Firstborn of the Frontier

A good man obtaineth favour of the Lord: but a man of wicked devices will he condemn.

Proverbs 12:2, a verse Errol had been dwelling on for the past couple of days. It wasn’t complicated. In fact, it was as simple as could be. A good man was rewarded, and a bad man condemned, but what makes a man good or bad? A good Christian followed the commandments, but not everyone followed the same faith, so it wasn’t like everyone who wasn’t Christian was automatically a bad person, nor were all believers automatically good. Father Nicolas was a good man, apparently the only man Errol knew who deserved such high praise, and while the other priests and nuns were most certainly good people, they fell far short of Father Nicolas’ example.

What about the law? A good man most certainly followed the law, but what if the law was wrong? There was a time when slavery was legal, but that didn’t make it moral, nor did it exempt slavers from being bad men. Back in those days, Abolitionists and members of the Underground Railroad would help slaves escape to freedom, and they were heroes for it. In the eyes of the law however, they were technically criminals, so if a police officer were to arrest them, would that make him a good or a bad man?

Then there was Sarah Jay’s father, who murdered what sounded like a starving man for the crime of demanding food. On the one hand, Errol understood why someone might act in such a way, but killing someone who’d offered only a vague suggestion of a threat didn’t sit well with his conscience. A bone hatchet was a weapon to be sure, but also a tool, so there was a possibility the man might’ve just forgotten how to behave in polite society and had no intentions of hurting anybody. Errol had seen it happen before, feral and broken settlers who’d spent years alone and afraid on the wild, untamed Frontier and had to be brought in by the Pathfinders or Chevaliers to be rehabilitated by the clergy. One of the ranch hands back home had been just such a person, Sammy Russel who was brought in when Errol was little older than eight. The man been all out of sorts at first, and had to be wrapped tightly in linens and locked in a padded room to keep him from hurting himself or other people, but Father Nicolas and the other priests and nuns worked around the clock to keep him alive, and Sammy eventually found his way back to the light.

It wasn’t a miracle of God that did it. It was the work of a good man, of good people, who gave Sammy a second chance instead of gunning him down like the wild animal he first resembled.

So did that make Sarah Jay’s father a bad man for killing that traveller unprovoked? Taken as is, Errol’s gut was leaning towards maybe, but it was difficult to condemn a man for erring on the side of caution when protecting his family. Easy to turn the other cheek when the blows were aimed at you. Was an entirely different experience when your loved ones were in the line of fire, as he himself learned firsthand. That’s how he got himself in this mess in the first place after all, because he couldn’t walk away after Richard started spewing his hate towards Sarah Jay. Logically, Errol understood the need to cross certain lines in desperate times, but there were some things he couldn’t forgive.

Like denying a man their last rites. Any man, criminal or otherwise, deserved a chance to repent before the Lord Almighty, and if they so desired to, then who was Captain Marcus Clay to deny them? A monster, that’s what, and it made Errol sick to the stomach to even think about.

Judge not, lest ye be judged, and let he who is without sin cast the first stone, but he could never look at the congenial giant of a Captain the same way ever again.

What about Howie then? Now there was a headscratcher, and the crux of Errol’s current issues. He couldn’t ride with a morally corrupt man, but the Firstborn’s mind was a puzzle wrapped inside an enigma housed inside a cranium. That’s what Father Nicolas had said about Sammy when he first arrived at their church, and the label fit Howie to a tee. Most of the time, he was a bright and cheery fellow, one prone to long lectures and anti-social tendencies at the end of the day. Errol never really noticed it before, not until he looked back on their time spent together, as he’d always given Sarah Jay his full focus the moment they set camp. It was obvious in retrospect though, how Howie would just shut down after a long day of lessons and lectures to sit and brood by his lonesome at the end of the day. He’d be right there eating his meal alongside them while his mind was a million miles away, which made Errol suspect all of Howie’s friendly tendencies were just an act. Though always quick with a joke and a smile, he didn’t actually like being around people much, which was why he spent weeks out on the road alone, never ate with the boots, or engaged anyone in idle conversation besides Tina, and only because he couldn’t get rid of her.

It was even more obvious once they arrived in Pleasant Dunes and Howie turned things up to eleven, joking and laughing with those hard-bitten guards only to turn around and explain how it ‘never hurts to make nice’. That sort of cold logic tainted all his subsequent actions too, whether it be supplying the town with a free set of speakers and music to listen to, displaying Cantrip Formulas to copy and learn, or leaving a big jar of hard candies out front for everyone to share. Wasn’t the spirit of generosity which made Howie do what he did. No, in his eyes, it was more like a bribe, paying for goodwill in advance so he could trample all over it later on.

