Question The Last Ride!

Whoa, a new Gen 0 story and this time from E.E. Nalley. The Last Ride of
"Black" Jack Kingston, United States Marshal And His Immortals. Being a True Account of the Eureka County Mine War - Carlin, Nevada 1874 as told by James Howard "Gentleman Jim" Hallowell. Carson City Nevada in 1874, now this will be the furthest back ever for any tales besides bits and pieces from Atlantis and the 5 Fold Courts.

An interesting hand of poker and talk of fate arriving to settle accounts, oh boy. A thespian, two cattlemen, the owner of a local newspaper, an interesting bunch for a poker game. Good with numbers and observation, no wonder guy is a gambler. "Black" Jack Kingston, 6'6" in is boots, sounds like he is a legend in his own time. "Gentleman Jim" Hallowell, two interesting figures. A hand like that and he is tormenting the other players by stretching it out, that is just cruel.

4 Queens and an Ace, now that is a great hand. And that cattleman saying the woman with him is cheating and using a racial slur, I know it was a different time but he is a sore loser. And I love how Jim Hallowell defends the lady from that slur, good man for that. And good with a pistol as well, like his lady friend already. Glad to see those two cattlemen gone, hope they don't show up later and cause trouble.

“Nonsense, Captain Kingston!” I replied. “Trouble is a traveling companion I ever endeavor to part company with!”

Jasmine Hallowell, so she is his wife, awesome. Late Unpleasantness, always wondered why the Civil War was called that. Honorable man, wonder why the U.S. government dealt with him so shabbily unless the history of how soldiers are treated by the U.S. government after they come home is that old.

Ouch, Jasmine lost her mother to the soldiers in blue. Renew his acquaintance with Jim, wonder why. Marriage, how far it has come and still has yet to go. A U.S. Marshal murdered, possible corruption at a claims office, and Jack came to get Jim to help him, yikes.

“I take it all is not well in General Grant's newly minted Federal Department of Justice. Perhaps the various states resent the presence of so-called Federal Law Men usurping their sovereign powers and authority? One should be careful, folks might get the wrong idea about the activities and aspirations of our Federal Betters...!”

Ouch and around the time of a gold rush as well, recipe for corruption on a high level.

Getting Jim to help is going to be like pulling teeth, isn't it. I like characters with simplicity of moral character sometimes, you know you can trust them to see justice done. Hehehe, I like Jasmine, can wrap a guy around her finger so easily. Okay, why is Two Feathers in jail in town is the better question at this point.

Benjamin Two Feathers, soldiers denied Honor Parole, that doesn't seem right. Pressed into Federal Service, oh what the government tried to get away with in the past. Good, Lawyer to sue on their behalf in the Federal Courts. A Lakota Native Scout, interesting. Interesting bit of history as well. Sheriff Shubael T. Swift, interesting name for a sheriff. Carson City had that big a population back then, whoa.

That deputy shouldn't have shot his mouth off like that to a Marshal. *whistles* Jack and Jim are fast with those pistols of theirs. And Benjamin, another tall and powerful built man, this group is intimidating without the guns imo. Hehehe, love how they can tease each other. Have Gun, Will Travel, nice reference to the old CBS western.

And Jasmine is truly a remarkable woman, packed things that quickly and ready to leave with pistol in hand. Off to the railroad station, booming silver trade making the line profitable, Virginia & Truckee Rail Road sounds interesting. The Empire, now that is a great name for a train.

In Reno, a twenty dollar gold piece persuaded the Central Pacific conductor to be of a more liberated mindset concerning the accommodations of my lovely wife and myself, and we retired to the Pullman car to enjoy the journey in repose.

$20 gold piece, now there is something rare nowadays to see. And the way Jim describes his happy married, so eloquent.

Jasmine's outfit sounds fashionable and designed for comfort while riding a horse, neat. A pistol holstered under his left arm pit, interesting, didn't know that is how they actually wore them, stupid Hollywood.

However, before I could try my luck further, Two Feathers bristled for a bit and somberly declared,“I have news, and you all must heed my words. Last night I walked the heavens and Wakan Tanka sent Coyote who spoke to me, warning me that I had begun to track a great evil, an evil for which there are not words or songs or understanding. That this evil kills not foolishly as the white hunters who kill buffalo from trains when they do not hunger, and leave the carcass to rot in the sun. This evil kills to devour, like a hunger that does not know satisfaction. And though I am a warrior of many battles, and a hunter of many dangerous pelts, I trembled, for Coyote did not speak in riddle or puzzle, but the Trickster spoke plainly. Even as I speak now to you. That which is the cause of this will devour our flesh and spirit should we fail.”

Why does this description of the great evil sound so familiar?

“It is actually quite fascinating, my dear,” I replied. “In the Lakota pantheon, the Spirit Coyote plays the part of the outsider of the tribe, living on scraps and playing pranks on those that despise him. Yet the Shaman hold him in reverence as a teacher and spirit guide. But, like, Loki, or Prometheus, you can never be truly certain of Coyote's real intentions or aims. And there are many who do not survive his lessons.”

And Jasmine is well-learned as well, awesome.

Even now as the Great War rages in Europe we see more and more beings the like of my Nubian Princess and her lamented mother. These biblical figures, these 'Mystery Men' to use the common sobriquet, are merely able to defy science and her half sister sorcery and accomplish that which cannot be accomplished by mere mortal men. For I tell you with the certainty of having seen it more than once with my own eyes, the Will of my blushing bride reached down into the glass and the water flowed up into her hand and formed itself into a knife.

*eyes bug out* So, early mutant or more likely magic learned from her mother. Dang, grew up together, interesting tale.

