Wanted

“I see fire. So much fire,” the old woman said. “There’s a gun in the hand of a man clad in black. Smoke, ash. There are tall buildings and lights shining somewhere below.”

Curtis listened intently to the old woman’s tired interpretation of what her eyes, as blue as sapphires and as radiant as the sun above, saw before them in a vision.

“The man is an outlaw whom you may or may not recognize, but his eyes…” the fortune teller trailed off, then took a deep breath as a bead of sweat crawled down her long, wrinkled nose, and hung at its tip like early morning dew on the pristinely cut lawns of Yellowtusk. She continued, “His eyes you will not mistake. They belong to someone you cannot forget. And his gun…is pointed at you.”

***

Frank Stewart, like most rangers, wanted to do the right thing and be a force for justice. He worked hard, studied, trained, and excelled at the Ranger Academy. Smart, handsome, and kind, he was generally popular among his classmates, but to some of the other trainees at the Academy, he was a bit too kind. Frank tried to be friends with everyone he met even often to his own detriment, but he never took offense when others showed limited interest in his friendship. Consequently, many perceived Frank as optimistically naïve despite his brilliance in school, but that was only to Frank’s advantage; an oversight Frank could exploit not only as a student and peer, but also later as a rookie ranger and future leader.

Only one person saw through Frank’s mask of kindness and discerned his true nature-Irving Craig, Frank’s fellow classmate. Except it wasn’t a mask. Frank’s genuine intentions were good, but he never turned down an opportunity to learn a skill that would make him a better ranger, including the art of deception even to his allies. If he could fool his fellow rangers, people he trusted and who trusted him, then lying to criminals would certainly come with ease. Irving Craig thought otherwise and never missed a chance to let Frank know that he

was “onto him.” Being two years Irving’s senior, Frank saw himself as responsible for setting a good example, but try as he might, Irving was one friend that couldn’t be made.

Frank found Irving Craig to be stubborn, arrogant, and overconfident. Nonetheless, Frank never made a habit of letting bad first impressions crush the possibility of building future connections; but it seemed like Irving was actively trying to nurture an intense rivalry between them.

On the flip side, Irving saw Frank as too nice for there to be room for anything genuine. He often found Frank to be conniving, potentially even untrustworthy, maybe even a threat to his fellow rangers should he be let loose in the field. The term “snake” came effortlessly to Irving’s mind when thinking of Frank, and much to Frank’s dismay, the nickname stuck even if others using it didn’t understand the origin.

Of course, that feuding is the very same thing that would make them such close friends once they both graduated and had proven themselves worthy of their armbands as full-fledged rangers. Frank got a two-year head start on Irving and he did not waste any time, bagging petty thugs and hardened outlaws left and right, all the while shining a wide smile across his face. It certainly wasn’t easy work, and Frank hadn’t expected it to be, but his passion was keeping people safe and that drove him to hone his skills and perfect his methods. Unlike their training regimen, the field of ranger work was real life, and there was no room for errors once bullets started flying and civilians were in danger.

His kindness toward the public, positivity in dire situations, encouragement of other young rangers, his efficiency with which he dispatched justice, and of course his natural charm and humor made him a fan favorite among the locales at which he was stationed. Those traits were also what granted him the honor of a major promotion nine years after graduating from the Ranger Academy. At 29 years old, Frank Stewart was given the title of doyen, one who excels above all others in their field. The rank was still fairly new, the first doyen title having been given in 1722, a full decade before Frank’s birth. Only more recently still, in 1742, had there been a second doyen promoted while the current doyen was still active. Such nomenclature was reserved for the elite, and not assigned without great intention and confidence.

Nicholas Shepard was that second active doyen, the fourth doyen ever promoted. It wasn’t uncommon for doyens to hold the title for less than a decade before dying in the field or retiring after years of collecting a handsome government salary. By the time Frank Stewart had become a doyen, Nicholas Shepard, professionally known as “Gore,” had been a doyen for nearly 20 years, having outlasted several other doyens who were promoted after him, and showed no signs of slowing his incredible career.

Gore was one of the last rangers from an older era—though one could hardly tell thanks to his hulking stature and physique, along with his enthusiastic energy; his age was only given away by his bleached, slicked back hair and snow white beard. Like Frank, he was truly good-natured and had adapted well to the changing times, maintaining civilians’ goodwill with every encounter. Many considered Gore like a cool uncle, and he always went out of his way to express his gratitude for the public’s adoration and support.

Frank’s promotion made him the third concurrent doyen. The record of three doyens active at once had already been broken, but it didn’t last long before one of Frank’s predecessors retired. The count was back down to a pair, but just half a decade later, Frank made the new third, and was by far the youngest of the three. Like the other doyens, Frank was not only given a title, but also a very special privilege, one that the general public was just beginning to understand, but that the Government had been researching for decades already.

Spells were not new. Frank had learned all there was to know about them at the time during his studies at the Ranger Academy. He had a basic idea of what they were before then, too, but they were still more or less considered highly confidential by the Government, and never officially recognized on a public stage. That would soon change, however, after spikes in the number of outlaws with spells brought the belief in magical abilities into public consensus.

The first doyen from decades prior was the first officially (but still confidentially) documented spellcaster among the ranks of the rangers, his spell having been provided to him by the Government at the time of his promotion. Gore and the other current doyen also possessed spells, and now it was Frank’s turn. Although the Government no longer tried to hide the existence of spells overall, they still held close the secret of what each doyen’s spell could do for fear that such knowledge could be exploited by the already advantaged spellcasting outlaws. Doyens weren’t even granted access to said information regarding their equals, though it was all but expected by then that doyens shared the information about themselves to the other active doyens in order to work together more effectively.

Frank “Snake” Stewart, through the mysterious powers at be, long before the establishment of the Mystic Program, was given a spell, one that allowed him to shed his skin like a reptile, healing any surface-level injuries along with scars and blemishes. It was fitting for his nickname, to say the least, but it was tradition for the Government to bestow a new nickname upon doyens once they received their spell. They stuck to the ophidian theming and renamed Frank to “Cobra,” allowing him to break free from the hold he refused to admit that Irving Caig had kept on him since graduating, and make his nickname and his power his own.

In the years to come, with Gore serving as his mentor (as he had done with others before), Cobra cemented himself as a reliable and powerful doyen, admired and trusted by civilians, lower-ranking rangers, and the other active doyens. But it wasn’t all positive given with the promotion also came knowledge, and Cobra was quick to realize the true imbalance of power not only between regular rangers and doyens, but also the doyens and those that they served. Even the doyens themselves seemed to honor an unofficial hierarchy of which Cobra was at the very bottom. Gore, while very kind and open to taking new doyens under his wing, clearly saw them as beneath himself and in need of handholding despite their skills above other rangers for which they were promoted to begin with.

Cobra’s voice was also rarely heard at hearings organized by the Ranger Council, but he knew he must speak up after hearing that he may not be allowed to train a team of lower rangers like the other doyens due to his “predisposition to treating every other as his equal.” This concept baffled Cobra, and luckily for him, Gore was fond of bringing minor irritation to his superiors within the Government—some would say he even sought out excuses—and he was more than willing to insist on allowing Cobra to address it during a hearing, much to the displeasure of the panel of council organizers. At the next hearing, Cobra stood firm and stated his grievance confidently, but not antagonistically.

“It has come to my attention that there may be a concern regardin’ my ability to lead other rangers in a team because I insist upon treatin’ others, be they my fellow doyens, standard rangers, local officials, er even everyday men, all as equal to myself and each other.” The panel and other attendees waited silently for Cobra to make his point. After a moment without a response, he continued. “Is there any reason, with the exception of law breakers, that I ought to categorize one human bein’ as lesser er greater than any other?”

Again, no response. Cobra shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced around the room while placing one hand in his pocket. He cleared his throat and used his free hand to adjust his worn cowboy hat. A singular cough in the crowd prompted him to continue speaking, so he began, “Put another way, I—”

“We understand the question,” one of the council organizers, a finely dressed man with shiny black hair combed over his balding head, said in a twangy valley accent from underneath warm light at the front of the hearing hall. The room was much like an auditorium with tiered seating for the bulk of the council’s attendees. Each seat was accompanied by a personal desk on which a microphone sat. On either side of the general attendee desks were short rows of benches for a small audience which were allowed to observe some council hearings. This was not one such occasion, but doyens and their teams of rangers—who were often invited to listen to and sometimes speak at the hearings—used the benches, as well. Cobra and Gore were the only doyens there this time, with the third being off in the field; but the two rangers training under Gore were also in attendance.

The panel of organizers sat at the bottom of the tiered rows of desks, nine members in total, with their desks facing the rest of the crowd. A wooden stage behind the panel was used on occasion for other speakers wishing to address the council during the appropriate hearings, but this time was empty save for a lectern at its center and about twenty empty chairs lining the back wall with a line of tables in front of them on the stage. Most of the room was dimly lit by chandeliers hanging high in the vaulted ceiling with thin sheets draped over their bulbs to dampen their glow. The panel organizers were illuminated by larger spotlights also covered with sheets so the lights wouldn’t be blinding to the panel or the general crowd.

The rest of the panel covered their microphones with their hands and whispered to each other while the man with the comb-over spoke.

“I’d like to begin by sayin’ that there have been no official proceedings regardin’ yer eligibility to lead yer own group o’ rangers, Mr. Stewart,” the organizer said. “However, it has been noted by some members o’ this council that yer friendly an’ approachable nature may lead to a lack o’ proper respect fer you as a high-rankin’ official who is, in fact, above most others in yer sector of law enforcement. It may also cause civilians to disregard yer authority.”

“I’m upholdin’ a public image,” Cobra retorted. “Maintainin’ positive reception is taught on day one at the Ranger Academy. Baggin’ bad guys ain’t gonna make anyone feel safe if they fear that yer gun could turn on them just fer bein’ in the way. There’s a method to my approach.”

“The council observes,” said another organizer, a woman with long crow’s feet clawing at the corners of her eyes, “that you extend beyond just ensuring that civilians are safe during an active pursuit or checking on anyone potentially afflicted by criminal activity.”

Cobra’s hands, both of which were now pocketed in a posture designed to help him appear relaxed, were moist and he fiddled with a stick of lip balm in his right pocket. Despite his attempt to appear calm, he could feel tension increase as the dialogue continued.

“So, I should just ignore anyone else hopin’ to strike up a conversation with someone they might look up to er admire?”

“There’s such thing as bein’ too friendly,” a third organizer chimed in, this one a woman with a large mole on her left cheek. Even from a distance, Cobra could count the three thick, wiry hairs sprouting from the brown mound on her tan face. His penchant for observing details as a good ranger sometimes also helped him find humor in even tense situations.

“Mercy on me for wantin’ to show appreciation fer anyone kind enough to support those of us doin’ hard and dangerous work in the field.”

Gore sat on the bench in front of Cobra, grinning widely and leaning back with his arms resting on the backboard. The two rangers accompanying Gore watched Cobra eagerly to see if he would falter, but he stood strong against the organizers.

“You seem to be misunderstandin’ the priorities of yer role,” said the comb-over. “Of course y’ought to maintain good relations with the public, but when it comes at the cost of losin’ the sense o’ power you hold over others, then you’re harmin’ not only yer own image, but also those of yer fellow doyens. You gotta command authority so people know who’s in charge, boy.”

Cobra’s brow furrowed and he looked at Gore who simply shrugged and continued looking forward.

“If civilians, other rangers, er forbid even outlaws git the sense that you’re a pushover,” mole hair said, “they might assume the same of the other doyens, and we don’t need even cockier attitudes to deal with. We can’t appear soft.”

“Or you make the others look bad for not being as fraternal when they clearly have more important business to attend to,” crow’s feet added.

“Perhaps you’re right then,” Cobra said. “Maybe I wouldn’t make a good leader if it meant teachin’ my team to be cold, outlaw-fightin’ machines who can’t give the time o’ day to the people they’re fightin’ for.”

The council organizers continued to whisper amongst themselves, then a fourth chimed in; an older man with a long mustache that extended below his face and ended in two finely curled, white tips. His voice was exceptionally deep, as were his sunken eyes.

“Listen here, Cobra. I’ve been on this council fer a while, and it took a long time to earn a seat up here on the panel. Do ya think I could’ve done that by stayin’ buddy-buddy with everybody who sat around me forever?”

Cobra was silent, hands still in his pockets.

“I wanted to make real change,” mustache said. “I couldn’t do that from where you’re sittin’. So, I shut up and saddled up. Every voice here is respected, but even if one is louder or belongs to someone more accomplished than I, you can bet that every other voice in the room won’t respect it as much unless it comes from one o’ the seats down here. You’ve completed step one of joinin’ the big dogs, you’ve climbed the hill, but now you need’a show those still climbin’ that you won’t give the spot up, and ya can’t do that by goin’ back down to their level. You gotta bark like the top dogs, too, even bare yer fangs from time t’ time.”

Cobra opened his mouth, but mustache raised his finger to silence him.

“Now, as the panel has already stated, there is not yet any official notion to revoke yer privilege of organizin’ yer own group o’ rangers, but if there were to be a vote right now, you can bet it’d be hard to argue to your benefit. So, how ‘bout ya think long and hard ‘bout how you present yerself to those around you, take lessons from those who actually are yer equal, then prove you can be a good leader through yer actions, not yer reputation. Just look at Gore there. He’s got his hands full with just two subordinates, hardly walks around makin’ small talk with the commonfolk, but he’s still widely adored because he gets shit done. I ask the council’s pardon fer my language.”

The others on the panel nodded silently and a couple chuckles echoed from the crowd.

“It helps that he’s good enough to be a little cocky while ‘e does it,” mustache continued, then hacked a phlegmy cough and cleared his throat. “The people like confidence. Shows they can trust ya with their safety without the downside of lookin’ weak er in need of support.”

Cobra stood balanced; his weight equally distributed on both feet. His hands were still in his pockets, but he no longer fidgeted with his lip balm. Deep in reflection on how the meeting was playing out, he nodded slowly and breathed steadily.

“Thank you all for allowing me time to speak,” he said simply and sat back on the bench. Gore pulled a plug of tobacco from its pouch in his front shirt pocket, tucked it between his lower lip and gum, and turned around as the council began its closing procedure, then smirked at Cobra. The two rangers on Gore’s team smiled at Cobra and nodded respectfully.

Cobra left the meeting without vindication but attempted to think about what was stated. He wanted to prove his superiors wrong, but he knew if he didn’t listen to mustache’s advice, he would never get the chance. So, after the meeting he got back to work and put his head down and locked in. He didn’t completely ditch his friend-of-all demeanor, but he made sure to leave plenty of room for the status quo to present itself. Taking lessons from Gore, he allowed himself the amount of friendliness that seemed acceptable to the Government while letting his serious side show during conflicts with outlaws and during council hearings. To the public, not much was different, but to other rangers, Cobra’s promotion seemed to have changed him. Those who always believed Cobra’s kindness to be a charade returned with fresh fury, again calling it a mask and merely a manipulation tactic. But it didn’t matter to him then. He was a doyen. What did the opinions of those other lesser rangers matter?

Just two years after Cobra was promoted, the third doyen of the trio with him and Gore retired, but there was already another lined up to take his place. The new doyen was none other than Irving Craig, now called “Silver Tongue.” Cobra’s spine tingled when he heard the news. Of course, he wasn’t going to allow his past feelings to affect his professional relationship with Silver Tongue, and it was evident that Irving had matured, as well, but that didn’t mean they had to like each other personally. Although their friendship was inevitable given both of their attitudes toward being the best rangers they could be and never letting the other get too far ahead, it didn’t come without the challenges of a classic story of rivals turned brothers. In truth, while Silver Tongue had truly believed that Cobra’s overt goodwill was an act for most of his years between graduating from the Ranger Academy and being promoted, he had always admired Cobra’s dedication to bringing justice to the Valley Strip.

They were only two years apart in age and experience, but Cobra had obviously learned so much more in those two years as a doyen than Silver Tongue had learned in the nine he had spent as a regular ranger. Silver Tongue couldn’t help feeling frustratingly inspired by Cobra and didn’t turn away from the chance to learn from the others at the top of the food chain. Silver Tongue also quickly discovered the truth behind Cobra’s change in demeanor as a doyen. Being close in age and significantly younger than Gore drew them ever closer to each other. They both admired Gore in their own ways, but they relied on each other to push themselves to become better rangers in the way they wanted rangers to be better. The public adored the new younger, handsome doyens who to some were a sign that the Government was changing for the better and opening up to the ideals of the younger generations, a notion both Cobra and Silver Tongue supported.

Naturally, it was a surprise to all when yet another new doyen was promoted just a year after Silver Tongue. Dewey “Angel Eyes” Vinson was the first ever fourth concurrent doyen, promoted at age 28, and was much more modest than the other two. He shared their goals of changing the current system for the better, but was not nearly as outgoing or charismatic. Then, just two years after that, and much to the surprise of those who knew him both as a student and as a ranger, a fifth doyen was promoted.

Solomon Burts, like many, admired rangers greatly as a child; like one would admire a hero in a story. He wanted to be just like them. He looked up to the local rangers in his town as saviors and heroes of all things just. That all changed, however, when he saw the true colors of just a few bad actors, and he assumed the same could be applied to all rangers. Solomon’s father was a deputy of their hometown, so naturally Solomon was influenced not just by the rangers he saw out in public, but also by a man of the law in his own home. In fact, for as much as he loved to play ranger and dreamed about fighting superpowered outlaws, he held only the highest respect for ordinary officers. Solomon dared not play deputy as a child for fear of doing wrong by the badge. It was an entirely self-imposed fear since his father was supportive of any career his son chose, especially one in law enforcement. His father was honored by the idea of his kin following directly in his footsteps to be a deputy one day.

Nevertheless, Solomon stuck to playing out his fantasies of fighting his evil spellcasting outlaw friends as a superpowered ranger himself, taking heavy inspiration from his favorite of all rangers, Gore. Living close to the big city meant greater exposure to rangers in general, but also to those trusted enough by the Government to wield spells of their own. Plus, the paradoxical increase of outlaw activity just outside the Big City meant more reason for rangers and doyens to visit Solomon’s hometown and others similarly close to the Government’s homebase. Thus, much exposure to crime fighters had a great effect on a young Solomon, but the mystification didn’t last long.

Solomon reflected back to an impactful experience he had years ago. Solomon was out with his father one night when Solomon was 10 years old. The two stopped at a corner store on their way home from a park when a few local rangers stepped in; a little silver bell attached to the door announced their entrance. The trio was loud and obnoxious, obviously already intoxicated despite having just gotten off duty (indicated by still wearing their arm bands and carrying their duty weapons, each as unique as every other ranger’s “shtick.”)

It was only a brief interaction between the three rangers and Solomon’s father, who was also off duty, but Solomon would always remember the rangers’ belligerent behavior and disrespect toward his father even as a fellow enforcer of the law. The name calling of “old man” and “fourth-rate cop” stung Solomon’s ears as much as the smell of alcohol burned his nostrils. The rangers kept saying they could do as they please and swept goodies and drinks from the store shelves without paying. One small group of misrepresenters was all it took to defile the bright image of rangers in Solomon’s mind. If that wasn’t enough, his father saying things like “That’s why I joined the sheriff’s office instead of becoming a Government dog,” and “There’s always someone above you who thinks they’re better because of it.” These sundry remarks sowed the seeds of contempt in the child’s mind.

From that moment on, he couldn’t help finding the slightest reasons, the smallest flaws, the most minute cracks in the visage he had painted in his own mind, anything that would excuse him for hating every ranger he saw. Even the shining star of Solomon’s childhood, Gore, wasn’t safe from his recontextualization of the world around him. Gore’s confident efficiency turned into cocky and arrogant entitlement in his eyes. However, Solomon’s reframing did not deter him from pursuing a career as a ranger. It simply changed his motivations. He no longer wanted to become just like the rangers he watched growing up; he now, like many before him—and in what was becoming a pattern among future doyens, though none of them ever realized in the moment—wanted to be better. He strove to rise in the ranks for the sole purpose of changing the status quo once he was high enough up the chain.

The spark he once felt as a child was completely dimmed, and he hid his combustive ambitions behind a heavy and vengeful scowl. Before even entering the Ranger Academy, his classmates called him “Mugshot” due to his constant grimace and the name stuck around through his years of training and active service. As a ranger, Solomon was ruthlessly efficient. Public image was the least of his concerns. He studied other rangers’ skills, taking the techniques he thought worked best, and molded his own methods to be as brutally direct as possible. He only targeted outlaws with attractive bounties whether dead or alive, since he found that killing them was often the most straight forward way of taking them off the streets. Of course, this was a nightmare for his public reception, but it got the job done quicker and better than anyone else from his graduating class, and the Government was soon to take notice.

So, when Solomon Burts became the fifth concurrent doyen, nicknamed “Wildfire,” it was a surprise to any who knew his reputation. He was effective, sure, but he was also volatile, hotheaded, quick to pick unnecessary fights, the opposite of a team player, and generally unlikeable. Not to mention he was straight up dangerous as many of his critics pointed out in protest against his promotion. Other rangers who had trained and worked with Solomon doubted he had ever enjoyed being a ranger and were even more astonished by the revelation that he had been aiming to become a doyen the whole time. Yet there he now was at the top and, of course, welcomed by the open arms of Cobra and Gore. He cared little for the opinions of others, even his fellow doyens. It isn’t hard to imagine how this caused conflict within the ranks of the doyens in the coming years.

Perhaps if Wildfire had listened to some of his dissenters, he would have realized that in trying to change things for the better, he became just like—maybe even worse than—those he so despised. Becoming a ranger made him wickeder than he was even as a teenager and being promoted to doyen only fed his lust for power. The spell the Government granted him did nothing to help this. The ability to control fire in all forms and generate it from thin air was the very epidemy of power and, coupled with his status as the youngest ranger to ever be promoted to doyen, there was no environment more accrediting to a hypocritical and egotistical prodigy with an insatiable passion for proving himself to be better and stronger than everyone around him.

With Wildfire’s addition to the high ranks, the count of concurrent doyens was the highest it had ever been at five. Within a year of Wildfire’s promotion, in an effort by the Government to establish a new expectation of power for doyens within the justice system, brand new facilities were constructed to serve as headquarters for the doyens which were to be used for the development of their teams of rangers and the center of their work. Doyens had always been allowed—even obligated—to train at least a few rangers beneath them. It not only produced a base of reliable and exceptionally skilled rangers who exceeded the talents of regular rangers and who could be called upon while the doyens were preoccupied, but was also a method of grooming future doyens when the current five eventually retired.

The doyens’ headquarters were built in the Big City, each located in one of the five districts. Cobra’s headquarters were based in Big North, Silver Tongue’s in Big East, Wildfire’s in Big West, Angel Eyes’s in Big South, and Gore’s in Central City. In addition to their headquarters, the doyens were each granted outpost buildings throughout the Valley Strip and given dominion over the towns in which they were based. Cobra’s outpost was located in Rust Town, Wildfire’s (though he would rarely report there) was in Abbott, and Gore’s was in Calibre, all in the Dry Prairie north of the Big City. Silver Tongue’s and Angel Eyes’s outposts were both in the Mesa Frontier south of the Big City in Yellowtusk and Bullwater, respectively. These headquarters and outposts didn’t restrict the doyens’ areas of operation, and they could even be active within the domains of the others; but it did allow them to foster a sense of security in locals, establish bonds with their communities, and claim ownership over the happenings within each respective town.

With places to call their own, the doyens’ legendary status was cemented even further. They pushed each other and inspired rangers all over the Valley Strip to do their best to take down even the most powerful outlaws. Cobra and Silver Tongue became known for their friendly competition, constantly trying to one-up each other and prove who was at the top of their game. Gore also took part in the action on occasion, and it was quite a public spectacle at times with civilians rooting for one or the other and even keeping unofficial score cards in the weekend newspapers. Wildfire never missed an opportunity to assert that he was the most powerful doyen, though not as amiably as the others. He was quick to snap at anyone who disagreed with his superiority. The others respected his power and of course his unparalleled ability to quickly defuse hostile situations, but his methods were still seen as cruel by both rangers and civilians.

The other doyens thought it overboard when Wildfire would burn outlaws to a blackened crisp any time deadly force was declared appropriate. Eventually, even the Government couldn’t ignore his behavior and was forced to address his actions directly. It was a brief exchange.

“Who cares if you can identify ‘em or not,” Wildfire protested. “All that matters is they can’t cause trouble anymore, right? Ain’t that why I have a spell?”

“Well, you see,” said a skinny man on the panel of organizers whose large forehead glistened with sweat under the covered spotlight. He cleared his throat. “If we can’t identify who you, uh, defeat, then we can’t properly compensate you with the corresponding bounty.”

