Red Star Sheriff Read online

  Yet, here were two revolvers that defied everything currently understood about the limits of gravitational utilization. Her father, the late, great Cooper Wilson, much like those magicians of crafty children’s tricks, had performed the greatest magic feat ever: ‘The Incredible Miniaturized Railgun!’. The awesome power to level a small city had just been placed into the palm of her hands. Literally.

  And she was going to use them to avenge his death.

  Over several weeks, she learned the ins and outs of the Irons. Learned how to construct the ammunition via a mold she’d discovered on one of the shelves in the workshop (fortunately not one that had been obliterated in the initial test session). She fixed the workshop during this time, using materials from the blacksmith in town, and worked out a plan of attack against Kern Michaels and his outlaw cohorts. She would start in Chesik Villa, head town to town kicking over every stone, dealing with every thug until she was face to face with Kern himself. She’d stare him in the eyes, make sure he knew who it was that had taken him down.

  WHEN THE TIME had come, Aidele loaded up everything she would need for a prolonged stay out in the wilds onto Mesmerize. She included in her stocks a small little ball about the size of a bouncer sphere. She’d found it in a case in the workshop. Apparently, her father called it a ‘splitter’. The man was full of surprises. Once done packing up her mount, she headed inside to gear up. She slung on a gun-belt she’d specially made for her Irons, fitting the cartridge pouches with spare ammunition and the six cartridges. The shirt she chose was a white button up, her jeans thick and denim blue. She donned her mother’s duster, Grey Lance, and black leather boots.

  She mounted Mesmerize and rode out to the front of the house. Grandfather was on the porch sitting in his rocker staring out over the horizon of the ridge. She slowed and looked at him.

  “I’m going out to find him. However long it takes, I won’t be back until it’s done.”

  Aidele awaited an answer. None was forthcoming. Grandfather raised a cup to his lips and took a sip, his eyes still on the distance.

  “Have it your way then,” She grumbled and kicked Mesmerize into a gallop. There was a sense that Grandfather’s eyes were on her as she headed out for Chesik and her revenge. She put it out of mind and pushed Mesmerize into a run.

  FOR THREE MONTHS, Aidele scoured the countryside riding town to town. Chesik Villa had proven less useful in the long haul, but still gave her the knowledge that saloons were the best places for scuttlebutt. The rumor mill kept her town hopping, the vagaries of outlaws running contraband or raiding farms, to bandits in the hills outside of this town or that, pushed her forward, kept her moving.

  By the fourth town, a little shabby village up past the Spine along a cliff side called Willard’s Peak, a mad fear was starting to take hold. It screamed that she’d never pick up Kern’s trail (even Treyton, the first stop from Chesik, told her nothing of the Michaels gang, with no one willing to say more than, ‘Ah never heard o’im’).

  However, it was in Willard’s Peak that she ran across a helpful, smiling (and not the least bit intimidatingly creepy) barkeep who was more than willing to offer up some advice. He glared down at her, his eyes never turning away, his face never letting his smile drop, the glass in his hand ceaselessly polished.

  “I must say, young lady, nobody is going to talk to you, not the way you’re going at it.”

  Aidele shifted her gaze up at him and gripped her glass of bourbon a little bit harder. “What makes you say that, tender?”

  “This town is rather remote. Sure, you have your out-of-towners every now and again, but if you don’t talk the talk, they’ll be more likely to put you six-feet under rather than give you the time of day. Certainly, they’re not going to be willing to discuss the doings of one outlaw there’s a good chance they’ll run across. Regardless of the sob story you might give for avenging a family member.”

  Aidele frowned at the tall, bespectacled man. He looked far more like an accountant, with his black vest and pants, and white undershirt, than he did a bartender. He was sociable enough, she figured, but there was an underlying menace to him she just couldn’t put her finger on. He was too polite. Too focused. Knew too much. She’d thought her conversations with the locals quiet. But, apparently, he’d gotten word nonetheless. The man put down the glass and leaned his hands on the countertop and hovered over her like they were thick as thieves.

