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The Fox's eyes shot upwards, as did his six shooter, wrenched from its holster in a single, lightning quick action.

The water's edge was still, save for the gentle swaying of the burrograss in the early morning breeze. The Fox slowly panned his vision along the opposite bank of the creek where he had stopped to rest, his eyes rapidly darting about, affixing to the slightest sign of movement.

Something had spooked him, and without the benefit of a sound understanding of the lay of the land, nor of its fauna, he was unwilling to take any risks. More than once he had settled down at an unassuming waterhole or steam to enjoy a rare few hours of downtime, only to be set upon by cougars or bears, they themselves intending to make the locale theirs for the evening.

A slight rustle sounded to his right, just out of his field of view.

The Fox knew better than to jump or otherwise move quickly at the provocation. As slowly as he dared, the orange-furred vulpine eased himself to a standing position, all the while keeping the oversized revolver trained upon the source of the sound. A few deft paces and he had put some ten feet between himself and the burbling creek. Best case scenario would see him make it safely to his horse, with whatever critter he had just disturbed content to go about its business.

The crack of a dried branch underfoot promptly laid to rest any such intentions.

With a deliberate motion, The Fox assumed a side-on firing stance, facing the direction of his potential assailant. Arm outstretched, his paw firmly grasped about his weapon, he spoke, summoning what vestiges of authority he could.

"Alright, friend, you come on out nice and slow like."

A body shifted in the undergrowth, the crunching of the grass betraying its position to The Fox.

"Don't make me do something we're both going to regret later," continued The Fox, his voice slightly too high in pitch as to be properly intimidating, "I might not have the best shot on your over there, but making such as rukus as you are, I've no doubt I could put one right between your eyes and not have to worry about wasting my brass."

The reply came, meek and timid, "okay, okay, don' shoot! Was jus gettin' m'self some water, that's all!"

The previously vague motions became more and more apparent to The Fox until a figure appeared. It was a frog, short and squat, wearing a ragged pair of loosely fitting denim overalls, feet bare and webbed hands clutching at a waterskin.

"I don't know of many folks who need to skulk about in the grass like they got something to hide just to collect some water," said The Fox, his weapon trained squarely upon the frog, "unless, of course, they do got something to hide."

"No sir, not me! Was just getting some water for my Pa up there on the ridge. We is out hunting bighorns, and as you might be guessing, we get mighty parched spending all that time in the sun."

The Fox cocked his head ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing, maintaining focus down the barrel and at the frog.

"Thought you said you were getting water for yourself?" he quipped.

"W-well, we both be needing to drink, sir!" came the reply, a note of panic rising in his voice. "Please, I don't mean no disrespect, why don't you just let me go and I'll tell no-one you was here, swear I won't!"

It was apparent to The Fox that the young frog posed no threat, even insofar that he might let the township aware of his arrival before he was able to make himself known. It was unfortunate to have to treat him in such a way, but a decade of ranger service had taught him, among many other lessons, to never let his guard down.

The Fox replaced his revolver in its holster and stooped back down to the water's edge, "What's your name, froggy?"

"Slippy!" replied the frog, a wave of relief washing over him, "Everyone calls me Slip-Up, but, well, my name is Slippy."

"Well, Slippy," continued The Fox, "I've got some business up in Agua Fria, and I dare say I'm a little lost. Perhaps you could point me in the right direction and we can put this little misunderstanding behind us."

The frog's eyes briefly glanced at the revolver, still prominently displayed beneath The Fox's duster.

"Uh, sir?" he asked, more cautiously this time, "That business might not have anything to do with that big iron hanging off your hip there?"

The Fox's right paw instinctive brushed over his weapon at its mention.

"I might well," he answered, "but I can assure you, friend, that if that business concerned you, you would be knowing about it right about now. Dare I say perhaps a little sooner."

"Well alright then, sir, guess I can help yous out."

The frog paced up the creek several yards, his eyes still flitting towards The Fox every few steps. Coming to a stop under a low hanging cottonwood, one of the few that dotted the landscape, he motioned up and over the rise with his webbed hand.

"Head north, sir, uppalong the ridge and past th' Pepper homestead. You maybe got yourself about fifteen miles to cover, should be less than an hour if yer a good rider."

The Fox strode over to his horse and placed his right foot into the stirrup. With a heave, he gracefully swung himself up and over the beast, depositing himself in the saddle. Straightening his overcoat, he turned once more towards the frog, bringing the animal around in the process.

"My thanks, Slippy. You and your father have yourselves a good day now."

The Fox slowly began to trot away,

"Sir!" yelled the frog, his voice carrying up the small gully, "I never did catch your name."

Pausing briefly, The Fox responded, turning the lapel of his duster over to reveal a small, star-shaped leather patch.

"Fox McCloud," he said, flashing a few fangs, "Arizona Rangers."

---

By any measure it was a fine day, one of the finest that Fox had experienced since he set foot in this state. The sun, having properly crested the distant mesa's some half hour prior, now shined warmly upon the vulpine as he picked his way along the ridgeline. Despite the temperature now sitting on the warm side of eighty five, the early morning breeze had persisted, cooling both Fox and his horse as they trekked onward.

True to his word, a lone homestead loomed ahead, just where the frog said it would be, as the ridge gave way to the flat, desolate plains of New Mexico proper. With a kick, Fox urged his horse forward. Their meandering pace increased to a brisk trot, weaving in and out of cacti and the occasional mesquite tree, as they came upon the homestead.

"Stop right there, sonny!"

The thunderous report of a shotgun nearly saw Fox thrown to the ground as his horse bucked and kicked at the fracas. With both paws required to bring the beast under control, he had few reprisal options should his assailant choose to follow up his first shot with a second.

The second shot never came.

A few more jolts and the horse was calm. Wheeling it about, Fox finally came to face the source of the attack. An ageing, weathered old dog sat calmly in a chair on the front porch of the homestead, cradling a smoking shotgun in his paws. Fox instinctively reached for his own weapon.

"Ya done giv'n me a right scare there, old timer," he spoke, cautiously eying the canine as he slowly rocked back and forth, "you making a habit of shooting at passers by?"

"Kid," the dog snorted, "if I meant you to be full of holes you'd be lying in the dirt. My eyes ain't so bad that I'd miss at ten paces."

"Then, pray tell, why you'd feel the need to let loose at me with one of them two barrels ya' got there?"

Rather than respond, the old dog adjusted his aim slightly and fired the second barrel. Fox flinched as the pellets zipped past, impacting the ground some ten feet behind him.

"Doggone jackrabbits gettin' at my shoepeg," he said, returning to his steady rocking, "I send 'em scampering off but they're always coming back."

Fox dismounted his horse. The homestead was in a sorry shape. Window shutters banged and clattered freely in the breeze, some hanging from a single hinge, and a good portion of the tiling was missing from the roof. Repair of the building looked far beyond the aging dog sitting at its front.

"Seems you might be needing some trappers, friend," he said.

"You offering?"

"I would be," continued Fox, "but I got other matters to attend to."

"Then you best be getting to them," said the old dog, "no sense in wasting your time up here. You just leave old Pepper be."

Fox cocked his head, "Pepper? Am I to presume that there is a 'General' in front of that name?"

The dog snorted, "Maybe once, but those days have long since past, same as the country that put those stars on my shoulder. What's it to a Yankee like you, anyway?"

"I ain't no Yankee," retorted Fox, doing little to hide the indignation in his voice, "my father served in that army of yours, didn't see the other side of the war."

"A lot of folks didn't. If those matters you were referring to are some manner of revenge mission against a down and out general, take your shot."

"Those matters may well involve taking a shot, but not at you, sir."

The dogs wrinkled, weathered face cracked into a sad smile. Though it brought painful memories flooding back, memories that he'd spend the better part of the past twenty years trying to lose at the bottom of a bottle, to be addressed as such warmed his heart in a way. He craned his neck upward, straining his eyes against the early morning sun as he struggled to focus on the young vulpine standing before him.

"What's your name, sonny?" he asked.

"Fox McCloud, sir."

"McCloud? You're not James' boy, are you?"

"I am indeed, sir," replied Fox, "the one and only."

"I remember your father," continued Pepper, "the finest rider I had under my command; charged into the enemy lines on some two dozen occasions and came out without a scratch. Trusted his instincts, he did. Sorry about what happened to him."

"It's not your fault, General. You can't be held accountable for the actions of every yellow-bellied turncoat that chose coin over honour."

"Sonny, if the dead could talk, I'd venture that you'd find yourself alone in that opinion."

With the mood turning markedly dour, Fox made his way back to his patiently waiting horse.

"It's been a pleasure, General," he said, planting his boots into the stirrups and hoisting himself onto the saddle, "but I must be off. Like you said, matters to attend to."

"You be watching yourself down in Agua Fria," replied Pepper, "between the sympathisers and bandits, you'll be lucky to find an honest man among them. You might be needing that honking great chunk of iron you done so poorly a job of hiding under your duster sooner than you think."

"My thanks for the words, but I won't be long in town, I'm just after one man."