Wildfire clicked his tongue and crossed his arms. “I’on’t give a damn about the bounties. My salary’s enough, plus the smaller fry who don’t end up as ash in the wind.”

The sweaty man wiped his extra-large forehead with his sleeve as the other organizers whispered quietly to one another.

“You think I do this fer the money?” Wildfire continued. “I’m not some greedy pig like the rest o’ you posers. I do this to rid the Valley of lowlife outlaw scum.”

“Think of the people,” crow’s feet said. “You want to keep the people safe, right? The people who are supposed to think of you as their protectors. Think about how it makes them feel when you boil a man alive in the middle of town.”

Cobra’s ears perked up and he straightened himself out on the bench. There were four rangers, men and women on his team, accompanying him. He couldn’t help laughing inside.

You can’t satisfy them, he thought. You can’t be too friendly with everybody, and you can’t show people the potential consequences of doing bad things. He leaned back and glanced at the other doyens and rangers around him. They’re right, though.

“Ya need to consider the impression you’re leavin’ on anyone who sees you performin’ yer duties,” comb-over said.

Wildfire exhaled sharply. “Bein’ a ranger ain’t a popularity contest,” he asserted, glaring down at the panel of organizers. “Out there, it’s survival of the fittest and if you aren’t fit enough for the top”—he gazed slowly around at his fellow rangers—“then you shouldn’t be here.”

After a few moments of silence, the woman with a hairy mole spoke up. “Do us a favor, Mr. Burts, and at least leave us with enough remains to check outlaws off the list so we can be sure they’re gone fer good and not just in hidin’ er somethin’.”

Wildfire clenched his jaw and huffed. He sat down without another word.

It may not have gone as smoothly as the council had planned, but it must have had some effect on Wildfire because he started using his spell more sparingly and only bringing the real fire out for outlaws who proved too dangerous to handle with anything except extreme prejudice. In the years that followed, Wildfire even accrued a bit of a fanbase of his own.

***

In 1770, just seven years after he was promoted to doyen, Irving “Silver Tongue” Craig was murdered by a mysterious outlaw. All anyone knew was that the outlaw supposedly had pale skin and wore all black, according to witness testimony. The Government was hard pressed to believe that just one individual could bring Silver Tongue down. Cobra was devastated, and Gore, Angel Eyes, even Wildfire, were stunned and shaken. The doyens were eager, to say the least, to hunt down and capture the outlaw responsible, and were all the first present when a hearing was called to discuss the next steps.

It was expected that Silver Tongue’s team—just three rangers—would be present at the hearing, but many of the attendees, both council members and rangers, were quite surprised when a fourth ranger joined them, a young woman. She was not part of Silver Tongue’s team, but the other doyens recognized her. It was Armani Anderson; the panel of organizers specifically requested her appearance. Unbeknownst to most present, including Armani herself, she was to be chosen as Silver Tongue’s successor despite the fact that she had only three years’ experience as a full-fledged ranger. But to the other doyens and members of Silver Tongue’s team, there was little wonder about why.

While Armani was never officially under Silver Tongue’s command, it was obvious he had grown very fond of her since her days of studying under him while she was still at the Ranger Academy. Although it was undeniable that the members of Silver Tongue’s team were jealous both before and after Armani’s succession of their former leader, they also couldn’t deny her worthiness. Her skills, her charm, and her ability to learn and adapt to any situation and overcome any challenge was eerily reminiscent of a young Irving Craig. At the hearing, Armani spoke up about Silver Tongue’s death and even proposed the nickname for his murderer which would become a name feared by any who knew of him: “Midnight.” It wasn’t without debate, but immediately following that hearing, it was announced that Armani Anderson would succeed Silver Tongue as the newest doyenne.

The other doyens were shocked, but most were not displeased being familiar with her work and knowing about her bond with Silver Tongue from past interactions. Wildfire was the only one who didn’t offer any congratulations. The others said he was just jealous that Armani stole his record of being the youngest ranger ever promoted to doyenne. Very soon after, the doyens gathered to discuss their roles in the coming hunt for the newly named Midnight, as well as plans to tackle the growing overall threat of outlaws with powerful spells.

“The last few days’ve brought lots o’ change for ya, I know,” Gore said, placing a hand on Armani’s shoulder. Through his thick white beard, he smiled even with tired eyes. The last few days had been exhausting for all the doyens.

All five of them were in one of the lounges at the headquarters for Gore’s team, the Heralds of Justice, in Central City. Cobra and Angel Eyes sat on a small sofa and Gore plopped down into a leather recliner with a hefty sigh. Angel Eyes’s eyes were closed but he sat upright. Wildfire stood, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway. Armani sat straight in a lounge chair with her hands in her lap.

“It’s important to remember,” Gore continued, “to keep a level head in times like these. I’ve experienced the deaths of many close friends an’ comrades. It’s never easy, but it helps knowin’ y’ain’t alone.”

“Thank you,” Armani said quietly. She looked around the room and stopped her gaze on Wildfire for a moment. Wildfire stared back, then huffed and looked out the window. The sun was setting on the day after Armani’s promotion. “I know you all cared for Mr. Cr—Silver Tongue, as a friend and fellow doyen. I promise I’ll do everything I can to fill his massive shoes, and I’ll start by doing anything I can to help find his killer.”

Cobra grinned. “We look forward to seeing you grow even more, Ms. Anderson.” He paused for a moment, then said, “We all know how much Irving meant to you.”

“It was strictly a professional relationship,” Armani quickly added.

Cobra nodded and grinned. “I don’t doubt that. We all loved Irving, whether we admit it or not.” He looked at Wildfire who still stared out the window. “You don’t have to hide it. His death hurts us all. Some more than others.” He looked at his hands as he anxiously wringed them together.

Armani remained very still, using her wide-brimmed hat to help hide herself from the attention of the other doyens.

Wildfire looked back into the room and groaned. He pushed himself off the doorway and walked to the middle of the room with his shoulders hunched.

“What is this, a moping session?” Wildfire sneered. “We won’t get anythin’ done just whinin’ about it all.” He threw himself down on the sofa (which seemed best suited for at most two-and-a-half occupants) between Angel Eyes and Cobra and slowly sank into the cushion. He elbowed Angel Eyes’s side, saying, “Hey, wake up. Time to talk business.”

“I am awake,” Angel Eyes replied, annoyed, and scooted over as much as he could.

Armani watched the three men adjust themselves on the sofa. Cobra chuckled and looked at Armani. “Angel Eyes keeps his eyes closed because—”

“Of his spell, yes,” Armani finished. “I’m somewhat familiar. Though, of course, I don’t know the full details.”

“You’ll learn them in time,” Cobra said. “We tend to tell each other despite the Government’s orders of confidentiality. Just easier to work together if we all know. But that’s the pact we share exclusively.”

Armani nodded.

“Wildfire’s right,” Gore said. “Let’s git to it. We need’a review everythin’ we know about this Midnight person, er potentially a gang. Witnesses only reported one individual, but we shouldn’t rule out the possibility of a group. It was dark, after all, and if they all wore black, then they may have gone unnoticed.”

Armani remained silent for most of the meeting, listening and learning the ways of the doyens. It was not a long discussion since information was limited, so they shifted the conversation inward and talked about strategies to improve themselves and their teams to handle all the new spells being reported, mostly wielded by outlaws and others with ill intentions.

“It won’t happen right away, but soon you’ll have a team o’ yer own,” Gore said to Armani. “In the meantime, the rest of us’ll need to make sure our own teams get stronger.”

Cobra now stood by the window with Wildfire hogging up the whole sofa, lounging across it like an ancient emperor. Angel Eyes sat on the ground by the lounge table reading over more notes about Midnight. The others still weren’t sure how he did it with his eyes closed.

“What about Silver Tongue’s team? What will happen to them?” Armani asked the room.

“What d’ya mean?” Cobra replied, and walked away from the window, rubbing his eyes. It was dark out now, but the bright, electric lights from surrounding buildings illuminated everything outside. “They’ll all still be rangers; I mean they don’t have t’ be, but I assume that’s what they wanna do. Maybe they’ll join one of our teams; I don’t know. Not sure ‘bout anyone else, but I was thinkin’ ‘bout askin’ at least one of ‘em.”

Armani smiled. “That’s a very kind thought.”

Cobra walked over to the recliner which Armani now occupied while Gore paced the room. He knelt and looked at Armani who stared back at him with her beautiful brown eyes made even more stunning by the glistening of the tears she had been holding back all evening and still refused to let fall in front of the other doyens. They complimented her tan skin and gold-streaked brown hair. Cobra rubbed his hands over his own messy, black locks. His hair was never neat no matter how short he cut it, but he refused to buzz it. His fiancée liked it, anyway.

“Listen,” he said in a hushed tone to Armani. “I know we haven’t gotten t’ know each other over the years, and I regret that. Irving meant a lot to me, too. We were really close. Well, not at first,” he chuckled. “Actually, we really disliked each other fer a while there. But by the end, we were like brothers, and our teams—all of us—are like family. I’d do anything fer his team, fer any o’ you. That’s what this job means, ‘kay?” Cobra stood and stretched and rubbed his hair again. “Don’t worry ‘bout the other stuff yet.”

Armani looked up at Cobra and smiled, finally letting a tear stream down her cheek.

“The real fun starts once ya get yer spell,” Gore said and leaned against the back of the recliner, making Armani jolt as the chair suddenly leaned backward. “Should only be a few more days for ya.”

Wildfire stared up at the ceiling with his arms crossed behind his head. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. After a few more moments of listening to the others chat, he sat up and placed both feet on the ground in one intentional motion.

“All right,” he growled. “We done here? I’m hungry and wanna go to bed.”

“You’re welcome to stay in the quarters here,” Gore offered.

“Nah, I’m goin’ back to mine. Y’all’ve kept me up long enough with yer raddlin’. I need some quiet.”

“Not like you’d hear us from the bedrooms,” Cobra said under his breath.

“Hey,” Gore called to Wildfire as the stubborn doyen stepped through the doorway from the lounge to the hall. Wildfire stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Maybe ya didn’t catch my glance earlier, but you were included when I said we all need’a make our teams stronger. You’re the only one who hasn’t built a team yet. Luckily, there’re a few rangers who’ve had good experience that you could probably recruit rather easily.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” Wildfire said, turning away and walking out the door. “Especially not Silver Tongue’s leftovers. Or yours, old man.”

The room fell silent with Wildfire’s departure, but not for long before Angel Eyes stood, removed his hat, and scratched his head.

“It is late,” Angel Eyes agreed. “I’ll take up the offer of a room, if it’s open to everyone.”

“Course!” Gore said with a wide, shining smile. “Why don’t we all grab some food, then call it a night, huh?”

Gore and Angel Eyes made their way out of the room. Cobra waited a moment as Armani stood slowly and stretched her neck. Cobra turned around and placed a hand on Armani’s shoulder, smiling warmly. Armani smiled back thankfully and placed her hand on his.

“We’ll support you always,” he said.

*** 

Those same words rang in Armani’s ears 12 years later as she sat, shackled to a table under the uncovered spotlight on the stage in the council’s auditorium. It looked different now than it had in years prior. Each doyen and their teams had their own tables scattered about the auditorium’s tiered seating. There was no longer a separate panel of organizers. Instead, a single finely dressed man stood and announced the beginning of the hearing.

“Members of this council,” the man said in a raspy voice. “I thank you for convening today to discuss the recent actions by Ms. Armani Rosemary Anderson, a.k.a. ‘Lady Love.’ Let our proceedings begin.”

“We’ll support you always.” The words echoed over and over as if played on loudspeakers in the auditorium. Armani barely heard the opening remarks of her so-called pre-trial; if she was lucky to go to trial at all, that is.

I need it, she thought, looking blankly at the darkened crowd. Now more than ever. You would understand, of anyone.

Cobra was silent for most of the hearing. He couldn’t bear to speak. The lump in his throat prevented him. He wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway. When the shouting began, and Armani’s voice broke through the noise, her screams, her cries, the agony in her voice as she pleaded to be listened to and treated like the respectable ranger she was; he couldn’t take it. He felt guilty, but only because he didunderstand. At least, he thought he did. He was thankful when Angel Eyes brought the room back to silence. Cobra looked away from the light. His team knew to shield their eyes, as well, and Cobra directed them all to depart.

“Dig up everythin’ there is to know about this Dawn guy,” he told them sternly after they left the auditorium. “We don’t need to wait for the council’s bullshit. Figure it out and get back to me. Go now.”

His team understood and left immediately.

After the hearing, Angel Eyes found Cobra alone on a balcony on the second story of the Ranger Council building. He approached Cobra slowly and leaned on the railing beside Cobra.

“I was selected to go after Curtis Conrad and Nathan Bowman,” Angel Eyes said flatly.

“I heard,” Cobra sighed.

“They think Dawn is somehow connected with Midnight. They’re unsure how just yet. They’ll be questioning Ms. Anderson more at a later date.”

Cobra nodded.

After a moment, Angel Eyes turned and said, “Cobra, I wanted to tell you not to worry.”

“Worry?” Cobra said with a smirk. “I ain’t worried. I know they’re no match fer you.”

“Yes, exactly.” Another pause, then, “I know you would like to be the one to go after them,”—Cobra squinted and turned his head slightly to look at Angel Eyes as Angel Eyes continued—“and I won’t stop you should you pursue them. But I promise to bring them to justice; for Lady Love.”

Angel Eyes stood straight and touched Cobra’s back, then turned to step inside.

“For Armani…I’ll do what must be done.”

When Angel Eyes returned to the Big City after disbanding his own group in Dry Creek, he hadn’t taken much time to think of his speech to the council, though it wouldn’t matter much in the end. He took his time on the trip back, and immediately upon his return was taken into custody and brought in for interrogation. It seemed that the Government had already gotten word of his failure. He only briefly saw Cobra and Wildfire on his way to government headquarters. Gore was occupied elsewhere. Wildfire didn’t bother looking at Angle Eyes, but Cobra’s eyes lingered on the site of his fellow doyen being dragged away like a fugitive. Angel Eyes looked at Cobra with an exhausted expression and said, “I’ll explain later.”

That was a week ago now.

***

Midnight’s ranch had never been busier. Every day since the showdown between Curtis, Sly, and Minutes ‘til Midnight versus the White Snakes, deputies and the sheriff of Dry Creek spent all day from sunrise to sunset inspecting every inch of the house, the barns, the field, and the cellar. The Government had given it a once-over years ago when they first found out it had belonged to Midnight, but their brief investigation found nothing of note, and the past nine days proved little different. However, there was one thing in the house that was not left by Midnight.

Wildfire looked at Curtis’s wanted poster, holding it in one hand and clumsily pulling a cigarette from the pack in his right pocket. He pinched the end of the cigarette and placed the butt into his mouth. When he released the cigarette from his fingers, the end he held was already lit. He held the cigarette in place with the right side of his lips as he parted the left side to exhale the smoke. Ash broke away from the stick and fell onto the wanted poster. He had been called upon by the council to check out the scene of Angel Eyes’s final battle as doyen, but there was nothing for him to find other than dusty countertops and rotten food. The sheriff had greeted him that morning upon his arrival and handed him the wanted poster.

Curtis “DAWN” Conrad

Wanted: DEAD or ALIVE

Reward: 38 G

It looked like any old wanted poster, but the “ALIVE” was crossed out. The sheriff stepped into the living room where Wildfire now sat in a dusty leather armchair.

“Make anythin’ of it?” the sheriff asked.

Wildfire took a deep breath in, burning the rest of the cigarette down to the tipping paper, then tossed the butt into the ash-filled fireplace.

“This supposed to be a joke er somethin’?” Wildfire asked and stood. He stopped in front of the sheriff who examined the poster again.

“I guess he’s decided he won’t be taken in alive,” the sheriff said.

Wildfire grinned and folded the poster into his back pocket. “Good,” he said, “‘cause I’ve decided that he’s already a dead man.” He walked past the sheriff and through the front door onto the porch.

“You got a personal vendetta ‘gainst this outlaw?” the sheriff asked, following Wildfire outside. “I figured you other doyens would want revenge fer what I’ve heard he did to Lady Love, and now Angel Eyes.”

Wildfire walked down the creaky wooden steps and clicked his tongue. “Nah,” he barked. “I’on’t give a damn ‘bout that.” He twisted his shoulders to face the sheriff who still stood on the porch, grabbing one of the wooden supports for the porch’s roof. “I’ve needed an excuse to go all out. I hope he’s strong, er at least as cunnin’ as I’ve heard, so I can finally have a real challenge.”

Then Wildfire turned around and left the ranch.

The Big City was made up of five districts: Big North, Big South, Big East, Big West, and Central City. Each district was originally its own city, but after the war almost a century ago, they merged and were collectively renamed. The combined urban area developed at a lightning pace, building up modernized infrastructure and expanding technology faster than ever seen before in the Valley Strip. Electricity was brought into popular use; steel and glass became the most common building materials, almost completely burying the classic stone and wood buildings. The Government stopped building out and started looking upward.

Of course, the growth and urbanization of the Big City brought with it many challenges including a rising population in need of jobs and resources, an increase in crime, complete renovations of old roads and buildings, constant power outages resulting from the technological boom, and a total restructuring of the post-war government and economy. The capital-G Government as people knew it, was formed at the dusk of the war. The few people now left who remembered a time before the Government controlled the valley had been young with no knowledge of how governments worked to begin with. Under the Government’s supervision, the Big City was seen as the pinnacle of technological advancement and the source of the Valley’s money and protection, though some also saw it as the source of all the valley’s troubles, too.

***

“Known Crook Found Dead on Streets of Big South” the August 18th paper’s front page read. The article gave little detail about the report provided by deputies and hardly uncovered the true events from the night before.

An expensive stagecoach towing a cart crashed on the sidewalk of a glowing avenue. Big South, distinct for its ideal depictions of life like one would see in plays and movies, had hardly any darkened streets. Bright lights and signs hanging from tall buildings illuminated the paved streets and many of the cobblestone side roads. Loud music blared on radios in bars and burlesque clubs. The few deputies—undercover, wearing civilian clothing and hiding their badges under their shirts—who had been escorting the coach lay unconscious, useless to stop the five criminals ransacking the cart’s loot as a couple frightened individuals in long white coats watched helplessly from the other side of the street.

The criminals wore leather jackets and canvas pants, all dark brown, and each covered his face with dark woolen masks. They loaded their own wagon with crates from the escorted cart, ignoring the pained groans from the deputies’ horses which were tangled in their reigns and pinned between the front of the stagecoach and a building’s brick façade. Two of the crooks watched each way down the street for any signs of other law enforcement, but of course no other deputies, rangers, or even passersby appeared because the road spanning four city blocks had been marked closed. The band of criminals knew they would be successful as soon as the escort veered down the closed road in hopes of escaping them. Before long, the bandits hopped into their wagon and raised a collapsible hood held together by wooden frames to hide the cargo and sped off down the road leaving the white-coated victims shivering with fear.

Two of the crooks sat on the wagon’s front bench while the other three brandished crowbars and began opening some of the crates. They contained various electrical components: wires, batteries, cogs and pistons, even a few mechanical arms and legs wholly constructed, along with other body and weapon modifiers and enhancements.

“Jackpot,” one of the criminals—a very skinny man with a scar that sliced across the back of his neck—said, staring into one crate. “There’s a flamethrower in this one!”

“You could make a full person with all these parts,” another one—back hair curling out from his shirt collar—exclaimed.

“Don’t touch anythin’!” the third—their leader—shouted. “Don’t want yer greasy fingerprints all over the merchandise.”

The other two slowly closed the crates and jammed the nails back into the corners of the splintering wood. Up front, the other crooks—one with a lazy eye and the other with a weak chin—watched the road ahead carefully for any signs of interference. The one with the lazy eye glanced over his shoulder after hearing the commotion in the back.

“You sure we can make much from all this?” the scarred one asked as he peeked into another crate. “Most o’ this just looks like junk.”

“Oh yeah,” the leader said with a growing grin underneath his mask. He held open the lid of a crate practically overflowing with unique looking weapons. Revolvers, rifles, launchers, net guns, dispensers for various substances, and all their special accessories gleamed under the passing streetlights. “This is Government gold all right.”

“Gold?” back hair asked and almost fell over as he quickly shifted over in the unsteady wagon to see what his boss was looking at, only to be disappointed that it wasn’t really money.

“Is this stuff that rangers use?” neck scar asked. Their leader nodded slowly, almost drooling over the thought of the black market prices of such commodities.

“A few outlaws, too, I’ve heard,” lazy eye called from up front. “We ain’t the first to steal this kind o’stuff fer sure.”

“But I doubt anyone’s gotten this big a haul before!” back hair cheered.

The crook with the weak chin faced the road again and looked around nervously, then leaned over to the one with the lazy eye and spoke in a low tone.

“Don’tcha think we might’a gotten in a little over our heads with this one?” he said. “Most o’ the people in that coach were deputies; undercover ones at that. Only two civilians were in there and they looked pretty official. This stuff might be way more important than we think.”

“No way,” lazy eye replied. “If it was really that important, it wouldn’t’ve been just one coach. The Government knows how to protect its good shit. I’m sure we’ll still make a pretty buck, but it couldn’t be anythin’ that special.” The lazy-eyed crook glanced over his shoulder to make sure the others in the back weren’t listening to their conversation. “Don’t tell the boss that, though,” he said to the weak chinned one who breathed a sigh of relief.

Their leader leaned out the front of the wagon’s hood and directed the drivers down the next few streets to avoid any major roads.

“Guys, check this out!” back hair yelled enthusiastically from the wagon. Their leader turned around and took a step toward the tall crook who held out a shining gold helmet; one like a knight would wear. It had a thin visor cut into the front and flaring metal wings on each side of the head. “The rest o’ the suit’s in here, too.” Back hair tapped a crate with his foot.

The crook with the neck scar inspected the helmet, and the two up front craned their necks, trying to peer under the hood to see the fancy headwear.

“Idiot!” the leader shouted, snatching the helmet from back hair’s hands. “What’d I say ‘bout touchin’ the goods? You’ll ruin the beautiful shine that shows it’s brand spankin’ new!”

The wagon jerked suddenly to one side as the sound of frantic braying came from outside. The three crooks inside the wagon flew toward the front and the crates slid violently as the wagon came to a sudden stop. The crook with the neck scar cried out as he was smushed by a couple heavy crates. He was able to brace himself well enough to avoid being completely crushed, but he felt the bones in one of his arms and one of his legs crunch with the impact.

“The hell happened?” the leader shouted as he stood. Back hair helped move the crate crushing neck scar and helped him stand. The two drivers slowly recovered and sat up straight, rubbing their heads and using each other to balance upright. When their vision steadied, they saw a pair of hooded individuals standing in the middle of the road which had caused their mules to swerve. The wagon was lodged on the sidewalk between a building and a resilient lamppost. The leader hopped from the back of the wagon.

“You two,” he said to back hair and neck scar. “Work on pushin’ the wagon out!” He then walked around to the front of the wagon and noticed the two people in the road. “Who the—?” he growled. “You better get outta here if you know what’s good for ya!”

The cloaked pair stood still, one tall and one short, the tall one easily standing at least six-and-a-half feet tall and towering over the other which couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and hunched over, possibly with a cane under their cloak.

Lazy eye and weak chin stumbled off the wagon’s bench and stood by their leader with their revolvers drawn. As they approached, the taller of the cloaked pair grinned and clenched his teeth with a quiet chuckle. Lazy eye and weak chin raised their weapons and took aim at the strangers, but just as their fingers touched the triggers, they froze.

“Stop there. Hold yer fire,” the taller stranger said. His voice was harsh and commanding.

The leader of the robbers looked from side to side, perplexed, then looked again at the cloaked pair and took one more step before he also froze when the tall stranger spoke.

“You too,” the harsh voice said.

The bandits’ leader stopped in place with his hand at his hip, clutching the grip of his holstered gun, a fine flintlock.

The taller stranger glanced at the fancy pistol and smiled devilishly. He looked at the leader’s face which wore a mixed expression of anger, confusion, and fear.

“What the hell is this?” the leader shouted, then with a command from the tall stranger—“No, no. Don’t speak.”—sucked in his lips and mumbled something of a rebuke.

The tall stranger, his face masked by the darkness under his hood, looked at lazy eye, then pointed his finger at him.

“Shoot him,” he said, and without hesitation the leader of the gang withdrew his pistol and turned around, then fired a shot which pierced right through the lazy-eyed one’s shoulder. The lazy-eyed crook moaned but didn’t open his mouth to scream. His knees quivered but he didn’t stumble or try to cover the wound. His face morphed from the pain, but he couldn’t move his body. The tall stranger frowned. “Lousy shot,” he groaned.

