From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Deadwood, Dakota Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
September 1879

Cherished Sister,

I have, of late, been negligent in my duty to keep you informed of my activities here on the frontier and, I admit with some reluctance, that I have been somewhat depressed of late. I am a scientist and even though I have been encountering nearly inexplicable wonders; ancient spirits that animate the corpses of the dead, conglomerate constructs of flesh and bone and, of course, Dr. Hellstromme's giant iron mechanical men, each new wonder has been met, not with scientific inquiry and experimentation but with explosives and copious amounts of gunfire.

Today, however, is a new day. I have slipped the shackles of conventional science and stepped into an entirely new world.

I have already related to you of our banishment from the Sioux Nations in spite of our aid in suppressing murderous demon-possessed monstrosities and our subsequent encounters with Hellstromme's automatons in the Montana Territory. How frustrated I had been for in each encounter the devices, instead of breaking down when sufficient damage was applied, would detonate, destroying themselves so completely as to offer no meaningful data as to their construction. But, through the summer I formulated a theory of antipodal magnotomic ionization which I hoped would prove capable of capturing one of these machines.

The past several weeks have been divided between fleeing Hellstromme's mercenaries and, lacking proper tools and materials, attempting to construct the weapon that would finally capture one of the succession of infernal machines he has sent against us. Finally returning to Deadwood and my laboratory, I was able to complete my device, and not a moment too soon.

Several days ago, fliers were circulated throughout the town not only offering significant sums of money for our capture and delivery to the hands of Dr. Darius Hellstromme but warning dire retribution on any who would harbor us. Several of Hellstromme's men were about the town, agitating the residents and even their execution, to use an indelicate but otherwise accurate term, by Messrs. Tobin, Pace, Bongiovi and Sombrero, failed to allay fears. Many of the townspeople took flight to nearby Lead, Central City or even as far as Bismark. Our neighbors in China Alley simply fled to the hills.

We had expected at least several days with which to prepare but the assault began the next morning. And assault it was. A score of gunmen and one of Hellstromme's mechanical men of war brazenly striding down the main street with rockets and gattling guns blazing. Mr. Tobin, with his unearthly ability to walk without harm through the most whithering fire, went out to engage them on their own terms while the rest of us held back, our vantage from the roof and attic of the House of Pancakes.

The advance seemed to me overly showy and ineffective and, looking behind, beyond the tents of China Alley and up the hill, came another automaton. It was smaller, perhaps the size of a bear, but it was taking a more stealthy approach. The approach was, however, revealed and I went downstairs to confront the machine in the back yard. I placed my secret weapon, a glass bottle atop a short rocket tube, on the end of the LeMat pistol you gave me.

I stepped out into the yard in an attempt to get a clear shot but the beast raised it's arm and launched a rocket of its own, forcing me to take cover again in the back hall. I stepped out again and, standing in full view, took my shot, closing my eyes for a moment to shield them from the backblast of my rocket's propulsion.

It was superlative! Unfolding before me as some slowed down kinetograph, opposing rockets passed in flight; his passing dramatically over my shoulder and mine smashing him squarely in the chest plate. The glass of the bottle shattered and the finely shredded iron filings inside spread into a glittering cloud, pushed apart by identical magnetic charges. Yet, in free air, such ionization cannot long endure. Polarity returned to the countless particulates and, finding a nearby ferrous mass, contracted as if under intelligent command.

At that moment, time seemed to snap back into focus and I needed to again dive for cover as the machine began firing it's gattling at me. I knew, however, that the millions of sharp iron fragments were relentlessly working their way into the delicate inner workings, fouling fine toothed gears and interrupting electric circuits. The machine smashed through the door and advanced on me in the hallway, slowed by the narrow confines and the metal tearing at its insides. I had a second projectile and instead of launching it with its rocket, I threw it at the automaton's head. Indoors, the reaction was even more swift and I could now hear the crying of dying mechanisms.

It reached out with it's hand and as it ground to a halt, I began to laugh. It was if I could see through it's think iron plates and witness the filings digging grooves into fine brass clockwork, fowling chains and pistons, killing it from the inside out. My comrades, having dispatched the other automaton and either killing or setting to flight its infantry support, heard my laughter from out in the street and rushed to my aid, mistaking it for tortured cries of pain. They later told me it disturbed them thoroughly.

