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 FOUR

“Ah never dreamed such a place as this existed.”

 Ricky’s eyes were wider than they had ever been in his young life. His senses were overloaded. The smells, the sights, the sounds, the glitter, the pure opulence of Gothams’ Monarch Theater left the orphan bewildered.

 Barbara Gordon smiled at the young man. “There are only a few entertainment palaces that surpass the Monarch, but they are all back East. There’s none finer out here on the frontier.”

 The two newly acquainted companions were sitting in the front row of the balcony to provide them with an uninterrupted view of the stage and the planned action. A section of seats had been removed to make way for Barbara Gordon’s strange wheeled chair, a mark of the esteem with which the newspaper proprietress was held in the city.

 “Where did Matches go?” asked the anxious boy as he scanned the theater below for any sign of his earlier trail riding companion.

 “Matches ?” Barbara paused as if trying to place the name.

“Your brother.” Prompted Ricky.

“Oh, he’s around the back of the stage making sure everything’s in place.”

“In place for what ?”

“Tonight’s main event.”

“But why would he help ? He’s not part of the show.” Ricky paused before adding a questioning “Is he?”

“Not directly,” came the enigmatic response, “but I’m sure we’ll see him before the evening’s finished.”

 Ricky shook his head. This brother and sister pair were both as mysterious as each other. One day he’d get a straight answer, but he didn’t think it would be anytime soon.

 Lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice the nudge in his side, until Barbara poked him with a sharp elbow jab. “He’s here. Now the show can start.” She pointed across the auditorium to a large box set high up to one side of the stage. “Over there.”

“Who is it?” asked Ricky straining to see the occupants in the gloom of the dimly lit theater.

“Maxwell Lord,” came the response. “He’s our local railroad baron and the money behind this town.”

 Ricky stared hard across the theatre at the object of Barbara’s commentary. The so-called power behind Gotham seemed not to be much of a specimen to Ricky. Sure, Lord was large, physically, but he didn’t seem to command much respect or authority. This was a man who obviously enjoyed the good things in life – to excess.

 “I doubt he’s the real power. I bet he’s just a front. Who pulls the strings ? I bet it’s the guy hiding in the shadows at the back of the box.”

“You are very perceptive Redbird” smiled Barbara.

 As if on cue, the man at the back of the box leant forward to whisper something to Maxwell Lord. As he did so his face came into the light. And although he had never seen the man before, Ricky recognized him instantly.

 “Bruce Wayne!” Ricky almost shouted the name out as his hand flew to his holster. Empty damn it. Malone had made them check in weapons at the theater lobby, as all patrons were requested to do. ‘Still’ thought Ricky ‘I still have my throwing blades. I’ll get you later Wayne.’

The house lights were extinguished until the only place left illuminated was an area of the stage in front of the thick red safety curtain. Into the space stepped a man. The smallest man Ricky had ever seen – but he wasn’t a dwarf, he was well proportioned and obviously well toned. He was just small. But what a voice he possessed, without shouting, or even seeming to raise his voice, his words filled every corner of the building.

 “Ladies and Gentleman of the fair city of Gotham . I, Professor Palmer, welcome you on this magnificent evening to the splendor of the Monarch Theater. Where, thanks to our generous benefactor, Mr. Maxwell Lord, we have assembled a cast of many players to entertain and delight you.”

 With this he paused and bowed slightly in the direction of the portly businessman. The diminutive Master Of Ceremonies continued. “To initiate the evening’s proceedings may I present the well known thespian and reciter of the bard. Direct from the shores of old Blighty herself, the renowned Shakespearean actor…. Mister Alfred Pennyworth.”

 With this grand pronouncement the curtains opened to reveal a tall thin man of indeterminate old age dressed in what Ricky thought was the most ridiculous outfit he had ever seen. And to cap it all he started speaking in some weird language that didn’t sound anything like English to the boy’s ears. Within three stanzas of Hamlet’s soliloquy Ricky Grayson had fallen asleep.

 “Ricky wake up.”

 The dozing boy slowly opened his eyes in response to the gentle shaking of his shoulders. Just in time to catch the finale of an act that, according to the card at the side of the stage, was called Booster Gold and his Band of Blue Beetles.

