Bootleg

A short story based on the BRIM song 'Bootleg'    

     Jack Tanner woke up to an amber sunlight shaft streaming through the old gap in his cedarwood shutters. Patting the whiskey flask that armored his vest pocket, he smiled to himself. Today was a good day -- like every day had been since the sweltering summer of 1881. That was the year he had finally “legalized” his bootleg business with a mountain of well-placed coins and fortunately-timed accidents. Washing his stubbled face with icy spring water, Jack began shaving carefully with the gleaming silver razor he kept by his bedside. It would make for a decent close-range weapon, but only if his Smith and Wesson misfired. Jack rarely dealt with close range. He smirked to himself, then winced after absentmindedly nicking his jaw. 

     Grumbling at his mistake, the swarthy bootlegger finished up his morning routine, donned the same pair of carefully pressed slacks he wore every day, and took a long swig of his signature blend from the hidden flask. Presentation was everything, and the smell of a high quality whiskey on his breath paired well with his swanky, if not opulent clothing. Stepping out of his humble, two-story boarding house, Jack surveyed the small town that served as  headquarters for his ever-expanding bootlegging operations. The streets were clean, if not a bit dusty; but each store front was immaculately swept, and the townsfolk were already out bustling with the day's work. The colorful paints on the wooden sidings were fresh and unchipped, and several new buildings were being framed in the distance. Yes, today was a good day. 

     A good day required three things in Jack’s mind: business, booze, and broads. The first item on that list had been secured by a bloody, gunpowder-laden climb to his current station. It wouldn't do to just be vicious, though. Any gunslinging idiot could sneak up behind his competition and put a bullet in their head. Shoot enough enemies, however, and you’ll never make any friends. No, Jack Tanner was a vicious man, but he was sharp too.

     Walking down the street, nodding to the folk who owed their livelihood to his business,  he noted the looks of admiration--even worship-- in some of their eyes. Jack knew he wasn’t a smart man. No, he left the bean-counting to his longtime associate, Noose from New York. He wasn't a dangerous fellow or anything, they just called him Noose on account of him wearing his necktie tight enough to hang a man. Now, that was a smart one. But folk always forget you don't have to be smart to be sharp, and it was many of those folk who underestimated him due to his southern drawl, or unassuming manners. Some of those forgetful folk were buried a few miles away, deep in the old coal mine.

     The well-dressed businessman hummed a jovial tune as he headed toward the saloon. The second item that made up a good day, booze, was a well-fitting vice. His nose for a good product was half the reason he had done so well for himself, and good men drank his whiskey from the east coast all the way to the reservations, and even then some, too. The key was good oak. Many high quality washes were ruined in old, half-rotted barrels. Jack only aged his whiskey in fresh oak, cut and shaped by master carpenters and iron banded by master blacksmiths. Rounding the last corner into the town square, he flung the batwing doors open with a good deal of force. Jack liked making an entrance.

     “Morning to you Mr. Tanner! A fine day it’s turning out to be, wouldn't you say?!” said the barkeep. Jack nodded with a calculated smile and slid onto his usual, velvet-covered stool. It was best not to do too much talking. In his youth, he had been a yarn-weaver, spinning the grandest tales to anyone who would listen. Now, he had realized the value of silence; for, more than a few words, a well placed silence could shift even the toughest negotiations in your favor. Down the scratched-oak bartop, the barkeep slid his morning special: fatty ends of some freshly butchered bacon (fried to a crisp), three poached eggs, and a shot of top shelf bourbon from Jack’s own personal stores. Too much of anything is bad, but too much whiskey is barely enough. 

      As expected, the third item on his list arrived at the saloon just as he did. He smelled her before he saw her -- fresh lavender with an alluring twist of some exotic fruit she had never disclosed. Daisy was her name, but she made even the prettiest of wildflowers look bland. Jack had plucked her out of a backwater town that mired along a pivotal trading route for his business. His group had purged the surrounding area of the Comanche, a particularly brutal collection of Native Americans. While this removal was executed for purely selfish purposes, it made him quite the living legend in that town. The bond that he forged with the folk there, as well as its remoteness, was a valuable resource. It was where he kept his immense stash of gold and government dollars, and it was there that he had met Daisy.

