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Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2023-10-03 18:32:46 +0000 UTCAuthor's Note: In true Ruff fashion, it's taken me more chapters to get to where I was going than I thought it would take. Things have been ... hopefully tense, and I'm hoping the next chapter is a little more exciting. If it ends where I think it does, that'll probably be the last one I post up willy nilly, so I can start building up more chapters for a real release. That's all for now, so enjoy!
Edit: Also, I updated the prev posts with some changes i've made. Bit of spit and polish, crammed a couple more facts and backstory in as well. Minor stuff.
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https://docs.google.com/document/d/18OCLuIorVKOxGRzAE6IJYOjuXcJZ9s7VXnbOOmzzMD8/edit?usp=sharing
“Hold Fire! Hold Fire!”
A lot can happen in a moment, even if it don’t look like much from the outside.
Take Laura’s perspective for example. I imagine she comes out from the kitchen and sees Hobb, Jumbo, and Ron standing on one side, and me sitting pretty on the other side with my hands laid out flat around a knife embedded into the bar. Then, for no reason far as she knows, Jumbo starts in place, Hobb goes for his guns, I raise an index finger, and Ron yells out to stop his boys from making a big old mess of things. Don’t seem like much is happening there, but there is.
First off, is how Ron’s boys actually listen. Hobb’s hands dart back up before touching his guns, almost straight up to show he ain’t gonna shoot. A beat later, Jumbo surges into action, reaching for his gun hidden under the bar only to stop and freeze again as his brain catches up to what just went down. That man ain’t right. Too much drink, drugs, or both, but he still follow orders at least. As for me, I don’t take no orders from Ron, but I do take a moment to consider my options. Maybe it ain’t time start Blasting just yet, so I guess I won’t, which is lucky for Ron because another moment more and there wasn’t gonna be enough of him left to bury.
Said I would kill him first, and I meant to. Well, Hobb and Jumbo were likely to die at the same time, but I was fixing to make Ron ground zero. Now, I admit, the fact that I might’ve also gotten clipped in the process did weigh a bit on my decision to hold off on unleashing my big Spell, but I’m pretty sure I could’ve ducked behind the bar and avoided the worst of it.
Much as I’d love to be done with all this, I lower my finger back down to the bar. Takes only a blink of the eye to make my decision, but then Ron does the strangest thing. He exhales. Not a normal exhalation, a soft sigh, one of relief or reprieve. Ain’t a big sigh, not even something I would call a sigh were it coming from anyone else, but it’s something, and it gets me to thinking. Did Ron call for Hobb to stop right away, or did he wait a beat until he saw I wasn’t reaching for no gun? Might be that he’s not lucky then. Might be that Ron here really is really that good and figured out I had an ace up my sleeve that he wasn’t gonna like much. I meet his eyes with a grin, just to let him know I know he knows, and that, he really don’t like. A clench of his jaw and a twitch of his cheek, that’s all he gives, but it’s the first glimpse of Ron’s frustration I’ve had, which I suppose is a win in my book.
Truth be told, I’m only grinning like a fool to rankle his nerves, because I don’t feel much like smiling in light of these latest findings. Maybe I ought to just kill him now, get it all over and done with. Save me a lot of trouble in the long run, even if it buy me no small amount of hassle right now. They already given me more than enough probable cause to justify killing them in self defense, and I can prove it too. Would have to fudge a few facts, leave some things out, like this little pause I’m taking here to consider gunning down at least three men in cold blood, but legally, my backside is covered under the Accords.
Would burn a lot of goodwill with the Major though. He a good man who’s got higher standards than the Accords, and holds me in high esteem because I’ve adhered to same standards.
So far.
