1
Many years ago…
A gust of wind blew arid dust across the scene in front of Tucker C. Thompson, otherwise known as “Clancy” to his closest friends. High above, the bright Texas sun cast long shadows over the dry ground.
Clancy had left town to visit the Millers’ homestead when someone had warned him of trouble.
Now, a dozen men glared at him with burning gazes, faces hidden behind black bandanas and black Stetsons.
The Bloodwolf Gang…
Clancy took several steps forward, his spurs clinking on the rocky ground as he approached. The Miller family watched from inside the cabin, trapped and surrounded by one of the most notorious bands of outlaws the Wild West had ever seen.
Fighting such a group was just another day for the legendary Quickdraw Dragon.
Clancy shook his head at the ridiculous name people had bestowed upon him years ago that seemed to follow like a bad tumbleweed, getting caught up in his affairs and making his life messier than a pigpen in a hailstorm.
“You stop right there, Thompson,” the leader of the gang called out to Clancy. Clancy instantly recognized him as Eddie Burnside, a mean cuss who was wanted in five counties for murder and armed assault.
Clancy stopped.
He knew why the Bloodwolves were here. The dragon’s talon, the old silver coin that promised his favor upon anyone he gave it to, was currently in the hands of the Millers. And just as his life as a gunslinger had brought trouble to him from every direction, the legend of the dragon’s talon had only grown throughout the whole of Texas, leading innumerable humans to believe it somehow had magical powers. Or, even more hilarious, that the Quickdraw Dragon’s power was somehow linked to the coin.
It seemed humans would believe anything these days…
“Now what can I do for you gentlemen on this fine afternoon?” Clancy kept his arms folded as the men surrounding him—watching him from perches atop the homestead and behind barrels and fences—flinched at even the slightest movement of the legendary gunslinger.
“You know what we want. The dragon’s talon is ours now. So you’ll be doing our bidding, Thompson,” Burnside called out, standing at the entrance to the homestead.
The poor Miller family, who were now caught up in this bullshit, hadn’t done more than take Clancy in and feed him a few months back when there’d been a bad storm. In return, he’d given them the dragon’s talon as a show of his goodwill.
Now the coin was held aloft by Burnside, whose grin could be seen even through the black bandana he wore.
“I’ll be doing no such thing, you dirty bastard,” Clancy replied, keeping his cool.
As it always did, his dragon roared inside him, simmering just beneath the surface of his skin, furious these outlaws would harm innocent people just to get at him.
And, as he always did, Clancy took long breaths, steadying his nerves. He couldn’t let the beast out. Not when there was a fight. Not in front of humans.
So instead, years and years of experience kicked in as he appraised the scene. After hundreds of gunfights that had spanned every corner of the wild and free state of Texas, this was just another pain in his ass to be dealt with.
“We’ll see about that,” Burnside said, and Clancy heard shuffling inside the cabin. Cries from the Millers. A moment later, another outlaw emerged from inside, holding the family’s ten-year-old son by the shirt. And when the outlaw pulled a revolver from his holster and put it to the boy’s chest, Clancy almost shifted right there.
That idiot would be the first to go, Clancy decided.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. After all, the dragon’s talon is a myth, Burnside,” he said, hopeful to defuse the situation before there was blood.
There had already been so much, staining his clothes and making the holy Texas earth run red as more and more villains sought fame, fortune, and notoriety in their hopes to defeat the undefeatable Quickdraw Dragon.
“It brought you here, didn’t it?” Burnside drawled, chuckling.
“Last chance. The second we’re done talking, I start shootin’,” Clancy said.
Clicks of rifles and revolvers being cocked shattered the stark, empty silence around the ranch as all of Burnside’s men trained their weapons on Clancy. Unbeknownst to these humans, though, they weren’t dealing with another of their own.
They were dealing with a dragon. A dragon who could draw faster than eyes could even track. A dragon who could shoot a bull’s-eye at a hundred yards blind. A dragon who never lost, never surrendered, and never gave in to varmints and criminals the likes of these bastards.
Burnside, clearly not the brightest gang leader in the West, looked at the coin, then at Clancy, confused perhaps that the coin wasn’t giving him control over Clancy as expected. Clancy just knew that, after years and years roaming the West, his coin had become almost mystical in the minds of settlers and bandits alike, and the stories he’d heard were as varied as they were ridiculous.
Perhaps it was time to be done with the damned thing for good.
Clancy took a step forward.
“D-don’t move another step, Quickdraw, or the Miller kid gets it!” Burnside hollered, eyes bulging with fear now.
“I’ll do as I damn well please, you yellow-livered, lowdown piece of pond scum.” He took another step, squaring his hips, fingers itching for the cold steel of the triggers of his custom double-action revolvers.
His dragon roared.
Easy… he told the green monster.
To keep focused, he counted each and every bandit watching him.
Two on the roof with long rifles. Three scattered along the fence to the right. One watching from the window. Four hidden in the rocks on the left. Two on horses, hidden behind the house.
“You… you really aren’t scared, are ya?” Burnside’s fear was palpable, even from thirty feet.
“Boy, you’re about to learn the hard way that I ain’t scared of nuthin’.”
Burnside opened his mouth, commanding his men to fire, but he was too late.
Their time was up.
And Clancy was plumb out of patience.
His hands were on his guns in less than a heartbeat, and two loud pops cracked the silence open as Clancy fired from the hip.
The first bullet hit the gun belonging to the man holding the Miller kid, and it flew into the dirt. In the exact same moment, the other bullet hit the man’s foot, causing him to yelp in pain. Thankfully, the kid bolted inside the home the second he was free.
Clancy was midstep, moving toward the house, as he trained on the men aiming at him from the rooftop. They’d be the most accurate, so they were his next targets.
BANG. BANG.
He hit one square in the shoulder. The other’s trigger finger flew free of his hand, cut clean by a .44-40 bullet.
He trained on the men hiding themselves up in the rocks. Four pops. Four men fell over, clutching wounded arms, hands, or whatever part had been exposed to Clancy’s gaze that he could hit without killing them.
In spite of his reputation as a cold-blooded killer, Clancy aimed to maim and disable, not kill.
He’d learned a long time ago that killin’ just led to more people—angry friends and relatives seeking blind vengeance—coming after him.
Slowly, like ants, the outlaws began to return fire as the clearing in front of the Millers’ ranch became a flurry of gunfire and smoke. Most of the remaining bandits, scared witless, fired blindly at the lone figure moving toward them, and their bullets whizzed past Clancy toward the horizon or plopped into the sandy ground at his feet.