As the sun rose over the City of Dodge, you could tell that it was going to be a bad day. The desert wind rattled shutters against their housings, and the occasional tumbleweed flopped lazily down the main street. Little puffs of dust rose and danced about the hooves of the horses as they clomped down the dirt road toward the Thirsty Rancher Saloon. Four riders dismounted, hitched up, and solemnly strode to the doors...

A single man stood at the bar, his back turned to the entrance. He wore a black suede drover coat with a matching hat. His long, blonde hair spilled out from under the brim and splayed across his powerful shoulders. He wore US Cavalry boots, with one foot resting up on the rail. No-one could see his face or his gun rig, but they very plainly saw the Henry Rifle laying on the bar within easy reach of the man, as well as the half-empty bottle of Whiskey in his left hand. One of the four took a tentative step forward and quietly spoke...

"Umm, Alex Brody?" There was no response. "We're here from another town, and we--" The man at the bar raised his right hand up and waved it erratically as he slammed the bottle onto the bar. "We were wondering if you could--" he was cut off once more when the man turned around, put his forefinger to his lips and said 'SSHHH!' "Umm, well, if you ARE Alex Brody, umm, could you please--"

"Please, what?" the man spoke, his voice rough and slurred. "You came here to seek Marshall Brody's help, did 'ya? Well, I ain't Marshall Brody." The four newcomers looked disappointed and began to leave. "Well, at least, not any more, anyway." They stopped in their tracks and turned to look back at him. He had his hands on his hips, his coat pulled back to reveal two, highly-polished 1874 Colt .45 revolvers with ivory grips, and another, wooden pistol grip a bit higher up--under his left armpit. He reached over and grabbed his Henry rifle, flipping it around in his hand while cocking the lever-action (like in Terminator II) and resting it on his shoulder. "Now, what in the HELL do you boys want with an old drunk like me?" He smiled at them.

"Well, Mr. Brody, Sir... We come from a town you once helped to save. It's not very far--maybe 4 days ride. We were wonderin'--that is, we wanted to ask you..." One of the other men slapped the speaking man on the back. "What he's tryin' ta say, Marshall, is that we need your help to get rid of a little gunfighter infestation."

"I see. And where would this town be?" Brody asked matter-of-factly.

"You've been there before, Marshall. It's Deadwood City." Brody simply nodded in silence, then he turned around and returned to his drinking...

By Tony (Sol) on Unrecorded Date:

Centavo the BlackSmith quietly watches the goings'on as he polishes some horseshoes. He spits in the Spitoon and mumbles,

"No me gusto, amigos."

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody made no motion to leave the saloon, and after another ten minutes, he still wasn't moving. He had, however, emptied some more of his Southern Comfort bottle...

One of the young men looked at a pocket-watch. "Mr. Brody, sir, we are in an awful hurry to get there."

"Why? Are you afraid that all the gunfighters will be gone by the time I show up?" Brody chuckled. "They'll still be there. Gunfighters are a stubborn, stupid lot. They think they're the best--unbeatable. And then, one day, they meet their better. Most die before the age of 25. Did you boys know that?" Brody smiled into his drink. The four younger men drew closer to Brody, meaning only to sit next to him at the bar. "One more step, and so help me, God, I'll fill ya so full of holes yer mommas won't recognize 'ya!" Brody growled as he smoothly pulled one of his pistols and aimed right at the lead man's forehead. He did all of this without even looking. The four younger men froze, fear gripping their hearts. Brody finally turned his head to look at them, and they saw his eyes burning with hatred. Or perhaps it was pain. They were too distracted by the gaping black maw of Brody's .45 revolver.
"Now, if we do this, we do it my way. Agreed?" The men nodded. "Good. Now, we're gonna finish our drink, then we're gonna go take a nap. We'll leave tomorrow, and you boys are gonna tell me everything that's happened. Everything. Now, go away, and don't come back until tomorrow." Brody remained motionless, just glaring at the younger men with his deep, grey eyes. They each felt as if he were peering into their souls. Brody cocked his pistol, snapping them into reality once more, and they fell over themselves trying to scurry out the door. Brody watched them leave, then turned and returned his gun to its holster, smiling. "Kids," was all he said as he downed another glass...

By Bryan (Houdini) on Unrecorded Date:

Mark Johnson, a rancher's son, had made a name for himself over the years. He loved to be where the action was. At the age of 18 he volunteered for service in the US Army durring the Mexican-american war as a enlisted man. His couragous and unique style of fighting in theBattle of San Pasqual earned him a purple heart. When the war, and his tour of duty was over, Mark became a man without a purpose. He needed to be where the action was.

Mark, hoping to find action, found it in Law Enforcement. As a Texas Ranger, he became one of the most effective and agressive lawmen Texas had ever seen. He was an excelent shot with his colt peacemaker. He was an even more deadly shot with his sniper rifle. Reprimanded several times by his commanding officers for provoking criminals into shootouts rather then simply arresting them he was eventually charged with secondary manslaughter because a young boy who had been a hostage of a bad group of bandits threated to kill the boy if Mark didn't put down his gun. Mark who was a good shot, took out the man, never realizing that a second gunner was waiting nearby to shoot the boy.

Striped of his job as a ranger, and forced to server 3 months in a texas state jail for neglagence in a hostage situation, he came out a different man. Something inside him had changed. Struck with grief and anger he became a drifter, a wanderer. He left Texas. Nobody would hire him with a criminal record. Desparate for food and money he made a living out of what he did best: removing unwanted elements, permanantly.

He became an asasin for hire. Name the right price and your sworn enemy would soon be history. He didn't care about who was right. Only the money, his days of caring and beliving had ceased to be the second that young boy died in his arms.

He was carefull and exacting in his work, spending days, weeks, sometimes months scoping out his intended victim, he would learn their habits, and hangout spots. When the deed was done, their wouldn't be a trace of the victim. Because of his previous law enforcement experience he knew how to
destroy the evidence so that he wouldn't get caught. He also understood the science of tracking, and could easily throw the best of trackers off of his trail.

He wore a mask and wore dark clothing when he greeted his clients, carefull they they did not catch a glimpse of his face. Nobody knew his
real name.. and Mark who had been a hero to Texans
everywhere as Ranger, vanished without a trace.

Now, The Undertaker had a new assignment.. for which he would have to travel to Deadwood City. All he had to go on was the following telegraph wire.

Please come to Deadwood City, meet me outside of town at Old Bear crossing, will pay $5,000 for removal of unwelcome guest -CJ

-The Undertaker

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Alex Brody opened his eyes. Immediately he felt the stabbing pain of brightness strike at his brain from their sockets. The ceiling looked fuzzy, and it was spinning slightly. He had a dry mouth, swollen tongue, and a God-awful taste in it. 'Yep,' thought Brody. 'That's a hang-over.' The incredibly loud, echoing knock at his door tore him from his sluggish thoughts. His ears rang from the noise, and again, his head throbbed.
"Mr. Brody, sir? It's tomorrow. Just thought you'd like to know before we left," came the voice of one of the younger men through the door. Brody hurled his tomahawk at the door.

The young man knocked on Brody's door and informed him of the departure plans. Just as he was about to walk away, a loud >THUNK< met his ears. He spun sharply around, only to see the head of an indian tomahawk sticking through the door from the other side. The unsettling fact about its placement was that it was exactly where the man's face had been not one minute ago. He ran downstairs...

At 10am, Alex Brody strode somberly down the stairs of the Thirsty Rancher Saloon. He walked purposefully out the swinging doors, into the morning sunlight--squinting. Turning, he walked to the stables and saddled his horse--a beautiful US Cavalry steed, cream-colored with a black mane. When he finished, he led it out front, mounted, and looked around. The boys were nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, he began to ride in the direction of Deadwood City. After all, he didn't need them to lead him there.
When Brody reached the edge of town, all four younger men caught up with him in a mad gallop. They slowed to keep pace with him, as he silently rode southwest.

"Mr. Brody, you wanted to hear all that's happened?" one of the men asked. Brody nodded slightly. At least, it looked like he nodded. "Well, then, let me begin..." Brody didn't care about any of what had transpired since he left. As far as he was concerned, Deadwood City could have fallen into the pits of Hell itself, and he would not have cared. He was only returning for one thing--and it was a very selfish thing, indeed. In actuality, after the third or fourth minute of being told what had transpired, Brody fell asleep in his saddle. It was a much-needed rest...

