Want to know what’s happening? The first book Dust and Sand was serialised here at Geek Pride. A summary is available here. You can also buy the definitive edition of Dust and Sand at all good eBook stores.

They were not the oldest. Many had spent more time on this world.

They were not the strongest. Many had greater influence and power.

They were not the best. That honour always went to another.

But they still brought glory and exultation onto Melting Flesh. They corrupted. They infected. They spread the Father’s love and reach. And the mercenaries, men and a woman, who had just entered the Badlands would be their greatest work in His name.

They skirted the Badlands’ border, where the sport was scant but so was the competition. Melting Flesh encouraged fighting amongst his beloved, a constant race, infection against immune system, disease against diseased. One which only those of Melting Flesh understood: the Whore God’s followers compete to debase themselves and others, and the Hoarder’s worshippers face off in silent ways that almost couldn’t be considered competition, but neither knew the biological beauty of utterly absorbing another’s power, or of knowing the one who beat you had the favour of your god.

Not that they’d known the latter pleasure. If Melting Flesh willed it, it would happen, but their Father had not yet brought them into competition with anything fierce enough. There were not many who would face a Gift like them, but some would.

It was as they floated on weak eddies of magic, eager for something to infect, that the mercenaries entered the Badlands. Running like cowards, warded like warriors. Biologies to dominate and sap. The humans immediately earned their attention. The Gift floated toward them, invisible, to ride their ward like a strong gust over calm waters. And they listened.

From their previous victims, they knew what mercenaries were: indeed, they understood most of American culture, white, native, and black. Not yet the Chinese. Perhaps one day. It was interesting to hear the mercenaries’ conversations, to improve their knowledge. For whilst human matters did not shift as rapidly as those of the Triangle, they shifted nonetheless.

“I still don’t get where we’re supposed to start from,” a voluminous man said. His immune system was weak, but he kept himself clean. Aside from a sore on his lip, it would be difficult to compromise him. They dubbed him Lip Sore.

“Crucifix,” another man said. Older, but his system was strong. It had to be, with the cuts and bruises he’d taken over his life. They dubbed him Leader, from his tone and the deference others showed him. Leader would put up the greatest fight. “The Wanted Man left from there. We go, we track, we find him.”

Their excitement grew. The Wanted Man? What boon has Melting Flesh granted him?

“That was a month ago,” Lip Sore said.

The woman spoke. Middling of strength, shallow bite marks on her chest. “We can still follow the trail. And there’s only so many places a man can hide safely out here.”

“There’s something you ain’t tellin’ us,” a third man said. Their teeth were blackened, their gums and genitals diseased. They labelled him Entry Point. “No way you coulda got up the interest you have if that’s all you got to go on.”

Entry Point was perceptive and dirty. A good combination for their needs.

“All right. I held up a wagon a week ago, see. The Solution used it to send documents. Didn’t know that at the time, but I was right pleased when they happened to have the latest map of the Badlands. Map included the places they have, and are gonna, search for the Wanted Man.”

“She brought it to me,” Leader said, “and I’ve confirmed its veracity.”

“Fancy word, that,” the largest human said. He was another with a strong system, but one of his eyes had been removed. The scar would weep under pressure. One Eye then.

Lip Sore sighed. “He means that it’s the real thing. They know the places to look.”

“More’n that, though, ain’t it?” Entry Point said. “We know where to look ahead of the Solution. Alls we’ve got to do is be there a half day ahead, give each place a good scouting, and move on if the target ain’t there. If we do find him, we send back word and get a nice finders fee.” He paused. “Unless we’re feeling really brave?”

Leader shook his head. “We’re not gonna step on the Solution’s toes. If they catch the Wanted Man, we get some reward money, but nothing more.”

One Eye rumbled. “Why not take ‘im?”

“Because we ain’t got a chance in Hell of doing it,” Woman said.

“Who says?” Lipe Sore asked.

“Common damn sense does.”

“You saying I ain’t got any sense, whore?”

“That’s enough. Eyes on the trail.”

