It came from Detroit

[Edward Robertsson]

June 1st, 1869
Somewhere in the Canyon
1:00 am

Edward peered mutely over the hill at the covered wagon at the foot, the untended fire giving off a faint glow. The vehicle lay in the bottom of a bowl-like depression where they had stopped after wandering through the deep canyons. His gaze swept to the right, where two figures slowly traversed the darkness toward the camp, their drawn guns glinting in the mixture of starlight and firelight. His mother inched up next to him, her shotgun pointing down over the ridge.

“So who are these ones?” she asked Edward out of the corner of her mouth.

Edward squinted in the dark. One of the shadows, the taller of the two, swept some hair out of his eyes. “That’s Stretch, and…” the other shadow stopped to wheeze a bit, holding the arm of the shadow called Stretch, “that would be Stumpy.”

“Sound like a lovely pair. Feel like you can take Stretch?” She asked, feeding shells into her shotgun.

“Of course,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

“Bo and I will take Stumpy.”

“No offense, Ma, but what on Earth are you and the ox going to do?”

His mother smiled. “Don’t underestimate the power of the beef.” Then, suddenly, Edward was alone.

“How does she do that?” he muttered.

“Shut up and fight,” her voice came from the shadow, followed by the sound of a spit. “Wipe off your shoes.”

Edward did with a shake of his head, and then set off down the ridge of the hill to cross behind the two. He shook his head again as he glanced to his right. The two thugs had even left their horses clearly silhouetted against the stars at the top of the bowl. He spat and avoided the foul beasts, creeping after the pair and deftly cocking his revolver.

Stretch and Stumpy had reached the wagon. Stumpy was looking under the wagon while Stretch looked inside.

Edward hit Stumpy in his copious posterior with a thrown rock. He straightened with a yelp and fired wildly into the dark, far off to Edward’s left, the sound of the shot echoing weirdly in the canyon. Stretch yelled at him and ran to the other side of the wagon. Stumpy stood confused for a moment, and then scrambled to drag his bulk into the wagon where the walls might give him a modicum of protection.

Edward quickly moved away from where he had thrown the rock, again to his right. From his new position, he could see Stretch crouched behind a wagon wheel, peering into the darkness. Edward heard him swear, and then yell at Stumpy that they had to get out of the camp site.

“Smart one, him,” Edward remembered to himself.

“Shut up, fool,” His mother said to him, materializing next to him.

After he had pulled his skin back on from where he had jumped out of it, Edward hissed “Don’t do that.”

His mother shrugged and put up a hand to her right as Bo also materialized from the night. The grizzled Longhorn nuzzled her hand and looked toward the camp at the copious rump of Stumpy stumbling about in front of the wagon, his foot entangled in Bo’s harnesses. He snorted and pawed the ground, once.

“Remember,” she said, “The fat one is ours. Go right and fire. I’ll toss some rocks on the left; we’ll see if we can’t get Tubby to go one way and Slim there to go the other.” Then she and Bo wandered into the black once more.

“Well, a plan is a plan,” Edward murmured, jogging in the other direction. As he moved, he pointed his gun across his body at the camp and fired, kicking up dust a few feet to the side of the wagon. Despite the inaccuracy, Stretch jumped and crouched once more, but held his fire.

Then the rocks started. One fist-sized stone struck Stumpy on his copious thigh. He yowled as he finally disentangled himself as Stretch seized his collar. “Come on!” Edward heard him yell, and then the two ran straight out from the camp, both firing to either side to attempt to cover their retreat.

“Well that didn’t work,” he growled as he ran, the earth to his right leaping as Stretch’s shots struck the rock. He crouched and squinted down the muzzle of his revolver, trying to line up a shot on the front of the pair.

He pulled his revolver up again, his mouth opening in surprise as he saw what his mother had been alluding to.

Prudence Robertsson was riding the massive ox, but that was nothing – she had placed lassos on both of Bo’s wide horns, their open loops dangling down. After just a moment’s pause in the far, dim firelight, Prudence gave a whoop and Bo charged.

Watching the elderly ox charge was a thing which took on a tone of inevitability, like watching a landslide beginning. It started slowly. First the wide head leaned forward, as his mighty muscles bunched, before he began to bound, slowly, but faster and faster as he charged down on the pair.

