From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Sioux Nation
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
August 1877
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 Sung
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 Bullock 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
This was the seventh session of our Deadlands campaign. It was
the second Deadlands session run by yours truly. It was based on the
Shadow Stalkers adventure “Dead Men’s Hands” from D20 Past. The adventure was run in Spring, 2008. This letter was written by Zebulon’s player.
