(Note: Download the file to finish the story. I didn't realize the description length is now capped. Sorry. :( .)

Hey, all. This is a short story that I am considering submitting to a furry-related anthology soon as I'm very much seeking to pick up some writing credits in an attempt to, well, maybe help a book get published that I've been working on. I'm hoping to get a feel as to what everyone thinks. The theme is swordsmanship, with everything else up to the author's discretion. I chose the setting of the American Civil War and the Wild West, with the themes of self-destruction, self-discovery, and redemption, with a bit of a Jean Valjean and Inspector Javert. If you can, leave your thoughts below or as a private message, that would be appreciated, otherwise, enjoy this short story! It's a bit long for a short story, but is within the guidelines laid out by the editor. I may be uploading something else soon, too, of a genre I generally never, ever do to receive the same kind of feedback. Any thoughts are helpful as long as they are constructive and whatnot. Either way, thanks for your time!

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Folly
By Greyhound1211

Forgive the folly, but never forget the face. Save for this crucial bit of wisdom, my father gave me next to nothing in life. What money he did earn, he drank away. A veteran of our war with Mexico, my father was a cruel creature. Aside from his bottle, he had an affinity for few things. Pugilism, which he honed as a lad, bullshittery, which he perfected by the time he married my mother, and the blade.
You see, when the army landed in the gulf and pushed its way towards the capital, it had need of individuals with a very specific set of skills. While the musket tears armies to shreds, it has too many drawbacks. For one, it’s loud, easily discovered, and easily disabled. Plus, you have one shot and one shot only. If you miss, you’ll regret ever pulling the trigger. Any idiot can work a rifle.
No, my father worked with two blades. One the length of his arm and the width of his thumb, a small sword he claimed to have forged himself, though I believe he stole it from a fluyt floating in Boston Harbor. I know this because, aside from its eagle-headed pommel and its bright bronze handguard adorned with intricate, flowery, and expansive details, it featured a shallow, yet prominent, etching on each side of the blade which read ‘Mors Tyrannis,’ Death to Tyrants. He couldn’t even read English.
His other blade was a main-gauche. Consisting of thick, cannon-grade steel with a swordbreaker cross guard and matching bell-style handguard, it’s blade was just a little over eight inches. My father preferred this to the sword, I’ve been told, as its short stature and razor-sharp edge allowed him to work in more confined spaces. He claimed to have won it in a card game in New Orleans before his deployment, despite its similarity to his small sword.
Despite his brief moments of wisdom, my father was not a smart animal, though a clever one. Even for a coyote. His job was to slip behind enemy lines to disrupt and sabotage. Ideally, he was to detonate ammo dumps, clip telegraph wires, burn documents, and steal maps of troop movements. But they should have never given an animal like my father the chance to inflict his particular brand of cruelty with no repercussions.
It’s why the blades of both weapons are blackened at every edge. I still keep both of them sharp, sharper than a raider like my father ever could. But the blood? That stays on the blade. The blood always stays on the blade. I have a belief now that even if I wanted to wash away the filth, the memories of a thousand deaths, I would be unable to. Because even God can forgive the follies, but He never forgets the faces.

I’ve been living in Bakersfield for about three years now. Everyone knows me, at least by sight, despite the fact that I rarely make appearances in the town that has blossomed with the arrival of the railroad. It’s difficult to miss a dog like me amongst all the grass-chewers. Even among other canines, I cannot be confused for another.
I only come down a few times a month to procure provisions, purchase raw materials, and handle my finances. My home is a few hours ride to the north, tucked in a fertile valley, the most beautiful in this part of the Dakota Territory. I have barns and warehouses there where I keep stores for the harsh winters as well as to indulge in my hobbies. It also masks the true size of my house from a distance.
I often have to stay overnight when I do travel into town, as I don’t want to limit the amount of time other folks are at my home. It’s because I prefer to keep my life as private as possible, but also because I believe very few herbivores want to associate with me. Oh, sure, they force my kind to fight in their wars, often fresh off the boat and without a lick of English, but then spit in their path once the dirty work is complete. Well, not my path. They wouldn’t dare.
At the center of the town is a bar and hotel named the Six Swans. At four stories, it’s the tallest building for a hundred miles in every direction. And with a dozen or more taps, its bar attracts every hopeful prospector, snake oil hawker, card and dice shark, and bloodied outlaw making his way between the Big Muddy and the Rockies. And it’s only gotten worse now that the railroad has come.
And with it has come the Union. To see a few bonded bounty hunters or the stray sheriff or deputy come through is not abnormal. But the gleaming steam engine with its long tail has spewed forth an unrelenting stream of blue-backed soldiers, black-suited federal officers, and, worst of all, weathered Marshalls with their wide-brimmed hats, long coats, and longer pistols. I try to avoid running into them at all costs, but, these days it’s becoming more difficult.
I watch them step off the first class coach hitched to a train named ‘The Spirit of Philadelphia.’ She’s a gleaming silver engine. Brand new, with a red tender, its name is emblazoned upon it in tight, opulent script. Three males, two in fresh, tailored black suits, one draped in a worn army long coat and a brown bowler, linger on the platform. They direct the unloading of their luggage, waving their fingers between the car and a waiting coach.
Or should I say, the two in black are. The third takes no interest in his immediate surroundings, preferring to survey the town, searching for something. When he turns in my direction, I conceal my head behind my black hat and wait. And wait. Because by the way his brow is set above his eyes, it indicates the kind of animal he is: severe, hard, and cruel. And I don’t say that because he’s a bighorn and I’m a coyote. Sometimes, you just know.
I figure that would be the end of it, but as they make their way up the street on foot, I peek from beneath the brim of my hat and study their approach. As they cross the square as a group, the bighorn slows to a stop and then has a chat with his compatriots who seem to have not been expecting any delay. A bull and mule, they merely nod their heads beneath their respective wide-brimmed hats after a moment and then continue onwards.
The ram checks his watch and then moseys towards the front door after allowing some boys from the general store pass by with crates in their hands. Then he opens the door to the hotel and enters. His hooves clack on the wooden floor and pause as the door whines shut behind him. I feel the hot rays of inquisitive eyes run me over and then I hear hooffalls.
Hooffalls moving away from me. My hand grips the whiskey I suddenly remember with a vice grip, almost cracking the glass. Horace, the bartender, welcomes him with a smile and a ‘what’ll it be?’ As this newcomer leans onto the empty bar, my eyes glide down his side. At his hips, hidden beneath his coat, hang a pair of revolvers; big ones, from the size of the bulges. Animal-stoppers, I’d guess.
