Every nation has a period of time in which they are remembered for, that certain point in their history where legends and lore grow from; that moment where they make their mark for the rest of the world to know. It was that time for the United States. The American Frontier was in the middle of its glory, people pushing from East to West, connecting both sides of the large continent; though with any expansion of a nation comes its trials and tribulations and it was understandable that anything west of the Mississippi had become to be known as the Wild West.

Bandits terrorized the lands, robbing trains like a child would rob a general store of a piece of rock candy. It took only the right amount of timing and guts to pull it off. Outlaws were rampant. Native Americans had grown angry from being pushed further and further west, slowly being exterminated by the very people they had tried to trust. Fights broke out in saloons over the most trifle of things and the local sheriffs were the martial law of the land, handing out hangings as quickly as they could.

One would think this would be enough for people to deal with but even in dark times what plagues we think are our greatest concern are never as bad as it can get. The true trials in life were things that never crossed your mind, those things that hit you on some idle night when you thought you only needed to worry about dreams and hangovers. The year is 1884 and located at the South East end of the Dakota Territory rests a small town known as Brogden that is a stopping point as people make their way towards Rapid City in the Blackhills.

A single dusty trails passes through the main part of town, each side dotted with classic scenery one would associated with such a place. A Two story saloon, the smithy, the jail, shops and such run from one side of the road to the other. People, horses and carriages moved through the town as if it was any other warm day in the fall, enjoying the break from the heat of summer and bracing for the harsh winter to come. It was one of the few times of the year where one could enjoy the odd beauty of the terrain. People talked, the general store stocked people up on supplies as they came into town, gamblers sat around the tables of the saloon already planning a long night of debauchery. Further out homes can be seen for those that try to herd and farm these harsh lands and a single Church steeple can be seen off to the distance north.

Slowly the white doors of the church opened, a soft squeak echoing over the country side as they did and a woman stepped out; she did not dress like most women of the time. There were no corsets, no long dresses with bustles, no curls pulled back tight from her face. Dark hair fell loose to her shoulders, framing a melancholy expression and dark eyes. She was small in stature and build, only standing at five foot four inches in height and looked like she couldn’t weight more than a new born lamb. Her features were very Native American if not for the pale skin and Celtic bone structure. She wore dark leather slacks and short jacket that covered a look cream colored blouse; around her neck was wrapped a faded crimson scarf.

In her hand she carried a rifle and it seemed odd that she would be walking out of a church with such a weapon in hand. Stepping over to her cream colored Pryor Mountain Mustang she slid her rifle into its place before taking the reins. “Thank you Father for the information,” she said as an old man dressed in classic priest garb came out of the church.

“Of course, Godspeed on your journey and may the light of heaven protect you in your journey,” he said as he made a cross with his fingers in the air. The woman nodded and climbed up onto her horse, turning it to face him.

“And to you as well Padre,” she said before giving her horse a quick kick of her heels and speeding off towards the town of Brogden. She had the information she needed, now she just needed a team for the trials and tribulations ahead.

Smoke filtered the yellow sunlight into clouds of orange. The upstairs of the creaky wooden tavern received the worst of the tobacco fog as a man in sturdy boots clicked and clattered his drunken way to the rough brim of an unpainted door almost as thin as paper, and rigged out of soft chipped wood.

He stopped and he laid a calloused working hand on the brim. A disgusting belch rumbled from his scraggly bearded throat and he rubbed his muddy brown eyes. A large hat rested on his nest of hair, and the worn clothes of a rancher clung to his hairy body. He put his hand on the door, where a knob normally would grace the wood.

With a rough push the door flung on it’s squeaky hinges and reciprocated into the interior wall with a loud bang. Dust kicked up and the sickly fog of the downstairs rolled in. A square shouldered woman covered in bright clothes head to toe jumped from her seat on the off white and pestilent bed.

From behind a bright green burqa and veil the woman squealed in an undistinctive falsetto, summoning a sickly curl on the large man’s lips. The man laughed and unclasped his gun belt, walking forward with a slight limp.

“You must be one o’dem damn oriental girls,” the man’s voice was scratchy and acidic with years of alcoholism. The woman was unresponsive but instead slipped her thin dress up slightly, revealing a smooth ankle.

The man’s pants clattered to the ground around his feet as a dog like smile gaped his mouth, “I was always a leg man myself.” he barked in a wet guffaw.

The woman slithered over, exaggerating a swinging hip. The man’s breath shuddered as the exotic woman laid a flat palm on his stubbled cheek.

From behind the burqa the falsetto whistled again, revealing a hidden baritone behind the mocking female voice, “I prefer it all myself.”

The “womans” knee shot up and slammed in between his legs, and with a crushing smash the burqa covered forehead of the attacker slammed across the ranchers face. The drunk’s eyes spun as he fell backwards onto his back with a powerful thud releasing his breath from his tar stained lungs.

“who… are you,” the man gasped for air. The woman ripped off her burqa, revealing striking blue eyes on a masculine man’s face, stern yet witful under short dark brown hair.

“Twain” The man squeaked in his fake feminine voice. He cleared his voice and shook his head, replacing his falsetto with a powerful and manly voice, “Mark Twain.”

The cross eyed rancher looked up at him through watery eyes as he held his crotch. He croaked, “the novelist?”

“No you twit, the doctor,” Mark hissed in a thick Boston accent and rolled his eyes. Mark reached down and ripped a shimmering steel necklace from the man’s pocket that laid crumpled around his ankles. “And I believe this is mine.”

The rancher started to stand up as the man in the dress skirted over to the window, peeking outside. The rancher’s face was beat red and his limp exaggerated. He pointed a shaking finger, “I remember you, the one who worked on my leg... you came all this way for that?”

“A doctor never forget his patients,” Mark said as he started to open the window from it’s loose hinges.

“What kind of doctor-” The rough pantsed man started. He was interrupted by the stampede of his fellow gang members pouring through the door with pistols drawn.

Hammers clicked back and angry squinted eyes spelt trouble. Mark smirked a vulpine grin and bowed, “no kind of doctor.”

Before the pistols could belched flame and bullets, Mark leapt from the window. The men rushed to the window in surprise. As they looked out onto the dusty road below, all they saw was Mark sitting on top of a moving wagon with the name “Pemberton” etched across in black. His tropical dress fluttered in the wind as he waved back to the fuming men, slowly thinning into the distance.

Mark laughed to himself as the tavern slowly became smaller and smaller, and the wheels of the wagon became more and more apparent between creaks and crunches of wood and soil. He untied the back of his dress after a short struggle and nearly popping his arm out of it’s socket.

As the wind took the dress, it revealed a tall and slender athletic build covered by a rich dark suit notably tailored in the north.The man rubbed his shaved legs and frowned as he pulled his pant leg down over the smooth skin, “that’s gonna prickle.”

“Who the hell are you,” a deep voice bellowed from the driver's seat of the wagon, “and what's going to prickle?”

Mark slid down from the rough covering of the wagon, landing next to the dark bearded man with a thud. A white smile uncommon to these parts broke between the man’s lips, “Twain, Mark Twain.”

“The novelist?” The driver asked as he looked back to his horse who had spooked from the sudden visitor, urging the beast on with a crack of a riding stick on the side of the wooden wagon.

Mark frowned, “the doctor. And you are?”

“John Pemberton, also a doctor,” John Pemberton remarked, “well, pharmacist.”

Mark gurgled an approving remark as he gulped down a dark fizzy liquid from a rough jar that he had procured behind the curtain of the wagon. His face twisted in disgust and he quickly clamped the lid back onto the glass. He spat the liquid and looked at the man in horror.

