TEXT: w
  
  TM
  Deadlands™ Dime Novel™ #3
  Fiction, Adventure
  and Scenario by:
  John Goff
  Editing: Matt Forbeck & Shane Lacy Hensley
  Production: Matt Forbeck &Hal Mangold
  Cover Art and Logo: Ron Spencer
  Interior Art: Richard Taylor &Paul Daly
  Maps: Jeff Lahren
  Deadlands created by Shane Lacy Hensley
  Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.
  P.O. Box 10908
  Blacksburg, VA 24062-0908
  www.peginc.com or deadlands@aol.com
  (800) 214-5645 (orders only)
  Deadlands, Weird West, Dime Novel, The Great Rail Wars,
  the Deadlands logo, and the Pinnacle starburst are Trademarks of
  Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.
  © 1997 Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.
  All Rights Reserved.
  Printed in Canada
  PINNACLE ENTERTAINMENT GROUP, Inc.
  
  It's been less than a week since our last tale, Independence
  Day, in which Ronan Lynch served a short but eventful tour as a
  Dodge City peace officer and helped Texas Ranger Hank "One-
  Eye" Ketchum put an end to the abomination known as "the
  Butcher." Unfortunately, although Ronan's undead body is capable
  of healing nearly any wound, his right hand-severed by Ketchum
  in the battle with the Butcher-remains unattached. Ronan is now
  carrying it in his saddle bag, hoping that whatever keeps his
  undead flesh from rotting may somehow mend his severed flesh
  as well. If he can only learn how.
  OlE
  The front of Ronan's shirt exploded crimson as he was lifted
  clean out of his saddle. He landed hard, face first on the Kansas
  dirt. It took him a long, stunned moment to even realize he'd
  been shot.
  He tried to roll over and reach for his own pistol, but failed
  miserably at both. The best he was able to manage was to half-
  lift himself up enough to inspect the wound. It was huge, most
  likely made by a rifle, and maybe even a buffalo rifle if the
  gaping hole in his chest was any indication. Ronan's strength left
  him. He fell back to the ground with a wet splat. His awareness
  slowly ebbed away as his eyes fought to close.
  A moment or maybe an hour later, he was roused by rough
  handling jostling him about. He forced his eyes open and looked
  up at a scraggly excuse for a man who was pulling off his
  favorite boots.
  "Wh-what do you think you're doing?" Ronan coughed blood.
  "Why, mister, I'm robbin' you. Though, I reckon if'n I'd waited
  another minute, I'd just be lootin' the dead," said the wickedly
  grinning man tugging at his boots. He easily had the worst teeth
  Ronan had ever seen.
  "Damned bushwacker. Don't even have the sand to face a
  man."
  "Mighty brave talk for a dead man," the one with bad teeth
  replied as he leaned down to remove Ronan's pistol belt. Behind
  the man, propped against a rock, was a Sharp's Big Fifty.
  "You don't know the half of it," Ronan growled. "The Devil
  always gets his due."
  "Now you've got me right scart, Devil. Why don't you just put
  that on my account?"
  "Sure thing," Ronan grinned unsettlingly. "Just tell me who to
  bill."
  The man stared hard into Ronan's dead eyes. He didn't like
  what he saw there, but he wasn't about to back down against
  what he thought was a dying man. "That would be Abner
  Knaggs," he said proudly, with a slight quiver in his voice. "I'm
  sure you'll remember it, mister. It's the last name you'll hear."
  With that, Knaggs pulled a Green River skinning knife from his
  belt, knelt behind Ronan, and drew it slowly across the undead
  gunslinger's throat.
  Even a creature like Ronan, one of the Harrowed, could "die"
  for a while. He'd be back, of course. The only way to put him
  down for good was to destroy his brain-or exorcise the demon
  inside that kept his undead corpse walking around. Of course,
  Knaggs had no way of knowing that.
  Ronan spared one last bloody grin for Knaggs before he
  collapsed. Then everything went black.
  Ronan coughed deep and long, spitting clods of bitter sod out
  of his mouth. Painfully, he rolled over and gazed up at a starlit
  sky. He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. Not for the
  first time in his unlife, he wondered why resurrection had to hurt
  so much.
  Apparently the bushwacker had dragged him behind a horse
  for some distance. His clothing was in tatters, and the skin on
  his belly was in little better shape. His surroundings looked a
  little different. Last he could recall, he'd been riding along a flat
  to the east of a low ridge. Now he was laying near a small,
  rocky stream.
  At least no scavengers had eaten out his soft parts.
  A quick check revealed what he already suspected-the
  wounds in his chest and neck were already closed and healing.
  
  His stomach-or perhaps the strange parasite he sometimes
  felt rumbling around inside his rotting innards-grumbled angrily.
  Healing such deep wounds took a lot out of a man. He needed
  meat. And soon.
  Without a gun, or even a knife, he'd be hard pressed to bring
  down any game. Worse, there were plenty of things out here
  looking for food themselves. An unarmed man, even a dead one,
  would be easy prey. He had little choice but to hunt down a
  town.
  The bushwacker had stripped him of everything save his shirt
  and pants. The scum would probably have taken those too if not
  for the dark blood stains that soaked the cloth. The worst of it
  was Knaggs had taken Ronan's horse and saddle bags-which
  meant he'd lost his gun hand. He wasn't sure there was any way
  to reattach the thing, but if his pale flesh could heal a hole
  made by a buffalo rifle, there was a possibility it might someday
  take back his hand as well.
  Or so Ronan hoped. For now, he just fumed that Abner
  Knaggs had a piece of him. And it took truly lowdown scum to
  steal a man's hand.
  A faraway scream split the night and interrupted Ronan's
  brooding. The second time it broke across the land, the
  gunslinger recognized it for what it really was, a train whistle. It
  sounded faintly from the west. He guessed it couldn't be more
  than five miles away, 10 at the most. With any luck, that meant
  there'd be a town nearby.
  He started walking toward the whistle.
  Ronan hadn't gone 10 yards when he stopped, searched the
  ground, and picked up a fist-sized rock. Better a poor weapon
  than none at all.
  Around mid-morning, Ronan arrived at his destination. The
  town he'd hoped to find turned out to be a small train station
  with a telegraph office attached as an afterthought.
  Behind the station stood a small shack, probably the station
  master's quarters. Off to one side of the shack, Ronan could see
  a small barn with a horse in a small corral and a couple of pigs
  penned behind it. He saw no one as he approached, but that
  didn't surprise him. Such stations often had only one or two
  people manning them. Their main purpose was to provide water
  for the trains' boilers. Few passengers ever disembarked at such
  remote places.
  The place wasn't what he'd hoped for, but Ronan hoped he
  could get a meal from the station master. He headed down the
  gentle slope, taking care to make his approach obvious so as not
  to threaten whoever lived in the shack below.
  A sign on the front of the station read "Welcome to Barlowe
  Station." Ronan stepped up on the porch and knocked on the
  front door. There was no response, so he tried the knob. Not
  surprisingly, it was unlocked, so he let himself in.
  The interior was spartan. A few papers littered the lone desk,
  and a line map was posted on the otherwise bare wall to the
  left, but there was no sign of the station master. Ronan crossed
  the office to the back door and looked out. The shack stood
  silently.
  "Hello," he called, waited a moment, and tried again. Still no
  response.
  Ronan left the station and walked to the shack. He pounded
  on the door and called out once more. When no one replied, he
  turned the doorknob. Unlike the station, this door was locked. He
  circled the small building, looking in the windows as he went. He
  saw a bed and an iron cookstove in the front, but no station
  master.
  Ronan walked on around, his suspicions growing. The back
  window was shattered, the glass entirely knocked out of the
  frame. The room beyond was obviously the bedroom. The mess
  inside kept him from calling out again. Instead, he crept silently
  through the window.
  His feet crunched glass on the floor beneath. It had obviously
  been broken from the outside. The bed was unmade, and the
  blankets were thrown back as if in a hurry. An overturned night
  stand lay on its side nearby. On the floor, Ronan found an empty
  .36 Navy Colt. Scattered around it were six rounds and a couple
  empty shells. From the inside of the shack, he could see several
  pinpricks of light penetrating the room-bullet holes fired at
  chest level from the empty gun.
  The gunslinger popped four spent shells out of the gun's
  cylinder and loaded the six bullets he'd found into it. Then he
  stuck the pistol in his waistband. Its weight comforted him
  somewhat.
  Near the foot of the bed, he found a small pool of still-moist
  blood.
  The station master was certainly dead. It might have been
  Indians, or maybe Knaggs and his pal had stopped here as well.
  But the blood, combined with the broken windows, convinced
  Ronan that he wouldn't be finding the station master anytime
  soon. At least not upright.
  A little while later, Ronan, emerged from the front door of the
  building, wearing a clean set of clothes and not-quite-fitting
  boots. He hadn't found any more cartridges for the pistol, but his
  pockets were now full of $250 in Confederate scrip. While Ronan
  normally wouldn't have anything to do with the Rebel
  government, he didn't see as how he had much of a choice. In
  this part of the shattered country, the scrip would spend find.
  
  Ronan squinted in the midday sun as he surveyed the station
  and the area around it. The more he thought about it, the less
  sense it made. If Indians had done this, they'd have taken the
  animals and burned the place to the ground. If bandits were
  responsible, they'd have taken the money at the very least.
  Knaggs would likely have taken the pig for "company."
  Ronan strode back to the station office. According to the map,
  the nearest town was Varney Flats, about 30 miles to the south.
  It was further than he could make by nightfall, but another night
  in the wild seemed somehow more appealing than spending it
  here.
  It didn't take him long to find tack and get the horse saddled.
  The nag didn't care for him much, but then again, since his
  hanging, no horse had. His gaze crossed the pigpen as he
  climbed up on the reluctant mount. A gnawing in his stomach
  reminded him of the last thing he'd need before he left.
  Ronan had six rounds. He hated to waste the bullet, but he
  had to eat. Besides, he reasoned, if he couldn't do the job with
  five rounds, he doubted the sixth would make much difference.
  He took aim at the head of one of the pigs.
  Less than an hour later, Ronan headed out south, saddlebags
  full of bacon and stomach full of meat.
  The mid-afternoon sky erupted into a torrent of rain as Ronan
  rode into Varney Flats. The town wasn't much to look at-one
  main street and a couple of outlying houses. He figured there
  couldn't be more than a hundred people living in the town, all
  told. At the northern end of Varney Flats he saw a small clump
  of tents surrounded by piles of animal skins. Buffalo hides, he
  guessed.
  Varney Flats did have the type of business Ronan was most
  interested in at the moment-a saloon. His undead flesh was
  starting to smell ripe after many hours in the morning sun, and
  he could use some pickling.
  The gunslinger rode towards a place squatting behind a sign
  that read "The Palace Saloon."There he tied off the horse, which
  seemed quite relieved to be rid of him, and headed into the two-
  story building.
  There were a number of people in the saloon, more so than
  might be expected for an afternoon. Most were probably just
  trying to ride out the storm, which had turned the day to an
  early twilight. Ronan found an open spot at the bar and took a
  seat on a well-worn stool.
  "A bottle of your best," he said.
  "Well, mister, we got Kentucky bourbon or Tennessee
  sourmash."
  Ronan frowned at the choices. "Bourbon."
  The man returned with a whiskey glass and an unlabeled
  bottle that Ronan could only guess was bourbon. At least the
  color was right. He filled the glass and drank it in one gulp. He
  savored the burning sensation as the liquid flowed down his
  throat. Whatever it was, it had alcohol in it.
  He'd finished two more glasses and was pouring himself a
  much-deserved third when a familiar voice behind him said
  broadly, "You'd best slow down, mister. Drinkin' like that'll kill a
  man."
  Ronan knew without turning who that voice belonged to.
  "Texas," he said, meeting the ranger's one-eyed gaze in the mirror
  to the rear of the bar, "I'm surprised I didn't smell you before
  now."
  Hank Ketchum-or "One-Eye", the name he took almost roguish
  pleasure in-was wearing the same standard-issue Texas Ranger
  black duster he'd had when Ronan first met him, just about a
  week before. Ketchum removed his hat and set it on the bar to
  Ronan's left.
  "I figured you'd have lit out for Roswell by now, Ranger."
  "Well, I had to finish a little business hereabouts," Hank said.
  He reached across the bar, helped himself to an empty glass, and
  half-filled it from Ronan's bottle.
  "You ain't figurin' on tryin' me again are you? I thought you
  were smarter than that, old man." Ronan took the bottle back
  and placed it on his right.
  "Naw, you proved yer point on that one, Lynch. If I was comin'
  after you, I'd shoot you from a hilltop. When you weren't
  expectin' it."
  Ronan turned to face him. Something in the tone of the
  ranger's voice hinted at more than his words said.
  Ronan's right hand reached instinctively for his holster before
  his mind realized that he had neither holster nor hand. The
  Ranger noticed the movement and grinned slightly in a way that
  made Ronan want to tear his head off.
  "Of course, if I were to do it, I'd blow yer head off instead of
  wastin' lead on the rest o' yer worthless hide.". Ketchum said,
  turning his attention to his drink, but Ronan could tell the man
  was amused about something.
  "I don't see what's so funny, One-Eye. And the mood I'm in,
  pretty soon you won't either."
  "Whoa, simmer down, Lynch. I was just joshin' you." He lifted
  the glass of bourbon and drained it. "Good Gawd, man. What are
  you drinkin? I've drunk sump water better than that."
  "Maybe you should ask for the wine list. What is it you're
  gettin' at?"
  "Well, let's take a walk. I think it'd be easier to show you than
  tell you."
  