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody stood by and watched, unable to move--transfixed as the man in the top-hat pulled out his gun and blasted a hole into his wife. One shot--two shots--three shots... Everything moved in slow motion as Brody yelled at the top of his lungs, only no sound came out. The brit with the top-hat turned to regard Brody, as he fired off another shot into Kitten (Brody's pet name for his wife). She hadn't even hit the dusty street yet. Brody tried to run towards Kitten as she crumbled, but his legs felt like tree trunks. The Brit fired again, this time hitting Kitten under the jaw, snapping her head backwards violently as the cruel lead tore through her perfect face. The Brit started laughing, a haunting, echoing sound emanated from his mouth as his crooked teeth made their attempt at a smile. He reached into his pocket, producing a small card which had a simple skull and crossbones on one side. He flung the card onto the ground near Kitten, and fired off his final shot--catching Brody's dog through the left eye as he lunged at the murderous Brit. And then, he was gone. He simply disappeared. Brody finally got to the spot of the murder, crying in anguish. He bent and picked up the dropped card, flipping it over in his hand. Printed in black ink on the back of the card was "The Undertaker".

"Mr. Brody?" a distant voice asked. "Mr. Brody--are you all right?" Alex Brody snapped his eyes open and drew his 10 inch Bowie knife from its belt sheath, placing it coldly on the throat of the speaking man. He almost made a cut in the soft flesh, purely on instinct, but the man yelped and jumped away, falling off his horse in the process. Brody blinked his eyes, the setting sun just behind his right shoulder, and he remembered immediately where he was. He stopped his horse, the other three young men staring at him in fear.

As Brody dismounted, he mumbled, "We'll make camp here for the night. And don't touch me when I'm sleeping." He looked over at the fallen lad, his ego more bruised than his bottom, and winked. The others got the point. Brody walked over and sat on a fallen log, silently taking first watch. He knew that if he tried to sleep, the images which haunted him would only grow stronger. He fished in his coat pocket, and pulled out two items: a gold wedding ring with a lock of hair tied around it like a bow, and a small business card which had a skull and crossbones on one side, and "The Undertaker" printed on the other. He unconsciously turned the items over in his hand as he peered into the growing darkness, listening to the coyotes howl mournfully to the night...

By Rigel Nephridil (Nat) on Unrecorded Date:

“But Ian, you promised!!!!” Corinna pleaded as he buttoned his trousers and stormed for the barn door. “I can’t back out now! It’s too late.” he rationalized as he swung the barn door open and looked at her as she adjsusted her sash. Ian pasued for a moment, reconsidering the hasty decisions he’d made since he lost his job. His supervisor had laid off two hundred men and hired one hundred and eighty Chinese immigrants in their place. It was said those Chinese were more efficient for building the railroad. Out near Dodge and Deadwood City there wasn’t a whole lot of work to be found for an Irish boy who couldn’t read.

“Ian...” she cooed with her soft voice “You can stay here. Papa can find you a job lookin’ after cattle for Mr. Jacobs.” Her brown eyes nearly melted his determination. “What kind of life can I offer you shoveling cow dung? None that your father would approve of!” Corinna stretched her arms out to him “There’s only so much people can take before they begin to fight back!” Ian fled from her. Corinne raced out of the barn only to be stopped by her mother. A long hem of red-orange fabric blocked the sun as she lifted her arm to stop her daughter. “You’ve done all you can. Don’t drag yourself into it.”

***

The sun had set by the time Ian had reached the rendezvous camp on foot. The rest of the group stood waiting with an extra horse for him. “Well, boy... You did good for us last time, now lets see how your luck hold up this time.” Louis’ haggard voice gurgled as he tossed Ian a revolver. “Fresh meat...” Todd snickered out loud as the rest of the young men joined in with laughter. Ian ignored them, tucked the gun away and mounted the horse they brought for him. Louis strained to rise to his feet, his old age making any physical task a challenge. He grabbed the trunk of a dead tree to ease the weight off his back before he spoke “You remember- watch out, you’ll never know when they’ll have freelance security around. There’s plenty of stupid sheriff wannabe’s out west, so watch yer backs- you’ll never know, one of them might get a few lucky shots. If it looks like you might be out gunned, run for it. Ian, if you come back alive and with something to show for today’s business venture- you can keep that ‘ol horse there.”

Corinna Reyez

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

The four younger men awoke with the sun, to the smell of freshly-roasted meat over a blazing fire. They stirred in their bedrolls, rubbing their eyes and looking around. Three huge haunches of meat turned on a spit, over the campfire, and a coffee-pot sat on a flat rock nearby. The meat smelled absolutely delicious. They slowly started preparing for their day, when one guy caught sight of Brody, sitting on the same log as last night, only he was cleaning blood off his knife. The guy walked closer to get a better look as his three buddies dug in to the cooking meat. He nearly threw up when he caught sight of what Brody had done.

"What is it, Zeke?" Jacob asked, rushing to his brother's side. Looking up, he saw 2 dead coyotes laying in a bloody heap at Brody's feet, skinned, de-boned, with most of the meaty-pieces missing. He looked back at the fire, and saw the missing pieces... One of them was in his hand, already half-eaten. He doubled over, spewing the chewed mouthful out as he joined his brother in disgust. Brody piped up somberly.

"What's wrong with you fellas? Coyotes are good eatin. Plus, their fur makes good coats," Brody said, not turning away from his work. These boys were definately too skittish to live on the range for very long...

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody finished cleaning his knife, rose, then approached the fire. He grabbed a tin mug and poured some coffee into it. Sitting next to the fire, he pulled a rolled-up map out of his chest pocket. Pointing to several places and grumbling something, he finally spoke loud enough for Jebediah to hear him.

"We'll make Deadwood by tomorrow morning," he said. Jebediah looked at the map Brody was using... It was an old military map.

"Where'd you get that?" Jebediah asked. Brody just peered right through him.

"From a colonel," Brody answered, rising to his feet and preparing to mount up. The four younger men took the hint, and started breaking camp...

By Tony (Sol) on Unrecorded Date:

Somewhere, the sound of clanking metal rolled across the dead planes as Centavo rode in his coach, drawn by two oxen.

"Eet's a beautiful day, Senor!"

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody and his four young companions headed south for the better part of the day, turning southwest near sunset, and headed into a shallow canyon. Brody made no motion to stop, and the four younger men started to get nervous...

"Mr. Brody, sir? Are we gonna ride all night?" Jebediah asked sheepishly as he approached Brody's horse.

"You boys said you were in a hurry, right?" Brody grinned. "We'll hit Deadwood City by dawn. Of course, if you wanna make camp out here, that's fine, too... You fellas don't mind sleeping with bandits all around ya, do ya?" Brody chuckled and spurred his horse into a trot, pulling away from the boys once more, riding deeper into the night...

By Solenoid (Sol) on Unrecorded Date:

Centavo hobbled along the path from the front of his wagon to the back.

"Eet looks like a flat, Senor." He takes his tin bucket and goes to the field where the best coffee beans can be found.

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

The rest of the trip was uneventful, and the five riders arrived at the Deadwood Hotel just before dawn. Brody rode past, feeling the ghosts of people he once knew roaming down the main street. He rode past Father Shane's Church--no longer riddled with bullet-holes, but Brody could still point out where they used to be. He rode past the cemetary, counting the tombstones of those he knew... Sheriff Phinn, White-Owl, Father Shane, and finally stopped at the grave of his wife... The memories of the Deadwood City War flooded back to him, and he almost wept. Almost.

He rode to the Marshall's office at the corner of the main street, noticing all the 'Wanted' posters lining the walls. The windows had been boarded up, and the front door hung off its hinges. The sign was dangling on only one of its 2 chains, looking like it was ready to fall off. The rocking chair was broken, and several of the floorboards on the porch were broken. Brody tethered his horse, and strode up the steps, his boots making a familiar thumping noise on the wood below. The inside of the office looked no better than the exterior--the jail cells being the only thing still intact.

Brody picked up the overturned chair and sat behind the broken, dusty desk. He placed his feet up on it, noticing the outline of the old bloodstain where Phinn had died. He opened the bottom right drawer with some difficulty, then broke the bottom from it and tossed it away. He overturned the drawer, and a single, shining, silver badge fell onto the desk with a little clank. Brody tossed the shell of the drawer over his shoulder and leaned forward, dropping his feet to the floor once again. He picked up the badge--his badge--and turned it around and around in his hand.

Brody spent the rest of the morning remembering--without the comfort of a bottle to deaden the pain...

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Samuel Wyatt crouched behind the large, dusty rock, watching as his partner, Jimmy-boy played the part of bait for the approaching stage-coach. Samuel couldn't help but chuckle as he watched the young-looking, very innocent-looking 'boy' scamper around, waving his arms mournfully, crying out about bandits robbing him blind. As the coach drew near, the driver reigned in, pulling it to a stop. Samuel noticed the long rifles laying casually across the laps of the 4 men atop the stage, and wondered how many more guards were actually in the carriage. That's when the first shots rang out.

The men on the stage-coach didn't stand a chance. The 5 bandits concealed around Jimmy-boy's ambush site made quick work of the rifle-toting Western Union guards. By the time the side doors to the coach swung open, the bandits had surrounded it, pointing their guns at the now-opening side doors. The four men inside leapt out, and immediately knew they had no chance of winning. They threw their weapons down, and put their hands behind their heads.

