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Post by lee on Sept 9, 2023 5:20:59 GMT
Absolutely loving this. Vigilante is in better hands now than he has been in years.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 9, 2023 9:28:36 GMT
Absolutely loving this. Vigilante is in better hands now than he has been in years. Thanks, Lee! I might get your comment framed and put on my wall.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 13, 2023 4:54:32 GMT
Chapter 7: The Ride of Destiny
by Doc Quantum, partially adapted from Action Comics #129 by Ed Herron and Bob Lubbers
The flickering flames from the lantern cast eerie shadows across the cold, damp walls of the castle's cellar, where the old prospector and the three young captives, Todd Tumpkins, Bob Hutchkiss, and Chuck Willis, were held against their will by the Outlaws. The air smelled musty, tinged with the scent of despair, as the group huddled together in the dim light.
The Old-Timer, a wiry, weathered man with a handlebar mustache, a wild beard of scruff, and twinkling eyes, leaned back against the sturdy iron bars, studying the young men before him. "You boys've got the spark of adventure in ya, that's for sure," he said, his voice oddly calm considering their dire circumstances.
Todd, the tallest of the trio and renowned for his lightning-fast draw, scratched his head, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow across his furrowed brow. "I reckon we might've bitten off more than we can chew this time, Old-Timer," he muttered, his voice heavy with uncertainty.
Bob, a stocky youth with a mischievous grin, nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I always dreamed 'bout bein' a gunfighter, but I never imagined it'd turn out like this," he said, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and determination.
Chuck, younger than the others, but with a reckless spirit in his wiry frame, let out a frustrated sigh. "Well, what's yer plan, Old-Timer? We're caught like fish in a barrel, and these outlaws ain't the type to show mercy."
The Old-Timer chuckled softly, the sound echoing through the cell. His eyes sparkled as he reached into the depths of his worn-out coat and produced a small, glowing stone. Its eerie, ethereal light illuminated the dim surroundings. The young men leaned in, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
"Behold, boys, my lucky coal," the Old-Timer said proudly, holding the illuminated stone aloft. "I stumbled upon this gem soon after I began prospectin' at an age younger'n you fellers, and it changed my life. It's what's kept me young at heart... and kept the same fightin' spirit burnin' inside me that I had when I was battlin' Injuns as a Cavalry scout along the Bozeman Trail."
Todd squinted at the glowing rock, his brow furrowed. "Izzat some kind o' fancy trick, Old-Timer -- a rock that glows?"
The Old-Timer laughed heartily, his booming voice reverberating off the cold, stone walls. "No trick, m'boy, just good ol'-fashioned luck," he explained. "This here coal holds a power that the outlaws can only dream of. It's kept me alive when I should'a died many times over, and soon it'll help us escape this prison, just you watch."
Bob leaned forward, his eyes glinting with newfound hope. "So, what do we do now, Old-Timer? You said you had secrets ta tell us about this castle. How can we escape this place and get those outlaws? There must be at least fifty of 'em out there!"
With a knowing smile, the Old-Timer reclined against the cell's iron bars, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Patience, my young gunslingers. The time for action will come, but first, we need to learn and plan."
Chuck leaned closer to the old man, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, what's this about secret tunnels and dynamite? I heard ya mutterin' about it in yer sleep."
The Old-Timer nodded, a gleam of excitement dancing in his eyes. "Oh, the secrets of this castle are vast 'n' endless. Y'see, when I built this place, I dug tunnels behind these rocky walls -- perfect for slippin' away undetected. And, well, let's just say that the outlaws don't know about the secret chamber filled with boxes o' dynamite, capable of blowing this whole damn castle sky-high."
A mix of awe and apprehension swept across the young men's faces as they exchanged glances. The weight of their situation hung heavy in the air.
Todd finally spoke up, his voice resolute. "All right, Old-Timer. I reckon we'll trust you fer now. But what's the plan?"
The Old-Timer's eyes crinkled, his voice filled with a newfound vigor. "Boys, we bide our time. We wait for the perfect moment to strike, like a rattlesnake coiled, ready to strike its prey. These outlaws have no idea what's comin' for 'em."
The young men exchanged determined glances, their fear transformed into resolve. They knew they had found an ally in the eccentric old prospector.
As the flickering flame of the lantern cast dancing shadows on their faces, the group huddled closer, their minds churning with plans and their hearts filled with courage.
***
One week earlier, the Justice Riders had dispersed, vanishing into the vastness of the Plains, each setting off on their own investigation. They had agreed to reconvene in a week's time, ready to compare their findings and form a strategic plan. As they rode off, the Vigilante couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope reignite within him. The weight of his years had begun to fall away, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose.
Days had turned into nights as the Justice Riders had traversed through treacherous canyons and desolate ghost towns, questioning informants, tracking leads, and leaving no stone unturned. And for all that, they'd come up with almost nothing. The Outlaws had covered their tracks too well.
But as it was, the Vigilante's stubbornness and perseverance in focusing on Sioux County had paid off when he'd confirmed his suspicion that, due to most of the robberies taking place in or near this county, it was also the location of the Outlaws' hideout. He had learned that the Outlaws were holed up in Hidden Valley, a place he was familiar with, but he had paid for that knowledge in spades with a bullet that had grazed his temple and nearly ended his life.
With dried blood caked against his sweaty brow, the Vigilante visited the local U.S. Marshal, a man he'd trusted with his life in the past, and gave him the vague outlines of a plan that required his help. If it had been anyone else, the Marshal would have dismissed him out of turn and laughed him out of his office, but Vigilante promised that he'd get all the credit for capturing the Outlaws in one fell swoop if he followed his part of the plan to the letter. The Marshal agreed and set to his task.
That done, Vigilante rode toward the desolate meeting place of the Justice Riders in the heat of midday, his mission far from over. His temple still throbbed with pain, his vision distorted, but his spirit remained resilient. He entered the dilapidated old shack, which was outfitted with a few tins of food and some supplies. Pulling out a yellowed wanted poster he'd picked up off the ground back in town, he took a lead pencil and composed a message on the blank side of the paper for his fellow Justice Riders.
The note written, the Vigilante saddled up once more, taking a tin of beans and a few other supplies with him. After a relentless ride, the urgency of time resonating in every hoofbeat, the Vigilante returned to the canyon pass, its entrance cloaked in darkness. Here the Vigilante and Banjo would hunker down and keep watch, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Until then, he would tend to his wounds and get some sleep before the morrow.
***
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the rugged terrain as the Justice Riders returned to their secluded meeting place nestled amidst the rolling hills, weary from their travels. Dust clung to their boots, evidence of the relentless yet unfruitful pursuit of justice they had undertaken.
The Wyoming Kid, his hat pulled low over his eyes, rode atop his trusty steed, a wandering paladin of the West. Years ago, Bill Polk had avenged his father, a sheepman killed in the long-running war between the cattlemen and the sheepmen for control of grazing lands, when he tracked down the murderer Hoke Claggett. Unable to bring Claggett to justice after his father's killer fell off a cliff while fleeing Polk, he continued fighting for justice as the Wyoming Kid.
The Nighthawk, his masked face betraying none of his emotions, followed close behind, his keen eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. Hannibal Hawkes had been such a fixture of the West for so long that he imagined the only way he would ever retire is if he was shot dead by one of the many badmen he had put away over his many years as a masked lawman. That was always a risk.
Lady Whiplash, a woman of unparalleled beauty and skill, dismounted and surveyed the surroundings with a trained eye. She was not a woman to be underestimated, for beneath her enchanting exterior lay a fierce warrior. Carmen Ygnacia Gaynor had wished her twin brother Rodney had the same fire in his soul as she, but he had abandoned his half-Spanish roots and had headed east to make his fortune amidst the relative comfort and safety of Manhattan.
Hank "Harmony" Hayes, strumming his guitar absentmindedly, dismounted and joined the others, his laid-back demeanor belying the steel nerves that lay within his soul. The Minstrel Maverick had already begun writing a cowboy ballad based on these events, certain that the showdown with the Outlaws would one day be as legendary as the Gunfight at the OK Corral or the Lincoln County War.
Pow-Wow Smith was the last to arrive on his own horse, a solemn expression on his face, and a burning desire in his heart to return to his wife Fleetfoot and their children back in Elkhorn. Ohiyesa Smith, the sheriff of Elkhorn, was unused to being absent from his home for so long, and wondered if his deputies were keeping everyone safe.
One by one, they recounted their findings as they gathered around the campfire and prepared a meal, each piece of the puzzle fitting into place. The air crackled with anticipation as their tales weaved together, drawing a pattern they hoped would lead to the Outlaws' sanctuary.
But one of their own was missing, and as they waited, they discovered that the Vigilante, their comrade and friend, had already come and gone, leaving behind only a note with a hand-drawn map on it. Nighthawk unfolded the note, his gloved hands tracing the familiar handwriting as he read it.
His sharp eyes concealed beneath his shadowy mask, Nighthawk held the note up for all to see and passed it around. "Listen up, partners," he declared, his voice low and gravelly. "The Vigilante plans to take down the Outlaws all on his lonesome. He's lookin' to enter the canyon leading to Hidden Valley, and he's gonna need our help."
Lady Whiplash, a formidable woman with a whip coiled at her hip, raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Does Vig think he can handle the worst gang in the West all by himself? He's got more courage than sense, that's for sure."
"He's brave, no doubt," muttered the Wyoming Kid, his deep voice filled with concern, "but he's also as foolish as they come. We can't let him face the Outlaws alone. We owe it to 'im to offer our assistance."
Harmony Hayes, a slender figure with a guitar slung across his back, nodded in agreement. "You're right, Wyoming. Vigilante may be brave, but he's playing a dangerous game. We'd best find a way to lend him a hand before he gets himself hurt."
Lady Whiplash spoke up, her voice steely, "Agreed. Vigilante has our back whenever we need him. It's time we return the favor, even if that plan o' his doesn't pan out."
The Wyoming Kid piped up. "Knowin' Vigilante, he's likely got a card up his sleeve that we don't know about. All's I know is that he's countin' on us ta play our part."