  Ketchum led Lynch out of the saloon. The rain had stopped as
  quickly as it had begun, but it had left the street a muddy ruin
  in its wake. Ronan felt the water seep through his boots almost
  as soon as he stepped off the plank sidewalk.
  The two slogged across the street toward a small frame
  building. Although it didn't bear a proper sign, Ronan guessed
  from the barred windows that this must be the town marshal's
  office. He stopped the ranger once they were standing right
  outside the office door.
  "Before we go any further, you tell me what's goin' on. You
  might have stood my back in Dodge, but that don't make us
  pals."
  "Now Lynch, you have no idea how much that hurts me. Here I
  was gonna ask you to marry my sister."
  Ketchum waited patiently for Ronan's nervousness to pass.
  When the gunslinger finally turned his grim gaze away, the
  ranger continued. "You got nothin' to worry about from me. I
  found a friend of yers in here, and I just thought you'd like to
  give him a Yankee howdy."
  Puzzled, Ronan followed Ketchum into the marshal's office. A
  rather unimposing man sat behind the desk. Their arrival startled
  him, and he looked nervously over the rims of his thick glasses.
  He dropped the small book he'd been intently studying when
  they walked in. It was a dime novel about Buffalo Bill Cody.
  Ronan snorted to himself.
  "Sorry, Cap'n Ketchum. You surprised me." The peace officer
  hurriedly stood up and rounded the desk, apparently being led by
  his outthrust hand. After a moment, Ronan realized the young
  man was expecting to shake hands with him. With a wicked grin
  he stuck out his badly bandaged stump. This had exactly the
  effect he expected.
  "Sorry, mister," came the quick apology. The man hesitantly
  started to hold out his left hand instead but then, fearing the
  result, decided instead to awkwardly adjust his spectacles.
  "Deputy Parrish, this is Ronan Lynch. I believe you have
  something of his." The deputy looked blankly at Ketchum for a
  moment, and then slowly his eyes began to widen.
  "You mean the... It belongs to him?" The man's face visibly
  became a shade whiter, and he momentarily froze.
  "Well, are you gonna get it or just stand there waitin' for
  pigeons to roost?" Ketchum said, turning the man around by the
  shoulder and gently pushing him back toward the desk.
  "You still haven't told me what's goin' on, old man, and I'm
  gettin' mighty bored." Ronan looked around the office for the
  first time since entering. He saw a barred door behind the desk,
  presumably leading to the holding cells. Other than the desk and
  a few chairs, the only furniture was a locked rifle rack hanging
  beside the front door.
  The deputy approached Ronan cautiously, holding a pair of
  saddlebags at arms length. Ronan immediately recognized them
  as his own. He took them from the deputy and turned to
  Ketchum.
  "How'd you get these?"
  "Took 'em off that feller in the back," the ranger said,
  carelessly motioning toward the barred door.
  "Knaggs," Ronan growled. "I got a score to settle with that
  man."
  "So does the State of New Mexico. Knaggs has got a lot more
  to answer for than pissin' you off. See, that snake is real fond of
  killin' homesteaders. Women, children-don't make no difference
  to him.
  "Nobody does that in my territory and gets away with it.
  Nobody."
  "I wasn't plannin' on takin' him to dinner, Texas," Ronan
  snarled. "I figure my way will get the same place as yours-just a
  little faster."
  "There's one big difference, Lynch. My way's the law. Yours
  ain't."
  There was a long, dangerous silence as the two men stared at
  each other. Finally, Ronan's left hand settled on his belt, away
  from the gun tucked into his waistband. His gaze remained fixed
  on Ketchum's good eye, however. "I wouldn't make a habit of
  crossin' me, old man."
  The ranger smiled widely. "Hadn't planned on it. I got me
  plenty of enemies already. I just wanted to give you back your
  good right hand. And maybe even show you how to get it in
  workin' order again. C'mon let me buy you another bottle of that
  sump water."
  "Just a minute," Ronan said as he stalked back toward the jail
  cell. Knaggs was snoozing noisily on a cot, his wet snores
  escaping through his peeled-back lips.
  Ronan squinted at him in disgust, then poked him through the
  bars with his toe. "Wake up, Knaggs. You've got a debt to settle."
  The bushwacker choked back his last snore and sat up slowly,
  a surly look on his face. The his jaw dropped, and thick saliva
  dribbled down his unshaven chin. "Y-you're dead!" he stammered.
  "That's right, Knaggs. I said you'd have to pay the Devil his
  due, and I'm here to collect." Ronan pulled open his shirt and
  showed Knaggs the bloody scab where he'd been shot.
  Goggle-eyed, Knaggs said nothing as his heart threatened to
  leap out of his chest.
  "Better start saving, Knaggs." Ronan grinned savagely. "Your
  account's overdrawn."
  
  "Believe it or not, Lynch," Ketchum said as they entered the
  entered the saloon, "I didn't walk you to the jail just so you could
  give Knaggs a heart attack. I got me a problem."
  "Figures. And what would that be?"
  Now that the crowd had cleared, the two men had no difficulty
  finding an open table. The only other patron was a solitary black
  man seated in the center of the room, cleaning a pair of gold-
  rimmed spectacles. His brown wool suit and bowler clearly
  announced he was a tinhorn traveler from somewhere back East
  The ranger caught the bartender's eye as they passed him. "If
  you got any whiskey back there, bring the bottle. And two
  glasses." They took seats on opposite sides of a table at the
  back of the room.
  "Two hundred miles south, I'm the law with a capital L-A-W.
  But this ain't the Confederacy, it's the Disputed Territory, and I've
  only got as much authority around these parts as my gun and
  my reputation says. Most times that's enough and then some, but
  Knaggs may be a little too unpopular hereabouts for that to
  work."
  "And just what do you need me for? More importantly, what's
  it payin'?"
  "I need you to watch my back 'til I ride out tomorrow morning.
  I figure there'll be a lynch mob tonight, and you've seen the local
  police force."
  Ronan grimaced at the thought of Parrish trying to stop a
  mob of angry citizens.
  "What it's payin' you got over yer shoulder there," Ketchum
  continued, nodding towards Ronan's saddlebags.
  "You want me to help protect a man that bushwacked me?
  Besides, there's nothing in these bags that wasn't rightly mine
  already." The bartender arrived, carrying a bottle of rye whiskey
  and two glasses. Ketchum paid the man and poured for both of
  them.
  "That's the truth. But there's something in there I don't think
  you can replace. Least, without some help from someone who's
  knows what he's doing-someone who's dealt with your kind
  before."
  Ronan opened one of the bags and examined the contents. As
  he expected, he found a change of clothes, his Peacemaker and
  holster, a box of cartridges, and some dried jerky. In the other, he
  found a cloth-wrapped bundle about seven inches long and four
  inches wide. Inside was his right hand, still intact. He looked up
  to see Ketchum carefully studying him.
  "I reckon you don't know how to fix that little problem, or you
  already would have." Ketchum's voice was just above a whisper.
  "I hope that ain't your idea of a joke, Texas, because I don't
  think it's funny." He pushed his chair back from the table and
  began to stand. "If it hadn't been for you, I'd still be whole, you
  bastard."
  "And you'd still be the Butcher. Or did you forget that part?"
  Ronan paused, and then sat back down. His anger still
  smoldered, but Ketchum spoke the truth. The Butcher had
  possessed him, and only the ranger's huge Bowie knife had saved
  Ronan-and no doubt countless others as well. And though
  Ronan wouldn't admit it to the world, the hero that had fought
  many long years for the Union still lurked somewhere inside him.
  Nonetheless, Ketchum's control still galled him.
  "So I have my hand back. I guess I'll just take care of it until I
  can settle down somewhere and mount it on a mantle piece. You
  still aren't offering me anything that's not mine."
  Ketchum leaned forward and talked even softer. "When I
  learned Knaggs was in the jail, I told the deputy who I was. He
  was more than happy to turn Knaggs over to me.
  "I found your hand in Knaggs' things. He told me where he'd
  got it. He was gonna make a necklace out of it." Ketchum
  stopped for a moment, trying to suppress a deep belly laugh in
  vain.
  A look from Ronan stopped him cold, and he collected
  himself and started again. "I knew right away it was yours, and
  from what Knaggs told me about how he'd 'killed' you, I knew
  you weren't put down for good. Like I said before, I know a little
  'bout your kind."
  "Get to the point, Ketchum. You're boring a dead man to
  death."
  "The dead are always surly. You get used to it."
  "I was surly before-dyin' just aggravated me all to Hell."
  Ketchum swallowed a shot of whiskey and nodded. "Anyway,
  as I was sayin', I know things about your kind. Things that I'm
  guessin' you don't know yerself."
  Ronan remained silent as Ketchum paused to refill their
  glasses. Either the whiskey was of a higher quality than the
  bourbon, or neither man was paying too much attention to the
  flavor at the moment.
  "You can heal just about anything, which, for obvious reasons,
  I'm guessin' you already know. And you're probably wonderin'
  why your hand hasn't. Some like you ain't hardly fazed by losin'
  a limb. They can grow it back given enough time. But with them
  folks, you cut off a hand, it starts rottin' away. Yours didn't. That
  means it's still a part of you-so to speak."
  "How does knowin' that help me?" Ronan asked, downing his
  second glass in one shot. He poured himself another without
  even glancing at Ketchum's.
  "Simple. Sew it back on."
  
  Ronan coughed, almost choking on his drink. Ketchum leaned
  back in his chair and took a swallow of the whiskey.
  "That's all?" Ronan asked, incredulously.
  "That's all. It'll probably take some time, but eventually it'll be
  good as new. Won't even have a scar." Ketchum continued, "Of
  course, you probably don't want to just walk up to any ol'
  sawbones and ask him to sew your hand back on. Might raise
  some questions you don't want to answer. And you can't do it
  yourself-one-handed and all."
  "So what do you suggest, old man?"
  "I'll do it. I've got a room upstairs here. Won't take too long."
  "You don't strike me as much of a seamstress, Texas."
  "Fair enough, but it don't require no fancy stitchin'. Just enough
  to keep it attached until your body takes hold of it again. Believe
  me, I've done worse. Course it might sting a little," he grinned.
  "As much as this?" Ronan met Ketchum's gaze and pulled
  down the bandanna around his neck just enough to allow the
  ranger to see the scar where Knaggs had opened his throat.
  "No, I don't reckon it will."
  "Then I can handle it."
  An hour later, the two men came back down the stairs of the
  saloon. Ketchum had tightly bandaged Ronan's right hand after
  reattaching it. As unlikely as Ketchum's solution had seemed,
  Ronan knew that if someone told him a year ago that he'd dig
  himself out a grave after being hung by a fancy pistoleer from
  Back East, he'd have laughed in their face. The hand felt like a
  dead weight at the end of his right arm. He hoped the ranger
  was right and the healing process would begin soon.
  During the time they'd been gone, business had begun to pick
  up again, but the saloon was still far from crowded. Ronan
  surveyed the patrons warily. "How long 'til you expect trouble?"
  "Then I can count on you?"
  "If I don't get to kill Knaggs, then it's damn sure no Kansas
  sodbusters do."
  "I figure we got a few hours until everyone has enough time to
  fill up on liquid courage. 'Round about 10 o'clock or thereabouts.
  That gives us near four hours to kill. You much on poker?"
  "Only when I'm winning."
  "Well, let's play a few hands. If you'll pardon the expression,"
  Ketchum laughed. "Maybe we can pull that tinhorn in." He
  nodded towards the center of the room where the black man in
  the wool suit still nursed his drink.
  "Him? You're not planning on givin' the man a hard time are
  you, Texas. I can't abide that."
  "Me? Nope. Color of a man's skin never meant anything to me.
  I've seen great men and women who were black. And whites I
  wouldn't scrape off the bottom o' my boots. Guess you had all of
  us south of the Mason-Dixon figured for crackers, didn't you
  Yankee?"
  Ronan shrugged. "Then why'd you sign up for the war?"
  "I had my reasons."
  "What were they?"
  "Personal." Ronan took the hint and let the subject drop.
  Ketchum produced a well-worn pack of cards from a vest pocket
  and began shuffling. From the way he handled the cards, Ronan
  could tell the ranger was no beginner.
  The two mosied over to the tinhorn and pulled out chairs.
  "Wanna play some poker?" Ketchum asked amiably as he sat.
  "Thank you, sir, but I must decline. I am unfamiliar with the
  both the rules and strategy of that particular game. Yesterday,
  some other gentlemen taught me how to play "21", or "Blackjack"
  in the vernacular. It was most interesting, but unfortunately that
  is the only game of the sort with which I am familiar. Of course,
  I am quite skilled at other permutations, such as bridge and
  cribbage."
  "Don't worry about it, mister, " Ronan said as he sat. "We'll
  play free for the first couple o' hands. Then you can bow out if
  you want."
  "Well, if it would be no trouble," the man smiled, delighted at
  the unexpected opportunity. He stood and offered his hand. "Let
  me introduce myself. My name is Thaddeus Washington."
  "Ronan Lynch." He extended his left hand almost without
  thought. If the other hand took long to heal, Ronan was
  beginning to think he might get used to being a lefty.
  "Captain Hank Ketchum, of the Texas Rangers. Some folks call
  me One-Eye-for obvious reasons." Ketchum shook Washington's
  hand. Introductions over, Thaddeus resumed his seat.
  "What brings you west, Mr. Washington?" Ketchum asked.
  "Thaddeus, please. Mr. Washington is rather formal. I recently
  completed my doctorate in biology at Columbia University, and I
  decided it was time for a little field work, sir. You see, I am a
  scientist, and I believe that only so much can be learned from
  texts before one must experience the actual reality. I have come
  west for the purpose of studying unique and unusual
  manifestations of life."
  "Come again?"
  "What he's sayin', Texas, is that he's come west to look for
  monsters." Ronan translated.
  "I do believe you have cut to the heart of the matter, Ronan. I
  do indeed intend to study 'monsters' as you have colorfully
  called them."
  "Well, you've come to the right place. Hasn't he, Lynch?"
  
  Three hours later, both Ronan and Ketchum were beginning to
  lose far more games than they were winning. Thaddeus seemed
  to have an incredible natural talent for the game and seldom bet
  much on the hands he did lose. "You know, Thaddeus," Ketchum
  said, "if I didn't know better, I'd say me and Lynch were being
  hornswoggled."
  "Let me assure you that is not the case. I have simply noted
  that this game, much like blackjack, is based strongly on the
  mathematical likelihood of certain combinations of cards
  occurring in a given hand. Now, as three of the cards in each of
  your hands are visible as dealt, I can narrow down the possible
  combinations either of you could have by a process of simple
  deduction. Combine that with the knowledge of the cards I have
  'in the hole,' I believe you called it, and with a simple statistical
  calculation, the odds of winning any hand can be roughly
  determined."
  "You were wrong, Texas," Ronan said. "We are being conned.
  Did you do this well at blackjack, Thaddeus?"
  "As a matter of fact, I did somewhat better. You see, as that
  game progresses, more and more of the deck becomes visible,
  and thus the possible variations become smaller. This-'
  Ketchum held up a hand to stop him. "That's enough
  explainin'. You're takin' all the fun out of it. How them fellers
  take it yesterday?"
  "One of them became quite upset. I honestly believe he
  considered shooting me."
  "Well, that does it for me. I feel like I'm payin' you two to play,"
  Ronan grimaced, putting his cards in the center of the table. "I'm
  out."
  "Yeah, like they say, 'quit while you're behind.'" Ketchum threw
  his cards in as well. Then the ranger pulled out his pocketwatch
  and looked at the time. "I reckon we got about an hour at the
  most."
  "An hour until what?" Thaddeus asked as he raked in his
  winnings.
  "We got a feller over in the jail that some folks'll likely be
  tryin' to hold court on here in bit."
  Thaddeus leaned forward and in a stage whisper asked, "You
  mean, a lynch mob?"
  "Yup," Ketchum sighed.
  "And the two of you plan to stop them?"
  "Well, there's also the town deputy, for as long as he stands
  his ground. Which will be about 10 minutes before the trouble
  starts." Ketchum stood up and looked to Ronan. "We'd probably
  best head to the jail. They might show early."
  Ronan stood and turned to Thaddeus. "It's been a pleasure,
  Thaddeus. Just wish I could say playing poker with you'd been
  the same."
  Thaddeus stood as well. "Gentlemen, if I can be of any
  assistance, you may count on me."
  "I appreciate the gesture, Thaddeus," Ketchum replied, "but
  you'd best leave this to us. It could get a little ugly."
  "Captain, I can assure you, I am no babe in the woods. I hold
  degrees in several areas of scientific endeavor from the finest
  universities on this continent. The anatomy of strange beasts is
  not my only field of expertise."
  "We'll try to keep that in mind," Ronan said.
  The office was lit by a single oil lamp. Ketchum and Lynch
  had decided that Deputy Parrish was likely to be more of a
  hindrance than a help and had sent him home for the evening.
  Ketchum now sat behind the desk and inspected a double-
  barrel shotgun he'd pulled from the rack by the door. Ronan put
  on his old boots. If Knaggs hung tonight, he'd be doing it in his
  socks.
  The undead gunslinger walked over to the door and looked
  out its small, barred window. The streets were still as empty as
  the bottle they'd left behind in the saloon.
  "How'd a lily-liver like Parrish ever get put in charge of this
  town?"
  "Actually, they had themselves a right good sheriff until
  yesterday. He rode out to check on a farm in the evening and
  never came back."
  "Bushwackers?"
  "Nobody knows. Deputy Parrish says it's only about 10 miles or
  so down the Black River line to the farm. Even if the marshal
  had stayed until late, he'd have been back long before now. Figure
  I'll try to convince Parrish he needs to round up a posse and
  ride out there tomorrow."
  "I'm thinkin' that may be a waste of time."
  "Why's that?" Ketchum asked.
  Ronan told him about Barlowe Station.
  "This is startin' to sound familiar. We had somethin' similar
  happen late last year along the Dixie Rails line. Whole families
  disappeared. Started out near the Arizona border and moved east.
  By the end, they had a whole company of Rangers investigatin'
  it, but we never figured it out."
  "I thought you Rangers always got your man."
  "Naw, that's the Canadians. We're just meaner than Hell."
  "Sounds like whoever's doing it is followin' the railroad.
  Shouldn't be too hard to find."
  
