Powder Phil, Issue 3

**Issue 3** of *Powder Phil,* an adventure dime novel series written by Robert Roseby. They center around the exploits of Powder Phil, a former outlaw that now works as a bounty hunter after he was betrayed by his gang.

## The Great Train Robbery

...as he put it in his satchel. As he began pondering with what he would do with the reward money, Powder Phil saw a man look at the same bounty poster that had been posted on the front of Prospector Saloon. Letting grey smoke coming from his mouth, the man ripped down the poster before entering the Prospector.

Phil lit a Big Boss cigarette of his own before leaving the steps of the General Store. A breeze cast a gust of orange sand at Phil's feet. He noticed the sun was setting over Goodsprings, the Yangtze Memorial in the far, far distance. A marker for warriors of a different time.

Phil pushed open the doors to the Prospector. Frank Sinatra sang slowly from a nearby jukebox, which cast a red and green glow over its corner of the saloon. Ranchers and prospectors walked about with small glasses in their hands; some sat at tables and threw dice while others played cards.

Phil leaned against the bar counter. "A shot of whiskey, ma'am."

The bartender brought out a bottle of Olde Royale. Phil chewed on the end of his cigarette as he found the man. He was in a back corner, playing poker with a few prospectors. "Who's that fellow?" Phil asked.

"Him?" The lady repeated. She eyed the man, dressed in a plaid shirt and working pants. "Oh, that's Little Buster. I didn't recognize him without the armor."

"Armor?" Phil repeated.

She nodded. "He's a bounty hunter 'round these parts."

"If he's a bounty hunter, then why I ain't I ever heard of him?"

"He only just got into the business. They say he's even better than Steve Randall."

"I would like to see that," Phil said, thinking about just how fast Randall was on the draw. Phil downed the shot of whiskey and passed her a few bottle caps.

He then made his way to the table, avoiding a few dancing patrons. Sighs and expressions of disappointment rang out from Buster's table; he wore a small grin as his companions forked over several stacks of bottle caps.

"You seem to have a lot of winnings, friends," Phil said, thumbs on his belt line.

Buster looked up. He had a Far Eastern look to his skin and eyes, which, though slanted, possessed courage and cunning that almost matched Phil's. His black hair covered his forehead, which was marked with a few scars. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, a Grey Tortoise cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Indeed, sir."

"You reckon you can beat me in a hand?" Phil asked, eyeing the man.

Buster cracked a smile. "Well, sir, there is only way to find out." The prospectors seated around the table raised their eyebrows.

"Careful, sonny, I ain't ever seen Buster lose," an older prospector said, lighting a cigarette. A few prospectors and a mechanic nodded their heads.

"I reckon I ain't ever seen myself lose either," Phil answered. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a sack of caps. He poured them out on to the table. "Winner of this hand - and just this hand - gets five hundred caps."

"All or nothing?" Buster said, raising an eyebrow. After a moment, he reached into his own satchel and produced a matching sack. The other members of this table realized this was going to be a game between just the two, the town's hunter and the stranger...

...eyeing the corner of his cards, Phil blew smoke, his face revealing nothing. An ace of diamonds. An ace of clubs. There was no way that Buster could have a better hand.

The old prospector flipped the last card. "Five of clubs," he said. The line of cards consisted of several scattered cards, none bearing too much in common. It might just come down to the hand.

"Alright, boys, let's see them," the old prospector said. Phil allowed himself to reveal a small smile, then flipped his cards, revealing the two aces. The watchers whistled and laughed.

Buster's face didn't move. He flipped his own cards, revealing none other than an ace of hearts and an ace of spades.

The prospectors only increased their hollering. "Why, you boys may just have the best hands in the history of this here town!" The prospector analyzed the row of cards as the rest of the men stopped their hootering in order to here the answer. "Why," the prospector said, that just means-"

Quick as a flash, two weapons were drawn, Phil with his pump-action shotgun, Buster with his bladed gauntlet, known as the Cram Opener. The jaws of the bar's patrons were agape; were the two men about to duel? Someone kicked the jukebox and the music stopped as the bounty hunters pointed their weapons.

"I do believe there's a ruffian behind you," Phil said calmly. The patrons looked and saw there was indeed, a large man on the other side of the glass window behind Buster. He wore a tattered blue and white outfit with a black scarf, making him easily recognizable as a Powder Ganger. He had attempted to draw his pistol, but with Phil's deadly aim pointed right at him, he stopped mid-draw and now looked quite squeamish.