One Eye and Lip Sore continued a silent conversation, looks and gestures, at the rear of the pack. Those two shared similar systems: if they were not closely related, they were at least cousins. Getting Lip Sore, then, would make accessing One Eye easier. A rational order was already growing.

Another was amongst the group. Young, vital, his system was yet weaker than Leader’s. They dubbed him Boy and didn’t consider him further.

These mercenaries blazed through the Badlands, going where the magic and competition was strongest. The warded barrier – a more powerful artefact than they would have expected for a group like this – kept those large enough to have vision away and bounced away anything smaller. Unbeknownst to the mercenaries, the Gift helped chase others away with displays of power or by consuming them.

These men and the woman would be theirs. The Gift swore to their Father it would be so.

Still, they infected others as they rode the ward, things of That Which Sins and Omnis. Most of the infections would not work, but those that did could be invaluable. More importantly, they brought glory to their Father.

They felt a little weak as day approached, and not just because of the hateful sun’s draining power: fighting, infecting, and riding the barrier took effort. They grew worried. Now was an opportune time for another to strike, take their place.

Fortunately, the mercenaries chose to stop: many had opened small sores from hard riding and all were low on energy. Rest, food, they had to pause if they were to continue safely. The Gift longed to be within the protective ward, to leap into each at their weakest, but patience was required. Melting Flesh never granted wishes; he presented challenges.

As the humans rested, taking turns to watch for predators, the Gift rested too. They replenished their ranks with some of the magic they’d claimed through the day and used the rest to strengthen themselves. They hungered twice during the human’s rest period, and had to make do with grass to until something real came along. The second one was more filling, a pulsing grass which was half-reptilian, but still a poor meal.

“Hey, did you see that?” Boy said.

“See what?” Lip Sore asked.

“One of those plants, it… it just withered and died, like it were eaten up from the inside.”

They froze. Boy had seen their work. It was strange to be exposed: their unique strength as a Gift was their microscopic nature, being a collection of infinitesimal beings. Few ever sensed them, let alone saw their work. Being seen felt uncomfortable. Like failure.

Lip Sore was not as sharp as Leader or Entry Point. Thank the Father. Instead of questioning Boy, he spat out of the warded area. “So what? Shit like that must happen all the damned time out here. You’ve got to get used to it.”

“Been out here before. I ha’n’t seen nothin’ like that yet.”

“Boy, there’s a whole lot of stuff you ain’t seen nothing like yet, and I don’t just mean out here. You even know what a woman looks like under her clothes?”

Boy burned red at this.

“I thought not. So keep you pie hole shut and let the adults handle this.”

Their insight was not shared with Leader or Woman, who might have done something with the information. They thanked the Father again for such clemency.

As the humans roused, the Gift seized on Lip Sore’s phlegm. His biological make-up, vital strategic knowledge for when the internal fights began. They absorbed his cells and the diseases within them, communing with the latter before they were eradicated, and discovered much.

Entry Point was no longer as they’d dubbed him.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering. Why’ve we got to go to Crucifix if we’ve got the map?” Lip Sore shouted when everyone woke. “Why not go right to the nearest place they ain’t searched yet and have a look?”

“Because, you stupid Polack, we need to know which direction he headed in,” Woman shouted back. “No sense in searching the south if he went north, now, is there?”

“That’s if he’s staying in one place,” Entry Point said. “He mighta been shifting from place to place, keeping the Solution on their toes. Even going places they already searched.”

Leader shook his head. “I reckon not. One of the documents in that convoy said they’d put up wards in places they’d already been. Magic which’d go off like a church bell if they were shut down or if the Wanted Man was near. None of them’d gone off yet. Not much chance he wouldn’t have set one off by accident if he were moving around. And they know he didn’t leave the Badlands because the whole place is agitated as a hive with a spade in it.”

“Besides,” Woman said, “moving about makes sense when you’re a normal fugitive, not when you’re a walking beacon. Every time he stepped out from wherever he’s hiding, he’d be seen by dozens of the Badlands things. ‘Cos they’re after him too, by all accounts. No, he’s in one place, hiding, and we’ve gotta search the right places.”

“Ah, Hell to this shit,” Lip Sore said. “What’re we listening to a damn whore for?”

