Guns of Seneca 6 Box Set Collected Saga (Chambers 1-4)

by Bernard Schaffer

  Johnny Saringo looked back at the display screen for a moment, then turned it off and set it aside. He leaned forward in his seat and said, "Now you listen to me, you lily-livered son of a bitch. The only reason you aren’t getting bent over your bunk and stove-piped right now is because you accepted an assignment. Now, I don’t care what your memory tells you about the man you used to know, but that isn’t really important. The man in this photograph is the only Gentleman Jim I give a shit about and if you don’t want to spend the rest of your worthless, useless existence servicing the inmates of an entire prison wing, I suggest you get your head on straight. Am I clear right now, boy?"

  Bob Ford looked down at his shoes and nodded.

  "Outlaws die all the time and get replaced," Saringo said. "Probably, one of his new partners was too smart to get caught in the same ruse that trapped you and put a bullet in the last one’s brain. All he had to do was put on a mask and sooner than you could say ‘stick-up’ he was the new boss hog. So what if this new one don’t have quite the same code of chivalry as the former? If he wants to wear the mask, he’s gonna face the consequences for every single one of them that’s ever done it."

  "It wasn’t me being stupid that got me caught," Bob said. "It was me being loyal. I did what he told me to do because I was following orders."

  "Yeah," Johnny Saringo said, "And look where that got you."

  Johnny Saringo watched Bob get dressed in his old clothes and frowned as he hiked up his black trousers. "Look how baggy they are. You lost some serious weight in there, boy."

  "The food had bugs in it," Bob said.

  "Yeah, they don’t pay much mind to the cuisine they serve, I reckon. Listen, the first thing you need to do is get a room and establish some sort of presence. Don’t move too fast, or you’ll spook people. Just get the lay of the land for a few days and see who knows what. Buy some drinks. Nothing like a free drink to loosen a man’s tongue."

  "How am I supposed to pay for all that?" Bob said.

  "You didn’t bring no money?" Saringo said sharply.

  "Well, no, they didn’t let me keep any when I got arrested."

  Saringo snorted with laughter and said, "I’m just kidding with you, Bob. Lighten up for Pete’s sake. Here." He reached into his pocket for a small sack of coins and said, "This here’s enough for two full weeks of shelter, food, and drinks to bribe the locals for information. Use it wisely because there won’t be any more of it for two weeks, and after that, you only get half this much."

  "What about a gun?"

  "The hell you need a gun for?"

  "What kind of outlaw doesn’t carry a gun?"

  "That kind that just got out of a goddamn maximum security facility and should be grateful to still be drawing air, Bob."

  "All right, Mr. Saringo. I understand."

  Saringo dropped the bag of coins into Bob’s hand and said, "Listen, I put a little extra in there out of my own pocket so you can enjoy yourself tonight. You been through hell, and I reckon you can use a few drinks and maybe some female companionship to get your head right. But just tonight, okay? Come first light, you better be hard at it, or else. Understand?"

  Bob nodded and said, "Thank you kindly for the consideration, sir."

  Saringo patted Bob on the arm and said, "You sure are a puzzle, Bob Ford. Anyway, go on now. Get to it."

  The freighter’s cargo hatch popped open and Bob leaned forward to take his first breath of fresh air, but caught a face full of hot dust. He lowered his head and ducked into the gust, no sooner stepping onto Seneca’s surface before the engines whined again and the transport started to lift.

  He scurried out of the way and looked up to watch the ship ascend, seeing its thrusters glow as it pushed up into the atmosphere. Bob stood still for a moment, looking into the sky.

  "Get out of the way, you goddamn idiot!"

  Bob leaned back as a destrier pulling a wagon charged past him, its hooves smashing the ground where Bob’s feet had been standing a second before. People stared at him and shook their heads as Bob backed away from the road and headed for the town’s main square.

  He passed rows of bakeries and medicine shops until he came to a large wooden building with swinging doors and windows in the shapes of tombstones. Dalewood Saloon was splashed in chipped red paint above the porch roof. Bob walked in and waved to the bartender, "You have any rooms for rent?"

