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My deepest apologies for the incredibly long delay on this post, I lost track of the story and had to swivel it back into perspective. For those of you still inclined to read, please do enjoy. I think this is a good one...

Chapter 6: New Problems, Old Friends.

The first several days on his new job (For which Nicholson would be payed in New Dollars, as was agreed after a serious talk with Cole) were slow, but not altogether dull. While he didn't have to kill anybody, he did take it upon himself to scare off a few teams of would-be raiders and scavengers seeking an easy plunder from what they expected would be an unprotected settlement.

After day three, the young German shepherd pup began to follow Nicholson on his rounds, saying that that his mother wanted him out enjoying the air while it was fresh. Nicholson enjoyed the company for the most part, listing to the child's stories about odd things that happened around the town, his first and last trip to the watering hole (which ended in being chased by a pack of thirsty mutant horned toads), and what he wants to do with his future. Though most of what Mike (which was the pup's name) said was mindless babble, it kept the gunslinger's routs around the, settlement and highway from being dull.

Around the fourth day, Nicholson and Mike had hunkered down on an old charred out log to eat their lunch, which consisted of seeds gathered from the local desert brush and a campfire-grilled hunk of meat from a clean-thread (Or unmutated, for all you'uns who don't kennit) bull. As they sat, Mike continued his content babble, plucked from some corner of his mind. He had just reached the end of a story about when he was caught trying to ride one of the mutie cows out of the pen outside of town, when Nicholson spotted an odd lopsided bird flutter down to the ground a few meters off.

"Mike." Jesse said, trying to catch the pup's attention. Mike's ears popped up from where they lay on his head and he looked up from his food quickly. Nicholson didn't talk much, so when he did, Mike took care to listen.

"You ever been priv' to shoot a gun b'for?" Nicholson continued, glancing over at the boy. Mike considered this for a moment, and then shook his head, looking back down at his meal.

"Nev'r since my mah let me take on a spell at the old '22 thah she plucked in Albuquerque, mus a been almost a whole harvest ago." Mike said, before tearing a chomp out of his food with the side of his maw. Nicholson nodded, drawing one of his Big Irons from the holster where he had draped it over the log.

"What you reckon yer mah would say if'n she was trig to me lettin you give it another go?" Jesse asked, opening the cylinder of the heavy weapon and letting all but one round slip into his padded palm. Mike looked up again, still chewing slowly, and looked around, as if his mother might leap from behind the bushes and scold him for even considering the idea.

"I s'pose if she weren't wise to it, I'd get no trouble." Excitement was creeping into his voice now.

"Good," Nicholson said, gripping the revolver from the barrel and offering the sandalwood grip to the pup. "Give this'n a feel." Mike reached out quickly, the and when the handle fit into his palm, it made the hand looked dwarfed and awkward. When Nicholson let go, the gun dropped a foot and Mike yipped in surprise, not expecting the weight of the weapon.

"Easy with ah now, she's my baby." Nicholson said calmly, holding a cautionary hand beneath the boy's so not to allow the gun to fall. "Now," the gunslinger began, swinging his arm around the point at the bird that had taken rest in the ground a little distance off. "If ye can shoot that there mute', I'll see if I can get ye' mom to allow yer some practice with a smaller caliber, under my observation, yar?" Mike nodded excitedly, and when Nicholson stood and stepped behind the boy he hefted the revolver up to eye-level. Jesse crouched behind him, reaching under his shoulder to show him to hold the gun straight out away from his body. He took the boys left and placed it on the bottom of the revolver's butt, telling him that that hand would keep it steady, while the other aims. Mike nodded, taking quiet note of all the advice. When the shot was lined up and Mike stared down the barrel with one eye closed tight and the other squinted to barely a slit, Nicholson stood and said

"Alrigh', take the shot, son. Squeeze the trigger slow; try not to antic'pate the shot. Let it sneak up on yeh." Mike tightened a finger over the trigger, taking shallow breaths and tensing against the shot which should be sneaking up on him at that moment. Suddenly, the gun kicked up in his hands, knocking the pup off balance. Nicholson caught him before he fell, and the boy was righting himself and staring downrange as the report was still echoing across the desert. Where the bird had been lit, there was little more than a red mark like somebody had smashed a jar of jelly on the floor. Nicholson clapped him on the back, sitting down and remarking, as if to himself,

"I'll speak with yer mah on the morrow."

