The Wanderer and the New West

by Adam Bender

  The CEO of Breck Ammunition looked at his watch. “I need time to think this over, but I think you will agree that time is not something we have. So, I will make you this deal: We will announce the new gun this morning as scheduled, under what we will call a ‘draft agreement.’ We will continue to negotiate the final terms of our contract, and the gun will not go on sale until we have them. Is that acceptable to you, O’Brien?”

  The gun inventor looked suitably pleased.

  *

  Liberty’s churchyard buzzed with anticipation for the general public to enter the Breck Gun Show. Rosa, who as a member of the media could enter early, saw killing machines everywhere she looked. Handguns, rifles, shotguns — even crossbows and medieval maces brought by antiques dealers. A mélange of heavy metal tunes, blaring from different locations, combined into one swampy muddle, while food stands on the edge of the yard smoked with dead meat.

  She caught herself looking for the Wanderer. She knew he wouldn’t be here, but she looked anyway.

  She had been to a Breck Gun Show once before, but it was many years ago, when she and Jack were still small. She remembered holding a Lassiter revolver, feeling the weight in her hands and thinking that only a hero could wield it, as if the silver handgun was the sword in the stone. Dad ended up buying her a pink toy replica. It came with a roll of gunpowder packets that exploded when you pulled the trigger. Jack got one, too, except his had been bright green. They spent the rest of the evening shooting at each other, stopping only when the gunpowder strips had breathed their last fire.

  “Are you the reporter from Our Times?”

  “Hm?”

  While Rosa’s mind had wandered, the racks of ammunition and hunting jackets opened into a large grassy area with a stage and several rows of cold gray folding chairs. And now there was a beautiful model, a small-framed woman with aggressive makeup, standing in front of her.

  “Yes, hi,” the reporter stammered, extending her hand. “Rosa Veras. I’m covering for Stephen.”

  “I am Elza Meller, head of communications for Breck Ammunition,” the woman said with a light eastern European accent. The flack presented a business card. “Mr. Breck and I were very sorry to hear that Stephen could not make it. Is he well?”

  Rosa shrugged — she had never actually met the gun reporter, nor did she particularly want to. “Oh, you know Stephen …” She forced a chuckle. “I think he had another commitment.”

  “In any case, we are pleased that you are here to represent Our Times. The first row is reserved for journalists, so please have a seat, and we shall get going shortly.”

  Rosa forced a smile and made her way to the front. She recognized a few of the other reporters, but they were absorbed in their screens. She made a point not to say hello. Not that she had time! As soon as she sat down, a trumpet announced the entrance of Gerard Breck. In a scramble, Rosa opened a new document and hit RECORD.

  Breck strode onto the stage wearing a pressed black suit. There was a slight arch to his posture that gave him the appearance of a stray cat. The microphone squealed as he approached it, eliciting a murmur of discomfort from the audience. With an apologetic smile, he steadied the mic and spoke in a low voice — more than a whisper, but weirdly confidential in tone.

  “Hello, my friends in the media. Thank you for coming out to the annual Fourth of July news conference at the Breck Ammo Traveling Gun Show! As you know, this is my first year as CEO of the company.”

  That’s right, thought Rosa, scrawling G’s first as CEO into her notes. Gerard’s stepfather, Albert Breck, had died last year. She vaguely recalled there had been a question of whether Gerard or his brother would take control of the company, but she hadn’t followed the story very closely.

  “When Dr. Richard J. Gatling went to build a machine gun for America, he stated his goal simply,” Gerard orated. “He said he wanted to make a gun that could be operated by one man but do the work of one hundred men, saving ninety-nine others for the country. Today, Breck Ammunition announces a modern, next-generation Gatling, and it can do the work of a hundred automatic rifles! It’s coming just in time for Christmas — we call it the Breck 100X!”

  He reached into the pedestal and procured a sleek black rifle with a scope. The other journalists applauded reverently as he held it high in the air.

  Gerard’s thin arm shook slightly and he had to bring the gun back down before continuing his remarks. Elza stepped onto the stage and took the gun from him to display it, beaming like a game-show girl.

