombrero. Only the tip of a black beard poked from under the shadow. His hand twitched at his hip, not touching the gun, but ready.

    From the corner of her eye, Margaret saw Thomas slide into place on the saloon roof. This was going to be messy. There was something familiar about this gunslinger, something that made her think she ought to know him. "You know why they call me Iron Marge?" she asked.

    "You don''t flinch," the gunslinger said.

    What a lie that was. "Are you sure you want to do this? I''m the fastest draw there is."

    The man smiled, showing a row of bright white teeth, and one that glinted gold. And suddenly he moved. His hand struck like a serpent, and his gun barked twice in quick succession before Margaret had even closed her hand. Her badge leapt from her chest, propelled on a spurt of blood, and spun in the air before her. There was a hole dead center in the star. The sun glinted off the violently polished metal where the bullet had burst through. His second bullet grew larger, filling her vision, then obliterating her. She died before she felt the pain in her chest, with her revolver still in its holster.

    Margaret sat bolt upright. A dull ache throbbed in her breast and behind her left eye, but they were already fading, just after images on imaginary nerves. She was upstairs above the saloon, in her big feather bed. No one drew that fast. No one was that accurate, except James Sniper. But James couldn''t draw like that. Iron Marge was the fastest there was. Unless he had upgraded. She climbed out of bed and put on her boots. Gunshots sounded in the street below, dulled by the fuzz of death.

    Margaret pushed the curtains aside and looked through the dirty glass. If that was James down there, he was acting odd. James hated the Texans even more than Margaret did. That flag was too overt, an over-the-top proclamation of a false loyalty. Her posse would buy it wholesale.

    The gunslinger turned toward her and fired. She didn''t flinch, but his aim was directed higher anyway. Thomas yelled and fell past Margaret''s window. He struck the porch roof, then slid down and landed in a cloud of dust on the street. His body shimmered and vanished as the rune of recall took him. The gunslinger looked around for someone else to shoot, and apparently finding no one, holstered his weapon.

    Margaret took her own gun from the hook by the door, and her - where was her hat? James, if that was James down there, must have shot it off. Fuck him if he had put a hole in her favorite hat. She buckled on her gun belt and went downstairs.

    The bat doors stood open, propped by a dead npc. The piano still played the same song. Outside, the gunslinger dragged a different dead npc toward a pile of corpses in the center of the street. One of his sleeves had turned crimson.

    "You about done, James Sniper?" Margaret called from the saloon porch.

    The man turned toward her and took off his sombrero. It was James, and his quick smile hadn''t changed since the last time she''d run into him years ago. He fanned himself with the sombrero. "You tell me Marge, I shot eleven of them."

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    "Aye, that''s all."

    "That Tafferty girl winged me before I got her." He poked a finger through a hole in his sleeve, laughed, and went back to pulling the body through the dirt.

    "I''ll be sure to let her know. You want to explain why you killed all my boys and girls, James?"

    James looked up again, grinning. "Sure looks like a Texan vaquero did this, Marge." He took the lone star on the pole and thrust the sharp end down into the latest body, so that it stood upright. "Expected more of you. Where''s Fran?"

    "He went to Window Rock to check on something the Americans are up to."

    "It took you twenty minutes, Marge. How long do you think the queue is?"

    Marge grunted. If she had been out for twenty minutes, then Thomas wouldn''t wake up for hours. "I reckon there''s enough time to talk before I shoot you. Why don''t you start by telling me how you drew so fast?"

    "What''s the matter Marge, upset that you aren''t the fastest anymore?"

    "You know damn well I''m upset. How would you like it if some fucking desperado rolled in and killed your entire posse?"

    James gave her a look that reminded her where he came from. The Texans had done just that to Jaurez, more or less. And she''d heard terrible rumors from there, of the Mexicans barricaded into their saloon, trapped in their rooms until they surrendered to the Texans and went meekly to work in Texan gold mines.

    James shook his head. "I''m going after the big prize, Marge."

    "Like a boss raid?"

    "Bigger," he said with a smile. "I want the developer."

    "You ought to get to the part where you convince me not to shoot you." Margaret crossed her arms and leaned against the porch post. She wouldn''t shoot him, at any rate. She had done her duty by going out there and being the first to die, and she expected James planned to be gone before the first of her posse woke up. And where the fuck had her hat gone? It wasn''t anywhere in the street.

    James waved a hand toward his pile of corpses, with the lone star flying in the center of them. "Texas did this to Carson. That''s what you''ll remember, anyway, and what you''ll let your boys and girls believe."

    "Half my boys are Texans."

    "Are they loyal to you or to Austin?"

    She studied him, willed her eyes to become daggers and stab him, and he just looked back with his insufferable smile.

    "Why do you stick around here, Marge? You could be running Austin."

    "I could," she agreed. Ten minutes or so before the first of her posse sprang screaming from their bed. Some of them would wake up in Austin or Phoenix, and not be back for days. Those were the ones she ought to be angry at James about. They''d all get hassled. "I prefer Carson. The people are nicer. I wouldn''t expect you to understand. You''ve always been a lone wolf, a gunslinger. You forget, I do too sometimes, how young a lot of my children were when it happened. Some of them have grown up in here. The game is more real to them than the life we all lost."

    "You turning into a mom, Marge?"

    "More like a teacher. Do you got a plan to get the Developer this time, or is this just another whim? Answer carefully, if you came here on a whim I''ll see you dead. You can wake up in Jaurez, locked in the saloon again."

    "There''s a trading post on the west side of the great basin, in between here and Phoenix," James said. "You know of it?"

    "Aye, I know of it."

    "Bring only yourself. One week. None of the children, understand?"

    "And your plan?"

    "Marge," he said, in a reassuring tone. He spread his arms to indicate the slaughtered town. "This is the plan. Your posse is going to get revenge on Austin for this, and I''m counting on you to lead them."

    Someone cursed upstairs.

    "You best go," Margaret set. "And you owe me a hat."

    James nodded and swung onto his black stallion. "You''re going to like this one, Marge. It involves a lot of justice."

    "Git, will you?"

    With a final nod, James Sniper spurred his horse and rode out of town. Margaret sat in the rocking chair on the porch of the saloon and looked at the pile of bodies in the street. The npcs wouldn''t care, they didn''t have the capacity. And they never remembered anyway. But her children - when they saw that lone star flag speared through Mr. Wilkes, who ran the general store, it would take every bit of influence Margaret had to keep them from riding off to Austin immediately. If they went in brashly, all they''d get is killed, and a ticked off Austin.

    Margaret sighed and listened as the piano finally wound down. As the last notes faded, Alexandra burst onto the porch holding a shotgun, her blond hair billowing around her bare shoulders. She hadn''t taken the time to put on shoes or pants. "Fuck," the girl spat. "Is he gone already?"

    "Been gone," Margaret said. "Go inside and stop the others as they wake up. We can''t afford any rash decisions here."

 Chapter 4

    Seen climbed between old growth pines into the Sierra Nevada. When he looked back, the entire great basin lay out below him, until it vanished into a haze of dust and clouds. Somewhere down there was his salt pan, and his hut, and his holes. Ahead waited something larger. A promise that he might have a chance to do something more than dig in the desert. Something that might fill him up in a way that none of his spirit quests or mushrooms ever could.

    A trading post sat in the trees at the top of the ridge. A small clapboard building with ''saloon'' on a sign at one end and ''general store'' at the other. Brush grew right over the paths he followed. Not even the animals had been this way in a long time. Their tracks - old, faded markings in the mud- and other signs of their passage jumped out at him, surrounded by a soft pink glow. The newest was months old.

