Angelwing

Chapter 12: To The Death...

With each passing minute the sun grew higher in the sky as Rossiter and Manzo approached one another, their respective swords drawn. Max realized that he could no longer hear the birdsong that accompanied him on his walk to the gallows not long ago. Even nature itself seemed to be holding its collective breath until this clash of the titans was resolved once and for all.

The loose gravel and stones crunched beneath Rossiter’s boots, clearly audible in the hush that fell over the remainder of the town and its populace. Even the wind seemed to die out. All was calm… except for the beating of Max Rossiter’s heart. Manzo was correct. Rossiter was severely beaten and pushed beyond his mental and physical limits. Only adrenaline was keeping him on his feet while Manzo was clearly a deadly weapon even without his sword, trained most likely from birth and far more rested than he.

As quickly as possible he recalled everything he knew about the ninja, their weapons and their methods, should it come in handy later:

Like the samurai, the ninja were well trained in the myriad arts of war, including, but not limited to: assassination, espionage, and various martial arts. Unlike the samurai, the ninja used their skills to become spies, sabatours and assassins… including assassins for hire. They fought without honor and followed no code.

The primary weapon of the ninja was the ninja-ken, also known as ninjato. The blade was shorter than a katana but was often kept in a katana-style sheath. The extra room in the sheath was often utilized for transporting and concealing other hidden weapons such as smoke bombs, real bombs fuelled by gun powder’ (often referred to as ‘eye closers , as they were packed with sand), shuriken and possibly a ‘shobo’, a piece of wood that was gripped by the wielder and was hung by a ring worn on the middle finger. The ends were sharpened and quite deadly.

On the other side of the coin were the samurai; their very name coined from the Japanese verb ‘saburau’ meaning ‘to serve’. Ninja were assassins and spies that operated under the cloak of darkness. Samurai operated in the open, the lawmen of their age. They protected the innocent and fought with honor, rather than deceit, as their shield.

The main weapon of the samurai was the katana, and often it appeared as if they fought only with that particular blade, though they also employed many other weapons of destruction, including the wakizashi, the bow and arrow, the tessen – also known as the ‘war fan’, as it was a piece of iron forged to look like a fan – the iron truncheon known as the ‘jutte’ and the ‘manrikigusari’, a length of chain with weights upon each end that was often used as a devastating swinging weapon. Rossiter carried only the katana with him.

Hiroshi trained him in the martial arts and the art of swordplay, but never in the use of other traditional samurai weapons. A true Japanese samurai trained a lifetime for his work, and according to his old friend, ten years provided only a basic knowledge of swordfighting with a katana and some martial arts. The rest would take another lifetime. Unfortunately, Manzo was likely well trained in the use of all ninja weapons and no doubt carried many of them on his person.

“You call yourself a samurai. Where is your wakizashi?” Manzo spat as they began to circle one another slowly. He was referring to the other traditional sword carried by the samurai, similar to the katana but smaller in stature. The term literally meant ‘side arm’. The wakizashi and the katana were generally worn together by a samurai during his travels.

“I buried it with its owner if that’s all right by you.”

Manzo grinned cunningly.

“And just for the record, Manzo,” Rossiter continued. “I never claimed to be a samurai. I’m just holding this sword for an old friend long dead. I’m not a samurai. I’m a U.S. Marshall.”

Manzo made a face that indicated his lack of respect for both the samurai and their American counterparts, the U.S. Marshalls. “Admit it, you were a heartbeat away from being Durrant’s right hand man. I dare you to admit that in front of everyone assembled here.”

“I may have bent, but I didn’t break. That’s all that matters.”

“You think yourself a cut above us, perhaps?”

Rossiter gestured to the crowd that eyed them. “Above them? No. Above you? Hell, yes. Dung beetles are above you on the food chain, you slug.”

Manzo spat on the ground. “I will be merciful just this once. Lower your weapon and get to your knees and I’ll make your death quick and clean.”

“Are you trying to develop a sense of humor or am I going deaf? I doubt you’ve ever been merciful in your short, sad life,” Rossiter shot back.

Manzo smiled then. “No, probably not. I admit, I’d have made your end as unpleasant as possible. Life has always been difficult for me. I was born and raised to be this way by an uncaring father and a whore of a mother. I was rejected by the samurai due to my class and forbidden by law to be the warrior I was meant to be. Instead, I picked away at a cruel and uncaring lifestyle until I was enlisted by the ninja and recognized by them as a kindred spirit.”

“Please don’t regail me with the sorry tale of woe that is your childhood, Manzo. I really couldn’t give a good god damn.”

“I’m only helping you prolong your inevitable defeat at my hands. But since you’re so anxious to get started, I might as well have some fun picking you apart first.”

Manzo lunged.

Rossiter tensed.

The battle for the souls of every resident in Angelwing was joined.

With little more keeping him upright than an iron will, Rossiter gritted his teeth as their blades locked with a resounding clash that echoed throughout the town and even throughout the strangely still mountain range, reverberating back upon them like a clap of thunder rolling across the plains. Each man looked the other squarely in the eye. Within the deep pools of Manzo’s eyes, Rossiter could see only a burning hatered. Only Manzo knew what he perceieved within his opponent’s eyes, and he wasn’t telling. If anything, Rossiter thought, Manzo could at the very least recognize weariness unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Hardly an imposing thought.