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The gunslinger was true to his word. The next day, after rising, he made his way groggily and slowly toward the land where Mike's mother was already up and working, tilling out land to attempt to get another harvest of the ever popular mutant (but nutrient-rich) shrubs growing. As Nicholson approached, the Shepherd mutie stood upright and squinted over at him, propping her hoe against the side of her shack and waiting, one hand draped lazily over the top of the tool. Mike, after having noticed Nicholson's approach from within the shack, came running out, standing nervously at his mother's side.

"Ma'am," Nicholson began, taking his hat gingerly from atop his head. "It has come unto mah' attention that yer son o'r yon has had no experience in that with a gun of any sort. After see'in the way the world works ar' these parts, I feel he ought to have some know-how, and I would be mighty pleased to teach, with your approval, o'course."

The woman stood for a moment, staring into the drifter's eyes, both ears cocked flat against her head. Her gaze slowly swiveled down to Mike, who still stood, hands clasped tight, by his mother's side. He looked right back up, eyes wide with pleading and anticipation, giving the pup a cartooned face that brought the shimmer of a smile to the gunslinger's lips. His mother cleared her though and looked back up at Nicholson, opening her mouth as if to speak, then closing it again. Mike had begun to shift his weight from one foot to the other, making small high sounds in the back of his throat.

Finally, the silence was broken when the woman heaved a large sigh and patted the top of Mike's head.

"Alrigh', I suppose it may do the boy some good to be trig on defending hisself. Just don let him get carried away, hear?" Nicholson nodded and placed his hat back atop his head, taking care that his ear fit into the hole cut on top. He thanked her and gave her the details, saying that he would provide the gun to train and that he would keep him under scrutiny whenever they boy had it. And then they were off, back on patrol. Of course, Mike began excitedly babbling immediately, asking a plethora of new question, relevant or otherwise.

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After three weeks, give or take a day, Mike had proved himself to be a dead-eye with the weathered and battered old pre-war Glock that Nicholson had purchased for him from a merchant on I-25. The boy could pluck off the dust-caked bottles that Nicholson set up with uncanny ease. He picked up the skill like it had been sleeping in him someplace, just waiting for the gunshots to wake it up. Before long, Nicholson allowed the boy to keep the gun with him, tucked away in a makeshift clutch of belted and sewn leather.

The gunslinger had his own personal shadow by then, wherever he went, Mike went. The boy loved the feel of strutting the town, keeping vigilant, and the cold weight of the old pistol at his hip. He felt powerful now. Important. He felt as if the entire world could come crashing down, and he wouldn't move an inch, save for to say something quippy and bold to the crumbling planet. His mind wandered freely and frequently as he walked, and some of the thought found their way into words. He spoke where his mind could follow, even if he knew the gunslinger wasn't always listening. He enjoyed to talk, to have company that would acknowledge his speech.

Most of the time, his thought tracked through whatever was current and fresh, but more frequently he found himself thinking back, back to when the drifter had let him fire the Big Iron. It had been nothing short of exhilarating to him. He could still hear the booming shot, echoing its song through his mind. He could still feel the kick of the weapon as it let looses the heavy caliber bullets. He could swear that he even still felt the sharp spray of the gunpowder against his hands and face, even though it was weeks back. The Glock pistol was good, yes; but Mike wanted something more... aggressive. He kept this to himself though. He was born into poverty and sickness, mutant aside, so he knew when to take a good thing and not ask for more. The gunslinger had granted him a new kind of freedom, and he was happy with it. Sure, he knew he may never have a reason to draw the pistol from its clutch save for practice, but it's the thought that counts.

Nicholson had made his way back to Charles' bar on one dry and sunny day that week, and as always Mike was on his heel, toting his new shooter for all to see. The gunslinger stepped in though the frame of the door that he had shattered on his first day in town. Mike followed gingerly behind while Nicholson scanned the bar for Charles, pulling off his hat and stuffing the flimsy material into the lower pocket of his duster. Before he could find the barkeep, the barkeep found him, however, and waved him over.

