Cody Caldwell
Mr. Cody Jess Caldwell (a.k.a. Caldwell the Conjuror!)
Cody is of above average height, 5’ 11” and has a solid build and is fairly strong. He has medium length wavy auburn hair and green eyes, sporting a thick handlebar moustache, typically has a scruffy beard unless he is aiming to dress up, when he shaves and trims them neatly. He has pleasant attractive features and dresses in typical good quality clothing of the day with a duster or jacket overcoat, typically grey, brown or tan in color, although he favors white or green shirts. While in town he sports a walking stick with a hidden blade within it, the walking stick’s motif is that of a "snake" AKA dragon, whose head is the top and whose tail wraps down the shaft of the cane and is of Oriental design.
Cody is the son of John C. Colt, the brother of Samuel Colt who affected his own death in 1842 (the year he was born) and fled to the West with his wife Caroline Caldwell who gave birth to Cody on the trail in Ohio. Cody tells people he was always on the run and grew up in a wide variety of circumstances and that his father died while he was young and his mother remarried, frequently, always to terrible men, she always saw in them what she wanted him to see not what was really there.
Cody eventually drifted off to join the Circus, or some such, after being beaten one too many times by the last of his fathers, one Reverand Bartholomew Blackstone, a drunk and violent man. He left Oregon and eventually ended up being drafted by the Union Army and serving in it as a spy for the Union under Ulysses S. Grant. After the war he traveled overseas and eventually was hired by the Hennessy Agency for which he was engaged in attempting to discovering the large numbers of fires that plagued the Midwest in 1871 amonst other investigations. Cody has a wide number of skills that an be useful in an investigation although is not really a true expert in any of them other than gambling and sleight-of-hand although he is decent with his fists and firearms.
Divine Domains
Agnostic
Holy Books & Codes
Books are going to tell you how to act? What a load of malarky!
Divine Symbols & Sigils
Cross your fingers and wave them in the air in the shape of a, oh, wait who cares!
Tenets of Faith
Do as thou wilt.
Holidays
All!
Divine Goals & Aspirations
Not dyin' yet.
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Cody is large and well-built but suffers from a poor constitution due to being born too early.
Body Features
Cody has no prominant scars or other physical features, he has been quite lucky to avoid such so far.
Facial Features
A thick handlebar moustache and scruffy beard.
Identifying Characteristics
His signature weapon, a unique Colt 45.
Physical quirks
Walks with a (sword) cane that has an oriental dragon motif.
Special abilities
Cody can see well in the dark and is resilent to the horrors that man inflict on other men, being able to forget and move on quite quickly.
Apparel & Accessories
Cody dresses well in brown, grey and tan clothing while favoring white and green shirts and various colorful accessories, typically with widely varying motifs acquired during his many travels.
Specialized Equipment
Cody possesses a unique Colt 45, it is a breech loading revolver with five chambers, not six. It is made out of a unique red-gold material and is covered in strange markings and symbols. Although no better than other 45's he calls it "The Colt Patterson" and is very possessive of it.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
The above story is a lie.
That is the story of his birth-mother and his half brother Cody whom he tracked down just before the war where he found her in Salem in Oregon Territory, dying of syphilis. Several weeks before his arrival Caroline had shot her husband Bartholomew Blackstone dead as he beat her son in a drunken rage when Cody, age 11, tried to stop him from beating his mother. She comforted her son as he bleed out and had him buried in the local Church there in Salem, Bart’s body was left to rot in the fields and was consumed by nature unshriven. Cody has a number of sketches of it as it decomposed. He stuck around Oregon and let his mother call him Cody due to her worsing mind until she died a few months later, her last words were "I can peacefully go into Heaven knowing what a good son I raised, I love you." He buried her next to her son and later he would adopt their tragic story as a cover identity as an homage to their lives.
In fact Cody grew up as Samuel Caldwell Colt, the adopted son of his uncle Samuel Colt, in the lap of luxury. He attended the finest of schools, trained at the most prestigious academies and knows the finest of people from the highest ranks of society, including being a personal friend of the current President, his old boss Ulysses S. Grant. He was studying at college when the Civil War broke out. And after the death of his father and issue with the will found himself no longer interesting in living among those who tried to disposses him of the inheritance so he changed his name to Carlton James Colt and left.
Unlike so many others among his rank in society he volunteered and participated in the Second Battle of Bull Run (First Manassas to those dirty Confederates). The picnic basket he and his friends brought with them was finished off that day by the man who would become his nemesis, a confederate cavalry soldier by the name of Wilber Smithers.
The slaughter of the war changed him and he lost interest in mindless battle, he began to lie, cheat and steal his way across the battlefields, and he was good at it. He ran into Jasper Curtis, AKA Maskelyne the Magnificent, an agent for the Union who saw potential in him and thus he began his career as a Union spy. He gained some fame for his activities as a spy for the Union working with Ulysses S. Grant, Kate Warne, Harriet Tubman and his mentor Maskelyne the Magnificent. With Maskelyne he, as Cody Caldwell the Conjuror, travelled across the border freely performing shows of magic and prestidigitation, while supposedly on the side selling Confederates highly desired smuggled goods, particularly salt, cotton, rum, coffee, sugar, gunpowder and quinine as well as other blockaded items.
The Confederate authorities ate the lie up along with the vituals, meanwhile the pair’s reports along with those of their allies, sympathetic locals and other agents on Confederate troop movements, planning and other information were instrumental in turning the tide in numerous campaigns. They were so well regarded and trusted the Confederates even sometime used them to mail military correspondences, all summarily steamed open and read naturally, before being delivered! Also, by being able to cross the border freely they managed to aid the Underground Railroad in smuggling freed slaves to safety in the north.
Thus Cody spent the war lying, stealing, cheating and otherwise “inconviencing” the Confederate forces, which often ended in a touch of violence, more than a few stabbings and not a small number of explosions.
The pair were never uncovered until the end of the war when they blew up a train with the last of the Confederate Gold stores that Wilber Smithers and his friends were taking to the west to “restart the Confer’acy in Injun lands” just as hostilities ended, most of it went to the Union treasury, not all, but most. With that and the profits he got from double-crossing the Southerners for years and his own resources the pair was comfortably set up.
Maskelyne retired and Cody was able to travel extensively overseas after the war spending time in Europe, Latin America, across the Middle East and in Japan during the Meiji Restoration. He has since returned to America and has been knocking about since then. Eventually he was contacted by Rupert Hennessy and joined his Agency to try and find some way to make sense of an increasingly senseless world and deal with the tedious boredom of daily existence in a world slowly sinking back into bigotry and oppression.
Gender Identity
Male
Sexuality
Proud Sodomite
Education
Cheshire Academy, Brown University, the School of Hard Knocks, the Street, the Carnival, the War, the Ravaged Land afterwards,
Accomplishments & Achievements
During the Civil War Cody worked as a double-agent for the Union spying on Confederate forces and rescuing slaves while working as a travelling entertainer and merchant.
Failures & Embarrassments
Cody has yet to end the life of one ex-confederate named Wilber Smithers, AKA "Reb Greyson" a sadly prominent KKK member and outlaw wanted for his many crimes against man, nature and God.
Mental Trauma
Cody suffers from PTSD due to his involvement in the Civil War, primarily Traumatophobia, a fear of being injured, he is also a pathological liar, kleptomaniac and cheat.
Intellectual Characteristics
Cody appears to be not all that bright, not particularly unintelligent, just kind of average, but it is all a facade. He is exceptionally quick and intelligent picking up new ideas easily and capable of extraordinary complex calculations quickly as well as being an "out of the box" thinker.
Morality & Philosophy
Don't touch me, I'm special.