Stumpy and Stretch froze as Bo began to charge - the huge, angry bull generally had that effect – but shook themselves quickly out of it. Stretch leaped aside, narrowly avoiding the wide sweep of the bull’s lasso-clad horns. Stumpy fired an inaccurate shot from the hip which pocked the great animal’s hindquarters, drawing a bovine bellow. The enraged ox’s next swing of the head struck Stumpy high in the shoulder, throwing him like a rag doll. One of his feet became ensnared in the lassos, and so, yowling with surprise, Bo dragged the struggling thug into the night.

Edward smiled as he spotted Stumpy’s gun in the dirt, but jumped as Stretch fired after the enraged beast.

“Son of a-,” Edward growled, then opened fire at Stretch, popping off two shots in quick succession. One missed altogether, and the other cut a hole through Stretch’s sleeve, barely skimming his arm.

Stretch, almost machinelike, rotated and fired at Edward.

“I really need to practice my accuracy,” Edward yowled as he ran. It was not quite enough, though, to avoid one bullet to the shoulder as Stretch fired again. Edward’s shoulder exploded into screaming alarms and he face-planted into the rock. With a moan, he rolled over, clutching his shoulder.

The barrel of Stretch’s gun loomed large in Edward’s vision.

“Big Tom says hello,” Stretch growled.

[Harrison Fox]

---

June 1st, 1869
Midst the Canyons
1:30 am

Despite the reputation of the sweltering Colorado summers, the mornings were mild and often times even cool enough to dew the grass with beads of frost. The whispering prairie grasses sparkling in that faint light of the moon, twinkling just like the stars in the vast shroud of darkness draped across the sky. Though the crisp dawns couldn’t be anywhere near compared to the frosty morning of Kentucky, where the humble mayor of Buffalo Creek originated. Harrison was a country boy, born and bred for the hard working life that came with it and still to this day his body was trained to rise early and fall late. Today he was up particularly early, saddled Dixie May and turned the massive thoroughbred to the canyons. It was only on certain occasions that’d he take his precious mare up in the hills and wait and watch the sun rise. It was the mornings when he’d be up late the night before missing his wife. There were nights he could swear he could still fear that warmth beside him, curled up into his side only to awake and realize it was a sympathetic plight of his own dreams. So he’d tack up early and ride out to the highest peak he could, hitch his horse to the slumped over sapling and just sit. Talk to himself sometimes, hoping that maybe his dear passed wife would hear and just enjoy the sunrise, counting the days till he could return to her.

Dixie May brushed her nose through the foliage, nuzzling around for her breakfast the most of her tack piled up behind her rider. Harrison edged into the worn leather, leaned back with his revolver in his lap, cleaning the black nickel barrel. It was peaceful out here, not even the birds were up this early. Once sitting out here a fawn had wandered into his makeshift camp and actually sat next to him until his mother retrieved them and the both of them disappeared back into the canyons. These kind of mornings made his day better, gave him a little more peace and a little more comfort to handle situations. It was hard being mayor after losing his wife but he’d done it, though he’d become more bitter in the process. But with these little trips into the rocky gullies he was slowly growing back into himself. The snarky son of a bitch that most of the citizens enjoyed having as a mayor. Well, most of the folks anyway.

The sky was still as black as night when the first shots echoed off the canyon walls. Spooking Dixie May she startled at the noise, and it was only a matter of moments before Harrison had his horse’s lead in his hands, calming him as his eyes darted around deftly for any sign of what was happening. It was a moment until the shots echoed again and before another could come, the mayor had his horse mounted and turned toward the sound of the ruckus. Harrison was a man of action, something made him such a good mayor in the growing town of Buffalo Creek. He wasn’t gonna play around with no ruffians shooting up his town, and that sure as hell meant the town’s canyons too. Drawing that army issued revolver from his belt he turned the corner just in time to see a trio of men on the line of the horizon. One down, while the other stood above him with a barrel in his face. It took only one warning shot before both rider and mount were now looming over the gunman and his victim, the barrel of his own revolver aimed at the stranger’s head.

“Well howdy there, pard,” His voice was dry, plucked each syllable as he drew back the hammer. “Name’s Harrison Fox, mayor of that little establishment you see over yonder. And I respectfully request your lower that piece and go about your way iffin you’re wanting to keep that pretty face of yours from getting a bullet in it.” It didn’t take much to convince Harrison to take a man’s life, especially in such a situation. His sharp aquamarine eyes only darted to the side for a moment before a second revolver was drawn and aimed at the second man. “I ain’t gonna warn you twice boy, either you get on your way or your brains are gonna make the buzzards breakfast come sunrise.”