---

Business at the Lone Falcon was at an all time low. With deliveries of whiskey and beer drying up as interstate taxation and government corruption took its toll, providing the town with refreshments, much needed after a hard day's ranching or trapping, was becoming increasingly difficult. The new sheriff, a real hard-nose by any measure, was doing all he could to make a difficult situation worse. Fair to say, gambling was illegal, but to shut down a harmless poker game which brought the saloon some much needed coin was pushing the boundaries of civil behavior.

Or at least that is what Falco Lombardi thought.

The blue avian threw the pen down in resignation. He had spent the night engrossed in his financial ledger, adjusting and notarising so as to minimise his dues to the state. Not entirely legal, but with the correct pockets lined, the likelihood of being caught was low. He was yet to sleep, and with a full day of business ahead, he was unlikely to for the next twelve hours.

"Krystal!"

Falco looked at the slowly ticking clock on his desk. It was past his opening time, yet his barmaid was nowhere to be seen. Pushing back from his desk, he sauntered out into the saloon proper, stretching his wings above his head. He briefly considered changing into a fresh suit, but pushed the idea away when he saw the work that still needed doing.

"Krystal, where you at, girl?"

No response. For the next half hour, Falco paced wearily about the saloon floor, pulling chairs off tabletops and laying out bottles of spirits behind the bar. The usual gaggle of alcoholics were already gathering outside, keen to start their day's drinking as soon as was permissible. Down-and-outs, the type that Falco would rather evict from his establishment, but whose patronage was unfortunately essential.

"Scum."

Falco had very nearly completed the day's setup work when the saloon doors swung inward. A blue vixen, panting slightly, as if she had run the length of the town, stumbled in.

"About time you showed up," shot Falco, "you were off galavanting with that no-good black cat, were you?"

"I thought I told you!" replied the vixen, "There ain't nothing between Panther and myself!"

"Yeah? Well that don't stop him coming calling for you every other day. You tell him should you see him, that he's not welcome here. If I see his smug face around town one more time, I'm putting that creep on ice."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Anyway," said Falco, changing the subject, "why do you feel the need to show up for work a good hour after you were supposed to start?"

"Sorry, boss," replied Krystal, "but there was a bit of a commotion over on the south side. Seems we got a visitor in town."

"Uh huh. And who might this visitor be that you decided work was second on your list of priorities? Are they the sort that might be want to spend a few dollars refreshing themselves?"

"No, boss, but people are talking!" replied the Vixen, "Folks are steering clear on account of the mighty big six shooter he's carting about. Don't think he's here to do us any good."

"Great, last thing we need is another lowlife. Suspect Grey might have something to say about it. No matter, you just get your tail behind the bar, we've got customers."

"Sure thing, boss."

---

The sign on the outskirts may have indicated Agua Fria's population as being some 500, but from what Fox could see as entered the town, there were barely a quarter of that. No-one greeted or spoke to him as he made his way past abandoned houses and run-down stores that dotted the road into the centre of town. The few the were to be found on the streets gave him a wide berth, steering well clear or, at the very least, avoiding eye contact.

"Seems like the sort of place he's hole himself up in."

A small placard, indicating the direction to a saloon by the name of the 'Lone Falcon', was all that he had to go on at this point. Saloons were more often than not his first port of call when arriving in a town on business matters. A dollar or shot of whiskey here and there would loosen a tongue or two, and it was a damn sight easier than dealing with the local authorities.

As Fox was soon to find out.

The approach to the saloon was blocked by five figures on horseback, clearly sporting a range of repeater rifles and shotguns. The four either side of the centre figure had a distinctively disheveled look about them, with faded overcoats and greasy, dirty fur. The figure in the middle horse, however, was well presented, wearing a fine canvas vest and matching hat. The star pinned to his breast immediately identified him as the local sheriff.

"Here we go."

Fox pulled his horse to a stop a dozen yards short of the posse. He had received receptions such as these more than a few times in the past, it was not unusual for the local law enforcement to take issue with outside interference. Still, beyond the borders of his home state, Fox was simply a private citizen, entitled to travel as he pleased.

The weapons aimed at him suggested that he and the sheriff might not see eye to eye on that issue.

"Long journey there, fella?" said the dog, his paws hovering over his holstered revolver, "Where you headed to, maybe I can point you in the right direction?"

"No thank you, friend," replied Fox, "I'm not here to trouble the fine folk, I've just got some business to take care of. You could do me a service and tell me where I might find myself some lodgings."

"I don't think you'd be wanting to stay here, fella, nasty place. I'm sure a fine travelling fox like yourself could do better up in Santa Fe. Should be able to reach by nightfall if you hurry."

It was usual, expected. He had grown weary of such welcomes, and had little patience for those who would turn him away.

"Don't be like that," he said, "I'm not here to cause trouble, just want a place to stay for the night and a hot meal. Some fairer company wouldn't go astray either. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be out of your way."

"Perhaps you're not the type to respond well to polite requests," spat the dog, "whatever you think you're doing here, we don't want it. Got enough trouble as it is. Now get on outta here before I throw you in the lockup."

Fox's paw slowly reached for his revolver.

"Seems like we're at an impasse here, gentlemen," he said, eyes darting between his targets, "perhaps it's providence that I got five chambers in this pistol of mine and there be five you standing here before me. How much trust might you be putting in this rabble you've got here, friend? Are we gunna find out?"

The posse before him clutched their weapons tightly. It was a fight Fox would rather avoid; five against one was hardly promising odds. The dog quickly waved his deputies down, urging them to shoulder their arms.

"Well I'll be, seems we got ourselves a real go-getter here. Tell you what, why don't we pretend like we never met. I advise you take this kindness of mine as an opportunity to scoot your tail on outta here. If you be inclined to stay, though, then you best be watching your back; if I hear so much as peep from you, or if any of these fine folk take issue with yourself being here, then we might just be finding out if five chambers is enough for you."

"Many thanks, friend."

The posse turned tail and galloped away, the deputies leaving Fox with a few choice curses as they disappeared in a cloud of dust.

"Yankees."

---

"Well, well, look what we got ourselves here."

As she paced about the saloon, delivering drinks and plates of food to tables, the approaching Fox caught the blue vixen's eye, dismounting his horse in the street outside.

"Krystal, please, there ain't no time for you to be gawking at every passerby like they might be looking to warm your bed tonight!"

"Aw, come on, boss," said the Vixen, flashing the saloon's proprietor a sultry smile, "don't talk like you've never had the thought yourself."

Falco blushed. True enough, he had only hired the otherwise unreliable vixen for her looks; a sizable portion of the saloon's clientele only frequented the establishment to gape at her ample bosom and shapely rear. Their relationship had, of course, been purely professional, yet temptation was never far away.

"Though I certainly wouldn't mind seeing what this one's packing," she continued, staring out the windows at the fox, now tying his horse up at the provided water trough.

"Jeez louise, girl, get back to work!"

For the next few minutes she continued with her duties, suffering the occasional snide remark from the drunkards sitting in the booths lining the walls. Falco remained behind the bar, serving up the occasional glass of cheap whiskey and attending to matters less savory with a select few of the patrons.

"He'll get himself locked up if he continues with that gambling nonsense," came another vapid comment from a patron.

Krystal was returning to the kitchen with a stack of dirty plates when the saloon doors were flung open. Eyes around the bar shot to the entrance. The fox she had eyed up previously was standing in the doorway, clad in a thick, leather duster and sporting the largest pistol she had ever seen from a holster on his hip. Her keen hearing picked up the murmur of whispers that spread across the saloon.

"He's an outlaw for sure, loose and running. . ."

"Bad news, that one, I can tell from his eyes."

"He's walkin' heavy."

The fox strode confidently through the doorway, making a beeline for Krystal.

"Can I help you, handsome?"

---

As he had intended, Fox had found his way to the saloon. The Lone Falcon, the sole point of sale for alcohol in the area. The town had little to otherwise offer, a general store, telegraph office, a few bootmakers and tanners along with a gunsmith were the only establishments of note. The saloon at least offered him the prospect of a bed for the night, along with a meal. While it was information that he sought, along with a discussion with residents of the town, it was a certain blue-furred vixen that ultimately drew him through the doors.

"Can I help you, handsome?"

Fox stood speechless. In his experience, members of his species were few and far between out here in the western territories, with those that he came across often destitute vagrants. Truthfully, he neither knew nor thought to ask why this was the case; simply taking his relatively good fortune in stride.

The sight before him, however, momentarily pushed any thoughts as to the purpose of his travel to the town from his mind in a most complete manner. She was gorgeous, angelic in her perfection. Her blue fur cascading down the curves of a body tucked tightly into a dress that showed more than an appropriate level of cleavage. Her turquoise eyes stared intently into his own, eyelids fluttering slightly as she smiled.

"Oh. . . hi there," stammered Fox, his voice momentarily caught in his throat, "I'm uh. . . after a room, can you do me one for the night?"

"Sure can!" replied the vixen, "Two dollars for your own room with a bath. For an extra fifty cents we'll even throw in breakfast for you. You'll be wanting to head over and speak to Mr Lombardi, he'll get you sorted out."

"Much obliged, ma'am."

