(This
story was first published in a serialized form in Comicopia #
58 - 63. Batman and associated characters are (c) DC Comics Inc.)
The
ropes cut deep into Ricky’s ankles and wrists, every movement caused more pain
as they bit deeper into his bare flesh. Stay
still. But no matter how many times he admonished himself, his body
wouldn’t respond. The cold night desert air was near freezing. His two
erstwhile “partners” had stripped him down to his long johns. No matter how
he tried he couldn’t stop his body from shivering, and each set of trembles
drove the bonds deeper into his swollen joints.
Trying
not to show his discomfort, Ricky glanced over at his captors. Harvey Kent and
his mysterious companion, Eddie, were silhouetted in the flickering light from
their campfire. The two so-called
bounty hunters appeared to be rummaging through his few belongings. Eddie had
taken a particular liking to Ricky’s red vest, Kent had appropriated his
boots, discarding worn ones in favor of Ricky’s smaller, but newer, pair.
Discomfort aside, Kent, it appeared, always liked to try and look good. As if
over compensating for his scarred face.
Ricky
observed the goings on in a semi disinterested way, clothes were, if he ever got
out of this, replaceable. But when Eddie reached for the contents of the inside
jacket pocket, Ricky tensed. In the campfire light he caught sight of the
battered manila envelope as it was extracted. Eddie ripped open the envelope and
tore out the papers, not caring if he damaged them or not. To him they were
useless, newspaper clippings, an old circus handbill and a couple of scratched
pages of personal correspondence, yellowed with age. But to Ricky those few
papers represented his whole life, his very existence. Without them he was just
another orphan tossed out into the desert to die; but with them he was Ricky
Grayson a man on a mission. A man with a purpose.
Eddie
giggled as he flicked through the papers, he may have expressed a liking for a
mystery, but to his inexpert eyes this collection of papers was rubbish and
rubbish belonged on the fire. Eddie crumpled up the papers into a ball and drew
his arm back.
Ricky
gasped. A loud involuntary intake and exhalation of air. The sudden noise had
two effects, Eddie dropped the ball of papers as he spun to see where the noise
had come from. Kent just smiled.
“Seems
our guest is awake Eddie.”
The
boy watched in fearful anticipation as Kent slowly and deliberately raised
himself from where he’d been squatting by the fire. The tall scarred bandit
crossed the twenty feet of scrub-land to the boy’s position at the foot of a
rocky cleft in a few quick strides. Kent shivered as he stepped out of the
warming influence of the fire and pulled his coat tight around him to ward off
the chilled night air.
“Hey
kid, you should look what’s behind you before you back into a hole in the
rocks. Could get yourself trapped.” Kent laughed at his own feeble attempt at
humor, from behind him Eddie provided the required sycophantic response, braying
like a cart-horse.
Kent
stepped closer, until his booted toes were in front of Ricky’s face, flaunting
his new footwear before its prostrate former owner. “Hey kid you ain’t got
much besides these here boots and some funny looking clothes.” He waved his
arm back in the direction of the newly red vest clad Eddie.
“Oh
yeah,” smiled Kent. The smile seemed to pull his face muscles in such a way
that his scars become more prominent, or maybe it was just the firelight. Either
way he looked meaner, in fact he now looked murderous. “And there was all that
money. Remember that bag of coins you was flashing around at old man
Cobblepot’s joint.” Kent paused, his voice dropped a register taking on a
menacing tone. “Where’s the rest of it, boy?”
“That’s
all I had.” Wrong answer. Ricky
knew as soon as the words formed that he’d just condemned himself.
Kent’s
booted foot flew. Ricky rolled and instead of connecting with his face the boot
hit him in the back between the shoulder blades.
“Somehow
I don’t believe you kid. “ The boot flew again. “Only an idiot would go
around showing off all that cash. You must have some reserve hidden away
somewhere.” Another kick, Kent was quicker this time and caught Ricky in the
kidneys. The pain was almost unbearable.
“Where
?” Kick. “Where?” Kick. “Where?” Kick.
Each
kick was accompanied by the insane giggle from Eddie as he watched the show.
Ricky tensed waiting for the next kick that would send him into the welcome arms
of unconsciousness, or even that final oblivion of death. He’d failed, might
as well give up here as anywhere else. What did it matter if these bandits beat
him up and killed him for a bag of coins. No one would miss him. No one cared or
even thought about the existence of Ricky Grayson.
“If
you boys are going to have some fun, hope you don’t mind if I watch.”
The
voice was new. Kent’s boot never landed. Ricky slowly opened one eye and
rolled over to look back towards the fire. Kent was looking in the same
direction. Eddie was staring across the fire to a figure on the other side.
The
stranger had stepped out of the bushes into the firelight. The tall dark figure
stepped right into the camp, bent down and poured himself a cup of the coffee
from the pot hanging over the fire pit.
Kent
studied this new player with interest. The newcomer now stood ramrod straight
sipping his coffee. He was easily over six feet tall. The outfit was all black,
black boots, black pants overlaid with black leather chaps. Black shirt with
bootlace tie and a short black jacket. Over
his shoulder was a short black cape that showed the only flash of color, a
stained yellow lining. On his head sat a black Stetson pulled slightly forward
so the shadow from the brim formed a mask around his eyes. But what caught
Kent’s attention most was the apparent absence of a gun belt or any holster.
Despite
his beaten and near unconscious state Ricky was the first to react. He rolled.
Away from Kent’s feet and towards the edge of the campsite where he could see
the silver of his discarded throwing blade reflecting in the firelight.
A
split second later Kent went for his colt, then realized he’d left it by the
fire where he’d been cleaning it. He took two quick steps and launched into a
running dive.