As if the poor people of Pleasant Dunes didn’t have it hard enough. They lived hard lives out here. You could see it in their faces, their slumped shoulders and hunched backs to go with their long stares and weather-worn expressions. There was some brief bit of cheer to go around, especially when the music first started playing, but as the day wore on, their mood fell back down to dour and dismal amidst a general air of uneasy angst.

Didn’t affect Howie none though, as he grinned like a kid in a candy store while looking over the Recoilless Rifle nested atop Errol’s shoulder. A big tube of a weapon that was longer than he was tall and about as thick as his leg, the Recoilless Rifle weighed a good 20 kilos easy, while the ammunition cannisters added another two or three on top. Numbers Howie rattled off from memory as he told them all about it, even though no one, not even Drill Sergeant Begaye, had asked. “Yes sir,” Howie declared, working a latch behind Errol’s head as he held the launcher in place. “Slam this baby in here, latch it tight, and flick that switch there.” The last was directed at Errol, who only just stopped himself from pressing it, though from the sound of things, Howie hadn’t actually loaded the weapon. “Then it’s a waitin’ game,” Howie continued, and Errol could hear his barely contained glee at the prospect of firing one off. “How long you wait depends on how much time you have. Two and a half seconds to Prime, just like any Core, and then you can shoot any time after, but you don’t want that. Would be a waste really, throwin’ out a Lance shot that do maybe two, three times the damage of a similarly Metamagicked First Order Bolt.”

“Two or three times?” Tina asked, playing right into Howie’s bit, and Errol couldn’t tell if she was humouring him or actually surprised. “That’s it?”

“I know right? Be a huge waste of this 90mm, 630 Grain shell.” Smacking the back of the tube again, Howie said, “Thing is, you can probably tell from all this extra heft that the Second Order Lance Spell Core ain’t as easy breezy as its baby brother, the tried-and-true Bolt. Most of this hardware is to handle the massive recoil of the Spell Core, which true to the rifle’s name, won’t feel like more than a love tap to whoever holding the gun. Deal out a whole lot worse though, as the rest of these doodads are to bring out the full potential of the Lance Spell, which ain’t as cut and dry as you think. We allowed to fire off a couple test rounds?”

The last was directed at the Drill Sergeant, who shook his head with a scowl, but Howie shrugged and went right on explaining. “Shame. Long and short of it is the Lance Spell got a quirk to it, in that you can pour more Aether into the Core than the Spell needs. Base only requires 90 Grain to Prime like all other Second Order Spells, while the extra 540 Grain is used to Charge the Spell, as it were. This ain’t no upcasting, as the end result still Second Order in scope, but it’ll take that extra Aether and pack it into the projectile to make it hit that much harder. Takes time to do so, and the longer you let it Charge, the harder it’ll hit, up to a maximum of thirty seconds.” Pointing at a gem on the side of the tube close to the trigger, Howie asked, “See that there? When that lights up, it means the Core is Primed and fully Charged, with all the Aether in the shell used up. If you got a target, then shoot and watch it and anything standing between you or behind it die right quick. If you don’t got a target, then hit that button there, and it’ll put the weapon in standby mode. Means it’ll be safe to leave fully charged for a bit, but will take two to three seconds to Prime again when re-activated. Give you time to make sure it’s pointed down range and there’s no one standing behind you before you hit the trigger. Which is important, because if you don’t, you gonna learn firsthand how friendly fire ain’t all that friendly.”

Now, Errol knew Howie wasn’t saying it just for his benefit, nor was he trying to be mean about it, but it still rankled to have his failings poked at again and again. Howie didn’t notice as he went on to talk about how a fully charged Recoilless Rifle could put a Lance shot straight through a tank and take out a second tank behind it, so all Errol could do was swallow his ire and listen as best he could. Sarah Jay didn’t say at thing, but she saw right through him and gave him a look, one that was equal parts pity and commiseration. Didn’t want her pity, but he couldn’t think about that just yet, as Howie was walking them through the dryfire drill. “So loader pops the shell in, closes it up, secures the latch, then checks if it’s clear to shoot. Then, and only then, do you tap your gunner on the head.” Howie did just that, not too hard, but not exactly lightly either. “Two taps, no more, no less. Got it? From there, it’s all on the gunner, who calls ‘Clear’.”

Hearing his cue, Errol did just that, and everyone responded, “Clear!” The other groups had been none too quiet about it, so everyone more or less knew what to do, but Howie was determined to walk them through the whole thing regardless. Not that he was wrong to, as there was a lot of important information to go over, like the reason why everyone had to respond. It was to ensure they all had their mouths open when the Recoilless Rifle was fired, so that the resulting soundwave from the Lance wouldn’t rupture your eardrums. A necessity even with the Hearing Protection Cantrip, which Errol didn’t have and now desperately wished he did.