Water witch, very interesting indeed. *eyes bug out* Jim, William, and Jasmine were all born on the same day, now that is something. The University of Georgia with a Bachelor's degree in the Fine Arts, impressive. Yikes, Jasmine's mother was outnumbered 20 to one, no wonder she got taken as a slave. This murder of a Marshal, I hope it isn't connected somehow to the Bastard and that is the evil Coyote is warning of.

Sheriff Bufford Clements sounds like a man who wishes he could retire from the job for something less stressful. Warrants for Benjamin and Jim, already don't like this guy. Love how Jack shuts down the sheriff like that. A law against guns in town sounds more like corrupt agents trying to prevent lawmen from bringing them to justice. Local farrier for stabling, never thought I would read those words in a Whateley story.

Boom town is right, two standing theaters, rare to see that even in a small city nowadays. Carlin City sounds like an interesting mix of people back then.

“I have acquired us a pair of rooms at the Lodging House of Mrs Horton,” I informed the Marshal. “One for you and Benjamin and the other across the hall. Both of your saddle bags are there.”

Mrs. Horton!?! It can't be the same woman, hoping that is a common name back then.

That many people keeping an eye on them, oh boy. Pistols and a scatter gun, those watching them can't be foolish enough to attack in broad daylight, can they? No ambush and then a dozen men ride up, scaring off the vaqueros and the painted lady. Jack Horton, a miner with at least a 4" beard, shows up with his friends and turns out he is the husband of Mrs. Horton. Good to have someone escort them to the lodging house and explain things.

Mrs. Horton makes Earl Gray tea and shortbread cookies, can play the piano, loves music. *eyes dart back and forth* How old is the Mrs. Horton who takes care of Poe Cottage?

Emile Pessard's La Cruche Cassée

Hhm, never heard of this song before.

“Gold was discovered, that's what,” Mr Horton replied as he helped himself to a cup of his wife's tea. “I own the Yankee Eagle Mine and we were pulling copper, nothing like what's coming out of Bingham Canyon, but we're doing well enough for all this,” he declared with a gesture at the house around him. “Not too long ago I started getting turquoise, and not just chips, good sized stones. I didn't think anything of it at first, just figured it was good fortune. That all changed when we struck gold.”

Wait a minute, first copper, then turquoise stones, and then gold. Why does this sound like something important?

Ed Hooker trying to keep the town clean for the good folks there, then Edgar Goodkind shows up, called the Colonel. Calling someone that is never a good sign, add to that he is a Goodkind, eep.

“Edgar Goodkind,” Jake declared, with the desperate look of a man wanting to spit in disgust and unable to due to circumstance. “Some New York tycoon who bought himself a commission in the War. The Devil Himself walking the Earth if you ask me.”

Since the Colonel arrived we've had ten shootings in six months. Town Council passed a disarmament law in the city limits, over many an outraged voice mind, and still Marshal Hooker is dead.

Sounds like Edgar is trying to take over this place and make his own nation.

“The Colonel settled himself at Ft Carlin, taking over from Major Winifield,” Jake told us. “The early scuffles were all instigated by soldiers, but like a sickness spreading out from the fort other folks, steady, decent sorts, started turning mean and vicious out of all season and character. If ever a man could be said to have a wife that doted on him, it was Sam Pritrichard's Molly. Four months ago we found Sam in his bed, cut open like a river trout and some of his innards missing. Molly was hanging next to the bed from a rafter, her hands and mouth bloody, like maybe she had...” He trailed off and shuddered. “Molly worked as a maid and laundress up to the fort. First of the town folk to fall under this spell.”

This sounds like the evil Coyote warned off and it is inside a Goodkind.

Rival mine owner trying to force Jack out, plus Edgar trying to keep people fighting. Tried to make peace with Senior Ricardo and something always happens, this is a lot worse than first suspected. Goodkind has control of the Assayer and killed Ed to cover up moving of claim stakes, this mess just keeps getting bigger.

Flapjacks with Vermont maple syrup, now I'm hungry. Hollywood once more to blame for a misperception of something, poor Nevada. Humboldt River, and this is Fort Carlin, now that is rough living. Nifasi is a normally calm horse, yet skittish, uncomfortable and looking around for danger. Could be supernatural threat around in that case. Telling them to leave because the Fort is closed and going for their weapons, yeah, something is clearly not right here.

The big Lakota was unmoved. “They walked,” he agreed. “They spoke, but neither through their own will, even though their bodies were before us, their...wanagi, that which is them, but not physical were gone. They were no longer men, but bodies, moving by magic.”

“Zomibī,” whispered Jasmine, and while there is little that will cost my wife her courage, the thought of the dead walking had her hand over her mouth in fear.

Zombies, the soldiers all dead and turned into zombies, just what has possessed Edgar Goodkind?

It was Charlemagne, grandson of Charles Martel who stopped the Moslems at Tours, Conqueror of Belle Europa, Holy Roman Emperor who laid down the Laws of Magic, or rather, the legal framework by which magic could be used. Ask a magician about the Laws of Magic and you will possibly begin an apprenticeship! However, Charlemagne the Law Giver put pen to paper and produced the Codice Iuris which brought magic out of the shadows and made it a legitimate trade. It established codes of ethics, based on the ancient Oath of Hippocrates of Kos for Magic used for healing, it ascribed use of Magic in assault or murder to be no different legally than the use of a fist or sword and to hold the same penalties.

Most importantly, it laid out the Unforgivables, acts of Magic beyond the pale of fine or penance for which, a magician would be put to death. For the period, it was a short list, chiefly concerned with domination of the mind and the rule of others against their Will, but it did take note of Necromancy, if only in its absolute prohibition of the practice of death magic, reanimation of the dead, or attempts to corrupt or destroy the souls of the living. For those found guilty of such acts it proscribed death, by breaking; starting with the toes, every bone in the offending mages body would be broken until the shock and agony was too great and they succumbed.