But there’s also another shape, hanging from the left side of his waist. It’s long, curved, barely touching his coat. My jaw tightens as the image of a saber crosses my mind. That makes me bow my head and suck down half of my drink. He’s a Marshall, alright, and an old fashioned one to boot. I have an innate distrust in anyone wearing a badge these days. It’s the reason I settled here, away from everyone else.
A part of me wishes I would’ve waited another week or two to buy provisions, fuel, clothes, and other supplies and risk missing key items for the season. Anything to avoid seeing people like him and the idiots who blindly support them.
Without warning, something catches my cane and I swing the end upwards and into a gloved hand where it lands with a loud smack.
“Whoa there, friend, I don’t mean any harm,” a smooth voice announces with a chuckle.
I twist my head around and peek from under my hat, trying my best to conceal my left eye. The bighorn stands above me with a gentle smile and lying eyes. He reaches up to take his hat off as his right hand lets free my cane. I drop tip back onto the floor and listen to my heart beat between my ears. My jaw is tight as he helps himself to the seat across from me, directly next to the window.
“That’s a hell of a quick reaction there,” he tells me, his tone friendly and conversational. “I’d hate to have to draw against you.”
My jaw tightens and my eyes focus on the badge pinned to his vest. Then I look back to his mud-brown eyes and sniff. I finish the rest of my drink and furrow my brow.
“What do you want?” I ask him, my hat still turned down.
“Just making conversation, fella,” he says, sounding offended. “Horace says you fought in the war. I don’t find many other veterans on this side of the Mississip’.”
I grunt noncommittally and then peek over at the bar. Horace is wiping down the counter, speaking with the local sheriff, an old hare named Roscoe, and his sole deputy, his nephew Bobby. This is about how they spend most of their time in Bakersfield. They’re good people. Horace is a good animal, too, and like his conversational partners, a bit old fashioned. I wish he would’ve kept his big mouth shut for once. Then again, why would he think otherwise?
“Which side did you fight for?” he inquires.
“The Union,” I admit honestly after a short pause.
He smiles, obviously pleased by my answer. His expression communicates both gladness for familiarly and something else. The bighorn drapes his arm across the back of his chair and crosses his legs, kicking his coat back and revealing the handle of a thick saber, clothed in black leather and brightly polished brass. My eyes flick to it for just a moment before my tail curls behind me.
“I did, too,” he replies, “Army of the Potomac, Fifth Corp, First Division. I fought on every major battlefield from Gettysburg to Petersburg.”
“Were you an officer?” I ask.
He just smirks and says, “Something like that, yeah.”
My right hand tightens around the ball head of my cane and I frown hard. Turning my head, I look out the window at the general store across the street. Now I’m definitely wishing I would have come later. Damn the weather, damn the risk. My associate seems to grow weary with my silence and leans across the table.
“How did you get that?” he asks.
Taken aback, I angle my head towards him only enough to see him from beneath my hat. He smiles and places a limp finger onto his left cheek. My jaw clenches and I turn my head so he can see my face full-on. My left eye is gone, or mostly gone. It’s milky white and surrounded by scarring enough so that fur doesn’t grow in some places around it. It’s like rivers running to the sea in swirling pink, red, and black currents.
I choose not to wear an eyepatch. It’s mostly because I can still see some things out of it. Shapes, color, light I still perceive, but not much beyond that. If I close my right eye, I’ll be able to see the ram’s shape and color, the movement of his arms and legs. But I wouldn’t know who he was or what his face looked like.
Another part of me wants people to see it, to see the damage inflicted upon me, and know my pain. Most people wince at it, if they haven’t already at speaking with a carnivore in the first place. It’s also to remind myself of the things I’ve done and the places I’ve been. The hell I’ve seen. With a face like mine staring back in every mirror, it’s hard to forget.
“Shell burst near me, took my eye, burned my face,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. “Petersburg.”
The Marshall reclines into his chair with a knowing look on his face, but he doesn’t appear to feel guilty for having asked. In fact, he appears as if his interest has been stoked. He twists his hand around so that his white gloves creak and moan. His hoof returns to the floor and he leans back in his chair. Suddenly he whips his hand up and snaps his fingers.
“Bartender, two whiskies!” he announces without taking his eyes from me. “What did you do during the war? You don’t strike me as someone who would’ve fought in the infantry. You’re too quick, too perceptive. Artillery, maybe? No, you don’t have the build. We’re you an officer, then?”
Our eyes connect and I feel my face blank out.
“Something like that, yeah.”
At first I expect him to snarl, but the bighorn just smiles and chuckles, amused by my joke. His left hand swings his coat back to display his weaponry. He cocks his head to the right as I survey them.
“I bet by now you know what I am just by how I’m dressed,” he says cheerily. “And I don’t mean a Marshall. The badge says as much. No, what I mean is that I’m a headhunter. They call Hartwell, Jacob Hartwell.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask without giving him the pleasure of a dramatic pause. “Not enough bastards roaming the deserts down in Arizona for you to fuck with?”
The Marshall leans forward, tickled by my verbal jab.
“Oh, always,” he says and waggles his head, “always. But, you see, I’m up here looking for that special someone; that someone who slipped through the cracks of justice too many times to count.”
“Justice is blind. And whatever you’re looking for isn’t here. This is a peaceful place,” I tell him.
My eyes flicker over to Roscoe and Bobby, who have ceased their conversation with Horace and have turned their attention to our conversation with only thinly veiled interest. I get a blink of approval from the graying hare. Hartwell nods his head and rises slowly to his hooves. He puts his palms down onto the table and leans towards me, pressing his muzzle uncomfortably close to mine.
“Oh, I know it is,” he whispers firmly. “People can hide themselves, but not forever. They can ditch their clothes, change their name, even take their accent into a back alley and beat it to death. But they can’t change who they are. And soon enough that little mask is gonna crack and I’ll be there to stick my sword down his throat and out his ass.”
I avert my gaze and quickly close my overcoat, twisting my cane. Hartwell’s eyes meet mine again and he smiles. Then he eases himself back down into his seat and crosses his legs once more. My heart climbs up into my throat and I’m deep in thought, watching his creature across the table from me silently gloat. He has nothing. I’ve done nothing.
I’m snapped out of my thoughts when two glasses thud onto the table and are swiftly filled with two fingers of expensive, East Coast whiskey. Hartwell snatches his up immediately while I refuse to touch mine. Reaching into my pocket, I pull a coin out and drop it onto the table. Then I slowly rise to my paws and press my hat down onto my head further.
“Thanks for the company,” I tell him sourly and turn away.
I’m almost to the side door leading to the hotel, just past the sheriff, when I hear the chair slide backwards. I steady my cane onto the ground and pause, my right hand twitching at my side. I turn my muzzle, expecting to see Hartwell’s hands filled with his pistols. But he’s merely pushed his chair back and holds one glass high in the air.
