Guns of Seneca 6 02 Old-Time Lawmen

by Bernard Schaffer

  “Then what happened?”

  “I went in to check on her, and next thing I know I’m getting bashed across the head with a bat.”

  Sam stuck his finger in the dirt and made shapes. He drew a fish and then wiped it out of existence. Just like that, he thought. Just like it never was.

  He was covered in dust and dirt from the canyon. He looked down at his Sheriff’s badge and licked his thumb to smear away the grime. The lettering was worn out and it was badly in need of a polish, but Sam’s old Sheriff had told him, “Never clean your badge, son. It gets older just like you do and picks things up along the way. Stuff you’ll need in times to come.”

  He reached into his vest and pulled out his watch, checking the time and wondering what Jem and Claire were doing. Had Jem done his chores? Had Claire eaten a decent supper? He took off his hat and ran his hand through his sweaty hair. “Hey Zeke?” he said. “You know the sad part about all this is that Anna was more upset about you getting into trouble. She thinks you two are fixed to get married. She said she’d rather be with you than her daddy because you treat her better.”

  “That’s because he treats her like a kid,” Zeke said. “Ever since his wife died, he wants to keep her as his little baby, but she ain’t.”

  Sam nodded and let out a soft chuckle. He smacked himself in the forehead and said, “I can’t believe I’m so stupid. Why didn’t you say so from the beginning?”

  “About what?”

  Sam wagged his finger at Zeke and said, “You jest a regular ol' tom-cat, ain’t you?”

  “A what?”

  “You and Anna is sweethearts, Zeke. I can see it plain as day. All this fuss for nothing. Boy, you almost got dropped off a ledge and for what? For nothing. Thank God I figured it out in time.”

  Zeke looked up at Sam and said, “You did?”

  “I really do apologize, Zeke,” Sam said. “Let me get you back up here. Anyway, you got bigger problems than me to worry about now.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anna’s pregnant, boy. Doc Halladay confirmed it when he examined her.”

  Zeke stopped squirming and closed his eyes, letting himself sway back and forth. He turned back to Sam and looked him square in the eye, “I swear to God, Sheriff, I will do the right thing and marry her. I'm gonna stand by her an' that baby.”

  Sam reached up and scratched his head under the rim of his hat. He looked down at Zeke and sighed, “How'd I know you were gonna say that?"

  Sam leaned back from the ravine and took a deep breath, looking back over his shoulder at the miles and miles of never-ending desert that surrounded the canyon. The sun was down now. The wind turned for the cold. Sam slid one of his Colt Defenders out of the holster real quiet and cocked the hammer back. He crept toward the edge of the cliff, called Zeke’s name, and fired.

  SNEAK PEEK AT THE SMASH FOLLOW UP TO GUNS OF SENECA 6

  MAGNIFICENT GUNS OF SENECA 6

  Chapter 1: The Coward

  The wagon approached. It came over the ridge shimmering in the heat, the driver unaware he was being watched. Bob Ford looked at the man standing next to him and tried not to smile. “Just like you said it would, Jim.”

  “It’s not magic, Bob. Any fool can read a transport manifest.”

  “Yeah, I reckon that’s true, but you knew just before it was coming. Like you got a gift." Bob’s eyes glazed over as he spoke. He looked like a young poet about to break into sloppy verse.

  Gentleman Jim hiked his black scarf up over his nose and said, “I told you not to believe any of that nonsense you read about me in the papers, Bob. I’m just a thief.”

  Bob adjusted his mask, trying to get it right. Just a potato sack with mismatched eyeholes, he had to keep his head tilted to the left to see through it. The wagon was nearly on top of them when Gentleman Jim unsnapped the holster for his Colt Defeater and said, “Come on!”

  They rode hard, working their mounts until they caught the wagon, having to shield their eyes from the billows of dust and dirt kicking up from its wheels. The two bandits, Bob thought. He had a newspaper article tucked in his shirt pocket that read Gentleman Jim Strikes Again! Bob knew every word of the article's fourth paragraph.

