VANGUARDS: Silver City

Part One: Preacher

     The golden shine of the vast and open desert was anything but appealing; men tended to die when left out on their own with nothing but a pistol, a piece of bread, and their own demons. Mirages danced before them like sirens, beckoning them to a deep sleep with no awakening.
     This was the penalty for being a traitor in the Expanse. Betray a town, or a Town Mayor, and you were tossed to the dogs to feed off of. The capital punishment for treason against a settlement stood as a settler's worst nightmare, for the wilds of the Expanse were hardly the plains of dreams.
So it was for the man named Brendan, who had slept with the Deputy's wife and in the scuffle with the Deputy, shot the Sheriff's dog. Thrice the insult, so there he was thrown, out into the unknown without anyone giving a damn. Half naked, only clothed in tattered trousers and goatskin shoes, Brendan trekked to nowhere with tears in his eyes. Come the fifth hour of his exile, he couldn't tell if sadness brought the tears or if the sand did. In either case, it was getting progressively harder for him to see.
He cried out like a wounded pup, calling for anyone to come to his aid. With a small shiv given to him, he happened upon Desert Blaze, a tall and dense plant filled with seed and meat. The tough skin could only be easily broken by a hardy blade, so it stood to reason that Brendan was caught between desperation and denial when faced with the task at hand, having only a measly knife as his tool.
Sweat poured from his brow, and his pale skin became increasingly sunburnt as he laboured on his knees, grunting as he pushed the blade into the Blaze's skin. Every so often, he'd look up to the sky and beg for God to grant him mercy, then would continue his seemingly vain task.
"Oh Lord, no more! C'mon...c'mon you plant...please...please! Open up! Come on..."
His knife snapped. He simply gawked at the broken knife with widened eyes, red with exhaustion and anxiety. He breathed a long sigh.
KABLAM!!!
The top of the plant exploded. Brendan jumped backwards, letting out a shriek of surprise and fear, as he bolted away toward any kind of shelter. Finding a steep dune of sand, he hurled himself over and hid. Shivering, he listened closely.
He heard a wet ripping sound, coming most likely from the plant. There was a brief silence, and he heard jingling. He heard no footsteps, but he knew he was being approached by a stranger, possibly the one who shot the bullet at the plant. He curled up even more, breathing in and out in preparation for an inevitable confrontation, and perhaps death. The last thought brought him terror; he shut his eyes as tight as possible.
"Excuse me, there. I believe this is yours."
Brendan slowly opened his eyes, and looked above to see to whom the raspy yet strong voice belonged.
A tall man, draped in a long brown duster, whose head was shaded by a wide-brimmed black hat, stood over Brendan with an object in his gloved hand. Brendan slowly and reluctantly looked in the man's hand, and saw pieces of the Blaze fruit. He looked straight into the stranger's eyes with curiosity. The man read him like a book.
         "Just a man passin' through, saw another man starving half to death. You better clean up if you hope to make it back alive, anywhere."
        With a frail voice, Brendan replied, "Who...who are you sir?"
        The man took a couple steps back. "Tryin' to figure that out myself. Call me Preacher for now."
        With that, the man known as Preacher strode back to his horse, a broad and brown steed, and rode off as quickly as he came. Brendan was left there, sitting on the sand with the fruit in his hand, contemplating what just happened and if the Lord he had once despised had just met him with a personal touch.

-

The rhythmic beats of the horse's hooves on the sandy plains brought a semblance of life into the ambience. Birds, big and small, hovered over the face of the wild, seeking to devour whatever new corpse had turned up that day. Beasts burrowing underground remained dormant, until provoked from their unpredictable slumber.
The horse's stamina was remarkable, especially one that wasn't a hybrid like so many other horses were. Upgrades surgically implanted into animals boosted performance, stamina, longevity, and endurance, but the risks had at a time been high.
Maintenance was the simple answer.
The brown steed that Preacher named Lazarus was strong and hardy enough without the upgrades. Carrying not only his rider but two rather heavy saddlebags, and speeding through the desert at a strong pace, Lazarus was Preacher's best friend.
        Preacher couldn't remember having any friends, then again.
        After 36 miles traveled, Preacher caught a glimpse of something in the distance. Squinting his eyes and adjusting his bandana, Preacher reached into one of his saddlebags and pulled out a spyglass, extending it to get a better look at what lay ahead.
        It was a settlement, thank God. At that rate, he was almost unsure on if he'd see one soon.
        Preacher closed up the spyglass and stuck it into his saddlebag, along with a canteen of water, boxes of matches, and an old book that remained dear to him. Breathing a sigh of relief, he spurred Lazarus on as they proceeded to the town, just about 4 more miles away.

