Three shots.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Dale was sending the signal.
I snapped out of the trance the strange fortune teller had me in and focused on the task at hand. Ethelinda’s eyes returned to normal, and for a moment she looked woozy and out of sorts.
“Stay here,” I told Rosa. “And don’t listen to another word this witch has to say.”
"Like hell I will." She reached for the pistol in her holster.
I shook my head. "No."
I didn't give her a chance to argue before I took off down the steps and rushed outside. Rosa wasn't gonna be happy, but there was no way I'd be responsible for getting her mixed up in another battle with the supernatural.
Madam Ethelinda, however, needed no persuading. As I left, she’d rushed to the rear end of the wagon and squatted in the corner, shaking.
Smart woman. It was a shame the swindler hadn't seen this coming. Whatever games she’d played on me, I was done with them. She was meddling with things that no mortal ought to.
The sight now laid before me outside was a vast departure from the fun and frolicking it'd just been. The band no longer played happy tunes, and I heard no shouts from hawkers or carnies or "step rights ups." Just screams, pounding feet, and a whole mess of confusion.
It's never tough to find the source of gunshots. You just run in the direction opposite everyone else. In this case, people were fleeing from the center of town and through the carnival.
Deputies all around waved for folks to evacuate while making their way toward the town square. One shouted at me, but I ignored him. He wouldn't give chase, having much more important business to take care of than one rebellious cowboy looking for a thrill.
To my left, I spotted Cecil and his men escorting Dufaux and some other rich-looking guests to his estate behind those big safe walls. I bet the Pinkerton had been biting his teeth, waiting for this.
Once again, I searched the sky, expecting to see the hawk above but didn't. I tried my best not to bowl people over as I sprinted. Finally, I came to a skidding halt with a good view of Picklefinger's, just across the square from the bank. A passel of the local sheriff's men had taken up posts on all sides. They were prepared, if not trained, for something like this.
"Crowley!" Dale ran full bore toward me from the direction of the jail, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Did like you told me…" he huffed. "Three shots."
"Good job," I said. "Did you see them?"
"They dragged that cart right in front of the bank… Guards started shouting ‘move along,' and they got they throats cut. Thought they was being sneaky, but I saw them go down quiet. But the bank’s chained shut for the holiday. They got nowhere to go."
I pushed him out of the way so I could take a gander. A wagon was indeed parked right outside the bank's entry, filled with oranges and covered by a tarpaulin to look like it was meant for trading. A good disguise with the entire square being cleaned up from the market the day before. Lingering and terrified vendors were huddled up, hiding all over, but luckily most of the town and its visitors were at the festival grounds.
Two dead bodies lay outside the doors, like Dale said. Regular lawmen by the looks of it. A few outlaws dressed like tradesmen found cover behind the cart, though they wore masks now as they fired back at other lawmen and bounty hunters. Didn't spot Anton, who probably drank himself under a table in sadness for losing to me in five-finger.
No ice shield up yet either. No hawk. And, this time, there were more than three perpetrators. I'd counted four already using the cart for cover.
Had the Frozen Trio recruited more? They had taken more time before this hit.
I didn't have time to worry about who was robbing Dufaux's Bank and Trust. Obviously, this wasn't coincidental. People who clearly hated Dufaux, hitting on the day of the celebration of his self-proclaimed kingdom?
"The hell is this?" A man I recognized came riding up on a white stallion. Would've been pretty heroic-looking if it hadn't been the Revelation Sheriff who'd locked Dale and me up the night before.
He slid off his horse and got in our faces.
"Nobody said you two could leave!"
I ignored him, watching the bank where one of the masked outlaws rose from hiding and risked being shot. All the others wore red masks, but his was black as midnight. He glared, right across the square, seemed like at me. He then tore the tarp off the false orange cart. With my unnaturally sharp vision, I spotted something red beneath them. Bright red.
Dynamite. By all the saints and elders, the cart was loaded with it.
I pulled Dale and the Sheriff to cover behind a grocer's stand. The Sheriff fought me, but I got strength he could only dream of. All the outlaws and lawmen on the other side of the square were oblivious to what was about to happen.