"A good choice, I'd reckon fellas," said Samuel as he paced up to the Western Union men. He smiled--his leathery face revealing 4 or more missing teeth as his lips parted. "You boys didn't reckon on meetin' the legendary Sam Wyatt out here, did ya now?" he prodded again. Jimmy-boy was busy collecting the weapons, while the other 4 went about the momentous task of breaking open the strong-boxes. Sam continued to chuckle when one of the four box-breakers managed to get into the crate.

24 ingots of gold poured out onto the dusty track, to the silent amazement of all. Then, in one voice, the 6 bandits let out a whooping yell, firing their weapons into the air and dancing about. Suddenly, the one who'd opened the box staggered two steps forward, then looked down at his chest, a pained, confused look on his face. Blood was pouring from a hole which had somehow appeared there, and as he slumped onto the ground, dying, a second bandit fell. Sam, confused, looked around--and then watched the chest of a third comrade explode in a guyser of blood. It was then that he heard the resounding, low echo of what may have been a gunshot in the distance.

"Get DOWN!" Sam yelled, diving behind his rock once again. He heard Jimmy-boy scream, and turned to see the young man writhing in agony on the dusty ground, a pool of red liquid growing larger underneath him. "Zeb? Jake? Scruffy?" Sam started calling the names of his fellows, only to be answered by moans and wheezing, gurgling coughs. Sam cowered there, behind his rock, watching as the Western Union men scrambled back to their coach, hiding underneath it. What seemed like an eternity had passed, and Sam began to wonder if it was over. He crawled out from behind his rock, and saw the flies buzzing around the now-dead forms of his gang. What had taken six months to plan had ended in less than a minute. The gang he had built over the course of a year was now all dead. Somehow, though, Sam felt lucky to have survived.

As he stood, he heard the unmistakable metallic click of a gun cocking from behind him. He turned, stiffly, and saw a tall man, with long blonde hair spilling out from under a black suede hat. His facial features were obscured by the high collar of the black suede drover coat he wore. The mystery man was holding a Henry rifle by the stock, the barrel casually leaning against his left shoulder, and held a pearl-handled colt cocked and ready to fire at about waist level. Sam looked the man up and down, then nodded his approval.

"I could use a man like you, stranger. You work quick. I like that," Sam started. The man remained motionless. "Wh-what's yer name, mister?" Sam tried again. He thought he saw the stranger smile briefly, as if Sam had just said something funny.

"Are you Samuel J. Wyatt?" the stranger asked evenly. Sam nodded proudly.

"I am indeed... The one and only, legendary Sam Wya--" >BANG< Sam staggered a step backwards as the bullet tore through his chest, a look of disbelief on his face. The black-clad stranger lifted his head slightly, and pulled his hat back to reveal his face.

"Sam Wyatt, you're wanted dead or alive for a list of crimes too long for me to name right now. I'll take ya dead, if it's all the same to you," the stranger said, firing a second shot, this time through Sam's head. He then pulled out a wanted poster with Sam's picture on it, got a knife from Sam's boot, and pinned the poster to Sam's chest.

The four Western Union men ran up around the stranger, leveling rifles at him. "FREEZE!" they yelled. The stranger slowly opened his coat, revealing his double-rig, as well as an old cavalry uniform. A shining silver Marshall's badge adorned his left lapel. The Western Union men looked a little confused, and allowed their weapons to drop slightly. "Who are you?" one of them asked.

"Alex Brody." Brody turned and began walking away, letting out a loud whistle as he walked. From a nearby copse of trees, his horse trotted out. Brody mounted up, and rode away, waving once to the Western Union men as he left.

"Isn't he supposed to be dead?" asked one guard of another as the Western Union men cleaned up the aftermath of the failed robbery. His friend just shrugged, and they continued to bury the dead...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

When their surviving horse came up lame about twenty miles outside of a the ambitiously named Deadwood City, both young men slid to the ground and stared at the offending hoof as if it had planned this trial simply to add to their burden of woes. Matthias Dolen hung his head and kicked half-heartedly at a conveniently small barrel cactus. Thaddeus Cole redistributed the various bundles that contained their meager possessions across the gelding's back, took up the lead rein and began walking.

Thaddeus paused after stumbling for the umpteenth time over the uneven ground. They'd made perhaps eight or nine miles. He took off his new brown felt hat and wiped his brow. The hat had been purchased back in Silver City with their winnings before a few angry men with a vindictive streak chased them out of Madame Orr's House and on out of town after a particularly successful night.

Matthias drew up beside him, and wiped his face on the inside of his elbow, "Well, at least it's winter," he offered, "can't be more than 70 or 75 degrees out here today, " he said squinting at the westering sun.

Thaddeus spared his partner a poisonous glance, "Well, I sure hope you don't catch a chill. God's teeth, Matthias, do you have to be so damn cheerful about everything?"

Matthias grinned, "Why don't we set up camp for the night. You know how fast the sun slips away in the desert."

Thaddeus nodded and set to hobbling the horse, who seemed altogether glad for the rest. Matthias poured one of their remaining canteens out into his hat and let the grey drink. They had no feed for him, though, he would have to make due with the desert plants he could scrounge. The two men had no supplies either, no coffee, no meat, just the water.

Matthias found a big six-foot diamond back coiled up in the shade of a giant saguaro. His knife flicked out from it's sheath which was built sidelong into his gunbelt, and the two men had their dinner.

"Mmm. Roasted rattlesnake. Just as tasty as stewed cotton bolls. With weevil sauce," muttered Thaddeus, still determined to try counteract his partner's carefree attitude.

"Cousin, you are just the most gracious of dining partners. We must head back to San Francisco at the first opportunity so that that city's society is not deprived of your august company one whit longer than is necessary."

Thaddeus had to laugh. He threw the snake's rattle at Matthias, and drew his knife in order to slice the somewhat withered prickly pear they supplemented their entree with.

They started out just after the sun the next morning. Left over rattler was no t the most appealing of breakfasts, and they ate only as much as they thought they had too, "It'll be at least the whole morning before we get anywhere," said Thaddeus, picking snake gristle out of his teeth.
Matthias looked west, "Naw. We can't be much more than 15 or so miles out. If we are were we think we are," he added thoughtfully.

Thaddeus grimaced, "If. How's the grey?"

"Not good. It'll be a slow walk, anyway."

It was in fact about an hour before sunset when the sorry looking trio pitched up on the streets of Deadwood City. The two men followed their noses to a livery stable and paid to have the grey well taken care of. They then stepped into the ally away from prying eyes to take an account of any money they had left. The count was worse than they had hoped. A twenty dollar gold piece, three dollars in silver, eight bits, and five pesos. Still, enough to buy a room, a bath, and a drink - or three.

They took their gear and walked wearily to the Deadwood Hotel at the end of the street, and paid for a room. They trudged up the stairs and dropped everything on the floor. Thaddeus collapsed on one of the two iron bedsteads, that with a small bureau and wash stand were the only furnishings in the room. He hauled off his boots laboriously and started to rub his arches.

Matthias dropped onto the other bed and watched for a moment in mild amusement, "How are your feet, Thadd?"

Thaddeus cocked an eye at his partner and noted the beginnings of a smile, "Well, I'd say the were tender, but then you'd feel obliged to say something clever, and I'd be forced to shoot you."

Matthias grinned, "How quick do you think you'll recover?" he asked rising to look out the window.

Thaddeus flopped back on the bed, "I think I could probably wrestle down a drink or two. Maybe even try a hand of poker among pleasant company. Anything more stultifying than that will just have to wait."

"Pissant of a town we've found here," Matthias shook his head mournfully, "I doubt there's any pleasant company for miles around. Bet they have a hell of a liquor supply though...."

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody sat at the large, round table nearest the bar at the Deadwood Hotel, with his feet up on the edge of the table. The player-piano was producing a ramshackle sound as it wound its way through the punch-hole music. Brody looked around the room, taking stock of who might cause the most trouble tonight. He had arrived hours earlier, and arranged with the bartender to have his own shotgun 'strung up' underneath this table.

There was a group of four in the corner near the door, playing cards and being boisterous. There were five at the bar, intent on getting drunk. Brody recognized several of the men in here as farm-hands from the surrounding areas. Two young men strode into the bar just then, and went about purchasing a room. Brody watched them as they walked up the stairs, then turned his attention back to the doors.

Six burly men walked through the swinging doors, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Brody only recognized the lead-man... He was a ranch-hand last time Brody knew. He silently shook his head, hoping there would be no trouble between the ranchers and the farmers. No real bandits had come in yet--at least no recognizable ones. Then again, they usually rolled in later--around 10:30 or so...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Deadwood City was neither a lively nor cheerful place – it felt much like an undertaker’s parlor in between clients. There was humor but what was not dark was muted – even the few saloon girls looked wary rather than inviting. Thaddeus and Matthias were not oblivious to the atmosphere, but neither of them were terribly interested in the town’s woes. They had very simple desires; healthy riding stock, good food, and enough money for each. Then Deadwood City would be just another fading memory.

