Arroyo del Fuego

The one and only time Mason snuck into a distillery was also the one and only time he learned a ten-gallon hat doesn't literally hold ten gallons. He also learned what his father meant when he had said hair of the dog that bit you.

It bit him. Hard.

From then on, Mason swore off drink, but not before he acquired an unfortunate yet appropriate nickname: Beans - which he also swore off after he regurgitated a boot full in the middle of his one-room schoolhouse. Beans were a staple for every gritty pioneer expanding westward into the pure wilderness of the Dakota Territory. Mason disagreed. He refused to eat them, saying I'd rather starve and greet the buzzards. Luckily, his wish never came to fruition and his first nickname wore off with time. What didn’t wear off was his penchant for theft, trickery, and swindling. His chosen career and its proceeds gradually became infamous among everyday folk who shared stories of his harrowing robberies, narrow escapes, and even a legend involving a bull, its horns, and a Colt 1851 revolver. Those tales were tall and certainly embellished. Even so, they earned him his new name, Mason Black Hat, the outlaw and gunslinger.

A typical outlaw would be used to waking up after a night at the tavern without any recollection of events prior. It was a rare and unusual occurrence for Mason to wake in rare and unusual places, especially without knowing how he got there.

A thin and veiled voice broke into Mason’s mind, "Happy awakening, Mason.”

What an odd greeting, Mason thought. Finding his eyes with his hands, he rubbed them and struggled to focus through a raw ache in his face and dry mouth.

"Atta boy, atta boy."

The voice came into view. The man sat in a fashionably upholstered bench across a small table from Mason. A crisp top hat adorned the man's head and a thin, dark mustache framed his mouth. Gold spectacles with flawless circular lenses sat on the bridge of his nose. As Mason attempted to gain his bearing, he examined the man. Light rolled off his glasses, becoming a pair of small moons for a moment. The man's aged eyes stared at him with deep intent through the reflections.

"So glad you could make it,” the man said with a deep southern drawl that ambled from high to low and back. It was the kind that sounds condescending and, unfortunately, whiny, "You'll have to forgive the state of the car and our lack of service. Dealing with the locomotive unions can be so tiring. They've gone and… well… struck up a strike, if you know what I mean. It's only a matter of time before they'll give in and we'll be back in business."

Mason tried to adjust his position only to find his feet were shackled to the leg of the bench and his hands were pinned together with rough-forged iron cuffs. He managed to refit his black flat-brimmed Stetson hat and found himself in an expertly crafted train car. Its interior was constructed from teak, ebony, and ornate tin ceilings. If it weren't for the gentle motion of the window dressings and crystal chandeliers, he'd have thought the train was sitting still. Windows, pure black from night, lined each wall and reflected the candlelit interior of the car. Behind the man, in the center aisle, was a dining cart. Clatter emanated from various teacups, saucers, and silverware vibrating together. On the table in front of him sat a familiar leather bag.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm J. B. Bragg and this–"

“I know who you are,” Mason groaned.

Bragg, stunned momentarily by the interruption, pulled himself together and adjusted his green waistcoat. “Well… Good. Then I’m sure you’re aware–”

“Tell Jack that I’ll get him the money. I just need a little more time." Mason tested his bindings by straining against them. No chance.

"Jack?" Bragg laughed. "You think this is about Jack?”

“This isn’t about Jack?”

Bragg laughed again. “I haven’t had dealings with Jack ‘the Butcher” or his criminal enterprise for years. No, this isn’t about Jack. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than what you owe him or whatever pittance of a bounty he has on you.”

Mason kneaded the ache in his temple. "Who hit me?"

"Well, I… I suppose it was the gentleman over there."

Behind Mason, in the aisle of the car, stood a one-armed man with hair slicked back and shiny as hot tar. His stature wasn’t much different from Mason’s apart from the missing arm. The one he still possessed was thick and his single fist was clenched and imposing. His face was familiar.

Mason tipped his hat, “Good arm, uh… Lefty."

‘Lefty’, with his new nickname, strode over, spurs chiming in unison with his steps. With his only hand, he grasped the crown of the black hat and lifted it off Mason’s head. Mason tensed as Lefty put the hat onto his own greasy head.

“You’ll stretch it out," Mason muttered.

Bragg cleared his throat, “Now, where were we? Ah yes! You are aware of who I am and that must mean that you are aware that this here,” he placed a densely ringed hand on the leather bag between them, “this here is a bag of money that came from my bank in Lovelock.”

The word 'Lovelock' triggered a flood of memories for Mason. They emerged out of the dark and empty spots of his mind, not clear and whole, but weathered like eroded stone scarred by the turbulence of time. Out of the black mist of memory came the bank and its steps, dusty and worn. Then came the teller's counter, polished walnut and hickory. Iron bars separated himself from the teller, who wore a blue silk puff tie under a black vest. Next came the vault; cold hard metal. Then the money; cold hard cash. It was stuffed into two matching brown leather bags. Then came a train station, constructed of brick and hemlock beams fastened with iron bands and rivets. It was filled with a riotous crowd of men, dirty and hot. Out of the crowd appeared an oversized man in overalls. Mason handed him a bag. Then from his memory came the steam and the engine, black and monstrous. Then Lefty. Then nothing.