“Something's wrong with your wine,” Mark exclaimed as he tossed the jar back into the wagon stocked full of the liquid.

“It’s not wine, it’s medicine, that’s just the cocaine,” John said contently as he continued to drive his horses.

“You put eye medicine in your alcohol? What are you trying to kick a morphine addiction or kill a horse?” Mark huffed as he folded his arms.

“Maybe,” John nervously said with wide eyes, speeding up his horses with a crack. “heading to Brogden?”

“If you are,” Mark shrugged as he looked over the liquid, “so like the coca wine from France, just with enough drugs to knock out Ulysses S Grant?”

“Pretty much,” John grunted, uninteresting in critique.

“I would label it something catchy, like Cool Coca or Coca Cola, and kill the whole drugs and alcohol nonsense,” Mark stated matter of factly as he leaned back.

John raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment, “I think this is your stop!”

The man shoved Mark from the carriage. With a poof of dust Mark landed in a roll. By time he rubbed the stinging dirt out of his eyes, the crazy pharmacist was long into the dusty distance. Mark growled and dusted off his now brown tinted clothes as he continued in the direction of Brogden.

“I didn’t spar with John L. Sullivan to simply get pushed off a wagon,” he mumbled under his breath as he shadowed a few mock punches in the air, “coward…”

With a huff of acceptance, Mark kicked up the soil as he walked towards his destination. As he walked, his mind wandered to parts of his youthful and unusual life. How he was born on the exact day the Civil war started, and how ever since then he had seemed to always found trouble, and with trouble, adventure.

When he was only twelve he had first found himself face to face with the excitingly deadly facts of reality. He had been in a commercial warehouse, working for some money for his mother who had fallen to the devastating fact that Mark’s father was not coming home. It was a simple job, but when the basement suddenly lit up on fire, he was the first to see it and report it. Dubbed a small hero at first, until the fire managed to evade being put out for twelve hours and ate up over sixty three acres. The great Boston fire they called it, one step on a trail of devastating adventures, is what Mark nicknamed it.

Shortly after that he had found himself out of a job, and his mother courted by a German doctor immigrant. With his family now well off and him not needing to work, he found life suddenly boring. Even after taking up a pen pal to a teen in Austria named Freud, he found life boring ever still, even after all the wonderful ideas he had shared with the boy on his thoughts about dreams and social development.

No, he needed more. He felt like a caged animal, doomed to a simple existence but cursed with the hunger of a tiger. At the age of fourteen he left home. Mark smiled to himself , raising a hand to block the sun from further interrupting his reverie as he strolled.

As he started to think about the chinese railroad worker who had taught him a great deal of oriental culture, a wagon screeched up by him, old iron rubbing against the wooden wheels.

“Docta Twain! Docta Twain!” A young voice called out from the covered wagon. A small face popped from behind the wooden folds. It was a young boy Mark had hired back in some nameless town, just to get him to the gang he had been following.

“Wan Li!” Mark smiled, quickly climbing into the wagon. The boy was tanner and of clear eastern origin as he slapped a heavy briefcase.

“You forgot your stuff Docta Twain,” Wan Li quickly spouted. Mark patted the boys head and threw on a dark city hat that laid on top of the leather briefcase. The doctor looked at the small boy and nodded, “think you can spare a trip to Brogden?”

“Sure thing Docta Twain, half charge,” Wan Li said excitedly as he urged the horses forward. Mark smiled to himself, onto the next adventure.

The town seemed to grow quiet as the streets were empty. The wind gave a slight wisp, picking up dirt and moving it along. The sky was filled with a mix of gray and blue, with the sun peaking out from behind the clouds every now and then. In this silence, stood two men, facing each other down. One man wore a large black trench coat, its tails slightly rolling with the wind, and standing 20 yards from the other man. The other man wore a red trench coat, very distinctive, and had a more dapper appearance than the man in the black coat. Neither man let anything around them bother each other, as they faced one another down.

The man in the black trench coat was Cyrus Pendleton. He was a very stone faced man for the time being and was not in any mood to deal with small talk. The more stylish gentleman went by the name of Westbrook. He was a bandit, famed for having served under William Tecumseh Sherman during the war before his criminal days. The man had turned into a vile man during the war, having committed all sorts of nefarious deeds, usually pillaging homes and killing residents. The man seemed to enjoy killing the most.

Westbrook was wanted for the murders of a town judge, a town sheriff, and one deputy. He was suspected of many more, but there were witnesses to these particular murders, so the man had finally made the wanted posters.

Both Cyrus Pendleton and Westbrook were relics of an era long past, both having taken different paths after the war. Cyrus had settled for a path that sat better with the eye of the law. Westbrook had found pleasure in being a psychotic killer. Quite the difference, but had to be dealt with swiftly by the law. Cyrus was going to take the man in.

"You fought in the war, didn't you?" Westbrook said, in question to Cyrus. Cyrus didn't break face, but merely stared him down. "Ahh, you did. Blue coat or gray coat?" Westbrook smiled in some kind of deranged amusement. Cyrus gave him silence for a little, before answering with the simple action of pulling his coat back, revealing the handle of his pistol.

Westbrook answered him by throwing his head back and cackling. He recovered to a more serious position and followed Cyrus's example, uncovering his own pistol, a Smith and Wesson Model 3. It was a more elegant looking pistol and more richly designed, even having carvings in the handles. Cyrus had a more beaten pistol, having years of use and replaced parts, with handles made of oak.

The two men were polar opposites and they were about to see who would win out over the other. It didn't matter to Cyrus if he lost this draw, as he had nothing much left to live for. All he ever did was concentrate on getting the shot off as quick as possible, and he always managed to survive.

Westbrook grinned and said "I'll flip a coin into the air, and before it hits the ground, we'll shoot each other." He took out a coin and positioned both hands, ready to draw and flip the coin. He leaned forward slightly, ready to let loose a shot as soon as he drew. His demeanor was not particularly affecting Cyrus, as he had met far more sadistic men, and they all had died the same way. This man was no different.

Westrbook flipped the coin into the air and drew. It all went by in a flash, as Westbrook grinned aiming the weapon in the small time he had to draw. His excitement was undermined when he felt burning pain sinking into his chest and heard the gunshot about half a second after feeling the bullet. He reeled back and clasped his chest, looking down in bewilderment. He seemed to start sucking air and wasn't able to talk, as his lung had been pierced and it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to his fate. He lifted his gun, looking to Cyrus with anger on his face, and aimed it at Cyrus.

He only received two more bullets before his legs gave out from underneath him and death took him. Cyrus waited a moment as the smoke cleared from the scene, revealing the winner of the duel. Now, all that was left was to turn the body in. He had been dealt with swiftly, and Cyrus would receive his just reward for the kill.

Cyrus walked over to the corpse and lifted his head, finding that the man was still very recognizable. He looked around, to see if everything had went back to normal and saw that everything had been going along normally, just in a safer area. This particular area of the street had been clear until the last shots had been fired. With that, Cyrus picked the corpse up and slung it over his shoulder. He started to walk slowly towards the sheriff's office, down the street, as people bustled along on business. Some would stop and stare as Cyrus maintained pace, keeping his eyes focused on his destination.

