Korean Mercenary’s Wild West

“We know nothing, folks! Nothing but this country—nothing but you!”
“The American Party’s mission is to protect this land wrought by the blood and sweat of us Protestants—and to guard your happiness!”
A square with dust whipping through it.
Calling it a square was generous; it was just a clearing wider than the surroundings.
And the only ones listening to the American Party’s hollow speech were two people at best.
Max and Fitch—no one else.
“Anyway… we ask for your attention!”
Clap, clap.
When Max applauded, they wrapped up their limp speech with faces like they’d swallowed manure.
—That Oriental bastard is really getting on my nerves.
—Who cares. Let’s wet our throats first.
—Isn’t this town a little too backward? Good thing there’s at least that woman. She’ll do…
At the man’s words, his buddies glanced at Fitch.
Age and looks: she passed on both.
—Dig up some town info first. Tonight we’ll drink our ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) fill there.
While the three muttered, Max and Fitch lowered their voices and held a quiet exchange of their own.
—So they might not be American Party members? Hm. Thinking of it that way, it is odd. The American Party usually targets laborers for votes. Doesn’t fit this town.
Back east, laborers worked for capitalists. Then Irish and German immigrants started taking their bowls with lower wages.
The American Party had burrowed into those laborers’ anger and spite, and built its current strength.
—What else?
—Not sure.
—If there’s nothing, we tail them and watch until the doubts clear.
They canvassed the town flogging the American Party.
They knocked on shop and house doors, chatted, moved on. Max and Fitch shadowed them.
After combing around, the place they went into was the pub run by Hutchison, one of the militiamen. Fitch started to follow them in, and Max caught her arm.
—Their horses are tied outside. The bags are there. How do you want to play it?
—Ah.
Fitch caught the intent and nodded.
But instead of going straight to the horses, she looked into the pub through a window.
Whether by design or not, they’d sat where their horses were in plain view.
Max folded his arms and stood off to one side.
Fitch leaned close and asked:
—Not helping?
—We’re in evidence-gathering phase. A detective should solve it on their own steam.
—…Okay.
If she’d thought it was a joke, she would’ve left already.
Fitch wore the most serious face yet and threw herself into it. You could see the stubborn will to unmask them.
Thinking it through,
she spotted two women just coming out of the general store.
They were sharp, capable women out of Massachusetts who ran Lawrence’s first boarding house. Like Fitch, they were unmarried.
Fitch went up and, hinting they might have customers who’d need lodging, dropped a word.
Watching, Max nodded. As a way to pull the enemy’s eyes aside, it was plausible.
“Thank you, Miss Fitch. We’ve been short on guests—time to really work today.”
The two women entered the pub and started chatting with the men.
Having drawn their gaze, Fitch hunched and slipped toward the horses. She rifled a leather document bag.
She passed quickly over the bag filled with American Party handbills.
Her hand went to a similar-looking bag. To her surprise, out popped flyers for the Free Soil Party, which would later be folded into the Republican Party.
The third bag held handbills for the oddly named Nullifier Party—another outfit now defunct.
Fitch pocketed the three different flyers and came back to Max.
“Those bastards are really suspicious.”
Once suspicion took hold, her head ran sharper and her actions turned more aggressive.
Like fitting puzzle pieces, she later caught up with the two women as they left the pub and asked:
“How was it?”
“They said they won’t be staying in town tonight.”
‘They’re just leaving?’
Fitch tilted her head. She’d expected them to set something in motion here and now—wrong.
“But what did you talk about for so long?”
Mostly the town situation, they said. And they’d shown interest in the town sheriff.
“Our Max the sheriff—oh, we had plenty to say. From nabbing a famous gang to the recent killing of fifteen outlaws—we told them all of it straight.”
“How’d they react?”
“They went quiet for a while.”
‘They’re spooked.’
Calling them idiots, Fitch nodded, and the women went on:
“Anyway, they were quite polite. Said they’ve seen lots of valuables go missing when traveling through settlements like ours, and urged us to be careful.”
“And then?”
“Well, we have a man for safekeeping valuables. We told them that, and they slapped their knees.”