Taboos
Mistreating innocents.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
Cody wants to help the innocent and honest stay that way by protecting them from the true and terrible nature of the world. He wants to help others make meaning of life and events that he believes are truly and utterly meaningless. He wants stories told and myths made and belief in meaning to perist and thrive in a world growing ever more shallow and base.
Savvies & Ineptitudes
An expert liar, gambler and stage magician and a good eye for spotting things out of place. He is a decent shot with his pistols and thrown knives and has a knack for picking up a wide variety of skills ranging from art, to architecture, languages, linguisitcs, cryptography, accounting and psychology. He is an amateur actor and knows how to apply basic disguises also.
Likes & Dislikes
Cody gets bored easily and seeks out the strange, unusual and interesting places. He dislikes the tedius boredom of everyday life, farming and the bucolic pastoral life.
Virtues & Personality perks
Affable, friendly, protective of others, loyal.
Vices & Personality flaws
Easily distracted, lies an lot and gets into trouble when bored, kleptomaniac.
Personality Quirks
Laughs at things others find horrible.
Hygiene
Alternates between being extremely comfortable in the dirt and soiled conditions of the era and extreme fastidiousness about his appearance, hygeine and dress.
Social
Contacts & Relations
His adopted father Samuel Colt. his carnival teacher Maskelyne the Magnificent, his detective mentor Kate Warne, his war time boss Ulysses S. Grant and ally Harriet Tubman, his personal hero Walt Whitman, his nemesis Col. Wilber Smithers AKA the outlaw “Reb Greyson.”
Family Ties
The Colt Family of Hartford Conneticut.
Religious Views
Agnostic.
Social Aptitude
Depends on the situation, Cody tries to fit in with the local crowd and not appear to be too different. Being different gets you killed.
Hobbies & Pets
Artwork and storytelling. He sells his stories and drawings as Penny Dreadfull "news" to Eastern Newspapers. And they lap it up.
Speech
Cody affects a Western/Southern style accent but his normal speech is very Eastern and proper when he is speaking normally.
Wealth & Financial state
Cody appears to be of average wealth and resources but he is in reality quite wealthy and is able to afford the finer things in life. He can spend $150 daily and up to $25 on specific items and has assests of $12500 in various stocks, bonds, bank accounts and deposits.
Divine Classification
Human/Agnostic
Honorary & Occupational Titles
Lt. Carlton James (C.J.) Colt of the United States Army, honorable discharged.
Year of Birth
1842
31 Years old
Birthplace
New York City
Children
Current Residence
Kansas City, Kansas
Gender
Male
Eyes
Green, sparkling
Hair
Auburn, think and wavy
Height
5'11"
Weight
175
Quotes & Catchphrases
Huh, you don't see that everyday.
I'm bored, lets go cause trouble.
Aligned Organization
Character Prototype
Gale Harold as Wyatt Earp on Deadwood.
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Return to the Bender Inn
March 27-April 1, 1873
March 27, 1873
The Bender Inn
I write this down before I will chose to forget it.
The last leg of our journey and the final one began with nasty weather and ended with worse.
Upon arising at the Grand Hotel in Cherryvale we had breakfast, met the Sheriff, a man whose man I have forgotten more easily, and inquired about one Samuel, Simon or Saul, something like that, Tully. He was not hard to find as he was working nearby. However we had no sooner began to introduce ourselves when no one other than Katie Bender appeared, no sooner had we mentioned the good Doctor York or the Loncore family than she had bambulzued him of with her to her domicile for their typical pleasures.
We collected the sheriff, informed him of our concerns and gave chase.
Upon arrival at the Bender Inn, oh, had mentioned it was sleeting, misty and nasty weather all around. Made being stealthy easier at least. Jimmy the Wolf and Mumple decided to sneak up to the house while Sister Marie, who is apparently quite a good shot with a rifle covered the entrance.
Somewhere along the line a shot rang out, Jimmy yelled from around back and we charged to his aid.
Upon arrival near the back door we saw Jimmy, wounded by a blow from the hammer that Father Frank was wielding engaged in melee while further on Junior and Mumple were at odds and a dead Sirius Tully, oh what was his name who had his head caved in with a suspicious large hammer shaped blow to his cranium?
It seemed that the time for stealth and conversation had ended.
I drew my cavalry saber, aka, the Artist’s sword and neatly sliced off the head of the murderous blacksmith Father Frank. Meanwhile Herb and Mumple had dispatched Junior and we moved to the door.
I had picked up the hammer, in case we needed it for the door, but that was unneeded as it was unlocked and easily thrown open, which I did and then my companions rushed inside.
When they had cleared and I entered the room Herb and Henry had rushed ahead while Jimmy was attempting to scalp Old Lady Bender as she sat in her rocker his tomahawk stuck in the wall behind her. I am unsure of his reasoning but decided to knock her out so we could question her later. She aptly dodged my blow and then pulled out a knife and stabbed Jimmy in the side! Apparently she had poisoned her blade as Jimmy doubled up in agony and I decided that mercy had come to an end and swung the hammer with enough force to smash knock out a cougar right onto her head.
She did not flinch.
She laughed maniacally and rocked more in her chair. It was damned eerie.
Anyway I took a few steps back, to get out of knife range, dropped the hammer and pulled out my Colt Paterson 45 and shot three times. I found out later that Herb, upon exiting the other room he had rushed into also shot her a couple times as well. Finally after taking enough damage to down a bison I got off a lucky shot right between her eyes and splattered her brains on the back wall.
In the meanwhile Sister Marie had arrived and pulled Jimmy outside, or maybe it was Mumple, I am not sure. Anyway, the said that Katie was dead had taken the sheriff, who had been rendered unconscious for some reason outside as well.
I went outside while Herb stopped to look for some reason at the wall behind the now dead Old Lady Bender’s head for some reason.
The entire time of the fight I was beginning to have hallucinations of that terrible conflict again, blood and gore, violence and pain and despair. It was settling, I wanted nothing more to do with the house. I was all I could do to keep my mind focused on the task at hand.
Upon leaving the house I bent down to help out Sister Marie with Jimmy, who she had been helping with his wounds.
And then, for some reason I cannot fathom, after picking up Jimmy, I decided to return to the house.
Apparently I decided to go get his knife I saw lying on the floor, a treasured gift from his father I sought it out.
I re-entered the house.
Immediately Images of blood and violence flew before my eyes, the words bleed, bleed, bleed kept calling to me, perhaps it was the gore of the scene or memories of the war, I do not know and shall not dwell upon it.
Which is when the accident happened. Clumsily I slipped on the blood and cut a rather nasty gash in my arm with the very knife I was trying to obtain. I grabbed it and ran from the house, the pain shocking me back to my senses! We mounted up and headed back to Cherryvale and just in time. As we arrived so did the nastiest storm of the season!
For four days the winds blew, the snow came down and the land was as dark and as cold as the worst weather I have seen. We only ventured out of the hotel to cross the street for food, drink and what little social life exists in Cherryvale during a blizzard. Fortunately we managed to stay warm, heal up and regain our senses somewhat.
During this time Mumple and the others decided that we needed to return to the house and see what evidence and clues we could find. With the Benders dead, it should have been a simple task. Rejoining the Sheriff we returned to the Bender Inn.
I had already decided that I would not be entering the Bender’s Inn. My experiences with Old Lady Bender and the knife had opened memories I have long kept buried. I would not risk what semblance of normalcy I have left by entering that place. No, I feared that I might seek to hurt myself once again.
