Chapter 42: Hunter and Prey [Part 1]
'I can't believe it. They're three absolute savages.'
Cleaning the tiny graze the bullet had left on her arm with a cloth and alcohol, Bonnie watched those women with suspicion. There they were, getting their horses ready to continue the journey as though they hadn't just fired point-blank at a poor girl a few moments ago.
'And that last one… she did it on purpose!'
It was more than clear to Bonnie that the bullet that grazed her arm had been Victoria's doing. She was far too calculating a person for it to be an accident — she had already proven that — but she didn't look the least bit bothered as she stomped out the glowing embers of the campfire.
For a second, her gaze crossed La Señora's — but Bonnie looked away and went back to what she was doing.
'Now the sleeve of my shirt has a hole in it and it's stained with blood.'
She didn't understand if this was some kind of initiation ritual or something like that. Since Victoria had mentioned this was how Evelyn had learned, she could only try to imagine the situation.
'Well… at least now I know I can more or less dodge bullets.'
The most important skill a person in the desert could develop. That, or die trying — though Victoria never actually meant to kill her, right?
In fact, if anyone in the group had wanted to kill her, Bonnie would have ended up face-down in the dirt full of holes in the first second. An outlaw's ability to shoot was, after all, the most terrifying thing anyone could encounter in the desert. Bonnie herself knew that — she had called on those same skills at the start of her own story as an outlaw.
Turning back to the horses, Bonnie kept glancing over at Victoria for a few seconds longer. That burning irritation, like a thorn stuck in her finger pressing in constantly, wouldn't leave her alone.
"Come on, girl. You're going to bore two holes in my neck if you keep staring at me like that," said Victoria, climbing onto her horse. "Weren't you the one who asked to improve? I was just trying to help."
"That's… true, but…"
Bonnie frowned, flushing with embarrassment.
'But I didn't think it would be like that!'
"But it helped, didn't it?" La Señora said. "Now you know how to use your reflexes better. All you're missing is training your body to be faster."
"Victoria's right, Bonnie. It might seem cruel and dangerous, but that's just what she's like as a teacher," Evelyn added.
"Yeah… I've caught a few bullet grazes myself," Lady said.
Both girls looked at her with expressions that openly said they understood exactly how she felt and had been through the same thing — but couldn't really say anything about it. There honestly wasn't much to say. That was just how things were.
Resigning herself to calming her irritation with the knowledge that Evelyn and Lady had gone through the same, Bonnie sighed and climbed onto her horse.
'Maybe next time I'll think twice before asking her for help…'
And that was that. For now, the ride would carry on until nightfall, a little closer to Dustfall and a little further from the grip of those tormenting memories.
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It was nighttime now — the moon above the clouds casting its light across the darkness. Through the green plains near the city of Dustfall, a gray-coated horse appeared, wrapped in a mysterious dark mist. Its rider: the one called Scaramuccia, who had fled Steam City after leaving that poem for those girls, kept looking back over his shoulder. Someone was following him.
Multiple gunshots rang out behind him, accompanied by brief incandescent flashes that snuffed out with each burst of fire. Scaramuccia closed his eyes and took an aerodynamic position, leaning forward over the horse's neck.
In the darkness, he looked back again — a pair of blue eyes stared back at him from a distance. Astride a brown horse with a black mane, the pursuer was an adult man with black hair and an unkempt beard, whose cowboy hat and gleaming star badge pinned to the straps of his shirt made his identity immediately clear.
It was Sheriff Marcus — aiming his revolver at Scaramuccia with steady precision.
"Stop following me! I have nothing to do with those monsters!" the jester shouted.
Marcus said nothing. He cocked the revolver, ready to fire another volley.
Scaramuccia clenched his teeth hard and turned his eyes back to the road. He gripped the reins tight and narrowed his eyes, which began to glow faintly in the darkness. In the next instant, he and his horse were swallowed by the thick mist, vanishing into nothing. The sound of galloping hooves still rang out, though — the dirt kicking up each time they struck the ground.
