Marshal's Trails 1 - William Burlegh

The Colonial Marshal pushed through the doorway into the bar at the height of its activity. A thin coat with a sewn badge was draped on him, thick pants and boots were caked with a light layer of blown dust, and on his hip was a holster carrying the DeWitt-Mercy 50 megawatt DE pistol. In an instant, all eyes were upon him. The Marshal was not well known in these parts of the dustball. Their gaze lingered for quite a while, enough for him to pace through the bar, his leather boots thumping on the slatted wood floor. The silence was immense and the Marshal's presence filled the void as he walked up to the bar itself, filled with bullet-holes and chips in the wood.

The bartender was a tall and thin man with a large mustache. The man's beady eyes bulged nervously as the lawman approached the bar and flashed another badge on his inside shirt. It gleamed against his dusty clothes, but if the man showed any sort of emotion, it was hidden behind his massive beard.

"Uh..." the bartender said, brow instantly growing slick with sweat. "Uh..." he repeated, licking his lips. "How can I help you, Marshal?"

"Mighty helpful of you, friend." The lawman growled, flashing a quick smirk. "First, I was hoping you could help me with a little throat problem."

The bartender's eyes grew wide again.

"Throat...?"

"Seems it's dry. Was wondering if you had something to moisten it up."

"Oh!" the man said, suddenly smiling. "Oh, of course!" he said, reaching behind him and grabbing Nebulon Whiskey, a favorite with this particular breed of law enforcement. Colonial Marshals were independent and answered to no larger organization. They were practically mercenary, but agreed that galactic law needed to be upheld and that they were the final word. On planets such as this little dustball, they were judge, jury, and executioner. The most impressive thing was that they went where justice was needed.

The Marshal was one such person who appeared out of nowhere, unknown to all, but they knew who he was on sight.

The bartender brought back the Nebulon, pouring half a glass in front of the lawman. The man's whiskers peaked in a smile. "Appreciate it, friend." he said, before taking a sip and sighing in appreciation. "That's the stuff."

The glass was back on the table and the Marshal pulled out a ten credit bill and passed it across the bar. This was more than the glass was worth, but the bartender was not about to argue with free profit. The man cleared his throat, beginning to sweat slightly again.

"You, uh, implied you wanted something else, sir?"

"Indeed I do, friend." the mysterious stranger said leaning in. He was very much aware that everyone in the bar was watching him. The men behind him were simple farmers, miners, and townsfolk. Most of them were at least. The Marshal pulled another paper from his extensive coat. This time though, it had a picture on it. The lawman spread out the image on the bar top. The slightly wrinkled paper had the face of a man. He was unshaven, had somewhat long center parted hair, and his eyes were sunken. He was younger than he looked though, though the text below gave no indication of that.

WANTED - DEAD OR ALIVE

WILLIAM X. BURLEGH

CID: 780-992-120-821-88-2

WANTED FOR -  MURDER, EXTORTION, TRAFFICKING IN ILLEGAL WEAPONRY, DISTURBING THE PEACE

BOUNTY - 182,000 CREDITS

The bartender observed the photograph, thinking that he had heard about it, but never expected to see a bounty hunting Marshal. Weren't they funded by... some sort of organization?

But the Marshal pointed to the man again. "Still with me, friend?"

"You... want to know if I've seen him?"

"That's the idea, I think." the man smiled. "Been looking around some of the surrounding towns, and people have been ending up dead. That little trail of bodies leads me here, to this bar."

The Marshal could not have seen a man in the back of the room slowly turn his head to face the lawman. He could not have seen the scowl forming on his face, and he certainly could not have seen the three other men who reached into their vests.

The bartender on the other hand could. His face flushed pallid and his eyes twitched. It was because of this the Marshal slowly lifted his head back.

"Tell me where they are. Where are they sitting?"

The man was pale. His lips moved, but he wasn't making any sense.

"Describe their locations."