I am sitting now in the House of Pancakes, making sure the automaton remains inert while the others obtain for me blocks, tackle and a cart to move it to where I can begin the process of dissection. If it had not destroyed my lab, I would . . .

My lab. . . The handbills. . . The wanted posters that Hellstromme's men distributed in Deadwood to foment panic in advance of their attacks. My face was not among them. . . The frontal assault. . . The stealthy flanking approach. . . When I took cover in here, the automaton launched its missiles at my workshop rather than at me. It pursued me inside rather than firing its gattling. . . It was me. . . It was me. . . Hellstromme is after me. . .

Absolutely magnificent!

I have. . . I have an arch-nemesis!

Z


 

I read the following news bit at the Archaeology Magazine website:

Descendants of 1812 war hero General Zebulon Pike want to exhume his supposed grave in Sackets Harbor, New York, for DNA testing of the bones. They also want to boost tourism to the town and make a documentary film of the experience. But the town’s mayor, Eric Constance, says “The mood [of the townsfolk] is just let the general rest in peace."

As my Deadlands character is named Zebulon Pike, I figured that I should present a short history on the origins of my character and his name.

It was a year and a half back when the game was about to get underway, I decided on a mad scientist character. I had a mad scientist in a previous Mutants & Masterminds game and was dissatisfied, both with the rules concerning mad science and with the guy running the game. I though Deadlands might be better. (Although I am still waiting for the Foglios to complete Gurps: Girl Genius.) I had rolled up the character. Built out some of the personality but had not settled on a name. I tried a steampunk name generator at Brass Goggles but it only generated a name based on another name. What I wanted was something that might generate a list of names.

Driving home and listening to NPR, there was an article that spoke about the person after which Pike's Peak is named: Zebulon Montgomery Pike.

I instantly had my character's name.

Well, almost. I didn't want to just take someone else's name and something about that middle name didn't sit right with me. I left it go as the game started. Zebulon Pike would do. I didn't need a middle name as yet. I also started fictionalizing the game sessions in the form or letters written by Zebulon to his sister. For her I chose the name Mrs. Hannelore West. She needed a middle name because, well, it's so very steampunky to have one, and at first I thought of Penelope. Hannelore Penelope West. I wasn't sure I liked that middle name either.

I don't know what revelation I had, but when I had it I wondered why I hadn't though of it earlier. Vitruvius was a siege engineer for Julius Caesar and I had read his book on architecture some years ago. Thus: Zebulon Vitruvius Pike. And the neat thing about that is he could be Dr. Vitruvius as an alias. Once that was decided upon, I just as quickly changed his sister's name to Hannelore Persephone West.

While the Zebulon Pike of the Deadlands game is fairly understated, the Zebulon Pike that I cosplay is a bit more heroic. Listen to the character of Othar Tyggvassen at Girl Genius Radio Theater and then say it with me:

Zebulon Vitruvius Pike, GENTLEMAN ADVENTEURER.

From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Deadwood, Dakota Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
August 1878

Beloved Sister,

I know that you are fond of both reading and writing fantastical fiction and the tale I am about to tell seems taken from the pages of Sheridan's ghost stories, though with a distinctly less gothic bent and certainly nowhere near as literary as your creations.

In celebration of the grand opening of Messrs. Tobin, Pace and Bongiovi's “establishment”, a gambling tournament was hosted. It would seem that, with my automated pancake machine as a centerpiece, the so-called “House of Pancakes” was not to be merely a brothel but also a saloon and general gathering place. For all their brutality on the trail when under fire, my comrades present themselves as marginally respectable. Even so, my interaction with this event was only to keep the machine running to feed our guests.

Oh, and I am pleased to tell you that I have completed the blueberry formula. While it contains no actual blueberries and tastes almost, but not quite, entirely unlike blueberries, it is exceptionally good and is wildly popular. Huzzah for modern chemistry! I have included the formulae and recipes along with the plans for the machine itself and ask that you convey them to my patent solicitor, Mr. Siegfried Block of Post Office Square, Boston. While I have heard rumors of another pancake machine, I am sure that mine would be an improvement of magnitudes when combined with the custom batters. It is important that such things be documented and registered lest some upstart claim my superior machine as some copy of a lesser device.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The murder.

