#002 | When The Dust Settles
The harsh sun beat down on a lone ranger, as a brilliant brown horse named Aristotle plodded along a dusty trail. Ahead lay the backwater town of Chupanegra, a small section of earth that God seemingly forgot about.
Aristotle strode past the gunsmith, the barber, and the bank. Citizens came out of their shops to get a look at the stranger riding into town.
The stranger tied up the horse at the saloon and walked inside. A musty and old aroma filled the air. Three men played poker at a table on the right. A woman of ill repute leaned against the piano stationed by an old man with curly silver hair. Patrons, both men and women, came and went in and out of the various rooms on the second floor. All were accompanied by ladies in similar garb to the woman next to the piano.
The stranger saddled up to the bar and called out, “Whiskey, double,” to the bartender. The bartender, a large man with a thick black mustache, plopped down a dirty glass along with an unlabeled, and dirtier, bottle with a light brown liquid that sloshed around inside. The stranger poured a drink, but was interrupted by a very slurred, “‘’Scuse me, but you don’t look like you’re from around here.” One of the men playing poker had found his way to the bar.
Without a word, the stranger threw back the whiskey and poured another shot.
“Hey! I said, you don’t look like you’re from around here, and we have a fee for new patrons,” the man snarked. By now the bar was supporting the man’s full weight. His breath reeked of booze.
The stranger didn’t budge, or make eye contact with the man.
“I’m talking to you,” the man blurted out as he reached for the stranger’s arm. In a flash, the stranger grabbed the man’s hand and pulled it across the bar. The drunk’s arm and half his upper body were on top on the bar, where he was swiftly met by a driving elbow to the back of the neck. His face smashed into the shot glass on the bar. He crumpled to the ground, writhing in agony.
In one fell swoop the stranger whipped around, two six shooters panning 360 degrees around the bar. In the ruckus, the stranger’s hat had flown off to reveal a long brown ponytail.
“Somebody else please try something,” she shouted, as her eyes glared at the shell shocked patrons.
After she holstered her guns and dusted off her hat, she turned to the bartender and quietly said, “Sorry for the mess.” She flipped him a silver coin. As she exited the saloon, a dark figure followed right behind.
“That was some show in there,” a voice called out from the deck.
The woman stood by Aristotle and turned to see a man leaning against a support beam.
“Now what is the great Annie Williamson doing in this slice of heaven?” as his hands panned around the town. For a number of years, Annie Williamson traveled the country, putting on trick shot shows for paying patrons. All wanted to see her, the quickest and deadliest shot in the West. However, a botched trick went awry one day, and a young boy was shot. He survived, but it left Annie rattled and she never put on another show. She hoped to leave that Annie behind. Apparently the world wasn’t ready to forget her.
“And you are-” her hand slowly moving towards her revolver.
“Relax,” the man said, slowly pulling back his vest to reveal a badge.
“You’re a Pinkerton agent?” Annie asked.
“Used to be,” he said. “Got sick of working for someone else, set off on my own. But people see the badge and tend to keep their distance.”
Annie’s hand relaxed. “And what brings YOU — to this little slice of heaven?” Her hand panned around the town.
The man laughed. “Chasing down a bounty,” he said. “This one seems to be giving me some trouble. Could use the extra muscle. I’ll split the pay with you, 60/40, $5,000 total.”
“Appreciate the offer, mister. But I’ll have to pass.” Annie mounted her horse and began to ride away.
“I’m chasing the Baldur brothers,” he said, his gaze not leaving the spot Annie had just occupied.
Annie reined in Aristotle and slowly turned to face her newfound acquaintance. For the past 2 years, the Baldur brothers, Billy and Peter, and their gang, had terrorized the American West. They robbed banks and stagecoaches, torched family farms, and left a path of bloodshed and destruction in their wake.
“50/50,” Annie countered.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” the man said as he stepped down off the porch and whistled for his horse. A brilliant black stallion charged around the corner. “Word is the brothers took over a family farm just on the outskirts of town. They killed the family are shacked up with their little band of followers. We’ll have the cover of darkness in a few hours.” The man leapt onto his horse. “Well then, shall we?” A small smile crept across his face.
Both Annie and the man took off. Their horses kicked up a trail of dust behind them.
