Winfield 1893 Riposte

WINFIELD 1893 SLATE RIPOSTE (See also SHOTGUN, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) After the successful innovation of the Winfield 1893 Slate s pump-action, it would not be improved upon until the mass production of smokeless shells. In this period, the best way to improve this sturdy shotgun was to attach a bayonet to the end, making the weapon more effective in large-scale warfare or intimate combat.

Story entitled The Song of La Llorona from the book Tales From the Bayou by Remy Jane
Undated, Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

Part One

Bartlett trembled from where he crouched, hidden from view, in one of the leafy bushes that lined the shores of the water between Blanchett Graves and Lockbay Docks. The scuffling noise was gone as quickly as it began, leaving him in dead silence, his arms covered in gooseflesh. The light of the moon was yellow and weak; it revealed little in the heavy darkness when he tried to peer out. "Jasper?" he whispered as loud as he dared. "You still there? Trevor?"

Neither of his partners replied. They'd all stopped to recover after barely surviving a shootout at Blanchett, each of them low on supplies and ammo, and Trevor had sworn he'd heard the ghastly wail of the Spider rising out from the rafters of Lockbay. "We're not prepared," he'd said, encouraging them all to take shelter in the bushes. "Let's wait to see if more Hunters come along. Take 'em by surprise and strip 'em for all they're worth."

That had been about five minutes ago.

"Fellas?" Bartlett waited for either of them to reply. "What was that scufflin' sound?"

Silence.

Part Two

Suddenly, there came a flurry of gentle splashes in the water nearby. At first Bartlett thought it was a Water Devil who'd been made privy to the fact that an unwelcomed guest had stepped foot in its waters, but as he tightened his grip around his blade-tipped rifle, he recognized that it wasn't the same vicious churn that the Devils were known for, nor were there any high-pitched shrieks filling the air. Like the scuffling sound that had come before it, the splashing came to a sudden and eerie stop.

Carefully, Bartlett crawled out of the bush. Immediately he saw both of his partners floating motionless in the water before him, face down, the blood blooming around their heads as black as ink under the light of the moon. The softest hum of a woman tickled Bartlett's ear just before he was thrown by the back of the neck into the bloody water, where he struggled until the very last beat of his heart, joining Trevor and Jasper in their eternal silence.

The woman who drowned the trio came to a full stand, the edges of her wide-brimmed hat dripping. She picked up Bartlett's Slate riposte from where it lay discarded on the shore, running her finger along the edge of the blade before tracing a line down the body of the gun. Without a word, she slid it into the harness that was strapped across her back before moving on, humming gently along with the tortured groans of the bayou and disappearing into the night.