The explosion had died down, and all that was left outside were the dancing flames and wafting black smoke coming from the back of the Sheriff's Office. That must've been where the first explosion came from; the second was nearby as well. Curious was the second target, though—it was Doc Devon's Hospital, which, by that time, was already closed. They could've targeted other establishments, yet they struck a place where people could heal—with payment, of course. I thought then that maybe they wanted to destroy it so the wounded wouldn't have anywhere to buy tonics and salves—snake oils, even.
If they truly thought that far ahead, I'd say they were either cunning or extremely cruel. I saw it all from the exterior balcony of Carmina's Cantina. Even the bandits riding their dire stallions under the scrutinizing pallid glow of the full-bodied Selene.
'Sheriff! Haul yer sorry hide outta that hole ya crawled into!' bellowed the man on the black horse, animalistically.
He stopped in front of the half-destroyed Sheriff's Office, which, by that time, was smoking from the inside as well. There was a long silence before one of the rangers came out. His entrance was fast, and his actions careless, as he reached for his engraved iron—a fancy gun for a dead man. He was shot repeatedly by the other outlaws, mercilessly, until every surface of his body bled. The ranger took a knee, raising his weakened arms with his last spirit. But his will wasn't enough. The blood leaked out of his body before it reached his fingers. After a second more, he lay awry on the exterior platform of the Sheriff's Office. The other rangers came out after. They were good—as good as the one who just died.
That also meant that they were just as good as dead ones.
The bandits showed the same courtesy to them as they had their first friend. They were peppered with lead, their bodies strewn about the wood. Bits of their brains—those who got shot in the head—became a slimy piece of art decorating the dread of the burning building.
'How many more gotta bleed out, Sheriff Hart, 'fore you get your sorry ass run outta here?!' raged the same bandit. 'Or you lookin' to make me start puttin' bullets in some fine folks 'round here—'
He aimed his gun towards the wooden plaque of Carmina's Cantina. That was what I thought then, but I realized it late—too late.
He was aiming at me.
I barely had time to blink before the shot rang out. Pain exploded in my left shoulder like fire ripping through my skin. I fell back, hitting the cold balcony floor with a thud. For a moment, I couldn't breathe—only the searing heat of pain and the bitter taste of iron in my mouth reminded me that I was still alive. Mortality will never be easy to grapple with. The fact that we are merely made out of time, and time is never eternal. The sands above will fall down eventually. I knew many people who'd been driven mad by that thought.
But as I lay there, feeling my spirit leave my lips wantonly, I heard the muffled shuffle of a pair of shoes coming towards me.
It was Ravenscroft.
He knelt beside me, smiling that smile of his, like we were having tea on a pleasant afternoon. The Thieving Crow reached down and pulled something from my shoulder—something small and metal. A thick coin. He held it up in front of my dazed eyes, turning it to show the deep dent where the bullet had struck it.
'Seems I inadvertently left my coin on your shoulder when I patted you earlier, good chap,' he said with a soft chuckle. 'I'll be retrieving it now, if you don't mind.'
I blinked, the pain still roaring through me, but realization hit like a second wave of shock. The coin had saved my life.
"Shit..." I muttered, feeling my strength slowly return.
I don't even know what to call that. It was odd, as if he knew what was going to happen and how. Either way, I shrugged it off just as a great coincidence.
Ravenscroft pressed a finger to his lips.
"Shh," he whispered, his eyes glinting with amusement.
I could hear the bandits laughing, thinking they'd finished me off. But I wasn't dead—not yet. Something dark, something angry, flared up inside me, but I bit it back. I wasn't ready for revenge.
Not yet.
Ravenscroft helped me to my feet, pulling me behind the wooden sign of the cantina. Through a small bullet hole, I peered out at the leader—the man who had shot me. A grim-looking bastard with three scars running across his cheek and a hangman's noose looped loosely around his neck. He had the look of a man who liked to play with his victims before stringing them up. That was when I knew him.
Emery "Hangman" Heinzman—the leader of the Ghoul Gang.