Pow-Wow Smith, the Indian sheriff and a wise strategist, studied the map intently. "Sioux County, that's where the canyon lies. If we're going to help our friend, we need to move quickly."
"Reckon we'll need some distraction to draw out those Outlaws," Lady Whiplash interjected with a grin.
The Wyoming Kid stared at the assembled group, a fierce determination etched on his face. "We've come this far together, my friends. It's time we ride to Sioux County and help Vigilante put an end to the reign of these Outlaws once and for all."
The Justice Riders exchanged knowing glances, devising a plan that would aid their old friend. The decision made, the unsanctioned lawmen leaped into action. They mounted their horses, their determination etched onto their faces. The wind carried their resolve as they raced toward Sioux County, their horses' hooves thundering across the Plains. The legendary lawmen had returned, and justice would be served with a vengeance.
***
The vast expanse of rugged terrain and untamed beauty of Sioux County stretched before them beneath the dark blue predawn sky. Having followed the hand-drawn map to the location, the Justice Riders stumbled upon a U.S. Marshal and his deputies, waiting patiently on horseback a good distance away from the canyon. The Marshal, a stern middle-aged figure with a no-nonsense attitude, greeted them with a curt nod.
"We received word from Vigilante," Marshal Jonah Ross explained. "We've been tracking the Outlaws for weeks, and this is our chance to take 'em all down. But I won't endanger my men by rushing in until the right time. After that, we'll need these to carry away any of 'em still holed up in that valley." The Marshal jerked his thumb behind him, indicating with his gesture a few large conveyances not often seen on the Plains, hauled there by horse-drawn wagon.
Harmony Hayes gaped at the sight. "You really think you'll need those?! Out here?"
"That's what Vigilante told me," replied the Marshal. "An' he's never steered me wrong yet."
Pow-Wow Smith shared a knowing glance with Marshal Ross. "We have a plan, but we'll need your help. We need to create a diversion, to smoke out the Outlaws."
The Marshal's eyes gleamed with understanding. "We can do that. How do you propose we proceed?"
Pow-Wow Smith outlined their plan, and the Justice Riders soon got to work gathering what they needed. Soon, a massive brushfire erupted near the canyon entrance, enveloping the area in thick smoke, obscuring the gang's ability to spot any intruders at the mouth of the canyon. It would also smoke them out, forcing the outlaws to engage them in battle on level ground.
As the flames spread, consuming the dry brush with a hungry appetite, smoke filled the air, thick and suffocating. The canyon entrance became cloaked in a shifting haze, making it nearly impossible for the Outlaws to see their adversaries. It was now or never.
Under the cover of smoke, the Justice Riders positioned themselves strategically, their guns drawn and at the ready as they prepared to instigate a battle. The atmosphere grew tense as they prepared for the inevitable confrontation.
The peace of the night was shattered by the sharp crack of gunfire, the echoes reverberating through the canyon walls, bullets etching trails of destruction in the swirling mist. The outlaws lay in wait, still perched high above on the cliffs that guarded the gang's hideout, but unable to see who was shooting at them.
"This here smoke is thicker'n pea soup!" cried one of the outlaws. "Cain't see heads nor tails of 'em!"
***
Deep within the dungeon of the old castle, the Old-Timer awoke, his senses buzzing. Rising from the dusty floor and burlap sacks that were his bed, he saw immediately that he and the boys had been left unguarded. He listened intently as he heard the outlaws on the level above arguing about something, while Crawley and the other hotshot gang leaders sent off more of his men to deal with it. As the Old-Timer sniffed the air, he caught the distinct scent of smoke. He chuckled to himself out of excitement.
Kicking at the iron bars, he woke up his three fellow prisoners in this damp, chilling cellar. Todd Tumpkins, Bob Hutchkiss, and Chuck Willis wiped sleep from their eyes, muttering questions about what was going on. Without a word, the Old-Timer ushered them to their feet; whatever it was, it was finally time for some action.
Wide-eyed with anticipation, Todd, Bob, and Chuck exchanged knowing glances. The Old-Timer beckoned them to follow him, his experienced hands fumbling with the hidden mechanism that opened a secret door in the stone wall, revealing a narrow passageway.
"Stay quiet and stay close," the Old-Timer urged, leading them through the dimly lit passage. With a practiced hand, he closed the secret door behind them, ensuring their escape route would remain secret.
After what felt like an eternity, the passageway led them to a secret room within the depths of the castle. Eyes gleaming with determination, the Old-Timer rummaged through hidden compartments and produced an assortment of pistols and bullets, his gnarled fingers working with surprising agility.
"Boys, I believe my lucky rock may have brought us a big enough distraction to allow us to make our escape," explained the Old-Timer as he loaded the youths up with enough ammunition to take on a small army. "Who knows? We might even be able to take down any stragglers left behind here ourselves if we're lucky enough!"
***
At the mouth of the canyon, the outlaws had been drawn down from their perch, their numbers swelling with every passing moment as more of them came riding out of their hideout, intent on overwhelming the intruders by sheer force of numbers. The air had erupted with a flurry of gunfire.
The Justice Riders were indeed vastly outnumbered, but they used the smoke to their advantage. Their bullets found their marks, their aim true amidst the chaos. They knew they had a single, crucial purpose: to distract the outlaws and draw all their attention to themselves, as dangerous as it would be.
Engaging the outlaws in a relentless battle, bullets whizzed by their heads as they deftly dodged and fired in return. The sound of bullets ricocheting off rock and screams of pain echoed through the canyon, drawing more outlaws from their hideout. The tide began to turn in favor of the Justice Riders as a flurry of well-timed shots incapacitated several gang members at once.
"Come an' get me, you varmints!" Lady Whiplash yelled fearlessly, her whip cracking through the air and lashing out at an approaching outlaw.
The struggle raged on, and the Justice Riders fought with unwavering determination. The outlaws were no match for the skills of the lawmen, but the numbers were still on their side.
"What in the world is keepin' him?" muttered the Nighthawk as he knocked out one outlaw with a haymaker, then beaned one with a stone before he could attack his woman.
Finally, amidst the maelstrom of smoke and gunfire, the Vigilante himself arrived in a hail of thundering hooves and gritted determination. Maneuvering his horse with unparalleled skill and evading bullets with an ease born of experience, the Vigilante disappeared like a galloping ghost into the heart of the smoke on his one-man mission.
Knowing that was his signal to act, Marshal Ross and his deputies stormed in from all sides, helping the Justice Riders round up all the outlaws that had been drawn out by the battle. The surprise assault had caught the Outlaws off-guard, and the entrance to Hidden Valley had been left undefended.
***
The Vigilante, undeterred by the hailstorm of bullets, moved swiftly through the rocky terrain of the canyon pass. With unyielding grit, he hugged the towering canyon wall, using its rugged terrain as his shield and sanctuary. Though his head wound throbbed with every heartbeat, and his mind was still foggy, the Vigilante refused to yield. Hell or high water, he vowed, would not impede this relentless pursuit.
But there were still a couple of sentries left to watch the canyon from the valley side, and as far as he'd gone already, there was nothing he could do now about being spotted. In seconds, he was recognized as an intruder by one of the outlaws from a rocky cliff above.
"There he goes... get 'im!" cried one of the sentries.
In an instant, the air crackled with the sound of rifles, their thunderous roar echoing off the walls of the canyon. BAM! BANG! Bullets whizzed through the air, tearing through the dense silence. The Vigilante, his heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and determination, kept going.
As he spurred his trusted steed Banjo into action, the Vigilante's mind raced as a steadfast resolve etched on his face. Swiftly moving in a zigzagging motion to avoid the bullets, his grip on the reins tightened, his every muscle straining against gravity's pull.
The other sentry, failing to land a single bullet into the intruder's back, cursed a blue streak before yelling, "That hombre rides like the wind!"
A man can get his head blown off jus' movin' aroun' here! the Vigilante pondered silently.
Finally, Vigilante broke out of the canyon pass and entered Hidden Valley itself, immediately spotting the old prospector's stone castle at the center of the wide expanse. It was a veritable armed fortress that no man could approach and expect to live. Yet that was not his destination.
His heart thundering in sync with Banjo's relentless gallop, the Vigilante pressed forward, keeping himself as far away from the castle as possible as he made his way to the other side of the valley. There he would find cover in an old dam constructed years ago under the watchful eye of the same old prospector who'd built the castle.
As the sun began its ascent, the dawn casting long shadows across Hidden Valley, the Vigilante disappeared into the wilderness of the mountains on the other side of the green and yellow expanse. With a bit of sympathy for how hard he'd ridden his horse all the way there, he urged Banjo to make another hard climb up the rugged terrain toward the top of the dam, his mind fixated on one thing only.
The Vigilante would capture the whole outlaw gang in one fell swoop, and thus bring justice back to these untamed lands.
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Post by lee on Sept 17, 2023 18:26:30 GMT
I feel like I'm watching one of the old cliffhanger serials. I'm looking forward to seeing how it wraps up.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 18, 2023 1:26:27 GMT
I feel like I'm watching one of the old cliffhanger serials. I'm looking forward to seeing how it wraps up. Thanks, Lee! We're getting close to the wrap-up. There are a lot of elements involved, so I'm trying to work them out. Hopefully it will be ready to post soon.
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Post by lawrenceliberty on Sept 18, 2023 19:21:32 GMT
I'm enjoying it too. It reminds me a bit of the Avengers/Kang/Two Gun Kid story in some ways with so many Western heroes and what could be called Wild West super villains! Between this story and the Bat Lash one, I might feel like reading a Western novel- something I never do.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 21, 2023 4:36:48 GMT
Chapter 8: The Audacious Plan
by Doc Quantum, partially adapted from Action Comics #129 by Ed Herron and Bob Lubbers
As dawn began to break over Hidden Valley, the Vigilante stood hidden on the other side of the expanse, his old eyes squinting as he surveyed the trembling dam above him. All his hopes rested on this moment, this single shot that would save his reputation and rid the West of the Outlaws for good.