So I helped to recover the body of Silas Tully and proceeded to the barn, where I found several sheep, a couple cows and a puny looking horse that had not been fed or watered for days. I took care of them and then proceeded to check out in the Orchards in the direction of where the Benders had been carrying Silas’ corpse, figuring they might have a grave pit or pile out there. And, in fact, after digging through some snow I discovered a pile what seemed somewhat out of sorts with the landscape. However the ground was also frozen. I am sure they will find the body of the Good Doctor York here, along with many others when the Thaw comes. I was glad it had not come yet.
I returned to the horses only to find out that Jimmy and Sister Mary had subdued Herb and had him tied up on a horse! Meanwhile Henry was tracking Jimmy around the house, apparently with his gun drawn. I threw a quick snowball at Henry, which distracted him enough so that Jimmy was able to avoid being shot and knocked Henry unconscious!
Jimmy returned to us, with the unconscious Mumple, requested that we tie him up and onto a horse. We did so as he recovered the dynamite we had and a fuse. He told us that he was going inside and that if he did not return we should ride to Cherryvale and summon reinforcements.
Being our senior in the agency by far I saw wisdom in his plan as did Sister Marie.
Jimmy re-entered the house and returned few seconds later signalling for us to go for cover, which we did, just in time for a tremendous boom to blow the house to smithereens!
Finally!
Evidence be damned. Live to fight another day is most assuredly the number one rule in the Hennessy Handbook.
We took our leave of the place and returned to Cherryvale.
In my report I advocated that the entire place be burned, what was left of it, and then buried, The site should be removed from our history and forgotten, the Trace would soon be replaced with the Rail and the horrors of the place should be lost to history. When the thaw came I was sure that bodies would be discovered in the Orchard but the guilt of the Bender’s was beyond doubt. Let that be the end of it. Col. York wanted more absolute proof, as all we had was circumstantial evidence, which it was, but sometimes that is all you get.
Upon my return, the drinking of numerous shots of whiskey and a nice bath I overheard Henry talking with Col. York, he was speaking of strange things, of a mysterious stone abattoir. Of hearing voices, mind control even! Pfft. Henry was having his own form of hallucinations from the war. Well, certainly things had occurred at the Bender Inn, and before that at the Witches House and even at the Devil’s Rockpile that I cannot explain. The world is weirder than I have previously imagined, true. But beyond that I cannot say.
The Bender’s are dead. Their story is done, as is the Case of the Missing Doctor. Hmmm, this would make a good tall tale for my Weird West series. Perhaps I shall call it “The Curious Case of the Blood-Cult of Kansas” I am sure I can spin that into a decent Penny Dreadful. I shall have to change it enough to met the needs of my readers and run it by Rupert’s lawyers but I am sure I can weave a grim but fair tale out of this series of macabre events! Mumple's wild ramblings aside I am looking forward to taking the train out of here and off to Chicago, it will be a welcome change.
April 1, 1873
From Parsons to Ladore and then Cherryvale
March 26, 1873
March 26, 1873
The next to final leg of our journey began, as so many had, and would, in intemperate weather. Sleet, cold winds, a general malaise of death, with no sign of the spring to come whatsoever either in temperature or color awaited us on the journey.
We were leaving Parsons to travel to the Bender Inn, near Cherryvale. We decided to avoid going to Ladore for the moment as the trail did not led us in that direction. The Osage Trace at these points meanders a bit, going through a hilly and forested patch of land, perfect for bushwhacking, which Mumple highly suspected would be the cause of the Doctor’s ultimate demise. I shared my confidence that I tended to suspect the supposedly fine and fair townspeople of Cherryvale instead, particularly we found fliers for one Katie Bender, who promised to heal the sick, cure the blind, restore the hearing as well as deaf and dumbness through her spiritualist ways. I had run into such before, it is a professional hazard as a stage magician to run into those duping the innocent for their own gain via a mixture of techniques from the throwing of the voice, thumping tables and wires. Still, few of those turn to murder to make a profit so… we moved on.
While upon the Trace Jimmy the Wolf and Mumple spotted four men on horseback, looking down upon us from the ridge. They made no moves as they were quite out of range, at least a quarter mile. The Bly brothers apparently whose homestead was further along the Trace and apparently, as we were warned in Parsons, not above a bit of bushwhacking if the odds seemed good. We were five, they were four. Not good odds, perhaps the Doctor riding alone seemed a better mark. Mumple again suspected this highly.
Shortly we came across a strange set of huts, the Rogers, a family of many thieving children, a father obsessed with fire and a mother obsessed with Herb. We quickly moved on, although I was deprived of my gambling winnings of the previous night by the little ragamuffins, eh. Easy come, easy go. They looked like they needed it more than I.
The next homestead was a farm in which the resident at the house told us to git off his land and proceeded to fire a few warning shots. Mumple tried to engage him in conversation but we chose to leave to seek kinder folk as it was not yet noon.
Finally we stumbled up a fine wooden house with a barn, several animals and an orchard. A somewhat loud man introduced himself as Junior and welcomed us inside, to the Bender Inn. We had finally arrived.
The Bender Inn was a small place, it possessed a few stocked can goods, some tobacco and sundry items and they offered us a meal of stew. They also said they had not seen the good Doctor for weeks, as he had been through there on the way up to Fort Scott and not returned since. I checked the barn for a fine bay horse but found only empty stalls tended by an old man, the matriarch of the family, Frank. He was elderly but stoutly built, apparently being a blacksmith by trade. He kindly took the animals and saw to them. Inside my companions talked to Katie, who, apparently, was considered quite good looking, not interested in the ladies I have never really been an expert on such things.
With no sign of the Doctor my companions had settled upon the idea was that he had been set upon on the Trace and wanted to try and track down the Bly brothers. So we search around and found the trail to take us up the lookout point we had been observed from early. Jimmy was looking around for tracks when I managed to spot some odd disturbed patches in the soil. He was then able to track them, the trail led straight to Ladore.
Ah, Ladore, what a pleasant town.
It was rundown, most of the ceiling had holes in them, the town was slowing dying as the fine folk had moved on to Parson where the wheelhouse would eventually go in. A town whose future had been stolen from it. It was a cesspool of misery, despair, hopelessness, shallowness and no pity whatsoever. I am sure every resident would have killed us for our pocket change if we let them.
We went into the best of the shoddy looking watering holes and I chatted up the locals and got into a card game with some of them. The local whiskey, called Tarantula Juice was somewhat suspicious and I order some local red-eye out of Kansas City instead. Better safe than sorry. I was doing well at cards and got an earful about the goings on at the Benders, which apparently mostly involved sordid tales of Katie and her colorful antics when a large Albino named Augie Bly started shouting about his brother, I said that he went to take a piss, which was a complete falsehood, although a reasonable one, when Augie said, “He never take a piss without me!” Augie then upended the table and a brawl broke out. Finally! I wondered how long it would take!
Although I am uncertain of the details some of the locals got their faces punched, a couple went down, someone went for the guns briefly before Augie stormed out looking for his brother. He apparently passed by Mumple who said he had seen him running down the streets and pointed in an apparently random direction.
Cooler heads prevailed in the bar and we decided that we had had enough fun in Ladore, having discovered from the Livery that someone named Saul Tully of Cherryvale had sold a Fine Bay Mare recently in Ladore and he became a person on interest in our search. We headed off for Cherryvale and arrived later in the night and took rooms in the Grand Hotel to sleep off the encounter.
Parsons was a cold, miserable mess of a town. Walnut was worse.
March 24, 1873
It occurs to me that I have forgetten to mention Glendale, AKA Walnut.
While buying goods in town it seems the local school teacher shot someone in the hear over abuse of students and locals. He then proceeded to try and shoot me. Naturally I took cover, but alerted my friends to his injustices and we gave chase. While unable to catch up with him we were able to give the local constabulaty enough information so that justice was done. I understand he danced in the winds somewhat south of town, a fitting punishment for his transgressions.