Don’t change the fact that I got a problem on my hands, and that problem is Ronald Jackson. He a real smart man, much smarter than I gave him credit for. That make him real dangerous man too, more dangerous than I already believed. Put it all together, and we have ourselves a smart and dangerous man who likes things neat and tidy, a President and C.E.O who’s used to getting everything his way. A man like that, well he ain’t gonna forget the time ol’ Howie got one over on him, and he don’t strike me as the type to forgive neither. Won’t matter that I only did what I’ve done because his people pushed me to it. No, all that matters to him is that I dared consider killing him and could’ve done it. Right here and now, he’s tolerating the insult because he’s stuck in a bind. I’m ready to throw down and fight to the death. Him? Not so much. Once he’s out of this bind though, I gotta ask: how he gonna react? Well, I reckon he gonna brood over it, let it eat away at him, because he lost control of the situation and couldn’t get it back. Then, he’ll realize it only happened because he walked into this meeting blind thinking I was just a kid. In short, he underestimated me, which won’t happen again. Next time, and there will be a next time, he’ll come out swinging for the fences, if only to prove to himself and his people that he can.
So like I said, I could save myself a lot of trouble by ensuring he don’t get a second chance. Close the chapter on Vanguard National here and now. All I’d have to do is point my finger and a think a thought to unleash the big Spell I been holding onto. Then wham bam thank you ma’am, no more Ron, Hobb, or Jumbo, and I set Pleasant Dunes on my six as I ride out atop my wagon with Cowie leading the way. Without having delivered the mail or found my thieving, murdering rapist outlaws, meaning I ain’t gonna get paid for either job. Or for the mead either, though I doubt I’m getting paid for that anymore. I do have a need to get paid, and I need it quick, because we all on a timer out here on the Frontier. Things are happening, times are changing, so keep up or be left behind.
I for one mean to lead the way forward into the future, and to do that, I need to make bank.
So I don’t pull the figurative trigger, and break eye contact with Ron to favour miss Laura with my big grin. She’s standing stock still at the other end of the bar with my plate of steak and taters in hand, looking annoyed more than anything else despite recognizing the danger unfolding around her. “Thank you kindly miss Laura,” I say, using my chin to gesture at the bar. “If you could just leave my food there, that would be lovely. I’ll fetch it myself once Mr. Jackson done with me.” Wouldn’t you know it, she just rolls her smoky eyes, sets it down, and heads back into the kitchen with a ‘tch’, only to come back a second later holding a tin cover to set over my plate. Sassy with a heart of gold, she a grand gal deserving of a big tip.
Having given Ron enough alone time to glower at his boys, I return to pick up were we left off, both of us smiling and neither of us meaning it, but least we all on the same page. “So about that big gun I got on my wagon,” I begin, as if nothing had ever happened. “I call that my Big Stick. You know, walk softly and all?” No chuckle from Ron this time, not even a fake one, which I suppose is fair. Still, had to try and soften the blow a bit as I continue on to say, “Yea, it’s a fine piece of work, but I’m afraid it ain’t for sale. One of a kind, it is, another custom job from Mr. Kalthoff. Needed to hire a few arcanists to get it all working too, but at the end of it all, they figured there were too many defects and downsides to move ahead with massed production.” I got my hands on it mostly because I was the one willing to pay the most for it, as research and development don’t come cheap. That’s why I need money so bad, though I’d say it was Aether well spent.
Most folk ain’t liable to shoot at you, when they can clearly see you got bigger guns to shoot back. Keep’s ‘em honest or gets ‘em running scared, and either way works just fine for me.
Only now it occurs to me that I might’ve missed something important, a vital clue that I would’ve easily noticed had I given it any thought. Thing is, I didn’t, because I thought I already had the right answer, but maybe, just maybe I was wrong. My daddy warned me about overconfidence, but it seems I ain’t quite learned that lesson just yet. Nothing for it except to mend the error of my ways then. “I been looking at this all wrong, haven’t I Mr. Jackson?” Unperturbed by my quick pivot, Ron tilts his head in silent confirmation coupled with another variation of that smirk he has. A real charmer, Ron, acting like I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “What you need big guns for?”
“Who doesn’t want bigger guns?”