He wasn't out of the woods yet, though, and he knew that time was of the essence. The two outlaw watchmen had already abandoned their perch in the cliffs and were on their way to mow him down. They had also signaled the riflemen standing guard atop one of the turrets in the castle at the center of the valley. It was only a matter of time before one of them got a bead on Vigilante and took him out with a bullet. He needed to divert their attention.
The Vigilante quickly contrived a desperate plan, drawing inspiration both from the brush fire already outside the valley as well as from a certain Biblical figure named Samson. He approached his loyal horse, Banjo, with a heavy heart. "I'm sorry, old friend," he whispered as he tied a bundle of dry branches to the horse's tail. "You deserve better'n this after puttin' up with me these last few years." With a deep breath, he set the branches on fire with a match, then slapped Banjo's rear, sending him galloping frantic and wild into the valley. He only hoped that Banjo would prove to be too fast a target to hit, and that he could escape to safety before the whole valley was in blazes.
As Banjo raced through the parched grass toward the canyon, flames licking at the sky, the dry vegetation caught fire with a vengeance. The once peaceful valley was now ablaze, a sea of flames roaring and crackling, sending towering plumes of smoke that obscured the Vigilante's whereabouts. The outlaws who had been hot on the Vigilante's trail were forced to change course and do what they could to battle the spreading inferno.
With the diversion in place, the Vigilante could turn his full attention back to the dam. "This dam was built long ago by the ol' prospector to shut the water off from the valley..." he muttered to himself, and wondered if he was crazy for thinking he could pull off such a foolhardy plan.
Having learned some of the history of Hidden Valley years ago, Vigilante knew that the same old prospector who had built the castle had also been the dam, employing a number of men to do so. With the completion of the dam and the castle, the old prospector was able to mine a vein of gold and silver relatively near the surface, using the castle as a base to store this mother lode until he could transport it by horse and cart to be sold elsewhere. The gold vein had long since been tapped, but the dam remained.
The dam was an old structure of stone that had sprung several small leaks over the years and looked worse for wear. Vigilante needed to find its weakest point to ensure the dam's complete destruction. Smoky morning sunlight danced upon the water as he cautiously approached the structure, his footsteps muffled by the crackling grass fire below.
His keen eyes scanned the dam's surface, searching for any signs of vulnerability. He traced the weathered stones, noting the lines and crevices that had formed over the decades. It was there, etched by time and nature, that he found his target, the foundation -- often overlooked, yet frequently the Achilles' heel of such structures. Kneeling down, he felt the cool, damp stones beneath his fingertips, made wet by the constant mist. It was clear that this was the weakest point of the dam. Time had eroded its strength, and the Vigilante knew it was the key to his brash plan.
With the location identified, the Vigilante carefully opened his flask of gunpowder, taken from the supplies he'd left at the old shack in the wilderness that had served as the Justice Riders' meeting place. The fine black powder shimmered in the diffused sunlight. He began the delicate process of fashioning a makeshift explosive device from the flask. Using a patch of cloth as a makeshift detonator, he secured it tightly to the gunpowder, ensuring that it would ignite when needed, then doused the cloth with his flask of whiskey for good measure. It was the typical whiskey of the range, its taste akin to something like varnish or strychnine. Vigilante never touched the stuff himself, but it came in handy now.
Making good use of the heavy smoke cover, he silently crept closer to the vulnerable foundation. Each step was calculated, each movement deliberate. As he approached the dam's base, he used his trusty pistol to carve out a small cavity, just large enough to insert the flask.
His heart raced as he set the flask in place, ensuring it was nestled securely against the compromised stones. With trembling hands, he lit the fuse on his makeshift explosive and retreated swiftly, running off to put enough distance between himself and the impending blast.
But, to his dismay, the alcohol-soaked rags refused to catch. It had been drenched by the leaky dam, rendering it useless. Panic surged through the Vigilante's veins, threatening to engulf him. Vigilante could feel mist from the dam even from where he was several feet away. There was far too much water in the air for any flame to last long enough to set off the gunpowder.
"Blast it all!" he muttered, frustration bubbling beneath his determined exterior. Time was running out, and his plan hung in the balance.
Desperation overtook him, and the Vigilante decided to risk it all. Taking the empty tin can that he'd finished last night, and just happened to carry with him in his pack, he ensured it was completely dry, then opened up his Colt Peacemaker and emptied out all but one of his bullets. With a rock, he cracked open each cartridge and emptied the powder into the can. For good measure, he did the same with his spare bullets as well.
Vigilante shook his head. This was either going to go down as the second biggest blunder of his career, or the greatest success. Either way, he was going for broke. He had no other choice.
Carefully climbing back to the foundation, he set the can next to his makeshift explosive and said a silent prayer for success as he crept back over to an outcropping of rock next to the dam. Unfortunately, it was so steep that he was forced to lean against the cliffside and had to use his right hand -- his usual shooting arm -- to prop himself up. He would have to rely on his left hand for this one trick shot with his very last bullet.
"Shook the powder from all but one o' my bullets into that can... jus' one shot left... only one!" he said to himself, trying to steady his nerves. Time was of the essence, and his aim had to be true.
Closing his eyes for a moment, the Vigilante steadied his trembling hand, his fingers finding the trigger once again. Aiming his pistol, he took careful aim at the unlit fuse. With a steady hand and a deep breath, he pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the valley.
BANG!
With a resounding boom, the gunpowder in the tin can ignited with a dull roar, obliterating the can and setting off the makeshift explosive behind it. The muffled explosion jarred a rocky section of the dam loose, shifting the dam's weakened foundation and causing it to crumble. Water burst through, and then the terrific pressure began to tear out bigger gaps, and then bigger still.
"If this doesn't work..." Vigilante drawled. "I can't show my face in town again..."
KA-R-RAM!
The once-mighty structure succumbed to the relentless force. The dam collapsed, unleashing a torrent of water that surged down the valley like a vengeful spirit.
"Yahoo!" cried the Vigilante, his plan finally bearing fruit. A roar erupted as the surge of water cascaded down the mountain, hurtling toward the valley that housed the outlaw hideout and moving well beyond that. The first part of Vigilante's bold plan had succeeded, but only time would tell if the rest of it would work. He watched as the valley began to fill with water, dousing the grass fire as it did so.
But there was no time to bask in victory. As the rest of the dam gave way, taking some of the mountain with it, the Vigilante beat a hasty retreat, scaling the side of the mountain with the agility of a wildcat. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the onrushing flood as possible.
Once at a safe vantage point, having ensured his own safety, the Vigilante looked down at the chaos below. All that remained was for the Justice Riders and the U.S. Marshal to do their part. The final chapter in his tale of redemption had begun, and the Vigilante was ready to see it through to the end.
***
As the harsh wind whistled through the castle's corridors, the distant sound of the explosion reached the Old-Timer's ears as he and the three youths named Tumpkins, Hutchkiss, and Willis treaded lightly through a hidden passageway. His eyes widened with a spark of recognition, and newfound excitement bubbled within him, lending life to his aged bones.
"Boys!" the Old-Timer exclaimed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Listen up! That explosion means the dam above the valley has been blown to kingdom come! The whole valley will be flooded, and them outlaws will be too busy fleeing the tide or learning how to swim to notice we're not in their jail no more."
In the sparse light of the passageway, the Old-Timer regarded the three young men with pride. "The time has finally come," he declared, his voice laced with a newfound strength, "for you to show what you're really made of. We'll catch them outlaws unawares while they're busy trying to flee from the floodwaters. It's time to make 'em pay for their wicked deeds."
A surge of adrenaline coursed through the youths’ veins as they eagerly accepted the challenge. Young, wild, and brimming with untapped potential, they couldn't see any other outcome than victory over "Crazy Gun" Crawley and his Outlaws.
***
On the other end of the treacherous canyon, the echoes of gunfire and the battle cries still hung heavy in the air. The Justice Riders, bruised and weary, stood amidst the chaos of the battle's aftermath. The few remaining hold-outs from the outlaw gang they had fought with such tenacity moments earlier now seemed to hesitate in confusion, sensing the encroaching danger. All of them had all heard the sounds of thunder emanating through the canyon from the valley, but no one quite knew what it meant just yet.
The Justice Riders shared a silent exchange, their eyes locking in a nod of understanding. They had come too far to let the remnants of the Outlaws slip through their fingers. "Let's finish this," the Wyoming Kid declared firmly, his voice carrying the weight of unwavering determination.
As they readied themselves to pursue the fleeing outlaws down the winding canyon, a sudden, thunderous noise echoed through the pass. Dust and debris were sent swirling into the air, and the Riders' attention was drawn to the ominous sight up ahead. Their jaws dropped in astonishment.
"The Vigilante," Lady Whiplash whispered in awe, her eyes wide with realization of the audacity of his plan. "That crazy bastard did it!"
In a heart-stopping moment, a lone calico horse burst through the canyon entrance at breakneck speed and kept on running. The Justice Riders stared agape at the sight. They recognized the horse immediately as the Vigilante's faithful steed, Banjo. But Vigilante himself was nowhere in sight. Had their comrade won the battle only to lose the war?
"The Vigilante's always had a flair for the dramatic," mused Pow-Wow Smith, his voice tinged with a mix of admiration and concern.
The Nighthawk, usually a man of few words, summed up the situation with his trademark pragmatism. "Only thing we can do is keep fightin'," he said, his gravelly voice carrying a note of resolve. "Maybe ol' Vig is just waitin' for us to come through on our end."
With that, the Justice Riders steeled themselves for the next phase of the battle. The remnants of the outlaw gang, disoriented and panic-stricken, offered desperate resistance. But the Justice Riders, fueled by their indomitable spirit and the adrenaline of the moment, fought on.
The thunderous roar of water rushing through the canyon grew louder, drowning out the sounds of gunfire and chaos. The torrent of water, unleashed by the Vigilante's audacious plan, now surged forward with unstoppable force. The Justice Riders harnessed the power of this natural element to their advantage, using it to drive the outlaws toward their inevitable capture by the U.S. Marshal and his posse.
