“Ah look like one o’yer waifs needin’ yer chivalry?” Sam heard a near growl come from the woman.
“Uh… no, ma’am. I just thought—”
“Well ya thought wrong. Move yer arm fer ya lose it.”
“Oh… yes, yes, ma’am!”
The door swung back on its hinges and she gripped them tight. She pushed through, heavy thumps resonating through the building. Sam suppressed a chuckle.
Gawddamn Wastelanders, Sam thought and looked her over. She was tall, over six-foot. Dark skinned with dark, piercing eyes. The whites of her eyes were startingly bright. A firm jaw and features suggested she was in her mid to late fifties. She was built like a warhorse yet still curvaceous and well-proportioned with hips that indicated she might have had a kid or two in her past. Her jet-black hair hung to her shoulders and was wavy with strands of white running through. Though she wasn’t wearing a duster, she did don a black Grey Lance and wore the sort of garb and boots common to the Wastelands. And around her waist was a gun-belt loaded with two sharp looking revolvers, steel grey with oak brown pistol grips.
“You Berricks?” her husky voice asked.
She glanced up the stairwell where two of his men were sitting on the steps and watching. They clearly didn’t present any sort of real threat to her as she smiled and took six heavy steps towards him. She stopped and braced her wrists casually on her revolver butts. The swinging doors made a swishing, angry thwomp as they settled to a standstill. Her smile didn’t waver as she glared down at him in a way that would make most men piss themselves. He suppressed another urge to chuckle.
Over his many years, Sam had seen pretenders and wannabes. People who acted the hard-ass, the badass, the lethal ombre, or deadly widower. And he knew when he was meeting the real deal. They just had that air about them. An air that said ‘I can be your best friend, or your worst enemy. Which is it gonna be?’ And the woman standing before him was one of those real deals. Principled. Deadly.
He refilled his glass. “Take it you’re Ms. Asta Lynch, then? Tol’ my men to find me the best hunter they could. Your name kept poppin’ up.”
Sam took a drink as Lynch raised her left hand. “Spare me the ass kissins. If’n we got business, git ta it.”
“Fair enough.” Sam leaned forward and placed his hands on the tabletop, upending his palms to gesture. “An associate of mine has gone missing. He was supposed to have recovered a journal you see. Two days was as long as he should’ve been gone. Well, it’s going on two weeks. Now, I don’t know if he’s been tore up, or if’n he tore out with the book, and I don’t likely care.”
She quirked a brow. “Musta been a real important friend o’yers.”
Sam shook his head. “He’s irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. I just want that book. If you can bring him back, great. If not, no big loss. My trackers have failed to pick up his scent. Lost it around Chesik Villa. As consequence, I’ve asked for you. Maybe a native from these parts will be able to dig up what we can’t. Get that journal. And if you can’t, make sure no one else can claim it. Ever.”
“What ya mean ta say is that nobody will speak ta yer men and ya need a go between to unearth the secrets certain people in the Wastelands don’t want ya knowin.” Sam only offered up a shrug and took a sip of his drink. “Whole lotta effort fer a little bit o’scrap.” Lynch let her smile drop. “Yet, yer dime’s right purty’n ken shoe a whole buntcha horses. Ah’ll take yer offer an’ find yer journal. However, given the lack o’challenge in this venture, ah want paid in full.”
Sam leaned back into his chair shaking his head. “Nothin’ doin’, Lynch. I don’t pay for these kinds of services up front.”
Lynch tugged on the brim of her hat. “Then, good luck findin’ yer scrapbook, sir.”
She turned to leave and Sam pounded the table with his fist, leaning forward. “Gawddamnit, fine!” Lynch stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Let me sweeten the pot. I’ll pay a quarter up front and double the remainder once the job’s done.”
She turned back and cocked her head. “Ya mus’ really be hard up fer that book.”
Sam affixed her with a steely gaze. “Woman, you have no idea.”
She glared back for a long moment. “Ah don’ know what it is ‘bout this journal got ya so worked up, an’ ah don’ wanna know. But ah want ta make sure ah’ve got the parameters correct. Bring the book back ta ya, or if’n that’s not an option, make sure it stays lost.”