Ron’s question is a non-answer, because he don’t want me thinking about his big problem, except it don’t take much thinking once I’ve tugged on that thread. I thought Ron wanted armour penetrating guns to protect his townies from Abby while they working in the mines up the mountain. That’s goblin territory, with orcs and bugbears for heavies, which to a Blastgun just means more targets to hit with each shot. Except Ron is looking for big guns. Why? He ain’t gonna roll them up the mountain to guard no mines. Most of the threat would be coming from inside the tunnels, whenever a mining shaft gets too close to an Abby tunnel. What good would big guns do in there? Likely kill more miners and guard than Abby, firing a heavy weapon in an enclosed space like that, something Ron ought to know for himself.
So if Ron wants bigger guns, it’s because Ron’s got bigger problems than Orcs and goblins in his mining shafts. He wants bigger guns to put on his town walls, those tall, curvy ones I admired so much on my way in. Why? Not to intimidate townies, as the gatlings do that well enough. Prepping for the coming Watershed and inevitable hordes of Abby that’ll come with? Maybe, but that’s still a few years off, so why make a cold approach to a young courier you ain’t never met before? Even if I got my Big Stick on my wagon, that don’t mean I can get more. If Ron was looking for ten or twenty guns to outfit his crew, give then an edge against Abby and townies, then I could understand him asking. Any U.F.P.S courier could get that many guns, being well trusted and regarded as they are, which is also why I doubt most would care to do it, though there are always those who surprise you. Still, Ron didn’t even fake interest in the Forzare, maybe establish a working rapport, and instead breezed right on past to ask me to deliver both moons into his hands. Nah, this whole thing stinks of desperation, not a mistake a man like Ron would normally make, but I can only think of two possible reasons he would be desperate, and neither of them are good.
“You planning on hosting a baby shower sometime soon?” My question goes unanswered as Ron’s smile slips away, and his gaze turns hard to warn me about my place, because we both know I ain’t asking after no human babies. That’s a shame, because I was hoping I would be wrong. Things would be so much simpler if Ron wanted big guns to take over someone’s territory. Bad day when having an aspiring war monger is the better option, but that do be how it is sometimes.
Leaning in real close so we can talk without being overheard, I whisper, “Seen lots of scouts lately? Sizing up your walls and towers and getting the lay of the land?” Man don’t even give me a slight nod, but his eyes tell me that I’m right and he don’t like that I know. I don’t care what he likes, because this is bigger than just him, though I doubt he would agree. “You need to get word to the Rangers,” I whisper, injecting as much sincerity and urgency as possible. No more smiles now, because we ain’t playing no more. “Or the Metis Pathfinders, French Chevaliers, English Protectorate, the Catholic Templars even. Big guns won’t be enough for the guests who gonna come knocking, not without soldiers to help cater the event.”
I’m keeping my words real circumspect here, as I ain’t sure if Hobb and Jumbo are clued in and I don’t want to start a panic. Wouldn’t help, though I’m of a mind to panic myself. Man smart as Ron don’t startle for nothing, so if he thinks Big Abby’s looking to pay him a visit, then I’m of a mind to believe him.
Goblins. Orcs. Harpies. Bugs. Different names taken from folklore which people give to those monstrous miscreations, but at end of the day, they’re all Aberrations, the same basic creature in various different shapes. The vast majority are stupid, barely thinking drones who got one thought and one thought only: secure biomass for big momma. That’d be their Progenitor, a vile looking meaty, porous sac of mouths and tendrils that spend its days, eating, digging, and birthing. Ain’t picky about what it eat neither, as it can turn most anything into Abby, which go out into the world to secure more resources to bring back so the Progenitor can make more Abby. Bigger and stronger Abby in all sorts of shapes and sizes, many of which will have biomineral Spell Cores embedded into their flesh which allow them to harness powerful magics.