  "You'd think. Least til you really start lookin' at the railroads.
  Each one has pretty much a single main line, but there's so
  many spurs goin' to and from the mains, it's gettin' like a spider's
  web in some places."
  "So what do you plan to do, Texas?"
  "I don't got time to chase down every single mystery west of
  the Mississippi. First thing I plan to do is get this skunk to his
  appointment with the hangman in Topeka. Then I'm headin' to a
  certain place in New Mexico with that little toy I picked up in
  Dodge." Ketchum patted his breast pocket, where Ronan assumed
  he still had the Butcher's scalpel. "After that...well, we'll see."
  Ronan turned back to the window. While they'd been talking, a
  fair-sized crowd had gathered in front of the Palace. Most were
  armed with rifles, and some carried torches. A large man in the
  front had a coil of rope in his hands. At one end hung an all too
  familiar sight: a hangman's noose. Ronan frowned at the noose
  and rubbed his scarred neck. No matter how long he'd been on
  this side of the grave, he'd never forget his death. Beneath the
  scar Knaggs had given him, he still bore a rope-burn scar, a
  reminder that he'd been on the other side of the veil for a while.
  As one, the crowd began walking toward the jail.
  "Here they come, Texas."
  TEN
  Ronan and Ketchum strode out onto the porch as the rabble
  arrived. There were easily 15 men and women in the mob.
  Ronan had left his holster inside. He felt surprisingly
  comfortable drawing with his left hand, but it wasn't something
  he wanted to chance just yet. Instead, he had his Peacemaker
  stuck in the waistband of his trousers. Ketchum carried the
  double-barrel in addition to his own hogleg.
  "Step aside! We've come to see justice served on that
  murderer!" said the man with the rope.
  "You people go on home. There will be no hanging tonight."
  Ketchum spoke in a loud voice, deeper than usual. Ronan
  suddenly knew why the Texas Rangers' favorite saying was "One
  riot, one Ranger."
  Another man stepped forward. "Kansas ain't part of the
  Confederacy. You're out of your jurisdiction, Ranger!"
  Ketchum thumbed the hammers back on his shotgun. "Mister,
  right now I'd be more worried about the range of my Greeners if
  I were you."
  The first man turned to the crowd and yelled, "He's only got
  two barrels. At this range he'll only be able to get two of us."
  "Nope," Ketchum growled, "I reckon I'll only get one of you real
  good. Now all you fellers got to decide is who's the corpse and
  who's the pallbearers."
  Ronan surveyed the mob. Ketchum might have cowed a few of
  them, but no amount of talk would make up for 10-to-l odds. As
  good as the two men were, if it came to gunfire, they would lose.
  He inched his hand toward his pistol. A sudden move on his part
  would likely touch off the shooting.
  "Pardon me," called a voice from behind the crowd. "I think it
  best if everyone were to do as the ranger requested and return
  home for the evening. It would be unfortunate if anything
  untoward were to happen."
  A few in the crowd turned immediately, and their exclamations
  drew the attention of everyone else. Even Ronan and Ketchum
  craned to see what was going on. Standing in the street, holding
  an oddly shaped, four-barreled rifle was Thaddeus Washington.
  "Perhaps some of you are wondering exactly what sort of
  firearm I have in my hands. It is a shoulder-fired, spring-driven,
  self-loading, automatic rifle. In layman's terms: a Gatling rifle.
  However, I feel in instances such as this one, actions speak
  louder than words."
  Thaddeus pointed the rifle at the street in front of the mob
  and squeezed the trigger. The barrels whirled and fire spat from
  each one in turn, sending a bullet into the ground. Dirt sprayed
  up into the faces of those at the front. Thaddeus continued as
  the dust settled, "Now, I would like to reassure all present that a
  single magazine for this weapon holds 30 rounds. Subtracting the
  rounds I just expended for that exhibition, I am left with more
  than enough bullets to provide each of you with your own
  personal souvenir of the evening's festivities."
  The crowd stood open-mouthed, staring at Thaddeus.
  Ketchum had handled enough mobs to know the iron was hot.
  "Get on home now before we lose our tempers!" he boomed.
  Almost as one, the mob dispersed into the night.
  Ronan stepped off the sidewalk. "Good work, tinhorn. I guess
  you do know about something besides critters."
  Ketchum joined them. "I'll second that. That's a mighty fine
  shootin' iron you got there."
  "Yes, yes it is," Thaddeus smiled, looking over the weapon. "It's
  a pity I can't hit a thing with it."
  Ronan bolted up from the bed as the sound of a far-off train
  groaned in the distance. He was in a room above the Palace. It
  was still dark out, so he guessed he couldn't have been asleep
  long before the nightmares had begun.
  Most nights he dreamed of that fateful Virginia battlefield,
  where half his unit had been burnt to a cinder by Hunley's
  Devils. The Confederates had been equipped with flamethrowers
  as part of Jeff Davis' attack on Washington back in '69.
  
  Other nights were filled with images of his death at the hands
  of Edgar DuChamp and Cynthia Carstairs. Night after night, he
  watched the bullet from DuChamp's Buntline tear through him.
  Then he remembered the long, dark night spent in the basement,
  bleeding slowly to death. Finally, DuChamp and Carstairs, a dark
  sorceress who had sold her soul to the Devil long ago, had hung
  him from the gate of their ranch.
  Ronan still didn't understand how he'd come back from the
  dead. He knew only that there was some sort of evil spirit inside
  him that kept his bones moving. That same spirit, he suspected,
  tormented him in his dreams, amplifying his nightmares to the
  point of pain.
  A second Hellish whistle broke Ronan's train of thought. He
  threw his legs off the bed and began to get dressed. There'd be
  no more sleep for him tonight, he was sure of that.
  It was awful late for a train anyway. And that particular
  whistle would give the dead nightmares. It seemed to him he'd
  heard it before. Then it struck him.
  It was the same whistle he'd heard the night before last
  outside of Barlowe.
  He hurriedly finished dressing and left his room. He headed for
  the town jail.
  Ketchum had stayed at the jail after the crowd cleared out,
  figuring if a few of the braver vigilantes came back, he'd be
  waiting. Ronan had wandered off to the Palace and got himself a
  bed.
  The door to the jail was locked when he arrived, so Ronan
  pounded on it heavily. A moment later, a shutter at eye level
  opened and Ketchum glared at him through the bars. "I
  considered just shootin' through the door and goin' back to
  sleep," he grated.
  "Open up," said the gunslinger. "I think we've got trouble
  coming."
  Ronan heard the bolt slide back, and the door opened.
  "Remember I told you I heard a train the night before I got to
  Barlowe," he said, entering the office. "Well, I just heard it again,
  and I think it's comin' this way."
  Ketchum didn't answer, he just walked to the desk and opened
  a drawer. He pulled a set of keys from inside and tossed them to
  Ronan. "They're to the rack by the door. Help yerself."
  "I don't think I'll have much use for a long gun," he said,
  showing Ketchum his still-limp gun hand.
  "Point taken," Ketchum agreed. "Why don't you head over to
  the station, and I'll go get that tinhorn and his fancy rifle. We'll
  meet you there."
  "He probably couldn't hit the dark at night with that gun."
  "No, but it sure does make a whole lot of racket when he
  fires it. And sometimes that's enough."
  TWELVE
  Ketchum knocked on Thaddeus' door for the third time, and
  still there was no answer. He took a step back and kicked the
  door just above the knob. With a loud crack, the frame splintered
  and the door swung open. Ketchum strode into the room.
  Thaddeus, finally aroused by the noise of the broken lock,
  quickly sat up in the bed. "Captain Ketchum," he shrilled. "To
  what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
  "Get up, Professor. We've got trouble. There's a train-load o' it
  coming. We don't know what's ridin' those rails tonight, but it's
  caused all sorts o' Hell before."
  "I see," he said. "What we are looking at is an unknown,
  potentially dangerous quantity which may travel by means of
  locomotive. If you will bear with me for just a moment, I'd like to
  assemble a few pieces of equipment that may prove
  advantageous." He opened the top of an enormous trunk resting
  at the foot of his bed. Inside, Ketchum could see numerous
  strange devices and contraptions. Thaddeus pulled out a couple
  and turned back to Ketchum.
  "What is the current level of cloud cover?"
  Ketchum gave him a blank look.
  "I am trying to ascertain what the ambient light is tonight in
  order to determine the appropriateness of vision enhancement
  equipment.
  "Oh," Ketchum said, still not fully understanding. He took a
  stab and said, "The moon's gone down?"
  "Thank you." Thaddeus pulled out another odd-looking gadget.
  By this time, they could hear the rhythmic vibration of the
  approaching train.
  Finally, the scientist had gathered all his gear, and the two
  men hurriedly made their way down the stairs and across the
  barroom. On the boardwalk outside the saloon, Thaddeus
  stopped and began strapping one of his devices over his head.
  The gizmo resembled a pair of reversed binoculars that had been
  attached to a harness.
  "What the devil is that?" Ketchum asked.
  "This is a mechanism of my own design. By melding ghost
  rock with a form of quartz, I was able to fabricate a material
  that was particularly sensitive to heat emanations. I have found it
  is slightly more effective than simple light-amplification devices,
  as it functions in total darkness, detecting, for instance, the
  internal heat of homeothermic creatures."
  Ketchum decided to stop asking the man even simple
  questions and started in the direction of the station at a jog.
  Thaddeus followed behind him, his gear jostling and bouncing
  about as he ran.
  
  "You'll have to secure that brass band yer carryin'," Ketchum
  said, stopping momentarily at the corner of the marshal's office.
  "We'd be lucky to sneak up on an unconscious rock with all the
  racket yer makin'."
  "Yes, I see your point, Captain. I shall endeavor to proceed with
  more stealth." They'd not gone five yards before Ketchum once
  again stopped and turned to Thaddeus.
  "Look, I'll go ahead and find Lynch. You give me about a
  minute and then follow. Slowly. Okay?"
  "Certainly. Thus unencumbered, you will be able to move not
  only more quickly but also more covertly."
  After a moment's consideration, Ketchum decided that
  constituted a "yes" and trotted off toward the station.
  The train station sat near the western end of Varney Flats.
  The building was a one-room office with a platform which
  contained a covered bench. Neither the platform or the office
  offered any sort of cover, and Ronan didn't like the idea of
  standing out in the open to greet whatever might be on the train.
  His memories of his recent nightmare were still remarkably vivid,
  and he found them unsettling. Looking about, he saw the nearest
  likely looking structure was a barn about 20 yards off.
  Ronan peered down the tracks and saw the train's solitary and
  dim light approaching like a great eye. He trotted to the barn and
  stepped into the shadows near the large double doors to watch
  its arrival.
  Within minutes, the train pulled into the station, the screech
  of its brakes piercing his ears. They hissed as thick steam rolled
  out from the undercarriage.
  The engine panted, its breath coming in clouds from the
  smokestack. Ronan thought the train itself looked like a casualty
  of war. Its sides were flaking paint and dented. It was an old
  coal-burning locomotive, with only three cars other than the
  engine and coal hopper. Two of them appeared to be passenger
  carriers, although the gunslinger noted with a shudder that all
  the windows were boarded.
  Behind those was a single freight car, its loading door closed.
  The cowcatcher was broken in several places and badly rusted,
  resembling nothing so much as the fangs of some ancient
  predator. With a groan, it stopped, the couplings between cars
  clanking in sequence as each car butted into the one before it.
  Time seemed to skip a beat. The train sat silently beside the
  platform as if calculating its next move. No sound came from the
  locomotive save for the steady thrum of the engine.
  Slowly, the passenger car door closest to Ronan's hiding
  position opened, revealing nothing but darkness. Out clambered a
  solitary figure, which darted suddenly to the covered bench.
  There it paused in the shadow, intently studying the station
  office. It tilted its head back like a nervous rat searching the air
  for a scent. After a moment, apparently satisfied that it was
  alone, the figure scurried further across the platform to the
  office itself. It crept stealthily to the door and tried the knob.
  Finding the door locked, the figure peered cautiously into the
  window beside the door. Then it paused for a moment before
  turning around and signaling the train.
  Ronan had a very bad feeling.
  * 
  * 
  *
  Ketchum heard the tram's whistle and realized the locomotive
  had beaten him to the station. Not wanting to rush blindly into
  an unknown predicament, he slowed his pace to a hefty Texas
  gait. Just in case, he loosened his pistol in its holster. He left the
  shotgun's hammers uncocked. Otherwise, a misstep in the dark
  could have spelled disaster.
  Finally, clearing the single row of businesses on Varney Flats'
  only street, he saw the station not twenty yards away. The train
  sat at the platform, steam from the brakes curling along the
  ground like tendrils of sentient fog. He couldn't see Ronan
  anywhere, although he doubted the gunfighter would be careless
  enough to wait in plain sight. Ketchum kneeled in the dirt and
  hugged the corner of the building, watching the train.
  He thought he caught sight of a furtive movement on the
  platform. Peering closer, he saw the shadow of a man's head
  through one of the station windows. It appeared to be looking
  into the building from the outside. He pushed his hat back on
  his head slightly and rubbed the day-old stubble around his chin.
  Then, behind him, he heard a soft metallic click just as the
  train's whistle let out an angry shriek.
  The other doors to the passenger cars burst open, and the
  loading door on the freight car slid noisily back. Dark shapes
  scurried from the train helter-skelter, scuttling like roaches
  toward the shadows of the town buildings. Ronan guessed as
  many as 30 had been disgorged, but they scattered quickly before
  he could actually count.
  The main part of town was on the opposite side of the station
  from Ronan's position, and the majority had bolted in that
  direction. A few, however, were headed in his direction, and one in
  particular seemed to have its sights set on the barn. From where
  Ronan stood, none had appeared armed, but a holster would've
  been hard to see in the darkness.
  Ronan retreated back further into the gloom. A shot would
  surely draw unwanted attention to his location, so he looked
  hurriedly about the stalls for a quieter weapon. He found a
  