“I never did catch your name, coyote,” he says loudly.
“St. Delaware,” I tell him, “Richard St. Delaware. Good day.”
As I cross the threshold into the hotel, I see him suck down both of his drinks in one swift action. My hands are both shaking when I mount the first landing and proceed upwards to the second floor. Three years it’s been since I’ve lived here. Three years people have let me be, without question and without harassment. At my hips, my sword and dagger tremble.

I left home at the age of sixteen. I believe it would be more accurate to say that I was forced out at the age of sixteen and more accurately place of living, not exactly a ‘home.’ My upbringing was an unhappy one fraught with violence and poverty. But the way I would left, I’m unsure if it improved things, or was only detrimental. My father had come back from whatever little shithole bar he went to after working at the docks each day. He was drunk, but that wasn’t abnormal. What was, though, was how much angrier he was.
My parents woke me up with their screams and I listened in my room for a few minutes before he struck her. I didn’t move because this was commonplace, but I cracked the door open all the same. The apartment we lived in wasn’t big, but it was enough for me to sleep separate from them. And the best things we owned were hidden away with my father’s old war trophies, including his sword set.
Father was hollering madly about money, my mother retaliating with our need to live being greater than his need to drink. I kneeled down and crawled towards where they slept because I could see his fists balling up. I was finally big enough to stand between the two, but with him as sloshed as he was, it would be like fighting three animals. And the last time I did that, he still thrashed me. I had thought of getting his sword and threatening him, but I was just so scared.
He grabbed her and they screamed. He hit her a few more times and threw her onto the ground when she struck him on the nose. That’s when things changed. My father drew the dagger from his pocket. Knowing that it was now or never, I grabbed his arm to seize the weapon. But scrawny me, he knocked down effortlessly. Then he turned on me instead.
My mother grabbed him by both arms and he thrust her away, hollering about how he was going to learn me, at dagger point or with clenched fist. She struck the counter hard as he refocused on me. It became quieter as my father straddled me and threw the dagger up and over his head. Without thinking, I struck him in the gut and then flipped him onto the ground.
I punched him once in nose, stunning him, and then brought both hands, clenched together, down onto his wrist. The dagger skittered across the floor as he moaned, his drunken rage dissipated. I stood up and stumbled back off of him to get my mother out of there. It was only then when I had realized what had happened.
She struck her head against the counter and had passed on. I remember cradling her head and beginning to weep, but not much afterwards. I get flashes here and there, of getting my father’s sword, of swinging it, and so much screaming. Afterwards, I found that I was forever on my own, thrust onto the streets, terrified and inexperienced. My father taught me some swordplay out of either pity or desire to have a punching bag, but that got me nowhere.
It only got me nicked.
I’m not sure if I’m grateful that it wasn’t for murder. No, I got nabbed for robbery. I was trying to hold up a little store north of the harbor with the only things I had, my father’s sword set. It was stupid, but I was so hungry. I was so scared that I didn’t see when the shopkeeper pulled a pistol from under the counter. He shot me through the side before I could even react. I fled, and they gave chase, the shopkeeper and two of his hands. But I managed to dodge his remaining shots by putting buildings, doors, even other people between him and me.
I even slid beneath tables and crashed through stalls just to keep out of his reach or that of his assistants. And after several solid minutes of running, I lost them. Unfortunately, with all the activity and urgency, I had forgotten about the wound I had received. When I checked it, my clothes were drenched with my own blood. I had lost so much blood that when I was finally free, the only thing I was still capable of doing was lying down and subsequently passing out.
I woke up in jail not far outside of Boston. The male who found me was a thick jaguar named Andrew Ring who wore a blue uniform with military stripes and bright eyes. He told me he watched the whole incident with interest, particularly my flight to freedom. He said he was impressed, that he had taken a shine to me and told me that two things could happen now. If I pled innocent and lost, I would be conscripted into the Union Army and forced into an infantry unit where I’d likely die. If I pled guilty, he would speak in my defense and I would be conscripted into the Union Army. Except that he would choose where I went.
I took his offer. And all these years later, I’m not sure whether I regret it. Ring was a spy, or something like it as he had an odd distaste for that word. Too simple is how he described it. He said he recognized my sword and main-gauche and wanted to see if I could use it. Ring was obviously blue blood, a difficult thing to attain for a carnivore. He was classically educated and classically trained. His own rapier was custom made and deadly in his claws. It was with it that with which he intended to instruct me.
On my first bout with him, he beat the ever-loving shit out of me, which angered me. And the second time, too. And the third, and fourth, and fifth, and so on, but I never gave up, no matter how angry I became. I spent the next few months somewhere outside Cambridge, sparring with the jaguar. It consisted of long, hot days of running and jumping; of climbing walls and dodging thrown objects; of hiding and diving and ducking; and of sneaking, surveying and surprising. Of course, it also included making my sword a true extension of my own arm.
In the end, it focused me and tempered my emotions, as the European small sword style that I was taught required poise and stoicism. I soon learned how to turn even the strongest cuts away, to anticipate his attacks, how to parry his thrusts and return them. I was no acrobat, but after four months, he said I was prepared, but not ready, for what was to come. I had also become that much calmer and self-controlled, maybe even happy for the first time in my life.
Because Ring treated me like his own son. He took me into his home, he clothed and fed me. He even managed to tolerate my anger and frustrations with stride and took pleasure in soothing me and teaching me. It was in his care that I learned to read and write, to understand basic math, natural philosophy, and conversation. It was here where I found some semblance of belonging, of home.
It was about that time that I asked Ring why he wanted me, what he wanted me to do. I asked him what it was that he did. He told me he was a sicario, an assassin and, yes, a spy. And I was to be his partner. I had the perfect build, grace, strength, and ability to learn. He intended to travel with the Union Army south to combat the Confederacy from inside, but couldn’t do it alone. He said animals like him weren’t made, they were born and molded.
That’s where I came in. With a partner like me, maybe even successor, he could complete his work. At first, I was excited, to be escaping my hellhole home. But that was before our sabotage at Gettysburg, our infiltration of Richmond, and our attempts to break the siege at Petersburg. Once it was all said and done, it only made me angrier, and made the drink all the more attractive.

I wake with a start as something creaks outside. The room is dark and quiet. Lamplight pours in from the windows peering down onto the street. Far down below, I can hear the roar of laughter, conversation, and bawdy music. It must be nearing midnight. Floorboards whine as someone rounds the top of the stairs. I’ve been here enough to memorize all the sounds this place emanates. And that is of someone trying not to be discovered.