    Even the npcs had vanished. Where did they go? Did they move to more populated areas, or just fade away? Seen picked his way around the mud in the pitted grass field in front of the saloon. Less careful travelers had left tracks there, three distinct sets. The bat doors squeaked when he pushed through.

    All eyes were on him. A grinning, dirty old man sat at a table at one end, near a player piano that sagged in the middle. He carved the tabletop with a big bowie knife. John Bearcat sat at the bar, with a red haired woman who wore a sheriff''s badge. Bearcat wore a sneer, and had painted his face in white contours so he looked like a grinning skull. This gunslinger had better be right about needing a soldier. John Bearcat was an uncontrollable brute, and even after everything Seen had told James, here John was.

    The woman openly studied Seen as he made his way around the tables to the bar. "I''m Margaret," she said, extending a hand.

    "Seen Mighwood," he replied.

    "Excuse me?" Margaret yanked her hand back and sprang off her barstool. Her hand was on her gun faster than Seen could follow.

    John caught her elbow before she could raise the revolver. "Relax," he drawled, "That''s just his stupid name."

    "Sorry," Seen said. He glanced around, glad it hadn''t come to violence already. "I guess you''re all here because of the gunslinger?"

    "Why else?" John asked, leaning back against the bar. "What are you here for? Selling snake oil or the hokey spirituality?"

    In all these years, John Bearcat hadn''t changed. Seen imagined that, in some distant memory of a lost world, John was the kind of asshole who picked up girls in a bar by telling them how pretty their friends were. "Maybe the plan involves bouncing whores on your knees,¡± Seen said. ¡°Or maybe crying in their arms at night. You aren''t good for anything else."

    John rushed off his stool and had Seen by the collar before he could react. Seen''s feet left the floor, and John pulled back his other massive fist - Margaret slid between them, deftly freeing Seen from John''s grip and shoving John back toward the bar. She didn''t notice the revolver Seen had drawn, or pretended not to. "Children!" she admonished. "You aren''t boys, don''t behave like it. We came here for a reason and let¡¯s save the fights for after."

    Seen holstered his revolver, but he held it just long enough to be sure John saw it. The big man''s eyes narrowed as they flitted across the cold steel barrel. That''s right, John. One shot for one punch. "Fine," Seen said. He pulled out the stool next to Margaret and sat.

    John growled, but he also sat. Margaret was between them, which might stop any further hostility.

    "Is that Margaret as in Iron Marge?" Seen asked.

    Margaret glanced at him over her whiskey glass and nodded.

    "I didn''t know he was recruiting Iron Marge," Seen said. "I''ve heard things about you."

    "Good things, I hope."

    Seen shrugged. Some bad things too, but no point in going down that path. It''d just cause more friction. "So, who¡¯s our other friend?"

    "Don''t know," Margaret said. "He arrived not long before you. Hasn''t said a word, just went over there and started carving."

    Seen studied the old man. The man''s eyes never strayed from the three of them at the bar, even as he carved large curls out of the table top. The man was scrawny, even thinner than Seen, and Seen couldn''t remember the last time he''d had a meal that hadn''t already been picked over by a crow. He wore prospector gear, which explained some of it. This was probably the type to wander around in the mountains alone, which of course begged for Seen to wonder what use this man could be. Iron Marge and John he understood, they were both deadly. Even his own purpose he understood, once James Sniper had explained it to him. But what would they need a prospector for?

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    The prospector had a wide, crazy grin and eyes that both couldn''t hold still and managed to stare. The way he looked in two directions at once crawled under Seen''s skin and he found himself swatting imaginary insects off his arms. Most interesting, and the last thing Seen noticed, was that he didn''t carry a gun. Seen played a shaman, and even he wasn''t stupid enough to go around unarmed.

    Margaret thrust a whiskey glass at Seen, then poured a couple fingers into it. She winked. Outside, the tinkle of spurs on the porch announced the arrival of the final member of their party. James Sniper pushed the door open and hung his sombrero on the hook beside it.

    "Gentlemen," James said, holding his hands out to encompass the entire room. "And Marge. You look as lovely as always."

    "Stuff it, gunslinger," Margaret said, and upended her whiskey glass.

    Seen sipped at his. Mods, it was strong. He could have used it to clean grease off a locomotive.

    "Seen, Marge, John," the gunslinger said, "I see you have all met. Allow me to introduce the fifth member of our band." He stepped up to the grinning prospector. "This is Wayne. Wayne, say hello."

    "Oh boy," the old prospector said. He looked up at James the way a dog did at its master.

    "This raid likely to involve a lot of prospecting?" John asked.

    "Wayne has some useful talents. As do all of you - shaman, soldier, lawman."

    "Law-woman," Margaret said.

    "And I am sure you are each wondering what role you have to play in this grand adventure." James pulled a chair from Wayne''s table and propped one boot on it, leaning on his knee. "Especially since I have bribed each of you with a different promise."

    "Get to the part where we shoot them," John grumbled.

    John really hadn''t changed at all, but Seen discovered he agreed with the large man. "Skip the speech," he said. "We''re all already sold or we wouldn''t be here, at least I wouldn''t."

    James looked between them, then behind himself at Wayne. "You''re all sure?"

    "Oh boy," Wayne said with a nod.

    James shrugged. "The Developer, the man who cursed us with the rune of recall, didn''t vanish like you might have thought. He''s been held all these years by the moderators in Boulder."

    Margaret was nodding along. That did more to make Seen believe than anything James could have said. Iron Marge seemed somehow down to earth. If she believed this tale, Seen saw no reason to question it.

    "That is our prize," John said, holding out his hand and then clenching it into a fist. "They have had him for five years, and nothing in this place has changed. It''s time their reign of tyranny comes to an end."

    The Developer - Seen could think of no greater prize. No amount of gold would matter if they freed the Developer. In his gratitude, he would lavish gold upon them, and equipment, and npcs if they desired that. John would. The Developer could even give them the power of a moderator.

    "Oh boy," Wayne said.

    "Yes, and explosions, my old friend. There will be explosions."

    Wayne grinned, nodded, and went back to his carving. He muttered something under his breath, over and over again. Seen couldn''t hear it well enough to make out the words, but he could guess. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy..."

    Margaret leaned forward on her stool, whiskey glass balanced in her hand. "If the Developer is captive, like you say, then he''s guarded by at least two moderators. Andross and Sam don''t leave Boulder. And the other two aren''t ever far away. Plus you have two American controlled towns to deal with, and probably the Texans as well, thanks to their new alliance. That''s over eighty players between all three towns. What are five of us going to do?"

    "First," James began, "We need to drive a wedge between the Texans and the Americans..."

 Chapter 5

    The Texans hold an uneasy truce with the Americans of Boulder, due mostly to the relationship between Richard Large and Deadeye Sam. Boulder leaves the Texans alone, and in turn, the Texans don''t harass the coaches that roll between Phoenix and Boulder on regular routes.

    Our friend here has been hitting those coaches. They carry gold - yeah I know it''s not much John, don''t interrupt. These coaches are predictable, and they also carry goods. We''re going to hit one, and thanks to John, it''ll be guarded.

    <hr>

    Margaret couldn''t see a damned thing down on the flats, but Seen insisted the coaches were there. Two of them, in fact. Like every faction in this hot, desolate hell, the Americans had their own kit and colors, and their blue shirts should have made them easy to spot. At this range, she couldn''t tell which of those dust clouds came from a whirlwind and which from a stagecoach.