  “I suppose you have some advice in that matter, do you?”

  “I might at that. Big city girls stick out like a sore thumb—”

  “I’m not from the ‘big city’.”

  He chuckled. “Wherever you’re from, you’re not local. And you act like you don’t belong. You want to get them talking, you’re going to have to talk the talk, walk the walk. You have to become one of them. When you walk down the street, they have to believe you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

  As he stood to his full six-foot three-inch height, he pushed up the rim of his glasses and crossed his arms. She sat back, craning her neck up at him.

  “You don’t exactly sound like a local yourself, sir.”

  The returning chuckle was deep as it reverberated from his chest. “Elliot will do. And, no, I’m not from around here. However, ah’ve been known ta converse in the local mannerisms. When ah hafta, o’course.”

  “So, what are you saying? Just hang out at a table in the back and just listen to how everyone speaks? Then what, feign the dialect?”

  His grin broadened. “It’s a start. But I’d suggest not feigning it. They’ll know. No, you have to be true to the words falling from your gullet, if you catch my drift.”

  Aidele pursed her lips, finished her bourbon, and stood up. Before she could utter another word, he spoke again.

  “As far as your ‘problem’ goes, might I suggest making your next destination Oscar’s Lookout down by Greeley? Of course, you might want to get your act together first. The Wastelands are a violent place. Would hate to know I’ve sent you to your death. It would be… unfortunate.”

  A disconcerted tension clawed up her body and she wanted nothing more than to be done with the grinning barkeep as soon as humanly possible. She reached up to tip her hat and nodded.

  “Thank you again, …Elliot.”

  She tried not to look like she was beating a hasty retreat. The smile said, ‘look at me, I’m friendly!’ But the tone of his words and his looming presence told her a different story.

  Come on, Aidele. If the barkeep is going to creep you out, why are you doing this? There’re going to be more threats coming and you better get used to being challenged.

  Even though ‘Elliot’ was unconventional, she took his advice to heart and spent the next several weeks just listening to folks and speaking to the occasional gambler and saloon patron. The urgency to accomplish her task was constant, but she knew she had to get the information. And to do that, she had to be patient.

  Her first few attempts at speaking local dialects were not pretty. In fact, if she was being honest with herself, it’d been downright ugly.

  “Howdy there, parderner,” she’d drawled.

  The man seated across from her, a poker player, paused in mid shuffle. She’d acquired a deck of cards from this town’s barkeep and sat herself down at a big round table. After simply shuffling for a bit, this man, a James Whitman, had asked if he could join her for a hand or two. She’d smiled and eagerly agreed, and pushed the deck his way. Now, mere moments later, he was staring at her, mouth agape, trying to force down the incredulous smile boiling to the surface.

  “Ah’m sorry, where’re ya from, missy?” James inquired, hands gripping the cards back into a straight pile.

  She smiled. “Oh, just out from ‘round dese parts. Gots a nice litta ferm out in de plains.”

  He laughed and started to raise up. “Y’know what, ah jus’ ‘membered ah gotta fetch some wheat from the general. Wife will be real sore if’n ah fergit that.”

  He’d left
then with a wave and Aidele felt her face flush. Several further tries went much the same way. Mostly because it was less about the words themselves than it was the inflection used. If she were to write down what she heard, it’d look ridiculous. If she wrote down, ‘This here’s what all the fuss is about’, she’d inevitably say it with some over the top twangy attempt that sounded much like, ‘Dis hars wut t’all da fusses ‘bout.’ It took three more weeks to get to a point where she was reasonably capable of fitting in with the local populaces. She was even beginning to dream in the inflections. It wasn’t until halfway through the week after, her efforts began to pay off.

  She was sitting in the back of a saloon having greeted one of the locals and invited him for a drink. He was nervous. Even more so when she asked him about Kern Michaels. Though he’d been quiet throughout the conversation, he completely lost his voice with her query. His eyes shifted in quick darts.

  “Ah know yer scared,” she drawled, reaching out to steady his hand with her own. “An’ ah know you don’ want to get involved. However, ah hafta find this man.”