  The first paragraph recounted the incident of a stagecoach, struck mid-day by the aforementioned Highwayman. The second, victim’s accounts of the infamous outlaw, including the woman (there was always a woman) who said, “He looked mean and cruel at the other men, so that I swore he was about to send them to their maker, but when he turned to me he held out his hand and whispered, ‘You tuck away those pearls, ma’am. If I don’t take ‘em, people will begin to suspect I’m going soft.’”

  The third paragraph recounted all the other descriptions of the bandit. Eyes blue enough to ladle water from. A young man. An angry young man. A polite, handsome, young man with six-guns that blazed like hellfire.

  And then, the fourth paragraph.

  Its words were burned into Bob Ford’s mind like someone etched them there with a laser. It was the one that reported Gentleman Jim was accompanied by a bold, mysterious assistant.

  Mysterious, Bob thought. Bold. He adjusted his sack-mask and snapped his reins, charging forward around the side of the wagon to get the drop on the driver.

  “What are you doing?” the bandit shouted.

  “Come on!” Bob shouted, whipping his destrier’s neck until it screamed and charged ahead of the wagon’s rear wheels.

  The driver heard the animal’s noise and turned in his seat, immediately sticking his hand between his legs for his double-barrel shotgun. He lowered the barrel directly at the top of Bob's head.

  Gentleman Jim cursed and kicked his animal in the ribs to race around the other side and get a clear view of the driver. It was too late. The wagon veered left as the driver pulled the trigger, firing a storm of buckshot flying past Bob’s ear.

  Gentleman Jim yanked his Colt Defeater free and leaned into the saddle, pushing his animal as hard as he could until the driver’s back came into view. “Put it down! You’re caught!”

  The driver spun in his seat with the gun in front of him, bearing down on the bandit with its wide barrel.

  Gentleman Jim fired once and the driver’s head snapped backwards. He slumped to the floor and the destriers pulling the wagon panicked and crashed into one another, sending the carriage up on two wheels. Gentleman Jim grabbed the forward carry’s lift bar and jumped into the front seat, throwing himself to the other side until it was back on four wheels. He took the reins from the driver’s twitching hand and stomped on the brake pedal, pressing it to the floorboards until the animals finally stopped.

  Bob Ford rode around the side of the wagon, face white as marble under his lopsided potato sack that was now scored with black gunpowder. His mouth twitched stupidly inside the mask, moving constantly but nothing came out until he gasped, “I can't believe it. That son of a bitch almost shot me.”

  Gentleman Jim snatched the riding whip off of the seat and grabbed Bob by the collar, holding him fast. He whipped Bob viciously across the top of the head until the sack’s fabric split in a mess of tangled, bloody hair. Bob squealed like a pig but the whipping continued until blood leaked out of his shoulder blades and neck.

  Bob screamed for mercy and covered his head with his hands and begged Jim to stop. The bandit snapped the whip in two and tossed the pieces on the ground, needing to bend forward to catch his breath. He looked at Bob in disgust and said, “You ever…disobey me again…and I’ll gut you like a fish, you dumb son of a bitch.”

  Bob Ford could do nothing but whimper. His raw flesh stung all over, his shirt suddenly felt like steel wool scraping against his wounds in the damp mixture of blood and sweat and heat.

  “Go fetch my ride,” Gentleman Jim said as he lowered himself from the forward carry. He pointed his pistol at the wagon’s rear compartment and said, “Get that door open and come out slow. I will put a hole in the first person who tests me.”

  A voice called out
from inside, “It’s just one man in here. I’m not armed. I’m coming out now, so don’t shoot.”

  The bandit stepped back, keeping his gun ready. The door opened slowly and an old man stuck his hands out, showing they were empty. He stepped down from the carriage and stood there, observing the scene around him in wonder.

  Gentleman Jim looked at the man’s face like it was something to be studied. Suddenly, his eyes widened in horror.

  “Don’t do anything foolish, boy,” the man said.

  The bandit grabbed him by the shirt and jammed the barrel of his pistol into the man’s jaw, using it to lift his head until they were eye to eye. He inspected the long thin scar across the bridge of the man’s nose, a line of ruined flesh that ran from the center of his brow to his cheek. The bandit sucked in air through clenched teeth and the gun shook in his hand.