If only he’d spent his time learning that Cantrip instead of failing at the useless Bolt…

They all took their turns as gunner and loader, though Errol was pretty sure they wouldn’t be allowed to shoot it anytime soon. Didn’t say as much though, as it made sense to at least know how it worked in case the worst should come to pass, and Drill Sergeant Begaye didn’t say anything to dissuade them. Barely said a word the whole time in fact, which was uncharacteristic of the man as he watched their actions like the proverbial hawk. Mortars were a lot easier, as all you had to do was drop the shell in and get out of the way, though aiming was tricky, while Arc-rifles were functionally no different from Bolt Aetherarms, and they’d already covered heavy machine guns in Basic, but Howie made them go through it all regardless.

Again, not a terrible thing, but Errol wished Howie would be quicker about it. If Drill Sergeant Begaye was running the show, he’d stick to the essentials and nothing else to cover things in half the time, whereas Howie seemed compelled to explain every facet and detail that came to mind, whether it mattered or not.

Thankfully, there were only so many new weapons to go over, and then the Drill Sergeant took over once more, bellowing out orders while half the boots laboured underneath the hot desert sun, and the other half ran drills around town. Was barely noon and Errol’s shirt was already soaked through with sweat, but he put everything he had into his work and felt better for it. Was nice to focus on the short term for a bit, put everything out of his head and just do as he was told without having to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Was even better seeing Howie fall short at the silliest things, like marching and standing in formation. Apparently, his famous daddy never covered those in class, so he stuck out like a sore thumb when it came time for drills and patrols. Seemed like every other insult dispensed by Drill Sergeant Begaye was directed at the Firstborn, telling him to stand up straight, square his shoulders, face forward, or whatnot, and Errol had no idea how the stern Navajo Ranger kept a straight face when Howie started marching. Wasn’t so much a march as it was a prance as the Firstborn skipped in place with every step as he lifted his knees to chest high. Swung his arms too far too, and aligned with the wrong leg, as it was arm forward, leg back on the same side.

“Sir,” Howie retorted, after the Drill Sergeant’s umpteenth tirade singling him out for poor performance. “What exactly does marchin’ pretty have to do with fightin’ anyways? Sir.”

Errol grinned, because he’d asked the same question and knew exactly what was coming next. “I just like to see you dance, boot!” Getting right up in Howie’s face, the Drill Sergeant’s neck veins throbbed as he yelled, “So dance for me! Dance until you get it right!”

Was good to see the Firstborn taken down a peg or two, and Errol wasn’t the only one doubled over laughing, but once their amusement died down, they all learned Howie was a vindictive sort. Shooting them a grin as he marched in place, Howie said, “Sir, I’ll learn faster marchin’ in formation, so what say we all go another lap?”

The boots collectively groaned, which Errol knew was a mistake after the fact, because the Drill Sergeant might not have humoured Howie if they didn’t. “Can’t learn anything from one lap,” Sergeant Begaye said with a scowl. “Need at least three.”

“Sir, yes Sir.” Despite the blowback, Howie was still smiling as he set the pace of their march, and for the rest of the afternoon, no one laughed at his many mistakes. Or if they did, they laughed quietly, which was good enough for Howie. As for Errol, he kept his head down and lip shut as the day wore on, focused on his work and committing every protocol and response plan to memory. There were so many things to keep track of, it was a wonder he remembered any of it at all. What to do if they were attacked by burrowing Abby, flying Abby, artillery Abby, or siege Abby. Where to go in case of a breach, which buildings were secure and which would be sacrificed to slow Abby movement, where the triage stations were set up and the various routes out of the town, this was only scratching the surface of what the Drill Sergeants crammed into their heads, and there was still so much more to go.

“Don’t worry too much about gettin’ overwhelmed,” Howie said, speaking to about half the boots in Pleasant Dunes as they all headed back to camp together for dinner. “Just stick with your battle buddies at all times, and when the shootin’ starts, find yourself a Sergeant to follow. That’s what they here for, so all you gotta worry about is puttin’ Bolts downrange.”

“Looks to me like the locals got that covered well enough,” Michael said, falling in line beside Howie like they were best friends as they led the boots down main street. If you could call it that, as it was all sand just like everything else, except this sand sat between the only two rows of buildings in town. “Like you said, they’ve got tall towers, thick walls, decent layout, and plenty of guns too. Don’t see why we’re needed.”

