Category Archives: Zombie Western

Feb 01 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 12

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The new arrival tied a bonnet under her chin then studied a wrinkly map. She was rail thin yet conveniently curvy in just the right places, though it was hard to tell as her dress went down all the way past the ankle.

She was paler than a glass of milk but attractive just the same. A few freckles. Red lips. A pretty face, though it looked very frustrated. She tucked the map into her bible and decided to see if there was a stranger willing to give her directions.

“Excuse me…excuse me…sir!”

Her voice was very soft. So soft that passers by kept passing on by, no interest in helping her out whatsoever.

Gunther looked at Slade.

“A damsel in distress.”

Slade kept watching. He took another elbow from Gunther.

“Go get her, boy!”

Slade didn’t budge. Gunther sighed.

“Shit,” the old man said. “Look at her. She is a damsel. She is in distress. Marshals are supposed to help people, ‘aint they? You’d be doing your duty if you went over to see how she’s doing, wouldn’t you? And then maybe by the grace of God if by some miracle she found you interesting, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Slade puffed on his cigar.

Gunther stood up. “Son of a bitch. I have to do everything around here. PARDON ME, MA’AM?!”

The young woman turned around as the old man approached.

“Howdy ma’am. Deputy Marshal Gunther Beauregard at your service. I couldn’t help but notice you seem to require some assistance.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” the young woman said as she shook Gunther’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Sarah Farquhar.”

“What seems to be the hullabaloo, Miss Farquhar?” Gunther asked.

“I’m looking for the Olmsted property,” Sarah said.
“Oh,” Gunther said. “You don’t mean Frederick Olmsted do you? Are you his relation? Because I’m sorry to say he went belly up a few months ago.”

“No relation,” Sarah said as she pulled a deed out of her bible. “I purchased the property from the bank and the coachman said it is nearby but that can’t possibly be…”

“No ma’am,” Gunther said. “It’s about two miles west of town. Your coachman sounds like a lazy shit heel if you ask me.”

“Oh dear,” Sarah said. “Sometimes I think that if it weren’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

“Now don’t talk like that,” Gunther said as he put an arm around the young lady and headed toward Slade. “Surely your husband will arrive soon and set this all right.”

Sarah frowned. “Oh. No. I’m afraid he’s gone.”

“Run off?” Gunther asked.

“Deceased,” Sarah answered. “I thought I’d make a new life out west but it hasn’t been going very well.”

Gunther looked at Slade and silently mouthed the words, “Dead husband!”

Slade shot his deputy a look of disapproval.

“Well, ma’am,” Gunther said. “Your luck is about to change. Allow me to introduce U.S. Marshal Rainier Slade, the finest law man this side of the Mississippi.”

Upset as he was at his sidekick, Slade didn’t mind the opportunity to feel Sarah’s soft hand inside his own.

“Hello,” Sarah said.

A politer than usual grunt was Slade’s response.

“The Marshal here was about to come to your aid,” Gunther said as he pointed to the church. “But he was too busy standing watch over the thirty scoundrels inside. We’re holding onto to them until their trial, you see.”

“Oh my,” Sarah said.

“The Marshal caught ‘em all single handed,” Gunther said. “They got one look at him and threw down their guns, knowing they wouldn’t stand a chance against this deadeye gunslinger.”

“Is that right?” Sarah asked.

“Marshal,” Gunther said. “This is the Widow Farquhar, the new owner of the Olmsted property and in need of assistance in locating her claim.”

Gunther stepped up to the porch and motioned for Slade to follow. “One moment, ma’am. Official Marshal business.”

The lawmen stood inside the doorway, just out of Sarah’s earshot.

Gunther grabbed Slade’s shoulders and looked his boss in the eye.

“She’s pretty, she’s loaded and she’s desperate. Do not f%^k this up!”

Inside Slade’s heart brewed a storm of emotion. He longed for Miss Bonnie and couldn’t help but wonder if maybe one day his love might change her mind. Then again, Sarah was right there.

When it comes to romance, never underestimate the power of a person who is “right there.”

Slade stepped down to the ground. Gunther followed.

“Miss Farquhar,” Gunther said. “This country is filled with all kinds of dangers. Injuns. Thieves. Killers. Mormons and such. I tell you I’d feel a lot safer if the Marshal here would show you the way to your new home. Oh and don’t worry Marshal. The men and I will do our best to carry on in the absence of your astute leadership.”

This was a rare moment where Slade didn’t look at Gunther as a nuisance. The Marshal untied his horse. Chance was the name of the Slade’s noble steed. He was a big bronco, mostly broken in though there was some pep left in him. His previous owner was about to shoot him, finding him too difficult to train, but he took a liking to Slade and got a “second chance.”

Slade climbed on up then reached his hand down to Sarah, who clearly had never rode a horse before. She fumbled as she put her foot into the stirrup then clumsily pulled herself up behind the Marshal. Slade reached back, took Sarah’s right hand, and placed it around his waist.

Sarah pulled it back.

“Oh Marshal! I don’t know if that’s proper. We just met.”

Slade shrugged his shoulders. He kicked his feet against Chance’s sides and his old friend took off, so fast that Sarah quickly changed her mind and wrapped her arms tightly around Slade’s waist for dear life.

Mr. Tough Guy didn’t mind that at all.

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Feb 01 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 11

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Dawn came and Slade sat on the steps of the church’s front porch, staring at his mother’s ring and torturing himself with that age old question everyone in love faces whenever romance doesn’t go their way.

“What could I have done differently?”

Gunther interrupted the pontification session by loudly chomping on an apple and dropping a telegram on the Marshal’s lap.

“Straight off the telegraph,” the Deputy said. “What do you make of it?”

Slade took a look:

United Exchange Telegraph Service

FROM: Josiah Uxley, U.S. Marshall

Denver, Colorado

TO: All U.S. Marshals in Good Standing
Warning <STOP> Infestation of monsters in Colorado <STOP> All is lost <STOP> Monsters are being hauled East <STOP> Abandon posts and save yourselves <STOP>

Slade crumpled up the telegram and made a pantomime gesture as if he were taking a big drink.

“Them Colorado boys dipped into the moonshine and had themselves a good time?” Gunther asked.

The boss nodded.

Gunther winced under the rising sun. “That’s what I thought too. Then again, I wonder if it’s some kind of test. Trick us into leaving and then we get the axe. Either way, I sent a message back asking what the hell this is all about.”