Magic is a legitimate trade in the Whateley universe and it started with Charlemagne, now there is an interesting bit of world building.

Great, so either something evil has possessed Edgar Goodkind and has the powers of a Necromancer or he is a Necromancer and that evil himself. Make peace with Don Ricardo and get everyone out of the mine and back there, time to go to war with a true evil. Dang, that Don Ricardo does know how to dress in style. Jack getting him to come inside and not break peace as long as they don't, sweating bullets for a moment there.

Wicasa wakan, always wondered what shamans were called in their native language. Well, the priest obviously believes what Benjamin has told them. At least Jake Horton is getting Don Ricardo to see some reason, too close with moving his hand towards his pistol when Jasmine merely caused water to dance around her hands. Ed Hooker murdered just to keep a feud going so Edgar could steal both their claims when their dead, ugh.

The Priest shook his head. “El Diablo may quote the scriptures, Don Ricardo, but he cannot swear his innocence on them.”

Using the church of Father Hector De la Cruz as their headquarters, smart. Blessed weapons and ammo, now that is one good step for fighting undead.

Rituale Romanum, the master work of Catholic Rituals.

Never heard of that book, wonder if it still exist. Afraid of being brought onto church grounds, a crucifix glowing as Father De la Cruz rushes forward, yikes.

Having said that, something more horrific, foul and unspeakably hideous came out of both of the troopers and though the ground was not rent open, it became translucent as if the dirt, horse dung and scrub grass were somehow made of glass and they covered the sulfurous pit of Hell. Whatever had been cast out of the Corporal, and his accompanying trooper both fell back to the depths of the pit that spawned them and once more the ground was solid, opaque and wholesome once more.

Okay, much, much worse than normal zombies. And many weeks dead, hiding the fact they are zombies is advanced for such things I would think.

And Sheriff Clements convinced as well, one added to the growing allies. Wait for the dawn to strike, for fighting monsters in the dark is fighting on their turf and foolish at best. And what Jim thinks about Jasmine's ankles, oh to see how times have changed.

What year is Jim writing this manuscript in? Ford's automobiles increasing in popularity and replacing horses. Sounds like World War 1 is raging then, almost 30 years after this adventure actually happened seems close. Yikes, riding at night on a trail sounds like a potential nightmare. All those signs overlooked, guess it isn't a modern thing for humans to overlook obvious signs of trouble sometimes.

*eyes bug out* Jasmine moved the Humboldt River like that, just how powerful is she?

“Domine Deus meus, ad liberandum! Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina ad me!” So began the rite of Sancta Missa the blessing of the corner stone to be laid in the consecration of a new church. While the dead troopers had taken no marvel of the wall of water that now caged them, the evil within them did note that the ground they stood on was in the process of being consecrated and that aroused them like hornets from a disturbed nest.

Consecrating the whole Fort like this, whoa.

Oh crud, zombies that have access to the memories and skills of the bodies, just how powerful a Necromancer can raise 400 zombies like these? Dang, fired upon and not able to fire back due to the water wall.

“The effort to create this is already extreme upon her!” I shouted back at him.

Okay, that definitely hints her powers are about at their limit right now. Zombies throwing over zombies over the water wall, just how smart are these zombies? And definitely tougher than normal zombies, blown in half and still crawling towards them, yikes.

Finally, Jack figures out to shoot them in the head to stop them, good. Bullet to the shoulder and just bandages the wound with his bandana, Benjamin is a badass. And that consecration ritual worked epically, remaining zombies burst into flames, Jasmine able to let the river water just go back to its natural place. And Jack getting the feud settled, this horror is over. Except there is one loose end, Edgar Goodkind. And what Jake and Don did shows what true compromise can accomplish.

Not even close to the end of things, rats. Plus burritos, yum. Jack Kingston tongue-tied around Don Juan's eldest daughter, Rosetta, cute. Wait a minute, less than half the Forts assigned troops could be accounted for, don't tell me Edgar Goodkind is still out there with even more zombies. Edgar courting and marrying Harriet Lumstock, darn it, not even there. The land they had been feuding over had a particularly rich vein of gold, hhm, Edgar and the Goodkind fortune come into question more and more.

Doctor Cooper, fortunately a subscriber to The Lancet, had read with interest the articles published by Sir Joseph Lister, Bt, and was an early convert to the Anti-septic and Sanitary Movement. His clean practice, body, and thoroughly sterilized tools meant that Benjamin had only a pair of scars to brag about his wound later in life and suffered neither amputation, nor even any loss of use of his arm.

Ah, good, was worried Jack might lose his arm.

Jasmine in a dress that is all the rage in Paris.

It was crimson silk, with black lace accents along her decolletage and matching gloves that rose to her elbow. It was a straight line skirt, without bustle and clung to her in a manner that still sets my heart to beating.

He made a request for staff on retainer, oh no, don't tell me is going to rope them into more adventures.

“My request for a staff on retainer,” he informed us. “There is sufficient issues in San Francisco that I am assured I will not be sent roving again, and thus this is my last ride into the wilderness as it were. And as I am awarded a staff, I would like to offer all of you to come with me to San Francisco as my deputies.”

As his deputies, now there would be a sight to see. Jasmine's looks at Jim like that, no way he is turning down Jack.

About The Author
James Howard Hallowell was born on a cotton plantation near Madison, Georgia in 1845, along with his future common law wife, Jasmine. The son of a wagon maker employed by the plantation owner, James was educated at Franklin College which would become the University of Georgia, receiving a degree in mathematics. Returning home just in time for the Civil War, he served in the Confederate Cavalry and was taken prisoner where he was pressed into Union service and met his life-long friend, Jack Kingston. Returning to Georgia after the war he rescued Jasmine from the ruins of the plantation he had grown up on and the two headed west where they sought their fortune.

