Obsession

The desert was a harsh place. Hot, dry, and lawless. Linus M. Cole knew these facts well. He kept his body well covered with a long coat, wide hat, and a red scarf that covered most of his face. The later especially helped with what little order the wasteland had to offer. Cole didn’t go out of his way to change his looks, but staying faceless helped keep others off his back, until recently.

Word had been spreading around of red scarfed, wide hatted collector of weapons. Guns of various make and blades of various steel, and Cole could not deny the claims. The more prizes he collected, the larger his baggage became. His treasures eventually included weapons that could not be hidden. But that was all fine. His collection was strength; the strength needed to survive in this harsh environment. He had killed plenty, never lost a duel, all to acquire the power to kill better and more efficiently.

And as the West’s finest purveyor of killing tools, rumors had led him to the dusty town of Waterside. Dusty, and salty. The town was aptly named due to its proximity to the ocean. All sorts of things washed up on Waterside’s shores, and according to the rumors, someone here knew how to work with them. As Cole marched through the town, he got the usual stares and mutters a stranger gets in these parts. No one called him out though; no would be heroes jumped out into the streets. He still wasn’t sure if it was because they didn’t know him, or they knew better.

The inn in Waterside doubled as the town’s saloon, “The Salty Sailor”. After paying for his room and locking his collection up tight, Cole headed downstairs to begin his hunt. He sat down at the front and motioned to the bar keep.

“Whatever’s the cheapest. Strong,” Cole’s voice came out gravely and coarse as he placed the coin on the table.

The bar tender, a large glasses-wearing man whose hair and beard gave his head an oddly square shape, nodded and uncorked a bottle from behind him.

“What brings you to old Waterside?” he asked with gruff voice.

“I’m lookin’ for something, or someone.”

“If its fish, salt, or sailors you’re in the right place. Otherwise, you’re outa luck.” The tender finished pouring Cole’s drink and gave it to him for the coin.

“I don’t need those, and I don’t believe that. This town’s bigger than most. Surely you have some sort of workshop, local handyman?”

The bartender crossed his arms and leaned over on the counter. “Why? You need something repaired?” he asked looking at Cole quizzically. “Cause if so, you should try somewhere else. Ours only know ships and reels, not outlaws.”

“You’ve made your point,” Cole sighed. He downed his drink and slammed it on the bar along with another nickel. The barkeep picked it up and started pouring another drink. “How about a different rumor then. Ever hear of Ophilia Bates?”

The barkeep stopped what he was doing and turned back to Cole while reaching one hand under the bar. It wasn’t just him. The whole place had gone quiet. “You working for her?” He said, eyeing Cole.

Cole raised his hands. “No worries here. Based on your actions, Waterside hates her. Well… I hate her more. Enough to come all the way here. To prove it,” Cole removed his left glove showing a burn scar with the initials O.B. “I’m gonna’ kill that bitch if it’s the last thing I do for what she did to me.”

With that display, the onlookers returned to their business, and the barkeep went back to serving Cole’s drink. “Fine. What you’re looking for is a large, beat-up shop on the eastern hill. The Samson siblings. Pop used to run a workshop, the older sister runs it now.”

Cole returned his glove and downed his drink again. “Thank you kindly,” he said as he stood from the bar and started to leave.

“You’re out tomorrow though,” the barkeep said as Cole was leaving. “Whether you find what you’re looking for or not. We don’t need trouble in Waterside, and anyone connected to Bates always brings it.” Cole tipped his hat acknowledging the barkeep’s remark and continued on his way to the Samsons’ shop.

…

Cole knew he had found his destination. Patchwork repairs covered the walls and roof, and scrap metal was strewn about the premises. He walked up to the door, knocked, and called, “I’m lookin’ for the Samson sister.” Some ruffling could be heard behind the door, followed by a clang and a “dammit”. Soon the door opened. Standing in front of Cole was a woman built for smithing with dark hair.

“You’ve found me mister…”

“Cole. Linus Cole.”

“Pauline,” she responded.

“I’ve heard that you’re the local expert on all things weaponry. May I come in?” Pauline glared at him, but eventually let him in. The inside of the house was just as disorderly as the outside. Unfinished projects, scrap pieces, and all sorts of things that could only be classified as junk were littered about. Wading through the piles of junk, Pauline led Cole over to a table with a set of chairs and motioned for him to sit down. “Is the brother not around?” Cole asked taking a seat.

