The Merciful Reaper

The dust settled as Girln Shi straightened up. The man from the local ranching community, while sturdy, was much shorter than him. Caught off guard, the man took a step back. "Friend," Girln Shi's voice was steady, deeper than the surrounding scrubland. "We're just passing through. Where is everyone? Did a sudden cattle drive pull them away?"

The local rancher, Tubal, recovered quickly from his surprise. A broad, sun-wrinkled grin split his face. "Drive cattle? Not today, partner! Y'all really must be passin' through blind. Today's Frontier Games Day! Everyone in the Three Creeks Association's headin' down to the old proving grounds by Saltwater Basin. Rodeo kickoff's soon. I just ran back to the stock barns for extra saddle soap. Won't find a soul 'round here otherwise. You folks wanna come? It's the biggest hoedown this side of the Rockies!"

The group drew closer. Dunce asked, his brow furrowed, "Friend, what kind of games are these 'Frontier Games'?"

Tubal chuckled. "Son, you gotta be kiddin' me! 'Frontier'? That's just our fancy way of sayin' 'Cowboy Spirit' round these parts. Folks from each creek valley gather up their toughest, most skilled hands and put 'em to the test. Y'all comin' or what? Games only happen once a year. Biggest thing since the county fair!" He shifted the heavy sack slung over his shoulder.

Mystic Mystic Moon practically bounced with excitement. "Yes! Oh yes! We absolutely must see this! Take us there!"

Tubal's eyes brightened as he took in Mystic Mystic Moon's bright face. "Well dang, little lady, you're purtier than a speckled pup under a red wagon! Name's Tubal. Welcome to the show!" He tipped his worn hat brim.

Girln Shi and Rockforce exchanged a glance. They'd heard whispers of these legendary Frontier Games – a wild display of grit and showmanship. It fit their schedule, and besides, they needed to barter for some tough pack stock or maybe a reliable ranch pickup. "We'd be obliged, friend," Girln Shi said, his voice measured. "Would outsiders like us cause any trouble at your gathering?"

Tubal's laugh boomed like a shotgun blast. "Trouble? Heck no! Three Creeks folks measure a man by his handshake and his grit, not his postmark! Any traveler who comes in peace is a friend." The low, mournful wail of a conch shell horn echoed from the direction of the basin. Tubal's smile widened. "Dang! Show's about to roll! C'mon then, follow my dust!" He spun on his heel and took off at a loping run towards the east, his boots kicking up puffs of alkali dust.

They glanced at each other and took off after him. Mystic Mystic Moon practically vibrated with anticipation; anything new was pure gold dust to her curious spirit.

Following Tubal through scattered cattle herds grazing on sparse clumps of saltgrass, a sight unfolded below them. The Saltwater Basin, nestled in a depression, had hidden the scene until now. As they cleared the last stragglers, a panorama of near-chaotic energy burst into view. Hundreds, maybe a thousand folks from the North Fork, South Bend, and East Rim communities packed the grounds below. Dress was practical – faded plaid shirts, worn jeans, dusty leather vests, many young men shirtless under the hot sun, voices raised in enthusiastic shouts and whoops. Most perched easily atop powerful quarter horses or sturdy ranch bikes, faces split by grins of pure excitement. The centerpiece was a vast, flat arena. Along its perimeter, wood smoke curled upwards from massive iron barrel BBQs where whole sides of beef and pork slowly roasted, sending mouth-watering aromas of charred fat and spices swirling on the air. Dunce's stomach growled audibly.

"Hang on, hang on!" Tubal waved them forward. "Action's 'bout to start. I'm North Fork blood – we'll blend in with that crowd." He steered them towards a section of equally enthusiastic folks near the northern BBQ stands. Locals barely gave them a second glance; a few nodded, offering easy smiles and welcoming calls of "Howdy stranger!" or "Welcome to the Games!"

The conch horn blast sounded again, sharp and insistent. The vast crowd fell into a restless, low murmur, anticipation thick as dust motes. From the North Fork, East Rim, and South Bend sections, three distinct groups spurred their mounts or gunned their pickups. Engines roared and hooves thundered as the vehicles and horses raced flat-out towards the center of the arena. Just before what looked like an inevitable collision, drivers hauled back on reins or slammed brakes. Trucks locked wheels, kicking up huge plumes of dust; horses reared dramatically, neighing and pawing the air. Precision driving and riding worthy of any Hollywood stunt team. Dunce was impressed; no wonder the horsemen of the Three Creeks had a reputation.

