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"Twilight Riders"
Dec. 30th, 2022 07:13 am"Twilight Riders"
12/11-12/12/1898
I.
Strange flickering red flashes rushed horizontally across each night sky. During each day, grey gloom overcast the sky so that even at noon nobody cast a shadow. Winds were heard howling constantly but somehow the air remained still and stifling. Birds were seen fleeing south in great flocks. Animals went into hiding across the Northwest, people either quarreled murderously over trifles or sank into depressed stupors where no chores were done and no meals made. It was like nothing no one had ever seen before, perhaps the very End of Days.
Hurrying up from across the plains and deserts, seven riders began to assemble near a Miscagowie reservation at the Canadian border. They had not planned to meet up. Some had never met any of the others before. But those who would be called the Twilight Riders found themselves forming a camp on a flat-topped hill and asking each other for answers none had. Most notorious among them was Johnny Packard, the Brimstone Kid still living under his curse.
Still looking like a beardless youth despite being forty, the Brimstone Kid was wiry and active as a bobcat. Just five feet six and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, the Kid wore all black except a red work shirt. His black stetson was pulled low over sullen green eyes. In the beaded band of that hat was tucked a copper-colored coin older than the West itself, the curse of his life. If he was in contact with the Darthan coin after dark, he would become the demonic Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
Past sixty by then, Tom Pinto had gotten grizzled and weathered by a hard life. His untrimmed beard and hair had as much grey as blond in them, and deep furrows ran down his cheeks like dried creekbeds. Pinto's darkly tanned skin looked tough as worn leather and his deepset blue eyes were sullen. His jeans and shirt were brown, with a short spotted vest over them. It was this black and white vest, made from the hide of a Pinto pony once owned by the famous Indian chief Osawayatotha, that had given him his name. Buckled around his waist was a gunbelt with a single-action .44 tied down low on his thigh. Swinging down off his own horse, he greeted the assembly politely enough. He and Johnny Packard had crossed paths several times.
"Howdy, Kid," he said, "Appears we all came up this way because the weather's been a might dodgy lately."
Johnny Packard snorted from atop his black stallion Terror. "Hallo,Pinto! Red fires in the sky at night and this godawful haze blottin' out the sun all day. You doesn't suppose this might be one of them volcanoes kickin' in?"
"I don't know know much about them things," Pinto replied. He turned in the saddle and nodded at the shirt, rather stocky black man who was sitting on a chestnut mare nearby. "What's your take on all this, friend?"
Sundown, a brooding black ex-soldier who got his name by insisting on walking the streets of "sundown towns" after dusk, carried a Model 1873 Winchester repeater chambered for the .44-40 cartridge. This was a durable and powerful weapon that he handled as lightly as if he had been a walking stick. He rumbled in a deep voice, "I'm not one for omens and superstitions, hard-headed as I am. But a fellow would have to be willful blind not to worry about all this. Have any of you heard or seen a bird or a squirrel this week? I haven't."
"You are wise to feel uneasy," said the sole woman among them. She was known as Copper-Hair, a bounty hunter skilled with the gun but much deadlier with her hands and feet. Tall and slim in a long duster coat and black slouch hat, she was the latest Karina, a immortal warrior spirit who incarnated each generation in the body of a willing living woman. The woman had bright auburn hair, glossy and much brighter in tone than Johnny's darker brick-red shade. In a strong-featured face with a wide jawline and full lips, her grey-green eyes caught the sunlight with a flash like a cat's. "Deep down beyond words, you sense we stand at the edge of an abyss and our footing is uncertain."
Clay Hawk, Federal Marshal Agent, was neglecting his orders to answer the mysterious summons. Formerly known by his tribal name, Little Clay Hawk, the lawman was nearing fifty by then. Dressed in formal townsfolk clothing, black trousers and a white shirt with a floral-pattern vest and a string tie, Clay Hawk wore a flat-brimmed low-crowned hat. His Indian blood showed clearly in the glossy black hair, the strong eagle-beak nose and the deepset eyes which were always watchful. Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy revolver. Hawk swung his arms in a casual way as he walked, not keeping his hands near the gun butt more than was natural. He had been watching and waiting, in his career he had heard much about all of these strangers.
"You've got a poet's way with words, ma'am, and that's for sure," he said as the others watched for his response. "What purely troubles me is that the air is still and yet I hear gale winds blowing somewhere. Tain't natural."