As they fought on, side by side, they knew that this battle would go down in the annals of legend. The Justice Riders had faced not only men with guns but also the unforgiving forces of nature itself. And, as always, they emerged victorious, their reputation as the West's most legendary lawmen further solidified.
***
The roar of the floodwaters echoed through the stone castle, drowning out the panicked screams of the women and the disordered shouts of the Outlaws gang. Chaos reigned on the main floor as the outlaws tried desperately to control the rising tide. They were too preoccupied to check the cellar, where the Old-Timer and the three youths had been held captive for days.
With a steely gaze, the Old-Timer even now led his young companions along the secret passageway, knowing that their freedom lay just beyond the chaos. Their footsteps made no sound against the cold stone floor as they climbed higher within the castle's depths. Finally, they emerged from the shadows high above the main room, hidden in the shadows.
As the Old-Timer surveyed the scene below, his eyes narrowed with a mix of determination and a touch of amusement. He had a plan, and he knew just how to put it into action. The outlaws had no idea what was about to hit them.
The water had been rising higher and higher, and it had finally begun to seep right through the barred windows.
Silk Black, who had a penchant for fancy talk, couldn't help but crack a wry grin. "I can ride any bronc alive, but I can't swim an inch!"
Doc Doom shot Silk a sidelong glance. "Swimmin' ain't exactly our strong suit, Silk," he deadpanned, his tone tinged with a touch of gallows humor. "We're trapped!"
Crazy-Gun Crawley, the leader of the outlaw gang, barked orders at his men, his voice barely audible over the roar of the floodwaters. "Get those women out o' here! We don't have time for their hysterics!" he snarled. The outlaw gang scrambled to comply, trying to corral the frightened women toward the circular staircase leading to the rooftops. There was nowhere else to go except into the drink, and none of them could swim.
Just as Crawley was about to make his next move, a sudden shout rang out from above. "Yeee-haw! I reckon it's about time the party got started!" The Old-Timer's booming voice sliced through the chaos, drawing the attention of both outlaws and prisoners alike.
Crawley's eyes narrowed as he saw the Old-Timer stepping forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You old coot! What d'you think you're up to?" Crawley spat, reaching for his six-gun.
Before Crawley could even blink, a bullet whizzed past his hand, narrowly missing his fingers. The pistol flew out of his grip and clattered against the floor. Todd Tumpkins, with his lightning-fast reflexes, had saved the day.
"Now, now, Crawley. Ain't no need to be so hasty," the Old-Timer drawled, a sly grin stretching across his weathered face. The chaos below grew even more frenzied as Bob Hutchkiss sent a massive barrel rolling towards the gang, knocking several of them off their feet.
Chuck Willis, not one to be outdone, lunged into the fray like a wildcat pouncing on its prey. His quick, agile movements and his ferocious punches left the outlaws off-balance and reeling.
All the while, the Old-Timer chuckled, a cloud of smoke enveloping his face as he puffed on his cigar. Like a conductor orchestrating chaos, he shifted his gaze toward the adjoining room, where the outlaws had amassed their weaponry. "Looks like you boys forgot something mighty important," he mused, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he held up a single stick of dynamite.
With a deft flick of his wrist, the Old-Timer lit the fuse on the dynamite, sizzling it to life. He tossed it over his shoulder with a nonchalant flourish, over the rafters and into the adjoining room, which had been used as a small armory.
KA-BLAM!
The explosion was deafening. The shockwave shattered the outlaws' plans, and the room erupted in flames and chaos.
Panting with exhaustion and victory, the Old-Timer turned to the youths, his eyes glittering with gratitude. "You boys proved yourselves mighty fine today," he said, a hint of pride coloring his weathered voice. "Together, we took a stand against evil. Mark my words, you'll be mighty fine gunfighters in no time. And I reckon you boys just earned yourselves some new nicknames."
Tumpkins, Hutchkiss, and Willis exchanged puzzled glances, wondering what he meant, but they had little time to ponder, for they were thrown right to work disarming the rest of the outlaws.
With the outlaws at their mercy, the foursome rejoiced in their triumph, knowing their efforts had weakened the grip of lawlessness on the Plains. Outside, the flooded landscape stood as a testament to their bravery. Though the castle perched like a lonely island on its elevated hill, the waters lapped against its cracked walls, a reminder of the havoc they had wrought on those who sought to harm the innocent. They had forged bonds of friendship in danger and would soon be destined for legend.
***
From his ringside seat on the side of the mountain, the Vigilante had watched as the chaos unfolded, a glimmer of satisfaction twinkling in his eyes. His plan had unfolded miraculously, his reputation saved as the floodwaters forced the remaining members of the Outlaws into the hands of the law.
All that was left now was to find his way into that castle. He'd had a feeling, as he crept closer to this valley, which was now a lake, that he had an appointment with destiny in that place. He was right.
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Post by lee on Sept 22, 2023 2:03:28 GMT
Another wonderful chapter, Doc. Looking forward to learning the old man's identity, as well as the new nicknames Tumpkins, Hutchkiss, and Willis have earned. This is one story I would have loved to have seen brought to life by the pen of Tony DeZuniga. Needless to say, I am looking forward to the next chapter.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 22, 2023 16:15:36 GMT
Thanks, Lee. Seeing this story illustrated by Tony DeZuniga would indeed be pretty cool. My favorite Vigilante artist, Gray Morrow, would be a good choice as well. I'm hoping to wrap up this PART 3 as soon as possible, then move on to the final PART 4 of the saga of the time-tossed Vigilante.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 30, 2023 0:20:22 GMT
Chapter 9: A Flood of Memories
by Doc Quantum, partially adapted from Action Comics #129 by Ed Herron and Bob Lubbers
At the edge of a small flooded valley in the rugged expanse of the Old West, a flotilla of large, sturdy rowboats made their way out of a small, snake-like canyon full of water. The posse of armed men led by U.S. Marshal Jonah Ross had already begun apprehending the fleeing outlaws who had made the valley their ill-fated hideout.
Harmony Hayes, the guitar-strumming Minstrel Maverick, shook his head at the sight of the boats. "I tell you, Marshal, I never could'a guessed what Vig was up to, getting ya to bring these here boats by wagon," said Hayes with a grin. "Truth ta tell, I had begun ta think he'd gone plumb loco. But it makes sense now. When we thought we'd just been engagin' in a simple gunfight, Vigilante was layin' siege to the hideout through a game o' Noah and the flood!"
The rest of the renowned Justice Riders also stood poised for action with sturdy wooden boats beneath their feet. The Wyoming Kid, Nighthawk, Lady Whiplash, and Pow-Wow Smith assisted the armed posse with the task before them.
As the waters had roared around them, each outlaw, their firearms rendered useless in the water, desperately sought refuge and higher ground along the steep cliff sides of the valley. Fear danced in their eyes, for hardly a single one amongst them possessed the ability to swim. The swift hand of justice was closing in, leaving them with little choice but to surrender. The Marshal was glad he'd brought as many boats as he did, for they would need them all to round up the rest of the gang.
From the shore's edge, Vigilante's silhouette cut a striking figure under the morning sun. His hat shadowed his features, revealing nothing but determination etched in his posture. The ragtag posse of lawmen, led by Marshal Jonah Ross, approached in a line of rowboats, each paddle stroke bringing them closer to the man who had brought down the wrath of justice upon Hidden Valley.
As the boats drew near, the Justice Riders couldn't contain their elation. The Wyoming Kid, with his sharpshooter's eye, let out a hoot. Nighthawk's hawk-like vision had spotted their old friend first, and he pointed Vigilante out with a grin as wide as the prairie. Harmony Hayes already had a ballad upon his lips as he began to strum his guitar.
"In shadows cast, the Vigilante rides, A lone figure beneath the starlit skies, With justice burning in his fearless eyes, He battles darkness where deceit abides.
"A steed named Banjo, swift as desert wind, Carries him through the lawless, wild terrain, In pursuit of outlaws, he'll never bend, A lone crusader against greed and pain.
"His name whispered like a ghost on the breeze, A legend etched in tales of courage bold, A symbol of the West, where law must seize, The hearts of those who'd let the wicked fold.
"The Vigilante, hero of the night, Defends the innocent with all his might."
The boats bumped against the shoreline, and the lawmen leaped onto solid ground. Cheers erupted, echoing through the valley and mixing with the distant cries of the besieged outlaws. Vigilante's friends gathered around him, pats on the back and firm handshakes passed around like whiskey at a saloon.
Marshal Jonah Ross, a grizzled old man with a weathered face, looked at the Vigilante with a measure of admiration. "Well, I'll be damned!" said the Marshal. "You've done it again, Vigilante. I reckon we all owe you a debt of gratitude."
"Just doin' my duty, Marshal," replied the Vigilante, sweat-soaked and weary. He nodded solemnly, his thoughts drifting to the flooded valley behind them. The memories of his past, as elusive as tumbleweeds on the open plain, had begun to tug at the corners of his mind.
A team of men, seven strong, their faces etched with courage and resolve, began to come into focus. He'd fought alongside those men and had been proud to count them as friends. Why couldn't he recall their names?
With determination etched in their faces and the echoes of the Old West swirling around them, the Vigilante and the Justice Riders stepped back into the rowboats and began their journey towards the island castle, where the remnants of the outlaw gang awaited their fate. The past and present were about to collide like two fierce stallions about to lock horns in a showdown that would determine the Vigilante's future.
Standing next to Vigilante at the head of the lead rowboat, Marshal Ross clapped him on the back, a hint of pride in his voice as they listened to the cacophony from the outlaws at the castle. "They're hollerin' out, surrenderin'! Guess yuh done a right big job, Vigilante! Yuh jus' beat the worst men the West ever saw!"
His voice low, carrying the weight of a thousand gunfights, the Vigilante said, "This ain't the end, Marshal. There's a reckoning awaitin' in that castle."
The hot sun beat down over the newly formed lake in Hidden Valley as the flotilla of rowboats, led by the unflinching Marshal Ross, navigated the murky waters toward the castle, their rifles clutched tightly, ready for any treacherous move by the surrendering outlaws.
