Korean Mercenary’s Wild West

Lawrence sheriff’s office.
Holliday, in the tone of a man doing a kindness, said,
“How about you actually take a rest for once? Swing by Leavenworth. You said you’d take Saturdays and Sundays off.”
“You say that like you don’t know? It’s been over three months. I’ve worked like a dog without a single day off.”
“Anyone hearing you would think that’s true. Anyway—what I’m saying is go take a vacation.”
It wasn’t that he’d skipped Leavenworth out of fear of appearances.
It was that you never knew when trouble would break out if he left his post.
Still, thinking back on the atmosphere in Leavenworth on voting day, he was worried about James’s family.
Wondering if anything had happened, and if the smithy was running well.
“Town runs fine without you. And I’ve already set everything up.”
“What setup?”
“The militia’s taking turns minding the office.”
As it happened, the first shift was here.
It was Fitch.
“You’re still here?”
From their faces, they all seemed earnest. Holliday clapped Max on the back and said,
“Don’t worry and go. Chairman Charles himself arranged it—for all the work you did this time.”
“Hm.”
At the looks Fitch and Holliday traded, Max reluctantly rose to his feet.
Fitch darted into the chair like an arrow and set down the book she’d brought.
Edgar Allan Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue.
The prototype—called the progenitor—of detective fiction with a private investigator as the lead.
Max had read it in his previous life.
“You like that sort of thing?”
At Max’s question, Fitch blinked.
“Sheriff—don’t tell me you know this book?”
“I do. Auguste Dupin’s casework is pretty gripping in its way.”
Clicking her tongue, Fitch gave Max a fresh look.
Though she was a woman, the figure she most loved and wanted to resemble was that very protagonist private detective, Auguste Dupin.
Fitch felt a strange kinship with Max.
There isn’t much to hand off in the sheriff’s work.
After a few words, Max headed for Leavenworth.
In case something happened on the way, he took two revolvers and a rifle.
Anyway—
‘A detective novel, huh.’
Max tilted his head, linking Fitch’s behavior with the book.
But once the horse picked up speed and was galloping the plain, thoughts of Fitch blew away like the wind.
 
****
Black Smith.
The smithy in Leavenworth.
James, who’d been standing there staring from the moment the horse drew near, recognized Max’s face and waved in welcome.
Martin, Brett, and Hollen did the same.
“We were waiting till our eyes fell out to see when you’d show, Max.”
James said it with a bright smile.
“Oh ho—Sheriff of Lawrence!”
“Long time, Max.”
“Everyone keeping well?”
Martin thrust out his hand without ceremony.
After warm greetings, a bit of the time since passed between them.
“Voting day was no joke. Border Ruffians waving guns around—God, I thought I’d die of fright.”
They all made faces like the very thought sickened them.
James, by contrast, was quiet.
Following Max’s advice, he hadn’t gone to the polling place at all—and so had nothing to say.
Neutrality can, at times, look like cowardice. The unease of that struggle showed on James’s face.
“So—how’d the copper bullets turn out?”
“Ah, those!”
Strength came into Martin’s voice.
“We contracted to supply five thousand rounds a month to Fort Leavenworth. They were smitten!”
The new commander was Colonel George Cook.
Having grasped the advantages of copper-jacketed bullets, he’d said he was satisfied—and that it looked like they could roll it out to other forts.
“Thing is, we haven’t heard anything more yet.”
“You do anything extra for them?”
“Do what? For who?”
“Forget it.”
The commander had certainly said it expecting something in return, but they looked short on savvy in that line.
Arms deals are big business—there are even professional lobbyists. But there was no one at the smithy who could play that role.
“Since you’re here—want some rounds?”
When Max nodded, Martin piled a basket high as if they were his own.
Roughly five hundred.
Off to one side stood a military sword—thin and long—a type that wouldn’t see use in the future.
“What’s that?”
“Someone picked it up on the Oregon Trail. They wanted a dollar for it, so I got it for eighty cents.”
Martin said he’d copy it and show it to Fort Leavenworth.
A field officer’s sword, taken off a man killed fighting Indians.
Blade length about thirty-two inches (82 cm), the blade curved like a Korean sword, the grip with a guard like a sabre.
Later, as a saber model, it saw use through the Civil War—an expedient to make up for atrocious reload speeds.
 
****
While Max was at the smithy—
A man came to the sheriff’s office in Lawrence. Fitch, who’d been reading, reached for a gun first.
“Where’s the sheriff?”
“Who are you to come in and ask for the sheriff?”
“It’s urgent.”
“Tell me. He’s not here.”
“Not here?”
The man knit his brow.
He sighed and said,
“Men are coming soon to kill the sheriff.”
“Who’s coming—and why?”