It occurred in one of the upstairs rooms reserved for “guesting,” to use a polite euphemism. It did not take long to exonerate the girl Sun Lee in the strangulation. In spite of one of their own having been mysteriously murdered, the other gamblers were not deterred from continuing their game the next night as there were large stakes to be won or lost. With Mr. Pace thus engaged in gambling and attempting to determine if one of the other gamblers was the murderer, and Mr. Tobin acting as present security for the House, it left Mr. Bongiovi and I to set out and investigate what we could.

At first, the Sheriff Bollock seemed disinclined to assist us. I suspect that our founding of a new brothel interfered with his long established business dealings with the Bella Union and Gem Saloon. Later, however, his lack of inclination turned into outright inattention. It would seem that he was under some outside influence, perhaps a drug-induced susceptibility to suggestion or mesmerism. In any case, our dealings with the sheriff and his condition caught us unawares when another murder occurred. This time, at the Gem Saloon.

Mr. Bongiovi provided the distraction while I was able to infiltrate the room of the murdered gambler to investigate. There I found papers that lead me to suspect a young card sharp named Spinner was involved, either as an accomplice or even as the murderer. Spinner's room was just down the hall and entering that room I found a steamer trunk which contained only a fine layer of soil. This immediately suggested to me the Eastern European myths of vampires and I felt sure that I had found the murderer's lair.

I improvised a fire-trap and fled out the window when Mr. Bongiovi's antics no longer held the attentions of the saloon's employees, eventually taking up an observatory position on a nearby rooftop.

It was several hours before Spinner returned and, through the window I was able to observe her arrival. Indeed, I saw that what we had thought to be a young man was, in fact, a disguised woman. This revelation was not of any significance when compared to the moment that she opened the steamer trunk and my incendiary detonated.

Unexpectedly, I began taking gunfire from out the windows of adjoining rooms. It would seem that our murderess had accomplices. We had exchanged a few rounds of ineffectual gunfire when a singed and quite angry Miss Skinner leapt from the room, across the alley to the adjoining rooftop where I was. She no longer appeared as a young woman, or even as a disguised young man but as a demon, with ashen skin, fangs, claws and even wings upon her back. I now had to contend not only with an enraged vampire at close quarters but also with two gunfighters shooting at me from across the way. Several .41 caliber projectiles from my pistol found their mark in the creature's chest but failed to slow it down. My efforts to deliver a fatal shot to the head missed their mark. Finally, still taking pistol fire from the hotel windows, I activated the conflagrationator concealed in my cane and unleashed it's chemical inferno.

The flames were spectacular, disgorging with power and range to fill the one room across the alley, setting my one assailant ablaze. The cone of combustion washed across another room and sent the other gunfighter reeling. Though he was only singed, he was no longer firing at me. Lastly, I turned the nozzle upon Miss. Skinner and at point blank range, the last of the discharge seared away flesh.

Badly injured, she fled to the street but did not go far as Mr. Pace came upon the scene and, with a few rounds from his Winchester rifle, brought her down. I put the miserable wretch out of its misery with a a buckshot round to the back of the skull.

Things have calmed down significantly. The surviving accomplice has been taken into custody and is apparently revealing everything in an attempt to avoid the hangman's noose. Mr. Pace has returned to his gambling tournament and looks to be making a tidy profit. Having had a murder in our establishment seems to have dampened enthusiasm during our opening week but the favorable reputation of “The Infernal Pancake Machine” seems to be offsetting that slow start. I have set up a makeshift laboratory in a laundry next door and have found some interesting things from Miss Skinner's dissection.

I am developing plans for an arc lamp which, when enhanced with hydrogen gas, should be even more effective against similar solatopic beings than my conflagrationator was. (I am still displeased with that name. Pray, come up with something better.) I will send you plans for that as well once they are complete and successfully tested in addition to some others. I have built a narrow-gauge mine engine that runs on compressed air rather than a tradition external combustion steam engine. This will aid the local miners where highly combustible coal dust and gases is a significant hazard.

Stay well and be sure to write to me. I look forward to hearing how things are transpiring back home.

Your ever loving brother,

Zebulon

 

Following on my post of the other day trying to catch up on the Deadlands RPG activity, I thought it would be appropriate to note what happened in the sessions that I have not, or will not be posting. I will not be going back to chronicle most of the game sessions that I neglected to write so this should fill in some of those blanks.

Chapter 1, July 1878: Wherein Zebulon meets Messrs. Tobin, Bongiovi and Pace and, in short order, encounters a malignant and ambulatory tree, dispatching same.

