It was the seventh and final day of the Golden Coronation Celebration of Harold Dyer, and Florence Greenwood’s informant was late.

  The chill of the silver pocket watch washed over her hand as she yanked it from her pocket. True, she had expected the delay. This particular man had never been known for his timely nature even when alive. Five had been justifiable within reason. Fifteen had been aggravating. But, a full half hour was unacceptable. She placed the edge of the silver rim onto the wooden table and gave it a spin.

  The Bed Scorpion Cantina was as inviting as the name led one to believe. Between the dirt floors and ever lingering smell of petrol, the fact the place was empty outside her and the bartender was no surprise. What did he ever see in this place? She wondered, snatching the watch by its rim abruptly halting it. A slow sigh left her lips. Her neck popped from her stretch, and she spun the watch one more time.

  Whoever it had been, asked for Captain Ironside’s presence at this establishment. The question was not whether or not it was a trap, but how they knew his direct line. Any other message, the Captain would have brushed it all aside, but the note had ended with: “For that thorn under your skin.” Florence could have sworn the Captain’s face turned pale at that line.

  Thorn was five years in the grave for his attempted mutiny against the Captain and the murder of the captain’s second hand Amatto Mutt. Typically, the Dust Devils were not ones to give merit to ghost stories, but when a spirit messages your leader's direct encrypted line with an old inside joke asking to meet at that ghost’s former favorite bar, well . . . you start believing in the supernatural.

  Anytime the Dust Devils had passed through the town of Maker, Thorn would beg and plead for them to hit his old stomping ground. He loved this place, and they loved him - their old folk hero. He would promise only one round. Before they would know it, the gang would have had seven - no one wanting to leave. Once that time finally had arrived, Thorn would make them all take a night cap. Some down right awful mixture of straight hot tequila accented with a supposed scorpion tail at the bottom. Florence fought the bile rising in the back of her throat at the memory of the taste.

  The slight drum from the watch gave warning to its last full spin coming to completion. “Ammo, this is Florence. Tell the Captain that nothing and no one is here. Ain’t even seen a damn single living person, let alone a ghost. I’m grabbing a drink then be back West of the tracks within the hour,” She said into the communicator upon her left forearm.

  “Don’t forget that night-cap. Be rude to dishonor the dead, and we both know how much you like them,” Ammo responded, laughing into his mic as her palm slapped on the display screen hanging up the call. She grabbed the resting watch from the table. Her thumb brushed the engraved bleeding eye raven sigil as it found its home back in her pocket.

  The bar was located in the center of the cantina. Stood no more mid torso to her frame from a mixture of reused barrels and wood. Despite the hardy base, the bar surface was in pristine condition. Florence grabbed an empty stool at the corner and waited.

  “What may I do for you, ma’am?” The portly barkeep asked, drawing out the last syllable as if fighting for breath to end the sentence.

  “A little dead tonight.”

  “It’s early. Plus, they’re all at the square for the execution. Once, that third cannon fire confirms its death. They’ll be pouring in - like always.”

  “Who’s it this time?” Florence asked, finding her seat.

  “That Luxury Prostitute Synth Unit that killed some men a few months back. It calls itself Nicki Lux, like it’s one of us.”

  “No shit, they got her?”

  “They got it,” he corrected, “Now, what can I get you?”

  “Beer.”

  “Any preference?”

  “Cheapest and coldest you got,” she said, letting him turn his attention to the spouts before adding, “Have any one arm loud ass men been through here?”

  “Ma’am, I mean no disrespect, but half my customers work the rail yard, the other half : the oil rigs or salt fields. You are gonna have to be more descriptive than a loud man missing a limb,” the barkeep chuckled, wiping down the side of the glass then placing the drink in front of her.

  “This one was a little too full of himself, but I would guess that doesn’t narrow it down either,” she joked back leaving room for the portly man to give her a chuckle. “How much?”

  “Nothing, someone covered the tab for the night.”

  “Who?”

  Before the barkeep could respond, the click of heels broke the silence as they approached the stool next to her, and interjected, “It felt only right given the meaning of the night,” the stranger said while pulling out the stool to take his seat.

  “Never gonna turn down a free drink or two,” Florence said with a sly smile which washed away with the foam of the beer. A side glance clocked the man. He was of average height but tall for a local of Makers. A mustard colored shirt draped from his shoulders down to his tan gloved right hand. A close cropped salt and pepper beard helped frame a chin set by a slight smile beneath a beak of a nose. As I live and breathe, she thought registering the tear path scar down his right cheek. She had to tighten her grip on the glass to ensure it did not fall from her hand. Collecting herself, she placed it back on the bar. “I’ll be damned. You know, I am going to owe the Roe Twins a pretty penny. They bet you were still alive, and I said you weren’t.”

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  “Ehh, if those two are still sharing one brain. They’ll forget before you see them again,” Thorn said, sitting down next to her. He rested his hands on the bar as a sign of good faith.

  “What does a dead man walking like you need with a fancy thing like that?” She asked, nodding down at his three finger robotic left hand. “Heard all those Human and Synth integration trials killed people. Something about it - frying one’s brain.”

  “Still smarter than those two shit heads Preston and Parker Roe,” he jested back at her.

  “Hey now, if you are going to be back amongst the living, you must remember your manners. Can’t have you talking like that in front of a lady.”