Slade grunted his assent.

The old timer parked himself next to Slade and produced from a sheath he wore on his belt a foot long knife. Crossbar handle. Curved end. Anyone introduced to it would not have walked away.

Gunther went to work, whittling a block of wood.

“Is it me or is your face longer than usual?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

Slade realized he was still holding the ring. It was too late to avoid detection by putting  it away.

“What’s that?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

“Oh slap me in the ass and call me Sally!” Gunther said. “You proposed to that redheaded spitfire!”

Cigar chomp.

Gunther nudged Slade with his elbow. “Didn’t you? Come on now…”

Silence.

“Huh,” Gunther said as his wood shavings hit the ground. “And since you’re here with a puss on your face and the ring’s in your hand instead of on Miss Bonnie’s finger…”

“Yup,” Slade said.

“Oh boy.”

A minute or two passed. Gunther kept whittling. Slade kept sulking.

“You want to tell me the details?” the old man asked.

Exasperated, Slade tucked the ring into his pocket.

“Well how am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me what happened?” Gunther asked.

Slade just stared blankly at his boots.

“What exactly did you say to her?” Gunther asked.

Slade didn’t respond to that inquiry, nor did he respond to:

Did you get down on one knee?

Were you all fancy about it or did you just throw the ring at her?

Did she look happy?

Did she laugh at you?

Was she at least nice about it?

Did she let you down easy?

The Marshal held up under interrogation for a half-hour until finally his Deputy cracked the case.

“You didn’t really ask her did you?”

Slade shifted and looked the other way.

“Ah,” Gunther said. “That’s it. You were chicken.”

Few things got the Marshal talking like an accusation of cowardice, but even then, the response was sparse.

“Was not.”

“So,” Gunther said, “Since you’re being stubborn I’ll have to deduce that you didn’t ask her outright but some state of affairs transpired that led you to believe that Miss Bonnie wouldn’t be interested in being locked in the bonds of holy matrimony with you forever and ever.”

The two just sat there.

“Why I don’t know because you’re such a gifted conversationalist,” Gunther said. “It’s Miss Bonnie’s loss for sure.”

Slade shook his head. Gunther rolled his eyes.

“Goddamnit, son. Out with it! Did you ask her or not?”

Through gritted teeth, the Marshal’s reply was as raspy as ever. “I asked enough…and she answered enough.”

“Oh,” Gunther said as he turned back to his whittling. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

Slade felt relief, believing the interrogation was over until the old man started up again.

“You know, Rain,” Gunther said. “Women say a lot of things. They hem and they haw and they say they’ll never do this or they’ll never do that but give ‘em an actual honest to God decision to make and they might just surprise you.”

A confused look took over Slade’s face.

“Get your ass back there, get down on one knee and ask her proper,” Gunther said. “She says yes, good. She says no, well, at least you know.”

Slade struck a match, held it to his cigar until it was lit, then puffed.

“No.”

Gunther nodded. “Well, you were there. I wasn’t. If you think she’s a lost cause then so be it. No use grousing over it though. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

A stage coach rolled up the road and came to a stop at Anderson’s General Store. The coach man got down, opened the door and a delicate hand took his. Out stepped a raven haired beauty, dressed all in black.

Dumbstruck, Slade’s mouth gaped open just wide enough for his cigar to fall out.

Gunther sheathed his blade.

“Speaking of…”

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Jan 30 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 10

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High atop the town’s rickety old water tower, a massive, hairy, hulking beast observed Slade as he dozed. Black fur, dagger-like claws, a snout full of razor sharp teeth. Even at rest, the eight-foot tall creature’s breath was hot, even steamy.

The legends are true. Werewolves have lived amongst humanity for ages, blending in as humans when they can, hiding in the shadows in their alternative form when they’re unable to keep their inner beast at bay.

This one seemed rather interested in the church, having surveyed the property for several minutes. A half mile away in the distance, he saw a pair of red eyes similar to his own emerge above the courthouse. The being they were attached to drew closer, leaping from rooftop to rooftop until it too found a spot on the water tower to lay low.

What is the deadliest power a werewolf has in its personal arsenal? Its unmatched strength? Explosive temper? Incomprehensible speed?

All of these factors are palpable but many would argue that telepathic communication is what makes werewolves truly terrifying. Known to hunt in packs, they can sneak up right behind their prey and openly discuss their plans of attack inside their minds without making a sound.

“Is this the place, Pa?” the newly arrived werewolf asked.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t look like much.”

“A job’s a job, Miles.”

Miles wasn’t quite as large as his father, but he was still menacing and formidable. Gracefully, he and his father leaped from the tower and landed on their feet on the ground below. Almost in defiance of basic laws of physics, they barely made a sound.

“They’ll never accept us here,” Miles said.

“That’s up to you, son,” Pa replied. “Control the beast and maybe we can stop moving and settle down for a change.”

Pa carried a small pack on his back. He bit the shoulder strap with his teeth, werewolf hands being much too large to manipulate human objects. Opening his mouth allowed the pack to fall to the ground.

“That’s not what I meant,” Miles said.

Father and son morphed into human form. Pa was in his forties, strong and tall with a little bit of salt mixed into his peppery hair. Miles was fifteen. About six inches shy of six feet, he looked like he would have to get soaking wet to weight a hundred pounds. His ribs could have been played like a xylophone.

Underneath the water tower, the two very naked black men carried on their conversation. In human form, they weren’t able to communicate telepathically, so they used their mouths, as people have been known to do from time to time.

“I meant they’ll never be able to accept, ‘us.’”

To Miles, the older man was Pa. To the rest of the world, he was Joe. Joe Freeman. Joe rummaged through the pack, handed his son a pair of pants, then found his own and pulled them on.

“Well, that’s a bird of a very different feather, I reckon,” Joe said.

“Can’t we just live in the wild?” Miles asked.

“You can when you’re older if you want,” Joe replied. “Me, I’d rather have a bed to sleep on and a hot meal once in awhile.”

Miles buttoned up his shirt. “No one treats you like shit in the wild.”

Joe put his hat on. “I suppose not. But you know as bad as it is for black folk now, it’s a tiny bit better today than it was when I was your age.”

“So?” Miles asked.

Joe pulled on his boots. “So Lincoln made a law to set us free but there’s no law that can make people not treat us like shit,” Joe explained. “I was born a slave. You were born free. I doubt you or I will see it in our lifetimes but I like to think that one day someone in our line will become a successful, well-to-do man about town.”

