Rawhide Chronicles: Showdown in Cearn

Cearn

         As the noon sun burned over the small, dusty township of Cearn, Ben Vera wiped his brow and kept watch.
         It was unusually hot. Even though Cearn was in the middle of the Secopasian desert, the temperature rarely rose above 97. Today, it was already at 115 and climbing. Just another day of the interminable heat wave.
         As Ben reached for his canteen, he saw a rider in the distance through the heat waves rising from the ground. He paused, took a drink from the canteen, and set it back down. He took off his black hat and fanned himself with it. When it became clear the approaching rider was the one he was waiting for, he nodded to himself, put the hat back on, and clanked downstairs.
         The approaching rider was wearing a brown soft-leather hat, wrapped around with a lighter-brown strip of antelope leather. The vest, the same brown as the hat, was desert-worn and dusty. The pants were dusty blue. Most distinctive were the rider’s hair, a bright crimson red, and the cloakish Secopasian drape around the rider’s shoulders.
         Ben tipped his hat as the rider neared him.
         “Cáit.”
         The rider dismounted.
         “How many timed have I told you not to tip your hat at me, Benny?”
         Ben shrugged. “Sorry, Cáit. Force o’ habit.”
         She shook her head and let out and exasperated sigh.
         “Is everything ready?”
         Ben nodded.
         “Your friend Walt has Alcade Lemmon chasing his tail through the desert. Dean is making sure that nobody gets wind.”
         Cáit nodded. “And Cliff?”
         Ben nodded to a building across and a little down the way, where Cáit’s gaze already rested.
         “Piebald’s at the saloon.”
         Cáit continued looking to the batwing doors.
         “Do you have your position?”
         He nodded. “I’ll be covering’ your back.”
         “Good. But that better not be all you’re covering.”
         He laughed. She silenced him by pointing an ivory index finger at him.
         “Remember, Benny, it’s not just Cliff I’m worried about.”
         “Gotcha. His cronies’ll be in my sights too.”
         Cáit turned back to the saloon. She sighed, and her face tensed. She glanced around the streets, still planning. It was obvious when Cáit was planning – her green eyes seemed to take on a life of their own, flitting back and forth as they took in the area, brightening as she thought.
         “Tie Coalfoot up, and be sure he’s got plenty of oats. I’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”
         She took off her drape as he nodded, and handed it to him.
         “And don’t mess up. I’m being paid good money for this.”
         “O’ course, Cáit.”
         She began walking to the saloon, her crimson hair flaring in the sunlight as she left the shadow of the inn.
         Ben walked Coalfoot back to the stables, then clanked back upstairs to collect his rifle.

         Cáit’s eyes kept taking in the area as she approached the saloon’s batwing doors. She saw her face on a wanted poster by the door, and she took this in too, without a second thought. As she pushed in the doors and walked in, she subconsciously counted the people in the saloon, and recorded their positions. She noted the barkeep going into a back room as she walked in.
         She found her quarry sitting at the bar – a medium-sized man with a distinctly Piebald beard. He had a drink in his hand and a frown on his face. As Cáit pushed her way through the thick air to him, her eyes focused, and she smiled. She had her plan.

*

         Cliff was having a bad day. No, it was more of a bad week. Or life. Everything miserable in life always happened to him. First, this damned heat wave made it nearly impossible to do any business in his other towns. Then, Alcade Lemmon got information from someone that Cliff was running the fixed gambling circuit in town. If it wasn’t for that runaway Ranger, Lemmon would be in town, and Cliff would already be caught. He took another drink. Better to drown out those thoughts than worry about it now. His cronies were playing a hand of cards, unfixed. Buffoons. They’d be caught if he was – he wasn’t going down alone.
         He was absorbed in his drink and down when he noticed a woman walking through the saloon. Her face seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. His hazed mind seemed to realize there were better things to look at than her face, and he stared at her.

