Chapter 3: At it Again


    Once he''d finished cooking, he rang the bell, and soon the kitchen buzzed with the scrape of spoons and the soft grumbles of children picking at their oatmeal.


    Noticing their sour moods, Edmond moved quietly, retrieving a small hidden bottle of syrup from the pantry and setting it on the table. The complaints instantly faded, replaced by the contented silence of mouths full of sweetened oats.


    Rufus returned, brushing off dust as his eyes landed on the empty bottle. With a huff and a sour face, he sat down, muttering under his breath as he filled his bowl.


    When breakfast ended, the children grabbed their books and slates, filing out toward the schoolhouse. Edmond stood in the doorway, watching their small figures disappear down the dusty path before turning back to the quiet house.


    "How’s Carter?"


    "Ornery as ever."


    Rufus slung a packed bag over his shoulder with a grunt.


    "Old coot sends his thanks. Says Fort Redstone’s breathin’ down his neck to get this wrapped up."


    He paused, eyeing Edmond.


    "How long you need?"


    "Be right out."


    Edmond’s voice came low and steady as he walked to his room, shutting the door behind him without another word.


    Rufus shook his head, spitting into the dust.


    "Gonna have to play this one gentle. Here’s hopin’ that kid''s got a deep voice."


    Inside, Edmond stood quietly in front of an old wooden chest, his eyes fixed hard on the latch.


    "Nice and easy."


    His hand hovered a moment before easing the lid open.


    Folded inside was a soldier’s uniform, the British red and white standing out against the worn and dusty room. He stared at it for a long moment, his expression set like stone, before picking it up and setting it aside.


    Beneath it, two sabers rested in their scabbards, their leather dulled and cracked.


    His hand lingered over them, fingers brushing the worn grip. The room stayed quiet, save for the faint shuffle of Rufus’s boots leaving the porch.


    Edmond let out a slow breath, his shoulders stiff as he finally wrapped his hand around the hilt.


    Outside, Rufus stood rubbing his bald head, his face twisted in irritation as his one eye squinted at the sun. The sharp braying of a mule clawed at his already worn patience.


    "I said quit hollerin’! You ain’t comin’, so knock it off, ya stubborn ass!"


    Behind a rickety fence, a black donkey with a white snout stomped and scraped, its ears pinned back as it kicked. The racket echoed across the yard, making Rufus’s eye twitch.


    "Leave him be."


    Edmond stepped onto the porch, his hat pulled low to shade his weathered face. He let out a sharp whistle, his tone firm but calm.


    "Not this time, Diego."


    The mule paused, its ears swiveling toward his voice. With a begrudging snort, it turned back to its hay, but not before letting out one final bray directed at Rufus, as if to have the last word.


    "Jackass."


    Rufus spit into the dust as he fished a cigarette from a tin in his vest. With practiced ease, he slid it between his lips, but his metal fingers sparked uselessly when he snapped for a light.


    "I’m tellin’ ya, that animal’s got nothin’ but hate in its guts. If we ever get tired of huntin’ men, could always scrap that little bastard for parts."


    He snapped his fingers again, his frown deepening when the sparks failed.


    "Out again dammit. Spare a light?"


    Edmond stepped up. With a snap, a small flame sparked to life, lighting Rufus’s smoke.


    "Not his fault he hates you. It''s too easy."


    Rufus scowled, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. He went to retort, but shook his head instead.


    "Hell, you ain''t wrong. Blame my pa. Man had the devil in him."


    He hefted his bag over his shoulder and followed Edmond down the path.


    Iron Haven Orphanage sat at the northern edge of Denton, perched at the end of a dusty, sunbaked road called Orphan’s Bend. The building itself was a patchwork of repairs, its weathered boards and mismatched shingles speaking to years of hard use. The two men left it behind as they made their way south toward Market Square.


    The heart of Denton stood ahead, its streets bustling with traders, ranchers, and travelers moving through the ever-present fog of dust. The square buzzed with the shouts of merchants and the hum of deals being struck, a relentless energy that made it the cities lifeblood—though not a single soul would call it welcoming.


    As Edmond and Rufus pushed deeper into the commotion, the clatter of carts and hushed conversations surrounded them, yet most folks kept their eyes low, their greetings sparse. Only a few nodded or offered acknowledgments. Rufus, ever attuned to the chill in the air, didn’t let the cold reception pass.


    "Love thy brother? Only when it suits ’em. We’ve been here longer than half these folks, and I’m raisin’ kids, for God’s sake!"


    "Mind your mouth and let it go. Besides. We got a stop to make—no sense getting riled up already."


    Edmond tipped his hat toward a pair of nuns walking briskly toward the Cathedral. Rufus quickly stepped aside to let them pass, sweeping off his hat with a theatrical bow.