Fitch asked, calm.
The man laid out what was about to happen.
“So where is he?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Don’t regret it later.”
“Hm. Sit tight.”
Could she give up Max’s whereabouts on this man’s word alone? Fitch decided to call Holliday to handle it.
A short while later—
Holliday, dragged in by Fitch, cocked his head at the man.
“Have we met?”
“Well—if you’ve been in and out of the pub or the inn, maybe you’ve seen me.”
“Ah. I remember. The bouncer in Jackson County.”
Instead of answering, the man glared at Fitch.
Forget who I am—keep the snitch’s secret.
Fitch understood and nodded.
“I won’t say a word.”
“Good at understanding that sort of thing.”
After a pause to think, Holliday said to the bouncer,
“The sheriff’s in Leavenworth. Frankly, he’s safer there.”
“Is he? Then this town’s the one in danger.”
“You said they’re gunning for the sheriff.”
“Do you really not get it? You think they’ll just go back?”
“……”
The bouncer stood and said,
“If he went to Leavenworth, he’ll be at a man named James’s house.”
Max and James’s family had stayed at Kelly Inn in Jackson County—and the man was that place’s bouncer.
It wasn’t strange that he knew the two.
What Holliday wondered was why he was helping this far.
“Do you owe Max something?”
“Owe him—sure. I owe him a dollar. An Oriental punk had the gall to tip me.”
A one-dollar tip.
It was no debt.
And yet he’d come gladly to help because of that?
‘A real man.’
When Fitch and Holliday gave the bouncer fresh looks, he curled his lip, touched his hat brim, and dipped his head.
“See you around, then.”
Creak, creak.
Pushing through the swinging doors, the bouncer mounted up and pelted north.
A face worn by the world—one corner of his mouth turned up.
‘A dollar, my ass.’
When you need help, put the debt on the other man in advance. And now was exactly that time.
He was laboring under the large delusion that ‘An Oriental will never forget a favor done him.’
 
