The Jessie James Archives
Honor Among Outlaws
By Craig Gallant
Published by Winged Hussar Publishing, LLC
1525 Hulse Road, Unit 1, Point Pleasant, NJ 08742
https://Wingedhussarpublishing.com
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Copyright © 2013 Winged Hussar Publishing and Romeo Filip. All Rights Reserved. No content may be reproduced without the express written permission of the author.
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-62018-146-1
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This e-book edition was created at FoliumBookStudio.com
Honor Among Outlaws
Wild West Exodus
The Jessie James Archives
Honor Among Outlaws
by Craig Gallant
Zmok Books is an imprint of Winged Hussar Publishing, LLC
Zmok Books
1525 Hulse Road Unit 1
Point Pleasant, NJ 08742
www.WingedHussarPublishing.com
Twitter: WingHusPubLLC
www.Wildwestexodus.com
Cover by Michael Nigro
Copyright © 2013 Wild West Exodus. All rights reserved
Wild West Exodus, the characters, inventions and settings were created by Romeo Filip and Outlaw Miniatures, who own all rights, registers and trademarks. This book is published by Winged Hussar Publishing, LLC under agreement with Wild West Exodus.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishiers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book, though based in some case on historical figures are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Well, you only get to do your first Acknowledgments page once, so please bear with me as I wrestle with this happiest of challenges.
Personal:
I must first thank the boys of LOJOG, the League of Just Ordinary Gentlemen, Joe, John, and Pete. Never have there been friends more tested or true. My boss and another of my best friends, Brad, has never wavered in his faith and support… which is eerie, given his usually sardonic personality. And of course, my family: my parents Gerry and Judy have always supported me in all I do, my sister, Melissa, if for no other reason than in partial apology for the years of torture when we were younger, and my first ever co-author, my grandmother Ethel. Grandma, it might be time to dust off The Happy Little Rain Cloud! And, of course, my amazing son Rhys and my loving wife Karen, who told me three years ago that I had helped her achieve her life’s dream, and that she intended, from that point on, to help me achieve mine.
Professional:
This part is more of a segue, actually, between personal and professional. Because, as is so true of so much in life, there are many locks with the statement “If not this, then no further” inscribed upon them, and the first of these is a little, Not Too Horrible general gaming podcast called the D6 Generation. Quite honestly, without my good friends Russ and Raef, who conned me into joining them way back in 2008, and then Russ, for keeping the endeavor together when Raef moved on to greener pastures, and for his constant and genuine interest and excitement for me throughout this process, everything that followed could never have come to pass. And of course it would be downright churlish of me not to thank the thousands of listeners who joined us over the years with their support and assistance (don’t you guys have anything better to do?).
I have to thank Neil Fawcett, for having faith and giving me my first chance. And immediately after, I have to thank Tim Huckelbery and all the nice folks at FFG for continuing to give me chances. Thanks to Ross Watson for all the advice and support, and to Gena Robinson for all the help, support, and ideas throughout the process. And thanks again to Pete Joe for being my two extra pairs of eyes… look guys, you made it in twice!
And finally, I have to thank Romeo Filip and everyone at Outlaw Miniatures, and Vincent Rospond and everyone from Winged Hussar/Zmok Publishing for all of their faith, support, and assistance. In the absolute most literal sense, this could NOT have happened without their faith and assistance.
To be quite honest, none of the great things that have led to this book you hold right now would have happened without all of these people, doing exactly what they do every day, when I needed them the most. So, if it’s less than Not Too Horrible… we can all blame them.
And of course, thank YOU, for taking the chance and buying this book. I hope you enjoy the ride we’ve prepared, and the world that we’ve created. See you on the other side, pardner!
~Craig Gallant
New Hampshire
July 23, 2013
Map
Map of America
Something Wicked is Coming
Blood drenches the sands of the Wild West as the promise of a new age dies, screaming its last breathe into an uncaring night. An ancient evil has arisen in the western territories, calling countless people with a siren song of technology and promises of power and glory the likes of which the world has never known. Forces move into the deserts, some answering the call, others desperate to destroy the evil before it can end all life on Earth.
Legions of reanimated dead rise to serve the greatest scientific minds of the age, while the native tribes of the plains, now united in desperate self-defense, conjure the powers of the Great Spirit to twist their very flesh into ferocious combat forms to match the terrible new technologies. The armies of the victorious Union rumble into these territories heedless of the destruction they may cause in pursuit of their own purposes, while the legendary outlaws of the old west, now armed with stolen weapons and equipment of their own, seek to carve their names into the tortured flesh of the age. Amidst all this conflict, the long-suffering Lawmen, outgunned and undermanned, stand alone, fighting to protect the innocent men and women caught in the middle… or so it appears.
As you struggle across the deserts and mountains, through the forests and cities of the wildest frontier in history, a hidden power will whisper in your ear at every move. Will your spirit be strong enough to prevail, or will the insidious forces of the Dark Council eventually bend you to their will? Be prepared, for truly, something wicked is coming!