And now one of those newborn monster machines is fixing to turn Pleasant Dunes into its new home. Makes sense. Best bits of the mountain range are probably already claimed, and this fine town here is prime real estate chock full of tasty townies to break down into biomass. To make matters worse, Progenitors’ ain’t dumb, not even newborns looking for new digs. They got intelligence, albeit an inhuman one, and this one will have learned through the eyes of its gobbo scouts that this prize ain’t gonna be easy to take. That means it’ll go looking for allies, and will likely find them. That’s the real scary bit, because Progenitors communicate. Not in English mind you, or any other human language, but their own. They talk, they plot, they plan, and yes, sometimes they fight, but a baby Progenitor can always count on mommy Progenitor to lend it an army so it can move out on its own.
And make no mistake, Mommy will have an army, because Progenitor’s don’t give birth unless they got plenty of resources to spare, which they don’t get without an army.
So now Ron is stuck in an arms race with a nepo-baby Progenitor, and to the victor goes Pleasant Dunes. On one side, we got a greedy corporate hegemon who treats people only slightly better than slaves. On the other, we got a monstrous, magical intelligent entity that will kill and eat the lucky ones before turning the rest into living incubation pods for birthing even more powerful, more intelligent Abby. Much as I hate to admit it, I gotta side with Ron as the lesser of two evils in this case.
Drinking in my growing concern without blinking an eye, Ron considered all of his options before finally speaking. “You seem well-regarded by Armand Kalthoff, the Ranger’s premier gunsmith. Their head of Aetherarms manufacturing even.” Looking me over in a new light, he asks, “Hypothetically, what do you think he would do if he were to receive a box with your finger in it?”
The threat brings my genuine smile back in full force, and Ron’s concern deepens, because for the second time, he’s lost control of the conversation, and again, he don’t know how. Seems Carl didn’t share my story and Ron don’t know how highly regarded I really am. “Well,” I drawl, all to happy to let Ron stew for a bit. “Not much, I reckon. Me and Mr. Kalthoff get along fine enough, but he loves his guns more than anything else. I ain’t a student you see, just an enthusiast, one who probably asks more questions than he cares to answer. Probably just pass it on to the Rangers, I suppose.”
Marshal Ellis on the other hand, well, let’s just say that sending one of my fingers back to New Hope would solve Ron’s Abby problem right quick. Theodore Ellis would gather up every gun he could get his hands on and rush right over to Pleasant Dunes to deliver them, with the full force of the American Rangers to help carry the payload. Yea, no need to worry about Abby no more once the good Marshal melts your stone walls, topples your tall towers, and drags you behind his horse through three and a half days of sand and shrubs so he can hang you from the closest tree.
But I ain’t about to tell Ron that. Might convince him to give it a try anyways. The smart ones always think they got an edge, which can make ‘em really stupid sometimes.
Got a perfect example right here. The second he learned of a Progenitor expansion plot, Ron should’ve tidied up and called for help. Instead, he sees it as an opportunity, one he means to profit from. Assuming he wins the fight, an Abby army would mean hundreds or even thousands of corpses to render down for Aberrtin and Spell Cores, to say nothing of the value of the Progenitor’s corpse itself. Pure greed is what it is, and nothing else, meaning I doubt anything I say is gonna get through.
But I gotta try at least.
“Look Mr. Jackson,” I begin, leaning away to speak out loud with as much sincerity as I can muster, “I’m real sorry, but there ain’t nothing I can personally do to get you what you want. Fact is, I don’t think there anyone who can. Ain’t no one selling big guns, because not even the Rangers got enough for themselves. If you looking for regular Ranger Aetherams, like the Forzare, well that’s real simple. Sign an agreement to adhere to Ranger working guidelines and accept Ranger oversight to ensure they’re in place. That’ll make you a Ranger Affiliate, free to buy as many guns as you please. We’ll even have your back in a pinch, against Abby or anyone else looking to make trouble. Could have a whole company of Rangers out here in less than two weeks from today if you’ve a mind to make it happen. Twenty battle-hardened soldiers carrying more Aetherpower than you can handle and ready to right whatever troubles you wrought.”
