Trail to Hell: Perdition (Western Action/Drama; IC)

[Cylarn]

TRAIL TO HELL
P E R D I T I O N

---

6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley
Conditions: Heavy Winds and Rain;
Severe Thunderstorms and Lightning; High Probability of Tornados
April 4th, 1880

Prairie storms - the bane of the rancher. Black clouds, heavy with darkness and rain and energy, poured over the White Mountains, tumbling and rumbling into Perdition Valley. What had been a blizzard for the highest reaches of the White, had now bred with the warm Arizona air to turn into a turbulent storm for the plains and playa and rock below. Sheets of rain battered the hills, flooded the Sandoval and swelled its adjoining creeks. The few trees that dotted the land were prey to sudden strikes by lightning, sounding as though they were the report of a Sharps, as the bolts shattered through the still-dry trunks. And the thunder, the slow rumbles and the vicious cracks that filled cattle and cattlemen alike with anxiety.

For all of the thunder and lightning, muddy plains and floods, what any experienced rancher hates - above all - is darkness. The heavy clouds obscured the sun, casting the fringes of MacGuire land under a sun-less sky. The rain poured endlessly, in a massive torrent that flew into the eyes, clammed the skin, and distorted the perception of the land. For a herd to be caught in such a storm, the best anyone could hope for would be a hassle.

Down on the field, amid the chatter of rain and the thunder above, cattle bleated out in fear amid the darkness. A desire to flee competed with a desire to seek safety in numbers; thus, the dumb animals were running amok in a muddy field. The Hereford/Texas Longhorn crossbreeds, called "MacGuires" by the hands, were hardy beasts, yet still frightened by the inevitable thunder storm. Out in the rain and mud and darkness, it was even worse as the creatures ran in every which way, often falling and sliding in the mud. Among the chaos, with yellow-shining lanterns rocking around, the Riders of Black Dove rode among their herd. Close to twenty in number, they whipped in and around the scattered cattle, hollering a collection of curses and commands to spur the cattle together.

That was the goal of Scott Turnbull, as he and his brown-and-white painted Thoroughbred, Dahlia, cantered about the chaotic scene. His rope - a lasso - was gripped tightly in his hands, the rope leading down to a steer which reluctantly followed its captor. Scott could barely make out the dark mass some five yards ahead of him, but the sounds of grunts and moo'ing from the cattle let him know that he was on track. Some of the cattle were already congregating in a stationary herd, save for their nervous shuffling in the mud.

"Pick it up there, girl!" Scott shouted to his horse, tapping her right side with his black riding boot. He gave a jerk to the steer, and the two animals under his charge picked up their pace as they closed in on the herd. He could feel the tension in the rope as he pulled the massive animal along, the bovine but a child being led by its guardian. Scott felt even more tension as the steer drew closer to the herd, and looked to see the animal rejoining the herd. His right hand took hold of the reigns, and the dark figure had positioned itself beside of Scott; thus, he leaned down and freed the beast.

There is one scared beast, returning to the fold, Scott thought to himself as he gathered his rope back into a coil. The Boss looked around at the scene. Riders were still chasing cattle, and the cattleman was beginning to grow more nervous. Where's Lynn and Seth? At the tail end of that thought, Scott noticed a figure some ten feet away. He could clearly see the hook, even amid the rain and darkness. With a tiny kick and a pull with his reigns, he brought Dahlia up alongside the mobile Jayhawker.

"Bauer!" Scott shouted over the environmental carnage. "I need you to take another Rider with you, scout out the Moze Trail and see if the creek's flooded it over! If so, get us another route back to the ranch!"

The Moze was the primary route back to Black Dove, about a mile or two in length for the journey. If its identically-named creek had swelled up, then there was no uncertainty that the Moze Trail would be flooded over and unusable. If that was the case, then it was on Seth Bauer and whichever Rider he chose, to find a clear path for the herd. Scott knew the guy; he wasn't the greatest wrangler, but his scouting ability was more than suitable for such a mission.

The Riders were gathering up the scattered cattle, as Scott broke ranks with Bauer. His next appointment: Lynn. The woman would admittedly be harder to find than Bauer, but she was just as important to the success of the herd returning to Black Dove without one head unaccounted for. Above the pattering of the rain, and the howl of the wind, Scott roared a command.

"McSoy! Keep this herd stuck right here! Use the Riders to help you keep 'em corralled! I'm gonna help with the stragglers!"

Scott took off ahead of the herd, and amid the storm, heard frantic whimpering and cries. He snapped his head left and right, looking for the source. Scott undid the lantern from his saddle, and Dahlia trotted slowly around as her rider scanned the area. Then, in the dim glow of the lantern, he saw it.

Four calves, not more than a month old, wallowed in agony within a playa. Unlike the rest of the prairie, with solid ground and rock and clay beneath it, playa was sand. In torrential downpours, those playas quickly transform into pits of quicksand. The calves had all followed one another in, and were now desperately kicking and moving about in a futile quest to escape the quicksand.

Scott narrowed his eyes, and tied the lantern back down to his saddle while stopping just beside the pit. If the calves were to survive and avoid being buried alive, he would need help.

"BUFF, BULL, GEORGE, GET YOUR ASSES OVER HERE PRONTO!" he roared.

---

6:30 PM
Kitchen Parlor, Black Dove Ranch
Conditions: Slightly Overcast, Light Winds, No Rain
April 4th, 1880

The Colonel took a sip of his whiskey, eyes fixed upon the great black clouds hanging in the distance. His mouth moved slightly, from side to side, as if he was swishing the amber liquid around in his mouth. The old soldier stood atop his porch, sand whisping about on the ground below him. He was nervous; someone who knew him for a while, like Murphy, could tell as such by the swishing.

His clothes betrayed little of his anxiety; a tailored French dress shirt in a tasteful white, a burgundy dress vest, pressed brown pants, a a pair of tan calfskin riding boots, complete with a pair of British Army-issued spurs. A Webley RIC sat in a black leather shoulder holster underneath the Colonel's left armpit, the stainless steel frame barely exposed, while the ivory grip of the weapon was there for all to see. A short tumbler, bearing in it some brown liquid, rested in his right hand.

The Colonel knew what was happening. His herd was caught off-guard by the storm; it had appeared suddenly as the herd was out grazing. Scott and Lynn and Bauer were on scene, but he still felt a nervous tension in his stomach. After one last swish of the whiskey, MacGuire gulped the fluid down and turned to face the glass French doors that led into the kitchen building.

"God be with 'em," he muttered under his breath as he entered the stone building.

Mealtimes at Black Dove bore a mixture of the communal and the exclusion. Meals were often shared between groups, or solitary individuals eating in their quarters, although the kitchen parlor room was often a place for hands to come by for a quick bite, or to socialize. The square room was spacious, big enough for a large pool table and five circular tables arranged around the room. A counter opening up to the kitchen bore shelves of alcohol behind it, and taps of various beer brands; the de facto bar for Black Dove. Watercolors of the Liffy, and those of great battles the place of story and memory, dotted the white stone walls of the room.

