Book The Code: Pt 1: The Revival

While the Wild West servers may have been shut down for a while, the spirit of the game mode yet persists in literature....

Here’s Part 1.

1: The Revival

The sun had just started to set when the man rode into Amarillo.

He didn’t belong to any sort of gangs, groups, or trades. Unknown. A new face.

And when a new face comes to Amarillo, everybody knows about it.

Riding down the middle of the main road doesn’t help either.

He was armed, as everybody could see. A barber could have taken one look at him and known he was loaded for bear. Two double action revolvers on each thigh. In the left sling on his brown war horse, a lever action carbine. In the right, another lever action, this time a shotgun.

What they didn’t see was under the heavy leather thigh-length jacket was two blades up the sleeves. One Bowie, another a throwing knife. On his belt right above his rear, out of sight, was a German C96 pistol. He had ammunition for it in one of the many pouches on his jacket. A stereotypical dark brown cowboy hat was pulled down over his eyes.

As he rode down the street, Amarillo’s inhabitants stopped what they were doing and stared at him. No man came into Amarillo armed. They either turned in their weapons, were part of the local gang, or had a death wish.

The saloon and bank were located right next to each other, so that late night drinkers could wander across the road to get more money for more booze. That is, if they managed to cross the road without being hit by a cart or horse.

Out from behind the saloon, four males stumbled out. One of them had a ridiculous curly mustache, another a wild beard. All four were obviously drunk.

Between them they were pushing a young boy around. He held a brown canvas bag with stains on it.

One of the men, the one with the curly mustache. caught sight of the rider coming down the street. He called out something to his buddies. One of the guys smacked the boy across the back of the head and yelled, “Git outta here!” The boy ran tearing down the road.

The rider had stopped, and had barely looked up. Just enough to see out from under the brim of his hat.

“You there!” The lead man yelled, his words slightly slurred. “Dismount and c’mere!”

The rider obliged. He left his carbine and shotgun in their place and slid off the horse, and after directing the horse to walk itself of the road, stood resting a hand on one of his revolvers.

“Get that hand away from your piece.” One of the men snarled, pulling his own pistol out of a belt holster. He obviously was too drunk to notice the larger firearms on the horse, or the second revolver.

The rider raised both his hands near his shoulder loosely. “Not lookin for any trouble.” He said softly.

“If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be packin’.” The fourth man, his face dirty and pockmarked, said in a reedy voice. He had a hunting knife in his hand.

“Here’s how this is gonna go, friend.” Curly ‘Stache said. “You’re gonna hand over your pistols. Yes, I see that second one you got there. Then, you’re gonna gimme your purse and valuables, and I’m gonna go buy us a few more drinks.”

The rider shrugged slightly. “Hate to disappoint you, but that ain’t how this ends pal.”

All of the men in the group laughed heartily. “Ain’t gonna happen he says!” Then one with the beard chortled. “In our town!”

For the moment they were all distracted.

Blam blam blam blam.

All four went down.

The rider blew the smoke off the revolver’s barrel. He opened the cylinder catch and ejected the four empty cases, feeding four more live rounds in. The process took less than five seconds.

All four of the men were moving. The rider holstered the revolver and reached behind him, drawing the C96.

As he approached Curly ‘Stache, the man struggled to draw a pistol. He succeeded just as the rider reached him. The revolver came up only to be booted out of the hand holding it. The man sobbed and begged for mercy.

The rider raised the pistol and put a round between his eyes.

Two of the other guys were making attempts to crawl away. The third, the one with the beard, was laying on his back were he had slumped over, the sand around him slowly turning dark.

Reedy Voice flopped over, raising his pistol. The rider rang him a round in the chest followed by one to the forehead. Reedy Voice visibly went limp. The fourth and final one was scrambling to grab a throwing knife in his off hand. The rider planted one foot on his wrist, the other on his shoulder, and shot him through the back of the head.

Just to be safe, he turned and put another round into Beard. He sighed, and locked back the piston on the C96, and fed five rounds into it, then released the piston. He reholstered it behind him, under his jacket.

He left the bodies where they were, in the middle of the street. He walked over to his horse and tied the reigns to the railing. Then, he entered the saloon.

When he pushed through the doors, everyone went silent, staring at him. The occupants had been expecting the gang members to come back through for more booze, after they had finished looting whoever they had shot. The follow-up shots had confused them, though. The last thing they had been expecting was the new guy in town to be walking into the saloon, with his guns on his person and his head still connected to his neck.

Rolling his eyes, the rider walked past the occupant’s gaping stares to the back of the saloon. Slowly, conversation and commotion began to rise in the building.

The rider slid into a booth at the very back of the saloon. Across from the rider sat another man. Tanned face with lukewarm eyes, and a scar across his left cheek.

“Figured that whole hubbub was about you.” Ryan Moore said chuckling. “How was the ride, Mav?”

Roy Maverickson, Mav for short, shrugged. “Fine up until a few drunks tried to muscle me out of my guns and valuables. Least to say they were going to be persistent, and I gave them my answer early.”

On his belt, Moore had a Smith & Wesson six shooter, set up for cross draw on his left hip. On his right leg in a sheath was a modified lever action shotgun. It had no stock, and a short barrel, with a capacity of four shells, three in the tube and one in the chamber. He also had a Bowie knife. He wore a matching brown thigh-length jacket and brown hat Mav was wearing.

“Where’s Peréz?” Mav asked.

“He’s putting together a few things for us. Extra gear, ammunition, supplies, the sort.”

“What about Hayde?”