Chapter 2, July 1878: Wherein the local marshal is implicated in a murder over possession of a cache of Confederate gold.

Chapter 3, July 1878: Wherein a waystation is harangued by Indians.

Chapter 4, July 1878 - Wherein the party arrives in Deadwood and Mr. Tobin engages in yet another gunfight. The building that is to become the party's base of operations is purchased.

Chapter 5, July 1878 - Wherein the party joins with soldiers to investigate burned waystations. The soldiers are found to be villains after more Confederate gold. An ambush by competitors disguised as Indians is thwarted. An ambush is set up and executed, the bodies buried in the mine of the Brothers Zeke and all the threads of the Confederate gold search appear to be tied up.

Chapter 6, August 1878 – Wherein The Pancake Machine is completed and the Jenkins homestead is attacked by vengeful animated dead.

Chapter 7, August 1878 – Wherein a vampire murders a number of gamblers at the grand opening of The House of Pancakes. (This account will be posted shortly.)

Chapter 8, October 1878 – Wherein the sheriff of Deadwood requests assistance with capturing scalp hunters and then bullocks the entire thing. (This chapter, and those that follow in this list will not be posted and the story will pick up with Chapter 22.)

Chapter 9 - Wherein the Bothers Zeke arrive injured in Deadwood. Upon dying of their wounds they reanimate requiring that they be decapitated and incinerated. One Zeke survives and refuses to leave Deadwood.

Chapter 10 - Wherein the villains that had been burning waystations in search of Confederate gold, killed for their transactions and buried in the mine of the Brothers Zeke, turn out not so dead as previously thought. Their animated corpses are dispatched yet again.

Chapter 11 Wherein the Council of the Sioux Nations tasks the party with the destruction of the vengeful spirits that had been released from the mine of the Brothers Zeke.

Chapter 12 – Wherein the manitou have taken over the bodies of faux-Indians, previously encountered also after the Confederate gold, and turned them into shape-changing were-bison. The party retreats from its first encounter to request reinforcements from the Sioux elders.

Chapter 13 – Wherein the party makes another attempt to defeat the manitou, this time succeeding in binding them beneath the earth. The Sioux suggest that, since the unpleasantness was the party's fault in the first place, they would not be welcome in the Dakotas. The party travels west.

Chapter 14, July 1879 – Wherein, while Zebulon is in Billings obtaining supplies, the rest of the party encounters the first of Hellstromme's automatons.

Chapter 15, July 1879 – Wherein a settler's wagon train is attacked and the party rallies to their aid.

Chapter 16, August 1879 – Wherein, another of Hellstromme's automatons is tracked to an abandoned town and destroyed.

Chapter 17, August 1879 – Wherein the party encounters a literal ghost town.

Chapter 18, August 1879 – Wherein, Mr. Tobin comes across yet another automaton and fails to capture it.

Chapter 19, September 1879 – Wherein Hellstromme's niece and nephew attempt to waylay the party in Bismark.

Chapter 20, September 1879 – Wherein, while returning to Deadwood by train, the train is attacked by robbers.

Chapter 21, September 1879 – Wherein the town doctor is killed by his own infernal construction of reanimated flesh. The sheriff is also killed.

 

It's been quite a while since I last made a posting about the Deadlands RPG I am involved in. In the middle there, I was not having as good a time as I might have hoped because my mad scientist character wasn't doing any science, mad or otherwise. There was a lot of shooting and blowing things up with dynamite which, while effective in resolving the issue, was less than satisfying, especially when I was using the game as a writing vehicle, novelizing my adventures and posting them.

That changed a few months back and my character again seems to be developing. I've been catching up on my writing and will be posting those shortly but I thought I would take this opportunity to remind those who care about such things just who the various characters in this sordid drama are.

Zebulon Vitruvius Pike: Protagonist of this tale. A scientist of note originally from Kingsport, Massachusetts.

Mrs. Hannelore Persephone West: Younger sister of Zebulon and, though disadvantaged in terms of formalized education because of her femininity, possessed of a keen intellect. Zebulon thinks very highly of her and that if she has one failing it was in her choice of a husband.

Ezekiel Tobin: Formerly a cavalry officer named Calib Sullivan, he has returned from his own brutal murder to become a bounty hunter and exceptional gunslinger.

Don Juan Bongiovi: A former cavalry officer and wandering musician.

Alexander Crenshaw Pace: Originally from New York City, a gambler, card sharp, lady's man and thaumaturgist.