Falling in love, the couple exchanged vows before a missionary minister of the Church of England who held the anti-miscegenation laws of the time to be immoral. The Hallowells were founding members of the group that came to be known as the Immortals. Settling in San Francisco, Hallowell eventually retired from adventures and became a mathematics professor at the nascent University of California, Berkeley where he penned Hallowell's Proof, considered one of the founding theorems of Game Theory.

An author in his spare time, James wrote a series of 'pulp' books about his adventures with the Immortals and the legendary lawman 'Black' Jack Kingston. He died in 1921 at the age of 76 of natural causes, outlived only by a few minutes by his wife who it was said died of a broken heart. They were buried in the same casket, as inseparable in death as they were in life and are interred at the historic Sunset View Cemetery. In 1960, the mathematics department of Berkeley erected a statue of the pioneering couple, seated, on Faculty Glade, with a placard that reads: Freedom is always a choice

Now that was an epic tale with a lot of world-building included and interesting details I didn't know about how Hollywood portrays Westerns, Indian culture, and more. This was a very fun read and I love the last part about the author, I couldn't resist quoting it just so I can reread that part in the future. I hope we will see more stories in the future of 'Black' Jack Kingston and the Immortals.

And desiring of nothing more exciting than an interesting hand of poker to allow my wallet to continue to fund the lifestyle to which I have grown accustomed, a wiser man would likely have known that fate would arrive to settle accounts at such a moment.

Adding whiny sore loser and greedy bastard robbing players to Fate's possible disguises.

He was a mountain of a man, better than six and a half feet in his boots as he slowly entered, appraising the room. He still wore his union mantled frock coat, much faded now from his cavalry days.

Says the 'dime novel'...

Alas, despite the many advancements of civilization, for a decent bottle of scotch, requires mail order purchase and an eager wait of several months for a shipment from Scotland.

Don't we have luxuary tastes here. Could also explain the banditism if drinking is that hard on the wallet though.

One of the cattlemen beamed at his cards and promptly raised the already precipitously large pot by a hundred dollars. His fellow merely cursed and returned his cards to our bastion of journalism with more force than was strictly needed as he was the dealer presently. I took a sip of my scotch while the thespian continued to stare at his cards, doubtlessly wishing they would change of their own accord before they too were returned to the newspaper man. He bid us good evening and withdrew, most of his daily earnings in my stack.

Amateur. You slowly rises, and only then go for the kill.

Her smile shined out of her dusky skin as she looked at me askance for tormenting my fellow players, a weakness of mine, I must confess. “I'm sure you'll manage,” she replied with more mirth than her gaze might allow.

That's quite progressive there. Also, you're overdoing it, dude.

Our Journalist dealer folded, leaving only the two of us. “I got you this time, city slicker!” the boy enthused as he all but slammed his cards to the table. “Full house! Aces and duces!”

Though to be fair... Amateur bis.

The joy melted off his face like the last snow of winter before a spring sunrise as a fearsome snaggletoothed snarl set upon his features and an equally fearsome Bowie knife appeared in his hand. “Cheat!” he shouted, his eyes darting between the cards, myself and my companion. “She's cheating for you, the dirty Nig...”

Sore loser. You're the one who bet it all in one go and didn't read that guy.

His mouth opened and closed a few times before his will could command his vocal cords to stutter, “Ma'am, I am powerful sorry and God as my witness I swear to keep a civil tongue.”

Racial and gender equality progressing, one death threat at a time. Yeah, that will be taking a while. Still not finished.

“Nonsense, Captain Kingston!” I replied. “Trouble is a traveling companion I ever endeavor to part company with!” Remembering my manners, I turned to my lady and with a gesture to my friend continued. “My dear, allow me to introduce my former captor in the Late Unpleasantness, Captain Jack Kingston of the Seventh United States Cavalry. Oh Captain, my captain, it is my eternal pleasure to present the light of my celestial lantern, Jasmine Hallowell.”

A bit too much, Mr. Johnny Rebs.

He chuckled roughly. “They only reason I took them prisoner was my gun had bullets and theirs didn't,” he opined into his glass before his drought.

Logistics. The one cause for defeat, no matter how much you tote being the 'soldiers'.

Taking a sip myself, I said to my lady, “Often I have thought, my darling, logistics was the fundamental bane of our cause.”

See? He agrees.

“Apologies do not wake dead mothers, nor return them to life, Captain,” she said icily, then added a phrase in her mother's native Amharic I knew to be a curse of particularly nasty invective.

I'd like to say get things really better later, but...

“Jim, forgive my curiosity, but I can't think of any state or territory of the Union where nuptials between a white man and a Negress, however charming begging your pardon, ma'am, would be legal. In what state did this happen?”

At least that one definitely progressed.

“Oh, not I, sir!” I affirmed. “The lesson of the absolute rule of our Federal overlords was thoroughly Reconstructed into me, sir, let me assure you!”

On one hand, true. On the other... you are the whinners who tried to rock the country by leaving it for being salty about losing one election by your own fault because you couldn't agree to vote about one guy, without thinking about the probable consequences of the jurisprudence of 'Don't leave a law or an election? Just Secede' for the country as a whole, and of course that whole slavery thing. Also, ever heard of dandy fellows called sovereign citizens? For some reason I don't think you'd like them.

“Your pardon, sir, but I believe I have missed the portion of your government's dilemma that makes it of consequence to me.” I took another sip of the admittedly excellent brew and fixed my most piercing gaze on my old friend. “Allow me to remind you, sir, lest you have forgotten, we met because I took up arms against this exact sort of feudalistic nonsense from the District of Columbia.”