“Preferably destroyed if it comes to that, but, yes. And if neither is accomplished, you don’t get the rest of the agreed upon pay.” He rested one hand on the tabletop and leaned back into the chair to rest the other on its arm. “And this sort of money should encourage you to guarantee results.”
Lynch swallowed visibly and nodded. “Fine. We gots an accord. Ya said yer boys lost this man out near Chesik?”
“That’s what they tol’ me.”
“Awright. Ah need a name’n a description then.”
Sam smiled. “Squirrely fellow by the name of Durante Weiss. Not quite six-foot, sandy blonde hair borderin’ on brown. Smooth face. A real bookworm if you ever saw one. You’ll know him on sight. He’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”
She nodded. “An mah pay?”
Sam looked up to the balcony overhead and saw one of his men leaning against a bannister looking down at them.
“Tell Nielson to bring his scrawny ass down here!” Before the man even moved, Nielson stepped out onto the balcony cleaning his glasses. Sam quirked a brow. “Whatcha doin’, waitin’ for your name to be called?”
“I am nothing if not punctual, Mr. Berricks.” Nielson slid his glasses back on and walked down the stairwell. “Besides, I like to be available should you… need my services.”
Nielson was almost as tall as Lynch, but was pale faced and dressed like a banker complete with white, long sleeved shirt, black vest and slacks, and shiny dress shoes.
Sam gestured from Lynch to Nielson. “This here’s Elliot Nielson. My… accountant.”
Nielson stopped at the bottom of the stairs, long, lanky arms clasped behind his straight back. He smiled. “Just Nielson if you please, Ms. Lynch.”
Sam looked up at him. “Ms. Lynch will be requiring quarter pay before heading out. How ‘bout you take care of that for me?”
“As you wish, sir. Follow me, Ms. Lynch.” Nielson walked past her and into the bar’s backroom. She followed after a brief glance at Sam.
He finished off his (shitwater) whiskey, the alcohol finally touching his head, waiting for Nielson to finish. It took no more than ten minutes, and then they returned. Lynch walked outside with a tug on her hat towards Sam. He stood up as Nielson joined him following her out to the deck. Outside, Sam found a post to lean against. The hunters, eight in all, mounted up and rode out towards the decline cutting down through the mesa out towards the plains.
Willard’s Peak, the small town he temporarily called base, sat high upon some bluffs at the base of the Rimrun Mountains chain. From here, much of the expanse of the Wastelands could be easily seen. The plains below ran for hundreds of miles all the way towards the canyon gorge walls beyond the Dustlands, which were far over the horizon. This vantage was defensible but his main camp was up the mountain path landing away from the villa.
Lynch and her crew disappeared down the street and out of view. I’ll be glad when this operation is over. Tired of dealing with wastrels and outlaws. The pale blue sky was giving way to light oranges and reds far on the horizon and he sighed as he watched the locals going about their daily activities, pretending he and his men weren’t sullying their town. Don’ worry, folks. This’ll all be over with before you know it.
Nielson crossed his arms and they stood in silence for several moments before he spoke up. “Was a quarter really necessary, sir?”
Sam’s gravelly voice answered, “Don’t exactly have a lot of options at my disposal. She demanded full pay or she wouldn’t do it. I tantalized her with a better deal. How
ever it goes down, we need that book. Besides, I can’t just go running roughshod across the whole of the Wastelands. At least, not yet. Gotta use what means are at hand. And after that debacle with Michaels, there ain’ much left.”
Nielson frowned. “As I’ve stated before, sir, I was unaware that Mr. Michaels would resort to violence in this matter. That Professor Wilson declined the offer, reneged on his word, is unfortunate. The fact that Michaels decided to waylay him as a result, tragic.”
“Funny thing about criminals, they tend to commit criminal acts.”
Nielson raised an eyebrow. “Yet, you trust a gang of hunters to track down Mr. Weiss.”
“Hunters’re ‘bout the closest thing to actual law out in these parts. Wouldn’t trust ‘em with my daughter, but a journal shouldn’t pose a real problem. Doubt any of these people even read.”
“There are sheriffs and deputies out here, sir.”