He strode up to the office, stepping onto the porch with the poster in his hand, still holding onto the corpse. He plopped the body on the porch and knocked on the door, pulling out the wanted poster. A middle aged deputy popped out and greeted him, giving him a "What?" followed by a grunt in acknowledgement. The deputy turned back into the office and asked the sheriff to come out. The man greeted Cyrus at the door, giving him a hearty "Hello" and then having his attention diverted towards the dead body. "Oh, uh, he's that guy Westbrook, yes?" His question was answered by a simple waving of the poster in front of his face by Cyrus, "Ah, yes. Of course."

The lawman stepped out and inspected the corpse. "Looks like you did a little over kill on this one." He motioned to the three bullet wounds in the man, all placed in his chest. "His time needed to end." Cyrus said. "Where do I collect the reward?"

The sheriff scratched his head, "Hold on a second." He walked back inside, giving a little time for Cyrus to stand around awkwardly and see that he was gathering a good amount of attention. The sheriff finally came back out, with a special slip of paper only given to those collecting reward money. "Just go to Rapid City. The note says where to collect." Cyrus looked down and grumbled.

"What's your name?" The sheriff said. "Cyrus Pendleton." Came his reply. The sheriff disappeared back into his office and took a good long time before finally rejoining him with a sealed envelope in hand. "This will make sure you get your reward." Cyrus nodded in acknowledgement and took the letter from him.

It was too much work for the reward money, but he might pass through Rapid City sometime soon and cash it in. As for now, he needed to get money to go to Rapid City. He slipped the envelope and the paper slip in his pocket and stepped away from the office, walking off down the street towards where he left his horse.

He raised his hand, and waved, his back still turned towards the office. "Pleasure doing business with you!" Cyrus said, giving his final goodbye to the sheriff as he went along with his business. Now, as long as he didn't run into anymore demons from the old war, he might have a peaceful stay in town.

Cyrus settled on going back to the saloon, probably end up sleeping in his room for the rest of the day. He hadn't much on the agenda, just a little drinking, and maybe some entertainment. Just a simple peaceful evening.

The day was getting on, the sun getting orange, and for many men it would be the last light they would see. A mob of angry townsfolk of Brogden stormed up the main street shouting and waving pitch forks and pistols. In the middle of the ring, lead by a rope tied to his bound wrists was "an Indian."

"We want justice! Devil summoning heathen! Witch!" The crowd had all kinds of ideas about how wicked wildlings were. They had brought him to the town center, insisting the sheriff and the priest come out to hold court. A simple farmer stormed up to the office clasping a noose, "We demand this Injin be tried immediately! He stole my corn!"
"He stole my daughter's honor!"
"The heathen brought the spirits upon us!"

The crowd was dirty from a day's labor and shook their weapons of justice fervently just across from the church.

Ashtar was tired, and scared. They had drug him around the town on display, and put a gag in his mouth. Even though he could speak the language of the pale skinned, they didn't want to hear him. This seemed to happen more and more often lately, but was this time going to be the last?? The wild native was certain he was going to die to these possessed people. He looked with pleading eyes in the Sheriff's direction.

CLANG!

The sound of the door slamming harshly into the wall was enough to startle anyone, especially when they weren’t expecting any sort of disturbances. Until this point the dimly lit workspace of a blacksmith had been deathly silent, for good reason. There was only one current occupant of the space, a figure who had previously been bent over a work bench working diligently on a new black powder compound.

With the sound however they shot up, almost knocking over the candle that was lighting the desk. A nimble hand caught it just before disaster could occur, the feminine hand setting it quickly to the side away from the black powder that was being mixed. The figure then turned, her brown eyes glaring down the fool crazy enough to disrupt her. “The sign says closed for a reason mister! I was working with black powder, you know…the highly flammable explosive material!” snapped the woman. She stood, setting the flammable substance gently out of the flames reach. Her hands went to her hips, a dangerous look on the brunette’s visage.

“Sorry Grace.” The intruder meekly replied, running a hand through his hair while his gaze fell to the floor. His name was Johnathan, a young man who often went drinking with Grace’s father. Usually he was extremely polite, he knew that the woman worked in a potentially dangerous environment, but that had escaped him this time.

Johnathan finally looked back up at the young woman. She had dirt and some other dark substance, most likely one of the compounds she worked with, on her hands and thus had accidentally smeared some across her brow. “Your pa was wondering if you had finished fixing the shotgun for Mister Martin… he says he needs it real soon.” The man explained, looking slightly worried. For good reason, Martin was a rude man with a violent temper and everyone tried their best not to anger him.

Grace blinked, understanding in her eyes. In a twirl of motion Miss Baur abandoned her work bench, heading over to where she usually set the pieces she had finished repairing. On a shelf above those was an array of knives, blades, and several strange looking guns. Those were the pieces the woman designed herself; she liked to tinker with the mechanics to alter the speed of the barrels and other things. She loved to improve weapons, and her pieces fetched a mighty good penny. Her gaze was set on the lower shelf though, where she placed the weapons and tools she merely repaired. Sitting right in the center was what used to be a battered shotgun but now it almost looked new. She picked it up carefully, as if it was a delicate art piece, before striding back over to Johnathan.

“Don’t fret so much. I’m not stupid; I finished the repairs two days ago.” Grace chuckled, looking over her handiwork. She walked over to the candle, blowing it out quickly. “I should probably take this to Pa myself.” She added, stepping over to the still open door.

The room outside the workshop had simple wood floors, a sharp contrast from the waste-stone floors of the other room, and the walls were wooden planks as well. It was properly lit, the last rays of sunlight stretching in through the windows on three of the walls. Standing behind a long countertop was a rather aged man. His once dirty blonde hair was peppered with grey and white, matching the stubble on his tan chin. Brown eyes, darker than that of Grace, met the pair as they emerged from the dim room and closed the door behind them.

“I didn’t realize you had finished that one already.” The older man in his early fifties said in a gruff tone. “Here, let me see.”

Grace stepped over to her father, gingerly handing him the gun. She watched as he checked it over, but was pleased when he came up with no faults. It had been a long time since her father had helped her with a piece, especially after his hands stopped being even slightly ideal for the delicate mechanisms of the newer guns. That work had become Grace’s responsibility seeing as she had much smaller hands and was just as skilled, if not more so, than her father.

“It’s good, real good kiddo.” Mister Baur praised with a smile on his lips. Grace merely chuckled at this, she was clearly no longer a child but she could not deny her father the endearing term. “Martin ‘ll pick this up tomorrow, for now you deserve a break. It’s closin’ time anyhow. Jonathan? Why don’t you join us for some supper?” the man inquired.

The sun had yet to fall when the trio stepped outside, Grace now dressed in something more feminine due to her father’s insistence. They walked calmly down the side of the street in Brogden only to freeze when they noticed the mob. “What the- what in tarnation is goin’ on?” Mister Baur breathed in shock, confused.

The sun hung in the sky as Angpetu galloped into the town of Brogden, the day was not yet finished but it would be soon enough; soon the blue would turn to crimson and amber and night would fall bringing out the unspeakable thing that were whispered about. The Padre had given her some much needed information regarding odd happenings in the town over the last several weeks; unknown deaths seemed to be plaguing the area and he feared it was more than a new disease. The town doctor seemed unable to answer any cause of deaths and the dear father was tired of burying his parishioners.

Pulling back on the reins, she brought her steed to a slow trot as she came into the town proper, looking at the residents with apprehension. Could one of them be the cause or was it still hiding. Coming to a stop in front of the local tavern she dismounted and tied off her horse before grabbing her pack and rifle. She ignored the looks she received but paid attention to the hushed words; talk of a quick-draw duel that had occurred not long before she arrived floated to her ears . Interesting, she thought to herself as she pushed her way into the tavern. Angpetu needed to recruit people but this was not something she could come out openly and say so she concluded that her best course of action would be to hold up here a few days and see if any individuals would stand out to her.