The elaborate snake tattoos that decorated Manzo’s arms flexed along with the sinewy muscles beneath his skin, warning of a new attack. Rossiter backed up several steps as Manzo pivoted on his right foot and brought his sword around in a wide arc, moving so quickly his weapon barely registered with the human eye. Rossiter just barely managed to block and deflect the blow.

If only he wasn’t so damn exhausted!

Relentless in his attack, Manzo pressed forward, thereby edging Rossiter backward a step or two with every passing minute. To the onlookers, it was clear who was on offense and who was on defence.

Manzo bought his weapon high overhead in a chopping attack. Rossiter only just managed to raise the katana over his head in time and deflect the blow with the classic umbrella block, sending Manzo’s blade down into the ground. Stunned for the briefest of seconds by this tactic, Manzo found himself off balance for the briefest of moments.

Rossiter switched gears and went on the attack, his blade hungry for Manzo’s exposed flesh. A very similar trick had worked earlier against the man called Joaquin in the mountains surrounding Angelwing, but even then Rossiter was pushed beyond his physical limits and moving slower than he would have liked. Manzo was nothing if not impossibly swift, and he rolled away to safety before the katana could taste his blood.

Rossiter grew more frustrated and his lips curled into a nearly feral snarl. He was too slow and getting slower with every passing moment. Manzo, for the most part, was still reasonably fresh and rested… and faster than greased lightening.

Manzo tucked and rolled out of reach of the katana and this time it was Rossiter’s turn to stumble forward as he sliced nothing but open air. Manzo rose to his full height as he came out of his roll and pushed off with his right foot against the water trough next to the hitching post outside what was once Damian Durrant’s home. He practically took flight as his powerful leg muscles propelled him through the air toward his foe.

Rossiter had never seen anything like it, and even if he had he was far too beaten and pummeled to react quickly enough against an attack like this. He actually howled in agony as the ninja-ken dug deeply into his left shoulder, sending a spray of blood across the mud and dirt of the thoroughfare.

Captilalizing on his advantage, Manzo was moving almost before he landed on the ground, twisting around and continuing his attack. His sword slashed four more times in a row, sending Rossiter to his knees. Though he himself couldn’t see it, everyone else in town could easily see that Manzo had just carved his initial into Rossiter’s back as his blood began to pour forth and form a macabre and jagged letter ‘M’.

“I like to autograph my masterpieces, Rossiter, and you will be my finest work of art!” Manzo shouted with pure glee as he ran forward, his sword eager for the killing blow. “Now when historians want to know who cut you up like a two dollar steak, they need only see my initial and they’ll know it was Manzo who was your better.”

Rossiter was still in shock from the quick cuts and the agony they caused as the blade came down. At this angle, it would surely impale him through the throat.

“Get up!”

Libby Cramer’s shout of warning was like a lightening strike that galvanized Rossiter into the only action he could think of. Dropping his own sword to the ground, he looked up just in time to see the ninja-ken, seemingly falling from the sky like the hand of God, ready to strike him down.

Rossiter threw himself to one side with all the energy he could muster as the ninja-ken just barely missed its mark while still managing to tear a strip off of his right shoulder. Manzo’s sword embedded itself in the dirt as Rossiter gripped his foe by the wrists, holding him in position.

Rossiter summoned all his remaining strength and reared back with a powerful right cross. Knuckles punished bone as his fist impacted with Manzo’s chin with the impact of dynamite. What was it Hiroshi had said to him during their last dream-like conversation?

“Your stength is in your duality. You are not a pure lawman, nor a pure Samurai. You carry the best of both worlds within you, and you do honor to them both. When one discipline fails you, rely on the other.”

Manzo reeled from the landed punch.

"All right then, old man." Rossiter thought to himself. "If I can’t do this the samurai way then we’ll do this my way… the way of the U.S. Marshall, and if there’s one thing a U.S. Marshall can do better than anyone, it’s brawl."

Manzo may have been a deadly foe with a sword, but he’d rarely been straight up punched in quite that way before. It had always been his custom to use his incredible speed to avoid most attacks, but Rossiter, with his long, lanky and powerful frame managed to punch him so hard he spat teeth and saw stars.

Spurred on by his newfound advantage, Rossiter leapt to his full and impressive height. Face to face, he was nearly a full head taller than his foe. His boot lashed out, kicking Manzo’s hands away from his ninjato. Again and again, he assaulted his opponent, raining old style American punches to Manzo’s face and chest.

For Manzo, he felt as if something exploded inside him with every punch. He was seeing stars and his ears were ringing. Rossiter may have been the inferior swordsman, but he was the stronger of the two. He also fully utilized his height advantage. To Manzo, Rossiter’s fists seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet he remained standing, though just barely.

Manzo’s opening came as Rossiter spat at him and lashed out with a kick, his long and powerful legs impacting with his Japanese foe’s chest, sending him skidding into the dirt and mud of the main street, until he impacted with the water trough he’d leapt from only moments earlier.

With some distance between them, Manzo had only the briefest of seconds to counter-attack as Rossiter ran forward to press his own assault. Robbed of their swords, both men could only resort to their own wits and wiles as weapons, though Manzo had a slight advantage in that regard.

From his sword sheath, Manzo produced a series of weapons that could easily be hidden in the palm of one’s hand. Before Rossiter could take another step forward, three razor-sharp shuriken cut the air. Thanks to his blurred vision, two of them whizzed by impotently, but the third embedded itself in Rossiter’s stomach, causing him to double over with pain.

Shaking his head free of the cobwebs, Manzo rushed forward and gripped Rossiter by the hair, leading him to the water trough normally reserved for horses. The next thing Max Rossiter knew, he was being held forcibly underwater. Manzo was practically grinning ear to ear as he regained the upper hand on his hated foe.