Wai Cho-Lan had come walking in from the forest without a horse or indeed without much more than a bedroll and what he wore. He was a tall, lanky man in plain long-sleeved work shirt and pants, with heavy walking shoes that had seen a lot of wear. His head had been shaven but showed a five-o'clock shadow across it. The hair growing in was white. He seemed Northern Chinese, with a single eyelid fold and a long solemn face whose tawny skin was darkened by severe sun exposure.
Several of the other riders had heard wild stories about Wai. Called by some the Tiger Fury, he was said to be able to catch arrows without being cut, to fight a half dozen men at the same time, to recover from wounds that would kill a mule. He himself made no such claims and spoke little. He said only that he would help in any way he could. The taciturn exile from mainland China, was in fact a Kumundu master and knight of Tel Shai. He alone carried no gun and refused to accept one. His unarmed combat skills had become well known campfire tales across the plains. Never one for unnecessary talk, he remained as silent as possible.
Peligroso came from Northern Mexico, an aristocratic Castilian with a driving restless taste for violence. He wore two revolvers butts forward and carried both a whip and a dueling sword with him. Peligroso was normally quick to laugh or sing, but the uncanny gloom and whistling winds had dampened his spirits. Surprisingly, the young bravo did not dress in obviously Spanish-flavored clothing but wore plain brown pants, a yellow silk shirt and short brown jacket, with a bowler derby rather than a sombrero. Nor did he affect a thin mustache but was clean-shaven and kept his glossy black hair short and neat.
Peligroso would not reveal his true name, but then neither would Tom Pinto or Sundown. Peligroso did say he came from a prominent Madrid family which he had disgraced by dueling even after stern warnings. When he killed the governor's son, he was quickly shipped to California to stay out of prison. Tall and excessively handsome, well-dressed and eloquent, he often claimed it would be unchivalrous to turn down the young women who swarmed to him. With so many outraged fathers and husbands out for his blood, he had taken to living on the trail. With sudden seriousness, Peligroso told the other Riders he had never taken much seriously in life... until now. He feared this was indeed The End Days and his soul was not ready.
( the rest of the story )
12/11-12/12/1898
I.
Strange flickering red flashes rushed horizontally across each night sky. During each day, grey gloom overcast the sky so that even at noon nobody cast a shadow. Winds were heard howling constantly but somehow the air remained still and stifling. Birds were seen fleeing south in great flocks. Animals went into hiding across the Northwest, people either quarreled murderously over trifles or sank into depressed stupors where no chores were done and no meals made. It was like nothing no one had ever seen before, perhaps the very End of Days.
Hurrying up from across the plains and deserts, seven riders began to assemble near a Miscagowie reservation at the Canadian border. They had not planned to meet up. Some had never met any of the others before. But those who would be called the Twilight Riders found themselves forming a camp on a flat-topped hill and asking each other for answers none had. Most notorious among them was Johnny Packard, the Brimstone Kid still living under his curse.
Still looking like a beardless youth despite being forty, the Brimstone Kid was wiry and active as a bobcat. Just five feet six and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, the Kid wore all black except a red work shirt. His black stetson was pulled low over sullen green eyes. In the beaded band of that hat was tucked a copper-colored coin older than the West itself, the curse of his life. If he was in contact with the Darthan coin after dark, he would become the demonic Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
Past sixty by then, Tom Pinto had gotten grizzled and weathered by a hard life. His untrimmed beard and hair had as much grey as blond in them, and deep furrows ran down his cheeks like dried creekbeds. Pinto's darkly tanned skin looked tough as worn leather and his deepset blue eyes were sullen. His jeans and shirt were brown, with a short spotted vest over them. It was this black and white vest, made from the hide of a Pinto pony once owned by the famous Indian chief Osawayatotha, that had given him his name. Buckled around his waist was a gunbelt with a single-action .44 tied down low on his thigh. Swinging down off his own horse, he greeted the assembly politely enough. He and Johnny Packard had crossed paths several times.
"Howdy, Kid," he said, "Appears we all came up this way because the weather's been a might dodgy lately."
Johnny Packard snorted from atop his black stallion Terror. "Hallo,Pinto! Red fires in the sky at night and this godawful haze blottin' out the sun all day. You doesn't suppose this might be one of them volcanoes kickin' in?"