Richard “Richie” Sombrero: A midget and musician who knew Mr. Bongiovi previously. He has some anger management issues as concerning women.

Collette LaRue: A former military dispatch rider who finds independent employment in delivering specialty letters and packages.

Zeke: A feeble-minded miner who, having lost his brothers Zeke, Zeke and Zeke, seems to have taken on Tobin as a benefactor. Like a bad penny, he keeps returning despite Tobin's best efforts to loose him along the way.

 

Colt Peacemaker and LeMat

My Deadlands RPG character, Zebulon Vitruvius Pike, was given a LeMat revolver by his sister so as to protect himself in his travels in the weird west. While other players typically munchkin their weapon loadout so as to maximize the amount of damage they can deal out, I chose it for my character because it was a big, ugly gun that you would not expect an apparently unimposing gentleman like Zebulon to carry. But as a mad scientist (or rather, a scientist that I knew later would surely go mad) the potential of the extra shotgun barrel under the main barrel could not be passed up.

Ultimately, I decided that I didn't just want it on paper. I wanted something heavy I could hold in my hand and carry in a holster at conventions.

Arsenal Models had a resin model of Jayne's gun from, "Firefly", which was a modified LeMat, for $45 but I knew that I could get something metal and heavy for only twice that much. I looked on E-bay and found one from Outpost Knives for $79.99 or best offer. I made an offer of $70 and he counter offered $73.99.

Good enough.

The listing indicated I should have it in a week. After two weeks I sent him an email asking what was going on. He said he wasn't sure, that it should have shipped and then he would have to look into it. I waited another two weeks before sending him another, more insistent email.

"It has now been four weeks since I made my payment and I am becoming concerned that I may have made a mistake in going through with this order. Please contact me and convince me that this is going to end well"

He responded that his Internet went down. He got a computer virus. He blamed the warehouse guys. He said I would see it Monday or Tuesday.

It was on my porch Monday when I got home.

It is what I expected, a big, ugly gun. It's actually weighs about as much as a loaded LeMat, which is a hefty 3 lbs 6 oz. I note that with the use of a bore gauge, the shotgun barrel is about 20ga. which, to be historically accurate should be 16ga. The difference is a about a millimeter and a quarter, so not very noticeable. And while the barrel is the proper .42 caliber, I could see that the chambers in the cylinder were too small. I measured them at only 0.34 in. I think the cylinder is solid metal so I could drill that out. I'd have to take a little bit off at a time to make sure that the chamber walls didn't get too thin.

I'll need to make a holster for it because all of those I've found online are butt-forward right side holsters with flaps at $42. I want an open crossdraw holster, like the one I carry my Peacemaker in. I know someone with the tools necessary for the leatherwork so it shouldn't be that hard to do.

I'll also need to "accessorize" it with rocket propelled grenades, like my RPG character developed.

 

From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Deadwood, Dakota Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
August 1878

Dearest Sister,

The plans of my comrades have finally become clear. They have, with their collected funds and the Confederate gold filed into flakes to disguise its origins, purchased the neighboring structure. They have commissioned me to construct a machine as the centerpiece of their hotel and restaurant, a task I enthusiastically embarked upon even knowing that the business they planed to open would not be either a hotel or a restaurant. I am somewhat embarrassed to tell you that I shall be part owner and operator of a frontier brothel.

Gender population inequities, an overabundance of ready cash and a lack of higher culture have lead to a combination of drinking, gambling and debauchery throughout the march of civilization, and Deadwood is no exception. I know we have previously discussed these topics at length so I will not detail the complex social dynamics of this harsh frontier town except to say it is even more stark and disturbing than the historical and theoretical models our thought experiments built. Even so, my comrades seem of slightly different stock and seem intent on bringing some sort of respectability and culture to the enterprise. Most progressively, their intent is to build and own the establishment but to leave the daily management and operation to the ladies.

I'm not sure how my emotions and reasoning will reconcile all the conflict so for now I have focused on what is being called “The Machine.” It is a sizable construction built on a firebox and boiler used to drive a series of mechanisms. A central rotating structure with a clockwork mechanism precesses multiple stations, each with its own rotation.

It is, simply stated, a fully automated pancake production machine. Once complete, patrons will be able to select from a number of flavors and the machine will pneumatically inject the batter into steam-heated cooking chambers. The rotating chambers will rotate to ensure even cooking and, when complete, will deposit the pancakes onto a plate.

