(This
story was first published in a serialized form in Comicopia #
58 - 63. Batman and associated characters are (c) DC Comics Inc.)
ARIZONA TERRITORIES – 1870
There
was no doubt about it. He was in trouble. The gully he had backed into for
protection had narrowed suddenly, a feature he’d not noticed in the failing
light. The rock to his back gave off radiated heat from the desert sun that had
beaten down on its surface all day. The rocks to the sides pinioned his
shoulders making arm movement almost impossible. He struggled to reach the one
weapon he had left, a small throwing blade, crudely carved into the shape of his
first initial. But the natural clamp he had inadvertently locked himself into
prevented him taking a firm enough grasp.
A
flash of light above his head confirmed that he was in trouble. He looked up
just in time to catch the few remaining rays of sunlight reflect off the 8 inch
barrel of a Colt Peacemaker as it flashed downwards. He twisted and the pistol
caught him on the side of the head. Just as he slipped into the black pool of
unconsciousness he cursed to himself. It had only taken one day to get himself
in deep trouble.
*****************
The
dead of Kentville looked down on the town from atop the slopes of a nearby dusty
mound, located about a half mile from the end of Main Street. Appropriately
enough this half forgotten boot-hill was the first landmark on the road to
Tombstone. Today the sole living occupant of the hill was more intent on
searching the markers than riding on to the fabled gunfighter town.
The
cemetery was divided in two, reflecting the prejudices of the near deserted town
below. The founding fathers, merchants and the old money were buried beneath
carved headstones, sheltered on the lee on the hill, surrounded by what had
obviously once been an ornate iron railing. The forgotten folks lay on the
windward side, their last resting places marked only by makeshift wooden
crosses. Here abandoned by society lay the last mortal remains of silver miners,
drifters, gunfighters and travelling entertainers.
Moving
from the railed area and stepping over the brow of the hill, the figure
encountered the full buffeting of the wind-borne sand being blown in from the
desert. Caught by the gusts, the black cape he wore billowed around his slender
form exposing a flash of its stained yellow lining. To protect his face the boy
pulled a red ‘kerchief up over his mouth and nose. Struggling against the
pressure and the sand he worked his way down the slope, moving from marker to
marker. At each he knelt and brushed away at the accumulated sand with his right
hand. Eyes stinging against the elements he surveyed the markers looking for one
particular name.
The
few crosses that still stood upright showed signs that they had once born marks
upon them, but any decipherable carving had long since been sand blasted out of
existence. Defeated the boy sat back on his haunches. Stepping back to maintain
his balance his heel caught something just under the shifting sandy surface.
Reaching down he extracted the remains of yet another grave marker. This wooden
cross had obviously snapped near its base and fallen face down onto the ground.
Hesitating he slowly and deliberately turned it over, as if he knew that this
was the particular marker that would provide the answer he was looking for.
Protected by the layer of sand that had buried it, the cross still retained a
few letters burnt into its surface. Behind his makeshift mask the boy gasped a
lung full of hot desert air. The letters spelled out the name “GRAYSON”
The
cross fell unnoticed from his hands and tumbled down the slope towards the
expanse of desert floor. The boy sat for a moment lost in thought. He suddenly
looked down at the tattered manila envelope he had been carrying in his left
hand, almost as if it had suddenly burnt him. Shaking he opened the cloak just
long enough to stuff the offending package into the inside pocket of his jacket.
With
a new found sense of determination the boy stood, walked down the slope and
around the base of the cemetery hill, heading for the town of Kentville.
What
the boy had yet to realize was that Kentville was almost as dead as the former
inhabitants that he’d just left behind. Kentville was a silver town and, since
the discovery of gold in the Yukon Valley way up north in Alaska, silver prices
had plummeted and silver miners traded up and joined the search for their own
personal Eldarado. As a result the town’s fortunes fell almost as quickly as
the price of the argent metal that lay under its foundations. The local mine,
owned and operated by the towns founder, one John Kent, had closed. Not long
after that the bank, merchants and dry goods stores folded up and moved on to
fresh pastures. What had once been a bustling town of 2000 now had ten permanent
inhabitants. Drifters and travelers occasionally
increased that number
The
boy’s arrival meant that the population of Kentville on this particular day
totaled fourteen.
Walking
down the decaying Main Street the boy headed for the only business obviously
still in operation, the saloon. His journey took him past boarded up windows,
smashed and looted storefronts; all of which he passed without so much as a
second glance. But outside one storefront he stopped.
