Here is the third (and final) part of the campaign log from our first Deadlands session.
Note: This portion of the session heavily used elements of “Journey o’ the Nightingale” from the Saddle Sore collection of short adventures. Spoilers abound!
John Clum
Editor of The Tombstone Epitaph
Dear Sir,
I have not yet heard back from you regarding my first submission, “The Fear of the Worm.” I assume that your return post has been delayed for some reason. I have decided to push on and submit the second in the series, “The Call of the Nightingale.”
I look forward to your comments on the stories and to seeing them in print soon.
As always, my pen is at your service,
Pierre Bascou
~
As described in one of our prior publications, I and my two companions had just narrowly escaped the jaws of death…quite literally! In the story, “The Fear of the Worm,” I described how I and my two companions, the siblings Mira and Dusty, had been hunted and trapped by a Mojave Rattler. It was only the timely and quite surprising arrival of a Topeka bound train on the Union Blue line and the valiant shooting of Miss Mira that had provided deliverance for us. Breathing sighs of relief, we each silently rejoiced at our good fortune before turning to the new matter at hand…
Arching a quizzical brow, the conductor welcomed us aboard the train. Perhaps he noticed the hat, Mira’s black Stetson, that I wore clashed with the rest of my outfit, or that Dusty wore, rather awkwardly, the twin to our guardian angel’s Peacemaker or, perhaps, it was a silent question as to why it was that Dusty and I had so quickly made it to the train while our fairer companion stood and faced the danger that chased us…a question that shames me still! Regardless, he left his inquiries unvoiced and simply offered us the amenities that his fine conveyance provided.
Puzzled at the overly generous offering, Mira inquired about tickets and payment. In answer, the conductor simply indicated that it wasn’t right to charge for helping out folks in danger. Although his sentiment was quite noble, in hindsight, we probably should have been more than just a little suspicious. A train arrived out of nowhere to save us and no compensation was required…there must be more to this story than meets the eye. Trust me, dear reader, there was much, much more.
As the conductor returned to the business of guiding the train down the tracks, we headed directly for the dining car. I must confess that having nearly sated the appetite of a monster did much to stoke mine! Although no passengers were dining, the train’s cook was still on dinner duty. As he placed food and drink on our table, I could see that Dusty shared my hunger and we both heartily dug in.
Glancing up from my meal, I noticed that Mira had gone pale and spat out her food. Nudging Dusty to attract his attention, I asked Miss Mira if she felt ill or if something was wrong with her food. “Wrong!” she responded, “The food is rotten!” I had just taken another bite myself and it tasted fine. Before I could swallow, she continued, “It is crawling with maggots!” Spit! Out came my last bite. Neither Dusty nor I could see any maggots in any of the food and, it turns out, neither could Mira. Her food looked normal to her now. Regardless, all of our appetites had been ruined and, I must confess, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that had nothing to do with the possibly tainted food. I hoped that the others had not noticed my hand shaking as I poured myself another drink.
Appetites ruined, we retired to the lounge car with the hope of finding drink and conversation to put the night’s dangers and oddities behind us. Unlike the dining care, a few passengers occupied this car. A trio of men sat a table playing poker while a lady sat at the nearby bar watching the game unfold, sipping a drink. Dusty, as our regular readers will remember from the prior story, is a gambler and headed straight for the table, his eyes twinkling with excitement.
“Mind if I join you gentleman?” he asked. There was no dissent and all of us were offered a place at the table. Dusty and I both joined in while Miss Mira stood and watched, still looking somewhat unsettled by her experience at dinner.
One of the trio introduced himself as Mr. Jeffery Watts; it was obvious that he was a gambler by trade. Confident in speech and handling his cards, he was dressed in a nice black contemporary suit, watch chain hanging out of his vest. His hat was as black as the night and was tipped up to show his face. His jacket was hanging on the back of his chair and his lips habitually curved into a smile every time he spoke.