Woman growled, “Because I’ll gut you if’n you ever call me that again?”

“Oh, just try it,” Lip Sore said, his system preparing for a fight. “Just try it.”

“Enough,” Leader said. “We’re heading for Crucifix. That’s that. Follow my lead.”

Grimly, everyone complied. The Gift eagerly noted the rivalries for their later works.

The day that followed was draining, but the thought of biological components untouched by the Triangle kept the Gift going through the cursed sun’s reign. The humans rode hard, their riding calluses thoroughly tested.

With little else to do, they scrutinised these mercenaries: Woman was approaching the point of her menstrual cycle where her immune system was at its lowest, a small boon; Boy had some minor blood deficiency; Entry Point had… everything. They mapped out each person’s weaknesses and prepared for the coming onslaught.

Oh, it would be delicious. Wonderful. They became a Gift by consuming four people like this two years ago – having been a mere Presence before – and had subsisted since. Now, more had fallen into their lap, with a ward that kept their competition at bay. If they could just slip through, they could become so much more…

When night was only an hour away, the mercenaries halted.

“Dinner time,” Leader said.

“Oh, yes, I am ready for this,” Boy said. “Hungrier than a fat man’s slave, I am.”

“Uglier too,” Entry Point said.

The mercenaries unpacked, fed and watered their horses, and prepared a fire. The Badlands stirred for another night of scavenging and fighting. Which they dreaded. If an opportunity did not come for the Gift soon, they may not survive. Though it went against their nature, they would avoid infecting other creatures. Reserve their strength for combat and the coming day. Nothing, now, was more important than infecting these mercenaries.

This decision seemed to please Melting Flesh, as he granted them a boon. Lip Sore let his mind wander whilst tending to his horse. He caught an old insect bite with his wire brush and broke it open. Blood and puss. The animal whinnied and bit out, catching him strongly enough on the arm to draw blood.

“God damn it, what’d you do that for?”

He smacked the horse on the rump, not thinking. The beast raced toward out of the warded area, poorly-trained and tired. And nervous too. Animals must hate being out in the Badlands: their instincts seem to constantly screech at them to escape.

The Gift circled into the horse’s path. A horse had not been their expected entry vector, but they would not pass up the opportunity.

“Hey, where’re you going?” Lip Sore shouted, running after the beast. He quickly caught its reins and pulled on them. Which the horse ignored. His heels dragged through the soil as the horse cantered.

“Shit, you’d better stop that thing!” Entry Point shouted. “You’re not going on my horse!”

Lip Sore pulled again. Much harder. Training kicked in. The horse slowed, shoes skidding in the dust. But its nuzzle left the protective wards, perhaps a half inch of flesh in the open air. On any other day, this exposure would mean nothing.

Today was no other day.

They leapt into the horse with all their might. Up and through, fighting the tongue and the nose’s mucus protection, they lost perhaps a quarter of their strength. But they were safely ensconced in the beast when it was pulled back through the wards. Another third of their strength was burned away in the passage, leaving them weak and few. But they were inside.

“Did it leave the ward?” Leader asked.

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, damn it,” Lip Sore said. “It didn’t leave the protection. Look, you can see its shoe prints. It didn’t leave.”

Everyone checked the marks in the dusty earth.

Woman said, “You’d better be damn sure.”

“Well, I am, so shut up and make us some food.”

“Oh, I’ll cook for you all right.”

“I look forward to it, darlin’”

“Eat shit, you cocksucker!”

Leader stepped in to stop their fight. The mercenaries bickered for a while, but they weren’t talking about the horse. That little breach had gone forgotten.

The Gift was overjoyed: they were in. It wouldn’t do to consume too much of this horse. Not yet. They would make it mildly ill and await an opportunity to jump into a human. Lip Sore, this being his horse. From there, it would be simple to pass into the others, except for Leader and Boy. When they were spread out and strong, and it was too late, they would strike at the stronger ones directly.

Praise the Father. Praise Melting Flesh.

Want to know what’s happening? The first book Dust and Sand was serialised here at Geek Pride. A summary is available here. You can also buy the definitive edition of Dust and Sand at all good eBook stores.