    She lay at the crest of a hill with Seen and John, overlooking the eastern edge of the great basin. The road wound through the cacti below and skirted the edge of the hill to her left. Because of the way the road curved, and the high hill on which they waited, it was impossible to see around that turn. There was plenty of cover on this side of the road as well - large boulders littered the roadside - making this the perfect spot for ambushing a stagecoach.

    "Can you see them?" Margaret asked the larger Navajo, John Bearcat.

    John grunted, but nodded. "Racial ability," he said. "Not all of them are useless."

    Margaret pushed back from the top of the hill and scooted down far enough that she could sit up without being seen from out on the flats. Seen slid down beside her, rubbing his eyes. "You ready for this?" she asked him.

    "Ready enough." Seen drew his revolver.

    "How many soldiers?"

    "Just four."

    "No problem," John said.

    "Alright, you all know the plan." She glanced down the hill at Wayne, who grinned while stabbing a cactus. "Well you two anyway. Let''s get in position."

    Margaret jogged down the hill. She checked Seen''s position - he was back at the top of the hill, watching - and John''s, who waited halfway down the slope with his Gatling gun. "You ready, Wayne?"

    "Oh boy." Wayne flashed his knife.

    Wonderful. A rock skittered down the hill - Seen''s signal. Those coaches must be going fast. Margaret drew her revolver and crouched behind a boulder. "Get out there, Wayne."

    "Oh boy," the old man said, and darted out onto the road.

    Four men in blue uniforms thundered around the curve on white horses, great billows of dust rising off the road around them. Two stagecoaches followed them, pulled by two horses each. The riders would have to see Wayne immediately. Margaret had positioned them so that the Americans would have plenty of time to rein up. Of course, they might trample Wayne anyway. If that risk had occurred to the old prospector, it didn''t seem to damper his enthusiasm.

    The brakes on the coaches squealed, throwing sparks off the steel-shod tires, and the horses snorted as the drivers pulled hard on their reins. The coaches stopped askance, bumping into their horses and making them dance. The soldiers circled Wayne.

    One of them, an offer, gestured with a revolver in his hand. Margaret couldn''t hear what he said, but she heard Wayne''s reply nice and loud.

    "Oh boy!" Wayne yelled, and leapt. An old man shouldn''t be that spry. The prospector''s knife flashed in the sun and the officer''s horse screamed.

    Margaret turned her attention to the coaches. It was time for her to move. She angled toward the rear coach, keeping low. There was little chance that the soldiers would spot her while they were occupied with Wayne, but just in case, she wanted some cover between herself and them.

    She paused behind a boulder, near the rear wagon. The driver had his gun out, and his attention on the scuffle up ahead. Margaret laid her arm across the the rock to steady her aim. On the other side of the road, she spotted Seen creeping out from cover. What the hell was he doing? He was supposed to stay on the hill while Margaret got the coach -

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    An explosion behind her threw Margaret to the ground. She covered her head to protect herself from the shower of dirt and small rocks that followed. When she looked back, Wayne was gone. He''d left a small crater. Bits of gore lay scattered about, shimmering as their owner''s recall runes activated.

    The driver of the rear wagon had only raised his arm against the blast, and recovering quickly, he pointed his gun at Seen. Seen picked himself out the dirt, but before Margaret could warn him, the doors of the lead coach burst open and five soldiers poured out. Margaret pressed herself against her cover. They hadn''t seen her, but Seen was caught wide open. The driver shot him. Seen''s head jerked back, and he collapsed, completely limp.

    Fucking useless indian. She had to get that driver, or he would spot her coming, raise the alarm, and she''d have five soldiers to contend with. The driver was looking up at the hill. The soldiers were spreading out, heading toward the crater Wayne had left in the road, ignoring Seen''s body as it shimmered and vanished. In a moment they would be past her. Also in a moment, the chance for John Bearcat to kill them all together with his Gatling gun would pass.

    The driver of the rear coach walked his horses backwards, looking perhaps to turn around and go back the way they had come. It had to be now, before that driver whipped his horses into a gallop. "Now, John!" she shouted. Those five soldiers turned toward her immediately. She ducked behind the rock as shots ricocheted off. She knew she had only moments before the Americans flanked her, and if she dared to look over the rock she''d find two or three of them with rifles already trained on her position.

    On the hill, John roared, and the racouse noise of his Gatling gun joined the fray. Now the Americans ran for cover. John''s assault tore through the lead coach, striking the soldiers and pulverizing flesh into spurts of red gore. The driver of the rear coach whipped his horse, and Margaret ran for it. She flung herself on the back of the coach. John ran down the hill, and she reached out, one hand clutching the frame of the coach, and caught his arm with the other. He latched on beside her.

    The coach accelerated quickly. Margaret hauled herself onto the top. If this coach was also full of soldiers, they would have already come out. The driver looked back and fired. Margaret ducked, John grunted, and Margaret shot the driver''s jaw off. He fell sideways and rolled off the bench, and the coach lurched as the wheels crushed him. That was it, they''d done it. The wagon bounced violently as the horses left the road, flying over the brush and brambles that dotted the flats.

    "I got it," Margaret said, shouting over the sound of the wagon. "Get inside and make sure the cargo is there."

    John Bearcat nodded and, slinging his Gatling gun onto his back, lowered himself over the side of the coach.

    Margaret settled on to the driver''s bench and snatched up the reins. James Sniper was absolutely mad, but maybe this plan of his would work after all. This hadn''t all gone to plan, but they had their prize. She pulled the horses back toward the road.

    John grunted behind her.

    "Is it all there?" she asked. She glanced over her shoulder.

    Richard Large, moderator and leader of the Texan posse, towered over her. He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the bench. Margaret drew her revolver and shot him twice at point blank rank. Richard laughed and backhanded her with his free hand, sending her gun flying. He was a behemoth, a monster bulging with muscles and hate, and in love with his own power. Margaret grabbed his arm, clawing at him as his fingers crushed her. She kicked him, which had as much affect on him as her gun shots.

    Her vision faded, turned black, but lasted long enough for her to see him raise his gun. She felt the cold barrel against her temple and heard the shot, but never felt the pain.

 Chapter 6

    Richard Large lives up to his name. He is a colossal dick, and as he stands on top of that stagecoach choking the life out of Iron Marge, I can''t deny the raw power in his impressive frame. The coach rushes forward pulling a tail of dust behind it, and Dick sneers as the women in his grasp gurgles and gasps. Dick likes when it takes a while. He never looks away, not until the light fades from their eyes. I''ve seen him kill npcs, but he enjoys players more, and the one he''s got his hands on now is special. It''s a woman who has wronged him, in a personal fashion, by snatching away his victims, by giving her children something he can''t take away no matter how powerful he is.

    His posse calls him Big Dick, and if you asked Richard Large, he''d tell you it was both a nick name and an accurate description. He thinks it''s a compliment, but his boys don''t follow him because they respect him, or because he''s a good leader. They do it because they don''t have another choice. Dick entered the game ten years ago, and on the first day he shanked another first level player with a knife he stole, and he aint ever looked back. His sneer when he stands on the stagecoach with Iron Marge''s windpipe collapsing between his fingers is his version of a smile of pure joy. Choking that woman is what Richard Large was put in this world for.

    Eight years ago, I met that man in Austin. He was on the street shouting, some npc whore dead in the dirt below him, and I had just spent four levels on quick draw. I admit I was feeling a bit full of myself. My britches were tight, if you get my meaning. Dick cussed and called the whole damn town craven. The npc cowered behind barrels and inside shops. Sometimes they fired back at desperados, but Dick hadn''t killed enough to set them off. Besides, they always missed.

