Shall I ride, or shall I fight?

[phrostphyre]

My father was an Irish immigrant, born in nineteen-eighty. He was bi-lingual, speaking both Irish Gaelic and English. He was big; he reached six foot five inches by age twenty, and could lift a full grown stag and carry it for five miles on his back without stopping. He had dark hair and gray eyes; the descendant of an Iberian invader of Hibernia. My mother was small, red headed, and had the greenest eyes I've ever seen. She only spoke Irish, born in nineteen-eighty- one. They both immigrated to the United States in nineteen-ninety-nine, settling in the mountains of North Carolina. They met at the airport in Ireland; he served as her translator. I was born in 2000. I'm 23 now. I have my mother's eyes, and my father's build and hair.

He farmed and was a highwayman; he used a motorcycle instead of a horse, but kept the pistol and sword part. He taught me how to ride, use a gun, and sword fight. I was seven when my mother died from food poisoning. My father gave up on farming after she died, and we were highwaymen together. I could read, do basic math, and knew every trick there was to hide in a forest, knew how to fight, knew everything my father knew. He taught me how to kill men, how to rob a person driving along the highway or Interstate, and how to disapper for months so as to let the heat blow over. We dressed in kilts and didn't kill if at all possible. My sword was a broadsword with a basket hilt, and my pistol was an 1873 Army Peacemaker, second generation. After my father died in 2016, I took his pistol as my own, and abandoned my old one, a Smith&Wesson. I had wandered, keeping the family tradition alive. I only carried my gun and sword.

Then the Chinese invaded Russia. The US sided with the Ruskies; we all lost when someone unleashed a nuclear strike on Russia and China. America, fearing the same would happen to them, withdrew from the war. It didn't work. New York City, Washington, DC and LA were hit. I was in the Smokey Mountains, living off the land and laying low after I robbed a Senator. I emerged after three years. American civilisation had fallen. There was no law, there was no order. Men had started small towns, and ruled them through terror and violence.

I had been in a ruined town when I stumbled upon a library. I entered, and walked through the shelves of books. I found a Bible, and sat there and read the entire thing in two days. God had decided to enter my life. Who was I, Micheal Ua' Conchobhar, to refuse the Lord God? I saddled my horse that day, for all cars had ceased to work, and went wandering, carrying only a sword, pistol, and Bible.

I wandered for two years, gunfighting, swordfighting, and trying to find a good man. I never laid with a whore, found a wife, or made friends. My life was a lonely one, and I had no gold to pay them. I passed the time by reading my Bible and thinking. I had caches of rounds for my pistol all over the Smokeys. I was like a squirrel. Then one day in 2020, I met her. She was beautiful. I was covered in scars; bullet holes, sword slashes, whipping scars, and one on my face, going in a line down one eye. She was the daughter of a man who had built his life by killing and robbing. I was drinking whiskey in a bar; I had defended it from bandits, and the grateful manager was letting me drink free. Their bodies were piled outside, waiting for disposal. I had given up on kilts and was wearing black jeans I had found in the rubble of a department store, a black undershirt, black hat, and black duster. My horse was tethered outside, drinking out of a water trough. Candlelight danced along my glass as I drank. I had nowhere to go; why not stop for a while?

"Are you the man who fought off those bad men threatening my father's store?" So she had a voice, and was interested in me. I shrugged. What was there to say? I had ridden out of the sun like a demon, gun blazing? There was nothing to say.

"If you don't answer me, Daddy will have you whipped!" I shrugged again; being whipped was nothing new to me. Let him. I'd not let innocent people die, not if I had a choice.

"Let him whip me. Do I look like I care?" I was covered head to toe. Only my face showed, and even then, barely for the collar on the trench coat was popped. I didn't care. I had my Bible, my gun, and my sword. I had sixty spare rounds for my Peacemaker. It was already loaded; I practiced pulling it every morning with weights on my arms. I could pull with either hand and fire in two seconds. If her 'Daddy' sent his hired guns after me I could take care of them.

"He wanted to invite you to dinner, you pig." I glanced up. Dinner? At their mansion? This would be a chance to actually eat real food, not venison or boar. I accepted gratefully, then watched as she left. I needed to find the nearest stream, shave, and bathe.