No one, neither his many foes in Japan nor those he brutalized here in the new world, had ever tested him like Max Rossiter. What did it take to put this man in the ground for good? Even now, Manzo remained unsure. Rossiter had almost singlehandedly decimated their ranks and killed their leader, Damian Durrant, but not before wiping out almost his entire army of hired killers and enforcers. For that reason alone, Rossiter must die.

Rossiter opened his eyes underwater. Strangely enough, he found the sudden dose of cold water on his face rather refreshing. He felt almost completely revived by the sensation. He’d always enjoyed swimming and the sudden quiet, muted world that always accompanied a dive underwater reminded him of his childhood days swimming in the creek. It was only after he tried to lift himself out and realized that Manzo’s iron grip was still holding him down, that he began to panic.

He tried to shout, only to have the sound diffused by the water into some strange and disturbing gurgles. He’d imagined the sounds resembled the death throes of some of the men he’d killed since arriving in Angelwing, particularly the town’s sadistic doctor, whom he’d drowned, and perhaps Noel Webster as he was buried alive and unable to dig himself out of the grave he’d dug.

Rossiter had to ask himself… was this his end?

As his already waning strength began to leave him, he stared down at the bottom of the water trough, searching for answers. Would this be such a horrible end? A few moments of struggling against Manzo’s grip and then a blissful peace… but he’d already found his peace without Manzo’s assistance.

Did it originate with the wood they’d found, the supposed remants of the true cross Jesus was once crucified upon? Or was it just the result of his trials and struggles since arriving in Angelwing? The results of discovering his true self: the lawman - not the savage avenger - or perhaps divine intervention?

Did it even matter? Embracing death now meant that he’d be leaving the remants of the true cross in Manzo’s hands. In his cruel and implacable possession, a ninja like he might march across the face of the earth with the army of darkness he could raise.

Though he realized later that it must have been the result of a hallucination, he imagined then that he could see his old friend Hiroshi’s face, looking up at him one final time. His features were stern and commanding, though not without a kind of gentleness and wisdom borne of age and experience. Hiroshi’s lips moved, but Rossiter could make out no sound.

Hiroshi’s lips moved again and this time Max made a concerted effort to read his old master’s lips.

“Get up!”

“Fight!”

With a reserve of strength Max didn’t even know he possessed, he blindly unleashed a back kick, one that possessed enough strength to cripple a mule, and whether by luck or by skill, connected neatly with Manzo’s right kneecap, nearly crippling him.

Manzo cried out in agony as he released his grip on Rossiter, who emerged from the trough with a mighty gasp for air. Both men fell to the ground in the mud as they nursed their wounds. Manzo crawled across the thoroughfare on his one good leg, blood spilling copiously from his nose and mouth, his once perfect teeth now a jagged and distorted mess, and his right leg at a somewhat distorted hyperextended angle. Rossiter began to crawl in the oppossitte direction in search of his katana, his own lifeblood spilling openly from the many different wounds inflicted by both Manzo and also by Damian Durrant’s entire army of thugs over the past few days.

It was, in effect, a race for arms. Who would get their weapon first?

Though he was by no means whole, Manzo was still in decidedly better shape than his opponent, who was an eyeblink away from falling into a coma. Libby Cramer, Ned Cardinal and even Roberta Gray all felt an impulse to run to Rossiter’s side or at the very least toss him his sword. Ned even took a few steps forward, his face a mask of indecision.

“No!” Rossiter shouted, stopping his friend in his tracks. “If you help me and I die here, he’ll take it out on you!”

Realizing that those words were the truth, Cardinal took his place in the crowd, which reminded him more and more of a group of Romans watching the gladiators battle to the death in the Coliseum, only everyone’s lives hung in the balance, not just those of the gladiators.

As they all watched in horror, Manzo regained his grip on the ninjato while Rossiter was still several feet away from his own weapon of choice. Through bloodstained teeth, Manzo grinned as he limped forward with his sword in hand. Though he was clearly injured by Rossiter’s onslaught, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the U.S. Marshall was in far worse condition.

Manzo stalked his prey, eager for the kill. He approached Rossiter at an even pace, not caring enough to rush the moment. His approach was almost nonchalant. The entire crowd watched in horror as Rossiter crawled pitifully through the dirt for his weapon. Manzo’s shadow was now looming over him like the angel of death.

“I’ve actually enjoyed this, Max,” Manzo quipped as he held the sword high and straddled his fallen foe. “But it’s time for this to end.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Rossiter whispered as he gathered a handful of dirt and let it fly in Manzo’s face.

The ninja took several steps backward as he clawed at his eyes, desperate to shake his clouded vision free. In those few seconds, Rossiter once again summoned his willpower and forced himself to dive for the katana just as Manzo’s vision cleared and he attacked with the ninja-ken.

At the absolute last possible second, Rossiter whipped around with his blade in hand. Katana and ninjato clashed once more, a mere inch from Rossiter’s face.

Stumbling no more, Rossiter rose to his feet, a man renewed as he held the katana in his grip. He felt as though his old friend - whose spirit was said to reside in his sword after his death according to the code of bushido – was now fighting alongside him and lending him strength. In fact, he felt as if an entire regiment of samurai were standing shoulder to shoulder with him against his lone opponent.

“Now… we end this.”