“Be careful,” the short stranger said. Her voice was firm, but raspy and fragile like an elderly woman’s. “You didn’t specify where to shoot. He could’ve killed him.”

The tall stranger snickered. “You’re right. My bad.” He stepped forward and placed a hand on the leader’s shoulder whose pistol’s barrel was still smoking. “I’ll admit that I don’t wanna kill any o’ y’all. You’re valuable specimens.” The tall stranger patted the lead crook’s shoulder.

“Somethin’s way wrong,” the hairy-backed crook said, watching the odd interaction from behind the wagon. “Stay here,” he said to the injured neck scar and withdrew his own revolver from its holster on his belt before storming toward his partners and boss who all stood like statues.

“Oh, look,” the cloaked woman said, and the taller stranger glanced at back hair who raised his revolver; but before he could fire, he too froze in place at the tall stranger’s command.

After climbing back inside the wagon, neck scar quietly limped his way to the front and peered at the strangers from inside the hood. He reached across his torso with his good arm to pull his revolver from its holster and cautiously lifted the front of the wagon’s hood. He leaned against one of the crates to take pressure off his broken leg, then took aim at the tall stranger. The short stranger saw just a tiny reflection of the gun’s barrel, however, and leered from under her hood at the injured crook. He, too, became still, but not in the same way as the others. Neck scar remained upright in his crouched position, but his whole body relaxed and went limp. He dropped his gun which clattered onto the wagon’s front bench.

The tall stranger looked around at the four crooks paralyzed by his command. “Go unwedge the wagon,” he barked. The leader holstered his flintlock and walked with the other three crooks to shove the wagon free from between the building and lamppost. The mules stuttered forward before stopping. “Now get in the wagon,” the tall stranger ordered. The crooks obliged. Lazy eye’s left sleeve sheened in the streetlights, coated with his own blood. The cloaked pair then climbed onto the bench and took hold of the mule’s reigns. The tall stranger picked up the neck scar’s revolver and looked over his shoulder at him, still kneeling behind the bench with drool soaking through his wool mask.

After a moment, the tall stranger tilted his head. “Hmph. Is he supposed to do that?”

When the short stranger turned around, she saw that neck scar that was convulsing and white, frothy spit bubbled through the fabric over his mouth.

“Oops,” the short woman said. With no motion at all, her power ceased and the scarred crook plopped sideways and fell out of the hood and over the side of the bench.

“Oh, wow, come on,” the cloaked man groaned as neck scar landed awkwardly on the ground where he remained limp in a twisted pose. With a few twitches and one last gargle of foam, he lay completely motionless and gasped a final, bubbly breath. The taller stranger gave his short counterpart an unamused look, though she couldn’t see his face under his hood. “You need to be more careful,” he said.

The short stranger shrugged and faced forward as the tall stranger whipped the reigns and the mules began trotting down the bumpy road.

“I guess four is enough, anyway,” he said and the two rode off into the flashing night.

***

“The Big South Sheriff’s Department is still tight-lipped about the events leading to a criminal’s mysterious death in the Big City last night,” said a man on the radio. The batwing doors at the front of the motel’s saloon swung back and forth as Curtis, Sly, and Mabel climbed onto their hooded carriage with Curtis and Sly sitting on the front bench and Mabel standing behind them, leaning out the front of the hood.

“Speaking of mysteries,” the radio host continued, “Dewey ‘Angel Eyes’ Vinson, beloved doyen, has announced his resignation following the release of photos taken at a ranch in Dry Creek. The ranch was apparently previously owned by the mystifying outlaw, Midnight, the one suspected of murdering other former doyen Irving ‘Silver Tongue’ Craig twelve-and-a-half years ago. The photos capture an intense moment during a showdown at Midnight’s Ranch between Angel Eyes and the White Snakes against a decently sized gang of outlaws, most of whom don’t seem to be anybody notable. One picture shows Angel Eyes seemingly holding a young girl hostage with his revolver aimed at her head. The other is an especially haunting photo showing what looks like a horse, but its coat looks completely smooth and shiny like metal.

“It’s unreal, truly. Pick up any newspaper in the next couple days and you can see for yourself. The photos were taken by a local rancher, once Midnight’s neighbor, though he hadn’t known Midnight was an outlaw. He says he just happened to be photographing the sunrise that morning when he noticed the commotion down the road and was terrified to see a shootout unfolding so close to his own home. Gotta commend him for facing his fears and snapping a couple pictures for the press, at least. And while most of the outlaws facing off against the doyen’s group are apparent nobodies, we do know of two names which may sound familiar to our listeners in the Mesa Frontier.

“Curtis ‘Dawn’ Conrad and Nathan ‘Sly’ Bowman. Together, they’ve caused quite the ruckus in just the last month-and-a-half. We don’t know who the little girl in the first photo is, but we’ve heard some speculate that Angel Eyes was trying to use her as some sort of leverage over the outlaws; perhaps she’s involved with them somehow. I’d like to think there’s a reason why the stoic and humble doyen would resort to such extreme measures, but we may never know with him now stepping down from the position. It’s interesting that he chose to ‘resign’ rather than ‘retire.’ His choice of words has left many questioning what really went down at Midnight’s ranch just over a week ago.”

Curtis, Sly, and Mabel rode through the dusty dunes surrounding the motel, half-a-day’s journey north from Dry Creek along the Twin River E. Minutes ‘til Midnight waited for them a mile north, scouting the route to their next destination, the Big City. Despite knowing that Midnight frequented the Big City in the days when they lived together, Curtis avoided going there at the start of his search. He knew it would be difficult to find a single man in such a densely populated place, and he had already begun to suspect that Midnight wasn’t the innocent man he once thought. He didn’t want to get in trouble if any deputies or rangers overheard him asking business owners and street goers about his former caretaker. He also knew how much the Government was cracking down on anyone with a spell and wanted to avoid any chance of his own being discovered, so he decided to start in the Southern Slick.

“Before we move on and meet our special guest this afternoon,” the radio host continued, “I have some descriptions that the Government has requested us to read aloud so you all can help keep an eye out for the culprits who instigated the gunfight. The descriptions are as follows. The outlaw Dawn was last seen in a yellow button-down shirt and canvas pants with a dark poncho.”

Curtis flipped up the collar of his white snap button shirt to show off the vibrant indigo underside that continued down the front trim. A black belt with a large silver buckle tightened his blue jeans around his waist under his untucked shirt. The shining spurs on his brand-new black boots rattled with the bumping of the cart. His clean black velvet cattleman hat rested on a head of clean, brown hair that had grown down to the base of his neck; his beard had started growing back in straight and full.

“Outlaw Sly was last seen in a white shirt and white poncho with blue detailing and trim, and beige pants.”

As the trio approached Minutes ‘til Midnight in the desert, Sly tipped his white pinch front hat with thin strips of black leather around the crown. He adjusted the sleeves on his dark navy—almost black—denim wrangler shirt with white stitching and buttons. He tucked his shirt into bleached khakis held up by light-colored suspenders. His spurred black boots poked out from the bottom of his new brown chaps. His face was cleanly shaven, and his short blond hair neatly combed.

Mabel tied her dark brown, shoulder-length hair into a short ponytail and fiddled with a pair of straw-colored gloves that matched her open crown, flat brimmed hat; they fit her delicate hands snuggly and covered well above her wrists. The sleeves of her dull, dark green shirt were rolled up above her elbows; her dark brown dress hung down to just below her knees, swaying gently in the soft, sandy gust of the open desert. Her tan ankles disappeared inside short black boots. Her face was especially tan, almost drowning out the freckles on her nose and cheeks.

“Wow,” she said with high-pitched excitement. “Never in a million years did I ever dream I’d be seein’ the Big City with my own eyes, even when I lived right there in Thorntree.”

“The best city in the whole valley,” Sly said. “Well, for a ranger at least. Or probably anyone who doesn’t have a bounty on his head.”

Mabel chuckled.

“How are you feeling, Dawn?” Sly asked, glancing at Curtis on his right.

Curtis released a relaxed breath, then replied, “Good to be back, I guess.”

“Oh yeah,” Sly responded. “You used to live there, right?”

“Fer a time. Didn’t really have much of a home per se. Even without a bounty then, I can’t say the city was kind to me.”

“Oh, sorry…”

Curtis shrugged and rubbed his short beard. “Nah, I’m over it. Wasn’t the worst time in my life. I’m sure I still have a few tough times ahead, but I ain’t worried ‘bout it.”

Mabel knelt and forced herself onto the bench between the men, folding her dress under herself and swinging her legs back and forth above the footrest.

“Well, hey,” she said nudging Curtis with her shoulder, “if there’re any hard memories ya need’a overcome, I’ll help ya just like you did with me in Thorntree.”

Curtis smiled and pressed his hand on the top of Mabel’s hat, pushing her head down.

“I appreciate it, kiddo,” he said.

Mabel raised her head with a smile and readjusted her hat.

Virginia waved to the trio when their wagon slowed to a stop next to Minutes ‘til Midnight’s stagecoach. Doc leaned forward on the chauffeur’s seat at the front of the coach and pointed a finger gun at Curtis, Sly, and Mabel.

“Yo,” Doc greeted, and the nine travelers gathered round to discuss the next section of their journey. “We can stick close to the river fer a while,” Doc explained, “but we’ll wanna veer west across the water before hittin’ Big South.

“Big South?” Mabel asked.

“The Big City has five districts,” Sly explained. “Big South, North, East, West, and Central. Big South is essentially the entertainment district, complete with tons of play and movie theaters with famous actors around every corner. If you want to see some authentic performances of Worbus Timbly’s works, that’s the perfect part of town.” 

Doc nodded, then continued. “As I was sayin’, we’ll cut across the river ‘bout two miles out from Big South. We ought to git there around midafternoon. If we’re cool and casual, we shouldn’t have a problem walking right into the city. Plenty o’ folk of all kinds head in an’ outta the city every day. Just gotta be chill; not draw any attention to ourselves.”

***

Gunshots echoed over the dunes at midday.

Mina punched in the darkness, leaving no dent in the concaved wall made of mystery material. It was pitch black inside the tiny prison where Mina and Rowan were trapped.

The black dome, roughly eight feet tall and six feet in diameter, stood out against the desert’s yellow sands like a mole on a fair face. Another smaller dome, also as dark as night, protruded from the sand just a few yards away. Inside the smaller dome sat Smiley who faced the wall, also in complete darkness, and dug around the circumference of the dome’s base. He bored his long fingers deep into the sand and found that the dome continued well underground, maybe even forming a complete sphere, he hypothesized.

“That dome-making guy already got Killjoy, Smiley, and Mercy!” Virginia shouted. She and Doc stood behind their stagecoach, revolvers at the ready, as Calypso and Magnus frantically kicked their feet in the sand and brayed with fright.

“With Killjoy out,” Doc said, “we’re relyin’ on you to stop that guy, Trapper.”

“Yeah, I know,” Trapper said from inside the coach. He crouched and slowly parted the curtains on the side facing their opponents. “I don’t think they saw me, but with the sun straight above, I don’t have any good angles to approach from. My shadow’s too short for anythin’ other than physical contact.”

“We’ll lure them in,” Doc said and looked to his left toward Curtis and Sly’s wagon no more than 30 feet away, also stopped. Firefly kicked nervously like Minutes ‘til Midnight’s horses while Esprit stood motionless under her cloak. Curtis and Sly stood behind their wagon, using the hood for additional cover. Mabel crouched inside with her whip held close to her chest.

“They’ll be comin’ ‘round soon enough,” Curtis said to Sly and looked toward the back of the wagon for any sign of movement.

“That one guy,” Sly said, “they call him Bubbles. His spell looks crazy, but there are only four of them total. We can take them if we all charge at the same time.”

“We still don’t know if the others have spells, too,” Curtis replied.

Two more shots were fired, whizzing past Firefly and Esprit. One of the shots hit the side of the wagon’s front bench, splintering the wood and making Sly reflexively jump back.

“Hey!” Sly shouted. “Don’t hit my horse!”

Firefly was in obvious distress, but with Esprit holding firm, the wagon remained stationary no matter how much Firefly rocked and tugged. Calypso and Magnus, however, both cried out in terror when more shots were fired in their direction. They took off in full gallop and took the stagecoach with them. Doc and Virginia looked at each other with surprise, realizing they were left exposed, then sprinted in opposite directions.

Doc ran toward Curtis and Sly’s carriage and leapt forward as a thick, black wall, easily half-a-foot thick and three feet wide and made from the same mysterious substance as the domes, rose swiftly from the ground. He jumped over the rising wall and tumbled through the sand and landed next to Sly. The wall rose to about seven feet high, then stopped. Virginia ran as quickly as she could toward the escaped stagecoach, but another black object formed right in front of her feet, causing her to trip forward into an involuntary somersault. She slid across the scorching grains and slammed into another tall, thick black wall that formed in front of her. Before she could stand, three more walls formed around her along with a square top and she was trapped.

The sound of horses approaching the cart signaled Doc, Curtis, and Sly to be ready. Curtis watched around the back of the wagon, Doc around the front, and Sly glanced from side to side between them. The first horse came from the back carrying two outlaws with wrinkled scarves covering their noses and mouths. One of the outlaws dove off the horse and rolled across the sand near to the wagon, then quickly stood and raised his weapon. Curtis fired one round without hesitation, puncturing the outlaw’s leg. The outlaw didn’t stagger for long and aimed at Curtis, but before he could shoot, a long, leathery cord wrapped around his wrist. Just as he pulled the trigger, his hand was yanked sideways and his whole body slammed into the side of the wagon. With a mighty scream, Mabel, whip still in hand and coiled around the outlaw’s wrist, lunged from the back of the wagon and kneed the outlaw’s face. She flicked her whip to release its grip on the outlaw’s wrist as she followed him to the ground, then swiftly tangled the outlaw into a choke hold with the thong of her whip around his neck.

Meanwhile, the outlaw still riding the horse made a wide loop and brandished his weapon, but Doc was quick to respond and fired two shots. One bullet pierced the outlaw’s right shoulder which made him flail his arm and drop his revolver. Already unstable on his horse’s saddle, the second bullet hit his left shoulder and knocked him down. With one foot stuck in the stirrup, he was dragged through the sand for a few more yards before the horse slowed to a stop. Curtis watched as Mabel wrestled with the other outlaw, horrified as the outlaw flailed his gun around and grabbed at the whip to break free from the girl’s grapple.

“Mabel, careful!” Curtis called.

Mabel tugged her whip’s handle, choking the outlaw tighter for a moment and lessening his strength, then elbowed his nose. The outlaw instantly fell unconscious as blood streamed from his nostrils. He lowered his arms and became limp in the sand.

Mabel hopped up, unwound her whip from the outlaw’s body, and wiped her forehead with a big smile on her face.

“I got it,” she said confidently. “See? I’ve been practic—wha?”

Suddenly, a circle of the hard, black material appeared from the sand and swiftly erected into a cylindrical prison of pure darkness around her. Curtis and Doc watched the impenetrable wall form around Mabel and didn’t notice the second horse coming around the front of the wagon.

“Look out!” Sly shouted as one of the riders, a woman with tan skin and dirty blonde hair, slid off the saddle and landed gracefully on the sand.

The other rider, the one they called Bubbles, howled as he rode past. His bright smile contrasted with his dusty, dark complexion and his amber-colored eyes made him look crazy as he swung his head, whipping his shoulder-length dreads back and forth.

“Y’all focus ‘n him,” Doc commanded. “I’ve got her.”

But before any of them could strike, the woman stood tall and held her arms high. Her plain white crop top shirt and blue jeans torn just above the knees were both stained and looked like they had been worn for days. Her dirty sandals revealed unkempt toenails. It was obvious that she hadn’t washed herself for a while. Then, Curtis, Sly, and Doc’s whole bodies stiffened. Their eyes watered and their noses burned as a terrible stench consumed their senses. The hairs on their necks shriveled as the three of them collapsed, coughing and trying to hold their breaths.

“Yeah, get ‘em babe!” Bubbles called from a safe distance.

The three gagging men felt lightheaded and as if they would faint at any moment.

“Take it all in, boys!” the woman shouted and twirled around like a ballerina, another odorous waft being cast around her with every spin. “I call it my Super Stench! My spell gets stronger the longer I go without a bath!” she laughed.

Bubbles hollered in the distance. “That’s my little Stink Bug!”

Before Curtis, Sly, and Doc all fell unconscious, a large black box formed around them, and Bubbles raised his hands making rock horns with his forefingers and pinkies.

“Awoo!” he shouted. “Boom! Pow! Ain’t nothin’ gets through my barriers; not even light! Take that, suckas!” He flexed his thin arms in his gray tank top and swung his head back and forth as he rode over to the outlaw who got dragged by his horse.

“Come on, get up,” Bubbles said. “Fight’s over.”

The other outlaw drowsily gazed up at Bubbles, still hanging upside down with his foot stuck in the stirrup. Bubbles lifted the lackey’s foot and let him drop fully onto the ground.

Stink Bug skipped over to the one Mabel had strangled and knelt beside him. She lightly smacked his cheek, but it was obvious he wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

“Albert’s out cold!” she shouted to Bubbles who had already started riding back to Minutes ‘til Midnight’s stagecoach.

“Barney’s holdin’ up!” Bubbles replied as Barney dizzily followed Bubbles on his own horse.

Stink Bug then turned her attention to Curtis and Sly’s carriage and climbed into the back under the hood.

In silence within the box that trapped her, Virginia stood and placed her hands against the hard black interior surface. The wall was perfectly smooth and room temperature. She rested her ear against the wall and heard absolutely nothing. With her face still pressed on the wall, Virginia relaxed and gently pushed on the wall. With little effort and like with any other wall or door, Virginia felt her hands escape into the hot desert air. She bent her wrists and felt the exterior surface of the box. Pulling her hands back inside, Virginia used her spell to peer through the solid walls of her cell and saw Bubbles arrive at their stagecoach some yards away. She then saw Barney approaching slowly and drowsily.

She brought her eyes back inside, then extended her entire right arm through the box’s wall. As he passed, Barney saw the arm dangling. He rubbed his eyes and approached the box with caution. Carefully, he stepped down from his horse’s back and withdrew his revolver which he had retrieved after being freed from the stirrup. He looked puzzlingly at Virginia’s arm, then poked it with the barrel of his gun. Virginia quickly grabbed Barney’s collar, much to his horror, and pulled as hard as she could to slam Barney’s head into the box. Barney raised his revolver, but Virginia reached her other arm through the wall and grabbed his wrist, digging her nails into Barney’s flesh. Barney yelped and dropped the gun, then Virginia covered his mouth with her other hand and sent a foot flying out of the box to kick Barney’s groin.

With a whimper, Barney collapsed, and Virginia slowly phased her entire body through the wall. She looked at the stagecoach and saw Bubbles creeping around the side, but as he reached for the door, Trapper burst from inside and tackled Bubbles to the ground. As soon as they hit the sand, Bubbles froze.

“Gotcha!” Trapper shouted.

Bubbles grunted and groaned as he tried to move and found that he couldn’t. Trapper pinned Bubbles’s arms and legs down and grinned. Bubbles groaned again, then chuckled.

“Idiot,” Bubbles said through gritted teeth. “I can still use my spell without movin’!”

Then, a swirl of black tendrils erected from the ground and wove together to form a solid, impenetrable dome around the two of them. Virginia gasped and took a step toward them, then stopped.

Wait, she thought. There was another.

Inside the dome, Bubbles snickered. “Now I’ve got you trapped,” he mumbled, still unable to move his jaw.

A moment of silence.

“You’re the idiot here,” Trapper said finally. Bubbles stopped grinning. “Thought you’d wait a minute fer yer friends to notice you’re gone, then undo this bubble so you could all gang up on me, huh? Didn’t you notice you couldn’t move any major muscles while I had you pinned? Well, here’s a hint. While our shadows are connected, even by linking with other shadows, you’re stuck.” Trapper stood and took a couple steps back from Bubbles who remained paralyzed on the ground. “What you just did, friend, is create one giant shadow meanin’ I can move around all I want, and you can’t do a damn thing.”

Sweat dripped down Bubbles’s face. He swallowed deeply, his eyes flicking all around, but he couldn’t see in the pure blackness.

“So, I’ll give ya the choice,” Trapper said from behind Bubbles now. “Either take down all yer barriers, or I’ll knock you out to make yer spell deactivate.”

Virginia surveyed the surrounding area and saw no sign of the woman she had seen just before being trapped. Her eyes darted back and forth, unaware of what the woman’s spell could be if she had one. She listened carefully and heard rummaging coming from Curtis and Sly’s carriage. Approaching quietly, Virginia held her revolver in one hand and peaked around from the back of the hood where she found Stink Bug facing away and crouched over a couple small storage chests, fiddling with the locks. Virginia cocked the hammer of her revolver which caught Stink Bug’s attention.

“Who’s Daniel?” Virginia asked teasingly, reading the tattoo on Stink Bug’s back just above her waistband which read “Daniel Sux.” Virginia could tell quite blatantly that the “Sux” was added on later.

Recognizing the sound of the revolver’s hammer being pulled, Stink Bug raised her hands and stood cautiously. “An ex-boyfriend. Left me for some skank in Rich River.”

“Turn around slowly,” Virginia commanded now in a serious tone, “and come on out.”

Stink Bug did as directed. Virginia backed away from the wagon as Stink Bug hopped down with her hands still raised.

“Okay,” Virginia said. “My friends and I’re just tryin’ to get to the Big City. So, without any sudden movements, how ‘bout you just walk on over to yer horse and—” She sniffed the air and felt her nose hairs singe. She placed her free hand over her nose and mouth. “Ack!” she wretched. “Is that you? My goodness; it’s no wonder Daniel le—”

Virginia coughed harshly and took a sharp breath in only to have her throat burned by the stench. She fell to her knees, choking and gagging.

“Hm? What was that?” Stink Bug asked mockingly. “Come on, speak up!”

She kicked Virginia in the stomach, knocking her over into the sand. Virginia thought she would vomit from the smell alone and the blow to her stomach didn’t help. She tried looking up at Stink Bug, but her eyes watered so much she could only make out the blurry image of the woman standing over her. Stink Bug sneered and raised her foot over Virginia’s head, but before stomping down she noticed out of the corner of her eye the black cylinder around Mabel suddenly shrinking away, leaving Mabel standing in the open and equally confused. Stink Bug turned around and saw all the other barriers disappearing, as well, including the one confining Bubbles and Trapper. Bubbles’s face and arms were swollen and battered and Trapper breathed heavily with reddened knuckles. Bubbles’s breathing was slow and shallow, but still noticeable.

“Phew!” Trapper exhaled and stretched his neck. He stepped forward and dragged Bubbles by the waistband of Bubbles’s baggy cotton pants. “He didn’t choose the easy way like I thought he would. I kinda respect that, honestly.”

Looking around at all the freed opponents, Stink Bug gulped as her spell faded. Virginia stopped coughing and took deep breaths. Curtis, Sly, and Doc appeared next to Stink Bug after their barrier shrank, and everyone else, too, turned to look at her after noticing that Bubbles and the other two outlaws were already knocked out.

“Well, that stinks,” she groaned.

***

With Bubbles, Stink Bug, and the other two bound with rope, Curtis, Sly, Mabel, and Minutes ‘til Midnight prepared to embark on the final couple miles to the Big City. They saw the skyline of tall buildings on the wavy horizon.

“We ain’t too far from the road,” Doc said, tipping his hat to the defeated gang of four. “If y’all scream as loud as ya can, I’m sure someone’ll hear and send some rangers to come git ya.”

“It’s a shame we couldn’t take ‘em to claim their bounties,” Mabel said once the group was well on their way.

Sly sighed. “I think our days of making money off bagging bad guys are just about over. After the news about our fight with the White Snakes, I wouldn’t be surprised if even deputies start picking us out in a crowd. Heck, maybe even the public will start to recognize us. Does that count as being famous?”

“Infamous is the word ya want,” Mabel giggled.

“And the Big City of all places will pose the biggest threat to us so far,” Curtis chimed in.

“So, why’re we goin’ there again?” Mabel asked. “Why not just go around and head straight to the Dry Prairie?”

Curtis paused, then said, “‘Cause o’ Midnight. Always ‘cause o’ him.” He paused again, then explained, “Erin Glass, Angel Eyes, and Armani Anderson all mentioned Midnight’s connection to the Mystic Program and that the Government wants to find him.”

“But they don’t want just anyone to find him,” Sly said. “The Government makes him out to be scarier than he probably actually is in hopes that everyone will be too afraid to challenge him and instead anyone who might recognize him will just report his whereabouts, leaving him nowhere to hide. Then the Government can swoop in themselves.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem to be working,” Mabel said.