    The npc sheriff stepped out into the street. "Now you look here, Mr. Large," the man said. I was half a newb myself and Dick had a reputation for trouble. My companions urged me to stay put in the saloon, but I was just itching to try out my new skills. Big Dick shot the sheriff dead.

    That was when I decided to try myself against Richard Large. I stepped into the street, spurs clacking, head tilted so my hat hid my face, my hands hovering and twitching over my guns.

    "Any of you cowards going to come and face me?" Richard Large shouted. His back was to me, and he hadn''t noticed me yet, but I wasn''t - and I still aint - some craven. Sometimes I think I should have shot him in the back, but I know it wouldn''t have made any difference. Dick fired into the air twice. I''d counted, he only had one shot left.

    "I will," I said. I sounded braver than I felt. A thrill ran through me, a sense of the imminent danger held in Big Dick''s hand. Almost like I could actually die. This was the reason I played these games, and I would remember the moment later fondly.

    He turned around and squinted at me. "What, a fucking Mexican?"

    "Just you and me, quick draw," I said.

    Big Dick smirked. "Naw."

    He already had his gun drawn, raised, and aimed at me, and I saw his finger twitch. I drew. Some of it was my own reaction time, most I think was the purchased skill. I fired all six shots from the hip while Big Dick fired once. I still don''t know how many times I actually hit him. I didn''t fire faster than him, to this day I am convinced that he simply missed, but the result was the same either way. Big Dick fell backwards, arms limp, and his gun flew from his hand. He was as dead as the dirt he fell in, dead before he even hit the ground.

    That''s when all my trouble with Big Dick began. I''d beaten him, and that wasn''t allowed. He found me three months later in a little box canyon near Window Rock. I was up there on some damn collection quest that seems ridiculous to me now. In those days I put up with stupid shit like that mostly because I didn''t know any better. By then Big Dick had ingratiated himself to the moderators, but I''ll get to that.

    He came looking for me, out for revenge. I know this because he said so, shouting it to the hills. He was there to make me pay for killing him, never mind that I had played entirely within the rules of the game. I was a damn cheater, I had to be, there was no other way a dirty Mexican could have defeated him. Thankfully the mods hadn''t listened to him, or I might have been banned out of hand before then. I''d heard of worse, at his word or others. In those days, if someone the mods favored branded you a cheater, you laid low until they forgot about you.

    I watched him stalk up the canyon. He made no effort to hide himself, shouting as he was, and I decided I was better off taking him from above. Honor be damned. He''d upgraded to dual wielded revolvers, massive ebony things that sounded like canons going off whenever he fired. I lined up my shot across a boulder and waited for the opportune moment. By then I had deadeye as well, and I decided I would wing him. Let him know just what he was dealing with. Maybe he would get the hint and take the chance to back off and leave me alone.

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    My shot did nothing. Blood spurted from his shoulder, and the big bastard laughed. He turned my way and unloaded his revolvers. Those guns were huge, and their thundering echoed off the walls with enough force to start a minor landslide. I counted twelve of those hammering shots, as they blew chips off the rock I crouched behind, then rose and fired. I know I hit him all five times, from the red rain that burst from his chest and back.

    Big Dick laughed. He shot me four times. That''s when I learned that his guns were actually eight shooters, and also that the moderators had decided that this asshole was a good candidate to join their ranks.

    For Big Dick, it was all about power and becoming a moderator was the logical next step. How he convinced them, I can''t say. It had always been about power for him, and I had taken it that day in Austin. He thought he took it back in the box canyon when he killed me, but the fact that I shot first - had he not been literally invulnerable, he would have died that day without giving me a scratch - ate at him. It crawled up inside his mind and enraged him. His power was artificial. He needed me to not just succumb to his power, but to respect him for it, and he knew I never would. No matter how much he lied to himself. I like to think that''s why Big Dick showed up in Carson three years after the Developer laid the rune of recall on us all.

    Richard Large had never liked Carson, but so long as Iron Marge had the favor of Billy the Doggo, Big Dick left the place alone. He''d gotten wind that I was staying there, and we still had a beef to settle. He risked Doggo''s anger to shoot the place up, and there wasn''t a damn thing I could do to stop him besides take his prize away. Iron Marge told me not to, that there was nothing Big Dick could do, to just ignore him. But I knew what Big Dick intended.

    I''d seen it in Jaurez, when he and his Texans slaughtered us, then boarded up our saloon and trapped us inside. They couldn''t threaten us - death wasn''t much of a problem with the runes in place - and we couldn''t starve, so they settled for psychological torture. For confinement. And maybe we can''t actually starve, but the sensation sure isn''t pleasant. If I tried to hide in Carson, Big Dick would do the same thing here. I didn''t think Iron Marge and her children could handle it.

    So I went out into the street, spurs clacking, and faced down Big Dick again. "You and me, quick draw," I said, knowing it didn''t matter a whit if I shot him first or not.

    "Naw," Big Dick drawled. I prepared myself to die, already forming my plan to get past the Texans that would waiting in Jaurez when I respawned. But he went on. "I ain''t gonna kill you, spik. You belong in the mine with the rest of your kind."

    "What mine?" I asked.

    Big Dick snorted. "Gold mine, you yellow idiot. You dig. That''s all you''re good for."

    This was news to me, but I connected the dots. When I had shot my way out of the saloon six months earlier, some of my compatriots - the weaker sort - had been discussing surrender. It had to be better than an eternity trapped in the saloon, they reckoned. At the time I couldn''t fathom what the Texans wanted, why they were so keen on confining us. Now I understood - they wanted to break us and enslave us. They denied us the only thing they could actually take away - our freedom. How long would I have lasted trapped in that saloon? Eventually I also would have been willing to go dig in a mine just for the chance to get some fresh air.

    I drew and shot Big Dick five times, expecting that, in his anger, he would fire back. I had no such luck. He laughed, same as he had in that box canyon, as if the bullets lancing through his flesh tickled. I tucked my revolver up under my arm, aimed through my ribs, and shot myself in the heart. In that way I beat him again. I stole his prize. It took a long time to die, at least a minute, and let me tell you it hurt like a mother fucking bitch, but I wanted to see his face. I smiled while he ranted and raved and cussed me out as a craven.

    Denied his prize, the threat of William the Doggo kept him from doing more to Carson, and as far as I know he hasn''t been back. So I beat him three times, and for that he hates me. And Iron Marge beat him too, in a different way, so when he finds his chance to strangle the life out of her, he takes it, nevermind his precarious position or the cliff the stagecoach rushes toward. Big Dick draws one of those massive ebony eight shooters and lets her see it. Her vision isn''t quite gone yet. He presses the barrel against her temple, and fires.

 Chapter 7

    The simple truth is that equipment wears out. The Americans aren''t exempt from this fact any more than we are. With proper maintenance our guns may last forever, but no amount of stitching can save a worn out pair of Levis. The only source of quality American kit left in this hell is Fort Buenaventura, in between Phoenix and Window Rock.

    William the Doggo has placed a contingent there to farm the npc soldiers for equipment. They ship everything to Boulder or Oklahoma City via the stagecoach routes. The guns will be useful, but the real prize - the things we can''t get anywhere else - are the uniforms.

    <hr>

    John Bearcat swung down into the stagecoach, leaving the door flapping. A hulking dead soldier slumped in the rear seat. John leaned his Gatling gun next to the door and made for the trunks piled opposite the dead man. The coach lurched, sending shooting pains through his shoulder. He touched the wound and looked at his red stained fingers. It couldn''t be that bad since his arm still worked fine, but it hurt like a mother fucker.

