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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 7, 2023 23:38:01 GMT
A Seven Soldiers of Victory: The Nebula Man Story
Chapter 1: Days of Thunder
by Doc Quantum
I'll never forget the day I met the Vigilante.
My family and I had just arrived in Mesa City, passing through on our way to find our own piece of land, just like a whole bunch of others who came from the East. We were homesteaders, or at least that's what my Pop had it in his head that we would be. The truth was that we were just a family of greenhorns, like many other fools with big dreams whose bones now paved the Oregon Trail. And we were ripe for the picking.
I liked Mesa City, and I wish my whole family had stayed, all things considered. My Aunt Faye already lived there, having arrived at the town's founding some twenty years earlier, and already had a thriving trading business. My uncle had died a couple of years earlier, leaving her to run the trading post alone, and she had pleaded for Pop to stay and help. But even though Pop was better suited to working a trading post than eking out a hardscrabble life in a dry and dusty land, he was a stubborn old coot (much like I turned out to be) and insisted on founding his own homestead in the West. But I've got to hand it to the old man -- at least he tried to follow his dream, misguided as it was.
Me, I was just a twelve-year-old kid who didn't know anything about the Wild West outside of my Beadle's Dime Novels. Of course, I didn't know just how little I knew back then, but it should've been obvious when none of the people I saw around me were dressed like I'd expected. I was expecting cowboy hats and leather boots with spurs, and what I got instead was nothing different than back home in Passaic. They all looked so ordinary, just like regular folk. Still, I had an active imagination, and once I got over the initial shock when my expectations weren't met, I saw myself having a great adventure in this new land.
When we got into town, Pop headed straight to the general store to pick up supplies. We were poor, but my Pop had saved enough to buy most of what we needed once we got closer to our destination. There was no sense in traveling all the way from Passaic, New Jersey, with everything but the kitchen sink on our backs. I went in with Pop, while my Ma stayed in our wagon with my kid sisters.
Inside, the general store clerk was arguing with one of the local townsfolk. "John, I'm tellin' ya fer the last time, that's genuine Chinee imported silk straight from Opal City -- you can only find somethin' of that quality back east."
The local was a young man with curly blond hair, glasses, and a well-kept green suit. With three books under one arm, he was a real dude who seemed out of place in Mesa City. "I don't mean to disagree with you, Mort, but this doesn't appear to be the kind of high-quality silk I was looking for. It's Kathy's birthday, and I want my gift to be special."
"You ain't gonna find nothin' specialer than this genuine Chinee silk, John," insisted Mort, "if you want ta really knock Kathy's socks off. Tell you what -- I'll throw in a tin o' Arbuckle's, and we'll call it a deal!"
Pop had overheard the exchange, and he was never one to stand by when another fellow needed help. Sidling up to the man, he said to him, "I don't mean to intrude, sir, but I couldn't help but to overhear your predicament. My name is Arthur P. Gunn, and I'm willing to offer you a piece of silk straight from Manhattan ten times the quality of that piece."
I could see that Mort the general store clerk didn't look too happy about this, and he was about to put up a counter-argument, when the young man smiled and agreed to Pop's proposal after a short discussion. My Pop looked down at me and said, "William, go and bring this man to see your Ma. Tell her I've agreed to sell her silk scarf at a reasonable price."
When I walked out of the general store, I looked back to see Pop standing at the counter, while Mort had his arms crossed. I had a feeling Pop, in trying to help out his fellow man, had only made things harder for himself.
I was a precocious twelve-year-old, and I began asking all kinds of questions of the young man about himself and the town he lived in. It turned out that he was John Tane, a schoolteacher who also happened to be the son of the town sheriff. Since John had taken after his schoolteacher mother rather than his gunfighting father, he was considered a disappointment to many. The woman whose birthday gift he was buying was named Kathy O'Neill, and she was the owner of the prosperous Hi-Kathy Ranch just outside of town. (*) And yes, the town had its share of outlaws pass through, but for the most part the citizens were peaceful and law-abiding. It was no Dodge City or Deadwood, but it had its fair share of adventure.
[(*) Editor's note: See "Johnny Thunder," All-American Comics #100 (August, 1948); note that the Earth-Two Kathy is named Kathy O'Neill, while her Earth-One counterpart is named is Kathy Brown.]
To be honest, it was a bit difficult for me to believe that Mr. Tane had ever seen a day of adventure in his life, but I humored him. He was a lot nicer than the teachers I'd had back in Passaic.
After I introduced Mr. Tane to Ma and explained that Pop had gone and sold out from under her the precious silk scarf she'd carried all the way from home, my Ma took it well and graciously made the exchange. As I later heard her say, Mr. Tane paid more than she'd asked, since it was obvious despite her protests to the contrary that she wasn't entirely eager to part with it. Mr. Tane asked us where we were headed off to and then wished us well on our journey.
A few minutes later, Pop came out from the general store with a few supplies slung over his back, and we were on our way. It turned out that, after talking with Pop for awhile, Mort turned out to be a good sport and didn't hold anything against him, mostly. Pop probably paid a bit more than the townsfolk would for the supplies he needed, but he also probably paid a bit less than most dudes did. Pop always was the likeable sort, which was why he was simply not cut out for the life of the homesteader. He would've made a great traveling salesman, and one of the few honest ones at that.
We were a couple hours out of Mesa City when I got a funny feeling that something was wrong. You know how normally, when you're out in the countryside, you can hear the birds chirping as the wind blows through the trees? Well, the wind just stopped, and there were no birds to be heard anywhere. It was right eerie.
It must've spooked my Pop, too, because he stopped our covered wagon and looked around. I took that moment to do the same. There was a strange feeling in the air, as if there was static electricity all around. As I looked up, I could see that clouds had begun to form directly over our wagon. "Huh," he finally said. "Must be a thunderstorm about to brew."
Sure enough, the crackling sound of distant thunder could be heard, and the swirling clouds above started to move even faster. Something strange was in the air. But while we were so distracted by the events in the sky above, we'd forgotten to keep an eye on our immediate surroundings, and we'd quickly come to regret that.
Ma was the first to notice the trouble we'd soon find ourselves in. Sitting next to Pop at the front, she suddenly took in a sharp gasp of air. "Arthur!" she cried. "Look!"
Pop looked and saw what she'd spotted. From farther down the path out of the bushes had come a man carrying a shotgun and wearing a bandana as a mask over his face. He wasn't the only one, either, for two more of them soon emerged. I spotted the second man as he came up from behind the wagon, as if to keep us from turning around and heading off in the opposite direction, while the third had been lying in wait along the side of the road in the brambles until the others appeared, then grabbed Pop's new rifle from inside the wagon before anyone could use it.
"Road agents," Pop muttered under his breath.
"Give us everythin' yew got!" said the third man, shoving a pistol toward ma's fancy Garibaldi blouse.
"Are you crazy?!" cried Pop, his characteristically calm demeanor now gone. "That's my wife you're threatening!"
"This li'l missy's the first ta take a bullet if'n you don't give us what we want!" the third robber shouted back.
"I'd lissen if I was you, tenderfoot," said the first robber. "They don't call 'im Crazy-Gun fer nothin'."
"Quiet, you idjit!" shouted Crazy-Gun. "Now we're a-gonna have ta shoot 'em all!"
"You'll be shootin' no one, if I have anything to say about it."
Now this was a new voice. There were three bandits, but a fourth man now showed up. Like the bandits, this stranger wore a bandana over his face, only it was red while those of the bandits were black, and he was pointing his six-shooters at the outlaws, not at us.
"Get yer own hold-up!" shouted Crazy-Gun. "This one's spoken for!"
"You'd best walk away, hombre," said the second robber. "In case you ain't noticed, it's three against one."
"So get a couple'a more guys and we'll make it even," replied the stranger.
Crazy-Gun, already enraged, seemed to snap at the insult and turned the barrel of his rifle toward the man. "Let 'im have it, boys!"
The turkey shoot began, but the stranger wasn't about to let himself be made an easy target. He dived out of sight before the road agents could fill him full of holes, but never shot back. I didn't know why at the time, but I later realized he didn't want any stray bullets to harm us. He was also trying to draw the attention of the bandits away from us and toward himself.
The horses, spooked by the gunshots, had been straining at the bit, and it had taken all of Pop's strength to hold them back. Finally, it was too much, and they took off, leaving the three bandits and our masked savior in a cloud of dust.
"Pop!" I shouted. "We can't just leave 'im ta die back there!"
"There's nothing we can do now, William, except take the chance at life that he gave us." That's what Pop said, but inside I could tell he was both terrified out of his wits and deeply ashamed at letting a man get killed in his place. Despite all that, he did what he needed to in order to save his family. We just had to hope that it wasn't all for nothing.
As we raced down the road at breakneck speed, I kept watching out the back of the wagon for any signs of pursuit. I couldn't figure out any way that the stranger could have survived, and with him gone there would be nobody else to stop the bandits from running after us and finishing us all off, especially since they'd already stolen our only means of defense.
Long minutes passed as the horses began to slow, until finally I spotted a lone figure on horseback riding up the trail behind us. He was a good distance behind, but gaining on us. Was he one of the bandits, or someone else? It was impossible to know for sure until it was too late. All my Ma's worst fears had been realized in a few short moments, and if we ever got out of this alive, Pop would never hear the end of it.
I strained my eyes as the rider came closer and closer, trying to spot any features I could, but in the dust it was almost impossible to see more than a silhouette.
Finally, I saw the rider. Unlike the bandits and the stranger, he wore no mask over his face. He wore a cowboy hat and a brown leather jacket with fringe tassels, and he rode a white horse. I gasped as I recognized the figure, who had been the subject of one of my dime novels. He was a Legend of the Old West, the famed Western Whirlwind, an unofficial lawman who had captured many an outlaw in these parts, and a hero in every sense of the word.
"Johnny Thunder?!"
"You folks all right?" the rider shouted, driving his famous horse Black Lightnin' alongside the wagon until he was able to pull back on the reins and slow our own horses down to a full stop.
"We sure are now," said Pop, beaming with relief as he turned to his wife. "Aren't we, Ma?"
Ma politely nodded her head, but shot a withering look at my pa, which shook his confidence a bit.
"Well, at least we're alive," said my Pop. "That is to say, we narrowly averted an encounter with road agents back down the road yonder. Without the intervention of another masked man, we'd... well, we'd have been goners for sure."
Johnny frowned and asked, "The red-masked man saved you, did he?"
"He sure did!" I piped up. "He was brave and showed up just in time, until those bandits shot him down!"
"Is that what happened, sir?" asked Johnny, turning to Pop.
"My son's story is correct," replied Pop. "He diverted all the road agents' attention from us toward his own person, allowing us to make our escape. I'm afraid I can't see any possibility of his survival, however, and more's the pity."
That Legend of the West smiled at both of us then and said, "Well, then I have good news for you folks."