     “Morning, Jack,” she said with a soft smile. She shone inside of that dusty, dim bar like someone had set her ablaze.

     “Morning, love,” he replied softly. She leaned in to meet his lips, then turned her attention to the barkeep, inquiring how the week's shipment of food stores was coming along. Jack and Daisy’s exchange had caused the busy saloon to almost hold its breath, and then sigh out. It was good for those around him to see the love he had for his lady, Jack thought to himself. A beautiful, intelligent woman elevated a man to his peers in a way that even the greatest of economic victories could not. 

     Yes, of business, booze, and broads, Daisy proved the final item to be the most invaluable. It was her gentle, but firm hand that drove most of the day-to-day operations, while Jack spent his time on key expeditions to advance alliances, product territory, and his own legend. Jack looked at his greatest achievement furtively while downing his morning shot of whiskey. She was adorned in a rich, satin gown, laced with the finest materials and dyed a rare, royal purple. Weighing down her neck was a near armada of pearls, diamonds, and gold engravery. The finest attire in the West for the finest woman in the West. Nevermind that the owner of said finery was sunk in the Missouri river with a couple bullet holes in his chest.

     Better to ruminate on the more positive aspects of the business this morning, Jack thought to himself. For the bustle in town and at the saloon was not without reason. Today was a good day, but it could also be a great day. Maybe even the greatest he had ever had. Jack excused himself wordlessly from the bar, and walked back out into the crossroads of the town he called home. Down the road to the west lay some assorted tailories, grocers, and the stables. Past that was the trainyard, and his destination. His well-oiled, black leather cowboy boots kicked up little puffs of dust as he strode with confidence down the lane. Yes, today could be a great day, indeed. Months of negotiations, war, and shady dealings had led to this day --the day that the Tanner Company signed a trade agreement with the West Boys.

     The West Boys were to his company as a pack of wild dogs were to a great Serengeti lion. Jack recollected his history with the West Boys, a history that put a bad taste in his mouth and black thoughts in his mind. They were an organized front, fighting mercilessly over his kills and hunting his grounds every time he wasn’t looking. Not to mention, they were a unified gang of outlaws, brought together by a keen sense of business and some family joinings. It took them twelve men to build half the empire he had claimed by himself. Jack breathed sharply out of his nostrils, and he could have sworn some steam escaped. Dwelling on his hatred toward the West Boys would do him no good; he had been able to squash it for months to get this deal to fruition, and he would rather tie himself to the tracks than let it all go to waste now.

     Yes, presentation was everything, Jack Tanner reminded himself. He forced what he felt was a tough-but-welcoming look on his face, and smoothed out the few wrinkles that had formed on his slacks when he sat down for breakfast. Slipping out his vest flask with familiar ease, he took his second, long swig of the day -- just enough liquid courage to spark a little wit in his skull, but not a drop more than he needed. Best to stay as sharp as possible.

     Though he walked alone to the large train depot that put this town on the map, he had instructed his inner circle of sharpshooters and highway men to arrive at the meeting grounds early. The West boys had received strict instruction to arrive only as they were, with a minimal posse of men, but it was best to take no chances. Reaching the oversized warehouse that would serve as the appointed meeting location, Jack flung open the doors, demanding any in the room to turn their attention to him, simply by his explosive manner of entry. It was good to make an entrance.

     Jack smelled the smoke before anything else. He had always had a keen sense of smell, and often people were so blinded by what they saw that they missed what was in the air all around them. The smoke was thick enough to indicate a recent train arrival but fading fast enough for him to know it was not a train weighed down by cargo, but a train for men. Well, boys, he corrected himself with a smirk. The warehouse was a large, metal construction that opened directly onto the tracks. This made it convenient to load cargo or repair trains that needed maintenance. Sturdy metal walkways girded the upper portion of the half-pipe shaped building, and the packed dirt floor was home to a maze of barrels and crates, though these were mostly pushed to the side for the evening’s purpose. A few chairs had been set around some old bourbon barrels in the center of the room, and Jack could make out the leading West Boys already seated there. On his side, Noose was there, along with a couple of his other more trusted Company men. 