“Yeah,” Miles said. “Keep dreaming.”

“Dreaming keeps me going,” Joe said. “It’ll take a long time. Maybe forever. But I hope if we keep going about our business and standing up for ourselves, one day folks won’t even care what skin color people are.”

Miles took a seat on the ground. He grabbed a stick and doodled pictures in the dirt.

“And fairies will sing, and unicorns will dance, and leprechauns will give us all pots of gold…”

“Oh Miles,” Joe said as he laid down on the ground. “You’re way too young to be this cynical. If you want to live on the range and chase rabbits like an animal when you’re grown I won’t stop you, but if you ask me, us removing ourselves from all the opportunities of the world is what the bad men of the world want us to do.”

Miles paused to admire a rudimentary castle he drew. “So what? We take the shit…”

With his eyes shut, Joe kept walking. “And your kid will take shit…and his kid will take shit…and all the kids going on down the line will take a lot of shit but…”

“What?” Miles asked.

“Someday a Freeman will do something big that will make all the shit worthwhile,” Joe said.

Miles traced the outline of a little knight just outside the castle wall. “And if that never happens?”

Joe became annoyed that his sleep was being disturbed. “I don’t know. Then we’re all shit out of luck. Go to sleep, will you?”

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Jan 29 2016
5 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 9

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Highwater didn’t have much in the way of large public buildings, but the Reverend Cavanagh allowed his church to serve as a makeshift jailhouse whenever Slade and Gunther had too many yahoos in custody for the cage in the Marshal’s office to hold.

The Buchanan Boys were arranged six per pew, their legs clapped in irons, each man chained to the one next to him. It wasn’t exactly conducive to good shuteye.

“Now boys,” Gunther said. “Let’s go over the rules.”

Jefferson Knox was a good old boy Gunther knew from way back. A fellow veteran. He had a scar across his right cheek courtesy of a Confederate bayonet. Those were dark times indeed. The American Civil War led to an internal neighbor against neighbor struggle in Missouri. Some, like Gunther and Knox, chose the North. Others chose the South. Fifteen years had gone a long way to heal the statewide wounds, but they weren’t fully closed. Bad blood remained.  Hard feelings festered.  Animosity on a scale that grand  doesn’t go away overnight, let alone a decade or two.

Knox held a double barreled shotgun. He and his mop topped sons, a duo in their early twenties who thankfully got their looks from their mother, had been sworn in as special deputies. Cole was a bit taller and muscular. George was lanky, but it was nothing that a few push-ups couldn’t have fixed. They were each packing pistols, though they’d never used them on anything other than forest animals before.

Like everyone else in town, these three didn’t lift a finger to help Slade in his time of need, but Gunther figured it was better to hire them than Waldo, Townsend, and Blake. At least the Knox family was kind enough to keep their dissent to themselves.

“The first rule is we’re in charge and if you do somethin’ we don’t like, you’ll get shot,” Gunther said as he walked down the aisle, Winchester in hand. “Attemptin’ an escape? That’ll get you shot. Smugglin’ in contraband? That’ll get you shot.”

Gunther paused next to Smelly Jack, who felt a compelling need to ask, “What if I f$%k your mother?”

The deputy walked on, but not before introducing the butt of his rifle up against the side of Jack’s head. “Talkin’ out of turn? That’ll get you shot.”

The old timer joined the Knoxes at the front of the church, right next to the preacher’s pulpit.

“Boys,” Gunther said. “Really, when it comes right down to it, y’all should just assume that anything you might do or even think about doin’ will mostly likely get you shot. Any questions?”

Jeb Buchanan, Jack’s brother-cousin on his father’s side, raised his hand. “What if I…”

“It’ll get you shot,” Gunther said. No need to hear the question.

Unbeknownst to his underlings, Slade had returned from his appointment with Miss Bonnie and was watching through the front door. Convinced his men had the hoodlums under control, the Marshal took a seat in a rocking chair on the front porch. He shifted his hat over his eyes and settled down for the night.

A triumph over the Buchanan Boys. A rejection from Miss Bonnie. Though it’d been a long day, the rest he needed eluded him.

Something was off. He don’t know exactly what it was, but he just had a hunch. A fit of intuition. A feeling…like he was being watched.

“ARRR….ARRR….ARRRRRWHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

Slade jumped up and drew his weapon. He looked around. Nothing. He holstered his Colt and returned to his attempt at slumber.

“Damn coyotes,” he mumbled.

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Jan 28 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 8

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“EVERYBODY HATES ME!!!”

The rasp in his voice disappeared, the scowl lifted, his tongue was no longer tied and the words flowed out of Slade’s mouth like the choppy waters of a roaring river. As if that weren’t bad enough, the lawman’s face was covered with snot and tears.

“Shhh baby,” Miss Bonnie said softly as she stroked her fingers through Slade’s luscious brown hair. “I got you. Hush that fool talk now, no one hates you.”

Yup. Men have needs and sometimes one of them is the shoulder of a good woman to cry on, or in this case, an ample bosom to cry into. Why? What did you readers think Slade needed?

Perverts.

“YEPH DEY DOOTH!” Slade’s voice was muffled by Miss Bonnie’s copious assets. He turned his head to the side for purposes of pronunciation and better air inhalation.

“Who?” Miss Bonnie asked. “Who hates you?”

Somehow in a town filled with nosey gossips, Slade and Miss Bonnie had managed to keep their arrangement secret for six whole months. Once a week, Slade would head up to Miss Bonnie’s room, plunk down her full fee, and then unload all of his burdens.

They never did anything beyond that. Miss Bonnie wasn’t against the idea but Slade didn’t think it proper. So the pair would just lie in bed, Slade taking a break from his tough guy persona while Miss Bonnie played the role of a discount head shrinker.

“Gunther.”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked. “He does not hate you!”

“He doesn’t believe in me I know that much.”

“And what makes you think that?” Miss Bonnie asked as she took Slade’s hand and interlocked her fingers between his.

Slade sniffed and blew his nose into a hanky. “He wanted to run. He didn’t think I could handle the Buchanan Boys on my own.”

“Well shit, Rain, there was thirty of them and only one of you!” Miss Bonnie said. “Maybe if you’d of told him your plan. Don’t you think you should share these kinds of things with your deputy?”

“He second guesses me on everything,” Slade said. “He always tries to talk me out of whatever I want to do. I’m the boss! He should just do what I say and like it!”

