by Adam Bender
The Wanderer had seen this kind of neighborhood many times during his travels through the West. The development was charming old Liberty’s cancerous growth, a tar-and-concrete appendage stretching miles to accommodate America’s population explosion.
From the gunman’s dry lips shot the breath of a laugh. Somewhere in this explosion of monotony was the writer of The New West — the foolish reporter burying herself into deeper trouble than she probably knew. In a way, he admired her courage. She had seen something wrong and took a stand against it. But even so, this Rosa Veras had chosen one hell of a thing to stand against. Breck Ammunition practically ran this godforsaken country — and a madman ran Breck Ammunition.
Kid Hunter had been singing a pop chorus slightly off-key but now cut it short to whisper, “Think we’re getting some attention from the locals.”
The Wanderer saw it, too. In the window of a rancher, a woman stared. Beneath a neighborhood watch sign, a boy pointed. “Just keep walking,” the gunman advised his partner.
*
Rosa smiled, happy with herself and feeling courageous. She wasn’t going to take down the article. She had decided. She was sticking to her guns, so to speak, and now her brother was going to help her find justice.
The doorbell rang. Perfect timing, but she hadn’t expected Jack so soon. She looked at her watch and noticed an hour had flown by while she was writing. Her next, panicked thought was that she’d forgotten about the coffee. The auto-off function had broken about a year ago, so now the machine had to be turned off manually. She ran into the kitchen and flicked the switch, but she could smell that she’d burned it.
The doorbell rang again, followed by a pounding on the door.
“Shut up, Jack! One second!” She pulled the carafe off the hotplate and realized the plastic handle had melted. Cursing, she looked around frantically for a spot to put it down. In the end, she settled on the stainless-steel kitchen sink.
The knocking started up again as she reached the door. “I said knock it off, J—” The name turned into a gasp when instead of her brother she found two men standing on her porch.
The man on the right glanced at a tablet. “That’s her,” he confirmed.
“D-delivery?” said Rosa in a vain attempt to lighten the situation.
The men let fly an odorous burst of sour beer and cigarettes from their mouths. She looked over their shoulders and saw a pair of black motorcycles.
“We need you to come with us,” said the ogre on the left. He wore a sleeveless leather vest. Tattooed to each arm was something like an American flag, but it was missing the blue square of stars.
She tried to sound indignant. “I’m not going anywhere until … until you tell me who you are.”
It was a stalling tactic. She already knew they were members of the Red Stripe Gang, and their presence confirmed her story that the Gang was working for Gerard Breck. Odd how that failed to hearten her! She imagined herself tied to the back of one of the bikes and carried off into the desert toward a big tree and a long, thick piece of rope.
The gangster on the right grinned, displaying two rows of crooked teeth. “You sure are pretty. I think we’re gonna enjoy this.”
Rosa smiled politely. “Let me get something?”
Before they could respond, she slammed the door shut — nearly. She couldn’t get the door closed! The wood splintered against one gangster’s foot. Thinking fast, she gave one last push and then made for the kitchen. Thrown by the sudden lack of resistance, the gangsters stumbled violently into the house. Flag Tattoos fell onto the carpet, writhing from a twisted ankle. The other caught himself on a cabinet by the door, but Rosa was there with her Mr. Coffee pitcher and smashed it devastatingly against his skull. Rosa winced as some of the hot liquid splashed against her fingers, but most of it scalded the gangster’s buzzed scalp. A shriek burst through his ruined teeth as the acidic brew soaked through bright red cuts made by the shards of glass.
Rosa froze in disbelief at the act of violence she had just committed. Flag Tattoos was starting to get up from the floor, but she was too sick with herself to try to stop him. She ran past him and through the cracked entrance of her home, barely seeing anything through the bright sun. Her eyes adjusted just enough to see the outlines of two more men drawing their guns. With a sob, she stopped in her tracks. There was nowhere left to run.