MacGuire scanned the room. A few hands, some Riders and some of them serving in other capacities, paid no need to their boss as the scant number of them sipped their beer and silently played cards. A handful of them gave respectful nods as the Colonel passed among the tables, approaching the counter. He stared at the two swinging saloon doors - the ones leading to the kitchen. He sniffed the air, hoping to catch a whiff of dinner.

"Sergeant Stafford, may I ask what you are preparing?" his Brogue was low, almost growling, but anyone could perceive that his tone was not one of agitation. "Those boys and girls out there, they need a hearty meal, yeah?"

[Agritum]

6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley
Conditions: Heavy Winds and Rain;
Severe Thunderstorms and Lightning; High Probability of Tornados
April 4th, 1880

The man called Buff had seen torrential rains before, even worse than the flash floods of plain Arizona, and the horrific destruction that a whirlwind could bring to the wooden housing of rural Georgia. But that was when the slavemaster locked the plantation slaves in the cabins, wary of possible escape attempts during the storm. Listening to the storm, to the creaking wood, to the water dripping in the faulty barracks, it was a sensation that always shook Buff, when he was inside, trapped in the triple bind of the storm, slavery and his mom's tight, protective embrace.

But down there in Arizona, he was a free man, his commitment to the wage work of Colonel Maguire borne out of his sharp, unbreakable will. Rain poured, streamed down his stetson hat and on the poncho wrapped around his body, coating his whole body in an uncomfortable aura of humidness. But Buff did not care.

Neither did Sherman, that majestic dark brown thoroughbred that raised the questions and suspicions of many indiscreet eyes around town. It stood proud under the storm, the thunder claps making his ears rise in attention. Sherman had seen storms often in his equine life, but he had also heard the booming thunder of gunfire and the salnitrous smoke of gunpowder. His mane wet and scrambled by the tempest, the animal trusted the judgement of his cavalier as he had done an hundred times.

Scott yelled something through the pandemonium of animal and natural noises that shook the valley, screams in the dark which instantly captivated the attention of the black rider. "AYE AYE!" Buff replied, almost drowned out by the noises of the drowning calves and their desperate, frantic attempts to dig a way out of the deadly mud of the former playa. Buff reached for the lazo tied around the saddle and unbound it. The rope was wet and slippery, but he wouldn't have risked jumping in the puddle and drowning with some cattle while trying to shove it out their doom.

Furthermore, there was much better muscle at hand than the mere arms of an herdsman.

Buff tossed the lazo around the neck of the calf most knee-deep in the quicksand, wordlessly thanking the white gun instructor, who had yelled slurs at him back when he missed shots at Fort Concho. With a quick, sure movement, the black man bound the rope against the neck of the drowning cow-child, tying his own end to the horn of the saddle. Buff grasped the bridles holding Sherman, and tugged the bite in that sudden, harsh motion that, accompanied with a quick swipe of his spurs on the steed's side, signalled the horse that it was time to get the hell out of a place.

Buff prayed to Jesus that the stupid cow's neck would hold.

Sherman grunted loudly and spurred into an instant gallop, his awesome leg muscles bursting into action, digging into the solid ground, making the rope tense tightly. The calf screamed behind, as the sudden motion dragged it violently out of the puddle and scraped its fat body against the dusty soil, noisily.

"Whoa, whoa!" Buff yelled. Sherman froze, stopping in its tracks. Buff could hear the calf tumbling in the darkness, and mooing in distress. The black rider patted on his horse's head in appreciation and climbed out the saddle, keeping his bridles in one hand, and the now untied lazo in the other.

"There ya are, little 'un."

Buff kneeled on the calf and undid its part of the lazo, giving it room to breathe. At the faint light of the stormlamp, the baby cow looked scratched and roughed up. It stood up after Buff rolled it standing, and took a few stumbling steps. Nothing broken. Buff thanked God for this little miracle.

"Y'all get the other calves, 'dat mud gets stickier n' stickier for these fat asses!"

[The Miaphysite Church of Coptic Archism]

6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley

This was not the first storm that Black Dove had faced, and it would not be the last. It was however the roughest and fastest escalating in the memory of Lynn McSoy, who rode through the dark cacophony navigating with equal memory and guesswork. She rode tightly to Bluster, a spotted Appaloosa who was generally known for a powerful attitude. In this weather, Bluster carefully followed Lynn's direction, clearly shaken out of his usual indignation. As she rode, Lynn swore under her breath, cursing that no one had seen the storm coming.

She halted Bluster when she heard the whimper of a very upset cow through the roaring storm, shining her lantern-light into the dark and wet and eyeing the vague shapes before her. Suddenly, her search was interrupted by the confident shout of a familiar voice, an oddly comforting one in a time of crisis. If anyone could command a situation like this, Lynn would bet on Scott Turnbull.

"McSoy! Keep this herd stuck right here! Use the Riders to help you keep 'em corralled! I'm gonna help with the stragglers!"

Lynn lowered her lantern and turned Bluster back towards the cattle that had already been gathered. "Right on it, Spurneck." Lynn made little effort to project her voice, Scott would already be gone to save the dispersed cows anyway, he knew he didn't need to wait for confirmation.

As she barreled back towards the herd, she passed a few riders who had lost their direction and seemed to be doing little but dawdling in the rain. Lynn could sympathize, the first time she experienced an Arizona storm was not easy going, but with the cattle out in danger there simply wasn't the time to check on them. As she rode past she hollered "With me, gentlemen!" A handful of riders were drawn to attention, and rode in behind her.

Approaching the herd, Lynn shone her lantern into the gathered cattle and observed as carefully as she could in the conditions. Seeing a few of the panicked beasts trudging out of the group, she immediately left her observation position to keep them contained. All the while, the great orchestra of rain and thunder was broken only by the occasional booming of an order to one of the riders.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Henry George
April 4th, 1880
6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley

CRACK

Henry George’s neck craned upwards at the brilliant flash that suddenly illuminated the valley, a bolt of lightning just visible before disappearing as quickly as it came. There was hardly time between the flash and the rolling boom that followed it, a sure sign that the lightning was crashing all around them. Every time a bolt hit the valley would be cast in an eerie bright, pale light, contrasted sharply with the few dark-as-night shadows of rocks and outcroppings. Water streamed down Henry’s Stetson, past the brim, raining down all around him, the wind taking care to ensure that enough of the torrential downpour mixed with his haggard, bearded face. He wore his water-resistant duster coat, but the thing had long ago been soaked in water and was now just weighing him down. Henry had reached the point that the water could not bother him anymore, as he was as wet as though he had just forded a river.

The black Friesian on which he rode, Victoria, seemed to have accustomed herself to the rain in the same manner. Her manes were soaked just as Henry’s duster coat, and while the horse had walked with her head stooped for the first half hour of rain, her head was now held as high as ever, shaking every few minutes to get the excess water off of her. Henry would grumble and try the same, but at this point there was no use. The rain had poured down every nook and cranny of his being, so much so that he couldn’t even use his sleeves to get water out of his eyes.