My anger would lead me down a dark path, but I don't regret not walking it. At that time, all I wanted to do was inflict the same pain he had inflicted on me. And nothing would have satisfied me more than seeing that bastard drop a crystal tear from his eye while I stabbed or shot him in the shoulder.
All of a sudden, I caught a glimpse of a ball-shaped figure walking out from the smoke inside the Sheriff's Office. My attention span wasn't rotten. It was just that, in some cases, I snap out and forget who I am. And part of that is my focus. I am glass. One corner shatters, and everything else follows.
'Well, well, well, look who finally showed up to the party,' the Hangman sneered, a wicked grin spreading across his face. 'See that, boys? Maybe the sheriff ain't as spineless as I figured. He's a brave fella, standin' up for his fine folks. Gotta hand it to him—real honorable, really, it—'
The words stuck in his throat like an unchewed piece of jerky as something from behind Sheriff Hart emerged with him. There was a sword on his neck, an ornate saber, lined there. It glistened under the moon like it was forged from its own elements. The one behind him limped as he held Sheriff Hart hostage.
'Who the hell're you?' The Hangman's grin twisted into a sour frown, eyes narrowing. 'You must got a damn big pair on ya, thinkin' you can snatch my mark right out from under me.'
The bandits raised their guns, ready to fire at a moment's notice. The sheriff, pale and trembling, could barely keep his feet under him. The man holding him, though, was calm—too calm. I recognized him as the vagrant from the jail, but his presence now was something else.
The lost prisoner had become the Lost Corsair.
But you and I would come to know him as the Lost Corsair.
'Ah, I am not looking for... how do you say, trouble,' the Lost Corsair spoke, his words heavy with the cadence of his Parisian tongue. 'Monsieur, if you let me go, I will give you this blaireau.'
'Bla-what now?' one of the bandits shouted, so the crackling flames inside the Sheriff's Office wouldn't drown him out.
'Matters not, do we have a deal, messieurs?'
'It's always the French, isn't it, causing a bit of trouble,' whispered Ravenscroft while we kept hidden in the same spot.
'We ain't got no use for the sheriff bein' alive, you know that, right? We ain't no bounty hunters,' Heinzman sneered, his confidence returning.
'Ah…' the Lost Corsair paused, saber still in his hand. 'Très bien.'
Like a whiplash, the Lost Corsair moved quickly, though not as fast as Hachiman. He was more strong than quick—you'd know it just by looking at him. He was a well-built wall for someone who had been in jail for God knows how long. The Frenchman kicked Sheriff Hart forward, moving his saber just enough that he wouldn't slit his neck. Of course, being a bunch of savages, the Hangman, along with his ghouls, started shooting at Sheriff Hart until most of his features were riddled with holes. All the while, the Lost Corsair rolled back over the burning building and hid there as they shot at him relentlessly.
Just as their guns clicked empty, a sharp whistle pierced the night.
No—more like a gust of wind.
Though I know it wasn't a whistle, or a strong tempest at all—it was Hachiman moving so fast that it seemed like he was an afterthought. Of course, you could say it was the effect of the night, or the fact that I had just been shot and might have been seeing things because of it. But no—this is the truth of the case.
One slash to the man nearest to him, another to the unlucky bastard who was second nearest, and the third stroke was reserved for the third nearest. All of them died realizing they never had a chance, nor did they realize they were already dead. Hachiman flicked his sword before wiping the blood from the blade with the sleeve of his left elbow. Only then did their heads fall off softly—the sword had cut through their spines like they consisted only of marrow. They even reached for their necks as if they were still conscious, though already beheaded—a dying man's hope that he's never truly dead after the fact. We all have it.
Their horses neighed, all of them in shock. Hell, even I was in shock—so much so that I half-forgot my fear and anger.
'Goddamn reckless bastard,' Gambit muttered from the roof of the General Merchandise Store. His shots rang out sharp and fast—eleven rounds, five dead. He didn't take chances, firing twice into some to make sure they stayed down.
He knew better than to trust a man with one bullet in him.