As they drew closer, the posse's keen eyes scanned the scene. Outlaws, their hands held high in surrender, lined the castle's rooftop with not a single firearm to be seen. It was a sight that defied the lawman's expectations. Could these notorious criminals truly have given up without a fight? It seemed improbable, but there they stood, vulnerable and begging for help.
The Vigilante glanced back at his fellow Justice Riders in the other rowboats, a shared uncertainty in their eyes. With a nod, he silently urged them to stay alert. The Marshal's boat eased up to the castle's open doorway, and a couple of men jumped onto the flooded floor, securing the rowboats in place.
With Marshal Ross and the Vigilante leading the way, they ventured deeper into the castle, water swirling around their boots. Vigilante's heart raced; he felt that the answers to his mysterious past lay just beyond these castle walls.
As they approached a room from which voices emanated, Marshal Ross, ever the cautious lawman, announced their presence, his voice echoing through the damp stone walls. "U.S. Marshal Jonah Ross -- I'm comin' in armed!"
However, when they entered, they found no outlaws, just the weathered old prospector who laid claim to the castle. Three strapping young men, their faces etched with pride, stood beside him.
"Well, I'll be--!" Marshal Ross exclaimed, recognizing the old man. "Is that you, Old-Timer?"
A sly grin stretched across the older man's face as he replied, "None other. Took you long enough to show up, Marshal!"
Vigilante's eyes widened as he realized that he also recognized the old prospector. It was the same face that he had seen in an aged photograph years earlier. His features also bore an uncanny resemblance to his own.
Marshal Ross and his men relaxed somewhat, realizing that the outlaws had all been captured within the castle while all the action was going on outside. "Old-Timer, I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine," began the Marshal. "This here is the Vigilante."
The old prospector nodded and extended one hand. "Pleased ta meet ya, Vigilante. Folks around here call me the Old-Timer, but muh name is--"
"Sanders," said Vigilante, the name dropping from his tongue before he realized it. "Gregory Daniel Sanders."
Sanders, the Old-Timer, frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Yuh seem ta have me at a disadvantage, sir. Have we met before?"
"No," said Vigilante, a smile playing beneath his red kerchief. "But I've... heard stories of your exploits."
Old Sanders looked pleased by the acknowledgment. With a hearty laugh, he remarked, "I guess my reputation precedes me! So, Vigilante, are you the one responsible for blowin' my dam and floodin' my valley?"
Vigilante nodded, his expression solemn. "Afraid so, Old-Timer."
Sanders shrugged nonchalantly. "Don't worry 'bout it none. It had to be done. It's time I left this valley anyhow. Got me a piece o' land at Avalanche Junction that needs tendin', and there's a pretty widow there I've been eyin'. I reckon muh beloved Running Fawn, dead these thirty years, won't mind me takin' a new wife after all this time."
The Marshal redirected the conversation toward their primary objective. "Crazy Gun Crawley and his gang, they're up there on the roof, right? Are they armed?"
Sanders chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Nope, they're as helpless as plucked chickens. My boys and I got the drop on 'em once the floodin' started. All yuh gotta do is ferry 'em away in your boat." He turned to one of the young men and said, "Tumpkins, show the Marshal and Vigilante the way to our prisoners, an' don't go messin' about with them soiled doves up there with 'em!"
Todd Tumpkins, his eyes wide with awe at the presence of the legendary Vigilante, nodded with eagerness and pointed toward the rooftop's doorway. "This way, Marshal."
As the posse and the Justice Riders filed into the castle, the Vigilante joined Marshal Ross and Tumpkins on the ascent to the rooftop.
Alongside a group of half-drenched saloon girls, the once-proud outlaws who had terrorized the honest folks of the West now appeared meek and resigned to their inevitable fate. Among them stood Crazy Gun Crawley, his arrogance still intact as Marshal Jonah Ross approached him, reciting his rights.
Vigilante, his voice firm and unwavering, couldn't help but remark, "Looks like the end of the trail for you, Crawley."
The outlaw's eyes gleamed with defiance, and a wicked grin curled on his lips. Crawley remained convinced that he would slip through the fingers of justice once again. "Do you really think yuh've bested me, Vigilante?" Crawley sneered, his tone dripping with contempt. "I've broken out of every cell they've ever thrown me into. Your flimsy jail won't be any different."
Marshal Ross shook his head, his gaze resolute and unwavering. "Oh no, Crawley. We ain't takin' you to no jail this time," he replied, a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. Crawley's arrogance faltered, a flicker of unease passing over his face.
The Marshal pressed on, his voice tinged with grim satisfaction. "We're takin' you to your own hangin'. The judge passed his verdict in absentia, and come sundown tonight, you'll be swingin' from a rope."
Crawley's bravado crumbled, replaced by disbelief. "You can't be serious! This ain't right, Marshal!" he protested, his voice tinged with desperation.
Unperturbed, Marshal Ross paid no heed to Crawley's pleas, his resolve like iron. Justice had finally caught up with the outlaw who had eluded it for too long. Desperation gnawed at Crawley as he scanned his surroundings for a glimmer of hope, but what he found only fueled his anger.
In a surge of rage, Crawley tore off the cherished lucky charm hanging around his neck, the silver chain glinting in the sunlight as he tossed it disdainfully to the ground. It dawned on him, in a harsh realization, that the charm, his talisman, had led him straight to this misfortune.
With determination etched deep into his weathered face, Marshal Ross forcefully grabbed Crawley's wrists and tightened handcuffs around them.
As the Marshal and his deputies led Crawley away, the outlaw's mind raced, plotting a desperate escape from his impending doom. Fearing the gallows, Crawley resorted to one last, desperate attempt at bargaining.
"Listen, Marshal!" Crawley bellowed, desperation lacing his voice. "I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams! There's a hidden stash, untold wealth! Spare me, and I'll make sure you get it all!"
Marshal Ross halted in his tracks, his gaze unflinching, showing neither surprise nor interest. "Sorry, Crawley," he drawled, his voice tinged with disdain. "But I reckon I ain't in the market for blood money. Your time has come."
Fury twisted Crawley's face as he came to terms with his inescapable fate. There would be no last-minute reprieve, no daring rescue. The weight of his sins pressed upon him as he was dragged, struggling and shouting down the stone stairway, toward his fateful rendezvous with the hangman's noose.
Amidst the chaos, Todd Tumpkins had watched the unfolding drama with wide eyes. His curiosity got the best of him as he bent down to pick up the discarded lucky charm, shining like a beacon even after it had fallen out of its cracked setting. He slipped it into his pocket, a strange feeling tugging at his conscience, wondering if there was a connection between the glowing rock and the Old-Timer's lucky coal.
The castle rooftop teemed with tension, the very air crackling with uncertainty as the outlaws, their bravado now reduced to a mere facade, stood facing their impending fate. For the Vigilante, this climactic moment signaled the approaching end of his time as the masked hero. A nagging feeling tugged at his heart, reminding him that he needed to bid farewell and set things right before that inevitable departure.
With a silent nod to the Marshal's men, who were diligently rounding up the defeated gang members and escorting the saloon girls to the boats, the Vigilante descended the worn wooden stairs. He entered the cavernous hall where he'd left Old Sanders and the assembled Justice Riders.
The Vigilante, a man out of place and time, stood before his loyal companions in the Justice Riders. His piercing blue eyes radiated an eerie sense of foreboding, hinting that his journey was rapidly approaching its climax, and the pull of time itself was about to whisk him away.
"I'm sorry, pardners," he began, his voice steady yet tinged with an undeniable weight, "but it appears that destiny has finally caught up to me. I don't reckon I'll be departing this castle in the usual fashion. There's a sense deep down in muh bones that tells me I'm about to unravel the mystery of why I was brought to the West so long ago. It seems I've got a strange journey ahead of me. Something peculiar is on the horizon, and I need ta count on each one of you to keep it under wraps. Do you recall when we crossed paths with that ornery feller Hex and his Rough Bunch, who claimed to hail from some alternate Earth much like our own, but with a few odd differences? Well, as it turns out, I came from a different time altogether, and I'm fixin' to return there at long last."
The Justice Riders looked at each other, not sure what to think of the Vigilante's proclamation. Their friend had always been somewhat peculiar, but he had never steered them wrong before.
Nighthawk, his arms folded in a mixture of skepticism and admiration, broke the silence. "Vigilante, we've ridden these dusty trails alongside you for years, and it's been an honor. But if the winds of fate are beckoning you homeward, we won't be the ones to stand in your way."
A somber hush fell upon the group as Lady Whiplash, her fiery red hair cascading like a waterfall, stepped forward. Her voice, smooth as silk but tinged with a hint of sorrow, cut through the night air. "Vigilante, understand that you've etched an indelible mark upon this wild land. Your legend shall never fade."
The Wyoming Kid, his weathered cowboy hat casting a shadow over his rugged features, tipped it in a respectful salute. "Vigilante, you've dispensed justice across these untamed territories like no other. But I reckon it's time for you to heed your destiny."
Pow-Wow Smith, the wise Indian sheriff of Elkhorn, nodded solemnly, a deep reverence in his eyes as he regarded his old friend. "Among my people, your name will echo through the ages, Vigilante."
Harmony Hayes, the Minstrel Maverick, said in reply, "I expect that this is the last ride of the Justice Riders, an' that calls for a cowboy ballad." As he began to strum his guitar, the others watched in appreciation as he began his song.
The Vigilante nodded, his heart heavy with the poignant mix of longing and acceptance. As the Minstrel Maverick sang, Vigilante embraced his steadfast comrades one by one, savoring these final moments they shared. They had become a family, bound by countless battles fought in the relentless pursuit of justice.
"Now gather 'round, ye folks, and hear this tale, Of the Justice Riders, whose courage won't fail, In the Vigilante's shadow, they do prevail, A band of lawmen, their deeds set sail.
"Riding beside him, Wyoming Kid so wise, A six-gun at his side, justice in his eyes, Through dusty trails, where the echo lies, He stands strong, as the frontier defies.
"Lady Whiplash, swift as a prairie breeze, Lasso in hand, bringing outlaws to their knees, Her aim is true, as wind through the trees, A force to reckon with, under starry canopies.