The Marshal felt the barrel of a handgun press between his shoulder blades. He grunted in what could have been a laugh.

"I'll tell you where I am, lawman." Burlegh growled. "You can turn around. Don't try nothing funny."

The Marshal turned, slowly with his hands in front of him. The expression was not what the outlaw expected. Instead of terror, the figure in front of him seemed smug. Instantly, the gun moved to the man's heart, covered by the sewn badge logo - a triple-pronged shield with a four-pointed star with an exaggerated halo.

"William Burlegh."

"You've been asking a lot of questions these past few weeks."

"I wanted to find answers. You know why I'm here then."

"Looking to put a bullet in my ass and drag me to the boneyard."

"There's always the option for trial."

Burlegh laughed. It was a wheezing sound that grew to a bray. The three men with him began to chuckle as well along with their boss, weapons drawn and pointed at different points of the Marshal's body.

"Trial? You trying to make me laugh, forcer? This ain't Earth. There ain't no rules out this way. I'll swing one way or another!"

"Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you held up that convoy and killed those boys." the Marshal said before looking at the three men acting as muscle. "Colonial Minister's only got a beef with your boss. You have this one chance to walk away. I'm sure he won't object to paying a little extra."

The threat seemed to work its way in a little. One of the men glanced to his fellows, his handgun starting to sink a little, now pointed near the would-be detainee's foot.

"You put that gun down and I'll kill you myself." Burlegh said, pointing his free hand to the apparent coward, who may have been the smartest of four. "As for you..." he said diverting his attention back, "Here's what I think about coming in quietly!"

Burlegh pulled back on the revolver's hammer. The carousel shifted slightly to index the bullet that was meant for the Colonial in front of him.

"You just made my day, William." the Marshal said, flicking his wrists outward. Twin poles of hardened carbon nanotube composite snapped into place which he whipped around with all the force he could muster. They slammed into Burlegh's head with an incredible force, cracking his head to one side as his legs gave out. The gun went skittering along the floor as bar patrons began to move back, carefully cradling their drinks as they did so.

The bartender had long ago cowered under the counter with head covered by his hands. He certainly wasn't going to be of any help now.

Burlegh was out of the picture fast. The crony that had the initiative to lower his weapon began to back up, knocking over several tables. He hadn't charged his own weapon yet, which was a slight advantage. The Marshal stabbed the clubs at the second nearest gunman, who managed to get a shot off as the lawman knocked the wind out of him. The patrons scattered further, backing up as far as the doors but not yet running, instead watching somewhat transfixed.

The third was too far back and forces the Colonial to shift position, collapsing his left stick and pulling out the DeWitt-Mercy. The vacuum molded grip fit comfortably in the lawman's hands and the insulating barrel housing made the weapon look much bigger than it actually was. He thumbed off the safety and aimed one-handed at the goon before pulling the trigger.

The gun cracked as superheated air was shunted aside, and a beam of sunfire was sent lancing across the establishment. His first shot missed intentionally in an effort to get the man to drop his weapon, but he failed as the gunman raised his piece, returning fire. The bullet spiraled past the Marshal and smashed another bottle of Nebulon that was sitting on the shelf. The second shot was dead on, hitting the assailant dead center in the chest. The man jerked, and fell over.

The final man was behind a table rising to take pot shots at the lawman. Two cracks of gunfire got the Colonial's attention as he slid behind up and over the bar. The bullets were fired in haste and were poorly aimed, but there was a chance that the punk would get the bright idea to start threatening civilians.

The Marshal saw the cowering bartender with eyes pressed shut and head ducked.

"You alright there, friend?"

The bartender shook his head but said nothing.

"Just give me a few minutes and I'll be done." He ejected the nearly spent battery, and the next in the magazine slotted itself into the chamber. He rose, weapon raised and searched for the suspect who had shot at him. quickly spotting the overturned table. The Marshal fired the weapon. Beams of energy cut into the cheap wooden frame and ignited it in some places. After each third shot, the weapon's slide shot back, ejecting a steaming battery that clunked on the slatted floor. With DeWitt-Mercy still raised and still firing, he kept on shooting at the table and advanced around the bar. The gun went dry and he slotted another magazine in, and kept the pressure up before his attacker's gun slid along the floor.