Brushing past the ruffians of the Saloon she continued to ignore the looks she received; side stepping several free roaming hands that attempted to touch her as she walked. Procuring a room on the second floor and making sure that it would be facing the main thoroughfare of the town she proceeded upstairs to what would be her home for the next several days. Opening the door she groaned slightly at the surrounding and the mixed aroma of tobacco smoke and cheap perfume as she stepped in. Closing and latching the door behind her, she set her belongings down and headed over to the window, opening it to clear out the vile combination that was assaulting her senses. Evening was quickly approaching and the sun was setting and it seemed there was a ruckus occurring in the middle of town now.

Sliding outside of the window onto the wrapped upper veranda of the tavern she knelt down and watched with rifle in hand. Just what she needed tonight, a mob bent on slaughtering another native. She remained quiet as she watched, listening to the charges and rolled her eyes; fear and ignorance, the perfect fuel for such situations. They were livid and bent on this one person being the sacrifice for all that was wrong in their lives, she knew it would not be enough. She knew if another came around they would do the same.

The Sheriff stepped out of the office, chewing on a bit of straw as he did and leaned against a post as he watched. “Shut it!” he bellowed over the furious crowd before spitting on the ground and pushing off the post. “Ya’ll know I don’t put up with mobs and pitch forks. I am the law in this town, not you,” he grumbled as the crowds yelling slowly began to quiet; several of the mobs participants screaming out various charges still. The Sheriff shook his head and un-holstered his side arm, firing several shots into the air above them; the crowd giving out a collective gasp but it had the intended effect. “Harold, did you see this man steal your corn?” he asked quickly and the man shook his head. “John, did you see him bed your daughter?” he asked turning his head in the direction of the man yelling about his daughters honor. John shook his head no. “And did a single one of ya see this man summon a spirit?” he asked projecting his voice over the crowd in general; they all shook their heads no.

“Then I suggest ya’ll let the heathen go,” the Sherriff demanded as he took a stroll over to the man that was bound. “Injun, you must be loco to be setting foot near here but that’s the only crime I see you committing right now,” he said sternly as he took the binds and began to release the man. The crowd stepped back but they made their protests very vocal as they began to yell again. One in particular decided to take it upon himself to issue the justice he felt was needed, the death of the bound one; drawing his side arm quickly and aiming to finish this Indian off before the Sherriff had a chance to release him.

Angpetu had been watching the scene unfold; pulling a single cartridge from her belt and loading it into her rifle. She watched the one the Sherriff referred to as John; his speech was slurred and his footsteps sloppy. “Cic maith sa toin ata de dlitch air,” she muttered under her breath as she rose from her crouched position and took aim, she would not fire unless it got out of control but sadly it was quickly approaching that point. Seeing the man draw his gun she took aim and before he could get a shot off Angpetu aimed and let out a short breath as she squeezed the trigger of her rifle. The firing of the rifle broke through the air as the bullet made contact with the drunkards’ pistol and sent if flying out of his hand. The crowd and Sherriff ducking down somewhat as John screamed out and started shaking his hand vigorously, letting out a yelp. Stepping out of the shadow of the Saloon so she could be seen.

“I suggest ya’ll go home, next time I won’t be so sloppy with me aim,” she yelled out as she pulled another cartridge from her belt and rose her rifle; pointing it back at the crowd. “That means git!” she added as she took aim once again. The Sherriff looked up swiftly and nodded towards her.

“Ya’ll heard the woman, git!” he added and the crowd slowly dispersed, save one. John was not going to let this heathen get away, stumbling he picked up his gun and tried to fire again but it was too late. Angpetu squeezed the trigger once again and this time hit him in the chest, his corpse crumbling quickly to the ground.

“I warned him,” she spat as she lowered her weapon.

Cyrus kept walking until he came to the saloon, getting hemmed up in the doorway by the sudden appearance of a woman who appeared Sioux with some kind of white mix. Cyrus was only hemmed up for a second or two before heading inside. He was not all too familiar with the Sioux Indians, as he was from the south. He had met and made friends with some Seminoles, Chickasaws, Cherokees, Choctaws, and even Creeks. He had yet to see them again, as after the fall of the Confederacy it seemed they were being wiped out and treated unfairly.

There had never been any doubt in his mind they would have been treated better if the confederacy had won. Many things would have been better off, except for one people group, and that of the African Americans. Cyrus had never really cared much for the institution of slavery, as he had fought because they were being invaded and considered his fight to be equal to that of the 13 colonies. In the words of one man he knew from the war, after the surrender of Johnston in response to a question from a Union officer, We is all fightin' 'cuz y'all came down here and started takin' our raghts and we ain't stan'in' for that horse piss.

Now it was all over, and all that was left was to live in a world that had defeated them. As some had said before, the south would rise again, but not in the way they might think. Cyrus knew that the cause was lost with the war, and they would never form the confederacy again. It would be painted as an evil federation of states for as long as the United States existed, and men like Cyrus would be spat on in scorn.

Cyrus sighed and opted for standing on the porch and smoking. He stepped back out into the slowly descending evening, and pulled out his pipe. After slipping some fresh leaves of tobacco into his pipe, and with a quick movement, he struck a match and began puffing away at the pipe. He stoked it a little, keeping the open flame inserted into the opening, and then let the match drop to the ground and snuff itself out.

He was enjoying this peaceful moment using his pipe, until it was interrupted by a mob carrying a Sioux Indian. "That's unlucky." He shrugged watching as the event carried on before his eyes, like a festival of ignorance. It was just another group of sheep led by a half a man. An army needed to be led by a real man, and there were no substitutes.

He watched peacefully as the event unfolded before his eyes, taking unexpected but better twists and turns before ending with the crowd dispersing. It appeared that it had not ended without a little heckling from some mystery voice, and a gunshot from the over watch position where the heckling had come from. The voice, clearly a female, was shouting threats down to the man whom appeared to go by the name Johnny.

As the crowd was dispersing, Cyrus assumed it was over, but one man remained, the one called Johnny, looking intent upon killing the Sioux. The man went for his gun but was soon lying dead on the ground, having taken a bullet from an over-watch position. Cyrus scratched his head, a little shocked that a man had just been gunned down in the streets before him, and it wasn't really a fair fight. Then again, it wouldn't have been a fair fight for the Sioux who would have received the bullet.

Cyrus stepped off the porch and strode over to the corpse that was slumped over. Without inspection, he picked up the corpse, and slung it over his shoulders. "Johnny, I hardly knew ye." He muttered, taking one step before pausing. He turned and looked upwards towards the second floor. Seeing a figure in the window with a weapon, one that he assumed was the one that had smote the man, he tipped his hat and gave a charismatic smile. His mustache seemed to make him look happier as the smiled curled along his face. It was almost as if he wasn't holding a dead body on his shoulders, but only going about a regular day's work.

After giving the simple greeting, he looked to the sheriff and spoke, "Undertaker. Where is the undertaker?"

The wafting smoke of the saloon was merely an immediate reminder of Mark’s earlier encounter. His pant legs swished softly against his bare legs, only adding to his memory of his feminine antics. A sly smile dipped and turned the corner of his mouth into a happy hook as he leant against the wall of a private booth.

As the man stood smugly amid the clambering and chatting of gruff and dirty patrons, the faint chill of a pistol's barrel seeped through his clothes as it pressed against his back. Mark opened his palms and the gun was pushed into him, “Sit,” the intruders voice commanded.