  "Yes we do. How long you staying?"

  "Not sure, sir," Bob said. "Can I pay as I go?"

  "Five dollars for the first night. For two extra dollars I’ll send a woman up to your room after supper."

  "I’ll let you know, if that’s all right," Bob said. He dropped a coin into the bartenders hand and said, "Where’s the gun store?"

  The clerk looked up from his newspaper at Bob and nodded, taking stock of him in one glance. Nervous eyes with grey skin and a sickly build. Hollow, wet looking eyes when he said, "Good morning, sir. I’d like to see some of your guns if you don’t mind."

  "Nobody gets to see guns unless they’re buying one. You got money?"

  Bob smiled nervously as he reached into his pocket, to pull out the sack of coins. He set it on the counter and said, "My Pa just died and this is what I got from his estate. You reckon that’s enough?"

  The clerk squinted at the coins inside the bag and said, "It depends what you’re looking for. I got a couple nice used pieces over here in the case."

  Bob followed the man and bent down to look behind the glass. "The one on the left’s a Colt Defender. Good, up-close weapon. It’s an older model, but some people still swear by them."

  Bob looked at the gun next to it and jabbed his finger against the glass, "That one."

  The clerk reached in and grabbed the gun’s handle, "Course. All you kids want the Defeater. Considered by many to be the finest six-gun ever made." The clerk cocked the hammer back and laid the gun on the glass, "Used by outlaws and lawmen alike."

  Bob picked up the gun and held it in the air, aiming down the sights. "I’ll take this one."

  "Sounds good to me," the clerk said, "I need to make room anyway." The clerk’s voice dropped conspiratorially and he said, "Just got something new in."

  "New?" Bob said.

  The clerk nodded. "It’s all kind of hush-hush because we only got a few and the manufacturer wants us to use ‘em for displays. When people see these things, shoot…they’re gonna go crazy."

  "What is it?"

  "All right, come on back and I’ll show you," the clerk said. He opened the counter’s swing door and waved for Bob to follow him. In the back room, he reached for a pine box on the counter that had the words Colt Devastator etched into the lid. He opened the box and showed gun the sleek black weapon inside.

  Bob looked down in silence for a long time until he said, "This is the gun I need."

  "I know, partner. You and everybody else. Like I said, there’s gonna be a stampede. It’s gonna make all the people carrying those Defeaters around look like schoolchildren."

  "No, I mean, this is the gun I need right now."

  The clerk shook his head and closed the lid. He went to put it back up on the shelf and Bob shook the bag of money at him, "You can have all of this. I don’t care."

  "It’s not for sale."

  "Of course it is. This is a gun store, you said you had more of them. Sell me that one!"

  "Listen, I made a mistake in showing you this. Now let’s go back out front and you can get that Defeater and be on your way. I shouldn’t have anyone back here like this anyway."

  "So why did you?" Bob said.

  "Because you look like a nice young man who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and I figured you’d enjoy seeing it. Now come on," he said. The clerk grabbed Bob by the arm to pull him toward the door. For a skinny arm, it felt tight and wiry, like a coiled spring. Not the limp, weak limb he’d expected.

  Bob pulled his arm back from the man and whirled the heavy bag of coins at the man’s head, cracking him across the temple. The man
cried out as he fell, clutching the side of his face, and Bob grabbed him by the shirt collar. "Wouldn’t hurt a fly?" he said. He swung the bag onto the top of the man’s head again, driving him to the ground. He looked around the storage room as the clerk lay there whimpering, and found a heavy metal crowbar. "My name is Bob Ford, and people like you are going to stop underestimating me, mister."

  Chapter 6: The Grind Wheel

  Betsy Clayton woke up to the sound of squalling. She leapt out of her bed and raced into the baby’s room to see Claire sitting up in her crib, pulling on her hair. She picked the child up and laid her on her shoulder, patting her back gently and rocking her side to side. "Sam?" she said. "Can you fetch me a bottle from the ice chest?"

  There was no response. She carried the baby through the dimly-lit house back to her bedroom and looked in. The bed was empty.