Learn more about the world of the Jessie James Chronicles at:
www.wildwestexodus.com
Prologue
The shadows of the tall pines lurched and danced to the silent music of the camp fires, giving the scene a strange, dreamlike atmosphere. Around each fire relaxed the members of a Warrior Nation scout party, speaking quietly and laughing behind raised hands. They were young men and women, the best the tribes of the Nation could spare from the ongoing battles in the east, and White Tree smiled at the sense of calm confidence they projected.
It had been many seasons since White Tree had taken to the trails with a war party. Apart from the great migration itself, when Sitting Bull and the assembled chiefs had led the united Warrior Nation into the west, he had not stirred from the comfort of a camp or long hall since before most of these warriors were born. Far more than his arm, his mind had been his weapon of choice in defense of the tribe.
However, the new age dawning over the lands of the People was drenched in crimson, and every man, woman, and child was called upon to serve in any way they could. When the existence of the ancient relics first came to the attention of the council of chiefs, there was a great deal of skepticism. The Nation was flush with the powers of the Great Spirit, resurgent after an age of dormancy, but in a succession of horrors erupting out of the east, the dreaded European and his
nightmare legions had established strongholds across the plains and deserts. The soldiers pursuing the mad Doctor Carpathian cared nothing for the land or the People in the prosecution of their war, and braves were taxed beyond exhaustion trying to defend their newly-taken land. The elder council knew that behind the European, behind his implacable enemies from the north and even the chaotic lawless men of the west, stalked the ruby-eyed minions of an ancient enemy far greater than any other.
White Tree glanced back into the shadows; the scouts crouching out in the darkness should be relieved, but young Chatan was a good war leader despite his age, and White Tree knew the boy would be replacing his sentries soon. The white-haired elder looked back into the leaping flames, his mind once more wandering along dark, familiar paths.
Each generation of medicine men, for ages beyond counting, had lived with the knowledge of the ancient foe. Each had lived in the hope that the next great battle would not take place in his lifetime. White Tree sighed, for that hope, in his case, had proven fruitless. The red-eyed demons, twisting the hearts and lives of men to suit their dark purposes, were moving across the earth once more, and the elders of the Warrior Nation knew the only hope of combating them was to reclaim the ancient relics of the elder days, secreted throughout this western region in the times before living memory. Faith in the old stories was all they had; that these tales were correct, and that the relics, once united, could destroy a rising darkness that had stalked the Earth since the dawning of memory.
White Tree pulled his blanket more tightly across his stooped shoulders as a chill swept down his back. Sitting Bull and the other chiefs had pried open the Nation’s eyes, and there was no denying the truth any longer. They were living in the final days of this age, with the ancient enemy rising up around them, and they were alone.
“Chatan, do you not think it time to relieve the scouts?” White Tree cursed himself even as he spoke, remembering the resentment of youth. The boy was doing fine and did not need the meddling of stodgy old men. The medicine man knew he was letting the shadows in his mind color his judgment.
Chatan looked up from the largest, central circle, the fire throwing harsh shadows across his proud face. A flash of annoyance flared in his eyes, but he mastered it quickly enough and nodded. Further proof of his strength and maturity, the elder thought.
The young war leader stood and gestured for the braves around one of the outlying fires. “Enapay, Gray Horse, gather your warriors. It is your turn to watch the forest.”
The young warriors stood without question and moved off among the towering pines. Each disappeared into the shadows in a different direction. When they were gone, Chatan cocked an eyebrow at White Tree and then sank back to the ground, a shared laugh rippling quietly around the central fire.
White Tree smiled and shook his head, bending back to his own flame and the dark thoughts that haunted him. Chatan was a good man; he had listened well. The chiefs could have made a far worse choice to lead the party searching for the lost valley of Teetonka.
The first cry, tearing out of the shadows, brought White Tree’s head jerking up. Around him the warriors were rising, reaching for weapons and calling out into the darkness. Chatan gestured for two groups to move into the forest while he drew two long knives already glowing with a faint blue warmth. Fat sparks of spirit energy snapped off the blades and onto the damp earth while a similar gleam erupted deep within the young warrior’s eyes as he squinted out into the darkness.
“Enapay! Gray Horse! Red Leaf! What is wrong?” His voice was strong and steady, carrying none of the self-doubt of youth. Around the fires, the weapons of the war party were all glowing a deep turquoise, dripping liquid fire. White Tree had been too old to master the new ways of the spirit warriors when the Great Spirit had reemerged among the People. He was still in awe at this physical proof of the Spirit’s power.
The only answer from the darkness was a heavy silence.
“Chatan,” White Tree moved slowly towards the boy, eyes ceaselessly roving through the shadows. “If the scouts have been taken, perhaps more than just your blades will be called for… “
The young warrior looked quickly at the elder, a momentary fear in his glowing eyes, before he nodded sharply.
“Namid,” another warrior sidled near, her eyes fixed on the forest around them. “Keep the clearing secure and defend the elder at all costs.”