Softly, I lift my covers and place my paws down onto the floor as my ears perk. I hear another creak, this time up the hallway. After standing, I turn and replace my covers after gently repositioning my pillows into the place I was once laying. Then I walk slowly to the corner where I hang my coat on a rack and retrieve my sword and main-gauche. Then I turn, raising the sword and brandishing the parrying dagger closer to my head.
The doorknob turns and the door clunks to and fro almost silently. Then a key is inserted onto the other side and is turned with a distinct ‘click.’ The door handle turns once more and the door is deliberately pushed inwards. A shadow spreads across the floor, cast by the oil lamps across the hall, shapeless and featureless.
The shadow raises a gun and cocks the hammer. It is thrust into the doorway, and aimed directly at the bed where my pillow decoy has been placed. Taking a deep breath, I wait. And I’m not disappointed. In quick succession, the revolver fires three shots which pierce the bed to an explosion of feathers and fabric.
Wordlessly, I step forward and thrust the end of the sword through the back of my would-be assassin’s hand. He brays and drops the pistol to the floor as the sword pushes through his hand and into the open door. I brandish the parrying dagger, displaying my intent to finish the job. The assailant wrenches free the sword from the door and stumbles backwards into the hallway, blood dripping.
The mule looks up as I step into the doorframe, both weapons hanging at my side. He takes a few hesitant steps towards the stairs, his eyes focused on me, on the wild coyote with the swords. His breath is shallow and ragged. His eyes are wide and wild and his expression one of true horror.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I tell him firmly. “You shouldn’t have missed. Tell Hartwell I’m not who he’s looking for. That animal is dead!”
“This isn’t over,” the mule chokes and takes two more steps up the hallway, almost pulling a sconce onto the floor. “You’ve run all this way, but we don’t forget.”
“Go,” I tell him. When he doesn’t immediately leave, I yell, “Go!”
He takes one more step and throws daggers with his eyes. I whip both my sword and dagger up and leap forward aggressively. The mule promptly turns and runs to the stairs, tripping over his hooves as he rounds the bannister. As the sound of his hooves pounding the oaken floors recedes into silence, I look down at the trail of blood he’s left behind.
I scoop up the revolver as I return to my room and study the brand new gash in the door, splattered with fresh blood. I run a finger over it and listen to the silence that wafts up from below. Not the kind of silence that is merely that, silence. It’s more like the silence that occurs when you find a loved one has died or when bad news is delivered. It’s not lack of noise, it’s something else entirely.
After a few seconds, voices chitter when nothing new comes. I sigh, knowing that the officer is correct. This most certainly is not over. Not by a measure. I close the door behind me and return my weapons to their scabbards. Then I pop open the chamber of the revolver and remove the cylinder. Snapping the action from the receiver, I dump the cylinder onto the floor and go to the window.
Once it’s open, I toss the other pieces out and into the darkness where they smack into the dirt and skitter across the square. Some drunks watch me from the boardwalk across the street as they stumble home from a night of forgetting. I shut the windowpane and return to my bed, freshly filled with hot lead. I sit down on it anyways.
While I run a few fingers over the burned holes, I sigh and then feel the cracks in my own face. They burn, even today, after three whole years. And while I should feel terrified and confused, I don’t. In fact, I feel a bit of relief that the inevitable has finally arrived. Knowing that they won’t be back tonight, I lie down, sending another handful of feathers soaring into the air. Before long, I’m asleep again.

Ring was taken from me at Petersburg. I was nineteen and he had been the only friend I had ever had. It was the delusional kind of attachment when one has no one else in their life. It’s strong, but also obsessive. But for me, it filled some sort of need I didn’t understand. I looked upon Ring as the only father figure in my life. Because for three years, he was my father. And I was willing to forget my real one, if but for a time.
We were there to break the stalemate and force a swifter end to the war. It was Ring’s belief that we had already shaved off several years by destroying intelligence and maps at Gettysburg, sabotaging communications all across Virginia, and disposing of five high ranking officers in the Army of Northern Virginia.
But Petersburg was a hellhole through and through. I had never seen an army dig into the ground like they did and throw volleys of fire at one another to no avail. With orders from above, our mission was simple and straightforward: end the siege. Methods be damned. Targets included mortars, ammo dumps, artillery captains, and communications officers.
We slinked through the darkness, dressed as a Confederate captain and his assistant, and entered Petersburg from the north. We kept to the shadows and moved only when necessary. Our uniforms would cover us from a distance, but the moment they realized we were carnivores, it would be over. And luck was with us that night. We made it all the way into the battlements opposite the river before things went awry.
We were planting kegs of powder around a gigantic mortar nicknamed ‘The Queen’ when a pair of engineers stumbled onto us. Our cover was blown immediately and we hid in the bunker taking fire as the entire encamped city awoke around us. Once they got close enough, Ring turned rifles and pistols away as they discharged, cut fingers from hands, noses from faces, and tails from bodies. A wounded soldier takes two or three from the battlefield, Ring always said.
Even with his valiant efforts, and my covering of his flanks, we lost more ground each minute. It was a lost cause. He pushed me back down a trench leading away from the river and I consented without hesitation. At the mouth of the trench, two soldiers rushed in and randomly aimed their rifles. Spinning under the shot of one, I grabbed the muzzle of the other with the tip of my sword and turned it to his compatriot just as the hammer struck.
I then sucker punched the horrified soldier and leapt over both as Ring rushed up from behind. Beyond was a street and we instantly knew we couldn’t escape back into the city. Lights were sparking everywhere and footsteps echoed from every alley, hill, and window. Ring grabbed me and swung me about, telling me to ‘run for the river, this whole thing’s burned.’
We both sprinted around the dirt wall surrounding the entrenchments, sometimes ducking as soldiers climbed over them and took potshots at our heads. Miraculously, Ring was able to turn one away and then hit a sharpshooter with a rock. As we peaked the hill, Ring lit a cigar and threw it back up over the embankment. Down below, a line of trenches awaited us, fire raining down from every direction. Ring grabbed my shoulders and threw me forward, over the dirt wall. After I dove down into the trench, Ring fell in behind me.
I recovered quickly and turned to run, but suddenly realized that he wasn’t making any indication of following. He wasn’t moving at all. I stopped and grabbed his shoulder and shook him. My fingers came back wet and sticky and I touched his back to find blood pooling. I remember gasping and feeling my whole body go cold. I didn’t want to believe it had happened.
A ball had found him, hit him directly in the spine and he was gone before I even knew it. No dramatic fading out, no screams for help. Just dead. And me all alone. I remember pulling at his coat and desperately trying to drag him up the trench wall and into the river, but I was too weak. When I managed to crawl up into the mud myself, Ring’s plan went into motion.