[phrostphyre]

I was standing in the doorway of this huge house, shifting uncomfortably in my boots. The sword and pistol were inconspicuous, hidden as they were in my duster. I carried my Bible in an inside pocket of the duster, to protect it from rain. I was scrubbed as pink as sand and cold water could scrub me. The 'butler' opened the door. A pistol carrying thug, he scowled at me. Apparently Micheal the Irishman's reputation had preceded me. I had tried not to kill; but accidents did happen, and my aim is good. He admitted me, leading me to a large table set for seven. There were two people already there; the girl who had invited me here and what I supposed was her father. His gray hair, grizzled face, and set of head and shoulders told me he could still fight and kill if need be. A man to not ignore, then.

"Welcome, good sir, to my humble house. I'm Robert de Nanette. An old French family, you know. This young lady here is my daughter, Marie de Nanette. I assume you're Micheal the Irishman?" I shrugged. I wasn't big on words.

"If you want me to be. My real name is Micheal Ua' Conchobhar. Why am I here, other than to eat your food, drink your wine, and waste both our time?" Get right to the point, that's it, Mikey. I sat at the far end of the table, by myself and sampled his wine. A red from France, year 1989.

"Ah. A man who gets the point. Good. I want to hire you." So a job? What? Run off a local who's standing up to him? Defend him from some bandits?

"Not many people have such a fine taste in wine. Why are you seeking to hire me? Want me to kill some bandits? Run off a ballsy local?" He shook his head. What, then? I sipped at the wine. It wasn't poisoned, not when I had changed his glass for my own, colored the same and filled with my own whiskey. Sometimes I was to paranoid.

"I wish for you to protect my daughter. The hired guns aren't trustworthy enough, and she's received death threats." So. I was to protect her? Thank God for bullet proof armor from before the nukes went off.

"How do you know I'm trustworthy?" He laughed, and it set me feeling cornered. Not a good thing, buddy.

"Because you changed my glass of wine for your own of whiskey. Most men who do things like that scream paranoid, experience, or genius. I prefer to think of you as the last two, but the first, or any combination thereof makes me willing to allow to sleep under my roof, feed you, and let you alone in the company of my daughter." I knew he was experienced. I was slightly paranoid, but it was the healthy sort.

"I accept. When do I begin?" Whenever it was, if he feed me real food, I would do it.

"Now, please. I'll leave you two to get acquainted, I have business to take care of." Fine by me. Let her speak first. I ate the beef, enjoying the taste that had been so long denied to me. There potatoes too, and I enjoyed those with gusto.

"Daddy called you the Irishman. You DO sound funny. Are you Irish?" I had never been to school; I grew up hearing only my parents' voices. So it was no wonder I spoke with an Irish lilt.

"Aye. What's your schedule? How many threats have you recieved? Do I need to stay up all night, sword and pistol drawn and stand guard in your room, Madame?" She giggled at my taking my new job serious. Apparently, Marie had never had a man in her room except for her father.

"No, not all. Simply doing whatever you think necessary is enough for me. How old are?" I answered with a grunt, then set back to eating the beef and potatoes. No answers out of me; I'd be her bodyguard. One annoying thing was how much she chattered; she spoke on and on about her friends, and her dresses, and how much she enjoyed balls and parties. She couldn't be more than twenty. Oh My God. Was she asking if I was willing to take a bullet for her? I was sitting here, eating her father's food, wasn't I? Food was valuable in this day and age. I could live off the land, but berries, nuts, and venison grew tiring after about three years.

I finally spoke up. "For God's sake, I'm twenty-three. Yes, I'm willing to take a sword or bullet for you. Can I eat in peace now, please?" Marie grew silent, then stuck her lip out and pouted. Her father was what I called a 'Lucky Lord'. Lucky because they can live in relative ease while the rest of the tiny population of the world ekes out an existence, and a Lord, because they invariably control and protect their towns with hired guns. I wasn't a hired gun; I was seeking God, and this was merely a stop on the trip. I had maybe ten more years to live before some lucky dog came along and was faster on the draw than me. I figured I'd find him before I died. If not, who cared? This place was a Hell-hole anyways. I finished eating while Marie pouted. I stood, checked the cylinders of my Peacemaker, and reloaded it. I dropped the six rounds out of it, then put them in my ammo pouch. I pulled another six out and loaded them. I slid the pistol back into the holster, then drew as quick as a snake strikes. I was good for another twelve hours. Speed loaders caused slothfulness, slackness, and laziness.