CRACK

Arizona had her days. Sometimes it was a scorching desert, the sun high above the plains burning down everything that showed just an inch of skin. The sweat off your brown would evaporate in mere seconds, leaving crusted salt along your hat and down your clothes. Water was scarce in those days, and you would pray to God that he would give you a torrent like the one they were facing. However, being caught by one of those storms, Henry just prayed to God that he would give them back the sun, if only so he could dry his clothes and finally see something in the dark valley.

In front of the herd, illuminated by another flash of lightning, Henry saw the leader of the riders, Turnbull, whipping is neck from left to right. He undid the lantern and started looking around, obscured again by the darkness. Henry could only see the lantern frantically dancing around in the rain until it stopped. Henry cocked his head. His ears were old and not as good as they had once been, but with the visual cue given by Turnbull he now heard it too. The screams of young cows, temporarily obscured by the cracks of thunder, echoed against the walls of the valley. The screams of calves were eerie things; the beasts could let out such terror as could hardly be imagined by humans, and they had a way of making you feel the same fear. Henry muttered some curses and buried his neck in his coat.

“Don’t you dare call on me, you sly bastard…” He muttered under his breath, his mouth filling with torrential rain. He and Turnbull had both been riders of the first hour during the brutal Indian campaigns in the region. Turnbull had been a strong fighter and a vicious hunter. Stringing up the bandits at what was now called Gallow’s Crossing was partially his idea. Still, peace time had softened him, and he was now more of a people’s person. Henry missed the old Turnbull, but still respected the trail boss for what they had done together.

"BUFF, BULL, GEORGE, GET YOUR ASSES OVER HERE PRONTO!"

“Christ alive…” Henry muttered, kicking Victoria in the sides a little harder than was necessary. The Friesian arrived at the lantern, and they really didn’t need to exchange too many pleasantries to know what was going on. Three… no, four calves had gotten themselves stuck in a playa, where the sands had turned to quicksand due to the downpour. Henry gritted his teeth as he looked at the helpless bovines squirming through the thick mud. Had these been his own, he would have probably left them there. They were still young, and if they rescued them now they would only make the same mistakes again. But, of course, bosses orders. Henry was a pair of big hands attached to strong musculature in service of the boss. He was not the brains of the operation. Before he could do anything, Isaiah Freeman rushed past them with a lasso, throwing it around the neck of one of the calves as his horse began pulling.

Henry had been at a loss for how exactly to deal with this problem, but when he saw Isaiah throw his lasso, he knew that was not the way to handle it. After all, if Isaiah did it, there had to be something wrong with it.

“Dumb nigger!” Henry bellowed, throwing himself off Victoria. He removed his hunting rifle by its strap, placing it against a nearby rock. Then, he took off his duster coat, which he threw over the back of his horse. Rolling up his sleeves, he walked past Isaiah and shot him a glaring look.

“You wanna break its neck, boy?” he said, walking onto the playa. The problem with calves was a lack of hands, so they could not get themselves up on their own strength. The whole length of their body now touched the quicksand, so they had been sucked against it. A two-legged creature like Henry, however, had no problem managing his footing. With his hands like coal shovels he picked one of the other calves, this one in slightly less deep. With a sudden exertion of force he began lifting the calf, which began mooing even more frantically. Eventually, though, with a loud slurping sound, he got the calf loose, as water filled the hole left behind. Henry wanted to take a step, but noticed that his boots had become stuck, and almost lost one trying to step forward. Instead, he heaved his legs onto a new spot, and took care not to sink back into the mud.

“Boy! You scared of getting wet? Get your lazy ass of that horse and do something useful for a change!”

With that, he turned around, ready to get hands-deep with another calf.

[Agritum]

Buff stood silently as he felt that word impact over him, like it had an hundred times, and then slip away, lost in the rain. He retrieved his lasso from his own freed calf, and made it pass around his waist, tying it tight to his belt.

"Call me a nigga' all ya want, George, but don't get yahself killed by mud to prove sum point. Now hold this, I'm goin' next." he declared, tossing the free end of the lasso to the grumpy rider and heading off into the quicksand.

The two remaining calves kept whimpering and sliding further and further in the murky playa. Again, Buff went for the most desperate looking animal, this time wrapping his arms around it and lifting it up, pushing its front legs out of the sand. As he did so, he felt his own body starting to sink, foot first. With one last effort, Buff managed to push the entirety of the calf out, making it walk on solid soil, at the cost of sinking further.

The black man grabbed the rope he had set up before, and looked at his companion, almost as if the violent verbal exchange had not happened.

"Pull me out pardner, we gotta get dat last 'un!"

[Recon]

Thomas Powers
6:30 PM
April 4th, 1880
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley

The darkness was coming in quick, even with the lantern in his hand, he could barely make out more than a few feet in front. Nor could he hear all too much with the thunder and the howling wind. The rain also did its best to make it all the more unpleasant, as soaked to the bone, he kept his horse moving slowly behind the herd, only breaking into a trot when the cattle slowed in the confusion and the mud. He had been out at Black Dove for years, so he had seen this all before, yet still the lightning unsettled him. He'd caught sight of a few strikes, out of the corner of his eye, as they illuminated the valley before abruptly disappearing. He used the brief flashes of light to see where the nearest riders were, making sure he was not giving up enough space for an errant cattle to slip past in the darkness. Still it was bad weather to be caught out in, the cattle were spooked and soon some of the horses would follow.

Thomas wiped the rain from his eyes, it didn't help much, the water would be dribbling back down his hat in a moment, but it did give him some momentary relief. It was looking like a grueling ride as they nursed the herd back to the ranch. He kept in his place, only moving out to corral the few animals which tried to make a break for it. Each time he turned his horse and crossed the cattle's shoulder sending it off running, with a few encouraging shouts, back to the herd. Unsure exactly what was the hold up, he stuck to his task, hoping they would be soon be out of all this and back safe at the Ranch.

After petting his horse and offering a few comforting words for doing so well under the circumstances, Thomas began to sing one of his favourites, which would be largely lost amongst the thunder and the wind, as he waited for the herd to get moving again,

"As I was goin` over the far famed Kerry mountains, I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was countin....."

[Cylarn]

Scott dismounted from his horse as Buff made his entrance onto the scene, swinging his left leg around and sliding off the right side of his saddle. He tied the end of the rope around the horn of his saddle, his gaze moving upwards from his gear just in time to see the stocky figure of Buff - almost invisible in the storm - whipping his lasso around one of the calves. His right hand rested on Dahlia's neck, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

"Stay right here, girl, be good," Scott whispered softly.