    "Pardon me, ladies."


    The older nun barely spared him a glance, her expression sour as she snapped.


    "Perhaps if you spent more time with the Lord, Mr. Gunn, and less time at the brothels, you’d find some redemption. Come along."


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    She turned sharply, motioning for the younger nun to follow.


    Edmond let out a low chuckle as he waited for Rufus to catch up.


    "See? Too easy."


    "I reckon she’s sweet on me."


    Avoiding the crowd, the pair made their way further, eventually stopping in front of a building with a large, weather-worn sign that read The Gilded Spur.


    As the town’s general store, it was a bustling hub of activity, especially come morning. Folks milled in and out, arms loaded with supplies or just stopping by for a bit of gossip.


    Rufus paused at the entrance, letting out a low whistle as he took in the crowd inside.


    “I’ll wait out here. Grab me a can of earl while you’re at it.”


    He stepped back, dropped his bag at the base of a post, and leaned against it, crossing his arms as he settled in to watch the street.


    Edmond let out a sigh, leaving him and pushing through the door. The din of voices and the faint scent of dried goods and leather hit him all at once, drowning out the noise from outside.


    The shop was alive with customers, shuffling through aisles and chatting in low tones, while a man with a large mustache worked the counter.


    Making his way toward the front, folks made room quick enough, stepping aside when they caught sight of him. Once he reached the counter, he leaned a little and called out over the noise.


    “Elias! Hey, Griggs! My order ready?”


    Elias Griggs was behind the counter, his long fingers workin'' over a ledger like he was picking out a tune. Tall and wiry, he had the kind of face that made folks underestimate him, but there wasn’t a single detail in his shop that escaped those sharp eyes of his, magnified by a pair of Vaporguard spectacles.


    When Edmond stepped up, Griggs looked up without so much as a flinch, his movements smooth as an oiled hinge. Griggs had seen his share of men like Edmond—faces carved by grit and wear, shoulders carrying more weight than the packs they hauled—but he never pried.


    He traded in trust as much as goods, and that’s what made the Gilded Spur more than just a store in these parts. It was a cornerstone, steady as the man running it.


    "Lieutenant Thatcher. I already sent word three days ago that it was, indeed, ready. A moment."


    Edmond caught the tone but let it roll off. He’d asked a stupid question, fair enough. Still, he wasn’t about to let the man get too comfortable.


    "Drop the Lieutenant. Won’t say it again."


    Returning a moment later with a small box, Griggs set it down gently on the counter.


    "Of course, my apologies. Now, I do have to mention—my sources for these are getting scarce. After today, the cost, unfortunately, will be double."


    "Same time next month."


    Edmond grabbed the box without hesitation, nodding toward the shelf behind the counter.


    "Can of Dapper."


    "Certainly, Mr. Thatcher."


    Outside, Rufus was leaned against the post, his head craned as his eyes trailed after a passing skirt. When Edmond stepped out, his shadow cut across Rufus’s view.


    "Quit foolin’ and let’s go."


    "My earl?"


    Without breaking stride, Edmond tossed him the can of Dapper.


    Rufus snatched it mid-air with ease, grinning as he shouldered his bag.


    "What’s got yer britches in a twist?"


    Edmond didn’t answer, his pace steady as he moved down the dusty street.


    Rufus chuckled, popping the lid on the oil can with a faint hiss.


    "Man never was a mornin’ person."


    Extending his augmented arm, a section of it expanded with a soft whir of gears and a puff of vapor. He poured the oil into the mechanism, the faint smell of grease wafting into the air. He tossed the empty can aside as the section snapped back into place.


    "Next time a fat bounty crosses our way, let’s snag it. Saw this new model that lights wit'' somethin'' called e-lek-tric-ty. My girls’d sure appreciate me not smellin'' like a damn tin of earl all night."


    As Rufus gabbed, and Edmond did his best to ignore him, the pair walked on. The streets grew quieter as they moved north, heading toward the bridge that crossed the river on Denton’s northeast side.


    A ferry might’ve saved them the detour, but with money tighter than Rufus’s hatband, they knew better than to waste a single coin.


    After a few hours on the road, Rufus pulled off his hat, swiping a sleeve across his brow as he squinted at the high noon sun.


    "Seems a strange place for a Waster to hole up. Ain’t nothin’ out here but farmland. Reckon'' he''s got kin?"


    "Doubt it."


    Edmond took a measured swig from his canteen. He sloshed the water in his mouth before spitting into the dirt.


    "Wasters don’t usually appear close to home. Those crackpot Stitchers know better than to shit where they sleep."


    Rufus frowned, his eyes narrowing as he kicked a rock down the road.