The cache we packed took light and exploded, ripping apart the hill and launching shrapnel, dirt, and bodies into the air. The shockwave hit me like a ton of bricks and threw me into the Appomattox River. However long later, I woke up on the shore next to a river running red with the blood of our victims. Ring was gone and I had nothing but my skills to show for it. And I was now no longer a person. There were no records of our existence. Hell, I never existed in the first place.
So I disappeared. The siege ended just a few weeks later. And four weeks after that, Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in a theater. The clock began to run backwards, not only for the nation, but for me as well. The funny part is that I don’t remember if I cried or not for Ring. All I remember is hatred and anger. It was nonsensical resentment at being abandoned by a dead person and rage at the world for having taken him.
But I was still good with my blade. I felt skilled enough that I could enter and exit Buckingham Palace without being seen. I could murder the president of the union if I so desired and never have suspicion cast upon me. And if the world was going to take everything from me, I was going to take everything from it, by sword and fire.

Morning comes without incident and is calm and quiet like that moment before a storm. I dress and brush my quickly-washed fur in the mirror behind the small vanity. I intend on collecting my order slip, loading up a wagon, hiring a few hands, and making my way back out to the house. All in the vain hope that I could outrun the hellish hurricane bearing down on me.
My cane fits my left hand perfectly and I use it to guide myself down the steps. Even though my remaining eye is unaffected by my blindness, I always fear what lurks on my periphery, unseen. And so it was that when I descended the main staircase into the hotel lobby with my suitcase, my coat and hat, my sword set, and the piece of that jackass’s gun, that I found the trap had already been sprung.
Hartwell had collected Roscoe and his nephew, plus every able-bodied cud-chewing officer he could find, which consists of only three uniforms who laze near the windows. A few gawkers hang outside the windows to get a good look at the show being performed inside. He sits in the center of the wide doorway leading into the bar, in a lone chair situated several paces beyond the frame. His legs are crossed and his eyes are bright, watching me with a mixture of delight and sick pleasure.
“Ah, Mr. St. Delaware,” he says and then chuckles, “or should I say Booker? That is your real name, is it not?”
His two thugs appear from behind the counter with firearms at the ready: a long, large gauge shotgun and a repeater. From out of the corner of my eye, I watch as the mule digs the shotgun into the small of my back and smiles as if this were some kind of surprise. I drop my suitcase and withdraw my hands from my pocket, still holding my cane firm.
“Hold your arms up, dumbass,” the mule orders, “before my fingers get itchy.”
He then swivels around my form, the shotgun balanced on one hand, and begins to undo my belt.
“You’ve assaulted an officer of the law, Mr. Booker, and for that you shall do time in a federal pen,” the Marshall states with confidence. “Assuming I don’t lose track of you somewhere on the route to Chicago or you find your way into the hands of a hanging judge I know down in Kansas City, should I be so inclined.”
“You haven’t a thing, you shitbird,” I growl.
The mule yanks at my hip and then shies away when I growl at him. My belt and blades clatter to the floor and the bull retrieves them from the other side. The rifle is rested lazily on his shoulder as he walks my tools over to this thief, this rustler, this outlaw with a badge. Hartwell rises to his hooves and nods, a smile on his face.
“Oh, but I do,” he informs me. “You see, Sheriff Roscoe here has been so kind as to agree to extradite you back on the Philadelphia with me. He agrees with me that you match the description of a notorious train robber and murderer by the name of Thomas Booker. But he wasn’t sure, the eye, you see, which is why I sent Hobbs here to come fetch you. Once you confirmed my suspicions by stabbing, robbing, and intimidating my ward with his own firearm for no reason other than his employment, well, you sort of forced his hand. You see, animals like you, they don’t ever actually change.”
Roscoe, who stands next to the bar with his hands resting at his side, tightens his lips and nods his head. His eyes meet mine, but they’re glazed over, disinterested in the proceedings. I’ve known him for years, now. I’ve helped the town in tough times before the railroad came. And this is how they repay me? Bobby’s hand is on his pistol, but he sits on a stool next to his uncle and eyes the Marshall. I think they’re as afraid of him as they are of me.
“Your boy there drew his pistol and shot into my bed, believing the pillows I had stacked there to be me,” I tell him, I tell Roscoe. “You sent an assassin to kill an animal in his sleep. I defended myself, disarmed him, and graciously let him live.”
Roscoe’s eyes flutter up to me, his eyelids narrowing. Then his head swivels over to Hartwell and he steps away from the bar.
“Is that true?” he asks, his voice wavering. “Is that why we heard gunfire upstairs last night?”
Hartwell turns to him with a charismatic smile and clasps his hands together.
“I assure you, Sheriff, that is a dirty lie on the part of some shifty carnivore,” he says with a shake of his head in an attempt to allay his compatriot’s concerns. “Now, please, allow us to depart. We’ll be on the train and out of your fur within the hour.”
“I have his gun, that is true,” I admit, my eyes pinned on Roscoe. “But I dismembered it once I had possession of it and disposed of half of it out the window. You’ll find that I still have the cylinder with three spent casings inside. You’ll find the bullets in the floor of my room, beneath the bed.”
Hartwell’s eyes swivel in their sockets and he turns to me with his eyelids wide and brow high on his forehead. This is an unexpected development, it seems. Roscoe seems to concur, looking at me expectantly. I turn my nose down and look at my left pocket. I tap the bulge with the tip of my cane and then look to the sheriff pleadingly.
“You’ll have to get it, I don’t see too well out of that eye,” I say with an air of helplessness.
Roscoe goes to comply, but Hartwell grabs him and crossly looks to Mr. Hobbs.
“Fetch whatever it is he’s hiding in his pockets,” he commands. “Turn them out for good measure, too.”
Hobbs chuckles and then grabs the back of my jacket before pulling at it and almost unbalancing me. The shotgun is dug squarely into my spine above my tail and I gasp at the pain that shoots through my face from the sudden movement. Hobbs’s free hand rifles through my pocket and grasps at the only item inside, his pistol’s cylinder.
When his hands find it, Hartwell’s face goes slack. Hobbs retrieves it and then walks to his commander, the shotgun still pointed in my general direction. When he gets close enough, he offers it to Hartwell, but Roscoe takes it and looks it over. Hartwell appears unpleased, but allows the old hare to inspect it.
“He isn’t lying,” Roscoe says with a nod. “This changes things.”
“Changes things?” Hartwell asks. “This changes nothing, we’re taking him into custody. He has still assaulted an officer and must pay for his crimes, present and past.”
Roscoe shakes his head and then turns towards his nephew.
“I’ll have to wire Chicago to see what they propose,” Roscoe says with certainty, his ears erect. “We have a jail here if that would make you feel more comfortable. For the meantime, just relax. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Oh, damn this,” Hartwell hisses.