The machine works well enough but I am still working on the proper batter formula.

Oh, yes. I was actually leading up to describing an incident of a few days ago. I believe I've mentioned my habit of riding every few days to keep myself from becoming insular. On one such excursion, the smell of smoke led me and Mr. Bongiovi, who had elected to join me that evening, to a fire at the Jennings farmstead. When we arrived, the fire seemed well underway and the Jennings boy was on the porch crying over his prone father. Talking a moment to determine that the father was merely unconscious, overcome by the fumes, perhaps, I heedlessly rushed into the house to search for Mrs. Jenkins. It was not quite to conflagration of the Boston fire of '72, but quite as exciting. I found Mrs. Jenkins unconscious form upstairs and, my escape back down the stairs now cut off by fire, I kicked through a window and dropped her to the ground as gently as could be managed under the circumstances.

It was as I jumped from the window myself that I came under pistol fire from the nearby scrub. I'll admit that I became somewhat irritated at having been shot at while attempting to do my civic duty, that I knocked over a rain barrel and, using it as a rolling shield, used it to advance swiftly upon my concealed opponents, firing my own pistol.

My counterattack and the support of Mr. Bongiovi's own pistol brought down one of our opponents and sent the rest to flight. The killed assailant was reminiscent of those we had encountered in Eastmont in that he was dead long before a bullet through the brainpan had ended his motion. Some preternatural force had made this man one of the walking dead and, by the smell, a significant consumption of alcohol had kept the body embalmed enough not to decay. I wondered momentarily what forces or process might reanimate or other restore a semblance of life to the dead but put aside my scientific curiosity for the moment to turn my attention back to the Jennings family.

Returning the the house in town, we were able to revive Mrs. Jennings who indicated that the attackers likely included Mr. Jenning's brother, with which there had been something of a falling out. For the sake of delicacy, I did not pry into the particulars.

The next morning, we awoke to find Mr. Jennings had gone under conditions we thought unlikely to be of his own choosing. With clues provided by Mrs. Jennings were rode swiftly to the North to an abandoned drift mine wherein we found Mr. Jennings bound to a chair and being physically menaced by who we assumed to be his brother and several others. The smell of the place was of death and we swiftly dispatched the walking corpses as swiftly as we could. I'll admit that even with my previous experience, I wasted a number of rounds firing at the largest target, the chest, with little effect. Indeed, these beings seem only to be finally and decisively ended by removing the head or destroying the brain.

On returning to the house and reuniting the Jennings family, we discovered that the boy had been able to get into several rooms and had gone through a number of personal belongings. In that, we discovered a number of Mr. Tobin's possessions taken from the satchel beneath his bed. We did not want Mr. Tobin's expected ire to be directed at the boy so we returned them to their place as best we could and, in so doing, could not help but learn that he was a former cavalry soldier and that his real name was Sullivan. I recall a news missive some time back concerning a soldier named Sullivan who was killed attempting to stop a massacre of Indians by Union soldiers.

Please talk to your abolitionist friends to find more information because, If I recall correctly, the Trooper Sullivan was a staunch abolitionist. And a Canadian, by nationality, volunteering to join the Union Army in the Great War. I'm sure you can understand my keen interest in knowing more.

I shall leave you with that and look forward to your letters with rapt anticipation.

Your most affectionate brother,

Zebulon


 

From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Deadwood, Dakota Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
July 1878

Dearest Sister,

Several days without drama have allowed me to complete my project! From the drawings I've included, you should see that I began with the foundation of a shotgun barrel that, with some hardwood accents and brass fittings, appears to be little more than an elaborate gentleman's cane. Inside, however, I have concealed a cartridge with a chemical concoction which is ejected through a high-pressure nozzle by means of a coiled spring acting on a piston. The release mechanism also activates a firing pin against a standard percussion cap, igniting the semi-fluid on expulsion. It should generate a ten to fifteen foot cone of flame, persisting for several seconds.

In theory.

I am terribly excited to try it out but have not yet had the opportunity to test it. The chemical formula is absolutely sound and mostly stable. I am pleased with the physical design, even though my mastery of the intricacies of mechanical design lag somewhat behind yours. I hope our family's natural proclivity overcome this deficiency. The need to have a larger aperture for the expulsion of the flammable fluid does increase the risk of the ignition reaching back into the reservoir, thus causing a catastrophic explosion, but there should be sufficient pressure to keep that from occurring.