  Breck continued. “This is a fully automatic, extreme long-distance, super high–caliber rifle, featuring close to zero kickback. The gun can be set up at long distance and fire one thousand rounds per minute into the target with maximum precision. The Breck 100X shoots faster and more efficiently than the Yossarian assault rifle. And its digitally enhanced 100X scope provides computer-assisted long-distance shooting rivaling our own Montag hunting rifle.”

  Rosa gasped audibly while the other reporters cheered. Here it was — the second fully automatic gun to be released following the amendment to the National Firearms Act making them legal for consumers, and it was an absolute killing machine. Why would any normal person need a gun like this?

  “One thousand RPM!” cheered one of the other reporters. “How long will that last you?”

  “Each clip carries one hundred and sixty rounds, so you’ll get nearly ten seconds on each pull. I can assure you that the clips are very quick to load, but you’ll find that out for yourself in a few minutes. For, you see, we will be giving all of you a chance to try our newest hunting rifle today!”

  There was a heavy mechanical thunk-thunk-thunk from behind Breck. Rosa stood to get a view and saw a line of four black helicopters flying toward them from the red mountains in the distance. When the choppers were no more than fifty yards away, they shifted into a hover and slowly descended onto the pavement behind the stage. The wind from the spinning blades rustled Gerard Breck’s pressed suit.

  Over the mechanized din, Breck shouted, “We will provide more details, including pricing and availability, in precisely one hour! But first, we hunt!”

  Elza herded all of the reporters toward a rack of flight headsets. When everyone was properly outfitted for the flight, the flack broke the journalists into pairs, sending each group into one of three helicopters. Elza left to join the fourth with Gerard and a small man Rosa had not noticed before. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.

  “Come on in, then!” laughed a burly man with aviators, pulling Rosa inside the helicopter’s fuselage. The chopper was loud, but the flight headset let her hear the man’s directions clearly as he strapped her into a seat facing the front. Next, he helped another reporter — a gray-haired man with bushy eyebrows — into the seat opposite. The Breck employee closed the sliding door and sat next to the older journalist.

  This was Rosa’s first time in a helicopter, and she was surprised to find the interior to be as polished as a limousine. The seats had thick cushions of cream-colored leather and wide armrests with extra-large cup holders. They were set across from each other with two seats facing the cockpit and another two pointed to the back of the aircraft. There was so much room, you could probably stand comfortably between the seats.

  “My name’s Zeke,” said the man in the aviators. His voice buzzed through the ears of Rosa’s headset. “Our pilot today is Jo.”

  He pointed behind his head to a window looking into the cockpit. The pilot was a woman with short brown hair. Zeke tapped the window twice to attract her attention and twirled his finger in a circle. Jo acknowledged the signal with a thumbs-up and the engine’s hum increased in volume.

  As the helicopter ascended, the other reporter introduced himself as Ben Ho with Good Gun Guide. Rosa did her best to explain who she was and where Stephen was.

  “Y’all are in for a treat today!” exclaimed Zeke. “We’re goin’ deer hunting!”

  Rosa marveled at how small the cacti and eve
n the great red rocks looked from so high up. After some time, they reached a clearing of mint-green brush. The convoy of helicopters spread out into a circle. Zeke removed his seatbelt, then motioned for Rosa and Ben to do the same. He pulled a long black case out from under his seat and opened it to reveal a shiny new Breck 100X.

  “We’ve only got one of these beauties per chopper, so you guys are going to have to take turns.”

  Ben gestured to Rosa. “Ladies first.”

  After some hesitation, Rosa stood to take the gun. Zeke slid open the door of the aircraft and a gust of wind blew into the cabin. She nearly lost her balance and imagined herself falling headfirst into the jagged rocks below. But the big man caught her and helped her down into a prone position on the buzzing floor. The gun felt light but solid, its stock hugging her shoulder tightly. She scooted toward the door and looked down at a smattering of brown smudges among the green.

  “Those are mule deer,” said Zeke. “With an average rifle, we’d have to fly much lower than this, but that’s the beauty of the Breck 100X. Have a look through the scope.”

