REDBIRD’S RIDE

AN ELSEWORLDS WESTERN STORY

By Alan J. Porter

(This story was first published in a serialized form in Comicopia #  58 - 63. Batman and associated characters are (c) DC Comics Inc.)

CHAPTER THREE

 Click.

 The man who called himself Matches Malone stiffened at the sound. It was a sound he knew only too well, a sound that sickened him to the stomach. The sound of a revolver being cocked. The un-mistakable audible harbinger of death.

 Malone stayed perfectly still, crouched by the embers of his dying camp fire in the Arizona desert. Without seeming to move his head he scanned his immediate surroundings. In front of him was a mound of hot embers partially covered with the sand he had thrown over them to extinguish the camp-fire. That was it, no other weapon was available, no other line of defense. Whatever happened next, he had to move quick.

 Imperceptibly he shifted his weight until he was poised on the balls of his feet, then Malone struck. With blinding speed he rolled forward over the embers, counting on his leather coat to provide some protection from the heat. As he rolled he scoped up a bunch of the hot embers in his gloved hand. Reaching the far side of the fire, he pivoted and faced the threat, arm drawn back ready to throw.

 “Wow, that was a neat move. I never expected you to go over the fire.”

 Malone stood and let the embers fall slowly from his grasp. His long determined stride carried him around the fire and he was soon stood face to face with his “assailant.:”

 “Boy, that was the dumbest trick you’ve pulled in the three days we’ve been on the road.” Matches growled into the startled face of Ricky Grayson. “Gimme that iron.”

 Malone’s hand snaked out and wrenched the colt way from Grayson’s hand, throwing it into the smoldering firepit behind.

 “Don’t ever go wavin’ an iron around me Redbird. Even an empty one. They make me nervous and you won’t like the way I react to em.”

 “But you carry a gun Mr. Malone.”

 “I carry a rifle – big difference. With a rifle you can stop someone without killin’ ‘em. A rifle’s accurate and precise, you can use it from a distance too. Revolvers are clumsy, inaccurate and most folks who go about brandishing ‘em end up dragged into some nonsensical street fight where someone is bound to get himself dead. – Nope, don’t like ‘em, never will.”

 With his speech over, Malone retreated into the silence that had marked the majority of the last few days ride. Ricky stared after his mysterious partner. He had hoped that on the ride to, where ever it was they where going, that he would have found out more about Malone. But it had been a futile exercise. The man didn’t like to talk.

Over the next four hours, Ricky trailed along in Malone’s dust. The trail was hard and dry. After years of being shut up in the orphanage, the young adventurer wasn’t prepared, mentally or physically, for a life outdoors. With each jolting step of his horse, which had been liberated from the clutches of the bushwhackers, Ricky thought he would slip off into the warm deadly embrace of the ever-present desert. Pulling himself form his morbid thoughts he noticed that Malone had stopped at the top of the next hill crest.

 As he pulled alongside, Ricky’s mysterious guardian broke the silence.

“There she is.” He pointed to a town just visible in the haze on the horizon.

 “Don’t look too far,” replied the enthusiastic boy as he took a sip of brackish warm water from his near-empty canteen.

 “Nope, but first we have to cross that..” Malone pointed into the middle distance where Ricky could make out what appeared to be a gully running like a wound across the desert floor. From the abundance of trees and vegetation that prospered on the sides and along the top of this gash in the landscape Ricky guessed it contained a stream.

 “Don’t look like much, should be easy.” Ricky’s assessment was meet with a small sigh.

 “Things ain’t always what they seem Redbird, specially round these parts.” Ands with that Malone rode off towards the stream.

Ricky sat on a rock dangling his hot and tired feet in the cooling water of the stream. Except this was no stream. What had looked like a gully from a distance turned out to be home to a wide fast flowing river littered with slippery lichen covered rocks. There was no way Ricky reckoned that they and the horses could cross safely.

 Malone had brushed off his concerns and ridden off in search of something, or someone, he had obviously expected to find near the spot where they had set up camp.

 Lost in thought Ricky didn’t notice the shadow approaching from behind until it appeared over his shoulder and darkened the rocks in front of him. His hand reached for one of his throwing blades as he spun around to face the threat from behind.

 But the combination of his wet feet and the lichen covered rocks offered little in the way of purchase. In a flurry of flailing arms and legs, Ricky Grayson fell with a loud splash backwards into the river’s edge.

 “You’ve got to watch those reflexes, Redbird.” Drawled the amused Malone, “could get someone hurt.”

“Aye himself.” Added the newcomer who was stood alongside Malone.

 From his recumbent, and somewhat soggy, position Ricky appraised this new arrival. He was tall, taller than Malone, and well built, with a bald head and deep set eyes. Overall he had a commanding presence, but most disturbingly to Ricky the man’s muscles seemed to constantly ripple as if they were trying to hold their shape. From the accent Ricky judged him to be of Irish descent, an opinion reinforced by the green tinge to the cloth in the man’s jacket.

 “Nice to meet you,” greeted the stranger as he crawled out of the river and headed to the edges of the camp fire to dry off. The flames spurted upwards as Ricky threw a fresh piece of dry brush on it. As it flared the Irishman stepped away towards the trees, as if trying to distance himself. “So you’re the guy whose gonna help us cross this?” continued Ricky gesturing back to the site of his recent bath.

 “That I am.” The brogue-tinged response confirmed Ricky’s assessment.