Now that Michael pointed it out, Errol saw it too. Half a year ago, he would have been awestruck by the sheer scale of the walls, all six metres tall and made of thick stone blocks, with multiple bunkers spaced out along each side. That’s twice as tall as the wood palisade walls they had back home, which were more than enough to keep Ferals at bay, while Pleasant Dunes only fell short when compared to the likes of Meadowbrook and New Hope. Not half bad for Independents, especially considering how the locals all looked like they knew how to handle themselves. Weren’t any flighty ladies peddling soaps or puffed-up businessmen holding perfumed kerchiefs wandering about like back in New Hope. No, the people of Pleasant Dunes were a hardy and formidable bunch, all heavily armed, battle-scarred, and not half as hospitable as he expected. Didn’t act like people in desperate need of saving, and didn’t seem all too pleased about the Rangers’ presence here in their town. Most stared from afar while going about their day, which as far as he could tell, consisted of sitting or standing around doing nothing. Some were busy baking bread and smoking meat at the communal ovens, or hauling sand bags and boxes of ammunition up the tall towers on the edge of town, but most sat idle in whatever shade they could find while staring at the boots as they passed, and Errol found it all a little unnerving.

Were plenty of people living here in Pleasant Dunes, but not much ‘life’ to be found. No painted murals or touches of personality to the big stone buildings, no personal additions around the sleeping areas or neat embroidery in their clothing, not a single thing that stood out as whimsical much less extravagant. They were too busy keeping themselves safe and fed to spare for anything else, so they resigned themselves to the current state of affairs and didn’t care much to improve them. That’s why they sat idle instead of doing something productive, that and maybe because they lacked the tools and materials to do anything with. Weren’t any loomshrubs or fields of grass to weave into cloth, no trees to chop for wood and build shelter with, not even water and clay to turn into bricks. All they had was sand, stone, and ore, and they had to fight Abby tooth and nail to get their hands on the last two.

Meaning they had plenty of time to just sit and stare, and weren’t all that shy about doing it. Howie wasn’t phased by all the attention though, smiling and waving at the crowd despite no one smiling or waving back. “Tip of the spear goes wherever it’s pointed,” he said, in answer to Michael’s non-question. “No need to wonder why we’re here. All you gotta do is follow orders and do your part. If these townies can handle it without us, then that makes our job that much easier.”

As they approached the saloon, Tina got to humming as she often did, only this time she was accompanied by the guitar music playing out over Howie’s donated speakers. Bright and cheery as ever, she asked, “You think anyone would mind if I sang a song or two for the town? We already got the accompaniment with Chrissy’s guitar recordings, and it might lift the mood a bit if we had ourselves a little concert.”

“You a Ranger, Tina. Not a showgirl.” There was an edge to Howie’s tone that took the wind right out of Tina’s sails. “Can’t be puttin’ on no concerts when you on the job, especially while you away from home. Keep in mind, these folks are Independents, meaning some of them might see the Rangers, who work for the Federal Government, as the enemy.”

Tina deflated with a pout, which was a sight to behold, but she rallied almost immediately as she spotted the kiccaws dancing and chirping along to the music. They were everywhere, perched on Howie’s wagon, the saloon porch railings, and even up top on the awning, though how they got there was a mystery. Seemed like they were a big hit with the locals too, though Errol noticed Howie taking a headcount to make sure all the birds were present and accounted for. Cowie was also hanging around, all small and cute while playing on the porch with a group of scandalously dressed women idling about, and Errol had to make sure he didn’t look too hard. The other boots weren’t half as circumspect, and none too subtle either, even though the women were more than twice their age. Glancing at Sarah Jay, he caught the tail end of an eye roll which wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, which she followed up by hitting him with a smokey glare that said, “Yea, you better not stare.”

Cold as ice on the outside, but she burned hot as can be, and no scantily clad old worlder could ever measure up to Errol’s girl.

They all had words for Howie though, with plenty of wolf-whistles and cat-calls to greet him, and he weathered it like a champ. Grinned from ear to ear while taking in the sights as bold as could be, which had Tina and Kacey wearing matching glowers, but he paid them no mind. “Ladies,” he said, by way of greeting. “How y’all doin’ this fine evening?” Spent a few minutes trading pleasantries until a burly, bald, and battle-scarred thug of a man emerged from the saloon door. “Vicente!” Howie exclaimed, like he’d run into an old friend. “Good to see you! How you holdin’ up?”

“Chinga la Madre…”

“Ooh, I done about run out of Spanish.” Grinning from ear to ear, Howie squared up against the hulking, scowling Latin man and said, “From context, I’m guessin’ it means ‘Great, how about you’?”