After leaving Osage Mission we tramped through some bad weather and made it to Parsons just as the sleet hit. On the way I shared with my companions my thoughts upon the possible fate of Dr. York.
First, he could have been done in by natural dangers along the trail, being thrown from his horse, snakes, bad weather and the like, but as a strapping man in his thirties and well experienced with the trail I considered this a insignificant possibility.
Second, he might have been done in by the human dangers of the Trace, Indians, desperados, criminals and such are all too commonplace in these parts, as we have seen, but again, this seems unlikely, Dr. York was a former military man and quite competent in his bearing and manners.
Finally, there was the far more likely possibility that the good Dr. York was done in by some of the good and civil resident of the fine towns and settlements along the trail. Nothing broods evil better than independence, isolation and civility after all.
I was thankful to make it to town before the bad weather, but alas, my companions decided to inquire with the local Sheriff, a man who refused to call himself such. He tasked us with trying to find out what happened to a certain local doctor, and in an apparent frenzy in regards to missing Doctors my companions decided to trek out and try and find the man.
They sent a Deputy Brumsley along with us to help out.
Deputy Brumsley had an impressive moustache and it seemed to interfere with my companions understanding of his statements. He was quite clear in his meaning and enuciation to me but my companions insisted he was speaking in tongues. Clearly my services as a translator were required. Sadly it sleeted the entire time we were out and I shall be lucky not to catch my death of a cold due to the hours we spent larking about the countryside in a futile effort to find the missing doctor.
At the Doctor's residence I discovered a patch of blood on the floor near his bed and on the ceiling of his loft. He must have hit his head there before he wandered off, probably to his demise. I also discovered a wonderful bottle of Basil Hayden that I brough alone with me on my journeys. I am sure it is the reason I did not take ill after its conclusion.
We eventually wandered to a nearby residence that involved children who confirmed the Doctor had hit his head when the summoned him to come to their household. He never made it there and I am sure they will find his body somewhere between the two locations as soon as the weather improves.
We returned to town and inquired about the good Dr. York only to find out he had not stayed at any of the local hotels but did dine there in some somewhat dubious restaurant called the Star I believe. They mentioned that he had passed along to Cherryville and was destined for some place called the Bender Inn. Since Cherryville is the last place before Independence, his home, suddenly the Bender Inn has become the number one suspect in regards to his disappearance. We shall see, we arrive there tomorrow.
Confessions, not that I need any.
March 23, 1873
March 23, 1873
Do you have any idea what a pain it is to be a legend, or even associated with one? My uncle once murdered a man, Samuel Adams and tried to cover it up by burying him in salt and shipping him to New Orleans. He got caught, he got condemned and he supposedly hung himself the day before he could be killed for it.
Due to circumstances beyond my control I was labeled his son. Edgar Allen Poe and Herman Melville wrote tales of this story, “The Oblong Box” and “Bartleby, the Scrivener.” Thanks ever so much.
Along the way his brother managed to impregnate his wife, who had become attracted to John in such a way that way unacceptable and I was born.
I was fortunate. My real father, Samuel Colt, “adopted” me as his own as my mother and my so-called father escaped to the west. But this was not the case. I grew up as the “adopted” son of Samuel Colt in the lap of luxury. I had the best tutors and the best of possible educations, and for a time I was happy. But there was always this darkness, this curse hanging over my past. I finally decided to face it and track down the truth of my family history after I graduated from Cheshire Academy in 1860. It took me some time but I finally found my birth-mother and the real tale of my life. It shook me to my roots. Nothing I thought was true was real. While my father, my real father, did well by me his new family and heirs did not. I was lucky to escape with what I could from their malice.
Never again will I willingly embrace the falsehoods and lies of such a class of people. In the crucible of war I found beauty, truth and redemption in the lives of the poor, the ex-slaves, the sodomites like myself and the downtrodden. I will fight for them always. Nevermore shall I place an existence among the wealthy and well to do as a place I wish to live. Their souls are forfeit and so shall I use them in the world to come.
March 24, 1873
The Final Journal Entry of Samuel Caldwell Colt
The Final Journal Entry of Samuel Caldwell Colt
It has to be said that I grew up in the lap of luxury. My uncle Samuel Colt, is, without a doubt, one of the richest men in America and he is my guardian as my father, his brother John Caldwell Colt, died before I was born. He committed suicide the day before he was to be hung for the murder of Samuel Adams during an argument over a bill of some $1.35. Apparently the jury found the “he fell on my hatchet, which I thought was a stick five times” as well as his attempt to cover up the incident unreliable testimony.
Anyway, a few months later my mother, Caroline Henshaw, who had married John the night before his death gave birth to me. She promptly left the child with my uncle, Samuel, and disappeared to the west. I eventually found her, but that is not this tale.
No, this is a tale from my younger days here in the prosperous and gentile countryside of Connecticut. Having returned from my trip to find my mother I returned to Hartford where my father was building a new workshop at the factory.
It was a pleasant morning on the 21st of May when I caught my father at breakfast. He greeted me heartily,
“Welcome back Samuel! I hope you found out west what you were looking for.”
“I did, and more.” I replied, now was not the time to cause issuance with what my mother had claimed in Salem.
Samuel had always treated me well and I had an excellent upbringing with the finest of tutors and even attended Cheshire Academy and have been studying at Brown University. I saw no reason to upset the situation at this point in time.
“Good, good, you can tell me all about it later, but come with me I want you to see what we’ve done at the factory.”
That was odd, Uncle Samuel rarely brought me into things involving the family business. He wanted me to find my own way in the world and indulged my somewhat mercurial interests. Nevertheless he was passionate today and the chance to share some of that passion was contagious. I happily accepted his invitation and we set off for the Hartford Factory.
Along the way he explained how Elisha K. Root had managed to make machines so that 80% of the work was done by them and only 20% by human hands. This had allowed him to achieve his dreams of making what came to be called the “Assembly Line.”
The factory was plain enough to look at, a three story affair, long and thin with a foundry at one end and the final assembly plant at the other, white with a red rood and with simple lines and tall smoking chimneys leaping from the foundry end while water and steam wheels turned the axles and powered the process. Such mechanical workings were things I had been kept away from but they were nevertheless quite fascinating to see in operation. Young children scuttle about cleaning and maintaining the machines.
Knowing that some gun parts were made by machine, he envisioned that all the parts on every Colt gun to be interchangeable and made by machine, later to be assembled by hand. His goal was the assembly line.The work was organized by order and each element of the firearms were to be assemble, in order, moving across the factory floor, each handed off to the next worker who would complete the next step in the task of assembling the device. That was his dream.
And in that factory I could see that his dream had come true.
Workers toiled seamlessly with the machines and devices like one giant hive, it reminded me of a Bee’s nest, I had studied them and done some drawings of the interiors of them in art class.
“Uncle, this is incredible, it is as if the workers are like the drones in a beehive,”
“I never thought about that he said, but you have hit upon it my lad.”
At that point Elisha had come over as well as Gustave Young, a Bavarian my uncle had hired for engraving work, it seems there was some disagreement over the placement of the engraving stations in the factory.
I was left to wander a bit, and went about the factory, making a few sketches and chatting with some of the workers. They were amiable and seemed to enjoy the work.
“Easiest and best paying job I’ve had.”
“Mr. Colt treats us well.”
“I feel respected here, not like at some other factories.”
Having come from humble roots and dealt with the injustices of being indentured as a farmer once Uncle Samuel tended to treat his workers and employees well. A fairly uncommon sentiment of the day I might add.