“No,” Curtis replied. “Not yet. But just think. We’ve had to be real careful and we’ve still managed to piece together as much as we have ‘bout Midnight. Anyone who could be more open about their research would surely be narrowing down the search by now, right? I’m thinkin’ Midnight’s not quite as unfindable as you might think. That’s why we need’a go to the Big City; to investigate everythin’ at the source, even if it’s risky.”

Mabel nodded slowly and watched as the silhouettes of tall buildings became more defined and she began to make out the outlines of shorter buildings and saw the sun’s reflection on the high windows of buildings taller than she had ever seen.

***

“All right, huddle up!” Doc called. “One last break before the real fun begins.”

The group was only a mile from Big South. It was already nearing night, later than they had planned to arrive due to their tussle with Bubbles and Stink Bug’s crew. It would only take another 15 minutes to reach the Big City. Everyone hid their weapons under their clothes and made sure nothing out of the ordinary was visible from the stagecoach windows or from under the wagon’s hood. Mabel wandered away from Curtis and Sly with an invite from Virginia to feed Magnus and Calypso, and Curtis seized the opportunity to speak with Sly privately.

Sly thought for a moment after Curtis proposed an idea. “I can’t say I totally agree, but I think you’re right. I just wish we’d talked about this more before now.”

“Me too,” Curtis said. “But I knew if I brought it up around the kid, she’d’ve protested and made it impossible for us to weigh the options.

Sly nodded and the two approached Minutes ‘til Midnight. Virginia and Rowan stood near the horses with Mabel, and Doc leaned against the side of the coach’s front bench with his arms crossed. Smiley and Trapper sat inside the coach with their arms out the open windows and Mina stood outside with one foot propped on the folding step below the door with the door ajar.

“Sly and I talked,” Curtis began, “and we think it’d be smart if our groups separate again, at least for now.”

“We were thinkin’ the same thing,” Doc said as he uncrossed his arms and stood straight.

“Yeah,” Curtis sighed. “But we were also thinkin’, fer safety, that it might be best, just maybe, if Mabel went with y’all fer a bit. Y’know, given that we’re the two the news identified.”

As soon as Mabel heard her name her ears perked up, and when she heard the context of the callout, she immediately stomped over and interrupted the conversation.

“No, I won’t do it!” Mabel protested. “I won’t leave you two!”

“Kid, listen—” Curtis tried to say.

“No! All I’ve done is listen and do as I’m told, but I won’t do this! I’ve already been pulled away from y’all twice, one of which was directly my own fault, and both times you two got in trouble tryin’ to get me back. So, no, I’m never gonna let us git split up again! I don’t want to be the one y’all have to come rescue when things’re already gonna be tough!”

“Mabel—” Sly started.

“I. Said. No!”

Curtis exhaled. “You know we wouldn’t do this without a good reason,” he said and looked at Mabel pleadingly.

Mabel crossed her arms and pursed her frowning lips.

“Just let us speak,” Curtis said. “We need’a test the waters. Fer all we know, the Government’s waitin’ fer us and ready to strike the moment Sly and I step foot in the Big City. It’ll be much safer if you go with Doc and the others.”

“You sure?” Doc asked, stepping forward. “She’s welcome to come with us, of course, but you sure this is best?”

Virginia and Rowan now stood by them, too. Rowan yawned and rubbed her tired eyes. Virginia looked at Mabel’s pouting scowl and listened silently to the discussion.

“I just want to make sure you’re safe,” Curtis said.

“I will be!” Mabel argued. “I can take care o’ myself; I promise! Doc, Virginia, please!” She looked up at the others imploringly.

Doc shrugged, saying, “I agree, but it’s not my call.” He raised his hands and looked at Curtis with a sympathetic gaze.

Virginia’s eyes flicked from side to side, following whoever was speaking, and occasionally glanced down at Mabel who grew increasingly impatient.

“It literally is yer call,” Mabel raged. “Doc, you can say ‘no!’ Just say no, you don’t want me comin’ with you!”

“Woah, hey,” Doc defended. “No, that just ain’t true. You know we’d love to have you around.” He looked at Curtis and Sly, then over at Virginia. When Virginia’s eyes met his, she saw something shift in his gaze. She saw what almost looked like excitement in his eyes now.

“Mabel,” Curtis groaned. “It’s decided.”

“No, it isn’t! Ugh!” Mabel shouted. “We’ve hardly talked about it. You and Sly discussed this without me first; that isn’t fair!”

Curtis and Doc looked at each other, and Curtis gave a small, singular nod. Doc looked at Virginia again and she stared back skeptically.

“It’s okay,” Sly said and put a hand on Mabel’s shoulder which she quickly shrugged off. “We’ll meet up again soon; we promise it won’t be long. Like Dawn said, we just need to test the waters to make sure you won’t get caught up in anything crazy. After all, who’d get us out of trouble if we all got arrested together?”

He meant the last part as a joke, but Mabel obviously wasn’t amused. Curtis and Doc then stepped away to go over the details of their plan and Sly joined them soon after. A moment later, Virginia stepped forward beside Mabel. The girl’s arms were tightly crossed, and her face was red with rage, but she didn’t follow her boys.

“Hey,” Virginia said quietly. “You know they love ya, right?”

Mabel exhaled harshly and watched as the three men chatted near the trio’s carriage.

“Just let ‘em do what they think is best one last time,” Virginia said. “Once we know things in the Big City aren’t gonna explode right away, we’ll make sure ya go back to ‘em. It won’t be forever. I’ll make sure of that.”

Mabel huffed again and stepped past Mina and onto the stagecoach. Virginia sighed and looked at Doc with Curtis and Sly, wondering what he must have been thinking.

“Smiley!” Doc called. “Come ‘ere a sec!”

Smiley climbed over the others in the stagecoach and glided across the sand so smoothly it hardly looked like he was walking at all.

“So,” Doc continued. “You two’ll head into Big South while we go around to Big West.”

Curtis and Sly nodded and Doc gestured for Smiley to explain more.

“You will look for a woman named Inez Bixby,” Smiley said in his calm, tired tone. His old, black suit was dusty and wrinkled from days of activity and travel. “She was Erin Glass’s righthand subordinate in the early days of the Mystic Program. She’s much younger and still works for the Government but has supposedly also moved on from the program to run another experimental branch dedicated to mechanical enhancements for weapons and one’s body, like what you saw on Bad Mouth, Orator, and Promise.”

With the mention of past foes, Curtis and Sly were reminded just how long Minutes ‘til Midnight had been stalking them. Trust was uncommon among the Valley Strip’s rabblerousers and Curtis and Sly still had little in Minutes ‘til Midnight. Though by then, they had accepted that either they must work with group or potentially struggle against them in the race to find Midnight first.

“This branch was founded a few years before the Mystic Program to help rangers combat outlaws with spells but was quickly made obsolete when the Mystic Program began. Only recently did the Government start pouring money back into it; a few years ago, just before Lester Langley went on the run. Langley was a big opponent of spellcasters in general, but especially the act of giving rangers spells. He allegedly used his own private funds to reignite the production of mechanical enhancements. Our sources mentioned rumors of Langley trying to make himself superhuman without the need for the mystics.”

“Let’s stay on topic,” Doc cut in. “Lester Langley is a problem for another day.”

Smiley nodded. Sly had fallen deep into thought at the mention of Lester Langley. He couldn’t argue that Langley wasn’t the immediate priority, but any information he could get on the former politician’s whereabouts would be valuable for his own goals.

“Anyway,” Smiley continued. “Inez Dixby will know much about the Mystic Program and should have in-depth knowledge of its history. Erin Glass, if you recall, had stated that the program was founded twelve years ago in 1770, but records of spellcasters, including doyens, date back to 40 or 50 years ago. Curren doyens are given their spells at the time of promotion, the oldest being Gore who was promoted in 1742. His file says he was the fourth ever ranger to be given a spell. So, somehow the Government was giving rangers spells long before the Mystic Program. Whether they knew the true science behind it is unclear, but it means there must be someone with the know-how, or perhaps the ability, to give people spells.”

“So, hey,” Sly interjected with a raised finger. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. There are a ton of people with spells that apparently didn’t come from the Government, a.k.a. presumably not from mystics either. I used to think some people were just born with them, but that apparently might not be true, or at least not as common as I thought. If there is or was someone able to give people spells and they aren’t a mystic, I’m sure the Government would be pressed to find them, too. In fact, they must still be around because of people like Mirage who got his from some strangers in dark coats; and the same for you and Virginia, right Doc?”

Doc nodded and stayed silent.

Sly went on. “It also isn’t out of the realm of possibility that there are multiple people who can do it. I have to imagine they all still use bindings, though, right? Do you think Midnight has the power to give other people spells?”

Curtis shook his head. “No, I doubt it. Thinkin’ back to when I lived with him, I have this faint memory of him comin’ into my room in the middle o’ the night and sprinklin’ some glowin’ dust onto my face. Ever since Trapper mentioned somethin’ similar from his time as the Government’s captive, I’ve completely rethought how I got mine. I thought I was born with it and Midnight just knew how to bring it out and train me with it, but I see now that was a lie. So, if he had to use a bindin’ to give it to me, I don’t think it’s a secondary power of his.”

Doc then spoke, adding, “And that brings us back to what Erin Glass said about the Mystic Program also bein’ used to test out the possibility of people wieldin’ multiple spells. So, I’m guessin’ if someone does have a spell that allows him er her to give spells to other people, then that power is likely their only one. What if they were even the first spellcaster ever.”

“Then, they’d be really old,” Sly pointed out. “Which could explain why the Government founded the Mystic Program even if they already had the means to produce spells. They needed a way to replace that power once that person died!”

“This is much to consider,” Smiley said quietly and looked around at the others.

“Okay,” Doc said. “These are some good questions to ask Inez.”

Curtis and Sly nodded once more.

“Inez may or may not know the history of spells prior to the Mystic Program,” Smiley said. “But if she doesn’t, she will likely know the name or names of people who do. There’s also a chance she knows something about Midnight’s connection to it, as well, assuming she got to interact with him there. Your horse’s involvement may even be worth bringing up.” He looked at Curtis who listened intently.

“Erin Glass likely would’ve known somethin’ about it,” Smiley added. “Obviously we didn’t get everything we could have from her before her passing.”

A moment of silence fell upon the men as they collectively recalled the disturbing scene of Erin’s death.

“And that’s everythin’, right?” Doc asked finally.

Smiley nodded.

“All right.” Doc then looked at Curtis and Sly again. “I got one more thing for ya. We have several safe houses set up in the Big City so we can bounce around and still remain relatively unnoticed even in such a crowded place; y’all can stay at the one we have in Big South. Then, I was thinkin’ it’d be wise t’ keep Esprit somewhere else.”

Curtis opened his mouth to object, but Doc cut him off.

“It won’t be too far, don’t worry. The main spot we have ain’t suitable to keep horses in, though, so there’s a secondary location nearby t’ store her. It’ll be even easier fer you since she doesn’t require food er drink. Firefly could stay there, too, though. Nobody’ll find ‘em.

“So, where are these places?” Curtis asked.

“You can keep the horses in an old shed behind a run-down house in a quiet neighborhood. The house itself is abandoned along with several others next to it. The Government had started renovations in the neighborhood but stopped when they found the area infested with rats. After the exterminators went through, the company that started the renovations went under and the Government hasn’t assigned anyone else to the project yet. It’d be at least another few weeks before anyone goes back there and we’d have plenty o’ warnin’ as long as we keep an eye on the local news. The shed is split in two, so you could keep your cart in the other half, as well, if ya wanted. Now, do ya have any other way to better conceal Esprit while leadin’ her through town? The sheet works, but it’s a bit odd fer a horse to wear. Looks mighty suspicious, don’tcha think?”

“I can’t think of a more effective cover, can you?”

Doc thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Guess not. Just be quick. Git ‘er there tonight and take back roads.”

“Sounds good,” Curtis said, nodding. “And the safe house fer us?”

“We’ll write down some directions.”

When the party reconvened, they briefly said their goodbyes and wished each other luck. Mabel pouted in Minutes ‘til Midnight’s stagecoach, facing straight ahead with her arms crossed and slouching in the seat.

“We promise it won’t be more than a couple days, Mabel!” Sly shouted from their wagon, but Mabel stared straight ahead at the opposite wall in the coach’s cabin, squeezed between Trapper and Mina.

Before Curtis returned to the wagon, Doc handed him a small white handkerchief folded into a tight square that could fit into Curtis’s pockets.

“And ya know how to contact us if needed, right?” Doc asked.

“Mhm,” Curtis nodded, then said, “We’ll reach out in a couple days. Just wanna git the real meat o’ the investigation over with before bringin’ Mabel back with us.”

“I understand. She’ll git over it. I know she gits along with the other girls.”

“Thank you again. Fer everythin’.”

Doc tipped his hat and grinned. “We’ve got the same mission, so anythin’ we can do t’ help is no problem at all. Well, long as we don’t gotta git targets on our backs.”

Curtis chuckled and tipped his hat back. “Stay safe.”

“You, too.”

They each returned to their rides and headed north in slightly different directions toward their respective starting points.

“You sure we should’ve taken Mabel with us?” Virginia asked on the chauffeur’s seat once Doc climbed aboard.

“Won’t do no harm,” Doc replied. “She can hang out at the safehouse whenever we need’a go out. We’ll keep one er two of us with her at all times to make sure she doesn’t do anythin’ reckless.”

Virginia slowly nodded and looked straight ahead. Her stomach began to twist with an uneasy feeling.

Curtis and Sly approached Big South along a well-established foot path at the border of the city and the desert. The sand over which they rode had been firmly packed down from nearly a century of foot, horse, and wagon traffic.

There weren’t many other travelers heading into or out of the city at that hour with the sun having just vanished over the horizon. The westward sky still blazed a bright orange, but to the east, indigo darkness consumed the valley and shone twinkling starlight over the desert. Once Curtis and Sly reached the sign marking the city’s limits, the packed sand path transitioned to a paved cobblestone road. It was right in front of them now; the flashing lights and noisy bustle of modern urban civilization. It seemed that every year the Big City and the towns around it became brighter, and denser with life and towering buildings. It had been over six years since the last time Curtis had been to the Big City.

He remembered the glowing signs and sounds of clacking shoes on the cobblestones, the lofty skyscrapers, and the nauseating smell of sewage bubbling up from manholes. Even the things that many towns in the Valley Strip were just now getting were considered old and paled in comparison to the advancements made in only half-a-dozen years since Curtis was last there. The lights were brighter, buildings were taller, many of the streets were now paved, and the crowds of people were larger. A few automobiles were parked on the sides of roads, though most traffic was still from horsedrawn wagons.

“Let’s not dillydally tonight,” Curtis said. No trouble so far as he and Sly officially entered the Big City. No ambush and no sign of Government surveillance. They didn’t even spot any deputies among the street goers on the outskirts of Big South.

Curtis read the directions Trapper had scribbled onto a napkin. Their first stop was the abandoned house Doc mentioned as a good storage lot for their carriage and horses.

Sly agreed with a terse nod, then said, “Big South was home to the White Snakes’ headquarters. With him out of the picture, we should be safer to poke around since a doyen isn’t calling the shots on patrols and stuff like that.”

Curtis kept his hat low and faced forward, but innately scanned everything ahead of them with his eyes in wide sweeps left and right, left and right. He spotted a lone deputy on horseback. The deputy nodded to a few passersby as his horse walked slowly along the side of the street near the sidewalk. He paid Curtis and Sly no mind as they rode past.

“But,” Sly continued, “with no doyens overseeing Big South, or Big East for that matter, the Band of Lovers’ headquarters,” he paused, then added, “I could also see there being heightened law enforcement presence to make up for the loss of manpower and intimidation factor. Even if the White Snakes aren’t wandering around, other rangers may be filling in.”

“So, you got no idea if we’re in more er less danger than we would’ve been otherwise,” Curtis said.

“Yeah.”

“Best to assume the worst.”

Big South was best known as the entertainment district of the Big City. Of course, it had plenty of restaurants, businesses, homes, and stores like anywhere else in the city, but it also boasted the biggest and best (also the most) theaters, saloons, and late-night event locales, along with plenty of bright lights and flashing signs to advertise the latest fashions, products, plays and talkies, and clubs. Every store and restaurant pinned up pictures of famous actors and musicians in their windows to brag about who had eaten or shopped there. Juke boxes and radios filled each place with lively tunes, and once Curtis and Sly were just a few blocks in toward the heart of the district, vibrant chatter and laughter drowned out even the sound of their wagon’s wheels bumbling along polished cobbles.

Curtis and Sly continued to watch vigilantly for any deputies or rangers. Luckly, they found ease in blending into the regular carriage traffic and navigated through the city streets toward the quiet neighborhood without intervention. The entrance to the neighborhood was marked with a large sign of carved wood framed by gray bricks and polished brown stone. The neighborhood was called Brullan Hill and had cobblestone roads like the areas Curtis and Sly had been through already. The houses there were small but with narrow yards of grass and shrubbery in between. Most of the yards in front of each house consisted of short dirt or stone paths up to the front doors, but Curtis and Sly could see spacious backyards from the street. The spaces between each house were wide enough to ride a carriage through.

Following Trapper’s instructions, the men rode down the quiet streets and turned onto the road on which several houses were under renovation. Despite the hectic mirth elsewhere in the city, not a single person walked the streets in Brullan Hill. Warm light flickered in the windows of most houses, but nothing stirred. This street was especially silent. The buzzing of insects and chirps of evening birds replaced the sound of radios and laughter of crowds. No lights glowed through the windows on either side of the street. Humming streetlights spaced every fifty feet apart were still alight. A dozen houses in total were dark, some in obvious disrepair having been partly or entirely destroyed and not yet rebuilt. The address on the napkin was in the middle of the block on the north side of the street. The house was whole, but its wooden walls were molding. Even in the dead of night, they could make out its patchy shingles and cracked windows.

“I guess it’s rather homely,” Curtis said quietly. Even in a soft tone, his voice seemed to carry all the way to either end of the deathly silent street. “Yer childhood house look anythin’ like these, Sly?”

Sly smirked. “You forget my parents were rich, Dawn. This wouldn’t have even sufficed as the guest house up on the Ridge.”

“Talk about spoiled,” Curtis said teasingly, but couldn’t help feeling annoyed at how casually Sly dismissed what—despite its condition—was likely a lovely family house not long ago, and one he would have done anything to have during his time as a Big City urchin.

It was a single-story home with a faded white picket fence around its small front yard of overgrown, browning grass. The paint on the fence was greatly chipped and the wooden posts greened with mold. Guiding their horses through the jungle of weeds around the right side of the house, Curtis and Sly made out the shape of a large shed in the backyard; two-sided just as Doc described. Two rolling metal doors opened to reveal the spacious interiors of both sides of the shed. The two sides were connected on the inside by a regular door, and each had another exit in the back. Not much remained inside the shed. Empty shelves and cabinets were covered in dust and dirt. The shed had no electric lighting, but there were hooks to hang lamps, but Curtis and Sly didn’t light any.

After untying their steeds, they pushed the carriage into the right half of the shed. They left the large rollup door open as they guided their horses into the left half of the shed. Curtis looked around the empty space.

“We can go git a couple bags o’ hay fer Firefly in the mornin’,” Curtis said. “Maybe make a couple trips to stock up so we don’t need’a come back every day.”

“I was thinking we could just take Firefly with us,” Sly said. “Your horse might not mind standing in a dank shack all alone, but Firefly would go nuts. I know it.”

“He’d have Esprit fer company,” Curtis weakly argued.

“No offense, Dawn, and no flack at you either, Esprit, but knowing her aptitude for behaving like a statue in the lulls between fights, I don’t think Firefly would find Esprit quite stimulating enough. I’d have to check on Firefly every day so he wouldn’t get lonely. If he comes with us, it makes travelling a bit easier and saves us the trips for hay. Plus, we won’t have to haul our own luggage to and from the safehouse.”

Sly rubbed Firefly’s belly and thighs as he spoke. Firefly gently bobbed his head as if to agree with what Sly said. Esprit stood stoically and stared aloof into the dark yard behind the decrepit house.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Curtis said. “I s’ppose Esprit’s well adapted to bein’ left alone fer a while by now. Aren’t ya, girl?”

Curtis slid his hand down the back of her neck and felt her wiry mane from under the cloth covering her entire body.

“At least in here I can let ya breathe a bit,” Curtis said and swept the hefty fabric off her back with both hands. It still amazed both Curtis and Sly how Esprit’s steel hide seemed to glisten even in total darkness. Esprit let out a deep, groaning sigh. “Let’s dust off those joints,” Curtis said and fetched a fine-bristled brush from the cart next door. He lowered the left side rolling door and lit an oil lamp which he placed on the ground, then knelt and started to lightly scrub the paper-thin seams between the plates that made up Esprits body, flaking away tiny grains of sand and dust that accumulated during their escapades through the hot and dusty desert. Sly took the time to groom his own steed, as well.

“Say, Sly,” Curtis said softly after several minutes of the duo working in tired silence. He didn’t break concentration on his task. “Have ya thought much ‘bout what yer folks must be thinkin’ now? Surely, they must know their son’s a wanted outlaw.”

“Oh, um,” Sly stammered and cleared his throat. “Yeah, of course I have. Obviously, I haven’t written to them in a while for a few reasons, but I’ve definitely thought of them. I imagine there’s a pile of letters waiting for me in Sunnyville, maybe some in Big North where I used to be stationed.”

Curtis nodded and finished brushing Esprit, then wiped his brow and looked directly at Sly. “You ever regret takin’ on this life? Always on the run?”

“I did after coming to you outside Coyote Run. Facing Payton at those rocks in the desert had me questioning everything right away. I probably could’ve run out waving my arms and would’ve been fine, but I didn’t. I wasn’t really sure why at the time, but I think I just knew things wouldn’t have been better as they were. And now, seeing everything I have and knowing what I know about outlaws, rangers, spells, and the Government, well, I’m glad I joined you. I think it was the right call.”

Curtis continued nodding as he stretched and put his brush away. Sly also finished brushing his horse and began packing the essentials—a change of clothes, a few days’ worth of rations, extra ammo for his revolvers, basic first aid supplies, spare coins, and a few other things—into the packs on the side of his saddle. Curtis did the same and strapped an extra pack onto the back of Sly’s saddle.

“I’ll be back in a day er two,” Curtis said, gently rubbing Esprit’s faux-muscled cheek.

The men extinguished the oil lamp and exited the shed, lowering the double doors behind them. Curtis climbed onto Firefly’s back right behind Sly and held on to the back of the saddle as they rode off down the dark, quiet road and back toward the city proper.

Following the other set of directions Trapper wrote on the napkin, Curtis and Sly weaved down several narrow cobblestone roads until they reached a small housing complex nestled between a couple other buildings with neon signs out front. The complex was comprised of multiple single-level homes stacked atop one another like an apartment complex, but much smaller with one home making up each floor. There was a set of double doors at the front which led into a hallway spanning the front of the first floor. The left and right corners at the front of the building had square staircases that spiraled up to all five floors.

Heading around to the back of the building, Curtis and Sly saw metal fire escape stairs and ledges zigzagging up the exterior of the rear brick wall. A massive billboard peered through the cracks of an alley connecting the back of the building to another side street. The billboard was illuminated by bright white lights which shined onto the back of the complex. Each of the complex’s floors had a door and windows that led out onto the fire escape. Below the stairs were short, enclosed boxes with wood fencing for walls and corrugated metal sheets for roofs. There were five boxes in total, one of which—labeled with the number four—appeared to have a horse inside. Another box, number three, stored a small wagon and the other three were empty. Light streamed out of the windows on the fourth floor, but the other levels were dark. Curtis and Sly could see that the windows on the first floor were covered by drawn curtains, but they couldn’t tell if the others were also covered or were truly dark inside.

The second floor was unoccupied according to Trapper’s instructions and upon trying the back door from the fire escape, Curtis found it unlocked. Sly led Firefly into the makeshift stable under the fire escape and locked the gate with the key he found left in the lock, then headed up to the second story where Curtis was already examining the safehouse. It was a fairly basic home with a small kitchen, tight hallways, a cramped bathroom, but a sizeable living room with a couch that turned around three of the four walls and faced a large radio set against the fourth wall. Curtis and Sly were pleasantly surprised to find two bedrooms. The whole apartment had electrical lighting, as well, though a couple of the hall lights were burnt out. The kitchen contained a refrigerator and a gas stove, and the bathrooms were equipped with modern plumbing.

“Welp,” Sly said, plopping down onto the sofa in the living room. “It isn’t the luxury you’d normally expect from the Big City.”

“It’s enough,” Curtis said walking past the living room and into one of the bedrooms. It was a simple room with just a bed, a single dresser with four drawers stacked atop one another, and a small bedside table just big enough to hold the lamp that rested on it. There was also a small closet in the corner. The other room was almost identical, but slightly larger and contained a second closet that opened to reveal a small fold-out bed.

