Westward Bound: Finale

My old town would have done the execution in public, most likely at the water tower, using it as a platform. They do things differently in the big city. I could see the scaffold over the walls, but I had to strain to hear the voices over the din of urban life. 
The buggies that droned by weren't as bad as a youth that rode up on a gas powered bike. He pulled up to the sidewalk, lifting his goggles up to his cap, and brushed off his riding breeches with a gauntleted hand. A funny getup, even for a city boy. 
As I sipped at my coffee, I looked across the room at the lady in the faded blue dress. There was a rough quality to her beauty, made all the more striking by the look in her eyes as she gazed intently out the window. I was just there reading the paper, looking up jobs in the area. Her hand sometimes strayed to stroke the rifle bag resting against her chair. I looked back to the classifieds when her eyes drifted my way, but I could still see her hand return to her tea cup out of the corner of my eye. 
I wasn't keeping an eye on her. A grown woman can make her own choices, vengeance included, and she didn't need no babysitter. I had troubles of my own, like a hotel bill that's starting to eat away at that reward money. Still, my conscience would rest easier with those robbers hung and her going back east, or wherever she came from. 
Another buggy came up and stopped against the wall across the street. Her brown eyes flashed my way and we traded a look as two men jumped out, one running and another fiddling in the back before racing after him. I was looking back at her when thunder rent the shop window, sending glass and splinters into the side of my face. The table absorbed the worst of it, and the lady had fallen back in her chair, staring stunned across the street. 
The buggy was gone, in it's place a molten heap and a hole in the wall large enough for an elephant to pass through. Shots rang out, and a second and third vehicle came up as the gang passed through the wall and hopped in, leaving the carnage behind. 
I got up first, lifting her to her feet. As soon as she was squared, she reached down to her bag, pulling out her rifle and dashed for the street. I could see her take aim, and followed her out only to hear her feral scream as they turned a corner and out of sight. I turned around, looking for a horse, but instead saw the kid's bike. 
Thinking back to the few I've seen in town, I flipped the switch, kicked the starter, and opened the throttle. It jumped before I could squeeze the brake, and that got her attention. She jumped behind me on the seat, and we set off after them faster than the kid in the goggles could run after us. 
We must have made a ridiculous sight on that thing, and our posture was anything but proper as she pressed herself tightly against me, her rifle slung along her back. Niceties were a secondary concern as we rounded the corner and caught up to them a few blocks down. She loosed an arm from around my middle, and I could hear her work the lever action on her rifle one handed. I kept it steady as she braced it against the handlebars and pulled the trigger. 
The rear buggy swerved as a tire blew out, having it crash against another parked against the curb. I kept going. The police were coming up quickly, and the one she wanted was riding in the lead. 
It rushed past the other vehicles on the road, and I had to keep a tight grip to steer through the resulting commotion. Finally, after a clear stretch, I got into position and she took her aim at a rear tire. I saw a face turn around, and I swerved throwing off her shot as I dodged one from the robber. 
I tried to regain a position behind, but had to swerve a few more times to dodge. As he stopped to reload, I got back into place. Instead of resting the rifle atop the handlebars as before, I felt her other arm release me. I fought the temptation to turn around. I could still feel her behind me on the bike, and see the rifle barrel swaying past the brim of my hat. Looking ahead, I saw him peek back up, and the silvery glint of his six shooter.
With the crack of the rifle, I felt her fall down into the seat, her arm grasping me desperately as she fought to hang on. Up ahead, the gang leader had disappeared, and the buggy swerved sharply to the side and through a store window. I slowed, stopping at the store front. She jumped off, and I followed, drawing the Bowie knife from my belt. 
Her rifle was up, and I saw the merchant running after a man out the back, possibly the driver. I looked back, about to tell her, but she had set the rifle aside, looking into the back seat of the buggy. 
A neat hole was in the center of his forehead. She stared at the lifeless eyes for another minute, and I made a move toward her, sheathing my blade. That was when she flipped the rifle around, grasping the barrel like a club and swung with a scream more akin to a roar. I have little doubt she would have caved his skull completely if she connected. Instead, I absorbed the blow with an arm under her shoulders, pulling her away. 
Her weapon clattered on the ground, and she started shivering. My other arm went around her on it's own accord, and she clung to me tightly as she drew in a ragged breath. 
"It's over," I told her. She cried into my shoulder. And as the local constabulary came up that was all I could think of to say. "It's over."

