Blind Sooner_Hangman's Drop Space Western Ep. 1 Read online

  SPACE WESTERN EPISODE 1

  BLIND SOONER

  By D. J. Proctor

  Copyright 2018, D. J. Proctor

  Hangman’s Drop Space WesternTM and associated logo

  are trademarks of D. J. Proctor

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author Notes

  Cast and Terms

  Chapter 1

  Marshal John Merritt wasn’t in the habit of entertaining duels, but this was personal. He tightened his belt and straightened his uniform. Looking into the tall wood-framed mirror, he adjusted his guns and grabbed his hat from the nearby dresser.

  “Are you really going through with this?” asked Margaret from behind him, stretched out on the bed. The sweaty sheet covered nothing. The room smelled like sex and cheap perfume.

  “Don’t you worry Margie,” Merritt turned to her, “this is long overdue, and anyway, Shaw’s no gunfighter.”

  Margaret sat up on the bed, swinging her legs over the side. She was the best looking soiled dove at Jackrabbit’s Hole, and Merritt had a thing for her. She was usually the only one he would visit, unless she was busy. Margaret strode up to him in her well-practiced manner. She put a hand on his shoulder as she moved in close and kissed him.

  “But Johnny, what if he gets lucky? Who’s gonna take care of me then?” Her whine didn’t sound entirely sincere.

  Merritt put his hat on and placed his hands on her hips. He thought she had some genuine affection for him, despite him being only one of many regular customers.

  “Do you have an appointment after this?”

  She looked down and to the side. “Yeah, a real high roller.”

  “You see? You’ll do just fine if something happens to me.”

  Merritt went to the door panel and pulled out his payment card. Swiping it, he punched in twice the normal tip.

  “Just in case they have to measure me for a casket,” he said over his shoulder, walking out of the room.

  Stepping into the hall, Merritt drew each blaster pistol in turn, checking that all six cylinders for each gun were fully charged. Satisfied, he went downstairs to the parlor where various patrons were enjoying a drink in the dark smoky atmosphere, waiting for their turn with one of the upstairs girls. He knew Margaret would already be cleaning up and getting ready for her high roller.

  He went to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. The bartender was a large woman in a small dress. She was retired from the game upstairs, but Merritt heard she’d been quite a lay in her prime. Normally, she would never shut the fuck up. But today she poured his shot without a word. Everyone in town knew that the Marshal of Hangman’s Drop had a duel today. Not that many cared how he came out, but better to stick with the devil you know. The shitty mining town on the frontier planet Volta could do a lot worse than him for a Marshal. Or at least that’s what he liked to tell himself.

  “What’s the angle, boss?”

  Merritt turned around. Sam, one of his deputies, stood there with his paws on his hips, unlit cigar sticking out of his mouth. Sam was shorter than Merritt, an uplifted dog with dark brown fur and black stripes. He stood on two legs, even though he preferred to be on all fours like most of his race. Sam pulled a well-worn matchbook from a pocket and Merritt noted it was from the whorehouse. He hadn’t known, but wasn’t surprised, that Sam was a patron.

  “No angle. It’s just time to end this.”

  “Is it really that important?” Sam winced as he finished his sentence, probably realizing it was a stupid question..

  Merritt shook his head and looked into his whiskey glass. It was a feud that had gone on for over five years. He downed the shot and slammed the glass so hard on the bar that it shattered, cutting his hand. Merritt looked at his fingers as they dripped blood on the bar. Maybe it was a good omen. He drew his own blood, so now it was Shaw’s turn.

