”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Riders on the Storm: Part One“The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.”
New York City, New York --- The Offices of Ramon J. Solomano; Last Night
“FUCK! Fucky fucking fuckity fu-u-u-u-ck!” Roman J. Solomano threw himself back into his chair, screaming bloody murder and clutching his scarred hand. The door at the opposite end of the room exploded open. Big Caesar burst in, gun at the ready.
“Boss? What’s going on?”
“My goddamn
hand you imbecile!” Solomano’s right hand grabbed where his left pinky should have been, where there was a bloody stump instead. Tears flowed down the mob boss’s face.
“What happened?” Big Caesar took a step back, hastily holstering his weapon.
“Fuck if I know…” Solomano muttered through gritted teeth. He grabbed a handkerchief from his suit coat and wrapped it around his missing digit.
The blood dripping from the suddenly missing finger began to dance on Solomano’s desk. Revolving around and around and forming itself into a neat little circle. The circle drew itself up, into a six inch representation of a humanoid creature. The horns that curled from its head dripped blood. Solomano looked on in horror. The impling smiled and reached inside of itself, producing Solomano’s missing digit. The tut-tut-tut noise that came from its mouth reverberated throughout the room.
”You have failed me once, Roman J. Solomano.” The six inch figure seemed to grow and distort, reaching up into the sky and towering over Solomano, dripping blood onto his forehead.
Solomano stared up into the maw of the monster, clutching his hand and fighting back the sobs.
”Your agent has been defeated. Four more little fingers on that hand of yours...” The demon’s claws reached down, plucking up Solomano’s hand from his side. It pressed the removed pinky into its stump, only to watch the philange turn to dust and fade away.
”Make them count.” And like that, it was done. All at once the mass of blood lost animation and dropped in a wave, drenching Solomano and Big Caesar.
Solomano took long, shaky breaths, staring at his missing finger. Rage boiled in his eyes.
“Bring me… As many men as you can round up. Tell them I’ll give them fuckin superpowers.” Solomano grunted. His hands struggled with his desk drawer, trying to wrench it open as Big Caesar nodded and hurried out of the room.
There was the snap of wood as Solomano ripped the drawer off its rollers, scattering its contents across the blood slick floor. He groped among the objects, searching for his tome. He produced the leathery, black volume from the pile of viscera and slammed into onto the desk. He threw it open to the table of contents and began wordlessly searching for what he needed.
“Page six hundred thirty four… Induced possession...”
Warpath, Texas; Today
Greg Saunders didn’t much remember going to sleep. There was a haze over his mind… The voices had quieted, contented with the chaos that they had wrought. He remembered a horde of people. Not people,
things. Things that used to be the people he loved.
He looked at them now, a loose collection of the citizenry of Warpath. A proud Texas town reduced to a pile of wooden dummies. They stared into the sun with blank eyes, content to let the elements weather them. For long hours he sat, pondering them. Trying to recollect the exact details of what had happened. He remembered… Throwing them. FIghting them. Why? The one thing he really remembered was the corpse.
The lifeless body of The Dummy hung off The Crossroads Saloon, swaying with the subtle changes in the wind. He hadn’t hung long. He died quick, like his body was trying its best to shake of its mortal coil. As soon as he did the wood drained from his skin like it wasn’t there in the first place. But the people still remained obstinately wooden. If he were still alive, maybe he could’ve brought them back. But maybe it was permanent, and The Dummy was content to let Greg and the rest suffer in their prisons. Until Greg got out.
He still wasn’t sure what to call that… Thing that had sprung forth from his body. The creature that had tortured his dreams and leapt out of his body to kill a man. Greg had a vague recollection of it as “The Spirit”, or “Vengeance”. Whatever the Hell it was, he was content to let it lie tied up in his mind. Thanks to it, The Dummy was dead, and he had nothing to question. To figure out if Warpath was still alive. Piece together what the hell that “Trident” was. To find out who hired him. If more were coming.
He shook off the possibility. At this point, all that was left to do was put out the call for the rest of the Soldiers to come back, see what they had found. If it would help the town. Or take down the bastards that did it.
His dreams that night were stranger than what had come before. Somehow it seemed all the more real. The senseless place around him was gone, replaced with a dim recreation of Warpath. Phantom citizens milled about, content with their day to day tasks. Williams and Billy Gunn played cards with what of a City Watch they’d assembled. Jonah Hex spoke with the local horse breeder. Jed Thompsen and Claire Morten walked hand in hand down the main thoroughfare. Good, clean, Texas living. No threats of Demons hung over their heads, the air seemed fresh and clean. The only problem was the one man he’d never seen before, the one thing that seemed really
solid among the ghosts.
He wore a leather biker jacket, adorned with spikes that seemed to have been broken off and glued back on a dozen times. His blue jeans were worn, with that color bleed around the lower leg that came from holding ‘em close to a motorcycle engine too long. His mop of blonde hair just rubbed the tops of his shoulders, and he had a rough beard, the kind that long haul truckers grew. He stood about a gaggle of people, leaned up against a wicked cherry red motorcycle. His eyes caught on Greg’s. His baby blues twinkled in recognition. He waved the crowd away and began to make his way to Greg.
“Greg Saunders? My name is Johnny Blaze, and I believe you’re in great danger.” He extended a hand.
Greg tried to lift himself out of his seat and shake, but it was like his body wasn’t there. He fumbled awkwardly around the armrests, trying to push himself up. It felt like being underwater. Johnny rested a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay. The, uh, dreams take a while to get used to. To control, that is.” Johnny pulled up a chair from across the porch, dragging it to sit across from Greg. He leaned into the chair, wringing his hands together.
“Look, I know this is kind of fucking nuts. That’s what I thought too, when it was me.” He said. He ran a hand through his blonde locks.