Breaking away from his stationary steed, Scott started trailing his rope over to the playa, cries of the calves were getting even louder. Looking down at the calves, he caught sight of the rope around the neck of one of the calves, the animal being pulled forcefully from the quicksand by Buff. Scott grimaced; dragging an animal by the neck was more often than not, a no-go. I damn taught that boy better! Before he could raise his objection, the coarse English dialect of George cut through the cacophony, bleating out a mixture of bigot-speak and basic instruction. Scott frowned even more.

He might've seen what I saw, but calling Buff a nigger helps nothing.

Buff yelled back, George waded into the playa and the quicksand to hoist his calf right out. He told the black man to get off his horse, but in far-less nicer terms than Scott would have used. Buff then proceeded to climb into the playa as well, and push yet another calf out of the bottomless, muddy abyss. Scott tied the end of his rope into a loop, one big enough to accommodate a calf. I taught them this bullshit... His eyes focused in on the Englishman as he attempted to lift another calf out - all the while slowly sinking steadily further into the playa with each movement.

"Shit-can that nigger talk and put this around the damn calf!" he hollered at the "old" man. "Neither of you are using your damn heads! Might save a buck lettin' the two of you drown!"

Despite his words, Scott leaned down to pull Buff from the playa, having heard his plea. His right arm grabbed Buff's left, and his own left hand took a firm grasp to the back of Buff's jacket. Simultaneously pulled Buff up and stepping back, he steadily hefted the black man from the depths of the quicksand.

"Don't lose them fuckin' boots, Buff!" he yelled as he laid Buff down on the firm, yet still muddy, ground. "Get back on that horse and help Miss McSoy!"

On the McSoy front, things could have been going better. The Riders ambling about were suddenly called into action as the strong-willed woman rode past, yet many of the cattle were still scattered about. Some were veering even further away from the badly-disorganized herd, which itself was still on the verge of disintegrating. The Riders followed McSoy, but unless she were to direct her "troops," her own efforts to contain the herd would be for naught.

Scott turned back to the last cattle, and George. He took a single step on the edge of the playa, feeling his left foot beginning to sink down. His left hand was outstretched.

"Grab my hand and get the fuck outta that hole!"

[Reverend Norv]

6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley
April 4th, 1880

Focus.

Seth's horse whickered unhappily as it picked its way through the mud at an uneven canter. Thaddeus was a Morgan, bred and born in the southern Illinois hills, and did not much care for the terrible thunderstorms of the Plains. Neither did Seth. A waterfall cascaded from the brim of Seth's slouch hat and poured down in front of his nose onto his saddle pommel. The wind beat at the Jayhawker's heavy leather coat until its skirt flapped around his legs, and every crash of lightning brought his head snapping around like a startled deer: searching for the muzzle flash that instinct swore to Seth was out there, somewhere in the dark.

There had been storms like this, back in Kansas. Storms like the world's ending. Seth had grown up fearing them, and then had learned what things the world really held of which to be afraid.

Focus. Seth was riding herd on the main body of cattle. They had slowed to a crawl, but at least that made it easier to keep them together. With only one working hand, Seth was not best-equipped to use a lasso. He thought of Ahyoka and Marie, back at the Colonel's ranch house: the home that Seth was building for his family was only half-complete, and not sturdy enough to stand up to this kind of weather, not yet.

As the clouds moved in over the valley earlier that day, Ahyoka had kissed him. Seth told her he'd be back. "Just a bad night, that's all."

Ahyoka had nodded, and replied: "As call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, more rare."

As call it winter. Seth smiled to himself, unseen in the dark.

A lumbering shadow moved in front of him.

Focus.

A steer had been spooked by the panicked bellowing of the herd around it, and was laboriously trudging off in search of better ground. Seth took a shallow breath. Do the right things in the right order. That's all there is to it.

His right hand lifted his reins, and wrapped them tightly around the hook that emerged from his left sleeve. Then he unhooked his lasso and wrapped the rope even more tightly around his saddle-pommel, leaving about twenty feet of slack. Seth's right hand slid down the rope to just below the knot, and he spun his wrist to put some tension into the lasso, and used his knees and the reins wrapped around his hook to guide Thaddeus up alongside the rogue steer.

Focus.

Seth's wrist snapped out in a single smooth motion, and the lasso's loop dropped around the steer's horns. Seth re-grabbed the rope in midair with his right hand, squinting to see it through the rain, and used his knees to guide Thaddeus back toward the herd. The line went taut, and Seth felt the tension in his forearm and the hard pull on his saddle-pommel, and the steer's head slowly turned under the pressure of Thaddeus' motion. For a moment, through the gloom and the downpour, Seth saw resignation in the creature's large dark eyes: as if it knew what awaited it after the storm, later that year at the end of the long drive to the Kansas railheads. It lumbered back toward the herd.

Seth let Thaddeus meander closer to the steer, to put more slack into the lasso. He shook the line until the knot came loose, and looped the rope back up beside his saddle. He thought of the look in the steer's eyes, and believed for a moment that he had recognized it, but couldn't remember where he had seen it before. He knew, somewhere in the cold hard place behind his sternum, that he didn't want to remember.

"Bauer!"

Focus.

Seth recognized Scott Turnbull's voice, bellowing over the roar of the storm, and turned to see the range boss ride up beside him. "I need you to take another Rider with you, scout out the Moze Trail and see if the creek's flooded it over! If so, get us another route back to the ranch!"

Seth nodded once, the motion crisp and exaggerated to be visible in the gloom. "Understood," he barked back. It was a good plan: if the creek had flooded, the whole herd would have to take a more roundabout route back to the ranch, preferably over higher ground. We'll be out here all night, but it's better than drowning.

The former Jayhawker pulled hard on the reins with his hook, and brought Thaddeus' head around. He squinted through the downpour to get his bearings, and spotted a tall, slender figure in a mud-drenched suit. "Gretchen!" Seth shouted - and he heard the whip-crack in his voice, the note that he had used to get a man to stand up and fight when all he could smell was blood and bile and all he wanted was to curl up and hide. "With me! We need to make sure the trail is open!" Seth put his spurs gently into Thaddeus' sides, and the Morgan broke into a cautious trot, hooves sliding in the mire. "Head for the creek!"

[Hastur]

Cassidy Crawford
6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley
Conditions: Heavy Winds and Rain;
Severe Thunderstorms and Lightning; High Probability of Tornados
April 4th, 1880

---

Cassie Hated storms.

She hated how painful it made the work, and detested being caught out in the open. Exposed to the intense rainfall and wild gales that relentlessly lashed against her. Cold, and soaked. Her stetson, scarf and canvas rain slicker did almost naught to shield her from the elements anymore as she uncomfortably guided her stressed brown American quarter mare around in the gloomy dark. Shivering slightly as her oil lantern clutched in her right hand scarcely illuminated the now sodden trail forwards, as she undertook her assignment to the best of her abilities.

Seeking to round up the scattered cattle that had bolted from the herd.