The vixen flashed a final smile over her shoulder as she returned to her work, sensually swishing her tail at Fox. The vulpine stood motionless for a few seconds as his heart pounded in his chest.

"...damn."

His composure still fleeting, Fox strode past the patrons, catching a few weary glances, yet no words, as he walked. The avian, Mr Lombardi if the vixen's words were to be believed, stood behind the bar, eyes locked on Fox. He was dressed in finery, passable even by city standards, and certainly more than adequate for the owner of a backwater saloon in the middle of nowhere.

"Can I help you, sir?" he said, his New England accent sharp and biting compared to the drawls typical of the area.

"I do hope you can," replied Fox, "that pretty little thing over there said you might have some rooms available. Just looking for one night then I'll be gone, don't plan on sticking around all that long."

"I do believe I can, sir. Two dollars plus another half if you want breakfast. I'll just be needing a name."

"Fox McCloud."

"Thank you kindly, and what might you be doing in Agua Fria, Mr McCloud?"

"Actually, I was just about to mention something to that effect," said Fox, "but before I do, I was wondering if you knew yourself a dependable gunsmith, or at least someone who might be able to sell me some ammunition."

"I see, that's your play, is it? Can't say I'm all that surprised, we seem to be attracting less savoury folk quite a bit recently. Far be it from me to tell a man his own business, just make sure you do whatever you need to do out of line of sight of my establishment, and don't go getting Krystal involved, I seen you eyeing her up."

"I might ask that you refrain from such assumptions, friend. My intentions will be well known soon enough."

"Sorry to offend, sir," replied Falco, his voice coy, "can't be too careful these days. If you're wanting for a gunny, your best choice is old Peppy across the way, he'll sort you out. Another word of advice, steer clear of Bill Grey; sheriffs got it in for folks that don't look like they belong here."

"Bill Grey?" asked Fox, "Wouldn't be him and his posse I came across on my way in."

"The one and the same I suspect. Anything else you might need? We got good whiskey here if you're thirsty."

"No thank you, but buy a round for the bar, on me, I'd like to make an announcement if it don't bother you too much," said Fox.

"Be my guest."

Reaching into his duster and turning around to face the patrons of the saloon, Fox pulled out a letter, as thick as his thumb and sealed with wax.

"Ladies and Gentlefolk." he began, his voice not quite deep enough to carry beyond the last row of booths, "My name is Fox McCloud, and I don't mean to take up too much of your time. I've been sent on behalf of the elected representatives of the Territory of Arizona to apprehend an individual suspected to be hiding out in these parts. The outlaw Wolf O'Donnell is wanted, dead or alive, and to that effect the Arizona Territorial Legislature has authorised me to provide payment of forty dollars to whomever provides information leading to his arrest or capture. If you should. . ."

"You got a death wish there, boy?"

One of the patrons, an elderly ape sitting quite near to Fox, had interrupted.

"Is something the matter there, sir?" asked Fox.

"Nothing the matter, less you count wanting to have your head blown off. Think you're the first one to go after the O'Donnell gang? You'd be number twenty one by my count. The other twenty, well, you'll be needing a shovel and a desire to dig through six feet of dirt if you want to talk to them."

"All the more reason someone needs to take him," replied Fox, "might you be knowing where I could find him?"

"Hell, I'll take your forty dollars," said the ape, "you'll be wanting to head out to the old Sargasso mine, hear that's where they be holding out these days. Don't count on you returning though, you'll slip just like the rest of them and end up as just another notch on his pistol."

"Don't you worry about that, you'll have your money should he be in that mine you mentioned and no-one else finds it in them to help me out."

"We'll see."

"Yes we will."

---

Leon pulled back the corrugated iron sheet and slipped into the dark and humid access tunnel. A few lanterns hung from beams, dimly illuminating the passage further into the mine. Despite the lighting, the way ahead was barely lit, the constant particulate matter than hung in the air obscuring any vision beyond a few dozen feet. Stepping cautiously over a pile of discarded mining tools, the charmeleon pressed forward into the depths.

"Boss! Bossss!"

The gold vein had run dry decades ago, along with most other mines in the area. As the miners left, the vagrants moved in, claiming the abandoned shafts and dugouts as their own. With little interest in such matters on the part of law enforcement, it was a simple matter for the O'Donnell gang to take up residence in the Sargasso Gold Mine.

"Bosssss!"

Leon, picking up his pace as the tunnel sloped gently downward, bellowed and screeched ahead. His voice carried far in the confines of the mine, sure to be heard by his waiting partners. After a few dozen yards, the tunnel flattened and widened, coming to a large, well lit open area, cleared of rubble and detritus. It was here that they had made themselves their encampment. A fire crackled in the centre of the den, warming the air to a temperature slightly above comfortable, but nonetheless providing necessary lighting. Strewn about the area were a number of bedrolls and personal effects, placed upon aging tables or stacked on worn wooden shelves. Of particular note was a large, sturdy workbench, perhaps some twelve feet long. Arranged haphazardly about its surface was a veritable armoury of weapons, ranging from revolvers and shotguns, to long rifles and repeaters. More notable still was the unmistakable outline of a maxim gun, a weapon recently pilfered by the gang on a heist against federal agents crossing through the territories to the west coast. In part, it was for this reason that they had spent the past few days hiding away in the mine.

"Boss, we've got a problem!"

Wolf O'Donnell, wanted outlaw, notorious gunslinger and leader of the O'Donnell gang, sat at the workbench with his boots up, turning a finely engraved revolver over in his paws.

"And what might that be?" he asked, his tone one of disinterest and boredom.

The chameleon inched closer, wary of the wolf. While not prone to bursts out anger or aggression like a number of his previous employers, the lupine was far from kind to those he perceived as incompetent.

"Well, uh," stammered Leon, "sssome fox in town is looking for you, saysss he's offering forty dollarsss for your head."

Wolf chuckled, "Forty dollars? Is that all? Panther, how much did that last guy offer you to rat me out?"

"Two hundred," came the reply, deep and silky smooth.

"Perhaps I'm losing it," mused Wolf, setting the revolver down, "you think so, Leon? I mean, forty dollars is a handy little pay packet, but I was hoping perhaps I'd warrant a bit more."

"I uh. . ." the lizard glanced nervously about.

"And yet here you are, running down here like we got a hundred feds bearing down on us, all because what, some mutt comes riding into town waving a scarce lick of a bounty above his head?"

"I. . . I jusssst thought."

"Aw hell," continued Wolf, "perhaps I am losing in. We only had to shoot half a dozen men that last job. Was it half a dozen, Panther?"

"Five."

"There you go. Five men, just like that. What might this fox's name be?" he asked.

"McCloud. Fox McCloud."

"Uh huh, and what makes Mr McCloud so special?"

"He ssssaid he was a ranger from over Arizona way," replied Leon, "had himself an awfully big gun, wassssn't doing too good a job of hiding it neither. He's either just showboating, or he's here for some businesssss. Take your pick, boss."

"Let's say he's here with putting a few chunks of lead in me on his mind," said Wolf, "think you might be able to see to it that that doesn't happen, or do I need to go myself?"

"Uh, yeah!" said Leon, his voice rising, "I'll get on it!"

"Maybe you might want to be reminding Bill Grey of our agreement, perhaps he can just send this mutt on his way."

Wolf watched Leon scamper his way back up the access tunnel towards the entrance to the mine. He gave the chameleon fifty-fifty odds of being able to remove this latest inconvenience. He was more than confident in his own abilities; the twenty kills notched up on his pistol proof of that. He was, however, more than just a good shot, he was ruthless and cunning. He knew that fear was just as effective at preying on small towns as bullets and knives. To that end, facing all comers himself would be unseemly; the allure of the outlaw was steeped in mystery, something Wolf was careful to cultivate. In keeping a low profile, he made his public appearances all the more intimidating. He wasn't about to lose sleep over some fox from the territories.

"Forty dollars now. . ."

---

"There you go, room's all yours for the night," said Krystal, motioning through the doorway, "I'll draw a warm bath for you at seven o'clock."

"Many thanks, ma'am."

"You know," she continued, shuffling a little close, "I'm finishing up just after. A fox wouldn't be included to buy a lady a drink after he's done doing whatever he does, would he?"

"He just might," replied Fox, "that's of course if what he done does doesn't do him in."

Krystal giggled, "You're cute. Are you really planning on taking down O'Donnell?"

"That's the idea, unless someone comes up with a better one."

"I might venture that you just drop it," said the vixen, her voice suddenly dour, "not just for your own hide's sake, mind you. You wouldn't have come all the way over from Arizona if he was just some small-time crook. He's bad news, and he don't got his reputation for nothing, no telling what he'll do once he finds out someone's fit to take him."

"I'll get him," said Fox, "don't you worry your pretty little head."

Krystal forced out a meek smile, "well alright then, s'pose I gotta get that drink off you anyhow."

Without saying another word, the vixen spun on the spot and started off down the narrow corridor, headed back towards the bar. Fox watched her depart before entering his room and depositing his travel pack on the creaky wooden bed. His possessions were meagre; a few fresh pairs of undergarments, a few days rations and camping supplies, as well as the clothes on his back.

And of course, his revolver.