"Wait, wait, I'm giving up!" The goon said with hands raised. He had no gun on him, and his face was a torrent of sweat. His eyes jittered as he stood behind the now burning table. "Don't shoot!"

The Marshal smiled behind his massive mustache. "Mighty kind of you, friend." he said as he swung the pole from his off hand into the side of the man's head, collapsing him. He laughed as the man slumped in an odd and humorous position on the floor, but felt something hit his back with sudden force. Burlegh had come to, grabbed a bar stool, and lashed it against the law enforcer. It broke into pieces and threw the man to his knees, letting out a huge explosive breath. He struggled to come to his senses by pushing off the ground before Burlegh grabbed his gun, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. The projectile hit the Marshal in the back and the man fell still.

The bar was silent, looking from the Marshal to Burlegh who was just as surprised. It had been too easy. The outlaw had somehow bested a Colonial. These guys had taken on armies with their skills, weapons, and cunning, and he had been the one to get one over on them? A giddiness grew within the last man standing and he twirled his pistol in his hand, his laugh a staccato rattling

"Any more takers?" the outlaw asked with a grin. "Anyone else want to tangle with me? Hell, after that, I could take on the whole world!"

"I ain't done yet." came a noise from somewhere that Burlegh couldn't identify right away. The boot shot out like it was a rocket into the outlaw's knee with enough force to shatter the bone. Burlegh dropped in surprise, pain, and sudden flaring anger. He landed and cradled his twisted leg, gritting his teeth as he did so. "Bastard! I shot you!"

The Marshal was now facing the correct direction, kicking out at the correct moment. "Ever heard of a bulletproof vest you green son of a bitch? A peashooter like that ain't gonna bother me." The man stood, gun up and watching the beaten criminal.

"You ain't taking me alive, forcer! Bill Burlegh ain't gonna rot in no backwater jailhouse!" His gun hand jerked up and pulled the trigger. There wasn't even a click. The Marshal had known the instant that Burlegh had drawn on him that the cheap revolver was single action only. It needed to have its hammer pulled back after each shot. At present, it was a gigantic paper weight. By the time Burlegh was quick enough on the uptake, the Marshal slammed the heel of his boot into the outlaw's face, breaking, his nose, and knocking him senseless again.

"You know, what, I just may want to see you swing. You're under arrest."

He flipped the criminal over, letting his head knock against the ground, and pulled two pairs of plastic zip-cuffs from his belt, as well as a length of rope, and with practiced ease, hog-tied the man, and then his still-breathing henchmen, and with a feat of strength, managed to somehow drag all three of them to the swinging door of the bar. He was about to say take off, when he turned and made an expression as if he had forgotten something. The bartender had curiously poked his head up, one eye at a time, and was about to ask what the man wanted, before he said, "How about one more for the road."

The lawman tapped the glass with his finger, and the bartender absentmindedly filled it, perhaps a little too much as a few trickles came down the sides. Indifferent, the Colonial grabbed it and graciously emptied the liquid, sighing once more in appreciation.

"The ten should cover it." he said, nodding and turning back to the hog-tied men, leaving the dead one behind. "Local authorities should be able to help you with that." he said pointing at the corpse. "Thank y'all for the help, enjoy your drinks, and have a nice day now."

The Marshall pushed through the door. Burlegh's dazed form was knocked off the frame and a low groan issued from him. Once he was through, the bar was silent. Slowly but surely, the clientele began to chuckle and point, amused and entertained, and within minutes, the bar had returned to its raucous self, complete with jukebox music playing and fists flying.

The bartender shook his head, eyes wide as he poured himself a glass of the same whisky, and with a heaved sigh, downed it in a single gulp.