"Jesse my man, how ya been on? Get yer a drink?" the bartender nearly shouted, cheery as usual. Nicholson waved him a lazy two-fingered salute and shook his head, sliding himself onto one of the barstools while Mike stood patiently to the side.

"Sorry friend, not here to drink this'n." Nicholson said wearily, craning his neck to either side and waiting till it popped. "I'm on over here to ask ye somethin." Charles strode over, leaning on the bar with his elbows and waving to another customer that he would have to wait a moment.

"What ails ye then?" Charles inquired.

"One oh' the sellers down 'cross the way asked me to ask ye about a man what calls himself 'Howard Warner'. Said he gone missin a day now and ye know where he off on last?"

Charles pondered this for a few quick seconds, tapping his index finger against the bar. From below the counter, Mike's curios eyes could just barely be seen, their gaze darting back and forth between the two men.

"Yar, I know the guy." Charles announced, standing upright again. "He fetches the water for me for a few bucks a run. I sent him out a couple day' on back and he has't been round sin. I figen he jus' wen on some o're task. He's kin to it, after all."

"Where does he get the water from?" Nicholson asked quickly, realizing that this could mean that something was very amiss. Charles quickly recounted the general direction, waving his hand west, perpendicularly from I-25.

"There's a natural spring about a mile or aut that way, there be a trail go' right to it. Ye think'n there may be a problem?"Nicholson stood up quickly, pulling his hat from his pocket.

"Ye bugger, I do." He snorted, turning and taking wide steps toward the shattered door of the bar, back into the light. Mike tried to follow, but the drifter held his open hand before him, the claws that tipped his fingers reflected the sun. "Not today son, I want you t' head on back to yer ma's, hear?" Mike nodded nervously, turning on stumbling feet and shuffling quickly toward the shacks near the bar, clutching his gun so it wouldn't slip.

Nicholson strode off away from the town, his boots leaving vague divots in the sand behind him. As he walked, he pulled his revolvers from their holsters, one at a time. He flipped each cylinder open, making sure they didn't stick or stutter as they slid. He let all the shells fall into his padded palm and closed the cylinder again, then thumbed the hammer back, pointed the gun away, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked back into place with smooth oiled speed. He repeated this process with both weapons, as he did before any time he expected trouble. It was his own little form of meditation prepping himself for whatever may come. He let the calm cool feel of the guns flow up him like cold mercury. The feeling flowed through his veins and seeped through his skin, chilling his core and stilling his nerves.

A little less than a mile down the road he saw two flimsy wooden sheds placed side by side. A plywood and faded spray-paint sign declared that this was, in fact, a natural spring, and property of the town. The drifter slowed and stopped, crouching where he stood and glancing behind him. The sun was high in the sky now, but behind him, which was good. If what he assumed was correct (That bandits or some other crook had set up shop here, and were now preying on thirsty travelers), then the sun would provide his cover well enough.

He could see a lone man, sitting on a crumbling hunk of lava rock. For a moment, Nicholson thought this was the missing man, Howard. Before he could make any further conclusions, however, he spotted the still figure slumped face down in the dirt beside the man. As he watched, he noted that there was no rise to his back, he wasn't breathing. Howard was dead. The solitary man sat with his back to him, and thin curls of tobacco smoke wandered their way sleepily up from him. Nicholson stayed low, slinking his way on all fours toward the place where the man sat. The edges of his duster hung in the tan dirt, and his tail hung high in the air, snaking around as if it were pulled through water. His moved like an animal, sneaking up as quietly as nature and garments would allow.

When he was no more than a foot behind the man, he stood, placing a hand over his right hip, on his revolver, and cleared his throat. The man stood bolt upright, reeling in a circle and flinging his hand-rolled smoke aside. No sooner had he turned to face Nicholson, he began to speak, his mouth twisted in a surprised smile.

"Why holy Go' and Mother, it's just an old mutie. You scared wha' was ever left of the wits from me fuckin soul." Granit said. Nicholson started back a step, his face moving from shock to agony to fury in a matter of seconds. It was Granite, sure as ever. Aged, sure, but the son of a bitch still had that same hungry, crawling look swarming behind his eyes. No sooner had Nicholson made the connection, so did Granite. The ageing and cruel eyes widened and his grin cracked wider, baring a mouth of rotted yellow teeth.