Thin Creek led them between the Teotek tents, mostly animal skins and wooden poles tied with thin rope. Some were enormous canvases, big as a bar. That comparison made Dust’s throat dry: he’d not had good whiskey in weeks. Or any whiskey. The band’s Elders had banned alcohol decades ago. Dust supposed he understood wanting to keep their people straight, but he wished there was one secret source of whiskey in the band. Just a thimbleful.

The Elder led them toward a great dome at Kehuadinune’s outskirts, where the Elders met every day. Potentially where their ancestors met centuries ago. Earthen with a few cacti struggling on its surface. Smoke billowed from its zenith. Warriors – all men – stood at the entrance, holding guns Dust’d modified. This wasn’t a one-way trade: the Elders’d shared runes to improve his other gun. Given it was his only weapon now, he needed it powerful enough to take on anything.

Might even need it today.

“What’re we meeting about then?” Dust asked.

“A great Eagle Doctor has arrived from afar. There is much for us to discuss.”

“Sounds like a stretch of fortune.”

“Perhaps.”

Thin Creek liked to keep Dust guessing. Liked to keep everyone guessing. Probably one of the few pleasures you get at her age.

Dust looked over the encampment as they meandered along. Penelope ran around the band, trailing laughing children. Teotek folk wove clothes, sharpened weapons or tools, and tended the dwindling, magic-fed farms set up under the ancient city’s protection. The latter was a losing battle. If this Eagle Doctor couldn’t help them, the Teotek would – rightly – have to abandon Dust and Penelope. A choice Dust would agree with, even if it meant Penelope’s death.

Penelope… Determined, free, the girl sprinted, dripping sweat. Should the Teotek turf them out, she might survive if Dust surrendered to a civilian authority. Anyone but the Solution. They’d immediately hand him to the Solution, true, but Penelope could use the furore to get the hell out of Texas. Not that she’d ever listen and do such a thing…

“In we go, Wanting Man, if I can pull you from the air?”

Dust almost walked right into the dome. “Sorry. I’m here.”

The warriors by the entrance – good men, Iron Hide and Gentle Branch – held their rifles out and away to signal they were allowed in. A formality, but such could be important: most of Dustin’s life in the Rangers been formality and laws.

Thin Creek stepped between the warriors. “Enter, Shadows Fade and the Wanting Man.”

Inside the dome, a blue fire burned, dry wood beneath damp wood. Dark smoke streamed up from it. Runed rocks surrounded the fire pit, and low piles of furs surrounded them. Eleven seats. Six Elders in simple clothing, like Thin Creek, were present. All women. Women inherit property amongst the Teotek and were expected to manage practical matters: magical knowledge, law, farming, that kind of thing.

At the head of the fire was Chief Fighting Storm. Fifty or so, he wore magic-soaked hide armour with a spear that held as many runes as Dust’s gun. He was tasked with keeping the Teotek safe and sane. Deep wrinkles and scars showed that’d often been a struggle.

“The Wanting Man, welcome.”

Shadows Fade tutted. “Do you not greet me too?”

“Of course I welcome you, Kaish Kai.”

Shadows Fade growled. “Shadows Fade.”

“Not to me.”

The warrior sneered but said nothing. She’d traded her birth name with a Caddo warrior during her training to fight the Triangle, though Dust didn’t know how that’d come about. She’d only revealed that titbit after a long training session, feeling unusually chatty. She spoke of it with pride. Pain too. Dust saw why now.

Someone spoke gutturally in a language Dust didn’t know. Across the azure flames he saw the Eagle Doctor. White eagle feathers woven into gunmetal hair. Bright, beaded clothes. Dark, magical tattoos crossed her face, neck, and arms, angular and sharp. Gnarled as an oak tree, her eyes sparkled. Crystals in the blue light.

The Chief replied, and the other Elders – including Thin Creek, who had taken her place by the fire – nodded. The Eagle Doctor shook her head and fixed Dust with a stare.

Her magic roved over him. He assumed she was looking for his tattoo, but, when she found it, she paused only for a moment. No, she probed for something else. Dust didn’t know what – and didn’t particularly enjoy the act – but his tattoo warmed when he considered halting this interrogation.