Before I knew it I had gotten lost.
In something of a concern I looked around and tried to establish my bearings.
I could not.
All directions looked the same.
All I saw was machinery and ants or bees crawling upon it, drones working tirelessly for the hive. Faces obscured by dim lighting the individuality erases, All that was was the Factory, everything else was but a part. An interchangeable part, even the people serving the machines, perhaps especially them as I realized the ants and bees were the people moving among the Great Machine.
“AAARRRGGHH”
“It hurts!”
The scream brought me back to my senses.
I looked about and noticed a young boy had been scalded by steam. I pushed the workers aside and examined the lad.
“What is your name son?” I asked him as he cupped his leg in his hands.
“Hiram, sir” he replied.
“Let me see the wound Hiram if you would, I have some medical training” I asked him and he slowly opened his hands.
I lifted the clothing aside and was able to see the steam had produced a bad burn, deep enough to be damaging but not bad enough that it might cause amputation unless aggravated.”.
“Call for a stretcher he must be taken to the hospital.”
At that point a burly man came over and said “Hiram, get back to work someone’s got to grease those gears.”
“Certainly not, he could lose his leg without proper medical attention. And who would you be, sir?” I inquired.
He puffed out his chest and said, “I am the overseer here, Bartholomew, Bartholomew Wright. And who might you be, sir, and what authority do you have here.” He said “sir” in such a way that implied he certainly did not mean it.
I just smiled and laughed a little.
“My name is Samuel C. Colt.”
The assembled workers took a small step back and a hushed gasp among them.
Then I heard Uncle Samuel making his way through the crowd.
“Oh, Hiram, you have gone a gotten hurt. Let’s get you to a doctor. Samuel, can you carry the lad while I send for help.”
“Certainly Uncle.” I said and hefted the boy up in my arms.
“And the rest of you get back to work!” Uncle bellowed.
I saw Bartholomew cuff some other young lad, whom I will never know the name of, and tell him things with much pointing and annoyance. It reminded me of the dance of a bee, telling the other members of the hive where the nectar it found was.
“Sorry you had to see that Samuel.” Uncle said. “Still a minor incident, with the new assembly line set up and running we can produce pieces of finer quality and greater reliability than ever before. It is the wave of the future my lad, the wave of the future.” He was beaming, the queen of the hive with her workers and attendants serving her and the Hive as a whole.
I never again set foot into one of Uncle’s factories. You see, while the Queen may be in charge of the hive she is still just one part of it, and as much a prisoner too it as any other.
“Marvelous isn’t lad. A whole new way of life and prosperity awaits us.” Uncle Samuel declared.
“Absolutely, you have accomplished great things Uncle, congratulations!” He talked amiable after dropping the young child, what was his name again, I guess it doesn’t matter, at the hospital. We went back to the house and had lunch and then Uncle went off to check in on matters concerning the advertising and legal aspects of the business, he was a genius at those aspects of the business as well, and I decided to take my leisure among the local paths and orchards.
Along one of those paths I stumbled upon a tree buzzing with activity, clearly it was ready for spawning. The bees were busily whisking what that could off to some new colony somewhere else in the orchid, clearly it was a good time for the bees as well.
“What a marvelous new world awaits us indeed. At least the bees seemed happy, busy at least, very busy.” I vowed to never again set foot in one of Uncle’s factories.
Uncle died early in the next year, gout, a disease of overabundance. I never brought up Caroline's documents to him. There seemed no point.
His new wife Elizabeth Jarvis, with her young son and her brother Richard, whom Uncle left as the main inheritors of his estate tried to contest the part of the will that left me a $2 million dollar sum. When I produced the marriage contract proving that he and Caroline Henshaw were wed in Scotland in 1838 and that I was possibly the heir to not only the family name but the company along with it they grew quite concerned. However I was content with the money I had left after paying off the lawyers. I never want anything to do with factories ever again, the buzzing of the hive, the beating of the hammers, the droning sounds, the drones themselves, the lawyers and treachery of the rich and well to do. I have left it all behind. The Factory, University, the family, Hartford, as I have the name Samuel, with all due regards father, I want to choose my own name and make my own place in this world, I have chosen Carlton James Colt for my new name. It sounds fitting, for as long as it lasts.
After leaving the courthouse and Hartford behind I stopped at his grave and paid my respects. I thanked him for what he had given me as the cold wind blew and then I took the stage to New York City. It seems the hive known as the United States Government had passed some sort of conscription act and while I could easily have paid the $300 for the Exemption I decided not to do so. My parents were dead, my remaining family wanted nothing to do with me anyway, business and industrial work was truly disturbing, friends of mine from the University were signing up in patriotic fervor for the war effort while others took the Exemption to hide behind the walls of their hives, so why not, I had nothing else to do now anyway.
As I rode off to quite another revelation about humanity I wondered if Samuel Adams thought, in his dying moments, or John C. Colt, in his, that the $1.35 was worth it. I know $ 2 million is not.
The Many Fathers of Cody Caldwell
March 23, 1873
The Many Fathers of Cody Caldwell
Cody Caldwell had many fathers.
Almost none of them were good men. His mother had terrible taste in husbands and fathers.
His supposed birth father was John C. Colt, the brother of Samuel Colt of firearms fame. However it might well have been that Samuel was the father and paid his brother and his wife off to cover that up. John and Caroline Henshaw left New York City the night of his supposed death in a cell in New York City, never to be heard of again by polite society.
Cody Colt was born somewhere in Ohio, even his mother does not remember exactly where. Some trail west of Cleveland is as close as it gets. His mother and father kept moving throughout the Old Northwest, as it was then known through his youth. Cody has memories of the man his mother called his father John up until the age of 8. After that his father disappears. What Cody learned from him was precision, accuracy and sorrow.
His mother remarried to a man called Barnabas for a few years. Barnabas was a strong man, a meat packer from Chicago who had joined a new religious cult called the Church of the Latter Day Saints, he was also an abusive drunk who treated Cody and his mother like crap. He beat Cody regularly as well as his mother and eventually died in a tavern dispute that caused his mother to leave whatever-the-hell-was-that-town, Nauvoo? Rapidly. What Cody learned from him was disappointment, pain and anger.
After that Caroline married someone named Ichabod Caine, who took them to Memphis. All he remembers of Ichabod is cold damp hands reaching for him and his mother standing over Ichabod with a smoking pistol and tears in her eyes. What Cody learned from him was deceit, obsession and lying.
After that Caroline married a lettered man named Zacharias Hempler who was a mild mannered merchant in Saint Louis. Life was quiet for a while and Cody had a brief period of normal childhood until he returned to his home one day to his mother crying and Zacharias lying out bleeding over his register with a bullet hole in his head and the till missing. What Cody learned from him was confusion, futility and the pointlessness of life.
Caroline then married a farmer named Olsen who moved the family to Colorado and then Oregon. He disappeared one day, apparently in search of gold in one of the strikes common in the west at that time. Olsen seemed like a decent sort but whose eyes were constantly searching the horizon for who knows what. What Cody learned from him was the power of Illusion, dreams and desires.
Finally Caroline married a local preacher, Bartholomew Blackstone, he was as abusive as Barnabas was and strapped Cody repeatedly for any perceived shortcomings of faith and obedience. When his mother tried to intercede on day Cody rose up to defend her, which angered Barnabas, oh wait, Bartholomew, even more and he did not stop beating the boy until Caroline found her pistol and shot him dead. She comforted Cody, calling him a good boy and he bleed out dying, his last words were “I am glad I could save you maw!” And then he closed his eyes and passed away.