The two young men walked into the saloon looking freshly scrubbed. Baths had cost them four bits each – if they wanted the hot water and soap. They paid happily and were further encouraged to find that no nits had taken up residence on their persons.

Thaddeus removed his hat and scratched at the still damp dark blond locks that had been plastered to his head but were springing free as they dried. Matthias’ own black hair was so tightly curly that it seemed to try and leap off his head as his own rather battered hat was removed.

Both men ordered whiskey and occupied a vacant table. Their expressions very watchful, assessing, but bright with no menace. Matthias pulled out a deck of cards and began riffling through them almost compulsively. The room had potential. There was cash to be had for sure, but it was not a friendly room.

“This is the kind of group that’d accuse you of cheating just to see if you had blood inside you…even if you was the president, God, and mama all rolled into one,” murmured Thaddeus.

“But we never cheat,” Matthias said quietly.

“As if that mattered if you got a shitkicker all riled at the fact you outplayed him. Go careful, Matt, let’s try to avoid a repetition of Silver City.”

“Well, let’s at least get us better horses this time…”

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

There were three men who joined them for the first hand of the evening – obviously farmers, they might not have much in the way of money on them, but at least two of them seemed savvy enough to keep the game interesting.

Thaddeus took stock of the rest of the room. It was simply a saloon that aspired to be a casino. Plain wooden tables were dressed up by dropping felt cloths over them. Neither tables nor the cloths had often seen any hint of soap and water as evidenced by the veritable mosaic of stains which decorated them. Most of the patrons came to drink, it seemed, and drink heavily. Most of the room’s occupants were farmers. The second of the dusty types were the ranchers. There were no real big spreads around Deadwood, but the ranchers seemed to fare better than the farmers and that meant they had more money to lose. Unfortunately, there was also a third element represented. These men came in two varieties; cold eyed and expressionless – like the SOB in black Thaddeus spotted sitting at a corner table – and the ones who’s eyes were slightly mad. The second of these were the type who would call out a grandfather for treading on his foot, or thrash out their lives in a puddle of their own gore in a dark barroom or dusty street sometime before they hit thirty. It was this type that was the most dangerous. Thaddeus figured he’d have to appease or, as a last resort, kill at least one of those hotheaded pistoleers before their tenure in Deadwood’s saloons was finished.

Thaddeus glanced at his partner. Matthias’ eyes positively glowed. He was in his element. He loved nothing more than playing cards. He honestly never cared about winning or losing as long as the game was interesting. His innate natural ability was astounding, he was winning hands from his fathers servants when he was eight years old. That natural talent had been honed over the last 15 years to the point where Matthias was the most gifted card player that Thaddeus had ever seen. And Thaddeus was no mean player himself.

It was a point of pride with Matthias that he had never in his life even been tempted to cheat an opponent. He rated his skill on a personal level, not against another but against himself alone. And he was just that good.

Thaddeus picked up the cards Matthias had snapped across the table to him. Although his expression didn’t so much as flicker, inwardly he winced – five cards, four suits running two, four, nine, jack, and king. He smiled, however, and tossed some of the cards down, “I’ll take three, Matt.”

By Tough as an old (Hickory) on Unrecorded Date:

The day was starting to get hot. It was the kind of heat that reminded Charles B. Simonton of his childhood back in Kentucky. The only big difference was here, in Colorado; the air was much drier than the hazy, humid days he remembered. A crude stagecoach sign declared Deadwood City straight-ahead ten miles from its weather-beaten wooden board. With each passing mile, Charles felt his stomach begin to tighten. He was going to Deadwood City on a search. It always seemed to be that way. Always looking for something, but now he was paid to find it as a "Pinkerton man."
Charles grew up the son of a typical yeoman tobacco farmer in Western Kentucky. His father was a kind, but stern man. He was also a veteran of the Mexican War and went to war with the Kentucky volunteers in 1846, when young Charles was only four years old. The Simonton children were all raised as strict Southern Baptist, and along with a healthy dose of a religion came politics. Charles adopted the views of his father, who was a staunch secessionist. Young Charles also needed the education and etiquette, like all Southern gentleman of good breeding would have. As early as he could remember, Charles learned everything from how to wield a sword, to rules of dueling, to learning the classics in Latin. Charles' father had no intention of his son pursuing a career as a tobacco farmer, although he had done well with this line of work. Instead, at the age of 16, Charles was apprenticed out to Judge Phelps over in Paducah to learn the law. Charles was doing pretty good and was only a few years away from becoming a lawyer of his own, when war broke out between the North and the South. Although Kentucky would not secede, there were enough young men in the county who intended to fight for the South. Charles, along with others traveled under the cover of night to across the state line in Tennessee and enlisted into the 3rd Kentucky Volunteer Infantry Regiment. This began the lark for Charles. He would go on to see battle at Shiloh, Vicksburg, and Baton Rouge. He also did well in his new career as a "rebel soldier." By the age of 21, he had been promoted to the rank of captain. At that time the regiment was reorganized in Mississippi and became a mounted regiment attached to General Nathan Bedford Forrest's Cavalry Corps. No more footslogging for him. Unfortunately for Charles, luck ran out. He had been through several major battles and countless skirmishes without receiving so much as a scratch. Then one day in the summer of 1864 while his company was conducting a reconnaissance of a Yankee position, he was struck by a minie ball just above the heart. The surgeon was able to remove the ball, but only after much painful digging into the wound. Then after all the suffering Charles endured, the surgeon told him the wound was mortal. Angry, Charles decided that he wasn't ready to die. After several weeks in the field hospital, he was able to travel back to Kentucky and to his parents' home. It was a long road to recovery and Charles would never return to the Confederate army. The war ended before he had fully recovered. After almost dying, Charles felt it was time to begin his life again. He went into a variety of different occupations. He was a local constable, law clerk, tobacco farmer, and storekeeper. During this time, he took a wife who died of measles after only a year of marriage. After her death, Charles felt the need to move. He answered a newspaper advertisement to work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency and became one of the best detectives in the St. Louis office. He had even played a part in the hunt for the James-Younger gang in Missouri, and had come close to arresting Jesse James himself. Charles was sent to the Denver office to help with the huge backlog of open cases the Pinkertons had in what was becoming lawless Colorado. Charles reputation of always finding his man had made him one of the best detectives the agency had. And now, here he was on the trail, looking again…

By Funk Sol Brother (Sol) on Unrecorded Date:

"Hola, Senor," smiles Centavo from the side of the road, "You are new in town, eh Senor?"

Centavo comes wading out of the bean-field and onto the dusty trail and looks up at the stranger.

"Where are you go-eeeng?" asks Centavo.

"Deadwood," says the man curtly.

"No, no, Senor! Not Deadwood! It ees not a safe place for honest hombres, Senor. Eet's a... a..." Centavo pauses and strokes his mustached face with his muscular hand... "Eet's a hotbed, Senor."

The stranger raises an eyebrow, looking at the man who seems awfully large for a Mexican. "I'm not interested," he says.

"I suppose not," chuckles Centavo, shaking his beans in a tin can, "The claimjumpers wheel slit your throat, but the womeen, oh, the womeen! Have a good time in Deadwood, Senor!"

By Tough as an old (Hickory) on Unrecorded Date:

Charles was carefully eyeing the man standing in front of him. Something about this farmer who came out of this field seemed familiar, but he could not really place where he had seen him before. Still, he seemed to be at least a good initial contact for information, but instinct seem to keep him from revealing too much to this rather large, and somewhat smelly Mexican.

"Who is the law these days in Deadwood City?"

"Oh Senor, that would be Marshal Brody. A very tough and dangerous man he be, Senor."

"Brody...Brody...Brody," Charles kept turning the name over in his head. Oh yes, a former good lawman, now slightly turned. It seems he has one foot on the good side and one foot on the bad side of the fence. Everyone who knows him is just waiting for the day he finally turns total outlaw.

"Damn, this is not going to make my job any easier..." Charles muttered to himself.

"What ees that, senor?"

"Oh nothing, thanks for warnings about claimjumpers and such, but I reckon I will be fine...much obliged," Charles replied.

With that, Charles slightly nudged his spurs into the flanks of his dark brown sorrel and began the last mile into Deadwood City. By now, darkness was coming on and with it the chill of night in the high country. Charles began to button up his black wool frock coat and turn the collar up to keep the wind off his ears. Granted, buttoning his coat made it impossible to reach for his standard Colt Peacemakers, both in cross-draw holsters on either hip, pistol butt forward, but he did not see a reason to get too concerned at this point. Besides, there was always the little pocket colt in his boot. A weapon he had used during the War. It had actually sent many a Yankee to an early grave. Not just effective weapon, but also sentimental. As the wind began to blow more fiercely, Charles also pulled his black felt hat down even further on his head to keep it from blowing away.