    He threw open the first trunk, revealing rifles and ammunition packed in yellow newspapers. The next trunk held neatly folded blue uniforms, the sort the American soldiers wore, just like James Sniper had promised. The coach lurched again. John went to curse Marge for her shitty driving, but froze when he saw the massive soldier on the rear bench move. He wasn''t dead, he had slept through the entire fight.

    The soldier turned his head and looked right at John. John snatched out his revolver, but the soldier moved like a tiger, striking before John could fire. He knocked the revolver out of John''s hand and it bounced on the floor, discharging before it slid out the door. This soldier was even taller and wider than John himself. The man''s fist smashed John in the temple, then he grabbed John''s collar with both hands.

    "I thought you injuns were extinct," the man snarled. "What are you doing waking me up?"

    Muscles bulged in the man''s shoulders. He had no trouble lifting John off the floor, and John wasn''t a lightweight himself. Nobody was as big as John Bearcat except one man. Richard "Big Dick" Large.

    But Big Dick shouldn''t be riding around with Americans. "Aren''t you Texan?" John asked.

    Richard Large sneered. The coach lurched then, throwing Richard off balance. John grabbed the man''s arms, trying to pry them away from his collar.

    "The fuck was that?" Richard asked, then glaring toward the front of the coach, he threw John out the flapping door.

    John grabbed the door frame as he flew and arced under the coach, dragging his ass and heels in the dirt. Prairie grass whipped him as it streaked by, and he pulled himself up just in time to avoid smashing his head on a rock. His fingers ached and his arms throbbed, but he wouldn''t let go. The ground pulled him backward, threatening to suck him under the wheels of the stagecoach. John pulled himself back up to the open door, fighting for every inch. Any moment, Richard''s boot would come down on his fingers, or his face, and he''d fall and be crushed by the rattling rear wheel, but that never happened. He hauled himself through the door and slid on his belly into the coach. John flopped, gasping, onto his back.

    Richard Large was gone, but footsteps echoed on the roof of the coach. This was very, very bad. John couldn''t even hurt Big Dick, not with Dick''s moderator powers. Shooting him would be pointless. Someone above shot twice. Either Dick or Marge, the outcome would be the same either way. Not even Iron Marge stood a chance against Big Dick.

    So John would have to deal with this bullshit himself. He leaned out of the coach and squinted against the dust swirling up off the wheels. A head, a dark patch on the horizon marked where the flats became, very abruptly, vertical. John had an idea which might, if everything went well, actually work. He always enjoyed killing players more. There just wasn''t any fun in npcs, knowing they wouldn''t remember a thing, and today he had a chance to kill one of the greatest players of all. He just had to keep Big Dick distracted, and maybe escape with the loot.

    He grabbed the first trunk and bolted it closed, then shoved it out the door. It tumbled, but stayed closed for as long as he watched it, despite slamming into a cactus. Next went the second and more important trunk, the one full of uniforms. He didn''t see much hope for James'' plan if they were running into this kind of trouble already, but he''d do his part to make sure the first step succeeded. He tossed the third trunk without opening it first and watched it tumble to a stop behind the coach. Satisfied that, even if he went into the ravine, the cargo should be there waiting for him, John picked up his Gatling gun and unwrapped the munition belts he wore like bandoliers.

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    Another shot sounded above, this one as loud as a canon, then something thumped behind the coach. John stuck his head out to look again. Iron Marge lay in a quickly shrinking heap, shimmering in the hot sun. Apparently the legendary law woman was no match for Big Dick when it came down to actual shooting. John traced Richard''s footsteps across the roof, and turned the crank.

    Hot lead tore through the roof of the coach, filling the interior with shafts of sunlight. Hot blood dripped through the holes in the ceiling onto John''s face. Times like this, he could really use a cigar. He fired until the roof gave way and Richard Large crashed down into the coach. Huge streaks ran through Richard''s flesh and clothes where the bullets had ripped through him. A gash ran up his face from his jaw straight through his eye, exposing white skull and broken teeth.

    John swung his Gatling gun like a club, splattering blood from the man''s open wounds. Richard grinned. His flesh separated where the bullet had cut his face, peeling back to reveal tight red muscle. John swung again, and Richard grabbed the gun by one of the barrels. His hand sizzled as it closed around the hot metal, replacing the smell of hot brass casing with cooking flesh. Richard yanked the gun from John''s hands, and with his other fist, punched John in the eye.

    John slammed back against the rear of the coach and sank to the seat. Richard advanced, taking the Gatling gun in both hands and pressing the hot barrels toward John''s face. John raised his hands to protect himself, and screamed in fury as the barrels seared his forearms.

    "I''m going to kill you nice and slow," Richard Large said. His lips twitched. Flesh crawled across his face, sliding over the gaps where John''s bullets had torn into him.

    John pushed on the Gatling gun with one hand, and with the other he punched Richard in the gut, again and again. Richard didn''t notice or didn''t care.

    "Yar a cunt," John gasped. "I bet in real life yer dick ain''t even a whole inch."

    Richard yanked the Gatling gun back. A piece of John''s face stuck to it, leaving a burning line across his cheek. Richard''s face blazed, all anger now, and he swung the Gatling gun the same way John had, smashing John in the mouth. John flew against the side of the coach and tumbled to the floor. He spit out a tooth. If he lived through this, he could get himself a gold one. If not, well, it''d been a couple years since he''d died. He could use a refresh. By now, the coach must be near the ravine he''d seen, so he crawled for the open door.

    Richard swung the Gatling gun again, but this time John caught it. He kicked Richard in the crotch and hauled on the gun. It slipped out of Richard''s fingers, and in the same motion, John flung himself out the open door. He hit the ground hard on his back and rolled. Grit and rocks flew around him and stuck in his wounds, or punched new holes in him. Suddenly his body slid out over open space, and he grabbed at the cliff edge.

    He caught his Gatling gun on a rock and slammed hard into the side of the cliff. Hanging there momentarily dazed - but still hanging there - he watched the coach plummet into the ravine. The horses screamed, kicking as they tumbled end over end in the air. The entire coach flipped upside down and landed with a thud on the flat bottom of the ravine, wood flying in all directions. The horses disintegrated on impact into a pair of red splashes, like thrown paint, and in the middle of it all a battered corpse shimmered and disappeared.

    John took a moment to catch his breath. So falls could kill moderators. Nice. A thin ribbon of brilliant blue followed the contours in the bottom of the ravine, and scrub pines dotted the banks. Up here, bits of grass stuck out over the edge, giving John something to sink his fingers into. Richard Large had died today, and when he woke up screaming in Austin, he''d know it was John Bearcat who sent him into that ravine. Grinning the devil''s grin, John hauled himself up to safety.

 Chapter 8

    Margaret sat at the bar and polished her gold star. Thomas slouched beside her, still dirty from his excursion, with his rifle and a glass of whiskey on the bar before him. She ought not let the boy drink, but, what was the point? It''s not like there was any real reason to stop him, not in here. Margaret held up the star to admire the way the light shone on its gold surface. She had been sheriff of this town since before it happened. The badge made the npcs nod and greet her, and most of them gave her respect, but her children followed her for a different reason. For them, the badge wasn''t just some bauble she''d earned on a quest. It had real meaning and responsibility behind it.

    "You caught your breath now, Thomas?" She''d already confirmed it wasn''t an emergency that caused him to come running back here. He was fifteen now, and finally starting to fill out into a man''s shape. He was still the youngest member of her crew though, and prone to excitement.