 “You woke me up to watch a troop of dancing insects !” Remonstrated the boy, “I saw enough of those in the desert.”.

“No,” countered Barbara “the next act. It’s what we came to see, what all this has been leading to.”

*******

            Accompanied by a fanfare of slightly off-key trumpets from the orchestra pit, Professor Palmer intoned a variation of the introduction that had been printed so boldly on the theater poster.

 “Ladies and Gentlemen, More powerful than locomotive. Able to change the course of mighty rivers. Faster than a speeding bullet. Please welcome The Man Of Tomorrow – Silas Kent.”

 The curtains drew back to reveal, in stark contrast to the MC, the biggest man Ricky had ever seen. He wasn’t a giant, just big. Tall and perfectly proportioned, Kent gave the appearance of a living god. This couldn’t be the freak he’d heard about. This man gave the appearance of being the pinnacle of human perfection. But something disturbed the young boy. Kent’s chiseled features held a barely concealed smirk as if he was hiding something and the gaze of those steel blue eyes was almost mocking, as if those who sat in the rows before him weren’t worthy of the big man’s attention.

 Slowly the performer raised his gaze from the patrons in the auditorium to scan those sat in the balcony. As he looked at Ricky, the boy’s discomfort grew. It felt as if Kent was looking not at him, but right through him.

 “You Sir.” Kent pointed at a man sat three rows behind Ricky, “you in seat 23F. can you stand up please.”

The slightly embarrasses theatergoer did as he was asked.

“Sir,” continued Kent “ I believe that secreted in your inner jacket pocket you possess a snuffbox. One made of lead and plated with silver. Is that correct.”

The occupant of seat 23F carefully withdrew an object from the inside of his jacket and held it up for all to see. It was a silver plated snuffbox. The audience broke into applause.

 Silas Kent followed this bit of trickery with a display of feats of strength, unlike anything that the fine folks of Gotham had ever seen before, or since. He lifted a stagecoach over his head, caught cannon shot and bent railway ties into various shapes and designs. The audience was entranced.

 “ Kent .” A strident voice suddenly boomed across the theater. “I’m aiming to git you you coward.  You stole my farm Kent , now it’s time to pay.”

 All heads, including Ricky’s, turned to see where the shout had originated. Stood at the rear of the balcony was a man holding a rifle aimed squarely at the performers chest. He squeezed the trigger.

 The noise in the confined auditorium was deafening. Women screamed and men gasped. Almost everyone flinched, although Ricky noticed that neither Barbara, Bruce Wayne or Maxwell Lord seem to react.

 All eyes were now on the stage where Silas Kent stood unmoving, his head down. Slowly he raised his head and then his arms, holding them palm upwards.  Twisting his right wrist forward he opened his hand and slowly let the bullet fall to the stage floor. The sound of the lethal projectile hitting the wooden surface could clearly be heard in the hushed theater.

 “Now” whispered Barbara. Ricky looked at her quizzically. Then the audience went wild, standing almost as one to give this super man an ovation.

  Kent bowed slightly then leapt from the stage in a single incredible bound upwards. To Ricky it looked like this stranger flew straight towards Maxwell Lord.

 Applause turned once more to gasps and screams as the audience saw the performer fasten his hands around Lord’s throat. This was a man who could bend steel in his hands and he was strangling an overweight mortal. It should have been over before anyone had time to blink.

  Kent ’s expression as the throat beneath his hands refused to wield was one of sheer confusion. Lord stood up with the struggling would be assassin still attached to his throat. “What ye gonna do now boyo?”

 Ricky recognized that voice, Malone’s Irish friend from the river crossing. And sure enough as he watched Maxwell Lord’s shape began to blur and change into that of the dragon faced man from Ricky’s dreams.

 This latest development proved too much for most of the audience who turned and fled the theater from the nearest exit they could find. The best of Gotham had been turned into an unruly mob fighting and clawing to get away from the strangeness that now enveloped them. As the path cleared Barbara called to Ricky. “Quick, get me round to the back of that box.”