"I don't know know much about them things," Pinto replied. He turned in the saddle and nodded at the shirt, rather stocky black man who was sitting on a chestnut mare nearby. "What's your take on all this, friend?"
Sundown, a brooding black ex-soldier who got his name by insisting on walking the streets of "sundown towns" after dusk, carried a Model 1873 Winchester repeater chambered for the .44-40 cartridge. This was a durable and powerful weapon that he handled as lightly as if he had been a walking stick. He rumbled in a deep voice, "I'm not one for omens and superstitions, hard-headed as I am. But a fellow would have to be willful blind not to worry about all this. Have any of you heard or seen a bird or a squirrel this week? I haven't."
"You are wise to feel uneasy," said the sole woman among them. She was known as Copper-Hair, a bounty hunter skilled with the gun but much deadlier with her hands and feet. Tall and slim in a long duster coat and black slouch hat, she was the latest Karina, a immortal warrior spirit who incarnated each generation in the body of a willing living woman. The woman had bright auburn hair, glossy and much brighter in tone than Johnny's darker brick-red shade. In a strong-featured face with a wide jawline and full lips, her grey-green eyes caught the sunlight with a flash like a cat's. "Deep down beyond words, you sense we stand at the edge of an abyss and our footing is uncertain."
Clay Hawk, Federal Marshal Agent, was neglecting his orders to answer the mysterious summons. Formerly known by his tribal name, Little Clay Hawk, the lawman was nearing fifty by then. Dressed in formal townsfolk clothing, black trousers and a white shirt with a floral-pattern vest and a string tie, Clay Hawk wore a flat-brimmed low-crowned hat. His Indian blood showed clearly in the glossy black hair, the strong eagle-beak nose and the deepset eyes which were always watchful. Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy revolver. Hawk swung his arms in a casual way as he walked, not keeping his hands near the gun butt more than was natural. He had been watching and waiting, in his career he had heard much about all of these strangers.
"You've got a poet's way with words, ma'am, and that's for sure," he said as the others watched for his response. "What purely troubles me is that the air is still and yet I hear gale winds blowing somewhere. Tain't natural."
Wai Cho-Lan had come walking in from the forest without a horse or indeed without much more than a bedroll and what he wore. He was a tall, lanky man in plain long-sleeved work shirt and pants, with heavy walking shoes that had seen a lot of wear. His head had been shaven but showed a five-o'clock shadow across it. The hair growing in was white. He seemed Northern Chinese, with a single eyelid fold and a long solemn face whose tawny skin was darkened by severe sun exposure.
Several of the other riders had heard wild stories about Wai. Called by some the Tiger Fury, he was said to be able to catch arrows without being cut, to fight a half dozen men at the same time, to recover from wounds that would kill a mule. He himself made no such claims and spoke little. He said only that he would help in any way he could. The taciturn exile from mainland China, was in fact a Kumundu master and knight of Tel Shai. He alone carried no gun and refused to accept one. His unarmed combat skills had become well known campfire tales across the plains. Never one for unnecessary talk, he remained as silent as possible.
Peligroso came from Northern Mexico, an aristocratic Castilian with a driving restless taste for violence. He wore two revolvers butts forward and carried both a whip and a dueling sword with him. Peligroso was normally quick to laugh or sing, but the uncanny gloom and whistling winds had dampened his spirits. Surprisingly, the young bravo did not dress in obviously Spanish-flavored clothing but wore plain brown pants, a yellow silk shirt and short brown jacket, with a bowler derby rather than a sombrero. Nor did he affect a thin mustache but was clean-shaven and kept his glossy black hair short and neat.
Peligroso would not reveal his true name, but then neither would Tom Pinto or Sundown. Peligroso did say he came from a prominent Madrid family which he had disgraced by dueling even after stern warnings. When he killed the governor's son, he was quickly shipped to California to stay out of prison. Tall and excessively handsome, well-dressed and eloquent, he often claimed it would be unchivalrous to turn down the young women who swarmed to him. With so many outraged fathers and husbands out for his blood, he had taken to living on the trail. With sudden seriousness, Peligroso told the other Riders he had never taken much seriously in life... until now. He feared this was indeed The End Days and his soul was not ready.
( the rest of the story )
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