    Thomas nodded. "Yes Ma''am."

    "Well then, report."

    "It''s Fran and his posse, coming back from Window Rock."

    That alone wasn''t enough to get so excited over. But if they had someone with them, perhaps a large Navajo, that would be exciting. Margaret picked up her whiskey glass and sipped it.

    "They brought back two injuns -"

    "Thomas," she chided. But secretly she smiled. If John Bearcat had survived that monster on the stagecoach, their plan might still be on.

    "Sorry Ma''am, two Native Americans. I thought they was extinct."

    "Two left," Margaret said. "The big one is John Bearcat. The other is Seen Mighwood."

    Thomas cracked a smile.

    "Don''t laugh at it. It''s a stupid name."

    "Yes Ma''am."

    He couldn''t help it, of course, and she shouldn''t judge him so hard for being what he was supposed to be - a child.

    "Posse coming," Alexandra said as she barged through the batwing doors. She paused a moment, eyes narrowing on Thomas. "You know already, then? You should have stayed at your post, Thomas."

    Thomas wilted against the bar. "It''s just Fran," he protested.

    Still, Alexandra was right. He shouldn''t have rushed back just to tell Margaret that Fran was on his way in with the Indians. Margaret clapped him on the back. "Round up the posse, Thomas. I want everyone ready when Fran gets here."

    She stepped out through the bat doors onto the porch. No sign of Fran and his posse yet, but it wouldn''t be long. The Tafferty twins stood on the porch with their rifles, watching and waiting for instructions, tense as a fencepost. "Relax, it''s just Fran."

    The Taffertys exchanged one of their looks. They weren''t much older than Thomas, and weren''t actually twins, but everyone called them that. Jane and Joe Tafferty, sharpest tongues in the west. "What''s got Thomas so worked up then?" Joe, the elder, asked.

    "You''ll see. Go inside with the others."

    They exchanged looks again but did as she asked. The pair was inseparable, and had been together longer than they had been part of Margaret''s posse. Fran had found them, before he''d found Carson. Margaret couldn''t imagine what it must be like for them, or for Thomas, to grow up in a place like this - a place they shouldn''t have had access to in the first place. This town had been made for new players, and for players underage, and when the developer had set the rune of recall on them, there had been eleven first level players here, not one of them over twenty years old. Among them had been Alexandra and Thomas, who never should have been allowed in an R rated game.

    Later she had picked up Fran, who''d brought the Tafferty twins with him. She wanted to meet with Fran before the posse got wind of what she had planned - what she had agreed to. It was as much his decision as hers. So she walked down the street to the edge of town and waited for him.

    "Good morning, sheriff," an npc woman said as she passed.

    Margaret ought to know the npc''s name. Elizabeth? Something generic like that. Today, Elizabeth wore a fine red hat with white trim and little yellow flowers tucked under the band. Whatever job her npc husband had in this town must be lucrative, because Elizabeth was always well adorned.

    "Give me your hat."

    "Excuse me, sheriff?"

    Margaret eased her revolver part way out of her holster. "I said, give me your hat."

    Elizabeth, or whatever her name was, blanched. She took of her hat with shaking hands and passed it over. "You only have to ask sheriff, that''s all, just ask, and if you need a hat I''m happy to give you one, I am."

    "Shut up," Margaret advised as she fit the hat over her hair.

    It didn''t take long for Fran to arrive, leading a band of five. With him were James Nickle, Melvin Turin, and the Indians, Seen Mighwood and John Bearcat. John looked like he''d been mauled by his namesake. An angry red gash crossed his face, making his skull tattoo all the more fearsome. The crude sled dragging in the dirt behind Seen''s horse was more interesting. On it sat two battered trunks.

    Margaret strode out to meet them. "Fran!" she called.

    "Look what I found in the desert," he said as she drew near. He indicated John Bearcat with one hand.

    "I left him there," Margaret said. "And the other one?"

    "They were there when I woke up in Window Rock." Seen shrugged.

    "Anything interesting?"

    "Aye," Fran said, talking as Margaret walked alongside his horse. "Lots of Americans up there. All the normal places were cleaned out already. The Americans are leveling hard for something. Whatever they are up to, it can''t be good."

    Like real life, skills in here degraded if they weren''t used. The Americans had probably let themselves go a bit. What could they be training up for? "Did you find anything?"

    "Besides these two? Nah. The big one has quite a story to tell about Richard Large."

    "I bet. We''ll get to it. First, we need to get these inside." She nodded at the trunks.

    They''d come into the town. In front of the saloon, all dismounted. James and Melvin carried the trunks inside and stacked them on the floor. When Margaret pushed through the batwing doors, all her children were there, at the bar or at the tables. Thomas, the Taffertys, Alexandra and Moses and the rest of them. James and Melvin shook the road grime out of their hats and took places at the bar.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    All their gazes studied Seen and John Bearcat. A low murmur of noise ran among them as everyone fought the urge to throw questions at her. Margaret climbed up onto the stacked trunks.

    "Two weeks ago," she said. The room was suddenly silent. "The monster Richard Large tried to send us a message. We all know what he did to Jaurez. He tried to tell us we were next. Are we going to let him do that to us again?"

    A mass of blank faces stared back at her.

    "No," she said.

    "What can we do?" Joseph Tafferty asked.

    "He''s a moderator," his sister Jane added.

    "Moderators can die," John Bearcat said. "I sent Richard Large to the bottom of a ravine. I saw him die."

    At the bar, Melvin and James grinned. They''d probably heard the story on their ride in, but it didn''t look like they believed it.

    Joseph rose from his chair. "So you got a bunch of ravines to push him into then? I said when that gunslinger came, we ought to go down to Austin and take out his posse. We can''t hurt him but we can hurt his friends."

    "That we will do," Margaret said. Fran helped her down off the trunks, and she opened the top one. "But we aren''t strong enough. Richard Large sent one gunslinger here - one! - who slaughtered us. So how are we going to hit them harder than anyone has before? How are we going to make them hurt? Let me show you," she pulled a uniform out of the trunk and threw it at Joseph. "We are going to break the alliance between the Texans and the Americans."

    Joseph held the blue shirt up, and then turned so the others could see it. Her children rushed forward and tore through the trunk, picking out uniforms, and then guns from the other trunk.

    It took several hours for Margaret to go over the entire plan with her posse, everything except their real goal. After they finished asking her questions, she sat at the bar with Fran, Seen, and John Bearcat. Her children had retired to their beds, except Jane Tafferty who sat at the piano learning how to play Material Girl.

    "You really believe James Sniper?" Fran asked.

    "Stupid name," John muttered.

    Margaret snorted. It was a stupid name. Not stupid like Seen Mighwood, but stupid nonetheless. "I knew him long before I knew you, Fran. He''s never lied to me - not directly."

    "That''s not very reassuring. He''s got to want more than just whatever loot the moderators have."

    "Yeah," John said. He slouched over an open bottle, not bothering with a glass. "Lot more."

    Margaret looked to him and Seen. "Should I tell him?"

    "James said the less who know, the better," Seen said.

    "I trust Fran with my life," Margaret said. She''d trusted him with enough already.

    Seen shrugged. "Just saying. I can''t stop you."

    "How about you, John?"

    "The bloody Developer," John said. "That''s the real prize."

    Through all this Fran had remained quiet. Now he wore a look of shock. Everyone was quiet for a moment, just the sound of Jane''s piano playing in the empty saloon.

    "The Developer," Fran whispered.

    "Aye," Margaret said.

    "He can lift the rune."