         Cáit saw Piebald’s stare. She was used to it – in most places, she couldn’t go two steps without a pair of eyes glued to her. When he noticed her looking at him, he drunkenly turned back to the bar counter. Cáit smirked – she knew how to handle this.
         She sat down at a barstool next to him. Mustering her sultriest voice, she turned towards him and spoke.
         “Hello there, sir.”
         His ears pricked up. He swung around on his stool, his eyes coming to rest on her.
         “Hello there, bright-eyes,” he said, eyeing her. “What can I do ya for?”
         She lifted an eyebrow as he took a swig out of his glass, then pulled herself closer to him.
         “I’d say about fifty dollars,” she whispered.
         The man choked on his whiskey and coughed. He regained his composure after a moment, and looked her in the eye.
         “Are you bluffing, strawberry, or is that for real play?”
         She smiled.
         “Sir, you just picked up a royal flush.”
         He cracked a revolting smile and began chuckling with a wheeze.
         “Look here, boys!” he cried, turning his head slightly towards a group at a table a few paces away. “We got ourselves a gen-yoo-ine dove!”
         Cáit’s eyes flickered to the sniggering group of miscreants for a moment. She smiled a thick smile and turned back to Cliff.
         “You’re more right than you know,” she said, running her hand down her hip and thigh. Cliff watched her hand on its journey, missing the other hand as it grabbed the pistol in Cáit’s pocket.
         Cliff stared at her for a moment, then glanced around the room.
         “Let’s say you and me go to my room at the inn.”
         “Let’s.” She reached over and grabbed Cliff’s glass of whiskey. As she did so, her vest moved enough to hint at what lay hidden beneath it. Cliff’s eyes widened, and she emptied his glass. She put the glass down and leaned back again. Cliff frowned and looked back to her face.
         “First,” she said, “We must talk payment.”
         Cliff squinted at her.
         “We agreed to fifty.”
         Cáit snorted.
         “We did sir, but you have yet to hand over the money. I want it before.”
         “You’ll get paid afterwards,” he replied, glancing around again.
         Cáit shook her head. “No pay, no pleasure. It’s a matter of security, you see?”
         The man growled, but nodded. “Alright,” he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a bill, “But this’d better be worth it. That’s a whole week’s pay, that.”
         Liar! Cáit thought, but she took the bill and smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. I always make things exciting.”
         “Come on. Let’s go.”
         They both stood, Cáit keeping a grip on her revolver while stepping in closer to Cliff. He tried to touch her, but she smacked him away. “Not yet, now.”
         One of Cliff’s cronies piped up as they walked out the door.
         “Careful, Skunk-face! You never know what them doves are carryin’!”
         Cáit smiled and tightened the grip on her pistol.
*
         Ben watched from his rooftop as Cáit and Piebald walked out of the saloon. He readied his rifle and pointed it towards the saloon door. When they were halfway between the inn and the saloon, Cáit suddenly stopped, pushed Piebald away from her, and drew her pistol.