[Edward Robertsson]

June 1st, 1869
The Canyon
1:30 am

From the ground, Edward watched Stretch click back the hammer with a look of grim satisfaction in his eyes.

“You messed with the wrong man, Robertsson,” Stretch gloated, now smiling as Stumpy stumbled out of the gloom, looking significantly worse for wear but alive and trailing the lasso from his ankle.

“Now it’s time for a long dirt nap,” Stumpy added, stepping up happily and clasping his hands behind his back.

Inwardly, Edward rolled his eyes as Stretch began going on about how the long chase was finally over, and how victory and glory will now be theirs, and blah, and blah…

Edward thought about the chase the Stretch was talking about. After the gunfight in that poker lounge, Big Tom (a local crime lord) had been hell-bent on catching and avenging his wounds on Edward, so he had sent the threatening duo.

He came back to the present as Stretch jabbed him in the face with the barrel.

“You paying attention, boy?” he growled, jabbing him again.

Edward’s eyes crossed to look at the barrel.

“Uh huh,” he said.

“Well,” said Stretch, with the air of someone about to leave a really great party without that slice of cake, “I suppose it’s time to finish the story.” The two clicks of the hammer going back rang loud in the sudden silence.

The gunshot was loud in Edward’s ears.

So, he thought, this is death.

Strange, he added, after a moment, it doesn’t feel all that much like there’s a gaping hole in my head.

He heard hoofbeats. I guess that’s the Grim Reaper, he thought, come to collect my very soul.

“Howdy, pard,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“Oh, hey,” Edward replied, opening his eyes to see, not the skeletal, flaming, driver-cap-wearing rider he expected, but simply a man on a horse, who continued, ignoring Edward’s response.

But hey, he was a man with a gun. Not pointed at him, though, so that’s a plus.

Stretch looked up at the gun now pointed in his face without changing his stance. “Just you ride along, sir; this is none of your concern. This man is wanted by the powers that be in Detroit.” His eyes went back to Edward’s face, mostly obscured by the revolver which was resting gently against the bridge of his nose like huge, ugly, poison butterfly. “Wanted, that is, dead or alive.”

“His bloody crazy mam attacked me with their stinking cow,” volunteered Stumpy, who in the interim had pointed his own retrieved gun at the rider.

“I think it was an ox,” corrected Stretch.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Stumpy replied.

“If you’re going to be angry, at least be accurate about it,” Stretch said.

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

“You mean sarcastically?”

“I mean clam up, smart guy.”

“Hey, simmer down, half pint.”

Stumpy turned back to the rider. “So who were you, again?”

[Harrison Fox]

---

June 1st, 1869
Midst the Canyons
1:30 am

The aging man leered at the duo, his thin, chapped lips plucking up in a bitterly amused smirk. The mayor’s sharp eyes narrowed at the looming man, his thoroughbred as still as stone, just like his aim on both men’s heads. He’d had these double revolvers since his days in the Calvary for the civil war. His unit had properly named him “Hawk” after watching him pluck enemies off the next hill like he was flicking gnats off a horse’s rear. And that same deadly caliber had yet to leave his aged hands, holding those two death dealers like they were part of him, like the iron was woven into his fingers and were merely an extension of his being. Most folks underestimated the older gentleman, mistook his drawn features for a tired man far too worn from life to give two shits about what’s going on around him. But Harrison was spry for his years and still held a conviction in his heart that kept him from lying back and letting the hooligans and hell raisers of this world to overtake him or any of his fine citizens. And whether it was dragging a few drunkards down to Davion at the jailhouse or just laying waste to their pathetic life right in the middle of Main Street. Harrison was a cold man when it came to enforcing the laws of Buffalo Creek, and the outskirts dealing with these particular two buffoons was no different and he had no remorse for spilling their brains across the grass here either.

That second hammer clicked as he leveled at the shorter one’s nose, “Well I’m sorry to break it to you boys but Detroit is a ways a way from here.” He motioned around the surrounding canyons with his chin, “This here is Colorado, more specifically, this is part of the little settlement I already mentioned, said settlement that I am in charge of mind you. And I don’t rightly like men like you on my town’s land.” His voice darkened toward the end of his particular little speech, the ease of his brow leaving and furrowing into a vicious glare. “Now this is the last time I’m gonna ask kindly for you to lower them guns o’yours and be on your way.”