“El Loco Qino,” the bald giant retorted, shaking his head as he came down the stairs to loom over Howie. Locked eyes for a good long second, and Errol’s hand started inching towards his holster when he saw the man’s giant machete strapped to his waist. The stalemate didn’t last long though, as the man’s mangled features twisted into a ferocious smile as he slapped hands with Howie. “Thought for sure you’d be gone into Santa Muerte’s embrace, eh?”

“Well, you know what they say,” Howie replied. “One good turn deserves another.”

As if on cue, baby Cowie pranced on over to sidle up against Vicente’s leg, who exclaimed something in Spanish before cradling the tiny bull in his arms like a child. More of Howie’s manufactured charm, making the size-changing, horn-growing, fire-breathing bull seem harmless and cuddly, and Errol wasn’t sure how to feel. It wasn’t exactly dishonest, but it felt deceptive, Howie pretending like he was this cheery, happy, friendly fellow even though he’d kill you in a heartbeat if he thought it justified. It worked too, which was crazy considering he killed the Sheriff and four deputies the last time he was here in town. Outlaws posing as lawmen, granted, but Errol figured there’d be at least a little bad blood between Howie and the locals.

“So where’s Mr. Jackson at?” Howie asked, and the bad blood showed itself as the locals all froze up. Only for a moment, but it was there, then they all shook it off and acted like nothing happened while quietly trading glances. “Been here all day and ain’t seen him yet. Was hoping to pay my respects and smooth things out after how we left things.”

“Better for you if you keep quiet, hey?” Waving a big, meaty hand to clear the air, Vicente added, “Señor Jackson is out of town. Busy, how you say, gathering the troops?”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” Unperturbed, Howie continued nattering on while most of the boots stood and waited, following him like he was their unofficial leader and chief of command. He was, pretty much, which irked Errol for no real reason than to see how effortlessly he stepped into the role. Sidling up next to Sarah Jay with a stifled sigh, Errol only just managed to keep himself from slipping his arm around her waist. Felt as natural as breathing, having her there at his side, and he still thought Howie was being utterly ridiculous about riding with a woman. The people of Pleasant Dunes were a rough sort to be sure, but considering how the ladies were dressed while standing out on the porch, it was clear they felt safe enough baring so much skin to the world, so how dangerous could it be?

A question asked and answered as a tall, lanky, unkempt local swaggered on up to the saloon and stopped to leer at Tina and Kacey, standing side by side behind Howie. Flashed a sleezy smile to reveal a dead tooth as he ran his eyes up and down the girls and slowly licked his lips. “Ohh, lookie here,” he said, his pitchy voice striking a chord which sent a shudder down Errol’s spine. “New talent in house tonight. Show daddy what’cha got, girls. Give us a little spin.”

“Sure.” Beaming as bright as always, Tina’s shiny silver gun appeared in her hand before Errol could even blink, twirling once around her finger for effect. “I got me a Ranger 1911.” Though she kept her finger off the trigger and the barrel pointed at the sky, the sleezy geezer was pretty much staring the pistol dead on while cheery Tina presented the weapon and rattled off its specs at lightning speed. “A semi-automatic single-action pistol with a fully stainless-steel frame and checkered wood grip, lookin’ all sleek and clean like it do. See these serrations on the slide there?” Tina pulled the slide back lightning quick after pointing them out, chambering a bullet with a clack-clack that made the man visibly flinch and realize he’d picked the wrong girl to catcall. “Makes it real easy to rack in a pinch, just like that. Chambers 45-15 rounds and comes standard with Prime, Efficient, and Quicken Metamagics that let you empty an eight-round magazine in bout two seconds flat. Short recoil makes it easy to control too, and the front post, rear notch iron sights are reliable as can be.” Blink and you’d miss it, but Tina pointed her gun right at the man’s face before turning it away. Supposedly to show off said iron sights, though everyone present knew different. “Ain’t just a sidearm,” she concluded, putting the gun away as quickly and smoothly as she drew it, and without breaking eye contact with the man, “It’s a piece of American history.”

Everyone thought she was done then, and the lanky man heaved a visible sigh of relief, only to cut it short as the dark twin to her 1911 appeared in her left hand. “This here pistol though,” she said, beaming all the while. “This a more modern update of the same framework, the Szass and Tam Mo – ”

“That’s enough.” Standing still as a statue with his duster pulled back and hand on his pistol, Howie eyes bored out into the watching crowd like his head was on a swivel, watching, nay, daring someone to make a move. “Put it away.” Looking like a scolded child, Tina did just that, even stepped back with Kacey to stand next to Howie, who gave the crowd one last pass before turning to address Vicente. “Sorry about that,” he said, giving the big man a nod. “They young and excitable. Time we got out of your hair and got ourselves a bite to eat though. You take care now.”