The
Kentville Sentinel had been the town’s voice and conscience. Surprisingly the
newspaper office’s storefront windows had remained intact. Taped to the
insides were the yellowing pages from the last issue to roll off its long silent
presses. It wasn’t the out-of-date news recording the death throes of the town
that caught the boy’s attention. It was a handbill taped in a lower corner of
the window. A handbill advertising the long ago visit of a circus to the once
bustling town. A faded reminder of the days when the prosperous inhabitants
could afford such frivolous entertainment.
The
boy turned away from the window, his body tensed and with a flurry of sudden,
yet controlled, violence he spun and kicked his scuffed boot through the window.
Reaching through the shattered storefront he ripped the handbill from the shards
of glass that stubbornly remained clinging to the frame. The handbill followed
the envelope under the folds of the cloak.
Moments
later the boy found himself stood in front of the saloon. In a haze he mounted
the steps onto the boardwalk around the building. His nose lead him towards the
doorway, almost tripping over what appeared to be a bundle of wet rags piled by
a rain-butt. Still simmering with the violence he had applied to the window of
the newspaper offices, he kicked out at the rags.
“Easy
boy.” Came a rough voice from within the sodden mass. Slowly a dirty and
callused hand appeared from between the folds and reached up. The hand removed
the topmost “rag” from the pile, which was in reality an old and battered
slouch hat. The head that was revealed appeared drawn and gaunt, the hair was
long, gray and matted. The chin was covered with several days’ stubble. The
eyes that locked on the boy’s face were bloodshot. But even through what he
assumed to be the results of alcohol abuse, the boy noted that those same eyes
were a steely blue and unwavering.
“Sorry”
mumbled the boy.
“Can’t
hear you through that ‘kerchief Boy.” replied the drunk. Removing the red
cloth from the lower half of his face, the boy looked once more into the face of
the man slouched at his feet. “Ah said ‘sorry’.”
“Well
thank you for being so gawddam polite. It’s good to be noticed. As far as
anyone else in this forsaken town cares, I may as well freeze out here. I doubt
they’ll even bother to drag my carcass up to yonder hill.” A long bony
finger pointing back down Main Street emphasized the last point.
The
boy reached up and unclasped the black cloak from around his shoulders and
dropped it onto the boardwalk. “Here you go Pa. This may keep you warmer for a
few days longer.”
Without
looking back to see if his gift had been accepted the youth strolled across the
threshold into the saloon.
The
odors that had lead the boy to this point now assailed his nostrils in an
unconfined fury. The mixture of sawdust, beer, tobacco and unwashed bodies was
underscored by the smell of cooking. And it was the later that finally persuaded
the boy to enter the dimly lit room. The only operational part of the saloon was
the old basic taproom. The more up-market furnished area of the saloon had long
closed after the departure of the town’s big spenders.
A
few feeble oil lamps threw what little illumination there was onto a few tables,
only one of which was occupied. Heading
straight for the bar the boy ordered a beer.
The
rotund bartender looked down his beak like nose at his young customer. The youth
hardly looked old enough to be ordering alcohol. But business was business and
Mr. Cobblepot saw little enough of it these days. The demand for his warm beer
and watered down home-brewed whiskey came solely from the town’s resident
drunk and whatever drifters passed through.
“Do
you have the where with all to pay for your beverage young man?” the barkeep
asked in an unnecessarily pompous tone.
Wordlessly
the boy swung a pouch onto the bar. It jangled with the unmistakable sound of
coinage. Lots of it. Never one to loose an opportunity for fleecing an innocent
of his money the barkeeper leaned over and spoke to the boy as if he were his
favorite uncle.
“An’
I bet your hungry too, ain’t ya ?”. The change in accent was noticeable.
“Sit right down over there an I’ll bring you some good hot chow.”
“I
haven’t eaten in a couple of days.” Admitted the boy, allowing himself to be
guided by the arm to a table in the corner. The stew that appeared a few minutes
later was spiced with chili peppers, probably to disguise the origin of whatever
meat had been used in its preparation. Probably horse or jackass. The hot slop
was washed down with several beers. Before long the boy started to doze in his
chair, an empty bowl and four empty beer bottles on the table before him.
The
soporific effect of the food and drink began to take hold and his head dropped
until his chin rested on his chest.
A
voice interrupted him. The boy didn’t know if he’d been asleep or if he’d
just nodded. He slowly opened one eye and looked up into the face of two
strangers stood by his table.
Seeing
that he was awake the two sat down uninvited. The tallest one spoke first.
“Hope
you don’t mind a bit of company?” he asked rhetorically.
