The Cyclone Kid

was heading for Dry Gultch. It wasn't a secret, and the Cyclone Kid made sure he had his agents out in front of him broadcasting the news.

-The one-armed Prospector leans against the telegraph pole speaking with a farmer. Above him is a yellowing poster with the picture of a whirlwind. It reads "Wanted: The Cyclone Kid $10,000"
"The Kid came into Butte last year, damn near tore the place down!" The Prospector says, kicking at a grasshopper on the wooden sidewalk. "Killed thirty-five men, and when he was gone, 'twernt no general store, no hotel, no saloon, no houses, and no stables!" The Farmer runs off to tell his friends and loved ones. -

$10,000 dollars is a lot of money, even split five ways. But the Cyclone Kid knows, it's all about pace.
It's about pace.
Spread the word before you, and wait.
Before long, all the hotheads that would have tied him up with small, viscous and (for them) short skirmishes hear the stories, and begin to bury their heads. Afterwards, only the most ruthless of shootists would remain.

(A less ruthless shootist...
"I just got wind of a juicy gold caravan crossing the Rio Grande! 15 mules in all, and only four guards. 'Sides, I heard the Kid ain't that fast...and...and my Ma' out in Santa Fe just got the typhus. I'll need to be heading that way before long.")

That's when he'd make his move. When everyone who'd expected him, would be dulled after days or weeks or months of waiting.

The sun was heading towards afternoon, and it was hot. Stormclouds gathered on the horizon, and a hot wind whistled through Dry Gultch. Shutters banged against houses, shop keepers (who could afford them) took down their awnings. Tethered horses cried out in terrified screams to be taken somewhere safer. Down the main street, a woman wearing a bonnet grabbed her child off the street and ran indoors.

A Coachman stood on the wooden sidewalk, talking with a Saloon Keeper.
"Crossed his path about three miles back. He was meandering about, smashing up the trailer park out by the krick. Otherwise, he would have had my stage and horses."
"So he's at the "Windy Pines?" The Saloon Keeper asks.
"T'ain't no pines out there, friend. 'Less you call sawdust a tree."

In fact, this was accurate. A mile away, the Cyclone Kid had finished with the trailer park, and was moving across the open fields towards Dry Gultch proper. He spotted a farmhouse, and whirled closer. In whirlwind form, he was quite powerful. As he drew closer, the shingles on the roof began to rip off, and fly into the air. Closer, the windows disappeared in showers of ragged shards. Closer, and the boards pulled themselves off of the frame, and whipped away. Finally, the frame itself shook loose, and flew up into the sky, falling to the earth like shattering piledrivers. One landed in the main street sending huge splinters everywhere.

The Saloon Keeper looked at the Coachman, a three foot spear of house-frame vibrating in the Saloon wall between them.
"Not sure what good it'd do," said the Coachman in a cool voice, "but maybe we should get inside."
The Saloon Keeper nodded, and they went back in through the swinging doors.

Inside, the Saloon Keeper tried to keep his voice calm.
"If anyone wants to do anything about it, the Cyclone Kid's on the way, and it looks like he's gonna' shake Dry Gultch down to the foundations."
The Town Drunk chirps up.
"What's in it for us!?"
"Well," The Saloon Keeper begins, "Free drinks for tonight?"
"Not Enough!" The Drunk shouts back.

From the shadows, a chair scrapes itself back from a table. The sound of spurs, and footfalls as a tall man appears - his face covered in shadow.
"I'll deal with him for free drinks."
"We'd be mightly obliged, stranger." Says the Saloon Keeper.
The other doesn't reply as he walks out towards the street with hearty clangs of his spurs. When he reaches the street, the Saloon Keeper, the Coachman, and all the rest of the patrons in the place rush to find somewhere to watch.

The stranger wears a black hat, and keeps it low - it's brim covering his face. Below a black shirt, criss-crossed with two bandoleers of gleaming bullets. A black leather belt holds a black leather holster, holding a silver Colt .45. Below that are weathered pants tucked into weathered European riding boots. The stranger stands like a statue, as the sound of the Kid's arrival grows to a gale-forced howl.

From the stranger's view, the Cyclone Kid's arrival is impressive. A small, squat twister traveling over the plain, until it reaches the city. The winds rip apart the blacksmith's, the laundry place, and the telegraph office, leaving only piles of heavy rubble. The lighter stuff - clothes, paper, chairs - sails off, joining the dirty and dangerous air. Then the Kid stops spinning. He stands in perfect balance, with his hands out as if he's just performed a triple axle, and came to a complete stop.

The first thing you notice is the moustache. It was huge, black, and hung down far past his jaw. Then the eyes. It looks as if they're spinning - and not in a good way. The rest of him is beaten and dirty, until you see the guns. Two gleaming revolvers in holsters, under a cartrage belt. He lowers his hands down over them.

"Never seen you before, stranger." He says. It seems that winds whip around his words as they carry across the empty street. Four heavy shingles fall from the sky, land around the stranger's feet.
"You should have." The stranger replies, in a vaguely familiar voice. "I've seen you lots of times."
The Kid eyes his opponent. Not too much to be worried about here, just another cool customer, out of his league.
"Well, you should have just kept on watching. Crossing my path is a sure way to get you scattered to the four winds."
"Well," The hat raises, revealing the face of Friday, who eyes the Cyclone Kid. A thrill of fear shoots through the Kid as he hears Friday's last words. "I aim to prove you wrong. Warm you iron!"

The Cyclone Kid draws his guns as fast as a wind-enhanced magical being can (which, as we all know, is pretty damn fast) and fires.

It's about pace.

Two bullets race from his two weapons. His ears detect no reply. The Cyclone Kid's eyes catch up to the scene, and where he shot to hit, (which he did) is nothing but empty air. He shoots a glance to his left. Then hears a sound made by a mouth, the kind of sound a cowboy would make to get his horse moving. Just a simple "click." He looks to the right, and sees Friday lying prone on the ground.

Friday pulls the trigger, and a bullet speeds from the chamber of his silver Colt into the Cyclone Kid's forehead. He falls to the dry street with a thud, his gleaming guns thrown backwards in slow-motion spirals.

The Saloon erupts in cheers, and patrons spill onto the street, followed by the rest of Dry Gultch who were cowering about. They pick Friday up and carry him on their shoulders. Everyone is all smiles and exuberance. Friday notices the Saloon Keeper in the crowd and yells down.

"I believe there was something about free drinks?!"


Happy Friday