Gone was the big, bald man’s fearsome smile as he loomed over the Firstborn and glared down at the offending pervert. “Vaya con dios, ese,” Vincent replied, which Errol recognized as ‘Go with God’. Made him see Vicente in a different light, as the thug said the words with the familiar intonations of Faith, that cadence and confidence he often heard from the Father Nicolas and the other clergymen. Though he had the look of a murderous desperado, he was also a believer, yet Errol had judged him by appearance and nothing more. Didn’t mean he was a good man, but there was more to him than you might think. The world wasn’t as cut and dry as it once seemed when Errol stared out at it from the church steeple back home, and he missed those simpler times.

“Ah right.” Climbing into the back of his wagon, Howie pressed down on a panel and opened up yet another hidden compartment, one that sat below the surface and above the container he stored Abby corpses in. Lifting out a box of 1L glass bottles, he carried them over to Vicente with a smile. “Brought these all the way from New Hope to sell,” he said, shaking his head as he passed it over, “Only to realize I can’t, not while ridin’ with the Rangers like I am. So here’s a gift, my way of apologizing for how things ended last time.”

“Muchas gracias!” The big man’s eyes lit up as he accepted the box with one arm and wrapped Howie around the shoulders with the other. “Es perfecto. Mi Bonita, she much like this drink, but only try the once.”

“Yea, I’d need more too if I had to lay my pretty head next to yours.”

Vicente had a boisterous laugh, a loud, open-mouthed “Ha!” that made him look only half as scary as he clapped Howie on the arm. “Get out of here, Cabezón.”

“See you round.” As he turned to face the lanky stranger whose leers started this whole mess, Howie’s feigned cheer melted away to reveal the furious Firstborn simmering just underneath. Didn’t say a word, just glared up at the man with his jaw set and eyes hard, and it scared the lanky man enough to send his long, trembling fingers reaching for the pistol hanging on his hip. “That gun come even a quarter-inch out that holster,” Howie began, and the man froze up at the sound of it, “And I’ll kill you dead.” The man’s eyes went wide and his hands shot up, shaking his head in silent denial. Howie didn’t scowl, didn’t shake his head or spit. All he did was stand there for a second more with his eyes radiating the promise of death, before pushing past the man to leave with Cowie and his wagon in tow.

The boots shuffled off after him, and again, Errol found it annoying how quickly they’d all gotten caught up in Howie’s pace, but there was good reason for it. He knew what he was doing, while the rest of them were still learning the ropes, even Tina who looked proper contrite the whole way back. Once they arrived in camp, Howie turned on his heel to glare at the top boot in Basic, and kept glaring until she glanced up to meet his eyes. “You ought to know better,” he began, his tone starting out calm and ratcheting up into boiling hot by the end of the short statement. “What in the hell was that?”

“He was bein’ all creepy and gross,” Tina replied, sounding petulant despite her hang-dog expression. “Tellin’ me to ‘show him what I got’.”

“So you drew on him?” Howie asked, his tone dripping with disbelief. “In front of a whole mess of armed strangers? Pop quiz Tina. How many guns was they carryin’ in that crowd?” He waited half a beat before shouting, “Too many!” Turning away to take a breath, he whipped back around and jabbed his finger at her face, getting close but never close enough to touch. “Day you got those guns, what my daddy tell you?”

“…That they ain’t toys.”

“So why you wavin’ and twirlin’ them around like they are!?” In an effort to rein in his mounting anger and frustration, Howie set to pacing while the entire camp watched, Rangers and boots alike. “You damn lucky Vicente was there to control that crowd, else we would’ve had ourselves an armed standoff, or worse.” Errol traded looks with the other boots, most of whom were as shocked as he was, because none of them thought it’d be that serious. Except Sarah Jay, who nodded ever so slightly, no doubt having clocked everything that went down. “Soon as your gun came out, any one of those fools could’ve drawn and shot,” Howie said, his face twisted in derision as he lambasted poor Tina. “And you’d’ve still been spinning your gun when you went down. We’d have made them pay for it, but you’d already be dead. That’s a fool’s game you was playin’, and not everyone you meet is gonna play along. Ranger star on your chest will buy you plenty of leeway, but you can’t be temptin’ fate like that. If you need your big iron to put some leering drunk in his place, then you in the wrong line of work, missy.”