    Margaret saw where this was going immediately. Fran had asked her once, as a sort of idle question, a what if. What if dying - escaping the rune of recall - was also how they escaped this place? What if the players that died before the rune was in place woke up in real life? Over the years, Fran had brought it up now and again, but Margaret always dismissed it. She knew he believed it, but she tried to play it down, to keep her children from getting any ideas.

    "Aye, Fran."

    Fran downed his glass and held it out for Margaret to refill. She did so, pouring him two fingers, which he drank in one gulp.

    "You one of them deathers?" John asked. Insensitive lout. "I got enough of that spiritual crap from Seen. That''s why I stopped hanging out with him."

    "Shut up," Seen said, glaring at John. "You''re playing a fucking Indian. The fact that you won''t go on any of the spirit quests doesn''t make you enlightened, it makes you stupid. All of that stuff is fake anyway - it''s some game designers version of Native American spirituality. This is something different."

    "You a deather too?"

    Seen snorted. "No, of course not. But I''m not an ass about it."

    Margaret sighed. If only Fran wasn''t so level-headed, she might get to see these two injuns get shot. Instead of drawing on them, Fran leaned closer. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

    "If there''s a way out, if that way is death, I''ll take it," he said. "I''ve been in here too long already. You don''t strike me as the type to understand."

    Seen leaned back on his stool. "The way I see it, life is better in here. I''m not afraid to admit that I was a loser on the outside."

    "You''re still a loser," John said.

    "I was a mother," Fran said.

    The many ways Seen''s expression changed made Margaret smile. Fran didn''t dive into details this time, but there had been plenty of late nights, deep in the drink, when Fran had cried on her shoulder. For Margaret it was different. Her wife was pregnant when it happened, so Margaret only missed the idea of a child - the idea of fatherhood. She had never seen her daughter, never seen her grow up, never become attached. It helped her cope.

    "I was logged into my husband''s character."

    "Shit," Seen said. His eyes turned to Marge, questing.

    "Aye," Margaret said. "Nothing as sweet as Fran, though. Just liked the attention."

    Without turning away from the bar, John began to laugh.

    "What?" Seen demanded. "Are you a woman too?"

    "Nah." John turned to face them. He held out his bottle. "To being who you choose to be."

    That seemed a bit deep for John Bearcat. Margaret shrugged and shoved her glass in. "To new friends."

    "And old ones," Fran said.

    "To holes," Seen said.

    Margaret squinted at him.

    "Digging them," Seen continued. "Not having them."

 Chapter 9

    Iron Marge will convince her posse to take vengeance on the Texans. They know they don''t stand a chance against the Texans, but by disguising themselves as Americans, they''ll send the Texans on their own revenge quest. We''ll shove a wedge between Richard Large and his Texans, and the other three moderators.

    To make the attack, you''re going to need some transportation. Try and go straight to their gold mine and the Texans will slaughter you. But the train - on the north branch of the Sante Fe line - runs around that mountain to a station right beside the mine entrance.

    <hr>

    Seen moved absolutely silently on the soft carpet of pine needles. He had convinced John to trade his boots for moccasins, and even he, as massive as he was, made no noise at all. There was a slight chill to the air. The seasons changed fast north of Window Rock, in the steep hills below the Rocky Mountains. The tracks ran high through pine scrub forest. Somewhere behind them, the train rushed closer, possibly loaded with American soldiers. Probably not. Seen glanced at his watch. The train came through here at 3:05 exactly. In twenty-two minutes.

    Seen wore attire appropriate for the weather and for running through the forest - tight deerskin trousers, a denim vest with dangling feathers. Typical Navajo kit. It felt like coming home, after so long in jeans and cowboy boots. His revolver still made a comfortable weight against his thigh, but he also carried a bow. The revolver would be too loud, and besides, he might as well use his racial perks.

    John still had his Gatling gun, and a coil of rope. Had he seen John without that gun since they''d reunited at the trading post? It wasn''t normal kit for a Navajo soldier. Probably would have been nerfed if the game had kept on in the normal fashion.

    Ahead, the track curved left and sloped downward, then doubled back and ran through a switching yard, almost parallel to its current course. A steep drop down a rocky face separated Seen from the switching yard. Seen glanced at his watch again. 2:45. They might be cutting it close, but that was mostly intentional. The less time they had between killing the guards below and the train arriving, the less chance the Americans would respawn and come after their train.

    John slung the rope coil off his shoulder and threw an end around a fat pine tree. He tossed the other end over the cliff.

    "I don''t like this plan," Seen said.

    John grunted. "You''re the one who keeps on about the spirit walk. Do that."

    Of course, so Seen could do all the work. Seen picked up the rope, but before he lowered himself onto the cliff face, he took a moment to look out over the switching yard below. The crude map James had scribbled in the dust of the trading post saloon didn''t compare to actually looking down at the complex, but James had gotten all the important parts right. The tracks split into a dozen parallel lines, then flowed back together like a mass of coiling snakes, before two left the yard and veered in different directions. Abandoned cars dotted the yard like old rusty buffalo. Three American soldiers patrolled among them, made easy to spot against the backdrop of pine and rust by their blue shirts.

    Seen glanced at his watch. Got to step on it. The rope would let him down behind a service shed, with rotting clapboard walls and a roof full of holes. Forty or fifty yards of track separated the shed from the switching house, where a large red ball on a pole stood against the backdrop of pines, seeming to float above the entire switching yard. They had to lower that ball before the train arrived, or the npc engineer would continue right through the station, and take the north fork to Boulder.

    "Well let''s do it then," Seen said. He stepped over the edge. John lowered him down the steep face one hand at a time. Red rock slabs slid past. Seen picked his footholds carefully, keeping himself out and away from the cliff. Despite his care, he knocked free a rock, and as it tumbled in the air toward the shed below he held his breath. If the sound alerted the guards to his presence, he might not even reach the ground before they shot him.

    The rock fell through the roof of the shed, vanishing into one of the dark holes in the metal sheeting. Seen sighed with relief. He finally put his feet on the ground again, and looked up as John swung out over the cliff.

    Seen ducked down beside the shed. He was inside the stockade fence that surrounded the yard, in between the fence and the shed. Paint hung off the shed in big curls. The clapboard had been white, but rot had done its work. It stank of decay and nature. The ground was mostly the soft pine needles of the forest floor above, mixed with cones and branches that Seen had to step carefully around to avoid making noise and alerting the guards. He crept to the end of the building and peered around the corner.

    He scanned across the parallel tracks and the abandoned cars searching for blue shirts. The signal ball hovered above, a baleful translucent red that glowed in the afternoon sun. A blue shirt stood on the porch of the switching house, thankfully looking a different direction. Of the other two, Seen saw nothing. If he ran for it, that one at least would definitely see him. It would have to be a spirit walk, as John suggested.

    Raising his bow and nocking an arrow, Seen looked up at John on the cliff above. John had moved down perhaps half the distance. Seen decided not to wait. Crouching behind the service shed, he closed his eyes and concentrated. He breathed out slowly, then continued, pushing every bit of air out of his lungs. Spots appeared behind his eyelids. His feet grew cold first, then came a sensation like motion sickness, but without the comforting possibility of throwing up. As if the developers had wanted to make the process unpleasant, but couldn''t figure out just how. When Seen opened his eyes again, he was crouching on the salt pan.

    A massive, shaggy buffalo stood in front of him, engrossed in the only tuft of grass that grew within miles on this desolate wasteland. A crow sat on the buffalo''s back. That part was new. There hadn''t been a crow last time. The real world - the storehouse, the tracks crossing the field between Seen and the switching house, and the highball floating above - appeared to Seen as translucent curtains laid over the desert. Seen pushed through them toward the buffalo.