Caroline stayed on the land she had settled on in Oregon however Cody had not saved her. Somewhere in their travels Caroline had contracted syphilis which had become terminal due to the stresses of her treatment by Bartholomew. She would soon join her son in the cold, damp earth of Oregon.
Two thousand miles away, several months prior, in the town of Hartford, Connecticut upon graduating from Cheshire Academy one Samuel Caldwell Colt became curious about his father and mother and used his resources to track them down. Samuel was raised thinking his father was John C. Colt and that Samuel Colt was his uncle and Caroline Henshaw was his mother. That last part was true at least. He followed their travels and learned their stories before arriving in Salem a month or so after Cody’s death.
He came upon his mother while she was beginning the final, terrible stages of her disease, her mind increasingly wandered. Cared for by the nuns of a local hospice Samuel visited her frequently and she told him the story of her life and that of her many husbands and poor Cody as well. She even confused him with Cody and started calling Samuel that before the end, convinced he had somehow survived and grown up into the fine young man who sat and listened to her tales. Samuel paid for her expenses as well as the funeral, which was but sparsely attended. He then took his leave of the townl However he had learned something from his mother, that John was not his father, instead she claimed Samuel Colt was and she had a marriage certificate to confirm this. Later he would use this to ensure receiving a proper inheritance from his actual father when he passed the following year, although he was never ever actually able to confirm whom his father was or was not.
By this time it had ceased to matter.
What Samuel Colt, his true father, taught him was the importance of appearances, doing something that mattered and thinking about things in new ways. No longer truly welcome in Connecticut and with the name Samuel behind him he changed his name to Carlton James Colt and moved on
However, now war was stirring and there would be two more father figures in Cody’s life, although not the Cody now long buried in a small church cemetery in Salem Oregon.
After Second Bull Run and other battles Lt. Carlton James Colt would come into contact with Jasper Curtis and Grenville M. Dodge and he would need a new cover identity in order to spy on the Confederates from within and so "Cody Caldwell, the Conjuror" was born. From Grenville Cody learned decisiveness, discernment and fortitude and from Jasper he learned how to take all those terrible things he had learned before, how to control them, how to manipulate them, how to use smoke and mirrors and people’s own desires to mask them from the terrible realities of the world and then how to use doing so in such a way as to make this life his own what he desired it and to find some meaning in a world now utter and completely devoid of any such thing.
Contacts for Cody Caldwell
March 23, 1873
Cody Caldwell Alias & Enemies
Alias
Jasper Curtis, AKA Maskeline the Magnificent! Jasper was Cody’s mentor during the War, while they were not always assigned together, they often did collaborate. Jasper is a civilian who worked for Grenville M. Dodge and Cody served under Dodge as Lt. C.J. Colt. Jasper is a combination of two people, George Curtis, combined with Jasper Maskelyne, a famous wartime Illusionist from WW2 whose family had a long career as stage magicians.
Grenville M. Dodge, Grenville developed the Union intelligence forces serving under Ulysses S. Grant. He was instrumental in developing the military intelligence networks and a very colorful figure to boot. Once an ally of Thomas Durant, whom he later had a falling out with.
Kate Warne, Cody was involved with her during the Baltimore Plot and as he got along well with women and blacks also became involved in the gathering and deliver of the Black Dispatches, that brought him into contact with Harriet Tubman, who he aided on the Underground Railroad,
Enemies & Rivals
During the war he and Maskelyne came at cross purposes with the lady Rose O’Neal Greenhow, but she died just before the war ended or did she… .
Another rival was the spy known as the French Lady, who was in fact Richard Thomas, AKA Zarvona, a man who took over the St. Nicholas in a attempt to raid the USS Pawnee. Current whereabouts unknown.
Wilber Smithens, AKA “Reb Greyson” is Cody’s nemesis, a combination of a couple of real life people of this time, the soldier Henry T. Harrison, the bushwacker “Bloody Bill” Anderson, along with bigotry and sentiments of Nathan Bedford Forrest thrown in as well. Wilber is kind of the opposite of Cody, he is poor southerner from the backwoods of Virginia who is a typical good ole southern boy, good at riding, shooting and spouting off about the wonders of the Confederacy and racism and such. He is direct, to the point and honest to a vault, usually broadcasting his intentions to anyone who will listen. This causes him to attract people to his cause but gives away his plans all too easily. He wants to capture Cody and force him to give his gold back, under some delusion that Cody could actually do that.
Alexander Keith, a criminal and arsonist invented the time bomb, was another rival who survived the war and went on to cause havoc wherever he went. Their wartime rivalry over there would no longer be any animosity between them though.
The Case of the Missing Doctor-Part 3, Bears, Otters and Bisons oh my!
March 21, 1873
March 21, 1873
I guess that mist affected me more than I thought.
The next thing I knew we, Mumple and I, was outside somewhere at night watching a stone house as a bear tried to jump off a bluff and eat Walker for some reason. As I drew my pistol Mumple blew its head clean off with his Winchester rifle in one shot. Dang he is good with that thing have to let the family know they need to start making guns like that.
Anywoo I returned my pistol to my holster and we went down to the house.
It was getting dark and we would obviously have to spend the night here. So I gathered some of the firewood stacked outside and after Mumple cleared out the fireplace, which he seemed obsessed with, I got a fire started.
The cottage was a weird place. It seems like some sort of Apothecary with various vials and tinctures on the shelves but most of them had been swept into the fireplace, smashed and burned. While Mumple went over the remains of what had been in the fire Elijah started cleaning guns, all of them, compulsively. That was odd.
The cottage had one main room, an attic, a cellar and a spare small room on the side which was bare. Walker opened the cellar and went down only to discover the bodies of three ladies arranged in some sort of macabre nest. Each had had their hearts torn out and some sort of tar smeared over them. Very peculiar that. Mumble joined him and while I held a light for them Walker also found a hole in the wall that apparently led down to the river which was covered in tar.
Meanwhile upstairs Herb and Sister Marie had found a bed, an armoire and some unusual clothing. There were a bunch of ladies clothing in different sizes that seemed to match the three women and that of a man as well as a carpetbag with the initials JAL and a leather overcoat, a black mask/hood, boots, a sword and several trunks. They brought the items downstairs and someone produced a key that opened the carpet bag.
They then told me of how we came to be in this place.
It seems that there had been a number of deaths among the railroad workers that Big Swede asked us, as Hennessey Agents, to investigate. Naturally we obliged and Mumble examined the body of the fella who had died at the Devil’s Rockpile only to discover a weird tattoo that matched the fob and that the fella was very oddly built, his upper body was highly developed but his legs were not. He had abnormally muscled arms and shoulders as well. After that they went to investigate what happened at the railroad work camp, whose colorful name I have forgotten in my mist induced stupor.
The Irish and Germans were not very helpful and the Chinamen were vague and seemed uninterested in helping but when the group went and asked the black fella’s what was going on they were very informative and told us where the bodies had been found and what had happened to them, they was all excited that some white fella’s were treating them all respectful. Sad how that doesn’t happen more these days.
Anywoo that set the team out towards the cottage which was a good two hours outside of the camp along the Neosho river, which brings us up to date. Now the cottage seems to hard to get to as somehow the geography, the river and such kept getting us all turned around, but they had managed with Sister Maries wise guidance.
The carpetbag contained the clothes and supplies that seemed to match that of the dead fella from the Rockpile, the Artist. It also contained drawings of the three ladies we found dead in the basement. The sword was beautifully made in a European style and had the same flaming sword symbol as the fob I now carried. The corpses all showed signs of being hacked to death before being deposited in the cellar. One of the bags or chests contained various correspondences that revealed the names of the ladies, Ceri, Maureen and Agnes or some such names.