Yea you heard me Ron. That there is a subtle threat. If you still wanna mess with this bull, then you sure as shootin’ gonna get the horns.
Got to give the man his due, but he takes it all in stride, still slouching over the bar like we just chatting over drinks. Can’t help but respect someone who keeps cool under pressure, unlike Hobb or Jumbo sweating bullets from all this tension they been enduring. Calm and collected as ever, Ron considers his words carefully, but only his words because his decision has long since been made. “This is my town,” he says, and I believe he believes it, but that don’t make it true. “End of discussion.”
Well, I can appreciate the brevity, especially since I’m incapable of such and my steak and taters are getting colder by the minute. “Fair enough. I ain’t gonna twist your arm.” Not when there are other solutions to be had, but I gotta finish my business here first. Leaning back in to whisper, I continue, “So then it appears we got ourselves an impasse. That’s French for stalemate.” Offering a shrug by way of apology, I give my closer dubsie a little flick with my finger to point out the problem. “See, we don’t want things getting ugly. Don’t neither of us stand to benefit none if it do. I made some mistakes, and your people did too. I say that makes us even. If it were up to me, we’d let bygones be bygones and move on from here. I put my guns away, eat my steak and taters, go about my business in Pleasant Dunes, and be out of your hair by tomorrow morning at the latest.” Tonight for sure. Pursing my lips, I look Ron dead in his baby blues and show him I mean business. “But it ain’t up to me, now is it?”
Rage. That’s what I find swimming in Ron’s eyes, a burning anger just begging to be unleashed, but he ain’t one to be controlled by emotion. Calm comes almost immediately, closely followed by a hint of worry, only for his confidence to return in full force to assure him he got everything in hand. “You are a very clever boy,” he begins, and a hint of warning creeps into his gaze, but it gonna take more than a stern look to shake me. “Too clever really. Got a big mouth too, because you are right. We are in a bind. Didn’t expect to reveal so much in a casual meeting over mead today, and now I have a decision to make. Change all my current plans and adapt, or take… more extreme methods instead.”
Oh no, a death threat. I’m so scared. In response, I slowly tap my index finger on the bar, reminding Ron that he ain’t in no position to be making threats.
A genuine grin stretches across his face as he leans in close, so charming and handsome I am almost compelled to ugly him up a bit. Make the outside match the in, as it were, but I keep my temper in check. “You got stones, son. I respect that. Admire it even, but you really think this through? Let’s say I agree. We let bygones be bygones, and leave you to your meal. Then what? You deliver the mail and go home? A lesser man than I would walk out that door and come back with every man in my crew to teach you a lesson.” Shaking his head, he straightens up and adds, “I’m worried about you boy. Your arrogance is going to get you killed. One day.”
That gets a real laugh outta me, though I don’t break eye contact throughout it. “You ain’t the first to tell me I’m too big for my britches,” I say, still tapping my finger against the bar. “I’ll tell you what I always tell them. Arrogance is undeserved confidence.” My grin disappears, leaving only the threat of violence behind. “You push me, you find out how deserving I am.”
Since there’s nothing else to be said, we silently agree to break eye contact at the same time, else this staring contest would last all day. While I holster my Doorknockers, I watch Ron, Hobb, and Jumbo head out through the kitchen before sending my Mage Hands to grab the plate of steak and taters. Which I eat with my hat on, because manners is one thing, and good sense another. On the outside, I look all hunky dory, using my spectral hands to eat with while my real hands copy down the Spell Formula for Water Sphere and explain every step along the way. Inwardly, I admit I might be sweating a bit, because like I said, Ronald Jackson ain’t one to forgive or forget.
My jimmies tried to warn me, but I still went and stepped right into this doggone mess.