The other young warrior looked concerned for a moment before nodding. “You will take to the woods?”
Chatan was already placing his weapons beside the fire, his eyes shining like miniature stars. “The Great Spirit will guide and protect me. You protect the elder.”
Even watching for the moment, White Tree was startled by how quickly Chatan disappeared into the darkness.
Namid began to deploy the remaining warriors around the outskirts of the clearing while White Tree moved to pick up one of Chatan’s fighting knives. The blade was hard and sharp, obsidian polished to a deep shine, but there was no mystical fire in it now. The elder gripped the handle tightly and moved to stand beside the young woman assigned to guard the clearing. Together, they stared into the darkness.
“You boys got any room ‘round yer fires? It’s pretty cold up here ‘n the mountains!” The voice was harsh, seeming to emerge from the shadows all around. It spoke in the English of the invaders rather than any of the languages of the People, and it sent a cold chill racing down White Tree’s back. How had they defeated the sentries without a sound?
“Now, boys, you know you ain’t in a good position, with or without you all got your eyes all glowy and whatnot.” The mocking tones were clear, and the remaining warriors began to bridle beneath their impact.
A dull, muffled detonation sounded in the distance. A cloud of smoke, eerily lit from within by a snap of red flame, erupted off to White Tree’s left, followed immediately by an angry streak of crimson light slapping through the leaves towards them. The missile briefly illuminated the forest around the war party in stark red tones, wild, dark-ruby shadows swinging in wild counterpoint as it slashed into the clearing.
The bolt flashed between two warriors, across the clearing, and struck another in the back. The poor boy’s body was shattered by the impact, arms flown wide, the ghost of a cry emerging before the ravening fire of the blast consumed the breath from his lungs. The body tumbled into a still heap, streamers of red-tinged smoke rising from the ruin of its back.
“Well, seems you got some room there now, yeah?” The same voice, coming from another direction entirely, mocked them once again. “But you know what?” The voice turned thoughtful. “I do believe we’ll just kill the lot of you and then have a seat when there’s plenty o’ room. What d’you say about that?”
Suddenly the forest was alive with fierce crimson bolts, smacking through the trees and striking warriors down all around. The rattle of demonic gunfire echoed from all directions as the warriors, shaken out of their astonishment, flung themselves into the darkness with ululating war cries.
Namid, Chatan’s warnings forgotten, leapt after the others, leaving the elder alone with the gently-snapping camp fires. White Tree knew he would be less than useless trying to follow and so moved slowly to the bole of a giant pine. He crouched into the shadows and followed the battle from his hidden vantage point.
Crimson bolts were answered by the electrical flash of spirit energy as the braves fired their charged arrows at targets White Tree could not see. Streaks of red and blue passed each other in a chaotic mayhem of light and shadow. Many of the bolts blasted the thick trunks of trees in passing, filling the night with shattered splintering and firefly sparks illuminating roiling clouds of ash and smoke. Screams echoed among the trees as warriors died. Howls of victory were proof enough that the attackers were not having it all their own way.
As the combat moved deeper into the woods and farther from the clearing, White Tree lost any sense of what was happening. Distant flashes and muffled wails were the only indication that the
elder was not completely alone. Carefully, he rose and began to move towards the fighting, the long knife held high and at the ready. He saw the twisted bodies of young Nation warriors who had been blasted by the demonic weapons the European had introduced to the land, their faces contorted with the savage pain of their last moments. A building anger caused the knife blade to tremble as the elder’s mind registered the extent of the massacre.
Soon, however, the bodies of strangers were intermixed with the fallen warriors, and White Tree bent down to inspect these new dead as best he could in the shifting shadows. Worn leathers, old gear but well-maintained, and a mix of weapons showing hard use all pointed to one thing: outlaws. If these men had been fighters for the brutal Union they would have been in uniform, their gear more standardized and better-maintained. If they were deputies of the self-proclaimed men of law, there would have been glittering metal stars of office. And only a cursory investigation proved that they were not the abominations of Doctor Carpathian.
White Tree stood and continued to move carefully through the shifting darkness. The battle still raged ahead of him, the blue and crimson flashes like distant heat lightning on the rolling plains of his youth. He began to move faster as his heart perceived a slackening in the azure flames.
“Come on, ya damned savages!” It was the same taunting voice, coming out of the blinding swirl of light and shadow. “Ain’t ya got no more fight in ya than that?”
White Tree came slowly out into a wide clearing, a shallow stream flowing away on the far side. Most of the braves of the war party were scattered across the grassy sward, bodies twisted in violent death. The number of dead outlaws here was nearly equal, but at least the same number, appearing unhurt, were standing along the tree line opposite. In their center stood a young looking scoundrel with a red kerchief tied around his neck, pulled to one side. He wielded two old-style six shooters that bore the obvious marks of upgraded weapons, the tell-tale red gleam from various components announcing the presence of the European’s foul technology and the corrupting energy of his unnatural new energy source.
The Jessie James Archives Page 1