Manzo matched Rossiter’s gaze, and saw within an iron will and a fierce determination that caused him to shudder and the icy fingers of fear to claw at his spine. He imagined that this was the same icy stare that Damian Durrant, Dr. Stanley Glass, Harrison Chidress, Jim Bradley and Noel Webster all witnessed… just before their imminent deaths.

Despite himself, Manzo took a step back… allowing Rossiter to press forward. Given an inch, Rossiter chose to take a mile, and his blade flashed as it caught the rays of the sun. The speed of his attack tripled, as did the power behind each stroke.

Manzo was caught unaware by the sudden onslaught, and continued to give ground to his attacker, beads of sweat dripping furiously from his brow. He found himself edging backward, up the steps to the promenade, and even into the fire damaged saloon.

Rossiter said nothing as he gritted his teeth and forced his limbs to move at a speed that would possibly injure a perfectly hale and hearty man, let alone someone who’d been through the kind of torture he’d endured lately. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t let that stop him now. If he needed to, he’d fall into a coma later, but he wasn’t going to stop now, not when victory was so close at hand. They fought their way inside the saloon as Manzo did everything in his power to try and stop the juggernaut that was Max Rossiter.

He kicked chairs and tables in his path. Rossiter leapt over them. He tossed bottles and glasses at him. Rossiter ducked underneath them.

Their blades clashed incessantly as Manzo retreated up the stairs toward the second floor. Rossiter never let up his attack. In fact, he doubled his efforts and increased the speed of his attacks yet again. Manzo was sweating profusely now, just barely able to keep up to his rival.

“Fall, damn you!” Manzo shouted over the clash of their blades. Rossiter chose not to reply and instead concentrated on making the most of his efforts, increasing the speed and strength of his attacks even further.

As they reached the landing on the second floor, Manzo turned on his heel and ran for the balcony overlooking the main street, with Rossiter still on his heels. The ninja turned hired gun was suddenly very unnerved by his foe’s ongoing silence. He wanted nothing more than to put some space between himself and Rossiter. He was a ninja. He would retreat to the shadows and strike back when the situation suited him best.

Manzo ran out onto the balcony and leapt up atop the railing. From there he used his superior agility to make his way to the rooftop in one easy leap. This was the best vantage point in town, the place where the Gatling gun used to be kept. Here, he could see Rossiter coming, especially if he followed from the balcony.

His hopes were dashed, however, as the trap door that allowed a gunman to climb out onto the rooftop from the saloon splintered into pieces some ten feet from Manzo’s position. Without even looking, he knew that Rossiter was emerging from the opening like a phoenix erupting from the ashes. Sure enough, the U.S. Marshall erupted from beneath and charged forward, still saying nothing. Manzo turned on his heel and ran.

When he reached the edge of the saloon’s rooftop, he jumped the distance between the two buildings and landed on the next one. Rossiter followed, jumping the chasm between buildings with ease. Manzo continued fleeing, leaping from building to building as he tried to elude his opponent who was chasing him down like a lion stalking a gazelle.

As the crowd below shaded their eyes from the sun and craned their necks to see what was transpiring above them, Manzo quickly realized that he was running out of room to flee. There weren’t that many buildings in town to begin with, and Rossiter destroyed his fair share of them upon arrival. Soon he found himself with nowhere left to run… unless he leapt toward the one remaining building even remotely within reach, the church known as Angelwing.

It was a long jump. Angelwing bordered no building closely and stood in the center of town, but Manzo, with his speed and agility, could make it, even with an injured leg. A quick glance over his shoulder helped him make his decision. Rossiter was seconds behind him. Without thinking twice, he backed up a few feet and broke into a full run. Rossiter was nipping at his heels like the hounds of hell.

To the onlookers below, it seemed for a moment as if the ninja would take flight, almost suspended in midair for a heartbeat or two, before descending along a harsh trajectory toward the ground. Even Manzo was beginning to think that he wouldn’t make it until, at the very last second, his sandals collided with the church’s roof. He scrambled for a secure footing on the slightly arched rooftop, and found it quickly as he began to climb.

Manzo paused only to see Rossiter, his eyes still locked on the ninja assassin, leap through the air after him and land roughly, just a few feet below him. Manzo climbed like his life depended on it, which it may very well have. Rossiter still gave unrelenting chase.

Manzo reached the peak of the rooftop first, and readied his ninja-ken for battle once more. As Rossiter approached, he bought the blade down in a hacking motion. But the U.S. Marshall continued his impressive array of blocks and parries.

The crowd below looked to the top of their world as Rossiter and Manzo clashed like gods themselves, God and Satan battling in the skies for the souls of the flock below. For his part, Manzo was beginning to panic. Rossiter wasn’t holding anything back. If he kept this pace up much longer, he’d surely die in his current condition. His heart would surely give out. The look in his eyes told Manzo all he needed to know.

Rossiter knew this… and yet he fought on anyway.

He would die to protect these people.

He would die for the chance to kill Manzo and put and end to this evil once and for all.

As Rossiter fought, Manzo also made the conscious decision to double and then redouble his efforts. There was only one way to counter his foe’s attack. He would also have to fight as if his life didn’t matter to him.

As their swords clashed again and again, Manzo realized quickly that he was not equal to the task he had set for himself. He was, at heart, a coward and a bully. He wanted to live. He wanted to be rich and powerful sitting at the right hand of Damian Durrant. Durrant was a man of vision and ambition. He was going to rule the world, and Max Rossiter killed him.

The fight was over.

Their minds knew it… their bodies just hadn’t clued in yet.

