The simple truth is that equipment wears out. The Americans aren't exempt from this fact any more than we are. With proper maintenance our guns may last forever, but no amount of stitching can save a worn out pair of Levis. The only source of quality American kit left in this hell is Fort Buenaventura, in between Phoenix and Window Rock.

William the Doggo has placed a contingent there to farm the npc soldiers for equipment. They ship everything to Boulder or Oklahoma City via the stagecoach routes. The guns will be useful, but the real prize - the things we can't get anywhere else - are the uniforms.

John Bearcat swung down into the stagecoach, leaving the door flapping. A hulking dead soldier slumped in the rear seat. John leaned his Gatling gun next to the door and made for the trunks piled opposite the dead man. The coach lurched, sending shooting pains through his shoulder. He touched the wound and looked at his red stained fingers. It couldn't be that bad since his arm still worked fine, but it hurt like a mother fucker.

He threw open the first trunk, revealing rifles and ammunition packed in yellow newspapers. The next trunk held neatly folded blue uniforms, the sort the American soldiers wore, just like James Sniper had promised. The coach lurched again. John went to curse Marge for her shitty driving, but froze when he saw the massive soldier on the rear bench move. He wasn't dead, he had slept through the entire fight.

The soldier turned his head and looked right at John. John snatched out his revolver, but the soldier moved like a tiger, striking before John could fire. He knocked the revolver out of John's hand and it bounced on the floor, discharging before it slid out the door. This soldier was even taller and wider than John himself. The man's fist smashed John in the temple, then he grabbed John's collar with both hands.

"I thought you injuns were extinct," the man snarled. "What are you doing waking me up?"

Muscles bulged in the man's shoulders. He had no trouble lifting John off the floor, and John wasn't a lightweight himself. Nobody was as big as John Bearcat except one man. Richard "Big Dick" Large.

But Big Dick shouldn't be riding around with Americans. "Aren't you Texan?" John asked.

Richard Large sneered. The coach lurched then, throwing Richard off balance. John grabbed the man's arms, trying to pry them away from his collar.

"The fuck was that?" Richard asked, then glaring toward the front of the coach, he threw John out the flapping door.

John grabbed the door frame as he flew and arced under the coach, dragging his ass and heels in the dirt. Prairie grass whipped him as it streaked by, and he pulled himself up just in time to avoid smashing his head on a rock. His fingers ached and his arms throbbed, but he wouldn't let go. The ground pulled him backward, threatening to suck him under the wheels of the stagecoach. John pulled himself back up to the open door, fighting for every inch. Any moment, Richard's boot would come down on his fingers, or his face, and he'd fall and be crushed by the rattling rear wheel, but that never happened. He hauled himself through the door and slid on his belly into the coach. John flopped, gasping, onto his back.

Richard Large was gone, but footsteps echoed on the roof of the coach. This was very, very bad. John couldn't even hurt Big Dick, not with Dick's moderator powers. Shooting him would be pointless. Someone above shot twice. Either Dick or Marge, the outcome would be the same either way. Not even Iron Marge stood a chance against Big Dick.

So John would have to deal with this bullshit himself. He leaned out of the coach and squinted against the dust swirling up off the wheels. A head, a dark patch on the horizon marked where the flats became, very abruptly, vertical. John had an idea which might, if everything went well, actually work. He always enjoyed killing players more. There just wasn't any fun in npcs, knowing they wouldn't remember a thing, and today he had a chance to kill one of the greatest players of all. He just had to keep Big Dick distracted, and maybe escape with the loot.

He grabbed the first trunk and bolted it closed, then shoved it out the door. It tumbled, but stayed closed for as long as he watched it, despite slamming into a cactus. Next went the second and more important trunk, the one full of uniforms. He didn't see much hope for James' plan if they were running into this kind of trouble already, but he'd do his part to make sure the first step succeeded. He tossed the third trunk without opening it first and watched it tumble to a stop behind the coach. Satisfied that, even if he went into the ravine, the cargo should be there waiting for him, John picked up his Gatling gun and unwrapped the munition belts he wore like bandoliers.

Another shot sounded above, this one as loud as a canon, then something thumped behind the coach. John stuck his head out to look again. Iron Marge lay in a quickly shrinking heap, shimmering in the hot sun. Apparently the legendary law woman was no match for Big Dick when it came down to actual shooting. John traced Richard's footsteps across the roof, and turned the crank.

Hot lead tore through the roof of the coach, filling the interior with shafts of sunlight. Hot blood dripped through the holes in the ceiling onto John's face. Times like this, he could really use a cigar. He fired until the roof gave way and Richard Large crashed down into the coach. Huge streaks ran through Richard's flesh and clothes where the bullets had ripped through him. A gash ran up his face from his jaw straight through his eye, exposing white skull and broken teeth.

John swung his Gatling gun like a club, splattering blood from the man's open wounds. Richard grinned. His flesh separated where the bullet had cut his face, peeling back to reveal tight red muscle. John swung again, and Richard grabbed the gun by one of the barrels. His hand sizzled as it closed around the hot metal, replacing the smell of hot brass casing with cooking flesh. Richard yanked the gun from John's hands, and with his other fist, punched John in the eye.

John slammed back against the rear of the coach and sank to the seat. Richard advanced, taking the Gatling gun in both hands and pressing the hot barrels toward John's face. John raised his hands to protect himself, and screamed in fury as the barrels seared his forearms.

"I'm going to kill you nice and slow," Richard Large said. His lips twitched. Flesh crawled across his face, sliding over the gaps where John's bullets had torn into him.

John pushed on the Gatling gun with one hand, and with the other he punched Richard in the gut, again and again. Richard didn't notice or didn't care.

"Yar a cunt," John gasped. "I bet in real life yer dick ain't even a whole inch."

Richard yanked the Gatling gun back. A piece of John's face stuck to it, leaving a burning line across his cheek. Richard's face blazed, all anger now, and he swung the Gatling gun the same way John had, smashing John in the mouth. John flew against the side of the coach and tumbled to the floor. He spit out a tooth. If he lived through this, he could get himself a gold one. If not, well, it'd been a couple years since he'd died. He could use a refresh. By now, the coach must be near the ravine he'd seen, so he crawled for the open door.

Richard swung the Gatling gun again, but this time John caught it. He kicked Richard in the crotch and hauled on the gun. It slipped out of Richard's fingers, and in the same motion, John flung himself out the open door. He hit the ground hard on his back and rolled. Grit and rocks flew around him and stuck in his wounds, or punched new holes in him. Suddenly his body slid out over open space, and he grabbed at the cliff edge.

He caught his Gatling gun on a rock and slammed hard into the side of the cliff. Hanging there momentarily dazed - but still hanging there - he watched the coach plummet into the ravine. The horses screamed, kicking as they tumbled end over end in the air. The entire coach flipped upside down and landed with a thud on the flat bottom of the ravine, wood flying in all directions. The horses disintegrated on impact into a pair of red splashes, like thrown paint, and in the middle of it all a battered corpse shimmered and disappeared.

John took a moment to catch his breath. So falls could kill moderators. Nice. A thin ribbon of brilliant blue followed the contours in the bottom of the ravine, and scrub pines dotted the banks. Up here, bits of grass stuck out over the edge, giving John something to sink his fingers into. Richard Large had died today, and when he woke up screaming in Austin, he'd know it was John Bearcat who sent him into that ravine. Grinning the devil's grin, John hauled himself up to safety.