John followed the trail back through the hills until he came to a fork in the path. There was a fresh tail leading straight south, he nudged his horse to follow the trail. About an hour after that, he caught up to the group of survivors.

They were sitting around a fire, eating some small game. Since nobody but the Sheriff had a gun, he was pretty sure it was him who had taken down the animals. Honestly, John was surprised the group had made it this far considering their condition.

Everyone looked up at his approach, still on edge from their time in captivity. He nodded to them and dismounted his horse, tying it to a nearby tree.

Blackwood approached him.

“Sheriff,” John spoke quietly, acknowledging the man. “How's everyone doing?”

“As good as can be expected. Doc is going to be busy when we get back. And more than one may lose a limb if what I smell is any indication.”

John winced at that. Losing a limb wasn’t great, but it was infinitely better than your blood going toxic.

“I’ll speak with the artificer when we get back, maybe he can make replacements.” Blackwood only nodded at that. John knew a few artificers back in New Gata. They specialized in creating clockwork replacements for well-off clients who had an amputation due to disease or accident. So a replacement limb was in the realm of possibility. Whether or not it was feasible was another story.

“Camping here or just resting?”

“Just resting,” the Sheriff confirmed. "It’s still a good day to Ember Creek if we push south and don’t run into any problems. And I don’t think some of these men have that long.”

John wasn’t surprised to hear that. There were quite a few who had been injured during the fight. That steam weapon looked like it splattered boiling water indiscriminately. He could see a good dozen men with crudely wrapped bandages around arms, torso, or head. And more than a few of those showed signs of leakage through the hastily wrapped wounds.

If it wasn’t for a local plant that numbed the pain, he doubted any of those people would be able to stand, let alone walk. Nobody complained though. They knew this was better than the alternative.

“Let me get a quick bite, then I’ll scout ahead.”

“You sure? It’s safer in a group. This area has large wolf packs.”

John chuckled, “I’m aware. And yeah. We can’t afford to backtrack, so having me scout will ensure we find the quickest path back.”

“Alright. You won’t catch me complaining.”

John walked over to the food, a few of the men thanked him, and stuck out their hands for him to shake. He obliged. For the rest, they just kinda sat there and stared into the flames.

With the adrenaline of the fight behind them and without the need to keep moving forward, it gave them time to think. That wasn’t always a good thing. John had seen people with a similar look before. It was common in fresh soldiers after their first battle. Some were in shock, others simply processing what happened.

Unfortunately, John could do nothing to help them. They needed healers, doctors, or simply time. None of which was available at the moment.

After a quick bite and some tepid water from his canteen, he mounted his horse and started south.

His last long gun was tucked in the saddle bag. The weapon had not escaped the fight intact. The entire stock was smashed from at least one direct impact from the grapeshot. It was a lucky hit that could just as easily have smashed him in the head.

But John had survived, so he didn’t dwell on the stupid choices he had made to try and save the workers. Thinking back on it, he wouldn’t have done anything differently.

Had he gone down there like he originally planned, it was likely he would have been spotted and killed. With four of the suited figures, one of them would have noticed him and fired the steam rifle at him. Or they would have turned their weapons on the prisoners and his entire plan would have been for naught. And simply leaving them to their fate wasn’t an option.

Despite what some people might think, John wasn’t a soulless monster. Once he saw those people in trouble, there was no question he was going to try and save them. Call it a balancing of past karma, call it his conscience. Whatever. John didn’t like seeing innocent people suffer.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

If he could do something about it, he did.

As the trail started getting rockier, he backtracked and headed slightly west after tying a bit of cloth on a tree branch. He had spoken to Blackwood before heading out so the man would know what the cloth meant.

After stopping for the night, the tired group entered Ember Creek early the next day to concerned looks from the locals.

Someone had the common sense to fetch the Doc as well as Deputy Seline when they spotted their ragtag group limping in.

The only building large enough to house all the injured in one room was the Saloon. Madam Cassandra was understandably accommodating. She even donated some alcohol to the cause. Although that went down gullets more than it was used to sterilize wounds.

Seeing everything was well in hand, John headed home to get a bath and a fresh set of clothes. Even if his clothes weren’t filthy, they had still been nearly shredded during the short but intense battle. Especially his pants. But those torn bits of cloth did make handy markers for the trail, so there was some benefit.