And you need at least the appearance of the rule of law to keep sore losers and greedy snakes thinking about snatching the prize to minimum you know?

He leaned forward, intent and fixated on me. “This isn't about the Federal Government in Washington, Jim, it's not about whether or not you or I think there should be Marshals, or any other infringement on State Sovereignty, a man has been murdered and its my job to see his killers come to justice.”

And last point, that's a friend asking, dude.

“I am not parted from my husband, Mr. Kingston. And you may rest assured I bring ability more than capable to your needs.”

Besides, pushing back the horndogs alone becomes boring after the twentieth one. And risky when alone.

Jack beamed realizing he had all but won me over to his cause and returned my toast with his new glass. “From here, I was going to recruit Two Feathers.”

And the next member of the Not-Quite-Yet-Seven Mercenaries is...

“Down the street in the city jail,” Kingston replied. “I'll need your help to break him out.”

A mandatory breakout. Nice.

Now, forgive me, gentle reader, for at this point in my narrative a bit of explanation is in order. As your humble scribe is well aware of the efficience of such expository passages, they lack a certain flower and disrupt the flow of the narrative, however they do impart glittering nuggets of understanding that shall allow you to more readily follow my tale.

Already going meta in the Ninettenth? Deadpool is disppointed of dicovering he didn't invent that much.

For those uninformed in the subtle differences between tribes of the plains they may hold the notion that 'Indians' were a more or less monolithic block of people, all possessed of similar predilection to violence and hostility to Americans.

You just described 95% of your readers of the time. And I'm generous.

That a goodly number of one band should actively despise the others should surprise no one with a passing knowledge of European history.

A shame only 10% of the readers of the time have one.

While I do refer to the City as a 'metropolis' with more than its due share of irony, it was, in fact, quite a lively place at the time. In some ways, perhaps a bit too lively, as shall be illuminated presently.

One person out of forty work for law enforcement, and still all these problems? dang.

That and the fact my nickle plated pistol was under his nose.

Ew, where the duck are you sending this innocent gun? Have some decency for the poor thing, please.

“Why change is the only constant in the universe, Benjamin!” I scolded him. “I shall have to amend my calling card to reflect my new profession of jail breaker. Something clever I should think! How does 'Have Gun, Will Travel,' strike you?”

Euuuuuuh...

“You're still not funny,” my Lakota friend observed as we made good our escape back to the hotel to collect my better half.

That, thanks.

Thanks to the booming silver trade going on in our arid state, the Virginia & Truckee boasts of being the most profitable Rail Road in these United States, even for a short line such as it was. Indeed, it was said that the Virginia & Truckee was so well off, rather than fixing an engine with a mechanical problem, they simply bought a new one to replace it, thus the desert was littered with sidings on which stood parked locomotives and rolling stock awaiting some future repair.

So soon in history, and already that wasteful.

Upon our arrival at the station we discovered God smiles upon fools as there was a train, in the station, taking on water. The Marshall's badge commandeered us a passenger car to be added to the strong car of silver bricks on their way from the smelter to the Bank of California, with a box car to stable the horses as well. With a short blast of the whistle atop the locomotive Empire, we were on our way to Reno.

Law can be nice sometimes, eh?

In Reno, a twenty dollar gold piece persuaded the Central Pacific conductor to be of a more liberated mindset concerning the accommodations of my lovely wife and myself, and we retired to the Pullman car to enjoy the journey in repose.

Enjoy, yes, repose, ...

There are few pleasures in this life that rival those of a man happily married. The burdens of life, made easier by the equal yoke of man living in the intended way of life of his Creator, comforted by she that was taken from his rib. And while the idylls of the flesh tempt many a bachelor into wantoness, a young man cannot describe himself as worldly until he has experienced those same idylls not in the flaming, temporary fires of amorous lust, but the warm, long suffering comfort of love. Thus can the narrow and thin mattress of a rail road sleeper car become a throne of repose fit for a king when shared with the love of one's life.

Yes, being a man well-married, I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Yeah, that.

For myself I laid out my least favorite suit of worsted wool, anticipating action of a different sort, along with my father's pocket watch whose value was strictly sentimental.

Mandatory accessory for dramatically stopping a fatal bullet.

The Warning

*Actually stops reading for a few minutes.* You're ridiculious Hardric, it's fine, it didn't hijack any plot yet, it didn't even appear, only delivering through another a message any other fucking aetheric bastard could have delivered... Stopping and going back to the Not-Quite-Yet-Seven Mercenaries.

Even now as the Great War rages in Europe we see more and more beings the like of my Nubian Princess and her lamented mother. These biblical figures, these 'Mystery Men' to use the common sobriquet, are merely able to defy science and her half sister sorcery and accomplish that which cannot be accomplished by mere mortal men. For I tell you with the certainty of having seen it more than once with my own eyes, the Will of my blushing bride reached down into the glass and the water flowed up into her hand and formed itself into a knife.

She took up the paper doily from her saucer and the liquid blade she had made in her hand sliced it in half as though the water was as finely sharp as any barbers razor. Then she opened her hand over her glass and it flowed back, leaving not so much as a drop on her gloved hand.

... Oh. Guess it wouldn' be quite Wateleyverse without mutants.

“Fair point,” I acknowledged. “Young William was always a bit high strung and more often than once earned the scorn of Mr. Archer, where as, I found favor in my father's employer's eyes and he was a second father to me. When he dispatched Young William to attend the University of Georgia, Mr. Archer graciously paid my own tuition and expenses in recompense for keeping an eye on my childhood playmate and likewise out of scandal too large to be winked at as the exuberance of youth. So William and I set out as Menelaus and Odysseus to Athens to prostrate ourselves to the higher minds of Professors ensconced there for our betterment. Alas, I was the more studious of our pairing, returning just in time for the Late Unpleasantness with a Bachelor's degree in the Fine Arts.”