Victory was an extension of will. To succeed and truly defeat your greatest foes, triumph required an act of iron resolve and a complete and utter lack of fear. One look in Max Rossiter’s eyes told Manzo that the U.S. Marshall possessed these qualities, where he clearly did not. Manzo was a fierce fighter, a ruthless opponent and as deadly as any force of nature, but he was not willing to die for his cause. Max Rossiter clearly was.

With that sudden and harsh truth crystallizing in his mind, Manzo felt the katana slip beyond his considerable defenses and tear several fingers from his right hand. He screamed and fell to his knees as the ninja-ken soared into the open air and landed amidst the crowd below, almost impaling an onlooker. Manzo’s blood arced through the air like crimson confetti as he held his hand out, gripping it with his left tightly at the wrist in a futile effort to halt the bleeding.

Finally, the battle was over. Max Rossiter stood over his fallen foe, his chest rising and falling so rapidly that even he suddenly realized how near to total collapse he actually was. Manzo may be finished, but Rossiter wasn’t that far behind him, with one foot in the grave rather than both.

“This is over, Manzo. Angelwing is finished and so are you.”

Manzo looked up to meet his enemy’s gaze. Situated atop the church as they were during early morning, as Manzo looked up at his foe, the sun was at Rossiter’s back, creating a halo of sorts around his head. The remainder of Rossiter’s features was in complete silhouette.

“All right, Rossiter. You beat me, so go ahead and kill me. Finish it for us. From the looks of you, I suspect you’ll be following me soon enough into the grave.” As he spoke, Manzo hoped that Rossiter was too tired and beaten to notice that his left hand was searching within the hidden folds of his belt for one last ditch weapon… an ‘eye closer’ bomb packed with sand and a few small nails. He may be about to die, but he’d be damn sure he took Rossiter with him.

“You only have two fingers remaining on your right hand, Manzo. You’ll never hold a sword again. There’s no reason to kill you now,” Rossiter replied through heavy and labored breaths.

“After what you did to us, after what you did to Durrant and the rest, after what you did to me and our rivalry, do you think I’ll actually give you a moment’s peace if you let me live? Do you think I won’t do everything I can to finish this blood feud between us? If I can’t come at you with a sword, Rossiter, I’ll sneak up on you as you sleep and cut your throat with a shuriken in my left hand. This I swear.”

The tip of the katana at Manzo’s throat never wavered. “I’ll take my chances against a seven fingered ninja. I defeated you even though I was already beaten all to hell. I think if I was rested I’d have taken you down a lot quicker.”

Manzo spat. “Mark my words. One day, Max Rossiter I will eat your heart.” He almost smiled then, as he felt the remaining bomb he carried in the compartment on his belt.

The two men waited for what seemed an eternity. They faced off, Rossiter, unsure of how to handle a man like Manzo now that he was defenseless, and Manzo, who awaited the perfect opportunity to strike. Rossiter’s brain was beginning to shut down from extreme exhaustion, blood loss and bodily trauma inflicted by an entire townful of Damian Durrant’s thugs.

The U.S. Marshall’s head began to swim. What should he do with this fallen ninja who’d sworn his revenge? Should he kill him outright? That was the way of the ninja, not the samurai. A samurai was beholden to Bushido, the code of honor that bound them all. To betray that was to betray his old friend’s most important techings, not to mention a betrayal of his own basic humanity. He’d fought hard and searched endlessly for his soul and now that he’d found it he wasn’t about to surrender it for anyone.

And yet, to let Manzo live was to practically invite repeated attempts on his life until the end of his days. Rossiter hoped to show mercy, but not at the expense of sanity. Even with only two remaining fingers on his right hand, the fallen ninja would prove to be a deadly and stealthy opponent.

As a wave of nausea began to overwhelm Rossiter, the katana blade he held at Manzo’s throat began to waver. That was Manzo’s cue to act.

His left hand just as quick and sure as his right, Manzo was galvanized into action. The ‘eye closer’ bomb was launched into the air, directly toward Rossiter’s face. He would be, at best, blinded permanently. At worst he’d be dead.

The following seconds of their lives passed in slow motion, as those moments often do. Max Rossiter’s mind snapped back to the present, suddenly fully aware of Manzo’s quick and most threatening motion. Adrenaline fuelled his movements like no other time before in his life. He recognized the weapon for what it was, a last ditch attempt to kill his opponent.

There was only one chance to survive.

The katana flashed, reflecting the sun’s rays once again as Rossiter swatted the tiny bomb with an unerring precision, sending it flying back in Manzo’s face where it exploded, knocking both men on their backs.

Manzo screamed as the sand and nails within the tiny explosive device went off unexpectedly in his face, tearing his skin and instantly blinding him. In his death throes, the fallen ninja rolled in agony, his convulsions so wild that he rolled off the edge of the rooftop and into the crowd below.

He landed with a dull thud on the dusty street below, his body twisted into a sickening pretzel shape with limbs darting off at odd angles. None of the townsfolk even gave him a second glance, as they were all intent on ascertaining the well-being of the man that had delivered them from evil: Max Rossiter. None were more upset than Libby Cramer.

“Max!” She called out, her voice laden with fear and apprehension. “Max, can you hear me? Are you okay? Please, God, let him be all right!”

There was no answer.

It was Ned Cardinal who finally took action, calling out to several of the younger men in the crowd. They gathered at his command and darted into the saloon, only to emerge moments later with a long ladder. Together, they made their way to Angelwing’s roof and scooped up Rossiter’s fallen body, slowly but surely lowering him to the ground.