Johnny Thunder went on to tell us his account. He had been riding out of town when he heard gunshots in the distance, and came across three black-masked men in a shootout with red-masked man. Recognizing the three masked men as notorious outlaws, he decided to end the fight before anyone could be killed. After he disarmed all four of them from a distance, he managed to capture all but one of them, for the leader of the gang had escaped in the tumult. Johnny then questioned each of them, but only the red-masked man told him anything.
The red-masked man told him an unlikely story that he had suddenly found himself on this road just as a passing family in a horse-drawn wagon were held up by road agents. He intervened in order to allow them to escape, even though he was heavily outnumbered, and nearly swooning to boot. Johnny couldn't assume the man was telling the truth until he could verify the story for himself, so he tied up the men and sent for Sheriff Tane to bring them all to jail. Now, though, he knew that the red-masked man wasn't one of the gang fighting over their spoils as he'd at first assumed.
Johnny offered to accompany us back to Mesa City, which he phrased as a request, but it was obvious that he wasn't about to let this family of greenhorns fall to any further danger on this day. Crazy-Gun and his gang weren't the only bandits in the area.
After we were brought back into town, Johnny offered to see if the owner of the Hi-Kathy Ranch might allow us to stay overnight, but Pop would have none of it, especially after Ma had made it clear that she had thought this entire wagon trek to be foolish. The hold-up by the road agents had been her last straw, and she insisted that the whole family pack up and head back to New Jersey to live with civilized folks once again.
Pop, knowing my heart was set on living in the West, found a compromise. He and Ma and my sisters would return to Passaic, while I would stay behind with my old Aunt Faye in Mesa City to help her run the family trading post. It wouldn't be the first time I'd move away from home, either. My own folks had died of consumption when I was just a baby, and my uncle and aunt raised me as their own, though to me Ma and Pop were the only parents I'd ever known.
Aunt Faye was overjoyed at the news, and quickly had me enrolled at the local schoolhouse. It turned out that we'd already met the teacher as well, for that was timid, soft-spoken John Tane. It also turned out that there was a lot more to John Tane than any of us realized, and he would prove himself to be one of the most capable men around, time and time again, even if he preferred to keep his light under a bushel.
As for the masked man who had saved our lives from the bandits? I met him again soon after, but he never could tell us who he was or where he'd come from, since he couldn't remember who he was. In fact, all he could ever recall was that he had been in some kind of battle alongside a group of men he trusted, fighting some kind of incredibly powerful monster who defeated them all. Then there had been some kind of explosion that had scattered them each far and wide, then nothing else until he found himself here with no other memories of his life. (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See "The Unknown Soldier of Victory," Justice League of America #100 (August, 1972).]
Nobody else knew who he was, either, and Sheriff Tane was naturally suspicious of a man wearing a mask who wouldn't provide his real name, but this masked man would turn out to be one of the true Legends of the Old West. I already told you who he was at the beginning.
He was the Vigilante. And he would be the best friend I've ever had.
-- From the Memoirs of William Purcell "Billy" Gunn, alias the Huckleberry Kid.
***
Crazy-Gun Crawley, having managed to slip out of the clutches of Johnny Thunder, had made his way south of the border into Mexico with little to show for his troubles except a piece of rock. As he sat with his back against a stained wall in a Tijuana alleyway, he pulled the small dark rock carefully out of his pocket and stared at it. The thing glowed. It was faint, but discernible. He supposed that was the reason he had picked it up while fighting that masked man on the road out of Mesa City.
Then, when Johnny Thunder disarmed them all by shooting their own pistols out of their hands, Crazy-Gun had managed to escape with the rock in his undamaged left hand. It was almost a good luck charm, he figured, for thanks to this rock he'd escaped the law not only at Mesa City but all the way to the border and beyond.
Crazy-Gun couldn't describe how it made him feel, except that it had started to give him ideas -- ideas that he had never considered before. His random highway robberies of would-be homesteaders had barely given him and his gang enough to live on. But what if he decided to aim higher? He would already hang for murder and robbery if he was ever caught. What if he went for broke and robbed a bank, or a train, or...?
The bandit shook his head. He had never dreamed this big, had never used his brain this much. It was exhilarating. And he knew, with this lucky charm at his side, all of his ambitions could be realized.
TO BE CONTINUED!
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Post by lawrenceliberty on Aug 8, 2023 15:28:39 GMT
I am enjoying this one. Is this meant to be a chapter of the unfinished Nebula Man story we started? I believe Crimson, GA, Speedy, SSK, Stripsey, had been done so that just leaves a Vigilante chapter and a Shining Knight chapter. along with a chapter 1 to be completed.
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 8, 2023 15:39:24 GMT
Yes, I’ll make a note of that in the heading that it is meant to be part of the Nebula Man multi-part story. We also need the beginning of the story that shows the Seven Soldiers first encountering and then battling the Nebula Man, too. It’s only been shown in flashbacks thus far.
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 11, 2023 17:08:37 GMT
Chapter 2: The Huckleberry Kid
by Doc Quantum, partially adapted from Action Comics #104 by Joe Samachson and George Roussos
The man now calling himself Monty West was in a somber mood as he rode a train in Oklahoma. Next to him was his young pal, a fourteen-year-old boy named Billy Gunn. The boy had fallen asleep to the constant click-clacking of the moving train.
Young Billy, who had lived with his elderly aunt in Mesa City, could rightly be described as Monty’s protégé, for over the last two years he had taught him everything he knew about surviving in the West. Although he’d been a complete greenhorn when he’d first arrived in 1870, Billy had proven himself to be an adept student, and he had taken to horseback riding like a pro. Likewise, he was trained to be a crack shot and had more than once defended his Aunt Faye from predators, both the four-legged and two-legged kinds.
Monty had passed on all kinds of other skills to Billy, but his unofficial apprenticeship was about to be cut short. Aunt Faye had died recently, and Billy would be returning to live with his adoptive parents in Passaic, New Jersey. The boy had begged to stay behind in Mesa City, and even asked Monty to let him live with him, but the situation proved impossible. Monty himself had no memory of the time before he first arrived on the road outside of Mesa City in 1870, and even his identity of Montgomery West had been fabricated for him when he couldn’t recall his true name. All he knew was that he was the Vigilante.
Although he’d been clean-shaven when he first arrived, he had grown a dark mustache that seemed to suit him in his identity of Monty West. Under that name he’d had to take odd jobs wherever he could get the work. The Hi-Kathy Ranch had offered him some work at first, but there was never enough work for him to stay in Mesa City, so he’d worked in other places since then, making his way back to town whenever he could. His current employer was the Circle T Ranch outside of Twin Rivers, where he worked as a cowhand, and as the Vigilante he still caught the occasional badman before riding off again into the sunset.
Johnny Thunder, the hero and unofficial sheriff’s deputy of Mesa City, had become one of Monty’s closest friends. But he was not the only one. As the Vigilante, he and Johnny Thunder had met and worked alongside several other Legends of the Old West with equally colorful names: the Wyoming Kid, the Minstrel Maverick, Nighthawk, the Masked Ranger, and the Trigger Twins. Together these and a handful of other lawmen would be unofficially nicknamed the Justice Riders whenever they occasionally worked together over the years.
As the train began to slow its progress, Billy stirred from sleep and muttered, “Ah-hmm… Monty, where are we?”
Monty West started to say, “I guess that old-timer in the sombrero had something! We’re way out west — and the year must be…” Then he caught himself. Where had that thought come from? It was as if some of his old memories were coming back, before he was struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu. It felt like he had been here before and had said those very words, but that was impossible.
Billy didn’t seemed to notice, thanks to something that distracted him as he stared out the window. “But — but — Monty, look — the train’s stoppin’!”
Still troubled, Monty followed Billy’s gaze, and sure enough the train was slowly coming to a complete stop, yet he knew they were still miles out of town. Without a word, Monty stood up. A fat old man with a white beard, blue top hat, and fancy suit harrumphed disapprovingly as Monty rushed past him to get a good look between the train cars at what was causing the unplanned stop.
He immediately spotted the reasons why. The first reason was that there was a pile of logs covering the tracks immediately in front of the train. The second was that a group of masked men with guns on horseback were quickly rushing up to meet the train.
Billy had followed him and saw the the same situation. “Gee!” he cried. “A hold-up!”
“This is a job for the Vigilante!” declared Monty West, and quickly changed his outfit behind a door, then hurriedly covered his face with a red bandana. The other passengers were too distracted by the train robbers to notice his absence.
As the robbers spent the next few moments whooping and hollering orders for all passengers to disembark, the Vigilante and Billy took that opportunity to find a way to the roof, where they poked their heads up to get a good look at the badmen. From their vantage point on the rooftop, they could see the outlaws, but they couldn’t be seen until they wanted to.
“Yipee, hombres — I can yell, too!” cried the Vigilante as he and Billy suddenly stood tall upon the roof, and the Vigilante began spinning his lariat.
“Yipee! What–?” yelled an outlaw until he realized the shout hadn’t come from his own gang.
“Where’d they come from?” shouted the badman next to him.
“I can collect, too — like this!” replied the Vigilante, throwing his lariat over the two gawking outlaws below and pulling them off their horses before they knew what was happening.
“Two down, Vigilante!” shouted Billy, already running along the roof to a certain point. Then he leaped overboard and landed hard upon another train robber who’d been holding his gun upon the passengers while on foot. He and another robber had been trying to escape the Vigilante by moving closer to the train, only to be disarmed and knocked out. “Three!” cried Billy.
The boy kicked at the other robber’s hand, causing him to drop his gun as well. With half of the gang suddenly captured, the train engineer, the express agent, and a few of the younger men among the passengers suddenly found enough bravery to begin helping the Vigilante and Billy Gunn secure the badmen.
Three captured men were plenty for the three remaining train robbers, whose leader decided to cut and run with what they’d managed to steal from the train.
“That cuss who escaped was Jesse James, mister!” said the engineer. The train express agent stood next to him, uneasily watching the outlaws as they hurriedly rode off. “Nice reward if you’d held onto him!”
“Great work!” said a middle-aged passenger with a black handlebar mustache and a green suit. “You strangers sure gave ’em what for! Who are you?”
Monty West wished he’d had a horse of his own to pursue the train robbers, but there was nothing he could do. He introduced himself as the Vigilante, and his reputation as a lawman grew from this incident.
“Gee, Vig — that was the Jesse James band!” Billy said later, after the passengers returned to the train, and it continued on its way to town.
“Or was it?” questioned Monty. “The James Gang isn’t known to operate in Oklahoma.”
“It must’ve been,” Billy replied, a bit uncertainly. “Or why would the engineer have said that?”
“Sure, the engineer seemed pretty sure about that, but one of them looked familiar to me somehow,” replied the Vigilante. “We’ll see.”
The conversation ended there, and the two settled back into their seats for the rest of the trip.
***
As the train reached the next town of Rand, Oklahoma, the two were startled to see a gang of men on horseback shooting guns in the air as they entered the town.
“Hey, Vig — are those cowpokes puttin’ on a show?” asked Billy.
“Somehow I don’t think so, Billy,” replied Monty, already heading for an alleyway to don his Vigilante mask and gear. “Let’s go see!”