  Without another word to Sam, Merritt walked out the door of Jackrabbit’s Hole. Sam followed close behind. Merritt looked up the street and saw that Shaw had already taken a position in the middle of Main Street. Merritt walked out into the street, striding in Shaw’s direction. Sam paralleled Merritt’s movements, sticking close to the buildings lining the street. Traffic cleared the way for Merritt’s path, people on mechanical horses skittered to the side, electric wagons veered off. Observers flooded porches in front of buildings. Everyone in town knew this moment had been coming for a while. Merritt stopped about 100 feet from Shaw, squaring his shoulders and placing his feet about shoulder width apart. He saw his other deputy, a native garan woman named Kerin, standing on the side of the street. She had a blaster rifle slung over her shoulder. She tipped her hat back, shaking her head slowly, making clear to Merritt that she disapproved of the situation. Merritt shrugged and turned his attention to Shaw.

  “You denigrated my character ‘round these parts for the last time, Marshal,” said Shaw, digging his toe into the dirt and leaning forward.

  “I don’t think anyone ‘round these parts thinks enough of your character for it to get wounded.”

  “Alright Marshal, let’s get on with it. You say when.”

  Merritt stared hard at Shaw, his neck heating up and rage sending electricity down his arms. Shaw had taken Susan from him, the only good thing he’d had in Hangman’s Drop. Finally, he’d put him in the ground for that. Merritt started a countdown in his head from five, slowly, to steady his nerves. Shaw’s face was twitching.

  Merritt almost reached one when a commotion came from behind Shaw. A wagon emerged from behind a building, drawn by two large synthetic horses running at full tilt. The wagon bounced around on the rough road. A woman was slumped in the cockpit, and two children were huddled around something in the back as they were tossed around. The horses raced past Shaw and Merritt, speeding down the street to stop directly in front of the Marshal’s office. They must have been programmed for that destination. Shaw’s mouth was partly open, staring at the wagon.

  Merritt yelled to Shaw, “This will have to wait, for now!”

  Merritt took off at a full sprint, his spurs jangling with each step. Kerin and Sam converged next to him in the street as he ran to the wagon. Merritt jumped into the cockpit and examined the woman. It was Mrs. Becker, with an ugly blaster wound in her abdomen. Merritt felt for a pulse. There was none.

  Sam jumped into the back of the wagon, lifting up the limp body that was lying face down. He turned it over. It was Mr. Becker, and his throat had been slit.

  Sam felt his neck for a pulse, and then looked at Merritt, shaking his head.

  Kerin climbed up, putting her arms around the Becker kids. Both were very young. She gently lifted them from the wagon, one at a time, and led them toward the Marshal’s office.

  Merritt looked back down at Mrs. Becker and noticed something clutched in her hand. He reached down and pried her tight fist open. It was a purple sash.

  The Orlin James Gang.

  No time for personal business today, thought Merritt. He’d have to solve a murder instead of commit one.

  Chapter 2

  They were in the Marshal’s Office. Merritt and Sam dragged the bodies into the reception area. Kerin was attending to the Becker children, giving th
em something sweet to distract them.

  “The Orlin James Gang?” said Sam.

  “Why would the Orlin James Gang start killing homesteaders?” Merritt said as much to himself as anyone else.

  “Times are hard and lean ‘round here,” said Sam. “They might take to harder measures to get along.”

  The gang usually picked better targets. Drunks who struck it big at gambling, or people fresh off the boat, still flush with whatever they brought to start a new life around Hangman’s Drop. If they harassed ranchers or homesteaders, it didn’t usually escalate to murder.

  “How are our odds of finding some of the gang at the saloon right now?” asked Merritt.

  “The Tongue-Splitter? Mighty fine.”

  “Kerin, take the children to the Doc. We’ll see if we can interrogate some of the gang.”

  Kerin nodded. Merritt and Sam left the office and walked toward the saloon. Sam loped on all fours. He was an unusual sight in town, but an uplifted dog was not totally unheard of out here. All types might come to this backwater planet to improve their prospects. Out in the frontier, fewer folks had enough time on their hands to discriminate against uplifted dogs.