"Everyone dow—!”
An explosion shook the earth and cut me off. Like Dale said, the bank had wisely been closed for the holiday. The big, fancy front doors, all chained up. But all that dynamite blew the whole thing wide open and clouded the entire square in smoke and dust and burning shreds of canvas.
The Sheriff's horse took off running, but he, himself, I seized by the shoulders. "We're on the same side here, Sheriff! We learned our lesson."
Bullets chipped wood all around us as the outlaws slung lead from cover inside the bank and behind the columns at its entry.
The Sheriff stared at me. By the look of him, his ears were ringing. I gave him shake.
"Yeah. All right," he said finally. "But this ain't over."
"Fine by me."
The geyser in the center of the square suddenly sprayed water up, providing some semblance of cover. Shar flowed in the reflection, clear as day. My ever-present benefactor watching, judging, and I suppose helping if it was her who sent up the water.
Either way, I yanked Dale and the Sheriff upright posthaste, pointed to Picklefinger's, and we continued on foot around the square. The saloon had a perfectly angled vantage of the bank. I kept myself on the inside position where I'd be most likely to get shot, just in case. This region didn't need to lose all its lawmen in one week.
Then I saw a boy around the same age as Mutt, standing alone in the square. He must've gotten left behind in the chaos or maybe was around the markets causing trouble, but either way, he was one stray bullet from an early grave.
"Go!" I gave Dale a nudge to hasten him toward the saloon and used the momentum to push off toward the boy. Bullets hissed and snapped as I weaved my way through the market. Sliding, I whipped my body around and scooped up the boy in one smooth motion.
"You hurt?" I asked while I ran back toward Picklefinger's with him cradled in front of me.
A bullet must've hit me in the back because some force I couldn't feel sent me careening through the saloon doors. I stumbled a few last feet, crunching through a table and chairs, but I got him inside.
Placing him down, I brushed the hair out of his eyes and patted him all over, checking for wounds. He was scared silent, but okay it seemed.
"Get to the back room and stay low," I said. "Go. Now!"
He did as told and disappeared through a back door I knew led to Picklefinger’s storage area.
The saloon was empty this early on except for some ladies in corsets cowering in a back booth, and a man slumped over in another, still passed out from last night's revelry.
"Everyone get down!" the Sheriff ordered. He placed his back to the front wall beside one of the windows.
Dale climbed over the bar and had his pistol aimed out through the door's opening. I could see it in his eyes; he was terrified. And I had to admit, I wasn't too keen on him being behind everyone, knowing what happened to Sheriff Daniels last time Dale was in such a position.
Everyone left outside in the square, good or bad, risked getting shot. The smog from the dynamite made it hard to say who was who. Horses neighed as a few more men wearing red masks rumbled in on a stagecoach, mowing down a several deputies or bounty hunters who’d wrongly thought they had good cover.
I recognized the coach from the festival. The goddamn snake oil salesman.
Dufaux really was a fool not calling the whole event off and making blending in so easy.
They stopped the coach by the bank, no doubt to load stolen money into it.
That added three more outlaws to the fray as they took cover and started shooting outwards. A lot more than just a trio and damn organized too. A green, inexperienced crew hits all at once, throwing all their might around like an angry bull. A smart crew comes in waves, eroding their enemy, putting fear in them, always making them wonder if there are more coming in just behind them.
And oddly enough, still no sign of the Frozen Trio. What was this, another gang looking to take advantage? But what advantage? Who hits the most secure bank around like this? Much as I wanted to ponder the implications of such a heist, there just wasn’t time. Whoever it was, they needed to be stopped. Now.
"We need a plan," I said, joining the Sheriff by the front window. The simple one was me charging the bank doors myself and taking hundreds of shots, unharmed. But here's the thing: a shotgun blast through my belly might heal, but it'd certainly slow me down, and should my legs be shot to hell, I still needed muscles to run. What would happen if a salvo of bullets tore through me until I was rendered temporarily useless?
Besides that, I brought silver bullets, and I didn't want to waste ammo before I spotted the Yeti.