In one smooth motion, Hartwell unholsters a pistol and whips Roscoe across the back of the head before turning the business end towards his nephew. The poor boy throws his hands and starts to whimper. Roscoe slumps to the ground like a sack of potatoes and groans. The cylinder rolls across the floor where it comes to a spinning stop against the edge of a rug.
“Stay down, old hare,” Hartwell commands. “We’re taking this bastard into custody and I will see him swing at the end of a goddamn polearm if I have to do it from a water tower myself. Hobbs, Barnes, you two idiots grab him and get him onto the train. We have his swords, he’s defenseless.”
The officers turn to me with glee in their eyes. Alternatively, the hired hands are not thrilled with this development. Despite their shock, though, they do nothing to stop it. The crowd outside stares in with terror and then disperses, their eyes alternating between fleeing and gawking. My blood goes cold as I see a trickle of blood leak from Roscoe’s ear and give Bobby my apologies. Despite my own displeasure, I shake my head sternly when he desperately eyes his gun.
Bobby just bows his head and weeps silently. Meanwhile, Hobbs and Barnes snatch my arms and twist them around my back. Shackles are produced and screwed into place. Hartwell approaches and then snatches the end of my chin with his hand, yanking so I look at him directly. He smiles and turns his head.
“Do you recognize me now, asshole?”

The first score I attempted was a Mississippi Queen. I snuck on board and made off with nearly ten thousand dollars in coins, notes, and jewelry. Only had to incapacitate one Pinkerton and I did it with such grace and control that he blacked out before he could stir from his nap. That part was trivial. What was difficult was fencing the jewels without getting caught.
Regrettably, that went about as well as could be expected. In St. Louis, a fat pig with three enforcers tried to shake me down. I was an emaciated twenty-year-old with a very nice set of obviously stolen swords who had stumbled into extreme wealth. And I was alone. Like so many before them, they drew pistols on me only to find that was as effective as pissing on a forest fire.
I made the first thug eat his own revolver, blowing out his cheek, before turning on another before he could brandish his firearm. I sliced off each one the buttons on his vest with fine turns of my wrist, tore open his shirt with the tip of my sword and then opened his belly for him to hold as he screamed and collapsed. The third managed to unsheathe a thick bowie knife with a spiked handguard and take a slash at me while I was distracted.
He slashed high and low, using his thick equine frame to overpower me and stay out of my reach. But every time he backed me into a corner, I would slip through his legs or under an arm. Finally he figured out my pattern and threw bicep up, caught me by the chin, busted open my mouth, and threw me to the ground like a cheap pot. He then jumped upon me and brought his bowie knife down in a wide arc.
Unfortunately for him, he didn’t understand what kind of dagger my main-gauche was. His blade slipped right into the catch near my handle and I twisted it hard to the right, using his own momentum against him. The knife cracked at the cross guard and broke every bone in his hand when he couldn’t free it from the guard in time.
While he was writhing on the ground, I sliced open his unbroken hand for good measure and then kicked him unconscious. Only the fence remained. The pig graciously became very cooperative. He didn’t consider trying to pull the scattergun he had hidden beneath his shop’s counter. I made a very pretty penny off of that deal, but had decided that dealing with scum like that wasn’t worth it. I was going to stick to bills, coins, and bonds only.
That didn’t leave many options. The first was trying to hit a bank itself. And while I was arrogant and confident, I wasn’t stupid. Firearms had gotten much more intricate and useful since the war ended. Crank guns, pistols with metal-cased bullets, pump rifles, and breech-action shotguns sprang up everywhere. And the Union Army started to play guard dog for their favorite sons.
The second option was to try to hit one of the riverboat queens and hope I didn’t drown one day or get caught in the jaws of an alligator. No thanks. The last option was the railroad. Train robberies were common and still are, but they’re generally undertaken in a particular style. It involved stopping the train by force, or hopping aboard it somewhere along the line and robbing it in broad daylight. It was noisy, cumbersome, and above all, dangerous and stupid. Loud and dumb can only get you killed.
I could and would do better than that. My first heist was a Topeka-to-Denver route with a car carrying crisp, untouched bills from the mint in Philadelphia to San Francisco. I had eaten well and dressed well since my river raid. Plus, nobody knew my face. So I bought a ticket and bided my time. When it finally came, as the sun fell and darkness reigned, I drew my trade’s tools and went to work.
I strangled the first soldier before he could scream. Then I used his keys to unlock the car doors. When the door to the armored car was cracked open, I climbed onto the roof and crept to the rear door with the keys. When I opened it, all of the guards were focused on the self-opened door on the other side. The one closest to them didn’t know what hit him.
As he tumbled to the ground with a new scar, though, his shotgun discharged and blew a hole in the side of the metal carriage. The second guard, a tall giraffe, swung around with a pistol and fired at random. I dove behind the safe against the wall, and then hefted a bag of coins at him. I followed right after, slashing at the bag so it burst on impact, cut open his arm so he’d release the gun, and then struck him with a haymaker.
When he was down, I punched him with the handle of my sword and he went limp. The last guard, terrified by the shadowy menace that had dispatched with all three of his associates without being touched, turned his rifle towards me and began to fire. With each spent round, I would dance about while confusing him with a swing of the sword and a sudden, random movement. When I finally reached him, he was pulling the trigger and racking back the action without any more bullets coming out. I smiled and cut open his arms. He stumbled back and I grabbed him and threw him to the side, off the train. He disappeared into the darkness.
My robberies went on like that. Daring nighttime infiltrations, the body count growing over time, and I never left anything behind. No money, no calling card, no evidence, nothing. If I left anyone conscious or alive, the only tale they told was about a ghostly swordsmith with magical powers and demon’s blood. They were only half right. Of course, this wouldn’t last. Because I got greedy, because I got stupid.
Over the years, my heists got bigger and grander. I was a folk hero to the poor farmers and prospectors who blamed the bank and the army for stealing their livelihoods. They liked to call me the Night Blade, or the Shadow. I always loved collecting wanted posters with those names emblazoned on them. But to the Pinkertons, U.S. Army, U.S. Marshalls, and other bringers of law, I was their prime target. I was their nightmare as I had killed some and humiliated the rest. This went on for years. Sometimes I would go months without hitting a train or a coach.
When I had money, I would gamble, drink, smoke, screw whores, and lavish it on everyone around me. But I also got into numerous fist fights that ended with me murdering another challenger, became ostracized by every town I entered. I once killed three gamblers when they accused me of cheating. I was so drunk I couldn’t throw the brakes in time. I don’t even recall if I actually did cheat. And after enough time, I would invariably wake up one morning hungover in an alleyway, flat broke.
