Well, in that case, here's a sneak preview of my western-fantasy hybrid, currently under the working title "Gunslinger Stonebeard".
Let me know what you think, if you'd read more, and so on.
Prologue
The sun rose above the prairie; the early twilight sky a bold orange and red as the sun eased its way above the horizon. A pair of eyes peered out from under a bushy ridge of eyebrows at the blurry rectangular shapes on the distant foreground. Mustache-topped lips curled into a sneer briefly before rolling together and spitting a glob of tobacco juice onto the dusty ground. Boots scraped across dust and grit behind him. The ting of spurs chimed in the wind, though the still figure stared forward, motionless. The footsteps stopped behind him, replaced by a brief sigh, yet still he studied the obscure features before them.
“That there Flinthead Camp?” The voice belonged to a youngish man with sandy brown hair matching his stubble. He lifted a rolled cigarette to his lips after finishing his question, then dug through the pockets of his jeans.
“Matches are in my war sack,” the watcher's voice was a tad gravelly, his eyes narrowing as the twilight brightened into a true dawn. Shadows stretched long across the ground. The younger man turned and made his way to one of the horses behind them.
“You don't smoke, Samuel.” He flipped open the top, peering inside.
“No, but my friends do. My pap taught me to be ready for anything. There's times when a man wants a fire but not a cigar.”
The leather slapped back down, and the young man turned, puffing his cigarette alight. “Much obliged, Samuel.” He took his place beside Samuel, adjusting his bowler as he looked across the prairie. “So, that there's Flinthead Camp?”
“That it is.”
They both stared a long moment, Samuel standing with his hands planted at the waist of his woolen pants, thumbs tucked into his belt. A tin star on his vest caught the sun as daylight slowly filled the sky. Samuel shifted, his arms tugging the cream-colored shirt under his vest with his movement; his weather-beaten stetson shuddered in the faint morning breeze. His right hand moved, resting on the ornately filigreed grip of the revolver that hung low on his hip. His coal-black hair and mustache was flecked with gray. His companion was even more simply dressed: jeans, a dress shirt, and bowler hat, though a tin star and pistol glinted in the sun as silent testimony to his trade. There was a long quiet as they looked at the distant horizon, broken only by the occasional heavy spit of tobacco.
“Our man will be there by now, Brandon, bending an elbow and making free with his bounty at the faro tables. Shouldn't be hard to find.”
Brandon squinted a bit and looked to Samuel before returning his gaze to the town. “Reckon he'll absquatulate once he hears the law's come to town?”
“No.” Samuel gave a small shake of his head moments before another gob of brown hit the cracked earth at his feet. “No, there's no fear in his heart for the law; he'll be there.” He shifted his jaw a bit, considering. “How's your iron?” Brandon grabbed the butt of his pistol and glanced down.
“Five beans in the wheel, like always.”
Samuel nodded, and turned around. He made his way to the horses, and grabbed the reins.
Brandon glanced over his shoulder. “We headin' out, Samuel?”
“That we are.”
The two of them mounted up, and were off at a steady pace towards the town in the distance. The desert gradually filled with color as the sun climbed high into the sky; the dim, gray world of early dawn gave way to the brighter oranges and browns of dirt and badlands, speckled with the tans and greens of scrub and tough, wiry shrubs that endured in the dry land. Gradually the world awoke with color; the occasional snake or lizard made its way out to bask in the growing sunlight and come out of its nocturnal lethargy. Slowly, the whole world seemed to be waking up and stretching while they rode onwards to their goal. The steady sound of hooves on hard soil was the drum beat they followed as both men prepared themselves for what was to come. There was nothing more to say once the course was decided and the ride began; they would go to Flinthead Camp, find their outlaw, and confront him. They were men of purpose now, and words weren't necessary.