Miss Bonnie rested her cheek on top of Slade’s head. “Oh honey. Bosses and employees bicker all the time. That’s natural.”

Another sniff. “It is?”

“Sure. Whenever I tell Waldo to water down the drinks he always gets all high and mighty with his, ‘I can’t lower my integrity just so you can save a buck’ routine but I always ask him ‘Are you going to pay for the extra liquor then?’ and sure enough, he shuts his trap and waters the hooch down.”

“So what the hell does that mean?” Slade asked.

“It means that the boss/employee relationship is give and take. You want your employees to feel like they’re free to tell you when they think you’re wrong because sometimes you might be wrong. Like that time Eleanor told me the girls didn’t want to entertain the circus folk. She was right. All those freaks had gangrenous peckers and the little money I would have made off them would have paled in comparison to the money I’d of lost if all the girls got sick for weeks after.”

“This…this is getting off topic.”

Slade rolled over on his stomach and Miss Bonnie knew that was her cue to hop up on the Marshal’s back and give him a shoulder massage.

“Honey, if you think you’re right and you put your foot down, then a good employee will still back you up out of loyalty,” Miss Bonnie said. “Gunther stood up for you, didn’t he? You should have heard the way he was talking about you in here, like rainbows were popping out of your backside and all.”

“Really?” Slade asked.

“Really,” Miss Bonnie answered. “Holy…you’ve got a big knot here.”

The Marshall let out a sigh of relief as Miss Bonnie worked her magic.

“Standing Eagle definitely hates me,” Slade said. “No way around that.”

“That is a sad situation,” Miss Bonnie said. “But stop beating yourself up about it. Sure, maybe you could have explained yourself better but everyone makes mistakes.”

Miss Bonnie moved her hands lower and started working on the kinks in Slade’s back.

“Ohhh…yea,” Slade said. “Right there.”

“Here?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“Yessum.”

As far as Slade was concerned, kinky sex was all well and good when it came to relieving a man’s carnal desires, but when it came to his wounded soul, there was no better balm than a woman willing to rub a man’s back and listen to his litany of complaints without thinking less of him afterwards.

“I’ll tell you what,” Miss Bonnie said. “You give the Injuns a few days to cool off then after the judge gives his verdict, I’m going to make the biggest, yummiest cake ever and you’re going to ride on out to the Injun lands, give the cake to the Chief and invite the whole tribe to come watch those Buchanan Boys twist in the wind.”

Miss Bonnie stopped the rubdown when she heard a snicker.

“What?”

“You?” Slade asked. “Bake a cake?”

The madame slapped a light one upside the back of Slade’s head. “Shut your mouth! I can so bake!”

The massage ended and the unlikely couple spooned. Miss Bonnie was the little spoon, though on occasion Slade had been known to take that position. He would have surely committed hare kare had any of his numerous enemies ever found out.

“I can see it now,” Slade said. “The Chief takes one bite then pulls out his tomahawk and scalps me.”

“Rainer Slade! You take that back! I’ll have you know I’m very handy in the kitchen.”

“Uh huh,” Slade said.

“Fine,” Miss Bonnie said. “I’ll get one of the girls to make it. The point is just because people argue doesn’t mean they can’t make up. As soon as Smelly Jack’s six feet under Standing Eagle will talk to you again. You’ll see.”

“You know he said that if Jack doesn’t die I’ll wish I had died?”

“Well, that’s just plain rude,” Miss Bonnie said.

“And that the land will be useless for farming and everyones’ lives will be filled with torment and…oh! Get this…”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“He said that if Jack doesn’t die, then whenever anyone else dies they’ll…I forget how he put it…they’ll come back to life and start eating everyone for dinner or something.”

Miss Bonnie snuggled herself closer to Slade. “Injuns say the darnedest things.”

Briefly, as Slade nuzzled up to the all the red hair in front of his face, he allowed himself to be happy. But like most of the good times in his life, it was abruptly over.

WAM! A fist pounded on the door.

“Shit,” Miss Bonnie said. “Has it been an hour already?”

“Damn it,” Slade said.

More knocks, followed by the unceremonious voice of Roscoe Crandall, who returned for a second go-around.

“SLADE, YOU GONNA BE ALL NIGHT OR WHAT?!”

“Can we just tell him to get lost?” Slade asked. “I’ll pay for another hour.”

Miss Bonnie sat up. “No baby, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“COME ON, SLADE! OTHER PEOPLE ARE WAITIN’ FOR THE WHORE!”

Those words burned like acid in Slade’s ears. He put on his Stetson, then took his gun belt off the night stand, strapped it on, and pulled out his Colt.

“Stop it,” Miss Bonnie said.

“I ought to shoot him where he stands for calling you that,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie took a seat at her vanity and primped herself in front of her mirror.

“It’s what I am,” she said. “People call you a Marshall because you get paid to catch crooks. People call me a whore because I let men have their way with me for money. There’s no shame in it except for what people attach to it. We all have to make a living somehow.”

Slade holstered his steel. Then, with his back to Miss Bonnie, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old ring. It was a scratched and scuffed heirloom. Not much to look at. But it once belonged to his mother and he hoped it would do. He gulped, choking back the anxiety that rolled up his throat.

“Bonnie…”

Miss Bonnie was busy inserting a hair pin into her elaborate do when she stopped. The distinct lack of the word “Miss” stood out to her. She knew something was up.

“Yes?”

In his travels throughout the West, Slade had stared down the barrel of many a gun pointed his way and lived to tell the tale but somehow this endeavor proved more difficult than anything he’d ever done before.  For weeks, he practiced what was going to say but now that the moment arrived, it wasn’t any easier.

“What would you say if someone offered to take you away from all this?”

Miss Bonnie turned to her makeup, adding just a touch of rouge to her cheeks. She didn’t need much. They were naturally rosy.

“Away from what?” she asked.

“This place,” Slade said. “What you do. Who you do it with. All of it.”

Still facing the closed door, Slade heard Miss Bonnie scooch out of her chair, then felt her arm on his shoulder. Slade palmed the ring as his paid companion turned him around. She put one hand on each side of Slade’s face, pulled his head down, then kissed him on the lips.

Oh how Slade dreamed of that. He wanted it for so long but never tried for it on his own. Paying for company was ok in his book but paying for anything more intimate was out of the question for him.