“Looks like we’re in charge of feeding ourselves,” Sly shouted from the kitchen after opening every cabinet and the fridge to find it all empty.

After getting settled, Curtis and Sly turned in for the night. Curtis took the smaller bedroom which was on the backside of the apartment. He sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, the only light being the bright strip from the billboard’s spotlights beaming through the opposing alley between more buildings. Using the beam through his window, he looked at a map of Big South on which Smiley had circled the location of the safehouse, the abandoned street where Esprit and the carriage were stowed, and another set of buildings where Inez Dixby was supposed to be working these days. Doc and Smiley were unsure about the details regarding security or public access to the buildings, so it would be up to Curtis and Sly to scout the area and design their plan to find Inez and interrogate her about the Mystic Program.

The next day, after ensuring that Firefly was fed and grabbing breakfast for themselves from a small café next door to their hideout—one without wanted posters displayed and at which they could quickly order their food and take it with them—they followed the map to the supposed Government lab for designing and producing enhancements for weapons and bodily augmentations for rangers. When they arrived, they saw only plain brick buildings, each four or five stories tall, along a paved road with barred windows and no signs of life in or around them.

“These look like…regular buildings,” Sly said. He and Curtis stood nonchalantly at the intersection of a cobblestone side road and the paved street, leaning on the side of a hat shop and eating their breakfast while occasionally taking casual glances at the buildings circled on their map. “The barred windows might be a clue, but that’s not too uncommon in the Big City to help prevent break ins. And there’s a half dozen buildings on this block. How do we find out which one Inez works in?”

“Could be all of ‘em,” Curtis suggested. “Maybe they got doors connecting ‘em on the inside. Or underground tunnels. Who knows?”

“I’m not surprised that they look so inconspicuous. I’m sure the Government wouldn’t want just anybody to be able to walk right in. The only clue that something’s off is a lack of signage and the fact that nobody’s going in or coming out, but nobody would think about that while going about their day.”

Curtis surveyed the block, looking up and down the street for anyone who might be acting as undercover security in case anyone did try to go into any of the buildings.

“We could try asking a couple people what they think is in there,” Sly said. “I’m sure the Government had somesort of disguise for what these buildings have in them, even if they don’t expect anyone to ever see inside who isn’t supposed to.”

“Probably shouldn’t,” Curtis said as he watched a paper boy at a nearby newsstand shouting headlines about Angel Eyes’s resignation and the unknown fate of the rangers that were once part of the White Snakes. The newspapers all presented the same two images on their front pages: one showing Angel Eyes holding Mabel hostage and the other showing Esprit galloping across the field to protect Curtis, her metallic coat sheening brightly and whiting out half the photo. “I think we ought’a lay low in this part o’ town.”

As they spoke, Sly eyed the nearby yelping paperboy whose stand was getting more crowded by the minute.

“The Government knows we have Esprit now,” Curtis said. “If they didn’t already, anyway. Only a matter o’ time before the hunt fer us becomes even higher on their priority list. Angel Eyes seemed to know about ‘er already somehow, so I’m guessin’ others in the Government know, too. Not sure anyone knows that Esprit is connected to Midnight, but they know I am and if I have a crazy steel horse, then I’m sure they’d want to know all about it.”

“How about I do some recon,” Sly said. “I’ll circle the block and meet you back here. I’ll go slow so no one notices I’m making a loop and just take quick peeks whenever it would seem natural.”

“Okay,” Curtis said and crossed his arms. “I’ll keep watch from here; see if I can spot anyone that looks to be hangin’ ‘round er watchin’ the buildings.”

“All right. I’ll be back soon,” Sly said and strolled casually along the sidewalks beside the paved road toward the northeast end of the block.

Curtis waited, still leaning against the side of the hat shop. He held a relaxed posture and nodded with a slight smile to passersby. His eyes scanned up and down the street, but he couldn’t pick out anyone who looked like they had any connection to the Government—aside from a deputy or two he saw turn a corner on patrol and disappear—or the research supposedly being done inside these inconspicuous buildings. Everyone he saw on the street was either just passing through or staying only long enough to shop at various stores. There were groups of people on restaurant patios and crowding the insides of smaller shops, but no one suspiciously standing around doing nothing. Sort of like he was, he admitted. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed without Sly returning. Curtis began to feel awkward attempting to inconspicuously standing in one spot for so long without any apparent purpose for being there.

He sighed and pushed off the wall he leaned against. Twisting his back and rolling his shoulders, Curtis groaned and took a deep breath. He lifted his hat and used his fingers to comb back his greasy hair. Just as he readjusted his hat atop his head, he felt something small and hard press into the small of his back, right in the middle against his spine.

“Don’t move er make a sound,” a gruff and unfamiliar, manly voice said behind Curtis. Curtis then heard the cocking of a revolver’s hammer. “No need to make a scene here,” the voice whispered.

Who is this? Curtis thought. Was it a ranger? He slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder and asked, “What d’ya want?”

“Face forward!” the man ordered in a harsh and firm tone. “You got any weapons on ya?”

Not good, Curtis thought. If Sly comes back now, he’ll definitely try to help me and probably just escalate things further, maybe even git us both arrested if not shot dead.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Curtis said and slowly lifted his hands. He had two revolvers tucked into the back of his belt hidden under his shirt, but the man holding him hostage hadn’t discovered them yet.

With one hand, the man lightly patted down the outside of Curtis’s legs, then around the inside. He slapped Curtis’s hips and ribs, then reached around, haphazardly searching the front of Curtis’s torso. As he felt the back of Curtis’s shoulders and was about to move down to Curtis’s lower back where he was sure to discover the revolvers, Curtis kicked backward and hit the man’s knee. The man grunted, then Curtis felt the barrel of the man’s weapon pull away and upon spinning around, Curtis saw Sly with his arms wrapped around the man’s arms and waist. Sly whipped the man to one side and slammed him onto the cobblestones like a wrestler, then pressed his knee into the center of the man’s back and pinned him with his arms bent backwards.

Curtis saw then that it wasn’t a ranger after all and was just an ordinary street thug brazenly trying to score a broad daylight wallet snatch.

Who in their right mind would try t’ rob someone right here at this time o’ day? he thought.

The robber was winded and knocked out cold from Sly’s slam, but Sly held him down to be safe. He pressed the crook’s shoulders into the ground with one hand and confiscated his weapon with the other, tucking it into the back of his own belt. Unlike Curtis, Sly’s shirt was tucked, but he wore two holsters on his belt for his revolvers. It wasn’t unusual for common cow folk to carry a pistol, maybe two, so Sly wasn’t as concerned with hiding his weapons as much as Curtis was.

“Someone call the sheriff’s office!” Sly shouted to the few passersby who had stopped upon noticing the fight. He then looked up at a man who had walked over to check that everything was okay and said, “Watch this guy, will you?”

Sly then stood and turned to Curtis while the other man knelt down and made sure the woozy robber wouldn’t escape

“Let’s get out of here,” Sly said, to which Curtis nodded in agreement.

As they navigated around the side streets to get away from the scene they created, Sly relayed the information he had gathered on his stroll around the block.

“I don’t know if you spotted them,” he said to Curtis, “but those buildings are definitely guarded by law enforcement. They weren’t obvious, but at either end of the block and in a couple nooks between the buildings around the other side were some deputies dressed in civilian clothes; definitely not supposed to realize they’re officers.”

“How d’ ya know they’re deputies?” Curtis asked, taking the lead and following the map back to their safe house.

“I did some undercover work before. Unless they’re trying to sneak into somewhere that cops wouldn’t be allowed, they’ll still hide their badges under their clothes. But that proves that whatever those buildings are for, people aren’t supposed to know it’s there northat it’s protected. I’m guessing it’s guarded twenty-four-seven.”

“Any rangers ya think?”

“Maybe inside for added security in case someone does manage to break in, but there didn’t appear to be any outside. Could use another look, though.” Sly periodically looked over his shoulder for anyone following them as he spoke.

“Yeah, I think so, too. Let’s make a better game plan using what we know now and scope things out fer a couple days before movin’ in. Let’s wait to contact Minutes ‘til Midnight, too.”

“Agreed,” Sly said as they hurried back to their hideout.

***

Big West, the Green City as it was known, was home to some of the biggest and most beautiful parks, greenhouses, and botanical gardens in the Valley Strip. Trees, shrubs, flowers, and vines adorned every street and building. Many of the roads in Big West were still condensed dirt and gravel or at most cobblestone, but very few concrete and paved roads led through this district of the Big City.

The largest park in Big West was called Peace Meadows and was first built at the end of the war almost 100 years ago. The park was a vaguely peanut-shaped area of lush fields and forest spanning an area roughly three miles long and one mile wide. An impressive array of plants of every shape and size were meticulously cared for in the park and were divided into different sections, one of which was even a small portion dedicated entirely to varieties of rose bushes originally planted by Lady Love herself. Ever since her arrest, the rose garden was maintained by hired keepers like the rest of the park. Being in the middle of the desert, the park required an extraordinary amount of care to maintain, with dozens of gardeners working every day to ensure the plants stayed healthy even in the Valley Strip’s blazing summertime.

A third of the park in the northern portion consisted primarily of a large forest in the middle of the city which provided not only a wonderful place for people to walk, picnic, and enjoy nature, but also a shelter for local wildlife. Most people stuck to the paths carved out of the forest, but stepping off the gravel and steppingstones, one might find a small cabin in the woods. On the outside it looked like an abandoned shack once used by the park’s keepers. Inside, Minutes ‘til Midnight lounged about on dusty sofas. The wooden floor creaked and the polished wood ladder at the back that led up to the attic was splintered. Mabel sat on the cushioned windowsill of a nook on one side of the cabin and rested her head against the windowpane.

The book of Worbus Timbly’s works rested on her lap, but she stared outside into the lively forest. Dense tree trunks and foliage created a green and brown wall everywhere she looked. It was a good hiding place, she thought. One couldn’t see it at all from the hiking trails and even from decently close by, it was hard to spot without looking for it.

Mabel sighed and thumbed the corner of the Worbus Timbly collection’s front cover. Doc, Smiley, Trapper, Mercy, Killjoy, and Virginia sat around a short table in the front section of the cabin where chairs and couches encircled a round rug and a stone fireplace was built into one wall.

“We also gotta figure out when our deal’s gonna happen,” Doc said, transitioning their conversation to a new topic.

“Aren’t we just waitin’ on themthem to get in touch about a place and time?” Rowan asked in her tired way.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Doc sighed and slouched in the soft and worn leather armchair he sat on. He slowly pushed his hat up with his pointer finger and looked around the room, then rested his gaze upon Mabel from across the cabin. “I’ll contact our guy and see what’s up,” he said.

Virginia followed Doc’s gaze and also looked at Mabel who sat idly in the nook with her book unopened, looking forlorn and painfully bored. Virgina stood from the velvet sofa she shared with Killjoy and wandered over to the nook, leaning against the wall next to Mabel, and looked out the window. Doc watched the girls, but they spoke too softly for him to make out what they were saying.

“The whole park’s so beautiful,” Virginia said.

“Wish I could go see the rest,” Mabel replied without looking at Virginia, but she lifted her head off the glass and leaned against the nook’s interior edge.

Virginia looked down at Mabel with a raised eyebrow. “You can if ya want. Y’aren’t a prisoner here.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to be reckless. Someone might recognize me from the newspaper.”

Virginia shrugged and sat down on the cushioned windowsill next to Mabel. “I guess there’s a risk, but I think if we’re careful and don’t draw too much attention to ourselves we’d be just fine.”

Mabel glanced at Virginia out of the corner of her eye and sighed, then looked at the forest again. Virginia studied the side of Mabel’s face, tracing the curve of her nose and cheeks with her gaze and noticing her faint freckles for the first time, blending into her tan complexion.

“It’s also pretty creepy,” Mabel finally said.

“What?” Virginia inquired with a grin.

“A shed in the middle o’ the woods. I never got to see a proper forest before, but I’ve read horror stories about people gettin’ taken to places deep beyond the tree line and hacked up by psycho killers.”

Virginia giggled quietly. “Well, you don’t need’a worry about that. I don’t think anyone here’s thinkin’ about hackin’ anyone up. And if someone were to try and come hurt ya, we’d all be here to stop ‘im.”

Mabel continued staring out into the vast forest which glistenedbrilliant contrasting browns, yellows, and greens in the sun’s golden rays, creating a dazzling spectrum of beauty.

“I know,” Mabel said. “Just sayin’ it’s what it reminds me of. I’d be scared fer sure if I wasn’t with people I trust.”

In truth, Mabel still didn’t entirely trust Minutes ‘til Midnight; at least not all of them. Talking with Curtis and Sly, she knew to keep her guard up around everyone, even those who seemed friendly; but Virginia made her feel safe somehow. Still, she didn’t let herself get too comfortable with the group.

“And it really is beautiful,” Mabel added.

“Good,” Virginia said. “It’s only been one night, but I think you’ll like this little spot we’ve picked for our hideout. We can go take a walk, you and I, sometime today or tomorrow. I know it’s hard fer you to be away from Dawn and Sly.”

Mabel nodded immediately, then looked at Virginia. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Doc continued to watch Virginia and Mabel talk and laugh together while the others sitting around him switched back to casual conversation.

***

Over the next two days, Curtis and Sly watched the suspected block closely. They often separated to cover more ground and to not stand out together if anyone thought one or the other seemed suspicious, and they took measures to disguise their sleuthing as ordinary civilian behavior, blending into crowds whenever possible and spending just as much time inside shops or out of view of the buildings as they did surveying the lots. Curtis learned to pick out the undercover deputies who stood guard and blended in with the regular people milling about. Together, he and Sly learned the deputies’ patterns of patrol and their shift changes. The most significant discovery was made on their third day of surveillance.

Shortly after a shift change for the undercover officers, Curtis caught a glimpse of a small, covered wagon drawn by two horses moving quickly down a side road and away from the buildings they had been watching. Nothing was out of the ordinary except that the man holding the horses’ reigns Curtis recognized as one of the deputies he saw just switch out from guard duty. Curtis sat at a table outside a little café that had a perfect view down the length of the block, as well as a line of sight to the two main paved roads that intersected the northwest side of the block. He couldn’t see the wagon for long as it headed north, and soon disappeared between buildings, but watching the rear of the cart, he thought he spotted a few people under the carriage’s hood, too. The carriage had come from the other side of the block, so he wasn’t sure of its starting point, but he wassure that the man driving was the deputy he saw earlier that day, so it must have been related to these buildings somehow.

When Curtis and Sly reconvened at midday, Curtis mentioned the carriage. They met on a bench at the corner of a busy intersection which had a mix of horse drawn carriages and a few automobiles. Even after three nights in Big South, Curtis was still fascinated by the leap in technology just from the very bottom of the Mesa Frontier to the center of the Valley Strip. New technology was developed so quickly in the modern age and by the time something was commonplace and reached the far edges of the valley, something entirely new and far more advanced had already been released to the public in the Big City. He stared awestruck at the complex flow of mixed vehicles only snapping out of his trance when Sly sat down next to him on the bench and handed him a warm sandwich from a street vendor just up the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” Curtis said and took the sandwich.

After they had each taken a few bites, Curtis leaned back on the bench and looked around to be sure nobody had been watching them.

“I’m pretty confident no one’s noticed my routine,” Sly said and peeled back the paper wrapping his sandwich as he took another large bite.

“Same,” Curtis said. “Things’ve been pretty slow…except one thing.”

“What?” Sly asked with his mouth full of bread, ham, and cheese.

“I saw what I think was a transport o’ some kind. One o’ the undercover deputies I’d been watchin’ was drivin’ it. I’m pretty damn sure there were other people in the back o’ the carriage, but it had a hood so I couldn’t quite tell.”

Sly swallowed his mouthful and thought for a moment, then said, “Where did you see the carriage come from?”

Curtis shook his head. “Yer side o’ the block/ It went straight across to another street, so I didn’t get a good look at it.” Curtis then turned and faced Sly. ‘You see anythin’?”

“Yeah,” Sly said with a nod. I also saw a transport, but it wasn’t coming from any of the buildings we’re watching, nor did I think it was at all related until you said an undercover deputy was driving it.”

“Ya think it was the same one?”

“Maybe. There’s a stagecoach and carriage repair shop on my side. They have a few carriages coming in and going out every day and I honestly didn’t even think twice about it when I saw one earlier loading up some heavy looking crates. I didn’t pay too much attention, but after loading up, I think the guys hauling the crates climbed into the back. A lady signed for the shipment; nothing too crazy. Or so I thought.”

“We might’ve just caught a break,” Curtis said after a moment of contemplation. He and Sly stood and continued their surveillance for the rest of the afternoon. Sly didn’t see another shipment come from the repair shop that day and caught no other sign of the woman from earlier, but the next day, with a closer eye on everything, Curtis and Sly reported the same sights as the day before.

“Same type o’ cart,” Curtis said, “but a different deputy. Still, I recognized him from the first part o’ the mornin’.”

“I watched that shop all day,” Sly said. “Everything was normal until a hooded carriage rolled up and four guys got out. I also recognized one of them, but I’m guessing the others were either from your side or coming from somewhere else. They rolled the carriage behind the shop, then came back around the side and started loading crates onto a different carriage. When they finished, the same lady I saw yesterday came from the back of the shop and signed for the shipment again. I hadn’t seen her all day until then, and once the carriage sped off, she went back around the corner. I haven’t seen her again today.”

“Well, did she look important enough to be our scientist?” Curtis asked, swallowing a bite of his sandwich from the same vendor as yesterday.

“She wore regular clothes; all the dudes, too. I noticed the shop workers all wear orange shirts, though, and neither the woman nor any of the guys taking the shipment are wearing the same shirts. Whoever they are, I doubt they work there.”

“Let’s keep watchin’.”

***

Two more days of surveillance seemed to confirm their suspicions. On their fourth day of watching the block with the barred-windowed-buildings, Curtis and Sly switched places and Curtis witnessed the transaction at the repair shop just as Sly had described. They switched places again at midday, then repeated the shifts on their fifth day. By their sixth day of surveillance, they were certain of the routine.

The time varied by a couple hours from day to day, but the transports were always loaded before midday and were always signed by the same woman—middle aged, black hair tied up in a bun, tan valley complexion, wearing casual clothing, boots, and no hat—who only seemed to be present to sign for the shipments before disappearing again for the rest of the day, not even showing herself after the shop has closed in the early evening. By then, Curtis and Sly recognized most of the undercover deputies securing the perimeter of the block they watched. Every transport except one also occurred after the buildings’ security teams were swapped out in the late morning.

When Curtis and Sly met again on their sixth day—this time at a new location on the opposite side of town—Sly asked, “Should we try following one of the transports to see where it goes?”

Curtis scratched his beard and thought it over, then answered. “Not yet. Finding Inez is more important. We can always ask her about the shipments and follow one if she won’t give us details.”

“What about the woman signing the papers?” Sly asked. “Has to be her, right?”

“Could be. If not, I bet she’d know the name.”

“The repair shop could be a front,” Sly suggested. “Either way, it doesn’t explain where they’re getting all those crates from. I never saw an inbound shipment get unloaded, did you?”

Curtis silently shook his head.

Sly continued. “I’m also wondering why there aren’t any guards around the shop until they come for the transport. If they’re making weapons and bodily enhancements in those secure buildings, then storing the stuff at the repair shop before they move it, you’d think they would guard the shop just as well.”

“Here’s another question for ya,” Curtis said. “As a ranger, you never knew where the fancy gear you and yer partners used was made? I mean, I know yer seven-shot revolvers aren’t as complex as some o’ the tools other rangers use. Did you get yers from somewhere else?”

Sly shook his head. “Whenever I ordered new gear, I usually had it delivered to wherever I was stationed. I could pick up my order at a Government-licensed shop, too, but it was never the place my guns got made. Where and how they produce special ranger gear is secret, even from rangers themselves. All we gotta do is place the order.”

“And who’d you place the orders with? The shop owners?”

“There are various Government agents one could ask, but it wasn’t their only job. They would just file the request for their superiors to approve or deny.”

“Hmph,” Curtis grunted. “We never see anyone enter or exit any o’ the buildings on the block we’re watchin’ and that woman only shows up once a day fer the transport. The undercover deputies are around all day though from the time we start to when we finish. If I had to guess, they may stick around all night, too. Maybe she just comes from somewhere else we can’t see behind the shop; goin’ through another building maybe.”

“Or maybe underground paths aren’t as crazy as it may sound,” Sly said. “We just need a way to draw her out so we can talk to her in private.”

The next morning, Curtis left the safehouse with a pencil and Midnight’s wanted poster.

“You brought that with you from our cart?” Sly asked when he saw Curtis folding the poster to tuck into his shirt pocket.

“Yeah,” Curtis replied. I figured I might need it, though I realized there was no way I could go around askin’ people for info without gettin’ into trouble.”

“So, what are you bringing it for this time?”

“I got a plan fer how to draw Inez out from hidin’. Or whoever the lady is signin’ fer the escorted shipments.”

***

Adjacent to the block they had been watching for a week now, the men snuck around the side of a three-story building next to the repair shop and climbed the exterior ladder up to its flat rooftop. They looked at the repair shop closely and took extra care not to draw attention to themselves on the roof. Mid-morning, the deputies arrived all wearing casual clothing, but Curtis and Sly saw the small hints that revealed their badges hidden under their shirts. Like always, the deputies arrived on an empty carriage which they led into the shop before hooking their horses onto another carriage waiting for them around the side of the shop, then they walked around to the back of the building where Curtis and Sly saw large roll-up doors like the ones at their abandoned house in Brullan Hill.

The undercover deputies entered the rear of the shop, then returned half-a-minute later carrying more crates.

“The underground passages,” Sly said, “if there are any, need to be large enough to fit those boxes. Or they’re moving them above ground overnight, but I doubt that.”

Curtis watched on. There were four deputies total today. They carried the crates in pairs until four crates in total were loaded onto the wagon. While three of the deputies inspected the load and ensured the crates were properly secured for transport, the fourth deputy, the driver, stood outside the roll-up door holding a pad of paper, but Curtis and Sly couldn’t read the printed blocks of text. A minute later, the woman appeared from inside the shop and approached the driver. The driver handed her the pad of paper, and she flipped through a couple pages, skimming the contents. Another moment later, she withdrew an ink pen from her pocket and signed the last document on the pad.

With that, the deputies finished preparing the transport and were on their way. Before the woman disappeared again, Curtis took the pencil and wanted poster from his pocket. He quickly unfolded the poster and scribbled on the front of it in large, gray letters “SILAS NAVARRO.” Then, just as the transport pulled away from the shop’s garage, Curtis folded the poster once and dropped it over the side of the roof where it gently descended, turning and flipping in the air like a dying bird as it fell to the ground.

The woman walked toward the shop but stopped when she heard what she thought was the sound of paper being tossed around by the wind, thinking perhaps the deputies dropped one of the pages from the transport’s bill of lading. She turned just in time to see the wrinkled, yellow parchment make the last ten feet of its descent and land stiffly on one corner of the fold, then fall flat on the cobblestone. She stared at the folded poster for a moment, realizing that it couldn’t have been left behind from the transport, and quickly glanced around at the surrounding alleys with sharp corners obscuring the narrow passages creeping between the towering buildings. Curtis and Sly watched the woman’s every move, then ducked away on the roof after she slowly picked up the poster and unfolded it, read its contents, and looked up at the higher rooftops that walled in the shop’s rear lot.

After a couple minutes, Curtis cautiously peered over the edge of the roof and saw the space behind the shop was now empty, the woman and Midnight’s wanted poster both gone.

“Think it worked?” Sly asked in a whisper.

“Just gotta wait a bit longer,” Curtis said. “If she’s connected to the Mystic Program in any way, whether that’s Inez er not, I don’t think she could ignore Midnight’s real name.”

After another moment crouching in tense silence, Curtis stood. “Let’s head down and wait,” he whispered, and Sly followed him down the ladder and onto the ground. They crouched again in a nearby alley that gave them a clear view of the lot behind the shop. It took another few minutes, but just as Curtis predicted, the woman reappeared from the garage. She still wore the casual clothes she had on before but now had a long, tan jacket, the front of which she held closed with her hands. Then another woman came from the garage, this one with a ranger arm band around her left bicep. Another moment later, two more rangers, a man and another woman with arm bands in the same spot, came out. All three rangers stepped close to Curtis and Sly’s target and the four people talked quietly in a small huddle before breaking off into two pairs.