What to name it? Linear Expulsive Conflagrationator is appropriately descriptive but I'm not sure I like it. Conflagrator? Conflagrationizer? You are so much better at this than I am, what do you think?

Just a moment, there seems to be some sort of commotion occurring outside.

. . . . . .

Well then, that was an interesting few days. It began with several riders coming into town. They were two of the soldiers that had set out last week to address the issue of Indians burning stagecoach waystations. One of the soldiers was dead in his saddle, pierced by several arrows, and the other, also grievously wounded, died soon afterwards. Uttering his dying breath to me; “Gold.”

It was clear that it was no Indian attack that had lead to the death of the soldiers as there was the distinctly modern construction methods utilized in the construction of the arrows embedded in the returning soldiers. This is not to say that arrows of Indian manufacture are primitive or substandard in any way, but these arrows bore signs of industrial manufacture.

Mr. Tobin, Mr. Pace, Mr. Bongiovi and I immediately joined the military expedition formed to determine the fate of the previous force. We, however, had very different expectations and objectives. Firstly, while we didn't announce our conclusions, we knew that we were not looking for a band of Indians but were, in fact, looking for individuals pretending to be Indians. Secondly, and I was unsure if the others were aware, I made the connection between this incident, the burned waystations and the Confederate gold found by Marshal Kane at Eastmont. I had little doubt that there was gold, or at least someone thought there was gold, at the waystations. Thirdly, we did not pass on the dying words of the soldier to his comrades on the highly likely suspicion that the soldiers had raced off earlier, not to deal with a perceived Indian threat, but to secure the gold. While I suspected the military was involved it was important to have them think that we were ignorant of the true reasons.

The first day of our expedition was uneventful. The waystation at Silver City was burned to the ground, as was expected. (Silver City is not directly on the trail to Deadwood but is a “spur trail” several miles East of the main where, as the name implies, there was once a silver mine. We had not taken the spur on our way North and had only assumed its condition.)

That night, many of my suspicions were confirmed when during the night I observed the Sergeant uncharacteristically make a wide, patrolling arc around the burned out shell of the waystation. Feigning biology's call, I surreptitiously watched him investigating behind the building in a way that had me conclude that there was a hole behind this building as well. It was not something he might have stumbled upon and apparently he found nothing contained within.

The next day and the next waystation was as the others. We followed the soldier's tracks up a valley into the dread scene of an ambush. Soldiers were strewn about in various inadequate cover apparently having been set upon from all sides. While there were Indian implements of war to be found, all the soldiers had been clearly brought down by modern firearms.

Our expectation was that we would follow the tracks into an ambush of our own so we divided our column to proceed up each bank of the stream. There is a strange sense of confidence one has walking into a known trap. A sense that was not wasted for, when the ambush came, our divided staging allowed us to disrupt their plan and out flank them. When the first shots rang out, I took what cover I could but with Mr. Tobin firing from across the stream, I was able to advance quickly and confidently, holding my fire until I was close upon our attackers.

Their tactical plan circumvented, they fled before I could inflict any direct harm. With their killing of the soldiers and realizing that these types of miscreants are those likely to hold a lengthy grudge, I vowed not to let them escape and rushed back to my horse to give chase. Mr. Pace and I set off after a trio of villains. One was killed instantly by a rifle shot from Mr. Pace's rifle. A second fell wounded from his horse with a sickening sound that indicated his neck had broken in the fall. The last I chased for more than a mile before I was able to land a bullet into his kidney.

A search of our attackers found no gold, at which point I confronted the Sergeant concerning his suspicious activities of the night before. Even with some creative persuasions, he admitted nothing directly but his obfuscations made it clear that he and, in fact, all the other soldiers, knew at least part of what was going on. There were now at least four parties involved. Those associated with Marshal Kane and the Bowden family who were attempting to recover the gold. Competitors who were dressing up as Indians in an attempt to recover the gold. The soldiers who also knew of the gold. And, lastly, our own intrepid band that providence had dropped into the middle of this bloody feud. And while I cannot deny that the recovery of the gold would be a welcome windfall, our primary concern is one of survival.

The soldiers had been fairly devastated but, as it was the military, there was no telling how many others might be involved. Our interference had probably eliminated the faux-Indians as competitors. With additional prodding of the Sergeant, we were lead to a small mine at the head of the run. The miners there were ignorant dupes, tricked into digging a worthless hole as a cover for gold found elsewhere. Not a bad plan for I was considering a similar ruse to explain the gold that we had found.

