Old News Excerpt-- Printing date: 1834
Japanese Immigrants flood into Flordia
An unsurprising turn of events-- Japanese immigrants from upwards of 5,000 potential citizens come in after Japan, a monarch island state, opened itself up to the west in 1829.
The Coyote
Clydesdale sat the odd, black stylus on the counter of the general trader. "What can I get f'this?" He inquired.
The shopkeeper gave him a look and scoffed, "Ya'feckin' kiddin' me? Yeh'think this trash is worth any--" He interrupted himself as he gave it a closer look. "Hnmph. Well-- I can't really resell this. But. The jeweler a lil' ways outta town likes this kinda weird shite."
Clydesdale squinted at him for a moment, before letting out a simple “Christ…” under his breath, walking out of the general store. He walked down the street, close to the edge of town was a rickety, old jeweler’s workshop. Inside, behind the counter was an old, short asian man. He let out a soft grunt, greeting Clydesdale with an “Irasshaimase. What do you need?”
With another solid thunk, the bounty hunter sat the obsidian black stencil on the counter. “The fella’ over at the general store said you had an interest in these kinda’ trinkets.”
The old man behind the counter let out an interested chuckle, “Oooh, hooohoohooo… I do… This is made of something very interesting. Not a whole lot of people get this metal. Very special. You’re the-- Ah.--”
He snapped as he tried to remember the word, “Gansuringā. Shooter man. Shootist?”
The jeweler snapped once more and pointed at Clydesdale, “Gunslinger!”
Clydesdale stifled a little chuckle at the shorter man in front of him, “That’s- uh. That’s me.” He responded as the jeweler gave a nod.
The old man dug out some tools, a larger crucible, a cast, a set of little hammers, a vice, and a little acetylene stove. “I can make you something very special, friend. Something that may assist with your ‘work’.”
Clydesdale scrunched up his nose, “And how much would this be?”
The old man let out a little laugh, “Good sir! It’ll only be 10 dollars for my handywork! Anywhere else would of scammed you with maybe two-- three dollars! Or if they’re a craftsman, charge you three-- four times more!”
Puledro stared at him for a moment, before Clydesdale pulled out a wad of cash and handing over a few bills. “It’d prob’ly make a p’good ring…” He mumbled as the old man counted.
The jeweler nodded, “Alright, good sir. It should be done in a couple of hours. Stay safe.” He praddled on, as Clydesdale tipped his hat and walked out. Having returned to the center of town, he frowned a bit. Passersby gave him side-glances and dirty looks, his duel from yesterday left a sour taste in many of the townspeople’s mouths.
Puledro let out a huff, before stumbling into Mashad again. “Oh-- Uh. Sorry, Mr. Clydesdale."
Clydesdale let out a little noise, “It’s fine, how’s the cut, kid? Two hundred good enough?”
The young man nodded eagerly, “Y-yessir.”
Clydesdale frowned a bit at that, “Naw kid, I ain’t your boss. No need to call me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Clydesdale.’”
"Just Clydesdale?" Mashad asked
"Just Clydesdale." He confirmed.
The two walked and talked down the road, down towards the saloon to get out of the sun and the dry heat. Inside the dusty bar was a man with a guitar, singing a little tune¹. They checked in with the bar man, got a pitcher of water, a couple of glasses, and a bottle of watered down whiskey. Clydesdale and Mashad picked out a small booth in a little nook up on the second floor. They celebrated a job well done, Clydesdale rose his whiskey, as Mashad clinked his glass of water with the bounty hunter’s.
Clydesdale and Mashad talked, the bounty hunter learned about the younger vagabond’s past. However, it wasn’t long before the two heard a chilling, humorless, chuckle². “As I live an’ breathe-- The golden gunslinger! An’ he’s a bounty hunter now.”
Clydesdale glared at him, “‘The fuck are you?” He grumbled.
The man with a thick southern accent, “Ya’ got a lil’ pest with ya’. I heard y’were ‘round here, Leprett’s a nice town. Folks don’t talk much if y’pay ‘em well ‘nuff. An’ the guv’ment folks don’t do shit.”
Clydesdale rose up in his chair, “Who. In the Hell. D’ya think, y’are?”
The southern man let out an ‘ahhh’ before he answered him, “‘Bobby Pierce’, y’might know me as ‘The Coyote.’ Anyways-- My point, some ‘a my friends ‘round here said they saw a strange feller sign a contract with the local pinkertons an’ come back with a well dressed corpse on th’back of his horse. Not unusual fer an undertaker, ‘cept it was a gunslinger. So they figured it was someone who fancied himself t’be the next Wild Bill or maybe th’next Zeppeli with them steel balls on yer gun-belt. But neither of ‘em are alive so Ah Digress. I like ya’ Clydesdale, ah really do. Stories ah hear ‘bout’chu are straight outta a dime novel. Fun t’hear! Now if yew--”
Clydesdale slammed his hands against the table, standing up and clearing leather. He shot Pierce square between the eyes³.
Inside the dusty bar was a man with a guitar, singing a little tune. They checked in with the bar man, got a pitcher of water, a couple of glasses, and a bottle of watered down whiskey. Clydesdale stopped dead in his tracks, he felt clammy and looked pale. “...huh…?”
Mashad blinked for a moment, as they sat at a booth, in a nook on the second floor. “You feel that deja vu too, right?” He asked, as Clydesdale nodded.
“That-- happened. It must’ve--” Clydesdale stammered, as they heard a familiar, cold chuckle.
“An’ it did, my friend. Ah see I must be slippin’ a lil’bit, cuz you sir. Are certainly fast enuff t’put John Wesley t’shame, friend. But I digress, I’m willin’ t’put Kalvin aside since honestly, th’man was a sonuvabitch. But if y’all come after me an’ what ahm doin’? I’ll make sure y’all’re six feet under, ya’hear? Now, arrivederci as them Italians say.” He said, with a little tip of his hat, leaving the saloon with the message.
Clydesdale sat down, putting his face into his hands. “What-- Was that?”
Mashad swallowed nervously, talking in a low voice, “He has a ‘Stand’, Clydesdale. I saw it--”
“With what I could se-- My blood ran cold at the sight of it...“ He finished, pouring himself a drink from the pitcher. Clydesdale rubbed his eyes, pouring himself a drink from the whiskey bottle. Taking a swig from the glass and rubbing his eyes, Clydesdale let out a sigh.
“At least the Pinkertons told me there’s more work over out in the boonies, an’ there’s a sighting of one of Bobby’s gang over in a town called ‘Whitetail’. Prolly will take th’next train over there, y’- uh.” Clydesdale paused, “You an’ me make a good team, suprisin’ly. Yer welcome t’come along if y’d’like.” He offered.
Mashad responded with, “Are you… sure? I dunno if a mostly blind man would be much of use…”
Clydesdale waved him off, “Naw kid, you can see them hoodoo stand whatsits. I donno if I’ll run into any more of them ‘stand users’ like with Kalvin, but ‘cides. Yer pleasant t’talk to.”
“Hah- fair enough…” Mashad chuckled at that, raising his glass. Clydesdale raised his in response.
To Be Continued⁴
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