"My men are prepared for this," the Sheriff said. "It'll be a good old-fashioned standoff until it's not. The fools got themselves surrounded in there."
"Until they blow a hole in the back wall!" Dale squealed from his cover.
"They'll need a bigger cart of dynamite,” The Sheriff said. “Dufaux spared no expenses. That thing is solid stone."
Picklefinger emerged from the back room, wearing a scowl. "You gotta go and make my place a target?"
"Sorry, old friend," I said. "About that too." I pointed to the window I'd been thrown through the night before.
“The kid alright?” I asked.
Picklefinger nodded.
"Get to the back, Mr. Hayes," the Sheriff demanded.
In response, Picklefinger grunted and retrieved his shotgun from behind the bar, giving it a chock.
“I’ll be defending my property if its all the same to you,” he said.
The sheriff didn't press the issue. His attention moved toward someone running low from the direction of the festival. The Sheriff started waving for whoever it was to speed up, and the newcomer ducked inside, panting.
"Oh, now it's a goddamned party," Picklefinger groaned.
I turned to see one of the deputies who'd arrested me and Dale. He had large black tufts of hair surrounding his ears. The deputy spotted me then too.
"You son of a bitch," he said. "I should've known you was a part of this!"
"Part of this?" I asked. "Don't be an idiot."
"Was that woman who got sweet on me working with you, too? I don't know what you're all up to, but no one breaks out—"
"Not my fault it was so damn easy."
The deputy lunged at me.
"Chops, we got more important things right now," the Sheriff said, making a barricade of his arm. "Besides, if he escaped and you didn't tell me, then it's you who's in trouble."
That shut Chops up fast.
I peered around the doorframe. By now, I could see Elkhart’s Sheriff Culpepper and his posse setting up on the south side of the square. One thing was certain, with all these folks around, whoever was robbing that bank wasn't getting out. Not breathing, at least. And Cecil and his Pinkertons weren't even here yet.
A shot fired and clipped my hat. I pulled back and took it off, giving it a look. There was a big hole in the brim right next to the spot where the tomahawk-lady had carved off a strip.
I swore. "I got that from John B. Stetson himself, dammit!"
"A shame," Chops said, looking back outside.
A bullet zipped nearby, shattering one of the whiskey bottles behind Picklefinger's bar. Dale yelped and ducked.
A tiny spot appeared on Chop’s throat. Black at first, then a stream of red started to dribble down, soaking his collar. The bullet had gone straight through him before striking the bar. The deputy opened his mouth to speak, and blood gurgled out like a fountain.
I heard Dale retch.
The sheriff grabbed his deputy by the vest and pulled him down as if he'd save him from further damage.
"Those bastards," he whispered.
Chops was mostly inside cover, so he shouldn't have been able to be hit from where the enemies were by the bank. Which meant a marksman had arrived with an angle on us—the Frozen Trio was finally here.
I went to look again, and a bullet snapped against the wood frame right beside me. By instinct, I returned to cover.
Having dealt with the sharpshooting Mind-drifter before, a plan for how to get the jump on him popped into my head.
I reached out and pressed my fingers against Chop's skin, my back to everybody else in the saloon so they wouldn't see my eyes glowing bright and blue.
My head snapped back…
* * *
I could feel Chop's fear as my own, him making jokes to cover for it.
"A shame," I—he—said and smirked.
Then, he turned and saw the glint of muzzle fire from across the street in the bell tower of the Town Hall building. The panic was worse than the wound. He wanted to scream, but when he did, only warm blood poured out. Then it got cold. All cold.
His sheriff clutched him as he thought about how he didn't even want this job but he and his wife needed money after she got pregnant. They had to settle down somewhere, and the sheriff had made that possible.
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It was unclear if he suffocated in his own blood first or lost too much of it or simply couldn’t breathe. But as it all faded to black, the man's last thought was, "Why am I even here?”
* * *
Focus returned to my own eyes. I grabbed at my neck, echoes of that painful experience confusing me momentarily.
"Why am I even here?"