The gun boomed, but Rosa felt nothing. She spun around toward her home and saw Flag Tattoos crumpled over her cactus patch and bleeding out onto the dirt. She turned to run but was caught by a pair of strong arms covered in leather.
“Whoa! Hold up!” directed their owner.
Freeing herself, she stepped back and froze in the green-eyed stare of her rescuer. He had a thin piece of glass over one eye and wore a Stetson. Immediately, she knew it was the Wanderer. But there was something else about his face … something familiar that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“What am I, the invisible man?” chirped the other gunslinger, waving his palms frantically to get her attention. He had a lithe frame that countered his short stature. “Kid Hunter here! And this —”
“— is the Wanderer,” she said, returning her gaze to the taller gunman. “And that’s not all you are.”
The Wanderer gazed narrowly at her. “How do you mean?”
Rosa took out her phone and typed a name into the search box. She held the device up for the two men to see. The screen displayed an image of Errol Breck, his green eyes shining warmly.
Those same eyes now widened with alarm as the Wanderer looked down at Rosa’s phone, his former life staring him in the face.
*
Steve had been surprised that the men hadn’t had a car nor had anyone picked them up. He was still pondering this when the phone rang. He fumbled with the device until it stopped, then chirped into the receiver, “Liberty Station. This is Steve speaking.”
“It’s Ben Martin.”
“Sheriff! How nice to hear from you! The damnedest thing just happened. Couple fellows just stepped off the train and hoofed it into town. No car, no ride, nothing!”
“I’m sure that’s mighty interesting, Steve, but I’m calling about another—”
“They had the most curious names, too,” he went on. “One was called the Wanderer, and then there was this other fellow. Kid something. Kid Hondo?”
“Wait, stop. The Wanderer? Are you sure?”
“I think so. Or maybe it was the Wander Man. No … Wanderer, I’m sure of it. But I can’t quite remember the other one’s name now. King Huntsman, maybe?”
“When was this?” Martin demanded. “Where were they headed?”
“Couldn’t have been more than a half hour ago. They didn’t say where they were going. Just bought three tickets and walked off up the highway toward town. Guess they could have been headed to the suburbs, too, but they said they weren’t staying long. They’re just walking, though! I couldn’t believe my —”
“Tickets? Didn’t you say they got off the train?”
“Well, as I say, I reckon they don’t plan to stay long. They bought tickets for the next train heading northwest, comes into the station in ’bout an hour, hour and a half—”
The phone clicked.
“Sheriff?”
Hearing no one, Steve hung up and slapped his knee. Must be something in the water today!
With a resigned sigh, the old man returned to his crossword puzzle. A minute into it, he snapped his fingers and declared, “Kid Hundred!”
*
After what felt like an eternity, the Wanderer finally cleared his throat and stammered, “No, I … don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But Kid Hunter betrayed him immediately. Scratching the back of his head, he sized up his partner. “Well, I’ll be damned — Errol Breck! Why didn’t I pick that up earlier?”
Rosa winked at him. “Because you’re a man.”
“Come on, girl! You have to admit he looks different, all rugged and no ’stache!�
��
She was amused to see that the Wanderer had reddened several shades over the course of the exchange. “It doesn’t matter who I am,” he said, the cowboy way of speaking suddenly gone from his voice. “I’ve come here to help you.”
She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t matter? Of course it mattered! The implications were enormous! Errol Breck had been assumed to be the next CEO of Breck Ammunition until he disappeared off the face of the map. She’d figured he’d either gone into hiding, or that he was dead and someone was covering it up. But this — roaming the west fighting injustice like a regular cowboy from the movies? It was a turn she’d never seen coming, and now she lashed into him with a pointed finger. “You listen to me, Wanderer! I’m in this mess because of your brother —”
“Stepbrother.”
“Fine! Because of your stepbrother, Gerard! So please explain to me why I should trust another Breck to help me?”
The Wanderer opened his mouth but no sound came out.