From the looks of the other two and the relative size of the stakes in front of each, Mr. Watts had been doing quite well for himself that evening. As we sat, he explained that this was a fairly high stakes game and began to deal us in. I had little luck in that first hand and neither did Dusty. His two pairs—Aces and Eights to be exact—were easily beaten by Mr. Watts’ straight!
Little did I know that Dusty was not the best financed professional gambler. That is until a moment later when asked if I would back him, claiming that he’d double my money. Trust me, dear reader, I am neither trusting nor naive enough to fall for such claim easily. However, I had begun to formulate a plan to reap the greatest benefit out of this situation as you will soon see.
Poker has never been my forte so I bowed out of the game but Dusty continued with my money. Although he won a hand here and there, it was not long before Dusty had lost all of the money I fronted him. Both Miss Mira and I had seen enough but, as I moved to retire for the night and escort Miss Mira to her chamber, Dusty had “that” look creep across has face. The look that many a gambler has shared and one that their opponents love to see; a look that clearly said he wasn’t leaving until he won some money back.
Pulling out Mira’s Peacemaker, Dusty firmly stated that he wanted to play one more hand. I feared that the boy had lost his mind and was about to do something very, very stupid. It turned out that I was right! Laying the gun on the table, Dusty indicated that he’d stake it for his next hand.
This immediately caught Mira’s attention and I could almost feel the heat of her anger upon my back. Glancing behind me, I could see that her face had indeed turned a fiery red and her hands were clenched into fists as she started to step forward. I was almost certain that Dusty was truly about to become a footnote in history. But, as quick as I knew Mira to be, Mr. Watts was quicker.
Picking up the gun, he gave it a careful examination. As he placed the gun back on the table, Mr. Watts accepted the gun as payment and dealt the cards. On the river, the elder gambler confidently exclaimed, “I have a mighty good hand here…I think I’ll raise!” Dusty, though I knew he had no additional money, called the raise and claimed that “we” were good for it. With a flourish and a grin, he laid down a pair of Aces and started to pull in the pot.
Toying with the boy, Watts waited until the “winnings” were halfway to Dusty when he said, “Hold on boy! In these parts, two pair beats one pair.” With that, Mr. Watts laid down his hand…more Aces and Eights! Dusty’s jaw dropped as quickly as my hopes for a calm and relaxing remainder of the evening.
As he grinned like a shark, Mr. Watts sweetly and confidently said, “I’ll take my payment now.” Dusty stripped to his skivvies to give the winner his fancy, and as I learned later, new suit. This wasn’t nearly enough to cover the impetuous boy’s losses. The experienced gambler turned and looked my way. “I believe,” Mr. Watts expounded upon our predicament, “that you were his backer. How are you going to cover the remainder?”
Well dear readers, I had mentioned that I had a plan did I not? After our first hand, it was immediately clear to me that Dusty was no match for this skilled practitioner of the cards. I had fully expected the boy to lose, just not quite as badly as this. Dusty looked at me, pleadingly, for help. I’m sure it is a look that his sister had seen many times and one, if things fell my way, I’d likely see many times in the future.
I assured the boy that I’d cover his losses but on one condition…that he would purchase a new camera for me. He readily agreed and offered to get me many, many cameras but, before he could finish, I stated that it had to be an Epitaph camera. Yes, dear reader, I know just how expensive such an item is and, normally, I would never take advantage of someone so down on their luck. I did it, however, for you. I would have been completely remiss in my duty to you to not get a camera to provide visual illustrations of the fantastic stories forthcoming, I could do this easily on my own. More importantly, though, my instincts told me that Miss Mira would be having many fine adventures just like the one we had shared earlier that evening. It was just as clear that her brother would tag along—assuming he survived. Given the price of the Epitaph Camera, it will be some time before Dusty can fulfill his obligation to me and so I’ll be there for the adventures. Adventures that I can share with you, dear reader.
Dusty simply nodded and agreed that his debt to me was an Epitaph Camera. I do not know if Miss Mira was aware of the ramifications of the just made deal but I felt confident that she would not be angry with me. I snuck a furtive glance in her direction and the sly smile stealing across her face was a clear sign that she approved of how I handled the situation.
