[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/6bK49TU.jpg[/img][/center]
[b]”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Riders on the Storm: Part Two[/b]

[center][i]“The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.”[/i][/center]
[center][indent]-Anonymous[/indent][/center]
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[indent][b]Warpath, Texas[/b][/indent]
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The day since the warning had been slow and excruciatingly long. Vigilante spent long hours making his way along the same path of the town; around the square, up the Saloon ladder, across rooftops. Two minute break in wall-mounted gun nest, climb down, repeat. Every subtle noise and shift in the sand was cause for full alarm, cycling the shotgun and spending fifteen minutes ruthlessly investigating the noise. Always nothing. Sometimes there’d be the shambling form of a Fatboy in the distance, wandered off from wherever the main pack was. He left them alone, best to not draw undue attention to himself.

In some way, Vig relished the spare time. The defenses could always use more shoring up. Hiding repeater rifles in blown out storefronts, cramming crude explosives into marked crates for use during a firefight. But at a certain point it had become busywork. Without Hex to help with the heavier stuff, that’s all there way. Retighten the barbed wire around the friesian horses, double check the ammo stores, on and on and on for all the hours in the day. His trigger fingers burned for the challenge, a chance to right what had been done to these people in what small way he could manage.

His sleep that night, if it could even be called sleep, was restless. A hand shooting out for his revolver at the slightest creak in the house. Trying to lull himself to sleep listening for subtle changes in the wind. If there was one thing Hell hadn’t prepared him for it was the waiting. There it was nonstop combat. You were up to your eyeballs in demons and gore or you were on the run from the biggest gang of assholes around. No rest to the wicked. This felt like he was being left to stew. Drive himself mad on the waiting. Maybe The Bounty Hunters hoped he’d eventually think his own reflection was the enemy and he’d exhaust the ammo stores before they rolled in and mopped up.

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His dreams that night seemed empty, devoid of meaning. The voices had quieted. Johnny Blaze and company did not see fit to visit. Niggling doubt wormed in Vigilante’s mind; maybe ‘Blaze’ was a figment of the Spirit, trying to drive him up a wall about an opponent that would never come. A mark of Mephisto to taint his mind with insanity.

Yet, somehow the Spirit seemed wholly [i]different[/i] from Mephisto. The people were… Well, undamaged. Few of them had any blemishes on their wooden pallor, despite how badly The Spirit had manhandled them. Only one man was dead, and it was one Jonah Hex’d have killed anyhow. What he knew of Mephisto, “The Prince of Lies”, painted a different picture. He’d have probably had the Spirit slaughter the townsfolk and put The Dummy’s head on a pike for good measure. Instead it was… Quiet. But if Vigilante knew Mephisto for any one thing, it was that he liked to play the long game… Something to ponder on today’s patrol.

6 AM Breakfast was spent atop the Crossroads, watching the sun crawl its way into the sky. Vig munched on his reheated sandwich and though on the last words he’d heard out of Hex before… Well, before. Something to protect. Sounds about right.

The next three hours were spent on the usual patrol cycle. But for all he had pictured of what the attackers to come would look like, a panel van on its last legs wasn’t it. Vig lay low, cowboy repeater pressed to his shoulder, watching the van make clumsy turns through the mire of the wall. Only one in the front; an asian guy not exactly dressed for combat. Vig set the rifle to the side and pulled a pair of revolvers from his chest holster. A closer look -- and a cleaner shot -- couldn’t hurt.

In a moment he had shimmied down from the Saloon and the panel van had shuddered to a stop. The man stepped out, taking contemplative steps towards the square, looking the surroundings up and down. No reinforcements piled out the back on the van. Vig tightened his grip on his guns as he pulled closer to the van, taking cover behind the back and glancing around at the man.

Vig licked his lips and took steps closer. He seemed oblivious. Not expecting a fight; but maybe that was a trick.

Suddenly, there was a knife in his mind. The Spirit had reared its head.

[color=#3d045e]”Ally.”[/color] It croaked. [color=#3d045e]”Vengeful spirit, waiting to pass. Living dead.”[/color] Ally…? Vig paused for a moment. The man’s head was in his revolver’s sights. What kind of unholy creature would that [i]thing[/i] call an [i]ally[/i]? Vigilante stood and took aim. At the very least, The Spirit hadn’t cautioned him to kill, again. Maybe this guy really was different. Or it was trying to fuck Vig the best it could.

But now… What use was it to second guess the thing? The hallmark of VIg’s time in Hell was second guessing himself into circles. What if the Demons changed position? What if the ammo stores run out? What if the Soldiers turn out to be illusions after all? The lesson was that it all boiled down the same at the end; however you treat someone or something, you just better hope you can draw faster.

Vig pulled back the hammer on his revolver.

[color=#f92a0e]"What brings you 'round here, pardner? We don't have a great record with strangers."[/color] The man raised his hands.

[quote=@Simple Unicycle]
[color=black][b]"I saw the ad on vigilante dot net saying the town was under siege and needed help. I'm here to help. The name's Frank Castle. You can call me the Punisher."[/b][/color]
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[color=#f92a0e]"Well hoe-lee-shit."[/color] The words escaped Vig’s mouth before he could stop them. [i]The Punisher[/i]. News came slow to Warpath, but a man couldn’t blow through most of the Italian Mob without the news passing through the place faster than green grass through a goose. The Punisher wasn’t divise in Warpath like he was in most places. But then, most places hadn’t been dealing with constant demon incursion for the better part of three years. The people here tended to like themselves a little frontier justice. If you asked Jonah Hex the old man’d say Castle was doing the Lord’s work.

Vigilante wasn’t so convinced. Castle killed callously, without remorse. Two bit goons and Drug Lords were all the same to him, but… There was something to admire about him. He took justice into his own two hands when the law wouldn’t cut it anymore. It reminded Vig a little of himself. Vig took in a deep breath through his nostrils.

[color=#f92a0e]"Color me innarested, Mister Castle."[/color] Vig holstered his guns and walked clockwise around Castle, coming to face him in front. He extended a hand and hoped the fellow vigilante wasn’t too practiced in the art of the quickdraw if things went south. [color=#f92a0e]"But, tell you the honest truth? I ain’t exactly certain you’ll be ready for what you see here."[/color]