Didn't exactly expect to make this a full story, I actually started this as a joke in class.
Arizona, US, 1870
The desert. Hot dry and completely barren. My favourite hunting ground. Name's John Claude. Profession? Bounty hunter. My target? That Roadrunner.
I was at the local bar in my hometown, celebrating my 35th birthday. Just me and two friends. One's been with me since I was a kid growing up in Virginia. she's gotten me through hard times, good times, and everything in between. Her name's Whiskey. Never had been a day without her. The other is one of those mates that gets you out of sticky situations. Always kept 6 arguments and counterarguments on hand. I kept that one near my heart; a little down and to the left, to be exact. His name's Revolver.
The bartender walked over to me. I've known him for over 20 years, but I kept my hand near Revolver all the same. ?You can't distrust a man enough,? my father used to say. The man tossed a letter to me.
?This here's for you John,? he drawled, ?Some man came by here yesterday, all covered up in his coat and scarves, gave me the heebe jeebes he did. Something just felt off 'bout tim. Seemed important.?
It was addressed to Mr. Claude. Either that someone had a wicked sense of humour, or whatever he wanted, he wanted it bad. No one called me mister. Anyway, the letter talked about some coot named Roadrunner. Damned strange nickname if you ask me. The man offered me three hundred bucks for the job. I thought, what the hell, strange names, new client, but the cash's good. I took a swig. The bite of cheap whiskey down my throat made my decision for me. I'd take it. I looked at the signature. Wile E. Coyote. Damn. Another strange name, or his parents hated him. I'd take even odds on that.
I downed my drink. Thoughts swirled through my head like Indians riding 'round some men and their waggons. Who was this Roadrunner? What'd he done? Where's this man? Questions kept coming at me like the Union bullets at Gettysburg. Another shot of whiskey slowed that down, and the burn felt good.
I looked around and saw the sheriff. Old Man Sheriff. Kept the law, good shot, and dragged me down to the stockade for a few days after a fight more times than I could count. Usually drunk, but some idiots deserved the beat-down I could give when sober. I walked over to him and the ground swayed on me. Maybe I had more than the usual 15 shots, but hey, it was my birthday, and I could hold my drink dammit, and I'd give any man who says otherwise a fist to the face.
He looked up from his drink. ?Hey kid. Happy birthday. Don't wanna carry your drunken ass down to the station for some fisticuffs this time around, alright?.? He looked down, the jaded bastard. He knew me to well.
?Sheriff. Roadrunner. You know him??
He looked up, and mentioned me to move in a little closer. I looked round the bar, someone could've been listening in. Nothing. I sat down and leaned in to listen. ?Roadrunner's a smuggler lord. Runs a whole load of shipments past the guards. Tobacco, alcohol, guns, anything to avoid the tax. I dunno how big he is, but I've heard his operation gets its products all the way overseas. No one's ever seen him. All we know is that he's fast. You know the town near the river??
I nodded, ?Hawkstone or something eh??
He nodded back, ?Yeah, there's a warehouse there. My deputy saw some of his goons going in and out of there, carrying crates. Nothing we can do about it. Check it out and take this guy down. Uncle Sam needs his taxes.? He downed his drink, stood up, and left a coin on the table and left. I stared for a bit at the table, thinking it over. First thing I needed was to sober up. Wish I could work drunk, but after the first time, it just ain't the best thing to do. I paid and left for home.
My dad was French, from Canada, Ma was Virginian. Sweet little story, he fell in love with a country lass studying in the USA. He married her, and I'd been a Virginian country boy. Learned to shoot before I learned to read, which I did at the age of 5. Dad always said I needed to know my words and letters. The civil war broke out when I was 17, and I fought and killed for the Confederate States of America. Never thought I needed to kill a man, but I sure did. Served under Grant, right up 'til we lost the war. Came home and headed out west, to wander, just couldn't take the quiet after hearing cannons and shots for so long. Thought I could lose myself, forget. That didn't happen now, did it? Whiskey helped. I started hunting down bandits and criminals after Old Man Sheriff had me catch a varmint that held up travellers. Highway robbery they called it. I got used to life on the trail, but the hunt was what I lived for. Still, it couldn't last forever. I wasn't twenty-some years old anymore, old age was gonna catch me sooner or later. 20 years later, I did my last job. This one.
The morning had me sober and ready to go. I looked round my house. Actually, calling it a house probably made me a tad soft in the head. The shack was smaller than ship's cabin and dirty, but the days on the trail made it felt like the big, rich homes those fat moneymakers in New York had.
I grabbed my kit. Rifle, revolver, bowie knife and ammo. Course, you don't get far if you don't bring water and food with you out there. I strapped everything on and walked out. Looked back and saw my sabre on the wall. I did light cavalry in the war, and I kept it. Always brought it with me on the hardest jobs, and this one looked like it. Nothing made these felons make a mess of his pants like a man on his sword waving a 3 foot chunk of steel at their face. I grabbed it and checked the edge. Still sharp enough and left.
The trail's nothing but long and boring. Nothing happens; no sound except hooves on the dust, breathing of yourself and your horse. You breathe the dust in, you breathe it out. Nasty place. I never let my guard down though. I'd nearly taken a bullet when I let myself sleep in the saddle afore. Looked round for trouble and found it in the bandits waiting in ambush over the ridge. I had to smile a bit. They'd never gonna see me coming.