Forget Western, your entire life story would make for a good novel.

“My mother could do a great deal more than I have demonstrated,” Jasmine replied with all the patience of a saint. “Even as I can, but tell me, how many bullets does your revolver hold, Marshall?

“Six when I realize I am headed into trouble with only Colonel Colt and the protection of the Hand of God, madam,” he replied quickly. “Five for the regimen of day to day living, so the hammer may safely rest on an empty chamber.”

“And when you are set upon by twenty men, all armed thusly, what course of action have you?”

Just wait for machine guns and power armors...

“Let me be clear and frank with you, Sheriff,” Captain Kingston growled. “I didn't 'break' anyone out of Jail, I have a legal order of custody for Mr Two Feathers the Carson City Sheriff's deputies chose to ignore. So I deputized a responsible citizen and invoked federal privilege on the matter. If you have issue with that, you can take it up with the Solicitor General Of the United States.” He opened his duster and laid a hand on the butt of his own revolver. “So, no, sir, you will not be taking anyone from my party into custody today.”

Why were these morons thinking about keeping him though... How 'legal' was that order?

The round face was covered in a bead of sweat and I noted how empty the platform was suddenly of other travelers either embarking or arriving on the train. “Ther...” he stammered. “There's a law against guns in town,” he stammered. “You...you have to disarm...!”

In the sweet Far West in the middle of a gold rush? You're adorable thinking you can uphold that one. Really wish you could though.

He and Benjamin were loitering at the telegraph office, waiting for a reply while sipping beer from the tavern next door. I acquired glasses for myself and my wife as our little groups made the others aware of our separate adventures. “I have acquired us a pair of rooms at the Lodging House of Mrs Horton,” I informed the Marshal. “One for you and Benjamin and the other across the hall. Both of your saddle bags are there.”

If magic in this 'verse and the 'hints' of Nalley are worth anything... Yeah, same person. At the very least same family.

“We're being watched,” Two Feathers informed us from behind his own glass. “The four vaqueros across the street by the horse trough, their Ramrod, just up the street by the barber and the painted lady on the balcony over the dry goods store looks at us, then up and down the street in turns.”

Tat and the actual sneaky ones not spotted.

The rider nodded and laid his hands over the saddle horn. “Jake Horton, at your service. Your man Solomon there and his Queen of Sheba rented rooms of my missus. You and yours have a pile of enemies in this town and damn few friends. If you'll come along with me, I'll explain.”

... You're Number Five now. Who are the remaining 'Mercs'... And who dies?

Here I must admit to my own bias whereas I truly enjoy any chance to listen to my darling wife sing, or speak, in the language of love.

Qu'est ce que vous avez tous pour le français? J'ai fait des tests, personne n'aime les traductions françaises de Warcraft, par exemple.

“Death metal,” muttered Two Feathers in disgust.

Worst part? It's only valuable because it's not useful for anything else. And doesn't oxyde (so creating a fantasy setting where at least some kingdoms despise gold).

“Edgar Goodkind,” Jake declared, with the desperate look of a man wanting to spit in disgust and unable to due to circumstance. “Some New York tycoon who bought himself a commission in the War. The Devil Himself walking the Earth if you ask me.”

... Only if you're lucky, dude. At least the Neu-Panzer SS don't exist yet.

Mr Horton's glance that he favored me with was none too kind, though given what he had been through such unkind gaze could be forgiven. “Well, I won't say all our troubles started when he got here, we had troubles aplenty before and will after he's gone. But I will say our lot took a decided turn for the worse since he got here. Carlin is a rail road town and we can be rough, a man looking for a brawl can usually find one here without too much trouble, but in the ten years I've lived here I could count shootings and murders on one hand, and always trouble brought in from other places. Since the Colonel arrived we've had ten shootings in six months. Town Council passed a disarmament law in the city limits, over many an outraged voice mind, and still Marshal Hooker is dead.”

“As one of my professors at my alma mater was fond of quoting, 'correlation does not equate to causation',” I replied. Mr Horton nodded and took a sip of tea.

You missed the lesson where he told Goodkinds are a natural exception. Few preious exceptions only, liike Phase, his aunt, his cousin...

“The Colonel settled himself at Ft Carlin, taking over from Major Winifield,” Jake told us. “The early scuffles were all instigated by soldiers, but like a sickness spreading out from the fort other folks, steady, decent sorts, started turning mean and vicious out of all season and character. If ever a man could be said to have a wife that doted on him, it was Sam Pritrichard's Molly. Four months ago we found Sam in his bed, cut open like a river trout and some of his innards missing. Molly was hanging next to the bed from a rafter, her hands and mouth bloody, like maybe she had...” He trailed off and shuddered. “Molly worked as a maid and laundress up to the fort. First of the town folk to fall under this spell.”

... Welp, Goodkinds old edition seem to just like mindfuck magic. Fucking hypocrites.

Mr Horton shrugged. “Sure. Not so much a fool that I can't see paying men to keep armed watch instead of mining is bad for business, but every time I tried to make peace with Don Juan something always seemed to happen.” He paused, overcome by emotion for a few minutes before he forced himself to admit. “That's how I got Ed killed. I asked him to look into things between me and Ricardo.”

Just as subtle as the thing with Hammond... Is there any standard Goodking which would be able to success without the archbillions? Their plotting seems rather obvious.