The two female rangers slowly approached nearer to Curtis and Sly at the command of the pseudo-shop worker while she and the male ranger made their way in the opposite direction toward the ladder Curtis and Sly had used to climb to the roof of the building next door. Sly and Curtis looked at each other without speaking, then separated across the alley they hid in. Sly ducked behind another turn, waiting to ambush the rangers near a ladder he suspected the two women to be headed for. Meanwhile, Curtis circled around the surrounding buildings to meet their target and the third ranger at the ladder he and Sly had climbed. By the time he made it to the other side of the rear lot, the woman was already halfway up the ladder and the male ranger had one foot on lowest rung and the other firmly planted on the ground ready to begin his ascent.

Curtis sprinted down the straight path and reached his arms out to grab hold of the ranger’s rolled up sleeves from behind and toss him onto the ground to quickly incapacitate him, but before he reached the ranger, the man saw Curtis approaching and turned just in time for Curtis to miss with one hand and only grab one sleeve loosely. Curtis stumbled to a stop only managing to turn the ranger around on his heels, and before Curtis could turn to try and grab him, the man had already spun around and aimed his weapon at Curtis. The pistol in the ranger’s hand had a regular barrel like any six-shot revolver, but just underneath that was another flatter barrel attached to a cylindrical magazine of some kind.

“Who’re you?” the ranger asked, finger on the trigger.

The woman, almost at the top of the ladder now, looked down and saw the standoff. She held tightly onto the rungs and awaited the action.

“Woah there,” Curtis said and slowly raised his hands. “You’re quick with that…thing. But there’s no need to be hasty. I think we can settle this amicably; a fair duel. What d’ya say?”

The woman watched from ahigh and contemplated whether to trap herself on the roof just a few more feet up—an advantageous position for sure—or to use the maze of alleys around the shop to escape and circle back later. She had no doubt that this attacker had something to do with the wanted poster she saw fall from the sky which now stuck out of her back pants pocket. As she watched the interaction unfold below her, she caught a glimpse of Curtis’s face when he glanced up at her. The ranger got a clear look at Curtis, as well, and squinted his eyes for a moment.

“Hol’ up,” the ranger said. “I think I recognize ya.”

Curtis raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Then ya know I ain’t gon’ give up so easy,” he said confidently.”

“Wait!” the woman called and gripped the sides of the ladder firmly as she swung her legs out and squeezed the edge of the ladder between her ankles. She rapidly slid down the ladder and shouted at the ranger below her. “Don’t listen to him!” 

But it was too late. The ranger smirked and took his finger off his weapon’s trigger, then leaned to one side and said, “A compelling proposition. What might be yer terms?”

“Quick an’ simple,” Curtis said. “Just ten paces back each, then we’ll—HUAW!” and with a swift motion, Curtis reached around his back and grabbed a half-full bucket of paint and threw it at the ranger.

The ranger raised his arm to block the bucket, but the lid came loose and dumped its contents onto the man who was subsequently doused with thick, sludgy grease instead of the paint Curtis had expected. The grease coated the ranger’s sleeve and hand and oozed into the barrels of his pistol, but also splattered his pants and torso, as well as his face and got into the ranger’s eyes. The ranger flung himself back and screamed with pain, trying to wipe the grease from his eyes. He held out his pistol and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened as the grease seeped into all the weapon’s seams and joints and clogged its mechanisms.

“Oh, hell! Sorry!” Curtis yelled, genuinely apologetic, as he ran over to the writhing ranger again, then bending his knees and springing up with a powerful uppercut to the ranger’s chin which sent the ranger back several yards and crashing into a nearby stack of wooden stagecoach wheels.

“And sorry fer that, too,” he added, bending over the unconscious ranger and examining the strange, custom firearm. “I’on’t even wanna know what that does.”

When he looked at the ladder again, he saw the woman now standing at the bottom, watching him, and upon locking eyes with him, she gasped and immediately fled down a perpendicular alley. Curtis followed her without hesitation and chased her flapping jacket around various twists and turns. She obviously knew the paths well, but Curtis was faster than her in her heeled boots, so it wasn’t long before he could almost grab hold of her jacket. One wrong turn later, the woman looked left and right, then up at the wall of the dead end she found herself trapped in. She panted rapidly and heavily, then heard Curtis turn the same corner behind her a second later. He also breathed heavily, but slower and more calmly.

The woman looked at his sweaty face, then at the alleys behind him, then again at his face. Curtis tried to smile in a friendly manner between breaths and raised his hands again.

“Hey,” he sighed. “Just relax.”

The woman frowned and looked at Curtis’s eyes. “I won’t fall for yer trick,” she said and took a step to her right.

“Then you know ‘bout me?” Curtis asked. He watched her closely, knowing she would try to escape. He steadied his breath and kept his hands in plain sight, indicating he wouldn’t pull a weapon on her.

The woman glanced over Curtis’s shoulder and before answering the outlaw, lunged to his left. Curtis stepped sideways to block her escape, but when he reached out to grab her, the woman reversed the grip and threw Curtis around her body so their positions were reversed with Curtis inside the dead end and the woman at the intersection of alleys. Curtis tripped over his own feet and fell back on the ground. He lowered his hands to catch himself and only a second later, he was already standing again, but when he looked at the woman, she reached into her jacket and revealed a revolver of her own; standard issue that anyone with a permit could buy.

“I just wanna talk,” Curtis said now with his hands low and away from his sides.

The woman slowly backed away while keeping her revolver trained on Curtis, then felt another presence behind her. She whipped her revolver around, but Sly caught her hand and twisted her arm behind her back, forcing her to drop her gun, then wrapped his foot around one of her ankles and brought her to her knees in a quick movement.

Curtis stood straight and walked over to Sly and the woman. “That’s twice this week you’ve come to my rescue,” he said. “You’ve got a real knack for sneakin’ up on people.”

Sly smiled. The woman grunted and raised her head to look at the outlaws. She blew a strand of misplaced hair from her face and sighed.

“I should’a known you two’d be together,” she said, staring up at her captors.

Curtis knelt, mouth slanted downward in a partial frown, and reached into the woman’s jacket to feel for any other weapons and something to identify her with.

“What’s yer name?” he asked plainly, but not impolitely.

The woman hesitated, then said, “Courtney Bradshaw.” She didn’t resist as Curtis rummaged through her jacket, then patted down her pants pockets and retrieved a little paper card from her right pocket, maybe two-by-three inches. Holding it up, Curtis read the small, printed text on the card.

“That so?” he asked and flipped the card around in his fingers to show the woman and Sly the name and tiny black-and-white photo of her face on the front of the card. ‘Inez Dixby, Lead Researcher,” the card read.

Inez shrugged. “Worth a shot,” she said with a smirk. Her expression lost any panic it had portrayed moments before, and she now looked at Curtis and Sly with a calm and curious and maybe slightly annoyed expression.

Curtis also retrieved Midnight’s wanted poster from Inez’s back pocket and held it in front of her face for a few seconds, then stood and stretched his back. He folded the poster back into his shirt pocket as Sly hoisted Inez to her feet so she was face-to-face with Curtis.

“You can let go,” she said over her shoulder still holding a grin. “I won’t run away this time.”

“No chance,” Curtis said and looked at Sly who kept a firm grasp on Inez’s wrists behind her back.

Inez sighed and blew the loose strand away again. “I’m flattered you think I could pull that move on both o’ y’all, but that’d just be wishful thinkin’ on my part.”

“A woman like you must have some tricks up her sleeve,” Sly said over her shoulder and Inez lowered her head with a wry smile on her face, then she looked back up at Curtis.

Curtis paced the width of the alley a few times before stopping and facing Inez, too. He put his hands on his hips and said, “All right. Ya know who we are, right? So, I’ll skip the introductions.”

Inez scanned Curtis’s serious face and briefly flicked her eyebrows up, holding her grin.

“I’d like this to be quick, so yer cooperation would be greatly appreciated, Ms. Dixby,” Curtis said. “If it wasn’t obvious, I have some questions regardin’ Midnight with whom I understand you may be quite familiar.”

Inez gently tilted her head from side to side. “I’m not sure familiar is the best word,” she said. “Y’already know his name. That’s ‘bout as familiar with the man as one could git.”

“So, ya didn’t interact with him much as part of yer work in the Mystic Program?”

Inez rolled her shoulders to try and get more comfortable in Sly’s grip, then said, “Shoot, I hardly worked on the Mystic Program at all.”

Curtis furrowed his brow and glanced at Sly who shrugged with a puzzled expression.

“We thought you were some of the directors’ righthand gal,” Curtis said.

Inez exhaled sharply. “I guess that’s right, but everyone was so tight-lipped ‘bout the whole thing. Unless you’re a director, ya don’t git to know more than you need to perform yer basic duties, which wasn’t a lot in my case. I’m kinda surprised y’all know anythin’ about it.”

“Actually,” Curtis paused before saying, “Erin Glass told us about it herself before, well…”

Inez watched Curtis’s face intently at the mention of Erin’s name and when he trailed off at the end of his sentence, she understood what he meant. She frowned and looked at the ground.

“Damn,” Inez hissed. “So, she’s really gone, huh?” She looked up at Curtis who offered a single, shallow nod. “I kinda had a feelin’, ya know? But I wasn’t totally convinced.”

“She wasn’t,” Sly started quietly, then cleared his throat and said again louder, “She wasn’t in any pain, or at least it didn’t seem like she was, if that makes you feel better.”

“Y’all were with ‘er?”

Curtis nodded again.

Inez squinted at Curtis inquisitively. “How’d it happen?”

Curtis looked over Inez’s head at Sly, then met Inez’s eyes again and explained the strange events before Erin’s end. Inez listened closely to every word and when Curtis finished sharing the details, Inez’s frown had grown deeper, and she furrowed her brow.

“You sure that’s exactly what happened?” Inez asked through gritted teeth.

Curti remained silent, but Sly said, “We wouldn’t lie about that.”

There was a long pause in their conversation, then Inez spoke again.

“Spells’re terrible,” she said. “Honestly, Lester Langley was right. We should never’ve introduced ‘em into mainstream law enforcement, much less done more experiments with ‘em.”

“Wait, you knew Lester Langley?” Sly said, tightening his grip on Inez’s wrists. “Do you know anything about where he might be now?”

Inez winced and Curtis looked at Sly who took a couple deep breaths and loosened his grip on the woman a little.

“No, I really didn’t” Inez moaned. “I only spoke with him a couple times. I have no idea what happened to ‘im after he went on the run.”

Sly thought for a moment, then remained silent while Inez continued.

“Look,” she said. “Unfortunately fer all of us, I wasn’t that involved in the Mystic Program. If ya really wanna find out more, you’ll need to seek out old directors like Erin, but it’s a dangerous subject to be pokin’ around. Though y’all’re used to the chase by now, huh?”

Curtis chuckled and stepped closer, leaning in toward Inez’s face. “The hunt’s half the fun,” he said. “If ya give us some names and places, we’ll wrap up here and you can let us get ourselves into more trouble.”

Inez averted her gaze and sucked on her lips, then took a slow breath in. She released a long sigh and said, “Lennox Sweeney in Big East; nice townhome on East Prime Street. And Taylor Howell in Big North; big mansion, private lot west of the Ranger Academy campus. Ya can’t miss it.”

Curtis smiled widely and took a couple steps back.

“They’re both under protective watch to an extent, like Erin was,” Inez said. “Though obviously not thatprotective. Erin chose to leave the Big City, so she was kinda on ‘er own, but where she was exactly nobody knew. Well, almost nobody.”

Curtis walked around Inez and behind Sly. He bent over and picked up Inez’s pistol from between their legs, then stretched his arms and looked at a faded mural of a cowboy in all white with a ranger arm band on his left bicep and riding a golden-brown steed painted on a wall across the alley.

“I think that’s ‘bout all we needed to know,” Curtis said. “Let ‘er go, Sly.”

Sly released Inez who took a couple clumsy steps forward and rubbed her wrists.

“And you’re sure you don’t know anythin’ ‘bout how Midnight was connected to the Mystic Program?” Curtis asked while looking up at the high walls that enclosed the alley, intentionally looking away from Inez.

“He was definitely involved,” Inez said at which Curtis turned around. She just shrugged and continued rubbing her wrists. “But I was promoted too late to have any involvement with him. Also, I was never a director. But honestly, I don’t think he ever stepped foot in any o’ the facilities. I just heard his name tossed around a few times. Him and another person called ‘Immortal.’” 

Inez raised a finger as Curtis opened his mouth, saying, “Don’t ask. I didn’t have the clearances to find out any more about who that is or was. The two might be connected or they might not, but they were often mentioned together. From what I gathered, it sounded like Midnight was less important, maybe even just a steppin’ stone er somethin’ to git to the other guy. I don’t know.”

“A’ight, Sly, let’s git outta here,” Curtis said and referenced his map of Big South for the best route back to their hideout while avoiding main streets.

Without another word, the outlaws disappeared into the network of alleys, and shortly after leaving Inez they split up and navigated their own routes back to their safehouse. An hour later, Sly unlocked the door to the darkened apartment and stepped inside quietly. It was only late afternoon. The curtains drawn over all the windows cast a bronzy shadow over everything. Curtis, having arrived thirty minutes before, stood in the shaded kitchen with his revolver drawn and pointed at the door.

“Welcome back,” he said upon seeing Sly and holstered his weapon.

“I’m sure I wasn’t followed,” Sly said and locked the door again behind him.

“Good. Me, too.”

After waiting another thirty minutes to be sure they wouldn’t be interrupted, they began turning on the electric lamps and overhead lights in the apartment.

“Everyone formerly involved with the Mystic Program seems to be very willing to share details about their past work,” Sly said, plopping down onto the long sofa in the living after the two men were settled and sure of their safety again. “We’ve only met two of them, but it didn’t take much convincing to get them to talk.”

“Well, Inez was Erin’s protégé after all,” Curtis yelled from the kitchen. “She seemed to open up once we brought up her former boss. Plus, we don’t know everything Minutes ‘til Midnight did to Erin before we got there. I’m sure they have methods of persuasion that go beyond what we’d prefer.”

“Yeah, true. Speaking of, I’m sure Mabel’s more than unhappy with us right about now.”

Curtis entered the living room nodding. “It has been much longer than we thought, but it’s good we waited. I don’t imagine the stake out process would’ve been any easier with her tagging along.”

“You never know,” Sly said and shrugged. “Her sleuthing has proved very useful so far.”

Curtis chuckled and sat down on the couch holding a full bottle of tequila in one hand and two shot glasses in the other. He poured a drink for Sly and himself and the two clinked their glasses together, then threw back their heads and swallowed the warm liquid.

“So,” Sly said as Curtis refilled their glasses, “were you satisfied with Inez’s answers today? Too bad we couldn’t ask about the transports.”

Curtis gulped down his second shot, shook his head back and forth in response to the strength of the swill, and released a satisfied sigh, then sniffled.

“She told us who we need’a speak with to git more info ‘bout the mystics,” Curtis said.

“Yes,” Sly said after taking his second shot. Curtis began to pour thirds. “What about the stuff about Midnight’s involvement with them? And that Immortal guy she just so casually mentioned? We’ll have to ask the others about him, too.”

Curtis held his third shot in front of his face for a moment before tossing it down his throat. He sighed again, cleared his throat, then placed his glass on the table.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Well, I guess I was hopin’ there’d be a bit more to it.”

“The others might know something. Like Inez said, she was never a director. I doubt she got the full picture.” Sly emptied his glass and poured two more shots, but Curtis didn’t pick up his glass immediately. “If there’s anything more to find out about Midnight from these former directors, we’ll make them tell us.”

Curtis nodded while Sly threw back his fourth shot.

“You know…” Curtis said and picked up his shot glass, but didn’t drink from it. “I’ve been wonderin’ fer some time now about whether I’d even recognize ‘im.”

Sly raised an eyebrow and held the tequila bottle in his hand, ready to pour himself a fifth shot, but didn’t pour yet.

“It’s been two-and-a-half years,” Curtis continued. “Normally that wouldn’t be such a long time to remember someone’s face, but if Midnight’s spell disguises him somehow, then how could I ever be sure it’s really him?”

Sly put down the tequila and clasped his hands together. He wasn’t ready for an extended serious conversation with the alcohol quickly kicking in. His head felt incredibly fuzzy already.

“Well,” Sly said, trying his best to make sure he didn’t wobble on the sofa cushion. “You could always ask him something only the two of you would know.”

Curtis nodded again and smiled. “Yeah, I s’ppose you’re right. But there’s one other thing, too, that I’m holdin’ out hope for.”

Curtis removed his hat and placed his hands behind his head as he leaned back, sinking into the cushions and closing his eyes. Sly took that as an excuse to lie back, as well, and allowed himself to feel the tipsy drowsiness behind his eyes.

“Midnight once said t’ me, while I was livin’ on his ranch, that if he ever came back from one o’ his…” Curtis twisted his hand in the air while trying to think of the next word. ‘…escapades.” Then he paused, unsure if he found the right one. “Or whatever… He told me if he ever came back differently that I’d always be able to recognize ‘im ‘cause of his eyes.”

Sly lay fully extended onto the couch with his eyes also closed. He listened to what Curtis said, but didn’t quite understand. He didn’t want to interrupt, however, so he continued to listen silently.

“Honestly, I didn’t quite git what he meant,” Curtis said. “I also didn’t think much about it. When he told me, it kinda came outta nowhere and it never occurred to me that he’d up and leave so suddenly with only left on the barn.” Another pause, then, “But I hope he’s right.”

A minute passed without either man saying anything, but when Sly felt Curtis shift and sit up for another drink, he also forced himself upright and rubbed his face.

“Dawn,” he said sluggishly. Curtis poured another drink and tossed it back as Sly spoke. “How long did you say you stayed at Midnight’s ranch after he left?”

“Huh?” Curtis said after another drowsy pause.

“Whatever…well, however long it was…” Sly sniffled and rubbed his eyes. “How do you know Midnight never came back to look for you?”

Curtis was still and silent for a long time after that, but just when Sly thought he may have dozed off, he groaned and said, “I don’t know.”

***

Meanwhile, Big South bustled in the middle of the hot afternoon. With so many colorful folks walking the streets in the entertainment district of the Big City, a man in all black hardly stood out as he walked slowly alongside the paved roads. At an intersection, he stopped and waited for the mix of horse-drawn and motorized traffic to slow. With his pale hand, he clutched a heart-shaped pendant hanging from a delicate sterling silver chain around his neck, and despite the summer sun blaring down on all within view, the pendant was cold to the touch.

Mabel lay on a sofa in Minutes ‘til Midnight’s safehouse in Big West. She was on her back rereading her favorite of Worbus Timbly’s plays, The Two Gentlemen of the Ridge. Trapper sat nonchalantly on the other sofa playing Solitaire on the coffee table. The cabin was quiet.

Before long, Mabel and Trapper were both interrupted by hurried footsteps on the attic ladder as Doc, Virginia, Mercy, and Smiley all came down in file.

“Finally,” Trapper said and started collecting his cards back into a neat deck, then tucked them into their thin paper box.

“You ready?” Doc asked as he fetched his belt and revolver from some hooks on the back wall of the first floor.

Trapper nodded and also collected his gear. Smiley and Mercy walked to the front door, then waited for Doc and Trapper.

“Where are y’all goin’?” Mabel asked, resting her book on her chest, slowly leaning up on her elbows.

Doc glanced at her as he walked to the front door. Smiley, Mercy, and Trapper had already walked outside and Doc stood in the doorway. “Just a quick meetin’ with our informants. Won’t be long.”

Virginia took Trapper’s place on the other sofa and leaned back with a sigh.

“Virginia and Rowan’ll keep ya company,” Doc said before nodding farewell to Virginia, then shut the door behind himself.

Mabel watched the door for another moment, listening as the voices outside faded into the forest, then sniffled and lay back on the couch. She folded her hands over the open book still resting face down on her chest and looked around the room.

“Rowan’s upstairs napping,” Virginia said, breaking the still silence.

“How’s she so tired all the time?” Mabel asked in a gentle tone. “I thought it was just from usin’ her spell.”

“She’s just a tired person,” Virginia grinned. “Whatcha readin’?”

“A funny play,” Mabel answered, holding up the book and showing Virginia the cover. “Curtis and Sly got me this collection fer my birthday.”

“Oh yeah, I remember.”

After a brief pause, Mabel signed and sat up. She closed her book and laid it on the table before asking, “What d’ya think they’re up to now/”

“Dawn and Sly?” Virginia asked to which Mabel nodded. “Not sure. No doubt it’s mighty important though. Otherwise, I’m sure they’d have come visit by now.”

Another pause, then Mabel asked, “You think they’re okay? Actually I shouldn’t think about it. I’m sure they are.”

“Yes, I’m sure they are,” Virginia agreed. “And we’re still on the look out fer ‘em every day. They just haven’t signaled to us that it’s time to reunite yet. I bet they will soon, though.”

Mabel smiled and picked up her book and held it close to her chest.

“You make my time here not so bad, Virginia,” Mabel mumbled softly.

Virginia smirked. “Only not so bad?” Then after a pause, “Wanna take a walk?”

***

Doc, Smiley, Trapper, and Mercy walked nonchalantly through Big West and to the Providence Botanical Gardens across town. After walking through the front gates and acquiring their tickets, they moved up and down the rows of blooming plants, but unlike the dozens of other visitors already there at the crack of dawn, they didn’t stop to examine any of the beautiful flowers along the many dirt paths.

The four of them continued along every path until finally hearing a whistle when they turned a corner near the western edge of the park’s frontmost section. At the end of the row which was walled in on both sides by tall hedges stood a man in a shiny silk shirt and clean dress pants. His wide-brimmed gambler hat hid his dark face from view; as the group approached, he turned and walked through a thick layer of vines on the hedge.

Doc, Smiley, Trapper, and Mercy followed suit and found themselves in an overgrown garden surrounded by thick hedges with a small stone fountain at the center of the garden, but no water flowed through the spouts. The square space was only about 20 feet along each side and the vines covering the entrance arch had grown thick enough that it seemed even the garden’s maintainers had forgotten about this overgrown section of park. The man who whistled stood by the fountain with another similarly dressed man, this one with pale skin and hair as red as embers under a smoldering campfire.

Doc tipped his hat in greeting and the two gentlemen turned toward the group with arms crossed.

“Agent Merlot, Agent Totem,” Doc said upon seeing the men at the fountain. “Pleasure seein’ you as always.”

Smiley, Trapper, and Mercy all stood silently and greeted the agents with polite nods.

“Glad you made it,” Agent Merlot said in a plain Ridge accent and scratched the ginger stubble growing on his chiseled jaw and chin.

“We apologize fer makin’ you wait so long,” Agent Totem said and removed his hat before bowing slightly, sweat glistening off his dark, curly locks. He then stood straight and replaced his hat atop his head, and eyed the present members of Minutes ‘til Midnight. “The one you call ‘Killjoy’ isn’t here?”

“Don’t worry,” Doc said and gestured with his finger for the agents to be patient as he looked over his shoulder at Mercy who stepped forward and slowly revealed a thin vial from her pocket. “We still got what’cha want.”

The vial, large enough for only a quarter-ounce of fluid, contained a deep red liquid.

“As promised,” Doc continued. “More than a few drops of Killjoy’s blood.”

Mercy stepped forward and handed the vial over to Agent Merlot whom she towered over. Agent Merlot then stepped back to Agent Totem’s side and held the vial upward, squinting with one eye to examine the vial’s contents in the light.

Agent Totem frowned and looked at Doc. “We would’ve preferred to take the sample ourselves directly from the source.”

Doc shrugged. “She had other obligations, I’m afraid.”

Agent Totem leered at Doc and after a moment said, “You know what’ll happen if ya try to swindle us.”

Doc sniffled and stretched his neck, hands in his pockets. “I do. It’s the real thing.”

Agent Totem and Agent Merlot briefly exchanged glances, then Agent Merlot pocketed the vial.

“We’ll proceed with the deal,” Agent Merlot said.

With a nod, Agent Totem said, “As agreed fer the blood, here’s yer info dump.”

By now, the others had made their way over to the dry fountain. Agent Merlot and Agent Totem stood side-by-side with Agent Totem closer to the fountain. Doc stood facing them just a few feet away also next to the fountain with Mercy standing behind him, looking over his head, both with their arms crossed. Smiley stood beside Doc on the side opposite him to the fountain and held his hands close to his chest with his spindly fingers interlocked, and Trapper stood almost on the opposite side of the fountain as the agents with one foot propped up on the empty stone basin.

Agent Totem looked primarily at Doc as he spoke but occasionally flicked his gaze around at the others who listened intently.

“Here’s what I’ll tell y’all ‘bout Midnight,” Agent Totem began. “The main reason Midnight’s been so difficult to track down is because o’ his spell.”

Minutes ‘til Midnight nodded, and when Totem paused, Doc said, “We figured. Can ya tell us exactly what it is ‘bout his spell that helps him evade the Government’s capture? Especially when I assume they know roughly where he is. Am I right?”