Marks smile grew and he slid into the booth, a tall bald man with buggy eyes plopping into the opposite side, pistol in hand, and ready to fire. The doctor shook his head and folded his hands in his lap as he got comfortable, “Paul Blake.”

“Mark Twain,” Paul nearly spat.

A slim man dressed in the almost clean white shirt of a bartender stopped abruptly in front of the booth and Paul slipped the gun under the table, still aimed at Mark. The deep black pencil mustache of the tender waved as he spoke, “get you fellows anything?”

Before Paul could tell him off Mark raised his index finger, “Vodka Martini.”

The man furrowed his brow and started to walk off. Mark patted the leaving man’s elbow and he stopped. The slender man turned back to Mark and the two locked eyes. Mark nodded his words, “shaken, not stirred.”

After a long and uncomfortable stare, the tender slipped back into the crowd. Mark huffed at the encounter and turned to converse with Paul like they were long lost friends.

Before Mark could sneeze a word through the irritating saloon smoke, Paul reiterated the reason they were sitting with a scratch of his iron sight against the under of the table. Mark feigned surprise and used the momentum to wrap his fingers around a cold pistol that hid in his pocket.

“So, I heard what you did to the gang,” Paul started. Mark pointed his pistol slightly from it’ pocket and he shrugged. Paul shook his head, “you never were planning on giving that necklace up where you? You might as well have jettisoned your life.”

Mark laughed, “I can pay for the loss of funds, you all can sit happily with that.”

“All? You mean me, you will give me the necklace and the money,” Paul hissed behind his teeth. Mark opened his mouth in shock, :I don’t have the money with me.”

“Then that’s too bad,” Paul chuckled a raspy breath, “you know I’ve been waiting to kill you for a long time now.”

Mark smiled, “yes, I’ll bet you have.”

Paul’s face froze as he heard a faint click of a hammer, and before his finger could squeeze the trigger, a loud bang puffed smoke from under the table and belched a bullet into his chest. The man slouched over face first onto the table with a groan.

The other patrons looked over for a moment, but after hearing gunshots outside, their attention was quickly shifted from the man who clearly shot first, to the unknown rabble outside.

Maeve had been working at the Saloon for longer than she would have liked. It isn’t that she didn’t like the town, on the contrary. At first glance Brogden was just another hovel in a long line of shit holes leading from civilization to wilderness, but it had grown on her. There was something about this place that attracted some *interesting* individuals, and it definitely wasn’t dull. No, she was just disappointed that she had yet to attain what she came here for. She was thinking about all of this, her elbows leaned against the bar with a practiced smile on her youthful face that denoted a naivety uncommon to these parts.

She blew a somewhat curled tendril away from her face as a bottle and a couple of glasses were slid her way. She wrapped her fingers around the neck of the tequila and grabbed the glasses. She turned towards the patrons, just noticing how busy they were becoming. Other than a quick expanding of her eyes she seemed unfazed by the bustle and slipped between the roughians with a skilled bounce in her step. She dodged a chair that was swung haphazardly by a drunk while quickly glancing at what cards she could see from the poker table while turning her hip out to dodge an excited arm.

“Maeve! Maeve!” She could hear Tom beckoning from behind and turned to offer him a wink before continuing on her route. “One minute darlin’,” she called back to him over her shoulder. Her voice was honey sweet and almost like a song as it floated through the noise. She heard a commotion starting outside and glanced towards the window. There was definitely something brewing. She deposited the whiskey and glasses to a table of gruff men who were laughing about something. Maeve slipped her little fingers around the closest man’s lit cigarette and traded him a kiss on the cheek and an endearing squeeze of his shoulder. The man may have blushed a little, but it was hard to tell beneath his sun kissed skin.

Her hips rocked as she walked towards the window, pressing the cigarette between her lips and taking an inhale. She could make out the Sheriff now, and some others. Was that John Henley? She curled back the curtains and nestled against the window frame, dragging once again from the cigarette as she watched the events transpire outside. It was John Henley, but there seemed to be a mob, perfect. Her first honest smile of the day crossed over those lips. She had little care for the Indian they were parading about and simply saw this for what it was, a good old lynch mob. She wasn’t blind to the plights of the disenfranchised. She was Irish for fuck’s sake, but what could she do? Enjoy the chaos. This would be the second shooting today. Yes, Brogden was growing on her.

When she watched John Henley, her John, get shot a small gasp escaped her and she leaned her weight against the window. Not a single person seemed willing to mourn the man in the street, but for one brief moment a grave expression crossed over her features. Under her breath, in a voice distinctly crueler than the one heard earlier came a, “Son of a bitch.” She tossed the cigarette to the floor and crushed it between her heel of her boot.

She didn’t really care about John, not personally, but her employers cared about something in his possession. She’d been working on him for weeks, trying to get him to let it slip where it hid the money. Her next plan of action had been to threaten his family, but, now…

“Maeve!” This time it wasn’t Tom, but her boss calling her out of her dark daze. She forced that smile back onto her lips and turned back towards the bar, bouncing that way as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Her mind on the other hand was flickering through ideas like a Queen through jewels. One of them might work. She could get close to his friends, his family? There was a mention of a daughter. Should she start watching immediately to see if anyone slips out of town? She’d already come to the conclusion that he had buried the money somewhere to the South West. Who were John’s best friends?

“The gentleman in the booth,” the tender slid a drink towards her across the bar and gestured to Mark Twain. She could see some ancient bartender’s guide cracked open and a slight furrow on her boss’s brow and she shot him a questioning look. He shrugged. “Vodka Martini? I gave him a beer with a shot of whiskey in it. Shaken, not stirred.” He smiled a little at this, obviously proud of himself. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what a Martini was either, and they didn’t stock vodka, so she returned his shrug and grabbed the foamy drink, heading towards the man in the booth.

It wasn’t until she was about three steps away that she realized the man sitting across him was dead. Seriously? John Henley was dead and now there was a dead guy here? She’d thought she’d heard a shot earlier, but she had assumed it was some weird echo or something. 3 dead today. Her step didn’t hitch a bit as she sidled up to the table and stuck a thumb towards the dead guy. “Your friend seems a little beat,” she said with a sweet giggle, poking his shoulder for effect. She set the interesting drink down in front of him, leaning in and showing just enough cleavage as she bent and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder, nothing threatening. Her eyes were focused on his own and they seemed so sweet, except for a quick flash of what could have been a stern threat. It was so brief it was hard to tell for sure if it really happened. “You should take him somewhere else.” She stood back up and released his shoulder all the while thinking: if I have to clean that shit up...

As the mob cried out for supposed justice and the blood of what was probably an innocent man Grace and the two men beside her stood and watched. There was nothing that any of them could do. The accusations flew, only to be cut off by the words of the sheriff. A faint smile pulled at Grace’s lips, though the woman was very sure that no matter what he said blood would still be spilt. The mob was far too riled not to attempt their sick sense of justice. Just as she expected one of the many townsfolk gathered drew his gun but before he could even pull the trigger it was shot out of his hand with a bang.

Grace’s brown eyes widened in shock, first looking about on the ground for the marksman responsible, but when she glance up at the saloon windows she found the suspect. It was a woman with a rifle. She didn’t really put her race, which was obviously a blend between a Native American and European. What really intrigued her though was the weapon in her grip. From where she was standing she did not have a great view of the particular rifle but from the street below she could tell it was nowhere near new.

