They hung the crazed old man at sunrise. I saw his broken shadow swinging from a rope from within the jail cells. Dusty Rose wasn’t playing around.
A hulk of a man opened the cell gate and walked in holding a bundle of clothes in his arms. He walked to the foot of my cot and dropped it there. I heard the rattle of something metallic within.
‘Clyde,’ grunted the man.
‘I’m Dr. Listrum?’ I said, standing up.
‘No. That man is dead. You are now Otto Montgomery. I have it on good authority that the Loya family have been waiting for a certain shipment of guns from the Englishman. How good is your accent?’
‘Let me guess, the real Otto Montgomery is dead.’
This ushered a hideous smile from the giant. ‘Quartered in a ditch, now that you mention it.’
I sifted through the bundle on my cot. Wrapped in a leather duster’s jacket was a belt lined with .22 brass bullets, a small leather pouch with a clump of more of the same loose ammo within, two dynamite sticks wrapped together, and a single monocular lens. Beside the lens was a Russian seven-shot officer revolver. A wide-brim hat topped the bundle off.
‘You know, this really isn’t my style,’ I said, bringing the revolver up to the light. ‘What am I to do with this?’
‘Well, you can’t kill anyone with words. I wouldn’t think dead to be anyone’s style, to be honest. It’s your choice though,’ said Clyde.
‘That’s what I keep hearing. I don’t think death to be much of a choice.’
Clyde shrugged.
Before long, I found myself riding a horse cart on a muddy trail in a musky swamp sitting beside three crates full of weapons and ammunition. Clyde, the mud-brain of a man, sat at the front holding a tight grip on the leash. I relished the mid-afternoon mist of the day. My hand wandered to the iron at my hip. I had no earthly idea how I was supposed to use this gun. Let alone attempting to kill Hector Loya. The thought loomed over me like a dark cloud drenched in tar.
Suddenly, the rustling of leaves to my left caught my attention. I looked there but saw nothing. I realized Clyde had heard the same sound and had his gaze in the same direction. He pulled a rifle from the rifle sheath on his right and cocked the lever back.
Just as I was about to speak, the swamp around us erupted in rapid bursts of gunfire. Wood chips shot into my face as bullets sizzled into the horse cart. I dove to the floor by the crates as Clyde shouted something and slapped the reigns. The startled horse charged forward along the muddy trail.
I saw six riders with smoking guns like shadows of the dead materialize from thin air behind us. They were closing in.
‘Shoot your gun!’ shouted Clyde but I was frozen in fear bolted to the floor of the cart. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the devilish reavers gaining on us. I could almost feel their hellish breath suffocate me as their lead zipped overhead.
The cart lurched upward as the horse jumped over a pothole. The wheels exploded and I was thrown into the road. I saw Clyde fall as well just a few feet away. He sported a gash on his forehead from which blood dripped over his face.
The riders brought their horses to a halt over us reeking of death and evil. Then, a hail of bullets rained on them and they fell to the mud.
I was astonished as the visage of dread melted away like hot water on a pile of salt. Hot lead filled the air but this time it didn’t come from our pursuers. I realized we were laying just a few yards away from a barn with an elaborate L above the entryway.
I turned to see a line of a dozen gunmen standing there led by a woman in a white shirt and black dress. Her pale skin was accentuated by her piercing brown eyes and raven black hair. Her chin was beautifully carved as were her cheekbones. The look in her eyes said anything but naivety. She had experience with guns, that much was clear as she sported two smoking revolvers in her hand and a cruel frown.
Clyde must have passed out for his body lay still in the mud. The other riders behind us were certainly dead.
The woman stood over me and I stared up the barrel of two revolvers.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked accompanied by a Spanish accent. She must have been a member of the Loya family.
I raised both hands up. ‘Otto Montgomery?’
Her look softened and she let her guns down. ‘You’re late.’
-Dr. Marcus Listrum (Otto)
Author J.M. Topp 