  “Listen to me, friend,” the man said slowly. “I ain’t got hardly two cent, but you are welcome to it. I got no problems with you lot. If I was any younger I’d be right out here with you’s.”

  The bandit thrust his hand into the man’s vest for a folded document. He kept his gun on the man’s chin as he opened it and read it. “It’s a pardon letter from the Sheriff of Seneca 6,” the man said quickly. “I had to pay him almost every cent I had to let me back inside. I got kin there I ain’t seen in twenty-five years.”

  Gentleman Jim looked the name printed on the letter and said, “Peter Phillips.” He looked back at the man and said, “They called you Whiskey Pete.”

  Phillips smiled at him in confusion and said, “That’s right. How the hell you know that?”

  Gentleman Jim took a deep breath and let go of the man. He holstered his gun and handed the letter back to Phillips, then turned to look over his shoulder. “You all done blubbering, Bob?”

  Bob Ford reached inside of his mask and wiped his eyes clear while he held onto the rein of the bandit’s destrier.

  Gentleman Jim shook his head and said, “Pardon my temper, Mr. Phillips. You can see the quality of associate I am forced to truck with. Take a good look, Bob. This here’s an outlaw from back in the old days. Back before the rest of us got soft.”

  Bob Ford held up his hand quietly and waved at Peter Phillips. Phillips was dressed in a torn shirt he’d stolen from a sleeping drunk. His toes wiggled through his broken shoes. He stunk like roadkill and hadn’t bathed in weeks, but he stuck out his chest at the handsome bandit’s words and said, “That’s right. That’s just how we did it.”

  “Get down off that destrier, Bob,” the bandit said. “Mr. Phillips, I’d appreciate if you rode with me for a spell. I’ve got some business to discuss with someone who has knowledge and experience in such matters. I think you’ll find my proposition to be profitable.”

  “Proposition?” Phillips said, but the word he was thinking in his mind was profitable. “Certainly. I’m happy to oblige.”

  Gentleman Jim smiled in relief, “I studied all the old greats from the time I was just a little kid. Read every newspaper I could find to see what you boys were up to. In a way, you turned me into the man I am today.”

  Phillips took the reins from Bob’s hand and said, “It’s nice to finally meet young folks who respect the past.”

  Bob Ford watched both men mount their destriers and said, “What am I supposed to ride?”

  Gentleman Jim looked down at him and pointed at the dead driver in the forward carry. “You are gonna take that poor bastard’s body back to Seneca 5 and find out if he has any kin.” He reached into his vest and pulled out a small sack of severian, “Tell them you found him all shot up out here and this was in his pocket.” He tossed the sack at Bob and said, “So help me, it had better all get to them too. Every speck. I will know otherwise. I will verify.”

  “All right,” Bob said. He climbed up into the wagon and moved the driver’s body over. “Should I wait for you in The 5?”

  “I like how you conduct your affairs, sir,” Pete Phillips said. He looked at the small sack of riches in Bob’s hand and said the word to himself again. Profitable.

  Gentleman Jim thanked him and said, “Wait until you hear what I got in store for you.”

  “Pardon me,” Bob Ford said meekly.

  “What?” the outlaw said.

  “Should I wait for you in The 5?”

  Gentleman Jim sighed and said, “I suppose so, Bob. If I left you there alone I expect you’d die of a broken heart waiting for my return.”

  Both men laughed as they rode off, leaving Bob alone with the dead body in the wagon.

  ***

  Less than a month later, the inmates at the Beltran 6 Interstellar Penal Colony watched the new prisoner arrive with grinning, leering interest. They called out to him and whistled, laughing as he staggered forward wide-eyed. “Keep moving, Ford,” the guard said, shoving him across the back. The chains connecting Bob Ford’s wrists were tied to the ones connecting his ankles, rattling as he shuffled barefoot across the cold concrete floor.

  Levels of inmates rose on both sides of him higher than he could see. He looked up at hundreds of floors of jail cells and the thousands of arms waving and grasping for him through the bars. The guard put his hand on Ford’s shoulder and said, “Okay, that’s far enough.”