Suddenly he swung the revolver aimed at Stretch’s head to the ground, a good inch away from his right boot. He squeezed off a shot, the gun barking and burying a bullet into the ground before he turned it back, almost like a machine, aimed back toward Stretch’s face. “The next bullet is gonna find a home in your brain, boy, unless you drop that gun and get outta my state.” The maw of the barrel smoked, creating a wispy snake into the night sky. To reiterate his point he sent another shot sailing past Stumpy’s shoulder, close enough so that he could feel the heat rolling off the assailant but not even grazing his shirt. “You let that boy up now, ya hear? I ain’t got times to play games wit’chu. Now move!”

[Edward Robertsson]

June 1st, 1869
In the Canyon
1:31

Stretch hadn’t moved, although his smile had soured considerably while Stumpy had jumped with a small, high-pitched noise as the bullet passed over his shoulder. Rapidly, their eyes met, and a decision was telepathically made. They both lowered their weapons and began to rapidly walk away.

However, Stumpy couldn’t resist one final cheap shot. As he walked past the rider’s horse, he swiftly and in a single motion cocked his revolver, swung it beside the horse’s ears and fired into the air before taking off at a pace which seemed to impossible for his squat frame to accomplish, soon disappearing into the gloom.

Edward watched them run off with his mouth open, surprised and a little grateful at the retreat. Gripping the wound in his shoulder, he struggled to a sitting position and squinted up at the rider, still too surprised to speak.

“Aren’t you going to thank the man?” said Prudence from a point about three inches to Edward’s right.

After his shriek died away, Edward glared at his mother.

“Don’t do that ever again,” he growled and then struggled shakily to his feet.

Bo snorted from a position roughly three inches to Edward’s left.

Once the echoes died and he stood up again, Edward turned to the mysterious rider.

“Thank you, Mr… er, what was your name again?” he said.

“Ungrateful oaf,” his mother said, putting her hands on her hips, “You don’t even remember the man’s name.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I was a little preoccupied by the imminent, fiery death pressed against my nose,” he snapped back.

“There’s no need to get huffy,” Prudence replied, unmoved. “For Pete’s sake, the way your emotions swing…”

“My emotions are not swinging, mother, I was just being held at gunpoint.”

“Oh, please, you show all the signs of this time of month. Moodiness, irritability, AND,” she added, pulling, seemingly from nowhere, a long strip of cloth, “You’re bleeding. So, hold still.”

“OW! Dang it, ma, that hurts!”

“Crybaby.”

Bo huffed and gazed soulfully up at the rider, as if to say, “I apologize for these two, I really can’t take them anywhere.”

[Harrison Fox]

---

June 1st, 1869
Midst the Canyons
1:30 am

Most folks know far better than to cross Harrison Fox, he was a well-known man in this part of Colorado. His reputation was wide spread and often times was enough to deter outlaws from even trying anything smart in his quaint little town. Not to mention that Buffalo Creek was the founding home of Davion Murphy and Cyrus Savage, two well-established gents that hung more men than Harrison could rightly count. Couldn’t forget the kind Sheriff Nathan LaHaye and his deputy either, both who put their right amount of smack down on their troublemakers. But probably what was the most intimidating of this place was it’s citizens, most importantly Samuel Felix and Daniel Helm. Those two had ended their right share of outlaws too without a badge and as dedicated as they were to their home. It was plenty scary for any thieves or thugs to waltz into town and even think about wronging it’s good hardworking people with their coalition of peace keepers always ready to defend. Harrison couldn’t expect these two morons to know his name though, being all the way from the East where they got most of their trouble. Dirty city dwellers that thought so highly of themselves they could swagger into the West and just expect to be crowned and renowned by their “savage” brethren. Not many Easterners lasted this far West, it was far too rowdy and dangerous and most folks ended up dead lost in the desert or shot in the head from highwaymen. The only prominent Easterner that ever really made it okay in his book was Henry Scarborough, though that boy created his own hell in town too.

There were a few that would challenge Harrison’s such narrowed view of easterners, seeing as he was from Kentucky himself, but Harrison wasn’t no city bred yellow belly. It was different. He was born and raised a country boy. And that’s why he didn’t take to these two at all. They were obviously goons from one of those fancy city boys that threw their money around to get their way. Hell if he had the ammo, he’d put a bullet in all their heads.