About 100 yards from the family farm, the unlikely duo disembarked from their horses and loaded their firearms. The man tossed an 1873 Winchester rifle at Annie, who loaded it with the smoothness and skill of an expert sharpshooter. For himself, a single colt revolver.
“So you got a name, mister…?” Annie asked.
“Name’s Robert,” he replied.
“Got a last name, Robert?” But Robert was already moving towards the farm.
Camped out behind a series of small boulders, both Annie and Robert surveyed the scene. They spotted two men below them and to the right, two more on the porch overlooking the property, and three more scattered around. There was no sign of either Baldur brother.
Annie started, “Okay we can take the two below us out together and then-,” but before she could finish, Robert had snuck down the embankment, knocked one man out with a rock, and took his knife to the other. Annie scampered down to meet him.
“Are you crazy?! If you need my help, then we need to work together on this or we will both end up dead with you pulling another stunt like that,” she exclaimed.
“Alright, then,” he said as he aimed at one of the snipers on the porch. “You take the one on the right, I’ll take the one on the left.”
“There’s a better way to do this,” Annie rebuked. She took aim with the Winchester and fired, hitting a barrel of gunpowder on the lower porch. The barrel ignited and enveloped the house in a bright fireball. The explosion blew up the right side of the house, which sent the two snipers sky high.
“So you are that good,” Robert said. With that they both took off towards the house. The three sentries in the yard had spotted Robert and Annie, and hurled a volley of gunfire at them.
Annie tossed the rifle back to a sprinting Robert, and pulled out her revolvers. She unloaded a series of shots in rapid succession that dropped two in their tracks. Robert took cover behind a wagon and fired a single shot straight through the back of the third sentry who was retreating towards the house.
A bulkhead door on the left burst open, and five men rushed out from the basement. Annie had sprinted up the right hand side of the property, while Robert ran straight down the middle, towards the house. Her hands a rapid blur, she loaded twelve fresh bullets into her golden revolvers and fired at the men running perpendicular to her. The shots knocked the guns out of the hands of two men, who turned to face Annie. They barely got their next breath out before she dropped them where they stood, two holes in each chest.
Robert fired another shot at one of the men, cutting him down. He cocked the lever to reload, and delivered a fatal shot to the fourth. He reloaded and pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed. Robert threw it down, drew his knife, and launched it straight through the chest of the final man.
“Look out!” Annie yelled, as Peter Baldur appeared from the same bulkhead with a Winchester 1887 shotgun. The younger Baldur fired a round that blew the hat off Robert, but left him otherwise unharmed. In one smooth motion, Robert dropped to the ground and spun to grab his rifle. He cleared the jammed round and loaded in a fresh one. He took aim and pulled the trigger, cocked the lever, and fired again, delivering two bullets through the head of Peter Baldur.
At that exact moment, Billy Baldur kicked the front door of the house down, two molotov cocktails in either hand, and hatred in his eyes. Simultaneously, Annie and Robert took aim and shot one bottle each. The gasoline and fire mix engulfed Billy in flames. Annie cocked the hammer and fired another round into Billy, ending his misery and bringing their trail of bloodshed to an end.
The pair loaded the brother’s bodies into a spare wagon and hitched Robert’s black stallion to it.
“Well, you are as good a shot as they say you are,” Robert said. “A lot of money to be made, being a bounty hunter.”
“Again, I appreciate the offer, but this is a life I’m trying to leave behind,” Annie said, holstering her guns. “You know, you never did tell me your last name.”
“Parker,” Robert said, as he hopped onto his horse.
Annie stiffened up. “Robert Parker, better known as Butch Cassidy? I don’t believe Butch Cassidy was ever a Pinkerton agent,” she said, pointing to the badge.
“My my, you are as smart as you are good with that gun. Until next time, Ms. Williamson.” With that, Butch tipped his cap and motioned for the horse to start moving.
“And the money you promised me?” Annie hollered. Butch reined in the horse, ruffled around in his pack, and threw Annie a wad of rolled up $100 bills, $5,000 in total.
“How did you-?” Annie started, but stopped once she remembered who she was talking to.
The wagon moved off towards the sunset, and with it, one of the most famous outlaws of the 1800s, riding with it.