“On his way, should be joining us shortly.” Moore said, exasperated. “We were trying,” he said sarcastically. “to avoid contact with the local gangbangers, but I think we’re kind of past that point, now are we?”

Mav laughed. A waitress came over, and very politely asked, “Can I get you two gents anything?”

Mav and Moore looked at each other. “Cup of coffee would be great. Gonna be a long night, miss.” Mav said.

“Make it two.” Moore nodded in agreement.

“You betcha.” The waitress winked and made haste for the kitchen. Mav and Moore sat and waited in silence. The waitress returned a few minutes later, two cups of coffee on a tray.

“If there’s anything else you fellas need, just give me a holler.” The waitress said pleasantly. Mav nodded and out of his pocket withdrew a small gold piece.

“Oh no, please, everything for you is on the house sir. Boss’s orders, for wastin’ those thugs out there. He saw it from his office window. Kept rambling on about how you were the Grim Reaper himself.”

Mav laughed loudly. “I’m not anything of the sort, miss. Just know my way around a gun. So, I’d appreciate if you took this as a tip.”

The waitress put one hand over her mouth in shock as Mav pressed the gold piece into her other and closed it. She then grinned in full and winked at Mav before scampering off to the kitchens again.

Mav and Moore drank their coffee in silence. After some time passed with small talk, the doors to the saloon opened again, and Alfonso Peréz entered the saloon. He also immediately made his way to the back of the building, sliding into the table between Moore and Mav.

“Evening Mav.” Peréz acknowledged him. “Boss.” He said to Moore.

“We all set Peréz?” Moore asked.

“Good to go.” Peréz responded. “Might want to go soon too. We got baddies starting to gather outside.”

“Looks like your fans have arrived Mav.” Moore chuckled.

Just as he said that, the doors to the saloon blew open. Three men wearing expensive clothes and carrying guns strutted into the saloon.

“Where’s the rider that came to town today?” One of them shouted.

Mav sighed, and pulled his hat a little bit lower over his eyes. “Here we go again.”

“I don’t give a damn if I have to tear this whole damn saloon apart! Where is he?”

There was no response. The men moved in a group, looking at people. Mav loosened his right revolver in its holster, and cocked the hammer. A double action revolver can be fired even if the hammer is down. Though, while the hammer is down, the trigger pull is heavier than when the hammer is cocked. With Mav’s practice and repeated pulling of the trigger, it made no difference in accuracy. Only in speed of the shot.

Eventually, the men made their way over to the three sitting at the back of the saloon. Mav kept his head down and stared at the remainder of his cup of coffee. He thought he was in the clear until a shotgun barrel jabbed him in the shoulder. “Get up, maggot.”

There was a blast and the barrel of the shotgun was removed from Mav’s shoulder. He spun up and out of his chair, planting his knife in the chest of one of the men with his left hand, while his right brought one of his revolvers up to waist level and shot the third guy through the gut.

Immediately the saloon’s occupants began to frantically exit the building. The melee to reach the door was hellacious.

Mav withdrew the knife from the gangsters chest and wiped it on his expensive sleeveless vest. Peréz stood up and grabbed the wounded man, hauling him to his feet, hissing for him to get on his feet. Moore stood up, cycling the lever on his cut-down shotgun that he had been holding in his lap the entire time.

Mav flipped another gold piece to the waitress, who had dropped her tray after exiting the kitchens and had been serving a customer. “Sorry for the mess, miss.” He said, tipping his hat and following Peréz out the door.

Outside, Peréz had wrestled the wounded man into his knees, facing the saloon. A coil of rope had been produced, and the man’s hands tied. His hands were tied in front of him, so the man was applying pressure to his wound. The round had not exited, which meant that his death would only be slower.

Mav approached the wounded gangster. “You could have just accepted that your pals were dead and left me be, but no! You decided to come back for more. Just had to flex your muscle, now did you?”

The gangster spat at Mav’s feet, missing. Mav stopped and, dropped down to one knee, looking the injured man in the eye. “If that had hit, I would have cut your tongue out of your mouth right here and now.”

The defiance in the man’s face was evident. “You’re gonna have to return me to my boss. He ain’t gonna be pleased when he hears that you threatened me in such a manner.”

“My friend here is hardly threatening.” Moore said. He was pacing back and forth behind Mav, hands clasped behind his back. “Every word he utters comes with complete sincerity.”

The gangster coughed. “You well spoken men ain’t welcome in our town. We’ll find you. And we’ll let you bleed out in the middle of nowhere, for the Indians to find you.” He cackled.

“I beg to differ.” Moore said. “This isn’t your town anymore.”

“You beg to differ what exactly, you pansy little soft-handed swine?”

“Such rudeness.” Moore sighed. “I’ve heard my fill. Kill him.”

Mav stood up, unholstering his revolver again, as the man, fear now blatantly obvious, cried, “But wait! The Bandit’s Code! You can’t kill a wounded man you have captured!”

Mav paused. “Take a look a little ways behind you, and look how the Code worked out for your friends.”

The man turned himself slightly so he could see behind him. Dragged out of the middle of the road and stripped of valuable items were the bodies of the four drunks Mav had dispatched earlier. The injured man began to wimper.

“See, where I come from,” Mav said, cocking the revolver. “there are no codes, no treaties, no rules. It’s whatever you are willing to do...” he went on, leveling the pistol at the wounded man’s forehead.

“...versus what the enemy is willing to do.”

Blam.

 

These are uploads off of iOS, but I will look into it. Part 2 coming out tomorrow.