  At first, Rosa found it difficult to focus with the view sliding wildly about, but after several seconds her hands became accustomed to making slower, steadier movements. Finally, she found them — reddish-brown deer with dark foreheads, near-white faces, and almost comically large ears. The bucks had majestic horns and beautifully defined muscles.

  “Before you try to kill those ugly beasts,” cautioned Zeke, “click the button on the right side of the rifle. That will turn on the assisted aim.”

  She could tell Zeke wasn’t a hunter. Rosa’s dad had always taught her that the best hunters respected their prey. People like Zeke and Gerard Breck just liked to shoot things.

  When she turned on the assisted aim, the deer became outlined in bright red and Rosa immediately discovered a sleeping doe she hadn’t noticed on the first sweep. As she moved the green X over it, the gun suddenly vibrated.

  “With the assist mode on,” said Zeke, “you’ll feel a short burst of force feedback to let you know you’re on target. It’ll buzz again if you move off target. You’ll also notice a number in the corner of your display showing the number of rounds you have left. Should be a full hundred-sixty right now, but we’ve got plenty of extra clips when you need ’em.”

  Rosa brought the green X onto a buck. The gun buzzed approvingly at the deer munching on the sage.

  She had hunted before, with Jack and Dad, but never like this. Back then, it was for a meal. What was the purpose to this hunt?

  With a touch of impatience, Zeke urged, “Feel free to fire whenever you’re ready.”

  She couldn’t go through with it. At the last second, she moved the sight to the left, feeling the gun buzz in outrage, and fired at a boulder.

  Rosa didn’t feel a thing as an incredible volley of shots flew out of the gun. A second later, the great rock exploded into a plume of brown dust. She saw a flash of the buck running away into the forest, escaping. And then suddenly it burst in red and fell over, caught by a barrage of bullets sent from one of the other choppers.

  Zeke whooped. “Happy Fourth of July!”

  *

  The air was thick with gunfire and the steady thump of helicopter blades. Elza watched Gerard attentively as he stepped closer to the open door, soaking in the mayhem below. Across from her sat a heavyset man with neon green racing sunglasses, holding a Breck 100X across his lap.

  She didn’t want to see any of it, so she had made up an excuse about vertigo and stayed planted in her seat. It wasn’t that Elza had anything against hunting — she did work for America’s gun company, after all. She just didn’t share Gerard’s passion for blowing up defenseless animals.

  “A success,” Gerard remarked quietly. “A rousing success.”

  O’Brien, perched against the opening with one hand pressed against the wall, tittered excitedly. “Amazing, aren’t they? If only we could demonstrate the guns’ durability — drop the guns from this height and show the reporters how well they can take the fall! We did tests from about this height — higher, I think. A few scratches but they still worked brilliantly —”

  “I believe I may have a new deal for you, Mr. O’Brien,” interrupted Gerard.

  That was Elza’s cue. With a knowing smile, she took a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to the surprised gun inventor.

  “Just one page?” he inquired worriedly.

  Gerard stepped closer. “Read it.”

  O’Brien took the paper and immediately paled. “But this isn’t what we discussed. It’s the same as before. No royalties at all.”

  “It’s not the same. I’ve also removed the money I planned to pay you upfront. The new deal is simple: you sign over the gun to me.”

  Elza handed O’Brien a pen, trying her best to maintain a poker face.

  The gun inventor made an awkward motion like he was hitting a fly with a feather. “You must be joking. Why would I agree to that?”

  Gerard exchanged glances with the heavy in the Day-Glo shades, who immediately gave him the Breck 100X. He took the rifle and trained it on O’Brien. “How well does this gun work at point-blank range anyway? I know it’s meant for longer distances.”

  The gun inventor’s arms sprung into the air and he backed slowly toward the opening of the aircraft. “What … what are you doing? You can’t —”

  “Given the caliber and firing rate, I’d imagine it would be quite painful, yes?”

  O’Brien stopped himself at the edge of the door and looked back. The other choppers were moving on to a new location while theirs remained hovering in place. They were alone.