The large bovines did what their instincts told them to do. Scattering in groups as they no longer felt protected in the unpleasant conditions that had came seemingly from nowhere. Unable to see properly in the dark, the creatures where becoming increasingly agitated by the swift bright splashes of lighting that precipitated the violent slap of thunder. Cassie held her lasso in hand and began making moves to get them regrouped. Crossing in a zig-zaging motion behind the few stragglers that had slipped behind or had galloped off in another direction. Guiding those cattle eager to reunite with the herd and lassoing those who required a little further incentive to move. Moving in a precise and deliberate manner on the route as she went on. Not feeling too bold in the blackness and now muddy trail to move any faster, fearing for the safety of herself and the stallion.

Not that she hadn’t grown used to it. She had been in her fair share of harsh weather back east, and she knew the dangers that came with riding and dealing with cattle in it well enough. Especially in the dark where she could barely make out the glow of other riders lanterns. Move too fast, and she could easily hurt herself, the horse or some other poor rider trying to make a livelihood. An injury to either one or all three meant cash out of her pocket. At the other end of the spectrum, Move too slowly however and the cattle risked getting away, and she risked getting sick. It was a medium that had to be managed. Keeping her horse going at a brisk pace. One she struggled not to overstep with her stressed horse, Butch, who grumbled, panted whined as he himself struggled in rain.

“Easy! Easy!” Cassidy shouted over the wind as she led her mare to a halt, scanning over what little she could see of the herd as she brought in a second astray cattle. Over the wailing wind, interment crashes of thunder and bovine calls, she could hear orders being yelled out, but couldn’t make them out. No doubt by the trail boss Turnbull, who was trying his best to preserve order as chaos took over. Many of the riders seemed out of their element, and she couldn‘t help but feel a little like she was too as she watched the animals carefully.

the disintegrating herd was tense. caught between their instinct to stand together and retreat from danger. It didn’t take a prodigy to express that. Bellowing, Eyes large, ears up, and tails tucked securely between their legs. The body language communicated that of fear as they remained in a state of almost hypervigilance. thrusting their heads around to further eye up everything that flowed in with due suspicion. Including Cassie. She would have liked to think she'd built up some trust with the animals, but she couldn't be sure, so she held her distance as she sought to keep it together. Making sure she was definitely visible to the cattle. Being cautious not to produce circling or direct movements that could be interpreted as predatory as anything could set them off. They’d run, at best. At worst, they’d feel cornered, and charge.

The warmth of another rider lantern quickly became clearer as she made out a figure approaching with a group. McSoy. One of the higher-ranked people on the estate. She had talked to her a few times and worked alongside her. Having large amount of respect towards her. Although she appreciated most, even Henry, despite the number of defamatory remarks he had made towards her in near two years working for the ranch. As she watched, it was looking like McSoy was attempting to corral the group before they all fled, although the results varied. Regardless of what happened, if they lost any cattle, that would result in less pay.

Patting her foot against the side of the stallion, she stirred the animal into action. Steering delicately around the stagnant cattle in a rough triangle like fashion as she made her approach to the other stockman, stopping a few meters away from her. “McSoy! I’ll try to turn ‘em around! Could use a hand!” She bellowed, assuming she‘d heard her statement above powerful bursts of wind and bovine calls. She and the mare went quickly, seeking to stop the few that where fleeing from causing the entire herd to follow with them. Riding up alongside the beasts, she deliberately maneuvered into the creatures personal space.

Cassidy maintained a distance however, being certain not to pressure them too hard given how stressed they already where, less they suffer an adverse reaction. She rode a few feet from the left side of the creature's neck, maintaining pace with the bovine to swing it right until it faced back towards the herd. Exercising pressure to cause it do what she needed it to do and removing it when a reaction appeared.

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Nate Winfield
6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley
April 4th, 1880

Goosebumps boiled up his arms. Water drowned his metal, teeming from the cowhide in cataracts. His coat was all but soaked, even the tightest woven material subject to slips through the seams. The horse was a sputtering saddlebred, colored a swash of ochre and bister. He was trimmed with an onyx mane turned syrupy by the storm, one that Nathaniel Winfield’s gloves ran over. “You’re good, you’re good…” He cooed on deaf ears, hands the better of the soother. Earlier, the wind and rain had chilled his chin and as such he had draped his bandana as a blanket. Now, his eyes only gleamed with azure intensity, bouncing off lightning and moon alike.

Plodding along, following the lead as a dame took after candles, his horse hacked and wheezed in the storm. “No, no, shhh... it’s okay, girl.” An unheard reassurance once more, the horse’s ears flapping closed at every pitter-patter of rainfall. Turnbull was yelling something or other, commanding the flurried crowd to arms, along with their always valiant leaders. He growled something to them, before eventually Nate watched as Bauer and Lynn took off on fantastical endeavors, one calling the German girl and the other directing her clan. “Direct” was perhaps a strong word; vague command was more accurate. He suppose some thin layer of respect was had for her; he didn’t like the way she looked down on them, like they were a bunch of stupid, doleful men she had to care for. Like he was a damned fool. He liked Bauer a lot; the man was smart and tenacious and didn’t have that same haughty disposition of efficacy.

He liked Lynn a lot too, of course. If it wasn’t for the way she stared at them, then maybe… maybe he was whitewashing himself for nothing but a reason to find fault in another. Himself, he knew, was entrapped, near enroped by the passing glances of others in their judgemental stares. Worthless boy, ya spilled the damn bucket again! Maybe if you got your damn head out of the clouds you’d do some goddamn work for once!

“I’m with you, McSoy!” His voice was gruff as he screamed, running a hand up to nab his hat and pull it back to his short hair. The venerable vet, Henry George was running his mouth off on poor young Buff, followed by Turnbull returning the favor to both of them. “Dammit…” His heart fluttered as his horse shook and gave a strident whinny, hoof planting itself on a pebble amongst the mud. “Girl, girl, no it’s alright.” It spit something dark out in response to his pats, but was swayed to head with the bandana-wearing gal Cassie, following her to get the cattle to turn around. “I’m here!” The bellow came from his gut, throat raspy and ragged from screaming so much. He thought he had heard the other Irish fellow of the ranch, Thomas, singing something to himself, but the notes were lost amongst the wind.

He fell in parallel with Cassie, moving the herd along as best as the two could. “Mighty weather we’re havin’, huh?” He called out, gruff but jovial despite the circumstances.

---

Murphy Stafford
6:30 PM
Kitchen, Black Dove Ranch
April 4th, 1880

"Sergeant Stafford, may I ask what you are preparing?"

Murphy awoke. “H-huh?!” Startled by the sudden intrusion of his privacy, the old man faltered inside of the kitchen and the smell of pork swathed his nostrils with glee. His ears however, were met with adversity. “One moment, Colonel, I’ve, I’ve got somethin’ under control!” He got up from the chair he had nodded away on, one of his common narcoleptic fits meeting him in the middle today. As luck would have that, that middleman had allowed his revival on this lucky day, rather than an outsider, a part of the physical world, to kick his bad knees to the point of rouse.