“Mmhmm. Slapped their knees, did they.”
“Anyway, we chatted this and that, and they said next time they come, they’ll stay at our boarding house.”
‘Why leave town today?’
Max’s resume was flashy enough that their nerve to act might’ve wilted.
But since they’d gotten the information on who held valuables, they wouldn’t change the plan.
‘So today’s just recon.’
After wrapping up with the women, Fitch relayed it to Max as-is.

“How do you think they move next?”
“Most likely to Mr. Levi’s house.”
“Shall we go take a look?”
Maybe not American Party after all.
That one small doubt shifted Fitch’s thinking and behavior.
Max was pleased with the change.
‘I’m a merc, not a detective.’
If they were enemies, you shot or stabbed and bagged them.
But a force that relied only on muscle had obvious limits.
He aimed to build an outfit of varied talents to cover what he lacked—an organization that meshed and turned organically.
That was why watching Fitch and gauging whether she had such capability mattered.
By the time the town was dyed red with sunset,
they came out of the pub.
Faces flushed, they headed for Levi Gates’s house—the man who kept the town’s valuables.
—We go back tonight. Judging by their pattern, their goal today is gathering intel.
Fitch whispered low.
She ran through her reasoning; there was a sharpness Max hadn’t thought of.
—Posing as party men lets them approach people easily and avoid suspicion.
The flyers varied with town leanings. Since there were Democrats and Republicans everywhere, they’d picked parties you’d expect only back east.
—They hand out flyers to learn the lay of the town and gather information. While doing that, they select a target and execute. That’s their method.
—Hah. Should’ve guessed.
—What?
When Max let a little exclamation slip, Fitch asked.
—Nothing. Matches what I had in mind.
—Hee.
In good spirits, Fitch tittered like a goof. When Max frowned, she sobered.
—So when exactly are they going to pull something?
They knocked at Levi’s door and chatted under cover of their handbills.
Fitch toyed with her revolver, ready for the worst.
But as she’d predicted, they didn’t do anything.
—Right. If they were sloppy enough to strike the day they arrived, they wouldn’t have prepared flyers in the first place.
—Good. Keep at it just like this.
At Max’s encouragement, Fitch smothered a giggle.
Even if the West was a lawless plain, there were U.S. marshals and bounty hunters.
If their trail got exposed, they’d be fugitives living under the constant threat of a bullet from anywhere.
They weren’t the kind of outlaws willing to live with that.
Night fell, and as they moved away from Levi’s house their voices rose a little.
“Shall we head over there now?”
“Finally, time to get a taste of some Indian tonight.”
“I’ll take the one-armed man.”
“You always grab the easy one.”
With that, the three turned their horses toward the edge of town.
Fitch whispered:
—Indian? One-armed? What’s that about?
‘So that’s how the thread shifts.’
Max realized his presence had warped the flow of events.
Originally, Holliday shouldn’t have brought the Native father and son.
Men hit their house first; in the aftermath, Joe Jim’s wife dies.
But Holliday, of all days, had brought them here to introduce to him.
‘If I kill them now, what do I charge them with?’
Three con men carrying three stacks of flyers.
All they’d done here was drink and scatter paper.
In the end, there was only one way—deal with them at the scene.
He had counted on that from the start, but it was a nuisance.
Max stopped Fitch when she moved to tail them.
Her drive was fierce.
—Don’t tell me we’re quitting here?
—You’ll see at the office.
Puzzled, Fitch went back to the office with Max.
And there, Holliday and the Native pair were waiting for him.
What?
Seeing the Natives, Fitch’s eyes went wide, and she shot a look at Max.
Holliday scolded them:
“Where’ve you been? I brought these two up from Topeka to eat supper with you.”
“Something came up.”
Max looked to Joe Jim, the Native, and asked,
“Who’s at your house right now?”
“My wife and daughter. Why?”
“I’m afraid they’re in danger.”
“Wh-what do you mean—”
“Miss Fitch?”
Max looked at Fitch like she was his deputy. She hesitated, then steadied her voice.
She recounted the day’s business with the supposed American Party men. By the end, the father and son’s faces had hardened.