  Gerard grinned. “I would advise you to sign the contract, Mr. O’Brien. Immediately.”

  Elza held out the ballpoint again, willing O’Brien to take it. This time he did. He scrawled his signature on the paper. The big man in aviators snatched it away.

  Breck scowled as O’Brien continued to stare morosely at the gun. “Something on your mind?”

  Some red appeared in O’Brien’s cheeks as he exhaled bitterly, “Your stepfather would never have done something like this.”

  Elza sighed. She suddenly felt great pity for the foolish gun designer. She knew from experience that it was not wise to bring up Albert Breck around Gerard.

  Gerard’s eyes popped, but he did not raise his voice beyond its usual flat baritone. “My stepfather is dead. Don’t you remember, O’Brien? You were at the funeral, yes? There was Dad, lying in his casket, big and fat as ever, coated in spray tan, with cold, dead fingers wrapped around a Pilgrim shotgun …”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Breck, I —”

  “Yes, you were there, weren’t you? I remember it well. Sitting in the back, smoking a stogie. When it was over, you patted me on the back. Then, you walked up to Al’s real son, Errol. You shook my stepbrother’s hand like …” He laughed. “Why, it was like you thought you’d be business partners!”

  “Your brother would never treat me like this,” replied O’Brien with anger rising in his voice.

  “Step-brother,” growled Gerard.

  Elza knew that menacing tone. Touching Gerard’s arm, she whispered into his ear, “Baby, it’s over. He signed the contract. Take a deep breath …”

  Gerard didn’t acknowledge her. He just kept staring at the gun inventor. “Look, O’Brien, I feel badly. I mean, if you really want the gun back …”

  He flung the rifle hard. O’Brien caught it, but the force pushed him back and over the ledge. The gun and its maker disappeared in an instant. Elza couldn’t stop staring at the space where a man had stood just seconds before. A hand on her shoulder roused her finally from her stupor.

  “Elza,” Gerard said gently. “Would you please call someone to retrieve the gun? It doesn’t have to be right away. Just whenever they can do it. I’d like to see if Mr. O’Brien was correct about the weapon’s ability to withstand a fall.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Let’s Round U
p Some Bad Guys!

  Ben Martin took a deep whiff of barbecue and released a nasal sigh of satisfaction. This ritual completed, he ripped the chicken meat from the bone with his front teeth. The brown sauce covered his lips, but he didn’t mind the tang.

  Discarding the clean white bone into the grass, the sheriff continued his slow roam around the churchyard. It was a real nice gun show. It had been a relatively small affair in previous years, but by virtue of this one happening on the Fourth of July, the town had pulled in a big crowd from all around the western states. If Mayor White had done one good thing his whole time in office, it was bringing the Breck Independence Day event to Liberty this year.

  Ben paused at a stand to inspect the camouflage hunting equipment. The fabric had that new-gear freshness, and he almost would have bought it, except that he didn’t really hunt much anymore, did he? And anyway, he had more than enough of these kind of supplies back at the police office.

  “Oh man! Sweet!” chirped a young voice.

  Ben smiled at the small boy turning over in his hands a Breck Classic bolt-action rifle. It was a gorgeous gun with a warm maple body. The metalwork, too, had outstanding craftsmanship. Folks liked to say about that gun, “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.” Well, sir, apparently they still did.

  Of course, the sheriff did have to laugh seeing the big gun in the boy’s hands. It looked heavy enough to topple him! “You might need your daddy’s help with a gun like that,” he advised.

  The father, who’d been inspecting various boxes of shells, turned to the sheriff and jested, “I’m just hoping he gives me one or two pulls!” The two adults guffawed loudly while the boy played with the trigger. Wiping happy tears from his eyes, Martin said his good-byes.

  Around the corner, a hot mama in a bikini beckoned. The top barely covered the full surface area of her tanned breasts. She was leaning against a motorcycle and stroking a long Pilgrim shotgun. Martin stared and let his mouth hang a bit — just enough so she would understand he was paying her a compliment. God, it had been too long …