Rockforce rubbed his big hands together, a predator's grin spreading across his face. Among his own mountain tribe, he'd been famed for handling horses and anything that moved fast. Seeing masters at work, his own competitive spirit ignited like dry tinder. "Tubal! How does a fella get in on that action?" he bellowed.

The three groups met in the dust-filled center, circling each other. The crowd surged to its feet, erupting in cheers and rebel yells that shook the ground. The leaders of each contingent – grizzled men in their forties, weathered by sun and saddle – raised heavy stock whips or tire irons high, joining their crews in booming war cries or revving engines to the redline.

After a minute, the noise subsided. The leader from North Fork, standing tall in his stirrups on a massive appaloosa, bellowed through cupped hands: "All right, y'all! Settle down now! Today's the day! Our annual Frontier Games – proving ground for the next generation of Three Creeks grit! A year's hard miles are behind us, and now it's time to see who's earned the braggin' rights…"

Tubal leaned towards his charges, pitching his voice over the hubbub. "That there's our boss man, Marshal Cooper. North Fork runs deepest 'round here." He gestured expansively. "Games got two big acts. First part's the Trials: Driving, Grapple, and Shootin'. Winners earn stripes for their creek. Second act? Pure, unbuttoned celebration! Bar's open, food's free! Only day of the year nobody lifts a finger but for fun. Fancy tryin' your luck?" He raised a bushy eyebrow at the group.

Girln Shi blinked. "We are allowed to compete?"

"Allowed? Shoot, son, encouraged!" Tubal grinned. "Ain't no pedigree check at the start line here! Just guts and skill. Winners walk away rich! Driving champ gets keys to a fully restored '69 Bronco – sweet runner! Grapple champ…" he winked, "…gets the *best* prize. Choice of any unmarried gal over eighteen from the Three Creeks who'll have him! Makes for fierce scufflin', I tell ya. Young bucks fightin' for glory *and* the gal they been sweet on all year. Shootin' champ bags a cool five grand in cash money."

The mention of the Bronco lit up their eyes. Rockforce practically vibrated. "Me! I'm in for the driving! Friend, point me to the sign-up!"

Tubal slapped his thigh. "Ha! Feelin' the heat, are ya? But hold yer horses, partner. Tandor't see no rig under ya!"

Rockforce's face fell. "Ah, hellfire. Left mine up north. Missed my chance." He scowled, kicking at a clump of dirt.

Tubal's laugh was easy. "No sweat off my saddle! Tell ya what – you can run my spare ranch beater. 350 V8 under the hood, ain't pretty but she scoots. Win that Bronco, and it'll shine glory on North Fork and me both!"

Rockforce's face lit up like a campfire. "Deal! Much obliged, friend!"

As Tubal hurried off with Rockforce to get the truck, Girln Shi shook his head with a wry smile. "That man... the smell of gasoline or horse sweat, and he forgets his own name."

Mystic Mystic Moon giggled. "If Girln Li wins, we get wheels! Might only need one more vehicle now."

Down in the arena, the marshals were engaged in some ceremonial display involving an oversized horseshoe. Dunce paid it little mind; his senses were full of the glorious BBQ smells. Food was a serious business to him. Girln Shi, though outwardly calmer since their trials, remained watchful and reserved, his gaze fixed on the proceedings below. Mystic Mystic Moon was buzzing, soaking in the raw energy of the crowd.

Tubal returned, beaming. "Girln Li's got grit, alright! Knows his way around an engine, that's for sure. Picked the quickest of my junkers. Keepin' my fingers crossed."

Dunce asked, "How does the driving work, Tubal?"

"Simple as dirt, son," Tubal explained. "Straight shot east, about ten miles out. There's a plywood cutout of a Golden Eagle painted up special, nailed high on a post out near Cougar Rock. First one to grab that bird and haul tail back with it wins. Sounds easy, huh? But try stayin' in the lead when twenty other knuckleheads with souped-up heaps are tryin' to spin you out or box you in! Grabbin' the Eagle first ain't nothin'. Gettin' it *back*… that's the trick. Ran it myself five years back. Didn't even sniff that eagle feather!" He chuckled warmly.

Dunce thought of Girln Li's sheer nerve behind the wheel, wherever it was needed. "He'll do it. Best driver I ever rode with."

Tubal clapped him on the shoulder. "Hope ya right! Got time before the engines scream. How about a look at the Shootin' gallery and the Grapple pit?"