    "Here’s a thought—why’s there never a bounty for the stitchmen? Seems like they oughta be first on the list, seein'' as they’re the ones churnin’ out the problem."


    Edmond’s gaze shifted to a desert dragon skitterin'' across the dirt, its small, scaly body darting for cover.


    "Hard to fear what isn''t right in front of you."


    Snatching up a pebble, Rufus took aim and flicked it hard. The stone flew true, cracking the lizard on the head and dropping it cold. He ambled over, snatched it up, and stuffed it into his bag without a second thought.


    "Don’t sit right. If you ask me, it’s the damn ch—"


    "Didn''t ask."


    Edmond motioned for him to quiet, his eyes catching movement in the distance.


    "One of these days Rufus, that mouth''s gonna get you killed."


    A wagon creaked toward them, the farmer at the reins tipping his hat in passing. Edmond returned the gesture, his face unreadable.


    Rufus stepped aside, tipping his own hat grudgingly before turning back to the horizon. He squinted against the sun as it glinted off metal in the distance.


    Far across the fields of corn and barley, a mechanized harvester rolled through the crops, its gears groaning in a steady rhythm.


    The hulking Vaporguard machine chewed through the rows with ease, steam hissing from its sides as a lone farmer guided it from above. It was a sight as common as the dust, but the crosses and symbols covering it always drew Rufus’s eye.


    "Church sure loves makin’ folks remember who’s keepin’ their bellies full."


    The harvester was a symbol of the church of the Vaporguard, a marvel of engineering that had kept the Empire free from famine for centuries. But to Rufus, it felt more like a quiet reminder of who was pulling the strings.


    "What you think he''s doin’ out there? Carter says he’s been spotted off and on for a week now. Don’t seem like he’s makin’ much effort to keep movin’."


    Edmond was already worried about this. It wasn''t normal, and it was beginning to make him impatient.


    "Doesn’t matter. Just need to find him before trouble does."


    Rufus grinned as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, brushing dust from his arm


    "And here I thought we were the trouble."


    After a few more hours on foot, the path eventually dipped toward Clearwater Creek, a quiet settlement tucked about eleven miles northeast of Denton. Nestled near a bend in the Red River, the community sprawled across rolling plains, its fertile soil fed by a freshwater spring.


    The spring’s cool waters brought a hint of relief to the otherwise harsh frontier, and the settlement was a patchwork of modest farms and fishing docks, all radiating out from the central feature—the spring itself.


    Clearwater wasn’t large, maybe 200 folks, mostly farmers and fishermen scratching out a living. The place had an air of calm resilience, but it wasn’t immune to the troubles of the frontier.


    Tensions with natives over the ''sacred spring'' lingered, and its isolation made it an easy mark for bandits. Still, the people here were tough, sticking together and leaning on each other for survival.


    As the sun beat down, Edmond cast a glance toward the settlement, his face impassive.


    "He’s probably wounded. Could be luck, or maybe this one’s got some brains left."


    "What’re you drivin’ at?"


    "No sheriff. No church keeping watch. Just enough people to patch yourself up, not enough that you can''t avoid them. If I was hurt and desperate? I''d be here."


    As they crested a small rise, Clearwater Creek came into full view. The spring shined in the midday sun, its clear waters pooling into a wide stone basin before feeding into the Red River.


    Rufus wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his gaze sweeping over the settlement.


    "Place don’t look like the type to take kindly to bounty hunters. Hell, I doubt they’d take kindly to strangers at all."


    Edmond didn’t answer right away, his eyes lingering on the calm waters.


    "They don''t have to. We aren''t here to make friends."


    The two men started down the slope, the faint buzz of the settlement growing louder as they approached. They decided to hit the creek just as the sun was laying down its full weight.


    Edmond dropped his bag by the water’s edge, crouching low to scoop a handful over his face. The relief hit quick, though this bounty still clung to him like an unwelcome guest.


    Rufus wasn’t far behind, dunking his bald head with a bit more flair, letting out a low groan as the water dripped down his neck.


    "Can’t complain ’bout this. Only decent thing ''bout this place."


    Edmond didn’t answer, just stood there staring at the water like it might hold some kinda answer. After a moment, he straightened up, shaking the droplets from his hands.


    "Let’s head in, see if anyone’s caught wind."


    "Reckon we’ll get more scowls than answers. Still, maybe they’ve got somethin’ worth drinkin’."


    Edmond didn’t bother responding, already heading toward the trail.


    Rufus hung back, staring at the waters like he was waiting for something. The spring was quiet, too quiet.


    He shook his head, adjusting his bag. Then he followed, boots crunching dry earth, the scent of dust and trouble thick in the air.