Once again, I found myself at the train station. I ended up a hotel detective once more, but found myself doing odd jobs now and again. I reread the note, seeing the name of the music teacher I was supposed to pick up. Ms. Findlay. A fine name, for a dowdy old spinster. 
I felt my eyes flicker when they caught a glimpse of a faded blue dress. She met my gaze and walked over to me, and I doffed my hat as she neared. 
"Are you following me?" She asked in an even tone. I replied likewise.
"Just making a pickup. I hope you aren't going to be picking any more fights." 
She laughed, shaking her head. Then she lowered it, along with her eyes.
"There's nothing to fight for anymore. Not anymore. I don't even know where I'll go." she said softly. 
"You'll find your way." I told her, failing to hide the rueful smile on my lips. 
She didn't bother hiding hers as she held her gloved hand out to me. I took her fingers in mine, and thinking back to a European gent that still owes me a fiver, placed a respectful kiss on her knuckles. 
"Good luck." I said, meaning it sincerely. 
Her smile faltered a moment, and I thought I saw a glimmer of a tear in her eye as she turned and boarded the train. Must have been the sun. 
As the locomotive steamed out of the station, I followed it with my eyes until it faded from view. I didn't have much longer to wait for the next train to arrive, and raised the placard the hotel clerk had given me with Miss Findlay's name on it. 
As the passengers stepped off of the train, I scanned the faces, wondering which frail bag of old bones was the one I was looking for. 
"Excuse me?" 
Just two words, yet the one that came to my mind was melodic. As my eyes met hers, I found myself looking at the sky once more, and judging by how her face lit up, it seems she remembered me. Her lips formed a small O for a moment, then she smiled, it's brightness a stark contrast to the black dress she wore. 
"Ms. Findlay?" I asked, not quite believing it. It was the girl from the train robbery. 
"Yes, sir. Moira Findlay. I assume you were sent from the school to fetch me."
I nodded. Then gave her a short bow, and lifted her bag. 
"Right this way, Ms. Findlay. Your carriage awaits."

I was still figuring what I should say next when I felt myself pulled away and into the blinding light of the sun pouring through my window. 

Midnight Blues

Sleep evades me, especially when I am exhausted. Unused to rising before the dawn, yet when the time comes for rest my mind refuses to idle. Costume ideas, storylines, a potential birthday getaway to San Diego or San Francisco, even designs for a PVC pipe rifle stock for my camera stir within me. I keep vigil, using my prayers as a mantra to calm my thoughts until I drift into darkness. 
There's a coolness to the wind, and I find myself breathing more freely as the salty air fills my nostrils. I see a few faint stars through the clouds, which were themselves illuminated by the full moon. I move on, my boots falling heavily upon the planks of the pier, a dull thud with each step. Nice night for a song, but the blues bar at the far end of the pier was nearly drowned out by the waves. 
Fishermen were idling along the rail, lines swaying with the tide. One man was showing his son one of the gigantic crabs that sometimes come up with the moon. I chuckled at the sight of the kid poking a curious finger at it and jerking it back at the slightest twitch of a claw. With the size of that crab, I nearly wished for a crowbar. 
I turned the collar up on my coat as I passed a couple cuddling while they gazed at the waves. Not a sight I needed right now, especially as the breeze had tickled the hairs on the back of my neck. Just like she used to. As much as I wished to do something with it, I should probably just get a haircut. Or maybe invest in a new hat. 
As I walked along, I threw a few coins into an open instrument case and Satchmo blew a tune on his horn in appreciation. I lifted my fist, flicking up a thumb. I may be listening to a lot of Bond lately, but this will always remain true: Brass kicks ass. 
The smell of orange chicken, fried rice, and roast duck drew me over to a Chinese food stand. I may not be Catholic, strictly speaking, but I keep some practices out of respect. Like giving up Panda Express for Lent. I patted my wallet through my pocket, but kept on walking. Until I caught the eye of the girl at the Hot Dog On A Stick stand. Never hurts to smile at a pretty girl, but again, not what I needed tonight. I moved along. 
I continued until I reached the end of the pier, but the Blues bar had fallen silent. Satchmo kept playing, his horn crooning at me from where I left him. With nowhere else to go, I leaned against the railing, watching the waves, and a sea lion lounging out on a buoy. What was I looking for? And as I rubbed a hand against the stubble on my face, I wondered, why the hell am I wearing a pea coat? I hate pea coats. 