Sections were already cordoned off in the arena. The largest held ten steel silhouette targets, placed a good five hundred yards out at the far end. Another area was divided into rough wrestling circles, perhaps two dozen of them. The shooting competition measured accuracy. The grapple matches were knockout style: defeat three consecutive opponents to advance through brackets until one champion remained. Following Tubal's lead, they pushed towards the action, Dunce instinctively keeping Mystic Mystic Moon close, an arm protectively around her shoulders amidst the press.

The grapple pit was jammed shoulder-to-shoulder, sweat and the pungent smells of livestock, grease, and cheap cologne thick in the air. Girln Shi grimaced slightly. "Perhaps the Shootin' range. Bit more breathing room."

Tubal nodded apologetically. "Can't blame 'em. Who doesn't dream of bein' champ, winnin' the gal? Young blood runs hot." They extricated themselves and made for the shooting line. The crowd here was thinner. Five hundred yards was a *serious* distance. Hitting a dinner plate-sized steel plate that far required immense skill. Only seasoned long-range shooters – often former military or competition shooters – dared enter. Rifles cracked sporadically, bullets smacking steel with a faint, satisfying *ping!* in the distance.

Tubal explained: "Looks 'bout forty signed up. First round, ten shots each. Top ten scores shoot again for the big prize. Just gettin' warmed up. Care to throw a lead?" He looked pointedly at Girln Shi, whose build suggested formidable strength. But Girln Shi merely shook his head.

It was Mystic Mystic Moon who pushed Dunce. "Come on, Dunce! Try it! Five thousand dollars! Think of all the burgers!"

Dunce shuffled his feet. "But… Mystic Mystic Moon, I've never shot a rifle before. Won't come close to winning." It was true; firearms were unfamiliar tools.

Mystic Mystic Moon wasn't deterred. "Nobody's born knowing! How do you know you can't unless you try? Just for fun! If *I* could lift one of those big ol' scoped things, I'd try!"

Tubal grinned. "She's got the spirit! Go on, son! Just line up the sights, take a breath, squeeze gentle. Easy as feedin' chickens."

Dunce hesitated. Images of Mystic Mystic Moon's face when they were penniless flickered in his mind. He gritted his teeth. "Okay. I'll try. Tubal, sign me up." His decision thrilled Mystic Mystic Moon. She clapped her hands. "Yes! Dunce's the best! You got this!"

Girln Shi gave a rare smile and squeezed Dunce's shoulder. "Pick the heaviest bench rifle, friend. Weight steadies the shot. True shot flies straight."

Dunce nodded and let Tubal lead him to the registration table. Signing up was easy – just a name and number. The locals welcomed the outsider. He was shooter forty-eight. Qualifying was underway; Dunce joined the final wave.

Tubal directed him to the weapon racks. To prevent unfair advantage, shooters used provided rifles – no custom tactical rigs allowed. Dozens of long guns sat waiting. Dunce stared blankly. Girln Shi's words echoed: *pick the heaviest*. He tested the heft of several rifles. Toward the back, one massive beast caught his eye. He lifted it. It felt solid, purposeful. Near the back, Dunce spotted a beast of a rifle. Unlike the others, it wasn't sleek or modern. Its barrel was like a cannon, the stock massive and dark. He grabbed it.

"Number forty-eight, to your station! We're burning daylight!" the range master called.

Dunce hurried to stall eight. The range officer's eyes bulged as he saw the cannon in Dunce's grasp. "Son… you ain't planin' on usin' that ol' buffalo gun, are ya? Thing weighs as much as a sack o' feed sacks. Ain't nobody's shouldered Ol' Thunder in five years!"

Dunce looked at the behemoth, dubbed "Ol' Thunder." "I'll… try. Might manage." He needed all the steadiness he could get.

The range master snorted, intrigued. "Suit yourself, kid. Gonna be a sight." The .50 BMG bolt-action rifle was notorious – chambered for anti-material rounds. Few could handle its monstrous recoil unbraced. "Contestants, lock and load! Ten rounds. Twenty minutes."

Dunce mimicked the other shooters: hefted the massive rifle, flipped the bipod down, lay prone behind it, and slid a single enormous cartridge into the chamber. Mystic Mystic Moon's cheers reached him. Adrenaline surged. The weight felt solid, grounding. He settled the crosshairs on the tiny silhouette a half-mile away. He squeezed the trigger lightly. A gentle press… then resistance. The trigger pull felt like hauling up an anchor. Dunce poured his focus into it, willing his finger strength. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Nothing fired yet. Other shooters paused, staring at the boy wrestling with Ol' Thunder. Mystic Mystic Moon's cheers spurred him on. He gritted his teeth. A low growl escaped him. He poured every ounce of strength into his finger. His knuckles turned white. He could *feel* the sear about to break… *CRACK!*

*BOOOM!*

The sound dwarfed all other gunfire, a concussive blast that kicked up dust a foot around the rifle and punched Dunce's shoulder like a mule. The bullet flew with hypersonic speed, a barely visible streak. The crowd held its breath, squinting downrange. Where would it land? None of them anticipated what happened next. This was Dunce's virgin shot.