From around the corner of a building, the two could see the situation clearly. Two of the badmen were entering a bank, while another riding a horse shot down a lawman trying to defend the town.
“They’re bank robbers, Vig!” said Billy.
“And killers!” the Vigilante replied grimly. He pushed the boy back into the shadows behind the building. “Quick — before they see us!”
Much as with his earlier actions in stopping the train robbery, Monty West knew they had to gain the high ground in order to defeat the very same gang, which still outnumbered them despite being cut in half by the botched train robbery. Making their way across the road while the gang was too busy shooting to notice, Vigilante found a way to climb up along the side of the bank building to its roof.
“I’ll have you up in a jiffy!” he whispered, helping the nimble Billy Gunn to the rooftop.
Down below, the bank robbers were making their illegal withdrawal from the bank as the Vigilante and Billy watched over the huge bank sign from above.
“Foller us, and the next bullet’ll be in yore head, Burley!” shouted one of the robbers, taking off with a bag of money. The two other robbers shot into the bank a couple more times, then joined the first man and began walking back with the last few bags of money they’d stolen, the rest having already been placed on their horses.
Then suddenly the Vigilante leaped from the rooftop as the outlaws had their backs turned on him. That shot gives me the time I need! he thought, his lariat already whirling in the air. Throwing it over the three before he even reached the ground, he looped them just as easily as he’d earlier captured their fellow train robbers.
The badmen were stunned, but not disarmed, and began struggling against each other to escape even as the Vigilante pulled hard on the rope, tightening the loop.
“Stop shovin’, gents!” shouted Billy from the rooftop. “You’ll all be taken care of in a minute!”
Billy Gunn leaped off the roof to the ground below himself, tumbling into a roll to absorb the impact just as Monty had taught him. Still moving, he used his momentum to spring himself back up to his feet, putting all of his motion into his fist, which he used to strike one of the robbers, causing him to drop his pistol. “Ah-ah — no guns in this round!” he said.
The Vigilante watched proudly as Billy helped him subdue the men, but he wasn’t the only one. Among those who rushed to Vigilante’s side was Burley, the banker, who volunteered to help hold the gang in place while Billy and several other men took that moment to retrieve the fallen bags of cash and pistols off the ground. Unseen by anyone else, Burley pulled out a knife and began slyly working at the rope, wearing a grin of duper’s delight as he did so.
Thus, as the Vigilante began shortening his rope in order to fully secure the men, he was startled when he found his rope suddenly loosen and fall off the three badmen, who were still clutching onto some of the money and trying to put the bills into their pockets. As they slipped out of the ropes, one of them briefly tussled with the Vigilante before the angry crowd pressed in on them.
Unfortunately, the distraction also allowed the gang to slip through the crowd and run off in separate directions before they could be recaptured. The Vigilante, resembling the bank robbers because of his bandana, was the only one at first to realize that the three men had slipped away, and by the time he was finally able to break free and explain himself, the robbers had already regrouped and ridden out of town on their horses.
Still, the bank’s money had been saved, and the crowd cheered the two strangers. Monty West told them he was known as the Vigilante, and with a wink at the boy introduced Billy Gunn as the Huckleberry Kid, knowing it was better to keep their identities a secret for now.
The Mayor of Rand, a tall, middle-aged man wearing a brown suit and a ten-gallon hat, walked up and shook the Vigilante’s hand once it was clear that the robbers could not be found. “Too bad they got away, but you saved our bacon, stranger!” said the Mayor.
“They’re the sort o’ lawmen we need in this town!” said a middle-aged shopkeeper. “What’s his name — Vigilante?” He beat one fist in the air and yelled, “Vigilante for Marshal!”
At the hero’s confused look, the Mayor told the two strangers what had happened. “Those sidewinders kilt our Marshal!” he explained sadly. “Marshal o’ this town’s a tough job — but you can handle it, Vigilante!”
The crowd agreed. “Yipee — three cheers for the new Marshal!” hollered one of them, and by a shout of acclamation the town agreed to hire the Vigilante as the Marshal of Rand, Oklahoma.
Monty West knew it would only be a temporary position until a true U.S. Marshal could be brought in as a permanent replacement. In a private aside the Vigilante explained to the Mayor that he and the Huckleberry Kid would stay on until this trouble with the James Gang could be resolved, but no longer. The Mayor agreed, and promised to send for a new U.S. Marshal immediately.
***
Chapter 3: The Vigilante Marshal
It was evening by the time Vigilante and the Huckleberry Kid were able to settle into the office of the U.S. Marshal, but time was short, and the mystery of the gang’s escape still had to be solved.
Billy Gunn was still stunned by this turn of events, knowing it wouldn’t last but wishing the two could stay on there forever. He didn’t want to return to New Jersey, which he no longer considered to be his home. “Golly, Vig — er, Marshal — what do we do now?”
The Vigilante slammed his right fist on the desk. “They’ve dealt us a hand, pardner; there’s nothing to do but play it!”
As he rose from the desk, he noticed something shift in his clothing. “What’s this in my pocket?” he said, fumbling around until he pulled it out. “Bills…” he realized as he inspected them carefully under the gaslight. “Clumsy counterfeits, too! Hmmm… one of those bandits must have shoved these into my pocket instead of his own!”
Leaving the Marshal’s office, he motioned for Billy to follow him down the street toward the bank. “Counterfeit money stolen from the bank! Let’s see if Burley can explain that!”
As they reached the bank, they saw two men skulking behind the building, along with two horses. “There goes Burley now — and mighty anxious not to be seen!” observed the Vigilante.
“And with him is the train’s express agent!” said Billy, recognizing the other man from the train robbery. They watched as the men got on horseback and rode off into the woods behind the building.
For his heroic efforts in stopping the bank robbery, the Vigilante had been presented with a white horse as a gift. He named the horse Lightning in honor of Johnny Thunder’s own horse, Black Lightnin’, thanks to its great resemblance. He and the boy now rode that horse out of town, trailing Burley and the express agent from a good distance behind.
“Hang on, Billy — we’ll keep those rattlers in sight!” vowed the Vigilante as they rode through the rocky terrain.
Miles from town they noticed Burley and the express agent slow to a crawl as they entered a canyon. The Vigilante and the Huckleberry Kid managed to ride up to a clear vantage point above the canyon, where they watched as the two men approached a group of four men surrounding a campfire.
“Here’s where they’re headed — but we’ve got to get closer!” whispered the Vigilante, knowing they wouldn’t learn much unless they could hear the discussion.
Sneaking on foot behind the bramble bushes close to the campfire, the two were able to listen in on the discussion.
“They messed it up, but they got some o’ that counterfeit, so Jesse James will savvy our game!” Burley explained to the others. “We gotta wipe ’em out tonight!”
“Okay, Boss!” said one of the four men at the campfire. “Jim! Tom! Get the herd started!” At that, two of the four men got up and, on horseback, began herding cattle out of a makeshift pen of wooden stakes and rope and off to another location.
Monty West had heard enough. He motioned for Billy to sneak back out of the canyon to a place where they could speak without being heard.
“The cold-blooded sidewinders!” the Vigilante said hotly as he explained the situation as he understood it to the boy. “They’re going to stampede those cattle down the canyon on top of the Jesse James Gang!”
The Huckleberry Kid understood what Monty meant, but as they rode off on the horse at top speed, he said, “We won’t be welcomed by the James Gang, Vig!”
“I know!” shouted Vigilante. “But we can’t let them be murdered!”
Billy Gunn nodded uncertainly. He knew Monty West always refused to take any lives, even those of his foes even if they were the worst outlaws, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to save such infamous crooks as Jesse James and his gang. Still, the Vigilante lived under a strict code of honor and decency, and the Huckleberry Kid could do no less.
Far down the narrow canyon, the two came to a stop as they reached another campfire, where four men were relaxing, unaware of the herd of cattle quickly rushing toward them from the opposite direction.
“Stampede!” called the Vigilante. “Coming down the canyon! You’ll be trampled unless you clear out!” Throwing caution to the wind, he rode the horse closer to the leader of the gang, Jesse James himself, even as the other outlaws trained their rifles on him. “We’re here to warn you!”
“They’re the ones from the train!” shouted one of the gang, an unshaven outlaw whom Vigilante had earlier almost recognized at the train robbery; now he knew who he was. “Look out, Jesse!”
That’s Crazy-Gun Crawley! the Vigilante realized, recognizing him from his botched wagon robbery two years earlier, in which he’d rescued Billy Gunn and his adoptive folks and met Johnny Thunder. Although Jesse James might have been reasoned with, Crazy-Gun was liable to ventilate them both just for old times’ sake.
The Vigilante knew when the odds were against him, but he always had a trick or two up his sleeve to even those odds. He yelled, “Jump, Kid!”
Even as Billy was leaping off the back of the horse, Vigilante reared Lightning around to avoid the gang’s bullets and tossed a handful of gunpowder-filled shotgun cartridges into the campfire. They’re too many for us — but these cartridges ought to even things up! he thought, regretting that he’d brought the boy into such a dangerous situation by his recklessness.
Then, pandemonium struck as the cartridges began to pop off, sounding like gunshots from all around.
“We’re tricked! It’s an ambush!” shouted one of the gang.
“Get the horses!” ordered Jesse James, running for the horses nearby as the Vigilante and Billy ran to cover behind some boulders.
The trick had worked. But had there been enough time to save them? For, meanwhile, roaring down the canyon was an avenging torrent of spooked cattle mowing down everything in their path in the narrow space. Even if the James Gang had managed to escape in record time, Monty wasn’t sure that he and Billy would be so lucky.
Sure enough, they found themselves in the path of the thundering hoofs before they could make their own escape, having underestimated the speed of the herd.
“We have just one chance, Billy!” shouted the Vigilante above the noise. “I must separate the herd!” And he raised his gun, letting off several shots.
“You’re shooting in the air!” cried Billy, not knowing what to think about such a futile gesture.
“If they divide, to go around us, we’re saved!” explained Vigilante as he kept shooting, this time sending the bullets as close around the ears of the middle of the herd as possible without injuring any of the cattle.
The gambit worked as the herd split into two at the last second, the head cattle turning either direction, while the rest of the herd followed closely after.
It wasn’t until the herd had safely passed that Monty and Billy were able to breathe normally again. “That was close, chum!” said the Vigilante. “And I don’t ever want to see another piece of beef!” The two laughed in relief.
But after the wave of death had passed came the ghouls, as the Vigilante and Billy Gunn hid and watched two riders enter the canyon in the wake of the stampede. They recognized the men as Burley the banker and the train express agent.
“We ought to find what’s left of them right along here!” said Burley, close enough enough to be heard. He motioned toward the burnt-out campfire and everything around it that had been trampled into the ground. “This was their camp!”
But the overweight banker had not expected what would happen next, as the Vigilante roped him and the other man like two steer, pulling them roughly off the backs of their horses. “YIII-II!” cried Burley as the spooked horses ran off.
“Buzzards of a feather — a thieving banker and a crooked express agent!” said Vigilante as he tightened the rope around the two men. Billy Gunn laughed at the sight.