“Danny’s out making the rounds. ‘Sides, I don’t need him to keep you in check, mister Collector.”

Cole was taken aback slightly. “I’m impressed you heard of me. Well then miss, I won’t waste your time. Rumor has it this town has a gun that was being crafted to down a behemoth with one shot. The bar pointed me to you.”

“And why should I give you anything. Or are you gonna’ take it by force?”

Cole gave her an eyeing look. “You called me the collector, but I was not the first, nor am I the most dangerous. Have you heard the name Ophilia Bates?”

“Only the stories my pa told me. A rich book collector of some sorts, right?”

“An amasser of knowledge, books and otherwise. An obsession bordering demonic. She uses that hoard to buy out towns and people. Blackmail ‘em for all their worth. The only thing that comes out of that woman’s mouth is flame and lies.”

“Sounds like you have quite the grudge, but I don’t see how that needs a gun that can put a hole straight through a buffalo.”

“So you have it?”

Pauline stared at him. Even with his hat still on. Cole’s eyes seemed aglow, alive with something fierce. “My pa regretted every decision he made with those things and I ain’t gonna’ give one to you,” she said sternly.

But Cole could see the waver. He could claim his prize without a drop of blood. “You’d be doin’ the whole town a favor. They hate Bates just as much…”

Pauline slammed the table cutting him off; her sternness adopting a hint of fury. “I told you, you ain’t gettin nothing from me for your prized collection! I don’t care what revenge plot you have for this Bates woman I don’t know, but you ain’t getting nothing! Now get out!”

“Shame,” Cole muttered tipping the brim of his hat down over his eyes. “I want you to know, I really hate having to do this.” Before Pauline could react, a bang went through the house. She screamed and clutched her leg, and the next thing she knew was a sharp pain in her head before she blacked out.

…

Sitting in his room at the inn, Cole examined his prize. It was large for a handgun but could still be tucked away in his coat. A long barrel for accuracy with larger bullets for more power. It came loaded with six shots, custom, which meant getting ammunition would be difficult to impossible. But that would be more than enough. As Cole prepared his luggage to leave, tucking the Samson as he called it away in his coat, a loud voice from outside echoed.

“Linus Cole, you bastard! You’ll pay for what you did to my sister!”

As Cole started heading outside, he eyed the barkeep. “Don’t you worry. I’m leavin’ town tonight.” Stepping into the open street, he saw the source of the voice. A young man, still practically a boy, with dark hair, a thinner build, and a face red with anger. “Danniel Samson, I presume.”

“You no good shit. You shot my sister and stole our pa’s heirloom. You ain’t leavin’ Waterside alive, you hear me!”

“She had what I needed so I took it. But honestly, I’m glad you’re here. I hate stealin’. I’d much prefer earning my prizes. So what do you say to the appropriate arrangement around these parts? No formalities, just draw when the clock strikes.” He pushed his coat back and placed his hand on the Samson. The only signal Danny gave was moving his own hand to his gun, ready to pull and shoot. “Good, you have some honor left through that anger.”

“I’m the best shot in this town. You’re dead no matter what.”

Cole gave a deep chuckle. “A big fish, huh?”

A salty air blew through the main street as the sun began its descent. The bells ringing on the ships were too faint and pushed far out of the minds of Cole and Danny. Their eyes were locked unblinking. Cole’s hand was steady; Danny’s was twitching. The town was watching. Everything stopped.

Bong

Bang

A rush of footsteps as the townsfolk went to Danny’s side.

The Samson was smoking.

And Danniel Samson didn’t even have a chance.

“Danny, stay up Danny.”

“Someone fetch the doctor.”

“You’re gonna’ be all right boy.”

The Samson tore right through the shoulder of Danny’s shooting arm and shattered the barrel behind him. This truly was everything Cole was looking for. As Cole turned to leave, Danny’s voice boomed, unweakened.

“Don’t think this is over! I’ll be comin’ for you and your head, Collector! You remember the name Danny Samson!”

“I look forward to it,” the Collector said. He turned and left Waterside and started the last leg of his journey. As young Danny Samson watched him go into the sunset he could see it. A collector of weapons. An amasser of strength. A man, with flame at his heels, and blood in his eyes.