The room itself showed little sign of recent use. One of four the saloon offered for rent; the worn door frame and handle, along with the well trodden rug suggested that it had once seen better days and more frequent custom. In days past, saloons such as this were welcome stops for travellers heading west toward the pacific. In its current state, however, the thick layer of dust and fading curtains rang true to a town down on its luck, devoid of much needed income from both its now dry mines and hospitality establishments. Fox, however, was not here to revitalise the local economy.

The walk to the gunsmith recommended to him by the barman served only to reinforce his rapidly deteriorating opinion of the town. Eyes followed him up the street, yet no-one came close, going so far as to duck behind a building or rapidly change direction as he approached. Icy receptions were par for the course in his line of work, but this was something else, as if the entire town was gripped by fear. Even the children, ever curious towards new arrivals in most towns, were sullen and reclusive, playing by themselves, if at all.

"You'd find more cheer at the gallows."

Ignoring the townsfolk, Fox pushed on until he came to the gunsmith's shop. Compared to many of the other buildings in town, this one had been maintained to a high standard. The windows were clean and dust free, the door freshly painted and signed, reading very simply 'Peppy's'. A pair of painted revolvers completed the signage.

His paw instinctively brushing over his own weapon, Fox pushed the door open and entered.

"Well good morning, Mr McCloud," said the proprietor, an elderly rabbit, "what can we get done for you today?"

"Really? That fast?" replied Fox, slightly surprised that his name was already known.

"Hardly, but you can't just expect yerself to be walking into town, waving yer bounty about and claiming you're gonna take down that O'Donnell brute without folks taking notice. Don't take but five minutes to run from one end of Agua Fria to the other, easy to find out when strangers come a visiting."

"Nice to know someone is taking notice," said Fox, "what's your name, friend?"

"Peppy Hare, at your service. Now, about why you be finding yerself in my humble little shop."

Fox pulled out his revolver and deposited it on the counter with a clunk.

"Needing myself a few pounds of bullets for this old thing," he said, "think you might be able to oblige?"

Peppy cautiously reached forward and took up the revolver in his paw. He carefully inspected the weapon, turning it over several times in his paw to note the proofing stamps.

"Cornerian Ironworks single action," he said, replacing the pistol upon the benchtop, "model eighteen seventy seven if I'm not mistaken. Fifty-seventy government, pretty rare cartridge, not going to find many places stocking them this side of the Mississippi, folks these days are running around with the Forty-five Colt. Any reason you be needing something so big?"

"Long story," said Fox, picking up the revolver and shoving it into his holster, "I'm taking it you don't have any?"

"Sorry, Mr McCloud, can't say that I do. Could always sell you a new gun, got a nice little number here for five dollars."

"No thanks, friend. I'll be leaving, then."

"You might not be headed out Sargasso way?" asked Peppy, narrowing his eyes.

"That I am," replied Fox, "no sense giving O'Donnell time to dig himself into that hole."

"Christ son, you got a deathwish? You're not the first to try and I dare say you won't be the last. Won't stop you, though, you're free to act as you see fit. Word of warning, though, sold one of his boys a couple hundred rounds of three-oh-three british a few days back, heaven only knows what they need so much lead for, but you better be expecting to come up against some serious firepower."

"Noted," said Fox, "thank you kindly. Best be off, wouldn't want to keep O'Donnell waiting."

A voice hissed in the doorway, low and sinister.

"That won't be necesssssary."

---

Typically, Falco would have paid little attention to the shots as they rung out across the town. Gunfights were common, with disputes often ending poorly for one or both involved parties. From time to time he may have to patch up a hole on the exterior of the saloon, or replace a shattered window, courtesy of a wayward piece of lead.

This time, with the arrival of one Fox McCloud that very morning, such events were unlikely to be mere coincidence. Risking a peek out the window, Falco peered across at the source of the sound.

"Darn it, McCloud, what did I tell ya!"

He recognised the chameleon, Leon Powalski, immediately. One of the O'Donnell gang, the lizard was known for being snide and devious, with a cruelty streak more pronounced than that of even his boss. As he currently was, he was displaying none of these qualities, choosing instead to empty round after round from a lever action shotgun through the doorway of Peppy's gunshop. Falco would have given one hundred to one odds that Fox was in there.

Ducking back from the window, the avian called out for his bar girl.

"Krystal! Bring me my gun!"

---

It was fortunate for Fox and Peppy that Leon, among other things, was a poor shot. The first cloud of pellets flew high, shattering the glass ammunition cabinet behind the counter. The second shot was lower, but wide, this time peppering the counter itself, throwing splinters into the face of the fox and rabbit.

"Down!" screamed Fox, vaulting the counter.

He landed hard, bringing Peppy down with him in the process as more shots flew overhead, showering the pair with splinters.

"I'm here for your hide, foxxy!" yelled the lizard, pacing slowly into the store, "Make it easy and show yourself!"

He let loose a few more shots, working the lever with each round. Fox pulled out his revolver and turned to Peppy. The rabbit was counting.

"Five, six. . ."

"You alright there, Peppy?" asked Fox.

"Winchester," he said, "bastard's only got a single shell left. Only gunna be able to hit one of us. How's your shooting arm?"

"Good enough that I won't miss from ten feet," said Fox.

The pair nodded to each other and grasped their weapons tighter, Peppy producing his own revolver from under the counter, a smaller single-action army model. Tensing up, they prepared to spring.

A warm barrel pressed against the top of Fox's skull.

"Shoot! How'd he get over here so quiet-like?"

"Thought you were going to get the sssspring on Leon, did you?" hissed the lizard.

"Easy their friend. . ."

"Up, foxxy, drop the heavy," he commanded, speaking slowly, his voice dripping with malice.

Fox's revolver clattered to the wooden floor.

"And yoursss," he continued, motioning toward Peppy.

The rabbit's revolver followed suite.

Standing up, Fox turned about to face his captor. The chameleon was grinning broadly, menacingly brandishing the shotgun in Fox's face, the barrel still smoking.

"Think you can jusssst waltz in here mouthing off all that claptrap?" hissed Leon, "Think you can jusssst talk about the bossss like that?"

"With words like those, I'd reckon you'd be with O'Donnell," replied Fox.

"Sharp, sharp, I can see why they sssent you. Perhaps I'll walk you outside and we'll see what colour your brainssss are, make an example for all the good folks in town that you don't messsss with Wolf O'Donnell!"

"Yeah?" came a voice from behind the lizard, "Well, chalk me up for messin' with him, then."

Falco Lombardi, sporting a long, lever-action rifle, stood just inside the doorway. The weapon was trained squarely on Leon's head.

"Sssstay out of this, bird."

"No can do," replied Falco, stepping forward, "see you've got a customer of mine there at gunpoint, and he's fixin' for buying everyone a round at my humble establishment once we run your scaley hide out of town."

"The fox isss a dead man, you know that!"

"I don't recall asking your opinion!" he said, taking another step, "Now judging by those there bullet holes, seems to me that you're not the fanciest shot around here, so I do suggest you take yourself and scoot!"

Falco racked the action, loading a round into the chamber.

"Now go on, get!"

Leon glanced nervously about. The situation was clearly stacked against him. Any action that he chose to take other than compliance would very likely result in a bullet to the skull. He dropped the shotgun to the floor and walked slowly towards the exit, eyes locking with Falco's as he passed.

"I'm going to enjoy plucking the featherssss from your corpse, bird."

"Don't count on it, show your face around here again and I'll be turning that scaly hide of yours into a pair of boots."

With Falco's weapon still trained on him, Leon slunk out the door, disappearing quickly from view. Falco let out a sigh of relief.

"All good there, Mr McCloud?"

"Thanks for the timely rescue," replied Fox, brushing some splinters from his duster, "you still with us, Peppy?"

"Yep. Sure am. Going to take more than that yellow bellied coward to do me in."

"He nearly did have us there," continued Fox, "seems to me that certain people in this here town are fed up with O'Donnell and his gang of crooks."

Falco looked slightly sheepish at the remark, "I uh. . . I gotta say, Mr McCloud, I might not have been so hurried in my getting over here if it was Wolf rather than Leon losing all them shells at you."

"By my guessing, if it was O'Donnell, I don't think we'd be standing here talking about it."

The trio stood in solace for a while, Peppy occasionally bemoaning the loss of merchandise as he picked through the ruins of his ammunition cabinet. Poor aim aside, close range buckshot blasts had a habit of hitting just about everything in front of them.

"Falco," said Fox, turning to face the blue bird, "why you seein' fit to help me out all of a sudden?"

"Let's just say it's not entirely about you, I've got my own reason for wanting to see the backs of those hoodlums."

"I won't pry, then. You going to be alright, old timer?"

"I'll be a darn sight better once we're rid of them thugs," replied Peppy, a touch of anger in his voice, "if you was to put a bullet in his head I'd not lose a wink of sleep over it."

"I'm sure the legislature would rather I bring him back," said Fox, "but we're some ways from Phoenix. Things do happen out here."

Without further discussion, the bird and the fox walked outside, leaving Peppy to attend to the damage. Leon was nowhere to be seen. Standing directly in front of the shop, mounted on horseback and flanked by his motley posse, however, was Bill Grey.