***
Later, back in town, the Vigilante and Billy Gunn the Huckleberry Kid walked Lightning into the main street, with Burley and the express agent still bound in the rope atop the horse. Monty and Billy had earlier managed to track down the other horses, and used them to ride back themselves while driving Lightning with the prisoners before them.
Now the temporary Marshal of Rand, Oklahoma called together the crowd, which wasn’t a difficult feat once the onlookers recognized who his prisoners were. The Vigilante stood atop the steps of the boardwalk outside the Marshal’s office and addressed the townsfolk.
“Here’s the troublemakers, folks! Burley looted his own bank, then brought Jesse James here to rob it! But Burley cheated James, too — by giving him counterfeit money!”
“The dirty crook!” shouted one man in the crowd.
“String him up!” shouted another.
The Vigilante could tell the crowd was getting worked up. He had to finish his explanations quickly before things turned ugly. “Your agent, here, played in with Burley! He aimed to split the loot with Burley after they’d wiped out the James Gang tonight!”
“Ride the polecat out o’ town!” yelled someone.
But despite the threats, the crowd’s mood was mostly jubilant, and Monty’s alter ego was being hailed as the town’s hero. Burley and the agent would be imprisoned in the town jail until a trial could be held.
“Yipee! Vigilante!” the crowd began to shout. “Vigilante!”
“I’m so-o-o sleepy…” confessed Billy as he and Vigilante began to wave at the crowd.
“I’m tired, too, pardner!” agreed the Vigilante. “It’s been a long day.”
***
The two would get the rest they needed, but despite Billy’s protests they could not stay on in Rand after all. When the new official U.S. Marshal arrived in town the following week, the Vigilante and the Huckleberry Kid told the townsfolk that they had to move along.
Privately, Monty West told Billy that his life of danger was no place for a boy, and that he’d already put him in harm’s way too many times. After finally putting Billy Gunn on the train back to Passaic, New Jersey, the Vigilante upon his steed Lightning rode off into the sunset. He would return to the Circle T Ranch and work there until the day that he was elected Sheriff of Twin Rivers, replacing the retiring Sheriff Tyler. (*) He would have a very long career in that capacity, both as the Vigilante while working alongside his fellow Justice Riders and as Sheriff Monty West, who would later inspire a fictional character named Hopalong Cassidy.
[(*) Editor’s note: See “The Unmasking of the Silver Bullet Bandit,” Hopalong Cassidy (DC) #123 (May-June, 1957).]
The Huckleberry Kid did return to live with his adoptive folks, who were really his uncle and aunt after his own parents died when he was young, but as soon as he came of age he would return to the West. Before he did so, Billy Gunn would witness the birth of his namesake baby cousin William, who would grow up in New Jersey and one day open a shooting gallery in Times Square in New York City, by which time he would be known as Billy “Pop” Gunn. By some twist of fate, it was the second Billy Gunn who would become the Vigilante’s original elderly sidekick until Stuff the Chinatown Kid took over that role. And even though old Billy “Pop” Gunn would grow up loving all things about the Wild West and put on a good act of being an old desert rat, he had actually learned his lingo from cowboy magazines and Westerns. It was a fact that, until he finally met Vigilante himself, the loveable old fraud had never traveled farther west than Passaic. (*)
[(*) Editor’s note: See The Vigilante, Action Comics #43 (December, 1941).]
As for the reason behind Vigilante’s sense of déjà vu during this case, it was because back in 1946 he and Stuff had once shared a strange dream in which they had imagined themselves to have suddenly found themselves in 1872. Unknown to them at the time, the dream had somehow tapped into events that he had been fated to play out for real in history, with Stuff playing the role of the Huckleberry Kid. (*)
[(*) Editor’s note: See “Marshal Vigilante,” Action Comics #104 (January, 1947).]
This wouldn’t be the only time this would happen, either. There was one more dream he’d once had that had yet to play out in the time-tossed Vigilante’s life, and it would serve as the denouement of his life in the Old West.
***
Author’s note: The name of Monty West comes from two partially redrawn and rewritten reprints of Hopalong Cassidy stories replacing the trademarked title character with an original DC character called Monty West, Sheriff, as seen in “Four-Legged Sheriff,” Tomahawk #139 (March-April, 1972) and “The Trail of the Underground Voices,” Tomahawk #140 (May-June, 1972). It is our belief that DC Comics’ long-running Hopalong Cassidy series actually depicts the career of Monty West more or less accurately but with some names changed, thus indicating how the Vigilante spent much of his time in the Old West of Earth-Two.
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Post by lawrenceliberty on Aug 12, 2023 15:11:25 GMT
You really did a lot of research for this one and I like the explanation for the two Billys. A good story that needed to be told.
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 12, 2023 21:25:49 GMT
Thanks, Libby! I'm glad you enjoyed it. Each "Part" of this story is basically a story in itself. There are two more Parts to go. The next Part will display the Vigilante's last adventure in the Old West (featuring some guest stars). For the continuity lovers out there, the 4th and final Part will explain how he came to be where (and when) Green Arrow, Black Canary, and Johnny Thunder and his Thunderbolt finally found him. One of my goals in writing this 4-Part story is to fit some fun Post-Crisis Vigilante ideas in with what we know of what happened to the the Pre-Crisis Vigilante of Earth-2, in a way that is not contradictory.
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 27, 2023 7:19:58 GMT
Chapter 4: The Old Has-Been
by Doc Quantum, partially adapted from Action Comics #129 by Ed Herron and Bob Lubbers
Border City, 1891:
The sun beat down on the dusty streets as Monty West rode into town astride his trusty steed, Banjo. The Wild West had been all but tamed by now, but there were still places where badmen thrived. That was where Monty West belonged, and that was why he now found himself riding through the streets of Border City, a town long ruled by outlaws.
The clinking of spurs and the jingle of his rowels caught the attention of the townsfolk, who turned to gaze in awe at the legendary sheriff of the Old West. Monty tipped his dark hat in appreciation, the sunlight glinting off the silver star that adorned his worn leather vest.
His white hair and handlebar mustache told the tale of years spent under the scorching sun, but his piercing blue eyes still held the spark of justice that had made him a legend in these parts. As he dismounted, the crowd gathered around, eager to catch a glimpse of the renowned lawman.
"Monty West! It's really him!" whispered a young boy to his wide-eyed sister.
"He looks older than what I've heard," mused an old-timer, squinting at Monty from beneath his worn hat.
"There he is!" said a man trying to impress the well-dressed lady next to him. "The famous lawman -- Monty West, Sheriff! Sent up from Kansas to take charge of the jailhouse! And that's a man-sized job!"
Monty chuckled to himself as he went on his way. "Man-sized job" is right, he mused, for this town had long been ruled by outlaws, and the jailhouse was currently full of some of the most notorious outlaws in the West. He smiled at the onlookers, his eyes filled with the knowledge of a man who had seen it all. With a nod, he acknowledged their admiration and began making his way towards the town jailhouse, the hub of law and order in these parts.
Inside the jail, the dank air mixed with the scent of desperation and sweat. Monty's experienced eyes scanned the iron bars, the thick stone walls, and the carefully placed locks. The cells were filled to the brim with some of the West's most renowned outlaws -- the Midnight Kid, the Highwayman, Doc Doom, Silk Black, Outlaw X, and even his old nemesis, "Crazy-Gun" Crawley.
Incredibly, Crawley was still active after twenty years, having beaten the odds to avoid his capture and eventual hanging. If anything, he was twice as dangerous as he'd ever been, having pulled heists alongside the likes of Jesse James, his brother Frank James, Billy the Kid, and even the Dalton Brothers more recently, yet he had never reached the same notoriety as they ever did. That had always stuck in his craw, and Monty knew that "Crazy-Gun" Crawley intended to be the most famous outlaw in the wild west by the time he was through. Craftiness and raw ambition were a dangerous combination, and old Crawley would soon end up pulling off something that nobody had ever done before.
Monty's firm steps echoed through the prison as he inspected the cells, making mental notes on how to improve the already formidable safeguards. The outlaws rattled their cages, their eyes filled with a mixture of malice and mischief as they caught sight of the legendary sheriff.
As Monty began slowly walking, he heard one of the prisoners shout, "The jail ain't standin' that can hold us! An' the sheriff ain't alive that can keep us here!"
Monty reached the cell of Dan Slater, alias the Midnight Kid and shook his head in disgust. Some years back Slater had been a lawyer who was secretly also the leader of a gang of bandits in Cedar Creek, and if not for his old friend Harmony Hayes putting a stop to the masked man's reign of crime, he would have become sheriff of Cedar Creek so that his gang would never have had to fear the law again. (*) Monty couldn't abide the idea of any man of the law becoming a badman. It rankled him.
[(*) Editor's note: See "Wanted: A Sheriff," All-American Western #120 (June-July, 1951).]
"Well, well, if it ain't Monty West. Come to show off your sheriff's badge again?" sneered the Midnight Kid, his voice dripping with disdain.
Monty's lips curled into a knowing smile as he locked eyes with the notorious outlaw. "You know, Slater, I thought spending some time behind bars might have taught you a lesson, but it seems I was mistaken."
Reginald Torbin, infamously known as the Highwayman, was a scarred and grizzled old Englishman with a wicked smirk. (*) "No jail in the world can hold me, West. Not even with your so-called 'improvements'," he chimed in.
[(*) Editor's note: See "The Mysterious Marauder," All-American Western #104 (December, 1948).]
Monty's gaze swept over the outlaws, his voice as steady as a desert breeze. "You may think that, gentlemen, but nothin' will get you outta these cells while I'm around."
"Hear, hear!" said one of the inmates in mock admiration. This was Silk Black, a smooth-talker known as the most ruthless outlaw in the West, as well as a persistent thorn in the side of his old compadre Johnny Thunder. (*) "Oh, Sheriff, you always did have a mighty fine way with words. But we'll just see about that, won't we?"
[(*) Editor's note: See "Ambush at Sundown," All Star Western #70 (April-May, 1953).]
Monty's jaw tightened, his resolve unyielding. "Time will tell, Black. But don't underestimate the lengths I'll go to protect this town."
As he turned to leave the jailhouse, Monty knew deep down that the outlaws' words had struck a chord. He may be a legend, but age was catching up with him. Yet, he remained confident that his experience and cunning would be enough to thwart any escape plan they had brewing.
Little did he know that the outlaws were already weaving a plan, one that would forever tarnish the reputation of Monty West. As he walked back out into the blinding sun, the weight of his duty settled heavily on his shoulders. Only time would reveal if the legendary sheriff still had what it took to keep the law intact in this wild frontier.
***
Days turned into weeks as Monty West implemented his improvement plans for the jailhouse that had so impressed the Border City officials that he was hired as sheriff. He saw it as his duty to ensure that the prisoners could never be allowed to escape, and to that end he had worked with the blacksmith to improve the strength of the cell bars and the walls, especially those with windows leading to the outside. Far too often an owlhoot had escaped after he'd captured him and put him in jail thanks to some kind of stunt involving a stick of dynamite and a horse with a rope to pull the rest of the wall down. Those kinds of shenanigans weren't about to happen under his watch.