Samuel glanced over his shoulder to Brandon every so often, but granted himself the luxury of thought while they rode. His mind turned to the events of the previous morning. Like always he'd crawled out of bed just before sunrise. His bones fought the whole way, like always. It seemed every day his body was waging a war against his mind, and he felt more certain with each morning the day was coming when he'd have to surrender. Of course, once he was up and about he was master of himself; his body was a gracious loser in these struggles.
His thoughts went to the land he'd been saving for; a nice homestead somewhere quieter. Far enough East that it would be safe and life simple, but far enough West for a body to have space and land aplenty. He could retire, get a herd of cattle and some crops. He knew cowboys that would give anything to learn a few tricks from old Samuel Picket. He'd have ranch hands lining up to work for a shooting lesson, or some riding tips. He'd have a ranch, a quiet life. He drew in a heavy breath of prairie air as his mind ran free with his plans.
The simple life of a rancher. Well, simpler than being the law in these lands, at least. He looked forward to the steady rhythm of daily chores and cattle drives. That was what he longed for after so long stomping out the fires of chaos, flitting from town to town a step behind lawlessness: order. A routine was what he needed, and he'd have it yet. Farm and ranch life was predictable, if nothing else. The work never changed, the chores were always there to be done, even the odd tangle brought up by wildlife and weather were expected, making them as much a part of the routine of life as waking in the morning. He had reached for his razor, and shaved as he debated again how many head he could afford to start, whether it'd be enough to last him until market, and so on; the figures ran through his mind while his hands moved of their own volition to get his body ready for the day.
A few hours later, he'd gotten the telegram from the capitol. Jake McFinn, wanted for robbery and three counts of murder. Worse, one of those murdered was a sheriff. They wanted the state's marshal office to handle it personally. Well, one more ride wouldn't be much to ask. The bonus they were offering him for bringing in McFinn, dead or alive, would be enough. This could be his last ride. He'd taken Brandon in spite of his inexperience. The green deputy was plainly as good as any other. McFinn was a skilled gunman, and Samuel expected that if the old bandit was too much for him no deputy of his in the state would be a good enough second.
He shook his head as the last bit of tobacco flew from his lips. Time enough for thinking. The town was drawing near, and he had to focus on the task before him. One last outlaw, one last ride; that was the cowboy's mantra.
A few hours later brought them to the outskirts of Flinthead Camp, a quiet little stop on the Algonohaw Railway. The town itself wasn't too large, but catered to travelers well enough. The railway ran parallel to the town's main street, and its most prominent buildings were the train station and across from it the town hall. Along the street could be found boarding houses, saloons, a barber shop, a general store, and a tailor. Further away from the central hub of activity were the less glamorous but necessary parts of the small town, and the few residences it claimed. The one building that was clearly missing from the cityscape was a jail; it was said that the town's law enforcement mostly just cracked heads and restored order when things were too rowdy, but didn't deal in the rigors of the judicial system. Whatever the reason, formal law enforcement was a thing rarely seen in this part of the world so the lack of a jail was not the sort of thing one would notice.
The two of them rode in silence, the stars on their chests attracting curious glances along with a look of a different sort from some of the more weathered residents; a look somewhere between sympathy and disappointment. Samuel and Brandon nodded politely to those they passed, stopping before a larger two-story building. Piano music emanated from the double doors, though there was no sign on the outside to signify its purpose or trade. The two hitched their horses and dismounted, their boots stomping a cloud of dust. Samuel adjusted his hat, and the two strode deliberately to the doors. Samuel stopped just outside and glanced over his shoulder to Brandon. His partner's expression was stoic, with a hint of apprehension just below the veneer of courage.
The old lawman's hand clapped on his shoulder. “Steady on, Brandon. We've got the bulge; just keep your hand steady, this'll be over before you know it.”
The younger man nodded, taking a deep breath and looking from the door to Samuel. “I reckon he'll be on the prod once we finish the pleasantries.”
“Reckon you're right.” The barest smile showed from under the salt and pepper mustache. His hand clapped twice on Brandon's shoulder. “Iron nerves now, son.”