  Betsy carried her daughter into the kitchen and opened the ice chest with one hand, using her hip to prop the door open while she grabbed the bottle. Claire saw the bottle and grabbed for it, clawing at her mother’s hand in the desperate way only a small child can manage.

  "Here you go, sweetie pie," Betsy whispered. "Here you go." She felt Claire’s rump and realized her diaper cloth was full. Both of Seneca’s moons were still overhead, casting everything in pale blue light, but the sun was coming. One could tell from the way the valley around them began to shimmer with amber hues that reflected the red clay of the wasteland surrounding the settlement. Claire laid her daughter down and unpinned her diaper, smiling down at the baby as she pressed the bottle to her lips and drank greedily.

  Betsy found her husband sitting on the porch, staring at the meadow. His rifle was laid across his lap and he had both his guns on. Sam looked up at her and said, "What are you doing up?"

  "I needed help with the baby and didn’t know where you were," she said.

  "I’m normally gone by this time anyway."

  "When you were working, you mean."

  "Everybody’s entitled to some time off now and again, Betsy. Tom’s got things well in hand."

  Betsy patted Claire on the back and tried to coax a burp out of her. "Most people take time off to do things besides sulk around the house, Samuel Clayton. All you’ve done for two weeks is sit on my front porch collecting dust. You ain’t shaved in so long you look like a grizzly bear."

  Sam scratched the length of hair on his neck and said, "I keep meaning to. It itches like hell."

  "Why don’t you go wake Jem up and take him fishing? Stop sitting around feeling sorry for yourself and go do something with your boy for once."

  He looked up at her in the early dawn light, the way the sun played with the loose curls of her hair and lit their tips aglow. "All right, honey. I will. Just give me a little while."

  "Okay," she said. "I’m going to go lay her down and get a little more sleep if I can. You two have fun."

  "We will," he said. Sam looked back to watch his wife go through the door and returned to the place in the meadow he’d been watching. That would be the place Whiskey Pete would emerge, Sam reckoned. That was the place he’d hunker down and try to spy on them, waiting for a second bite at the apple.

  Wouldn’t be none this time, Sam thought. He raised his rifle and looked down the sites, seeing nothing but swaying grass and yellow dirt.

  I’ll wake Jem up in a little while, he thought.

  But he never did.

  He’d been sitting at the wheel for over an hour. So long that the sparks looked like fiery rain spitting against his chest in the setting sun. Sam took his foot off the pedal and inspected the blade in the dim light, then lightly bounced the edge of the blade across the surface of his thumbnail. "Sum bitch!" he shouted, ripping his hand away and shaking it. The knife bit him too deep, and Sam stuck his thumb in his mouth, tasting blood.

  His little boy came up through the meadow and said, "You hurt yourself?"

  "Only by being stupid," Sam grimaced. "Look at this."

  Jem peered down at the injury and said, "Guess the knife’s pretty sharp."

  "You ain’t kidding."

  "Can I see it?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "All right."

  Sam looked back at the boy and said, "Here. Come over near me. This knife is not like any other knife you’ve ever held before, so pay special attention and be extra careful."

  Jem rolled his eyes, "Dad, I use knives all the time."

  "That’s true," Sam said. "You used fruit knives and steak knives. Your little pocket knife sure came in handy the other week, didn’t it?"

  Jem nodded and patted his pocket. The knife hadn’t left his side since that day in the meadow.

  "All those have their purpose, see, and some can be used for more than one. In the right hands, anything can be dangerous, I suppose."

  "Even a piece of string?" Jem said.

  "All right, maybe not everything. Lots of things, though. A pen, a pencil, a wheel spoke, any number of regular items can be disastrous if someone has it in their mind to hurt you with it. I once heard of a prisoner picked his handcuffs with a woman’s hair clip and used it to slit a deputy’s throat."

  "Yuck!"

  "That’s right. I think the lesson there is that you can’t ever assume you’re safe just because someone doesn’t have a gun or a knife. On the flip side, don’t ever feel like you’re defenseless because there’s weapons around you everywhere if you know where to look."

  "Okay."