A gun could tell a lot about a person and just from the blurry glimpse at the weapon Miss Baur knew that the woman used her weapon often. Most likely she used it for her job, which could be several things, but whatever it was needed something more powerful than a simple hand pistol.

The young woman was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice that the crowd, save for Johnny, was gone. All she knew was that suddenly she heard another shot ring out. Her gaze widened only for a short gasp to leave her lips. Johnny now lay in the dirt, dead as a doornail. As much as she hadn’t care for the now deceased man she was still saddened by the loss of his life.

Without a word to her father or Johnathan Grace stepped out into the street. She watched as some strange man picked up the corpse and slung it over his shoulder. Grace looked over to the man who had been so wrongly treated as she approached where the three men stood. The two men she had left behind did not follow, only watching in confusion as she stepped over to the Sioux Indian.

Grace glanced away for a split second to get a good look at the other stranger, catching the quick glint of a gun on his person as well but not getting a good look at it. She quickly looked away, casting a sympathetic smile at the Indian. “Are you alright?” she inquired, facing the stranger yet not turning her back to the saloon. Part of her wondered who that mystery shooter was and if she needed any gun repairs.

Ashtar couldn't believe what had happened. Now that he was safe, relatively, he used his hands to pull off the rag mouth gag and then used his teeth to get his hands free. Grace came over to him. He looked up at her brown eyes, a face framed by long brown hair, and felt so relieved at her friendly features. It somewhat surprised her when he answered in clear English, "Thank you. Yes, I am alright." He got up, facing toward the direction Angpetu had been shooting from, looking for her. "That woman saved my life. I knew the spirits did not lead me here to die." He looked back at Grace with a genuine smile, Johnathan and Mr. Baur were behind her. The sheriff was also still present, giving Cyrus a look as he picked up dead John Henley.

"I am Ashtar, Lakota. Your people call me Sioux and give me the name Dreamwalker. I did not come to steal women and rape corn. I am a friend." Ashtar looked about, ambiguous to his incorrectly quoted verbiage. He was tall for an Indian. He was only a young man, yet strong, with a smooth, aesthetic face and hair as black as the feathers entwined in his braids. He smelled of fresh air, horses, and plants. He could have been a warrior, but lacked the terrifying facial paint and demeanor. He must have had some other primary occupation.

The sheriff came over with a knowing swagger. "Young man. I believe these belong to you. Now I'm going to have to keep this here pistol, but you can have the rest of your things back. Jus' be advised to keep that bow on your back while you're in town." He leaned in with a slightly lower voice as he handed Ashtar back his knife, bow and quiver, and bolas. "It makes the whiteman get all edgy." He started walking back to his office. "If you have any questions about the law, I'll be in my office. The last thing I need is more work to do."

The native took back his things and started putting them back on his person. "Friend, you have a kind spirit to come speak to me. That is a great blessing, and it will be repaid. I wish to know your name, and also, I wish to thank this woman above who saved my life." Ashtar stood out front, in view of the saloon, amid the several people lingering about. He stared at Angpetu, making clear he knew what she had done and was waiting for her.

Lowering her weapon and resting the butt of in on the wood of the out jutting veranda, Angpetu surveyed the scene as she stepped forward fully out of the shadows. “Idiot,” she muttered as she stood there. There were enough things to deal with in her profession, watching a drunk try to shoot someone and most likely hit the sheriff was not something additional she had wanted to have to confront but there it was. Seemed everyone else was content to just let it happen, save the sheriff. Seeing the man below pick the corpse up and smile at her caused her to raise a single brow but she nodded in response.

“Fair shooting there Ang, thanks,” the sheriff called out to her as he looked up to her and tipped his hat before glancing back over at Ashtar. “She did indeed.”

“You really should train that good for nothing deputy of yours to watch your back James Conner. I ain’t always gonna be perched up here,” Angpetu replied as she stood there and looked down at him.

“Well there you have it, I am Sheriff Conner,” James said as he looked at Ashtar. “And that is Angpetu,” he said pointing up towards the woman on the balcony before looking back up to her. “Yeah, well Sean ain’t the best shot. He probably would have hit me instead,” he said quickly as he shoved his hands in his pocket. “How about you be my deputy?” he said with a coy smile as he tipped his hat to the woman. Angpetu just rolled her eyes as she shook her head.

“An native deputy?!?” a group exclaimed from the side of the tavern.

“Hey it worked in Blazetown,” Conner muttered and shrugged. Turning his attention to the one that was carrying the corpse he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow before tucking it back away in his pocket. “Three buildings that way,” he said pointing over towards the south end of town. “Hold up a moment, I gotta grab Westbrook before he start stinking up the joint. Sean, grab that body, we need to take it to Seamus," Conner called towards the jail.

“Right’O bossman,” Sean called out from behind the glass before vanishing to go grab the body. “BOSS!!” Sean screamed before he came running out and stumbling to the ground at the sheriffs feet.

“What in tarnation is wrong with you boy?” Conner said as he placed his hands on his hips.

“Westbrook boss, he gone,” Sean said as he spit out some dirt from his mouth.

“What do you mean gone boy?” Conner demanded to know, a look of aggravation crossing his features.

“I mean gone, bye bye, vanished, no more,” Sean said pointing over to the jail.

“Horse Hockey!” he bellowed.

“I be tellin’ truth Boss, ain’t no body no more,” Sean said looking nervously at the sheriff. “Like he upped and walk off!”

“Dead men do not walk!” Conner yelled.

”Some do”, Angpetu thought to herself before turning on her heels and slipping back into her room through the window. Seemed the padre was right, things weren’t right here in Brogden anymore. She quickly made her way out of her room and down through the tavern with her rifle in hand and came out the front of the tavern in a slow jog as she glanced around. “Conner, where was the body last?” she asked quickly as she walked over to him.

“Had it slumped over in the back room,” the sheriff quickly said. “Why? Think someone stealing corpses?”

“Yeah, something like that,” she said as she pushed past Sean and went into the sheriffs office to have a look around.

Cyrus nodded to the sheriff as he had him hold on to the body. He stood awkwardly for a moment with a little bit of sweat dripping down his back. He sighed and shifted to leaning on different legs, before he heard what the deputy had to say. Cyrus felt a shiver run down his spine, as he gave the man a glare. "No, hell no!" He exclaimed and he dropped the body.

He stared at the sheriff and the deputy as they engaged in conversation over the disappearance. His face seemed to form a glare. It wasn't every day that the evidence of one's kill was just snatched away, and it could mean his bounty pay was forfeit.

Cyrus stepped over, following the female character who had just appeared on the scene. They were kicking up dust in the streets, making a regular hustle towards the sheriff's office. Cyrus was close behind the Sioux female, as she stepped into the office. They came to the back room he had mentioned, and there he saw it.

There before him was an empty room, with only a few drops of blood. It wasn't nearly enough for the bullet wounds Cyrus had inflicted on the man. "Son of a bitch." He exclaimed, surveying the room. In the thin layer of dust coating the flour, there appeared only one set of footprints leading out of the room that did not belong to the Sioux female. "You've got to be shitting me."

He grimaced and glared at the room, as if it had done him the wrong. "Looks like he just didn't fucking die. I'll have to fucking put him down, again, till he stays down." He grumbled. He hated Westbrook from the moment he had met him, and was in no mood to deal with him still living. He knew a little of his background, having heard that he had been suspected of gruesomely murdering several children in one incident. He never thought he would meet an ex-union soldier who was so psychologically messed up, as he had been alright and he lost all of his family to the war.

