by Sean Platt
Edward stepped onto the street. Clint, Stone, Mai, Rigo, and Buckaroo ran around the pueblo, letting the villagers know that El Feo was approaching and that they would need to be ready. Pompi, who couldn’t contain his agitation over Paloma and insisted on going along with Edward to save her, beat his fists on the ground and yelled impatiently.
When the warnings were done, the boy, unicorn, and giant stood in the middle of the street in front of the saloon. Edward turned to Rigo and Pompi and told them to hang on tight, then strode forward. His head bent; his horn sparked; his posture became one of pushing through an obstacle. Then a light surrounded him and he vanished into a slit in existence itself, leaving Rigo and Pompi staring at nothing.
“We must go!” said Rigo. Pompi slammed his fists together.
“You are needed here,” said Clint.
“WE MUST GO!” Rigo yelled.
Clint grabbed the boy by the collar. “By Providence, she is already healed! What would you do? Leave your village undefended so you could skip back home beside her yanking daisies on the way? Do you believe what you say, Rigo Montoya, or are you a selfish coward? Are you man or boy? El Feo is on his way!”
And then they came — around the corners from the hills, just moments after Edward left. They came from the other end of town, from the river side. The six fighters found themselves surrounded. The gunfighters drew their guns. Pompi drew his hammer, focusing his upset on the newly-arrived men — the men who had done what they did to his love.
“Pompi smash,” he murmured.
“Soon,” Clint whispered.
But El Feo and his gross of masked men seemed to know all about unicorns and their weaknesses, because they took their time. They knew Edward would not be able to return immediately. El Feo nudged his horse forward slowly, chuckling.
“So, back to five,” he said. He looked around, seeing that there were many more than five, but ignoring Mai and the villagers. The villagers, who had seemed so confident while training, were already slinking back in the face of their oppressor and the demons.
“Or more,” said Clint.
“Oh, let us not play this game,” said El Feo with a wave of his hand. “You cannot match us. Certainly not all of us. Things were once so easy here. All you are doing is adding casualties to the inevitable. Do you really think these farmers are prepared to fight us? Do you really think you can win? Do you really doubt we will leave without the supplies we came to take?”
“Nar,” said Clint. “I don’t doubt it at all. I just don’t like it.”
El Feo cocked his head. He had surely anticipated that Clint and the others would stay, and he had surely anticipated that they’d try training the villagers. He seemed to have anticipated the ease with which the villagers’ formerly fervent determination would wane once the bandit was actually in town. But he hadn’t anticipated this. He hadn’t anticipated the sneakiest out of all sneaky plans: giving El Feo exactly what he wanted.
The bandit smiled. “You are quite a comedian, gunslinger.”
“I’m not kidding. Although my friend, who you sent on an errand, often tells people that I am indeed hilarious.”
El Feo studied Clint’s stoic, lined face.
“It’s true,” said Stone, standing beside him. “He’s hilarious.”
El Feo shrugged atop his horse. “Okay, comedian. Tell me what you are not kidding about.”
When Clint’s group had first arrived in Barucho Gulch, Rigo had explained that in order to minimize contact with El Feo, the village often set El Feo’s take in the square across from the church. And so, a day earlier, the town had done exactly that. It was Mai’s secret Plan C — C, for “Concede.”
Clint told El Feo about the supplies waiting in the square.
“You are joking,” said El Feo.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
El Feo peered into Clint’s eyes, sensing a trap.
“He’s not,” said Mai, stepping to the front of the group. “But to be fair, this is what he looks like when he’s joking. Although his jokes, I have to say, are absolutely terrible.”
“Knock knock,” said Clint.
“Don’t ask him who’s there,” she warned.
El Feo turned his gaze to Mai, soaking her in. She’d donned man’s clothing to train, but the garments did nothing to make her look mannish.
“Oh, and who is this?” said the bandit, his smile widening. “Mayhap I will take more than supplies this time. What kind of a man do you prefer, señorita? A man who gives up, or a man who leaves with what he wants?” He winked. Mai said nothing.