A huge cloud of dust and debris erupted not at target eight, but fifty yards to the right. Splinters of plywood flew high. Ol' Thunder's recoil had shoved the muzzle at the last millisecond. The massive round obliterated target seven's base entirely. The blast wave had felt like a physical punch. Dunce collapsed back, gasping. Firing Ol' Thunder had drained him entirely.

"Holy smokes!"

"Did you see that?! BOOM!"

"He lifted that cannon!"

Cheers erupted. Locals whooped. This stranger shouldered their legendary beast! Mystic Mystic Moon scrambled under the ropes, eyes wide. "Oh my gosh! Dunce! I *said* you were amazing! You blew it away!" She grabbed his hand. Girln Shi followed, lifting Ol' Thunder with visible effort. He whistled. "Now that… commands respect."

The range master consulted his spotter. His expression was strained. "Shooter forty-eight. First shot… Target seven obliterated. Score… zero. Wish it was yours." He looked at the destroyed target frame.

Mystic Mystic Moon puffed up. "Zero? He destroyed it! That should count!"

Range master wiped his brow. "Kid, if he'd vaporized *his own* target, I'd give him ten points on style alone. But he turned number seven into toothpicks."

Mystic Mystic Moon saw stall eight clearly labeled. Her argument fizzled. Dunce regained his breath, shaking. His shoulder throbbed. He'd felt something pull. "Mystic Mystic Moon… the rifle… too strong. Can't fire it again." Firing Ol' Thunder once was his limit.

Mystic Mystic Moon saw the strain on his face, the slight tremor in his arm. "Oh, Dunce… it's okay! Forget it. We don't need the prize, silly."

Dunce looked at her concern. Determination flared. He turned to the range master. "I withdraw." He pulled himself up.

A collective groan rose from the spectators. Anticlimax! The range master tried: "Hold on, kid! Grab one of these .308s! Give it another whirl!"

Dunce shook his head firmly. "No, sir. My shooting… it's terrible. Might hit the BBQ tent next time." Hand in hand with Mystic Mystic Moon, he retreated from the firing line under a wave of disappointed murmurs and a few chuckles.

They found a quiet patch of dusty ground near some pickups. Dunce sank down, wincing. "That rifle… serious punch." His shoulder screamed protest.

Girln Shi clapped his shoulder lightly. "Respect, brother. That kick… felt like hitting bedrock. Takes three men to fire that thing prone normally. Your strength grew with the miles." He looked thoughtful. "That weapon wasn't meant for sport. It was a legend gathering dust."

Tubal joined them, beaming. "Hot diggety dawg! You actually fired Ol' Thunder! That rifle's practically a monument!" He slapped Dunce on the back good-naturedly.

Dunce reddened. "My aim… sorry."

Tubal roared with laughter. "Aim? Who cares about aim when you make the ground shake?! Anyway, the Bronco run's revving up! Look!"

At the arena's edge, a chaotic line of muscle cars, jacked-up pickups, mud boggers, and even a couple of dirt bikes snarled and roared. Rockforce was unmistakable, perched high in a battered, primer-gray Ford F-250, its exhaust blatting aggressively, a bright red bandana tied around his head.

With a piercing airhorn blast, the pack exploded into motion. Engines screamed, tires screamed louder, throwing massive rooster tails of dirt and gravel skyward. Rockforce urged his borrowed beast forward, swiftly threading through the initial chaos. As the dust cloud swallowed the racers heading east, Rockforce was solidly in the lead pack.

Tubal whooped. "Now that's rubbin' is racin'! Girln Li's got the feel! My old junker ain't the prettiest filly, but she's got heart!" He beamed with pride.

Dunce grinned, catching his breath. "He'll win. He always does."

With the driving contest underway, some of the grapple crowd drifted towards the pits to watch the spectacle. Mystic Mystic Moon tugged Dunce's sleeve. "Come on! Let's see the wrestling!" Dunce agreed, less enthusiastic but curious. Girln Shi watched closely, his expression unreadable.