The men seemed to take their warning and swiftly left, not before letting a shot set next to Dixie May’s ear. The mare startled, pulling back in fear, crying out to the ache that exploded in her ears. Harrison balked and in a fluid motion put his revolvers in their holsters before taking his shotgun out of the saddle scabbard. Sending a load of buckshot peppering the air and probably dusting the short bastard’s ass he growled, fighting every instinct to chase after the man and put a bullet right between his eyes. “If I see anyone of you in Colorado again, I will put a bullet in your head where your brain’s supposed to be!”

The mayor eased his mare’s fear, eyeing the duo unimpressed with their banter. Having just saved the sorry boy’s ass he grunted when he wasn’t even so much offered a thanks. “Ungrateful git,” He grumbled under his voice before he turned his gaze back to the older woman. Not forgetting his manners he tipped his hat and offered the ma’am a good hello before turning back down to the ungrateful lad in the dirt. “Harrison Fox, and it’s the last time I’m gonna say it.” Though maybe it was best the boy wasn’t thanking him just yet because he pulled the pistol back from his holster, leaning against the towering Thoroughbred’s neck as he swung it lazily back at him. “You brought those bastards to my state, and they seemed mighty intent on killing you, boy. If you don’t spill what they’re after you for I’ll be taking you to the jailhouse where you’ll sit until I figure it out myself.” He turned back to the boy’s mother, “I’m sorry ma’am but as mayor of this area I can’t let no kind of criminals around, I didn’t accept my position to just let folks like that and maybe your son here go waltzing around like they own t he world.”

[Edward Robertsson]

June 1st, 1869
The Canyon
1:45 am

Edward drew himself up to full height as the rider ignored his thanks and turned the gun on him.

“Oh, like I own the place? Like you, oh modest one? Anyways,” he said, glaring at Fox, “you’re really going to shoot me after saving my life? Well, fine then.” He put his arms straight out. “Cause I’d have to say that after those two, I’ve just about had it with this night.”

“All right, now,” Prudence said gruffly, shoving Edward with one hand, “We’re all very impressed by both of you great big, strong men. And later, you can both beat your chests and throw your feces at each other, but for right now,” she said, her eyes flashing, “my son has a bullet wound, and I would appreciate you not making more work for me. I’m sure that my son,” she added, her baleful look now turning on Edward, “will be happy to explain while I clean and sew.” Her fingernails suddenly were jabbing Edward’s chest. “Isn’t that right, Edward dear?” she asked pointedly.

Edward lowered his arms and coughed uncomfortably. “Er, right,” he agreed, and then looked up at Fox. “Thank you again, Mr. Fox,” he added. “I really do appreciate avoiding that sort of headache.”

“Good,” Prudence said over her shoulder, one hand now on Bo’s colossal shoulder, then glanced, irritated, at the camp, where the fire had gone out, save a few smoldering coals. “I suppose I’ll be restarting the fire, then. Hey, genius,” she said, poking Edward, “go see if you can’t find any wood.”

“Mom, we already have plenty of wood,” Edward protested.

“Well, not anymore, because you stoked the fire too much, so now when you need to get it going, you need some extra wood,” she replied.

Edward’s face went absolutely blank.

“Er, ma…” he started.

“Yes, Edward?” Her face was absolutely impassive.

“Ma, do you know…”

“Know what, son?”

Edward sighed. “Nothing, Ma.”

“Then you better hop to it.”

“Sure thing, Ma.”

After Edward disappeared into the night, Prudence turned to Fox.

“You know something?” she said. “If he would ever find that girl he’s been pining after, then he would never have had and sort of problem with that sentence. So, would you join us for some coffee before you decide whether or not to arrest us?"

June 1st, 1869
Outside The Canyon
1:45 am

Riding out of the Canyon, Stretch grabbed the bridle of Stumpy’s horse and pulled them both up.

“We ain’t gonna let him get away, are we, Stretch?” Stumpy asked. Stretch considered, not for the first time, that his partner’s uneducated accent became worse when he was agitated.

Stretch looked back the way that they had come before answering.

“It’s just that, you know, that bastard shot at me…” he started.

“We need a plan,” Stretch said.

“…and t’ain’t like other gents haven’t shot at ol’ me before, but that shotgun pellet cut right into my boot…”

“First things first,” Stretch went on, ignoring him. “We need a place to hole up until Shotgun Sally over there is vulnerable.”