“You are adorable,” Miss Bonnie said as she brushed her hand alongside Slade’s cheek. “But you ought to know better than to fall for a…”

“What?” Slade asked.

“WHORE???” Crandall shouted from outside. “WHAT KINDA PLACE YOU RUNNIN’ HERE MAKIN’ A MAN WAIT LIKE THIS?!”

Slade tightened his fist around the ring. The scowl returned. The vein in his forehead popped out again. He turned the knob with his left hand and opened the door to find Roscoe Crandall with his dopey toothless face and stringy hair.

“Finally!” Crandall said.

POW!

Like a cannon at the Battle of Gettysburg, Slade launched a clothesline punch that connected with Crandall’s jaw with a bone shattering crunch, knocking his lights out instantly and sending him down for the count.

The Marshall fished his cigar out of his pocket and returned it to its usual resting place in the right corner of his mouth. The rasp in his voice was back and he was Mr. Tough Guy once more.

He look over his shoulder to Miss Bonnie. “Do I owe you for his hour too?”

Inside Miss Bonnie’s heart brewed a perfect storm of emotion. A little bit of fear, mixed in with some joy, pride and…she thought maybe love? No, it was more than love.

It was butterflies.

Miss Bonnie’s face scrunched up. “No…I’ll just take it out of his pants later.”

Slade grunted his ascent, then tipped the brim of his hat at the lovely lady.

“Miss Bonnie.”

“Marshal.”

Miss Bonnie watched as Slade stepped over Crandall’s oily hide then made his way downstairs. She shut the door, locked it, then returned to her vanity. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her face unscrunched and a few tears started to roll.

Why would a madame, the owner of a brothel, sell her own body? That was a question that loomed large on the lips of Highwater’s gossipy gadflies. The general consensus was that Miss Bonnie did it because she was appallingly promiscuous, but then again, no one ever bothered to ask her why.

Had they done so, they would have learned that she was married once, to a man who presented himself as loving and kind only to eventually turn loathsome and cruel. One black eye too many convinced her to grab her husband’s revolver and respond to his challenge of, “You don’t got the guts” to empty every last round in his chest.

Seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment but when her good sense returned, she snatched what little money her husband had stuffed under the mattress, fled Illinois for good, and earned her keep as a working girl until she managed to save enough to buy a place of her own.

As anyone who’s ever been down on their luck will attest, when good fortune returns, the mind doesn’t set itself at ease. Thoughts are never happy but rather, they become focused on how to never go back to the dark, dirt poor times of the past. She’d given up on men, forgotten all about love, and money was her only friend.

Money meant power. Money meant respect. Money meant never having to cow tow to another man ever again. As far as she was concerned, she was never able to get enough of it and while she was happy to take her cut from her girls’ earnings, she was even happier to take a full fee on her own.

Rainer Slade. No man had ever defended Miss Bonnie’s honor like that before. And while she was’t exactly a damsel in distress in search of a man’s protection, she did appreciate that someone cared enough to rearrange a scumbag’s face in her honor.

Poor Miss Bonnie. She sure had a lot to think about.

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Jan 28 2016
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Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED -Chapter 7

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Sundown was the busiest time to visit the Bonnie Lass. Men had needs and Miss Bonnie’s gals aimed to please. Like prize peacocks, they strutted their stuff around the saloon floor, adept in the art of separating lonely men from their money.

Most of those men were lonely for a reason. Ugly, mean, miserable, alcoholic slimeballs without a dime to their name and no accomplishments to speak of.

Of course, in any brothel, there’s the occasional man who isn’t so bad but just can’t get out of his own way when it comes to chatting up a member of the fairer sex.

Once in awhile, there’s even a man who, despite all the odds against him, charms the ladies into having a good time.

Doc was one of those men. A scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, he sat in a comfy chair in a back corner. Martha and Annabelle sat in front of him, listening intently to every word Doc had to say. Jeanette, an import all the way from Paris, claimed Doc’s lap for herself.

“And so I said to the Queen, either you’re terribly ill, or you need to return these mangoes to your grocer immediately!!!”

The ladies lapped it up. “Oh Doctor,” Annabelle said. “You are too much!”

“What a life you’ve lived!” Martha added. “You really met Queen Victoria?”

“But of course, my dear, but of course!” Doc said, swirling his glass around. “A delightful woman I must say. She suffered from ghastly stomach cramps and not a single physician in London was able to properly diagnose her. Naturally, she sent for me, having heard of the yeoman’s work I did as personal physician to the Raj of India.”

Martha’s eyes lit up. “You’ve been to India? Get out!”

“I shall get it, madam!” Doc said. “The Raj.  What a fine fellow.  Oh, how I miss Calcutta.  The cuisine, the people, the festivities…oh! But I’ll tell you as wonderful as my time there was it pales in comparison to the wonders of the world I saw while I traveled throughout Africa with the Bushmen of the Kalahari.”

“My stars,” Annabelle said, clutching her hand over her heart. “What were they like?”

Doc puffed on his cigar. “Splendid gentlemen the lot of them. They had an aversion to trousers but in that heat, who can blame them really? Do you know that one day I spotted a hungry lion who was gazing upon one of the children as if he were a particularly tasty snack?”

“No!” Martha and Annabelle said together. Jeanette wasn’t much of a talker. She preferred to wiggle her hand between two open buttons in Doc’s shirt and play with the fast talker’s chest hair.

Doc closed his eyes. “Oh ladies, please, I’d rather not discuss it…”

“Please!” Martha begged.

“No, no, you’ll think me a blowhard when all I did was what any man in my position would have done.”

“Land sakes alive, Doc!” Annabelle said. “Now we gotta know!”

“Oh, if you insist!” Doc said. “I socked the unruly beast in the nose, strangled it to death with my bare hands and now its gruesome head adorns the wall of my family’s summer cottage in Nantucket. The tribe was so pleased that they made me an honorary Bushman of the Kalahari!”

“They did?” Annabelle asked.

“Indeed, and between you and I, my dear…”

Doc paused for a moment then leaned in to revel in the transfixed look on Annabelle’s eyes. “…I’m well versed in the ways of the bush.”

Annabelle pondered that statement for a second, then covered her mouth and playfully slapped Doc’s arm. “You’re terrible!”

“I know my dear!” Doc said as he took a sip of scotch. “I’m so very, very wicked!!!”

More laughter. Meanwhile, the spirits of the three sad sacks at the bar weren’t as high as the good doctor’s.