Mason shook off the memory. “I stole it," He said.

“Precisely. You're catching on. Now, you may be wondering why I haven’t turned you over to the authorities or simply killed you and left your body in the desert. It’s quite simple really. You see, this bag contains exactly half of the total sum that you stole from my vault. If I were to turn you over to the authorities, I would receive a mere $10,000 reward. Much less than half your takings. And, if I kill you, I’ll never see the missing half again.”

The car rumbled and lurched like a wagon with a broken wheel.

“Only ten grand?” Mason asked.

Bragg pulled a paper from his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it gently, and slid it across the table. It bore his image in black ink. Dark, shaggy hair and stubble.

WANTED

$10,000 Reward

For the capture or information leading to the capture of fugitive from the law, Mason Black Hat.

Also goes by the alias 'Beans'.

“Beans. Why’d it have to be beans?” he mumbled under his breath.

Bragg slammed the table, "Listen, boy. You’ll end up telling me where the money is whether we have to pry it from you or not.”

Mason ignored the threat, smacked his lips together, and examined his surroundings.

“Got anything to drink?” Mason asked.

Bragg leaned back, drummed the table with his finger tips, and revealed a devious smile containing a few gold teeth. “Where are my manners? Forgive me! How about a cup of coffee?”

He motioned to Lefty who dragged the dining cart to the table and pulled a mess of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the cuffs on Mason’s hands.

“I trust that you’ll behave yourself?” Bragg asked with a smirk. Mason rubbed his free but sore wrists.

Bragg poured coffee into small tea cups, stirred sugar and cream into his, and took a sip. He coaxed a cigar from an extravagantly carved wooden box labeled with a red crest. He struck a match, and puffed it to life. He dealt one to Mason, and lit it for him. Mason planted his elbows on the table, puffed a few times, and flicked ashes onto the floor.

“Well now, I’m worried about my manners and look at you! You’re disrespecting my train!” Bragg barked, flushing with anger.

“Oh thank God! I was afraid this was someone else's train.”

“This is the Grand Arroyo. The finest narrow gauge locomotive west of the Mississippi. Of course it’s my train,” Bragg puffed his cigar repeatedly, blowing plumbs of smoke to one side.

Another rough patch of tracks rattled the car.

Mason took another drag from his cigar, “Where are we goin’ anyway? You’ve got my ticket right?” He smirked as smoke drifted from his mouth.

If he could have he would have propped his feet on the table.

"You think you're pretty funny, don't you? What a hoot!" Bragg slapped his knee, "No, you don't have a ticket. Your ride to Genoa is on the house."

“Genoa, huh?" Mason took a long drag from the cigar. "Well, how much farther until we get there?”

“How much farther? You’re worried about how long it’s going to take to get there? Foolish boy. This might as well be a runaway train to you. You don't have any control here. Leashed like a dog but you think you're the master. See, I have the bone and wherever I throw it, you’ll run and fetch it.”

He motioned to Lefty with the cigar. They snatched Mason’s forearm and pressed it palm down on the table, spilling some coffee from the porcelain cups in the struggle. Mason wrestled for a moment but relented. Bragg, took a drag from his cigar, stared Mason square in the eyes, and leaned in so close Mason could smell his bitter breath.

Smoke rolled from Bragg's tongue. “Let me give you an example. You see, this is you," he pressed the end of his ringed and boney index finger onto the back of Mason's hand. “And this is me.”

He raised the cigar, its glowing ember pointed upward, smoke wisped out in thin webs. He spun it over, and crushed the lit end against Mason’s hand. Mason yowled and fought to break free. The chain securing his shackled feet clattered against the hardwood floor.

“You think you’re in control because you can struggle, because you can protest.” A crazed Bragg retched up his words, “But in reality, you’re stuck here. With me, on this runaway train. And just like this train, no matter what you do, the pain is going to continue. I’m sure you’ve been burned before. It takes hours to subside. You can pour cool water on it and the pain will be quenched for a moment. But as soon as the water warms, the pain returns.”

They released Mason who frantically rubbed the circular brand on his hand. He clumsily drenched his hand and the table with cream. His chest heaved and muscles clenched with rage. Beads of sweat mottled his face.

"Easy now," said Bragg in a hushed tone.

Lefty drew back his coat revealing a Colt 1851 revolver holstered in a brown leather belt.

"I'm sure you're familiar,” Bragg said.

Mason advised Lefty with a huff, "Careful with that; it bites.”

“Is it true? The tale with the bull and that weapon?" Bragg chuckled. He adjusted his suit and took another drag from his cigar.

“It’s... embellished.”

Mason settled himself. The horn from the Grand Arroyo’s engine sounded.

"Now that we're on the same page, you were about to tell me where you've put the other half of the money."

"Was I? I don't think I was. Don't you have insurance for this kind of thing?"

