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[b]”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Riders on the Storm: Part Three[/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; Two Days Later[/b][/indent]
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Vigilante could see them coming in the distance. Seemed like this was a recurring theme, danger heralded by a big ol’ dust cloud rising the distance. He could almost laugh about it. But all he could do was set his jaw and tighten up his grip on the lever-action of his rifle, setting it to his shoulder.

He’d spent the last few days shoring up the defenses with Frank Castle’s kit,and thanks to him they were really cookin’ with gas. Across the town they’d lain out wooden boxes filled with molotovs and a little nitroglycerin for that extra kick when he or Frank shot one. Then there were the traps; a few tree springs from rotted out second floor balconies, and three or four punji stick holes with thin covers of sand. Using Frank’s arsenal they’d lined up a few grenade bouquets and tripwires, not to mention a handful of makeshift landmines. But the thing they were prouder of than a pup with his first flea was The Saloon; they’d rigged it to blow. If they could lure whatever was coming up on the horizon into the ol’ Crossroads, the sons of bitches’d be scattered from Hell to breakfast.

But that relied on the pair of them not gettin’ killed first. The cloud in the distance was just about bigger than any Vig had ever seen, and he couldn’t even resolve whatever was making it. Whatever it was, the closer it got the more the Spirit set to squirming in his mind like a worm in hot ashes. It wasn’t united anymore, it was like he could feel the mass of lost souls rioting in his mind. Blaze had warned him for a [i]reason[/i]. Maybe The Rider didn’t like coming out against these punks. Whatever the case, Vig just had to hope that a dose of frontier justice would be enough to put them down.

As the cloud advanced on the northmost wall, Vig set his sights on the first of the traps they’d set. They’d rigged up as much explosive as they could hide in spots around each of the four walls. Whichever way the enemy tried to come in from, Vig could take a shot at the explosives and blow a nice chunk of their raidin’ party apart. While Vig sat up on the wall, Frank lie in wait in the town. Hopefully they wouldn’t realize they had two opponents before it was too late.

He was starting to make them, now.There were six… No, a dozen… Two dozen… Three… God, there were more and more spilling out of the dust cloud. Black riders with ethereal wisps of darkness whipping off of them and into the howling wind. They rode on Shrine Horses and Clydesdales that had the same inky black smoke trailing off of them. They had all kinds of armament slung off their horses -- repeater rifles, revolvers, sticks of dynamite. It was like they leapt out of Hell and into a perversion of a Clint Eastwood movie.

[color=#f92a0e]”And [i]no one[/i] disrespects Mr. Eastwood in my town, no sir.”[/color] Vig mumbled to himself. He put his cheek to the gunsight and sighted up on the bulge in the sands. They hadn’t opened up on him yet; maybe they couldn’t see the form of a prone cowboy against the twisted metal of the wall. Just a little closer now…

The man body of their force moved over the hidden explosive. Vig’s rifle cracked in his hands and rolled off the wall as an explosion rippled through the countryside. Vig shot a glance skyward and his hat was near blown away by the shockwave, he could feel his eardrums rattling in his head. A plume of fire towered way up into the heavens, and he could hear the baying of wounded horses. Through the sublest of cracks in the wall he could see the injured were fading away into dust. Whatever stuff of spirit had composed them, it was all boiling away. But the rest?

Aside from the chunk he’d blown out of the column, the others seemed fit to be tied. Bullets started plinking off the armor of the wall, and Vig could barely hear the report of their guns over the ringing in his ears.

[color=#f92a0e]”Frank! We got incomin’! Seventy-five or a hunnred’ mean sonsofbitches! Git to cover!”[/color] Vig sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him, sliding around the mines they’d placed and ultimately diving behind a collection of water-filled barrels. He grabbed his shotgun off his back and pumped the forend. The ‘Bounty Hunters’ were about to get deader than a doornail.