That thought threw me a bit. It's the eternal question. The one the White Throne is meant to be an answer for. And there it was, like most, at this man's end. And the worst part about it, is that unlike the living, I knew my purpose: to serve, dutifully, Heaven and its scions without question. No hope of finding love or retirement. That was it. Forever. Or until they were through with me.
I blinked and forced myself to focus.
What did I see through Chops’s eyes that mattered? I'd feared the shooter was the Mind-drifter, but this one was a white man in a straw hat. Pale as could be, with freckles even, which I could see because, unlike his compadres, he didn't bother with a mask.
Now, being who I was, I could just stand up, take some bullets and shoot him, but I'd have an awful lot of explaining to do if these men watched a plum go through my brain and I just kept on talking and walking. Getting myself tied up by them as if I were some sort of witch wouldn’t help me exorcise the Yeti’s demon.
"On top of the Town Hall," I said to everyone in the saloon. "Don't look."
I had a door on my left and a shattered window on my right with a three-foot span of wood and concrete blocks at my back. The bar behind which Dale stood was directly in front of me, about twenty feet away or so—maybe thirty.
"Get down," I told him, shocked I had to do so.
He obeyed and not only kept himself alive a spell longer but gave me a clear sight to the mirror behind the bar he'd been blocking. I begged for a moment that Shar wouldn't show up, and she didn't. Perhaps, I was doing all right on my own for once.
I slunk down until I could see the top of the Town Hall in the reflection. With my right hand, I held my damaged hat. My left pulled back the hammer on my Peacemaker.
"What'chu doing?" the Revelation Sheriff asked.
I ignored him, then slowly raised my hat into the hole where the window had been.
The shooter popped up and shot, hitting the hat and sending it spinning across the room. At the same time, I fired my gun over my left shoulder and out the door. I watched in the mirror as the bullet found its mark, striking the outlaw dead.
"My word," the sheriff said.
I sniffed. "Lucky shot."
With cover restored, I hurdled out the window and along to the railing. The standoff outside the bank was still hot and heavy. Men on both sides dropped. The black-masked outlaw who'd blown up the cart had a spot right inside the bank doors, defending while others inside worked on the vault. He was a hell of a shot. Every time he popped out of cover, he put a bullet in someone or came close enough to scare them into retreat.
I was tired of waiting. If the Yeti wouldn't come out, I'd go find him.
A voice rose, clear and distinct over the constant racket of gunshots. Cecil and his Pinks rode out into the square like the cavalry at Gettysburg. He had a pair on him for sure. From that spot, any outlaw could put him down with hardly an effort, but they seemed to be shocked by such a brazen arrival into a bullet storm.
"Come out with your hands raised!" Cecil yelled, the geyser punctuated it with a low burst of water at the same time.
The gunfire stopped, mostly. The lawmen and bounty hunters in the square took better cover in the brief respite so they could reload. Outlaws did the same.
"It's over," Cecil went on. "The place is surrounded. We got you outnumbered five to one."
"Not once you're all dead!" the robber in the black mask shouted back. Most noticeable thing about him was that he sounded human, not monstrous like a demon-possessed Yeti. Even though he was clearly the one running this particular band of outlaws. Besides, I didn’t have thoughts that that man was, in fact, the Yeti. Wasn’t big enough. Wasn’t hairy enough. Wasn’t wild enough. Then there was the whole distinct lack of ice thing. I just couldn’t stop pondering where the Frozen Trio were.
"Your funeral," Cecil responded before he started barking out orders, pointing this way and that. It wasn't just Pinks with him, but local guards from Dufaux's estate and the Elkhart men too. Enough reinforcements to turn the tide with ease.
The Revelation sheriff moved to the porch and waved at Cecil. "Took your damn time!"
Cecil looked down his nose. "Mr. Gutierrez, I've got this under control."
"It's Sheriff, and last I checked, this is my damn town!"
Cecil sniffed and smirked. "Last I checked, this town belongs to Mr. Dufaux. Now, tell your boys to stay out of our way."
Leaping down, he unhitched a wagon drawn by one of his men and gave the horses a slap. They took off running. That's when I remembered what I'd seen back at Dufaux's place. The Gatling gun.
