The Baron emerged from the saloon, leaning against the veranda railing beside Gunner. Chewing on a toothpick, she smiled. "I was wondering when someone would give it another go. That there is Fred Hopper. They call him the Gringo. Made a name for himself crossing the border and bringing back some of the worst bounties that escaped to Mexico."
The Gringo stepped into the middle of the street, a sneer on his face. "I figure there's still enough man in that metal shell to kill. And since I done killed the best, I might as well focus on killing the worst. The Judge's time is up. And when you're put down, he won't be far behind."
Bane silently trudged further into the street, tattered poncho flapping in the wind. The two men squared up at a distance of about twenty yards. Townspeople stopped to observe; faces peered from blinds and shutters at the windows of the buildings nearby. A hot breeze blew by, scattering dust and discarded paper along the ground. A smirk spread on the Gringo's lips.
He pulled his revolver faster than the eye could follow, firing three shots before Bane even moved. The bullets ricocheted; sparks glinted from Banes armor under the poncho. He pulled a massive handgun from his side holster, aimed, and fired one booming shot. The Gringo's torso exploded in scarlet spray as the round entered his chest and exploded out his back. A man standing ten yards behind screamed and toppled to the ground, struck by the same bullet.
The Gringo lay in the dust, blood rapidly staining the ground around his body. Bane slammed his gun back into the holster, looking back and forth as if for another challenge. None came. He turned and continued his slow, lumbering journey down the avenue as people shied away and found other places to be.
The Baron eased into a chair beside Gunner, a small smile on her lips. "And that's the main reason why the Judge doesn't have to worry about anyone trying to topple his throne. He allows anyone to challenge Bane to a gunfight. Trims down the number of people trying to kill him. And so long as his monster is around to protect him, he's insulated. Bane's invulnerability is matched only by his loyalty to the Judge."
Gunner took a swig of rye from the bottle. "Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat. Or take down a Judge, if that's what you're into. Especially if you know exactly what his next move is gonna be so you can get a jump on him and stop it."
"Really? And what would such information cost me?"
"Let's say thirty thousand in gold."
"That's pretty steep just for some word-of-mouth."
"It'll be worth it, I promise."
She slipped her hand inside her jacket, pulled out a small velvet sack, and tossed it to him. "Should be around thirty, give or take. Now, what's the word?"
He slipped the sack inside his vest and leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. "There's a shipment of blood shards coming in by train. Waingrow and his gang are gonna blow the rails and jack the shipment so the Judge can power his generator motor and put your mine outta business. Supposed to make the hit first thing tomorrow morning. I'm pretty sure you can get word to the railroad and warn 'em in time."
She nodded, a pleased expression on her face. "Yes, I can. Thanks, Gunner. I'm glad you chose the right side. I get a feeling this will be a profitable partnership." She stood and turned to the saloon. "Now if you excuse me, I have a call to make."
He lifted the bottle in salute. "Happy hunting."
The bottle dropped from his hand as soon as she went inside. Standing up, he walked back toward his hotel, trudging alongside the dusty streets, cutting through the milling crowds like a shark through schools of fish. Pausing, he watched as a wagon rolled by, pulled by a team of robot horses, gears whirring and pistons hissing as their metallic legs churned, tearing up clods of dirt. Crossing the street, he almost made it to the Paradise Inn when he saw Roscoe peering out the window, finger jabbing at the upper section of the building opposite them.
Gunner dove the side, turning as he hit the ground. A bullet struck the building behind him, followed by the boom of the rifle from the gunman at the window. Gunner drew his Reaper, pulling back on the hammer to charge the round before firing. The window exploded, and a second later the assassin crashed through, screaming as he struck the ground engulfed in flames.
A shadow moved to Gunner's left, rising from behind a stack of barrels with a rifle in hand. Gunner fired again, destroying the barrels along with the gunman, who ran a few steps before the flames ate him alive. Gunner stood and rotated in a circle, eyes scanning every alley, every shadow, every hiding place. People scattered, running for cover as the wind kicked up clouds of dust down the street. Gunner remained where he stood, Reaper charged and ready to spit fire.
"Anyone else? If you don't wanna get killed, best come on out before it's too late."
"Don't shoot!" A man's empty hands waved from behind a stack of timber across the street.
Gunner motioned with his Reaper. "Step away where I can see you."
The young man was visibly trembling when he shuffled out, hands raised above his head. "I dropped my rifle. Please don't kill me. This ain't my fault. I swear I tried to talk Hank out of it."
Gunner kept his Reaper aimed. "You boys a Nimrod squad?"
"Yessir. Just small fries mostly. Hank and Randy thought we'd make a name for ourselves by taking you out. I told 'em it was a bad idea, but they kept talking about the big payday. Said we could take you by surprise." His eyes cut over to their smoldering corpses. "Now…now they're dead." His bottom lip trembled, and tears slid down his cheeks.
"That's right. And by all rights, you should be laying there beside 'em. Who offered the payday?"
"Don't know his name. Tough old guy. Mean-looking. Thought I saw a badge under his duster. Said he'd pay us one hundred thousand apiece. Plus the bounty already on your head."
"Sounds familiar. What's your name, boy?"
The man took his hat off, twisting it in his hands. "Roy…sir."
"Well, Roy — how do I know you won't come gunning for me soon as my back turns?"
"Oh, no — I ain't gonna do nothing like that, sir. I never really took to this line of work anyways. All I know is steers, really. Used to be a ranch hand 'till rustlers cleared us out for the last time. I ain't no killer, though. Swear to God."
"I got your word on that, Roy?"
"Yessir."
"If a man's word ain't nothing, the man ain't nothing."
"Yessir."
"All right, Roy. You turn around and run outta town, hear? I see you again; I won't be talking, understand?"
"Yessir. Thank you, sir." Roy turned and ran, kicking up clouds of dust in the direction of the Town gates.
Gunner scanned the area a final time, waiting for the flicker of movement, the creak of leather, the metallic click announcing imminent gunfire. When no further attacks came, he holstered his Reaper and walked into the hotel, where Rosco waited inside. The inside was a little cleaner, with new wood paneling installed on the walls and the railings and stairs refinished. Gunner slapped a couple of gold bulls on the dusty countertop.
"Much obliged, Roscoe."
The innkeeper grinned. "Call it protecting my investment. I couldn't stand and do nothing while my only patron was gunned down."
Gunner picked up a small pot of cold beans and a piece of crusty bread from the stove, shoveling the food into a wooden bowl. "Guess that would be bad for business."
"How did your meeting go with the Judge this morning?"
"I'm still alive."
"So I see. Which means he must have found work for you to do."
"Something like that."
"Be careful, my friend. The Judge uses bait to cover up a nasty hook. Once you're in with him, he expects complete loyalty. And obedience. Ask Waingrow if you don't believe me."
"What's his story?"
"Used to be run his own unit, freewheeling here and there until the Judge hired him on. Now, he's at the Judge's beck and call. Taking big risks and not getting paid his worth. But like everyone else, he won't say complain. Not where anyone can hear him, anyways. The Judge has a way of finding things out. And making examples."