I opened my eyes and reached over for my iPod. I was out for half an hour. 

Meh. It's not like I need to get up early anyways... 

The Girl

Sleep evades me. As I lie here in the darkness, my mind whirs at a mile a second. This happens sometimes, all my thoughts, plans, ideas, a tempest I sometimes lose myself in. It takes awhile to find the center, so I keep vigil and pray as I await the eye of the storm. 
My eyes close for just a moment. I see her, perched atop a brick wall outside the school in a green shirt dress with black tights and tan lace-up boots that came to her knees. Her sword was sheathed, and gripped tightly in a gloved hand as she looked on towards the parking lot. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, save for her bangs, which she brushed out of her eyes with her free hand. 
Then she ran. The start was so sudden, She was halfway along the wall before I realized, and I bolted after her. As she came to the end she leaped off, slinging her sword scabbard over a shoulder, and landed without breaking her stride. As I caught up to her, the flash of a memory blinded me, and I was jolted awake. 
I reached over for my iPod and squinted against the sudden brightness as I checked the time. It was four in the morning. Technically Three. Damn farmers. The dream was still vivid in my mind. I didn't consider Becca having ninja moves, even though she's skilled with the jian. Then again, her stride was much like Ezio from Assassin's Creed II, so there's that mystery solved. 
The memory was still flashing through my mind, like the shadows of a firework when you close your eyes. She was the first. I can still see that blonde ponytail swaying along with her hips as she glided along the sidewalk. And the spark of mischief in her green eyes when she turned around on her rollerblades and smiled at me. 
That was well over a decade ago. A strange remembrance to have, but then chasing after Becca would have brought that up, I suppose.  The girl in my memories moved away soon after that summer. The one in my musings still has her story to share. Mayhaps she is the inheritor of her smile, and the possibilities therein. Time will tell. 
I still have an hour and a half before I must arise. I'll try to ask her before then. 

Shinobi

The humidity is a killer. Heat, I can deal with, but the feel of sweat pouring off my back doesn't help my focus. The air feels not quite as thick as the jungle, but it takes me a moment to steady my breath.
I should have brought a mat. Lying in wait, I'm used to, but the pebbles against my ribs aren't helping my aim.
I see them emerge from the tree line across the ravine. They take their positions, same as I, and target the rebels coming through the pass. I slow my breath, center the sniper in my scope, adjust for wind.
I'm far enough away that I don't have to worry about the noise giving away my position. Even so, as I move my finger from the trigger guard, I find it strange that I'm using non-lethal tranquilizer rounds. Yet I can't complain about their effectiveness as the sniper falls senseless from my first shot. I work the bolt, target the spotter, but he flees before I can properly sight him. As the rebels move through the ravine unscathed, I pack up and start walking.
As I left the Spanish chattering of the rebel group behind, I come to a drainage tunnel embedded in a hill. It's large enough to walk through, and seems to lead from the Villa, where the rebels are headed. Might be an escape route for The General. He'd probably fetch a nice reward if I could catch him. It feels cooler inside, at any rate.
I walked along until I started to lose sight of the light at the exit. A few more tentative steps into the shadows, and I found an underground concrete bunker. The door was a heavy steel slab, but it slid open easily. There was a short hallway inside, but beyond that came the screams. And the sound of metal slamming against metal.
The arcs of electricity coming off of his body illuminated the room like flashes of lightning. He drove his head into the wall again and again, setting sparks off from the friction between the wall and his helmet. I flicked the switch next to the door way, hitting some floodlights. Aside from a labyrinth of steel girders overhead, the place looked empty. And as he turned towards me, the glowing red eye in his faceplate ablaze, I thought I should have kept it that way.
He charged towards me in rapid steps, but stopped a few feet away. His exoskeleton sent out a few faint arcs, lower in intensity than before, and he clutched his sides, doubled over in pain. Then he seemed to swell before my eyes.
"Fox!"
He didn't respond to his name, continuing to hulk out before me. As his breath grew deeper and more ragged, I knew there wasn't a Gray Fox in there, or Frank Jeager. I doubt he was even the ninja anymore. When he finished growing, this hulk-ninja roared and leaped at me. I jumped back, but he snatched my rifle, snapping it in two between his fingers. I barely ducked in time as he followed through with a swipe of his arm, and as he stumbled from the swing, I jumped into the girders above us.
I couldn't see the top, but I kept climbing, hoping for a way out. A glimmer caught my eye, and I saw the high-frequency blade lying on a girder just out of reach. The whole cage shook, and the sword slid closer to the edge as Frank displayed a new ape-like agility to go along with his new hulked out form. I swung from the girder I was hanging on over to the sword and snatched it before it could fall.
The blade felt alive in my hand, vibrating, pulsing with it's own heartbeat, faster than a humming bird. It even gave off it's own sound as I climbed up, seeing Frank settle onto the girder before me. He charged again, letting out another feral scream. I held the sword up and made a quick thrust.
The tip penetrated the glowing eye, shattering it. As it's light faded, his face plate popped open, revealing his scarred features. His body shrank back to it's normal proportions as he fell into the shadows, and the blade slipped from my grasp to follow. Guess it felt my job was done. I still had a climb.
A few minutes later had me reach a circular hatch in the ceiling. I opened it, and clambered out into the blinding sun.