The war had taken much of his dreams and aspirations with its loss on the confederate side. He had thought all he needed was his wife and kids, but it had taken them. His father had died so early on in the conflict. Missouri had erupted in fire and blood, and been turned upside down. He had done all he could to move on from it all, but it seemed to continue following him. This time, it was coming after him in the form of a man whom appeared to refuse to stay dead.

FYI: All clues were provided by the GM for me to post.

Angpetu sighed as she searched around with Cryus in the back room, checking out things. Kneeling down she touched the dried blood and then smelled it carefully. Pulling back she grimaced. “No, he was dead,” she said flatly as she rose back up and looked at the foot steps in the dust. “Still is in a way,” she added as she slowly followed the trailed out of the room and towards the back door of the Sheriffs office. She knew what she just said would probably be met with disbelief and such but she didn’t care. She had been dealing with the Kindred, a term for the undead, for the majority of her life at this point and had seen too many things not to know that people could still walk far after death if the circumstances were right.

Turning around she looked back over towards Cyrus and sighed as she rubbed her temples. She needed a new team but this was not how she wanted to go about it. Sadly she didn’t have much choice in the matter right now. The undead were tricky to kill. “Sorry but need some information. Who are you, who did you kill, how long ago did you kill them, how did you kill them and what was the weapon you killed them with made of?” she asked quickly as she stood there. She waited for an answer as the Sheriff can running in, leaving his ever flawed deputy outside watching over the newest corpse just in case.

“Ang, what in tarnation is going on?” he asked as he spit his toothpick out of his mouth and onto the ground.

“You don’t want to hear this Conner,” she said quickly as she stood there.

“The hell I don’t woman, I got bodies disappearing from my office, people dying on the streets left and right without known cause and a padre who is tired of funerals. Now tell me woman what is going on,” the sheriff retorted quickly.

“The hell you do, now git Conner. I mean it. You aren’t ready for this shit. Go back to your business and let me take care of mine,” she said as she griped her rifle in her hands.

“Dagnabbit woman! Tell me!”

“Fine, he was dead but now he is undead. He is walking around out there somewhere right now looking for someone to feed from to regain his strength and if I don’t find him and figure out what the hell kind of undead he is you are going to have a lot more bodies on your hands,” she stated quickly in a non-comical voice that was as serious as the day was long. Conner just looked at her dumfounded. He had known Angpetu for years, she was always sensible and had always spoke truth to him so he knew whatever she said she had meant it but he was having a hard time wrapping his head about this one.

“You’re right, I don’t want to know,” he said before walking back out the door to deal with things that didn’t sound like they had just come from the mouth of a lunatic.

“Told you,” she said shaking her head before directing her attention back over towards Cyrus. “Now, as I was asking….The questions, what are your answers?”

Collab between @Goldeagle1221 & @Noxious

“Yes you’ll have to excuse my friend,” Twain added matter of factly, leaning back to study the brown drink that so clearly was not his vodka martini, “he’s dead tired.”

His eyes flickered from his drink and over to the woman and a polite smile stretched across his face, “what’s your name?”

“They call me Maeve.” She wrapped a finger around a loose curl, twirling it between her fingertips. She was still pissed about her John, but everyone had secrets and everyone, this man, usually wanted to tell their secrets to girl like her so she curled those youthful pink lips into a grin and hoped for the best, “ We don’t normally let people sleep here,” her free hand gesturing to the dead guy.

“Maeve, hm?” Twain ignored the mention of Paul’s corpse. His eyes flickered across her chest for a moment, “both of them?”

“Oh, I’m just fancy enough for Maeve, no official title, but I’m guessing you’re a bit more official, hmmmm? What is it that they call you sir, those still alive enough to call anyways?”

Twain’s smile seemed to curl into one of humor and he shook his head, dismissing his recent hidden joke, “I am Mark Twain.”

She scrunched her nose at the name, recognition clicking. “Mark Twain….aren’t you an author?”

Twain’s smile flipped to a frown, “doctor, the doctor,” he corrected.

“Doctor hmmm? We don’t get many doctors out this way, especially not as young as you.” Doctor always brought to mind the wrinkled old men, barely healthy themselves. She wasn’t normally a fan of doctors. She still wasn’t sure if she was a fan of his either.

“Evidently not,” Mark said plainly as he jutted a square chin towards the dead man, “my own scholarly eyes seem to understand that this patron has a chronic case of rigor mortis; common in these parts?”

She glanced back to Paul, holding on to that sweet smile even as the dead man became the focus. “I don’t mean to be frank Mr. Twain, but I’m not sure I would trust you, even if your assertion appears correct. You can gain some favor if you help me remove your friend. Not good for business, makes the place appear dead.”

Twain stood up and dusted the lap of his pants, and placed his drink down on a napkin, “the drink was a little stiff anyways,” he mumbled to himself as he gestured towards Paul Blake and scooted over to grab his arms. With a huff of breath that spiraled the lingering smoke in the air, Mark shifted the dead man to his cold feet and wrapped a lifeless arm around his own shoulders as he slowly shuffled the heavy man out of the booth and off to the sheriff’s office.

She followed behind him, without offering to help; she doubted he expected her to anyways. The sheriff may have questions though and she could possibly use the opportunity to gain some favor; either with the law or the doctor.

"Now you're sure this is for a man by the name of Westbrook?" The grizzled old marshal scratched his jaw with the question.

The brutish gravedigger in front of him answered without looking away from his work. "Yep. Weren't ten minutes ago, runner from the sheriff tells me a man named Westbrook's been shot by a bounty hunter, get diggin', Tom." The man spit into the shallow pit in front of him. "So, I done come out here, get digging, and I'm barely three shovels in when an old man comes up and starts askin' me the same question over and over."

Bill sighed and rubbed his brow. He mused in some corner of his brain that it was lucky he'd happened upon the gravedigger beginning his work just as he'd arrived in Brogden - otherwise, he might have stormed into town, weapons brandished, looking for a dead man.

The marshal let out a chuckle. "Damn hell. I hunt the bastard all over creation for months, and when I finally done run him down, he gets himself shot not ten minutes before I show up."

The gravedigger spat again and continued shoveling. "Jesus. He owe you money?"

Bill gestured to the badge on his breast, not that the man he was speaking to was looking at him. "Nah. US Marshal. Man was a real mean sonofabitch, from what I've heard." There was more to it then that, of course. Another reason for his dogged pursuit of the criminal. Bill hadn't known the man personally, but he just as easily might have.

A memory flashed into his mind. The flickering light of a campfire, the smell of bad hygiene and smoke, a belly full of food taken from some plantation or another, and a whole crowd of faces, all hollering and laughing. Mean sonsabitches, all.

He was shaken out of his ruminations by the sound of a shovel striking rock, and the gravedigger's hard voice. "Well, marshal, what you gonna do now that you done wasted your time?"

Bill turned and mounted his brown mare Daisy once again, clicking to turn her towards the town. "Well, reckon the first thing I do is find the man what shot him," he said, "And buy him a drink."

And so he rode off towards the town, mumbling a familiar tune under his breath. "Sherman's dashing yankee boys will never reach the coast... so the saucy rebels said and twas a handsome boast..."

When he arrived in the town, he found something not entirely to his expectation. There was a procession headed into the sheriff's office, all seeming in a real serious hurry. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he definitely heard the name 'Westbrook' once or twice.