After having been ambushed, it was our turn to set up such a trap and the miners told us that their “sponsor” Mr. Kane was coming. Yes, another Kane involved in this convolution. I realize now that I have gone on at quite a length and the hour is getting late so I will summarize; there was a gunfight. By our combined efforts the evil-doers were vanquished and I emerged unscathed. We hid the bodies in the mine and dynamited the entrance. More soldiers arrived and we lied to them thoroughly. The Captain of the unit was a gentleman of Virginia so we suspected him immediately of some collusion in the hiding of the Confederate gold. We returned to Deadwood.

This is a quite lengthy letter, isn't it. Had I taken writing accouterments with me on our expedition, I would have written more regularly and this limited the length of these narratives to more manageable fragments. Even though I know you love to read, I fear the realities of frontier life will not measure up to the scientific romances you enjoy so much. Even with the gunfights and preternatural occurrence that I fear reduce my real-life adventures to the level of dime novels.

As I now have something of a permanent address, I look forward eagerly to your return letters.

With unsuppressed fondness,

your brother, Zebulon

 

From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Deadwood, Dakota Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
July 1878

Dearest Sister,

My daring escape from marauding savages was distinctly less daring that I expected. In fact, it consisted of little more than a hard day of riding into the town of Deadwood. Which is not to say that there was no excitement for the day. On arriving in Deadwood, we immediately found some authorities, in this case a calvary soldier, and relayed our new of the burned wayposts. He seemed appropriately concerned and sped off to inform his superiors. We then went to the saloon that Mr. Tobin's note had indicated and found him there, drinking, of course. Miss Bowden thankfully took her leave to find her brother and we were glad to be no longer in her company. Though a reasonable enough woman, she continuously tasked us with her interrogations.

We ordered drinks for ourselves and were discussing how further to proceed when a disheveled man approached the table to speak with Mr. Tobin. He informed Mr. Tobin that someone was waiting to meet him over at the livery and then drew and fired his pistol at nearly point-blank range. His hasty shot missed by scant inches and Mr. Tobin drew his pistol and returned fire faster than the eye could follow. I barely had time to be startled by the close-quarters report before it was all over.

Even more surprising was the lack of concern by the other patrons that a lethal gunfight had just occurred in their midst. I fear such occurrences are frequent enough to be considered commonplace.

Mr. Tobin brought us to the back side of Deadwood to an area known as “Chinese Alley,” an ethnic enclave where he had purchased a building. And while there has been no formal agreement, we all seem to have entered into a business arrangement. I have yet to quite figure out what that business will be. Mr. Tobin seems to make his living as a bounty hunter, Mr. Bonjiovi earns his living as a wandering minstrel, Mr. Pace is a gambler of some skill and my own technical and scientific skills seem to round a very eclectic skillset. It will be fascinating to see what sort of business plan comes of that but, for the meantime, I am pleased to have a bed, a roof over my head and a place into which I can gather equipment for my natural studies.

The respite was short lived, however, as the soldiers arrived to invite us to set out immediately in pursuit of the native miscreants. Under different circumstances we might have stepped forward to do our civic duty but, having spent days on the trail with little sleep for fear of attack, we declined. The soldiers seemed well armed and prepared for any untoward encounter.

As we also needed to stable our horses, Mr. Bonjiovi and I accompanied Mr. Tobin to his meeting at the livery. There was no one there to meet him but on the return we saw Miss Bowden and a man we assumed to be her brother. Mr. Tobin's loosening of his pistols in their holsters indicated his suspicion of impending action. I thought that perhaps this was the meeting that he had intended to have, perhaps as far back as Eastmont, and stepped out of the line of fire.

The second gunfight of the day took little longer than the first. Miss Bowden seemed somewhat less that traumatized to have witnessed the murder of her brother before her very eyes so that I began to doubt her relationship. Mr. Tobin seemed prepared to kill her as well but stated that the bounty was on her brother and she was free to go.

We finally obtained an explanation in that the brothers Bowden were deserters and Mr. Tobin was on something of a quest to collect up an entire unit.

I apologize for the abrupt conclusion of this letter but it has been a long day and I have only now just realized how late it is. I shall assuredly expound on the matter leter.

With unwavering fondness,

Zebulon