What was most interesting is that one of the chests had a false bottom that revealed two books, one in German “Die Fibel de Loren” and one in Gaelic “Coipleabhar Gorm Marbhan.” I have only peripherally studied either but knew the first was something like “The Myth of Lore” and the second “Leather Grimoire of the Black-something to do with dead things,” Both contained strange pictures, recipes and drawings, the second of something called the “Deasghnatha Dobhar-chu” or “spirit-something related-to-black-animal lord” and a picture of a black otter-like thing. The decidedly non-Gaelic word “Adramalech” was also inscribed in it, a name Sister Marie recognized as that of some sort of Sumerian Fire Devil.
Naturally this all made total sense now.
So here is the story I will sell to the Penny Dreadful's on the East Coast, its' a good one!
The dead fella, JAL, the Artist, was clearly a Witch-Hunter who had tracked these three witches from Chicago a few years ago, where they probably went about causing all those fires the Sister, Herb and I investigated before to their new hideout, in the middle of nowhere, finished them off, dumped their bodies in the basement before his curiosity got the better of him and he headed off, alone, to investigate the Devil’s Rockpile where in what almost-like what almost happened to me, issued forth gases that suffocated him, See that is why you need friends my dears, preferable more sane friends than yourself. After that the witches familiar, the Dobhar-chu, or as we were later able to translate as “Otter King” decided to start making trouble.
Oh, by the way as the rest of the team was investigating the stuff I had taken the time to nail the door and cellar door shut. Since we was staying the night I wanted no surprise visitors. And dang if we didn’t have them.
Mumple was too strung up to sleep and Walker stayed up with him while Herb, Marie, Elijah and I got some shut-eye upstairs. About halfway through the night they awoke us due to hearing some noise. Yeap, something was scratching at the cellar door alright. Mumple started shooting and shouting out to it and wanted to pull up the nails and let it in. Cooler heads prevailed and we kept it firmly shut. Meanwhile I spotted what looked like three bison up on the bluff, Walker confirmed it before they ran off. The scratching stopped for a while and we had almost relaxed when we heard it at the door. The damn thing was still trying to get inside. We spotted some shape just outside the door but remained steadfast. After a while it relented and disappeared into the night.
The next day we decided to bring the paws of the bear, the three female bodies and items back to town and made travois to cart them back. On the way Mumple started trying to say that the Otter Thing was just some guy dressed up in a otter suit and running around murdering people and removing body parts with his trusty bucket of tar.
Walker declared that the most disturbing idea yet and I had to agree with him.
We had almost made it the whole was back before Mayor Ass-in-hat intercepted us. He demanded to know if the problem had been dealt with. Mumple and I replied that we found and killed the bear that had killed the men but discovered that it had some sort of “black-foam rabies” that had been causing the strange smears on the bodies. We advised him to avoid the river and have his men travel in groups, preferable well-armed and to watch out for other such crazed animals. He informed us that three bison had trampled through the camp the night before, leading credence to out total fabrication we had decided upon in order to not to have to try and explain witches, witch hunters, summoned otter spirits and strange spells. He wanted to believe the lie, so he did and congratulated us upon our actions.
We returned to Big Swede and let him know what we had discovered, the more mundane parts of it anyway. He seemed happy to be ready to have the deceased buried as quick as possible and be done with the story. He propped up the body of JAL, i.e. the Artist, in a coffin and had a daguerreotype taken for posterity. We rested up the night in the hotel and before we left early in the morning to continue out search for the missing Doctor York, we managed to find someone to help us translate the titles of the books which turned out to be “The Lost Primer” and the “Book of the Black Corpse.” Sister Marie wanted to turn them over to the local clergy for disposal but Mumple and I did not agree, that was probably the right thing to do but when is the right thing to do the most interesting thing to do! I decided to try and continue deciphering the Gaelic book myself while Mumple “borrowed” a German/English language book from the Church’s library leaving a suitable deposit in the till, I mean donations box. Oh, and I also kept JAL’s sword, it goes so well with his purple octagonal reading glasses, journal and fob, quite stylish.
Goodbye Osage Mission, most interesting town in Kansas yet!
Cody Caldwell, March 23, 1873
The Case of the Missing Doctor-Part 2, A Mysterious Death and the Devil's Rockpile
March 17, 1873
March 17, 1873 Middle of Nowhere-near Hempler, Kansas
The next day started out misty, could hardly see my hand in front of my face. We got spread out a bit on the Trace and all of a sudden I heard Herb shouting out about something. Woulda thought he’d been bit by a damn snake but no, after I wheeled about and got off my horse and got my gun out he was complaining about someone who had appeared out of the fog as he had stopped to adjust his horses gear and pissed on his boots.
He went off chasing the fellow and I thought I saw something up ahead in the fog. So I creep off to the side as I heard Elijah bellowing about something or other and then a shot rang out. I had just made it up to the thing I spotted in the mists, which turned out to be a old dilapidated barn with a lot of holes in the walls. I spotted at least 5 men from the Crawford Gang, local outlaws neer’do-wells inside the barn just as guns started appearing out of some of those holes and I ran for the woods to avoid getting perforated. As I ran I heard a bunch of horses off to the southeast of the barn.
I crossed paths with Elijah who wanted to go shot them fellas and I took his horse and headed out back towards the horses I heard, figuring if we stole their horses the could not chase us and we could make some money later too. As I was gathering reins a scared looking fellow appeared with panic in his eyes and I tossed the poor sod farmer/wanna-be outlaw a pair of reins and he rode off into the fog without looking back.
By the time I got back Mumple, Walker, Elijah and Herb had done gone and killed all the fellows inside the barn although the one that had pissed on Mumple’s boots had apparently got away.
We continued along the trace and finally made it to Osage Mission.
After getting set up in a hotel I went off and sold the horses as Mumple and the others reported our actions to the local constabulary, a big Norwegian fella named Big Swede. We settled down and got cleaned up before heading to bed for the night.
In the morning there was a flurry of activity as we went about trying to local the Good Doctor York. We were able to confirm he made it here and had continued on towards Independence but found no one whom he interacted with much.
We also found out that there was a camp of railroad workers just outside of town and a local peculiarity called the Devil’s Rockpile where some fella had got himself killed which Big Swede thought might be our missing doctor. Turns out it wasn’t but rather some eastern fella with a strange sketchbook, a weird fob with a strange burning sword symbol and no apparent cause of death. We went out to the place and looked around, just because I have got to see me what is the most interesting thing ever in Kansas if for no other reason.
Looked like a big pile of rocks all tumbled together with smoke coming out of it. Quite interesting. Herb stayed outside while the rest of us went in, it got misty and smelled quite bad, like rotten eggs. Then, all of a sudden the rocks disappeared and the sky appeared and turned orange! Out to the Northwest I saw what looked like a black barren tree glowing red, freakiest thing ever, and then I blacked out.
When I woke up, outside the Rockpile, Elijah had apparently carried me there, I coughed a lot and took a few swigs of water for my parched throat. Apparently they found some sort of smoking fissure in the middle of the place spewing out gases and smoke and some obsidian rocks but not much else. I told them of my vision although they mostly passed it off and just hallucinations and delusions, except Walker who felt that visions were important. I know that tree exists out there somewhere. Have to go find it one day. Oh well. It was getting dark and we headed back to town to rest.
Cody Caldwell, March 18th, 1873
The Story Begins! The Case of the Missing Doctor
March 16, 1873
The Journals of Cody Caldwell
The day started well enough, I rolled out of bed and washed my face if water that I had to take a truncheon to in order the break the ice. Bracing that. After washing and dressing I went downstairs and the squeaky voice attendant at the hotel informed me in his irritating breaking voice, damn son, let those testicles drop, that I had a letter from Mr. Hennessy. Upon taking my breakfast at a nearby slop shop down the half frozen icy street from my hotel I chanced to read the missive.