“Now the rain’ll get right in, and these was practically new…”

“We’re in the desert, Stumpy,” Stretch commented, looking around. “There isn’t any rain.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Stumpy said reproachfully.

I’m riding with an idiot, Stretch thought, and sighed. “Let’s go.”

“Right you are, Stretch.”

[Harrison Fox]

---

June 1st, 1869
Midst the Canyons
1:50 am

Harrison eyed the young man as he dragged himself out the dirt, kept the gun limp in his hand honestly no real threat unless the boy continued to run his mouth. This is why he didn’t like strangers much, more specially, why he didn’t like Easterners much. There was a reason he’d moved out West, to get away from the pompous, self-entitled bastards that polluted the streets of nearly every city and town on the coast. They were arrogant, self centered vile people who just thought themselves better for being from back there. Well that wasn’t what it was like out here in the West. People made their name with hard work and got a reputation from their deeds. You weren’t born with any entitlements, you earned ‘em or you didn’t have ‘em. “After saving you boy, you better watch that tone.” He warned with a hiss of bitterness in his throat as he pocketed the revolver, honestly just wanting to throw the little git into the jailhouse and leave him for the Marshal. Though he was sure Davion would be none too happy with that.

Maybe Harrison would have been a tad more personable if it weren’t two in the morning or the fact both of these strangers were talking down on him, but the woman didn’t seem to help his mood any more. He grunted at her stiffly, nodding curtly to the man’s thanks before wheeling Dixie May back a ways before dismounting and leaving her to scrounge through the underbrush. His brow furrowed with agitation and he realized it was mostly do this whole mess ruining his quiet morning basking in the memory of his passed wife that he was so temperamental. “Ma’am I am in no mood for pleasantries. I have work to do now that I know I have a bunch of rowdy bounty hunters gallivanting all over Buffalo Creek’s land. I need to know your son’s history so I can go into town an write up some warning posters for those two imbeciles.”

Watching the man go off to collect wood for the doused fire he let his shoulders slump forward, “I don’t know what I expect from your son there, ma’am. He’s a scrawny one and though I’m sure he’s had his fair share of experiences I don’t see how he’d be much to be a murderer or criminal. He’s too….fluffy. Got the air about him like some lost pup that only follows his mother around constantly. So as soon as I know what’s going on I’ll be on my way and the both of you can be too.”

[Edward Robertsson]

June 1st, 1869
The Canyon
2:00 am

“Don’t worry about it,” Prudence said, “Obviously neither my son nor I am in the best of moods right now. As for those men’s interest in Edward…”

Prudence sighed as she searched for words. “Edward got into some trouble back in Detroit. He used to play a lot of poker for the extra money,” she began, checking Bo’s wounds. “Of course, he thought his mother never knew, but nobody comes home from delivering packages with cuts on their faces and blood on their knuckles. One night he came running back in and started throwing things in this big cart pulled by old Bo, here.”

She patted the old ox affectionately. “Not too bad,” she commented as she peered at the wound, “It didn’t hit square, and the bullet even fell out.” With a smile, she rubbed the longhorn’s neck. “Good boy.”

She turned back to Fox. “Anyways, he tells me that there was a bit of a rumpus while he was playing some cards; someone accused someone else of cheating and everyone started fighting, you know how that goes. Apparently, there was this powerful gent there, by the name of Big Tom. He runs the gutters of Detroit. He has a finger in so many pies that he’s practically wearing them like clothing.”

As she continued, she began to lead Bo back to the camp. “In the frackas, Edward shot Big Tom. Big Tom is not one of those guys who will just let things go.”

She gestured into the dark. “That’s where you get characters like those two. They work for Big Tom.”

“No,” Edward’s voice came from the dark. “You get that sort of character in the gutter. They had nowhere to go,” he walked into the light and dumped the wood. “And when you can’t get to anywhere, you find someone who can. Tommy is definitely someone who can.”

In silence, he stirred the coals. “I understand if you tell us to beat it,” he said to Fox. “After all, you can already tell we’ve got trouble following us, and you don’t need that in your town. However, we’d be very grateful if you can give us any sort of help. Food, water, maybe even a place to sleep safely, since obviously right here is not one of those places, and we are not in a position to move, especially with Bo being hurt. OW!”

This last outburst had come as Prudence had stuck a needle in Edward’s shoulder. Almost silently, she had removed the bandage, and was now stitching the wound shut.