"Nighthawk soars 'neath the moonlit sky, A sharpshooter's gaze, no mercy in his eye, In the darkness, where the outlaws lie, His justice reigns, like the midnight's cry.
"Pow-Wow Smith, the sheriff with wisdom deep, In the silent shadows, his promises to keep, Through tribal lands, where secrets seep, His words cut through, like a vow so steep.
"Harmony Hayes, with his guitar strumming light, Sings of heroes, 'neath the pale moonlight, In their pursuit of justice, a harmonious fight, A ballad weaves, of the Riders' endless might.
"So here's to the Justice Riders, fierce and true, A saga unfolding, 'neath skies so blue, In the heart of the West, where the wild winds blew, Legends ride on, in the tales they accrue.
A flood of memories long dormant now awoke, and the Vigilante had become convinced that the old prospector before him was none other than his own grandfather, Gregory Sanders, who had died before his birth. Their reunion had transcended time's constraints and brought a tear to the Vigilante's eye.
Thanks to Sanders, Crawley had finally met his match. In appreciation of his fearless courage, the Vigilante said, "We wouldn't want to stir up any undue trouble when the Vigilante suddenly goes missing. That's where you come in, Old-Timer."
Reaching up to carefully untie the red kerchief concealing his face, Vigilante revealed his weathered visage, complete with white hair and a distinguished handlebar mustache.
The uncanny resemblance between the two men struck everyone. The old prospector, his grizzled face etched with countless years alone in the wilderness, chuckled heartily. "Well, looks like we might have a bit more in common than I'd ever expected, eh?"
The Vigilante regarded the older man and said, "Since you bear my likeness, take my kerchief and mask your identity."
With reverence, he placed the iconic red bandana, a symbol of his heroism, in his grandfather's calloused hands. The passing of this profound symbol of justice and sacrifice silently forged a deep bond between the generations.
"This kerchief symbolizes the sacrifices we make for justice," the Vigilante spoke, his voice rough as gravel. "You've shown true courage today, so consider this yours now, Old-Timer. Carry on the name of the Vigilante and wear it with pride, for you've earned the right."
Old Sanders, his eyes brimming with gratitude and a hint of sadness, nodded as he examined the bandana, his eyes shining with a mixture of awe and determination. "I reckon I can play at being the Vigilante for a spell, just long enough to make folks believe the legend is still alive. But I also don't aim ta let it die, not on my watch."
He wrapped the red kerchief around his face, concealing his identity as best as he could, then took the offered hat and adjusted it on his brow. He was now the spitting image of the Vigilante himself.
The Justice Riders had watched the exchange closely. The old prospector indeed bore a striking resemblance to the Vigilante, but he would still need their assistance to pull off the ruse. Knowing the stakes, the Justice Riders agreed with a nod of their heads to play their part in the charade.
Old Sanders stood ready to face the challenges that lay before him, but he had his own ideas on how to continue the legend of the Vigilante. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he motioned for his young friends Tumpkins, Hutchkiss, and Willis to join him.
A grin spread across his face as he began, his voice thundering with newfound purpose. "Look here, I've got me some eager recruits tuh help me!" His gnarled finger pointed toward the three young men, barely out of their teenage years, standing tall and determined.
The Vigilante grinned, recalling with fondness a youngster who had fought evil at his side for years. He wondered if he would see Stuff, the Chinatown Kid, ever again.
"Meet my young friends," the Old-Timer declared, his voice carrying a sense of authority. "This here is Tornado," he said, gesturing toward Todd Tumpkins, a tall young man with a determined expression and a lightning-fast draw.
"And this is Hugles," he continued, indicating the stocky lad who stood tall and unwavering. Bob Hutchkiss looked grateful but wasn't sure what to make of the strange nickname. "Don't look so confused, lad!" said the Old-Timer with a laugh. "Back in muh Cavalry days, I served under Colonel Hugles, who was known fer standin' his ground. Trust me, it fits yuh!" Hutchkiss smiled and accepted the explanation with gratitude.
"And last, but not least, Wildcat," concluded Sanders, pointing to the wiry young Chuck Willis, who exuded the wild, restless spirit of a fighter.
Tornado, a lanky young man with hair as wild as the storm beneath his hat, exchanged a determined glance with Hugles, a burly yet soft-spoken individual. Wildcat, the embodiment of untamed ferocity and agility, cracked a confident smile.
With a mischievous glint in his eye, Sanders addressed Tornado Tumpkins, Hugles Hutchkiss, and Wildcat Willis. "Listen closely, boys," he said to the three, his voice full of authority. "You three have proven yer mettle in the face o' danger. I might call myself the Vigilante fer a short spell, but his legend will ultimately live on in you. From this day forth, you'll be known as the Vigilantes. And mark my words, by the time I'm done with you, you'll be the finest gunfighters in the entire West!"
Tornado, Hugles, and Wildcat stood with pride as they embraced the spirit of the Vigilante and his legacy, assuming the mantle of the Vigilantes, a trio ready to stride boldly where others feared to tread.
The Justice Riders exchanged uncertain glances, looking to the unmasked Vigilante. He merely watched and nodded approvingly as Old Sanders embraced his newfound role with conviction. The creation of the Vigilantes was an unexpected twist, but one that seemed to fit the situation perfectly.
The wind whispered through the nearly empty castle, as if nature itself acknowledged this passing of the torch. The Vigilante's departure would leave a void, but the birth of the new Vigilantes promised a future where the spirit of justice would continue to roam free even after the Justice Riders had gone off into the sunset.
As the minutes ticked by, Vigilante knew that the time for him to disappear was imminent. He glanced at the new Vigilante with a mixture of pride and melancholy. The legacy of justice would continue, albeit in a different form.
Touched by the gesture, Sanders pulled out a glowing rock from his pocket. "This here's my lucky coal, Vigilante," he explained. "It's served me well, and somehow, I think it'll help bring ya to your destination."
Eyes wide with astonishment, the Vigilante took and cradled the glowing rock, feeling a pulse deep within his being. As he marveled at the mysterious stone, Tornado Tumpkins approached him, producing a nearly identical glowing rock from his pocket to compare, and placed the talisman into the Vigilante's other hand.
"Crazy Gun Crawley threw this away," said Tumpkins. "I suppose it was his lucky charm... until his luck soured."
The time-lost Vigilante's mind reeled as the final long-forgotten memories surged forth like a dam breaking free, flooding his consciousness. The pieces of his fractured past began to connect, and an insatiable curiosity surged within him. He knew now that he was Greg Sanders, named for his grandfather, and he was the son of another century.
Instinctively, he knew his destiny lay in rejoining the two glowing stones that had been separated by a vast chasm of time. Once that was done, there would be no turning back. He glanced up, bidding farewell with a smile to his fellow Justice Riders and nodding in appreciation at the cowboy heroes who would follow in his footsteps.
Then, as the moments ticked by, he beheld both stones in his hands. These weren't ordinary stones at all, he knew; they were pieces of the Nebula Man long separated by time. With a surge of determination, he pressed them together.
In an instant, the air crackled with electricity, the sound of thunderclaps mingled with plumes of mysterious smoke, and the Vigilante vanished into thin air, leaving only bewildered, half-disbelieving witnesses behind.
From that day forward, the enigma of the Vigilante's unexplained disappearance would be a tightly kept secret known only to the Justice Riders, Sanders, and the Vigilantes. No trace of his whereabouts could be found, but the memory of his bravery would permeate the annals of history.
***
Afterword:
Gregory Sanders, also known as the Old-Timer, relocated to Avalanche Junction, Wyoming, alongside the three promising young gunfighters: Tornado Tumpkins, Hugles Hutchkiss, and Wildcat Willis. As the Vigilante, Sanders briefly led this gang of lawmen who soon became legends of the Old West in their own right as the Vigilantes.
Despite his age, the still-spry Gregory Daniel Sanders pursued and won the affections of the young widow he had long admired. Their union resulted in the birth of a son named Daniel Sanders, who would grow up to follow in his father's footsteps as the Sheriff of Avalanche Junction. In his final moments, Gregory Sanders displayed unwavering bravery, making his last stand on horseback with a six-shooter in hand. Remarkably, even his enemies, driven by a desire for revenge over past conflicts with the Sioux tribes, treated his body with respect instead of scalping him.
Tragically, Sheriff Daniel Sanders met his demise at the hands of gangsters who sought to steal a shipment of gold. His tragic death inspired his own son Greg, now a radio cowboy singer in New York City, to become the Vigilante. (*) At the time, Greg Sanders had only ever heard vague rumors that his grandfather may have once used that name in the Old West.
[(*) Editor's note: See "Sing a Song of Six Guns," Action Comics #52 (September, 1942).]
As for the Vigilantes, Tornado Tumpkins, Hugles Hutchkiss, and Wildcat Willis continued their fight for justice during the waning days of the Old West, spanning the 1890s and the early 1900s before eventually retiring a few years into the twentieth century. In 1942, Greg Sanders would meet the now-elderly Vigilantes during a visit to his hometown of Avalanche Junction. This newly reinvigorated group of Vigilantes proved instrumental in assisting Stuff to save the Vigilante's life, helping to solidify their enduring legacy. (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See "Guns, Gold and Glory," Action Comics #51 (August, 1942).]
In 1948, not long before the Vigilante and the other Seven Soldiers of Victory fought the Nebula-Man and were tossed through time, Vigilante had a second strange dream of living as a lawman in the Old West, this time unknowingly tapping into the events surrounding the Showdown at Hidden Valley. (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See "The Desperadoes of Doom," Action Comics #129 (February, 1949).]
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 30, 2023 1:07:57 GMT
And that's the end of Book 3 (whew)!
Book 4 is the final one, and it will set the scene for the story in which he is finally rescued by Green Arrow, Black Canary, Johnny Thunder, and his Thunderbolt, as seen in JLA #102.