Frank Jeager. The Cyborg Ninja. I always wanted to do his armor, but I just don't have the right build for it. Of course, now that I'm playing Metal Gear Solid 4, it's odd that this particular ninja should come up, especially when Raiden is the current one. Perhaps my subconscious is telling me to take a break from the video games for awhile.

Westward Bound: Part 2

"Keep scratching, and I won't stitch you up again if they come loose." 
I was bluffing, of course. Not that she'd know. She could stand to see a doc once we reach a town, but for the moment she's conscious, with a hand reaching into her oversized shirt. Her eyes regard me with unveiled suspicion, not that I blame her. Even as I sewed her up, my eyes couldn't help straying from their task somewhat. 
Her eyes looked almost orange as they reflected the flames in front of her. The setting sun had given them a honeyed glow, but that was hours ago. As she took her hand out of her shirt, I noticed her tan. And the faint scar along her ring finger. I pulled another piece of dried meat from my pack to chew on, tossing her the rest. 
"You need to keep your strength up."
She didn't disagree with me, demonstrating a hearty appetite in spite of our meager provisions. I lay back, tucking my satchel behind my head as a makeshift pillow and lowered my hat over my face. 
"Thank you."
The first words she spoke to me since I fell off the train. Not looking up, I gave them a dismissive wave of my hand. It wasn't as though I could have done anything else. 