She smiled victoriously, even though the truth was that he didn’t have to convince her. She’d already decided to go with him. Her journalistic mind was whirring with story possibilities. A daring escape from the Red Stripe Gang! A conflict between the Breck brothers! Exclusive interviews with the Wanderer and Kid Hunter!
Desperate to contain her excitement, Rosa cast a casual glance to Kid Hunter. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your real name?”
“Ain’t no secret,” he replied winsomely. “It’s Charlie. Charlie Johnson.”
“I’d say that’s about enough yammering,” interjected the Wanderer, a faux-western twang returning to his voice. “We’re getting you out of Liberty this instant. Ain’t safe for you here.”
When she asked where they would go, the Wanderer told her the train. It would be leaving soon and they would have to run. She offered her truck, but the sight of the old girl elicited a whistle from Kid Hunter.
“That is one ugly motherfucker,” he said. “You’re sure it’ll run?”
She shrugged. “Hasn’t failed me yet.”
The Wanderer also shrugged. “As long as it gets us to the station.”
Rosa gave him a look. “The station? Why don’t we skip the train and just drive out of town?”
“Train’s better. More anonymous.”
Kid Hunter checked his watch. “There ain’t gonna be time to pack your stuff,” he said apologetically. “We got to go right now.”
“Gun?” asked the Wanderer.
“There’s a hunting rifle in the truck. But my computer —” She looked back at her house. “I’m still logged into The New West — they could take it down —”
Kid Hunter swiped at his wristband and danced his fingertips against his palm. “I’ve just disabled the computer and erased your hard drive. We’ll get you more secure equipment after we get you out.” As an afterthought, he added, “Hope you didn’t have anything important on there.”
She was about to reply when a low moan rumbled from her front door. They all heard it.
“Someone else in there?” asked the Wanderer, reaching down to his hip holster.
“Um … yes,” she replied. “But I don’t think we need to worry about him.”
*
The reporter gal had surprised him when she’d called him Errol. The Wanderer could tell right then that she was clever and had some serious fight in her. Still, he didn’t expect to find himself so quickly in her crosshairs.
“The train is the fastest, most direct way out of town,” he said defensively.
“No, this truck is,” she declared. “Why would we stop to wait for a train? It doesn’t make a lick of sense!”
He was starting to worry. Rosa was the one driving and it wouldn’t be long before they would reach the station — and possibly fly past it. He wondered how difficult it would be to lean over and wrestle the wheel away. Probably quite difficult.
“It’s not safe to take your truck,” argued the Kid, riding somewhat awkwardly in the tight space between them. “Not just because it’s a piece of shit, but because the Red Stripe Gang has seen it, and you can bet they’ll be looking for it. Sorry, but we gotta ditch it fast.”
Rosa laughed haughtily. “As if there won’t be any people on the train to spot us!”
The Wanderer broke in. “I reckon the Gang won’t strike in so public a place. They’ll want to avoid attention, same as we do.”
“I don’t know if I believe that this band of idiots wants to avoid attention,” she replied, breathing out a long sigh of resignation. “I will, however, give Charlie the point about recognizing the truck.”
“Anyways,” the Kid said with a wink, “can’t you see ol’ Wandy here has his heart set on the train? Just look at the way he’s clutching those tickets.”
He hadn’t realized he was doing it and now shoved the papers back into his shirt pocket. Rosa laughed real big and loud. He wanted to snatch the Kid by the collar but settled for winning the argument against Rosa.
As they pulled into the parking lot at the train station, the Wanderer spied a police car in the parking lot with its lights flashing.
“That’s Ben Martin,” said Rosa. “But what does he —? Oh, right. He hates the Wanderer.”
He gritted his teeth. “Stay in the truck. The Kid and I will handle it.”
“Old friends?” asked Charlie.
The cowboy laughed. “I reckon he’s the one who hired you to kill me.”
“Whoa,” said the bounty hunter. “Fucked-up!”
Rosa bristled. “You don’t need to kill him.”