  Merritt was pissed off. He didn’t get a chance to deal with Shaw, and now the Orlin James Gang was a thorn in his ass again. The last time he ran into Orlin James, Merritt managed to drag him and some of his men to jail for robbing flush miners, but the local judge let them off on lack of evidence. That was bullshit. Merritt stomped up the steps of the Tongue-Splitter and punched the doors open with both fists. The doors swung in, slapping the wall with a sharp crack. The piano music stopped. Loud conversations went silent. It was as quiet as a church before a sermon.

  All eyes fell on Merritt. He surveyed the room as Sam padded in and stood up to take a position by the bar. Merritt spotted some gang members sitting at a table in the corner of the room, the purple sashes on their belts marking them as part of the gang. It was a symbol that they weren’t to be touched or else there would be hell to reckon with. Merritt wasn’t and had never been intimidated by their antics.

  Merritt glanced at Sam, who was already looking in the gang members’ direction. One of his paws fell to his blaster revolver and gripped the handle. Merritt weaved his way between tables. People scrambled out of his way as his destination became obvious. There were three gang members sitting at the table. They each knocked back shots of whiskey as they watched Merritt approach. An almost empty bottle sat in the center of the table. Merritt stepped in front of the table. One of the gang was younger and jumpy, and his hand dropped to his sidearm. In a blur of movement, Merritt drew a knife hidden in his belt and sunk it into the kid’s throat. The other two stood abruptly, knocking their chairs over as they stepped backward. Their hands came to their sides, hovering several inches from their guns. Sam arrived at that moment. The last two gang members shifted nervously, eyes darting from Merritt to Sam, apparently doing the calculations in their heads about their odds if they decided to throw down.

  Merritt shook his head. “I’m just here to talk, you idiots. If I wanted you dead I’d have gunned you down as soon as I walked in the door.”

  “You sonofabitch, we’ll have blood for this,” one of the men said.

  “You throw down and the undertaker will have more business today.”

  Sam’s hand was still on his sidearm, and the other held a blaster rifle. The two men relaxed their arms, apparently deciding they didn’t like their odds right now.

  “Have a seat, ladies,” said Merritt. He loved this part of his job.

  The two sat down, putting their hands on top of the table. Merritt nodded to Sam, not needing to tell him what to do next. Sam moved to the men and took their sidearms. Merritt knew they probably had smaller guns or other weapons hidden on them, but they probably wouldn’t get to them in time if they decided to make a move. Merritt walked around to one of the men while Sam stood by the other. In one smooth motion, Merritt tore the man’s hat off, grabbed his long greasy hair, and slammed his face so hard into the wooden table that it cracked. Blood spurt from the man’s nose, and the other man reached down for something at his leg. Sam slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of his head. He collapsed on the table, unmoving.

  Merritt yanked his man’s head back by the hair and said, “Tell me about the Becker place.”

  The gang member opened his mouth to speak, but blood and a few teeth came out instead. The teeth clattered on the table, sounding like dice. He spit, spraying the table with blood.

  “You piece of shit! I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Becker place?”

  “Some of your boys killed the Beckers. I don’t even want to know why right now. What I do want to know is where the gang is holding up these days.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” the man hissed in another spray of blood.

  Merritt slammed his head into the table again, this time breaking the table clean in two. He yanked on the man’s hair again, so that he was facing the ceiling. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and Merritt slapped his face once, hard.

  “No, no, don’t pass out on me yet, slug. Where the fuck is the gang holding up these days? Tell me now, or I swear I’m going to decorate the wall with your brains.”

  “Okay…” his throat gurgled, blood coming out of his mouth. His eyes started to roll back into his head again.

  Merritt slapped him again.

  “A cave, Vulture’s Bluff.” His eyes flickered and he seemed to lose consciousness, or maybe he was dead. Merritt didn’t give a shit either way. He let go of the greasy hair and let the man’s head slump, thinking for a minute. Vulture’s Bluff. He turned to Sam and opened his mouth to speak, but Sam beat him to it.

  “Vulture’s Bluff, boss...that’s on Shaw’s land.”

  Great. He was ready to kill the wife-stealing sonofabitch less than an hour ago. Now he’d have to get permission to go on his land.

