John Bearcat bit down on his cigar and grinned the devil's grin as he cranked his Gatling gun. Hot brass casings flew from the ejection port and bounced against his arm, leaving little red burns. Each sizzle sent a thrill running down his spine. They reminded him that he was alive, in an abbreviated sense, in a way that other worldly pleasures no longer did. Each crank made his barrels spin, each crank fed a little more of the long belt of bullets that draped over his arm through the firing mechanism.

He breathed in time to the recoil, enjoying the way his gun let him reach out and kill someone. His bullets chewed through the stagecoach at the bottom of the hill, kicking off splinters of wood. They made sparks when they hit metal. Some of his shots went completely through the coach, and made puffs of dirt where they hit the road behind. Others hit the dead bodies of the men who had thought they could hide from him.

Wholly unsatisfied, John let the barrels slow to a halt. Everyone on, or in the coach must be dead or dying by now, and that included the horses which had stopped screaming fifty rounds ago. He descended the hill he had ambushed the stagecoach from and approached it. He drew his revolver, just in case, and pulled open the door.

It fell off in his hand and he dropped it onto the dirt. Nobody appeared in the dark opening to challenge him, though it wouldn't have been the first time. Bullet holes decorated the interior in constellations, and John squinted into the darkness.

A girl sat on the forward seat, her breath as ragged as the bullet chewed curtains. She clutched at her middle, where a red stain oozed between her fingers. Her face was pale. The girl looked at him, the stunned expression of someone who knew they were dead on her face. Gut wound, it looked like.

"Yar a player?" he asked.

"Please sir, I'll give you anything, anything," the girl sputtered, spraying a fine red mist as she spoke. "There ain't much but you can take it."

Wrong answer. John raised his revolver and shot her dead. He didn't have time for any damn cpu. There should have been players on this coach. Americans. He climbed into the coach and looked out the other side. Had he killed the guards he expected in his first volley, when they had tried to hide behind the stagecoach? He didn't think so. Players usually shot back.

He kicked the seat opposite the dead girl, making the cushion pop into the air and revealing the compartment underneath. Inside was a small wooden box that turned out to be heavier than it looked. He opened it and saw the glitter of gold. So it hadn't been a complete waste of his bullets, but he'd hardly call this endeavor profitable. Eventually, the Americans would start guarding these damn cpus, and then things would get interesting.

Thinking of rolling his bullets across actual players for a change, and unable to keep his devil grin off his face, John slung his Gatling gun over his shoulder and trekked back up the hill. His horse waited on the other side. It was probably spooked by all his firing, and if it had gotten loose again - well, maybe it was about time he found a new horse. One with a bit of backbone.

As soon as he crested the rise, he spotted another shape standing next to his horse. A man in a sombrero, and a pure black stallion. The man held the reins of both horses. Oh, hell no. John swung the Gatling gun down. He dropped the box, ignoring the way it burst open. Spanish coins scattered across the ground, mixing with the spent casing from earlier. He needed that hand free for the crank.

The man below pointed a revolver at John. "Don't turn that crank!" he shouted.

Caught in the open with no cover, John could kill this idiot in a few turns, no matter how high level he was. But not without risking his horse. "Why shouldn't I?"

"I've been looking for you."

"Lots of people looking for me. What do you think you're going to do with that little gun?"

The man looked at his gun, then put it away. "Fair enough, John. It is John, right? Or do you prefer Bearcat?"

So this man knew his name. It wasn't like John was hard to recognize, with his dark Navajo face and the skull tattoo that covered most of it. He sneered.

"You were recommended," the man continued. "Your friend Seen Mighwood spoke highly of you."

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"You find him scratching in the desert again? He's no friend of mine."

"He said you were angry, John. You never got it, and could never accept it."

John spit out the nub of his cigar and ground it under his heel. All he had to do was crank. Hell, he'd walked further. He'd find another horse. But it was fucking hot out here, and he'd have to deal with snakes and banditos and whatever fucking else he ran into if he didn't get back quickly. "How about you head back and tell him to shove that spirit quest nonsense up his ass? I don't want what you're selling and I'd appreciate you letting go of my horse."

"I didn't come looking for you just to kill you, Bearcat."

"Good cause you ain't going to. No point in being spiteful and forcing me to walk, is there? So just as soon as you let go of my horse, I'll get on with the murdering."

"There's a price on your head. Four hundred dollars. I won't be the only one looking for you." The man drew a rolled poster from his pack and held it up, letting the bottom uncoil to reveal John's grinning mugshot. "The mods want your head."

"The mods smile on us all, gunslinger. When these others come, I'll shoot them too."

"Don't you want to know why the mods put a bounty on you?"

"Not really, no."

This perturbed the stranger. He took off his hat and fanned himself. John had had enough, he decided, and had already let this fellow ramble on too long.

"Wait," the man said, "If I release your horse, will you hear me out?"

John ground his teeth. This fellow would look good dead, and he probably had some decent loot. "No promises."

The stranger nodded. He dropped the reins of John's horse and slapped the animal. It tossed its head and trotted a few steps away from the stranger, just far enough that John wouldn't have to worry over much about hitting it.

"Now get talking," he ordered.

"These coaches you're hitting," the stranger said, still fanning himself. "They're all going to Boulder. You're hitting the mod's coaches."

"Aye, so what?"

"They ain't getting their gold, and they know it's you. Pretty soon it will be American soldiers guarding these coaches, then actual players. What are you going to do then?"

John shrugged. So he'd have more people to kill first.

The stranger shook his head. "I thought so. Haven't planned for it at all, have you? Well, it's a pittance John, and a real shame, to see a soldier of your caliber out here hitting coaches for - what? A handful of Spanish gold? How many whores is that worth back in Window Rock?"

"You come out here thinking to get that four hundred dollars for yourself?"

The man chuckled. "No. Not interested in it."

"You want a cut of the gold, then?"

"No, John. You wouldn't share it. I know you better than you could expect, because in a lot of ways, I used to be like you. You don't know what to do with yourself. You've had a hole in your life since we've been trapped here, and you're trying to fill it with the only things you understand. Shooting, drinking, and fucking."

Well fuck. John wondered why he hadn't shot the man earlier, before he'd let the man talk so much. It would have been easier then, before his words that felt too accurate not to be true. He gripped the crank of his gun so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I came looking for you to offer you a lot more gold than you're getting here," the stranger said. "Actual loot. I want you to come with me on a raid."

John Bearcat laughed, the tension draining away. This man was a loon - an insightful one, maybe, but still mad. Nobody went on raids anymore. It took dozens of people. There weren't enough players left in any given faction to raise a posse that size. Maybe the Texans could - maybe. If they managed not to descend into bickering half way to their target.

The stranger was staring at him, squinting, and still fanning himself. "It's not a joke, John. A real raid. I need you to come with me and do what you do best, and I promise you'll get first cut of the loot."

Raids did mean good loot, more than the few coins scattered around his feet. He hadn't been on one in years, and this piqued his interest. He set the butt of his Gatling gun in the dirt and leaned on it. "Alright gunslinger, I'm listening. Tell me about this raid."