To be continued...
Arizona, US, 1870
The desert. Hot dry and completely barren. My favourite hunting ground. Name's John Claude. Profession? Bounty hunter. My target? That Roadrunner.
I was at the local bar in my hometown, celebrating my 35th birthday. Just me and two friends. One's been with me since I was a kid growing up in Virginia. she's gotten me through hard times, good times, and everything in between. Her name's Whiskey. Never had been a day without her. The other is one of those mates that gets you out of sticky situations. Always kept 6 arguments and counterarguments on hand. I kept that one near my heart; a little down and to the left, to be exact. His name's Revolver.
The bartender walked over to me. I've known him for over 20 years, but I kept my hand near Revolver all the same. ?You can't distrust a man enough,? my father used to say. The man tossed a letter to me.
?This here's for you John,? he drawled, ?Some man came by here yesterday, all covered up in his coat and scarves, gave me the heebe jeebes he did. Something just felt off 'bout tim. Seemed important.?
It was addressed to Mr. Claude. Either that someone had a wicked sense of humour, or whatever he wanted, he wanted it bad. No one called me mister. Anyway, the letter talked about some coot named Roadrunner. Damned strange nickname if you ask me. The man offered me three hundred bucks for the job. I thought, what the hell, strange names, new client, but the cash's good. I took a swig. The bite of cheap whiskey down my throat made my decision for me. I'd take it. I looked at the signature. Wile E. Coyote. Damn. Another strange name, or his parents hated him. I'd take even odds on that.
I downed my drink. Thoughts swirled through my head like Indians riding 'round some men and their waggons. Who was this Roadrunner? What'd he done? Where's this man? Questions kept coming at me like the Union bullets at Gettysburg. Another shot of whiskey slowed that down, and the burn felt good.
I looked around and saw the sheriff. Old Man Sheriff. Kept the law, good shot, and dragged me down to the stockade for a few days after a fight more times than I could count. Usually drunk, but some idiots deserved the beat-down I could give when sober. I walked over to him and the ground swayed on me. Maybe I had more than the usual 15 shots, but hey, it was my birthday, and I could hold my drink dammit, and I'd give any man who says otherwise a fist to the face.
He looked up from his drink. ?Hey kid. Happy birthday. Don't wanna carry your drunken ass down to the station for some fisticuffs this time around, alright?.? He looked down, the jaded bastard. He knew me to well.
?Sheriff. Roadrunner. You know him??
He looked up, and mentioned me to move in a little closer. I looked round the bar, someone could've been listening in. Nothing. I sat down and leaned in to listen. ?Roadrunner's a smuggler lord. Runs a whole load of shipments past the guards. Tobacco, alcohol, guns, anything to avoid the tax. I dunno how big he is, but I've heard his operation gets its products all the way overseas. No one's ever seen him. All we know is that he's fast. You know the town near the river??
I nodded, ?Hawkstone or something eh??
He nodded back, ?Yeah, there's a warehouse there. My deputy saw some of his goons going in and out of there, carrying crates. Nothing we can do about it. Check it out and take this guy down. Uncle Sam needs his taxes.? He downed his drink, stood up, and left a coin on the table and left. I stared for a bit at the table, thinking it over. First thing I needed was to sober up. Wish I could work drunk, but after the first time, it just ain't the best thing to do. I paid and left for home.
My dad was French, from Canada, Ma was Virginian. Sweet little story, he fell in love with a country lass studying in the USA. He married her, and I'd been a Virginian country boy. Learned to shoot before I learned to read, which I did at the age of 5. Dad always said I needed to know my words and letters. The civil war broke out when I was 17, and I fought and killed for the Confederate States of America. Never thought I needed to kill a man, but I sure did. Served under Grant, right up 'til we lost the war. Came home and headed out west, to wander, just couldn't take the quiet after hearing cannons and shots for so long. Thought I could lose myself, forget. That didn't happen now, did it? Whiskey helped. I started hunting down bandits and criminals after Old Man Sheriff had me catch a varmint that held up travellers. Highway robbery they called it. I got used to life on the trail, but the hunt was what I lived for. Still, it couldn't last forever. I wasn't twenty-some years old anymore, old age was gonna catch me sooner or later. 20 years later, I did my last job. This one.
The morning had me sober and ready to go. I looked round my house. Actually, calling it a house probably made me a tad soft in the head. The shack was smaller than ship's cabin and dirty, but the days on the trail made it felt like the big, rich homes those fat moneymakers in New York had.
I grabbed my kit. Rifle, revolver, bowie knife and ammo. Course, you don't get far if you don't bring water and food with you out there. I strapped everything on and walked out. Looked back and saw my sabre on the wall. I did light cavalry in the war, and I kept it. Always brought it with me on the hardest jobs, and this one looked like it. Nothing made these felons make a mess of his pants like a man on his sword waving a 3 foot chunk of steel at their face. I grabbed it and checked the edge. Still sharp enough and left.
The trail's nothing but long and boring. Nothing happens; no sound except hooves on the dust, breathing of yourself and your horse. You breathe the dust in, you breathe it out. Nasty place. I never let my guard down though. I'd nearly taken a bullet when I let myself sleep in the saddle afore. Looked round for trouble and found it in the bandits waiting in ambush over the ridge. I had to smile a bit. They'd never gonna see me coming.
To be continued...