"Three thousand rounds a minute," Cecil admired, patting the weapon. "And we've got enough rounds to fire for an half an hour."
"You're gonna take that whole building down!" Gutierrez warned.
"That's a sacrifice Mr. Dufaux is willing to make."
Cecil climbed up onto the wagon, placed a foot on the sidewall like he was the conquering hero of some faraway kingdom, and shouted, "Light it up, boys!"
The whole square filled with gun smoke, and the bank facade started taking holes in a coordinated attack. Cecil, however, did not fire up the spin-gun. All the outlaws were forced into cover from the barrage. I stood, watching. Things had started out hairy, but this was about to become a massacre.
Cecil raised his hand, and the outpour of gunshots slowed to a trickle.
"Last chance before we cut the place down!" he yelled.
A few beats passed before one outlaw came running out from the cover of their stagecoach, his feet crunching over the singed earth from where their cart had exploded.
"Don't shoot!" he shouted. "I give up! Please!"
A single shot rang out, but it wasn't us. He fell forward. The turncoat took a bullet to the back of the head and dropped in a heap, killed by the outlaw leader in the black mask.
“Traitor bastard!” the bossman shouted.
It was hard to feel sorry. Good or bad men, you don’t abandon your crew in the middle of a job. After, in the quiet times, like I had—fine. Thought maybe I was a bit biased. However, and no time when the bullets start flying and you’ve already made your choice who to throw in with do you change your damn mind.
"Damn fools…" Cecil sighed. He clicked his tongue like he was beckoning a horse and one of his men hopped up onto the wagon with him.
He spun the crank, and the Gatling gun unleashed hell upon the outlaws. Wood from the stagecoach splintered everywhere. His ammo man kept the gun fed so it wouldn’t stop, and it was… wow.
Wanton destruction from a machine like that—it was a work of beauty. And by the look of how that Gatling gun was taking care of business, there'd be nothing left within the minute. The snake-oil coach was basically sawn in half, the outlaws left alive behind it, earning the same fate.
I watched, stunned. A weapon like this didn't exist back when I was a Scuttler. If it had, I would’ve sought another profession. And to think, a doctor invented the damn thing.
And the sound? Deafening. Like thunder cracking over and over without a second in between. It wasn't a supernatural thing, but it may as well have been. I don't think God or his Angels ever meant for his Children to wield such destructive power.
Cecil grunted, and the line of fire trailed upward, ripping across the bank's façade and then devastating the shop beside it. I looked back. At first, I thought it was a tactic I didn't understand. But then I saw that he'd been hit by a bullet from behind.
I whipped my head around to see the door of the Miners Guild swing open. A crew of ruffians poured out, opening fire at the backs of Cecil's men. An ambush. One of the Pinks had his brains splattered against the Gatling gun cart.
At the bank, the outlaws still inside pressed the advantage, shooting at the deputies and bounty hunters.
"Keep on them!" I yelled at Cecil, who had recovered and was pulling himself back up to keep up the salvo. Seemed like it was only a surface wound or he was even tougher than I’d thought.
I charged headlong at the ambushers, trying to make myself a target. I wasted a single silver bullet on one of them, right through the chest. As the man fell, I caught him and used his body as a shield and then a battering ram as I pushed him into another.
A rifle swung at my head. I ducked, spinning around and splitting open a gut. As I rose, I saw Gutierrez and another deputy charging with me. Dale brought up the rear, though by the time he reached me, the ambush would be thwarted.
A bullet hit my arm and made it recoil back. Didn't hurt, but it made me growl as I glared up. The man tried to fire again, but I beat him and hip-fired straight through his face. A waste of silver, but I was tired of playing nice.
I stepped over to the fallen outlaw. His mask had been pulled down by sliding against dirt. Seeing what was left of his face—no more than a smattering of disgusting yellow teeth, I realized I knew him. It took me a few moments to remember, but he was one of Anton's singing buddies. The one stooping over his left shoulder while we played.
Was that Anton in the black mask leading this thing? Posing as a bounty hunter while working for the Frozen Trio. It's what the Scuttlers would've done. Get someone familiar with the area to blend in to get the lay of the land—cozy up to the locals, throw people off the scent.