  number of them-pitchforks, an ax, even a pick-but none that
  were suitable for use by a one-handed man. This was really
  getting old.
  Ronan sighed and drew his pistol, holding it butt forward. The
  Peacemaker felt awkward in his hand. Wyatt Earp might prefer to
  use a pistol this way, but Ronan had always been of the opinion
  that a gun was made for shooting, not clubbing.
  A noise outside the building told him the stranger had arrived.
  The undead gunslinger carefully inched forward until his back
  was to the wall beside the door. He slowly raised the pistol in
  anticipation.
  The footsteps stopped at the threshold. He heard an odd
  sniffing sound, then silence. A tense moment dragged by before
  Ronan heard the footsteps once again, this time receding.
  Ronan waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps, then
  lowered his pistol. Gradually, he edged to the door, paused to
  listen one last time, then poked his head around the corner
  Less than three feet away, staring straight into his eyes, was
  one of the things from the train.
  He'd been suckered.
  Ketchum thumbed the hammers back on the shotgun as he
  spun around. Standing behind him in the middle of the sidewalk
  was Thaddeus Washington. Ketchum scowled at him and
  carefully lowered the hammers back down.
  Looking back to the train, he saw a number of dark shapes
  loping across the ground toward the town. Hank turned to
  Thaddeus and motioned back the way they'd come. Thaddeus
  hesitated, looking over the ranger's shoulder then wheeled and
  ran. When they reached the opposite end of the building,
  Ketchum caught Thaddeus by the arm and pulled him down
  around the corner.
  "Might I inquire as to why we retreated?" Thaddeus whispered.
  "Well, them 30 or so fellows chargin' us was good enough
  reason," Ketchum said, leading them around the building's front.
  "Pardon me for being obtuse, Captain, but to which men were
  you referring? I saw no one."
  Ketchum looked back at the scientist as they reached the next
  corner, "Did you forget to turn your fancy goggles on? They were
  runnin' toward us faster than Bluebellies run from a fight."
  Ketchum crouched and looked around the corner. "There's a
  couple on this side, but not near as many. You distract 'em with
  that fancy rifle of yours, and I reckon I can handle 'em."
  He rounded the corner quickly rising as he moved, Thaddeus
  following close behind. They'd not yet left the building's shadow
  when a shot rang out from the other side of the station.
  Ronan guessed that at one point the thing in front of him had
  been human. But not anymore.
  Its skin was whitish-pink, and its head was completely bald.
  Its nose turned up at the end like a bat's, and from its mouth
  sprouted two long teeth. The thing's eyes were dead black, and in
  the center of each burned a tiny red spark. With a hissing roar,
  the creature jumped at him, fangs bared and clawed hands out-
  thrust.
  A lesser man would have hesitated confronted with such an
  abomination. In fact, less than a year ago, Ronan himself might
  have been taken aback. But clawing his way out of his own
  grave had hardened the former officer.
  He brought the butt of the pistol up in a vicious uppercut. He
  caught the brute squarely on the chin and snapped its head back
  sharply. This seemed to have little effect, however, and the
  creature's momentum carried it on into him.
  Ronan staggered back under the impact and, catching his foot
  on a rough spot, went down with the thing on top of him. He
  wedged his right arm against the creature's chest and pushed
  with his forearm. Its strength was enormous. He couldn't even
  budge the thing.
  It lowered its head to his right shoulder and Ronan felt a
  sharp pain as it bit deeply. The gunslinger thrashed wildly, trying
  to dislodge the fiend, but to no avail. Then, suddenly, it released
  its hold and dragged itself away from him. He quickly rolled in
  the opposite direction.
  Rising to his feet, he saw the thing was curled up on the
  ground. It was choking, trying to clear something from its throat.
  He checked his shoulder and saw the bite mark the creature had
  left. It was a deep puncture, and he could see a little of his
  viscous, dark blood pooling in it.
  "Get a mouth full of something you didn't care for, did you?"
  Ronan said, walking toward the prone form. "Well, you're about to
  get a belly full of something you'll like even less." He cocked his
  Peacemaker and took aim, disgust for the moment overriding
  subtlety.
  The sound of the shot echoed through the dark. In moments,
  there would likely be more of them swarming the barn, but at
  least this bastard was dead.
  Ronan scanned the darkness intently for more, unaware that
  the creature he'd just gut-shot was slowly rising to its feet.
  Ketchum knew from the report that the shot had most likely
  come from a pistol, and he was betting that the pistol was a
  Colt Peacemaker held by Ronan Lynch. "That damn Yankee's
  tryin' to steal all the glory," he muttered.
  
  The shot had also drawn the attention of the figures nearest
  the ranger. Several turned toward the sound but then continued
  on in their original direction. Ketchum paused, looking for an
  opportunity to cross the open ground unobserved.
  Soon, the way was clear. He moved toward the station, then
  hugged the shadows along the back of the building. He could
  hear muffled clanking as Thaddeus trotted behind him.
  "Captain, I still haven't seen anyone besides you," he said
  between breaths. The weight of his gadgets was taking its toll.
  "Then I'd take them goggles back to who-" Ketchum's
  comment was cut off as a figure crashed out of a window in
  front of him.
  He leveled his shotgun, but the thing batted the gun out of his
  hands as quick as a striking rattlesnake. Then it grabbed his
  duster and slammed him into the building wall, pinning him.
  Long teeth descended toward his leathery, sunburned throat.
  The teeth stopped when they clinked against the barrel of the
  ranger's six-gun.
  "Damn! Yer ugly enough to peel the hide off a gila monster,"
  Hank said as he pulled the trigger. The monster stumbled
  backwards, dropping hard to the ground.
  "What happened? What's going on?" asked Thaddeus.
  "You mean to tell me you didn't see that? Tinhorn, you got to
  open your eyes!"
  "I saw you get slammed against the wall, and then a bright
  flash as you fired your revolver. What are you shooting at?"
  Ketchum reached out and yanked the goggles off the
  scientist's head and pointed at the creature on the ground, not
  three feet away. "That!"
  The thing was beginning to sit up. Ketchum fanned three more
  bullets into its chest, and it slumped back to the ground.
  The men walked forward to the body. Thaddeus bent over it,
  closely examining the face. "Fascinating," he said. "From the
  distinctive front teeth and pale complexion, combined with the
  bipedal form, I would suspect that this creature is a form of
  nosferatu. A vampire, if you will."
  "A vampire?"
  "Yes. Although its overall morphology is somewhat different
  from the concept of the traditional, or Carpathian, form, I believe
  it is, nonetheless, a vampire." Thaddeus, continuing, stepped back
  from the body. "And if such is the case, Captain, I would also
  suspect that your shots did it no permanent damage. It is, in all
  likelihood, only momentarily stunned."
  "Well, then, Perfessor, how do you kill a 'noseferret'?" Ketchum
  asked then spit on the thing.
  "Nosferatu? That is difficult to say, as myths about such
  creatures abound in nearly every culture. However, exposure to
  sunlight is shared by most such legends as fatal to vampires."
  "That don't help too much right now. We've got about another
  hour and a half until sunup." Ketchum kept the pistol trained on
  the vampire as he retrieved his shotgun. Miraculously, it had not
  discharged when he dropped it.
  "Well, another fairly commonly held belief is that decapitation
  will also kill a vampire."
  "That, I can do." He put his foot on the creature's chest, just
  below the neck.
  With a hiss, the vampire awoke just as Ketchum placed the
  shotgun's barrels against its throat. It bared its fangs and started
  to lunge upward at him.
  "Too late," he spat as he pulled both triggers.
  The soft crunch of a footstep on straw warned Ronan
  something was behind him. He ducked and turned into his
  attacker, catching it with his shoulder just above its waist. Legs
  pistoning, he pushed the creature backward into the barn.
  Inside, he drove it hard against the corner of a stall. It struck
  the post with a satisfying thud, but the impact barely fazed the
  thing. It brought both its fists down on Ronan's back and drove
  the gunslinger to his knees.
  As Ronan struggled to recover, the monster grabbed him by
  the throat and pulled him to his feet. With its other claw, it dealt
  him a tremendous backhanded blow, snapping his head to the
  right. Ronan put his pistol against the creature's gut and fired.
  The vampire flinched, but little else. It hefted him over its head
  and threw him into the stall, smashing the wooden dividing wall.
  Momentarily stunned, Ronan could do nothing but try to crawl
  away from the monster. A claw clamped around his boot, and he
  found himself being dragged backward. His pistol had slipped
  from his grasp when he struck the wall, and now he groped for
  anything he might use as a weapon.
  His hand closed on a piece of splintered planking.
  Keeping the wood close to his side, he rolled over to face the
  thing. As he turned, the vampire pounced. Ronan thrust the wood
  into the creature's chest, and its own momentum impaled it. It
  dropped heavily on him, thick black blood gushing from the gory
  wound.
  Ronan scrambled from under the wailing creature and backed
  off, looking for a way to make use of the moment's respite. By
  the time he had recovered his pistol, the creature had stopped
  moving.
  He prodded it with his boot gingerly. Nothing. Two A5 caliber
  bullets had barely slowed it down, but a, piece of wood had killed
  it. Ronan backed toward the stall door but bumped into
  something, and whirled about to face it.
  He was eyeball to eyeball with another one.
  
  A burst of staccato gunfire sounded to Ronan's left, and the
  vampire was literally knocked off its feet.
  "I hit it! Mr. Lynch, are you all right?" came a familiar voice
  from outside the barn.
  "A little worse for wear, but still moving," Ronan stepped out
  of the stall to find Thaddeus and Ketchum entering the barn. "By
  the way, those things take a lot of killing, so watch yourself."
  "We know," said Ketchum, grabbing the ax from the wall and
  stalking toward the creature Thaddeus had shot. "You got to take
  their heads."
  With one stroke of the ax, he did just that
  "Or expose them to the sun's rays." Thaddeus had wandered
  into the stall and was examining the other vampire.
  "I had wondered about this. A number of Eastern European
  cultures hold that a vampire may be immobilized by driving a
  stake through its heart. Mr. Lynch you seemed to have proven
  that particular hypothesis," Thaddeus said. "I would wager,
  however, that if we were to remove the stake the creature would
  rapidly regain its motivity."
  "That's a bet I'll not be takin' if you don't mind." Ketchum,
  finished with the first vampire, moved into the stall.
  "Okay, so what's going on here?" Ronan asked, looking at the
  ranger.
  "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I believe that I may be able to
  provide an answer to that question. Vampires, according to myth,
  regularly require a sizable quantity of blood to exist. In a large
  Eastern city, a fair-sized colony could exist or even possibly
  thrive. However, the West has a low population density, consisting
  primarily of small towns and homesteads. Such a society is ill-
  suited to supporting such a creature. However, technology has
  provided an answer to the vampire's problem." Thaddeus gestured
  toward the train. "The locomotive not only provides rapid
  transportation, it also serves as protection against the sun's
  rays."
  "So what you're sayin' is these things are usin' the railroad like
  a giant chow line?" Ronan asked.
  "In a word, yes."
  The train whistle blasted again.
  From town now came the occasional sounds of gunshots. The
  nosferatu were raiding the homes, and at least a few citizens
  were managing to fight back.
  Within moments, vampires began scampering from the
  shadows of the town toward the train. Many appeared to be
  carrying bundles over their shoulders. Occasionally, one of the
  bundles struggled with its captor.
  "Those things are takin' people with 'em!" Ketchum said.
  "I would postulate that the freight car serves as a private
  larder in which they stock victims for later meals." Thaddeus
  responded almost clinically. As if to agree with him, the creatures
  dumped the bodies in the rear train car.
  The locomotive began building steam for its departure. "What
  are you gonna do, Texas?" Ronan asked. "Think you've got time to
  chase this one?"
  "You know Lynch, there's one thing I really hate: smart-
  mouthed Yankees. You in?"
  "I don't have any plans for the next couple of hours. Besides,
  someone's got to be there to pull your bacon out of the fire."
  "Let's saddle up, then. We'll have to ride hard to catch that
  train." The two men began jogging toward the stables as the train
  pulled out of the station.
  "Gentlemen, may I suggest we take my wagon?" Thaddeus
  called out from behind.
  "No offense, Thaddeus, but it'll be hard enough catchin' it on
  horseback. We'll never do it on a buckboard."
  "You haven't seen my wagon."
  Washington's wagon was parked behind stables out back of
  the Palace. It was blanketed by a heavy tarp, and the three men
  hurried to uncover it. As the vehicle was unveiled, Ronan realized
  the scientist was right. He'd heard of steam wagons before, but
  he'd never seen one like this.
  Washington felt the need to explain his invention as he
  climbed aboard and started priming the boiler. "As you gentlemen
  can see, the wheels are similar to a regular wagon's, but are
  actually on spring-mounted metal axles. The rear axle is
  connected to the boiler here at the rear. This is the real source
  of its power." Washington held up a chunk of black rock that
  looked something like coal. The scientist didn't need to explain
  that it was actually a hunk of ghost rock, the fantastic substance
  that put lesser fuels to shame.
  Thaddeus climbed into the small space between the seat and
  the engine. "It will take just a moment for the boiler temperature
  to reach its operating range," he said adjusting a set of dials. A
  deep rumble came from inside the engine. "Gentlemen, if you'd
  care to mount the conveyance, we shall be departing shortly."
  "Not that I doubt your ability, Perfesser, but is this thing safe?"
  "Certainly. Now, if you please? The boiler is nearing operational
  temperature."
  Ronan climbed aboard, not wanting to miss a chance to nettle
  Ketchum. "What are you waitin' on, Texas? We've got a train to
  catch."
  
  Reluctantly, as if approaching a date with the hangman,
  Ketchum climbed around to the small cargo space behind the
  seat. Abruptly, the wagon lurched forward. Hank lost his balance
  and tumbled ungracefully onto the floorboards.
  "My apologies. She's a tad bit uncooperative until she's had a
  little time to run, Captain." The wagon quickly gained speed as it
  rolled toward the railroad. In a sheath beside Thaddeus, Ronan
  saw what appeared to be a rifle with a long hose attached.
  "What's that, a flamethrower?" he asked, barely disguising his
  disgust.
  "That is another item of my own devising—a steam-powered
  harpoon rifle." Ronan could detect a note of pride in the man's
  voice.
  "What's it for? Last time I checked, there weren't any whales in
  Kansas."
  "Obviously. However, there are Mojave rattlers in Utah, which
  aren't all that different from whales, as I understand it."
  "You shoot one with that little spear, and it'll be usin' it to
  pick its teeth after it eats you," came Ketchum's voice from
  behind. He'd regained his feet and was steadying himself with a
  hand on the seat's back.
  "Oh, I don't intend for the harpoon to kill the beast. You
  noticed the small anchors on the front of the wagon? Each
  harpoon is attached to an anchor. Once the beast is speared, the
  drag of the anchor should serve to tire it until it can be slain at
  leisure. It's basically the same principle one would use to hunt
  whales, so on that count, you're correct, Ronan."
  The wagon had built up considerable speed, moving across the
  Kansas prairie faster than a galloping horse. Ronan now
  understood the purpose of the springs underneath. Even with
  their aid, the wagon jumped and bounced violently. Ketchum was
  forced to take a knee to avoid being thrown from the vehicle.
  Although the stars provided a small amount of light, the tracks
  were barely visible beside the hurtling wagon. He looked over at
  the scientist who was staring intently into the darkness.
  "How do you see?" Ronan yelled above the wind.
  "Not very well."
  Ronan grinned as he heard Ketchum curse from behind.
  * 
  * 
  *
  The sky behind them was beginning to show the first traces
  of dawn when Ronan saw the dark silhouette of the train ahead.
  "Ketchum," he called over his shoulder, "get ready. We're coming
  up on the train."
  "Pull us up alongside the coal car, Perfesser. That's the best
  place to board," Ketchum yelled.
  Thaddeus pushed on a lever beside him, and the wagon
  jumped forward. In no time, they were even with the coal tender.
  "One word of caution, gentlemen. Be careful of any victims
  you find aboard the train," Thaddeus shouted. "Another aspect of
  the vampire mythology suggests that anyone who is slain by the
  bite of a vampire becomes one as well."
  "These things just get better and better," Ronan muttered.
  Ketchum passed his shotgun to Ronan and leapt to the car.
  Ronan then tossed the gun across to the ranger and jumped over
  himself. Once they were aboard, Thaddeus drifted away from the
  train, keeping a parallel course.
  "I'll take the engine, Lynch. You secure the freight car."
  "You think it's such a good idea to split up, Ranger?"
  "If we don't, they're liable to kill the people just for spite-and
  somebody's got to stop the train." For once, Ronan found he
  agreed with Ketchum. He nodded and headed toward the back of
  the train. Ketchum watched him for a moment and then began to
  move carefully forward across the loose coal.
  Ronan reached the end of the coal tender. Ahead of him was
  the first passenger car. Carefully balancing on the coupling, he
  reached to the ladder beside the door. Climbing the ladder with
  one good hand proved easier than he had hoped, and he soon
  pulled himself onto the top of the car.
  Gaining the center of the car, he began to walk toward the
  rear of the train. Although the train swayed gently as it moved
  along the track, he easily kept his balance.
  Soon he reached the end of the first car. A three-foot gap
  separated him from the next roof. He gauged the distance and
  figured he could easily clear it from a standing jump, but
  hesitated. Looking down, he saw the ground rushing under the
  train. Ronan backed up a few paces and ran toward the gap.
  He easily cleared the space and landed heavily on the other
  side. After a moment, he regained his balance and began walking
  along the crest of the second car. In less than a minute, he stood
  opposite the freight car. Once again, he took a running start and
  leapt across the gap.
  Midway through the jump, Ronan felt something vise-like
  clamp around his right ankle and pull him down.
  Ketchum crept across the coal, his shotgun leveled before him.
  He could see a faint glow from the engineer's compartment.
  He moved closer and saw a figure standing there in the dim
  light. He brought the shotgun to his shoulder, drew aim on it, and
  gently squeezed both triggers. As he did, the train hit a rough
  spot, and the coal beneath Ketchum's feet shifted. His shots went
  high, spattering pellets into the roof of the locomotive.
  