Libby ran to his side. Rossiter’s eyes were shut. Was he dead or alive? She held his hand to her face and cried for him. When her tears met his skin, his eyes fluttered open at the sudden wetness. When he spoke, his voice was weak beyond compare.

“Where is he? Is he dead?”

“Yeah… he’s dead.” She was smilng down at him though her tears.

Rossiter then began the struggle to lift himself up off the ground. She held him down as the tears flowed openly now.

“Don’t! You’re hurt bad. Let me take care of you now.”

Rossiter nodded. “That’s fine with me, but I’ve always walked off every battlefield I’ve ever been on. I won’t break that tradition now. Help me up… and get my sword and gun belt for me too, if you please.”

Ned Cardinal helped Rossiter to his feet while handing him his sword and gun belt, which he’d dropped before the fight. He donned them and felt stronger just for possessing them once again. With that done, he began to limp away as he leaned hard on Ned and Libby. They would ease him into the shade of the saloon and get him a drink. Then he’d sleep in a real bed brought in from the whore house and let his wounds heal before they got the better of him.

It was Roberta Gray who alerted them to the fact that they were all still very much in danger. Her voice cut through the now still air with all the subtlety of shattering glass.

“Look out!”

Even then, Rossiter knew.

Somehow, Manzo still lived.

Rossiter, Cardinal and Cramer all turned as one. There, propped up on his right elbow, holding a stolen Remington dropped recently by one of Durrant’s fallen soldiers in the streets, was Manzo. His sights were clearly trained on Rossiter. But how was he doing it? Blood streamed openly from every orifice and the many deep gashes on Manzo’s face, including his eyes. He was clearly blind.

Then Rossiter realized that the highly trained ninja was utilizing his acute sense of hearing to track his location, and was about to fire blindly, if somewhat accurately, into the crowd. If not Rossiter, then surely someone else would die. Perhaps it would be Ned. Perhaps it would be Libby.

Manzo was well out of reach of Rossiter’s katana, not that he had the strength to wield it anyway. It was in those final seconds that he once again recalled the final words of his mentor, Hiroshi, during his dream on the way to Angel Falls and their discovery of the true cross.

“Your stength is in your duality. You are not a pure lawman, nor a pure Samurai. You carry the best of both worlds within you, and you do honor to them both. When one discipline fails you, rely on the other.”

That advice had saved his life once already this day. He was sure they’d save them all once again. Hiroshi would never let him down. Rossiter had won the battle using the skills of the samurai. Now he would win the day with the skills of a U.S. Marshall.

The katana was forgotten. Rossiter’s hand went immediately to his gunbelt. The Colt was in his hand and he was firing before he even consciously registered what was actually happening. The single bullet tore through Manzo’s throat and sent his broken body flying backward in a tangle of broken limbs and crimson spray. With a desperate gurgle as he choked on his own blood, Manzo spent his last breath.

Finally, it was over.

Or was it?

Yet another gunshot rang out, this one far less resounding than Rossiter’s Colt. This time, it was Ned Cardinal’s turn to fall to one knee as a bullet tore into his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Libby asked.

“It’s not that bad,” Cardinal said through gritted teeth. They all looked about for the source of the gunfire, and found it quickly as the sole remaining ruler of Angelwing finally made her presence known.

Genevieve Marie Madison stood there openly, a four shot derringer in her hand. She had three shots remaining and was aiming directly for Libby Cramer’s heart as tears ran down her cheeks openly. As her finger whitened on the trigger, another shot rang out, this one far more resounding and authoritative than that emitted from the tiny derringer.

Blood ebbed ever so slowly from Madison’s mouth as she slowly fell to the ground. Behind her stood Roberta Gray with the Remington Manzo had found on the ground only seconds before. Gray’s features were chiseled in stone, callous and uncaring after taking the whore madame’s life.

Spent now and without Ned to help hold him up, Rossiter fell to the ground one final time. Cardinal was by his side instantly whilst keeping pressure on his own shoulder wound.

“They’re all dead for sure now, my friend. About time, if you ask me.”

“That’s good to know,” Rossiter whispered. “I don’t think I have enough in me to take a piss on my own right now, let alone fight any more.”

“You just take it easy. We’ll take care of you now.” Cardinal replied as he squeezed his fallen friend’s shoulder.

“‘I’ll’ take care of him,” Libby interjected as she eyed him lovingly. “From now on… I take care of you… until your dying day.”

Rossiter craned his neck as he realized that the satchel that carried the remnants of the true cross were within arms reach. With his final surge of strength, he reached out for the bag and handed it to Libby, whose hands touched the wood lightly.

“I don’t know what this really is, but we’ll find your brother together when I get back on my feet, and if we find he’s dead already, this will mark his grave.”

Content that he’d regained his true path once more, Max Rossiter closed his eyes and slipped into a kind of coma. Ned, Libby, Roberta and several others carried his body into the saloon to address his wounds. For a long time, Max Rossiter knew nothing but a refreshing, dreamless sleep.

Two years later…

He stood on the front porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon as it cast a crimson glow across the entire landscape, making it seem as though the entire plain was on fire. As he chewed absentmindedly on a long piece of straw and leaned lazily on one of the wooden beams that held up the roof, he realized that he was no longer alone.

It could only have been her. He was a hard man to sneak up on, but he was always relaxed in her presence.