"I could say the same for you," Buster said, gesturing with his gauntlet. The patrons looked left and there was indeed, another large ruffian behind Phil. He wore a large leather jacket with the sleeves torn off, with a red sweater beneath it. A brown bandolier crossed his chest, and his head was nearly bald. He had attempted to reach for his pistol, but Buster was quicker, and the thought of being raked by the massive blades on the Cram Opener made the ruffian think twice.

The ruffian outside dropped his pistol and sprinted away into the moon-lit night. Phil spun his shotgun in his hand so it now faced the direction of the remaining ruffian's head, without even turning back to look at him. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ruffian's pistol, a dingy little 9 millimeter...

...too small a town for a sheriff, or even a mayor. Every man was in charge of himself, as God intended it to be. The bounty hunters and the old prospector, calling himself Easy Pete, brought the Powder Ganger to an old barn. When he protested, Phil swiped at the back of his head with his pistol. The man slumped over, and the two bounty hunters tied him to a post.

"Get him some water," Phil ordered. Pete quickly grabbed a bucket and handed it to Phil. He knelt next to the tied up man and nodded at Buster. The other man grabbed the ruffian's face and dunked it into the bucket of water.

When he pulled him out, the man was awake once more, gasping for air. "Fellas, it doesn't need to be like this," he said, panting.

"You're right, it doesn't have to be, as long as you answer our questions," Phil responded. Pete knelt in front of the ruffian, a lantern lighting up his face. "First, tell us your name."

The man's eyes darted from side to side. "D-Davey," he answered.

"Alright, Davey," Buster began. "What were you and your friend doing in the Prospector Saloon?"

Buster wore a light smile, but when Davey looked at Phil, all he saw was narrowed eyes. "We was...we was supposed to take you two out. Boss said it would make the job easier."

"And what job would that be?" Pete asked.

Davey shook his head. "I ain't no snitch."

Phil grabbed the back of Davey's head and pushed it into the water. When he pulled him back out, Davey was panting again. "Listen, boy, we can do this all night if we need to. Tell us who your boss is, now."

Davey saw Phil's steely gaze and knew he would crack far before Phil would. "Alright. We got a local outfit of gangers working for a man named Sparky."

"Sparky, well, Sparky has a $10,000 cap bounty," Buster said, grinning. Phil exhaled smoke, the stone look on his face not revealing anything. He remembered to a few years back, when he used to run with Sparky, robbing caravans and holding up homesteads. Sparky was one of those men who left Phil for dead when that mine exploded out in Burham...

...find some sort of cellar for him, or some such, to hold him in until we can get the Sheriff of Primm here," Phil ordered.

Pete nodded and pulled Davey to his feet. "Ya know, all the action around here got me thinking, maybe Goodsprings needs itself a sheriff."

"That would be appreciated," Phil commented as Pete brought Davey out of the barn.

Buster was leaning against a post, Grey Tortoise hanging from the corner of his mouth. "So, Sparky got his men robbing a Crimson Caravan train out in Harlow Valley. Grab that bounty and save that train...maybe we'll get a photo shoot with Cornelius Lee."

"We?" Phil questioned. "Who says you was coming on this?"

Buster looked in confusion. "Who says I wasn't? $5000 caps apiece is still a good haul. And that outfit has around ten men, not an easy feat for a single man to take on alone."

"If you want to come, go by yourself, cause we ain't pardners," Phil said, exhaling grey smoke.

"Why don't you want to work with me?" Buster asked. "Am I not good enough for the 'legendary' bounty killer Powder Phil?" Buster placed extra emphasis on "legendary".

"It ain't about that, I used to run with these Gangers before they got locked up, I got a personal score to settle."

"Then let me help, you can't take them all on alone!"

"Says who, boy?" Phil said, advancing on Buster. The cigarette hung in his mouth as the two men's faces nearly touched. "You ain't know the struggles I faced growing up. Things I saw...things I did...it changes a man, makes him hard in heart. You ain't got that heart, nor the balls for that matter, to take down a man like Sparky."

Few men could withstand a verbal beatdown like that from Phil. Buster was one of those men. "I know exactly those struggles you faced. Life in the Freeside slums is as bad as facing any raider gang on the homestead. I grew up when the Angels were in charge...and let me tell you, those were some mean sons of bitches. I did what I had to survive, too. I lied, cheated, stealed, killed...hell, I even had to suck a cock or two..."