One evening, as Monty made his nightly inspection, he assured himself that all of his prisoners were safely locked away, his improvements ensuring that no prison break would happen under his watch. As far as his old but still sharp eyes could tell, everything appeared to be all right.
Yet, had he been able to listen in on the cells containing "Crazy-Gun" Crawley, Silk Black, Doc Doom, and Outlaw X, he might have had a different opinion of the situation.
"Pass the word to X, Doc!" whispered Silk Black. "We're goin' out t'night!"
"He'll have to give the orders, Silk!" agreed Doc Doom, who had been unstoppable until the day he met Sheriff Trigger in Rocky City. (*) "Our cells ain't got windows!"
[(*) Editor's note: See "Sheriff on a Spot," All Star Western #101 (June-July, 1958).]
Late that night, Outlaw X sat alone in his cell, a flicker of hope igniting within him as he heard the faint whispers filtering through the night air. The breakout was going on as planned, and he would soon return to robbing banks, trains, and gold mines in no time, not to mention playing cat and mouse games with lawmen across the West. (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See "The Five Clues to Outlaw X," Western Comics #64 (July-August, 1957) and "Three Clues to Outlaw X," Western Comics #71 (September-October, 1958).]
The rustle of leather and the soft sound of boots on the ground reached his ears, drawing his attention to the cell window. Peering through the dusty panes, he saw the shadowy figures of the gang members creeping toward him. He grinned as he recognized the Cougar and three members of the Hit and Run Gang when they appeared at his window.
"Pssst..." Outlaw X hissed through the iron bars. "Everything's set? Remember, we don't shoot the Sheriff! Killing's too good for him!"
"Sure, X!" replied the Cougar, an old enemy of Nighthawk. (*) "Luke, Faro, an' Pete will do the trick! We've got ourselves a plan, and it starts with this here gunfight."
[(*) Editor's note: See "The Two Faces of Nighthawk," Western Comics #48 (November-December, 1954).]
A wry smile played on Outlaw X's lips. "Well, let's get this show on the road then."
A few moments later outside the jailhouse, the tension in the air was palpable. Two groups of outlaws squared off, their fingers twitching on the triggers of their revolvers as the thunder of the fake gunfight shattered the night air. The townsfolk, too afraid to intervene, watched from behind the safety of windows and doors.
"You reckon this diversion will work, Jeb?" Luke, second in command of the "Hit and Run" Gang, asked as he glared at his supposed rivals.
Faro, a lanky outlaw with a ragged hat pulled low over his eyes, chuckled softly. "Oh, it'll work just fine, Luke. Old Monty will come running out, guns blazin', and that's when we'll spring our trap."
Each outlaw aimed wide, sending bullets whizzing through the air, causing dust to rise around them. Their shots were nothing more than empty echoes, a ruse to draw out the unsuspecting sheriff.
"Haw, haw!" laughed Pete. "This shootin' shore looks real! It'll bring the Sheriff a-runnin'!"
"Pssst, Cougar!" whispered Faro, watching the door. "Here he comes! Get 'im!"
Sure enough, Monty West, his keen eyes scanning the chaotic scene, had turned the lights on in his office, guns already drawn and ready. "A gunfight, huh?" he sighed to himself, already having a plan worked out in his mind to put a stop to it as he had so many times before. Sweat trickled down his furrowed brow as he prepared to make his way toward the turmoil. Little did he know that his fate had already been sealed.
Just as Monty took his first step out the door, a lariat swooped from above, snaking around his body before he could react. His guns slipped immediately from his grasp, clattering to the ground as he was painfully yanked upward, dangling helplessly from the roof. He cursed his foolishness, even as he begrudgingly admired the outlaws' cunning trick, one he had used on outlaws so many times in the past.
A cold shiver ran down Monty's spine as one of the outlaws leveled his revolver towards him, ready to end the Sheriff's reign permanently. But another outlaw swiftly intervened, slapping the gun away. "Hold up, boys!" said Faro. "Let this old fool live. We've got bigger plans for him."
"Don't hurt the big, bad Sheriff!" agreed the Cougar in a mocking tone. "Haw, haw! Just take the jail keys!"
The gang members snatched the keys from Monty's trembling hands, their laughter echoing through the night.
Monty's heart sank as he listened to their mocking words, his mind racing to find a way to redeem himself. Under the cover of darkness, the gang entered the jailhouse, unlocking the cells and setting the prisoners free. The once menacing prisoners cheered and hooted, as they mounted their trusty steeds and rode off into the night.
The moonlit streets of the border town were filled with whispers and uneasy glances as news of the prison break had spread like wildfire. The townsfolk locked themselves in their homes, their hearts pounding with fear, knowing that chaos would soon be unleashed upon their once tranquil town.
Hours later, the shopkeeper stumbled upon the scene. His eyes widened in disbelief as he witnessed the Sheriff, his body limp and dangling from the roof. With a determined glance, he reached for his knife, hastily freeing Monty from his entanglement.
Monty coughed and sputtered as he was lowered to the ground, his pride wounded more than his body. The shopkeeper looked at him, concern etched on his weathered face. "Monty, maybe it's time to hang up your badge. You're gettin' too old for this job."
***
The following day, Monty rode out of town with his head hung low. The once-cheering townsfolk now jeered and mocked him, igniting a deep flame of self-blame within him. He lowered his head, shielding himself from their scornful gazes as he disappeared beyond the horizon.
"Yuh're through, West!" hollered one man as the Vigilante strode down Main Street on his horse. "Get out of town!"
"An' we're givin' this star to a real man, not some washed-up old has-been!" vowed the Mayor, holding the sheriff's star that Monty West had been forced to return to him last night in disgrace. "Ho, ho!"
Monty West couldn't help but wonder if he would ever live down the shame of his colossal failure to stop the outlaws' escape. The weight of his mistakes settled heavily upon his shoulders as only one thing went through his mind. I failed... I failed... It was my fault. I let 'em escape.
***
Monty West's heart was heavy with failure, the deafening jeers of the townsfolk following him like a relentless storm cloud wherever he went. He couldn't help but feel the weight of his failure bearing down on him. Every step his horse Banjo took echoed his shattered pride.
He knew deep down that the townspeople had a right to mock him. He had been hired as Border City's sheriff, the one sworn to protect and uphold the law. Yet here he was, being laughed at for his incompetence. Monty's once-strong grip on the reins felt feeble, as if his very spirit had been broken.
But amidst the mocking taunts and jeers, Monty's fading determination sparked a desperate fire within him. He couldn't let the outlaws disappear into the sunset without consequences. It was his duty to bring them to justice, to prove that he was not the bumbling fool they believed him to be. And if it meant tracking them down one by one, then so be it.
The makeshift posse that Monty soon gathered consisted of a few loyal friends and some concerned townsfolk who still believed in him. They rode hard, driven by a shared determination to rectify Monty's mistakes and recapture the members of the "Hit and Run" Gang.
Days turned into nights, and nights into days, as they tirelessly pursued the trail of the outlaws across rugged terrain. Dust clouds billowed behind them, a symbol of their unwavering pursuit. But still they had no luck.
McCallister, one of Monty's loyal friends, pulled alongside him, his voice filled with urgency. "Monty, it ain't too late to turn back, to admit defeat and let them slip away. We've been riding for days, and the trail's gone cold."
Monty's eyes glinted with newfound resolve. "No, McCallister. I won't let 'em get away with what they've done. We owe it to this town, to ourselves. We ride 'til the end."
They pressed on, each weary mile fueling their determination. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the land. It was as if nature itself conspired to aid their quest for redemption. The fading light guided them to a secluded canyon, where the outlaws had decided to rest.
The posse dismounted, their footsteps silent as they approached the camp. Monty held up a hand, signaling his men to surround the sleeping outlaws. They moved with calculated precision, their years of experience in tracking fugitives leading the way.
As Monty aimed his gun at the current leader of the gang, he spoke with a calm that belied his turbulent emotions. "Terrill, your days o' lawlessness end now. You 'n' your gang will face the consequences of your actions in a court o' law."
Frank Terrill smirked, his eyes flickering with the kind of defiance that had earned him the nickname of the Cougar. "Well, well, Sheriff West, or is that ex-sheriff? Finally found yer backbone, did ya? I wasn't sure you still had one after we pulled that trick on you back at the jailhouse! Haw, haw!"
Monty's finger tightened around the trigger, his voice unwavering. "It ain't never too late to make things right."
Silence fell over the canyon as the outlaws were apprehended and disarmed. Monty's men secured the prisoners, their hands bound tightly with strong rope. The posse mounted their horses, carrying their captive load back to town.
As they rode through the familiar streets, Monty noticed a change in the townsfolk's demeanor. The jeers and taunts had transformed into quiet admiration. Despite his earlier fall from grace, he had remained resilient in the face of failure.
The battered former sheriff dismounted in front of the jailhouse, now cleared of its occupants. The doors creaked open, revealing the empty cells that had once held the outlaws, and now would again. The townspeople gathered around, their voices hushed with newfound respect.
Monty turned to McCallister, his voice filled with pride. "You were wrong, my friend. With a bit o' determination and grit, we can face down impossible odds an' bring justice back ta these lands."
With the Hit and Run Gang behind bars, Monty found a small amount of solace in this act. Sometimes, it took failure to truly understand the weight of responsibility. And as he rode back out of town, Monty vowed that he would never let himself become a laughingstock again. Even the most weathered souls could rise above their failures and become legends in their own right.
Yet the legendary lawman's disgrace had only just begun, for all the other escaped outlaws were still out there, their very freedom mocking him for letting them escape. And as the days passed, a reign of terror the likes of which the Old West had never seen before began. Monty could only watch in horror as the newspapers blared his failures with every headline:
THE HIGHWAYMAN RIDES AGAIN!
CRAWLEY MURDERS DEPUTY!
SILK BLACK AND DOC DOOM ROB WEST-BOUND TRAIN!
OUTLAW X SHOOTS UP POSSE!
And there were more. It seemed that nothing could stop this wave of crime. Still, deep down, he knew that somewhere, somehow, there was still a chance to make things right again. To do that, Monty West would have to become the Vigilante once more, and he would need a little help from his friends.
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 27, 2023 7:49:25 GMT
I must give a tip of the hate to Dave and his Villains thread for helping me find some of the outlaws in this story. It certainly cut down the research time!
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 29, 2023 4:49:18 GMT
Chapter 5: Return of the Justice Riders by Doc Quantum, partially adapted from Action Comics #129 by Ed Herron and Bob LubbersIn the bustling town of Jefferson City, chaos erupted as a fearsome gang of outlaws unleashed a wave of terror upon the unsuspecting townspeople. Their arrogant minds working as one, these lawless bandits set their sights on a seemingly impossible escape.
Down the dusty main street, the four outlaws rode furiously, their cloaks billowing behind them in the wind. Without a moment's hesitation, they fired their weapons sporadically, sending bullets whizzing dangerously close to the innocent bystanders, a clear warning to stand aside.