Sam spit over the bannister. “Don’t make me laugh. Those assholes are worse than the outlaws most of the time. Just as corrupt and malicious.”
Nielson sighed. “Well, speaking of outlaws, I hear tell Michaels and his gang were killed in a shootout a few weeks ago.”
“Good for him.”
Nielson chuckled and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Truth be told, I feel somewhat responsible for it.”
“Why would you, of all people, even give a shit?”
“Well, a few months back, a young Chuhukon woman was looking for the one responsible for murdering her father. I offered her some advice and sent her on her merry way.” He chuckled then. “I sent her towards the town Michaels had last been at, so I heard, and I guess she managed to track him down. I thought she’d be gunned down or taken prisoner, or raped, sold into slavery, or whatnot. However, she managed to put them all down.”
“Well, ain’t that special. Try not to spend too much time mourning their passing.”
Nielson’s smile grew. “The interesting part is the name my source told me.”
“Does it matter?” Sam said staring down to the plains. Lynch and her crew had yet to ride out of the valley trail. What are they doing? Having a gawddamn powwow?
“—don’t know, sir. But it is intriguing. It was a young Aidele Wilson who took them on.”
Sam turned to him, eyes betraying mild shock. “Wilson? Really? I didn’t even know Pelican had a kid. Interesting nugget of information, but ultimately irrelevant. It changes nothing.”
Sam looked back out towards the Wastelands.
Nielson cleared his throat. “Sir, I think you’re missing what I’m getting at. Maybe we don’t have to use hunters after all. Maybe young Ms. Wilson knows where the journal is.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Before indulging in what ifs, I’m going to trust lynch to do the job she was hired for. Hunter or not, I still feel she’s our best bet. Besides, Wilson’s brat is not likely to just hand it over to us.” He stood fully finally seeing Lynch and her posse tearing off across the plains. “For now, we have other matters to tend to. Get back to work.”
Sam headed back inside as Nielson nodded. “Yes, sir.”
HALFWAY DOWN THE summit trail, Asta brought her horse to a stop. She was worried. There was something about the whole affair that was sitting like a brick in her gut. A whole lot of manpower and money was being put into finding one man’s journal and she was starting to think she should’ve trusted her instincts in the first place and not come. But what was done was done and there was no turning around until the job was done. Or so she hoped.
The rest of the crew paused beside her as she stared up the cliffs and towards a villa they could no longer see. One man, Drevan Polk, pulled his mount up beside her. Concern was etched across his tanned, wrinkled visage.
“What’s wrong?” he asked holding his reins tight, yet still managing to look relaxed.
His brown Grey Lance was pushed snugly around the top of his head yet somehow his short brown hair was managing to whip around at the nape of his neck and sides of his forehead. He sat tall in his saddle, muscles bulging under the rolled-up sleeves of his denim shirt. Some people felt he was just ‘plain ole mean’ and Asta always figured that was because of the scar on the left side of his face running nearly brow to chin. However, he was the gentlest soul she’d ever known.
Asta said, “Ah don’ like it. Drivin’ the shudders up mah spine.”
“Then we go back. Call it off.” He made to turn his horse.
“Man’s Union. Ah’d swear it on mah grave. An’ by the looks o’that pin under his collar, ah’d say a general too.”
Drevan’s jaw dropped, though anyone else looking at him would just see thinly parted lips. “What the hell’s a Union general doin’ down in the Wastelands?”
Asta licked her dry lips. “Don’ know. But ah’ll wager it’s trouble. Not the sorta man ya jus’ say ‘no’ ta.”
“And expect ta walk out without a few bullets fer yer trouble?”
“Exactly.” She frowned. “He’s lookin’ fer a journal’n he wants it real bad.”
“Any idea what’s innit?”
Asta shook her head. “Whatever it is, it ain’ good. Din’t mention the author. Ah’d reckon whatever it is, or was, was likely very valuable ta the Union. Don’ spend the kinda money he’s throwin’ up on jus’ any ole jackass’s writin’s. Paid a quarter up front’n says he’ll double the rest once the job’s done.” Drevan knitted his brows but kept silent as she continued. “There’s one more thing. Guy we’re after was last seen headin’ ta Chesik.”
Drevan gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Shit. Shore ya don’ jus’ want ta call it off?”