-

        The town known as Driftwood was busy that time of day, on that day in particular. Traders stopped by with their motorised wagons, bringing several goods varying from food to clothes to weapons, and even the occasional elixir that cured nothing but a beating heart.
        In the bustle, the deputies had to keep a weather eye on the town, for when it got busy, there tended to be plenty of vagabonds who tried to come in and swipe whatever they could. Either that, or they'd instigate a bar brawl in the saloon, Cherry's. Whatever the case was, Driftwood leaned towards either quiet and peaceful, or busy and frankly chaotic. Preacher came in on the latter kind of day.
        Eyes fell upon the man and his horse, and they simply gawked at what they beheld. Some recognised him, some didn't, but plenty took note of his completely organic companion. As he rode by, the spell cast upon them flickered away, and that was ultimately what Preacher has been hoping for. He was never too keen on a ton of attention drawn to himself.
        Riding up to Cherry's, Preacher dismounted and hitched his horse to the post right by the porch. He gave a soft look at his horse and gave him a pat on his face, then stepped into the saloon. His left hand remained close to his left hip.
       Walking in, immediately he heard a yell and the sound of a bottle breaking. Whipping his gaze to the right of him, he saw two men wrestling at a poker game, the three others accompanying attempting to break it up. Looking upon the table, it was obvious that the one who had taken the entire pot was currently fighting to breathe as his windpipe was tightly squeezed by a hairy man's thick mitts. The way Preacher saw it, if no one else was too worried, he shouldn't have been neither.
      Taking a few more strides, he took a good look at the place. Cherry's was an exquisitely furnished saloon, the best that he'd seen in a good minute. A maroon carpet lay in front of the bar itself, with various pieces of art hung around the room. The tables were sanded and smoothed, unlike the more primitively-made tables that typically decorated saloons, and thus made it all the more a shame whenever a drunken couple of men decided to use the tables as weaponry.
      But, Cherry's got reimbursed for any and all damage, so it made no difference.
     Preacher approached the bar; the bartender turned around to face him, then stepped forward. The gentleman was shorter, around 5'5, and had a thick moustache to compensate for the balding spot on his head. But he spoke with volume and confidence, the mark of an experienced tender.
       "What can I do ya for, strang'r?"
       "I'm passing through; figured I'd take a gander at your stock." Preacher replied.
        "Well, we have ale on tap, some of the best in this stretch of the Expanse," the bartender waved his hand to the barrels to his right. "We've a selection of tonics and whiskey, so on so forth. I'd recommend the Red Tonic."
       Preacher nodded his head toward the barrels. "An ale is fine."
        With a nod, the bartender grabbed a glass and began filling it with ale. "You plannin' in stayin' long?"
         Preacher shrugged. "Haven't planned either way."
"Ah," The bartender slid the glass over to Preacher, who took it in hand and began to drink the ale down.
       "We seem to be gettin' interesting fellers around here nowadays," the bartender continued, "What's your name, strang'r?"
        Preacher placed the glass down into the bar, after taking a relieved breath. "Preacher."
        The bartender's eyebrow peeled up. "Preacher? You a religious man?"
        Preacher looked the bartender dead in the eyes, and simply shrugged. "Tryin' to figure that out myself, mister."
        No longer had Preacher finished his sentence, had there come a loud shout at the other end of the saloon. Immediately, Preacher spun around with his hand on the handle of his gun, and he saw where the commotion was coming from.
       It was coming from a table with an angry man with a wild beard and reddened eyes, and a younger man who wore a simple and sly smile.