  The figure turned almost sluggishly toward him and began to
  climb out of the cab onto the coal. Clumsily backpedaling,
  Ketchum broke open the shotgun and dug into his pocket for
  more shells.
  The thing had mounted the coal pile and was trudging toward
  him. Hurriedly, Ketchum jammed the shells into the gun and
  snapped it shut.
  The creature was almost on him. It was no vampire.
  Ketchum had fought more than his fair share of walking dead.
  It was part of the job that came with being the Confederacy's
  secret army against the supernatural. This thing's decaying flesh
  indicated it long since shuffled off this mortal coil, but it had
  come crawling back in its own unique way. It had a vacancy to
  its eyes Ketchum had never encountered in the undead, and its
  mouth was sewn shut by a heavy, dark thread.
  Ketchum's attempts to identify the creature were cut short as
  it raised an arm over its head to strike him. The ranger brought
  his shotgun up to block the thing's attack. The force of the blow
  shattered the weapon's stock, and Ketchum felt his feet shift on
  the coal. He tossed the useless weapon aside and backed further
  along the surface of the coal.
  The zombie followed him slowly.
  Ketchum drew his pistol and fired twice into the monster's
  chest. He might as well have been throwing rocks at it. "You
  never know til you try," he muttered to himself, then drew a
  bead right between the monster's dead eyes.
  "Enough of this," he said and fired. The thing's head rocked
  back. Ketchum could see the hole the bullet had left in its
  forehead, but it hadn't missed a step. "Now that just could be
  trouble."
  Ketchum took another step back and felt his boot strike the
  end of the coal bin. Behind him, he saw the blur of the ground
  rushing beneath the train. Ketchum felt the coal shift under his
  feet again as the train hit another rough spot. Turning back to
  the advancing creature, he fired twice more. This time, however,
  his aim was much lower.
  The zombie's knees exploded with the impact of the bullets,
  and it crashed forward into the coal. Ketchum side-stepped its
  outflung arms and darted as quickly as he dared toward the
  locomotive's cab.
  Ronan's upper body whipped onto the roof of the freight car
  as his leg was dragged downward. The grip on his ankle relaxed,
  and he fell into the space between the cars. He groped wildly for
  a handhold as he dropped toward the ground rushing below, but
  found none. Suddenly, he was struck in the chest, hard. Ronan
  felt a few of his ribs give way, but his fall had stopped.
  He had landed on the coupling between the passenger and
  freight cars.
  Striving to maintain his precarious balance, he rolled his back
  against the freight car. Climbing onto the coupling from the
  passenger car was a vampire. Behind it, he could see an open
  doorway framing several more pale, rat-like faces.
  Ronan pulled himself to a sitting position straddling the
  coupling and drew his Peacemaker, realizing it was a temporary
  measure at best. Either way, there were more of them than he
  had bullets, and reloading quickly wasn't a one-handed
  gunslinger's strong point.
  The vampire reached the center of the coupling.
  Ronan fired once at the monster, striking it solid in the gut.
  The shot slowed it momentarily. That was all he had hoped for.
  Ronan jammed the pistol into his waistband and lunged
  forward. As he struggled to release the coupling, sharp, ripping
  pains across his shoulders told him the vampire had recovered
  sooner than he'd hoped. He felt his shirt and flesh being torn to
  tatters by the thing's claws.
  Then he felt the coupling release. Gradually, the freight car
  began to fall away from the train. The vampire crouched atop the
  center of the coupling lost its balance and pitched forward into
  the widening gap. It lashed out a claw and caught the edge of
  the freight car's coupling.
  "Not hardly," Ronan said as he drew his Peacemaker again and
  took aim at the creature's hand. It only took two shots. The car
  barely moved as it ran over the thing's blood-bloated body.
  Ketchum reached the cab and quickly looked about. The
  compartment was empty save for the locomotive's controls. It
  took a moment of trial and error to determine which lever was
  the throttle and which the brake. The ranger was preparing to
  haul back on the brake lever when he noticed a movement out
  of the corner of his eye. Behind him, a number of grinning
  vampires were creeping forward across the coal pile.
  The battle-hardened Ranger drew his revolver and fired at the
  lead monster. The bullet caught it square in the chest, and the
  thing was staggered by the impact. When he pulled the trigger a
  second time, the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
  He quickly bolstered the pistol and drew his gleaming Bowie
  knife. He flipped it deftly in his hand and prepared to throw. He
  wasn't sure the knife would work as a stake, but it sure as Hell
  wouldn't hurt to try.
  He drew back to throw at the closest creature, but stopped. At
  best he'd get one, and the rest would be on him like flies on a
  corpse. He flipped the knife again, this time catching it by the
  handle.
  
  Grabbing the throttle, he opened it fully and stuck the point of
  the knife behind the lever. Straining, he twisted the handle and
  broke the point in the mechanism, jamming the throttle open.
  The train began to accelerate. With any luck, it would soon build
  enough speed to derail itself.
  He turned back to face the advancing vampires with his
  broken blade. One of the fiends hissed at him from the edge of
  the adjacent coal car.
  "All right, you blood-sucking bastard, let's dance."
  The vampire tensed to spring. Ketchum braced himself. Then,
  the point of a spear appeared out of the center of the monster's
  stomach. The thing stared at the shaft protruding from its belly
  for a moment, then gripped it with both hands and began to
  push it out.
  Ketchum looked past the creature to see Thaddeus lowering
  the harpoon gun. The scientist had missed the thing's heart, but
  it was a good try.
  The scientist saluted, then reached to a lever beside the
  steering wheel and pulled it toward him. An anchor dropped
  from the front of the wagon, and the rope on the harpoon
  quivered. Suddenly, it pulled taught, and the creature was jerked
  backward off the train. Ketchum saw it careen off the corner of
  the passenger car, explode like a blood sausage, and cartwheel
  into twilight.
  The wagon accelerated, pulling alongside the cab.
  "Jump!" yelled Thaddeus, motioning now toward the front of
  the train. A quick glance revealed the train was rapidly
  approaching a dry wash. Although there was a trestle across the
  wide gully, the steam wagon would not be able to cross it. If he
  stayed on the train, he'd be on his own and armed with only a
  broken knife.
  Ketchum looked back and saw three more vampires
  scampering across the coal. In the distance, he could see Ronan
  and the detached freight car rolling to a stop. There was nothing
  to keep him here now.
  "To Hell with it and the rest o' you," he spat at the hissing
  nosferatu. The ranger drew a deep breath, then took two quick
  steps and launched himself at the steam wagon. He landed
  heavily, half in the wagon, with his boots scraping the Kansas
  soil. Thaddeus veered sharply away from the train.
  The freight car coasted to a stop. Ronan dropped painfully
  from the coupling and walked toward the car's sliding side door.
  He jammed his pistol in his belt, popped open the cylinder, and
  carefully reloaded it with his good hand. The sun was cresting
  the horizon behind the train as he opened the door. Nothing
  happened, so the grim gunfighter pulled himself up into the car.
  A vampire launched itself at him from out of the shadows.
  Ronan pulled his pistol, but the thing snatched his wrist and
  twisted his hand away. It grabbed his face with its other claw
  and bore him to the floor at the edge of the door.
  The back of Ronan's head struck the hard wood, and he felt
  the pistol slip from his grasp. The vampire released his arm but
  kept its hold on his head, smashing it again and again into the
  floor. The force of the impact dizzied him. Ronan knew that if
  his brain was crushed, even he might not survive. He fumbled
  desperately about for the pistol. Then his fingers brushed the
  edge of the sliding door.
  The creature jerked his head up again. As it brought it back
  down, Ronan kicked up with both legs, catching the vampire on
  its bony butt. The kick launched the fiend forward and over
  Ronan's head. He twisted and threw his weight to the right while
  pulling on the door. The door rolled closed and caught the
  vampire on its bald head. The blow stunned the monster, and it
  slumped in the opening. Ronan rolled to his feet. Once more he
  leaned against the door and pushed with all his might.
  This time the door closed almost completely, separating the
  vampire from its head.
  In the dim light seeping through the cracked door, Ronan
  looked about the car. All around lay the bodies of the vampires'
  captives. An occasional groan of pain let him know at least some
  were alive. He guessed the vampires preferred their blood warm.
  He retrieved his pistol and carefully made his way to where
  the vampire had been lurking. There he found a limp form lying
  face down on the floor. A vicious neck wound told him this
  fellow hadn't been so lucky. He kneeled and rolled the body over.
  "Knaggs," he said to himself. The man's face was pale and
  lifeless. Ronan rose and picked his way back to the freight door.
  As he reached it, the sound of a boots scuffling across wood
  caused him to turn.
  Stalking across the floor behind him came the bushwacker.
  Knagg's eyes now flickered with red embers, and his mouth hung
  open, exposing his unnaturally long teeth. His upper body wove
  hypnotically like a snake readying for a strike.
  Ronan gripped the edge of the sliding door and flung it back
  along its track. Dawn flooded the car. The thing that had been
  Knaggs dropped smoking to the floor, screaming as it went.
  Outside the car, Ronan heard Washington's steam wagon
  approach. Both the inventor and Ketchum looked battered but
  alive.
  By the time Ronan turned back to Knaggs, his corpse was
  nothing more than a charred ruin. Ronan prodded it with the toe
  of his boot and grinned as it crumbled to ash.
  "Consider that a down payment on what you owe me, Knaggs.
  I'll come for the rest when I see you in Hell."
  
  Welcome back, partner!
  Those vampires give new
  meaning to the term "taking a
  dirt nap," don't they? Here's a
  what we call an A-l prime
  opportunity for your heroes to
  tackle those two-legged
  leeches themselves, so tell 'em
  to strap on their six-shooters
  and load their scatterguns-this
  one's gonna get bloody!
  Before the white man ever
  set foot on the American
  continent, Indian tribes in what
  is now southern New Mexico
  were plagued by a group of
  primitive nosferatu-what
  Europeans like to call
  vampires.
  For years, these creatures
  virtually ruled the night in the
  American Southwest. After the
  things had decimated his tribe,
  a clever Navaho brave swore
  vengeance.
  He did not know how to kill
  the things, but he knew they
  shunned the daylight and hid
  from it within a dark cave. The
  brave waited until the sun
  shone brightly, then ventured
  into their labyrinthine lair.
  There he found scores of the
  hideous fiends sleeping in
  shallow graves in the earthen
  floor. The brave swiftly
  summoned his warband and
  they collapsed the cave, sealing
  the nosferatu within for
  centuries.
  Time passed, history became
  myth, and myth was in turn
  forgotten.
  
  •/>' • 
  '• <:.
  In late December, 1875, a
  band of outlaws hiding from
  the law in western New Mexico
  stumbled upon the old cave.
  The bandits holed up inside for
  a few days before they
  discovered the sealed tunnel at
  the back of their makeshift
  hideout.
  The bandits, visions of lost
  Indian gold in their heads,
  tunneled through the debris.
  The vampires, starved by
  centuries of imprisonment,
  were on the outlaws before
  they even realized the danger.
  Most of the outlaws were
  killed before their guns cleared
  leather. A few were able to put
  up a fight, but in the end only
  one-Tom "Redeye" Dawson-
  escaped the ruins.
  A month later, Dawson's
  wild tale reached the ears of
  Baron Simone LaCroix-owner
  of the notorious Bayou
  Vermillion railroad.
  LaCroix had been using
  zombies in his work crews for
  years. The possibilities offered
  by this new form of
  bloodsucking undead caught
  his imagination. Perhaps he
  had even found a solution to
  the Apache raiding parties
  stalling his advance in Arizona.
  He had Dawson-now publicly
  known as a crazed drunkard-
  summoned for an interview.
  LaCroix immediately
  outfitted an expedition-led by
  a reluctant, but well-paid
  Dawson-to capture the foul
  monsters.
  The expedition found the
  creatures still nesting in the
  ruins. Fear of being caught in
  the surrounding desert at
  daybreak had trapped the
  vampires in their den.
  This same weakness made
  them useless to LaCroix. The
  nosferatu were incapable of
  hunting Apache raiders
  because sunlight proved almost
  instantly fatal to them. The
  monsters were too ravenous to
  trust to a simple work crew
  either. LaCroix soon decided he
  couldn't use the creatures to
  speed his own construction.
  Then an evil thought
  occurred to LaCroix: he would
  release the vampires along his
  opponents' railroads. The
  creatures would devastate the
  lines of communication and
  possibly even the population
  centers. The resulting chaos
  would wreak havoc on the
  other rail barons' westward
  advance.
  Baron LaCroix rushed to
  have a special train prepared.
  The locomotive is powered by
  the newest ghost-rock steam
  engine, but it's been disguised
  to look like an older coal
  burning locomotive to keep
  suspicions to a minimum.
  The Night Train is outfitted
  with an adjustable carriage to
  allow it to traverse the various
  gauges the other railroads use.
  Special "sleeper" cars protect
  the monsters during the
  daylight hours, and a freight
  car serves as a grisly larder of
  human flesh.
  Finally, since no mortal man
  would crew such a train, a
  zombie was created to serve as
  engineer. For his first engineer,
  LaCroix selected the now-
  useless Dawson-much to
  Redeye's dismay.
  The Disputed Territories are
  currently crisscrossed with
  hundreds of railroad tracks.
  The fighting between Black
  River and Union Blue alone
  has spawned dozens of spurs
  leading from one railroad to
  the other. Just over a week ago,
  the Night Train entered Kansas
  on the Black River line.
  The Night Train uses this
  web to prey on small isolated
  stations, homesteads, and even
  small towns. The vampires'
  numbers are slowly growing,
  and they may soon begin to
  hunger for even larger towns.
  The Night Train preyed on
  Barlowe Station last night. It's
  next target is Varney Flats, and
  that's where our heroes just
  happen to wander next.
  There are two ways to bring
  the posse into Varney Flats.
  The first is to run the scenario
  as a single continuous
  adventure, beginning with the
  heroes arriving at Barlowe
  Station and then continuing on
  to Varney Flats from there.
  The other option takes a
  little longer, but builds tension
  and makes for a creepier
  showdown in the end. Instead
  of running the scenario as a
  single adventure, intersperse
  several encounters similar to
  Barlowe Station throughout
  your campaign. Let the heroes
  