As Charles caught a glimpse of lamplight from Deadwood City in the dark, he muttered to himself,
"Brody...well I'll be damned."

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody sat at his table, reclining somewhat and shifting his feet on the table-top. He observed the two newcomers as they proceeded with their card game. They were playing with old Jake and 2 of his buddies--not the most tolerant of people here in Deadwood. He shifted slightly, allowing his right hand to come to rest on one of his pistols, lightly. These two kids were in for one hell of a game. Jake was quite boisterous about only "2 kinds a winnin--fair, and fun" It was apparent that the 'fun' kind had to do with cheating and violence--and Jake seemed to be in that frame of mind tonight.

Still, Brody couldn't just pull out his gun and blast the poor sod without provocation--he'd be no better than the bandits he put away. No, he had to wait and see what happened before reacting. Even then, over-reacting could be dangerous. Gad, he hated doing this sober--he kept second-guessing himself. It was so much simpler during the bounty-hunter years--'Dead or Alive' equalled large sums of cash and gratitude. Now, he was lucky to see any money at all. So far, his new term as Marshall had been completely voluntary. And where were those boys who led him here in the first place?

Brody shook himself from his thoughts and dropped his feet to the floor. He looked over at the bartender and contemplated ordering something... It was then that old Jake, true to form, slammed his fists down on the card table, sending chips and drinks and cards everywhere, and started yelling straight into the face of one of the newcomers. Jake's 2 buddies also stood up, warily eyeballing their friend and the 2 youths who were being accused of cheating by Jake.

Brody decided to watch this thing a little longer before trying to step in...

By Tough as an old (Hickory) on Unrecorded Date:

Charles pulled up the reins in front of the ramshackle stables. It may have been a bustling stable at one time, but now it was just another run down building in a town full of run down buildings. Charles yelled out, "Anyone here?" without dismounting. The building was mostly dark except for a dimly burning kerosene latern in the central stall. Out of the shadows off to his left Charles heard, "Yeah, what do you want?" With that a rather grungy looking fellow with a full red beard and a floppy brown hat stepped from the shadows. The hostler was obviously drunk. It seemed to be the number one past time in this town based on the large number of staggering shadows that Charles had seen while riding down the main street.

"Ahem, I was wondering if I could board my horse for the night?"

After a rather hearty belch, the hostler replied, "Sure, I've got plenty of room in the stalls. It will cost you a dollar per night, that includes feed and any reshod your horse might need."

Charles' expense account would easily cover that cost. One thing about working for the Pinkerton's is that they took care of their field investigators. With that, Charles dug a silver dollar out of his coat pocket and flipped it to the man. Despite his drunkeness, the stable man had no problem catching the coin in mid-air and immediately biting into it to make sure it was real. Charles then dismounted from his sorrel and uncinched the saddle. The man immediately moved to help with the gear. Once he got close, Charles immediately detected the strong odor of strong whiskey and horse manure. "Well, what do you expect from a stable worker," Charles thought to himself, "a french perfumed prince?" Once they had unloaded the horse of its burden, Charles took his saddle and tack over to a bench an plopped it down. He would retain his saddle bags where most of his possessions resided. Inside these bags were a clean shirt, black cravat, a daguerrotype of his long dead wife, his Pinkerton agency credentials, an expense account log, notebook, additional ammunition for his pistols, and about $200 for incidental expenses.

Charles now decided to walk over to the hotel/saloon which seemed to be the only lively place in aptly named Deadwood City. As Charles approached the double swinging doors to the saloon, he could here a major ruckus starting to take shape inside. Without thinking, Charles decided to open up his coat so that he would have easy access to his pistols. He hoped he would not have to use them this soon.

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

The farmer displayed an amazingly nasty collection of broken, tobacco stained teeth as he screamed into Matthias’ face, “Young punk, tryin’ ta cheat a pore ol farmer! You’se gotta be bottom dealin’ with cards like I got, ya cheat!”

Matthias sat back in his chair and stared at the screaming farmer, his expression calm, almost detached, his hand remained wrapped around the deck of cards in plain sight.

“Sir,” he began in a reasonable tone, “If in fact I were a cheat, and I state that I am emphatically not, don’t you think I’d be very stupid indeed to try and cheat on the third hand over a pot of $14? Wouldn’t it make more sense to go for a big pot?”

The farmer stopped and sputtered. This was not the effect one of his tirades usually had so he fell back on the obvious, “Cheat,” he howled.

Matthias placed the pack of cards in the center of the table, “Gentlemen, “ he said addressing the others, “If you would be so kind as to turn your hands over for the inspection of Mr.…?”

The farmer was clearly flabbergasted, and more than a little frustrated, but a lifetime of habit had him supply the missing name, “Slade. Jake Slade.”

Matthias nodded, “Mr. Slade seems to think there is a problem with the deal.”

Perplexed the two other farmers looked at Jake who was now sputtering impotently, then back at the dealer’s calm face. They decided, they sat down and flipped over their hands, to join the hand Thaddeus had all ready turned over. Matthias turned up his hand.

“Now you, Slade,” said Thaddeus, “Or are you afraid to be shown a liar and cheat yourself?”

Jake was practically purple by now, and was incapable completing such an action, so Thaddeus leaned across and turned over one of Jake’s cards at a time under the eyes of the now not insubstantial crowd. Three nines and two fours – a full house. Hardly the poor hand everyone was expecting. The only hand at the table that was better was the straight held by one of his companions.

“Well, Mr. Slade,” began Thaddeus coldly, “What do you say now?"

By Tough as an old (Hickory) on Unrecorded Date:

Charles entered the saloon, now completely scanning the room for any possible trouble. He never went looking for trouble, but sometimes trouble came looking for him. There was no sense in not being prepared. Charles was an excellent shot and had unfortunately learned by experience. As he scanned the room he saw three men looming over two younger men at a table in a corner. Obviously professional gamblers out to take a group of farmers for a ride. It was just as obvious that this was the source of trouble. You could see tension all around that table. Charles already knew that it was not his place to intercede. That is a lawman's job, not his. Charles had studied the law and had been a lawman himself. In his present occupation, he was usually doing contract work for the law and bringing in criminals. Still, this did not give him the right to interfere unless he had no other choice. While keeping an eye on the situation that was developing, Charles quietly side stepped to a table in the opposite corner and took a seat. "Hmm...let's see what happens here," Charles muttered to himself.

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Jake was practically frenzied. Usually he dominated confrontations by goading his opponant to anger then taking advantage of the resultant recklessness. But neither of these two would play his game, and he began to fear them.

The dealer - he'd heard the other one call him Matthias - stood up slowly. Jake wanted to go for his gun but the other man was holding his right hand out still. With his left hand the youngster undid the buckle of his gun belt. Jake noticed in a frantic kind of clarity that the gun in the belt was an old Remington percussion. The belt dropped into the vacated seat and the young man was looking at him curiously. Something had been said and he missed it.

"What?" he sputtered.

Matthias expression was almost sorrowful, "I said that I am now going to have to do something about that accusation you made, sir. It's far too trivial a matter to risk a life - even yours - over so I invite you to step outside with me and face me man to man."

Matthias' hands curled into fists suggestively as he backed away from the table. Jake made a panicky grab for his pistol only to hear half a dozen hammers pull back around him - the closest two belonged to the other gambler and the bastard Brody.

"Drop the gun, Slade, or I'll blow you out of your boots," said Brody who looked almost cheerful at the prospect.

Slade dropped the weapon on to the table and scanned the faces around him. He saw no support there at all. Even his two friend stared at him with open contempt. His shoulders slumped. He shot a poisonous glance at Matthias then followed the young man outside.

Without a gun in his fist Jake wasn't much for fighting, but the tight ring of spectators made running away immpossible. Matthias approached the fight cooly. It only took about 10 minutes until all the was holding Jake up was willpower alone. He'd only managed to land one wild haymaker on the crown of Matthias' head, but the younger man shook it off and proceeded to systematically pummel Jake until his whole body felt like a bag of broken glass.

At last the farmer fell into the dust of the street, thrashed weakly, then lay still. Matthias looked down at the fallen man and shook his head, then he glanced up at Thaddeus,

"Want to play cards," ha asked with a smile.

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody, who had followed the confrontation outside, just shook his head, then tapped Mathias on the shoulder.

"You should be more careful. Jake here's not gonna forget what happened tonight," Brody said, sizing up the kid with some approval. Mathias just shrugged, then re-entered the bar-room to continue playing. Brody lifted Jake up, and helped him stagger back to the law office, and locked him into a cell for the night.