Samuel turned and pushed the double doors open. The building, it was now clear, was a prosperous gambling saloon. A few saloon girls sat at the tables with the men, or lingered by the piano for a dance with a particular gentleman. No one seemed to pay any mind to the two new arrivals, law or no. A large crowd was gathered around a rectangular table towards the stairway. The dealer had his back to the wall and faced towards the entrance, and cheers came up now and again as the cards were dealt. A stool had been placed opposite him, with a small fellow sitting there in a long leather duster and wide brimmed hat. Fine gloves were on the hands he used to make bets, and Samuel motioned with a nod of his head towards him. Brandon put his hands on his belt and followed as Samuel made his way across the room. The patrons parted for the lawmen as they drew closer, a few even opting to take a moment for some fresh air rather than stay for what was coming. About six paces from the seated figure, Samuel stopped.
“End of the line, Jake. Finish your drink and come quietly.”
The saloon fell silent with the uttered command. The short figure froze. The gloved hand hesitated over a stack of chips before placing a short stack on the six square. The hand then motioned impatiently for a deal. The dealer glanced from the lawmen to the seated man, and with trembling fingers hesitantly drew the first cards. One was burned into the discard pile, and a five of clubs was played. The gloved hand waited patiently for the rest of the deal.
“You intend to make this hard, Jake? It won't go well if you insist on that.”
A wheezing high-pitched laugh came from under the wide hat, and the duster shifted. “Determined cuss, ain't you Samuel?” A nasal voice inquired. The hand reached for a shot glass filled with caramel-brown liquor. “Can't a body play some Faro without the law intrudin' on a gentleman's pastime? Have a drink, on me what's more.” The shot glass went to the hat and returned to the table empty. The gloved hand raised three fingers and a saloon girl made her way off to the bar.
“You know this isn't a social call, Jake. Come on now; you've had your whiskey. It's time to go.”
The room was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the shuffling of chips as the dealer paid out winnings and collected losses. The air was tense. A sigh drifted from under the wide brimmed hat.
“You're a real gentleman of the first water, Samuel. Good as gold in Caleston, you are. Give a feller fair warning before trying to take him in.” The three shotglasses were ferried to his seat, and one was taken by the short fellow, soon drained and returned to the tray. “But, I ain't a going up the spout. Now, you best move on before you ruin my fine temper today.”
“Ain't no reason for this to turn bloody, Jake. I'm not going to ask you again.” Samuel's hand moved towards his waist.
“No, I reckon you won't.”
The words were like the final pronouncement before a magician's trick, and with equal speed and flash Jake rolled to his side, duster flapping over the table as he rolled off his stool and spun in the air to face Samuel and Brandon. His revolver was drawn and aimed as he moved, one hand on the butt pulling the trigger, the other above the hammer cocking it as fast as it fell down upon the cylinder. Five shots rang out. Jake hit the ground, the two lawmen unable to even draw before he had fired upon them. Brandon crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled from his chest and neck around his motionless body. Two shots took Samuel in the shoulder and belly. He stumbled backwards before losing his footing on a chair and crashing to the floor. He strained to breathe, reaching for his own revolver. The steady tramp of leather boots on the floorboards drew closer. His fingers tightened around the weapon in his holster. His arm jerked up to free the weapon. Just as his wrist was pulling the gun free, a boot slammed atop his hand pinning it to the ground. He looked up to see the green, taut face of his enemy.
Beady sickly-yellow eyes peered from behind a stiletto nose and jutting, sharp chin. Jake leaned down close, revolver in his gloved hand. The barrel made its way to Samuel's forehead, cold iron pressing against his skin, and the tight, lean lips on his enemy parted as he spoke. “It's downright inhospitable to reject a drink, Samuel. Tain't civilized, you know.”
“The devil take you, Jake.” Samuel spat. Air wheezed in his lungs as a second boot landed on his chest. Blood trickled past his lips.