"Now what did I say not this very morning about causing a ruckus up in my town?" he began, smirking broadly to his compatriots.

"Nice to see you too, Sheriff," spat Falco, "coming running as soon as the shooting stops."

"Don't recall addressing that comment at you, bird," said Bill, "unless you think we should be having a chat with you along with your little friend there."

"Sheriff," started Fox, "I was just conducting some business of a personal nature when one of your resident hoodlums saw to open up on us. Don't see how we're to blame."

"All I see is one shot up store, an outlaw fox and a townsfolk rightfully scared."

The posse dismounted their horses, save for Bill Grey, and cautiously approached Fox, paw on his weapon.

"Now, I think you should be coming with me, we'll have ourselves a nice little talk at the lockup." said Bill.

Fox waved Falco away as he moved to protest. There was little sense in arguing here. For one reason or another, local law enforcement in Agua Fria appeared to have it in for the vulpine. Not unprecedented, and certainly not something he hadn't experienced before. Nevertheless, it was an inconvenience, one that might allow O'Donnell to give him the slip.

"Well alright, Sheriff, I'll come quietly."

"I thought you might."

The lockup was located at the other end of the town, a walk straight down the main street. Escorted as he was by Bill Grey and his posse, Fox no doubt confirmed the suspicions of those looking on that he was, in fact, an outlaw. The walk itself was relatively short, and apart from a few witticisms from Grey's deputies, undertaken in silence. Arriving a few minutes after the faux-arrest, the posse dismounted and shoved Fox towards the lockup.

"Woah there. . ."

Any further complaints he may have had were to amount to nothing. As he was shoved through the doorway into the small, dingy sheriff's office, Bill's truncheon connected with the back of his skull. Head spinning and vision blurring, Fox fell forward, landing hard on the wooden floor. Before he could reach for his pistol, a second blow connected, this time a boot kicked viciously into his ribs.

"I told you, but you type are always so stubborn and self-righteous. See to him, boys."

His attempts to defend himself futile. Fox's world went black in a flurry of kicks, punches and jeers.

---

"Back so soon?"

Leon, for a good few moments, seriously considered letting his final shell off in the big cat's face.

"There were some problemsssss," he replied coldly, "that sssstupid bird Lombardi decided to get involved."

"A barman and a drifter," said Panther, doing little to hide his sarcasm, "quite the foes. I'm surprised you made it back alive."

"Shut it, Panther," came a booming voice from deeper in the mine, "your words aren't going to make this problem go away."

"My apologies."

Leon walked forward, closing in on the figure of Wolf O'Donnell, sitting leisurely by a small fire. He kept his scaly hands in front of him, as if to fend off a sudden attack.

"Bossss," he began, glancing nervously about the mine, "I. . . ran into a little issssue with the Fox."

"So I heard," came Wolf's reply, his gaze still fixed on the fire, "do tell why you're back here without his head."

"Well, it's just that Lombardi decided to get all tangled up in it, and Grey's not being cooperative, thinksssss he's going to make the town hissss own."

Wolf finally stood up, and motioned for Leon to join him. The pair made their way towards a tunnel entrance, one that would take them deeper into the mine. The chameleon followed several paced behind his boss, nervously glancing over his shoulder as the tunnel darkened.

"Remember Pigma?" said Wolf, now holding his own lantern to light the way.

"Yesss, I do."

"I trusted him. He said something similar to what you did just this morning, said he'd go and take care of a problem for me."

"Bossss," protested Leon, coming to a halt, "the fox issssssn't some drifter. He'sss here to do us a world of hurt. We've. . ."

"YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT!!!" screamed Wolf, grabbing Leon by his jacket collar, "I send you out to do some work and you make me look a right fool!"

Leon wasn't able to resist, Wolf was far stronger. The chameleon was dragged forward several feet to the point where the lupine had been standing. With a mighty heave, Wolf hoisted Leon from the ground and held him out, dangling him over the shaft that marked the end of the tunnel. The ground dropped away into blackness, marking certain death should wolf release him.

"Do you remember what happened to Pigma after he failed?" snarled Wolf, "Are you feeling fit to join him?"

"No, no boss! Please!"

"Please what?" he continued, "You best convince me in the next ten seconds or we'll be finding out just how deep this here hole is!"

"Alright, alright, look," stammered Leon, eyes wide in panic, "Grey beat up the fox real good, sssaw it myself I did. He's not fit for fighting no more, we jussst gotta head on in and finish it off. He's already caused big enough a fusssss in town, folks won't be thinkin' it out of place if you were to show up."

Wolf released his grip.

As it turned out, the shaft of the old Sargasso mine was some two hundred feet deep. After a good four seconds of blood curdling screaming, Leon's body hit the ground with the sickening crack of shattering bones. Spitting down upon the now former member of his gang, Wolf turned around and came face to face with Panther.

"Working for you is getting dangerous," the big cat spoke, "perhaps I should ask for a pay rise."

"What did I tell you about that there mouth of yours," shot Wolf, his eyes full of anger, "load up the maxim, we're paying the fox a visit in the morning."

"Why wait?" asked Panther, "It's dark, people will be sleeping. Easy to get in and out, nice and quiet."

"We're not doing it nice and quiet. We're doing it loud."

"If that's how you want to play this."

"It is."

---

"Anything else, boss?"

Falco placed a tray of dirty mugs on the countertop. The day had been long, and with the threat of some manner of retaliation from the O'Donnell gang, his mood had suffered greatly.

"No, that should be it, Krystal, scoot on home," he replied, wiping his brow with his wing.

Depositing her apron on the bartop, Krystal made for the door.

"Wait," called Falco, "see if you can't be a good girl and stop by the lockup, see what Grey's gone and done with my customer."

Krystal's ears perked up, "Sure thing!"

It was well and truly past dusk when Krystal walked out of the Lone Falcon. The street was near deserted, with only a few drunkards and vagrants picking their way about. Despite the temperatures reached during the day, there was a distinctive chill in the nighttime air, frosting her breath. Bundling her coat about her torso, she struck out. The vixen made it some three steps before a meek whimper caught her attention.

"Hello. . . uh, sir. . . oh my lord, Fox!"

Fox McCloud, battered, bruised and barely conscious, had been unceremoniously dumped in the water trough outside the saloon. His arms and head hung limply over the lip of the trough, with the remainder of his body submerged in the fetid water.

". . . who's. . . who's that?" he gasped, voice barely audible.

Krystal rushed over, plunging her paws into the cold water and hauling Fox out. He was limp in her arms, eyes unfocused and jaw hanging slack. Kneeling down in the dirt and cradling his head, she spoke softly.

"Who did this to you?"

Fox coughed up a bit of water, wincing at what could well be a broken rib or two, before responding.

"Grey. . . Bill Grey and his goons," he said, "right roughed me up. . ."

"That I can see," replied Krystal, "how you end up in the sheriff's sights, anyway?"

"Don't really matter, just get. . . just get me up to my room, I'm fit for resting."

Krystal helped Fox to his feet. His legs were weak, and he was barely able to make it up the few steps to the saloon door. Pushing inside, they made their way across the barroom floor.

"Jeez, Krystal, I told you to check on him, not bring his corpse in here!"

"I'm alive, Falco. . . barely."

Krystal deposited Fox into a chair, propping his head up against the wall.

"He's hurt real bad, boss," she said, concern evident in her voice, "got your medical box?"

Falco shook his head, "Not here. Might have a few bandages. Take Mr McCloud up to his room and draw him a bath, he reeks of something foul."

Again picking him up, Krystal threw Fox's arm around her shoulder and the pair made their way up the rickety staircase to the saloon's upper level, the vulpine grimacing in pain with every step. Courtesy of Fox's injuries and the vixen's diminutive stature, the journey, a mere fifty feet, took them some five minutes. Arriving in Fox's room, Krystal deposited him gently onto the bed.

"Boiler's still running," she said, "I'll up and fetch you some warm water."

Fox simply lay on the bed, motionless, as Krystal darted from the room, running hurriedly down the stairs. For what seemed like hours he waited, gazing up at the ceiling. The still-burning stumps of candles littered the room, casting a soft, flickering glow across the walls. Earlier, he had heard Falco talking about the possibility of Agua Fria receiving electric power in the near future. For the time, however, Fox was content to resort to candles and fireplaces. Electric telegraphs were one thing, but having electricity pumped directly into homes and businesses? It just seemed off.

Over the next ten minutes, Krystal made several trips, emptying pails of steaming water into the cast iron bathtub present in the room.

"Here you are, handsome," she said, emptying her last bucket of water into the tub, "a good soak and you'll be right as rain."

Fox sat up from the bed. His clothing was still soaked, as were the bedsheets. Standing up, he paced his way slowly towards the tub, limping with every step.

"Woah there!" said Krystal, moving over and placing her paw on Fox's chest, "Can't have you getting in the tub all dressed up. Let me help you out of those."

Despite the pain and injuries, Fox blushed. Krystal's paws roamed over his body, dropping his duster to the floor before working at the buttons on his shirt. His fur did little to cover the extensive bruising on his torso. Purple splotches were easily visible, marking a good portion of his left side, as well as about his shoulders and neck. A few specks of dried blood stuck to his fur, the dark red of the streaks combining with the bruises and dirt to give a haggard, beaten appearance.