He hobbled towards the door, watching the pot atop the wood stove and the other set aside in the Dutch oven. Grabbing the tops of the double doors, he leaned his head out and grinned toothily in the light of the parlor. “MacGuire, I’m sorry about that, you know my knees are real bad an’ all and I’ve got this thing killing me from the inside, I gotta rest every so often, but I got some good eatins’ readyin’ up.” He waved a hand in the direction of the stove and Dutch oven, presenting a fine repertoire of meals. “That pig ya’ll slaughtered the other day, well, what didn’t go to the market I put in that pot over there.” He aimed at the Dutch oven with excitement. “Now, that rabbit meat ya’ll picked up from the butcher the other day, I got that turning into a stew over the stove. Put some salt and vegetables in both of’em, gonna turn out real nicely and we got plenty for everyone. Maybe thirty minutes or an hour for both, I’ll be checking’em.”

As he turned back around from his nervous fit, his eyes met the Colonel’s and he stopped. “Colonel… Colonel, you feeling alright?” Something was wrong; the visible signs of anxiety bore on MacGuire’s expression and movements, something Murphy did not like.

---

Alice Winfield
6:30 PM
Kitchen Parlor, Black Dove Ranch
April 4th, 1880

She had never been good at cards.

Despite the attempts of her brother to teach her, poker, solitaire, and blackjack proved fell. Alice could be bothered to learn, but something amongst the games and joys had left her dumbfounded. She thought they were fun, sure, and she understood the basic rules, but once you started going more in-depth… it all became nonsense to her. She looked at her poker hand. The black queen of spades and her fellow black king of spades stared at her, and the girl smiled lightly. Never had a poker face graced her.

Her leg shook under the table, foot tapping rapidly in the anxious wait for another player to give their call on the pot. She was enjoying herself, whether she like to admit it or not. “You know what he’s got cookin’ up?” She asked anybody at the table, the smell of food wafting into the parlor.

[Rupudska]

6:30 PM
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley
April 4th, 1880

The former Jayhawker pulled hard on the reins with his hook, and brought Thaddeus' head around. He squinted through the downpour to get his bearings, and spotted a tall, slender figure in a mud-drenched suit. "Gretchen!" Seth shouted - and he heard the whip-crack in his voice, the note that he had used to get a man to stand up and fight when all he could smell was blood and bile and all he wanted was to curl up and hide. "With me! We need to make sure the trail is open!" Seth put his spurs gently into Thaddeus' sides, and the Morgan broke into a cautious trot, hooves sliding in the mire. "Head for the creek!"

Gretchen did not like storms. That was a well-known fact of life to all who worked with the Colonel, and many in Perdition Valley as well. As long as there was something to break the wind and rain, she was fine - storms of this caliber were frequent back in Kamerun, but there were always trees and hills for the storm to break itself against. In the forests of the East Coast and the Appalachians, which she had suggested going to to her father, storms would have been no more intense than they were in Prussia, maybe even weaker.

But no, her father wanted wide open spaces even if he could not enjoy them himself, and that lead her to Arizona and being drenched to the very bone, her suit quite unprotected from the rain even with a heavy black greatcoat atop it and the bowler on her head, which Gretchen had taken to poking holes in the brim to keep rain from filling it. Every time the wind picked up, she looked like a huge bat perched on Penthesilea, who was no more pleased to be here than her rider was.

When she heard Seth, both horse and rider turned - Gretchen with her usual neutral expression, Penthesilea with as venomous a glare as a horse could manage - as if she blamed Seth and Thaddeus for the storm. Penthesilea did not like Seth. Then again, the Andalusian didn't like most people.

"Jawohl!" called out her rider in a near-shout over the rain. A bit of spurs to lead her along, and she pulled a little ahead of Seth towards the creek.

[Tayner]

'Ranger' Paul Kelly
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Vallry
April 4th, 1880

"Woah" Paul said, trying to calm his mount as the boom of thunder resounded throughout the valley. His horse managed to stay upright as it slipped and slid through the mud, and he managed to reign it in. As the situation worsened, riders were sent out to handle various tasks of importance. Seth and Gretchen departed the herd to scout, and a few riders were called to help rescue some calves in distress. Paul looked around, they were getting stretched thin. The herd was starting to get loose.

"Go on, git!" He said as he spurred his horse, riding to wrangle in a few bovines that broke loose. He would repeat this process nearly half a dozen times, trying to keep the herd contained. He had corralled a few cows back to the bunch when thunder sounded yet again, spooking a near cow, as well as his horse. The bovine collided with his mount, causing it to buck hard as it got scared. "Fuck!" Kelly yelled as he plummeted into the mud and grime below.

He breathed sharply before righting himself back up and snatching ahold of his saddle before the horse could run off. Coughing as he pulled himself up, he reigned in the mount and let out a flurry of curses as he got back to corralling his end of the herd, reigning in the stragglers. "God damnit, is it too much to ask for a break in the storm?" He nearly shouted, looking around. The dim glows of lanterns through the haze of the storm showed him the perimeter of the corral, they were finally tightening it in. At least something good was going about.

[Beiarusia]

Liao Yan
Kitchen Parlor, Black Dove Ranch
April 4th, 1880 ~ Evening


"You know what he's got cooking up?"

The chinaman, sitting across the table from Missus Winfield, peered over the top of her playing cards and offered a small shrug that was easily missed by the others gathered around for a game of poker. Her eyes, dark, like reflecting pools, lingered for perhaps a moment too long before darting back to the safety of her hand. An assortment of low-numbers. She folded without much fanfare knowing well-enough that she'd lost this round.

"He is good cook. Anything he makes is fine," says Yan, leaning forward with her elbow on the table and her head resting in her palm to watch the others. Relaxed and forthcoming.

There weren't many Chinese here at the Black Dove Ranch. None that Yan had seen. If so, she'd not spoken nor seen them. That, potentially, was a problem as Yan was hiding from whoever might be coming after her considering she'd stabbed a man upon leaving her employment at the railroad, a man who likely had connections, and who definitely would hold a grudge. If Yan was sensible she would keep on the move, but she was anything but, and quite liked the ranch, it being more akin to her visions of the wild west of America than the work camp had ever been. Finding employment had been as straightforward as walking in and asking real nice, more-so seeing as she was trained to an extent in doctoring, and being that her character was that of a man -- despite what she'd been born -- the hardened cowpoke had seen fit to tolerate her presence despite it being something decisively foreign. Put simply, Yan wasn't too keen to be on the move just yet, and would probably stay for awhile situation demanding.

As a bonus: the women here were mighty cute.

The game hasn't progressed much. The jackpot wasn't much but it was enticing enough to cause some hesitations. Even Missus Winfield looked to be playing for keeps. Yan was quickly losing interest in the game so chanced a peek towards the door, past the colonel, towards a quickly darkening sky. No rain. Not yet.