****
“Oh my—look who it is!”
“Max!”
What he thought would be a quick visit had somehow turned into three months gone. Mary’s eyes brimmed, and Conall greeted him like a lost brother returned.
“No wonder I had a craving to buy meat!”
Mary set to making food, and Conall shadowed Max, peppering him with questions.
James—home tired from hard work—barely registered.
“Max—so you’re the sheriff of Lawrence?”
“You can’t see this?”
“Whoa, a badge! But… paper?”
“Not just any paper.”
“Then? Your girlfriend made it?”
“We had the word ‘girlfriend’ already?”
Max’s room was unchanged from when he’d left.
Mary’s daily cleaning had made it even cleaner.
They were deep in pleasant talk over a rare shared dinner when, far off, hoofbeats sounded.
James moved to the window, and Max went to the room and took up a revolver.
Hiiing!
The horse stopped, and a man dismounted.
A familiar face.
“What’s he doing here?”
James tilted his head, puzzled. Max, glancing out the window, had the same reaction.
Clack.
When Max opened the door and stepped out, the bouncer spat on the ground.
“Why you gotta make life hard—being here, of all days.”
“What is it?”
When Max lowered his ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) voice, the bouncer, a touch sheepish, dusted the grit off his hat.
“Get ready. A good number of men are pouring into Lawrence tonight to kill you.”
“Border Ruffians?”
“Hard to say. Tonight—call ’em outlaws.”
You couldn’t trust him by his face, but it wasn’t like he’d have come here to lie.
He’d helped back at the inn, too, and Max decided to believe the bouncer.
That was the end of the pleasant dinner.
When Max looked back, worry shone in the Harris family’s eyes.
“We’ll have to eat the good food next time.”
“…Isn’t it safer here?”
“I’ll be back.”
Max’s face set, he turned for the room.
He came out with two more Colt Dragoons taken off the Five Joaquins gang.
He said his goodbyes to James’s family and set out for Lawrence with the bouncer.
And as they passed the smithy—
Max dismounted, found the key hidden under the anvil, and opened the smithy door.
[ Bought. —Max. ]
He took the field officer’s sword and left a note with a one-dollar coin.
After running hard a while, Max looked back.
He was thankful for the warning, but had no idea what the man’s aim was in tagging along.
As if reading Max’s face, he shouted,
“Hard to do this alone!”
“If you die, I’m not responsible!”
“Responsible my ass! Just do me one favor!”
“…Can’t hear you!”
Max shook his head and pointed to his ear.
“You son of a—too much! I helped you twice!”
The bouncer swore, and Max stared ahead and rode hard.
Same time, a different direction—
Under bright moonlight, a group thundered over the plain, hooves clattering.
Fifteen.
Destination: Lawrence. Target: the sheriff.
‘Wait for it, monkey bastard. I’ll take your scalp.’
Humiliation at the hands of an Oriental didn’t fade even if you killed the leader—it was a brand.
‘Kill him tonight and get free of the mockery and jeers.’
They reached Lawrence at the end of an angry gallop.
No one appeared all the way to the center of town. Considering the late hour, it wasn’t strange.
Hiiing!
They halted at the sheriff’s office.
Shrrrip.
They sloshed oil, lit torches, and hurled them at the sheriff’s office.
Clack.
Then they all drew guns together and waited for the Oriental to come bursting out. But even as the building was taken by flames, there was no reaction.
‘Did he get wind ahead of time?’
The leader, brow furrowed, paced his horse back and forth. Then he lifted his muzzle to the sky and shouted,
“You rat-bastards of Lawrence!”
Taaang!
“Starting now, you’ve got five minutes! If you don’t bring that goddamn Oriental bastard to us, we’ll hunt down every last one of you and you’ll die!”
Taaang!
Taaang!
Taaang!
Gunshots in succession rolled across the town.
Hunters who’d lost their prey swept the streets on horseback.
“M-mom, I’m scared…”
“Hush. Quiet.”
A barn a little off from town.
Townsfolk gathered in one place clung to one another, shaking with fear.
At the bouncer’s warning, Holliday had gone straight to Chairman Charles, and after debate they’d decided to take refuge. In a settlement like this, the only refuge was a miserable barn.
Intruders’ shouts, and then gunfire.
For fear the children make a peep, parents clamped hands over mouths.
The town militia lay hidden around the barn, ready for an approach.
‘If Max were here, he’d lead the militia and we’d somehow hold them off.’
Chairman Charles and Holliday—amid the crowd—were sick at heart.
Sending Max on vacation had led to this absurd disaster.
The bouncer had gone to fetch Max—by the time, he should be about here.
But while Holliday waited for Max, part of him prayed he wouldn’t come.
‘Better to take your time, Max. It’s too dangerous here. No—who saves us if not you.’
While Holliday’s heart swung back and forth, hoofbeats drew nearer.
“Where are the little rats hiding and shaking?”
“Just burn it all and be done—why poke around?”
“Time’s not up yet. And if we burn it, it’ll be hard to find the Oriental bastard’s corpse. Huh—what’s that barn?”
Wasn’t it suspicious to have piled things against the entrance?
One of them dismounted, drew a gun, and stepped closer.
Fitch’s muzzle, hidden behind a haystack, tracked him. The muzzles of nearby militiamen tracked him too.
“Sniff, sniff. Something smells off.”
The man, close to the barn now, put his eye to a gap in the boards.
After a long look, it was dark—but he caught something writhing through the sliver.
“Heh heh heh. Found you, you little rats…!”
Just as the man curled his lip and sneered—
Taaang!
Thwok.
Fitch’s shot punched a hole in the back of his head.
Hiiing!
“You sons of bitches!”
As their comrade fell, the rider wheeled at once and spurred to run.
Taaang!
Taaang!
Militiamen fired after him.
But at night, hitting a moving target wasn’t easy.
“Damn—now they’ll be on us!”
Fitch’s shot gave away their position.
And in short order, the ground shook with hoofbeats rushing toward the barn.
Too late to slip away.
In darkness where moonlight didn’t reach, a panicked militiaman fumbled even at reloading.
Hands shook with extreme tension.
Hoofbeats closing.
The militia was rattled enough they couldn’t even get powder in right.
Bang! Bang!
“So the little rats were hiding here!”
The enemy finally swarmed up to the barn.
And then—
Taaang!
Fwoosh.
A shot from far off—and a man’s head snapped aside and he pitched from the saddle.
Taaang!
A second report, close on the first.
Another dropped from his horse.
Max—working two rifles.
From the dark he called out,
“Idiots. None of you leaves here alive.”
‘Max!’
‘The sheriff’s here!’
Relief and hope for the townsfolk—and the militia found their cool as if by magic.
“Get that Oriental bastard!”
Hiiing!
They swung their horses toward Max.
And just then, from the exact opposite direction, a shot cracked.
Taaang!
The bouncer’s bullet blew another man’s head apart.