Seemed like he had more to say, but Howie stopped and looked at Tina for a long little while before heaving a sigh. “Never draw your gun without intent to shoot it,” he said, his tone lacking any fire and passion as he handed her a clean kerchief, which she used to wipe her hidden tears as she stared at the sand. “I wouldn’t be half as steamed if you actually meant to threaten him. Not sayin’ that’s the right move, but if you did, it’d’ve kept most fools from blowing a hole in the back of your head right away. Not if they meant to save their boy back there, because shootin’ you would’ve signed his death warrant once you got a round in the chamber. Understand the difference?” Tina nodded, and Howie patted her hat before look around at his audience. “Same goes for the rest of you. One of you pulls a gun, don’t be standin’ there watchin’ with your mouths open like fish outta water. Right or wrong, you back that play, because the Rangers stand together. Now quit gawking and git gone.”

The crowd dispersed, leaving Howie and Tina to hug it out, but Errol had his mind on other things. Mulling over the day’s events while he ate with Sarah Jay, he thought about what he’d seen and heard while trying to make sense of it all. The locals were a tough bunch, well-armed and well-fortified in with the look of folk who knew what they were about. They even had their own heavy weapons and long-range rifles, big, multi-barrel weapons and long-barrelled Aetherarms that looked formidable indeed. Like Michael noted, it didn’t seem like the Rangers were needed to help guard against a normal Abby attack, especially since it sounded like the town’s leader was gathering more shooters to help out. As things stood, there were hundreds of able-bodied, armed men ready and waiting to defend the town, so why did they need thirty-some-odd rangers and around the same number of boots to help out?

They didn’t, and most didn’t seem all that pleased about the Ranger presence either. Howie claimed it was because this was a company town, whatever that meant, and the company put food on their tables, but what did that have to do with the Rangers showing up to help? Back home, people came out with big smiles and warm hospitality for the Pathfinders and Chevaliers, even if they were just passing through, but Pleasant Dunes didn’t offer them so much as a hot meal. Instead, the Drill Sergeants set a few boots to task cooking up dinner, while others stood watch against the very townsfolk they were here to defend. As for Wayne’s Company of Rangers, they’d disappeared the moment the convoy arrived in town along with Captain Clay and Captain Hayes, supposedly to scout out the mountains up in the mines, which hardly seemed like standard operating procedure. If they were here to defend the town, then why was all the work left to the boots? There were a few pieces out of place here in Pleasant Dunes, and Errol couldn’t quite put his finger on why it bothered him so.

Looking around to make sure they were alone, Errol leaned in close to Sarah Jay and said, “Something’s off about all this.”

“Sure is.” Her reply came without hesitation as she leaned in to bump his shoulder with her dazzling half-smile. “Whole Op stinks to high heaven. These folks don’t want help and don’t think they need it either. Havin’ seen what they packin’, I’m of a mind to agree, but now we hear their bossman is out rallyin’ more troops to the cause? Not to mention how quickly the Rangers had us high-tail it over here.” Shrugging, Sarah Jay gave a proud smirk and said, “I did the math. If Captain Clay sent someone to confirm Howie’s findings in Pleasant Dunes the day he arrived in Meadowbrook, then Tina and the other boots would’ve left New Hope the very same day word got back. No wiggle room whatsoever, meaning their bossman and the Rangers know something we don’t, else they wouldn’t have moved so fast.” Eyes shining as she pitched her voice low, she said, “Could be anything really. Pack of armoured trolls maybe? Hear they’re real tough to bring down, and you gotta burn them with fire or Acid to fully take them out the fight. Could be a couple Feral behemoths too, as I hear gobbos sometimes capture and ‘tame’ other Abby. Badlands are right there just south of us, and I’ve seen big ol’ beetle lookin’ Abby come outta there that’re bigger than Howie’s wagon. A dozen Behemoths or trolls would make short work of these walls, no doubt about it, and would explain the need for Rangers and more shooters.”

Sarah Jay rattled off a few more theories, like how the Hobgoblin Illusionist might be a Synapse Aberration, one under direct control of its Progenitor and capable of commanding nearby Abby like puppets, or the emergence of a monstrous Deviant, an Aberration that consumed its Progenitor to become something worse than either one on its own. Lord help her, she was actually excited about all this, while Errol couldn’t muster up anything besides stomach-churning dread.