     Jack furtively scanned the windows and galleys that circled the higher reaches of the warehouse and saw a thin waft of smoke spiraling at the corner of one of the outside exits. He cursed to himself. His men were supposed to hide outside silently and wait for his emergency call. Though he did not expressly forbid them to smoke, as it was a noiseless activity, only a dunce would get that wrong. He schooled his anger and expression as he approached the negotiation table. No need to worry about a detail that the simpletons in front of him would never notice.

     “Tanner,” said the biggest and meanest looking West Boy as Jack sat down at the makeshift table. He was Skinner -- not on account of it being his government name, which was Jerry, but on account of what he was known to do to those who double crossed him. Well, a vicious man was not scary unless he was sharp, and the West Boys scarcely had enough brains between them to tap a keg. The scarred leader of the West Boys was wearing a collared shirt and tie, which was a rare formality, though his signature leather trenchcoat bunched around his right hip as it flowed to the ground -- indicating that he still carried his beloved Colt.

     “Skinner,” Jack grunted. To the rest of the gathered West Boys, the head of Tanner Company made a quick note of their identities and offered them a single nod. They did not nod back. Undeterred, he made a discreet hand signal to Noose to begin the discussion. The accountant was dressed in his Sunday best: a tailored vest, pants, and collared shirt Mr Tanner had gifted to him many years ago. The two were dressed much the same, and Jack proudly thought that Noose even looked quite sharp. He needed him to be. The West Boys had no inhouse brains like the Tanner Company did -- rather, they often worked with a sleazy but ferocious troupe of lawyers from up north. It was with these men that Noose engaged in a lengthy, and vicious battle of legalese, a feat not unlike the many shootouts Jack had triumphed in throughout his years. It was a legacy that earned him the name Cowboy Jack, a whispered moniker that traveled from one saloon to the next on the tongues of men who had one glass too many.

     As the night wore on, Jack’s back began to ache in the stiff oak chair, but he forced himself to remain still and unshifting. One bad move during tense negotiations could lead to a touchy man drawing his weapon. There was not much left for the bootlegging businessman to do for this deal. After all, countless negotiations and turf wars had already decided much of the contract, which lay spread out across the barrel like a spoil of war, spidery black ink coating every inch. Bootlegging Tanner Company whiskey through West Boys territories, and smuggling West Boys opium through his, would essentially double everyone’s profits. The Company would even send the first 50 barrels of liquid gold back with their newly minted business partners today. It was a smart deal. A good move. A no-brainer.

     Jack looked up from the negotiations to secretly assess Skinner's face. The man seemed pleased, a rare grin barely peeking out from the side of his scarred mouth. Tuning back into the conversation, he realized that Noose was forced to give up the Leather Mountain ridge trail entirely to the West Boys to guarantee continued passage through a particularly dangerous stretch of unorganized territory. No matter; Noose knew what he was doing. Let them have this small win.

     Allowing himself to sit back in the uneven chair, Jack took a third swig from his vest flask. Perhaps this casual maneuver would make it seem to the West Boys like he felt he was getting the short end of the stick. Maybe it would put them at ease that Jack was drinking through the negotiations. Or maybe he was just thirsty. Either way, he felt it was a good approach to relieve the palpable tension in the air as negotiations reached a fever pitch. It was a fine blend, and it rolled across the whiskey mogul’s tongue and down his throat with a smooth, fiery heat. Jack leaned back toward the table. Suddenly, he felt a tightening in his chest. Something was wrong.

     His eyes darted around the room. What had spooked him? The lawyers were shouting about some clause on the third page of the contract, and Noose was sweating profusely trying to reign in the deal. But this was not out of the ordinary. This was manageable, and Jack trusted Noose to deal with it. So what was off? A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead as his mind raced. It was not the yelling itself, but as it grew in intensity, the tightness in his chest sharpened, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck. What was it, dammit?