  Sam took Jem’s hand and wrapped it around the handle of his knife. He gave the boy a minute to feel the way the hickory walnut curved in the palm of his hand, keeping the blade’s tip angled forward, ready to strike. "This here knife just has one purpose. It was created by a man named Bo Randall from Fort Scagel. Those boys knew the value of a good knife, I assure you."

  Jem looked at the knife and saw the man’s name etched across the side of the blade.

  "Fort Scagel was an outpost for the mining companies about twenty years back. It was overrun by the Beothuk and all their supplies were cut off. The men inside ran out of ammunition, and it was just a matter of time before the savages came busting through the doors. Old Bo, he gathered up all of the men and had them collect any piece of scrap metal he could find. They used everything from iron bed frames to aluminum panels on the transports. In a few days, Bo made every sort of knife, spear, sword and axe you can think of. Crude things, really. Just made for one purpose." Sam lowered his voice and said, "Only a few men made it out of Fort Scagel alive. Bo was one of them, and he kept making knives up until the day he died."

  Sam tapped the hilt of the knife with the tip of his finger, "This right here’s a special guard to keep your hand from slipping up over the blade. An up close knife fight is slipperier than a rattlesnake in a bucket of lard, so you need that to keep from slicing off your own fingers. See how the steel is curved? It goes right through a man like he was made of hot pudding and opens him up from stem to sternum. This knife has no other reason for being except for one purpose."

  "To kill him," Jem said solemnly. His eyes flashed as he thrust the blade forward.

  Sam watched the little boy and his heart broke. He gently took the knife from Jem’s hands and set it aside, suddenly regretting the entire conversation. "No, not to kill," he said. "To protect yourself if someone's trying to kill you, or somebody you love." He picked Jem up and set him on his knee, wrapping his arms around him. "Pretty soon, you’ll be too big to sit on my knee like this."

  "Can you sharpen my knife?" Jem said.

  "You mean that little toothpick you carry around? Here, let me see it."

  Jem dropped the knife into his father’s hand and said, "Did you catch Whiskey Pete yet?"

  Sam pumped the pedal until the wheel began to turn and said, "No. He’s gone. I’ve got a warrant out for him and some of the businesses in town even put up a reward, though."

  "And still nothing?"

  "Nope."

  "Sum bitch."

  The wheel stopped sud
denly and Sam turned to look at his son. "What did you say?"

  Jem shrugged silently. Sam shook his head and said, "Boy, you talk like that in front of your mother and she’ll break half the spoons in the kitchen across your backside. She’ll save the other half for me."

  Jem leaned forward and whispered, "Sometimes she says bad words too."

  Sam smiled, "That won’t matter even a little bit."

  Royce Halladay made his way across the dark meadow, running his hands along the tall stalks of wheat grass. Loud voices carried up from the property below, and in the dim light of the Clayton’s porch, he could make out one man sitting on a destrier and the other perched on the front steps. Sam Clayton jabbed his finger at his deputy and said, "I didn’t ask if you wanted to go check, Tom. I told you to."

  "We did, Sam! Every bar, every night now for the past two weeks. It’s got so that everybody knows we’re coming and they make jokes about it the second we walk in. If Whiskey Pete were in town, they’d hogtie him up and hold him for us, just so we’d stop sticking our noses into their business!"

  Betsy Clayton opened the door behind her husband and said, "Both of you need to take this conversation down off my porch. My baby’s finally asleep and if you wake her up, I’ll be madder than hornets."

  Tom Masters tipped his hat and said, "I’m sorry, Betsy. I didn’t mean to holler, darlin'."

  She turned to her husband and said, "At least some people around here know how to act like gentlemen."

  Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Betsy cocked an eyebrow at him that made him think otherwise. "We’re done," he said. Sam looked back at Tom and sighed, "What about the teletypes? Is somebody checking to see if he popped up yet?"

  "Tilt Junger checks them the second they come in, even the ones from the PNDA for all the surrounding systems. I think it’s time to consider that he’s gone, Sam. If I was him, I’d have hot-stepped it off this rock and never looked back. He knows what’s waitin' for him if he does."