Still warning me in fact, telling me to get outta dodge while I still can, but that’d be a mistake. I turn and rabbit now, and Vanguard National will be chasing me across the desert for sure. Be forced to really, after a show of weakness like that. Ron’s a predator, and the only reason I’m still breathing is because I didn’t back down an inch. Then again, for all I know, he’s doing exactly as he said he would and gathering his boys for a good old-fashioned lynching. A dangerous man he is, and the only assurance I have that I won’t be gunned down in the streets is the fact that I arrived here under a U.F.P.S flag. They take the murder of one of their own dead serious, and the full force of the United Federation Postal Inspection Service would be crawling around Pleasant Dunes within a month. A day later, they’d have their killer I bet, likely delivered to them by Ron’s own men, as the offered reward would be too great for anyone to pass up. And that’s assuming Marshal Ellis don’t decide to handle matters in-house, as he’d find my hat right quick, which’ll hold all the answers he needs.
Wouldn’t help me much, seeing how in that particular scenario, I would already be dead. Least the steak and taters are delicious.
While I’m re-checking my work for the third time, miss Laura comes by to collect my empty plate. “Thank you kindly,” I say, reaching into my duster for my wallet, only to stop as she lays down a wad of cash on the bar. “What’s this? Most places I gotta pay for the food, not get paid to eat it.”
“$240,” Laura replies, her expression cold and unreadable, but her voice rich and melodic with the familiar tones of the southern U.F.A. “For the mead. Ron told me to tell you he meant what he said.” About buying more mead or about how my arrogance getting me killed? Probably both, not that it matters. I was already planning a return trip, but maybe I will bring some mead too, just to see the look on his face when I roll up to deliver it. “Meals comped too, so you can go about your business after you bring in the mead.”
“Well ain’t that a treat.” Rather than count the cash or check for counterfeits, I slide the top note towards Laura, a crisp five-dollar bill. She only got eyes for my spell scribing though, reading it quick as she can, memorizing the numbers and procedures best she can. Turning it so she don’t got to tilt her head so much, I say, “Just a simple Cantrip. Water Sphere. Good for washing, hazardous for drinking.”
“Heard about your little show out front. Girl’s’ll be talking about that for weeks.” Laura’s brown eyes meet mine and she gives me a good long look. Not interest, just curiosity. Trying to learn what make me tick. “Heard you said was gonna write up the Formula, but not what you was charging.”
“Nothing.” Holding my hands to my heart, I act wounded by miss Laura’s suspicions before bringing back my pearly whites. “I said it and I mean it. Ain’t my Spell to sell, and its a right useful one in the desert.”
“Which make it all the more valuable.” The look in miss Laura’s brown eyes turn a slight shade more serious than merely curious as she takes the stool beside me and rests her pretty little head on her hand. I dare say interested even, though not in the way I’d hope. “So why not put a price on it and pad your pockets? Like Ron said, you selling yourself short.”
“Could do a lot to pad my pockets if I wanted. Don’t make it right.” Gesturing at my slanted brown eyes, I say, “If you really need a reason, then you might say I’m doing what little I can to right the wrongs of my daddy’s people. Make sure people got the knowledge they need to make life on the Frontier better.”
But not my people, a distinction miss Laura takes in with a shake of her head which sets her dark ringlets a swaying. “That why you come here? To right wrongs and spread Spells?”
“Nah. Just here on a job to get paid.” Not just the one, but still the truth.
“Then you best do it quick and be on your way.” Nodding at the Spell Formula, miss Laura adds, “I’ll talk to Ron, see if your Spell don’t buy you a bit o’ goodwill. Might even be enough to keep you alive.”
What’d I say? Heart of gold. “Thank you kindly for your concern, but I’m afraid I can’t do that. See, a postman’s job ain’t just delivering mail and packages. If that were the case, then I’d just hand it off to the Sherrif and be on my merry way.” Which judging by her look, is what miss Laura suggests I do. “Thing is, part of the job is community outreach. That’s what they call it. Connecting with the locals, seeing how they live, what they up to, what they lacking, and what the U.F.A can do about it.”