“Be a gentleman: let him know I'm coming, Marshal.” A final shot rang out, and the goblin straightened himself up, thrust his revolver back into its place at his hip, and turned to his seat. He snatched the second of the three shots from the kneeling saloon girl, and with one fluid hop returned to his stool.
The room, dark and paneled with smoke-stained oak, was filled with deep and hearty laughter. A group five men sat encircling a green-topped poker table. Cigars in ashtrays and short tumblers in various states of fullness were strewn about the table along with neat stacks of gambling chips. A deck of cards waited in the center, and off to the side was a button inscribed with the lone word “DEALER” in bold.
The first to speak was a fat, gray-haired fellow with a walrus-like mustache. A gold chain hung loosely from his waistcoat to his pocket, where it thence terminated from view. He stretched an arm across the table with a contented sigh as his laughter ended. “My deal, is it?” The question was clearly rhetorical; his other hand was already upon the button, sliding it into place. He shuffled while the two men clockwise from him anted their blinds. The clap of cards mixing was the interlude before he spoke again. “So, Henry, how's the railway coming?”
The man across from him, younger with silver flecking his tawny hair and a square jaw, lowered his cigar. “Slow going out of Stonewall City,” The words were punctuated with puffs of smoke. “Greenbacks make for good workers, and we're laying track at a marvelous rate. It's those damned barbaric dogheads, you know. They give my crews no end of trouble.”
“Savages, the lot of them,” agreed the man between Henry and the dealer, a mousy fellow with round spectacles and a pencil-thin mustache. “This country will be much better when they've accepted their proper place in it.”
“You mean out of it, Daniel,” Henry jutted his cigar at the man, wriggling it as he spoke to make his point. “There's no room in a civilized man's world for some crazed, flea-bitten primitives. They know it too; they throw themselves into disrupting the march of progress. The railroad is the vanguard of order and civility.”
The dealer's fat yet nimble fingers sent the first round of cards flicking across the table to the men, each discreetly picking his two cards up and stealing a glance before they rested face-down once more.
Henry knocked the cherry from his cigar into his tray, and waved it towards the dealer. “Fine tobacco you've brought us, Paul.”
“For the best company,” the fat dealer answered in turn, a smile crossing his rosy face, “the best cigars.” Glasses were lifted around the table to a chorous of “hear, hear!”. The deck hit the table before him.
“Anyway,” Henry began, pausing for another draw from his cigar, “I'm bringing in some boys to help handle the situation. Good, stout, iron-nerved lads they are. I figure maybe a small bounty per doghead they bring me dead will be enough to get the point across.” The others nodded patiently. He left the cigar in his lips as his right hand shielded his cards while he took a quick glance. “Mm. Call.”
“Have you thought about hiring dwarves?” Daniel inquired, counting his chips before placing a small amount before his main stacks. “Call.”
“Fold.” Paul's cards were set in the table's center.
“They're too expensive,” Henry grunted through his clamped jaw, his cigar wriggling with the words.
“Raise 15” came from the man to Paul's left.
“True enough,” Paul replied, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket. He dabbed at his neck before taking his tumbler in hand. “The bearded devils think they own all the world's gold, and we're merely borrowing it until they come to claim it.”
“Call.”
“Call,” Henry sighed, moving additional chips to the small stack he'd placed at the start of the round. His fingers withdrew the cigar again, and he relaxed in his seat, smoke rolling from his lips as he did so. “Men can shoot as well as any dwarf, and have the advantage of being able to run after their prey rather than glare at it from their stumps.” A few guffaws were elicited.
“Call,” Daniel placed a few more chips on his stack.
Paul burned a card to the side, then dealt the flop.
“Check.” The gentleman to Paul's left ran a thumb over his angular chin; he was a thin fellow with chiseled features and tall, pointy ears rising above lustrous hunter green hair ribboned with black. His velvet-smooth voice poured like honey on the gathered ears while he lifted his glass. “You're certain these mercenaries can handle your problem, Henry?”