After spending the bare minimum amount of time getting decent, he grabbed both of his broken rifles and headed over to speak with the artificer finally. As he walked through town, he could already hear word spreading about what had happened.

People looked concerned.

It was one thing to face off against some angry savages with spears and bows, but it was an entirely different prospect when those same people also had pneuma weapons and artificer constructs.

Things would have to change in Ember Creek, and not everyone was going to like that. But if they wanted to survive, it was going to happen whether they wanted it or not.

John reached the building where the artificer worked. It was a large wooden structure with two large chimneys on the backside. The building was surrounded by a large walled-off yard whose high wooden walls were tall enough that John couldn’t see over without jumping.

He entered through the front gate and spotted his walker off to one side. The things were easy to miss when they were folded down, it just looked like a slightly raised platform with a bunch of metal scaffolding underneath. That’s if you overlooked the weird controls bolted to the front center of the thing and the steam engine.

John wasn’t here to talk to discuss the walker though, at least not at this moment. It may come in useful at some point but someone would need to pilot it and that someone wasn’t him.

As he rounded the building, he heard the sound of rhythmic hammering and followed that. A bored-looking man wearing tinted goggles and frizzy white hair was holding down a lever as a massive trip hammer was pounding flat a chunk of metal that was being pulled through a machine of some sort and rolled up on the other side.

This was the same man he had seen at the train station. He cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. “Ahem.”

No response.

He did it again. “Ahem!”

The man shot into the air, releasing the lever. The rapidly pounding hammer came to a stop with one last *clang*.

“Who are you?! And what are you doing back here scaring an old man half to death? Can’t you read the damn sign?” The man jerked his arm out and pointed at a soot-covered and worn sign that read ‘pull rope for assistance’.

With a slight quirk of his eyebrow, John went over to the rope next to the sign and pulled it. A large hammer crashed against a bell over the door, making the man jump slightly, even though John was sure he knew what to expect.

“Yes, well, still. Next time use the damn bell. Now, what can I help you with, hmm?” He peeled off his goggles and squinted against the light. “I don’t recognize you. You must be new around here. Came in with the last train did ya?”

“I did. Names John Smith.”

“Ah,” the man stated simply. “I’ve heard of you.” John thought for sure the man was gonna say something about the fight with the Klein boy, or him helping with the murder investigation, but no. “You’re the one that brought me that magnificent walker out there.”

“…Um, yes.”

“It’s quite a piece of engineering, I must say.” From the tone of the man’s voice, it sounded like he was about to launch into a long-winded discussion on artifice.

Before that could happen, John interrupted him. “I’m not here for that. I’m wondering if you can fix my rifles. Also, there may be a need for mechanical limbs in the near future.”

“Limbs? Has someone been injured?” The crazy-haired artificer asked in concern.

“We- The Sheriff and I, just returned with the missing miners. Some were severely injured during the encounter.”

“I see.” the man frowned. “I can’t say I have much experience with moving limbs but I can work with Doc Hawthorne to figure something out. As for your guns, do you have them with you?”

John handed over the wrapped bundle he was holding. The man carried them over to a bench and unwrapped them.

“Bloody hell! What did you do, feed this one to wolves?”

“Something like that,” John muttered.

“And this one?” The artificer held up the twisted remains of the rifle that took a direct hit with grapeshot.

“An angry admirer.”

Without even cracking a smile, the man threw that rifle into a pile of trash in the corner.

“Hey!” John yelled, heading over to retrieve it.

“Don’t bother, it's scrap. This one I can probably fix though.”

Instead of listening, John pulled the battered gun from the pile of broken metal bits.

“Can’t you just- I don’t know, retool it or something?”

“Son, who’s the expert here? That gun is junk. Even if I somehow managed to straighten that barrel, there’s no telling if it's cracked internally. You would be better off buying a new one.”

“I can’t. This isn’t just a simple pneuma rifle.”

The man paused, looking down at the rifle he was holding more closely before snatching the one out of John’s hand. “Huh. I thought the air chambers had just been broken off. These are actual firearms, aren’t they?” The artificer asked in curiosity.

“They are. Does that mean you fix it?”

The damnable man tossed the second rifle back into the junk pile. “Are you daft, I already told you I can’t. Kids these days, they just don’t listen. You’re as bad as my damn niece Seline.”

“Wait… You’re Deputy Seline’s uncle?”

“Of course I am,” the man grumbled. “Can’t you see the resemblance?”

No, no he could not.