"You're not the only one with debts to pay. We can play games all the way to Genoa, but once we get there, you'll be mighty sorry for not cooperating sooner."

"What makes you think I'll cooperate in Genoa?"

"There are particular people there who have particular methods… Unspeakable techniques to draw out answers… Leverage."

The train lurched and the cart wheeled a stone's throw from the table. The bag of money slumped off.

"Damn engineer. I say, they don't earn their keep like they used to,” Bragg complained.

The engineer of the Grand Arroyo opened the door between cars and stepped in. They were drowned in the rhythmic machinations of steel wheels on steel tracks. As quickly as it filled the compartment, it muted the moment the door closed behind him. He and his overalls were covered in soot. Big in all directions, he stood silent and examined the situation for a moment.

Bragg cut in with hesitation, "Is everything okay?"

"Yes sir," the dirty man answered, his voice gruff.

Another awkward silence.

"Well… Can we help you with something?"

"No sir."

He waddled down the cramped aisle. His girth brushed the benches on either side as he lumbered toward them. The dining cart stood between him and Lefty.

“We’re almost there,” the engineer disclosed.

Bragg raised his voice, “We cannot possibly be almost to Genoa. We aren't even to Silverpoint ye–”

The engineer gripped the cart, and pushed it with heft at Lefty, who managed to stop it with his boot. China and silverware clattered to the floor around him.

Bragg continued, “What in the hell?”

Lefty returned the favor. He shot the cart toward the engineer and rushed him. As he passed the table, Mason lunged, caught the revolver from its holster, shot Lefty in the back, and took aim at Bragg who was half standing with eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Sit” grunted Mason, his hand and gaze steady as flint.

Bragg sat with caution.

“Good boy.”

Mason put his free hand out, palm up, and motioned to Bragg. He complied with a snarl, removed his own revolver, a golden Smith & Wesson No. 3, from his waist and slumped it into Mason’s open hand. The engineer bullied the dining cart out of the aisle creating another eruption of breaking and clattering china to which Bragg flinched. With a huff and a grunt the engineer rolled Lefty over, rummaged through his coat pockets, removed the nest of keys and strained to unlock Mason’s shackles.

“I’m impressed,” sneered Bragg. “You’re far more competent than I believed.”

Mason sat silent. Cigar in his mouth.

“Did… Did you have this all calculated out?”

Mason relaxed and allowed small plumes of smoke to escape his lips. “I wasn’t expecting to be hit over the head and dragged onto the Grand Arroyo. I thought I’d walk.”

"I see, um… Do you mind?" Bragg gestured to the cigar box.

Mason stayed silent. Bragg slowly retrieved another cigar and lit it. His hands shook under the stress of gunpoint.

"Have you ever heard of the Pelican Spider?” asked Bragg. “Very interesting. Recently discovered on the island of Madagascar. You see, it's not like other spiders because it doesn't build a web and wait for its prey to entrap itself. No... It hunts its prey." He took a long drag from his cigar. "It poses no danger unless you happen to be a little spider yourself. You see, it tracks its only prey, other spiders, by tracing the lines of silk they leave behind. Then it plucks the web of the other spider to draw it in and it attacks with its two huge fangs. Now, you might be wondering, 'what about the other spider's fangs?' and that's an excellent question. You see, the pelican spider has an extra long jaw so it can hold its kill at a distance until it finally succumbs."

“Got it!” The engineer called after finding the correct key.

“Thanks for the ride, but this is my stop,” Mason stood, still aiming steadily at Bragg.

“You think you’ll be able to hide? You think I won’t find you?” Rage boiled in Bragg.

“You won't. I’ve got a bone and I can throw it wherever I want. You’ll fetch it thinking it was your idea. Same as it is now.” Mason stooped and took his hat from Lefty’s lifeless body. “Told you it bites.”

The engineer cuffed Bragg to the bench and heaved the bag of money over his shoulder.

“You're caught in a raging river and the water is far deeper than you realize. You're in over your hat! You’ll never escape,” Bragg snapped.

“We’ll see about that. As for you, I’m not so sure.”

“What... what do you mean?”

“This is you,” Mason gestured to the train car, “and this is me.” He raised his stubby cigar and proceeded to ignite the curtains and flicked the butt away. "This might as well be a runaway train."

Mason nodded to the engineer who tossed the set of keys onto the table. Flames stretched and smoke gathered at the ceiling.

“You fool! You think you’ll kill me and this will be over?!” Fury fueled Bragg.

A stampede of flames drew through the car.

“This is far bigger than you can ever imagine! They’ll find you! They’ll take everything from you! They’ll make you pay!”

The engineer opened the side door and a rush of wind fanned the flames. Embers and smoke whipped into a whirlwind. Thundering wind and machine overtook their voices.

Mason yelled, “Who’s they?"

Bragg was enveloped in the smoke, embers, and flames that flooded the cabin.

“Who’s they?” Mason repeated shrilly, pinning his hat to his head.

A big hand thumped his shoulder.

“This is it!” the big man yelled, whipped by the wind, “it’s now or never!”

They vaulted through the black opening.