Asta sighed. “Like ah said, don’ think that’s an option. Let’s jus’ git this done quick as lightnin’n be done with it fer we git drug down inta whatever rabbit hole the Union’s tryin’ ta drown.”
“Fair ‘nuff.” Drevan nodded as Asta kicked her mount back up into a trot and headed out to the plains.
ASTA PUNCHED HIM in his gut and he doubled over, coughing violently. Clyde, a blacksmith by trade and not a very good one at that, fell into the tabletop of his workshop as Asta took a step back, a snarl on her face. He gripped the corner gasping.
“Ah done tol’ ya, ah don’ know! He came lookin’ fer ole Coop’s dug in! Tol’ him ah had no idea!” Clyde looked up at her with a contorted face. “Useter hol’ up ‘round these parts somewhere. Hada been ta be professin’ down at the Merc! But ole Coop’s dead now! Put down by the Michaels gang!”
“Ya keep sayin’ that name like ah’m s’posed ta know it!” Asta growled. “Ah don’ give two shits ‘bout ya locals’n who ya pissin’ off! Where’s Weiss!?”
“Cooper Wilson! Professor! He spent more time over at Billy’s shop! He’d probably know more’n me!”
“Ah don’ already talked ta that old tinkerer! He tol’ me Weiss was last in yer shop!”
“He was here! Ah guess he knew the prof somehow! But ah couldn’t tell him nothin’! Ah jus’ don’ know, Ms. Lynch! If’n ah did, ah’d spill the beans! Honest!”
She growled and punched his jaw. It cracked and he went limp thumping across the table and rolling off onto the floor with a heavy thud. She turned and walked out the front door and stood out on the deck running the fronts of a series of shops. Placing her hands on her hips, her focus went out to the far distance over the roofs of closely set buildings. Two young men stood by the railing looking towards her eagerly. She nodded at them.
“Take what ya need. An’ he better not end up dead or ah’m leavin’ yer corpses in there ta rot with him!”
“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Lynch!” they said in unison and entered the blacksmith’s shop.
Drevan walked up beside her as she shook her head. “Ah ain’ never seen a shittier blacksmith.”
Drevan chuckled. “Ayup. Damn shame ‘bout what happened to ole Coop, though. Lots o’talk ‘round town ‘bout him’n what his daughter did ta Michaels as a result.”
Asta frowned and crossed her arms
over her chest. “Who in the hell is Cooper Wilson? Ev’rone keeps talkin’ ‘bout this man like he’s a saint’n ah’m s’posed ta know who he is… was.”
Drevan shot her a confused look. “Ya really don’ ‘member Coop Wilson? Mirra’s husband? The professor from the Crags lab?”
Asta’s blood ran cold. Old, buried memories flooded back to the surface like a slap in the face. Dizziness hit her hard as she unfolded her arms to catch herself on the railing. It was as if she’d stood up too fast. Drevan stepped forward and placed a hand on her back to rub in concern.
“Are ya awright?”
“She… was married?”
“Yeah. Thought ya knew. Ah was surprised mahself when ah found out… oh shit.” His mouth twisted. “We got caught up in that Barton business.”
Her eyes narrowed and she glared up at him. “Ya knew she was gittin’ hitched and said nothin’?”
Drevan took a small step back burying his thumbs beneath his belt. “Now, don’ be too sore. Ah meant ta fill ya in when we got back from Garret’s ranch. Ah’d been talkin’ ta the old man when he spilt the beans. We was conversin’ on old war stories when Mirra walked in. At first, she din’t want me sayin’ nothin’. But ah convinced her she was gonna need a maid o’honor. By the time we got home, ah jus’ plum fergot.”
Asta let her scowl fade and stared down at the town street. It was starting to get late and the sky was a burning orange. The town was practically empty with only a person or two going about their business. A sigh escaped her lips.
“Ah wish she’d shared that with me. …An’ now we got this sorry business.” Eyes clenched tight for a moment. “An’ she married that little stick o’a man? That, that’s who it was… ah wasn’t even thinkin’ ‘bout it then…”
Drevan nodded. “That day… her daughter was there too—”
Red Star Sheriff Page 11