Henry rolled his diminishing cigar between his thumb and forefinger, inclining a healthy distance away from the table. “What's your interest, Ethan?”
“I'm quite good friends with the sheriff of your jurisdiction. We meet often to discuss pressing matters; I'm sure the need for additional security in his county might be worthy of his time.”
”Check,” the last of the circle, between Ethan and Henry, was an older fellow; what remained of his hair was white, fading like him from view with age. His suit was in sharp contrast to his wrinkled visage, miniscule hair and tired jowls: new, expensive, and a clear cut above the others in the room.
Henry stole another look at his cards, then scratched his ear. “I see; let me guess, after you so generously help me out of a bind, you'll want another crack at a shipping contract?” A few chips joined his from the last round. “I'm betting ten.”
“Why, what a splendid idea, Henry,” Ethan took a sip from his tumbler. “I do think that would be agreeable; maybe you could find it in your heart to reciprocate my generosity, after I saved you so much on bounties and hired goons.”
“I'll fold,” Daniel sighed.
“You gonna play a full hand at some point tonight, Daniel?” Henry turned to face his left hand.
“Don't criticize another's play style, Henry; it's bad form,” the older fellow on Henry's right didn't bother to look up from his drink as he spoke.
Henry glanced in annoyance at Daniel before returning his attention to Ethan. “They're not goons, they're soldiers.” Henry lifted his cigar, and thrust it at Ethan as the latter's lips parted just enough to take in air. “Former” he emphasized, “soldiers. They're worth every last coin.”
“I should hope so, Henry,” Ethan counted a few chips. He looked up as he placed them on his stacks. “You'll come out with a lot less net if you prefer doing things this way. Call.”
“Call.” The older gentleman placed his chips.
Henry chuckled as he ground the remnants of his cigar into the ashtray. “You're so sure you've got me licked, are you?”
The room was silent while Paul burned another card. Ethan clicked his chips in a small stack while the fourth card hit the table, the steady clacking of the pieces the only noise in the quiet. Finally, he moved a small stack with his others. “Thirty.”
“Fold,” the older man's cards were gently laid face-down on the table. He reached into his jacket, extracting a cigar and cutter.
Henry stared hard across the table at Ethan, but the latter did nothing but sit still as a post, hands clasped together on the table before him. Henry sent a huff of exasperation out his nose, and shoved another stack before him. “Raise to forty”.
The cigar cutter clacked once; next came the sound of flint striking, followed by the toasty smell and nearly inaudible hiss of burning tobacco and paper along with a rapid series of puffs.
“Call.” Ethan calmly added to his stack. Another card burned, another on the table. Ethan glanced from the table to his cards, then folded his hands again. “Check.”
“You're an arrogant one, you know that? Everyone else in this State may be eager to offer you a monogrammed handkerchief and call you 'Sir', but I'm not going to go for it. Men, not elves, found, settled, tamed, and built this land.” Henry leaned forward, his hands balling into fists as they rested upon the wood. His brows furrowed into mountainous ridges of ill intent. “I'll do it again, without your brand of 'help'. You may have a place at this table, but not in this country; this is a human land, not one of your flimsy little forest huts.”
Ethan did not flinch as Henry spoke; one would almost think he was an exceptional bit of statuary at first. For a long, still moment his eyes held Henry's iron stare, not even the slightest movement to show his response. At length, he glanced down to Henry's chips and back up to his eyes. “If you're quite finished, it's your bet.”
Before Henry could answer, there was a knock at the door. The old fellow to Henry's right sighed. “Ah, excellent: a distraction. That's precisely what this conversation needed. Come in!”
The door opened, and a man entered slowly, gently shutting the door behind him. He made his way to the old man's seat, leaning in close to speak with hushed voice. “Governor Harris, there's a situation that warrants your attention.”
“Try to be more vague, if you could, Flynn.”