"Arizona is...," she struggles for a moment to find the correct word in English but is unsuccessful so modifies her wording. "Does it rain often here? Supposed to be hot and dry."

[Cylarn]

-snip-

-snip-

The two Riders quickly departed from the rest of the party proper, advancing off into the dark abyss of the tempest, disappearing from sight save for the rapidly dimming view of their lanterns from afar. The beasts - Thaddeus and Penthesilea - galloped at a hindered pace amid the fields of sticky mud that plagued the range during such storms. Yet they pushed forward, at the insistence of Gretchen and Seth as they held their lanterns high, desperately longing for sight of the ground before them. The last thing that either of the four needed was for Thaddeus or Penthesilea to break a leg in a bottomless pit of sandy mud. Despite the threat, they continued forward, for the salvation of the herd.

As they endured the sojourn, a sound would catch their attention. Amid the roaring of rain and thunder, Gretchen would be the first of the pair to hear the rushing waters of the creek. The horses neighed and whinnied as their capable senses alerted them of the danger nearby. On closer inspection with the light of a lantern, they would find that the creek was overflowing in light of the tempest. In calmer days and nights, the creek was mere inches deep, safe enough for anyone or any creature to cross at their leisure. Now, almost a river, the flooded creek had effectively cut off the Moze Trail; indeed, the quickest route for the MacGuire Riders to escort the herd back to the ranch.

An evolution of the situation occurred, as Gretchen and Seth inspected the creek. On the other side, a set of seven lanterns drew ever so closer in the distance, although at a pace considered slow and laborious. Despite the sheets of rain falling from the sky, both riders could see the glowing orbs. However, it was Thaddeus who drew attention to something else. He picked up his hooves and listed from left to right, although not enough to disturb Seth to any great degree, aside from taking his attention. The Morgan huffed and chuffed, his focus on something in the darkness.

"The creek! It's flooded!" the panicked voice of a man, speaking in the Cherokee tongue, shouted out well within earshot of Seth and Gretchen. A wail came immediatey after, as if by a second person, probably a woman.

"No, no, no! They're on our trail! We have to find another way! a woman responded, in an equal state of fear and desperation. "No! More horsemen!"

Suddenly, the baying of a pair of hounds could be heard by all. Loud and low, almost a wallowing sound that broke apart the orchestra coming from the sky. For Gretchen and Seth, their reconnaissance mission had just turned into an involuntary contact. The two mysterious people before them, obscured by the rain and darkness and cut off by the flooded creek, were likely Cherokee. Someone else - someone hunting them - was likely not far behind. The orbs drew in, and the hounds were coming within greater earshot. The pairs could now heard shouting, and there was another noise.

A loud splash, and the horrid screams of a man as if something had caught him.

---

Back at the herd...

The calves, now freed, joined the rest of the herd. Thanks to the efforts of Kelly, Winfield, and Crawford, under McSoy's direction, the herd began to regain some semblance of order. Scott, wiping mud from his buckskin coat and leather chaps, took a knee next to Buff and George and Bull, the quartet of horsemen regaining their composure in a slight respite. Rain fell on his Stetson, eyes focused on the whirl of lanterns that dimly lit up the herd. Scott grinned at the sight. Alright, looks like we at least have some order, but we can't stay here. He stood to his feet, and gazed at the Riders before him.

"Mount up, boys! Time to move!" He shouted, making his way over to Dahlia and quickly climbing atop the steed. A tap of his toe and an encouraging word brought the pair into motion. Scott directed Dahlia to pace in a circle around the herd, and around the Riders. He untethered his lantern and held it high before him, taking into stock everything from the proximity of Rider and Bovine, to the general mood of the herd. Not great, but there's not much else we can do but move to the creek and find Bauer. In his carousel about, Scott discovered McSoy, and rode up to her right side, a mere foot between them.

"McSoy, I want you drivin' them back towards the creek! We can link up with Bauer if the creek's flooded, and get us quicker out of this shit! Wait for my report; I'll get the boys ready!"

Scott did another carousel lap around the field, this time shouting at the top of his lungs to gather the attention of the Riders.

"WE'RE MOVIN'! MCSOY IS DRIVING FROM THE REAR, AND I AM AT POINT! THE REST OF YOU, GET SKIRTIN' 'EM AT THE SIDES, KEEP 'EM IN FORMATION ALL THE WAY TO THE CREEK!"

With a brief pause as he moved to the front of the herd, Scott roared once more.

"BUFF, I WANT YOU AND CRAWFORD RANGIN' OUT AHEAD, IN EARSHOT, BUT WE GOTTA LINK UP WITH BAUER! KELLY, WINFIELD, ROVE AROUND THE FLANKS AND GET OUR STRAGGLERS IN LINE IN CASE ANY BOVINE BREAKS OFF! POWERS, I WANT YOU UP FRONT WITH ME!"

With a harder kick from Scott, Dahlia took off towards the rear of the herd and Scott directed her to face the herd. He drew out his revolver and held it high in the air, angled out away from the herd - and his Riders. He watched the multitude of lanterns around him moving into position, and pulled back the hammer of his revolver with his thumb.

"Here we go!"

CRACK

Through the tempest, the crack of a .45 Long Colt reverberated through the range. The cattle called out in desperation, but started forward at a quick, yet labored pace, the Riders skirting their sides to keep the herd together. Holstering his weapon, Scott took off to the front, bringing Dahlia to a slower speed before the herd in order to control their pace, his lantern held forward for the beasts to see.

The herd was now moving towards the creek.

---

-snip-

The Colonel grinned in amusement, as he heard startled reassurances from his cook, who soon made his appearance. While Murphy talked of slaughtered pigs and rabbits, the Colonel was reaching under the counter, drawing out an unlabeled brown bottle. He pulled the cork from the bottle, pouring a light, amber substance into his glass. He held the glass to his nose, bringing in the whiff of whiskey into his being.

Colonel, are you alright?

He looked up from the drink, to Murphy. His neutral expression transformed into a reassuring smile, and the aging rancher took in a long gulp of his whiskey.

"Just waiting on both of my herds to return," he said, setting his glass down. "Sprouts and corn for the vegetables, Murphy, and I would toss in some tortillas. I've been craving tortillas, as of late."

Something caught the Colonel's eye, something that was through Murphy. He smirked ever so slightly.

"Give me your nuts, Sergeant."

It was very possible that the Colonel was referring to the bowl of assorted nuts that sat on the counter behind the cook.

[Reverend Norv]

It was dark.

Still, Seth was glad to be rid of the herd; several hundred tons of panicked beef could turn deadly very quickly, and Seth could think of nothing more awful than to die pointlessly so soon after he had finally found something worth living for. Besides: he knew that he didn't belong back there, riding herd. Not really. My place is here, in the dark: seeing but unseen. Seth's right hand was steady on Thaddeus' reins, guiding the Morgan deftly around fallen trees and sinkholes half-glimpsed in the gloom. The night was always a friend to us, back in Missouri. An obstacle for the generals, but she has a soft spot for murder.