Attired in her finest blue dress, she approached him and rested her head on his shoulder. Together, they stared out at the vast plains that stretched out before them. The cattle they’d raised were healthy and well fed this year, the result of hard work on both their parts. They’d bring a fine price when he sold them on the market, ensuring an easy winter ahead and the hiring of more ranch hands.

Gently, she took his hand and held it to her stomach. He caressed the rapidly expanding pregnancy bump he found there and felt his child kick, as did she.

“He kicks like his father.”

He smiled. “How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

“Oh, a mother always knows.”

Doctor McGee examined her once every month since they’d settled at the ranch, and not once did he ever find any trace of the tumors that were once ravaging her body. Whether they went into remission on their own or simply disappeared due to some divine intervention when she touched the holy relic, no one would know for sure. Whatever the case, they were both given a second chance and eager to make the most of it.

He wore no gun belt. The Colts were tucked away in the bottom drawer in their bedroom. They hadn’t been fired since they’d burned that awful town in Montana to the ground. He was a man of peace once again. He was a man at peace once again. The katana still held a place of honor, mounted above the fireplace mantle, but he hoped never to use it in battle ever again. The only thing that remained to remind them of that horrible place was the ‘M’ shaped scar carved into his back, a reminder of his final enemy and the battle he almost didn’t survive.

As he looked out into the distance, he caught sight of the grave marker, the makeshift cross they’d rigged from the ancient wood found underneath Angel Falls. Was it the remains of the true cross? They still didn’t know. Nor did they care. If it was, they could think of no better marker for her brother’s grave. Surely, that would ensure Johnnie’s place in Heaven after all the suffering he’d endured before his death.

As he stared out at the wilderness before them, he eyed his loyal steed, Hiro, kicking up a storm of dirt as he wandered about the ranch, gleefully rejoicing in the ample space provided by his newfound home. The sight always made him smile.

“Sometimes I wonder, you know?”

“What’s that?” She asked as she traced lazy circles across his chest with her fingertip.

“This is everything I’d hoped for. Sometimes I wonder, when I collapsed after that final fight… did I ever truly wake up? Or is this just Heaven for me?”

She tittered ever so slightly, every trace of bloodlust and thirst for vengeance drained from her personality. She was a changed woman now that she’d put her past to rest and made peace with her brother’s death.

“You’re right. You never did wake up. This is Heaven. Would that be so bad?”

He wrapped his arm around her and held her tight. “No, Libby, it wouldn’t.”

She took him by the hand and led him inside, a sultry look in her eyes. “Good. Now come inside and make love to your wife before Ned and Roberta come by for a visit and ruin my mood.”

He eyed her lovingly. She was never more attractive to him now that she was pregnant.

“Yes, dear.”

- The End -

Max Rossiter will return.

UPDATE! Any readers interested in reading another adventure featuring Max Rossiter can find him in a western crossover written and posted here at fictionpress. I can't post links in my files, but if you search for "Cthulhu is an Awesome God", that's the pen name of the author of the "Clark Reeper Tales". His name is Michael and he wrote a story set after the birth of Max's son where he meets Clark Reeper and we learn more about the history of Max's Katana. The story is entitled "The Fastest Blade In The West" and I (obviously) highly recommend it. While you're there, check out his very original Clark Reeper series. It's some of the best, most original western fic I've ever read that crosses old style western shooting stories with vampire lore and other wild ideas.

Afterword: Hello there and thanks for reading my story through to the very end. This is my first ever-completed original novel! Yay, me! Many thanks to you, the reader, for putting up with my many mistakes and amateur foibles as the tale unfolded. I know I have a LOT of work to do to get my skills up to a professional level, but I can only learn by doing, and thus here we are, learning by doing. I hope you enjoyed the process of reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

It’s an interesting experience, finishing your first original novel. I’ve learned there are three stages of artistic creation: 1) conception 2) execution and 3) release. Conceptiona and execution is now complete and most artists/writers/etc. are well aware of these stages.

The release is when you get that really proud feeling that almost brings a tear to your eye, for me it is almost a maudlin sensation, that you just finished something you’re proud of and can share with people in the years to come. Other than having children (which I hope to do soon), artistic expression is about the best form of legacy that we can hope to leave, so I gave this (and every other story I’m working on) my absolute best given the time constraints of a job, a wife and a life outside of this that demands my attention.

I hope that, when this story is read in the future, by whomever, that I can still be as proud of it as I am now, and that there are many other chapters in many other stories (including further adventures of Max Rossiter) to digest and enjoy even more, written with more style, pinache, wit and skill that I now possess.

If that does, in fact, come true, I can only deeply thank everyone who has taken the time to review and encourage my efforts. Your emails and input has done wonders for me and for this story. Take it from me, and this is from my heart, I thank you. Seeing that fictionpress review bot, personal emails or posts to my yahoo group list, encouraged me more than I can say (probably because I don't yet have the technical skill at writing. Hopefully someday. ;)

On a final not, though Max Rossiter is married and has a child on the way, I do intend for him to return eventually. Sure, he's settled down, but you know how it is with gunslingers. They're never truly out of the game. Just tell Clint's character in 'Unforgiven' that. Besides, can you just imagine this guy protecting his family with that katana? You think he was brutal in this story? Huh, that'd be nothing compared to a personal battle for the survival of his family.

Or maybe he's still in a coma? ;)

Goodnight, Greta, my one-time Dutch transvestite lover, wherever you are...

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Westcott is a Canadian by birth, but don't hold that against him. Born in 1653 B.C. in a log hospital, John is well known as the inventor of organized religion, the childhood chum of Genghis Khan, and the main force behind the fall of communism.