     Something shifted. It was three things. They occurred in rapid succession, in the space of a heartbeat. It clicked that the West Boys were listening very intently to this argument, something that they were too stupid to understand. It then occurred to Jack that the smell of the train smoke was fading -- enough to no longer mask the scent of lavender and an exotic fruit in the air. Then, he heard the faintest of clicks across the warehouse, a dozen feet up in the air. Many men would attribute the noise to the natural settling of a metal walkway in the summer heat. Jack Tanner knew it to be the machined lever of a Winchester Model 1873.

     Jack didn’t take the time to draw his Smith and Wesson, but instead dove across the table, knocking Noose to the side and slamming into Skinner. The crack of the sniper shot rang out and the bullet that was meant for the back of his skull bloomed in the chest of the unfortunate West Boy lawyer across the table . As Jack tumbled into the dirt with the dangerous outlaw, he heard the familiar sound of gunfire ringing out across the warehouse. Jack took a hard right to his jaw and saw stars, but managed to sway back from the second blow. This let the beast of a man scrabble out from under him, but gave Jack time to draw his gun. The shot went wide of Skinner's shaven head, and the leader of the West Boys let out a bark of laughter as he dove behind a cropping of barrels where his men were taking cover . He hadn’t seen the sniper in the rafters steady his rifle up to take a second shot. He also didn't see the man fall off of the guardway with a .45 caliber bullet hole straight between his eyes. 

     Rolling into the unfortunate dead man’s land between the table and the West Boys left Jack exposed, but decades of firefight instinct took over. He turned his shooting motion into a fluid dive, putting the body of the dead lawyer between himself and the rapidly growing ranks of West Boys. Waiting a heartbeat to let the round of bullets meant for his body enter the corpse, Jack made a mad dash back to the labyrinth of crates where he had seen the Tanner Company men who were seated around the table run off to. Despite being dazed from the hammer of a blow, Jack fired a few shots from the hip while running, and was darkly pleased to see one of them punch Skinner’s younger brother right in the chest. 

     Taking one to his left arm was the best outcome Jack could've hoped for as he made it back behind some crates, his heart pounding in his chest. He checked the gunshot wound, but the bullet had made a clean passage without striking any major vessels. The deeper wound, a treachery lost in the thrill of a shootout, came crashing back to him in an instant. The West Boys had way too many men, and they were way too well-armed. Daisy had been here when she should have been back in town. The West Boys had planned to kill him, and brought enough men and weapons to take over his operations after that. They should not have the wealth or brains to accomplish this.

     The tumblers clicked solidly into place in Jack’s brain, but he refused to allow the conclusion into his consciousness. Turning to his left, Jack saw the remainder of his men fighting like their life depended on it. It surely did. The fact that their Company reinforcements never came from around the warehouse meant that they were all who remained. Breathing in deep, Jack Tanner smoothed the wrinkles out of his luxuriously tailored pants. Presentation was important, after all.  Ducking under fire, he darted to where his men were holding and found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Noose. Despite spending most of his time at a desk, the man was a crackshot, and he took one man to each of Jack’s two. The bullet wound Jack had taken in his left arm throbbed fiercely, and he could feel the warm blood of the gash trickling down his side as he fired round after round across the smoky warehouse.

     The West Boys had mostly retreated to their private train, an iron beast that would allow no bullet entry. As another rank of gunmen poured in from the track-side warehouse entrance, Jack realized that he and his men needed to withdraw back to town, and turned toward Noose to call the retreat. Before he could open his mouth, Jack saw a flash of red thud to the ground between Noose and him. 

     “SCATTER!” Jack shouted at his men, as the dynamite wick flared once more and extinguished. Diving behind a large crate, he flung himself to the ground before a deafening boom sounded, and everything went momentarily black. 