Because what if it wasn’t about Abby? What if it was something else at the heart of all this? See, the one thing that’d been bothering Errol all this time was Wayne’s accusations against Howie. While the Firstborn claimed the Ranger was crooked, no one else seemed to look at Wayne sideways, not Captain Marcus, Captain Jung, or any of the Rangers under Wayne’s command. They all seemed to like the man well enough, as he was quick to joke and laugh about this or that, a bright and cheery officer who was admired and respected by the soldiers under his command. While his constant needling and outbursts of anger towards Howie were unbecoming of a Ranger, who was to say Wayne’s anger wasn’t justified? A virtuous man angry over a criminal evading justice wouldn’t act all that different from a crooked Ranger upset over the loss of merchandise, and Errol only pegged Wayne as the latter because Howie implied it was the case. What if it wasn’t though? What if Howie actually helped murder that merchant, or at the very least covered their tracks for a share of the profits? Wayne said the crime scene had been wiped clean, professionally like something Howie’s father could have done, and he taught Howie everything. What’s more, the Firstborn had killed at least ten men this year alone, so would he really balk at covering up a murder for the right price? There were an awful lot of coincidences to explain, and Howie’s alibi was admittedly flimsy. Granted, an impromptu trip out into the desert in the dead of night did seem like something he’d do, but the timing was awfully suspicious, to say the least.

So what if Wayne was right, and Howie had aided and abetted a group of murders last summer? Could be he led them right into the desert to this very town here, and a year later, those fugitive guards tipped him off to the fact that the town had an outlaw with a big bounty posing as the Sheriff. Hell, maybe Vicente was one of those fugitives, as they seemed awful chummy for two people who’d only met once before. Would explain how Howie knew to get a job as a postal courier before coming all this way to hunt those outlaws, but that begged the question: how did he get out after the fact? Claimed that all he had to do was show the warrants, and Errol believed it right up until he met the locals. If they were the sort to open fire on a crowd of Ranger recruits right there in the middle town, would they really have let some stranger waltz in, kill their Sheriff and four deputies, then leave untouched? Probably not, unless he cut a deal or something. Maybe a deal to bring in all these Rangers and recruits for some nefarious purpose.

Even if all that was wrong and things went down exactly like he said, why would Howie be so eager to come back?

None of it made any sense whatsoever, which is why Errol didn’t dare share his suspicions with Sarah Jay. She’d just defend Howie and say Errol was overthinking things, and truth was, he thought so too. It was probably some flavour of dangerous Abby, and nothing else. Despite Howie’s refusal to join the Rangers, he clearly idolized them still, and he loved Tina like family. Even in the worst-case scenario, Errol couldn’t imagine a world in which Howie would betray either one of them, not when giving Tina a stern talking to left him battered and defeated. The problem with uncertainty though is that it eats away at you, and try as he might, Errol couldn’t shake his wild thoughts, no matter how nonsensical they might be. Even long after Sarah Jay finished sharing her wild theories and moved off to study her Spells and practicing her Cantrips, he was still struggling to come to grips with his doubts. Sitting there across from her, he idly flipped through his own notes and took in her beautiful features while the icy cold grip of fear and anxiety closed in around his chest. Life hadn’t been treating him all that well lately, and he didn’t know what he’d do if something happened to her. The thought of it alone was enough to unnerve him, and he didn’t know what else to do besides pray.

And when he closed his eyes to do just that, he felt a Spell Structure light up in his mind and went along with it to cast Heroism on himself. The warm fires of courage and determination flowed through him to wash away his doubts, and all of a sudden, he was no longer concerned about whatever might come or the path to take moving forward. Though he had no answers to the myriads of questions plaguing him with doubts, he was reminded of Proverbs 3:5-6, which made everything clear. Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways, submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.

There was no need for Errol to base his actions on what others did to survive, nor should he care if they thought him naïve or foolhardy. He only needed to remain true to his conscience, and so long as he kept his faith and acted in accordance with his beliefs, then the Lord Almighty would sort out the rest. What’s more, in doing so, he could act as a beacon of light for others, the same way Father Nicolas had illuminated the path for him, and in doing so, show Sarah Jay and his peers how a good man conducted himself here on the Frontier, without having to compromise his morals or virtues. It was one thing to learn how to survive from the Firstborn and the Judge, but Errol would not follow their footsteps down the path towards damnation.

Was it silly to be so concerned about morals when dealing with people of ill-repute? Some might think so, believe it was necessary to sink to their level in order to fight them, but Errol thought different, as did the good book. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. Romans 12:21. The desire of the righteous ends only in good, but the hope of the wicked only in wrath. Proverbs 11:23. Better the little that the righteous have than the wealth of many wicked. Psalm 37:16. Howie was the Firstborn who stood at the forefront of his peers, but that didn’t mean his way was the only way. Errol would prove him wrong, or he would die trying, but if that was the case, then at least his soul would remain untarnished.

Go in the grace of the Lord, Walk in the way of his Word, Stand in the strength of his promises, And believe in your heart they are true. Words Errol would live by, for better or for worse.