Restlessness and boredom pervaded me and I sought the ‘big one,’ the heist that would make me legend. And just a little over three years ago, after seven years of starving, scraping, scuffling, slaughtering, stealing, squandering, and stewing, I found it. Her name was the ‘California Flyer.’ She was a bullion train going express from Chicago to Denver and then on to San Francisco. I would be set for life.
I waited high in the Rockies for her to layover before she could cross the mountains. I kidnapped one of the guards and hid him away before donning his uniform. The Union Army always allowed carnivores into their ranks, and there were enough on that train that I blended in without a second thought to any other individual.
I took a spot at the very rear of the train, where I assumed the vault would be stored and guarded. When the train started moving, that’s when I sensed that something was wrong. The rear door opened under its own weight to reveal an empty car. After I crept to the safe at the very center, I twisted the lock open and found nothing inside. The carriage door was pulled shut behind me and the train came to screeching halt.
Voices echoed outside before panels were stripped from over empty windows. Outside, the soldiers amassed with their rifles at the ready. Under orders from the officer leading the charge, they opened fire. I dove into the safe and reeled my legs and tail in as volley after volley sprayed through the carriage. For the first time since I was a boy, since my mom and dad died, I was scared. I no longer knew why I was there, why I was doing anything. After the fire ended, I knew they would charge in.
Tears staining my face, I crawled on my belly towards the door and waited. If I was going to die, I was going to die fighting. The first soldier had his arm clipped short and his throat opened as he charged inwards, bayonet fixed. The next wasn’t so stupid and swung blindly around the corner. When I ducked under the gun, I stabbed him in the stomach and threw him down the ladder.
A gun fired from across the carriage and perforated my ears with shrapnel. I threw a third soldier coming in from my side ahead and pushed him towards the pistoleer. He unloaded both of his Peacemakers in a desperate attempt to kill me before I guided the bayonet into his gut and sliced the infantry soldier’s throat open.
One last fool came in from behind and I swung around and hid behind the safe as he fired his rifle. I then leapt the iron safe and swung high. He intercepted with his rifle and then rocked backwards as I slashed at his stomach. He stabbed at me multiple times with that bayonet, but I was always able to turn it away. Finally, he made his mistake, swinging the rifle up to bring it down like a club. After dodging, I forced it down with my swords crossed and then opened his throat like they were scissors.
Shaken, I fell onto the safe and looked at my own hands, covered in blood that would never come out. Something moved ahead of me and I stared down the row of empty cars, their doors open, as a soldier pulled a sheet from over something that gleamed. He stuck a box in the top and turned the barrels in my direction. A Gatling gun. I dropped behind cover as the crank was turned and it opened fire.
The heavy rounds tore through the edges of the safe and shredded the door into my side. For what felt like hours, the gun crushed me into that safe like molten steel into a mold. Then, as quickly as it started, it ended. That’s when I heard hoofsteps approaching. I peeked over the top just quickly enough to see something thrown into the carriage from the hand of an animal with large horns.
The stick of dynamite arced in the air and I watched it approach in dumbstruck awe. It landed in the corner and spun towards me. The figure then laughed as I desperately bolted for the back door. If had started earlier, I would’ve made it. Instead, the dynamite exploded and I couldn’t see or feel anything on my left side as I was catapulted through the door.
I escaped by falling into the winter snow. Somehow, I recovered, and delved deep enough into the surrounding wood and snowfall that nobody would come looking for me. They would assume I was dead. I thought I was. But I was offered a third chance. I tearfully took it. With a stash of money I had hidden away and the desire to disappear, I made my way to civilization. After receiving medical care at the hands of selfless people, I paid them handsomely and then vanished, hoping to begin life anew. It seems that he didn’t think I was dead after all. He was just biding his time, waiting for me to resurface.
He must’ve gotten bored of waiting.

Hartwell, the figure from the train, leads me by the neck and thrusts me into a coach at the center of the train. Once I’m aboard, he doesn’t gloat or revel in my capture. In fact, he sneers at me with deep-seated disgust. Then he dumps me into a seat, tells his hired guns to keep me there and spits onto the floor before exiting for his first class coach at the front. The train will be going back to Chicago with only us on board by orders of the United States government.
Smoke and steam bellows from the engine ahead and the train rocks backwards. A raccoon sits in front of me, his arm draped over the back of the seat. He’s armed with one pistol and seems disinterested in me. A horse lounges in the bench across the aisle, his shotgun propped against his shoulder. His eyes are hidden behind his hat.
Finally, a stoat stands at the back of the train, leaning against the wall and chewing on something stuck between his teeth. Effectively unsupervised, I withdraw a piece of metal from inside my coat. Hartwell should have known I would prepare for this situation. Although, how could someone prepare for someone like me? Shoot them and hope they die the first time.
It slips into the shackles and with my wrists strained I begin to turn over the lock. The train is accelerating. We’ll be away from the town within moments, outside of earshot. My plan since being cuffed was to beat my guards unconscious and run. But after seeing Hartwell strike Roscoe, I realize he wouldn’t stop. He’s been following me for three years; he wouldn’t be deterred by yet another escape. I lived peacefully in Bakersfield all that time. I can’t bring this trouble back on them.
No, I’m thinking this has to end here. I knew this day would come, though never when. I had merely feared that I would be left unarmed and would be forced to take another life. My cane was left with me, which offers me many options. Though I wish I would’ve retained my swords, too. Hartwell took them with him.
The silhouette of the town recedes into the gray-green outline of the plains after only a few minutes. Smoke billows into the golden dawn, a black snake burrowing into the sky. After I’ve determined enough time has elapsed, I clench my jaw and relax back into my seat. Finally, I take a cleansing breath.
“How much did he pay you?” I ask quietly as my fingers work.
“Shut up,” the raccoon spits without turning his head.
The horse glances up and rolls his eyes.
“Twenty dollars,” I ask, “forty? That’s not much to guard an animal like me. He robbed you.”
“Shut up!” the raccoon hisses and turns to me with a growl.
“Calm down, Jeb, Jesus Christ,” the stoat admonishes from the back.
“Oh, it was even less,” I mock, “how unfortunate. He stuck you with the short end of the stick and I’m the thief?”
“I said shut up!” he hollers.
He then stands up in his seat and rears back to hit me. The horse leans forward to stop him, but it’s too late. The raccoon thrusts his body over the back of the seat and brings his fist down. To his surprise, my hands break through the manacles to catch his arm and guide it past my head. I twist it and lay a punch onto his temple. His eyes go hazy.
“What the hell?” the horse screams and fumbles his shotgun.
Before the horse can correct himself, I seize one of the raccoon’s arms as his limp form falls onto me and throw him across the aisle into the horse’s lap. Snatching up my cane with my right hand, I spring forward and smash the silver ball directly on his head. His entire body drops like a ragdoll, sliding down onto the floor between the seats with his raccoon buddy atop him.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” the stoat screams.