Amidst the panic, a voice rose above the commotion, piercing the air with urgency. "They've robbed the mail coach! After 'em!" a man called out, his voice laden with a mixture of anger and determination.
Responding to the call of duty, a lone figure mounted his steed and took charge, rallying a posse of five brave men to chase down the fleeing fiends. His voice resonated with grit, carrying the undying spirit of justice. "Only four of 'em! We can take 'em!" he bellowed, his words emboldening the men who rode behind him.
Yet, unbeknownst to the relentless pursuers, their path led them toward a treacherous trap, concealed by the rugged terrain. Nestled upon a lofty outcropping of rock, a pair of outlaws known as the Midnight Kid and the Highwayman perched patiently, rifles poised and aimed with deadly precision.
As the outlaws known as Silk Black and his comrades skillfully navigated their escape through a narrow pass, the Midnight Kid and the Highwayman sprang into action, unleashing a hail of gunfire upon the unsuspecting posse. Their voices echoed with raucous laughter above the deafening clamor. "Ride, Silk! We gotcha covered! Haw!" the Midnight Kid cried triumphantly, his words carrying the weight of their imminent victory.
The unmistakable sound of rifles echoed through the air, cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. BAM! CRACK! The bullets found their mark, forcing the pursuers to veer off course, narrowly evading the lethal hailstorm. A commanding voice rose above the tumult, the posse leader calling out a desperate retreat. "Fall back, boys! More of 'em are hidden out there!" he shouted, his words laced with a mix of caution and trepidation, acknowledging the formidable might of their concealed adversaries.
But Todd Tumpkins, Bob Hutchkiss, and Chuck Willis, the three youngest and most foolhardy members of the posse, weren't happy with this decision. By mutual agreement they broke away from the rest, figuring they could double back later on and find a way to get through the pass without being spotted. They were determined to prove themselves, and they would track down the outlaws alone if they had to.
***
The sun hung low in the fiery, orange sky as the band of outlaws, their hearts pounding with adrenaline, rode toward the secluded castle-like building nestled deep in the untamed wilderness of Hidden Valley, accessible only through a narrow canyon pass. The air was heavy with the scent of victory, and the outlaws reveled in their triumph from the Jefferson City robbery.
"There's the hideout, boys... Home safe again! Ho! Ho!" exclaimed the ringleader Silk Black, his voice ringing out with a mix of triumph and mischief. He urged his horse forward, leading the crew toward their newfound sanctuary.
As the outlaws dismounted and entered the castle, exhaustion blended with excitement on their faces. The opulent dining room welcomed them, adorned in lavish furnishings fit for a king. It was a sight to behold, an extravagant haven that displayed their ill-gotten wealth, a stark contrast to the hardships they had endured on their treacherous journey.
Within the room, a raucous bacchanal was in full swing. Young, beautiful, and buxom women, their captivating presence drawing the attention of every man in the room, had been sourced from saloons and whorehouses scattered throughout the Southwest. Liquor flowed freely, expertly poured by the women as they weaved gracefully between the revelers. Drunken men, their inhibitions cast aside in this den of indulgence, seized the opportunity to grab the women and exchange passionate kisses, their actions fueled by a primal desire to consume life to the fullest. The air was thick with a sense of liberation, as if the outlaws were shedding the weight of their sins and immersing themselves in the pleasures of the moment, even as the lingering fear of the law hung heavy over them.
It had been Crazy-Gun Crawley's ambitious idea, and they had managed to pull it off spectacularly. The Old West's most notorious outlaws had arranged to get themselves arrested and brought to the very same jailhouse in Border City where other infamous badmen had already been placed. Once they were all there, they arranged for a mass jailbreak from the outside to free all the prisoners at once, a bonus being the humiliation of Sheriff Monty West. And that prison break would lead to the second part of Crazy-Gun's plan.
By working together as a large organized band of interconnected gangs known simply as the Outlaws, they launched a reign of terror, while working together to protect each other from getting caught. It seemed that they were unstoppable.
With a satisfied sigh, Crazy-Gun Crawley kicked his boots up on the table, a carefree smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the grandeur and the secrets hidden within the castle's sturdy walls.
"This old castle, built fifty years ago by a gold prospector," Crawley drawled, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of a man who relished his surroundings, "sure makes for safe hidin'!"
A smirk danced across Outlaw X's lips, amusement sparkling in his eyes as he joined the rest of the outlaws in their indulgent revelry. "Yep," he chuckled, his laughter tinged with a hint of wickedness, "anybody tryin' to scale these cliffs after us would be filled with so much lead, folks will mistake him for a mine! Ha, ha!"
Crawley chuckled. In this castle hideout far from civilization, the Outlaws and their ill-gotten riches found solace, temporarily shielded from the relentless pursuit of justice. "Yer damn right, X," he replied, a glint of mischief lighting up his eyes, "anyone who dares cross our path'll have ta pay the devil's toll."
With a nod of farewell to his comrades, Crawley excused himself from the revelry below. He ascended the castle steps, each one a testimony to his ascent from the miry depths of poverty to the throne he now occupied. With every step, his boots echoed power, leaving behind a trail of triumph.
Finally reaching the top of the turret, Crawley stood tall, surveying the vast valley below. A sense of satisfaction washed over him, his heart swelling with pride. He removed his hand from his coat pocket, unveiling a gleaming stone, a strange-looking rock that glowed as if it was radiating luck itself.
Leaning against the castle turret, Crazy-Gun Crawley let the cool breeze of the night air brush against his face, his eyes gleaming with the fire of victory. "Hidden Valley," he muttered to himself, his drawl rich and deep as he spoke poetically, "a sanctuary for us outlaws, a fortress that no lawman dare breach."
As he gazed out at the untouched expanse laid out before him beneath the moonlight, a rugged smile crept onto his lips. "Twenty years o' battling the odds," he mused, his voice tinged with gravel, "and yet here I stand tall. Carvin' my own kingdom in the wild west, one bullet at a time."
He held up his lucky talisman to the light, studying its brilliance. "You've been my charm, old friend," Crawley whispered, his voice carrying the weight of the past two decades, "without you, I'd be dancing in the air, swayin' from a hangman's noose long before now."
As the wind whispered through the valley, Crawley's eyes sparkled with determination. He knew he was invincible, destined to reign supreme from his fortress in Hidden Valley. No lawman, no matter how righteous, would dare to challenge him. The castle walls would protect his secrets, and his outlaw empire would flourish, untouched by the long arm of the law.
With a final glance at the valley that lay at his feet, Crawley slipped his lucky charm back into his pocket, its radiant glow seeping into his soul. The stage was set, and he was the leading man in his own wild western saga, a tale that would echo through the ages.
***
Over twenty years had passed since the Vigilante first arrived in the Old West, and he knew no more now about how or why than he did then. During that time he had become a Legend of the Old West not only as the mysterious and elusive Vigilante of the Justice Riders, but also in his identity as Monty West, Sheriff of Twin Rivers. That was a job he had given up after some fifteen years in the role, and while he still loved the people of Twin Rivers, he was just as happy to move on. Much like his early years, the Vigilante had become a wanderer once more, this time with many years of experience under his belt as a lawman that he could pass on to others. An older Huckleberry Kid had accompanied him for a while, but he had since settled down with a wife and kids.
His once-raven black hair had first turned gray and then white, and the handlebar mustache threatened to make him look even older; in fact, it made him look like the spitting image of his grandfather. In one of the precious few flashes of memory, he recalled his father showing him an old photograph of a grandfather who had died long before he was born. When such a photograph could have been taken was one question. Why he recalled driving a car as a young man when the Benz Patent Motorcar was only invented a few years ago in Germany was another.
The Vigilante was getting old, and he had begun to lose his friends. His faithful steed Lightning had passed on, as had such close friends as Madame .44 and Walt Trigger, forcing the retirement of both Johnny Thunder and Wayne Trigger. (*) The group of his fellow lawmen, whom he'd nicknamed the Justice Riders, were starting to feel the weight of their years as well. The Vigilante thought he might be due for retirement soon, but unlike the rest he had no one to retire with. There had been a few flings, of course. The beautiful blonde Overland Coach driver Tony Barrett had been the most notable of them, but since she had the same wandering spirit as he did, it would never have worked out in the long run. The real reason for his restlessness was, of course, that he could never be happy until the answers to all of his questions about where he'd come from were answered.
[(*) Editor's note: See Justice Society of America: Times Past, 1941: Thunder at Sunset and The Crimson Avenger: Times Past, 1939: Ghost of the Past.]
As Monty West, he had been happy to serve as a lawman in Kansas for awhile, until he was called in to Border City to watch over a jailhouse full of the West's most notorious outlaws. However, his failure to recapture the escaped prisoners weighed heavily on him, and he vowed not to show his face in town again until he had done so. He had also vowed never to take off his bandana until the job was done. To do that, he needed the Justice Riders.
The scorching sun beat down mercilessly on Vigilante as he rode his weary horse across the barren landscape into the dusty town of Perseverance, its streets devoid of life save for the occasional tumbleweed drifting lazily by. Sweat dripped from his brow, a constant reminder of the weight of his failures. The former sheriff had been in service for as long as he could remember, but the escape of the most notorious outlaws in the Old West had marked the lowest point of his career. His once ironclad reputation was now tarnished, and doubt gnawed at his resolve.
The Vigilante, a weathered man with deep lines etched on his face, adjusted his red bandana as he stepped onto the porch of the dilapidated saloon. With a practiced glance, he surveyed the town, searching for any familiar faces.
As Vigilante entered the saloon, the air grew heavy with the smell of stale whiskey and tobacco. The room was dimly lit, but the sound of chattering patrons filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of a glass hitting the counter. Vigilante's eyes scanned the room until he spotted a figure sitting in the far corner, bathed in shadows. His eyes crinkled in a smile to see his old friend, a shadowy figure hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, his eyes as piercing as a hawk's.
The Nighthawk, clad in black from head to toe, wore a mask that concealed his eyes, giving him an air of mystery. The Vigilante approached him, boots thudding against the creaky wooden floor. The patrons paused their conversations, intrigued by the meeting of these two legends. Vigilante took a seat, his eyes narrowing as he faced his old companion.
"Nighthawk, it's been too long," Vigilante said, his voice layered with years of experience. "I never thought I'd see the day when we'd be fightin' side by side again. You still wanderin' the West, Hawkes?"
Hannibal Hawkes nodded, his piercing eyes hidden behind the mask. "Times have changed, ol' friend," he replied, his voice low and gravelly. "The West ain't what it used to be. Time was you could ride all the way from Fort Worth to Tucson without seein' one barbed wire, an' now they're everywhere. Personally, I think we're needed now more than ever."
The Vigilante's gaze shifted toward the door, and as if on cue, Lady Whiplash strode in, her presence and beauty unspoiled by the years commanding the attention of every man and woman in the saloon. Her fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders, and a confident smirk played on her lips. She was the embodiment of both grace and danger. The bullwhip coiled at her side, a symbol of her deadly accuracy and her whip's crack a warning to any who dared cross her path.