“It’s not giving up,” said Clint. “It is creating a way for both of us to win. If we fight, both sides will lose. So I would like to propose a deal.”
“A deal?”
“You were right,” Clint told El Feo. “You are too many, and we know that you won’t play fair. So we will give you what you want, but this will be the last time you come to terrorize the Gulch. We will surrender the supplies. That’s how you win, and keep breathing. But you will leave Baracho alone after this. That’s how we win.”
El Feo snickered, then stretched his neck and looked into the square. The way was blocked, so he jerked his head toward one of the masked men. The man ran his horse toward the square. A moment later he returned and said, “Sí, it is true, El Feo.”
There was a moment of indecision during which the bandit’s squinting brown eyes met Clint’s piercing blue ones, but eventually his stern expression crumbled and he laughed.
“Okay, amigo. I will take the supplies. And I will promise never to return here.” Then he raised his eyebrows, spread his hands, and repeated himself, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I promise.”
The Gross of Gringos, followed by El Feo, made their way into the square. In the center were wagons laden with barrels filled with unmilled corn and wheat, beans, avocados, tequil, many bales of straw and hay, and other supplies.
“You are a funny man,” said El Feo. “You are hired to protect this town, but then you hand it over. Would you like to pull my wagons as well?”
“Actually, sir,” said a drawling but proper voice, “I will pull the wagons for you.”
El Feo looked for the source of the voice, then found it in the form of something he’d probably taken for a piece of farming equipment. Buckaroo was sitting atop two stacked bales of hay, his golden alloy legs crossed.
“Don’t let him get out of control as he pulls those wagons,” said Clint. “He’s clumsy.”
“Time to go, then, sir,” said Buckaroo.
He stood. The boosters under his boots ignited, and the bales of hay beneath him immediately caught fire. He stumbled, his boot still ignited. The floor of the wagon caught. Then the barrel of corn, which started to pop. Then the wheat, straw, and crates.
El Feo stormed forward, shouting. His men followed, rushing the wagon.
“What is it doing?” El Feo yelled. “No deal! No deal if your idiot machine can’t even…”
The gunslinger drew two pistols and started to fire.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
THE BATTLE OF
BARACHO GULCH
When El Feo and his men had seen the supplies, they’d dropped their guards because they’d thought they’d won. That had been one level of distraction. But then, when the village showed him they’d rather destroy their supplies than keep handing them over, the gap between El Feo’s overconfidence and his confusion grew wide enough to shoot a pistol through — or swing a giant’s hammer at.
Clint backed away, both guns drawn and centered on El Feo. But before he’d committed to fire (he enjoyed watching the bandit chief’s reaction a bit too much, and lingered too long), some of the Gross stepped between him and their chief, and Clint sighted on them instead. His guns blasted dull red smoke. Men fell from horses. Clint reached out with his foot, kicked the horses’ hindquarters. The horses jumped and jerked their heads around. Clint kicked them again. Now riderless, the horses reared, their forelegs f
lailing in the air. The motion spooked some of the other horses, who then also reared, unhorsing their riders. Guns came out of holsters too slow — way, way, way too slow. Clint easily evaded the bullets, diving behind a barrel. A shot cracked; wood splintered; water began to pour from the barrel in a tiny waterfall. Clint turned his head up and took a drink, wetting his face and stubbly chin.
Buckaroo had fully ignited his boosters as instructed after lighting the bales of hay, taking flight. Clint looked up and couldn’t see him. The thinking machine couldn’t fly far, so he’d landed (or would land) somewhere nearby, at which point he was supposed to come back with his chest open, his canon out and ready.
The villagers had buried nets in the dirt at every entrance to the square, and as the wagon began to burn and the Gringos ran forward (led by El Feo, who then quickly turned from the flaming booty and began looking for enemies like a disturbed wasp), the townspeople grabbed the nets, pulling them tight, blocking the horses’ way. Most nets could be climbed over, of course… but these nets couldn’t be climbed over because they’d been magicked by a unicorn.