Then, four sharp objects launched from the same direction where the jester had disappeared, making Marcus's hand jerk as he grabbed the reins with both hands.
The four objects flew past his face and buried themselves in the ground at his horse's feet — they were knives decorated in the jester's signature colors — which in the very next second exploded into red smoke, blasting everything in their path and throwing Marcus's horse off balance. Using his own strength on the reins, he yanked the animal back into line. The hooves skidded against the ground — and after a second, they finally found their footing.
Without slowing down, he looked out across the dark plain. Ahead, with an advantage of nearly forty meters, Scaramuccia materialized again alongside his horse, pulling even further away than before. The jester looked back at him with that same nervous, cowardly expression. Marcus let out a small laugh, adjusted his hat, and cracked the reins.
This game of cat and mouse had only just begun, and neither of them was going to allow themselves to lose.
Beyond the fact that their horses were already running at supernatural speeds, both of them were about to do far worse things. To start with, Marcus had appeared and given chase. Scaramuccia had been expecting it — but so far it had been nothing more than running with no clear direction.
Which was why Marcus opened the cylinder of his revolver, placed his other hand over his belt lined with bullets a few centimeters apart, and the rounds — as though they had a life of their own — flew up into the weapon, loading it in under a second.
The loaded cylinder spun and snapped back into position. Marcus aimed and fired another burst. But just as it had been from the start of the chase, it wasn't enough — Scaramuccia's horse was far too agile, zigzagging across the plain, the bullets barely managing to nick the jester's ridiculous clothes.
"Please, just leave me alone! I'm telling you — I have nothing to do with them!"
Despite the shouting, Marcus was silent and precise, like a mountain lion in the moonlight. He fired at close range. Finally, a bullet connected. Blood sprayed, Scaramuccia cried out and fell from his horse. He rolled across the ground, hitting rocks along the way, until he came to a stop right beside Marcus.
The sheriff brought his horse to a halt and aimed the revolver down at him.
"You're coming with me to the station, clown. Someone wants to ask you a few questions."
On the ground, Scaramuccia pressed a hand to his thigh. Red blood poured like a waterfall. The sensation of the bullet burning through his skin radiated deep into his bones. He groaned quietly, looking up at the man who had chased him this far.
"I'm telling you that—" cut off by a kick to the side of his torso, Scaramuccia rolled four meters across the ground.
Marcus stepped forward, eyes never leaving him.
"I'm not falling for your tricks, clown. I've faced cowards like you before."
With difficulty, the jester pulled himself upright. He limped a couple of steps before looking the sheriff in the eye.
"I…"
Blood staining the ground. A twisted, anxious expression. A broken, distant voice:
"I'm not a clown," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the ground, lost.
Then his body exploded into red smoke that spread out across the entire area — red, bleeding into the dark colors of the night. A dozen eyes lit up inside the mist, and only Marcus breathed calmly within it. In fact, the man pulled out a cigarette and lit it without a single hint of concern.
"Take your time. I like playing with my prey," he said, his expression cold and bored.
The mist trembled. Hundreds of knives shot out, hurled like falling stars that caught the light of the untroubled moon above. Behind those knives, surrounding the mist, the eyes advanced — revealing seven perfect copies of Scaramuccia.
Marcus didn't flinch. He took a long drag of his cigarette and raised a hand. His body stayed where it was, but the knives went flying off in every direction. Then he looked at the copies of Scaramuccia.
"Not enough. Hunter and Coward — both from the same Stigma, ironically. That's what we are."
"If you know this fight doesn't lead anywhere, why keep pushing it?" all the copies asked, drawing knives from their pockets.
"Because unlike you, I don't run."
This was a battle between two followers of the Desert Ballads.
Sheriff Marcus — follower of the Hunter's Ballad at the Third Stigma: Trapper.
Scaramuccia — follower of the Coward's Ballad at the Third Stigma: Hidden.
A Hunter and a Prey.