“You’re lucky,” she remarked, not unkindly, “That bullet passed clean through. That shoulder will be trouble for a while, but at least there won’t be as much risk of infection.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Edward said wryly, but smiling tiredly at his mother as she continued working.

“So, Mayor Fox” he started again, back to Fox, “what do you think?”

[Harrison Fox]

---

June 1st, 1869
Midst the Canyons
1:50 am

Harrison crouched down next to the fire as the other two strangers went about their work, gathering their medical supplies and bickering back and forth. Elbows braced against his knees he just rolled his eyes a little as they seemed much more intent in arguing amongst one another than really telling him why on earth those two were chasing after Edward, two men who if they ever stepped foot into his town he’d put a bullet right between their eyes for making his mare near go deaf. Maybe those two greenhorn eastern morons didn’t really understand just how much men out here relied on the work their horses provided them, and most men wouldn’t even think twice about murdering a man for mistreating one of the large mammals, and of course, Harrison was no exception. From his years working with the Calvary in the civil war and on the great plains there was a soft spot in his heart for the animals, especially for his girl Dixie May, loved the mare like she were family.

“I see,” he gave a low sigh, scratching at the stubble on his chin as he stood up, observing silently for a moment as Edward’s mother worked on his wounded shoulder. This obviously was just meddling drama they had unfortunately dragged with them out to Colorado. This was certainly something that could escalate out of hand if not handled properly, the last thing Fox needed was his citizens getting caught in the ridiculous of some eastern man’s revenge.

Gathering up his bearings he turned back to his mare, took the reins in hand before he swung around and mounted into the saddle. “What do I think? Well I think your son has done given us some trouble that my town doesn’t need,” he narrowed his gaze a little before he reined Dixie May a little ways away, gazing out to the plains. “He got caught up in some trouble, what boy doesn’t? You just be sure to keep that trouble out of my town. I don’t care who this “Big Tom” fellow is but if his goons walk my streets they are under my laws and they will be tried for disturbing the peace and attempted murder. So if you’re smart, you’ll find a place close to town to stay- just in case the both of them come after you again.” He tipped his hat, “Buffalo Creek Bay is a safe haven for most folks, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I turned you away from it. You’re welcome in town, the both of you, just keep your noses out of trouble.”

[Edward Robertsson]

June 1st, 1869
In the Canyons
2:00 am


Edward and Prudence both smiled. “Thank you, Mayor,” Prudence said, and soon they were packed and ready to move, at the very least, closer to town.

“We’ll do our best,” Edward promised as they began to walk.



Unfortunately, trouble seems to ignore promises like a cat ignores the lid on a jar of treats.

Recovering from their sudden encounter, Stretch and Slim were lying across the top of a ridge looking down on the trio.

“Looks like they’re packing up,” Stretch commented.

“Who gives a damn?” Slim huffed in reply, still wheezing slightly from the retreat. “I want a shot at that hick who interrupted things. We almost HAD that Robertsson, Stretch!”

“There will be another chance,” Stretch replied, waving a scarred hand dismissively. “But first, you have a point, there. We can’t let that oaf get in the way again. We had better send him a message that he won’t soon forget.”

Slim looked blankly at Stretch as his brain waited on comprehension to arrive, and then chuckled evilly. “What did you have in mind, then?” he asked, now looking down the hill with malevolent interest as the unknown man mounted up.

“The way I figure, there’s always something that a man treasures.” He sighed imperceptibly, briefly thinking of the locket around his neck. “We only have to follow that rednecked hokey back home and find out where he stashes his jollies, then take them.”

Slim frowned for a moment. “You sure, Stretch? He seems like the kind to go after us with his guns drawn.”

“Not if the treasure is right.” Stretch now squinted with renewed maliciousness. “Some things a man will give anything to protect, and after all, what’s another damn Easterner to that bowlegged bumpkin?” In the silence that followed, Slim looked across at his partner. Almost without thinking, Stretch was fingering a locket around his neck.

“Ya know, Stretch, I’ve always wondered what happened to you all them years ago when you got that locket,” Slim said conversationally as he began to inspect his cuticles.

Stretch turned his gaze on Slim. After a moment, Slim sat up, muttering. "'Awl right, no need to use that look, Stretch..." he grumbled.

“Well,” Stretch said, standing and drawing his revolver in order to reload it, “looks like you’re going to keep wondering.” With an audible click, he slapped the magazine back into place. “Come on, Slim.”

“You got it.”