"Wow. You can pull that faster than anyone I know. How did you learn, sir?" So now I was a sir, not a pig. How things change.

"My father and I were highwaymen. He taught me everything I know about sword fighting, gun fighting, and horseback riding. Now, why don't you show me around the place?" Marie stood, looking put-out. I followed her out of the dining room, and up a flight of stairs. Her room was the last one on the right. There were windows looking out towards the mountains, meaning this was the back of the house. We went through all the other rooms, kitchen, parlor, and everything else. The house was from New Orleans, plantation, year 1845. I could tell this from a builders mark in the front door. Marie and I went back to her room so she could prepare for bed.

I remained outside, listening for unfamiliar footsteps. There were none. The hired guns went about their business; cooking, cleaning, standing guard. There were stumps set out behind the house and a man was practicing shooting. He was terrible with the pistol. They were lucky they had Pre-Fall AR-15s and lots of ammo. Any idiot could use a rifle. Your shoulder supported it. With a pistol, you had to be quick and accurate. I heard rustlings inside the lady's room. Curiosity gripped me, but I was being paid to protect her, not watch her undress.

The house grew quiet as night grew. I waited for something to happen. Something did, but it wasn't what I expected. I heard Robert's voice talking to what sounded like a hired gun.

"Kill him as he sleeps; I don't trust Micheal the Irishman or Micheal Ua' Conchobhar, which ever he his. His pistol is black, he dresses in black, and his stallion is black. He's obviously not a good man to dress in all black. Besides, his accent is funny."

"As you say, sir. We'll kill him tonight." So it was a plot to kill me. It had to have happened sometime. Maybe if I killed the men sent after me, I could hold Marie hostage in her room. I didn't want to, but I would if there was no other choice, which there didn't seem to exist. I sat in a chair, laid myself out, then tipped my hat over my face, then started snoring. I was prepared.

Footsteps came up the stairs as quiet as they could. "There he is. Are you guys ready?" Confirmation. They stood in a half circle around me. I heard the sliding of metal against leather as they drew. My hand was luckily near my Peacemaker. I drew, stood, and fired six times in a quick motion. There were six thumps as they hit the ground. Marie started screaming as more guns came up the stairs. I reloaded like lightning, then aimed at the doorway to the staircase. They stopped in a hurry when they saw me standing there, holding a cocked pistol in their direction and six bodies behind me. The four of them rushed back down the stairs as Marie opened her door. I kicked it closed, then barred it with the chair.

"Stay in there! This is nothing for a lady to see." She gave up struggling against the door, my chair, and my foot. A white flag popped up the stairs. They wanted to parley. I de-cocked my pistol and holstered it. They heard the de-cocking and one appeared on the top stair, making a nice target at thirty feet in the dark.

"Micheal the Irishman, come out. We'll fire the house if you don't." So they wanted to smoke me out. There's more than one way to skin a cat.

"I've got Marie as a hostage. Do that; she dies and I'll leave this entire town in flames." I heard Marie protest loudly at that plan.

"Dear God, don't kill her, I beg you!" That was Robert. So he cared about Marie enough to not kill me. That was new. I kicked the chair away, pulled the door open, and grabbed Marie as I slid the pistol out of my holster and cocked it. Putting one arm around her neck, I held the pistol to her head.

"I don't plan on killing you. You're to beautiful, and besides. I don't like killing." I whispered to her. I walked us to the stair case, using Marie as a human shield. Someone came up holding a pistol, but a shot over his head sent him scrambling back down. "Dear God, Mr. Micheal, don't kill my dear Marie! She means everything to me!" Ah. So that was how it was. I'd walk us down to the parlor, we all would sit down, and we'd parley in more comfortable settings.