“I'm sorry, Governor, but it's rather important-”
“Oh, what the devil could be wrong today?” Harris grunted and rose from his seat, already weary of the story he hadn't even heard yet. “Excuse me gentlemen, I trust you'll manage without me for a few hands.” Governor Harris grabbed his cane as his hands left the armrests of his chair, and he managed a dignified hobble towards the door. Flynn was on his coattails as they exited the room. They went slowly down the hallway, its cream painted walls decorated with the odd painting in gilded frame. “So, now that you've managed to interrupt the evening's entertainment, and made me look a frightfully poor host in the eyes of my friends, what is the matter?”
“I don't know sir. Chief Marshal Ford called for you, he said it was urgent.”
“Isn't it always?” the Governor grunted his question. He paused, leaning against the wall while he jabbed his cane accusingly at Flynn's chest. “Marshal Ford is constantly bemoaning the State's problems, and I am made of neither money nor manpower. This is worth intruding upon my quiet evening, Flynn?”
“It is.” the voice came from down the hallway and within the throat of a tall fellow with a neatly trimmed oak-brown beard and thick eyebrows. A starched dark grey suit and matching bowler managed to make the golden star on his chest shine all the brighter as he stood watching the two of them. “Shall we finished this conversation in your office, sir?”
The Governor lowered his cane to the floor and hobbled the rest of the way to his office, grimacing as he lowered himself into his leather chair. With a haggard sigh he rested his cane against the desk and leaned back in his throne. “So, Marshal, whatever is the matter now?”
Ford removed his hat and took a seat across from the Governor, resting his bowler on the desk. “We have a fugitive in the State that must be apprehended.”
“Pressing news to be sure; it's unheard of for a man to try and lose his past in the wild, open frontier.”
“Most do so without murdering five people, three of which were law enforcement.” The Governor's expression shifted to a more serious one, Ford's cue to let the rest of his words hit home. “Two of those officers were marshals. One of them was Samuel Picket.”
“Good heavens,” the Governor muttered, his hands drumming nervously on his armrests. “Samuel Picket?” A solemn nod was his response. “When was this?”
“The robbery that killed the first three was over a week ago; yesterday I got a telegram from Riverbend that Samuel was shot dead in Flinthead Camp. That's not just some small town, Governor. That's by the railway.” Harris' fingers continued their drumming, so Ford sighed and went on. “It's the boldest murder in the State's history; the most respected lawman in the State, shot in cold blood in broad daylight. I know your views on frontier life, but this is inviting lawless carnage into our homes. I can't abide murder of the law in any town, but I certainly can't allow something this brazen to go unanswered.” Ford leaned to the side in his chair, regarding the Governor calmly. “Neither can you, sir.”
“Well, Ford,” Harris took a moment to sift through what had been said before continuing. “You are the State Marshal, what do you intend to do about it?”
“I don't have the men to handle this, Governor.”
“Can't you,” Harris' hand waved abstractly, “round up a posse and bring this miscreant to heel?”
“My finest man was Samuel Picket; he may have been old, but he was still the fastest draw and the best shot in the Marshal's office. If I send ten men out to apprehend this fugitive, I promise you ten more dead lawmen and nothing more.” The Governor eyed him and Ford answered the unspoken question. “He's not hiding out in some flophouse we can surround or take by surprise. He's fled to the wilds; even finding him will be difficult, and I promise you he'll meet any party sent for him on his terms, not mine.”
“Then what am I supposed to do about this, Ford? You're correct that this can't continue in my state, but you don't intend to sit and do nothing about it either I should hope.”
“I don't have anyone in the Marshal's office suited for this task, but I have a solution if you're prepared for it. I'd like permission to hire someone to handle the task for me.”
“You want to hire some band of drunken, ex-soldier mercenaries? What makes you think they'd fare any better?”
“No, sir, I don't want mercenaries. I have one name in mind, but he'll be expensive. I'm certain he'll find this criminal, and bring him to justice.”
The Governor sighed and let his hands fall into his lap. “It seems we have no other choice; who do you have in mind?”
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Topic: On the Nature of Dwarves (Read 37720 times)