I want to say more, but seeing how miss Laura got Ron’s ear, I button right up. My loose lips got me in enough trouble already, jawing on about big Abby when I should’ve feigned ignorance instead. No need to stick my boot in there a second time, least not so soon after, but I ain’t fooling miss Laura. “Guess you don’t think much of our little home here then. You fixing on fixing Pleasant Dunes?” Settling in with a sigh, she says, “Sometimes, I forget what it’s like.”
“What what’s like?”
“Bein’ young and idealistic.” Patting me roughly on the cheek with a tender touch, miss Laura gives me a sad little look, one I don’t envy because I cannot imagine the pain behind it. “Heard you come outta New Hope? Makes sense that you look at how we live and don’t think much of it. Well sugar, you ain’t seen nothing. Before Ronald Jackson tamed these parts and built those walls, this here was the wild Frontier. Miners go up the mountain for ores, and come back down to find bandits ready to take it all away. They robed and killed and raped to their dark hearts content, then would come back the next night and do worse if them miners hadn’t gone back up the mountain for more ore.”
“And Ronald Jackson come fix all that, did he? Lay down the law and dole out Frontier justice?” More like legitimized banditry and codified exploitation. Amazing what people will overlook for a man with a pretty smile.
“You make fun, but he did.” Gesturing at the saloon around us, she gives me a look that tells me she don’t find me funny. Which hurts, because humour is one of my best features, just after my big smile and winning personality. “Ain’t no woman working here that don’t want to, and Ron makes sure his girls don’t get hurt.” Yea, because he a business man who know marks ruins the merchandise. “Limited drinks per man, so they don’t start nothing neither.” That explains why those same five sorry souls still nursing their drinks. “Anyone one who does don’t do it again, Ron make sure of that too. As for the miners, anyone who works is fed, clothed, and protected. Their families too. Ain’t the happiest town, I reckon, but it’s a safe one, which is more than what it was before Ronald Jackson showed up. Lotta people still remember as much, so if I was you? I’d be on my way outta Pleasant Dunes quick as a bunny. Don’t be counting on no lawmen to keep you safe.”
“You right.” Taken aback by my quick concession, miss Laura returns it with more suspicion. Now she really breaking my heart, talking Ron up like that and taking me for a snake in the grass. “I ain’t gonna deny the facts. You telling me that things were much worse before Ronald Jackson, and I believe you. That’d it’d be safer for me if I left now, and that’s true too.” Before she can ask, I meet her gaze and hold them, so she can see the truth in my eyes. “You ain’t wrong. All I’m saying is that the Rangers have done better, and could do better here. That right there, is a stone-cold fact.”
Doubt. Disbelief. Uncertainty. And hope. That’s what I see in miss Laura’s eyes as she studies me a moment before walking away with my dirty plate, only to turn back and look at me some more from over her lovely shoulder. It’s that last bit that matters, because long as there’s hope, then Pleasant Dunes has got a fighting chance. Ronald Jackson might’ve done right by them in the past, but whatever his motivations might have been, it’s clear to me that he’s become more obstacle than advantage, and it’s high time the rest of this town saw it for themselves. That’s why I ain’t gonna run. Not just because of stubborn pride and practical sensibilities, but because I want these people to see that I ain’t afraid, and they shouldn’t be neither. Ron thinks he got everyone under his boot, but he still just a man. It’s the people who hold the power here, and they could use a reminder.
Course, I don’t expect much to change in the short-term. I’ll deliver the mail, head on out, and tomorrow, Pleasant Dunes will be the same as it was yesterday. Nah, inertia ain’t easy to overcome, and I ain’t about to try all by my lonesome. I’m just a man here to deliver some mail, and I figure I ought to get to it.
So after making sure my Spells all still up to snuff and the medallion with my family name still facing forward on my Stetson, I head out into the sunlight hoping I ain’t about to get shot.
It do be like that sometimes, and when it do, then all a man can do is have hope.