"Fucken hell, if it aint-" Granite began, but Nicholson was already moving. He crouched and lunged, driving his shoulder into the Mechanic's stomach and pulling him to the earth. His knee pushed into Granite's stomach and pushed hard, keeping him down while he drew the Iron from its holster.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Nicholson roared, his voice cracking with strain. His rancher's hat had flown off in the brief scuffle and now fluttered weakly against Howard's body, as if trying to hide him away. The drifter's left hand came up above his head, fingers spread wide, and he swiped his fingertips across Granite's face, etching deep red rivets through his skin with the sharp black claws that adorned his fingers. Granite mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to make a sound, as the air had been knocked from him. Nicholson took this opportunity to cram the barrel of his .357 into the slave hunter's mouth.

"Why are you here?!" Nicholson demanded, and all Granite could get out was a weak warbling wheeze, unable to speak around the gun. The gunslinger silently reprimanded himself for not thinking so far ahead, and pulled the gun from between Granite's lips, pressing it instead against his forehead, with enough force that you would have thought he meant to cave in the man's skull.

"N-nothin for!" Granite choked out, trying to suck in what little breath was available to him. Deep crimson tracks of blood ran down his face and neck from the gouges in his cheek. "I's only me an out here, speak true!" Nicholson pressed the pistol harder against the man's skull, his canid teeth clenched tight and his lips pulled back in a sharp and wrinkled snarl.

"Don't go an' lie to me, Granite. You're out on work, yeah? Talk!" Nicholson growled, quieter now. Spittle ran unchecked from his maw, pooling into the fabric of Granite's shirt. Granite hesitated, but nodded suddenly when the presser of the pistol muzzle against his scalp became harder still.

"Alrigh', alrigh! Leave be dammit!" Granite sputtered, twisting wildly under the weight of the drifter, but having no success in easing the pain that was applied. "The res' o' the group is on approach, out fer slaves ye kin. They should be upon the village now, matter o' fact."

"Is it the Mechanics?" Nicholson demanded, knowing the question was futile. The group of Labor Hunters who called themselves the Mechanics had had their falling out with each other while Nicholson was still in their unwilling service.

"Nah, a new group, rag-tag from around lookin' for money is all. Now for holy sakes le' me GO!" Granit replied, his struggles beneath Nicholson's knee beginning to weaken. The gunslinger, however, did no such thing. He leaned in closer, the black nose that tipped his mutant muzzle nearly touching Granite's human one.

"Where is he?" Nicholson asked, now quiet as a whisper but with speech full of venom. "Where is ol' Jackie?" Granite's eyes widened for a moment at the name, and then squinted tight as the gun barrel's pressure increased against his forehead.

"Las' I heard, that old clown's down in Mexico, livin' easy. Someplace south of the city that shares the name o' the region, like as not." Granite wheezed out though bared teeth, barely able to vocalize at all. Nicholson's lips curled in a brilliant smile that brought the shadow of terror across Granites face.

"Thankee very much." the gunslinger breathed, retracting a bit from Granite's face. "Now lemme return the favor, for old time's sake." He pulled the trigger, and Granite's entire body jumped into perfect stillness beneath the gunslinger's weight. The slaver's eyes rolled back and his lids shot wide oven, showing the full round curve of his eye balls. Blood had splashed in tiny dribbles up the drifter's arm, but he didn't wipe it away. As he stood, his smile widened and he pulled the hammer of the revolver back again, placing a shot through the dead man's heart. He shot him three more times for good measure, and with each shot, his rage and fury boiled though like a red rushing cloud of hornets, spreading down his arms and being translated out through the barrel of the weapon.

As he walked back toward the town he hummed to himself, and thought raced like wild fire.

"I know." He said to himself. "I know where he is a' now. I was on the trail and now ah KNOW." As he holstered the gun he spied a dark mark across his pants and fell to his knees again, laughing in short, hysteric bursts. Turns out, he'd been so worked up that he'd gone and pissed himself.

A shrill, high scream brought him back to the present right quick though, and as he stared out toward the town he heard the precise and deliberate calls of gunfire. He stood and began jogging back to town. His work wasn't finished yet.