  Chapter 3

  Merritt was in the lead, working his frustrations out on the synthetic horse under him. He felt its artificial muscles flexing powerfully as he drove his spurs into the animal’s sides. Kerin and Sam followed close behind. The three of them crossed into Shaw’s land and made their way toward his house. They came upon the large white farmhouse, surrounded by greenery and trees brought in from another planet. It was all far too lush to be natural. It was like an oasis, as it was surrounded by the rocky, dry, and broken land that covered most of Volta. A few of the local cattle grazed on the native scrub around the homestead. The cattle resembled something of a cross between a goat and a cow. They were well-suited for the rocky, scrub-rich environment. Merritt and his deputies slowed their horses as they neared the house. They were within 100 yards when blaster fire erupted from a patch of trees in front of the house. One round came so close to Sam’s head that Merritt smelled burning fur.

  “That was too close,” said Merritt. “Take cover behind the horses.”

  All three of them dismounted, bringing their horses down to lay as a barrier for cover from blaster fire. No sooner had they taken cover than a blaster bolt grazed the side of Kerin’s horse, filling the air with the smell of burnt engineered plasti-meat. Merritt returned fire blindly into the patch of woods, unsure of the gunman’s exact location. Sam and Kerin joined in, and soon the entire copse of trees was peppered with blaster bolts. Merritt heard yelling to his left and glanced to see a figure running from a barn. It was Shaw. He held a blaster rifle but was waving it in the air, not taking aim.

  “Wait! Wait, you sonsofbitches!” He yelled. Merritt raised his hand to signal Sam and Kerin to cease fire. Shaw ran toward the patch of woods, tripping and falling flat on his face on the way. He dropped his rifle but didn’t bother to pick it up as he scrambled back to his feet and covered the remaining distance to the woods. Merritt, confused and curious, stood up and stepped around his horse to walk toward Shaw. Sam and Kerin roused their horses and followed. Kerin’s was limping but functional after the blaster bolt torched i
ts rear leg.

  “Henry! Reed?” Shaw’s voice was unsteady as he plunged into the foliage. Merritt jogged now, wanting to find out what was going on. Merritt moved into the greenery to find Shaw kneeling on the ground, two small figures in his arms. Tears ran down Shaw’s face as he looked up at Merritt.

  “You’re one lucky fucker, Merritt. If you’d killed my boys I’d have skinned you alive.” Shaw hugged his kids tight.

  One of the boys was maybe 10 years old, and a blaster rifle lay on the ground near him. The other boy was very young, maybe three. Merritt suddenly remembered. That youngest one would have to be Susan’s boy.

  “I didn’t know,” said Merritt, not knowing what else to say. His stomach felt queasy at the thought that they might have killed those children.

  Kerin and Sam walked up. Sam whistled. “I’ll be damned.”

  Shaw jumped to his feet and reached to his belt, fumbling and apparently forgetting that he didn’t have his gun belt on.

  Merritt raised a hand. “Now hold on Shaw, we aren’t here to fight. Your boy opened fire on us and we were defending ourselves.”

  Shaw strode up to Merritt and, without hesitation, swung his right fist. Merritt saw it coming and started to raise an arm to block it but was too distracted by the situation. Shaw’s fist came home and nearly knocked Merritt from his feet, sending shocks of pain through his skull. Sam jumped between them.

  “Hold on, there may be a time and place for that later. We’re here on official Marshal business.”

  Kerin readied her blaster rifle, standing near Merritt.

  Merritt rubbed his face. “You’ve got a solid punch, Shaw, I’ll give you that.”

  Shaw took a deep breath, and his shoulders lowered.

  “Shaw, we got word that the Orlin James Gang is hiding out on your ranch. What do you know about that?” asked Kerin.

  Shaw looked at Kerin, confusion plain on his face. Almost as if she had appeared out of nowhere. He clearly hadn’t fully taken in the situation, in shock at the near loss of his boys.