But… why have Anton do that if the Mind-drifter could just see everything through the hawk's eyes? This all felt different, like an army recruited to hit the bank.
Only, the army was way too small. They'd barely even gotten the chance to start trying to crack open the vault.
"How the hell did they think this would work?" I said to nobody in particular.
Dale answered. "Maybe they just wanted to kill people?"
I shook my head. ”Nah. Most outlaws ain't heartless."
Gutierrez looked down at one of his fallen deputies. "I strongly disagree with that sentiment."
"You came to the wrong town!" Cecil yelled, ending our conversation. The Gatling gun started up again. We'd thwarted the ambush—the last gasp of these outlaws to turn the tables.
I approached Cecil, back into the volume of that relentless spinning gun. Anger had him tearing into the sides and columns of the bank, stone crumbling off in chunks.
"Cecil, enough!" I got closer and grabbed his ankle.
He kicked me, but I knew he was just lost in the moment. Seeing red.
"Enough!" I shouted once more.
Cecil looked down, and reason suddenly flooded his features. He stopped cranking, dropped to one knee, and clutched his side. Surface wound or not, the recoil from holding onto that thing must've had him aching.
"Something ain't right," I said. "This ain't the same crew."
"Like hell it ain't," Cecil grunted.
"I saw them, and it ain’t the same damn crew,” I said more forcefully. “We got to take one alive."
Cecil grimaced. He looked between me and Gutierrez, then nodded to the latter. Gutierrez whistled across the square, getting Sheriff Culpepper’s attention and that of his men on the opposite side. Hearing that whistle echo after all that shooting was off, the silence now was almost oppressive.
Gutierrez gave a hand motion, got the affirmative. Then Culpepper started his advance.
I did the same from my position.
"What's the plan?" Dale whispered in my ear.
"Last chance!" Sheriff Gutierrez called out from behind us. "Lay down your arms and come out."
Culpepper and his men got in position around the bank, behind whatever was left for cover and aimed. They were close to it now. Would be hard to miss anyone who came walking out.
"This is over!" Gutierrez went on. "Come out now, and maybe you'll be spared the rope."
"All right, all right, fine!" The outlaw in the black mask appeared in the entry, hands to the sky and empty. Guns around the square cocked all at once.
I squinted. Dust was everywhere, but he was roughly the same height as Anton. Similar build. Damn it all to Hell. How did I miss this?
"We'll come out since you asked so nicely," Maybe Anton said.
"Screw this. That bounty's mine." One of the gunman on our side who had the look of a bounty hunter squeezed his trigger. Lucky, I got there just in time and batted his arm aside. The bullet thunked off the stone a few feet away from the outlaw.
"Hot damn, I said we'll come out!" Black Mask hollered.
The bounty hunter turned on me with a glower. "What the hell, man? You're after the same thing as me. These lawmen don't need it."
"This ain't the right bounty," I said.
Then the bastard made a fate-altering decision. He started raising his weapon like he was gonna try to unload on me. I punched him across the jaw so hard it sent him sprawling. Then I returned my attention to the bank.
"What are you waiting for?" Sheriff Culpepper asked.
"What?" Black Mask said.
"You coming out?"
The outlaw cupped his hand around his ear. He made a big show of it too, leaning in, other arm stretched back like a wing. "Sorry, my ears are ringing from all the… you know."
"Let's go!" Sheriff Culpepper moved toward him, pistol raised. The others pressed forward at his back.
I saw red and a flicker of orange. Someone inside the dark bank had placed a stick of dynamite in Black Mask’s rear, outstretched hand.
I cried out, but it was too late. The outlaw heaved it underhanded.
The thing went off right beside Sheriff Culpepper and his men, and blew them to pieces. I don’t have the stomach to describe it. Others in the broader arc were scorched and blown backward. Anyone who wasn't within the radius of the blast opened fire as four outlaws flooded out of the bank to join with their leader before splitting up.
In all the chaos and the smoke, it was hard to see who went what way, but I got my eyes set on the one in the black mask built like Anton. He shouldered into a deputy and stabbed him in the stomach before fleeing down an alley.