"Lady Whiplash, looks like the rumors were true," Vigilante stated, a hint of admiration in his voice. "You still hooked up with this broken-down fix-it man?" he joked, indicating Nighthawk with his thumb.
"Afraid so," replied Carmen Ygnacia Gaynor, flashing a smile at Nighthawk. "He's quite the charmer, even after all these years. I just can't seem to quit 'im."
Vigilante chuckled. "And still crackin' that whip, I see."
She twirled her signature bullwhip playfully before responding, her voice dripping with sass. "Just like my abuelito taught me," she said, referring to her grandfather Don Fernando Suarez, known half a century ago as El Castigo, or the Whip, in Spanish California.
Just as the trio reunited, the melody of a familiar voice drifted into the saloon. It was Harmony Hayes, a charismatic cowboy with a gleam in his eye. The slender figure entered with a guitar slung over his shoulder, strumming a tune that instantly captured the attention of the entire room. Here was a man whose voice melted hearts and whose six-shooter struck fear into the hearts of outlaws.
"Boys and girls, gather 'round!" Harmony called out jovially, his voice smooth as honey. "The Justice Riders are back in town!"
The crowd erupted in applause, their excitement palpable. The Vigilante couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope ignite within him at the sight of his old singing buddy, recalling all those evenings around the campfire that they sat strumming their guitars and serenading the coyotes. The Prairie Troubadour and the Minstrel Maverick had made quite a pair, though Vigilante had lost his desire to sing a while back. The West might be teetering on the edge of chaos, but together, they just might tip the scales back in favor of justice.
With the reunion complete, Harmony said, "So this is everyone who showed up? Where are the others? Where's Johnny? I know he never likes to leave Mesa City, especially now that he's got Jeanne and the kids to keep him busy, but--"
"Johnny Thunder won't be comin'," the Vigilante snapped, interrupting him.
Lady Whiplash sidled up to Harmony Hayes and hushed him before he could put his foot in his mouth again. "Don't say a word about Johnny or Jeanne. I'll explain later," she whispered. Hayes nodded as realization slowly dawned upon him.
"A couple more'll be joinin' us at the meetin' spot," explained Vigilante. "I suggest we ride there an' meet 'em."
With the reunion complete, the Justice Riders made their way to a dilapidated shack in a lonely spot in the vast Plains several miles out of town. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape, two more figures joined the foursome. The Wyoming Kid, a strong-looking figure in a red shirt and a yellow Stetson atop his head, greeted Vigilante with a twinkle in his eye and the others with a nod. No longer a "Kid," Bill Polk still traveled the West, righting wrongs wherever he went. Pow-Wow Smith, the Indian sheriff of Elkhorn, who was adorned in rawhide from head to toe, offered a solemn smile to one and all. Ohiyesa's sheriff's star was beginning to see its age, just as a hint of white had begun to creep into his hair.
Soon enough, the legends were settled around a crackling campfire, their bellies full of beans and venison. Small talk soon gave way to silence, and the Vigilante knew they were waiting for him. Sighing wearily, he looked around at the lawmen, each marked with their own unique brand of justice. These legendary lawmen had faced death a few times together over the past twenty years, but now they faced their greatest challenge yet.
The Vigilante cleared his throat, the weight of responsibility pressing upon him even without his sheriff's star. "Gentlemen and Lady, we all know why we're here," he said as he looked at his old friends, his voice filled with determination. "The most feared outlaws in the West, led by that owlhoot Crazy-Gun Crawley, have been terrorizin' these lands for far too long. I reckon it's high time we put an end to this crime wave. Our reputation precedes us, and together we'll bring these outlaws to justice. Our mission? To find their hideout and smoke 'em out."
The Wyoming Kid nodded, his voice grave. "Vigilante, we understand your burden, but we can't undo the past. What we can do is stand side by side once more, just like the old days."
Pow-Wow Smith leaned back against a rock, gazing into the distance. "Crazy-Gun might have all the other lawmen running scared when they see his bunch ride into town, but we aren't ones to back down."
Nighthawk agreed. "We'll show 'em what true justice looks like."
Lady Whiplash cracked her whip, the sound snapping through the night air. "Their hideout may be well-hidden and well-defended, but we've faced worse odds. We'll track 'em down, one outlaw at a time if we have to."
Harmony Hayes began strumming his guitar, a determined look in his eyes as a ballad began to form in his mind.
"When the Justice Riders go to war, Fear spreads amongst outlaws galore. With iron will and righteous might, Injustice trembles, bound by fright."
"Boys, and gal, we've got a week to gather information," the Vigilante said, convinced that he'd made the right decision to reunite with his fellow lawmen. "Each of us will ride into different territories, talkin' to the locals, diggin' up any clues we can find. We'll meet back here and piece it all together."
A murmur of agreement rumbled among the group as they formed a tight circle. Vigilante's plan was clear. The outlaws had slipped through his fingers once, but if the Justice Riders worked together, they could ensure it never happened again.
The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the eager faces of the Justice Riders. The weight of their past accomplishments and the light of their unwavering determination merged, shaping them into the unstoppable force they had once been. The Old West may have changed, but their commitment to justice remained unyielding.
With a solemn nod, they soon dispersed, each rider disappearing into the night, bound on a mission to reclaim the West from the clutches of darkness.
Little did they know that their meeting had not gone unnoticed. Somewhere in the shadows, an outlaw with a keen eye had trailed them to their meeting place and had been listening in on them. A hideous grin formed on his gaunt face as he slinked back into town.
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 29, 2023 5:45:08 GMT
This story is best read while listening to the Soundtrack from an Imaginary Western:
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Post by lawrenceliberty on Aug 29, 2023 15:14:25 GMT
Boy, you really assembled a lot of Western heroes and villains. Nice research too.
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Post by DocQuantum on Aug 30, 2023 4:11:03 GMT
Boy, you really assembled a lot of Western heroes and villains. Nice research too. Thanks! I appreciate the comment. This is a labor of love for me, as I've become a big fan of the Vigilante after reading many of his Golden Age stories. I'm also very impressed by DC's Western heroes of the 1940s/1950s, though I'm afraid they won't get the kind of screen time they deserve. There are also a lot more Western characters than I could possibly fit in one story.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 1, 2023 16:03:25 GMT
Chapter 6: The Old Prospector
by Doc Quantum
The sun bore down fiercely upon three foolhardy youths, Todd Tumpkins, Bob Hutchkiss, and Chuck Willis, as they urged their horses forward, determined to catch up with the gang of outlaws that had looted Jefferson City the previous day. The dusty trail beneath them seemed to stretch for miles as they raced against time to bring these heinous criminals to justice.
Their determination and audaciousness had brought them back to the mouth of the same treacherous canyon pass that they'd seen the previous day. As they looked ahead, a shiver of unease ran down their spines. The three older members of the posse had already turned back to Jefferson City, a warning etched in their eyes. Yet Todd, Bob, and Chuck could not falter now. They knew that turning back would only allow the outlaws to escape justice.
With grim determination, they urged their horses forward as quietly as possible, forging ahead despite the ominous presence of the canyon walls closing in on them. The sheer cliffs towered above, casting shadows that seemed to stretch and coil like snakes ready to strike. They had counted on the canyon pass being left unguarded, now that the heat of yesterday's chase had died down.
Suddenly, as they entered the canyon, the sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the narrow pass, forcing the youths to rein in their horses abruptly. Surrounding them were outlaw gunmen perched upon the cliffs, guns trained on the three audacious youngsters. The outlaws' cold eyes glinted with wicked delight, relishing the helpless prey that had stumbled into their trap.
"Drop your guns!" one of the outlaws bellowed, his voice carrying the weight of command. Todd, Bob, and Chuck reluctantly obeyed, discarding their weapons with a sense of foreboding.
A couple of the outlaws forced them off their horses, their guns pressing against the youths' spines. Advancing cautiously, the trio walked into the canyon, each step a testament to their bravery and the uncertainty of their fate. The rocky ground beneath their boots threatened to give way, amplifying the trepidation that gripped their hearts.
As they walked further into the canyon's depths, the sunlight waned, casting a perpetual twilight over their path. They allowed their eyes to adjust to the dimness, and upon reaching the end of the pass, a breathtaking sight greeted them.
Before them lay the sunlit Hidden Valley, stretching out like a patchwork quilt of green and gold. At its heart stood a small hill, crowned with an aging stone building that looked for all the world to be a squat castle complete with turrets, like something out of a storybook. The youths exchanged incredulous looks, realizing they had stumbled upon the legendary hideout that had eluded so many.
Their captors led them up the hill to the castle, where they were confronted by a man who personified malevolence and arrogance. "Crazy-Gun" Crawley, the leader of this band of outlaws, laughed heartily at the audacity of the three youths who had managed to infiltrate their stronghold.
"You young bucks have more guts than brains," Crawley sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Either that or you're the biggest fools I've ever laid eyes on."
An outlaw, sensing an opportunity, interjected, "Boss, should I kill 'em?"
Crawley's laughter echoed through the valley as he motioned for the youth's imprisonment. "Nah, let's lock 'em up in the dungeon with the old-timer. I reckon he could use some company. Besides, I bet we could hold 'em for ransom and make their families pay through the nose to get 'em back."
The outlaws sneered menacingly, relishing the chance to torment their captives further. The three youths were led down a dark, winding stone staircase that descended deep into the bowels of the castle. The dim light revealed what seemed to be a dungeon, with empty barrels scattered about and what appeared to be a jail cell built against the walls.
In that cell sat a weathered old man with white hair and a handlebar mustache, his eyes shining with a blend of determination and defiance against his captors despite his predicament. The old-timer was an experienced gold prospector who had once been a famous Indian fighter. During his many-stored life he had constructed this very stone structure with his own weathered hands and the help of a few trusted friends some fifty years prior. The old prospector met the youths' gaze with a mixture of appreciation and caution.
The three young men exchanged glances as they were placed in the same cell with the old man by the laughing outlaws. By all outward appearances, the old man was utterly defeated, his home taken from him by the gang of outlaws. However, there was still something of the old-timer's resolute spirit that stirred their hearts and filled them with a newfound determination, even as the outlaws left them alone to rot together in the jail cell.
The old prospector, his voice strong despite his aged appearance, whispered with a steady determination. "Boys, I'm happy as all get-out to see you standing tall against this den of vipers. I've lived too many years upon this earth to believe in coincidences. I think Dame Fortune may have brought this meeting together, in fact, because you may be exactly the kind of help I've been lookin' for. Let me tell you -- there are secrets about this castle that those outlaws don't know, secrets that could prove to be our salvation."
Eyes shining with anticipation, the three youths leaned in closer as the old-timer began to reveal the hidden knowledge that could potentially turn the tide in their favor.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 7, 2023 0:28:25 GMT
Note: In Chapters 4, 5, and 6, I've located the action roughly in the Southwest, in or near Arizona. However, it turns out I was completely wrong about that. The story should be taking place farther north, in or near Wyoming. That is all.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 8, 2023 6:34:59 GMT
(Chapter 6 Continued)
The scorching sun beat down upon the vast expanse of the High Plains, as The Wyoming Kid rode relentlessly on his sturdy steed. After that shortcut I took through the hills, I should'a been ahead o' those owlhoots by this time, he thought to himself, but there's no sign of 'em anywhere! They were heading due south. How could I have missed 'em?