“I will never trust a man that breaks bread with Injuns, no way, no how!” Blake said, nursing his beer.

“I don’t like it,” Burt said. “Something’s fishy about the whole thing.’

“Aww hell, we all look like cowards now,” Waldo said. “You know, I bet that’s why Slade recruited them Injuns to help him in the first place! Just to make us look bad.”

Miss Bonnie, all dolled up in red can can dress, bellied up to the bar.

“Jesus H. Christ, the three of you put together don’t have enough brain power to warm up a biscuit. The only reason why the Marshall reached out to those Injuns was because none of you would lift a finger to help him and don’t you forget it.”

Bottle crack. Chair smash. The first rigged card game related fight of the evening.

Ernie Gunderson swore he saw a spare King of Hearts drop out of Mitch O’Connell’s sleeve, but Mitch steadfastly maintained his innocence with an uppercut to Mitch’s jaw. Tim Shea, never one to miss out on a good fight, lifted his bottle high in the air and was about to bring it down on the first head he could find when a perfectly placed shot shattered it into pieces.

The chaos stopped and all eyes were on Miss Bonnie, who was now holding a smoking derringer. In her rebuke to the crowd, she started out slowly, then built her way up to an ear splitting crescendo.

“Do you think…that it would be too much to ask…that you…ASSHOLES…LEARN HOW TO PLAY WITH YOURSELVES…WITHOUT TEARING THE PLACE APART FOR ONE GODDAMN NIGHT?!”

Hats were off and heads hung low. The collective response? “Sorry Miss Bonnie.”

The proprietor tucked her piece back into her garter belt. The degenerates returned to normal, or, as normal as they got.

Doc, upon hearing the shot, had ducked for cover and sent Jeanette crashing to the floor in the process.  He stood up and dusted himself off.

“Pardon me, ladies,” he said. “Reflex action, you see from…from…”

The ladies waited for an answer.

“From my days in the service of President Lincoln! Yes, that was it exactly!”

“You?!” Martha asked. “Worked for Lincoln?”

Doc grabbed his forehead as if he was suffering from an traumatic mental burden.

“Oh, yes…yes, my dear I was the President’s Chief Medical Advisor but please don’t ask me to relive that tragic day. I swear I pummeled John Wilkes Booth within an inch of his life but his six henchmen overpowered me.  Oh, how I pray that one day I shall be able to forgive myself.”

“Booth had henchmen with him?” Annabelle asked. “I never knew that!”

“Oh my dear,” Doc said as he wrapped an arm around Annabelle. “There are so many things about this world that the powers that be keep from you that if I were to tell you half of them your faith in humanity would be shaken to its very core.”

“Gosh,” Annabelle said. Martha, not to be outdone, took Doc’s other arm.

Jeanette finally woke up. “Sacre bleu!”

“Ladies,” Doc said.  “I don’t mean to intrude, but have you ever been properly examined by a Harvard trained professional?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Martha said.

“Me neither,” Annabelle added.

“Come then,” Doc said as he led the trio upstairs. “Let us retire to more comfortable quarters for I’ll have you know I am a master of the gynecological arts and when it comes to your health and well being I will leave nothing to chance!”

“Oh my,” Martha said. “This sounds serious.”

“Medical matters are always serious,” Doc said. “But don’t worry, my dear, I’ll give the three of you a discount rate for my services.”

“That’s mighty generous of you doctor,” Annabelle said.

“I know,” Doc replied. “I truly am devoted to my patients.”

Martha pulled a roll of bills out of her brasserie and handed it over to the physician.

“Will this be enough?”

“Hmm,” Doc said. “It’s a good start and you have an honest face. I’ll just bill you for the rest my dear.”

“Oh thank goodness,” Martha said.

“Trou du cul,” Jeanette said, rubbing the sore spot on the back of her head from when Doc dropped her on the floor.

Back at the bar, Miss Bonnie was pouring over a wad of cash, counting up the evening’s haul. It was a good one, as per usual.

The double doors parted ways and in walked Slade.

Yup. The joint was filled with men with needs and even the fine, upstanding Marshall wasn’t any different. As our hero and Miss Bonnie traded glances, it became clear that one thing and one thing only was on the Marshall’s mind.

Miss Bonnie had something that Slade desperately needed and he wasn’t going to leave without it.

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Jan 28 2016
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Zombie Western

Zombie Western – A Note

Hello 3.5 readers.

Please be advised that Highwater has been moved from Kansas to Missouri due to an anticipated scene that involves the Mississippi River.

By the way, did I mention that How the West Was ZOMBED is #352 in Wattpad Horror?

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If you’re a wattpadder, your comments and votes will help drive it up the charts, and any feedback or suggestions you may provide will help me improve this zombtastic experience.

Much obliged, 3.5 cowpokes.

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Jan 24 2016
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Zombie Western

Zombie Western Crossroads

Howdy 3.5 buckaroos.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.  So, the 3.5 readers with me from the beginning have known that I have a problem.  I start stories, then I hit a wall, then I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to climb over that wall.

In that regard, I think that’s a problem every author faces.  Maybe its not so much a wall as a crossroads.  A fork in the road, rather.  You have to pick a direction and you worry the road you take will offend your 3.5 readers into running off and finding some other blog to read.

Anyway, yup, I foresee a fork in the road ahead.

You may have noticed that Part 1 has no zombies in it, just a brief mention by some Native Americans that “the undead” might be coming.  Hate to break it to you, but I don’t believe that Part 2 will have any zombies in it either.

I know.  Right now you’re channeling Dr. Malcolm from Jurassic Park.  “Uh…you do plan on having zombies in your uh zombie book, don’t you?”

Yes.  And how to handle the zombies was also a decision.  There was the option to just let them roam around uncontrollably with no one having any idea where they came from and watch as Slade and Co. fight for survival.

Hell, the Walking Dead has been on forever without informing their 3.5 billion viewers as to how the zombademic occurred.

But, I decided to go with a villain.  Henry Alan Blythe, yet to be introduced will, well I won’t spoil it, but he’ll have the ability to control the zombies.  On their own, they’ll just be dumb zombies running around eating everyone but then Blythe has the ability to take control and focus them on something…an army of the undead at his disposal.

OK, so I just gave a big spoiler.  But you’re not just my 3.5 readers.  You’re my 3.5 writing advisors too.

So the fork in the road.  How will Slade find out about Blythe’s powers?