Eventually, the powerful woman relented and spoke. Her tone was less angry, though her expression did not change. Nor did the silvery magic in her eyes.

“Wanting Man, this is One Who Goes About, a powerful Eagle Doctor from a band killed long ago,” the Chief said. “She was named for her mother, a great healer, and knows much of the ways of healing and magic.”

Dust bowed. “Tell her it’s an honour to meet her.”

“I do not need to. One Who Goes About understands your language, but will not speak it. It is enough of a concession that you have even seen her: many Eagle Doctors never allow those not of our people to see their sacred beads and sigils. You may be of Resistance, but you are not one of us.”

“I don’t reckon I can blame her on that.”

One Who Goes About’s mirrored pupils widened slightly.

“One Who Goes About has kept the stories of her band close to her heart,” the Chief continued. “Including stories of Kehuadinune. After we arrived here, we made it known amongst the bands and tribes of this land that the Teotek needed old stories to… meet the opportunity you have provided us. One Who Goes About answered our call.”

“You sought help with the Soul Waters?”

“Yes, Kaish Kai, the Soul Waters of That Which Sins.”

Soul Waters. Dust knew it as a Word, a shard of a soul. As reward for helping Father Kilkenny protect the ailing town of Crucifix, he was given a Word the Father had rescued. One containing part of the god That Which Sins. An incredibly rare item and an opportunity.

One Who Goes About said something. Shadows Fade looked at her father and uttered a short response. The old woman considered this before hissing at Chief Fighting Storm.

“My apologies… Shadows Fade.”

Shadows Fade straightened. She just about managed to not smile.

If just a word could make the Teotek Chief use his daughter’s given name, One Who Goes About was more important than Dust’d thought. Time to give her more respect.

“Anyway, One Who Goes About answered our plea,” Thin Creek said, picking up the thread to save face for the Chief. “She has woven great works across the land, and we are fortunate she could attend within mere weeks. Particularly given what she has told us.”

Knowledge Woman, another Elder, stood. “One Who Goes About knows some of the oldest stories of Kehuadinune. One speaks of an object of great power in the furthest reaches of our once home. In this story, things of the Three assailed our ancestors for this incredible item, and were sealed in the deep reaches of the city. The story only states that this item was a golden bowl. Its name is lost. But there are other tales of a golden bowl that we hold to. If this bowl exists, One Who Goes About could use it to prove a… theory.”

“What theory?”

“It is unimportant until we have the artefact,” Chief Fighting Storm said. “Until then, it is smoke that can be cleared with a waft. We will not consider it further until we have this golden bowl of Kehuadinune.”

Dust looked around the Elders. They weren’t looking too thrilled. “Getting this bowl won’t be a stroll, right?”

The Elders looked to the Chief, who nodded. One Who Goes About’s eyes narrowed. She had nothing to say.

“We can no longer enter Kehuadinune,” Chief Fighting Storm said. “Whatever the truth of the old stories, brave warriors who venture into the city of our ancestors have all withered, hair and teeth falling out, and died within months. Something dire and strong is within, a dark spirit which ends everything it contacts.” He paused, considering his next words. “If One Who Goes About’s story is true, these dark spirits will have grown in number, if not strength, by feeding on this golden bowl over the centuries. So, even if I were willing to sacrifice men to enter Kehuadinune, few could face such creatures. If we are to get this golden bowl, it can only be through you, Wanting Man.”

One Who Goes About snarled something uncomplimentary.

“She does not like that only a white man can be sent,” Shadows Fade said. “I do not blame her. Are you sure that only Dust can do this?”

Chief Fighting Storm scowled at his daughter. “Tens of dead warriors like you suggest so. I cannot stop you risking yourself, daughter, but you are without your best defence right now. I hope you can accept your Chief’s wisdom, if not your father’s, and remain here.”

Shadows Fade growled but stepped back. Her becoming a warrior was clearly damn touchy between them. But her old man had a point: she didn’t have the resetting ability that’d saved her last time and wouldn’t for another eleven months.