     It was the West Boys who inadvertently saved his life. Counting on this deal meant Jack had needed to produce more whiskey. Producing more whiskey meant building more oak barrels. Building those barrels required banding them with iron. Iron banding required more blacksmiths, and more blacksmiths meant more anvils. Crate #34 had shipped in from York, Pennsylvania just two days ago -- stacked to the brim with anvils and packed with rubber. It just so happened to be the crate Jack dove behind, and it absorbed the lion’s share of the dynamite explosion. Despite his saving grace, Jack was still flung deeper into the labyrinth of wares and knocked unconscious for a minute or two. 

     He woke up, bloody and bruised, with a ringing in his ears and a few spilled barrels of whiskey tumbled over his battered body. A shard of wood about the length of Jack’s hand was sticking out of his gut, but he made the intelligent decision to both leave it there, and not look at it. The pain was quite tough to ignore, though.

     “Is he dead?” Jack heard Skinner ask. The dynamite must have done its job because the sounds of gunfire had faded to well beyond the train depot. His town, Jack realized with a sudden jolt of despair; the bastards were razing his town. The sudden rush of emotion threatened to send him back to blackness again, but through enormous force of will, the bootlegger stayed conscious.

     “Appears to be. This piece is wrapped in the pants he wears every day, and this one has a scrap of that black vest,” said Daisy.

     Jack’s heart wrenched in his chest. The tumblers that had fallen earlier resolutely clicked into place, despite his best efforts at denial. Though he wasn’t a smart man, he couldn’t ignore the simple truths that were piling up. The West Boys were able to plan this ambush because they had insider knowledge and funds, both of which came from Daisy. She was the only person on God’s green earth that knew Jack’s business inside and out, and where he had stashed his personal fortune all those years ago. A knife twisted in Jack’s heart, and he couldn’t bear to look at her. The knife only twisted deeper when he realized that Daisy had mistaken the remains of Noose for Jack, due to the similar outfits they were wearing. He still remembered the rare smile on his accountant’s face the day his boss took him to the tailor shop and bought the man his first ever vest and pants. 

     Jack was saved from the depths of despair by the sound of grunted orders and a stampede of footsteps. Daisy’s sinister plan would be brutally effective, he realized with a start. The West Boys would head back to the hideout on their personal train, and by tomorrow they would run all of Jack’s business through Daisy. She had good enough connections and knew how to make it all work. The first 50 barrels Jack had ordered set out would probably still get loaded up tonight. He looked around, pain clouding his thoughts and realized that he was currently sprawled out right beside these very barrels.

     Jack heard a shout and footsteps drawing closer, so he did the only thing he could think of. Righting a barrel that was not fully emptied, the injured sharpshooter jumped into the warm whiskey and pulled the lid closed over it, praying that the men wouldn’t check the contents if it appeared shut. The stupidity of what he had just done set in the second Jack felt the alcohol wash over the fresh stab wound in his stomach. A tornado of agony pierced his side, and it was all he could do to keep himself from screaming until his throat ran ragged. To remove his torso from the devilish concoction,  Jack immediately shifted his body, which required him to bend over in an uncomfortable crouch. As it was, he still let out a low moan of pain, and prayed that no one was listening too closely.

     “What should we do with this lot?” a voice said.

     “Load anything that has a top on it. Leave the rest,” a second, more authoritative voice answered. Abruptly, Jack-and-barrel were hoisted into the air. It was at this angle, and through a small slit at the top of the oak planks, that Jack saw his beloved wrapped up in Skinner’s arms.  The barrel was swung onto a cart, snatching the devastating scene from his vision. This motion also caused the whiskey to once again wash over his body, but this time it snuck its nefarious fangs into Jack’s bullet wound as well, and everything faded to black.