I’m torn between two options:

OPTION 1

Blythe pulls the classic Bond villain move, capturing Slade, fully explaining himself, his motives, his powers, what he’s up to, perhaps the reason would be Slade gets an offer to join him in his evil mission or perish…oh and of course than Slade, ala Austin Powers, is “left in an easily escapable situation with one inept guard while the villain walks away without confirming his enemy’s death.”  Cheesy, but most of my stuff is a parody over something else so, I think I can get away with it.

Option 2

A new character, I’m thinking a former slave with his own supernatural powers, moseys into town.  He’s crossed paths with Blythe before so he explains everything.  PRO – avoids the Bond style villain confession.  CON – every time you add a hero, it does steal some of Slade i.e. the main hero’s thunder…though I’m thinking eventually it becomes a Scooby Gang situation (remember Buffy the Vampire Slayer?  She did all the work and her Scooby Gang, i.e. Xander, Willow et all were the support team?)

I don’t know.  What say you, 3.5 cowpokes?

 

 

 

 

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Jan 23 2016
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Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Part 1 – The Stand

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U.S. Marshall Rainier Slade and his trusty deputy Gunther Beauregard are joined by traveling snake oil salesman Doctor Elias T. “Doc” Faraday in a stand against the nefarious Buchanan Boys.

Strap on your chaps and get ready to ride back to the Old West, 3.5 pardnahs.  This here’s the first part in an ongoing novel sure to appease the Mighty Potentate.

Chapter 1             Chapter 2         Chapter 3

Chapter 4            Chapter 5          Chapter 6

TRIVIA: By now, Old West movie buffs may have figured out which actor Slade is a parody of.  Feel free to share if you caught it.

Any idea who BQB had in mind when he created Gunther?  HINT: think TV instead of movies.

Oh, and if you’re one of them cowpokes who prefers a mobile friendly format, mosey on over to Wattpad.  Hell, BQB only started posting this story up there on Wednesday and its already ranked #932 in Wattpad horror.

Let’s keep it going, shall we?

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Jan 23 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 6

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There Smelly Jack laid, face down in the dirt, defeated and humiliated, his hands and feet hogtied behind his back. His brothers, cousins, and brother-cousins were all arranged similarly in a line that stretched the entire length of the the road.

Slade and Gunther stood watch over the wanton criminal, ignoring his demands for clemency.

“Dammit Slade, ‘aint you an officer of the law?!” Jack asked. “You’re just going to let them damn dirty Injuns take me away?!”

He didn’t show it, but the Marshall enjoyed letting Smelly Jack sweat.

Standing Eagle approached.

“Let me do the talking,” Slade said to Gunther.

“Since when do you do any talking?” Gunther asked.

“Don’t do the fake Injun talk shit,” Slade said. “He hates that.”

The Chief embraced Slade, who in turn, just let his arms hang down at his sides. Slade’s machismo would not allow him to hug another man.

“I am glad I was able to save your skin, Slade,” Standing Eagle said.

“So am I,” the Marshall replied.

Gunther raised a flat palm in the air. “HOW!”

The Chief rolled his eyes and glared at Slade as if to ask, “Really?”

In turn, Slade shrugged his shoulders as if to reply, “Afraid so.”

“How what?” Standing Eagle asked Gunther.

Gunther doubled down on his ignorance and repeated “HOW!”

“How what?” Standing Eagle asked. “How do you chop wood? How do you skin a deer? What do you want to know how to do?”

Gunther was overcome by bewilderment.

“ME GUNTHER,” the old man shouted. “ME…WHITE…LAW…MAN. YOU…BIG WARRIOR BRAVE! ME GIVE YOU…MANY THANKS…FOR CAPTURING BAD MEN!!!”

Standing Eagle asked Slade, “Why is he doing the fake Indian talk shit? I hate it when white men do the fake Indian talk shit.”

“Tried to tell him,” Slade said.

“I can speak English, white man!” Standing Eagle said to Gunther. “I always study the ways of those who intend to do me harm.”

“Oh,” Gunther said. “Well, thanks just the same. I reckon we were up shit creek without a paddle until your canoe came along.”

“Don’t mention it,” Standing Eagle said. The Chief grabbed Jack’s carcass, hoisted it up into the air, and put it over his shoulder. “Time for this monster to get what’s coming to him.”

Jack wrenched his bound up body to and fro but it was no use. “SLADE!!!! YOU GOTTA DO SOMETHIN’!”

“Whoa,” Slade said.

“Whoa?” the Chief asked.

“He’s got to stay,” Slade replied.

Standing Eagle allowed Jack’s body to drop to the ground. The outlaw screamed like a little girl the entire way down until he landed with a magnificent thud.

Slade was a tall man in his own right, but most men looked like dwarves when compared to the mighty Standing Eagle. He looked down at the Marshall with great disdain.

“We had a deal, Slade,” Standing Eagle said. “This fiend and his family have burned our homes, murdered our people, kidnapped and raped our women. You promised me justice will be done!”

Slade nodded. “He’ll swing. I guarantee.”

“You guarantee?” Standing Eagle asked. “How many guarantees have my people received from YOUR people that we will not be harmed, that we will not be forced from our lands? Your guarantees mean nothing to me!”

“Chief,” Gunther said. “What I think the Marshall’s tryin’ to say is that we got our own rules and we got our own big chiefs back in Washington that want to see Smelly Jack and his boys dead for all the havoc they’ve caused all these years. We’ll be in big trouble if we let him go.”

“HANDSOME JACK!” Jack shouted. “I TOLD THAT NEWSMAN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO CALL ME HANDSOME JACK IN THE PAPER! I OUGHTA TRACK THAT SHIT HEAD DOWN AND…”

Slade pressed his boot down on the back of Jack’s head, not so hard as to pop his skull open, but just firmly enough to keep the prisoner quiet. After a second or two of compliance through silence, Slade returned his foot to the ground.

“I already wired Judge Sampson,” Slade said.

“Shit, there you go, Chief,” Gunther said. “Judge Sampsons’ a real stickler, let me tell you. That old cuss would hang his own mother for stealin’ a piece of candy. You got nothin’ to worry about. Smelly Jack’ll be twitchin’ at the end of a rope in a week, just as soon as the Judge gets to town and makes it all formal like.”

“HANDSOME JACK!!!” Jack yelled.

“SHUT UP!” Gunther and Standing Eagle yelled at the prisoner in unison.