“Well,” I chuckled darkly as I took the measure of Marshal Kingston as his face was as grim as mine. “Colonel Goodkind sounds to be a magnificent host! We shall have to pay him a visit! Is your social calendar free, Marshal?”

...

“You're still not funny, Georgian,” Two Feathers rumbled.

Thanks for speaking for me, dude. Calendar is always free for offing scumbags.

Miracles never cease.

*Look at 1929 and 2007* You might reconsider. Oh the perks are totally here, but the costs...

“You'll have to leave, sir,” the Sergeant repeated. “The Fort is closed.”

NPCs in RPGs may be more realistic than we think...

“Those men were dead,” he declared with great conviction.

Nah, just NPCs in a RPG. Not a big difference, but still...

Jack looked at all of us, confounded and flummoxed at our ready acceptance of the supernatural. “You lot can call it what you like,” he declared stubbornly. “I don't believe in ghost stories!”

“Start,” Two Feathers advised him stoically. “You are in one.”

Better, you're in a zombie story... Although without flamethrowers and some othher modern comfort. Might suck a little, but still, Cowboys and Mutants vs Zombies. The cool supercedes this.

Laws of Magic

Defnitely getting Dresden Files vibes here... Though I wonder how it took that long after Salomon and his bargain to get them done.

And we were dealing with a Necromancer powerful enough to kill and animate an entire Fort of Cavalry Troopers. It was quickly apparent we needed every friend we could make. After my lecture on the reality of such magic by way of the history I had learned at school and the practical corrections of Two Feather's somewhat limited training as a shaman in his youth, on the return ride to Carlin, we at last convinced the skeptical Marshal of the dire seriousness of our current fortunes.

Whoever here said first that the necromancer is Nimbus, and he might be pursuing the Goodkinds Because Colonel Moral Standards cheated him on some deal? Totally behind you.

.“Can you make peace with Don Ricardo?” Jake asked him earnestly, and given our situation, answering a question, with a question could be excused. “Do you have any reason to believe this Colonel, or whoever is behind what's going on with the fort may have control on him?”

Tentative guess for Number Six... And the gray bar on the side tells us you need to hurry.

Don Ricardo was a man of early middle age, clean shaven, but with a discrete, waxed mustachios and a manly chin. He wore a black, expertly tooled gun belt with a pair of pistols again with silver details. With him was a younger man who favored him sufficiently to be a close relative, and, somewhat surprisingly, another man between them in age who wore a Catholic Priest's cassock.

On the plus side, he has candidates for Number Seven.

“You are ill informed, señor,” Juan declared after a moment of taking the big man's measure. “Law and Order have never been suspended and thus are not in need of restoration.”

And you're ill informed too, because proto-zombie apocalypse dirupt law something fierce.

The Don's gaze lingered for a moment on the men in the room before he put down his coffee cup and stood to face his rival. “Is this what you've dragged me out here for, Horton? Ghost stories to frighten children?”

Dude. You live in a world where magic is real. Grow up.

Marshall Kingston stepped forward, his hands on the lapels of his frock coat. “Gentlemen, I believe this is exactly why Ed Hooker was murdered. Because as a neutral member of the Federal Government, he could examine the claims and settle your feud. I don't know if this Colonel Goodkind is the cause of this, or if that was merely coincidence, but what I do know is the father there needs to certify if these soldiers are in fact, dead men walking, and if so, we have to burn out that Fort!”

Veerdict is Goodkind, aka 'culprit, very few key exceptions noted'. Also, you need to address more important matterrs, like what the guy racking up the more zzombie kills win... Humor is also a way to try and forget hundreds of poor schmucks are now the undead slaves any capitalist robber baron ever dreamed for.

The Priest shook his head. “El Diablo may quote the scriptures, Don Ricardo, but he cannot swear his innocence on them.”

Guess you're Number Seven... Alright, which ones of our Mercenaries will die?

The little white adobe church of Father Hector De la Cruz became our de facto headquarters; not precisely neutral, but being a House of God, it soothed over the grumblings of the miners who had come at Mr. Horton's call. There, Two Feathers briefed the men on the dangers of fighting the undead, which I shall not divulge in great detail here as it neither furthers this narrative nor is it good for keeping the gullible out of mischief. Suffice to say it should not be undertaken by amateurs, no matter how enthusiastic and is not without a fair amount of work by Father De la Cruz as he blessed an imposing amount of weapons and ammunition.

... And now I wonder how world War Z is changed in a world where zombies exist.

What happened next, no matter how perfectly etched in my memory, is somewhat difficult to describe. Nor, am I entirely sure how much I should describe for fear of tempting those without the good sense most are born with. Having said that, something more horrific, foul and unspeakably hideous came out of both of the troopers and though the ground was not rent open, it became translucent as if the dirt, horse dung and scrub grass were somehow made of glass and they covered the sulfurous pit of Hell. Whatever had been cast out of the Corporal, and his accompanying trooper both fell back to the depths of the pit that spawned them and once more the ground was solid, opaque and wholesome once more.

Number Seven place well-earned, sir.

Sheriff Clements was not exactly keen on being summoned by the Marshall, but that Don Ricardo with his men were present bolstered his flagging courage, we were all polite enough not to comment on it. Once he had been made aware of our suppositions and aims, he was entirely less keen on the matter, until he was shown the mortal remains of the corporal and his trooper, who as luck would have it, he had greeted in passing earlier that day.

Nah, just salty he isn't a Mercenary. The Padre's position isn't up for negotiations, spare one.

No one felt the need to assault evil of the scale we had unearthed without the sun in the sky.

Common Sense 101... How would you call Darwin Awards before Darwin, by the way?