“Actually,” Agent Totem replied, “not even the Government knows Midnight’s exact location. But they do know the locations of various individuals with which Midnight’s had significant contact. Of course, that includes you all.”

“Yeah, yeah, hence our dealings,” Trapper said, somewhat annoyed with the lack of new information being provided. Doc glanced at Trapper and lightly waved his hand gesturing for Trapper to be quiet.

“Correct,” Agent Totem said, then looked at Agent Merlot. With an almost unnoticeable nod of approval from the red-haired agent, Agent Totem turned back to Minutes ‘til Midnight and said, “We’ll tell y’all what Midnight’s spell is.”

***

Curtis and Sly sat at the table in the kitchen of the apartment. All the windows’ curtains were still drawn. Scrawled out between them on the table was a map of Big East on which red ink had been used to outline East Prime Street, the street on which Inez Dixby said Lennox Sweeney lived. Pencil lines were also scribbled on the map marking the route the men planned to take to best avoid confrontation one their way to see the former Mystic Program director.

“All right; sounds like a plan,” Sly said, leaning back in his chair. “But do you think it’s a good idea to go back out so soon after cornering Inez? There’s no doubt she reported us being here and the Government won’t forget that overnight.”

“I’on’t see what difference it makes,” Curtis said, continuing to study the map. “It won’t matter waitin’ just one night versus a whole week. Maybe if we waited a month, they might believe we left, but we don’t have that kind o’ time to waste.”

“Of course.”

Curtis and Sly gathered their gear and prepared for the next phase of their investigation: hunting down the former directors Inez had mentioned. Curtis was ready first and waited by the front door, peeking through the curtains at the surrounding alleys. Even in the daylight, the billboard on the other side of the narrow lane behind the apartment complex still shone brightly and illuminated what would otherwise be a shaded corridor. A few minutes later, Sly stepped out of his bedroom and tightened the straps of his chaps. He stepped up behind Curtis and before Curtis turned around or opened the door, Sly spoke.

“I wonder how Mabel’s doing,” he said.

Curtis leaned away from the window and faced Sly, then grunted and shrugged. “I’m sure she’s doin’ just fine.”

“Yeah,” Sly said also with a shrug. “You’re probably right. So, you think leaving her with them was the right thing to do?”

Curtis took his apartment key from his pocket and grabbed the door handle, but before he opened the door, Sly continued.

“Do you trust Minutes ‘til Midnight now?”

Curtis paused, then let go of the door handle and turned back. “It ain’t about trust,” he said. “I just didn’t want Mabel gettin’ into harm’s way. We know Minutes ‘til Midnight like to lay low, so what better way to keep ‘er safe than stickin’ ‘er with the ones who avoid direct danger as best they can? And if they tried anythin’, she could defend herself well enough. She’s slippery, so she could run away at least and probably find us before they ever caught up to ‘er.”

Sly pursed his lips and rocked his head from side to side contemplatively. “I won’t disagree, but I’m concerned that she wouldn’t be able to overpower six skilled spellcasters if they trapped her before she knew what hit her.”

Curtis nodded slowly and faced the door again. Grabbing the door handle once more, he said, “We need to git goin’ before the morning’s past.” He opened the door and took one step outside, then looked over his shoulder and added, “After hittin’ Big East, we’ll get in touch fer a visit to check on Mabel.”

Sly smiled and followed Curtis outside, slamming and locking the door behind him.

***

Minutes ‘til Midnight all stood in quiet thought after Agent Totem explained the details of Midnight’s spell, or at least everything they claimed to know about it. Doc kept his arms crossed and slowly rubbed his handlebar mustache, staring in deep thought at the fountain’s ornamental centerpiece. Smily simply nodded and glanced around at his team.

“Wait,” Trapper said and removed his foot from the fountain and scratched his smooth chin. “Midnight’s spell isn’t even that powerful.”

“In theory,” Doc replied. “Obviously it depends on how it’s utilized.”

“In practice, it’s proven quite effective for what Midnight uses it for,” Smiley added. “That is, when he wants to escape detection or create multiple personas for each place he goes, then it’s the perfect tool.”

“Precisely,” Agent Totem said. “Strength ain’t always the most important thing to consider when determining a spell’s usefulness, significance, and desirability. When the Government bumps a spellcaster’s bounty, the spell’s direct application is only one o’ several factors that contribute to the multiplier. Other factors include how well the spell could pair with others, who the outlaw him or herself is, and, of course, if the Government sees any use in tryna abuse the power fer our own purposes.”

Agent Merlot then elbowed Agent Totem’s side and gave him a sour look.

“I’d say that’s far more information than necessary,” Agent Merlot scolded.

Agent Totem cleared his throat and rubbed his ribs, then said, “Well, as promised, the blood fer info on Midnight.”

“Mhm,” Doc nodded, “but that’s just part one of our deal.”

Agent Merlot raised one eyebrow and looked sternly at Doc.

“Well?” Agent Merlot answered. “You got the rest of what we asked for?”

Doc nodded again and placed his hands on his hips. When he did, the agents instinctively glanced at his belt and flinched before realizing he wasn’t drawing his revolver. Doc chuckled and raised his hands with a grin.

“Relax, gentlemen,” he said playfully. “We got a civil agreement here. Ya didn’t think I’d turn things upside down so casually, did ya?”

The agents said nothing. Agent Merlot’s gaze remained on Doc’s revolver while Agent Totem looked up and awaited Doc to initiate the next segment of their deal.

Doc raised one fist to his mouth and cleared his throat before speaking.

“As promise,” he began, “we’ve brought the two biggest thorns in yer side with us to the Big City. Curtis “Dawn” Conrad and Nathan “Sly” Bowman are here. Well, not here, but they’re around. Not sure what exactly they’re doin’ at the moment, but we could git ‘em any time.”

Agent Totem was about to speak, but Doc cut him off with a raised hand and jumped in.

“We expect a substantial reward, of course,” Doc said.

Agent Totem looked again at Agent Merlot who gave him another approving nod.

“Very well,” Agent Totem said. “You’ll certainly be paid the combined total of Dawn’s and Sly’s bounties, that is 46 gold.”

“We want an extra 25 percent,” Doc demanded calmly but sternly, crossing his arms. “Since it’s the pair.”

“That’s outrageous!” Agent Merlot said loudly, stepping forward.

“If we only wanted their bounties, we’d just turn ‘em in to the sheriff’s department ourselves. Fifty-seven gold seems more than fair.”

Agent Merlot grimaced, then said, “Fine. We’ll give you an extra five percent.”

“Twenty-two,” Doc demanded.

“Seven,” Agent Merlot countered.

And they continued their negotiations until finally agreeing on the combined sum of the outlaws’ bounties plus an extra 12 percent.

“It’s settled,” Agent Totem chimed in after the final handshake between Doc and Agent Merlot. “Fifty-one thousand sixty dimes will be owed once Dawn and Sly’re in custody.”

“Thank ya kindly, gentlemen,” Doc said and tipped his hat. Trapper and Mercy bumped fists behind Doc and Smiley grinned widely.

“And, uh,” Doc continued, “I thought I’d mention, in case it might git us anythin’ extra—call it part two-point-five o’ this arrangement—but if you wanted additional assistance drawing Curtis and Sly out in the open, you could use that girl that’s always with ‘em as bait.”

Agent Totem and Agent Merlot looked at Doc and the rest of Minutes ‘til Midnight from around the fountain. They had stepped away for a private discussion after agreeing to on the appropriate compensation for luring Curtis and Sly to the Big City but now walked back over to the group to continue the process of their deal. Agent Totem kept his hands by his sides and looked plainly at Doc.

“Seems unlikely,” he said. “I doubt the outlaws’ll so carelessly separate from Mabel again. We know they’re taking extra precautions to remain free from capture.”

Doc lowered his head and grinned from under his hat. “Well, do I have a treat fer you.” He raised his head and smirked at the agents. “It just so happens that we’re currently in possession o’ Ms. Greene as we speak. She’s at our base right now; separate from the safehouse we lent to Dawn and Sly.”

Agent Totem furrowed his brow and glanced at Agent Merlot who squinted his eyes and looked Doc up and down.

“Of course, we’ll want some extra compensation fer such accommodations,” Doc added.

After a moment of contemplation and one more glancing exchange, Agent Totem said, “If the need arises, we can discuss compensation based on the effectiveness of the tactic.”

Doc shrugged, still grinning. “Suit yerselves.”

Mercy remained behind Doc with her arms crossed, glaring at the Government agents, while Trapper and Smiley wandered around the small, forgotten garden. Smiley hovered around the entryway, listening for anyone passing by who could overhear the conversation or interrupt them if they discovered the path through the vines.

“Okay, just one more thing,” Doc said to the agents. “Part three o’ the deal. As expected, we brought Dawn’s special horse to the Big City, too; Esprit is what he calls it. What we want in return is info on each o’ the doyen’s spells, including Lady Love and Angel Eyes.”

“Why would you need to know such info?” Agent Totem inquired.

Doc raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I’d tell y’all our plans fer the info and money ya give us, just like how I don’t expect y’all to tell me why the Government wants Dawn, Sly, and Esprit so badly.”

Agent Totem pursed his lips and crossed his arms. “Fine,” he said. “I suppose that can be arranged, but we don’t have clearance for everythin’ regardin’ the doyens’ spells. We’ll get ya everythin’ we can once the horse has been turned over to us.”

Doc swayed his shoulders in contemplation before agreeing, then shook hands with both agents.

“It’s a pleasure doin’ business as always,” Doc said. “Oh, but I should mention that we aren’t gonna reveal the whereabouts of anybody—Dawn, Sly, Mabel, nor Esprit—until we git half o’ the bounty payments.”

“What?” Agent Merlot asked.

“That’s not what we just agreed upon!” Agent Totem argued.

Doc took a step back and shrugged. “That’s just business. We need some assurance that you’ll uphold yer end o’ the bargain, right?”

Agent Totem turned to Agent Merlot with a scowl. Agent Merlot inhaled slowly while waving to Agent Totem to calm down, then exhaled a deep sigh.

“Okay,” Agent Merlot said. “We’ll do that much for you. Consider it a favor.”

“Thank ya kindly,” Doc said. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we best be goin’.” 

He threw out his hands and pointed at the two agents before yelling, “Trapper, Smiley!”

Approaching quickly from behind the agents, Trapper flung his weighted wire out toward Agent Merlot while charging in to grab the back of Agent Totem’s silky shirt, freezing them both instantly just as they drew their own revolvers from their holsters.

A bead of sweat dripped down the side of Doc’s face as he stared at the revolver in Agent Merlot’s hand pointed at him.

“Woah, damn!” Trapper exclaimed once he noticed how close Agent Merlot got to shooting Doc. “He drew that much quicker than I expected!”

Agent Totem’s revolver was also withdrawn from its holster but still aimed at the ground.

Doc chuckled, relieved, then wiped his face with his sleeve. “We know better fer next time.” He turned his attention to the agents. “Don’t take offense. This is just fer oursafety.”

Smiley walked up behind the agents and touched each of their arms. When the agents blinked, the four members of Minutes ‘til Midnight were gone without a trace and were already exiting the park.

“Bastards!” Agent Totem yelled and stomped his foot.

“It’s fine,” Agent Merlot replied. “They aren’t stupid enough to harm us. If all they wanted to do was get away unfollowed, it was a good trick.”

Agent Totem calmed down and adjusted his shirt collar, then said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But it ain’t good enough. The Shadow Mamba will have no trouble tailing them.”

***

Curtis and Sly followed their map to E Prime Street which stretched for several miles from one end of Big East to the other, running north to south. The long street cut through various major neighborhoods connecting residential, business, and industrial sectors along a steady curved line of concrete and tarmac. Even more automobiles cruised down the avenues in Big East than in Big South, but plenty of, albeit luxurious and expensive, horse buggies occupied the roads.

For all intents and purposes, locals considered Big East to be the true downtown district of the Big City where local businesses thrived amongst developing urban areas, grungy bars and clubs, and hundreds of privately owned shops. Historical monuments referenced the war from almost a century ago, depicting key figures, decisive events, and tragedies never to be repeated.

Curtis and Sly slinked through the alleys and back roads per their usual inconspicuous tactics but found that they weren’t unique in their style of cowboy clothing even when approaching a nicer part of town along the northern half of E Prime Street.

“It’s downtown, Dawn,” Sly assured Curtis. “We aren’t in Bullwater or Thorntree. This is the Big City! Here, you’ll find people of any kind wandering up and down every street. East Prime is the main street through Big East. We won’t stand out at all just strolling along the sidewalk. For once we can openly explore without hiding our salient identities!”

Curtis nodded, then smirked while looking up and down the bustling street that cut the Big City’s eastern district in two.

“Salient?” Curtis chuckled. “Don’t go tryin’ to replace Mabel as our resident wordsmith,” he teased.

“You know I’m right, though!” Sly smiled proudly.

Sly was right. They certainly weren’t the only cowboys strutting through Big East and they were far from being the dirtiest and gruffest looking characters around. Curtis also noticed more people openly carrying holstered revolvers on their belts which might normally create a sense of tension like a violent scene just waiting to explode but instead gave Curtis a feeling of comfort about the risk he and Sly took openly searching for Lennox Sweeney.

“Besides,” Sly continued, “We’ll need all the help we can get. Inez never told us what Sweeney or Howell looked like or any exact addresses, so straight up asking people might be our best bet at finding them quickly.”

“Quickly, sure, but what ‘bout safely? Sounds like the quickest way to draw attention right back to us again. We found Inez without any description from Minutes ‘til Midnight, so I’m sure we can manage.”

The duo slowly probed E Prime Street over the next several hours, at first subtly questioning local business owners and street vendors about any older clientele that might have frequented the various establishments but soon switched to a more direct approach.

Sly put on his cocky attitude and entered many of the conversations with laid-back confidence. He was completely in his element, taking on the persona he once possessed at the height of his early career as a ranger and speaking fluently with any strangers who would listen like he had known them for years. And while Curtis hated to admit it, and despite such an approach having been completely inappropriate in the past, it was the exact right method for a vibrant and buoyant environment like Big East.

Curtis let Sly lead much of the investigation in the first half of the day, hanging back to pick up the little cues that suggested whether the person Sly was talking to might offer useful information. Sure enough, most people did not recognize the name Lennox Sweeney, nor had Sly or Curtis expected them to. After all, Lennox was the director of a confidential Government program; not the type of person to be recognized as a celebrity among the people. However, confirmation of such a detail gave them hope that anyone who did react to the name would prove to be an invaluable asset, but also a potentially dangerous one; two traits they were used to encountering paired together by then.

After lunch, they continued making their way up E Prime Street through the bulk of the business sector and toward the fancy residential neighborhoods that branched off the northernmost segment of the street.

They suspected the “nice townhome”—which Curtis now realized would be an extreme understatement—that Lennox Sweeney supposedly occupied was in that same area, hopefully directly on E Prime Street as Inez suggested. By dinner, they still had not met anyone who claimed to know anything about Lennox.

“I’ll hand it to ya, Sly,” Curtis said, “when it comes to bein’ the exact opposite of sneaky, you’re a real people person. You’ve got a knack fer makin’ fast friends at a bar.”

They stood on the wooden deck in front of a smalltown-style saloon which popped against the surrounding buildings with its weathered, wood façade and candlelight chandeliers flickering warm light through its dusty windows. Surprisingly, very few establishments in Big East displayed wanted posters in plain sight, but this saloon was one of such places.

Curtis and Sly were unconcerned, though, because these posters only depicted outlaws who had been relegated to fairytale status—Billy the Kid, Max “the Albatross” Dalton, the Bandit Queen, and the like—or romanticized the concept of outlaws with fictitious characters from children’s stories and famous plays. Curtis and Sly figured that anybody remotely interested in bounties or true information regarding outlaws would be drawn elsewhere rather than what appeared to be a mockery of an authentic rustic cowboy tavern. Besides, hours of walking up Big East’s long, central street and the surrounding roads built up their thirst and appetites.

“It’s one of the basics of being a ranger in the Big City,” Sly responded. “But I know you’re just saying that to make me feel better about the fact that we haven’t found anything out about Sweeney.”

“Hey, it took us a whole week to find Inez,” Curtis said to comfort Sly with a firm pat on Sly’s shoulder. “I really hope it doesn’t take so long to find Sweeney and Howell, too, but we’re startin’ with even vaguer clues this time. We’re nothin’ if not patient.”

“Right,” Sly sighed and leaned against the deck’s wooden rail, glancing at the hitching post where several steeds were tethered.

The saloon sat on the corner of E Prime Street and another major road heading west towards Central City. There were still plenty of places Curtis and Sly hadn’t checked yet along E Prime and the other nearby streets.

“Let’s give it a good effort for another couple hours, then head back to base,” Sly suggested and stretched his back after standing up straight again. “Sound like a plan?”

Curtis nodded and cleared his throat before replying. “I might know just the place to check next.” He pointed to another smaller establishment just down the block nestled between several other bars. A glowing sign flashed in the window advertising beer on tap—a rarity anywhere in the Mesa Frontier—and a foldable stand just outside the door announced an in-and-out bingo day with large handwritten text highlighting the fifty-percent senior discount.

“Pardon me fer bein’ presumptuous,” Curtis said, then Sly cut him off.

“Presumptuous?” Sly coaxed and lightly elbowed Curtis’s arm. “Obviously Mabel’s rubbed off on both of us.”

Curtis smirked and continued, saying, “Lennox ought to be in his sixties er seventies, yeah? Assuming he’s at least the same age as Erin Glass. What better way to retire under protective watch than frequenting a quiet brewery saloon downtown. Plus, it’s close to home.”

“I can’t disagree,” Sly said.

Inside the place, almost every table was full, and the bar was crowded with standing patrons holding large beer glasses and squeezing between all the occupied barstools. Huge barrels with spouts dispensing the advertised alcohol were stacked behind the bar.

“Not so quiet after all,” Curtis admitted, looking around. He had to shout to Sly right next to him with so many voices filling the building’s ground floor.

Most people had cardboard bingo cards in front of them at the tables and bar and an announcer sat at a small table in the corner on the far side of the bar harking out numbers through a microphone which projected his voice over the chattering crowd through little speakers in every corner of the two rooms that made up the main floor.

Sly’s eyes darted around the room, examining the speakers and noticing the lack of external wiring.

“You wouldn’t know it from the outside,” Sly said excitedly, “but this place is pretty modern! Half a decade ago, a set up like this—with the speakers and amplifiers and integrated connections—would’ve been reserved for only top-notch restaurants and theaters.”

“I’ll take yer word for it,” Curtis said, continuously stunned that such technology was available in the Big City even five years ago. In the bulk of the Mesa Frontier and Southern Slick, such advancements were still sparsely available.

Curtis spotted a staircase to their left between the two rooms, leading to what appeared to be a public area upstairs. He had seen two or three people go up in the short time they had been standing in the entrance and there were no signs or restrictive ropes indicating restricted access.

“I say we split up fer this one,” Curtis yelled. “It’s a big place!”

Sly nodded and stepped toward the bar while Curtis made his way to the staircase. Sly moved casually through the main room, nudging against people at the bar and breaking into conversations with confidence. There were plenty of older patrons enthusiastically hoping to win at bingo that night, but nobody recognized the name Lennox Sweeney. He soon moved away from the bar and navigated the crowded spaces between tables when he felt a gentle tug on his sleeve.

“Excuse me, waiter?” said an elderly woman with narrow eyes and dark, speckled skin.

Sly turned to his left and saw a small table pressed against the wall at which two old women sat. The other looked slightly younger—still easily in her seventies—and had a focused expression, staring down at her bingo card. She had olive skin and salt-and-pepper hair, more dark hair than gray. Sly stood beside their table for a moment with the dark-skinned woman staring up at him through thick spectacles before the other woman glanced up from her card.

“Muriel,” the olive-skinned woman said. She clicked her tongue, then said, “We come here all the time and ya still can’t recognize the workers. I’m sorry, sweetie.” She smiled at Sly and grabbed Muriel’s thin wrist with her own frail hand.

Muriel frowned and looked at her friend with a hint of confusion.

“No problem at all,” Sly said with a wide smile, then placed his hand on the table. “In fact, you ladies may be able to help me with something. May I?”

Sly stole one of the few empty chairs from a nearby table and sat down with the two elderly women. Muriel grinned and quickly looked Sly up and down. The olive-skinned woman gave Sly a skeptical look but didn’t object when he sat down beside them at their table.

Sly gave the women a handsome smile, then said, “I’m looking for someone who might frequent this place; probably about your age, doesn’t live too far from here. You two wouldn’t happen to know Lennox Sweeney, would you?”

The olive-skinned woman squinted her eyes and grabbed Sly’s right forearm in a tight squeeze, her long nails digging into his flesh. Sly winced and was slightly frightened by the woman’s sudden reaction.

“Quiet!” the olive-skinned woman hissed. She perused Sly’s face; he watched her large, brown orbs flit left and right, up and down. “Who are you?”

Muriel then perked up as if a thought—the first meaningful one in a long time—just popped into her head. She smiled gleefully and rested a hand on Sly’s other forearm.

“Betty, this is Lennox’s nephew!” Muriel chirped, beaming at the olive-skinned woman. “He looks just like the pictures.”

Betty furrowed her brows and shot Muriel an inquisitive glance.

“What’re you talkin’ about, Muriel?” Betty asked, releasing Sly’s arm. “What pictures? How d’ya know his nephew?”

Muriel chuckled and waved her hand at Betty, saying, “Oh, that’s right! You weren’t here the time he showed me. Thisis Lennox’s nephew!”

Sly looked back and forth between the two women with a cunning smirk.

“Shut it, Muriel!” Betty shouted over the mirthful crowd in the brewery. Then in a hushed tone, she hissed, “Stop using his real name in front of this stranger! Maybe he’s huntinghim!”

Sly planted his elbow firmly on the table and rested his chin in his hand, then looked at both the women.

“Oh, please, ladies,” he cajoled, gradually morphing his accent and infusing in it the twang native to the Valley Strip. “I’m not hunting anybody. I’m just lookin’ fer my uncle. You were right on the money,” he winked at Muriel who giggled and fluttered her eyelashes.

Betty leaned back in her chair, arms crossed and looked askance at Sly. “You don’t look very much like ‘im. Notthat we know who you’re talkin’ about.”

Sly chuckled. “I’m from the wife’s side o’ the family.” He continued to hold his sly, somewhat flirtatious smile.

At that, Betty and Muriel both sneered and snickered. Sly chuckled again, nervous that his ruse was foiled. Betty and Muriel glanced at each other between laughter, then Betty looked at Sly and gently placed her hand back on his forearm.

“That old battleaxe?” Betty chortled.

“No offense,” Muriel said, “but I feel sorry fer you as her nephew!”

The women continued cackling and traded a couple defamatory remarks about Mrs. Sweeney.

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Sly agreed with a now uncertain grin, then quickly added, “Anyway, I’m just here to visit my uncle, but the ol’ man fergot to send me his full address!”

Betty and Muriel rubbed joyful tears from their eyes and took deep breaths. Sly began to worry that the two of them may faint from laughing so hard, but they quickly recovered and smiled at Sly apologetically. Muriel patted the tabletop lightly and seemed to return to her initial aloofness.

“We’re sorry,” Betty said with one last giggle. “Oh, the memories. But, anyway, yes, he—yer uncle,” she said this with a side glance, still not completely convinced by Sly’s story. “He lives quite secretively these days as I’m sure you know. If he didn’t tell ya where he lives before ya came, I’d only assume he doesn’t want ya comin’.”

Sly revived his confident smile and sighed, quickly formulating how to get around Betty’s defenses.

Meanwhile, Curtis panned his gaze across the smaller, quieter upstairs where a younger crowd was gathered. The second floor was much less crowded also. A single small radio sitting on the corner of the bar played soft folk music. Curtis counted about 10 to 15 people including the bar tender. A few of the patrons played darts in the far corner and another pair stood around a billiards table in the middle of the room. Strangely enough, no one sat at the bar.

His heart skipped a beat when he spotted a collection of wanted posters pinned up over the bar, but he gasped with relief after soon noticing that he and Sly were absent from the lineup which included a dozen outlaws. Billy the Kid was first from the left, followed by a man named Julius “Danger” Massey (94-gold bounty), then Belle “Bandit Queen” Starr (230 G), Harley “Zapper” Reynold (now with a 58-gold bounty), Max “the Albatross” Dalton (102 G), and Midnight (500 G), among others.

While staring at the collection, Curtis hardly noticed himself walking over to inspect the posters more closely.

“Tired o’ the rowdy bingo crowd?” the bartender, a young woman with a slender waist and wide hips asked teasingly. Her black hair was tied up in a ponytail and her tattooed arms had well-defined muscles, but she wasn’t particularly brawny.