Yes, it was dark, and Seth Bauer didn't mind that one bit.

The rain poured off the brim of his hat, down in a waterfall in front of his face, and he kept his hook raised high so that the lantern hanging from it could cast its dim glow over the sodden grass ahead. There was a trick to riding at night, Seth had learned. It was about keeping your eyes half-focused, almost glazed: if you didn't try to see anything too clearly, it was possible to see everything at least a little, and that was much more important. And you had to listen, and you had to trust your horse. As the ground began to slope gently downhill, and thickets of brush and aspen signaled the presence of water nearby, Seth let Thaddeus pick his own way through the treacherous underbrush. And now, in the distance, he could hear unseen waters roar and hiss like wild animals.

Too much water.

"That trail is gone," Seth muttered: too quietly to be heard over the pouring rain. "We'll have to take the long way around." He hoisted his lantern a little higher, and squinted through the night, trying to find where Gretchen had halted amid the gloom.

Thaddeus stamped, and whickered softly. One of the Morgan's brown eyes rolled back as he shook his head, and the horse's gaze sought Seth's face.

The trick to riding in the dark: trust your horse.

Seth froze, and lowered his lantern so that his leg blocked its light, and let his eyes slip into half-focus. Rain lashed his arms and chest, but he didn't move. And then, blurry in the distance, Seth saw glimmering points of yellow light bobbing through the dark. On our side of the creek, Seth realized. On the colonel's land. He kept his eyes glazed, and counted. Seven of them.

Then he heard it: a man's voice, shouting in the Cherokee that Ahyoka had painstakingly taught Seth. He was screaming in the night that the creek was flooded. And as soon as the man's voice fell silent, Seth heard a woman wail. He knew that sound: he had heard it on the lips of a hundred mothers as they watched their farms burn and their children dragged off to the stockade. It was despair given voice: no more, no less. It was the sound that preceded death.

"No, no, no!" the woman howled. "They're on our trail! We have to find another way!" Seth told himself that it was just because she was speaking Cherokee, but the thought lingered: the woman sounded like Ahyoka. "No! More horsemen!"

Seth let out a breath he hadn't realized that he had been holding. He turned his head, and suddenly saw Gretchen just twenty yards away. How did I miss her there before? Seth wondered, and the thought was cold and distant and unimportant. He heard hounds baying, deep-voiced and angry, and coming closer. He thought of how it had felt, the first time that he'd stood in front of the Davis schoolhouse with his rifle, and known that he was doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.

There's no glory in it, he'd told Buff once. No honor and no rules. Just the blood, and if you don't learn to enjoy it, you'll never be good enough at it. And you'll die.

Seth was good enough at it.

He rested his lantern on his saddle pommel, and used his hook to raise the shroud so that the rain doused the flame with a soft hiss. He guided Thaddeus with his knees until he was close enough to lean into Gretchen's ear, close enough to speak in a normal voice and remain audible over the roar of the flooded creak and the thunder and the rain.

"Go back to the herd. Tell Turnbull that the creek is washed out. Tell him someone's hunting Cherokee on our land, and I could use some help to stop it. And then get back and lend me a hand, too." Seth's eyes were barely visible behind the sheet of rain cascading off his hat-brim. "Go."

From the direction of the creek, Seth heard a splash: too loud for a footfall. Someone fell into the water. And then, half-muffled by the rain, a man's shrill scream of pain and terror and despair.

The old anger bloomed behind Seth's eyes, hot and migraine-nauseous. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups, and slid down into the mud, and pulled gently but steadily on Thaddeus' bridle. "Come on. Come on, boy." Gradually, whickering softly in protest, the Morgan dropped to its knees and then lay down in the muck. "Good boy."

Seth grabbed his Sharps and drew it out of the boot alongside his saddle. With quick, practiced motions, he flipped the long rifle upside down and held it tightly in the crook of his left arm, with the stock pulled into his armpit. With his right hand, Seth opened the breech and pulled a cartridge from his bandolier, a .50-90 shell the size of his thumb. When the rifle was loaded, Seth flipped it upright again and used his good hand to screw his Vernier sight onto the tang of the Sharps' stock. Then, finally, he rested the Sharps' heavy octagonal barrel across the seat of Thaddeus' saddle, and gently looped his hook over the weapon to steady it, and drew the stock into his shoulder with his right hand as he bellied down into the mud.

Rain poured off Seth's leather coat. He felt his legs and hips sink into the mire, and thought only that it would stabilize his firing position. He squinted at the bobbing yellow lights of the riders' lanterns, and guessed the distance through the dark and the rain, and adjusted his Vernier sight with his right hand, and then cocked the hair-trigger.

Turnbull would have shouted for the men to identify themselves. At the very least, he would have fired a warning shot. Seth knew that. But Turnbull was half a mile away, and Seth had heard enough.

He lined up his sights over the yellow orb of the closest lantern, and then aimed about two feet below it: the right height to hit the lantern's unseen bearer in the chest or gut, or to strike his horse's head or neck. The .50-90 was a buffalo round; any wound it made was lethal. Seth let half his breath out, and held the rest, and waited for the trigger to break - and when the Sharps' flat supersonic boom rolled out through the night rain, it surprised even him.

A horse screamed somewhere in the dark, and the golden light of the lantern dropped through the blackness and was gone. Thaddeus, the equine veteran of a dozen gunfights, barely twitched where he lay in the mud.

Seth Bauer flipped his rifle upside down, and pressed it in place against the saddle with his hook, and used his right hand to reload. The night was young, and there was killing to be done.

[Recon]

Thomas Powers
April 4th, 1880
Sandoval Plains, Perdition Valley

“…Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da”

He stopped, listening keenly, thinking he could hear something. His own little world was pierced, as a familiar voice carried over the thunder and wind. It was clearly the boss; Thomas knew Turnball’s voice as well as his own. It certainly was welcome, for the first time it seemed like there was some sort of explanation for the hold up. Someone had to stay and keep the herd in line, yet Thomas had little patience for being kept in the dark. Still any plan was better than drowning out here, he made his way out from the rear, where he had been doing just as he had been told, out to the sides, to keep the herd in line as it struggled on its way back to the ranch.

Dearly wishing for it all to come to a sudden end, he kept a tight hold of the reigns as the crack of a colt echoed across the plains. He tried to get a good picture of what was happening, as he watched the lanterns beginning to move in the darkness in front of him. The herd responded to the gunshot and started to move off at pace. Just when they seemed to be settling into a good rhythm, just when he could again think about the warmth of the ranch, there seemed to be another delay up front. They were slowing down again. All Thomas could see was a collection of bobbing lanterns in the gloom, something else he wasn’t being told he thought bitterly, the herd beginning to slow up beside him. Then there was another crack and he grabbed for the reigns again, a rifle this time and the herd responded by speeding up. And the rain continued to fall.

Thomas cursed under his breath, stop and start, stop and start. Make your bloody mind up.