The Wanderer checked the barrel of his silver revolver and clicked it back into place. “Yeah, well, the sheriff don’t need to kill me, neither. But I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
As Rosa shifted gear into PARK, the police car emitted a short squeal of warning and two doors popped open. Martin stepped out of the driver’s seat carrying a shotgun. “Wanderer!” the sheriff shouted, leveling the Pilgrim at the passenger door of Rosa’s truck. “Come out with your hands up!”
The Wanderer popped out of the truck with his Lassiter pointed at the tin star on Martin’s chest. “We’re not planning to stay in Liberty, so why don’t you drop the gun and let us get on the next train? We don’t want any trouble.”
Martin sneered. “Yeah, that’s what you said last time, too. Right before you shot up my church.”
“Now wait just a minute. I didn’t fire a single shot in that church. That pig Jenkins fired, and I caught him outside to pay for his crimes.”
Martin gave a look of disbelief. “And what about the law?”
“The world’s changed, Martin. You keep thinkin’ the way you do … well, it’ll be your undoing someday.”
Another man emerged from the police car and pointed a Breck 17 handgun at the Wanderer’s head. He was a long-haired yokel and had a wad of tobacco stuck in his cheek. “Un-do what? Now I don’t know what in God’s name that’s supposed to mean, but I reckon you better shut the hell up and drop your —”
The deputy’s concentration broke suddenly as Kid Hunter arrived at the Wanderer’s side.
The Wanderer smirked. Seemed they had a standoff. He with his Lassiter on Martin, Martin with his Pilgrim on the Wanderer, Kid Hunter with his smart gun on the deputy, and the deputy —
“What’s your name anyway?” the Wanderer asked.
“Fuck you!” the hick spat back.
Martin rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s just Dougie.”
— and Dougie with his Breck 17 on Kid Hunter.
The Wanderer kept his eyes on Martin as a train horn sounded in the distance. Behind him, the door to Rosa’s rusty truck squealed. Oh, God, hadn’t he told her to stay in the truck?
Martin’s eyes widened as he took in who it was. “Rosie? What are you doing with these men?”
Thanks to the distraction, the Wanderer knew he had a shot. But her request nagged at him. He didn’t need to kill Martin. Before he could make up his mind as to what he needed to d
o, Rosa was standing straight right in the middle of the standoff. She was completely unarmed.
The chug-a-chug of the train grew louder.
Ben Martin growled. “Get out of the way, Rosie.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen next,” she said, commanding attention. “Everyone is going to put down their guns. When that train arrives, the three of us — that’s me, the Wanderer, and Kid Hunter here — are getting on it. Meanwhile, Ben, you and Dougie are going to get back in that beat-up police car and head straight to my house.”
Ben looked confused. “Your house?”
“A couple of men from the Red Stripe Gang are waiting for you. One’s dead — and I bet the other one wishes he was after what I did to him. If you could please get them out of my house and lock the place up for me, I’d appreciate it. I really would.”
Dougie ejected a wad of brown fluid from his lips. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
Ben narrowed his eyes. “Dougie?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Do as she says.”
“What?”
“I said,” seethed the sheriff, letting the Pilgrim fall to his side, “do as she says.”
Dougie spat the rest of his chewing tobacco onto the parking lot and, dragging his feet, followed the sheriff back into the car.
“Wow,” remarked the Kid, stretching the word until it was consumed by the noise of the passenger train rattling into Liberty Station. The locomotive’s dented siding was black with soot, and there was a smell like burned rubber as it came to a shrieking stop.
The Wanderer stared at Rosa with disbelief. There was an assured smile on her lips.
“You boys can stop gawking at me and get your bags from the truck,” she said. “We’ve got a train to catch.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Aw, Hell …
Touching her window, Rosa could feel the fire of the sun pressing against the dirt-streaked glass. A line of small vents on the ceiling wheezed cool breath, a commendable attempt by the train to head off the sun’s charge. It was a battle she was sure the A/C used to win, but the man-made system had grown old and weary over the course of many decades fighting its eternal opponent.