  It went dark, except for the cone of a white, glaring spotlight centered on Bob Ford. The cacophony of the massive prison fell silent. “Here comes,” the guard said.

  “Here comes what?” Ford whispered.

  “On the count of ten they’re gonna open all these cell doors and let the inmates play with you for a little while. Kind of a welcoming party if you will.”

  “Unchain me!” Ford shouted. “Unchain me you son of a bitch!”

  “What’s the fun in that?” the guard said.

  “Ten, Nine, Eight,” all of the prisoners began to recite in unison.

  “Give me my hands to defend myself at least!” Ford screamed.

  “Seven, Six, Five.”

  “Go to hell! All of you!” Ford’s voice broke, going hoarse and cracking like he a schoolboy’s.

  “Four, Three, Two. One.”

  The spotlight went out, and Ford’s voice rang out in the dark, a single horrific scream of terror that echoed along the never-ending walls of the prison.

  There was movement in the darkness and the shuffling of feet all around him. Ford dropped to his knees and covered himself, feeling his insides bubble and turn to water. He mewled and sobbed until someone grabbed him by the shoulder and said, “All right, that’s enough whimpering out of you.”

  The lights came back on and Ford saw that several guards were standing around him, watching as he rolled around on the floor screaming for everyone to get away. Ford opened his eyes to see that all of the jail cells were still shut and all of the prisoners were pressed against the bars, watching him intently. “Wha-what?” Ford panted.

  The prison erupted with laughter and the prisoners waved their hands at him in disgust and returned to their bunks. One of the guards yanked Ford back to his feet and started dragging him down the corridor toward the office at the other end. “Aw, Christ, he’s leaking piss all over the floor,” he said to the others.

  “Get him cleaned up and then make him come back and mop it up.”

  Ford hung his head and wept while laughter fell down on him from floors of prisoners towering higher than he could see.

  ***

  At night the only option was to stuff your head under the thin pillow and hold it down over your ears. The crazies never slept. They screamed and chanted and gave radical political and religious speeches in full voice until the guards came along and zapped them with an electrical prod. There were screams and quarrels and the sounds of violations occurring in cells that there were not nearly enough guards to deal with.

  During intake processing, they shaved all of the hair off Bob's body with a dull razor. His nether parts stung from the various nicks and cuts. His underarms were raw and sore and he had to lie on his back with his legs
apart. There were no blankets on the bunks. Bob Ford covered his ears and rolled over to press himself against the cold wall.

  That was the first night that Gentleman Jim came to speak with him. His blues eyes shined beneath his mask as he looked Bob over and said, "Hey partner. God damn you look more miserable than a seasick sailor."

  "I'm not talking to you," Bob said. "It was you who put me here."

  The bandit kneeled down next to Bob's bunk and said, "I'm real sorry about that, Bob. But in all fairness, you did try and sell me out the first second they clapped irons on you."

  "That was just talk," Bob said. "I wouldn't have let them take you and do this to you. Never."

  "I know, Bob. That's why I'm coming to bust you out. All I need you to do is be patient. You think I'd forget my partner?" Gentleman Jim smiled at Bob kindly enough to melt butter and then he was gone, vanishing into the grey stone walls of the dark cell.

  Bob waited, keeping the flame of hope in his heart. Relying on the words from his guardian angel. Always faithful. Always patient. And then things got nasty.

  ***

  There were no windows inside the facility. No sun. No sky. The only indication of time passing was the bright fluorescent lights that went on and off intermittently. Bob lost track of time. He lost track of himself.

  One day a guard opened his cell door and said, “Come on Ford, you got a visitor.”

  “Who is it?” Bob said.

  “Like I give a damn?”

  Bob slid off his bunk and followed the guard, keeping his eyes down in the hallways. He ignored the men who sprang forward against their celldoors. “Got some visitors, piss pants?”

  “You and the screw going on a date, Bob?”

  “Time for some privacy with your boyfriend, pissy?”

  “I bet his wife’s come see him. Send her in here, boy. She don’t want you. I’ll take good care of her.”

  The guard used one of the dozen heavy iron keys on his belt to unlock the block’s door. He held it open and Bob said, “Thank you kindly, sir.”