His eyes narrowed, a determined glint shining through, as he tried to track the outlaws who had eluded him once again. Pushing his horse to its limits, he cursed under his breath, realizing he was too late to catch up with the robbers after their audacious train heist.
***
Meanwhile, in the dusty town of Forsaken, Nighthawk and Lady Whiplash exchanged worried glances as they spoke with the Mayor. Puffs of steam billowed from their breathless horses, a testament to their desperate race against time.
"Alls I know is that the last time anybody saw 'em, they were headin' east," said the Mayor.
"And you're sure about that?" asked Lady Whiplash. "No chance they could'a doubled back or anything?" The Mayor shook his head solemnly, worry etching deep lines on his face.
Nighthawk's stern voice sliced through the air, his words thick with frustration, "We will track 'em down, Mayor, mark my words. They won't go unpunished for robbing that bank."
***
In another town across the plains, Harmony Hayes, known to many as the Minstrel Maverick, leaned against the wooden bar of a bustling saloon. His fingers strummed lazily on the strings of his guitar as he questioned the patrons, his voice carrying over the lively chatter.
"Folks, did any of you catch sight of those outlaws after their last escapade? What direction did they ride?" Silence fell upon the patrons, their eyes reflecting equal parts fear and resilience.
Finally, an old drunkard slurred, "Headed west, son. But you won't catch 'em, not unless you got wings on yer boots."
***
Far from the populated towns, Ohiyesa "Pow-Wow" Smith, the Indian lawman, sat on a weathered log amidst a circle of Lakota tribe members and addressed his brothers and sisters. "Have any of you heard whispers of where the outlaws went after their robbery? We must bring them to justice."
The tribe exchanged murmurs in their native tongue, their expressions somber and thoughtful.
Finally, an elder spoke. "They were seen heading north, Pow-Wow. Beware, the shadows grow deeper there."
***
In a hidden nook, surrounded by huge rock formations, a lone outlaw dismounted his horse and approached a group of his vile cohorts. The clinking of spurs and the cackling of flames filled the air as he relayed the news, "Those damned Justice Riders are hot on our tails. They've been poking their noses all over, asking about us."
The other outlaws erupted into raucous laughter, clutching their bellies in amusement.
"I bet they've gone plumb loco tryin' ta figure out which direction the hideout is!" an outlaw laughed.
One grizzled thief scoffed, "If they ever do figure it out, we'll set a trap fer them lead-foots the likes o' which they won't soon forget!"
***
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fiery orange and deep purple, the trails of pursuit collided. The Wyoming Kid, Nighthawk, Lady Whiplash, Harmony Hayes, and Ohiyesa "Pow-Wow" Smith converged upon the outskirts of Devil's Creek. On the horizon, no sign of any of the outlaws could be seen against the rolling plains.
"Well, I sure hope Vigilante's havin' more luck than we are," grumbled the Wyoming Kid.
***
The sun hung low in the sky, casting an orange hue over the vast expanse of the landscape. The Vigilante, tired but determined, rode alone on his trusty steed Banjo through the rugged hills of Sioux County. His thoughts rattled like the spurs on his boots, trying to piece together the puzzle of the outlaw gang's hideout. The other Justice Riders were tirelessly chasing shadows across the vast frontier, but the Vigilante had a hunch that led him to lay low in Sioux County.
The Vigilante rode alone, the weight of his mission heavy on his shoulders. His boots stirred up the dust as he stalked the trail in his relentless pursuit of the Outlaws. He found himself perched atop his horse Banjo on a rocky outcropping, his keen eyes fixed on a lush valley below. A wanted poster, already weathered by time and bearing the names of those he hunted, flapped gently in the breeze from a nearby tree.
"Most o' the robberies are right here in Sioux County! I just gotta keep my eyes open... like an eagle watchin' a weasel!" he muttered to himself, his voice as rugged as the landscape around him.
***
Disguised as an aged wanderer, his steps slow and deliberate, the Vigilante moved through the dusty towns of Sioux County. He blended seamlessly into the background, a silent observer of one of the communities he had sworn to protect.
Then, on one fateful day, whispers of the outlaws' next nefarious move reached his sharp ears. A small town was on the brink of ruin as the gang prepared to strike once more, this time aiming to make off with yet another bank heist. Time was a luxury he couldn't afford. With a swift motion, the Vigilante pulled his red kerchief over his face, shed his disguise, and hurried to leave for that small town.
Mounting his horse, his heart filled with the determination of a wild stallion, the Vigilante rode toward the chaos that was about to unfold. Dust billowed behind him, creating a cloud of anticipation. As he approached the town, his eyes scanned the streets, filled with fear-stricken townsfolk. They sought shelter, peering through shutters, their trust hanging on him like a frail rope. He spurred his horse into action, the thundering hoofbeats masking the crack of gunfire that echoed through the town.
"Blazes! Someone's doin' a heap o' shootin'!" he exclaimed, his eyes scanning the scene.
A businessman with a top hat hollered a warning for anyone who would listen. "Run fer yer life -- it's Doc Doom and Silk Black! They got the bank!"
The Vigilante erupted from the chaos, a beacon of justice amidst the lawless madness. With no time to lose, the Vigilante raced toward the chaos, his lariat at the ready. The outlaws, caught off guard by his audacity, faltered in their escape as, in a deft maneuver, he looped the rope around the feet of four of the outlaws.
"Look out... oops!..." Silk Black uttered as the lariat caused them to tumble to the ground with a resounding crash.
The Vigilante's mind raced as he assessed the situation. Silk Black, Doc Doom... and a couple more of the gang! But I don't see any others!
In a swift, calculated move, the blue-clad lawman rode in a tight circle, ensnaring the outlaws in his trusty lariat.
"He's got us, Silk! It's that blasted ex-sheriff!" Doc Doom conceded, defeated, their fate sealed.
With his quarry securely bound, the Vigilante led them down the dusty trail toward the town jail. The pursuit of justice in the Wild West was relentless, and the Vigilante was determined to ensure that these outlaws faced their day of reckoning.
The Vigilante, his heart pounding and adrenaline rushing through his veins, hoped that this was his chance to make things right. As he led the captured outlaws toward the town jail, he couldn't help but feel a sense of redemption for his past failures washing over him. Weeks ago, he had let these very same crooks slip through his fingers, but now, he had them right where he wanted them.
The townspeople watched in awe as the Vigilante paraded the outlaws through the dusty streets. They had lost hope in their ability to protect their own town, but the sight of the masked hero taking down some of the notorious gang sent a surge of hope through their veins. The Vigilante had become a symbol of justice and bravery in these parts, and he was determined to live up to that reputation.
The Vigilante approached the jailhouse, victorious but not yet triumphant. He had played his hand, but fate is a cunning adversary. Just as the Vigilante prepared to dismount his horse and hand the captured outlaws over to the local lawman, a storm of bullets erupted around him.
CRACK! BAM!
The outlaws he had pursued were not alone; reinforcements had arrived on a horse-drawn wagon, their guns ablaze. "Yuh forgot us, Vigilante!" shouted one of them.
"The Midnight Kid!" Vigilante cried, caught by surprise but recognizing the taunting voice. Barely evading the onslaught, he tried to ride off for cover, until another lead bullet skimmed his temple.
With a BANG! the Vigilante was sent tumbling from his horse. The outlaws, thinking their work was done, rode off laughing.
With a resounding thud, Vigilante hit the ground, wounded but undeterred. The Highwayman's bullet had grazed his head, leaving a trail of blood trickling down his temple. Through sheer determination, he tried to push himself up from the dust-covered street.
A searing pain jolted through his body as his vision blurred and darkness threatened to consume him. With sheer willpower, he battled the encroaching abyss, frustration clawing at his every fiber. The outlaws had once again slipped through his grasp.
A well-dressed gent with a top hat approached the wounded Vigilante, extending a helping hand, while a beautiful dark-haired woman in a red dress tended to his spooked horse. The Vigilante's eyes met the concerned gaze of the town's benefactor.
"Yuh was a brave one, lad... to take on that crew!" said the businessman, concern etched in his aged eyes. "Yuh bad off?"
The Vigilante, his voice resolute despite the pain, gave a curt shake of his head. "No, just grazed!" he insisted. "I'm goin' after 'em -- I gotta catch 'em!"
As the townspeople gathered around, the Vigilante couldn't help but to notice that while some of their faces were filled with admiration and gratitude, others only pointed at him in mockery for his failure. He took it to heart, knowing that the outlaws had once again slipped through his grasp.
Ignoring the searing ache in his head, the Vigilante thanked the young woman for holding onto Banjo for him and mounted his trusty steed once more. With grim determination, he followed the rising dust cloud kicked up by the escaping wagon, disappearing into the horizon, where the pursuit of justice knew no rest.
***
The Vigilante, his brow beaded with sweat, rode on through the unforgiving wilderness. His hat, once pristine white, was now stained with a dark patch where the bullet had grazed his scalp. Each step of his trusted steed, Banjo, sent a jolt of pain through his wounded head, threatening to plunge him into unconsciousness.
The trail of the outlaws, marked by the dust cloud kicked up by their speeding wagon, had led him to a place he knew all too well -- a secluded valley that had a history of its own stretching back nearly fifty years. The Vigilante had ridden all through these desolate paths in his younger days, facing down outlaw gangs and ruthless bandits, and knew this area well.
He also knew, however, that this was not just a lush green valley in the mountains. It was a natural fortress, guarded by towering cliffs on either side. The only way to access Hidden Valley, the outlaw's stronghold, was through a narrow canyon pass, where gunmen could easily rain death upon any intruders.
As the Vigilante cautiously approached the mouth of the valley, he couldn't help but grimace. He had faced these odds before, and he knew the risks all too well. Even if he managed to slip past the vigilant guards, there was a formidable stone fortress within Hidden Valley, a castle-like structure that had defied countless attempts to breach its defenses. It could withstand a siege for months, provided the outlaws had enough supplies.
"Thunderations!" he grumbled to himself, voicing his frustration as he pictured the Hidden Valley castle in his mind's eye. "They're yonder in that castle! It'd be suicide to follow!"
Yet that thought had never stopped him in the pursuit of justice before. Hidden from view, the Vigilante knew he had reached a crossroads. He was wounded, outnumbered, and outgunned. There was no way he could take on the outlaw gang and their well-fortified sanctuary by himself.
With a heavy heart, he turned Banjo around, retracing his steps away from the entrance to the valley. It was clear that he needed to rendezvous with his fellow Justice Riders, a formidable group of lawmen who had faced down danger together countless times before. If he was to have any chance of capturing the outlaws and bringing them to justice, he needed the help of his trusted comrades.
And so, with determination burning in his eyes and a relentless pursuit of justice in his heart, the Vigilante rode off, leaving the treacherous valley behind for the time being, but never giving up hope that the outlaws would soon face their reckoning.
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