Curtis calmly laughed and looked at the bartender before stepping up to the dark oak bar top. The bartender leaned over the bar with her arms straight and hands firmly grasping the edge on her side. Curtis kept his hat low and refrained from making eye contact with the bartender.

“What can I git ya?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“Gin,” Curtis replied and slid onto a barstool. “No top shelf. Cheapest kind ya got.”

The bartender nodded tersely and grabbed one of the many bottles off the tiered shelves behind the bar. Seconds later, a short glass was placed on top of a small napkin in front of Curtis.

“So, y’all gotta watch out fer lots o’ big timers?” Curtis asked, pointing at the posters above the bar. He took a small sip of gin without leaning his head back.

The bartender smirked and shrugged. “They’re just collectibles the owner likes t’ put up,” she explained. “They’ve all had a drink here at one time er another. Those’re the ones we know of, anyway.”

Examining the lineup again, Curtis recognized most of them as A and B-list outlaws with higher bounties, but a couple were random lowlifes he knew less about.

“We do our best to keep ‘em up-to-date with current bounty amounts.”

“Hmph,” Curtis nodded and slowly sipped more of his gin. “Does this place permit outlaws openly?”

The bartender shrugged again as her eyes looked over Curtis’s head and around the room.

“We don’t welcome them, per se, but I s’ppose it fits the aesthetic.” She added air quotes with her fingers when she said the last part. “Honestly, I doubt most people, m’self included, would even recognize any outlaws in person; even the big shots. Maybe if you’re really into that sort o’ thing.”

Curtis raised his eyebrows and looked up more, letting his face show in the dim lantern light to get a better look at the bartender.

“Most o’ the time,” she continued, “we don’t even know an outlaw has drunk here until later when we read about ‘em in the news and someone says they remember them from a night er two before.” She leaned in closer over the counter and held her hand close to her lips. “Between you an’ me,” she whispered, “I think sometimes the other workers make up stories fer attention, er maybe just fer fun.” She stepped back and stood straight again, speaking at a normal volume. “Hey, whatever makes the boss happy. Most o’ the time, we don’t recognize anybody in the news unless they were a really memorable patron. There probably are a decent number who we’ve missed.” She shrugged once more.

“This saloon must be old,” Curtis said, pointing at the poster for Max “the Albatross” Dalton. “He’s long gone.”

“The original owner died and passed this place on to his brother who bestowed it upon his best friend who then gave it to their kid upon retiring. So the story goes, anyway.”

Curtis raised an eyebrow and nodded attentively.

“That kid’s now off running some breweries up north somewhere,” the bartender said. “They provide some of our beers on tap. The current owner is his cousin.”

“Crazy history,” Curtis said.

“Not to mention that the building’s burned down once er twice and gone through several make overs. It’s always kept the classic saloon style, though. People seem to enjoy it. You don’t git too much of that authentic valley feel in this part o’ town.”

Curtis scanned the wanted posters and pointed at Midnight’s poster.

“You know much ‘bout him?” he asked.

The bartender stared at the nondescript sketch of the man in all black before shaking her head.

“I do know that he’s the most debated on the list. It’s really just a rumor that he drank here once. I’ve heard he’s kind of a celebrity among outlaw aficionados, so it draws in a certain crowd who might not otherwise spend their money here.”

“Can’t say y’all don’t know how to run a business,” Curtis said and took another long sip of gin, then set his glass on the counter.

Downstairs, while reaching for a napkin on the table, Muriel accidentally knocked over her glass of sarsaparilla.

“Oh, now look what you’ve done!” Betty shouted and threw her arms up.

Muriel frowned and quietly scolded herself under her breath while Sly used the couple napkins on the table to try and soak up the liquid, but there was too much to clean up completely. Betty looked around the room for a waiter, failing to find one within shouting distance over the increasing volume of voices and the bingo hosts callouts. Betty sighed and pushed her chair out, then slowly stood and begrudgingly announced that she was going to get more napkins, obviously directing the comment at Muriel.

“Thank you,” Muriel said gratefully to Sly after Betty walked away.

“You’re very welcome,” Sly said, stuffing the wet napkins into Muriel’s empty glass. “I do that, too, after a few too many when drinkin’ with the guys.”

Muriel giggled.

Sly sighed, then said, “It’s a shame y’all can’t help me find my uncle, though. But I understand; I should’a known he’d be extra careful these days.”

Muriel looked at Sly with a coy smile and rested her hand on top of his. She leaned forward and waved her other hand to motion to Sly to listen.

“I know where Lennox lives,” she said slowly and somewhat quietly into Sly’s ear.

Muriel leaned back, scrunching her nose and squinting her eyes with a guilty grin. Sly glanced over his shoulder and saw no sign of Betty, then looked at Muriel and turned his hand over to hold hers.

“Betty’s just bein’ overly protective,” Muriel said. “They were good friends at university, you see. Ever since he got that major promotion from the Government and went off grid fer a while, she’s resented him.”

“Oh, really?” Sly asked.

Muriel nodded and said, “When they finally met up again years later, Lennox was already married, and I think Betty’s jealous even to this day, especially since he wasn’t interested in remarryin’ after the divorce. I bet she thinks she missed her chance, but she’s always had a soft spot fer her Sweety Sweeney. From what I can tell, in the time since reuniting and after Lennox retired, they’ve grown even closer than they were as young graduates. Betty says he’s shared some of his deepest, darkest secrets with her and she’s very protective about his personal details. Betty won’t like it, but I’ll show you where Lennox lives.”

Upstairs, the bartender said, “Seems like everywhere in the Valley Strip gets crazier by the year; the Big City’s no exception. There’re definitely more outlaws around than you’d think, even here. Feels like you could find one anywhere.”

“Mm,” Curtis grunted and agreed while swigging the last of his gin.

The bartender fetched the bottle, but when she popped the cap off, Curtis placed his hand over his glass.

“I was just waitin’ to meet someone,” he said.

Curtis stood and fished a silver coin from his pocket and firmly pressed it onto the counter, holding it down with two fingers for a moment.

“Thanks fer the conversation,” he said and told her to keep the change.

He stepped away from the bar and looked around the room. He doubted anybody up there was part of Sweeney’s crowd, but he had to be thorough. He had been proven wrong before. But before he had picked who to start with, he heard Sly’s voice in a loud whisper from the stairs.

“Psst, Dawn!”

Curtis glanced at the staircase and saw Sly’s head poking above the top step. Sly waited halfway up the steps for Curtis to walk over.

“I was looking for you,” Sly said in his usual Ridge accent.

Curtis sniffled and put his hands in his pockets. “I haven’t been able to git much info on Sweeney yet,” he admitted.

“Then I guess I win this round. Come on,” Sly said, turning around and holding the railing with one hand. “I know where Sweeney lives. Or, rather, my new friends know.”

“How’d you manage that?” Curtis asked, rushing down the stairs right behind Sly.

“With my natural detective prowess, of course,” Sly now switched to his imitation Valley Strip accent. “Along with some good luck bumpin’ into a couple o’ Lennox’s friends.”

Curtis flinched at the mocking accent, then Sly stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned around to face Curtis. He spoke again in his normal accent, but now in a hushed tone.

“I had to play it real cool, though, okay?” Sly said. “They think I’m his nephew.”

“Some good luck, huh?” Curtis questioned.

“On his ex-wife’s side. Just go along with it. I don’t think they knew her very well. It sounds like they didn’t like her much; thought she was crazy.”

When Curtis and Sly approached the women who were standing near the entrance, Betty crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.

“I can’t believe you told him where the old kook lives,” Betty grumbled to Muriel.

“Ladies,” Sly introduced with a gentle gesture of his hand as if presenting Curtis like a squire would introduce a knight. “This is my good friend, Curtis.”

It was strange for Curtis to hear Sly use his real name even in the context of disguise.

Muriel smiled widely and excitedly waved her boney hand. Betty kept her arms crossed with pursed lips and nodded once in Curtis’s direction.

“We never actually got yername,” Betty said, staring at Sly.

Sly hesitated for just a moment, then said, “Friends and family call me Junior.”

“Mhm,” Betty groaned, then turned and walked out of the saloon and into the darkened streets, partially illuminated by the many electric street lights and bright signs along the road.

“Don’t think walkin’ us home makes up fer forcin’ Muriel to give away you-know-who’s location,” Betty added once the group was on their way toward the fancy townhomes farther north on East Prime Street. “And I’m mad at you, too,” she snapped at Muriel who walked slightly ahead of her with a small purse in her hands, humming calmly to herself.

“Well, it’s on the way,” Sly said in his faux valley accent. “It’s the least we can do.”

Betty remained silent for most of the walk while Muriel shared stories Lennox apparently shared with the two women about riding around the Valley Strip in his youth. She prattled on merrily about various exciting camping trips he took down south, one during which he had to kill a pack of coyotes to save a group of rookie hikers in the mountains between Bullwater and Far Reach; another about when he got lost in the desert south of Onyxlanding, surviving on snake sheddings and dry bush roots for several days and nights.

“Oh, and he loved doin’ those fishin’ trips down the Twin River West,” Muriel yapped. “Gettin’ his brothers, sons, and nephews together was somethin’ he always looked forward to. You must’ve had so much fun back in those times, didn’t you, Junior?”

“Fond memories, indeed, ma’am,” Sly agreed.

Betty huffed and looked Sly and Curtis up and down with scornful scrutiny.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re lookin’ forward to relivin’ those memories with yer uncle,” Betty mocked. “Say, what’s the name o’ his buddy again? The one that he’d sometimes bring on those trips even though he wasn’t family?”

Sly inhaled and paused, pretending to think back to try and remember the name of Sweeney’s friend.

“Oh, yeah, him!” he stalled. “Totally. His name is…”

“You mean his name was,” Muriel corrected. “The poor man.”

Betty looked at Muriel with a frustrated expression and elbowed her side for giving Sly a hint.

Sly thought for another moment, trying to come up with a believable excuse for not remembering the friend’s name even after many supposed fishing trips with the man.

Curtis slowly opened his mouth and said something quietly.

“Hm?” Sly hummed and looked over his shoulder at Curtis.

“What was that?” Betty interrogated.

“You’re talkin’ ‘bout Shiloh Roth, right?” Curtis said louder.

Betty blinked with surprise and mumbled the beginnings of a sentence.

“That’s right!” Muriel exclaimed and her face lit up again like when she first mistook Sly as Sweeney’s nephew. “Oh, he was such a gentleman, also.”

“Yep!” Sly shouted and wrapped his arm around Curtis’s shoulder. “Ol’ Shiloh, that’s what we called him! Curt and I were practically brothers growin’ up, so I convinced Uncle Lenny to bring ‘im along on a trip er two, even though he ain’t family, neither.”

Sly gave Curtis a curious, grinning side eye while the ladies walked ahead and stopped in front of their homes. Evidently, they were next door neighbors. The two women were both out of breath from the 15-minute walk, but before they retired indoors, Muriel took Sly’s arm in her hands once more and pointed north up the road.

“Keep goin’ a ways until you see a house with a silver-framed door and windows,” Muriel explained. “It’s the only one on the block painted like that.”

With a final friendly wave from Muriel and one last scowl from Betty, the women entered their respective homes and Curtis and Sly began their hurried walk up the street.

“How’d you know about Shiloh Roth?” Sly asked Curtis curiously.

“Just a risky guess, honestly,” Curtis confessed. “I heard about ‘im in Bullwater. He owned Roth Co. who exported most o’ the seafood from the river before Frankie Lin happened.”

When the duo spotted the silver door and window frames shining under the light of the streetlamps, they stopped and staired at the three-story townhome before them. Sly looked at Curtis and shrugged, then walked up the steps and paused for a moment before knocking on the door with his knuckles. It was a tense half-a-minute before the door opened. Curtis and Sly braced themselves in case they needed to force their way inside if Sweeney immediately recognized them; however, when the door opened, they weren’t greeted by an old man. Instead, a young woman—maybe in her mid-twenties like Curtis and Sly—wearing a fine white blouse and black dress that went all the way down to her ankles greeted the men. Her simple black shoes shined under the chandelier in Sweeney’s foyer and her dirty blonde hair was wrapped in a tight bun. Her bright red lipstick contrasted with her fair, freckled face. She appeared to be a maid.

Curtis and Sly stood silently for a few seconds until the woman spoke.

“Good evening,” she said in a flat Ridge accent.

“Ma’am,” Curtis nodded.

“Evenin’, miss!” Sly greeted and tipped his hat. “Would Mr. Sweeney be home?”

The maid blinked and looked at Sly skeptically, surprised he knew Lennox’s real name.

“Don’t worry, miss,” Sly said quickly, fearing that she would slam the door on them. “I’m his nephew from his ex-wife’s side. This is my best friend. We were just passin’ through town and I thought I’d check on my ol’ Uncle Lenny.”

The maid closed her eyes and sighed in relief. She smiled and bobbed a curtsy, then gestured for Curtis and Sly to enter.

“Please, come in,” she said. “The master isn’t home now but should return in short time. I’m sure he will be happy to see you after so long.”

***

About 20 minutes later, the maid welcomed Sweeney home with a similar gesture. Sweeney released a deep sigh and plopped down on the bench right next to the door which doubled as a shoe rack. He rubbed his stretched, wrinkled face, and scratched his balding head of thin, white hair. He was less tan than other Valley Strip natives, but still darker than the maid. He gently smacked his sagging cheeks in an attempt to perk up.

Without a word, the maid began untying Sweeney’s shoes after he sat down and replaced them with fluffy slippers upon his feet. Sweeney then stood and the maid removed his coat, hanging it in a closet under the landing of the tall stairs across from the front door.

“I’ve already prepped your medicine for the evening,” the maid said after removing a robe from the closet and holding it up for Sweeney to weave his arms into, “and started your cigar lighter, as well as the fire in your room. I only just filled the bath because I thought you’d like to say ‘Hello’ to your guests while it cooled.”

“Guests?” Sweeney asked, confused.

The maid smiled with her hands folded in front of her.

“One of your ex-wife’s nephews stopped by on his way through town. He brought a friend, as well. They’re waiting for you in your study.”

Sweeney stood frozen for just a moment, unsure of who could be waiting for him upstairs. He was a very careful man and knew he hadn’t shared his whereabouts with anyone from his ex-wife’s side of the family.

“Yes, very good,” he said coolly. “Thank you. Could you bring us some iced tea, please?”

“Of course,” the maid said and hurried into the kitchen while Sweeney slowly walked up the stairs and down the hall toward his office. His heartbeat raced as he took cautious steps. His slippers muffled the sound of his movement, and he removed a pocketknife from his right pocket and carefully pulled the blade open with his fingers. He made sure the click of the safety lock was as quiet as possible, then stood beside the open door and took a deep breath. Peaking around the doorframe, he saw no one inside. He took a couple steps into the room and looked to his left to find Curtis lounging on the sofa in the office.

Sweeney gasped and raised his pocketknife, then jumped upon hearing the door clicking shut behind him. Sly leaned against the door and stared at the back of Sweeney’s head with a serious expression.

“You really can’t do anything on your own, huh?” Sly said, half-joking. “Your maid even ties and unties your shoes. I hope you pay her well.”

Sweeney took a firm step backward and swung around surprisingly quickly. The knife barely missed Sly’s neck as the ex-ranger moved back, then lunged forward immediately and swiftly disarmed Sweeney with little effort. Sweeney flinched again when he heard a revolver hammer being cocked behind him as Curtis aimed one of his guns at the old man.

“H-her salary’s paid by the Government,” Sweeney quavered.

“No need’a be afraid,” Curtis said as Sweeney slowly turned back around. “We just wanna talk.”

Sweeney’s Adam’s apple bobbed sporadically as he swallowed deeply.

“I-I recognize you two,” he shuddered. “What d-do ya want with me?”

“Just information,” Curtis said and stood, still aiming his gun at Sweeney. “Answer our questions honestly and we won’t do more than knock you out when we’re done.”

A quiet knock came from the door and the maid’s muffled voice came through the solid oak. The room fell silent.

“I’ve brought iced tea, sir,” she said in a gentle voice.

“Thank ya, dear,” she heard Sweeney’s raspy voice through the door. “Just leave it on the little table there in the hall, and I’ll come git it in a moment.”

The maid tilted her head from the unexpected response. She then shrugged and placed the tray with three glasses of iced tea and a half-full pitcher on the small, round table just outside the office door and walked away.

Curtis and Sly listened for the maid’s light footsteps to fade completely before continuing. Curtis then looked at the clock hanging on the wall above Sweeney’s desk.

“Let me be direct,” Curtis said. “How was Midnight involved in the Mystic Program?”

Sweeney breathed as steadily as he could and nodded shallowly.

“I understand,” he said quietly. He took a deep breath and looked at Curtis in the eyes. “I admit that I’ve met Midnight, but it was only once.”

Curtis raised an eyebrow. Sweeney eyed the barrel of the revolver and clenched his jaw.

“Nonetheless, I’ll share what I know,” Sweeney exhaled. “All I can say is that Midnight’s role was…large, to say the least, in the Government’s efforts to create spells artificially. Nobody really knows where spells came from to begin with, in truth.”

“But the Government’s been givin’ doyens spells fer decades,” Curtis objected. “Erin Glass told us the Mystic Program was only founded 12 years ago, so, how was the Government doin’ it before then?”

Sweeney lowered his head and stared at Curtis, then said, “Erin was smart, a-and very good at her job…but she didn’t know the full story. There’s somethin’ called a Midnight Wilter; some kind of plant matter, I think. It’s used in the process of making spells, but the supply was running out.”

“What d’ya mean ‘making’ spells?” Curtis asked, twitching his gun in the air.

Sweeney inhaled deeply again and held his breath for a moment before exhaling and saying, “I…don’t entirely know, I swear. I don’t even know if the Midnight Wilter is a plant er just a cockamamie codename fer somethin’ else. I promise, I’m bein’ honest!”

“Keep your voice down,” Sly said, firmly pressing the barrel of his own revolver into the middle of Sweeney’s spine.

Sweeney shuttered and kept looking at Curtis as he spoke quaveringly. “My guess is…Midnight was the one producin’ the Wilters. Or he was at least the ones supplyin’ ‘em to the Government. That’s all I ever knew about ‘im!”

Curtis furrowed his brow and squinted his eyes, contemplating the truth behind Sweeney’s statements.

Sly then spoke in a low voice, demanding, “Tell us about this ‘Immortal’ fellow Inez Dixby mentioned to us and how he ties into the whole thing.”

Sweeney released a staggered grunt, wondering how many people Curtis and Sly had already spoken with and which other directors they may have gotten to already besides Erin Glass. Why hadn’t any notices been put out about the encounters?

“Inez is also smart.” Sweeney answered slowly with a short pause between each word. “But she was also an idiot in some sense. Lower-level staff members’re often given false info to prevent leaks in case they squeal. It’s a sort of test before promotin’ ‘em. Obviously, she would’a failed if she was still involved, but it seems the deterrent worked to an extent.”

“Didn’t prevent ‘er from tellin’ us where to find you,” Curtis said. “So, you’re sayin’ Immortal is just a ruse?”

Sweeney grunted again, then said, “Well, Immortal was a real person, yes, but he had nothin’ to do with creatin’ spells. He was part of an experiment in transferrin’ spells between people. You see, the Government wanted his spell for their own use.”

Sly chimed in, “A spell that makes one immortal, I assume?”

Sweeney nodded. “Presumably,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter because that man is now dead. Turns out he was quite mortal.”

“How’d they manage that?” Sly asked.

“Midnight killed him, I think. I don’t know why.”

Curtis glanced back at the clock. Not even ten minutes had passed, but he felt he and Sly had already been there for too long. He looked at Sweeney.

“How can we tell everythin’ you’re sayin’ is legit?” Curtis questioned.

Sweeney lowered his eyes. “I have no reason t’ lie,” he mumbled. “I don’t imagine I’ll escape this interrogation without a scratch, but anythin’ y’all do to me will be nothin’ compared to what the Government’ll do if—no, when they find out what I’ve told you.” He looked up again and met Curtis’s eyes. “But I couldn’t care less, to be frank. I know my time is comin’.”

Curtis and Sly both furrowed their brows and looked at each other over Sweeney’s shoulder. It sounded all too similar to what Erin had said before her mysterious death.

“Say, did you happen t’ have yer fortune read by some fortune teller?” Curtis asked.

Sweeney’s voice no longer trembled. “I was saddened to hear ‘bout what happened to Erin earlier this month. I understood, then, that the same would happen to me soon enough. My fortune came true ten days ago. It was absolutely beautiful! So, yes, Mr. Conrad, Mr. Bowman, I’m tellin’ the truth. I got no business keepin’ the Government’s secrets no more. They don’t want me around anyway. Why would I care what happens to ‘em after I’m gone? I’m sure it’ll be any day now.”

Curtis and Sly both sensed that they were running out of time in more ways than one.

“Tell us,” Curtis demanded. “Do all directors of the Mystic Program feel that way?”

Sweeney shrugged.

“I s’ppose most o’ the retirees do,” replied the old man. “Not all o’ my colleagues retired with the rest of us. Only a handful of us were encouraged to exit the program, as our superiors put it. From what I can tell, a few of us may still be involved.”

“How ‘bout Taylor Howell?” Curtis asked.

Sweeney smiled. “Is he yer next target? Taylor’s stubborn. He might be harder to crack, but I guess it depends on yer methods. He’ll probably prefer to spill secrets rather than blood, like myself.” He glanced again at Curtis’s revolver.

“Like I said,” Curtis replied, “we never wanted to hurt ya; and we don’t plan on hurtin’ Taylor. Just keep yer mouth shut and go about the rest o’ yer days like we were never here. However many more ya got.”

Sweeney shrugged and said, “Now tell me, boys, how’s all this info servin’ you? I know you’re connected to Midnight in some way, Conrad, but can’t tell how. And I’ve heard you’re top priority prey for our folks at HQ, though I don’t know why. Yer bounty doesn’t seem to reflect that status.

Curtis smirked and tersely chuckled. “I take it they think I can help them git Midnight back somehow. Between you an’ me, I don’t know where he’s been the past two-and-a-half years. But I have an idea of what else they want from me.”

“Well, since we’re keepin’ it between us,” Sweeney mocked, “I’ll tell ya that the Government’s been keepin’ tabs on everyone Midnight’s had significant relations with fer years and if they wanted ya so badly, they’d have made the arrest already.”

Sly nudged Sweeney forward with the barrel of his revolver.

“The Government isn’t as omniscient as they try to make themselves out to be,” Sly refuted.

“They still got eyes almost e’rywhere,” Sweeney said. “E’rywhere that matters, anyway.”

Suddenly, the men heard a loud slam from downstairs followed by a rush of charging footsteps coming up the staircase. Sweeney sighed and grinned.

Damn, Curtis thought. We’ve been here way too long!

Before Sweeney knew it, Sly had rushed over to one of the windows in the study and jostled it open in its sticky, paint-coated frame. The rushing footsteps closed in on the study. There was no time for anything fancy, so Sly climbed out the window and dangled himself as low as he could before clumsily dropping onto the sidewalk. Curtis was close behind him, not giving a last glance at Sweeney on his way out. It was another 15 seconds—plenty long enough for Curtis and Sly to disappear into the night using the many alleys and side streets—before half a dozen deputies burst into the office. In that short time, Sweeny had gone to his desk and fetched a cigar from one of the drawers. He had just cut the end and was lighting the thick stogie when the officers arrived.

“Yer maid called, sir,” the leading officer said and walked over to Sweeney. “We came as quickly as possible.”

The others investigated the room, and one rushed to the window and looked out onto the street but saw no sign of the intruders.

Sweeney took a long drag of his cigar and blew the smoke into the leading deputy’s face.

“Took ya long enough!” the retired director complained. “I could’a been dead ages ago! And what, not even a single ranger was called in fer help? Disrespectful!”

“Well, we were unsure o’ the situation,” the deputy defended. “And rangers have been stretched thin to cover the losses of the Band o’ Lovers an’ White Snakes.”

“I ain’t askin’ fer a whole batch of ‘em er a doyen! Unbelievable!”

Through the shaded alleys, Curtis and Sly sprinted toward Big South. After a few minutes, they determined that they hadn’t been followed and slowed their pace to catch their breaths. They looked at each other, huffing heavily and relieved to have escaped successfully, but they both knew they needed to be more careful. There was no doubt that their presence in the Big City would be made known to their pursuers soon enough.

As they walked now down the darkened streets, they were already being watched. Two cloaked figures, one very tall and the other short and hunched over, followed them around every corner, unbeknownst to the outlaw duo. The shorter of the stalkers had a long nose with a big mole sticking out from under her hood. She wringed her hands together and crowed like a hag while the taller one simply watched in brooding silence.