     Jack Tanner woke up to an amber shaft of sunlight bathing his eyelids in a pool of warmth. Must be morning again, he thought to himself. Then he opened his eyes. He was cramped into a half-full whiskey barrel on the bed of a train car. Painfully extracting himself from the oak cocoon, Jack clambered out of the barrel and looked around. Desolation. The cargo train was miles out from his small town, but he could still smell the smoke and see the fire in the twilight sky. His city was burning. Everything rushed back to him in an instant, and it was all he could manage to stand up straight and take stock of the situation. He was alone in the flat car, surrounded by barrels of his finest whiskey and bottle crates filled with his signature blend. Patting his vest for the familiar weight of his whiskey flask, he found it gone. Jack looked out into the fading daylight, and decided it was high time that he accepted it. It was a bad day. In the span of an hour or two, the West Boys had robbed him of his business and his broad. Well, Daisy had been responsible for most of that, anyway.

     The old bootlegger looked around. “At least there is still plenty of booze,” he said with a grunt. So, Cowboy Jack sat on the old oak planks of the flatbed railway car and drank until the sun left the sky. He sang hoarse reprieves of his favorite bar songs, weeping through the pain of his wounds and the weight of his beloved’s betrayal; and he poured the dregs of the bottle down his throat while staring up at the stars. It had been a while since he had taken the time to just look up. Foraging through the crate for another flask, he made the decision to pour the next one out for Daisy. A good way to get some closure, he mused morosely. Jack began a long slow pour of the Tanner Distillery 14 Year Select Blend, reflecting on the best times that were now forever lost to him. 

     Jack Tanner was not a smart man, but he was sharp. A sharp man’s mind never stopped working, and as he slowly managed to stifle the cruel monster of grief rearing in his chest, his cunning edge began considering the facts. He was alive, and nobody knew that. He was also on a train headed, likely, to the West Boys hidden train depot. Looking down at the dark stain the whiskey was leaving on the gnarled planks of the train car bed, something clicked in his head. It was a train filled to the brim with alcohol, and constructed largely of wood. Shaking himself out of the drunken stupor, Jack began grabbing more bottles and pouring them over every surface he could reach. When that became too slow, he started pushing over the barrels and sloshing whiskey all around the adjacent cars, though the effort caused fresh blood to well up in his gut wound.

     He doused dozens of train cars, some with more wood surfaces than others. He was rewarded with several flatbed cars filled with fresh oak logs about halfway through his efforts, and not a single timber remained dry. Working for what seemed like hours in the cool desert night, Jack managed to soak all the wood he could find, and was even able to sneak behind the locomotive and get a look at the West Boys private train, which appeared to be about a half mile ahead. Just as he had clambered back from the edge of the leading railway car, he felt the train lurch. They had been travelling through a pass in some cliffs, and Jack realized that they were being diverted away from the main track into a secret passageway -- the West Boys’ hidden train depot.

     As soon as he connected this thought, he heard a shout and saw a couple gunmen pointing at him from what seemed to be a lookout station nestled up in the cliffs. Jack cursed and dove into the locomotive as shots rang out on the metal plating of the train. The conductor looked up in surprise and fumbled for his pistol. Jack drew and fired his Smith and Wesson before the man could even close his fingers around the grip. A crack sounded somewhere behind the train and he felt a bullet graze the side of his scalp, leaving a trail of red as it scorched past.

     Jack slammed himself up against the inside of the front cabin as several more shots speared through the open windows to the side of the conductor's seat. Pausing a beat to see if they would shoot again without seeing him, Jack dove forward, cranked the throttle , and ducked down again. It was a second too soon, as shots rang out right where his body had been moments earlier. The train picked up a hellish speed. He sprang up in a heartbeat, and fired five shots in rapid succession, taking three men down with the rapid spray of bullets. Jack had found himself in countless firefights throughout the years, but never had he felt like a caged animal. His heart was racing and the blood was pounding in his ears, but he steeled his focus and thought about what he had to do next as he knelt back down on the cold, metal floor.

     He had no lighter, and the locomotive was one of the only cars he had not doused in alcohol, anyway. Ejecting the spent bullet casings, the sharpshooting bootlegger felt his ammo pouch and knew by touch that he only had six more shots. He grabbed a pair of metal pliers hanging behind the conductor's seat and pried two lead bullets out of their casing, pouring the black powder into his hand. The remaining four bullets he loaded into his trusty Model 3. Jack said a quick prayer to anyone who might be listening and darted out the door onto the open railway cars.