"Uh, ma'am. . . you don't. . ."

"Call me Krystal."

"S-sure, Krystal," he stammered, "I'm. . . I'm not sure you should be here while I'm bathing, wouldn't be proper to have a lady present.

Krystal leaned forward, speaking huskily into his ear, "I don't mind."

Her paws moved from his shirt buttons his his belt buckle, unclasping it and allowing his worn and dusty trousers to drop to the floor.

"Well, seems that everything is working just fine down here!" she said, a hint of mischief in her voice. Her paws drifted lower, fingertips walking their way across the creamy white fur of his belly.

"Let's find out. . ."

Fox has completely forgotten the pain he was in. His heart pounded in his chest, thumping heavily against his ribs, and his breaths came in short and sharp. He could smell her, a rich, intoxicating scent, the scent of something he hadn't had in a long time.

Krystal's fingers closed about his shaft, squeezing his hardness. Slowly, she moved her paw up and down, stroking him, each motion bringing out a small gasp from Fox, his eyes now closed.

"Is this for me?" her voice was like honey, lusty and heated.

Fox could barely respond. It had been so long since he had felt anything like this; the soft, delicate touch of a female.

"Y-yes. . ."

He reached out with his paw.

"Come on, Fox," said Krystal, taking it without hesitation.

"Uh. . . aren't we?"

"The tub, hop in, I'll scrub you down." She shot him a sultry wink.

Feeling slightly foolish, Fox eased himself into the warm, balmy water. Within seconds, the aches and pains suffered at the paws of Bill Grey melted away. He hadn't bathed in a week, and it felt good to recline in the deep, heavyset tub. Krystal's paws worked gently at his scalp and back, massaging out the dirt and the soreness, sending him into a blissful state of relaxation. For the next twenty minutes, he sat in silence, eyes closed, simply enjoying the attention and company. Thoughts of how to handle O'Donnell left him completely, he needed only concern himself with the present.

And with Krystal.

"You just sit there and soak for a while," she said, standing up and making for the door, "I'll be back in a moment with a towel for you."

Fox stretched out, pushing his arms up and behind his head. He was still sore, and his ribs would more than likely need attending to, but he was otherwise content.

"Perhaps this town isn't so bad."

His relaxed demeanour left him in a heartbeat at the sight of Krystal re-entering the room.

Wearing nothing but a white towel.

Speechless, he watched the blue vixen pace slowly towards the tub, swaying her hips as she walked. Before he could open his mouth to comment, the towel dropped, folding itself on the floor at her feet. She stood in front of him, shamelessly and with nothing left to the imagination. Her breasts, pert and firm, stuck out, nipples already hard and pointed. A slim, yet curvaceous figure slid down from her shoulders, exotic blue and white fur giving way to more delicate and intimate parts as it descended down her form.

She moved her right foot, stepping outward and parting her thighs ever so slightly, her hips canted to the side.

The smell that had assaulted his nose before now returned, redoubling and sending his mind into a spin. He could see, too, just how eager she was for this. Delicious, glistening lips parted ever so slightly, the silky smooth fur lining her thighs already slightly damp with her essence, dripping from her cunt.

She smiled at him, "I've got something for you too, Foxy."

"Krystal. . ."

Placing one leg over the lip of the tub, she climbed in, lazily and calm, deliberately giving Fox a long eyeful of her shapely rear.

"Uh, Krystal," Said Fox, his heartbeat heightening once again, "what. . ."

Krystal leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Fox's neck.

"You don't look so beat up to me," she breathed, "if you're still itching to take down O'Donnell, might as well have yourself some fun before the shooting starts."

"I'm. . . what about the other guests. Falco won't be appreciating a ruckus up here."

"What other guests?"

"Fair point."

"Besides," she continued, pressing herself closer, "you might be dead by this time tomorrow. I'd like to get to know you before then, even if just a little."

"Well," replied Fox, abandoning his composure and returning the embrace, "my father did always say I should be trusting in my instincts."

Krystal pressed her lips to his, their kiss deep and passionate, "And what might your instincts be telling you right about now?"

"That I sh. . .ooohhhhh," his reply was cut off by the blue furred vixen sitting herself down in his lap, her soft, shapely rump pressing into his lap, thighs straddling either side of his own legs. He was hard, very hard, and his cock now pressed itself against her stomach.

"Are they telling you to fuck me?"

She shifted forward, sliding herself slowly over his foxhood. Her pussy kissed his member, lips parting as she glided her sex up his shaft until his tip found her entrance.

"I think they are," replied Fox. His paws slipped down her back, criss-crossing over each other until they settled on her rump, giving each cheek a firm squeeze in turn before running up her full, voluptuous tail.

She pressed down, pushing the tip of his foxcock into her love tunnel.

"Then fuck me, Mr McCloud,' she moaned, eyes fluttering closed, "ravish me. Rape me until morning. Do whatever you want with me just. . ."

Hot, warm vixen cunt engulfed Fox's shaft.

". . . fuck me!"

---

Bill Grey rode alone. An early morning visit from the silver-tongued Panther Caroso had seen him called, sans posse, to meet with Wolf O'Donnell just outside of town. He had only met with the outlaw once before, back when he had first been given stewardship over the town's law enforcement. The wolf had been very clear; leave us to conduct our business and we'll stay out of the town, if not, then there would be hell to pay.

And hell to pay there had been.

The first instance had been that of an overzealous deputy thinking he was right for taking down the gang, either by his own paw or seeing them hanged through judicious application of due process. In the end, whatever approach he may have had in mind mattered little, his body was found nailed to town's welcome sign several days later. It had been more than a warning, it was a threat, a threat Bill Grey had to heed, lest he wanted to see more of those under his command meet the same fate. Now, he had another incident on his paws, one concerning a certain out-of-town fox and the unwanted attention he had drawn. McCloud's stubbornness may well have ruined what was otherwise an amicable, albeit deeply lopsided, relationship between the town and the O'Donnell gang.

"Would have thought the hell be beat out of him back there might have given him cause to change his mind."

With the town disappearing behind him, window lights still flickering in the early morning twilight, Bill pushed his horse onward, galloping across the desert plains. The meeting spot was several miles out of town, a secluded gully between two mesas where they were unlikely to be disturbed. Naturally, Bill had his reservations. The canine had learned long ago that the law in these parts was merely a matter of perspective. As much as he may have the written form of it on his side, pieces of paper counted for little when bullets were involved. And so he had made his deals, run his little side business and generally kept himself a step above the rest, even if in doing so he might allow the occasional misdemeanor to go unnoticed.

Perhaps more than occasional.

The mesas loomed ahead, silhouetted against the steadily brightening sky. Bill slowed his horse to a trot, weary of the disadvantaged position he would be putting himself in when he finally entered the gully. Whatever vestiges of honour Bill Grey once had had long since left him, but it would be fair to say that he was still appreciative of the concept. Wolf O'Donnell, on the other hand, was rotten to the core.

"O'Donnell!" He yelled as his came to the entrance to the gully, his voice carrying through the depression, "I'm here, just like you done asked."

The response came in the form of a bullet fired from a bolt-action rifle. The supersonic round cut through the air with a crack and sliced deeply into the flesh of his horse. The unfortunate creature reared up, blood erupting from its mouth and nostrils as the vital fluid was pumped into the shredded lungs by the still-beating heart. With a guttural shriek, it fell sideways, taking Bill Grey with it. He landed hard, pain rocketing up through his leg as the bone snapped under the weight of the horse. Pinned and unable to move, his paw shot for his pistol.

The second round pierced through the flesh of his wrist, all but removing his paw.

Bill clutched at the mangled remains of the appendage, screaming in agony. For a good two minutes he did little else, the entirety of his senses overwhelmed by pain and the smell of blood. He had never been shot before, and was completely unprepared for the fiery sting that now assailed his every nerve ending. Slowly, the sensation subsided from blinding torment to the utmost, throbbing ache. With it, came a measure of control.

"O'Donnell you mongrel!" he cursed, his voice raspy and hoarse from the screaming.

There was no response. He lay, immobile and vulnerable and without the means to retaliate, expecting the final shot to come at any moment.

It didn't.

Barely discernible among the rocks and vegetation, the figure of Wolf O'Donnell made its way down from the ridgeline marking the edge of the mesa towards where Bill lay. He carried no longarm, suggesting that the shot had come from one of his stooges. Casually as if he was simply passing by the way, he strutted up to the canine, opening his arms as if to embrace a friend.

"Well, well, Sheriff, fancy we should be seeing you out here all by your lonesome." he mocked.

"Cut to it, O'Donnell," snarled Bill, "what do you want?"

"What do I want?" replied the Wolf, "I want for that deal we struck to mean something. Seems that the folks in town have gotten it into their heads that perhaps we're somehow not worth the time of day no more. Wasn't that something you were supposed to handle, or maybe I wasn't clear enough the first time!"

"I heard ya, what do you expect me to do, shoot every passerby we get?"