John is a brain surgeon by day that moonlights as the Prime Minister of Sweden in his spare time. John is also a quadruped who can jettison the lower half of his body at night and excrete noxious fumes when attacked by a predator in the wild.

Known to millions of television fans everywhere as 'the young Winston Churchill' on the FOX sitcom "Don't Go There, Girlfriend", John is credited with being the first person to 'snap a Z'. Other notable achievements by John include curing all known diseases, inventing the number 6, molesting chocolate cake when it's not looking, perfecting his fake Irish accent, drinking Coca-Cola for breakfast (Pepsi sucks!), drinking Corona for lunch and splitting the atom for dinner.

The author would also like to voice his appreciation for the following products, without which, no writing would be done:

Coca-Cola

Zesty Cheese Doritos

Terry's Chocolate Orange

Corona Beer (with lime)

Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale

Jose Cuervo and Cabo Wabo Tequila

That being said, the author clearly needs to go on a diet and hit the gym more often.

Yours truly,
Richard M. Nixon (Mrs.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR'S WIFE

The author's wife is damn near perfect. Nuff said.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR'S CAT

Riley is two and a half years old, so he’s still pretty much a kid. Retrieved from certain death at the hands of the SPCA (who do good work, but I’m just saying, I love cats and the thought of putting them down just about kills me), all we know of his past so far is that his fued with the rapper 50 Cent is nowhere near over, and we're pretty sure he's the real father of Britney's children. He is the one true P.I.M.P.

Like Lucky (my previous cat) and all cats before him, Riley jumps around like yoda on crack when I shake a bag of Whiska's brand TEMPATIONS kitty treats, which is basically like crack for cats anyway.

And now a word from our sponsors:

Please buy Whiskas brand TEMPTATIONS kitty treats. They're scrump-diddly-umptious.

So what are you doing still here? That wasn't a request. GO BUY SOME! ;)

Below you’ll find a few notes and some trivia about the story you’ve just finished reading

- Though he’s also a gunslinger as well as a sword wielder, Max Rossiter very rarely kills anyone with his own guns. He uses a Gatling gun and some other weapons, but his main weapon is the katana throughout the book. The exception is when he shoots Manzo in the final scene with his Colt .45.

- Manzo slashes an ‘M’ into Rossiter’s back, a scar from that injury will always be with him. A scene in Ian Flemming’s James Bond novel, Casino Royale, inspires this. In the scene, a SMERSH assassin spares the captive Bond, saying: "I have no orders about you" — and cuts the word ‘spy’ into the back of Bond's left hand to identify him. It requires plastic surgery to cover the mark in future adventures. It also has a ‘Zorro-esque’ quality to it.

- There are a few famous names, mostly from spaghetti westerns, included in some of the final chapters as names for minor characters, meant as tributes to the source material that inspired this story. These include: ‘Blondie’, ‘Angel Eyes’ and ‘Tucco’ (from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly), ‘Snaky’ (From Once Upon A Time In The West), ‘Calvera’ (from ‘The Magnificent 7’) and ‘El Indio’ (From A Few Dollars More). Eli Wallach plays two of the characters mentioned (Calvera and Tucco).

- Damian Durrant, though not implicity stated, is left handed. He fights mostly with his left hand, especially with Rossiter’s sword. Left-handed people have been in the past considered as having satanic influence. My own grandfather (who was left handed), was regularly hit by the nuns in school when he used to write with his left hand, because they considered the left to be allied with the devil. He thus became ambidextrous. Durrant is also ambidextrous to a certain degree, but was born left handed. Before you ask, no, my grandfather was NOT the inspiration for Damian Durrant. His stories about being hit for writing with his left hand just inspired that little part.;)

- The fight with Jim Bradley, Angel Eyes, Tucco and Blondie, etc, in the mountains around Angelwing is inspired by the slow motion fight scene in ‘The Last Samurai’.

- In a tribute to some other source material that helped to inspire this story, Max Rossiter quotes Indiana Jones from the opening Shanghai ‘Club Obi-Wan’ sequence in Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom. (“Are you trying to develop a sense of humor or am I going deaf?”). Hey, it’s a lost relic hunt, right? Can’t write something like that without including a tribute to Indiana Jones.

- The final swordfight between Manzo and Rossiter is inspired slightly by the final lightsaber duel in Star Wars: Episode 3, Revenge Of The Sith, between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker (newly rechristened Darth Vader). It also draws some inspiration from the Luke Skywalker/Darth Vader battle in Cloud City in ‘The Empire Strikes Back’.

- Max Rossiter is an amalgam of several characters, including ‘The Man With No Name’ (from the aforementioned spaghetti westerns), Wolverine (AKA ‘Logan’ of Marvel’s ‘X-Men’ fame), Martin Riggs (AKA 'Mel Gibson' from the Lethal Weapon series, especially the first and second films) and Seth Bullock, from the HBO TV series ‘Deadwood’.

- Damian Durrant is meant to look like a larger, bulkier version of Marvel Comics’ ‘Nick Fury: Agent Of S.H.I.E.L.D.’

- The painting ‘The Exaltation Of The Cross’ that Max Rossiter and Damian Durrant discuss is real.

- Having the supporting cast carry Rossiter’s broken body away at the end of the final battle is a nod toward the final scene in my favorite movie of all time, ‘Gladiator’, starring Russell Crowe.

An author is a fool who, not content with boring
those he lives with, insists on boring future generations.