The grapple tournament had narrowed to its final four. Sweat-soaked and breathing hard, thick-necked men circled each other in the main pit. Three were towering specimens easily Girln Shi's size, raw power personified. One, noticeably shorter but thickly muscled like an oil drum, moved with deceptive speed and cunning. Holds were broken and reversed with brutal efficiency: bear hugs, hammerlocks, hip tosses, leg sweeps. It was a display of pure grit and leverage.

Suddenly, *THUD!* One giant crashed onto his back, the wind knocked out of him. He gasped, unable to rise. Simultaneously, the shorter fighter (Ridge) landed a perfect double-leg takedown, driving his larger opponent hard onto the unforgiving ground and pinning his shoulders with relentless leverage. He'd outmaneuvered his exhausted foe. The referees signaled the wins. The last two competitors – the remaining giant and Ridge – had earned the right to the final match after a brief rest.

"Ridge! Kick his big, ugly tail! You gotta win!" The cry came sharp and clear from beside them. Lanny stood there, dark eyes blazing. Her simple cotton dress couldn't hide her vivid energy. She vibrated with fierce pride and nervous hope, her eyes locked on Ridge. There was no mistaking her devotion.

Tubal sighed, a touch wistfully. "Lanny… firecracker, that one. Marshal Cooper's girl. North Fork Belle. Grew up next door to Ridge. Boy's been trainin' every spare minute since he could walk – feed sacks filled with gravel, workin' his uncle's scrap yard. Got one shot today."

Girln Shi's gaze lingered on the animated girl. "Why one shot?" His voice was quiet.

Tubal rubbed his chin. "Ridge's parents… passed in the big flood when he was nine. Raised by his uncle, scrap man. Good heart, strong back, but… well, the Marshal expects a man who can *provide*, not just a strong back, if he's gonna court his daughter seriously. Win today? That's proof. Proof he's top dog. Proof he deserves her. Lanny turned eighteen last month. Every buck in Three Creeks knows who the winner's gonna pick if he wins." He paused. "So, Ridge either wins today… or the dream dies."

Girln Shi's expression softened. "May fortune favor the brave," he murmured.

"LOOK! He's back! Girln Li!" Mystic Mystic Moon's shriek cut through the tense anticipation.

They spun. A new sound joined the arena buzz – a raw, unmuffled V8 roar, coming from the east fast. Girln Li was *back*, and he was alone. He leaned far out the driver's window of the heaving F-250, one giant hand waving a huge splintered eagle wing above his head, the other hand casually draped over the oversized steering wheel. The pursuing pack was a good hundred yards back and splintered. A black Jeep Cherokee closed the gap, riders trying to grab the wing. Girln Li simply snatched an old tire iron off the floor and waved it menacingly out the window. The Jeep swerved wildly, backing off in terror.

Dunce and the others leaped to their feet. "YAN LI! UP HERE!" They bellowed his name. Tubal whooped. "I'll flag him down at the finish!" He tore off towards the finish line markers near the pit entrance. Girln Li spotted him, grinned like a madman, and aimed for the line. He shot across it sideways in a spectacular cloud of dust, lifting the wing trophy high. The crowd surged, engulfing the truck in a tide of back-slaps and cheers. Zhuy was loud and chaotic. He wouldn't be joining them anytime soon.

Girln Shi shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and deep affection in his eyes. "Thick hide and a heavy foot… that's him alright." He turned back towards the pits.

Dunce chuckled. "Two rides secured. Just need one more now." Maybe a sturdy quad or side-by-side for the rougher trails.

Mystic Mystic Moon tugged his hand. "Just one. I don't *like* driving on these scary roads. You can drive me." Her tone brooked no argument.

Dunce blinked. "But… my driving…"

"Slow and careful," Mystic Mystic Moon stated firmly, already pulling him back towards the grapple pit where the final showdown was about to begin.

Below, the atmosphere crackled. Lanny had pushed to the very front rail. Ridge and his opponent, both stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat and exhaustion, stood facing each other across the trodden earth circle. Ridge was breathing heavily, deep shadows under his eyes, the cost of earlier battles paid. His opponent, though equally weary, looked slightly fresher, eyes sharp. The head ref brought his hand down sharply. "FIGHT!"

Both men lunged. Hands locked on thick wrists and shoulders. Muscle strained against muscle. They heaved, grunted, pivoted. Neither could gain immediate advantage. A brutal stalemate developed, sheer will and diminishing reserves pitted against each other. Lanny's voice cut through the crowd noise – a high, clear cry of pure faith and desperate urging. "Ridge! YOU CAN DO IT! FOR US!"