The kettle boiler popped and clicked as it cooled. What water remained dripped steadily out, turning the red soil into a watery mire. Grapeshot had turned it into a sieve, the built up steam blasting into the coach’s seat and flash boiling the Gunslinger. Every Gunslinger knew it was a bad way to go. Every Gunslinger thought they were never going to see it happen to them.

Morgan stepped down from the coach seat of, ;, his Ten Gallon. The local law dog was already riding steadily towards him. Just a deputy, his horse spoke to that. A full blown sheriff or marshal in a proper sized town might have their own Ten Gallon in a barn and not some nag that could be picked up and hurled through that barn if a ‘slinger was so inclined. Badges almost never presented a problem, Morgan was Bonded and this was a good capture. Possibly not a good one, given the steam cooked nature of his bounty, but at least a legal one. The mud hut that Wyatt had hid in was away from the township, the damage contained to just this patch of mud. Morgan’s Agent would have little to clean up or complain about.

The boy on the horse slowed to a trot and stopped before dismounting. Large, wooden crates hung off the rear of the horse, cables wrapped tight against the wood and metal prongs emerging from the top. His tin badge glowed in the early day sunlight, fresh polish still caught in the edges of the lettering. Nervousness and stalwartness battled on his face as he stepped towards Morgan, who stood in the shadow of his Ten Gallon. His experience behind his badge had been almost nothing but guiding the odd drunkard home or keeping the peace. The wreckage of the machine and the demolished remnants of the mud bricked house that lay in front of him was anything but kept peace. The man standing at the foot of the standing machine wiped the sweat from his head as he watched the boy approach.

“Sir, I am authorized by my badge to hold you for due process.” The boy’s voice held, impressing Morgan. He could see how the boy had no want to be there, the intimidation of man, machine and the example of it’s possible devastation in plain view, but he was standing his ground, doing his duty. That was admirable.

Ten Gallons still inspired gasps when folks saw them step through town. As tall as two grown men standing on each others shoulders and as broad as the front of a steam locomotive, the machines and their Gunslingers drew attention wherever they appeared. This was a boon to ‘slingers who tracked rogue Ten Gallons down. Word got around town quickly when one was spotted and the man Morgan had come here to bring in had hid his poorly. The machines were loud, heavy, often times impractical but for their near invulnerability to your everyday firearm. The fighting capacity of at least dozen men and their cannons, firepower equal to a US Army cannon battery, reduced to a single man who could outmaneuver them and bring his batteries to bear like a gunfighter quick draws his piece. This had not stopped war. Changed it, altered the ways a man could die in it, taken decades of tactics and turned them on their heads but never stopped it.

Morgan nodded to the boy, producing a folded paper as he did.

“This is a lawful bounty capture, that man,” he indicated the corpse in the can “Was Leslie Wyatt, wanted for Theft of Military Property, Destruction of Private Property, Mayhem, Murder and a slew of associated crimes.” The paper moved into the boy’s hand, opened and was examined. The boy’s mouth moved slightly as he read the warrant.

Almost all Ten Gallon ‘slingers were wanted for Theft of Military Property. Ten Gallons were created by the military, considered as war machines, and the U.S. Government had it in mind that since they had built them, the machines belonged to them. Bonded ‘slingers skirted this issue by working directly for them, rounding up machines that had gone astray. Though the threat of being immediately held liable for this and any crimes committed while piloting one were enough to keep those Bonded from going rogue. Mostly. So long as a Bonded man worked for his Agent, collected the bounties assigned and kept civilian casualties within acceptable reaches, then these crimes were ignored until their time as Bonded men was up. No matter how long their leash was, a Bonded man was not truly free.

Morgan considered his remaining time as the boy connected the cables to the prongs and erected an antenna mast. A speaking horn and ear cuffs were attached in short order and the boy spoke into it directly.

“Yessir, Morgan Mulligan, Bonded and in pursuit.” the boy spoke as he read the details from the proffered paper, “Yessir, Leslie Wyatt who knocked over the 1st Local yesterday. Yessir he appears dead. Nossir I don’t know about his machine. Nossir I have not recovered the stolen money. Yessir I will inform him.” The speaking horn and ear cuffs disappeared back into their respective boxes before the boy turned back towards Morgan.

“Sheriff told me to keep you here, Bonded or no.” the boy looked unhappy about this, his eyes darting across the variety of weaponry displayed on the machine in front of him. A typical Ten Gallon, military issue and assigned to a battery, would carry a Field Howitzer with a variety of self loading ammunition, another deadly miracle of modern science. A self cranking Gatling gun would serve on the opposing arm with belts of ammunition serving to feed the deadly dragon from hoppers mounted on or about the hips of the machine. When travelling on the strength, the military machines were serviced by a small crew. Their tools, spare ammunition and supplies moving with the crews.

Mr. Mulligan’s was a bit more esoteric. While the cannon remained, its deadly power evidenced by the wreckage of the other Ten Gallon on the ground nearby, and the Gatling was safely pointed at the ground, various sundries and baggage hung from the back. As a Bonded Man, Mulligan would have to travel with everything he needed. He could expect as much support as local law was willing to give, considering most local law did not have access to Ten Gallons it was usually relegated to wishing the ‘slingers good luck and God bless before clearing out of the area. Collateral damage was a hazard when opposing Ten Gallons met. If their Agent was nearby, a more grudging cooperation could possibly be coerced. Agents carried enough weight in their badge to summon a dozen ‘slingers and Ten Gallons should they need it, so the resources and helpfulness of local civic protectors could be guaranteed as no one wanted to be found Aiding and Abetting. Telling a Bonded man to go to hell was one thing, you could probably live to tell the tale. Telling an Agent the same thing was writing your own warrant, signing it and potentially wrapping your noose around your own neck.