I lifted the brim of my hat a bit higher, glaring at the vehicle as it blared past me. Those motorized buggies irked me more than anything else, and there were a lot of them in the city. Progress, they called it. Yet they seemed to have forgotten their manners along with it. 
I nodded to the hotel clerk as I entered, taking the stairs up a few floors. When I turned the key to the room, I found a curious sight behind the door. The dress she wore was a deep blue. A bit worn around the hem, and faded all around. Her hair was pinned up under a matching bonnet, and seeing a strip of flesh from above her high collar of her jacket stirred me more than the glimpse I caught under her shirt those weeks before. Then she turned around, taking her eye away from the spyglass I had set up before I wired her. 
"Are you going to change your mind?" I asked her. 
She shook her head, and started to push past me. I grasped her arm, more roughly than I intended, but led her back to the window. Outside and across the street was the jailhouse. And through a barred window, hatless and looking a lot cleaner was the leader of that gang on the train. He peered out into the street a moment and went back to pacing in his cell, like a caged animal. 
I could feel her tense, and stilled her with a finger pressed gently to her lips. Then I pulled a bundle that was leaning against the wall and drew out the rifle. It was a small caliber, the kind that won't make much noise compared to this bustling town. The sound of the shot would be lost in the city, and I had already set the scope earlier in the day. I told her as much, and laid it onto the bed next to us. 
Without another word, I turned and took a few steps towards the door. And waited in the middle of the room. I could see her in a mirror, something she was oblivious to as she lifted the rifle, working the bolt to feed a new round into the chamber. She took her place a few steps back from the window and lifted the weapon, peering through the sight and into the cell across the street. 
By the rise and fall of her shoulders, I could see her breath steady and unconsciously matched my own with hers. I stopped breathing when she did. At the first sob, I exhaled and turned around, placing a hand on her shoulder as she lowered the weapon.  I took it from her, laying it aside as her hands came up to her face, collecting her tears. Her cry carried with it her frustration, despair, and sorrow. A sound that echoed in my bones, and one I won't soon forget. I gave her my handkerchief, glancing at the scar along her finger as she took it. 
"It's enough to see him hang." I told her. I don't know if I believed it myself, but even if she didn't, it's best if it was. 
When she pushed past me and ran through the door, I had some trouble deciding wether or not to follow. By the time I made up my mind, the world went white as the sun came in through my window.

Non Sequitur

"So, I think it would be fun." She told me, tucking an unruly lock behind an ear. Her eyes gazed at me expectantly, and I looked away to the screen in front of her.
"It would be nice to get out and do some hiking," I conceded. "Especially with the ocean right there."
"Great! I'll be right back." she said, sliding down from her seat upon the table. I watched as she slowly made her way to the restroom across the room. The sway of her hips was almost hypnotic, especially with how her dress flared slightly at the bottom. It would have been daringly short if not for the tights she wore underneath, and the black heeled boots she wore just added that much more emphasis to her legs.
A flicker on the screen caught my attention, and her Facebook page popped up on it's own accord. One wall entry caught my notice, though it was dated some months ago. She's single. And apparently, her ex turned out to be gay. She thinks it's because of her, but going by how she looks and her bright personality, I don't see that as even remotely possible. 
"She really likes you. I can tell." 
He was a gangly looking fellow in cargo shorts and a t-shirt. As he came up to me, he made a gesture towards the restroom and gave me a very earnest look. 
"She's been through some rough times, but she's the real thing. She's a good friend too, so don't break her heart. You get me?" 
His tone held more concern for her than any threat or warning towards me. Still, I couldn't believe it. 
"I know it. But she doesn't feel that way about me. I'm just a friend, nothing more." 
"Sure you are. Just take care of her, okay?" And after clapping his hand on my shoulder, he walked off. Just as she had returned. 
I must have given her a funny look as she regained her place on the edge of the table, crossing her legs before me. 
"What?" She asked. I pulled my eyes away from hers, clicking the map open again on her laptop. 
"It's nothing." I replied. Nothing at all. 