"Jake, you ruined what was shaping up to be an interesting night. Now I gotta sit here and babysit your sorry hide until you sober up," Brody said as Slade groaned and moaned on the jail-cell cot. "Of course, you could try and escape--in which case I'd be forced to gun you down. By the way, the keyring is hangin on the wall just outside your cell."

Brody sat at his desk and put his feet up on it, folding his hands behind his head. He was going to need some deputies for the more boring duties of being law-man. He smirked as he waited for Jake to make his move...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

The new game was all the better for Jake Slade’s absence. Nothing like a beating to get folks to open up about …everything. Especially those who had no particular use for Slade and / or Brody.

“That was then that the feller callin’ hisself the Undertaker blowed Kitten Brody’s haid off,” offered the toothless oldtimer who had joined the game the minute Matthias had retaken his seat, “This’s the fust time I seed Brody since then – well, when he wasn’t drunk anyways.”

“Jesus,” muttered Thaddeus as he drew two cards.

“Two,” said Henry Mccullough, one of Slade’s two erstwhile friends as he too drew a couple of cards, “Jake said he knowed who the Undertaker was once, you know, but I can’t sees how he could. I never seen such a beating, Mr. Dolen.”

“Matthias. I used to box. I don’t believe Mr. Slade will be capable of much outside of groaning for a bit, regardless of how tough he - or the marshal - think he is. I know some men would prefer a bullet to a beating, but for myself, I’d rather be alive. I’d miss the whiskey and the cards otherwise. How about you gents?”

There was a general shout of agreement as Thaddeus bought another bottle for the table. The six men at the table continued to trade gossip and money across the green felt long into the night. Matthias and Thaddeus won steadily, but not ostentatiously, but more important, the two men were getting quite an education regarding Deadwood City and it’s people.

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Just as Matthias and Thaddeus were closing out the last game of the night, the saloon doors swung wide and 4 strangers walked in. The silence that instantly fell over the room was unmistakable--even the player-piano wound down to a halt as the newcomers paced up to the bar. They all wore dark clothing with their hats pulled low on their brows. Their faces were obscured by the bandanas tied around them. The four walked steadily to the center of the room, then stopped. They stood back to back, so each was facing in a different direction, and then they opened their coats to reveal a veritable armory of guns. Almost as one, they pulled out shotguns and pointed them at various throngs among the room, and then the lead stranger spoke.

"We're here for the money. If you wanna fight for it, we can do that, too. Either way, we's walkin outta here a lot richer than you." To emphasize his point, he shot Zeke, the bartender, then aimed at the next closest target--Thaddeus. "What's it gonna be, boy?" he snarled...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Thaddeus pushed away from the table slowly and swept his arm across the table in a 'be my guest' gesture. There was probably fifty or sixty dollars scattered across the green felt surface, some stacked in front of the players, but most of it in the pot.

One of the four men stepped forward, rested his shotgun against the table, snatched off his hat and began scooping the notes and coins into it. The gun was between Thaddeus and Henry Mccullough. The young man stared at the weapon as if it were a snake.

Thaddeus shook his head slightly, "Don't," he breathed.

The bandit snapped a glance at them as he grabbed the weapon. He smashed the but into Henry's face and the young farmer fell to his hands and knees, bloody spittle dripping from his lips. Thaddeus did not move except to look at the fallen man. He did not see it but he felt it like a hot spot when the muzzle swung to point at him again. He wondered somewhat dispassionately if he was about to die.

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Thaddeus closed his eyes, not wanting his last sight to be that of the bandit who shot him. Then he heard the gunshots, and instinctively fell backwards, behind the table. He didn't feel any pain, but when he opened his eyes, a warm, red liquid spilled into them, stinging slightly. The gunshots continued, and it was only then that Thaddeus noticed the prone form of his bandit lying before him, red gore leaking from the front of his head. He saw the bandit who'd been watching the door laying right beside his partner, in a similar manner. Thaddeus finally noticed Marshall Brody dispatching the remaining bandits with only minor difficulty...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Thadd wiped the other man's blood from his face and rose to his feet giving himself a cursory inspection instinctively. Not a scratch. He looked at Matthias who had not moved from his seat during the assault.

"You all right, Matt?"

Matthias nodded, "Sure," he said turning to watch the Marshal haul off the last body, "Damn, Thadd, they're dead just 'cause of money and stupidity. What's the point?"

Thaddeus bent to help young Henry in to a chair, he didn't have time to deal with Matthias' philosophical side just now, not that Matt ever really expected an answer when he went off like that. He just really didn't understand the way most of the rest of the world thought.

"You going to be all right, Mccullough?"

Henry's eyes drooped and his head nodded forward as he lost consciousness. Thaddeus looked to the young farmers friend, "Can you take care of him Mr. Stark?"

John Stark nodded and moved into Thaddeus' vacated chair. Thaddeus picked up the scattered money and redistributed it to the players keeping the pot for himself - he had had a straight flush after all.

Matthias, meanwhile, gathered up the cards squared the deck and slipped it into his coat pocket. The two were ready to quit the saloon when Brody walked back in.

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Brody lined up the four bodies in the dusty street, just in front of the Deadwood Hotel. Once he was done, he strode solemnly back into the saloon.

"You," he said quietly, pointing randomly at one of the patrons, "go wake Jeb." The guy scrambled out the door. Brody quietly walked over to his table, and picked up his discarded pistols. He then righted his chair and his table, and smoothed the felt tablecloth over it. He sat, putting his feet back up on the table and began to reload. He glanced up and saw the entire saloon staring at him blankly.

Alex Brody dropped his feet from the table, stood up with a sigh, paced over to the player piano, and kicked it, sending it off into its former ramshackle song. He nodded once, then trapsed back to his seat and took up his former perch as he finished reloading his weapons.

The saloon patrons continued to stare at him--only now he ignored their collective gaze...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

The gamblers glanced at Brody as he set about righting his chair. They were the only ones in the room moving outside of Brody himself, everyone else seemed mezmorized by the marshal. Thaddeus brushed at a bit of bloody tissue that clung to his sleeve, then looked up as the hideous piano started up again. He sighed and gestured to Matthias and the two of them headed for the stairs.

At the last minute Thaddeus diverted past Brody's table, "Just wanted to say I was obliged. Just as glad not to finish out the night as a corpse, Marshal."

Brody stared up at the young man with eyes like flint. Thaddeus shrugged slightly as if to say he'd done his social duty by thanking Brody for seeing to it that he'd not been killed and was now done with it.

Brody dropped his feet to the floor and kicked out a chair, "Sit down boys and order some whiskey. I want to say a few words."

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

"You boys seem honest enough. Something you don't get much of around here anymore," Brody began. When the whiskey didn't arrive, he looked over toward the bar. "Zeke, it's alright. You can come out now," he said loudly. "Zeke?" Brody got up, walking rapidly behind the bar, where Zeke was laying in a pool of his own gore.

Brody's countenance slumped, and he let out a depressed sigh. "Well, that makes 27," he mumbled as he bent to take Zeke out to Jebediah, who was just now arriving on the scene to take care of the 'arrangements' for the 4 bandits. After a few moments, Brody walked back in, walked behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and 3 glasses, and plopped into his former chair. He poured 3 glass-fulls, finally taking one and downing it in one swift gulp. He then proceeded to pour another, before Thaddeus and Matthias even had a chance to pick up their first.

"You fellas know anything about running a saloon?" Brody asked, after downing his second glass. Thaddeus and Matthias just looked at one another, and Brody tossed a heavy key-ring on the table. "Here's the keys. Deed's in the safe in Zeke's office. She's all yours, boys," Brody said as he stood up, half expecting one or both of the boys to say something...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Matthias blinked at the unexpected turn of events, "You want us to take over the saloon? What about the owner's family?"

Brody shook his head, "Didn't have one."

Thaddeus stayed quiet, Brody was slightly surprised, he had the impression that the blonde was the senior partner.

Matthias stared at the key ring as if had grown teeth, "Marshal, I do what I do because I never wanted to be in charge. If I wanted to run a hotel I could have let my father make me the manager of the Palace in San Francisco like he wanted to."

Brody looked at the dark haired boy sharply. He had once passed the Palace Hotel, he had not stayed there though as it was the most expensive hotel in California and boasted a world renowned kitchen staff, dinner there would cost every last dollar Brody had - and probably then some.

"Your father?"

Matthias looked unhappy about sharing the information, "Malcolm David Dolen. I'm Matthias, this is my cousin Thaddeus Cole."

Brody caught the exasperated look Thaddeus shot his partner, "Cousin?"

"Only in the broadest terms, Marshal," said Thadd reluctantly, "His uncle's second wife was my aunt. He was her third husband. From there...well, we ride together is all."

Brody sat back and thought about the son of one of the richest men in the country pitching up in Deadwood City, he didn't think making the knowledge common was a good idea.