At least a third of the Gross was inside the square, trapped, when the archers appeared along the tops of the buildings and began nocking their arrows. The Gringos fought well. Once they realized what was happening, they drew their irons and pointed them at the archers. Bullets fired. Archers fell.
As the seconds ticked forward, the Gringos began to lose their masks. Some of the masks had been knocked askew; some of them had broken; some of the Gringos had ripped their masks aside to allow for better peripheral vision. Behind each demonic visage was a face almost as frightening as the mask covering it: alabaster skin pocked with pink eyes. Each man was the same size, all with identical builds and identical features.
Every one of the Gross of Gringos was the same man.
On schedule, Sly Stone climbed from the roof of a casito onto a lantern post and slid down behind Clint. Clint didn’t bother to acknowledge him. He knew how Sly sounded when he moved, and knew the pattern of his breath.
“These men are all Teedawge,” Stone said in the casual tone of voice he might use to acknowledge a man’s new shirt.
“I noticed,” Clint replied, still not turning. He vividly remembered the albino member of Stone’s old gang. Teedawge was the one who kept popping up no matter how many times Clint killt him.
“I never liked that guy,” Stone muttered.
Clint continued to watch the battle, still hidden. The few Teedawges who had seen Clint dive behind the barrel had already been shot by archers. In front of them, the scene was all confusion. Archers fired. Gringos fired. Clint felled El Feo’s gang as unfairly as he could, picking them off like a sniper and tipping the odds forward one man at a time.
“Where is Rigo?” he asked.
“In place.”
“Pompi?”
“Ready. And absolutely furious.”
Stone peered around his own water barrel, then began to shoot his guns as the bags of black powder the villagers had hidden around the square exploded, deafening the combatants. Stone’s shots were lost in the tumult of noise, and still none of the Teedawges had noticed them hiding and firing. Their every pull of the trigger was a potshot, unfair and dirty. Which was, of course, exactly the idea.
Clint was eying the Gringos as their masks came off: the pale skin, the pink eyes. All of them exactly the same.
“I thought I killt Teedawge more than once,” he said. “You rode with the man. He was in your gang —”
“Gunther Jethro’s gang.”
“— so you had to know. You knew, right?”
“That he was an archetype? Nar, I didn’t know. There are rumors about these things, but nobody I know has ever seen one — or at least seen one and known it for what it was. I’m not surprised, though. I suspected we had a mole in the gang.” He sneered, making a noise of disgust. “Archetypes. Realm magic at its finest. Edward will lose it. You just watch.”
“Archetypes?” Clint looked puzzled. The wood above him, part of the casito, splintered as a bullet struck it. The slug was a stray. Not an aimed shot.
“Uniform living machines,” Stone explained. “They all look the same for the reason many guns look the same — they’re cast from the same mold. But nar, I had no idea. We got into some tough spots with Jethro’s gang, and Teedawge was always the most aggressive, diving right into hails of bullets. He seemed to survive through impossible odds. There was a time or two we even thought he was dead and left him behind, but then he’d show up later, totally fine. Looking back, it seems obvious. But at the time, we just figured he was tough.”
“Very tough,” said Clint. “Watch this.”
He reached over the water barrel and fired a single shot at a Teedawge who was aiming at an archer. The bullet struck him square in the chest, and he fell. But a moment later, the man was back to standing, sighting again, now with a hole through his middle.
“Like xombies,” said Clint.
“Dispatch them like xombies, then,” said Stone. “Rumor says they have a machine thinkbox where a man’s brain would be.”
Clint fired again. This time he struck the back of the thing’s head. A shower of black smoke plumed from the hole and this time when the Teedawge fell, it kept kissing dirt.
On cue, the nets on the southern end of the square fell. The Teedawges were focusing on the archers, who were all at the north, so dropping the net simply freed the riderless horses. Baracho Gulch needed horses, and it was high time the village stole something back from their tormentors.
“Go,” said Stone.
“Not yet.”
