Sunset Riders: Chapter 1 Gunsmoke and Blood
 

Across the town the deputy posted hand sketched wanted posters of the criminal Scott the Storm. The picture was a black and white sketch of a man with long hair and a wrinkled face ubscured by a bandana. Scott walked into town his duffel bag over his shoulder the spring weather was pleasant. He picked up one of the wanted posters

Doesn't even look like me. The eyes are to big, and I have more crow's feet than this. Infact I've never looked this good. He smirked and read the copy and whistled. $5000 DoA. I've never been so popular before. Looks like I have the bastard mayor and sherrif scared. Good, when I'm finished with them, hell will be a vacation on the beach. He crumpled the paper and let the dusty breeze blow it down the decaying asphault.

He whistled a tune from his child hood, a few people on the street looked up, old timers mostly. He went into what used to be a starbucks. the original paint hadn't been completely removed and he could still make out the original sign under the new saloon sign.

He sat at the bar. The barkeep was an over weight man with a disagreeable looking face. He twitched his mustache as he saw the drifter enter.

"What do you want?" The disagreeable man said.

"Tea if you have it, a beer if you don't." Scott said. He positioned the duffel between his feet. The barman came bake with what looked like a twenty year old bag of herbal trash. and a dirty glass full of hot water. Scott flipped the bar man a silver dollar

"Vintage coin for a vintage drink."

He dunked the old bag in the water and waited till the water turned dark brown. He sipped the foul tasting drink, and looked around the bar

He sat in a darkened corner at a table for one. It had been a table for 5 but he slid all the chairs out of the way so the table would have more space. He had carefully set his fedora on it at a perpendiculer angle to the glasses that had been left by the previous parties. He was now thumbing through his bible one page at a time, pausing for a moment then flipping to the next.

The odd thing was he wasn't looking at the bible at all, he just stared at a nearby trash can with an old printed card welded onto it. It simply read "Thank you, Have a Nice Day." His face seemed completely void of thought, the same was true of his mind.

Scott sipped the very bitter tea. The place was dusty. there were bullet holes in the back wall that were badly plastered over. In the corner a musician played acoustic guitar. A poker game was going on at a table near by. The barkeep eyed a few others with a glare.

New comers like me. I wonder how many are bounty hunters. quietly he cocked back the hammer on a hidden .38

Jacob came walking into town, though across town from where Scott had entered. He was tired and the day was hot, so all he was looking for was a good cool drink. As he walked down the broken road he noticed a poster with a wanted sign for a Scott. "5000 DoA. I'll keep you in mind." He whispers to himself as he folds the poster up and stuffs it in a pocket.

After walking for a few more minutes, a seemingly quite spot seems to catch his eye. When he takes a closer look, he sees Starbucks written under the actual saloon sign. "Place seems cool enough." He mutters as he strolls in and takes a seat. What he didn't realize was that just a few seats down was the man on the poster in his pocket. instead he says to the barkeep "Beer please."

The doors to an old police station was thrown open, and a man walked in. His face was kept safe from the dust outside by a red handkerchief that was pulled up to cover his nose and mouth. A wide-brimmed leather hat covered his shaggy blonde hair. But even through his shaggy hair, his piercing blue eyes could be seen. His boots clicked on the tiled ground, and his long leather coat swished. His holsters rubbed against his jeans as he walked, making rubbing sounds as he strolled through.

The man walked up to a counter, and pulled the handkerchief down. A female clerk at the counter looked up, then went back to her papers.

"Yes, sir. What do you need."

The man pulled out six papers from his pocket. They were all wanted posters. He laid them down on the counter, and pushed them forward.

"I want my money."

The clerk looked at the posters, and gave a little smirk to the man.

"I'm sorry, sir, but proof is needed to redeem any bounties."

The man poked his hat up with his index finger, showing off his eyes more.

"One, the name is Thomas Saryon. Two, I've got proof."

Taking a sack from his back, he emptied the contents on the counter. Out poured a ring, a necklace, three pistols, and a pocket watch.

"Trigger-Finger's ring, Big Al's necklace, the Bull-Running Trio's pistols, and the pocket watch of the Tick-Tock Man. If you want more proof, their bodies are outside."

The women eyed the items, and gave a small sigh. She turned to a small safe under the counter and pulled out large pads of money.

"The six bounties total up to...45,000 DoA. Have a good day, Thomas."

Thomas smiled a cold smile. He took the money, and stuck it in his pocket.

"Oh, I intend to."

Thomas walked out the doors of the station, stepping over large sacks that held dead bodies in them. He located the nearest saloon, and stepped in for a drink. Before he walked in, he saw a poster for a 5,000 DoA bounty. It wasn't something to scoff at. He took the poster, rolled it up, and stuck it in his pocket.