As
Kent dived, Eddie started to rise with a shout of “What the hell….” He
never finished his blasphemous question. In one smooth movement the stranger
dropped his coffee, reached under his jacket and flicked his wrist. Something
black and solid connected with Eddie’s forehead and the bandit slumped forward
onto the ground. Catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, Ricky could
have sworn that a bat had attacked Eddie.
The
stranger’s hand continued to move in an unbroken motion as his hand reached
over his shoulder and behind his back. In the same instant Kent hit the ground,
reached for his colt and raised it at the stranger. Just in time to catch sight
of the short barreled rifle the stranger had produced from a holster on his
back. The rifle spoke twice, Kent felt the first bullet graze his good cheek,
the second cracked the wrist of his gun hand. Moaning, Kent dropped the pistol
to the ground. The stranger walked over and leveled the rifle at Kent’s face.
Slowly he used the rifle’s muzzle to trace the line of the fresh bullet wound
across Kent’s cheek.
“Now
you match.” He said.
Spinning
the rifle around he swiftly cracked Kent across the back of the head with its
butt, knocking him out cold.
Without
a word, the stranger strode over to Ricky, calmly bent down and retrieved the
“R” shaped blade. He handed it to the hog-tied boy and went back to the
fire. Picking up his discarded coffee mug he poured himself another splash of
the hot black liquid and sat down, his back towards Ricky.
Twisting
the knife in his hands Ricky soon released himself from the ropes that had bound
him since allowing himself to be bushwacked earlier in the evening. Shivering he
walked over and sat down next to the stranger.
“Thanks
mister.”
“Just
returning the favor. You’d better get your self dressed afore you catch your
death of cold Redbird.”
Ricky
peeled his red vest of Eddie’s recumbent form, gathering the rest of his
clothes he hastily dressed himself before retrieving his boots from Kent.
Dressed he approached the fire place and picked up the crumpled ball of paper
that had been gradually blown towards the hungry flames by the desert breeze.
Stepping
back he sat down and began to carefully spread out and flatten the papers before
slipping them back into the remains of the tattered and torn envelope.
“Them
papers important Redbird ?” asked the stranger.
“Yeah.”
Ricky hastily shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket as if to hide them from
prying eyes. “ An’ private too.”
“I
wasn’t prying. Just wondered what it was that nearly got you kilt.”
“They
was after my money. They took all I had but didn’t believe me when I said I
didn’t have anymore.”
“Can’t
says as I blame em, seeing the way you was showing it around in town.”
“I
don’t recall seeing you in town mister.”
“You
didn’t.”
Ricky
looked at the stranger and shivered. He didn’t know if it was fright or the
cold. The stranger stood up and unclasped the cloak. Throwing it at Ricky.
“Here you might need this again. And by the way don’t ever call me ‘Pa’
agin.”
Retrieving
the cloak from the ground, Ricky had a minor revelation. “You’re the drunk.
The sodden wino sat outside the saloon.”
“Part
of the time.” Came the enigmatic reply.
Nodding
in the direction of the two fallen men, he added “So why you hire ‘em?”
“Who
says I did ?”
“It’s
their usual scam. I’ve followed ‘em into a few towns in this territory. They
trick some poor unsuspecting fool into hiring them on some pretense then jump
‘em and leave for dead.”
“They
said they were bounty hunters.”
“Bounty
hunters, prospectors, trackers.. whatever you need is what they’ll say they
are.”
He
paused and took another swig of the warm coffee. Finishing off the drink he set
his mug down and withdrew a small silver tinderbox from his vest pocket, he
turned it over a few times in his hand. Ricky tried to make out the etched
design by the flickering firelight but couldn’t quite place it, all curves and
points. Not something he recognized.
“Kent
was an idiot to walk that far way from his gun, and Eddie’s too easily
distracted. Got a good mind when he concentrates, but does it too rarely. Too
much in Kent’s thrall to think for himself. Anyway’s who you hunting?”
“Who
says I am?”
“You
did. You said they told you they were bounty hunters, stands to reason you’re
a-hunting someone.”
“The
man who killed my parents.”
The
simple statement seemed to provoke a reaction in the stranger, the first real
one that Ricky had noticed. An almost imperceptible shudder ran through his
body. “Beware setting out on a vengeance ride Redbird. It can only lead to
death or a lifetime of relentless pursuit. Either fate ain’t pretty.”
“I
don’t care, I ain’t go nuthin’ else to live for.”
The
comment hung in the air, silence descended on the campsite broken only by the
cracking of the wood on the fire. Moments went past as the man studied the
boy’s face. Then slowly he opened the tinder box he’d been twisting in his
hand, withdrew a match and struck it. The light illuminated his face and for the
first time Ricky was able to take a good look at his savior.
He
expected to see the unkept, drunken, bloodshot face of the sop he’d meet in
Kentville. Instead this man had a clean-shaven chin and a trimmed bushy mustache
that curved up to meet his sideburns. But the most striking thing was the eyes.
These were the same eyes he’d seen before, cold, blue and piercing.
The
match sputtered out and the stranger flicked it into his mouth, lodging it
between two of his teeth. There it stayed, sticking out from between his lips as
he spoke. It was a hypnotic effect and Ricky realized that he did it to distract
attention from his face.
“Well
little Redbird, if you’re serious, I guess you’ll need some help. What they
call you anyways ?”
“Ricky
Grayson. Why do keep calling me ‘Redbird’?”
“On
account of that fancy vest you wear.”
“Thank’s
mister but I’d rather ride alone.”
“Listen
sonny, given today’s performance you wouldn’t last long. Stick with me a
while, until the next town at least, and I’ll teach you how to survive longer
than a day.”
“OK,
it’s a deal. Just till the next town. And what do I call you.?”
“Matches,
Matches Malone.”