The
boy opened both eyes and stared at the speaker. “Guess I don’t have much
choice.”
“Don’t
be like that, we is only trying to be friendly. By the way my name’s Harvey.
Harvey Kent.” Pointing to his companion he added. “This ‘ere is Eddie.
Don’t know his last name. Eddie is something of an enigma."
The
boy pulled himself upright in his chair and took a long slow look at his two new
companions. Kent was tall and well dressed, yet something about him disturbed
the boy. He was almost too polite and well mannered. As he turned to order
another beer, on the boy’s tab of course, the weak light illuminated the side
of his face. The boy stifled a gasp at the sight of the mass of scar tissue that
criss-crossed Kent’s cheek.
Eddie
was a weasel like little man who obviously based his position in life on being
Kent’s associate. Eddie fidgeted, constantly. In contrast to his well tailored
mentor, Eddie wore a scruffy jacket that someone at one time had tried to dye
green. On the lapel was a crudely embroidered curved design that had been picked
at and embedded with dirt making it’s original shape indistinguishable.
“So
you from around here ?” asked Kent.
“No
just passin’ through.” Answered the boy in a noncommittal manner.
“So
are we” responded the tall man. “I guess that means we have something in
common.”
The
boy looked at Kent quizzically. “With your name I sort of guessed you may have
something to do with the town mister.”
“You’re
right, in a manner of speaking. My ol’ Pa founded this dump. And my bastard
foundling half brother ran it with a grip of steel.
They kicked me out ,and I’ve been wandering ever since. I picked up a
rumor that things had gone bad for ‘em. So Eddie and me decided to visit the
old homestead and gloat at their misfortune. But by the time we got here the old
man was buried and my two-faced, so called, brother had flown.” Kent paused as
if for dramatic emphasis. “So I suppose you could say we are just passin’
through and ain’t go nowhere particular to go no more.”
With
this revelation the three fell into an uneasy silence. Another round of silent
drinks followed. When suddenly the boy spoke. “Ricky.”
“Say
what ?” said Kent.
“My
name’s Ricky. You told me your name a while back, so I guess it’s only
polite to tell you mine.”
“You
got a another name to go with that?” asked Kent.
Ricky
hesitated as if searching for something from the depths of his memory. His lips
rolled as if he was silently practicing a new word. “I do now. It’s..”
another hesitation. “Grayson. Yeah Ricky Grayson.”
“Hey
I knew a Grayson once, ain’t that a poke?” Eddie jumped up as he spoke for
the first time. “Was some sort of acrobat, he and his woman used to fly around
the top of a circus tent on wires.” He demonstrated by swinging his hands and
arms in movements that vaguely resembled the path taken by a trapeze artist.
“They got themselves kilt I heard. Right here in Kentville too. –
Ain’t that a coincidence?” Eddie was pleased with himself and started
jumping up an down. “Twas about five year ago if I recall. Oh and a hell of a
mess they made…”
“Eddie.
Shut up and sit down. Can’t you see your upsetting the boy.” Kent stood and
grabbed his companion’s shoulder forcing him back down into the chair.
“I
ain’t no boy.” Said Ricky in a threatening voice.
“Sorry”
said Kent. “Didn’t mean no offence. Did you know them circus folk.”
Silence.
Then
softly Ricky spoke. “They were my parents.”
“Damn.
I’m sorry.” Said Kent in something that appeared to approach genuine
sympathy. “That why your in town?”
“Looking
for someone. But he ain’t here, so I guess I’m just passin’ through.”
“Looking
for someone. Well Mr. Grayson you’re in look, cause Eddie and I just happen to
be the two best bounty hunters this side of the Wahomha River,” boasted Kent.
“So
who you looking for? “ sneered Eddie. “I like a good mystery.”
“The
man that killed my folks.” Ricky reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
A movement that caused both Harvey and Eddie to tense. But it wasn’t the
half-expected gun that Ricky produced but a battered manila envelope. From its
interior he produced an equally battered piece of yellowed newsprint.
The
youth placed the newspaper cutting on the table, spread it out with his hands in
an almost reverent manner, until it was flat. Then he rotated it around so his
two new companions could read the headline, provided they could read of course,
which wasn’t certain. At the top of the cutting was a reproduction of a
dargarotype. The picture was of a man of obvious wealth, with broad shoulders
and a square chin.
“So
who’s the stiff?” asked Kent.
“That’s
the man I aim to kill.” Said Ricky, his voice cold and flat. “Bruce
Wayne.”