"Come back here, coward!" I shouted.
I took off at a sprint down between two other buildings, knowing the routes converged on the next street. Dale cried out behind me that he was coming.
Was Anton working with the Frozen Trio or not? If he was, where the hell were they? I considered shooting him just to stop the chase, but I couldn't kill the man—I needed answers. However, I did consider hobbling him as I reached the next street and spotted him running a short ways up. But with us both moving like this, I had just as good a chance of shooting him somewhere vital and making him bleed out before I could get what I needed.
Truth is, I don't have a damn clue what these outlaws were thinking. If they had the Yeti and his friends fighting with them, they might've stood a chance. Turned Cecil's Gatling gun to ice right out the gate. But this was suicide, and they had to have known it.
"I ain't going down because of them!" Black Mask shouted back, and I must say, that voice was familiar.
He shot wildly over his shoulder. I didn't even bother to try to dodge it any more than if someone threw a stone at a rhino. He pulled another pistol and shot once more. I picked up speed and pushed myself. I may have supernatural abilities, but speed isn't one of them. Put me in a foot race, though, and I'd never slow down.
I was starting to gain on him and considered taking out the Nephilim’s harmonica, playing a chord and making him stop like I had with Roscoe the werewolf. But it was loud outside, and he was far off.
He slipped between a barn and homestead before I could rethink it. When I reached the spot, a bullet whizzed by and clanged off something metal. He shot twice more, and one might've hit me. Hard to be sure.
He kept running, disappearing through the other side. A few more steps took me to the mouth of the alley and a vast paddock before the start of the fairgrounds. Poor folks had fled this way, probably thinking they were safe.
"He went that way!" one woman shouted from the upper window of her barn. As if I had any question.
Cries from lawmen and everyone rang out from every direction in town as they chased after all the others. I stayed focused,
cleared a paddock, hopping the low horse fence and
came to a stop at the fairgrounds. They were mostly empty on this side now, an eerie feeling. People crowded over by the church across the way, many inside of it. I saw the reverend kneeling outside the door, praying.
I'd lost my quarry within the many tents and stands.
"Come out, come out wherever you are!" I teased.
My taunt was met by a gunshot that went wide and missed me.
That was stupid. He fell for the oldest trick, like a kid's game of blindman's bluff.
I followed the sound and trajectory of the shot, and I spotted Black Mask slipping into the Freak Show tent. Large paintings of those who I'd encountered in Picklefinger's lined the front entrance. The World's Strongest Man—who'd tossed me through the window—Beast Boy, the Bearded Lady, and more. I shoved the flap aside and snuck in. It was dark but not terribly so. Besides, I saw pretty well in the dark.
The nature of these canvas setups was that there were thin slits in between sections, tied together with nylon. As a result, dust motes danced in the air like fireflies in the sun rays.
I had a fleeting thought that it would’ve been nice if the Strong Man had been present to stop the robber from running. Even Beast Boy. Though my chest wasn’t burning so I knew he was nowhere in sight. I was alone in here with who I thought might be Anton.
Then I spotted him behind a seating stand.
"Stop running!" I shouted. "You're just pissing me off!"
My arm kicked back at the same time I'd heard his gun go off. I was gonna have a bear of a time getting these slugs out of me when all was said and done. But at the moment, I ignored it and looked up in time to watch him pass behind a glass enclosure with some kind of supposedly unearthly being floating in liquid within. Pretty sure it was just a squid or a jellyfish. He threw open a flap, light pouring in, and dashed out.
I had two choices, run through to the other side, which had to be a good few hundred feet, or return from whence I came. I chose the latter, thinking it would save some time.
He really only had two choices also: run west, back toward town, or continue east toward innocent people. I figured he wasn't gonna chance returning to where all those gunmen waited to shoot or arrest him.
I was right. Wasn't long before I had eyes on him.
"Stop running!" I shouted again and fired a bullet wide on purpose. It forced him to veer off course so he wouldn't get to any potential hostages.