  His leg started bouncing and he looked past her shoulder. Aidele let go of his hand and casually turned to look back. Two men were carrying on and laughing, harassing the hostess who was trying to make a retreat but kept getting stopped by a wandering hand grabbing her buttocks.

  Aidele twisted back in the chair, but the man was gone. To wherever she could only guess, but his reaction suggested those men were somehow involved with Kern Michaels. So, she took the seat on the opposite side of the table where her guest had sat and watched, waiting to see what they’d do. She was on her third bourbon when they stood and exited through the half-doors out the front, laughing and stumbling.

  Aidele took in a deep breath, found her resolve, and stood. Exhaling sharply, she followed the men outside. They were already rounding the corner of the building and into an alley as she hit the outer deck. She hurried off onto the dirty, dusty side street and stopped. They were steadily swaying down the way, singing a loud melody and trying to avoid the support columns of an overhanging balcony to the building opposite the saloon.

  “Hey!” she called, adopting a gunslinger’s stance, her hands on the grips of her Irons.

  The men were lightning fast. In the time it took her to swallow, they’d both pulled their good hand pistols, turned and taken aim, their reactions those of the stone cold sober. They were less than a dozen feet from her.

  The one to her left, Thug One, was the taller, maybe six-feet with blond hair and a freshly grown beard covering his sharp, angular jaw. He wore a tan jacket, blue jeans, and dark blue shirt. But filthy from whatever it was he’d been rolling around in.

  To her right, Thug Two. He was several inches shorter than Thug One, with wavy brown hair and cleanshaven features. His rounded jaw was clenched, pistol held out in his right hand, parallel with his buddy’s lefthanded grip. He wore a blue suede jacket and black jeans. A scent of manure wafted through the air and Aidele got the sense these two hadn’t bathed in a long while.

  “Where’s Kern Michaels?”

  Smirks gathered on their visages, which turned into chuckles, and then outright laughter. Thug One dropped his revolver back into its holster while Thug Two, still dangling his weapon, draped his gun arm over Thug One’s left shoulder and drunkenly guffawed into it.

  “Rhett! Rhett! She’s, she’s playing cowboy!”

  “She shore is!” Thug One, aka Rhett, laughed. “That’s good fer one walkaway, missy! Kern’s got hisself ‘nuff fillies right now! Why dontcha run ‘long’n play at home now, fer ya git hurt!”

  Both men turned and started back down the alleyway, stumbling around the support beams of the overhead deck and around a stack of crates and a water trough. Both still laughed boisterously. Aidele’s heart raced as she found herself hurrying after them. She grabbed Thug Two’s wrist.

  “Ah want to know where Kern Michaels is, now!” she howled.

  The men turned on her, menacing eyes glaring down, hands hovering over their death dealers ready to draw. A tremor came up her gut and she forced it back down returning their fierce gazes with one of her own.

  Through gritted teeth, a growl came up Thug Two’s corded neck. “Girl, you’d best run ‘long now. We won’ be tellin’ ya again.”

  For a moment, a paralyzing fear gripped her. Then something deeper within her surfaced causing her to drive her knee into his crotch. Thug Two doubled over with a screaming rage as Rhett yelled and grabbed her by the left wrist. Aidele spun into him and found herself being flipped over the stack of crates.

  Several things happened all at once. Keeping hold of Rhett’s sleeve, she pulled him after her, obscenities hurling with abandon. She managed to pull her right Iron, thumbing the disc to around setting three, aimed at a crate in the general direction of Thug Two, and fired. The blast tore through the crates as big and ugly was pulling his piece, and straight through his calf shredding his lower leg. The tail end of the shot splintered a large portion of the building exterior across the alley. Raging howls of excruciating pain escaped Thug Two’s mouth as he collapsed to the ground gripping his thigh.

  Aidele hit the ground and Rhett quickly lunged after her, “You little whore!” Rhett spat pinning her arms behind her back and lifting her off her feet. “On second thought, ah bet Kern could use a new girl! After ah git done with you first, that is!”