  encounter a few small
  settlements or waystations
  where everyone's missing. The
  only clues are some old
  bloodstains leading to the
  railroad tracks, and even those
  likely require Hard (9) trackin'
  rolls. Eventually, of course, the
  posse comes across Barlowe
  Station, and this adventure
  begins.
  Regardless of the option
  chosen, the posse reaches
  Barlowe Station just before
  twilight. They can be
  passengers on another train
  stopping momentarily at the
  station, or they can be riding
  horses across the plains.
  Barlowe Station is just that: a
  rail station and really nothing
  more. It serves primarily to
  replenish the water supplies on
  locomotives. Few if any
  passengers ever get off at
  Barlowe, and even fewer board
  there.
  The facilities are limited to a
  small office and a water tower,
  and the station was staffed by
  a single person.
  Last night, LaCroix's Night
  Train stopped here. The
  vampires poured out of the
  cars and over the small station
  before the station master even
  had time to finish dressing. He
  did manage to fight back,
  «*&>-
  though, emptying his revolver
  into the monsters as they
  climbed through his bedroom
  window. Unfortunately, the
  bullets had no lasting effect on
  the creatures, and he was soon
  killed. After feeding on his
  fresh corpse, the vampires
  dumped his drained body in
  the outhouse.
  Other trains have passed the
  station during the day, but the
  posse is the first to stop at
  Barlowe since the attack.
  OF THE ONE
  When the posse arrives at
  the station, they find it empty
  of human life. Close inspection
  reveals that it has not been
  long abandoned.
  This scene is all about
  searching for clues around the
  station. To help you keep track
  of everything that can be
  found, look under the Clues
  sections below. At the end of
  each clue are listed the
  Aptitudes needed to find
  something, followed by the TN,
  all in parentheses.
  T-H-E
  A sign marked "Barlowe"
  swings from a post outside
  this single-story, unpainted
  building. A wooden platform
  surrounds the building, and
  two wooden benches sit on the
  side toward the rails.
  Barlowe Station is a two-
  room affair. The front room
  holds the station master's desk,
  a wood stove, and a large map
  on the wall. A pair of
  spectacles still lie upon the
  desk.
  The second room is a
  storeroom and has little of
  interest. Neither room appears
  to have been looted or even
  searched.
  Station Master's Desk:
  Logs were maintained up until
  yesterday evening. The last
  train to arrive was a Black
  River express to Denver.
  (Foolproof (3) search)
  Station Master's Desk:
  The ink in the inkwell is still
  wet. It would normally dry out
  after three or four days.
  Obviously, the murder here
  took place within that time
  period. (Fair (5) Knowledge)
  Map: A map on the wall
  shows the next town on the
  route is Varney Flats. Scores of
  spurs run off Black River's
  main lines in this area.
  (Foolproof (3) search)
  THE
  There are a few things to be
  found outside the station, as
  shown on the map on the
  following page. In addition to
  that, numerous tracks can be
  found in the dirt around the
  station if the posse hasn't
  already walked over them,
  stomping them out of
  existence.
  Outside: Several human
  tracks outside the station lead
  from and back to the tracks.
  An exact count of the number
  of people who made the
  imprints is impossible, but the
  total is above 10 individuals. On
  a raise, the tracker can tell
  that some of the prints were
  shod. Others were barefoot.
  With two raises, the character
  notices the unshod feet have
  extremely long toenails-maybe
  claws! (Fair (5) Tracking
  
  iX—rt.
  The unpainted, one-story
  barn contains two horse stalls
  and room for feed. The pen to
  the outside has a feed trough
  to the east and a gate beside
  the barn door.
  One tired mare stomps
  nervously inside, and a couple
  of pigs remain in the pen.
  There are remnants of food in
  the pig pen.
  Happy Pigs: The animals
  were fed yesterday. (Fair (5)
  Animal wranglin', medicine:
  veterinary, or trade: farmer)
  A small porch leads to the
  front door of this unpainted
  but well-cared-for shack.
  There's a small vegetable
  garden the northeast, trampled
  by scores of footprints.
  The shack is locked. Deep
  grooves (claw marks) in the
  wood remain where the
  nosferatu tried to fight their
  way in (they wound up going
  through the window instead).
  The front room of the shack
  served as the kitchen, dining
  room, and living room. This
  area is undisturbed.
  The rear room-where the
  station master was sleeping
  when the Night Train rolled
  in— is in shambles. The solitary
  window is broken in, and light
  streams through several bullet
  holes beneath the window.
  Bed and Floor: The
  bedsheets are thrown back,
  and a night stand beneath the
  window is overturned. In the
  center of the floor lies a Colt
  Navy .36 revolver. Scattered
  around it are six .36 rounds.
  Beside the pistol are two
  expended shells. If a character
  examines the Colt, he finds
  four expended rounds in the
  chambers. Three bullet holes
  can be seen under the window.
  The rest are unaccounted for.
  (Foolproof (3) search)
  Blood on the Floor: Also
  on the floor near the pistol is
  a small puddle of blood. The
  blood is no more than a day
  old. A raise reveals something
  has lapped at the blood after it
  was spilled. Further searching
  uncovers no further blood in
  the room, not even on the
  broken glass. (Foolproof (3)
  Medicine or tracking
  Overturned Nightstand:
  $250 dollars in Confederate
  scrip. (Fair (5) Search)
  Outside the Window: A set
  of recent and deep footprints
  lead from the rear window to
  the outhouse. (Fair (5) Tracking
  A fellow's got to do what a
  fellow's got to do. And the
  station master did it here.
  The Outhouse: A character
  examining the seating in the
  outhouse finds the boards are
  loose. The stench from beneath
  smells of more than just waste.
  The distinct smell of death
  lurks down there. (Fair (5)
  Search)
  Down the Hole: Any hero
  stalwart enough to climb into
  the hole finds the body of the
  station master beneath the
  filth. No search roll is required,
  but the Marshal should make
  the hero make an Onerous (7)
  Vigor roll or lose Id8 Wind due
  to the stench. This loss goes
  away at the rate of one per
  hour.
  The Body: On the corpse
  are a number of enormous rat-
  like bites. A raise on the roll
  tells that the true cause of
  death was blood loss. In fact,
  the corpse is nearly withered.
  (Onerous (7) Medicine)
  Eventually the heroes find
  all the evidence they care to
  and move on. If the characters
  are riding a train, the
  conductor stops at the next
  town, Varney Flats, to report
  the incident. The train won't
  arrive there until early the next
  morning.
  
  If the posse is mounted, a
  quick investigation of the
  station map shows the nearest
  population center on their
  route is Varney Flats. It's about
  a half day's ride from their
  location. If they don't seem
  particularly interested in
  following the mysterious train,
  have them wander into Varney
  Flats out of chance or for
  whatever other reason suits
  your campaign.
  Points
  Action
  Learn the crime
  occurred yesterday
  Discover the station
  master fought back
  unsuccessfully
  Learn the attackers
  came from and
  left by a train
  Examine the station
  master's body and
  determine the cause
  of death
  Two:
  Varney Flats, KS-Fear Level 2.
  Seldom do visitors bother to
  stop in Varney Flats, so the
  posse draws quite a bit of
  attention. The townspeople
  aren't suspicious, just curious
  as to why anyone would stop
  in their little piece of Hell.
  Founded two years ago,
  Varney Flats is little more than
  a water stop for locomotives
  traveling westward. Most
  respectable folk have long
  since moved on. Recently it's
  gained a small boost from
  buffalo hunters.
  The hunters use the town as
  a base for launching their
  hunting raids into the Coyote
  Confederation's lands. This
  practice is frowned on by
  North, South, and Indian
  governments alike, but the
  revenue from the hunters is
  too great for the community to
  put a stop to it.
  Here are some of the places
  the party may explore in town
  Description: This is a small
  wood-frame building with an
  office in front and living
  quarters to the rear.
  Occupants: The owner is
  Joanne Webb. She's a middle
  aged, dour woman who has
  even removed a bullet or
  arrow from a patient on
  occasion.
  LJ/ERY
  Description: The smithy has
  an open-front, wood building
  attached to a corral and
  barn. A wagon sits to the
  east of the barn.
  Occupants: The blacksmith is
  Silas Fletcher, a large, well-
  muscled black man with a
  strong handshake and a
  friendly and open demeanor.
  
  / '
  Description: A collection of
  ramshackle shanties and
  tents surrounded by piles of
  buffalo hides and wagons
  sits outside of town. Mayor
  Sam Varney hates these
  "degenerate drunkards," but
  the local merchants love
  them. Their gold spends just
  like anyone else's.
  Occupants: Over 20 uncouth
  and dirty buffalo hunters,
  their mules, and their
  wagons occupy this rough
  shantytown.
  Description: The church is a
  steepled, wooden building
  with broken windows and
  peeling paint. It was
  abandoned over six months
  ago when the preacher
  moved on westward.
  Anything of value has long
  since been carted off,
  including the pulpit and
  pews.
  Occupants: There are no
  occupants, save for the
  buffalo hunters who often
  move in here when it rains.
  Description: The front of this
  two-story frame building
  still reads "Gentry's Dry
  Goods" underneath the
  newly painted "Guns" sign.
  Business is conducted
  exclusively on the first floor,
  and the owner lives on the
  second. Most any standard
  firearm can be purchased
  here, though the owner
  mostly stocks weapons and
  ammunition for the buffalo
  hunters.
  Occupants: The owner is
  Cicero Gentry, a tall,
  cadaverous bachelor with a
  prominent hooked nose.
  &RBY'^ -HOTEL
  Description: Kirby's is a
  shabby two-story wood
  building with 10 rooms. They
  are available at a rate of $1
  per night. Meals are also
  served at a small additional
  cost.
  Occupants: The owners are
  Wilson and Abigail Kir by.
  Wilson is a heavyset, sweaty,
  middle-aged man with
  nervous eyes. Abigail is tall
  with stringy hair and too
  much makeup. Upwards of
  six guests stay here, usually
  the most successful buffalo
  hunters tired of sleeping out
  in the shantytown.
  Description: The land office
  is another two-story frame
  building with a faded sign
  that reads "Surveyor and
  Land Office." The only
  problem is, this isn't a land
  office anymore. It has
  instead been converted into
  a seedy makeshift saloon
  frequented by buffalo
  hunters.
  Occupants: James Marcus is
  the owner and bartender.
  Any lawmen or bounty
  hunters might recognize him
  with a Hard (9) Knowledge
  roll as a one-time gambler
  wanted in Dakota Territory
  for shooting a man during a
  poker game. The bounty on
  his head is $100. His lackey
  and bouncer is Fred Stokes.
  Stokes is competent with
  both fists and gun when not
  drunk (which unfortunately
  isn't all that often). Their
  lone serving girl is Mary
  Roper, an aging ex-soiled
  dove with a heart of stone.
  After dinner, there are 2d6
  buffalo hunters in here and
  another Id4 locals.
  Description: McBride and
  Parrish work out of this
  one-story stone building.
  There is a one-room office
  to the front which contains
  a desk, two chairs, and a
  bunk to one side. A rack on
  the wall beside the front
  door holds three rifles and
  two double-barrel shotguns.
  A barred door to the rear of
  the office leads to a short
  hall with three jail cells.
  Currently only one of the
  
  ;> -• 1^
  ^T^/]£fc
  cells is occupied, the one
  holding the killer Abner
  Knaggs.
  Occupants: Deputy Parrish
  and Abner Knaggs.
  -H-OTEL
  Description:. The Palace is a
  tall, three-story frame
  building, and it was the first
  saloon to be built in Varney
  Flats. Its former elegance is
  still evident, but fading fast.
  Upstairs, 12 rooms are
  available at $2 per night.
  Meals area available at lunch
  and dinner for an extra $1.
  Occupants: Eloise Brahms is a
  Southern belle whose family
  lost its fortune early in the
  war. She seldom makes an
  appearance in her saloon,
  preferring to let Jake Harding
  run the place. Harding serves
  as the gruff bartender. No
  one but Eloise knows it, but
  Jake was once a gunslinger,
  and he's still handy with a
  gun. There are also 2d4
  customers after dinner, and
  Id6 overnight guests.
  Description: Stacks of buffalo
  hides sit on this one-story
  frame building's porch. Few
  articles are still for sale here
  anymore— it's become a
  trading post for the buffalo
  hunters.
  Occupant: Dick Hotchner is
  the proprietor. He's a
  widower in his late 40s
  who's latched onto the hide
  trade to make a living.
  Description: This small, two-
  room frame building serves
  as both Varney Flat's
  telegraph and post office.
  The operator sleeps in the
  back room.
  Occupant: Clarence Johnson is
  a bachelor in his late
  twenties. He keeps abreast
  of happenings in the world
  and may have a recent copy
  of the Tombstone Epitaph on
  hand.
  Description: A one-room
  office building, water tower,
  and a covered bench make
  up the town's station.
  Occupant: The station master
  is George Drew, an older
  gentleman with Southern
  leanings. He often sleeps at
  his desk— day or night.
  Description: This two-story
  wood building is the best-
  kept in town. Inside is a
  good selection of goods,
  although the prices are
  inflated.
  Occupant: The owner is
  Mayor Sam Varney.
  NOTA-BLE Loc^u^
  Here are some folks you
  might want to know about.
  Deputy Nathan Parrish is a
  small bookish man, ill-suited
  to the profession of Western
  lawman. He immerses himself
  daily in dime novels and
  fantasizes about the exploits of
  Buffalo Bill and the like.
  Unfortunately, he lacks either
  the skill or courage to live up
  to his heroes. Until yesterday,
  Deputy Parrish could hide
  behind Marshal McBride. Now
  that McBride has disappeared,
  Parrish has found himself the
  only law in Varney Flats. With
  Knaggs in his custody, he
  knows trouble is just around
  the corner.
  Corporeal: D:2d6, N:2d6, S:ld6,
  Q:3d6, V:2d4
  Dodge 4d6, ridin': horse 3d6,
  shootin': shotgun 3d6
  Mental: C:2d8, K:2dlO, M:2d4,
  Sm:3d8, Sp:ld6
  Academia: history IdlO, Area
  Knowledge: county 2dlO,
  Science: general IdlO
  Edges: Lawman (now suddenly
  at Level 3)
  Hindrances: Scrawny, yeller
  (but he tries real hard!)
  Gear: Double barrel shotgun,
  box of 25 shells, dime novel
  Parrish's sole prisoner is the
  murderer named Abner Knaggs.
  The outlaw has long,
  unwashed hair, a scraggly
  beard containing the remnants
  of (hopefully) last night's stew,
  and five teeth.
  Personality-wise, he is a
  despicable, back-stabbing killer
  whose only claim to humanity
  is his parentage—and even
  that's in doubt. He's slithered
  across southern Kansas leaving
  a trail of dead sodbusters,
  pioneers, women, children,
  dogs, and just anything else he
  could run down, shoot, stab, or
  club to death. The reward on
  Knaggs head at the time of his
  capture was $100-alive.
  Two days ago, Marshal
  McBride tracked Knaggs from
  the site of a bushwacking.
  Knaggs, knowing a fair fight
  when he saw one, quickly
  surrendered, hoping for a
  chance to escape later. Now
  that Mcbride has disappeared,
  Knaggs plans to overpower
  Parrish the first chance he gets
  and make a run for it.
  If the posse gives Abner half
  a chance to escape, he takes it.
  While they guard him, he
  taunts them constantly and
  generally makes them wish
  they could join the lynch mob.
  Use Abner to try your posse's
  patience and show them how
  hard it is to be a law dog
  sometimes.
  |r
  U
  