“Go! They’re regrouping, and soon they’ll…”
There was a deafening thunder and a blinding flash of light as the gunpowder on the flaming wagon caught. Clint stayed down. Stone had stood, but now ducked. A wagon wheel struck the casito wall behind him and embedded itself halfway in, breaking into a misshapen half-oval. Splinters as big as a man’s fist pocked the front of the barrels.
“Okay,” said Clint. “Go.”
They marched into the square, guns drawn. Many of the Teedawge machines were covered in flames, still firing relentlessly toward the townspeople. Stone shot round after round, his guns belching green fire. Teedawges in front of him evaporated into swirling purple smoke. Clint fired both guns in unison, each echoing in a single report. He fired them together; he spread his arms and fired them in each in opposite directions. Neither man slowed. When they reached the wall below the archers and the stone was littered with archetypes, Clint estimated that the Gross, as a whole, was half dispatched. The square itself was cleared. El Feo was nowhere to be seen, but that meant little. If Stone had shot him, he’d have turned to smoke.
“Did you hit El Feo?” Clint asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We have to be sure. These other things are only drones.”
But they couldn’t be sure, so they signaled for the villagers to drop the nets and ran north, to a large courtyard where the pueblo’s children often played games.
As Clint and Sly approached, Rigo ran in front of them in a sprint, left to right across the courtyard, pursued by a huge group of Teedawges. Stone raised his guns and fired, but instead of turning to smoke, some of those he struck simply kept coming. His guns were magic and were responding to the Teedawge’s non-human nature, refusing to render them purple smoke until they were killt true. So he aimed for the thinkbox and made a few go away, but the pack behind Rigo was still too many and too fast.
The mass of identical archetypes overtook the boy and fell on him in a pile. Rigo emerged from the bottom of the pile, shirt torn off and black pants belted above his navel. He waved his arms around his head, made faces, and screamed a war cry.
The archetypes had thus far seemed plenty capable of fear and surprise. They fell back in a wave, seeming to forget that they were clinging to weapons as Rigo screamed. They remembered their weapons around the time an enormous alloy wagon axle careened
across the space, knocking a huddle of archetypes to the ground like a sweeper bar, crushing them into the wall behind Rigo. The boy escaped easily; he ran up the wall and backflipped over the axle. Then he turned and nodded curtly to Mai, who’d hurled the axle. She still had her hands out, seemingly trying to decide if she should use the axle again or turn her magnetic magic elsewhere.
The axle had smashed many of the machine-Gringos beyond recognition, but it hadn’t totally destroyed their thinkboxes. It seemed to have addled them, though, and they’d become pure aggression, little logic. Beyond searching for their guns, they stormed toward Rigo with their fists out. But Rigo was too fast, too good; he dealt blows with his fists, feet, and a leg that swept like lightning from the sky. As he battled, the dirty-fighting townspeople streamed in behind the attackers, beating at them with clubs and farming implements, smashing their thinkboxes and causing them to barf stinking black smoke.
Archers scampered from roof to roof, firing at the Teedawges as the things swarmed toward Rigo. But there was no need; Rigo spun and leapt from obstacle to obstacle, one foot here and another there, up the corner of a building, scampering like a rodent, snatching up a piece of shorn debris and using it as a staff, twirling it as he struck his attackers.
The staff snapped in his hands. One piece hung from the other, the two shorter lengths still attached by an internal bit of something flexible, like chain. Rigo flawlessly adapted to the surprising new weapon, spinning one stick around and using it to bludgeon Gringos as they piled toward him. He swung it behind his back, then from hand to hand across his chest, then under his legs. The archetypes formed a ring around him and the scene became a standoff, but then suddenly the air was split by a voice yelling “STOP ATTACKING ONE AT A TIME, YOU IDJITS!” and Clint turned to see that El Feo had indeed sneaked out like any self-respecting cowardly leader.
Clint turned his guns to fire, but the bandit vanished around the corner before he got himself all the way around. Clint started to give chase, but Mai beat him to it. The wagon axle rose up and sheared into pieces. A hunk landed at her feet and she straddled it like a witch straddles a broom. The thing took off like a shot, Mai holding on, her hair streaming in a flutter behind her, and then she was gone around the corner and after him.