     The night was all encompassing now, and it was only by the light of the moon that Jack could see. In a split second, he  noted the rapidly approaching depot where the West Boys’ railcar was already parked. The next second, Jack dove behind the logs he had doused earlier and found a spot he remembered. He carefully poured the gunpowder into a knot in the side of one limb where a metal spike had been driven through to better hold the cargo. Just as he was about to shoot his pistol at the spike to ignite the powder, a barrage of bullets pelted the wood around him.

     Diving off the side of the train, Jack could barely spy the location of the knot as the cargo curled around the final bend toward the West Boys’ hideout. He aimed in to shoot again, but the glint of a scope triggered his instincts a second before. As he rolled back in the dirt, a bullet struck the ground where he had  just been sitting. Jack sat up, flinging his gun out from his body to align himself with the small iron sights. The sniper scope flashed again behind a rock about fifty yards away, and Jack shot first. He heard the glass shatter and saw a red burst of blood as the sniper took the bullet through the scope and in the eye.

     Three shots left. The wounded cowboy could barely focus now, and spots of black were crowding his vision. The dive off of the speeding train had seemingly demanded all of his remaining energy, and the well of blood that surrounded the wound in his gut had blossomed to a puddle. 

     “Just target practice,” he said to himself, spitting out a tooth that had loosened upon his impact with the earth. To hell with presentation. He sighted and shot, but the bullet struck the log just above the knot where his powder lay. Wood chips flew up in the air, and he was distracted for a split second as he saw a flash of purple down by the depot. Daisy was exiting the West Boys’ locomotive and scrambling to get inside. People were shouting and pointing at the rapidly approaching cargo train. Again, Jack tried to steady himself, and commanded his muscles to orchestrate themselves into what he knew was the correct alignment. His own body betrayed him, though, and the numbness that was seeping into his fingers caused the second shot to fly far wide, striking the metal siding down on the bottom of the train.

     The wounded cowboy cursed his failing flesh as he knelt down to the gravel in pain. One shot left. He had not grown the Tanner Company to be the largest whiskey bootlegger in the Wild West by missing shots. Breathing deeply, he brought his left arm up to help him steady his pistol. It wouldn't bend quite how he wanted it to, and he couldn't grip with his fingers, but he used it like a sharpshooter would use a mount on a rifle. 

     Jack was not a great shot; he wasn’t even an amazing shot. He was something else entirely. For the heartbeat that it took him to aim down his sights, his blood leaked across the grip of the gun, and Cowboy Jack knew the Smith and Wesson like it was one of his own limbs, and this one worked just fine.

     The shot rang out in the gulch like the crack of a whip, and the bullet spun out the barrel of the Model 3. It dropped a full-foot over the hundred yards it traveled, but retained enough speed to strike the metal spike in the inch-wide knot, and spark the gunpowder to ignition. The hiss of the flame over the whiskey-soaked logs grew to a roar as the entire rail car caught fire. Speeding along the rest of the train, the greedy blaze found barrel after barrel and crate after crate of everything it needed to snarl into a murderous inferno. The fireball train pierced the night sky with glorious ember glow before crashing at full speed into the West Boys’ depot, igniting the massive stores of blasting powder inside. The resulting explosion shook the walls of the canyons, singeing Jack’s eyebrows and knocking him flat on his back.

     Jack sat up from the rough ground, stunned, and surveyed the damage he had done to his competitor’s hideout. There was little to survey other than the charred ruin of a structure. He began laughing, and once he started he couldn’t stop. He roared with glee, and the chorus of gleaming stars seemed to share his joy. As he settled back down to lie on the rocky earth, he ejected the spent casings from his beloved Smith and Wesson, and made sure to give it a loving wipe with the cleanest scrap of his black vest. Jack adjusted himself as best as he could to get comfortable, and closed his eyes. He would have to revise his earlier opinion. Today was a good day. Perhaps, one of his best.