  Corporeal: D:2d8, N:3d8, S:ld8,
  Q:3d8, V:2dlO
  Fightin': brawlin' 4d8, shootin':
  rifle 4d8, sneak 5d&
  Mental: O2dlO, K:ld6, M:ld6,
  Sm:ld8, Sp:ld6
  Bluff 2d8, language: Comanche
  2d6, ridicule 2d8, survival:
  plains 4d8, trackin' 3dlO
  Edges: Keen
  Hindrances: Mean as a
  Rattler, Outlaw (4), Ugly as
  Sin
  Gear: Sharps .50, .44 Army
  revolver, Bowie knife, deck of
  marked cards. (All of these
  are impounded at the jail.)
  A wealthy entrepreneur, Sam
  Varney had come out West
  hoping to found the next
  Dodge City, linking the cattle
  trade to the expanding rail
  systems. He planned to use the
  town's success as a stepping
  stone to a profitable career in
  politics.
  Unfortunately, he placed his
  town between Dodge City and
  Abilene. On top of that, Varney
  Flats is almost due north of
  the Coyote Confederation— not
  the most favorable route for
  cattle drives. His venture made
  it almost four months before
  becoming a virtual ghost town.
  His fortune dwindled with the
  town's until the arrival of the
  buffalo hunters.
  Varney does not approve of
  the illegal raids of the buffalo
  hunters, but he can't ignore the
  much-needed money they are
  bringing to town. Knaggs'
  capture is Varney's chance to
  show that, even though the
  buffalo hunters are camped
  outside town, the citizens won't
  tolerate any sort of rough
  behavior. Hanging Knaggs,
  especially before the circuit
  judge comes, should set the
  rest of the "scum" straight.
  A tall man in his early
  forties, Varney's black hair is
  beginning to gray at the
  temples. His confident manner,
  combined with a quick temper,
  make him an imposing figure.
  Varney still struggles to
  maintain the facade of a rich
  and affluent businessman,
  despite his current situation.
  Corporeal: D:2d6, N:2d6, S:2d6,
  Q:3d6, V:2d8
  Fightin': brawlin' 2d6, shootin':
  pistol 3d6
  Mental: C:2d4, K:ld8, M:4d8,
  Sm:2d6, Sp:ldlO
  Bluff 3d6, overawe 4d8,
  persuasion 3d8, professional:
  politics 3d8, ridicule 3d6
  Edges: Voice (Soothing and
  Threatening)
  Hindrances: High Falutin',
  Yearnin' (to be a powerful
  politician)
  Gear: Colt Peacemaker, fancy
  cane.
  After the the heroes have
  been in town for an hour or
  so, Deputy Parrish approaches
  them. He's been watching the
  group since shortly after their
  arrival, but he's been waiting
  for an appropriate moment to
  corner them.
  The deputy approaches
  cautiously, hoping to get the
  heroes to speak with him
  privately. If they hear him out,
  Parrish talks in hushed tones
  and frequently looks over his
  shoulder to see if anyone is
  listening.
  Read the following when
  you're ready to let Parrish spill
  the beans.
  H-Howdy, friends. You
  look like the, um,
  adventurous sort, and I
  was wondering if I could
  interest you in a little
  work.
  I got a little bit of a
  problem. There's this
  murderer in jail, a buffalo
  hunter named Abner
  Knaggs. Killed some
  settlers. He's going to
  swing when the circuit
  judge gets here in a few
  days, but I'm afraid the
  
  townsfolk might not want
  to wait for the judge, if
  you know what I mean.
  You see, Mayor Varney
  hates the buffalo hunters.
  He thinks they'll keep us
  from gaining, well,
  "respectability." Knaggs
  was a buffalo hunter, and
  a murderer at that. So he
  wants to see him hanged.
  Marshal McBride
  would've kept Varney in
  line, but he went out to
  check on some other
  families where Knaggs
  did his business and has
  been missing since
  yesterday.
  Parrish wants the heroes to
  help him guard Knaggs tonight.
  He's willing to temporarily
  deputize all of them if need be,
  and he's ready to pay too,
  Parrish even offers to split
  Knaggs' $100 reward amongst
  the heroes for one night's work.
  (Since Marshal McBride
  captured Knaggs in pursuit of
  his normal duties, he and
  Parrish are ineligible for the
  money anyway.)
  Assuming the posse agrees,
  Parrish takes them to the jail
  and swears them in.
  BOJKTY PbNT5»
  Action 
  Points
  Learn about McBride's
  disappearance 
  1
  Accept the deputy's offer 
  3
  Should the posse decide to
  ride out to look for Marshal
  McBride, Parrish asks them not
  to go. Parrish fears Varney may
  try something while they are
  gone. If they insist, he tells
  them to ride east for a mile
  and then follow the railroad
  tracks for another 10 miles or
  so to the next farm.
  The house, built like many
  on the Great Plains, is made
  primarily of stacked squares of
  dirt. There are two windows in
  the house, but they are without
  glass panes, only shutters. A
  small corral, currently empty,
  stands to the side. The door to
  the building stands open,
  swaying slowly back and forth
  when the wind blows.
  The sodhouse is entirely
  uninhabited. Along one wall
  sits a straw-tick bed and a
  dresser. Inside the dresser is
  clothing for a man and a
  woman. In the center of the
  room is a table with four
  chairs. Two of the chairs are
  overturned. Two cups rest on
  the table, both half-full with
  cold coffee.
  If any hero decides to
  examine the windows, she sees
  the windows' shutters were
  battered open from the outside
  in.
  The Shotgun: A double-
  barrel shotgun, broken open
  for loading, lies under the
  table. Two expended shotgun
  shells sit under the bed.
  (Foolproof (3)SearcM
  More Tracks: Outside of
  the sod house there are tracks
  like those at Barlowe station
  and tracks from a single horse.
  (Fair (5) Tracking
  McBride's Gun: On the
  ground outside the house is a
  Colt Peacemaker. Engraved on
  the handle is "To Marshal Seth
  McBride from the Grateful
  People of Varney Flats. 1874."
  Three rounds have been fired
  from it. (Onerous (7) Search)
  Around 7 PM a whole pot of
  trouble starts brewing in
  Varney Flats. Sam Varney calls
  a meeting of the more
  influential townsfolk in the
  Palace. He intends to stir up
  the mob, then lead them to the
  jail to lynch Knaggs.
  Unless stopped, Varney
  convinces a majority of those
  present that his way is the
  best solution. He knows Parrish
  will hide from any fight, and
  he convinces the group that
  the new group of deputies will
  fold if faced with superior
  numbers.
  As persuasive as the mayor
  is, a number of the attendees
  won't be up to killing a man in
  cold blood.
  Cannily, Varney suggested
  the "concerned citizens" meet
  at the Palace. There he intends
  to get the less certain
  members of the group some
  "liquid courage."
  Any posse member in the
  Palace between the hours of 8
  PM and 10 PM will note the
  arrival of the group. There are
  12 people in the mob, and all
  are armed in some fashion. In
  addition, Varney is carrying a
  sack.
  Varney buys drinks for the
  group and continues his
  argument for a lynching. As
  the evening progresses, a few
  more join the crowd. If the
  posse is in attendance and
  speaks out against him, he
  tries his best to associate them
  with the buffalo hunters to
  turn the crowd against them.
  Heroes in the Palace at this
  time should make a Fair (5)
  Cognition roll. Apply any
  hearing modifiers such as
  keen, big ears, or bad ears.
  Those who are successful
  overhear snatches of
  conversation such as "make a
  stand," "such lawlessness is a
  problem best solved by the
  community," or "without
  McBride, there's little evidence-
  he could go free."
  J*4 
  ^_..
  \» j 
  A,
  •^BBBIW'*" •** 
  •* '*wPP j . '
  .50
  
  Should a hero confront the
  group, Varney denies any
  accusations initially, insisting
  the hero misunderstood. If
  pressed, he explains they were
  simply discussing the potential
  outcome of Knagg's trial. The
  townsfolk lower their voices,
  but they continue their plans
  once they're left alone.
  By 10 PM, Varney has fueled
  the mob's anger to the point of
  action. Those who may have
  been unsure earlier now have
  their judgment clouded by
  alcohol. With a loud and final,
  "I think we're all in agreement
  here. Let's go see the deputy!"
  Varney stands up and pulls a
  noose from his sack.
  Just after 10 PM, any heroes
  at the jail, near the Palace, or
  in sight of the street see a
  group of 15 people emerge
  from the Palace and cross the
  street to the jail. Parrish can't
  manage to speak over the mob,
  so the posse is going to have
  to take charge.
  If no one meets the mob,
  Varney calls out "We've come
  for thafmurderin' scum! Send
  him out!" If a hero confronts
  the group, Varney says, "Step
  aside, we've come to see justice
  served!"
  As long as Varney leads the
  mob, it goes through with the
  lynching. They only want
  Knaggs, but tempers are so
  high at this point that anyone
  who stands in the way puts
  himself in danger. Should the
  situation result in gunfire, the
  heroes may be in trouble. They
  are likely greatly outnumbered.
  Even if they win, they may end
  up killing or wounding a fair
  portion of so-called
  "respectable" townsfolk.
  The posse's best chance is
  Wyatt Harp's way: to defeat the
  mob's leader. To do so, they
  need to beat Varney in a test
  of wills. Bluff, overawe,
  persuasion, or even ridicule can
  be used here.
  Varney gets a +1 for every 3
  people his group outnumbers
  the posse by. The marshal
  should feel free to add other
  bonuses or penalties as the
  situation warrants.
  If a hero gets a broken
  result, Varney backs down. If
  the posse is broken, the mob
  storms the jail.
  If it comes to violence, the
  mob fights for four rounds or
  until a third of their number
  are wounded or killed. At that
  time, they lose their steam and
  scatter.
  Action
  Points
  Find out the mob's
  intent before the
  confrontation 
  1
  Face down the mob
  without any bloodshed 3
  Pickings have been slim for
  the vampires since arriving in
  the Disputed Territory. Last
  night, they were only able to
  find the station master at
  Barlowe, Marshal McBride, and
  the family the marshal was
  visiting. There are currently 30
  vampires riding the train, and
  they're hungry as Hell.
  The next stop on the Black
  River line is Varney Flats.
  Around 1 AM, all heroes still
  awake should make Fair (7)
  Cognition tests, applying all
  modifiers for hearing. Those
  asleep need to make Incredible
  (11) Cognition tests. Modifiers
  for light sleeper or heavy
  sleeper apply as normal. Those
  who succeed hear what
  sounds like a far-off scream.
  When it sounds again a few
  minutes later, the heroes
  realize it is an eerie train
  whistle, quickly moving closer.
  The train reaches Varney
  Flats in less than 10 minutes.
  The heroes may do what they
  like before it arrives. Anyone
  watching the tracks sees the
  train come to a halt at the
  station. It appears old and
  weatherbeaten from a distance.
  Behind the locomotive and coal
  tender are three other cars. The
  
  I*
  first two in line are
  windowless "sleeper" cars and
  the last is a freight car.
  The train sits for a moment,
  the locomotive softly huffing.
  Then a whistle splits the night
  air. The train carries its own
  Fear Level with it. When the
  whistle blows, the Fear Level
  of Varney Flats rockets up to 4.
  Immediately after the
  shadows grow a bit darker and
  the night air chills, doors at
  both ends of the sleeper cars
  burst open. Thirty frenzied,
  starving vampires pour out of
  the train and into town,
  looking for blood.
  Any hero in the open when
  the vampires emerge is
  immediately attacked by one of
  the monsters. The others
  disperse among the town
  buildings and into the buffalo
  camp. As a rule of thumb, two
  vampires enter any given
  building.
  The monsters have rarely
  been defeated, and so they are
  fairly chaotic during the attack.
  They do not aid each other if
  any resistance is met. Only if
  an attempt is made to prevent
  them from returning to the
  train is a coordinated effort
  made.
  Because of the size of the
  town, only a few of the
  creatures actually stop to feed.
  Most seek to grab a victim or
  two and carry them back to
  the freight car which serves as
  their larder of the living.
  During the attack, some of the
  creatures pull out the bars on
  Knaggs' cell and drag him to
  the train.
  Any particularly brave
  cowpoke can board the train
  unmolested and explore (see
  the next chapter for a full
  description). During the raid,
  the train is essentially
  unguarded, save for the
  locomotive. Should the hero
  approach the locomotive, the
  engineer sounds the whistle
  and then attacks. The whistle
  brings the vampires running
  back to the train.
  The entire attack on the
  town lasts less than 10
  minutes, at which time the
  engineer sounds the whistle.
  All creatures still hunting at
  that time stop and quickly
  scuttle back to the train with
  one townsfolk for every two
  nosferatu. Any hero that's
  unfortunate enough to still be
  on the train at that time is in
  big trouble!
  By the time the nosferatu
  retreat to the train, the angry
  and frightened surviving
  townsfolk have begun to put
  up a fight. Gunshots can be
  heard around the town, and the
  big Sharps rifles boom out in
  the buffalo hunters' camp.
  After the train rolls out, the
  remaining townspeople gather
  in the street. Deputy Parrish
  and Sam Varney are among
  them, both quite shaken.
  Parrish tells the heroes that
  Knaggs has been captured (if
  they didn't know). He offers
  them the full reward for him-
  $100 in gold eagles-if they
  bring him back alive. Varney
  also offers a bounty of $20 a
  head for every one of his
  citizens they bring back alive.
  Parrish reminds the posse
  that if the train gets too much
  of a lead they'll never catch it.
  Then he swallows deeply, and
  says, "I'm goin' with you." He
  cannot be dissuaded
  Points
  2
  1
  3
  Action
  Surviving the raid
  Each vampire killed
  Posse accepts the offer
  . To
  Assuming the party accepts
  the town's offer, Parrish tells
  them the tracks curve to the
  north about four miles out of
  town. If they leave immediately
  and cut across the prairie, they
  may be able to catch it.
  Riding a galloping horse
  through the dark can be
  dangerous. Have each posse
  member make an Onerous (7)
  horse ridin' roll. Those who fail
  ^:^*SS*ar-
  lose Id4 Wind from the rough
  ride. Should a hero botch the
  roll, he is thrown and takes
  ld6+5 falling damage.
  About 15 minutes after
  departing Varney Flats, the
  party crosses a rise and sees
  the Black River line below
  them. Less than a quarter mile
  away is the Night Train.
  Boarding a moving train is
  no easy task, even for heroes.
  The train is moving at close to
  30 miles an hour, so it is
  impossible to board by running
  alongside.
  Jumping from horseback is
  likely the only way the heroes
  can get aboard. If they want to
  jump into the freight car,
  opening the door from a
  running horse requires an
  Onerous (7) Strength roll.
  Once the hero's ready to
  jump, she must make an
  Onerous (7) horse ridin' (or
  perhaps driving, if on a steam
  wagon or similar device) roll to
  get close enough to the train.
  Then, she must make a Hard
  (9) Nimbleness check to catch a
  handhold. Those who fall take
  2d6+5 damage. On a botch, the
  hero is trampled by his horse
  for the above damage, plus a
  Strength roll made by the
  horse (add all the damage
  together). A character with bad
  luck falls under the train
  wheels and is killed.
  . 
  -
  