“I… What…?” It was a struggle to force the words out. It was like learning to talk again.
“Look, this is going to be a lot to take in, so I’m going to give you the CliffsNotes version. I used to be host to that thing giving your heard the runaround, Mephisto is after something called The Trident of Lucifer, and another gang of guys is gearing up to take it from you
right now.” Johnny rubbed his temples. “Worst part is I don’t think you’re really ready to deal with what’s coming.”
“I-I don’t have…?” The words seemed to fall out of his mouth in a jumble.
“Yeah, that’s what I can’t put my finger on. Far as I know, last person to have that thing was Astaroth, and nobody knows where the Hell he is.” Johnny looked up into Greg’s eyes. Glazed over, uncomprehending. “Uh… Here. Maybe this will help.” Johnny put his hands on Greg’s head and his world exploded into color.
This place wasn’t entirely unlike what Greg had experienced when he was inside the thing. It seemed smaller, focused. He stood on some kind of dias, and a small collection of seats rose up and away from him in a semicircle. It was populated with all sorts of people, as the rows went on and on. Victorian gentleman, pirates, ninjas, and Greg was fairly certain he saw a caveman towards the back. Johnny Blaze sat in the seat closest to him, kicking his feet up upon the divider, looking down at Greg.
“What in Sam--” Greg paused for a moment, startled by his own voice. He shook his head.
”What in Sam Hill is this place?”“This,” Johnny made a sweeping gesture with his hands, to the collection of men and women before him, “is the Council of Riders.” Johnny grinned. “Er, at least, that’s what I’ve been calling it.”
“The Council of-? Aw, heck, I’ve seen stranger darn things.” Greg realized his hands had been resting on the handles of his guns. He moved them into his pockets.
“Look, fellers, I don’t much know who any of y’all are, or what you want from me. But I...” Greg looked down at the ground. He swallowed.
”I could use some help.”“We’ll try our best,
mi amigo.” A spanish accent rose out of the collection of people. A man in a red mask and black outfit spoke up. There was a whip at his hip, and revolvers in his holsters.
“Thanks, Diablo.” Johnny said to the man, further up the forum. He shot him a thumbs up. The spaniard rolled his eyes. Johnny turned back to Greg. “Look, all of us were inhabited by this…
Thing. The thing that’s giving you trouble right now. It’s gone by a lot of names. When I had it, it was The Ghost Rider. When El Diablo up there had it, it was, well, also El Diablo. Grak way in the back just called it ‘Anger’.” Johnny waved to the caveman in the back, who idly scraped at the divider separating him from the lower rows. He snorted in response. “Ever since it got us, we’ve been kept inside it. Damned to advise the next inheritor of the thing for all eternity.”
”I’d like you help y’all out of your predicament, but I got my hands a little full, and I ain’t really seein’ how this is helpin’, all due respect.” Vig offered his hands, palm up.
”I just need to fix things. An’ give Mephisto what’s coming to him.” The caveman in the back whooped. There was a smattering of applause. Johnny raised a hand to silence them.
“Yeah, we all tried our best to get back at that cocksucker. But before you get your crack at it, well… We think something’s coming. A
group of somethings.” Johnny Blaze rubbed the back of his neck. “And we think it might be more than you can handle. Especially since you don’t have a handle on The Rider.”
Vig shook his head.
”I can handle myself just fine without that thing. Sheriff Saunders didn’t raise no slouch, no sir.” Greg crossed his arms defiantly.
Johnny sighed. “It’s The Bounty Hunters. A collection of lost and damned souls who owe debt to Mephisto, crammed into human bodies and baying for the blood of The Rider, or anyone else that Mephisto fingers for death.” Johnny rested his chin on his hands. “There are dozens of them. Seems like there’s more every go around.”
”I’ve handled worse.” Greg said.
”Figure I can make them fix the, uh… Dummification situation?”“That’s something else we don’t know about. Near as we can tell, they’re not dead. At least, not yet. We would’ve
felt something, their spirits crying out for vengeance, some indication that they were trying to pass on. They’re still alive, but we don’t really know how to bring them out of it. You’d need an occultist, or something.” Blaze shrugged. “Tell you the truth, most of us were wanderers. We never really had to deal with mystic stuff on this order, before. It’s mostly been straight shooting.”
Greg nodded.
”So there’s a chance.” Greg looked Blaze in the eyes. The man nodded. Greg smiled. He felt a peculiar sensation, starting by his toes and traveling up his body to his spine. He looked down. Bit by bit he was melting away, motes of flesh being whisked away and fading into the light.
”I -- what’s happenin’?”Blaze swore to himself. “You’re waking up. Look, here’s the need to know. The Dummy, and these Bounty Hunters, they
reek of Mephisto. But there’s something else, we can’t identify it. There’s another player, find out who the hell he is! And why he thinks you have the tri--”
And he was awake.
It was gruelling work, setting up the town. All Vig could do now was hope it was worth it. All the dummy-people, sequestered away, hidden under sands, in outhouses, all kindsa spots. All sorts of traps and armaments too -- every bottle he could scrounge from the Saloon had become a molotov cocktail. Hell, turned out even in dummification, Billy Gunn was helping. Vig found a note on his desk that morning, gone unnoticed from the day The Dummy came to town:
“Greg;
Posted an ad on ‘
vigilante.net’. Supposed to be some kind of network for wandering heroes and the like. Don’t figure it’d be much, but maybe someone can find the time to come out and help us.
-Gunn”
The body of The Dummy lay outside in warning. Vig stood in town square, leaning up against a post. He had as many revolvers as he could find; four on the front and back of his hips, two in shoulder holsters, and another two strapped to his chest. He rested his pump shotgun against his shoulder.
”Yippie ki-yay, motherfuckers. Your move.” 
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