The Bounty and the Briefcase (Cattlepunk) [WIP]

5 - The Bastard

A question without an answer, and vice versa.

Frances had a question: "Who the hell was this guy?" And she had an answer, but for a different question: "Because he was a rich bastard."

The question for than answer, or the answer to the question of the question to the answer, could have been "why did he shoot the bottle?" or "why did he start a scene?" or "why was he dressed so fancy?" or even "why did he have a prosthetic metal arm?" Frances believed they all applied.

The fellow slowly strutted forward, clearly unafraid of drawing attention. The eyes of the patrons followed him as he moved towards the bar, some bewildered, some apathetic, some frightened. The pianoforte player had stopped, and the room felt empty.

A brawny man followed closely behind him, wearing suspenders and a striped shirt. His eyes were mean and his expression aloof.

Martin had already moved himself to the side of the room.

"Shit," Frances heard her cousin mutter. 

She whipped around and growled furiously, "Who's this?"

Alo looked upwards, thinking, then looked back at her. "Honestly, I don't remember his name."

The man holstered his pistol as he stopped in front of the bar. He placed his palms (well, palm) on the table, and leaned towards Alo. "Good to see you again, Mr. Steele."

Frances' cousin chuckled. "Not really, actually."

His green eyes were dark and sharp. "You sure you want this conversation to take this route? Because this could go down one of two ways."

"Impossible."

The stranger frowned. "What do you mean impossible?"

"There's no such thing as 'only two ways'. There are several ways I could get you to leave." Alo smiled, his teeth white.

Frances pinched the bridge of her nose. Alo, always the optimist. It often got him in trouble more often than it got him out of it. That's why things had been good when she was there. Her negative attitude balanced things out. But now she'd been gone for too long, and had no idea what the hell was happening.

She noticed the stranger was tapping his foot. He leaned even closer to Alo, and Frances barely heard him whisper: "You know what I'm here for. This is your second chance. Hand it over."

Alo squinted one eye. "Eh? Oh, good old number 121? Ah, I already told you, you ain't getting that."

"I said I would, one of two ways."

Alo pushed off the bar, snatched up a glass and a cloth, and began to wipe in circles. "I really don't have time for this. You're scaring the customers, and nobody's benefiting. Just leave."

The stranger reached across and grabbed the glass, then slammed it onto the bar, the pieces shattering all over.

The stern man Frances had been quarreling with earlier, who was apparently the new owner, was in front of the stranger in a flash.

"Get out." His tone was so low it was almost silent.

The bastard tapped the bar three times and took a step backwards. The broad-shouldered man took his place. He pulled his hand back, formed it into a fist, and swung it at the owner's cheek.

"Joel!" Alo lunged towards the man, who stumbled to the side and quickly planted his hand on the counter to steady himself.

Frances didn't even bother to look at Joel though. She had already pulled out her pistol, the muzzle resting on the thug's forehead.

"Move, and I shoot. Speak, and I shoot. Run, and I shoot."

The thug inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. Frances turned to the stranger, whose eyes were wide. 

"Walk out the door. Slowly."

The rich man and his goon walked backwards cautiously, not removing their eyes from the pistol aimed towards them.

When the two were about halfway across the saloon, the thug decided to be bold and reached across his hip.

Within a second, Frances had lodged a bullet in his calf.

The man cried out and crumbled to the floor. He curled over himself and grasped his leg, blubbering like a child.

Frances spat. Pathetic.

The well-dressed fellow knew better. He turned his back to Frances, and continued to approach the doors. The thug hobbled after him and past him, out. 

The man with the metal arm turned around and glared at Frances across the room. All eyes were on the two of them. Frances didn't lower her pistol, her own glare matching his.

"I'll be back. With more force. Don't doubt it. I'll get what I want."

"Big words from someone running away from a girl with a gun." She smirks. "Is this what you wanted?"

He scowled at her for a few seconds, then turned on his heels and walked out.

Frances lowered her pistol, and rolled her shoulders back. Then she turned to Alo. He wore a knowing smirk, a proud look. Joel, on the other hand, was still on the floor, eyes staring up at her, eyebrows raised.

She turned to Martin, leaning against the wall, mouth agape. And the rest of the room had their eyes on her.

Frances tilted her right hand, gun still in it. "What?"

"Frances." She turned around. "We have talking to do," Alo said.

She began to walk towards him. "You have some explaining to do. A lot." Because Frances still had a question without an answer, and vice versa.

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