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Post by DocQuantum on Oct 1, 2023 2:49:37 GMT
Chapter 10: Sanders' Last Stand
by Doc Quantum
A relentless golden light painted the desolate, arid plain beneath the unforgiving sun of summer's waning days. This land stood as a forsaken relic, untouched by the hand of civilization, a vast expanse where nature reigned supreme. The earth was cracked and parched, telling tales of endless droughts and whispered secrets of forgotten ages.
Greg Sanders, the time-tossed Vigilante, muttered to himself in disbelief, "Where in tarnation am I now?" His voice trembled as he surveyed the desolate landscape, reminiscent of the American West he was so familiar with, but bereft of any human touch.
Struggling to his feet, the Vigilante's eyes darted down to his own hand, and a gasp escaped his lips. The hand he beheld was not the old, weathered one he remembered. It was young, unscarred, pulsing with newfound vitality. "This... this can't be right," he mumbled, his brow furrowing in confusion. Panic surged within him as he grazed his face and head, confirming the presence of his familiar red kerchief and hat. "I'd already taken those off, didn't I?" he whispered, as if hoping for an answer from the wind. He recalled passing both articles of clothing to another, yet the memory had begun to feel like a distant dream.
He unconsciously scratched his upper lip and encountered nothing but bare skin; inexplicably, his beloved handlebar mustache had vanished. Panic welled up within him, a storm of emotions raging beneath his newfound youth. "Must be some kind o' trick -- a dream, maybe, unless I'm just wakin' up from one," he muttered.
As he rose to his feet, Greg's limbs felt rejuvenated, as if he'd been transported back to the prime of his youth. The golden field seemed to stretch on forever as he stumbled toward the pristine creek, drawn by an inexplicable force. Kneeling at the water's edge, he peered into the reflective surface, his eyes widening at the youthful face staring back at him.
As if to confirm what he was seeing, he took off his hat and bandana and stared at his face, which now had none of the wrinkles he had earned over twenty years of riding under a harsh sun. His sun-bleached white hair had also become as jet-black as it had ever been.
"Well, I'll be swaggered!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with awe. "I'm back in my prime, lookin' just like I did that day in '48." Seated by the creek, the Vigilante delved into his memories of how he'd ended up here.
In 1948, Vigilante fought alongside his fellow Seven Soldiers of Victory against the Nebula-Man, a battle that resulted in a cataclysmic explosion. This violent cataclysm had served as an unforeseen conduit through time, propelling Vigilante and his fellow comrades into the unknown. The fabric of time itself had unraveled in that moment, reshaping their destinies and casting them adrift in the ever-shifting currents of time. Vigilante had been deposited in the Old West, and he had to assume that the other Seven Soldiers had been scattered to disparate eras across the annals of history. Somehow, two fragments of the Nebula-Man's body in the form of twin glowing rocks had ended up in the nineteenth century, each holding power. Upon the end of the Vigilante's time in the Old West, he joined those two glowing rocks together, and the small eruption it caused sent him somewhere else, possibly to another era entirely.
"Two identical pieces of that damned glowing rock," he muttered to himself. "That's all it took to send me hurtling through time again. And somehow... it also changed me back to the same age I'd been in 1948. Well, worse things could'a happened, I suppose. But I'm still up a creek without a paddle."
He shook his head, struggling to make sense of the uniquely surreal situation he found himself in. "I've spent over twenty years from 1870 to 1891 carving out a life for myself without knowing where I truly came from." His gaze remained fixed on the creek's water, the reflection of his youthful face wavering in the ripples.
"But now that I know muh name once more," he continued, his voice stronger, "I've been thrust through time again, and I ain't got a clue where I've landed this time." Vigilante clenched his fists in determination, ready to face whatever new challenges lay ahead.
Unbeknownst to him, one of those two fragments of the Nebula-Man's body lay hidden nearby. But Greg Sanders had fatefully walked off in the other direction, leaving it unnoticed. The glowing rock would only be found centuries later, where it would set in motion the chain of events that would finally lead Vigilante to this past era.
***
The sun hung low in the cloudless sky, casting long shadows across the endless expanse of the American West. The Vigilante found himself a lost soul in this unforgiving terrain. The relentless heat had silenced his confident voice, leaving only parched whispers as he muttered to himself, "Where in tarnation am I?"
With each step, Greg Sanders hoped to stumble upon a familiar face, a hint of civilization. Instead, he discovered a land untouched by colonization, where vast prairies met towering mountains, and solitude reigned supreme.
As he ventured deeper into the unknown, he treaded carefully over rugged terrain, unnerved by the absence of settlements or trails. Suddenly, the tranquility shattered as arrows thudded into the earth at his feet.
Startled, Greg spun around and saw a group of native warriors closing in. He froze in his tracks as they encircled him, their eyes filled with apprehension.
As Vigilante raised his hands in a gesture of peace, the tribe's leader, Tall Elk, signaled for his warriors to lower their weapons. Greg was led away, brought to the center of their encampment.
The Shoshone tribe had never encountered a white man before. Filled with fear, they believed Vigilante to be an omen, a symbol of impending destruction. They couldn't fathom the possibility that he was merely a lost traveler.
Presented before the tribe's enigmatic medicine man, his wrists bound behind his back with leather cords, Greg struggled to comprehend their words. The medicine man's eyes bore into his soul, reflecting skepticism and fear.
"The buffalo spirit," the medicine man began in his own tongue, "has whispered to me on the wind. It warns that if I spare you, more white-skins will come, desecrating our sacred land and dooming our beloved buffalo."
The Vigilante's attempts at communication were in vain, the language barrier an insurmountable chasm. His friendly gestures were met with confusion, understanding slipping through his grasp.
"Please," Greg implored, sincerity lacing his voice. "I harbor no ill will towards your people. I swear to protect this land with all my might, to honor its sanctity."
The air hung heavy with uncertainty as the Shoshone deliberated Vigilante's fate. Then all voices hushed when a lone figure walked up. This was a warrior of the Great Plains, adorned in attire that spoke of distant lands. A quiver of arrows on his back, Strong Bow's presence commanded reverence, casting awe upon the gathered tribe.
Strong Bow, known across the Plains as a wandering warrior, had been silently trailing the Vigilante. His booming voice cut through the tension, affirming Greg's innocence. "This man speaks true! He is a friend to our land! He will not be harmed."
Vigilante didn't understand the words, but he watched as the medicine man took Strong Bow at his words. With a nod, he signaled Chief Tall Elk to heed the words of the revered hero. Tall Elk's decision liberated Greg from his bindings, relief evident in his stammered thanks. The tribe lowering their weapons in acknowledgment of the stranger's authority.
"Much obliged," said Vigilante, rubbing his chafed wrists. "I didn't know what I was gonna do."
The medicine man, firm in his warning, warned Strong Bow of the buffalo spirit's retribution should trust be betrayed, then turned away. His fate momentarily secured, Vigilante, still grappling with the language barrier, understood the gravity of the opportunity granted.
Approaching with purpose, the wandering warrior Strong Bow met Vigilante's gaze. In broken English, he conveyed his role in securing his release. "I am Strong Bow. Told them let you go. You bring no harm."
The Vigilante couldn't hide his astonishment at hearing his own language in this remote land. He had almost given up hope of ever hearing it again. There was more to this Strong Bow than met the eye, he realized.
A mysterious smile played on Strong Bow's lips as he took Vigilante to the side and explained, "I know where you come from. I have seen your land, where warriors carry fire-sticks like yours." With a gesture, he indicated Greg's pistols. "Learned your people's tongue there. (*) I help you find your way back there."
[(*) Editor's note: See "Crisis at Canaveral," All-Star Squadron #55 (March, 1986).]
Bathed in newfound hope, the Vigilante recognized the chance to survive in this harsh land and learn from its people. With Strong Bow as his guide, he would unravel their language, customs, and struggles, embracing an unplanned adventure.
***
Beneath the vast, starlit canvas of the night sky, a crackling fire painted dancing shadows around the Vigilante and his steadfast companion and blood brother, Strong Bow. The warrior from beyond the Misty Mountains was a paragon of selfless heroism, embodying the spirit of the Great Plains. Their journey over the past few months had spanned the ancient lands, one day to be hailed as America, leading them through tribes both welcoming and hostile. The Vigilante had cherished these moments, understanding that to witness the primal beauty of America was a gift beyond measure.
The Vigilante had also learned how to shoot a bow and arrow, and though he would never match Strong Bow's expertise, he reckoned he might give his old pals Green Arrow and Speedy a run for their money if he ever crossed paths with them again. Greg Sanders, in seeking to preserve the precious few bullets he still had, managed to keep his pistols in perfect order without having to resort to using them more than a couple of times.
In the quiet of the night, Strong Bow's broken English resonated as he announced his decision. It was time for their paths to diverge. "Brother Vigilante," Strong Bow murmured, his voice tinged with sorrow, "I have spoken with the wise men about my visions. We must part ways. But fear not, for our bond is eternal."
"Where you headin', Brother?" inquired Vigilante. "Feels like we've only just started walkin' together."
"There is a place that calls to me," Strong Bow explained. "A cavern not far from here, a place I've visited before. At that time it provided a temporary shelter for a banished chief and his warriors, until I helped him regain the rightful leadership of his tribe. (*) Now, though, that cavern will be a river bringing me to new lands. The wise men have assured me that my destiny lies within its sacred depths, which hold mysteries no man can fathom."
[(*) Editor's note: See "Warrior of Two Worlds," All Star Western #82 (April-May, 1955).]
Vigilante nodded thoughtfully, a slight grin on his face. "I reckon I've felt that pull o' destiny once or twice in my life, Brother."
"I also know your people are on their way to collect you, Brother Vigilante," Strong Bow said, his gaze unwavering. "They must find you, but not with Strong Bow. That much is certain."
The Vigilante had always been grounded in reality, less inclined to embrace mysticism, but Strong Bow exuded an unshakable confidence. "How can you know?" he questioned. "It's been many years since I've seen anyone from my time. How can you be so sure they're comin' for me?"
Strong Bow offered a rare, reassuring smile. "You must have faith, Brother Vigilante."