"Might be a start. Maybe then you wouldn't be having so much TROUBLE!"

Wolf delivered a vicious kick to Bill's ribs. The canine doubled over as the pain returned, more brilliant than before.

"I swear," said Wolf, removing his own pistol from its holster and pointing it at Bill's head, "I swear by my fluffy grey tail, I will end whoever sees fit to take me. Perhaps you was thinking that fox was the one to do it, huh? Maybe he'd come by and I'd not be your concern no more? Is that it, Bill? Is that what you was thinking?"

"No, Wolf, I. . ."

Wolf fired, depositing the round several inches to the left of Bill's head.

"No you what?" No you didn't think so? Maybe you thought that you and those useless boneheads you keep around would be enough to muscle some drifter into doing what he was told."

Another bullet, this time to the right.

"Maybe I'm overthinking," he continued, shrugging, "maybe you're just incompetent. I see no reason why you'd want to try and slip me up. You wouldn't do that, would you?"

Bill shook his head vigorously.

"But you see, Bill, I'm in a bit of a bind. I can't go blaming all this on you, one of my own made a right mess of things, something that makes us both look like fools. So I'm heading in to sort it out, make sure no-one's under any delusion as to what happens when you step out of line."

"Wolf," said Bill, his voice as calm as he could manage, "if you're after Fox McCloud, you go right ahead and take him. I want no part of this anymore, ya hear?"

"That's the plan," said Wolf, crouching down and nudging Bill's head with the barrel of his revolver, "but we can't just let this little shortcoming of yours slide, now can we?"

"Please. . . no. . ."

"Aw hell, Bill, I ain't gunna shoot you. I'd have had Panther take your head off with that fancy rifle of his if that was my agenda. Besides, no fun in shooting a man while he's down."

Wolf reached behind him and pulled out a second revolver. Removing all but one round from the cylinder, he dropped it in the dirt next to Bill.

"Don't look to me like you're going anywhere in a hurry," he said, "perhaps if you holler loud enough someone might hear you. I'd say you've got yourself maybe a day; get's right hot out here."

As if to illustrate the point, Wolf reached down, opening Bill's saddlebag and retrieving his waterskin.

"Panther's gunna need this," he continued, "poor fellow's gotta lug the Maxim all the way into town. Right heavy work, that."

"What? Maxim? As in gun? No, you can't!"

"Oh I can," said Wolf with a grin, "and I will."

Bill looked at the revolver lying beside him. For a brief moment, he considered picking it up and putting a bullet into the outlaw. Of course, such an action would be suicidal; O'Donnell wasn't stupid, whoever had made those first two shots was almost certainly still covering him. He'd be dead before he'd even sighted his target.

Resigning himself to his fate, he spoke one last time, "Just go, you bastard."

Tucking his own pistol back into its holster, Wolf O'Donnell simply walked away without another word.

It would be the last time either of them spoke.

---

Fox awoke. The scent of a certain vixen still hung heavily in the air, a scent which he simply lay and indulged himself in a for a few minutes. Otherwise, he was aching, perhaps more so than he had been the preceding day. His cracked ribs throbbed painfully, the fractures exacerbated by the escapades of the previous evening. A hurt, but a hurt that was worthwhile. Slowly, he eased himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and placing his feet upon the floor. It was well past sunrise, with light streaming into the room and the temperature steadily rising to uncomfortable levels.

"Darn, what time is it?"

He glanced around for a clock, but found none. Instead, he located his clothing, freshly pressed and folded on a tattered and frayed armchair at the foot of the bed. He spent a good ten minutes dressing himself, taking care not to further aggravate his wounds. The sounds from the barroom suggested that the working day was well and truly underway, Falco no doubt wringing his customers for every cent they had, and Krystal bouncing about, cheerfully serving drinks and food.

"Krystal."

Fox grinned. It had been a good while since he had enjoyed such fine company, fine enough that he might consider sticking around if and when O'Donnell had been taken care of. His own share of the bounty the wolf would bring in could see him here for another two weeks. He could certainly use the time off.

Fox collected his revolver from the bedside table, thrusting it into his holster, before throwing his duster over his shoulders and making for the stairs. The day was getting on, and he still had a job to do, broken ribs or not. He grimaced, hiding it as best he could as he picked his way down the staircase and onto the barroom floor.

"Well, the prodigal son awakens."

"And a good morning to you too, Falco," replied Fox, "what time might it be?"

"Ten past the eleventh hour by my reckoning."

Krystal was moving behind the bar, filling glasses with ale and whiskey. She flashed Fox and smile and a wink as she responded to a call from a customer, giving a little skip as she pranced across the floor.

"Wonder what's put her in a good mood," mused Falco, "we were downright morose last night when you ended up in that there water trough. Though, it doesn't seem to have done you much in the way of harm."

Fox grasped at his side, "You might say that, friend, but if you could feel what I be feeling, you might be singing a different tune."

"Didn't mean to presume."

Fox accepted a glass of whiskey from the bird and downed it in one gulp. The sensation was pleasant, even if it were the first thing that had touched his lips that morning. He briefly entertained the thought of a second, but pushed the idea aside. It would be unbecoming for a ranger to be anything but sober on the job.

"Here you go, handsome!"

A steaming plate of food, piled high with sausages, eggs and bacon, was deposited in front of Fox by a broadly smiling Krystal. The smell assaulted his olfactory senses, greasy and tempting. Realising that he hadn't eaten since arriving, he immediately set to work devouring the meal, hunger overwhelming all other concerns for a brief few minutes. Once finished, he sat back, leaning on the bartop with a satisfied grin.

"Damn, can't be sayin' that I've had a meal that fine fixed up for me in quite a while"

"Glad you liked it!"

"What's the charge?"

"On the house," interjected Falco, "figure the least I can do is give a mean a free meal before he up and puts his life on the line."

"A lot of folks been saying that," replied Fox, "I haven't seen hide nor hair of O'Donnell so far. For someone so feared, he does an awful lot of hiding."

"Don't go pushing it, twenty men before you said the same thing. Talking don't get you too far out here."

"Noted," said Fox, "though rough as his reputation may be, he's gunna be needin' to answer for his crimes before a court of law. Ain't no escape."

"I'm thinking he might disagree with you there," said Falco, "law's a fickle thing."

"I've been coming to realise that myself."

Pacing back towards Fox with an armful of dirty mugs, Krystal spoke again, "Seconds?"

"No, thank you."

Fox admired the vixen's shapely form as she returned to the kitchen for all of five seconds before a shot rang out in the street.

---

Wolf O'Donnell stood, smoking revolver held high above his head, in the street outside the Lone Falcon saloon. His tan leather jacket was festooned with bandoleers, and his belt sported two holsters. Beside him, Panther hefted the Maxim gun, lugged the dozen or so miles from the Sargasso mine, onto its tripod and set about loading a belt of ammunition. People rapidly took cover. The sight of the wolf, while a rare occurrence, was enough to turn the blood even the most boastful gunslinger cold, and see him seeking shelter.

The wolf spoke, loudly and with a commanding voice, "I know you're in there, McCloud. All these fine folks want to see you come out and take me down. You game?"

Another shot into the air, followed by a few screams.

"No?" he continued, pacing about in the dirt, his spurs clinking against the heels of his boots.

"Didn't expect so. Seems no-one here is willing or able, McCloud, least of all you. You expecting someone to do your job for you, hm? Perhaps you thought you could wave your forty dollars about and someone would take the fall for you, make the slip in your stead."

Wolf motioned to Panther, a silent nod. The big cat, having finished the lengthy loading process, racked the action of the machine gun and took up a crouching position behind the weapon.

"I'm going to give you until the count of ten to come on out, Mr McCloud, and I suggest you do or my friend here is want to do something nasty."

"Enough!"

Krystal had appeared, standing defiantly in the entranceway, he dress billowing slightly in the breeze.

"Ah, the lovely Krystal, so nice of you to join us. Why don't you be a darling and run back inside and fetch McCloud for us, we've got ourselves some business to take care of."

Krystal took a few steps out onto the wide, covered verandah, "Fox isn't here, you just missed him. Last I saw he was making for that dump of a mine you live in. Maybe if you run on back you can catch up with him, or better yet, save us all the trouble and just bury yourselves in it!"

'Now, now," said wolf, chiding the vixen, "I don't come out all this way just to get scolded by some blue furred harlot. Get. Me. McCloud."

"Go hang yourself, O'Donnell."

"Pity," he muttered, waving his paw towards Panther, "open her up."

Panther depressed the trigger on the Maxim, and the gun roared to life.

---

As soon as the first shot had sounded, Falco had grabbed Fox by the lapels of his duster and hauled him over the bar, slamming him into the ground. Stifling his own yelps of pain as his injured body hit the hard wooden floor, Fox could hear Wolf O'Donnell shouting loudly and brashly at anyone who cared to listen.

". . .you game?"

Fox moved to get up at the sound of a second gunshot, but was held down by Falco.

"Stay down, you fool! If he knows you're here, we're all dead!" hissed the bird.

The raucous proclamations on the part of the lupine continued for a while before finally coming to an end, replaced instead by the very angry and irate voice of Krystal.