I handed over another thirty dollars to Mr. Watts and, as I did, he asked if I’d like to buy my friend some clothes so he wouldn’t have to continue the night in just his skivvies. Another two dollars later and Dusty has his shirt. As he pulled it on, he asked if I would also get his pants back. “Maybe,” I chastised, “this will teach you not to bet what you don’t have. I’m only renting these clothes to you and we’ll settle up later.” I may have been pushing this too far but my own annoyance with the boy had gotten the better of me. Fortunately, Miss Mira’s furtive grin had lost all of its shyness at this last interaction between her brother and I.
Mr. Watts said his farewells, grabbed his jacket, and retired for the evening having been made all the richer by the foolishness of Mira’s sidekick.
As the gambler left, the spectator at the bar spoke up. The yet to be introduced lady asked that I let Dusty put his pants on. She noted that it was quite unsuitable to have a man walking about in his “long johns.” She was, of course, quite correct; I handed Dusty his pants. As he finished putting them on, Mira grabbed him by the ear and dragged him to the far end of the car. I believe her recent amusement at his predicament had been burned away by her smoldering anger at the loss of her pistol. If I had had enough money, I would have purchased it as well. Sadly, my funds were not quite that robust.
The lady at the bar also retired for the night, still with no introduction. As she left, I noticed that she was leaving wet footprints behind in her wake. I walked over to the bar and found that stool upon which she had been sitting also had a watery patina. Very odd. Deeming this more important than the sisterly punishment being meted out in the corner, I informed my companions of this oddity.
I then turned to the remaining gentlemen, who had also been victimized by the talented Mr. Watts, and asked if they knew the recently departed lady’s name. One responded, “Her name? I believe she said it is Eleanor Bigby and that she was from Chicago.” Chicago, I thought, the same as my two companions. Could there be some connection? As I pondered that thought, the last of the car’s original occupants retired to the sleeping car.
Glancing over at the now empty table, I noticed a discarded newspaper on one of the chairs…the Tombstone Epitaph, of course. As I had not yet had the pleasure to read the latest edition, I began to peruse it. As I did, I realized that I had read these stories before; it was not the most recent edition as I had assumed. Looking at the front page, I saw the date and had to look twice. It was exactly one year ago to the day!
Calling Mira over, I asked her to look at the paper. To my surprise, she was completely nonplussed. When I called her attention to the date, she remained unconcerned and asked why I was so concerned. The date, she claimed, seemed fine and was for the current month’s edition.
Grabbing the paper, I…I…I was shocked! It was the most recent edition! The date and the articles had changed. I swear, dear readers, when I first looked it was exactly one year ago! Papers changing dates, food looking rotten and maggot-infested one moment but fine the next, numerous dead man’s hands in a poker game, a woman leaving watery footprints…something quite bizarre was going on. Could we be on a haunted train? A cold chill ran down my spine.
Despite our ordeals of the day, we agreed that it would be best to examine the rest of the train before we retired for the night. The next car was the seating car; it was empty as everyone had, most likely, already retired to the sleeping car. The last car was the caboose but the door was locked. We had a seat in the empty car to arrange our thoughts about these strange happenings.
As we pondered the night’s oddities, the train’s whistle sharply blew. Turning white as a ghost, Miss Mira whispered, “Did you hear that?” We assured her that we had heard the whistle but she shook her head and said, “No…the whistle…it called my name.” The fear was growing in her voice as she continued, “It called my na…” Her voice had cut of as she was wracked by violent coughing. As she tried to speak again, no words came out; instead, water came flowing out of her mouth! She was drowning!
Dusty, just as when we were trapped by the Mojave Rattler, broke under the stress. He slapped another of his damn cards against Mira’s forehead. She was drowning and he wanted to play cards! I yelled that we had to get off of the train. Although I would never manhandle a lady in such a fashion under normal circumstances, we were experiencing events far from the ordinary. I tossed Miss Mira over my shoulder and headed for the door.