Unbeknownst to them, hidden among the shadows of the trees, a band of scouts concealed their intentions, shrouded in secrecy. Every move made by the blood brothers had been meticulously monitored. In silence, these scouts awaited their opportune moment to strike.
***
The morning sun painted the endless horizon with vibrant hues, signaling the start of a new day. Strong Bow had agreed to allow the Vigilante to accompany him to the sacred cavern that had beckoned him so, but there was a condition: the white man had to remain at a distance, no matter what transpired within those sacred depths.
Their journey was brief, for their travels had already brought them near the cavern's vicinity. The Vigilante bid Strong Bow a solemn farewell, their eyes exchanging unspoken understanding. The time they'd spent together had woven an unbreakable bond between their souls.
With purpose, Strong Bow approached the cavern's mouth, while Vigilante observed from a respectful distance. As the warrior from beyond the Misty Mountains neared the entrance, a flickering as if of strange energies played at the cave's threshold. Greg Sanders' eyes widened in astonishment as he saw an iridescent pink and yellow glow, shining from within like some unearthly flame. He realized that something profoundly unusual was unfolding, yet he had given his word not to intervene.
Sensing Vigilante's unease, Strong Bow raised a reassuring hand in the air, signaling that he was unharmed. Then, with determination, he turned and faced the cavern's enigmatic depths. Striding into its mysterious embrace, Greg watched in shock as Strong Bow, along with the crackling energies, vanished before his eyes.
"Well, partner, wherever you go I hope you find your way back home," the Vigilante muttered softly. "An' me as well." He lingered a while longer, a silent vigil in case he might witness any sign of Strong Bow's return, but the gaping mouth of the cave remained still and unforgiving, holding its secrets close.
As the Vigilante turned to depart, he suddenly found himself ensnared by a circle of scouts, their bows drawn and arrows poised.
"I was wonderin' when you fellers would show your faces," he muttered, his hands up.
Resistance felt futile in the face of overwhelming odds, and with a heavy heart, the Vigilante chose surrender, recognizing the grim fate that awaited him as a captive of this hostile Plains tribe. He had almost been in this same situation a few months earlier, until he was saved by his blood brother. The absence of his friend Strong Bow was a void he keenly felt in this moment of despair as the warriors bound his arms once again.
Confronted with the harsh reality of his predicament, the Vigilante couldn't help but wonder if destiny had abandoned him. Would he meet his end as an enigma, an unknown anomaly in these Pre-Columbian days, buried in an unmarked grave? Or could Strong Bow's prophecy, distant and uncertain, hold a glimmer of truth? He scanned the vast horizon for any sign of men from his own era, but it remained an empty expanse.
The only hope he had left was the fact that the tribe didn't bother removing his pistols, not recognizing them as threats. If he could but get his hands free, he might be able to shoot his way free as a last resort.
Then the Vigilante was brought before the familiar looking Shoshone medicine man he'd first encountered back when he arrived in this time. The medicine man was a cunning player in this unfolding drama, regarded the Vigilante with a sinister satisfaction after finally capturing his prey, with no Strong Bow in sight to save him.
The medicine man had spent the last few months swaying Chief Tall Elk over to his view, that sacrificing the white man to the buffalo spirit was the only path to safeguard their future, a vision of foreboding consequence.
As the afternoon sun began to descend toward the horizon on that ominous day, Chief Tall Elk, his countenance stern and unyielding, ordered Greg to be bound to a post at the camp's edge and set aflame. The medicine man seemed pleased to have the honor of making the sacrifice. The Vigilante could understand some of their words, thanks to Strong Bow's teaching, but their gestures had left no room for ambiguity. He knew that, when the moon was full as it would be tonight, he would face execution.
With the specter of doom inching ever closer, the Vigilante's thoughts raced like a wild stallion on the open plains. In this nightmarish predicament, escape seemed as elusive as a ghostly mirage shimmering on a desert horizon. He desperately needed to find a way to convey to the Shoshone that he posed no threat to their existence or that of the sacred buffalo, but his words fell upon deaf ears, a futile plea in a land where understanding hung as thin as the moon's crescent.
Led towards the foreboding post that could spell his untimely demise, Greg Sanders, known as the Vigilante, keenly attuned to the world around him, caught the faint murmur of unfamiliar voices carried on the wind, like echoes from another time and place.
Strong Bow's sage words resounded in his mind like a prayer carried by the winds of fate: "Your people are on their way to collect you... That much is certain... You must have faith, Brother Vigilante..."
A fleeting smile passed beneath the Vigilante's red bandana, a glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. He clung to that faith like a lifeline, an unwavering belief that today would not be the day of his demise. Yet, he couldn't help but silently implore whoever was riding to his rescue to hasten their arrival.
And so, beneath the boundless sky of the untamed West, where destinies intertwined like rivers snaking through the wilderness, the Vigilante's fate hung in precarious balance, awaiting the arrival of those who would carve a new chapter in his wild tale. And they would arrive, but it would require a journey of nearly a thousand years to reach him in time.
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Post by DocQuantum on Oct 1, 2023 3:25:07 GMT
Epilogue: Another Vigilanteby Doc Quantum
Mesa City -- 1949:
The dark-haired man roared into the dusty town on his motorcycle. His arrival was heralded by a swirl of grit and gravel as he dismounted in front of the local bar. Adjusting his cowboy hat and tugging the red bandana tighter over his face, he embodied the very image of the Vigilante, the masked cowboy hero who had vanished mysteriously last October.
With his once-blond hair now dyed jet black, John Tane strolled through the town, carrying himself with the same fearless swagger that had become synonymous with the Vigilante. But he was not alone in this endeavor. Young Victor "Stuff" Leong, the Chinese ward left behind when Greg Sanders had vanished, had eagerly embraced the plan to carry on the Vigilante's mantle.
"All right, Stuff, time to bring Jeanne up to speed," John said, his voice muffled by the bandana.
Stuff, dressed in jeans, a white cap, a striped red T-shirt, and an overcoat, nodded eagerly. He was no longer a child, but he was still small of stature even as a young man, and still had a thirst for adventure. "We should hurry, Mr. Tane. She might not take to the idea as easily as I did."
John chuckled as he revved the motorbike's engine. "Women can be unpredictable, Stuff. Let's hope my charm and wit are enough to sway her."
With Stuff perched in the sidecar, they embarked on a journey to the Tane household, a modest ranch house nestled on the outskirts of town. John navigated the winding path, his heart pounding with anticipation.
Upon reaching the white picket fence gate, he pushed it open, leading Stuff up the creaky porch steps. Pausing briefly, John inhaled the familiar scent of home-cooked meals and baby powder that filled the air. Jeanne Tane stood there, her worn expression softened as she cradled newborn Chuck in her arms.
Her eyes met John's, and a mix of irritation and relief washed over her features. She recognized her husband, even beneath the disguise he had adopted.
"John Tane, where have you been?" Jeanne exclaimed, her voice tinged with frustration. "I've got my hands full here with this little rascal."
John grinned, his charm unmistakable. "Now, Jeanne, you know I always come back. But I've got something important to discuss. Mind if we step away from the 'little rascal' for a moment?"
With an exasperated sigh, Jeanne gently placed Chuck in his crib and walked over, hands on her hips. "All right, Tane. Spit it out. What's so all-fired important that you couldn't wait until dinner?"
John Tane took a deep breath, his charismatic smile a constant presence even in this weighty moment. "Greg's gone, Jeanne. You know that. He disappeared months ago, and you and I both know where he ended up. The Vigilante was our friend back in the Old West, and he's been our friend again these last few years, even if he never knew the whole story about us at the time. And so... I think it's up to me to take on his mantle as the Vigilante. Stuff is okay with it, and, well... I... I don't think it's right to deprive the world of the Vigilante."
Jeanne frowned, skepticism etching her features as her eyes narrowed. "John, we have a newborn baby to take care of. We can't just go gallivanting around fighting crime like we did in the old days as Johnny Thunder and Madame .44! The world's changed, even with our youth returned to us!" (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See Justice Society of America: Times Past, 1941: Thunder at Sunset.]
John placed a reassuring hand on Jeanne's shoulder, his touch a reminder of their enduring bond. "Darlin', this is important. Stuff and I, we've made a plan. We'll travel together, just like when you an' I traveled the rodeo circuit, makin' our way in this new time. And I promise to help you in every way I can with Chuck. We always did make good money at the rodeo!"
Jeanne crossed her arms, her resistance softening slightly. "The Vigilante, huh? The thought of you riding off into the sunset again does stir up some old memories. But this time it's different, John. We've got responsibilities now."
"I know, Jeanne. That's why I plan to only continue as the Vigilante until Greg returns. Once he does, I'll hang up my hat for good," John declared, his words heavy with sincerity.
Jeanne sighed, her lips curving into a reluctant smile. "You always had a way with words, Tane. Fine, go on your wild adventures. But remember, if you don't come back in one piece, I'll give you a good thrashing."
John grinned, relief washing over him like a cool breeze. "Don't worry, darling. I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."
Jeanne leaned in, mischief twinkling in her eyes. "Oh, I know, Tane. That's why I married you."
With those words, Jeanne pulled John into a tight embrace, their worries momentarily forgotten in the warmth of their love. The future remained uncertain, but the Tane family was ready to face it together.
And so, John Tane embarked on his journey, leaving behind the comforts of home to don the cowboy hat and red bandana of the new Vigilante. With humor, charm, and the unwavering support of his strong-willed wife, he had convinced her to allow him to carry on the legacy in honor of their old friend Greg. As he got back onto his motorcycle and drove off into the sunset with Stuff, the Chinatown Kid, a new chapter in the legend of the Vigilante began, promising adventure and justice in equal measure.
The End
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Post by DocQuantum on Oct 1, 2023 3:26:46 GMT
I hope everyone enjoyed the ending. These last two chapters actually set up some situations that could develop into stories of their own, in case I never get around to it myself.
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Post by lee on Oct 1, 2023 22:30:51 GMT
I loved the final few chapters in this story. From start to finish, this glimpse into the past life of Vigilante was a joy to read. You have given Greg a much fuller history than DC ever thought about doing. Thanks for sharing this with us.
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