         Cliff stopped in his tracks at the sight of Cáit’s gun. His eyes stared at barrel unbelievingly.
         “Now, Cliff, you’d best be putting your hands up. Slowly.”
         Cliff started to raise his hands, but his left one shot down to his belt. Cáit cocked her weapon in warning and he stopped, thrusting the arm into the air.
         Cáit raised her own left hand, showing Cliff his own pistol, hanging from the end of her hand.
         “What? How?” He looked at the weapon in confusion, and a sudden recognition dawned in his eyes.
         There it is, Cáit thought.
         “You’re no dove,” he growled. “You’re a pigeon!”
         Cáit tilted her head as if he’d named her, and smiled. “Shut up, Piebald.”
         He did.
         Cáit pocketed his weapon and gave the man her cold, green stare.
         “Now, I’m being paid good money to get rid of you, Cliff, but I’ll tell you what. There is one thing I do want more than money – Information. If you give me the answers I’m looking for, I might let you live.”
         “Anything!” Cliff begged. “I’ll tell you anything! Do want to know the winning horse in the Montain race tomorrow? I’ll tell you what the winning roll of hazard’ll be toni-”
         Cáit stepped towards him and struck him in the face with the butt of her pistol.
         “I told you to be quiet! I haven’t even asked a question yet, parrot!”
         Cáit frowned at the trembling man at her feet. He was deeper in than her employer had told her. It made her wonder what his real reason was for getting rid of Cliff. The lowlife was probably on a power trip. She shook her head. Money was food, after all.
         “Now, get up! Upon your knees!”
         Cliff slowly drew himself to a kneel, putting one hand back in the air, the other still clutching his face.
         “Good. Now, I’m only going to ask about this once, got it?”
         Cliff nodded.
         Cáit reached into a back pocket and drew out an old, bent notepad, flipping to a certain page.
         “There’s a man who’s been around these parts, who wears an old-styled cloak. Do you know him?”
         She thrust a drawing into Cliff’s face, and he glanced at the fading page with panicked eyes.
         “What? What do you mean?”
         Cáit moved the picture and thrust her revolver in to replace it.
         Cliff stuttered for a few moments before speaking.
         “Y-Yes! Yes! I know him.”
         Cáit smiled, lowering her gun and putting her left hand on her hip.
         “Good. What’s his name?”
         “I-I don’t really know.”
         Cáit moved her gun back towards him.
         “I don’t remember! I just remember that is started with a W!” he cried.
         There was a scraping of chairs in the saloon as Cliff’s cry echoed. His cronies weren’t entirely oblivious.
         Cáit signaled Benny with a nod of her head, but kept her focus on Cliff.
         “Thank you, Piebald, but that ain’t good enough.”
         She pointed her pistol straight at his face and smiled at his panic.
         “What? What did I do? I’m innocent, I swear! Innocent!”
         He glanced at her face, and stopped begging when he saw her merciless gaze. He looked to the barrel of the gun, his face draining of color.
         “BANG!”
         Cliff jumped and put his hands over his head, sprawled on the ground. Cáit laughed.
         “You’re awfully afraid of dying for someone who’s innocent, Piebald! Are you worried about what you’ll find Afterwards?”
         The doors of the saloon flew open. A rifle cocked over head. Cliff’s gang stopped in the doorway, halfway in the act of drawing their weapons.
         “You don’t want to be doing that, boys,” Ben shouted. “Put your hands in the air and your backs to the wall!”
         They did, slowly. It was obvious to Cáit they’d been held up before. Untrained buffoons. She turned her attention back to Cliff.
         “Stand up.”
         He stared at her and slowly rose, both dusty hands in the air.
         “Where did this ‘W-Man’ go, Cliff?”
         His face creased in panic.
         “I don’t know!”
         Cáit squinted and pursed her lips.
         “I don’t know, I swear! He just went that-a-way!”
         He pointed northwest, towards the Teardrop Mountains.
         Cáit smiled.
         “Well, thank you Cliff. You’ve been mighty helpful. Now I’m finished with you.”
She wrinkled her nose.
         “I really don’t want to kill you, Piebald. It’d be a sad waste of a bullet. But I’m being paid to get rid of you. Tell you what – I’ll give you ten seconds to get out of town.”
         He looked at her in fear.
         “If you make it, you get to live, but you’ll never come back to Cearn. If you don’t make it, well, then you won’t have to worry about it.” She paused. “Deal?”
         Cliff glanced towards the edge of town.
         “Look, I’ll even holster my revolver if you want! Deal?”
         Cliff licked his lips and glanced back at the edge if town. “Deal,” he gasped.
         “On the count of three.”
         Cliff nodded and turned to the eastern edge of town, ready to run.
         “Three!”
         Cliff paused in uncertainty, then dashed for the desert.
         Cáit counted upwards to ten. Each second, Cliff tried and tried to make himself go faster. By nine, he was running as if being pushed by a cyclone.
         “Ten!”
         Cáit rapidly drew her revolver, firing a shot before the echo of ‘ten!’ had died. But Cliff was already down. She walked quickly over to him, keeping her revolver ready. She put it away when she saw it was no longer needed.
         Cliff’s right foot had stuck in a dog-hole, and his bloodied head lay broken on a random desert rock. Cáit’s bullet had pierced a cactus a few feet from the rock. She growled in irritation. Waste of a good bullet. She crouched to dig it out of the dirt, saw it had mushroomed, and flicked it back to the dust.
         She sighed, then grabbed Cliff’s body by the feet and started dragging it toward the inn. Cáit was strong, but not nearly strong enough for Cliff’s bulk.
         “Come on, Dean!” she shouted. “Help me get this out of here before the ants get it!”
         One of Piebald’s cronies in front of the saloon cried out in surprise.
         “You, Dean?” another of the cronies snarled, “You betrayed us?”
         He drew his pistol, more slowly than Cáit had, but quickly enough. As he fired a shot, Benny’s rifle jammed. He cursed and opened it to clear it out. The crony got off a shot, and Dean fell with a hole in his chest. The offending crony fell a second later as Benny fired his rifle.
         “Damn it, Benny!” Cáit roared. “You just lost me my pay!”
         Another of the cronies fell to his knees and knelt over the fallen Dean. Ben kept his rifle on the rest of them as he reloaded. He looked at the tallest over the barrel.
         “Go on!” he shouted. “Get out of here! All of ya!”
         The one kneeling over Dean, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, looked at Dean’s dead face, then at Cáit. He dashed after the others who were already fleeing.
         Cáit watched him flee in sadness, then returned to the task of dragging Cliff’s corpse. It took a while, but eventually she got it to the inn. She leaned it against the wall, then walked over to Dean’s body.
         “Get down here, Benny. Put him next to Cliff.”