"Look, boys, somebody has got to run the place at least temporarily, it won't do to have it closed. You seem to be planning to stay on a bit, take the job while you're here. If you want to quit later, fine. The town will sell the place. What do you say?"

The two young men exchanged glances again, after a long moment Matthias sighed, "All right, Marshal, for now."

Thaddeus nodded his agreement, but neither looked very enthusiastic. Brody poured another whiskey, and the three men emptied their glasses.

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

>Several days later, in the hills outside town...<

Ezra Jacobs dismounted from his horse, stretching his legs out from their long stay in the saddle. He bent down, picked up a rock, and tossed it into a murky puddle--the only remnant of last night's rainstorm. He watched the splash and the ripples, smiling a little at the lizards which scurried away from its drinking hole. And then, something shiny caught his eye. He squinted, trying to see what it was, but could only see that it was on the far side of the puddle. Ezra strode over and examined the puddle, an expression of awe and joy washing over his face. With a trembling hand, he reached out and picked up the shining rock, and washed it in the puddle.

A lump of silver the size of his fist is what he pulled out of the muddy water...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Jacobs looked around carefully; the silver was obviously a float, arriving in the puddle after having been washed down from elsewhere. He could see the cut running water had made through this area and his puddle appeared to have been part of the washout from the hills to the northwest. He noted his location and studied his find again, he'd file a claim once he got to a town, he thought, but he'd have to have his find assayed. Cyril Port over at Deadwood ran a dusty little assay office when he wasn't in the saloon. Jacobs stowed the silver bearing rock in his saddlebags and headed into Deadwood, his hat at a jaunty angle on his head.

~~~~~

The light that morning had an unreal quality to it, as if they were under water. Matthias sighed and rolled over burying his face in the thin pillow, the iron bedstead creaked beneath him. He was in no mood to be impressed by nature's whimsy.

Why had he agreed with the marshal's plan the other night? He and Thaddeus had checked the deeds in the safe and, at Brody's insistence, had taken possession of them. They were now, in name at least, the owners of one saloon/hotel, a wagon and team, and 75 acres of high desert that didn't look too likely on the outskirts of town. Brody had witnessed the transfers and insisted they were now acting as the caretakers of the property, whether they took permanent possession or sold up and moved on was entirely up to them. Matthias sighed.

"God's britches, Matthias, how do you expect a body to sleep through that?" muttered a sleepy voice from Thaddeus' bed.

"Sorry," said Matthias into his pillow.

Thaddeus sighed and partially emerged from his cocoon of blankets, "It's just helping out is all, Matt. Brody looks to need all the help he can get with this town. When we got a stake together we can leave if you want."

"We could sell up and leave today," said Matthias sitting up.

Thaddeus scratched under his arm, "No we couldn't. Ain't no one around with the money to buy. Besides, I always fancied my self a land owner."

Matthias brightened, "Really? You want the acreage? It's yours, I'll scratch my name off the deed right away," he said climbing out of bed.

Thaddeus chuckled, "Thank you, Matt, but you don't have too. We're partners, always will be, hell you’re the most trustworthy man in the country, can't imagine a better partner."

Matthias looked pleased. He sat back on the thin mattress, "I just have a bad feeling about this, Thadd. Like this whole thing may just blow up in our faces."

Thaddeus burrowed back under his blankets, "Well, the law in town is on our side, what could possibly happen?"

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Uriah Jacobus sat in his overstuffed, red velvet chair, contemplating the fine specimen of a cigar he held before his slightly squinted eyes. He sat in his parlor, his favorite room, which was richly appointed in polished mahogany, complete with an oriental rug. A billiards table adorned the window-side of the room, and a fully-stocked bar sat opposite of that. His phonograph was playing Beethoven's Fifth symphony, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the smoke wafting up from the lit cigar. His reflections were interrupted by a harsh knocking on the parlor door.

"Mr. Jacobus? Sir?" the urgent voice said from outside. Uriah slowly rose, tightening his silk smoking jacket around his waist before walking to the window-door. "Please forgive me, sir... But I was sent to tell you this meself." Uriah unlatched the door, and smiled kindly at the gruff-looking cowboy at his door.

"Won't you come in, Ezekiel?" Uriah said with a distinctly british accent. "Oh, do mind the carpet and kindly remove your boots." Zeke stopped short, then grumbled as he pulled off his boots and left them on the outer porch. Jacobus re-seated himself in his chair, and poured himself some brandy. "Pray tell, Ezekiel, what is so terribly important that you must disturb me during my private reflections?" Uriah asked, again smiling.

Zeke glanced around, always uncomfortable in the boss's richly furnished home, then spoke. "Well, sir... It's Brody." Uriah chuckled.

"He died years ago, in the Deadwood wars. My most trusted assassin sent me Brody's heart as proof," Uriah said, motioning toward a large jar with something squishy and red floating in it. Zeke shuddered.

"Then I suppose Brody don't need no heart, 'cuz 6 o' the boys're dead, and everybody in Deadwood says the Marshall's back," Zeke answered. Uriah's expression sagged, and he quietly placed the cigar in the ashtray. "Sir?" Zeke asked timidly.

"Leave me," was all Jacobus said. Zeke was gone, picking up his boots as he left. He got to his horse, then started to pull his boots back on, when he heard Uriah's voice calling from the porch. Zeke turned around just in time to watch Uriah pull the trigger on the shotgun which was aimed at him. "Ezekiel, how many times must I remind you to close the door behind you? I do not live in a stable--unlike your ilk. You'll never do it again, I'm sure." Ezekiel fell into a puddle of his own blood, gasping away the last few moments of his life, as Uriah Jacobus returned to his parlor to finish the symphony.

"Well, Mr. Brody--it appears as if you are quite the persistent sort. It is of little matter. I destroyed you once, and I shall do it again. Only this time, it will be much more amusing--and I dare say even a bit challenging." Uriah laughed as he sipped his brandy, plots within plots springing into his head--grisly scenes of the varied and numerous methods of torturing and killing a man playing at his psyche. He needed to choose the appropriate method of Brody's destruction, after all...

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Thaddeus settled down to an early poker game with a couple of travelers late in the afternoon. Jim Fagin, the grave digger, rounded out the table to four, but the game was lackluster. Thaddeus was only playing before dark fell in a proprietary effort anyway, and was less than concerned with the game. Matthias had been sidetracked by the efforts of Irene, the half Arapaho saloon girl. Zeke had apparently bought her some 10 years previously from the Comache raider who had stolen her from her family. She was now about 19 and had developed a real interest in Matthias. Matthias had no interests he was aware of outside of cards, however, so Irene cultivated a fascination with paste board rectangles - and particularly in the game of Faro which Matthias was now explaining to her. Thaddeus smiled to himself, poor Irene.

The doors swung open to admit a grizzle bearded, trail stained man of middle years. He walked bowlegged to the bar and ordered a drink. He gulped it down as he scanned the patrons in the room. "Port," he barked when he at last spotted his quarry, "I got business with you in your office."

Cyril Port looked up from his bottle. He was a small man of indeterminate age with feathery side whiskers that he had never managed to grow in as thickly as he would have liked. Everyone who knew him knew he despised his office which consisted of a single room appended to one side of the hardware store. The assay office was dingy and dark, sporting only one tiny two over two window and a solid wood door, and for some reason no one could understand - it stank - stronger in wet weather but always noticeable. Cyril hated it.

"State your business, you old coot," slurred Cyril nearing the bottom of his second bottle of the day. There was little for him to do in town and he hadn't the gumption to move away, so he spent a good part of each day drinking, the rest of the time he tried to sleep. He also wrote execrable poetry about lost love when he was drunk enough, he showed to no one and often burned it by the fistful when he realized how much had accumulated.

Jacobs scowled, not wanting to show the silver to anyone prematurely, "I said in your office, Port."

Cyril frowned, torn between a far away call of duty and a much closer love for his bottle. At last he stumbled to his feet and silently walked out the door. Jacobs followed, Correcting the little man's direction more than once before they made it to the assay office.

"Old Jacobs musta found the mother load at last," cackled Gert Simmons, by far the most senior of the saloon girls.

More than one man laughed at her witticism, but several stared after the old prospector, their expressions ranging from thoughtful to avaricious. Thaddeus hoped Jacobs knew enough to watch his back - in some places rumors were enough to be a cause of death.

By Tough as an old (Hickory) on Unrecorded Date:

Charles had spent the better part of two days, just watching. He had discreetly interviewed a few of the fine citizens of Deadwood, if that is what you could call the patrons of the saloon. So far, his luck had not been with him. No one seemed to know anything, although Charles didn't believe it, especially after he would show them the sketch of his quarry. There was just too much hesitation and not just a little bit of fear in their eyes when he showed the sketch. Charles wanted to keep things low-key. No need to stir things up anymore than they already were. But still, after two days, Charles was running out of options. As Charles left his hotel that morning, he knew that was going to be a turning point. He stared across the street to the roughshod building that served as Marshal Brody's office.