 “An how you gonna do that?” continued the youth with a touch of arrogance that indicated a certain degree of skepticism.

 “Tis a secret boyo, ye’ll have to wait till mornin’ to find out.” The stranger smiled at Malone. “I’ll be seein’ you later then.” With that he stepped back into the tree line and appeared to melt into the greenery.

 “Come on Redbird, time to hunker down and get some sleep. We have a hard ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

Ricky had dreamt before, but nothing like this, nothing that had seemed both so fantastic, yet at the same time, so real.

 Ricky felt himself lifted into the air as if held in a pair of gentle but protective arms. He recalled opening his eyes and looking up into a face that was at one frightening to behold but inspired an overwhelming feeling of confidence and responsibility. The face was almost dragon like in shape with a ridged pronounced brow line and deep red eyes. Eyes that spoke to Ricky of unmentionable sorrow and loss.

 Ricky felt as if someone spoke soothing words in his mind, and he drifted back into a deep sleep.

Malone shook the boy awake. “Come on Redbird, time’s a wastin’ we gotta ride.”

 Ricky rolled out of his blanket. “We gotta cross that river first.”

 Malone laughed, “Look around – we crossed it last night while you slept. He said he’d help and he did.”

 A confused Ricky slowly completed a full circle as scoped out his surroundings, there was no sign of the river in any direction. “I’ll be..”

 “Come on, no time for dawdling. We got someone to meet.”

 “OK, but who was that guy.”

 “A friend, just a friend.”

****

The town they had seen on the horizon the day before slowly materialized in front of them as they continued their ride. The dust trail they had been following for the last few days was soon joined by others until the merged trails grew to a full width dirt road large enough for stage coach traffic, an example of which they passed as they approached the town limits.

 Rounding a curve in the road the two travelers saw the town in its full glory, it was unlike anywhere that Ricky had seen in his short life.

 The town was lively, the streets and roads in a constant flow of movement. The orphan had never seen so many people in one place, in fact he doubted he had seen this many people in his life before. Horse, coaches, buggies and people on strange two wheeled contraptions that he later learned where called bicycles – this town had it all. But most of all it was the buildings, so many of them that they seemed to crowd in on each other, the taller ones, some almost four stories tall, dominating the traditional store fronts.

 The place gave Ricky the creeps, yet in some way he knew that this was where his destiny lay. For some unaccountable reason Ricky felt as if he was coming home.

 “So this is where we’ll find that murderer Bruce Wayne?” he asked.

 Malone’s reply was, as usual, enigmatic. “Maybe, maybe not. But we’ll find something for sure.”

 “Oh yeah, what?”

 “Information.” Replied Malone.

 “OK then, I’ve a question for you Malone. What they call this place.”

 Malone leaned over towards Ricky, his face became serious, his tone almost menacing. Matches Malone sounded almost scared, as if he was in awe of the place. “Officially it’s got some unpronounceable Indian name, but the locals call it”  he paused, “ Gotham .”

 “So why are we here.”

 “To see the Oracle. Where else would you get information?”

 *****

“THE GOTHAM ORCALE” proclaimed the sign across the front of the newspaper offices on the town’s main street.

 The frontage of the building reminded Ricky of the abandoned office where he had retrieved the circus handbill featuring his long dead parents. But this was an active paper covering a lively town, and according to a smaller plate by the door it was owned and operated by one “B. Gordon.”

 Ricky followed Malone into the offices and was surprised to see his companion walk over and kiss the red headed girl sat behind the desk on the top of her head.

 “Redbird,” he said proudly and with obvious affection, “meet the Oracle.’

 The woman laughed and rolled her chair back from the desk, Ricky was taken aback to realize that she was sat in a wheel chair.

 “Please forgive my theatrical brother.” She nodded towards Malone, ‘my name is Barbara Gordon.” Her voice was smooth and betrayed a fine education. It was the most beautiful thing Ricky had ever heard.

 “Ricky Grayson. Although your brother calls me Redbird.” Ricky emphasized the word brother in order to turn it into a question. If she noticed, the newspaper editor ignored it. In stead she thrust a piece of paper towards Malone, if that was what his name really was.

 “He’s here,” she said hurriedly, “in town, or will be soon.”

“Who?” asked Ricky “ Wayne ?”

“ Kent ” Replied Barbara.

 “Kent, Harvey ?” asked Ricky, fearful that the bushwhacker would be after revenge for their previous encounter.

 “No” countered Barbara, “his freaky half-brother.” She pointed at the poster “look.”

 Malone rolled out the poster, and read it out aloud.

 “ A Special Presentation at the Gotham Monarch Theater. A Limited Engagement. More Powerful Than A Speeding Locomotive. Faster Than A Speeding Bullet. Meet The Man Of Tomorrow.”

 “Its too early.” Barbara commented cryptically. “We’re not ready – not everyone is in place.”

 “We don’t have any choice.” Responded Malone.  

Oblivious to this exchange Ricky was starring at the poster, transfixed by the first line that Malone had omitted in his oration. It read BRUCE WAYNE PRRESENTS…

 “He’ll be there.” Ricky croaked. “Bruce Wayne will be there.”

 Malone looked straight into Ricky’s eyes. What Ricky saw was frightening, Malone was now a man on a mission, a mission of revenge.

 “I’m counting on it kid.”

CHAPTER FOUR