Fear twisted Heinzman's face, something I hadn't thought possible. I drank in the sight of it, savoring the way terror clawed at him. The Hangman turned tail, bolting on his horse as his men lay dead or dying. The other two who were beside him held tightly to their reins, paralyzed by fear. Perhaps they believed their horses would save them, but animals have a funny way of repaying cruelty. You treat them poorly, they'll treat you the same.
The Golden Rule, in all its irony.
The Lost Corsair emerged from the building. Calmly, he approached the two outlaws who had soiled themselves in a pathetic plea for mercy. They knew mercy was a foreign concept in the Old West. Out here, everything is designed to kill you—more so if you'd lived by killing others. Eventually, the wind shifts, and death finds you, a final gift from providence.
Without hesitation, the Frenchman drove his saber into the one on the right, then yanked the other down with a single movement. His weariness was palpable—he hadn't wanted to kill them, but they'd left him no choice. A deal could have spared them this fate, but their refusal sealed it. The second glance he gave the man lying in the sand erased any hesitation, and with a swift stomp, he ended him. The Lost Corsair wasn't soft; he was simply a buccaneer long past his killing days.
When the dust settled, Ravenscroft and I descended into the street. My left shoulder throbbed painfully, a reminder of the stray bullet. Hachiman, having sheathed his sword, rushed to my side.
'You alright, tomo-chan?' he asked, concerned.
'Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just caught a stray.'
'Yokatta,' he smiled, clapping me on the same shoulder.
I flinched, and he laughed.
'And speaking of a stray, who, pray tell, do we have here?' Ravenscroft gestured towards the Lost Corsair, now standing over the bodies he'd felled, not bothering to look down at them. His gaze was fixed upward, towards the North Star. From the faint glint in his eyes, I could tell he longed to follow it, though at the time, I hadn't the faintest idea why.
The Man Named Gambit descended from the roof, skipping the stairs entirely. He made his way towards the Frenchman, gun drawn and aimed at the man's head.
'See anything up there, Frenchie?' Gambit asked.
'Don't bother, connard,' the Lost Corsair replied coolly. 'One bullet won't be enough.'
'That so? Well, let's see if that's God's honest truth.'
The Lost Corsair began to turn, hand moving towards his saber, and Gambit's finger twitched on the trigger. But the stand-off was interrupted by a groan. One of the outlaws, the man the Corsair had stabbed, was still alive. Perhaps by some instinct, the Frenchman hadn't wanted to cause undue suffering and had struck shallowly.
Gambit clicked his tongue in annoyance and took aim at the bleeding man. But Hachiman intervened.
'Chotto matte—don't shoot him,' he urged. 'We can, what do you call it? Uhm, Ask him questions while hurting him.'
'You mean torture?' the Lost Corsair chimed in.
'Yes! Torture! Your English is better than mine,' Hachiman chuckled.
'I've had enough blood for one day,' the Corsair said with a grave expression. "I won't take part in it."
'Fine by me,' Gambit shrugged. 'But you'll stay close. No slipping away while we're not looking.'
'And I'll do the questioning, shall I, gents?' Ravenscroft added, clapping his hands together with a smile.
Hachiman and Gambit exchanged glances and nodded in agreement. The Lost Corsair, with Gambit's gun still trained on him, was led like a wayward steer towards the saloon.
'Very well,' Ravenscroft said, clasping his hands theatrically before turning to me. 'Now then, sir, why don't you escort our friend to the room?'
With that, he patted my back and strolled into the saloon, a spring in his step as though he'd just received a gift.
As I dragged the wounded man along, he begged for mercy, his pleas falling on deaf ears. I had long ago lost the capacity to hear cries or entreaties. It wasn't that I didn't care—I knew that no matter how much he feared for his life, he had inflicted worse on others. That was just a debt overdue. That hardened my resolve, numbed my conscience.
The Old West had swallowed my sense of morality in a single day. I was on the verge of becoming one of them. It made me sick, yet there was no retching, no release. Perhaps I had already swallowed the sickness whole, long before it could reach my throat. I thought about it all.
All to ease my shattering soul—a futile attempt to find solace in a world without it.