"Enough!"

Falco's eyes went wide. He stood up, vaulting the bar in a single, smooth motion and sprinted towards the vixen.

"NO! KRYSTAL!"

He was too late. Ten feet short of the door, the shooting started anew.

---

Panther raked the line of fire across the front of the saloon, spitting out over five hundred rounds per minute and the recoil operated mechanism slammed back and forth.

The first three rounds impacted Krystal just below the collarbone, tracing a path downward across her chest. The thirty calibre bullets tore through flesh, fabric and bone with ease, spraying the facade of the saloon with blood and pulped organs. The next few tore through her lower abdomen, taking with it a good portion of her liver and kidneys, depositing the shredded remains just inside the saloon. Krystal slumped to the ground, falling face-first as the weapon continued to thunder, shattering windows and splintering the building's wooden exterior.

Patrons inside the saloon threw themselves to the ground, avoiding the majority of the fire while still copping the occasional shard of glass or wood. Falco, however, was not so lucky. The blue avian caught a round in the shoulder mid-stride, causing him to trip and stumble before crashing into the wall opposite the entranceway.

Panther didn't release the trigger until he had put over two hundred rounds into the Lone Falcon. The frontage of the building was a mess, every window shattered, the doors hanging limp and destroyed from their hinges, and the cries of one wounded bird. Wolf stepped forward, calling out for the fox.

"Don't make me ask again, McCloud."

---

Fox hauled himself painfully to his feet. His boots crunched on glass as he ventured out from behind the bar. The barroom was a mess. The floor was covered in shards of glass and splinters of wood, the walls peppered with a vast multitude of bullet holes. Whiskey and ale cascaded down the rear wall from a score of shattered bottles. Limping towards the door, he came across a sight that made his heart sink.

Falco was sitting against the wall, his features stained with blood and his cheeks with tears, cradling the lifeless body of Krystal in his arms, blood pooling rapidly beneath them. A red trail marked where he had dragged her corpse, in spite of his own injuries, back through the door and behind the wall. The vixen's form was barely recognisable, such was the magnitude of the damage. Even a cursory glance told Fox all he needed; she had breathed her last, and would breath no more.

"Wolf O'Donnell," began Fox, his voice trembling slightly, "my name is Fox McCloud, I'm here on behalf of. . ."

"I know who you are, pup," came the reply from outside, still out of sight of the fox, "and I know why you've come."

"I'll give you a chance to come quietly, Wolf. We've had ourselves enough shooting for one day."

"You're a long way from home, McCloud, perhaps you don't know how we do things out here. You want to take me? Fine, go ahead. Step outside. You and me, right here, right now."

Fox glanced about. He understood his situation fully; it was either comply with Wolf's ultimatum, or imperil everyone in the saloon. Falco shot him a pleading look.

"I told you. . . I told you to leave her out of this."

---

The wind blew in puffs, kicking up small clouds of dust that skittered their way across the town.

Every resident of Agua Fria had their eyes glued to the fox as he slowly made his way from the saloon onto the street. His paces were weary and disjointed, with a pronounced limp. This was not the first time that O'Donnell had put down a taker, and nobody seriously doubted it would be the last. Try as folks might, the wolf was simply unbeatable when it came to gunplay, as the fox would be soon to find out.

Wolf's paw twitched about his pistol, eager to settle affairs with the fox.

Yet, for all his apparent shortcomings, there was a steely determination in the fox's eyes; a focus and guile seldom seen. He walked, painfully and obviously impeded, but with a purpose. While he clutched at his side, cradling an unseen wound, his gaze was fixed upon his target, unflinching and cold. The gathered crowd watched in silence as he stood, holding his ground, facing off with the wolf. For those from more civilised parts of the country, such events would be considered barbarism, yet out here, in the wilds of the New Mexico Territory, the old ways still held true. Everyone knew what was about to happen.

"Is this how you want it, O'Donnell?"

"Doesn't matter what I want, this is where we stand."

Fox focused intensely on his foe, noting the revolver waiting eagerly in its holster, and the snarl on its owner's face. His concentration was heightened, and he took in all that his senses offered him. The pain in his ribs, the sting over the overhead sun in his eyes, the smell of gunpowder still lingering in the air.

Wolf's paw twitched again.

The distance was forty feet.

The movement was imperceptibly small, a tightening of the tendons in the paw as wrist, and the slightest movement downward. Wolf had always been quick, quicker than the twenty who had came before, quick enough for each of those twenty shots to be loosed before his victims had their chance to respond. Wolf's fingered grasped the wooden grip of his revolver, squeezing tightly as he drew.

The barrel of hadn't even cleared the holster when Fox's shot rang out, resounding, earsplitting, and vociferous, the thunderous report of the fifty calibre round echoing across the town.

All those watching saw Wolf move first. Without question, without the slightest bit of doubt in their minds, they knew the wolf had caught the fox.

It was with the speed of a bullwhip that Fox had made his move. The shot was sudden and utterly without warning, an ambush on a mountain trail, a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. The gathered crowd collectively blinked in disbelief, awaiting the wolf's move, the move that should have put the fox in the ground. The move that never came. Paw still grasped around his weapon, Wolf O'Donnell took a single, stumbling step forward, looking up at the fox one last time before collapsing in a heap, a half inch hole blasted clean through his heart.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Fox lowered his weapon, the pistol that had ended the life of the most notorious outlaw in New Mexico. He flicked open the cylinder and thumbed the extractor, collecting a single, spent cartridge. Inspecting the five empty chambers, he replaced the revolver in its holster and limped towards Wolf's body. Around him, the murmurs came, quietly at first, but steadily gaining in volume and joviality.

"He's dead. . ."

"The fox took 'im, he took 'im for real!"

"Like lightning, ain't never seen something so fast."

Fox, for his part, ignored the crowd as they gathered around Wolf's corpse. Idolatry and praise were something he'd rather avoid, not for lack of appreciation, but for the simple fact that his was a world where growing close to others was inadvisable.

The body of a certain blue-furred vixen was testament to that.

Beyond any notions of justice or righteousness, this was his job, and it was not yet done. With his good leg, he kicked Wolf's corpse onto its back. The lupine's front was slick with his blood, his face frozen in an expression half way between shock and denial. His eyes were glazed over, unblinking and still. It was all Fox needed to see.

For some, this would have been a grand occasion, worthy of boastful stories told under the influence of a dozen shots of whiskey at the nearest saloon. For Fox, however, it merely marked the end of his time in town, and the start of his journey back to Phoenix. His plans for rest and relaxation, and possibly more, had died with Krystal. Agua Fria was now just another dot on the map for him, a backwater he wouldn't see again.

Leaving the crowd to cart the body off, he limped back towards the saloon. Standing on the verandah, clasping at his wounded shoulder, was Falco. Barman and ranger simply stared at each other in silence for a good while before the bird finally spoke.

"My guess is that you'll be leaving then," he said, not really caring for the answer.

"That I will be."

Untying his horse from the water trough, Fox hauled himself painful and with a great deal of effort into the saddle. The ride would be hard, but he relished the opportunity to be alone again.

"You take care now, Fox McCloud. Can't be saying this is a parting of friend, but you've done this town a service."

Fox didn't respond. With a quick kick, the urged his horse onward, riding south.

---

"Heard a whole bunch of shooting, sonny. You startin' a war down there?"

Fox slowed his horse to a trot as he passed the old Pepper homestead. The old dog was just where he left him, rocking back and forth on his front porch in his creaky old chair, shotgun slung across his lap.

"No sir," responded Fox, "just taking care of that business I might have mentioned yesterday."

"Sounded like you done started a right ruckus."

"That may be so, old timer. Perhaps these here parts can't be tamed. One dead body turns into a dozen, and before the day's out, no-one's really sure who started it, or what it was all about in the first place."

"Aw hell, I could have told you that and saved you the trouble" said Pepper, shifting in his chair.

"Seems you've been through a rough patch. Heads up, young fox. Yer father would be right proud to see you now. Useless old geezers like us will just fade away, but they'll remember you out here. Mark my words."

"I'm guessing I should be thanking you for the kind words."

"Bah. Don't waste yer time, just get going."

Tipping his hat to the dog, Fox took off at a gallop. The homestead reduced to a speck in the distance as he made for the Arizona border, riding into the setting sun.

Legends are told, some truthful, others embellished with outlandish praise or unwarranted derision. In time, the names of Fox McCloud and Wolf O'Donnell would be forgotten. The shootout at the Lone Falcon would be little more than a footnote in a history book to be written in the far future. New outlaws would take the places of the old, and new lawmen would rise up to combat them.

One thing, however, would remain, clear as the day the shot was fired.

That an Arizona Ranger, with naught but a single round, came to the town of Agua Fria on a fine spring day. He was swift as a shadow, quicker than thought, and he crashed like rolling thunder. In time, there would be stories. Tales that a mother would tell their kits to put them to bed, tales of heroes and no-go outlaws who skirted decent society until they got a taste of their own poisoned moonshine. And of that one fine day in Agua Fria, all that would be remembered was the unholy speed at which the shot had rung out; not the ranger, not the outlaw, just his paw which moved like lightning.