Black Mask took a hard turn at Madam Ethelinda's Ethereal Emporium, and I decided to cut through a side avenue. As I'd hoped, I was now running directly at him.
"I gotchu," I said, planting my foot on one of the many rocks that had been left for sitting. I shoved off and collided with him. He grunted and went down under my weight. We rolled on the ground, me on top, then him, then finally, me again. He kicked and squirmed.
"Hold still, you dumb bastard," I said, getting my lasso ready to tie him up.
By the time I saw him pull out his .38, it was too late. He blasted me in the shoulder. The force of the attack sent me flying off him, allowing him just the wriggle room he needed to shove me away and rise again. I grabbed his boot, slicing my glove and hand on his spur, but he just slipped out of my grip and kept running.
The chase ensued once more, though he had to be tiring.
He went up a wooden ramp that led into some shanty building I didn't recognize—something impermanent they'd set up for the week's event. I followed him inside. I'd like to say cautiously, but not at all. I rushed right in and was immediately stunned to a stop. Before me were twenty other mes staring back at me.
Mirrors everywhere, dozens—hell, hundreds even. Every step I took was jarring, watching all those Crowleys mimicking my motions. But it was more than that. They were all set at odd angles, creating the illusion that there was even more than just the one reflection in each mirror.
"Fun's over," I said, my voice hanging like smoke in the air.
I walked forward, and my boot clipped a mirror, making it shiver. I heard my prey shuffling somewhere beyond the prism of reflections, and followed.
"This ain't gonna end well," I warned him.
Black Mask didn't respond.
The next row was made up of more mirrors, but these were twisted, making my visage contort into horrific shapes. Whatever sort of carnival game this was, I didn't like it.
Slowly, I turned, looking for the path. Something sparkled in one of the mirrors, and I nearly pulled the trigger before I realized what—or who—it was.
"Follow," Shar said and her swirly veneer shot off like a deer under fire. I did my best to keep up.
She brought me to another aisle of mirrors and another, her form leading me along like an actual dog on a leash. I can’t exactly upset she was directly and obviously helping for once.
She flashed to another position. A gun fired, and so many mirrors I couldn't count shattered, tiny glinting fragments exploding all around. The distraction was good, but Black Mask failed. I saw my target's coat flap. I shot back and repaid the favor, sending shards of glass toward him. He reached up to guard his face, and in doing so, slipped or tripped, smashing through a wall and tumbling outside.
Rushing to the opening, I aimed down in the dirt where he was trying to recover. He looked up at me, me down at him. And the moment he went to scramble off again, a knife slid up under his throat. It continued along his cheek, slitting his mask a bit, and stopped at his eye.
"Uh, uh, uh. A sharp knife ain't nothin' without a sharp eye."
Rosa's friend Irish held the knife and beamed like a maniac. Rosa, Harker, and Bram stood a short distance behind, watching. Good old Rosa. She must've ditched Ethelinda and found her party after the festival had been interrupted. A few other confused civilians roamed around near them. Harker had his art book out and was, presumably, sketching the scene.
"Are you okay?" Rosa called to me.
"I will be soon." I hopped down and approached the bastard who turned the town square into a shooting gallery. Ironic considering that right behind Rosa was, indeed, the carnival's shooting gallery game. The owner crouched next to it in hiding.
"Ye made bags of a good time, mister," Irish said.
Black Mask tried to elbow her in the gut and take advantage of his superior size, but she was quick. Her knee forced his to buckle before she wrenched his arm back. She was a breath from plunging the knife through his eyeball when I used my lasso to yank the blade out of her hand.
She looked furious. "Are ye langers?" she shouted.
"We need him alive," I said, soft, in an attempt to diffuse her anger.
"Don't ye ever get between me and my prey!" She squeezed his throat with her forearm and reached for one of her many other blades when Bram stopped her.
"Irish, please," he said. "This is not our war."
She scowled but eventually backed down and shoved Black Mask toward me. I sensed in him the desire to run, but I had my gun on him, letting the fear build in him something fierce. Best way to start an interrogation.
I bent down, staring him straight in his cool, blue eyes.
"Let's see who this bastard is."