The marshal quickly tied up Daisy on a nearby post and hurried after them. By the time he entered the sheriff's office, all he was able to catch was the sheriff storming out of the back room with frustration clearly plastered on his face. Bill cleared his throat and addressed the man. "Pardon me, sheriff. Bill Cooper, US Marshal. I have been pursuing Mr. Westbrook for some time now, and I've just been informed he was shot earlier today. Now I hear a whole gaggle of folks talkin' bout him and runnin' up and down the street. Mind clearing things up for me, sheriff? What exactly happened to Westbrook?"

(Sorry so short, but I want to at least keep things moving.)

Ashtar knew what the people around him were saying, that a dead man had returned to walk. It sent a chill up his spine, and he had to see for himself.

Like a piece of furniture he had gone unnoticed in the backroom of the sheriff's office, so easily could he blend in with the environment and move about without making a sound. By the time Angpetu or Cyrus realized he was there, he was already crouching over a splash of blood on the floor near the open window where Westbrook had escaped.

The shaman reached his hand down over the blood. "Good spirits are carried by the eagle to the sky, but this spirit goes to the wolf instead." He started blathering on some native, superstitious bullshit. Creepily, he touched the blood to his middle fingertip and brought it to his left eye, painting a red line straight down his cheek. He repeated the process with the other eye. "...the wolf is hungry and angry. It isn't finished eating." He got up and suprisingly silently, his soft mocassins gently padding across the wood, went over to the window and looked out cautiously into the now fairly dark outdoors. After a moment of a glassy gaze, he pulled back frowning. "Hmm. The wolf moves swift."

Ashtar looked at the others, who couldn't help but stare at him with either awe or cynicism or both. The possibility of dead people getting up and causing problems apparently wasn't new to him. He folded his arms, realizing the white people might not quite get what was going on. He blinked calmly, sighing, then shrugged. "So. Does... anyone need a drink?" It was impossible to tell if he was serious or making a joke.

A chill crept over Grace’s thin frame, her eyes widening and looking at the sheriff in shock and disbelief. How did a body just up and leave when it was supposedly dead prior? That just did not make sense, but it made her slightly curious, and terrified. As several of those on the street walked into the sheriff’s office she followed, but not before casting her father and Johnathan a look and wave that told them to go on without her. Both cast her a strange look, having been far enough away that they had not caught the full brink of the conversation, but knowing she could fend for herself they headed off into the saloon for a drink.

Grace was at the back of the group as she stepped into the back room. She paused just inside the doorway, her gaze shifting over the room as if she expected to be able to find something the others hadn’t. All she saw though was an empty room and several drops of blood.

Brown eyes shot over to the Sioux woman as she spoke, her mouth going dry as she explained what she believed was going on.

When the sheriff went to leave Grace stepped out of his way, but did not leave. She glanced at the other inhabitants of the room, stopping on Ashtar for a moment as he started to speak in a cryptic manner, before going back to the woman and the other man. The woman seemed as if this was an everyday occurrence in her life. At her inquiry she looked over to the man she was asking all her questions.

A smirk pulled at Grace’s lips. “I think it would be wise if you answered her.”

The sun was setting on the world as two horses and a small cart, attached to one of the horses, trotted along a dirt road. A roadsign read, "Brogden" then below it, "Population 300".

"Exactly three hundred? Certainly someone was properly bored when they went about surveying? Can't be that perfect... Oh well. That's our next stop, right love?" Roy was on vacation and so, he had a tour guide. More of the guide half than the 'tour' part. Her name was Jenny Oswald, a woman who appeared to be in her forties and clearly was born in this part of the nation.

"Yep. We are gonna head on over thata way see if youse want ta stay there tonight or tryin' make ours way to Rapid." She had a heavy accent, Evans really couldn't understand her efficiently.

"So, we're probably staying in-" he glanced at the sign, "-Brogden?" She nodded. "Right then. Let's get on our way." They were both on horses, that's a relatively important detail not to be overlooked. He squeezed his heels into the horses sides, gently, and they took off trotting along the road. They'd entered the city-limits, it was still a few minutes before they saw the buildings.

"Welcome yerself to Brogden, I reckon the smallest town in Dakota." It appeared as a regular western town would - dirt roads, incredibly angular buildings made of wood, there was probably some tumbleweed hiding in the background. The only real difference between this and the rest of the towns he'd visited, was the size. Roy had no issue seeing the other end of town.

"Well, it is rather late, do you know where I could find a place to sleep, love?" He turned to the woman with him.

"Yer 'ave got to stop callin' me love mister. I knows you're Irish and all, but it just too weird. This way."

"Sorry, but I'm not Irish. I'm British."

"An' I'm not love, am I?"

"Right, apologies." They headed to a building, which looked like the rest of them mind you. They tied their horses outside and Roy entered, not taking notice of anything of interest. There were a few intriguing characters about, but nothing to glance twice at. He rented two rooms for the night. One for him and the other for Miss Oswald. She made her way up to her room, presumably to sleep for the night.

That was about when he saw the man. He was a younger man, younger than roy, at least. He was in his late, no, early twenties and was carrying another man... The other man was leaving a trail of blood behind him. I'd say that it's odd... But, this is America... The soldier took notice of a woman following from behind the first person. Roy decided to find out where they were taking the, presumably, dead man. He left the inn and began to follow from a distance.

Cyrus stood, clenching his fists at the thought that no matter how long ago the war was, it still felt like it raged on every day for him. Some days, even though he never had wore a proper uniform, he felt like the young confederate cavalryman from years ago, still fighting to free his state. They taught him how to put his uniform on, but he still just couldn't take it off.

His brooding was stammered only by the fact that he was faced with questions from the Sioux woman. They were odd questions, only in the fact that they were asked with such urgency. Cyrus stuttered for a moment, as he looked at her quizzically. Before he could answer, the sheriff entered the room again and started throwing around questions. These questions were met with even stranger answers.

“Fine, he was dead but now he is undead. He is walking around out there somewhere right now looking for someone to feed from to regain his strength and if I don’t find him and figure out what the hell kind of undead he is you are going to have a lot more bodies on your hands,”

This all warranted a rather shocked look from Cyrus, as he stared at her, not sure what to say. He had never heard of such a thing. It was like something from the book of revelations or from some old dark fairy tales or even some stories that the native Americans told. He never gave them any grain of truth, but now he was being faced with the idea that a man he had shot dead was up and walking again. There had to be a more logical explanation for all of this.

Cyrus was faced with the question once again, and he opened his mouth to answer. Before he could form words, a woman, whose presence he had not known of until now, spoke in a tone that could only give him a terrible attitude.

“I think it would be wise if you answered her.”

"HOW 'BOUT YOU FUCK OFF, YES?" Cyrus shouted without hesitation, as he had lost control of his anger and his words for a moment. He stared at her, a scowl on his face at being interrupted so rudely and even talked down to so rudely. He hadn't lost everything in his life to be faced with such blatant disrespect and anal behavior.

He breathed in and out slow, looking down at the ground, and closing his eyes. He looked back up again, the frustration still present in his voice and his eyes, as he answered this Sioux woman's questions.

"I am Cyrus Pendleton. I killed a man who went by the name of 'Westbrook'." He paused, thinking over how long ago he killed the man, "I would say I killed him less than an hour ago."

"I shot him with a colt single action," He pulled it from its holster, showing both sides of it while holding it in the air, finger off the trigger. "I put three bullets in him," He rotated the cylinder, really only doing this for affect. "The bullets are just lead. The gun is just made of iron." He tapped the edge of it. "That's all. Anything important about that? It has killed a lot of men. They all die the same way." He shrugged, leaving it at that, as his anger seemed to have subsided.