Still, we did need to move under the cover of darkness, and so at four in the ante-meridian we mounted our horses and set out. My beloved had donned her Culottes once more and were she not my wife, the sight of her perfect ankles encased in the supple leather of her riding boots would have me thinking thoughts of a most impure and unbecoming nature. Fortunately, in my case, she was my wife and my thoughts were entirely appropriate.

Like the break in the tension.

My wife scolds me that I am a pessimist and that the beautiful, nimble and above all faithful horse will never be truly usurped as mankind’s preferred method of travel and I have not the heart nor the will to quarrel with her.

... Poor sweet summer child.

This was the east side of the promontory, furthest from Carlin and with the sun rising behind us, we would have excellent visibility while, we hoped our adversaries would be hampered by the rising sun.

Sorry, but they're probably too dead for this to work.

“Domine Deus meus, ad liberandum! Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina ad me!” So began the rite of Sancta Missa the blessing of the corner stone to be laid in the consecration of a new church. While the dead troopers had taken no marvel of the wall of water that now caged them, the evil within them did note that the ground they stood on was in the process of being consecrated and that aroused them like hornets from a disturbed nest.

...Please tell me he's blessing the water of the river to destroy them all.

The dead troopers fetched their Springfield Trapdoor Carbines and when the first shots proved incapable of penetrating the water, they sought the altitude of their building works to be able to fire over it. Bullets began to fly and land around us, sparking and howling as they struck stones that resisted them and I was reminded of the horrors of the war I had fought some years prior in the defense of my native state. The miners returned fire, and with our lever actions against the single shot of the trapdoor Springfield, volume of fire was definitely on our side, but alas the water wall my amazing wife was exerting herself to create worked both ways and our bullets could not penetrate it either.

These zombies are fucking cheaters. Nimbus too, by the way.

The Marshall looked at the priest, who was blessing the ground as fast as he could, but the ritual did take time. It was then that dead, in their own desperation, became creative. Seizing their fellows, a good dozen troopers were hurled over the wall of water with supernatural strength. The troopers landed like cats and each armed with a pair of revolvers began to advance on the Padre and the boulder the Marshall and I were shielding my wife with.

They're also sore losers. Lovely, you'd think walking corpses are at least free of that one trait.

“Mother of God!” the Marshall shouted as his pistol roared. The forty-four caliber ball struck the creature on its nose and exploded the skull as it exited the back. That, at last, was sufficient to stop its seemingly unstoppable advance. “The head!” he shouted. “Shoot them in their heads!”

The briefing, people, the ducking briefing... Headshots were mentionned, right? That's like, the ultra base of killing zombies.

A roll of thunder across the valley announced that the Padre had completed his ritual which brought about the most unnatural of wails of the remaining creatures, trapped on the now consecrated ground. They burst into a hot, white flame and the sound of their rage and agony haunts my dreams to this very day. While Herr Nietzsche may declare that 'God is dead', there are those of us who are well acquainted with the works of the Lord first hand who know better. With a final shriek of defiance, the hilltop shook and the creatures were burned away to nothing, cast back into the pit from whence they had come.

I'll admit, even better than drowning them in blessed water.

Jake Horton rubbed his fleshy nose and looked his rival in the eye. “I don't know about you, Juan, but I feel a damned fool us being at each others throats while this was going on.” The diminutive man with the large ego nodded his head in shame.

Nothing like fighting a zombie apocalypse together to create bonds. Even when the opposition are little dirty cheaters.

Horton stuck out his hand. “Yes!” he declared as the two shook on it.

... Wait a minute, no Merc died, and the zombies are all dead... I demand a refund, especially concerning the Marshall's 'final ride'. Fake news and lying advertising, all most shameful.

Colonel Goodkind, we discovered, had not even been there, but had been away on leave, courting and marrying his new bride, the former Harriet Lumstock in the Arizona Territory.

And while I knew history said so, that wanker is left alone, despite the fact the association is rather obvious here. Double refund!

However, as a Christian man it would be unseemly of me to suspect one had anything to do with the other.

And as a man I'll say he's culprit, and his family is paying for him not ponying up for the necromancer he hired. What's wrong ith ponying up? Equestria Girls showed it's cool.

“My request for a staff on retainer,” he informed us. “There is sufficient issues in San Francisco that I am assured I will not be sent roving again, and thus this is my last ride into the wilderness as it were. And as I am awarded a staff, I would like to offer all of you to come with me to San Francisco as my deputies.”

Boo for the lying over the Last Ride. But Yay for surviving your first zombie apocalypse.

I stroked my goatee thoughtfully. “The Immortals of 'Black' Jack Kingston?” I demanded with a chuckle. “History would never be the same!”

Immortals... Persian way? Because knowing a replacement is all ready to take over me when I kick the bucket has to feel pretty cold.

So, with great lament, ended my vagabond days of simple card playing. The four of us hied ourselves to the photography studio to take the portrait that adorns the rear of this book on our way to the rail station to book tickets back to San Francisco. While my vagabond days were ending, the adventures of 'Black' Jack Kingston, United States Marshall and His Immortals were only just beginning. But those are also tales, for another day.

Euh, seriously, Immortals how?

An author in his spare time, James wrote a series of 'pulp' books about his adventures with the Immortals and the legendary lawman 'Black' Jack Kingston. He died in 1921 at the age of 76 of natural causes, outlived only by a few minutes by his wife who it was said died of a broken heart. They were buried in the same casket, as inseparable in death as they were in life and are interred at the historic Sunset View Cemetery. In 1960, the mathematics department of Berkeley erected a statue of the pioneering couple, seated, on Faculty Glade, with a placard that reads:

Freedom is always a choice

Oh, that form of immortality, the nice one... And yeah more people should take that choice... Last thing, any relationship with a Riptide back at Whateley?