    "Caw," said the crow.

    "Not now."

    The buffalo looked up, snorted. Seen jogged around it, taking a wide arc across the hard packed ground to avoid it. The buffalo turned, and stood before him anyway, pointed horns between him and the switching house.

    "I said not now." The lowered head forced Seen to pause.

    The buffalo tore at the dirt with its hoof, revealing rich black earth just below the top layer of dust. Something sparkled in the hole. The crow hopped forward onto the buffalo''s head, tilting its head to peer down.

    "Caw?"

    "I know," Seen said. "I''m working on it. I''ve got another quest at the moment." He continued around the buffalo, and this time it didn''t move unnaturally to block him, but only looked at him with tiny black eyes. When he had passed, it shook its head and returned to the tuft of grass.

    Seen approached the switching house and clambered onto the porch. He drew his arrow to his ear. His hand shook so violently he buffeted his own cheek, but it wouldn''t matter at this range. He crept up behind the American standing guard and pressed the point of his arrow into the back of the man''s neck. The man swatted his neck, as if at a biting insect, his hand passing through Seen''s ephemeral bow and arrow.

    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    The American, who remained transparent and ghostly so long as Seen kept his spirit form, leaned on the railing and lit a cigarette. Even with his hand jolting around, there was no way Seen could miss with the arrowhead already in the man''s hair.

    The spirit walk ended. The buffalo turned to mist, then exploded outward, vanishing into the ether. The world crashed back into solidity around Seen, snapping into focus with a rush of sounds and smells. He released his arrow. The bow made a sharp twang, and the arrow drove through the American''s skull and burst from his eye. It flew into the dirt and stuck between the nearest rails. The man twisted, his mouth open to scream, but nothing came but a dry rasp. Seen caught him before he could fall and alert the other guards with his noise.

    The American''s body shimmered and vanished as the rune of recall spirited it back to the player''s spawn point. A quick glance around confirmed that the other two soldiers remained out of sight. Two steps took Seen to the switching house door - there wasn''t much time now - and he shoved it open. Twenty or so American soldiers stared at him. Some sat at tables with cards in their hands. Others stood with glasses of whiskey half raised to their lips, stunned still by the sudden appearance of a Navajo shaman in the middle of their meeting. They were young, old, men, women, and all wearing the blue shirts and straight cut pants common to their kit. Paper banners hung along the walls, and a cake - a fucking cake - sat on one table with a bunch of candles burning on it. At the bar, the only soldier Seen hadn''t shocked into motionlessness carved a big roast pig. Then the spell broke and they all reached for their weapons at once.

    Seen bolted off the porch, leapt the railing, and sprinted for the only cover nearby - the decrepit, rusted train cars dotting the yard. He reached for his spirit walk, but the cooldown still ticked away. Not that he could have stopped long enough to trigger it. He looked back. Americans boiled through the open door of the switching house and onto the porch, some with pistols drawn and others unlimbering rifles. Bullets whizzed past him, kicking puffs of dust into the air or pinging off the railway tracks.

    Well, it had been a pretty good plan - and it would have worked too, if he hadn''t found the entire player base of the American army in the switching house having a goddamned party. Seen tripped over a metal rail and sprawled, flailing, at the same time that John Bearcat appeared beside the run down shed with his Gatling gun already spinning.

    Seen covered his head with his arms as hot lead screamed above him. The steady ratta-chuck-chuck of the Gatling gun spitting dead became knives driving into his ears. It almost drowned out the screams of the Americans and the cracks of their rifles. Slowly those latter sounds vanished, and the percussive beating of the Gatling gun wound down into a fading whirr. When he could hear it no longer, Seen took his hands off his ears and looked around.

    A small pile of corpses on the porch shifted and settled as the bodies on the bottom shimmered and faded away. They left behind the blood and the bullet holes and, in a few cases, equipment. Everyone knew to hold tightly onto their weapons when they died, but a few had still dropped theirs as John''s weapon had obliterated them. The front of the switching house was more hole than wall, and faint curls of smoke drifted from some of the holes. One soldier, red with blood but still alive, dragged himself with one arm toward a rifle at the end of the porch. John drew his revolver and shot him.

    "Fucking mess," John said as he offered Seen a hand up.

    "Fucking overpowered is what it is." Seen brushed himself off. He checked for bullet wounds, a little surprised to still be whole. His deerskin trousers had split open where a bullet grazed his thigh, but otherwise, he hadn''t been hit. "They shouldn''t have been here," he said.

    John shrugged.

    "You could have done that in the first place. Just shot up the place from outside."

    "Yeah, probably."

    Seen looked around at the rusted cars. "There were two others."

    "Relax, I got them."

    They were in no immediate danger then. Seen sagged, and crouched down. "So what was the point of your plan then? You trying to get me shot by them?"

    "Needed to flush them out, didn''t I? And maybe I wanted to see if you were good for anything now. Maybe I wanted to see this spirit walk you''ve hyped up so much."

    "You''re an ass."

    "I''m an ass with a big gun," John said, holding up his Gatling gun. "Stop dragging your balls in the dirt and come on. We haven''t got much time."

    Above the cliff face, a train whistle, long and low like the keening of a dieing animal, made John''s point. Together they rushed for the switching house. John got there first, slamming a shoulder into the door and smashing it off its hinges.

    John swept the space with his revolver, but found nothing to shoot. Seen ducked past him and threw the curtains open. At the far end of the yard, the train came around the curve, a long plume of smoke trailing behind hit. A console full of levers stood under the window. Seen stared at them. Even if they hadn''t been decimated by John''s Gatling gun, Seen didn''t think he would have understood them. A rope vanished through a pipe in the ceiling - that he understood. That couldn''t be anything except the rope to raise or lower the highball.

    The rope was wound around a bracket on the wall. Seen grabbed the loose end and pulled off loop after loop, until John leaned in and slashed his knife across the rope. The cut end vanished up the pipe in a flash, and the glass ball above fell and shattered, spraying shards across the porch and the tracks. The train squealed as it engaged its brakes, and blew sparks and steam as it came to a halt in front of the switching house.

    John stuck his knife in his belt. In his other hand, he held a slice of a cake. "We about done here then?"

    Seen looked at the useless, half coiled rope in his hands, then back at the train. "I suppose so. That thing is fucking overpowered, you know."

    "What the train?" John asked through a mouthful of cake.

    "No."

    "Oh, yeah. And the bandolier bug means I always got ammo too."

    Seen really had to get one of those Gatling guns. He strode down the stairs and toward the train. "Wait, did you say bug? As in an exploit?"

    "Yeah." John grinned. He''d gone back for more cake, but Seen could see the bandoliers across his back clear enough. They still appeared full, despite all the shooting John had done.

    "Fuck," Seen said. And nobody would stop John from using it, either. The engineer leaned out the window of the train engine, smoke and steam flowing around him, and took off his striped hat - that was a player! Seen grabbed for his gun at the same time the engineer pointed his and fired. Seen froze, certain the man had hit him. He just hadn''t felt it yet, that was all. Then the engineer slumped back into the cabin and the door swung open to show his body shimmer and vanish. Seen looked at his shaking hand and put his revolver away before he used up all the luck he had left.

    "You know how to drive this thing?" John asked in between licking frosting off his fingers. His foot steps echoed on the porch and the stairs.

    "No."

    "Then why the fuck did you shoot him?"

    "He was going to shoot me."

    John grunted and shoved Seen aside so he could clamber onto the train.