“Holliday, we’ll have to eat another time.”
“I’ll go with Fitch.”
At Max’s words, Fitch clenched her fist with a grave look.
Holliday said he’d go, too, but Max waved him off. He wouldn’t help there anyway.
“Hold the office. Just in case, set up militia patrols.”
“Got it. With Max going, nothing will happen, Jim.”
The Native pair said nothing.
All they could think of was getting home—fast.
 
*****
A local to these parts, Joe Jim took a shortcut to Topeka.
It ran close to Lecompton, thick with pro-slavery men and frequented by Border Ruffians—so he usually avoided it.
A murky night under a mass of clouds.
They reached Joe Jim’s log house on the bank of the Kansas River. They left the horses back and moved in quietly.
Inside, the gentle glow of an oil lamp leaked through the window, and they heard three women’s voices. They’d made it first—thank God.
Normal, everyday talk.
Listening to the mother and daughters, the Native father and son’s eyes burned. They’d been on edge the whole way.
Fitch, after scanning around, spoke:
—They’ll leave their horses like we did and approach on foot. They’re cautious; they won’t go straight in but observe first.
She chose the optimal spot—the hill snugged up on the house’s right.
Terrain that overlooked the entire house.
It matched what Max had in mind.
—We wait for them here.
Everyone nodded.
The Native pair gripped revolvers, ready to fire.
Fitch whispered to Joe Jim:
—No other houses nearby?
—It’s been just our family here for a long time.
Natives usually lived in groups.
Joe Jim was an exception—because of the blood in his veins.
He was one-quarter French. Maybe because of that, he’d found his way between worlds as a guide and interpreter, belonging to neither side.
Suddenly, Max wondered why Holliday had brought the two to the office.
He looked at the son, Joe Jim Junior.
About the same age as Max’s current body, a head shorter than Max. Unlike his father’s tight mouth, the boy seemed steady and serious.
If Holliday had brought the son along, he must have had a purpose.
Max asked Joe Jim:
—What did Holliday say about me?
—Ah, he praised the sheriff’s skill to the skies. My boy wanted to meet you for that reason…
Joe Jim Junior met Max’s eyes and nodded calmly.
—How old are you?
—Eighteen.
—Why did you want to meet me?
—Because…
He was just about to answer—
Rustle.
A branch snapped underfoot in the distance.
They watched in silence as men approached.
And a moment later,
the ones pretending to be American Party men showed themselves.
As Fitch predicted, they didn’t go straight inside but circled and looked things over.
—Looks different at night. Nice view. Good spot to hole up three days and plan the Lawrence job.
‘They’ve already scouted it?’
Gooseflesh raced down the Native father and son’s backs.
—You’ve got a head on you, I’ll give you that. Spotting them in Topeka and cooking this up on the fly.
—The one-armed bastard’s clothes were neat. That means a wife or a daughter. You saw them, right? Pretty decent for Indians. Rope the mother and daughter as a pair and—
Joe Jim trembled; his son seized his left hand. Afraid he’d bolt, the son shook his head—wait.
—All right, let’s get started. We’ll sit on this place and draw up our Lawrence plan for a while.
After visiting a town, they struck a few days later. That was how they avoided suspicion.
And even with the target right under their noses, they were still just as cautious.
One man at the haystack outside the house,
one at the small shed,
the last pressed up to the back wall.
And then—
Scrrrape.
Scrrrape.
The one in the shed dragged a tool along the wood wall. Inside, the women’s voices cut off at once.
A lure to draw them out.
—Shouldn’t we hit them now?
The hair-raising scrape of the shed wall.
The Native pair and Fitch looked at Max.
—!?
Max slipped off his boots and drew his knife.
—You know what it means to die without the rat or the birds noticing?
Shake, shake.
—I’ll show you now.
‘I’ll cut every last one of their throats.’
If even one slipped away, how could he sleep easy.
They were meticulous, cautious men; they’d vanish, perfect their plan, and come again.
First target: the one pressed to the back wall.
Blended perfectly into the dark, Max clamped the Bowie in his teeth and went down the hill.