“Mr. Caldwell, I hope my letter finds you in good health. It seems that I may have need of your skills in regard to a most interesting case involving the disappearance of a prominent member of the Kansas establishment. I require your assistance in this matter and look forward to briefing you on the affair at 3 o’clock this afternoon when you will be acquainted with your companions in this investigation. Sincerely, Rupert Hennessy.”
Well shit, the boss was calling. At least it was all polite like. I mean I am sure his secretary rewrote the “Get that no-good drifting gambler in here, I got work for him” in his thick Irish brogue, but what the hay, even on its best day Kansas City can get damn boring.
Natural-like I showed up a bit early, best to take in the team as they arrive.
First up was a pair of fellas that would make milk sour simply by walking by.
The first one was actually kinda famous, if you know the history of it, Henry Mumple, the long time companion of Black Jack Cole himself! He kept to the background and was known for his pecurlarities, his love of gloves, bathing regularly and cutting up mostly dead things among ‘em. Said to be a deadeye with his rifles he palled around with Black Jack Cole for years until that fateful day when that bastard Osage Thorpe done shot him dead. Heard he was delivering freight and letters when he was not mopping around mourning his dead lover. Eh, so be it. We all deal with loss differently.
His companion was a half injun fella named James Walter, honestly had I not been told he was injun I won’ta known it. Seems affable enough, walks with a surety and gait of a man accustomed to the wilds. Probably a good tracker and scout. We’ll see.
Next to arrive was real brash fella from California, Elijah York-no-relation-damnit, who seemed to be real peculair about his name, York, it ain’t hard to spell, seesh. Needs to work on his insults too, took one look and me and called me “Useless.” Oh, I so need to cultivate that opinion. Heh. Anyway he seemed competent enough in a “I ride ‘round on horses and shoot shit” kinda way and that seemed sensible given we was to track down some doctor that got himself missing on the Osage Trace.
The last member to join the team was a real looker, not my sort but good looking. Called herself Sister Marie. Said she was a nun, or former nun, or some such, and a nurse. She seemed nice, I liked her and remembered we had worked together before on the Chicago Fires Investigation from a couple years ago in 1871. Apparently she worked on the Red Rover during the war and anyone who has seen that sorta shit is someone to respect. She spent a lot of time later talking to the brother's York mother, which was kindly of her, and informative. Seems the mother calls her kids the Killer, the Liar and the Doctor, with the Doctor being her favorite. Hmm, interesting.
The last member of our group, Herb Zobist, a gunslinger and whore-monger, how does that boy not have sypphilis yet, would be joing us at Fort Scott later. We had also worked together on the Chicago Fires Incident. I wonder if he is still addicted to the laudanum, probably, people don't kick that habit all too often.
Anyway, Hennessy spins some tale about three brothers York, one who goes missing and another that wants him found. He mentioned a lot of details about names and such but I lost track after about 5 minutes in. It pays good money and makes for better connections so no wonder Rupert ponies up a team for this so we head out to Fort-god-damn-nowhere-Scott and meet the York family.
The Col. York, the Killer, has organized some damn huge team of local yahoo’s to scour the countryside at the beshest of Mr. York, the Liar, for William York, the Doctor. We decide to ride on ahead in an attempt to find the missing doc his mother dotes fondly on while the Col.’s men scour the countryside, going homestead to homestead, asking about the brother, seesh some people are so stupid.
Pretty boring trip, damn, Kansas is flat.
Along the way Sister Marie stumbles upon some half eaten corpse of a kid the crows had got too and whom Henry cuts open, naturally, apparently he got murdered, gutted, sown up with sillage and tossed in the brambles. Which is curious, why kill ‘em, remove the innards, sewn ‘em back up and dump the body out here, odd that.
We, and by that I mean Mr. Mumple and Sister Marie, decide to take the poor lad to a local town, Hempler, Hempsley, Hempleton, some such, which is a generous usage of the term “town” by the way, for an appropriate burial.
I am sure its the damned Mormans or some such, stupid religious folk abound around here, Presbyterians I think. When we took the body for burial the local Mr. Importance seemed appropriately horrified and swore they had never seen anything like this before, which only makes me suspect them more. Something wrong is going down in this part of Kansas, but then again we all knew that.
Anywho it seems the good Doc. York on his Fine Bay Horse rode through here and we will continue on our way to his next destination. the Osage Mission, to see if he made it there. This whole place gives me the wiles, something really odd is going on around here, I can feel it. At least my companions seem decent enough, we shall see.
Cody Caldwell March 16, 1873
An Interesting Journal I found in the Chicago Library
The Diary of Father Deigo de La Cucan
(Preface: I left my notes with Chris so all the names here are probably wrong, I will correct them later.)
Praise the Holy Father that my words ring true. The date was June 15th, 1583 and we had repaired our boat after floundering in a storm the previous week. With the help of the natives we had enough food and water to continue our journey. Sailing was not hard although the swamp that covers this land is treacherous and the sands shift constantly. It took a week of travel to finally make it to the Bay of the Lady, apparently the largest bay here and site of the previous colony of Jesuits as well as the French.
We paddled up a nearly inlet in the search for land and water and stumbled across some more natives fishing. There were shocked by the site of us and fell in the water. Nearby we spotted a rather ramshackle looking village and some natives come out, one, a very dark skinned fellow was pushed to approach us.
The man, Manawetok, was poorly dressed and spoke in broken Spanish a welcoming in us in the name of the Great Chief Atawoc who was a portly Indian painted in various colors and with a distinctive haircut and a steel hatchet. Captain Fernando promptly proceeded to address him in a long and rather boring list of the titles of the King of Spain, which did not go well with the Chief. Fortunately our courtier produced trade goods and smoothed over things with them and we were invited to dine with them.
The speech at dinner revealed the locals to be known as the Chesapoic and they had been forced to flee from a more inland confederacy of tribes known as the Wacamacoco, lead by the Powehaten. They seemed interested in gaining our favor and the Chief’s Best Son Burata, a rather burly fellow, was appointed as our guide.
The Captain decided to make for the Fort of the Jesuits the next day and we set out. We paddled upriver and, due to the skittish nature of the locals, Burata volunteered to go meet them and make contact. We fished and waited for them to return.
As the sun set a terrible beast, with fearsome teeth, a powerful catlike body, long tail come to the water, apparently seeking prey! And we were that prey as it began swimming right towards us!!
As it approached sparks flew from its mother.
Quicky the captain, the courtier and the mercenary grabbed the guns and opened fire! I drew the sign of the cross and passed them new guns after they fired. Fortunately several shots seemed to would the beast and it disappeared beneath the waves.
The Captain order the sailor to search for his “trophy” Madre de deus, the poor man is suffering from the flux. But he could find nothing.
Burata shortly arrived with representatives of the Triswok people and was quite upset that he missed our on all the action, revealing the beast to be known as a water panther, a rare and dangerous beast indeed.
The next day we traveled to the native village and we were very politely welcomed by the natives who were so taken with us that they offered to have some local scouts accompany us to the Jesuit Fort, which was close to an enemy village of natives. This was fortunate because none of us knew the land.
After hiding the boat and many hours of travel our scouts came rushing past us, revealing an enemy force of several dozen men charging our way! The Captain ordered the men to open fire and a bloodbath began. I will leave the gory details to others but the men slaughtered nearly a dozen natives with guns and spanish steel before they retreated. We received only minor injuries. We retreated somewhat, met up with our guides and went to look for the Jesuit Fort, which was apparently close as night fell.
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