He almost drops his pistol as he pulls it from its holster, but manages to swing it up just in time to blow three holes in the back of the seat I hid behind. The stoat’s breath is loud and shaky. He wasn’t expecting to actually have to do anything, I believe. His coat jangles as steps forward tentatively. Knowing I can’t leap at him as I’m not close enough, I perch my hat atop of my cane and inch it towards the seat’s legs.
The stoat holds his breath as the crown materializes. Then he manually cocks the hammer and fires his last remaining shells at the floor, where they blow my hat apart and reveal nothing else. Leaping the seat, I close the gap as the frightened stoat tries to shoot his empty gun at me. I knock it from his grip with the edge of my cane and he takes a swing at me with his other hand.
Ducking down, I punch him square in the gut and ram him back into the wall. He lifts his arms and brings his elbows down into my back with enough force that I have to take a knee. Pain spreads throughout my face as my old wound asserts itself. When the stoat strikes me again, I toss him to the side and then grab my cane.
I twist the top off and pull the blade from within. Sticking it against his nose, I gasp for breath and look into tired, scared eyes. It’s a look I know all too well. My hand wavers and I lower the blade.
“Go home,” I tell him. “Forget this happened. Keep your money and tell no one.”
I then lift the scabbard above my head and nail him behind the ears. His body relaxes and his mouth drops open. I then stumble back into the seat behind me, gasping for air and shaking from the tip of my tail to my ears. My entire face hurts from the excitement and my heart cannot keep up with my mind. My cane-sword rattles and my vision darkens as I stare at it.
I didn’t want to have to do this again. But I have to. Loud cries are coming from behind me. The two officers that arrived with Hartwell will descend upon me soon, probably better armed and, more importantly, alert. If I’m going to be able to escape this, I need to incapacitate them. And in order to do that, I need my swords.
As the sound of beating hooves becomes audible, I leap to my paws and rush towards the door at the front of the carriage. I whip it open and dive into the next car, which is empty. Only one car remains between me and the tender. I open the door between the cars and step across. As I open the last barrier, blade at the ready, I discover the car dark and empty.
My swords are leaned against the back of a plush seat just a few feet inside the door. Carefully, I cross the threshold and approach my blades. I’m extending my arms to retrieve them when Hartwell appears, one of his pistols, a heavy Schofield, in his hand. A bullet grazes my leg and another deafens me as it burrows into the wooden wall behind me. A third clips my shoulder as I dive behind the upholstered seat.
He empties the gun into the seat, missing me by a length. Sheathing my cane-sword, I free both of my blades from their scabbards. Next, I slide my back up against the seat and wait, panting and gasping, my heart beating in my ringing ears. No new noise comes and I know that Hartwell will either be reloading, or drawing his other pistol.
“I knew you’d do this, you sick bastard!” Hartwell cries out. “It was only a matter of time. How does it feel to be you again?”
“I just wanted to be left alone!” I answer. “I know what I did! The animal you met in Bakersfield is the one I am! The other one is long dead!”
“That animal is not dead!” he insists, hissing through his teeth. “You may have fooled those rubes, you may even have convinced yourself, but when push comes to shove, you’re the same cruel bastard as the one I hunted down in Colorado! You are a liar, a thief, and a murder, Thomas Booker, and I will see you dead!”
He fires two rounds above my head for effect and I flinch as splinters rain down on me. The door leading into the car slides open and the mule appears. He thrusts a pocket pistol at me with a cruel grin on his face. Without hesitation, I launch myself onto him and shove the pistol over my shoulder.
Two bullets fire through the wall and window past my ear, a third into the ceiling as I bend his arm back. Hartwell fires two rounds around us in an attempt to hit me, but without endangering his deputy, to my luck. As the mule screams with his broken arm, I punch him with the handguard of my sword and he collapses.
I catch his revolver as it tumbles from his hand and whirl it around like baseball. It whips past Hartwell’s head as he rolls to avoid it. Behind, the bull rushes into the car with his rifle. I aim it away with the broadside of my main-gauche so he fires a round into empty space. I then make several shallow cuts along his arm, but he grip remains firm.
He lays into me with his shoulder and knocks me to the ground. Rattled, Hartwell recovers and fires haphazardly, sending four rounds through the floor around my body. Rolling over onto my back, I sit up and slash open the bull’s shins. He stumbles back and trips, his rifle tossed absentmindedly. As it strikes the ground, it discharges, sending a bullet past my head and nearly hitting Hartwell.
The bull screams in pain and writhes on the floor, allowing me the opportunity to climb atop him and knock him unconscious with the pommel. Gasping for breath, I stand up, straddling his head, and turn. Hartwell rises from behind an empty seat and aims two pistols in my direction. But he hesitates. His chest is rising and falling, his teeth clenched in rage. His eyes, though, swirl with uncertainty and fear.
“Please, stop this,” I plead, exasperated, my head throbbing. “You’ve lost. Your rage will consume you if you don’t forgive yourself and move on.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” he spits.
“You got your men killed and you blame yourself,” I say with a shake of the head. “But killing me will not bring them back, nor will it bring them justice. That animal is gone. I own who I was and I will never be able to repay this world for things I stole from it. But violence only begets more violence.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his lips close and his eyes narrow. Before the hammers can draw back on his pistols, I turn and dash for the door. A bullet tears through the wooden wall as I leap his deputy into the next carriage. Another whizzes by and explodes the back of a bench as I near the rear of the following car. From behind, Hartwell rages, bleating over the thunderous echo of hooves on wood.
Another bullet tears past my chest as I throw shut the door into the final passenger car. Crossing it, I throw open the rear entrance and hop the gap to the caboose. As I twist its handle, it won’t budge. I try kicking it down, but it stands resolute. Hartwell throws the door open behind me and I abandon that route.
Turning, I jump back to the coach and climb up the ladder leading to the roof. When I mount the metal roof, I turn and leap onto the caboose. Hartwell appears and fires as I’m midair, missing me, but piercing my coat. I land on with a roll, recover, and rush to the edge. Looking down, I see there’s nowhere else to go but down.
“Booker!”
I whip my head around as Hartwell stands, pistols akimbo, on the roof across from me. He extends the guns and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He examines them with frustration and then tosses them aside. He delves into his coat and withdraws his saber, polished and recently sharpened. I walk to the center of the caboose and ready myself. Hartwell steps back and takes a running leap across the gap.
He doesn’t mince words after he lands and immediately slashes at me from over his right shoulder, screaming. I parry and then thrust with my small sword. He steps to the left and catches my wrist with the reverse edge, drawing blood. Surprised, I twirl around and sw