Ignobles

Chapter 3

The Pioneer drew a breath through his cigar, its tip glowing bright orange. He hadn't heard that name for over a month. But it felt as if it had been a decade. He knew Dragoon and Crake would be annoyed. But the bounty on Wrathbone was far too high to ignore, regardless of who stood in their way. He removed the cigar from his mouth, staring out the window of his hotel room. It was small, stained, and cheap. Its sole light source was a lamp that stood bright on the coffee-stained bedside table behind him. Perfect for avoiding attention. He had chosen the most bog-standard room he could find. Too expensive, people notice. Too cheap, people guess. The more intuitive ones at least- the worst kind.

The people of Gravestone knew who he was. But they didn't know who his target was. Yet. He knocked back the last bit of booze he had left in his glass and slammed it back against the table with a throaty sigh of satisfaction. He had gone in and out of five hotels to throw any overly interested individuals off.

He fished a brass watch out from his right pocket, stared at the scratched face. Nine-thirty PM. Dragoon and Crake would arrive by morning. And so their hunt would begin. He had sent Imitar with a short note tied to his right leg. The note he had made from a piece of paper from the barwoman downstairs, the string was a thread from his old poncho. The crow never took detours. He was never late. 

A knock on the door made him lower his boots from the table, his hand snapping to his holster. Grabbing air where the butt of his Colt would normally be. He cursed under his breath, glancing at the door.

He placed his glass on the table, his hand disappearing behind his back, a curved blade in his fist when he removed it. He chewed on his cigar as he inched toward the door, the wood floor creaking beneath his boots. His breaths softened as he strained to hear anything on the other side of the door. He held the handle, its metal squeaking against the black leather glove that covered his palm. He raised his blade, the curve pointing towards himself, a sliver of light running down its side. He closed his eyes, feeling his heartbeat.
Then slammed the handle down. He ducked as he rushed forward, barely avoiding the top of the door frame as the young girl who stood outside screamed, and simply dropped what she held, running down the hall. He lowered the knife, his teeth unclenching from his cigar. She turned to look at him, her dark eyes wide, her blonde hair in a mess around her head.

The Pioneer put his hands out as if calming a dog, knife between his fingers, "It's alright. I thought you were someone else."

"Who in bleedin' hell would warrant that kinda reaction?" The woman shouted.

The Pioneer looked down at the package- a cloth and some wax. Just what he had asked for after ordering the drink. He sheathed the knife, picked them up from the floor, and turned back to the woman, her chest rising and falling heavily, her face slowly gaining its pale red color back.

 "Someone you should hope and pray you'll never meet alone in the dark," the Pioneer said, turning back to his room, "sorry again miss."

****

Andrew Slain watched the pebble-ridden path before him, his finger hooked in the handle of a mug the way one hooks their finger around a trigger. Steam curled from inside the cup-like misty flames. The sun was barely out, no more than a faint glow on the other side of the buildings ahead, the rest of the sky a dark, gray-blue.

A gentle wind blew in from the north, sending goose flesh studding across his arms. He looked down at the hat on his lap, its dusty leather worn out in some spots, shiny in others.

His ears pricked up as he heard the door on his left open with a rusty whine. Emma. She stood in the doorway with a brown and white toy horse in one hand, rubbing her eye with the other. Her white pajamas were too thin to provide much protection against the wind as it began to brew again, pressing strands of her wild hair against her face.