  He lifted again and she grunted tossing her legs out to find purchase on one of the support columns. She thrust backwards causing them both to careen into a building wall. His grip loosened allowing her to drop back to the ground. Before he could reassert that clutching grasp, she thrust up ramming her head into his face. He let go completely, stumbling back and reaching up to his now gushing nose.

  “You broke my nose, you whore!”

  She pulled her left Iron and fired at him. The energy unleashed from the loaded blanks flung Rhett back into the wall, eyes wide. A loud and sickening crack echoed outward and he went motionless as he slid down into a slump. Aidele gathered her wits, holstered her left Iron and picked up her right where it lay on the ground. Then staggered over to where Thug Two lay rolling and screaming in the dirt. Standing over him, she held her revolver to his growling face.

  “Now you tell me, where’s Kern Michaels!?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Spittle flew from his mouth as she brought her boot down on what was left of his calf hanging loosely by a coil of tendon and bloody meat, bone splintered and exposed. The sound that came from him was akin to the raging wails of a banshee and she wanted to vomit. That he was still conscious was testament to his fortitude. And a reminder of how dangerous he and his brothers all were. Right this moment, she wished to be anywhere than there. But she pushed through her nausea and allowed rage to take over.

  “Where’s Kern Michaels!?” Her howl competed with his pain.

  “Easton! Ya fuckin’ cunt! Easton! EASTON!” Bloody spittle flew into her face. “But believe you me, when he hears ‘bout what ya did here, ya won’ need ta go lookin’ fer him cuz he’ll be comin’ fer you!”

  She held the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger. His skull erupted into bits of bone and brain, covering her head and upper torso and spreading out into the dirt in sinuous mounds. Aidele stumbled backwards into the wall, slumping to the ground, Iron dangling from her hand. Her eyes were fixated on the dead man and she felt both a rush of adrenaline and a tremoring fear.

  A woman’s wail pulled her from her revelry and she turned her head right. A crowd had gathered at the end of the alley. Some were staring at the hole she’d made to the building beyond, others at her and pointing.

  “Oh my god! Call the sheriff! She’s murdered them!”

  Aidele leapt to her feet and saw that at some point her hat had flown off. She grabbed it and raced down the alley away from them. Bells rang, voices screamed, and she didn’t stop to see if anyone were giving chase. She doubled back to the other side of the saloon, saw that ever
yone in town was down that alleyway and not looking in her direction. She untied Mesmerize and beat a hasty retreat out of town.

  CAMPFIRE LIGHT BOUNCED in a wide circle bathing Aidele underneath a warm glow. Her knees were drawn to her chest as she stared deep into the flickering flames. Nearby, Mesmerize grazed with little snorts. His reins were tied to a thick tree, one of many that made up this small glen. The stars twinkled brightly far above. Crickets chirped loudly. A subtle wind blew through the leaves on the trees. At her feet, a stream of ants was up to some late-night foraging. The whole world at peace. Except it wasn’t.

  Visions of viscera danced in her head. She found herself suddenly sick and leapt up to race towards some brush where she promptly lost everything she’d eaten that day. For a long while she remained prostrate, heaving and sobbing, her eyesight blurred by tears.

  I killed him… murdered him… The vivid sight of the man wailing, his blood, bone, and spit, taunting her with its rawness. And probably his buddy, too. What the fuck did I do? Is this… what it’s going to be like?

  She rubbed her face and leaned back to stare off into some unseen distance. They’d ridden for hours until she was certain no lawmen were on her trail. It all made her feel like a criminal. And maybe she was now, she reflected sourly. However, those men were murderers and rapists. Outlaws in the employ of one Kern Michaels. And if the law wasn’t willing to deal with them, was it so bad if a local dealt with the son-of-a-bitch?

  Does that mean they won’t come after me? If they’re willing to let a fucker like him run roughshod…

  Aidele looked over to Mesmerize. “We have a choice, don’t we, ole boy? Go back home crying to Grandfather that he was right. Like always. Or continue on with this horrible, wretched task because no one else will.”