Doc stuck a bottle in Standing Eagle’s face. “Chief, would it be possible for us to set aside our cultural differences over a drink of my Miracle Cure-All? Not that you need it, as you appear to be a specimen of perfect health and virility but one can never be too careful when it comes to preventative medicine.”

The bottle was instantly slapped out of Doc’s hand. It went sailing through the air then shattered on the ground, spraying its contents everywhere.

“I know your tricks,” Standing Eagle said. “You offer a gift as a gesture of friendship but then it ends up being laced with diseases from across the great ocean.”

“Not as such, no,” Doc said. “Its mostly just cocaine and spider eggs for texture.”

“Slade,” Standing Eagle said. “Out of all the white men I have ever met, I always believed you were the one without a forked tongue…”

The Chief grimaced. “…but now I am beginning to see the prongs…”

“I’m…” The man of few words struggled to speak but all he could come up with was, “I’m sorry.”

Standing Eagle turned his back on the lawmen and walked toward a group of warriors. Slade and Gunther followed behind.

“Chief, this is all just a big misunderstanding,” Gunther said. “The Marshall, he ‘aint much of a talker so I don’t know what happened, maybe something somehow got mixed up in whatever chat you two had before all this happened but I swear Ole Smelly Jack will get what’s comin’ to him.”

Jack rolled over on his side, only to yell out in pain as he shifted his body’s weight onto his elbow. “HANDSOME JACK!”

Slade drew his Colt and fired a round that landed in the ground just an inch away from Jack’s head, setting off a small explosion of dirt.

“Say it again,” Slade said.

“I’ll be good,” Jack replied.

Standing Eagle folded his arms and stared at Slade and Gunther with disgust, as if they were just a couple of lowly rats in the great warrior’s eyes.

“My name is Standing Eagle,” the Chief said.

“We know,” Gunther replied.

“No,” the Chief said. “You do not know. The mighty eagle has the power of flight. With his majestic wings, he can soar high above the clouds, look down upon the world in awe, and travel anywhere at any time.”

Doc missed out on this conversation. He chatted up a pair of ladies, attempting to impress them with his massive vocabulary.

“But I am not Soaring Eagle, nor am I Flying Eagle. I am Standing Eagle, for an eagle is at its strongest when it knows exactly where it wishes to be and refuses to use its wings to leave. This land is my home. It is where I was born and where I will die, of old age I hope but in battle if I must. I do not need to leave for the earth provides us with all that we need to survive. There is plenty for my people and there would be plenty for yours if you would live the way you were intended to. Instead, you take, and take and take to fill the bottomless pits of your empty souls. I fear one day the white man will take until the world becomes a rotten, spent husk. I do not envy anyone living when that day comes. But until it does, I will stand with brothers and my sisters, my elders and my children, in the place where the spirits decided I should be long ago. I will fly away for no man.”

“Chief…” Slade said.

“Slade,” Standing Eagle said, “We had a relationship of trust. You were a man of your word, more so than any other man who held your position in the past. Together, we’ve kept the peace between our people for a year, but now that you’ve destroyed our trust, I fear our peace will soon follow.”

Standing Eagle pointed to one of his men.  He was shorter and skinnier.  His face was covered with war paint.  He and his leader exchanged words in their native tongue.

“This is Wandering Snake,” the Chief explained. “He is our most powerful shaman.”

“A what-man?” Gunther whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Some kind of holy magic man,” Slade answered.

“Silence, imbeciles!”  Standing Eagle said.  “He is the vessel through which the spirits make their will known and…HE WILL NOW SEAL YOUR DOOM!”

Gunther looked a little nervous.  Slade was as nonchalant as ever.

Wandering Snake proceeded with an elaborate dance, during which he chanted in a steady rhythm.

Standing Eagle translated.

“Filthy, incompetent white men!  You have angered the spirits.  You have disrupted the slumber of our ancestors.  Once again, you prove that your treachery and lies know no boundaries…”

“Chief,”  Gunther interrupted.  “Is this going to take long?”

“The man you call Jack Buchanan…and his kin…their vile misdeeds have caused much misery and suffering…”

“It’s just that I’m hungry as hell and need to get a steak in me,” Gunther complained.

“SHUT UP, DUMBASS!” Standing Eagle shouted.  “I’M TRYING TO CURSE YOU, HERE!”

Slade nodded at Gunther, a sign that he wanted the old man to pipe down.  As a good deputy, he did as instructed.

Wandering Snake pulled off a visually stunning twirl.  He was very limber and spry.

“The spirits have decreed…that if the Buchanans do not pay for the lives they have taken with their own…then your farm lands will grow useless…your…yes, your lives will be filled with torment….”

Wandering Snake kept up with his performance, dancing and chanting away.  However, Standing Eagle stopped translating and appeared to be deep in thought.  He stroked his chin, looked up to the sky, then after a minute, looked at the two lawmen and declared…

“…and when your people die…they will not completely die.  Their souls will move on but their bodies will remain in motion, shells of their former selves, wandering about aimlessly as they search for the flesh of the living to devour…your punishment will be to fend off their attacks until the end of time.”

Silence.  Wandering Snake took a breather.

“Is that it?”  Gunther asked.

“That’s it,” Standing Eagle said.  “Why, do you want more?”

“Not especially,” Gunther said.

A warrior walked up leading the Chief’s horse, a white paint with brown spots.  Standing Eagle mounted his noble steed.  He didn’t bother with a saddle.

“Mark my words, Slade,” Standing Eagle said, pointing a finger toward Smelly Jack. “If he doesn’t die, you’ll wish you had.”

The warriors packed up and together they rode out of town, their noble chief leading the way.

“Damn,” Gunther said. “There goes some pissed off Injuns.”

“Yup,” Slade replied.

The law men looked at each other.  Gunther budged first.

“You don’t think…”

Slade chomped on his cigar. “Nah.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Leaving Slade on watch, Gunther returned to the Bonnie Lass, where the patrons were hiding behind the bar, under tables, and so on.

“You can come out now, chicken shits,”  Gunther said. “The desperadoes have been apprehended, relieved of their shootin’ irons, and there’s no more danger at all.  Now we just need some folks to help us stand guard over ’em until the Judge arrives.  Pays fifty cents a day and all you gotta do is point a gun at a bunch of tied up reprobates.”

Literally every hand in the bar shot up into the air.

“Yup,” Gunther said. “I figured as much.”

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