 Grabbing the handles on the rear of her unique chair, he raced around the curve of the balcony to the rear of the box where a titanic struggle was still in progress. The sight that greeted him made him stop short. For there was his erstwhile companion, Matches Malone, stood next to the object of his loathing and vengeance, Bruce Wayne.

 The timing was perfect, Wayne wasn’t even aware of Ricky’s existence, he wasn’t watching him and was preoccupied with the battle unfolding in front of him. Ricky reached for his blade.

 At the same instant Bruce Wayne reached into his pocket, the movement stopped Ricky. What if Wayne had a gun? But all that the man produced was a small box which he opened. A small creature on leathery wings escaped it’s confinement and flew to the top of the building. Ricky heard the unmistakable sound of a bow string being released and from high in the rafters a green arrow flew. It’s target was Silas Kent , a target it found with unwaving accuracy.

  Kent thought nothing of the impact as he felt something touch his back. He was invulnerable, his father had said nothing could hurt him. He hadn’t lied – in his life he’d been in numerable fights, been stabbed, shot at and beat up in the service of his father, but nothing had broken his impervious skin. Until now.

 Pain. He’d never felt pain before so at first wasn’t aware what the sensation was, or what it meant.

 The burning feeling spread across Kent ’s back and shoulders, coursing through his perfect body, throwing his muscles in to uncontrollable spasms. His hands relaxed and the grip of steel released the strange figure that had been Maxwell Lord. Kent ’s world went black and he fell into the orchestra pit below him. This once super man had been felled by a single special arrow.

 At the back of the theater box, Bruce Wayne turned to the mysterious Irishman who had now assumed his more familiar visage. “Thanks John, we couldn’t have caught this murderer without your assistance.”

 “Any friend of Jim’s is a friend of mine, Mr. Wayne, and he speaks highly of you and your cause.”

 “Murderer.” Shouted Ricky. “You’re the murderer Wayne. You killed my parents and now it’s my turn.” Before anyone could react a pair of sharpened throwing blades were slicing through the air towards the object of his accusations.

 As Ricky’s blades reached the pinnacle of their trajectory a black shape intercepted their flight and they fell harmless to the floor at Bruce Wayne’s feet.

 “Malone !” shouted Ricky, what did you do that for. “You know what this man did ? Why did you protect him?”

“Calm down Redbird” came the soothing response “not everything is as it seems. First off my name is Jim Gordon and secondly Bruce Wayne didn’t kill your parents, Silas Kent did.”

 Bruce Wayne stepped closer, an action that caused Ricky to tense, then Wayne put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. At his touch Ricky somehow began to trust him, implicitly. There was something about the man that just exhumed confidence and honesty. If Matches, or Jim, or whatever his name was, trusted this man why shouldn’t I ?

 “So your the Redbird that Jim has told me about.” Wayne ’s voice was soft, yet compelling. “I knew your parents, they worked for me.”

 “I know, you owned the circus. You killed them.” Ricky’s voice was flat.

 “The circus was just a cover.  A way to move from town to town and help people. Some of my special friends blend into a circus atmosphere easier than they do amongst regular folks.”

 “Your parents, like me Redbird, were ex-Pinkertons.” Added Jim Gordon. “We were in Kentville investigating the strange reports about John Kent and his sons. Harvey wasn’t much of a threat, but Silas turned out to be something special. Your parents tried to convince him to join us, but his father had corrupted him, he was beyond redemption. His power and strength had been used for murder and extortion. The death of your parents was just a quick way for him to remove an irritant.”  

“Irritant !” they were my parents.

 “I’m sorry Ricky.” Barbara Gordon joined the conversation. “My brother’s not too good with words. Your parents were friends to all of us. We wanted to revenge their deaths as much as you did. But when we found out that Kent was going to make a move to take over Maxwell Lord’s railroad interests, it gave us the perfect opportunity to set him up for a fall. You just happened to ride into the middle of it.”

 Ricky looked from Barbara to Jim and over to Bruce Wayne. “You said ex-Pinkerton’s. What are you now.”

 “Some call us The Justice Riders.” Answered Bruce Wayne. “I just prefer to think of us as a group of friends with a common cause. Care to join us Redbird.?”

A BEGINNING…..?

Return to AJP's Home Page