Walking up to the bar, he secured the shotgun on his back, and his pistols on his hip. He waved to the bartender.

"Something strong, and burns on the way down."

An unlabeled bottle slid down the counter. Thomas smacked the neck on the counter, snapping off the top. He drank down the bitter alcohol.

Three or four gunmen by the count so far. We have the rank smell of sulfer on the one who just came in. So he's fired a gun recently. I might want to locate a back exit before the bullets start flying.

"Thanks for the tea." he said to the barkeep. He left a dollar on the bar, which the barkeep quickly snatched up. He stood and walked with his fingers ligthly brushing the grip of his right shotgun. He didn't want to appear nervous. He headed toward the restrooms

I love starbucks, they were so predictable in their design. If I'm lucky the men's bathroom will have a window.

He entered the bathroom, there were two broken urinals and three stalls all missing doors now. The far right had a window sill that had been bricked up.

I hate my luck

Thomas put his now empty bottle on the counter, stood up, and headed to the bathroom. There was the man from the bar in there, slightly disappointed that the window was bricked up. Thomas sniffed, then walked over to a urinal. He unzipped his pants, and began to do his business.

"The drinks here just go right through, huh?"

Thomas zipped up his jeans, readjusting his holsters. As he headed for the door, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out the rolled up Wanted poster. He looked at the picture, and then tossed the paper to Scott.

"Your photographer does good work. Don't worry. The only reason you don't have the point of my revolver pressed against your head now is because I just got a nice pay off. No point bringing you in now. But look me up next week. I might be short of cash by then."

"Favor is a favor, and I must say I owe you for now. So i'll give you advice. By next week there won't be anyone to collect from. I need to take out the trash, said trash happens to be footing that bill. Your offer proves your a decent man, or atleast pretend to be one, I try not to kill decent men."

Click.
Tick.
Tinktinktinktinktinktink.
Thump.
Scritch.

The sounds, though quiet, were the type of sounds that would have gotten any experienced gunman's attention. They were the sound of a revolver opening, its ammo falling to the table, followed by the gun itself being placed as gently as something that large can be, and the bullets being slid into a line.

Six bullets, each one charged with black powder primer and hollow point lead slugs were spread out next to the long barreled .45 revolver. Over a foot and length and weighing in at nearly 5 pounds, even in the battle scarred landscape the land once known as America had become, it could inspire fear. Less a gun and more a hand-held portable cannon.

Shane had heard once that a standard .45 could tear through the engine block of an SUV and still carry enough force to kill a man at over a hundred yards. The longer barrel served to increase both accuracy and muzzle velocity, creating an even more deadly weapon. The gun hadn't disappointed him.

The bullets themselves only added to the fear factor, for those observant enough to notice the indentations at the points. Once entering flesh they would open up far wider than a normal slug and catch muscle, organs, blood vessels, and even bone, pulling it all along with them in a macabre game of follow the leader.

The end result meant that no one ever wounded with that gun had survived. Even the random shoulder wound, from a poorly aimed shot, had a tendency to tear the arm off and leave the victim in shock and bleeding to death.

Shane replaced the bullets, carefully, after analyzing each one to be certain it would fire properly. He was here to fight and he had to be certain his go-to gun was working.

Click. Thud.

The chamber slid back into place and Shane placed the gun back onto the table before drawing a pair of 9mm semi-automatic pistols from within his long black coat.

Click. Schlitick. Click. Schlitick. Click. Click. Thud. Thud.

The clips were removed, and the barrels pulled back and set into place, and then the clips replaced before both of the smaller arms were placed down next to the .45, which dwarfed them both.

His hand then reached into his coat once more, merely fingering the gold plated .44 semi-automatic desert eagle. A weapon that made his long barreled .45 look like a mere toy, and one that he didn't like to reveal or use. He used it so rarely, in fact, that he had managed to keep both clips full of nitrocellulose ammo. Modern gun powder. Despite this, however, it was perfectly maintained and he was certain it would fire. He cleaned it, checked it over, and made sure every part was perfectly functioning every night, but he never revealed it in public.

A dirty glass sitting near him on the table was lifted to his lips, and he took a single sip of water, not bothering to replace his weaponry yet.

Thomas looked at Scott.

"So, going to kill the sheriff? I must say, I'm not one to kill a payer of bounties, m'self. Ain't good business."

Thomas pulled out one of his sandalwood revolvers, and spun the clip.

"But I'm always up for a good fight. When the bullets go flyin', be sure to include me. I noticed the safe had quite a few more pads in it. Would be worth my time to be around when the owner of the safe was...without need of the keys."