The 51st Member

Well, there was one creature that the bizarre cacophony of songs, national anthems, popular music, and classic rock did not scare away.

Now this kid was great. I swear to God. He'd make your shoes look like fucking mirrors - excuse my language. We used to call him "Spitshine Frisco".

But Frisco had now grown up. Despite his diminutive appearance, he was in reality quite a tough hombre. He had been riding since literally from birth. He knew how to ride, how to shoot. He'd killed dozens of people in his days. And he was the sole member of El Indio's gang to escape the massacre in Agua Caliente at the hands of two bounty hunters. . .

Now this solitary figure was riding hell for leather to catch the column. He had heard Major Dundee's proclamation, but had some "business" to take care of before he could join with him. He was afraid now that Dundee would not accept him in the expedition, or that at least he may have to prove himself for being tardy.

Suddenly, he heard a faint rustling in the trees.And after that he heard an annoying doorbell sound, like this: Frisco slowly reached for his rifle, slowing his horse to a trot. . .

PFFFH! An arrow flew by his head and landed in a nearby tree. Frisco, with lightning-quick reflexes, levelled his rifle and fired. His attacker let out a loud scream:
AAAAAGH!

With lightning speed, Frisco cocked his rifle and fired three more shots. More screams were let out:
AAAAAGH!
AAAAAGH!
AAAAAGH!

And his attackers dropped to the ground. Four Apaches lay dead, bullets in their hearts. As always, Frisco's aim had been impeccable.

Then - wham! Another arrow whizzed by Frisco's head. He vaguely saw two figures aiming at him, but before he could act - he heard two loud reports, almost simultaneously, and then:
AAAAAGH!
AAAAAGH!

Frisco looked over, and saw this bizarre legless man, carrying a Winchester in each hand. To Frisco's shock, he quickly placed one in his left leg - but kept his right gun out, firing again as another Apache emerged from the brush:
AAAAAGH!

This man - the aforementioned Mr. Smit - kept his right "leg" out for the time being. "Come along, amigo," he drawled, leading Frisco back to Dundee's camp.

He saw about fifty people, armed with various weapons, standing at attention, as the twosome rode into camp. A trim young man in a Confederate army uniform stood up and saluted Smit.

"Mr. Smit!" Tim shouted.

"Sir."

"What happened?"

"This here man was tracking us, he came across the Apache, and we took care of 'em."

Tim eyed him for a moment, suspicious. "Where ya from?"

"Tucumcari."

"Where are you really from?"

There was a slight pause, before Frisco answered. "The Internet."

A slight grimace appeared in Tim's face, as he gestured for him to come and have a seat.

"What's going on here!?"

Tim, Smit, and the new recruits looked on as Dundee walked over, his revolver still drawn.

"Who in the hell is he?" he demanded of Frisco.

"The name's Frisco, sir," the bandito replied, awkwardly saluting the Major.

"He just wasted seven Apache singlehandedly, sir," Smit assured him.

"Yes, sir," Frisco answered.

Dundee glared at them both. "What qualifications does he have?" he said finally.

"He killed each man with a single shot," Lieutenant Tim chimed in.

Dundee glared at for a long moment. "You're a bit late," he said after a pause.

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir, but I believe I could be useful to your expedition."

Unsure, Dundee continued to glare at him, resting the muzzle of his pistol thoughtfully on his chin.

At this moment, Dave Jenkins appeared behind Dundee with his knife drawn, about to plunge it into his commander's neck. . .

Frisco's rifle roared, and Jenkins fell, a bullet in his knee cap. He winced as three of Tim's men rushed him and dragged him to a tent. Dundee simply stared at Frisco, his rifle still smoking, before finally turning around. "Come on," he said finally. "Have some coffee."

"Yes, sir!" Frisco saluted and complied. Tim stared after them with a mischevious grin on his face. One more man for me, Groggy, he said to himself.

"Mr. Smit," he said to his rifle-legged subordinate, "back to your post."

"Yes, sir."

As Smit rode back towards the picket line, Tim continued staring thoughfully into the bush, before finally moving back to the comfort of his tent. A slight rain began to fall as the sun dipped over the horizon.