  ^^"^ %p4i
  -..^jaiiiP"'-'-' 
  "**^H
  Once aboard the train, the
  heroes' problems have just
  begun. Walking along the top
  of the cars requires a
  Foolproof (3) Nimbleness roll.
  Failure indicates a loss of
  balance (and a lost action if in
  rounds). A botch results in a
  fall for 3d6+15 damage, unless
  the hero immediately makes a
  Hard (9) Deftness check and is
  able to hang onto the side.
  To jump from car to car, the
  character must make a Fair (5)
  Nimbleness roll. Here, failure
  indicates a missed jump and a
  Fair (5) Deftness roll must be
  made to avoid a fall for 3d6+15.
  A botch has the same result,
  although the fall drops the
  hapless hero between the cars
  for 2d6+10 damage and another
  5d20 damage as he's hit by the
  train. Apply each wound
  received this way to a random
  hit location.
  While the heroes are moving
  about the train or attempting
  to stop it, the vampires have a
  chance of noticing them. Each
  time a posse member makes a
  movement roll, make one Hard
  (9) Cognition roll for all the
  vampires in the car. If it
  succeeds, the monsters are
  aware of the posse's presence.
  There are a number of ways
  to stop the train, although
  most are fairly difficult. The list
  below is by no means
  exhaustive, but use it as guide
  in running the posse's assault.
  The posse can attempt to
  seize the engine and shut
  down the boiler. If so, they
  have to face the zombie
  engineer. Upon seeing the
  posse (a Fair (5) Cognition roll),
  the zombie tries to pull the
  whistle, alerting the vampires
  to the attack. If the zombie
  succeeds, the posse faces the
  zombie to the front and the
  vampires to the back.
  \_
  fift
  The heroes can also attempt
  to uncouple cars from the
  locomotive. This requires an
  Incredible (11) Strength roll
  while the train is moving.
  Any vampires in cars to
  either side of the released
  coupling notice it on a Hard (9)
  Cognition roll. Roll this once
  for each car. If the posse
  releases only the freight car,
  they have only the few
  vampires inside to face.
  Should they release the
  entire train at the coal tender,
  the heroes risk notice by the
  zombie. It sees them on an
  Onerous (7) Cognition and then
  sounds the whistle. Even so,
  the zombie eventually notices
  the rest of the train is missing
  and returns with the
  locomotive. Also, the sleeper
  cars are still filled with 30 or
  so vampires wondering why
  the train stopped.
  TO
  The posse can attempt to
  destroy all the monsters in a
  fight. If so, Parrish does his
  best to dissuade them.
  Within the confines of the
  cars, the vampires fight like
  cornered rats and swarm the
  posse. Even if the heroes wait
  until daylight to attack, the
  cars protect the monsters from
  direct sunlight, although all
  their rolls are at -2.
  Another possible solution
  might be to dynamite the train.
  It takes three sticks to
  completely destroy a single
  car-and unless it is daylight,
  the posse still faces a passel
  of irate vampires.
  Dynamiting the locomotive
  causes a tremendous explosion
  equal to 10 sticks of dynamite
  as the ghost-rock engine
  detonates.
  The train has the overall
  appearance of being a
  dilapidated wreck, a cultivated
  deception.
  The locomotive is a huge,
  iron behemoth. Its black iron
  seems somehow darker than
  the night, and its jagged cow
  catcher resembles the blood
  tipped fangs of some
  enormous monster. Ghost-rock
  vapor streams from its stack,
  wailing in agony as it pushes
  the iron monster forward.
  Inside, the locomotive's
  engineer is "Redeye" Dawson,
  now a zombie created by
  LaCroix's necromancers. A
  pocketwatch in his shirt
  pocket is engraved with his
  name. Any Southern lawman
  or gunslinger who makes a
  Hard (9) Knowledge roll
  recognizes the name as that of
  an outlaw last seen in New
  Mexico several months ago.
  fl,fc
  --•^•P^
  
  The sleeper cars resemble
  great, black coffins. The image
  is not far from the truth.
  Doors at each end of the
  cars let into a smaller room
  with other interior doors. The
  smell of death and decay
  inside is overwhelming. Often,
  the vampires bring "food" to
  the sleepers to eat, and over
  time the car has become quite
  foul.
  Along the walls are sleeping
  berths covered by heavy
  canvas tarps. There are 24
  berths in each car,. They're
  stacked two high, with 12 on
  each wall. Not all the berths
  are currently occupied.
  If the party boards a
  sleeping car during the chase,
  only 13 vampires are in each
  car— the others are in the
  freight car feasting on a
  townsperson per turn.
  The nosferatu store their
  victims inside the freight car.
  Those too seriously wounded
  to escape are simply dropped
  on the floor in a heap. Others
  are hung from hooks imbedded
  deep through their backs and
  up under their collar bones.
  Like the sleeping cars, this
  one stinks of death. Knaggs
  and most likely 14 other
  townspeople are the only
  humans currently in the car.
  If guns are fired at any
  vampires feeding inside the
  freight car, don't forget the
  rules about accidentally hitting
  innocent bystanders.
  After defeating the vampires,
  the heroes have earned only a
  brief respite. Knaggs, somehow
  chosen to join their ranks, has
  been bitten and rises as a
  brand-new nosferatu. Since it is
  dark, the party may not have
  noticed Knaggs' transformation
  yet. Use this to let him get in
  close and cause some real
  trouble with your heroes!
  The other townsfolk are all
  alive, ranging from seriously
  wounded to merely battered
  around. Those that have been
  fed upon should heal soon.
  If the posse did not stop the
  train, it continues on Black
  River's main line. Eventually, it
  crosses onto the Union Blue
  and heads back east.
  If the party tackles the train,
  Deputy Parrish, assuming he
  survives, presents the posse
  with the reward whether or
  not they win. Varney also pays
  as promised.
  The characters are welcome
  to remain in Varney Flats for
  as long as they please, free of
  charge. Varney doesn't want
  word of the incident getting
  out, however, as it would ruin
  the town's chances forever. If
  word does get out, a team of
  Pinkertons shows up within a
  few days to make everyone
  shut up. If they fail, Baron
  LaCroix sends his own agents
  to keep his failed maneuvers
  secret.
  The train is a dangerous
  encounter. If the heroes aren't
  careful, as well as skilled, they
  will wind up a late-night
  snack. Therefore, if the posse
  stopped or at least thwarted
  the Night Train, each hero
  receives a point of Grit.
  BOUKTY ^Cm^*
  Action 
  Points
  Identify Dawson 
  1
  Destroy the train 
  2
  Every two
  townsfolk rescued 
  1
  Looking rather like the
  unholy offspring of a near-
  sighted, bald ferret and a
  wingless, albino bat, nosferatu
  are unpleasant to behold, to
  say the least. Their eyes are
  solid black, with a small spark
  of red glowing at the center.
  Coarse, brown claws tip their
  fingers and toes. Protruding
  from the mouth are two
  overgrown, chisel-like incisors,
  resembling those of a six-foot-
  long rat.
  Nosferatu can speak, though
  after a time, most become so
  feral they don't have much to
  say.
  Any person slain by a
  nosferatu's bite rises as a new
  vampire in Id6 hours. Just being
  killed by a vampire is not
  enough-it must be the bite
  which does it. Nosferatu
  generally kill their victims
  prior to feasting to prevent
  them from rising.
  A single vampire kills a
  person a week on average for
  food. Mining towns are prime
  territories for them, as they
  can hide in the shafts during
  the day while preying on the
  large transient population at
  night. Otherwise, only the
  larger cities are likely to hold
  any sizable population of these
  bloodsuckers.
  
  Corporeal: D:2d6, N:3dlO,
  S:3dl2+2, Q:4dl2, V:2dlO
  Dodge 2dlO, climbin' 4dlO,
  fightin': brawlin' 4dlO, sneak
  5dlO
  Mental: C:2d8, K:ld4, M:ld8,
  Sm:2d6, Sp:ld4
  Overawe 4d8
  Size: 6
  Terror: 9
  Special Abilities:
  Claws: SIR + Id4
  Bite: SIR. Once a vampire has
  successfully bitten a victim
  it holds on and does SIR
  damage each round. The
  only way to break free is to
  win an opposed test of
  Strength. The good news is
  that once the nosferatu's
  bitten someone, it has to
  use its hands to hold the
  hapless victim and can't
  attack with its claws any
  longer.
  Immunity: Nosferatu are
  tough critters. They are
  immune to most forms of
  attack. It is possible to
  immobilize one by severing
  its spinal column. Complete
  decapitation is the only
  wound which can kill a
  vampire. Exposure to
  sunlight is also fatal to
  these undead. A stake
  through the heart can
  paralyze one for as long as
  the stake remains in place.
  Attempting to stake a
  vampire in melee requires a
  called (or very lucky) shot to
  the gizzards. A vampire can
  be momentarily stunned by
  physical attacks. A
  protection miracle protects
  against a vampire normally.
  Zombies are often mistaken
  for walkin' dead or even the
  Harrowed, and understandably
  so. All are (mostly) human in
  appearance and wear the
  stench of the grave.
  However, although they are a
  form of undead, zombies differ
  greatly from the more familiar
  walkin' dead in several ways.
  Zombies are slower and
  stronger than walkin' dead or
  the Harrowed, and they are not
  free-willed like Harrowed or
  walkin' dead. That's why their
  mouths are sewn shut as they
  are brought to unlife.
  Zombies are not inhabited
  by manitous. Instead, zombies
  are created by houngans
  (voodoo priests) and are totally
  under their creator's control.
  Corporeal: D:ld4, N:ld6,
  S:4dl2+2, Q:ld6, V:4dl2+2
  Fightin': brawlin' 4d6
  Mental: C:ld4, K:ld4, M:ld4,
  Sm:ld4, Sp:ld4
  Size: 6
  Terror: 9
  Special Abilities:
  Immunity: Unlike Harrowed,
  wounds to the head do not
  -
  kill a zombie. Instead, each
  piece keeps on functioning
  to the best of its ability
  until it is completely
  destroyed (usually by fire).
  Zombies do not heal on
  their own, but certain
  necromancers know how to
  rejoin their rotting parts.
  Another way to destroy a
  zombie is to fill its mouth
  with salt and sew it back
  shut. Some legends tell that
  turning a zombie toward the
  sea-if there happens to be
  an actual sea in sight-also
  destroys these decaying
  automatons.
  Attack:
  Shotgun 3d6(+4d6)/2d6(+4d6)
  Defense:
  Dodge 3
  Hits: 30
  Attack:
  Claw 4dlO/3dl2+2 + Id4
  Bite 4dlO/3dl2+2
  Defense:
  Brawlin' 4
  Dodge 2
  Size: 6
  Terror: 9
  Special Abilities: See the
  description on the previous
  pages for all the (really) gory
  details.
  Attack:
  Fist 2d6/2d6
  Gun 2d6/3d6
  Defense:
  Brawlin' 1
  Hits: 30
  Attack:
  Fist 4d6/4dl2+2
  Defense:
  Brawlin' 4
  Size: 6
  Terror: 9
  Special Abilities: See the
  description on the previous
  page and this page for the
  dirt on zombies.
  
  T-H-H <^EA-
  Just like in the story and the
  adventure you just had the
  pleasure of thumbing through,
  the Night Train has arrived in
  Varney Flats, a town on the
  Black River main line. Only a
  small band of Heroes can stop
  them from overrunning the
  town.
  One player (if possible)
  should take on the role of the
  Nosferatu. The rest of the
  players take on a single Hero
  each, then take control of any
  Posses they manage to rouse
  (see below).
  This tale can also be played
  with all the players working
  together against the Nosferatu.
  If so, treat the vampires as
  rogues. They go after the
  closest troop, and don't gang
  up if they have a choice. Check
  the rules for rogues in The
  Great Rail Wars™ Rulebook.
  Setup: Use the map of
  Varney Flats found earlier in
  this book. Treat the graveyard
  as a Strange Locale. The Night
  Train's locomotive is at the
  station, pointing north. The
  train comprises the locomotive
  (6" long), coal tender (3"), two
  sleeping cars (6"), and a freight
  car (6").
  Deployment: There are at
  least four Heroes, but no more
  than six. Each player gets a
  single Hero, or you can divide
  them evenly. You can roll the
  Heroes randomly, use the
  Archetypes in The Great Rail
  Wars, or convert them from the
  roleplaying game as desired.
  The Heroes begin in front of
  the jail where they've been
  guarding Knaggs. On each turn,
  posses of ravenous Nosferatu
  may pour out of the Night
  Train (see the next page).
  
  Turn
  1
  2
  3
  4+
  Posses of
  Nosferatu
  3
  2
  2
  0
  Each Hero can attempt to
  activate other units at various
  locations as noted on the
  Additional Units Table below.
  To do so, the Hero must enter
  the building before the people
  within are killed by the
  Nosferatu and then spend a
  whole action making a Smarts
  roll. The TN of the roll depends
  entirely on the location. No
  more than the Posses listed on
  the table below can be roused
  in any location.
  Troops raised are placed
  around the Hero immediately,
  but they don't get any cards
  until the following turn unless
  a Hero attaches himself to
  them. Then the Posse can act
  on any subsequent cards the
  Hero has as usual.
  Location 
  TN
  Palace Saloon 
  4
  Land Office 
  8
  Kirby's Hotel 
  8
  Buffalo Camp 
  4
  Bonus: None. However, if a
  Nosferatu manages to get into
  a building in which there is no
  Hero (and from which the
  people have yet to be roused),
  the bloodsucker can make an
  Easy (4)Fightin'roll If it
  succeeds, the Nosferatu kills
  everyone inside and racks up
  10 points for its player.
  Unit
  One posse of Gunmen
  One posse of Gunmen (in the
  converted saloon)
  One Mad Scientist (use the Archetype
  in The Great Rail Wars Rulebook)
  Up to two posses of Buffalo Hunters
  (1 per Smarts roll)
  
  tIJJ
  TM
  000
  ...because it just might be blowing
  for you!
  At least that's what it seems like
  to Ronan Lynch when he hears the
  Night Train blowing its terrifying
  tune in the dark Kansas night. He'd
  been trying to get the Hell out of
  Dodge when he was bushwacked,
  and that long, low scream was the
  first thing he heard after coming
  back from the dead—again. Try as
  he might, this one-handed gun-
  slinger can't seem to escape his
  destiny to meet with the Night
  Train and its blood-soaked freight.
  PINNACLE ENTERTAINMENT GROUP, Inc.
  Includes a full-
  length novella, a
  'SpatRail Wars™
  scenario, and a
  Deadlands™
  adventure.
  $4.95 USA
  9002
  50495
  9 " 781889 546070
  ISBN 1-889546-07-0
  Deadlands is a
  Trademark of
  Pinnacle
  Entertainment
  Group, Inc.
  © 1997 Pinnacle
  Entertainment
  Group, Inc.
  All Rights
  Reserved.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Deadlands [multi]/Deadlands, classic/Adventures/Deadlands - Classic - Dime Novel 03 - Night Train.pdf