Westward Bound

I bit back a cough as the dust caught in my throat. A quick glance around and I spit off to the side. There weren't any ladies present, thankfully, at least until I turned the corner and onto the platform. The assembled travelers were bunched under the awning to take what shade they could find, but the wind still scraped along my face with the heat.
With the sun high overhead, I figured I had time to look around. The station, along with the town, was surrounded by dust and clay, save for the occasional dry patches of grass. While the sun burned down, I felt a throbbing ache along my left arm. I could see the clouds far off on the horizon, dark and menacing, but not quite hiding the plume of steam over the track.
Angling the brim of my hat over my eyes, I felt a hard nub rub against my skull, like a pebble in my hatband. Then the memories started coming back, hazy, fleeting, like a half remembered dream. The flash of fireworks, the glint of a diamond... And a bone handle sticking out of a gunman's chest.
Rubbing my neck revealed that I hadn't come away unscathed. And then things got a little clearer. The reward, splitting the take with the hotel owner, and buying myself a ticket to someplace quieter. I tightened the strap on my satchel as the locomotive steamed into the station. Following the crowd, I flashed my ticket to the conductor and was waved to a passenger car. I took a seat near the back and slouched down, sliding my hat over my face. It wasn't much longer before the train started moving again, and I felt myself start to nod off.
The ache in my side roused me first, the handle of my knife jabbing a rib. I slipped it back around, and sat straighter, taking in the scene. The sun was at that final stretch of sky, beating the train to the coast. It was the chattering that caught my attention, suddenly silenced by the sharp crack of the butt end of a revolver against the doorjamb. The sound was repeated twice more, and a dirty fellow in a black hat stepped into the car, followed by two riflemen. They were wearing masks.
No one put up a fight as a fourth one came up from behind them with a bag. As the other passengers started throwing in their money, jewels and watches, I leaned back and assumed my previous pose, my hat over my face. A small tap with my heel, and I felt my other blade was still sheathed in my boot.
A harsh, muffled voice shouted at me. Not moving a muscle, I feigned sleep until my hat was knocked off my head by a firm slap. My eyes glanced over the interloper, tall, slim, and with the eyes of a scared child. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Taking up my hat, I felt for the diamond, feeling it safe in the band. Once safely back atop my head, I reached for the boy, quick as a snake, and grabbed a fistful of hair, slamming his face into the seat in front of me.
The guns pointed at me were kept silent thanks to the boy in my grasp. He whimpered as a dark stain spread over the bandana covering his face, and I shuffled him into the aisle. I asked nicely. Seemed the least I could do. They declined, pointing out my lack of firepower. That was a point I had to concede.
My foot came up to the kid's backside, and a firm shove had him stumbling over his pals. A hard stomp released the catch in my boot sheathe, sending my knife into the air and in my grasp as I sprang forward, letting my weight disorient most of the gang. Some of the passengers up front took advantage of the commotion to disarm the riflemen. The leader shoved the boy away and ran back through the door before the way could be cleared.
I caught the kid before his head hit the floor, and was frozen as my eyes met another pair. She had blue eyes, light as the afternoon sky with long dark lashes and hair as black as ink. The dress she had on was suitable for a woman in mourning. She looked too young to be a widow. I fought to pry my eyes from her quivering lips, lifting my hat to her and passing the boy to one of the armed passengers to look after.
I ran out the door. A glance showed me he hadn't retreated into the next car, so I crushed my hat, stuffing it into my belt as I grasped a ladder and climbed up to the roof of the car. I was nearly given a lead slug for my efforts. A second shot hit the car behind me, his aim thrown off by the rocking of the train.
I pulled myself up and charged, fighting the wind, the motion of the car, and the urge to leap out of the way of his next shot. It went wild, and I lunged, my knife carving a slit into his hand. He fell back, still grasping his weapon, and I fell onto my face, struggling not to slip over the side. He got up first.
It was taking all I had just to hold on. As his hand came up, I felt certain the next shot would go through my skull. The crack of a rifle was almost lost in the wind, and we both looked off to the side to see a rider in a long duster racing the train on a gray horse. The next shot from the rider missed as well, but it was enough to have my opponent focus on him instead for his next shot.
I brought my legs back up under me and jumped again, tackling the gunman as his shot went off. I saw the rider fall, but felt a stab of panic in my heart as I tumbled off the side of the train. I reached for the edge, missed, and went tumbling along the ground as the cars thundered by.
My fall was softened by the green grass, but I still felt each blow of an errant rock or pebble as my body was battered along the ground. When I came to a stop, I lay still, dazed for some minutes. A sharp breath filled my lungs, and coughs wracked my body until I regained their equilibrium. Getting up slowly, my eyes scanned the area for the gunman. There wasn't a sign of him. Drawing my hat from my belt, I beat it back into shape and slipped it on, looking around some more. There was a figure in a brown duster a few hundred yards off being nudged by a gray horse.
The rider lay still as I approached, obscured by a mass of long brown hair. I saw a red stain spread across his shirt, and I ripped it open to inspect the wound. I found I was mistaken. The rider was a woman. A revelation that stunned me until a surprisingly firm punch from her had me flat on my back again.

I woke up with a bad case of dry mouth. Not a pleasant way to wake up. Recurring dreams are nothing new to me, there are even ones that change over time. This is a rare case where a dream has a sequel. I wonder if there's a market out there for western adventures.