  “Is that what they allow you to call yourself? I must have missed a lot in my time in the grave.”

  “Speaking of which. Was there an informant? Was it you or is that someone dead?” She asked, leaning onto the bar with her elbows.

  “First you’re a lady and now you have grown soft - much has changed,” he said.

  “Heavens, no,” a playful laugh floating in the air between them, “Wondering if I have to pay you or if I am off the hook. Feels in bad moral standing to not pay a man for a job he has done. How much is the going rate for giving information upon oneself?” Her shoulders loosening as she worked her far hand down beneath the bar.

  “I don’t take money from the dead.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, a moral standing.” A soft smile dashing on then off his face.

  “Fair enough. You know, I would’ve picked the coin from your corpse anyway.” Thorn broke his focus from her. He gave a swift glance to his few blind spots. “I could have saved you the effort. Captain Ironside did not want to go chasing a man long dead. Have a few men in position outside, one upstairs, nothing more,” she lied to him. “We try not to be too apparent in the city these days. Keeps us off the radar of House Dyer.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Rumor is you all sold out. Became lap dogs, contracted privateers of the desert. Like I said, much has apparently changed,” he said with scorn in his voice.

  “Not all rumors are true-” she said.

  “-But, best ones hold a kernel of truth.” he interjected.

  “Why talk about us? You’re the man back from the grave. Do tell,” She said, deflecting his accusation. “Talk of the town mentioned a man fitting your description. We gave it no mind other than rambles of a few sun poisoned old women, but then we got that message. Too much was coming together for us to ignore.” She explained before taking a long swig of her drink. “Everyone claims you have the three fastest guns this side of the Ocotillo Divide. A girl can’t help but wonder which gun they are talking about being third.”

  “So much for being a lady,” Thorn said, keeping both hands on the bar.

  “Can’t change what or who we are,” she said, glancing back over to confirm the location of his hands. She unstrapped the top of her two guns upon her right thigh. “Why now?”

  “Why now what?”

  “Why now reveal yourself? It’s been five long years. You could have happily lived out your days as a warden of some salt farm north of the city. We could have lied to ourselves if someone else claimed it was you, yet you went and poked the bear. Ironside is gonna want your head this time. I can’t let you get away. Even if you do, we’ll track you down like a dog,” Florence said with her right hand finding the handle of her lead slugger.

  Thorn’s three metallic fingers drummed atop the bar as he clearly thought of his options. “How many thousands of people do you think came into Maker this week? Harold Dyer reaching age to be a full pending heir, that Nicki Lux woman head lining the executions. You know, I would bet over 100 thousand came in today alone for the festival’s grand closure. That is a lot of people leaving at one time. In fact,” his right hand reached into his left breast pocket. Florence visibly flinched. “Calm down, I’m checking the time, see.” He pulled out a familiar silver pocket watch with a bleeding eyed horny toad on the back. “The execution of Nicki Lux was supposed to be at 5, but it got delayed thirty minutes. I bet by now, they’re finishing up the grand speech.” He put the watch back into his left breast pocket. “Hey barkeep, two night-caps amongst old friends.” He ordered, turning back to Florence to say, “Only right given the achievements of the day.”

  The bartender placed the two shot glasses in front of each of them, then rounded the corner to the back of the bar. “What’s with the look?” Thorn asked.

  “Any words?” Florence asked, reaching for the glass and raising it as she drew her gun - hidden beneath the bar.

  Thorn reached for the drink with his right hand keeping his left fidgeting on the bar top. “When you see him, can you tell him - I’m sorry…-”

  “-the Captain already knows,” Florence interjected.

  “Not Ironside, but Mutt,” he corrected. The first boom of the cannon rattled in her chest. The second sharply followed, then a third and finally a fourth. Her hand grew weak. She lost her grip of the shot glass letting it shatter on the bar top. Florence dropped her gaze down, and watched as a red halo began to stain her clothes from between her breasts. She lifted her eyes to Thorn’s torso. Ruptured through his mustard shirt was an additional three robotic fingered hand holding a lead slugger. “Guess, that answers the question on which gun is the third,” he said, passing the slugger up to his second robotic hand as the third worked its way back into his shirt then down the left sleeve - both of them fused back together to make one single six fingered hand. Florence looked at the robotic hand then into his blues eyes. A soft chuckle tried to form from within her, but only a slight gasp left her lips. Thorn cradled her left cheek. He gave a nod of acknowledgement, then he assisted her head down to rest on the bar.

  Thorn waited half a beat. “To old friends, and the desert sun. May they continue to arise each morning,” he muttered to himself, raising the night-cap then slung it back. The sound of glass shattering and pending payment must have beckoned the barkeep as he found the courage to show his face. Thorn started to rise from his seat and said, “Sorry for the mess sir. My old friend was never able to handle her drink.”

  “That’s going on your tab as well, mister.”

  “Fair is fair,” Thorn said, giving a nod before walking towards the door.

  “Mister, you gotta stay around and pay! Fair is fair!” The bartender yelled at Thorn. The soft clatter of bottles made it clear the barkeep would settle the tab with blood if necessary.

  “Already did, that right there is Florence Greenwood - The Desert Raven. She’s worth at least 8 thousand dead depending on the warrant. Use what you need to pay the tab, then keep the rest to help lose your memory,” Thorn said, striding through the door and into the river of people as they ready themselves for the final night of festivity ahead.