"Well, I'm either going to get the job done or I'm about to start a bloodbath...time's awastin'," Charles muttered to himself.

After taking a deep breath and cinching up his gun belt, Charles strode confidently across to the marshal's office and entered.

By Tough as an old (Hickory) on Unrecorded Date:

"BLAM!"

The report of the single pistol shot reverberated throughout the valley floor and off the mountain peaks to the west. The horse shuddered from the impact of the pistol round to the head then slumped onto her haunches before eventually collapsing over onto her side. Her breath leaving her body at that instant.

"Poor girl, helluva way to end you life...on the side of the dusty road in the middle of nowhere. I am so sorry."

Sean O'Halloran muttered to himself, part apology, part eulogy. After birefly taking his hat off and placing it over his heart as a sign of respect, Sean returned his hat to his head, returned his revolver to his holster and then proceeded to uncinch the saddle and baggage from his companion up to this point. "Well, I guess I'll be footing it into Deadwood from here on out." After briefly glancing over to the dead horse, Sean reflected on his circumstances, then turned on his heel and headed west toward Deadwood City.

By Tough as an old (Hickory) on Unrecorded Date:

Charles, stomach tightened as he entered the darkened marshal's office. It took awhile to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the room. "How the hell can this man see anything to get work done around here," Charles thought to himself. Just then, Charles heard the distinct click of the hammer being pulled back on a pistol. Charles slowly put his hands out away from his body. "Easy marshal, not here to cause trouble, in fact I am here for your help," Charles addressed to the dark room, unsure of where the sound was coming from.

Marshal Brody sat over in the corner, deep in the shadows. "What is your business here, and while you are at it, why don't you toss those pistols butt first on to the floor in front of you." Charles slowly and deliberately removed his two Colt peacemakers from their holsters and tossed them into the darkness in front of him. Silhouetted against the daylight coming through the door, Charles was a perfect target and he knew it.

"There you go marshal, now can we talk?"

"What do you want," Brody once again asked, keeping his bead on the figure in the doorway.

"Wouldn't it be better if we could sit down and talk," Charles asked.

"I like it just fine as it is, now tell me what you want or are we done talkin'?"

"Marshal, I am Charles Simonton, detective with the Pinkerton Agency out of the Denver office. I have my credentials right here..."

Charles reached inside his coat, but was interrupted by Brody harshly commanding, "slowly!"
Charles once again slowed down his movements and withdrew the leather case that held all his credentials from the Pinkerton Agency. He tossed it into the darkened room, but by this time, his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see the shadow of Brody moving across to pick the papers up. It was the first time since this conversation started that Charles could see the marshal.

Brody picked up the case and carefully examined the documents. After a few seconds that seemed like hours, Charles heard the click of the hammer of the revolver being released. Suddenly, light pierced the darkness as Brody struck a match and lighted a kerosene lamp on his desk.

"Sit down, Mr. Simonton," Brody offered. After the two men sat down at the desk, Brody lit a cigar with the same match he used to light the lamp. Shaking the match to extinguish the flame, Brody propped his feet on the desk and stared across at Charles. "Now what is it that I can do for you and why should I care in the first place?"

"Marshal Brody, I have been looking for a man wanted in Denver for a triple murder, along with claimjumping, rape, robbery, assault, and a long laundry list of other crimes. My employers are willing to provide a substantial sum for his capture. This man is one tough hombre...we have already lost two previous detectives who had been assigned to his capture. One of the detectives we don't know what happened to him, the other came back...well, at least a piece of him did. We received his heart in a jar at the office."

"Well, that is all well in good, but it sounds like you have a bounty hunting case on your hands, I don't do that anymore." Brody answered.

"Marshal, this is a law case as well. Here is his arrest warrant signed in Denver two months ago," Charles handed the yellowed paper across to Brody who performed a cursory inspection of the paper.

"Marshal, this man is dangerous and I have tracked him this far, so I know he is close. The compensation for your assistance is $10,000 in gold. That could really rebuild the coffers of this town."

Brody reflected over this enormous sum of money before asking, "What his name?"

"Uriah Jacobus, also commonly known as the 'Undertaker.'"

Brody's eyes lit up at the name. Before Brody could respond, Charles spoke first, "Well Marshal, what do you say? Do you think you could help me or not?"

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

"I'll help you," Brody said somberly. "I'll need your full case files, of course." Brody dropped his feet from the desk and leaned forward slightly, resting his arm on the desktop. Charles noticed a slightly distant look on Brody's face for a moment. It was a cold, empty expression, which hardened into something akin to hatred.

"Are you alright, Marshal?" Charles asked, after a moment or two.

Brody nodded. "Fine. Just remembering the last time I saw that dirty Brit, is all. You have those files for me?" Charles nodded. He was still contemplating Brody's expressions from a moment ago.

"I'll have to retrieve them, of course," Charles answered politely, only now realizing what that last expression on Brody's face was.

"Get to it then, Chuck," Brody said, nodding with a crooked smile. "Time's wasting." Charles left, retrieving his weapons and walking across to the hotel. He'd seen all manner of driving factors consume men in his travels--usually in the criminals he tracked down. Vengeance was one of the more powerful forces which drove men to rash acts of violence and crime.

Charles realized that Uriah Jacobus must have done something horrible to Brody in the past. Something quite horrible, indeed. Charles nearly shuddered at the mere thought of having a man such as Brody as his enemy. He would keep his eye on the Marshal, though--a man consumed such as he was by vengeance and hatred did not have very far to go before falling on the wrong side of the law.

As Charles retrieved his attache, he hoped that day would never come.

By Margravine (Ranger) on Unrecorded Date:

Port scuttled back into the saloon and looked like he wanted to tug on Matthias' sleeve, "Mr. Dolen," he interrupted. Matthias turned from the girl and regarded Port. Irene flashed the man an evil look.

"A word with you in my offices, if you would, please Mr. Dolen?"

"Matthias looked mildly curious, "What about?"

Port looked around nervously, "If we could speak privately, Mr. Dolen, sir?"

Matthias shrugged and grabbed his hat. He exchanged glances with Thaddeus who nodded, and remained in his seat.

Matthias strolled the half a block to the assay office with Port scurrying along beside him, casting nervous glances over his shoulder.

Port ushered Matthias into the dingy office and shut the door. He waved a hand at another man standing at the counter, "Ezra Jacobs; Matthias Dolen."

"'Meetcha," muttered Jacobs, he did not sound altogether friendly.

Port slid behind the counter which Matthias now saw was covered by a map of the area, "Mr. Dolen, you recently acquired the deed to several acres to the," he consulted the map, "northwest of town. Would you be willing to sell?"

Matthias didn't even think about it, "No. They're gifted to my cousin. He won't sell either. Why?"

Port, if possible, looked even more nervous, and shot a glance at the frowning Jacobs. Jacobs stabbed the map with a dirty finger, "All this other than."

Port nodded, "It's still twelve dollars for the claim, Ezra," he said apologetically.

Matthias grinned, catching on, "So you did find something, didn't you Mr. Jacobs. Don't worry, I'm not real interested. Good luck, to you, sir. In the mean time, stay off my acreage and I'll stay quiet," Matthias winked at the sullen prospector and walked back out of the office.

Jacobs spit a stream of tobacco toward the dented spittoon, and missed by a wide margin, "Everything right up to the boarder of his holdings than, Port. And keep your damn mouth shut about it."

By The One Known Only as (Greyfox) on Unrecorded Date:

Alex Brody opened a desk drawer, removing 4 military maps of the region. He folded the edges and pieced the 4 maps together like a puzzle, before pulling out a fistfull of nails and a hammer. In a very short while, he had pinned up the regional map behind his desk, and he started making notes on it, when Charles returned with the case files. Charles was surprised by the fact Brody had his back to the door.

"Marshal, here are the files," Simonton said, tossing the case onto Brody's desk. Brody turned to regard him, then nodded appreciatively as he reached for the case.

"I'll need some time to research these," Brody said as he opened the case. "Also, I'll need your notebook."

"My notebook?" Charles repeated. Brody just looked at him.

"Yeah. You know, the thing you write down all your case progress in? I'll need it, so I don't waste time doin' what ya already did," Brody said, looking at Charles expectantly. Charles reached into his pocket, then tossed the book onto the desk. "Thanks Chuck," Brody said as he leaned back and started reading. Charles sat across from Brody, and also started sorting through the case files. Every so often, Brody would scribble something on a small square of paper, then turn and squint at the map for a moment, before pinning the paper to the map with a nail. After 4 or 5 repetitions of this process, Charles began to see a pattern in the pin-ups.

Brody was triangulating the possible location of Jacobus' 'hideout'...