When I opened it, I was greeted by a wall of water! Even I have difficulty believing that this actually happened but, gentle reader, it did. A deathly white hand reached out from the water and attempted to grab me. In hindsight, I believe that it may have been reaching for Miss Mira but I have no idea as to why she would be its target. I quickly though gently relieved myself of my womanly burden to draw my gun to deal with this new threat. However, when I looked up, the hand was gone.
Turning to Dusty, it was my turn to have fear creep into my voice, “Did you see that?” He pulled out another card and slapped it on Mira, telling me to point my gun elsewhere. The boy will never survive long out West if he snaps each time something stressful happens! He looked out the door and, claiming that there was no water, stepped through.
I watched in a deepening horror as Dusty was swept away by water he claimed not to see. I don’t mind telling you, my good reader, that my hopes for surviving the night had been nearly extinguished by this latest turn of events. I did what I could to help Miss Mira breath, pushing at least a gallon of water out of her lungs, but I was convinced that she would die if she remained on the train. There was little I could do other than pick her up again, say a quick prayer to the Almighty, and stoke my hope as high as I could.
We stepped into the wall of water and…ended up back in the lounge car. Dusty was standing there giving me a rather strange look. The train had also stopped. Looking back at the door, there was no water! We departed the train with all due haste!
As I set Miss Mira down, she seemed to be breathing normally and easily. I realized that we were at the Topeka train station. The train was quickly pulling away. Mira looked up and caught sight of something on the engine and paled even further.
Before I could ask her what she saw, a Union Blue man came running up to us and asked where we had come from. I replied that we had just gotten off of the train that just departed. He looked quite confused and informed us that no train was scheduled to arrive until the morning! He asked what train we were on. Mira, her eyes wide with fright, whispered, “We were on the Nightingale…”
This from a woman who, just hours earlier, had literally stood face to face with a Mojave Rattler and shot it down. I shuddered to think what could have put such fear in her eyes. The Union Blue man gave me my answer…”The Nightingale, you say. Is this some kind of joke? The Nightingale crashed a year ago! The bridge collapsed under her and she went into the river, killing all aboard. In fact, it were exactly one year to this day.”
Pale and shaken, we looked at each other. Being the most logical and reasonable of our little trio, I asked the next most important question of the Union Blue man, “Where can a fellow find a drink around here?” He kindly obliged, possibly thinking that we were already drunk and hoping that we’d quickly leave his station.
As we walked towards the saloon, Dusty leaned over to Mira and said, “We need to find Jeffery Watts.”
“Why?!?” Mira and I both responded as one.
With just the slightest of smirks on his face and looking straight at Mira, Dusty responded, “If he’s already dead, he doesn’t need your gun.”
~
Postscript: Mr. Clum, there is more to this story but I don’t think we can publish the truth quite yet. I later learned why the ghost of the Nightingale showed up when it did. I believe that it was looking for Miss Mira. Her first assignment with the Wichita Witches was to sabotage a certain bridge. I am, as I’m sure you’ll understand, reluctant to provide explicit details at this time but I’m sure that you can guess at my meaning. Each time a train whistle was heard as we continued to Chicago, a rather haunted look came across Miss Mira’s face. I believe her experience with the Nightingale has left an indelible mark…for the better.
Post Postscript: Upon arriving in Chicago, I was hopeful that I could convince my companions to journey with me on the Hellstromme Express and to the Symposium (if not beyond). Brother and sister discussed what potential employment they might pursue; Miss Mira was resigned to the fact that Chicago probably had no need for a gunslinger. As we departed the Chicago station, an older man approached us and apologized for eavesdropping. He said that he was intrigued by my companions’ discussion as it seemed to indicate that they needed employment and could work as bodyguards.
Miss Mira quickly responded that she could, in fact, work in such capacity. The newcomer introduced himself as Dr. Elijah Bailey and was looking for some bodyguards to travel with him–you guessed it sir–on the Hellstromme Express and to work at the Symposium. We shall be meeting him for dinner tonight to work out the details.
Some days fortune smiles and one just happens to be at the right place at the right time…