Dust, though, he was strong enough. At least, he was expendable. He had no malice or resentment about that: the Teotek had been hounded and battered ever since the Spanish arrived, let alone after the Dixie Problem. They didn’t have Resistance to call on as directly as him, nor his peculiar tattoo. If he were making the decisions, he’d’ve said the same.

“I have your permission to enter Kehuadinune then?”

“You do,” Thin Creek said.

“You do,” the other Elders echoed.

“You do, but only to find this bowl One Who Goes About spoke of.”

“Thank you. I accept the task from you then.”

“Good. My warriors will bring you to the most powerfully-protected entrance to our ancestor’s city. From there, you will travel into the bowels of the city. The golden bowl will be deep in Kehuadinune, but we expect you will find the right path quickly.”

Dust nodded. “I reckon I might. At the least,” he tapped his shoulder, where his tattoo rested, “someone will probably guide me.”

One Who Goes About laughed.

“What’s funny?”

The Eagle Doctor spoke, looking around the tent, before fixing Dust with a curious and reflective stare. She smiled without humour.

“Resistance may be the Great Spirit, by Caddo belief, but One Who Goes About believes that even it makes mistakes,” Shadows Fade translated. “She says that she sees one now, with what she takes to be your arrogance and ignorance. She warned us not to expect you to return whole and as we see you now. If at all.”

Dust felt an urge to talk back, but his tattoo warmed. It was right: giving her lip would only prove the Eagle Doctor right. The best way to show her up was to return with this golden bowl.

“I guess we’re going to find out, then, aren’t we?”

Want to know what’s happening? The first book Dust and Sand was serialised here at Geek Pride. A summary is available here. You can also buy the definitive edition of Dust and Sand at all good eBook stores.

Joshua McManaman had hated every moment of the last few weeks. Hated wasting time fighting those… things whilst the damned Wanted Man was still out there. Hated that he still drew breath after killing Eleanor. Hated being unable to change that, Alone in his room, his hands shook as he cursed the man’s names in whispers.

Now he had his chance. He would get revenge. For Eleanor. For William.

Joshua was always prepared to rush into the Badlands at short notice. That was the nature of his job. So, he kept several travel packs ready for when a glut of rabid things was spotted. When, not if. One in particular was kept for the Wanted Man. He collected it and checked it held the map, provisions, and components he would need. It did.

Except for one thing. He opened a compartment within his drawers and stashed it in with some spare clothes. Its contents would ensure his success. Which was funny, given its origins, the casual arrogance of the man.

This done, he reported to the quartermaster for his gun, Solution bullets, and, of course, the magnificent coach.

The General hadn’t been lying: his ride was impressive. Nothing to look at – a standard coach with runes and prayers instead of paint – but it thrummed with barely-contained power. He climbed into the cab with great care, like it was a mobile antique, and admired its handiwork all while he drove to the Governor’s office.

It was a long, quiet journey. Fine by him. Snipers don’t go in for large groups or loud friendships. During the war and his work for Mister Naismith, he’d preferred to range alone and pick out spots for ambushes, then wait for his prey. Most of his career, he’d been still. Silent. He’d changed since working for William, but he still preferred to work alone.

No such luck with a posse. But he’d need back up to take down the Wanted Man.

The Governor inhabited a former slave house set amid acres of farm land. A grand white palace built on black bodies and bones. Joshua could almost feel that pain and suffering as he rode through the fields. It was like electricity.

‘Free’ men in white suits waited outside the master’s house to look after the Governor’s guests. All in clothes too fine for them.

Joshua pulled on the reins to halt the carriage by this gaggle. “Make sure the damn carriage isn’t opened or damaged, boy,” he spat to the one who stepped forward. “I’ll tan your hide until you’re red as an Indian if you do.”

“Yessir,” he replied meekly. Didn’t even have the balls to fight a shitkicker like Joshua.

Joshua closely watched him drive away. Until he was out of sight.

Two stories, tiled roof, shining windows. The Governor’s manor was a sight to behold. Well-dressed, decent folks trickled through baby blue doors with bright brass hinges and handles. Them and the white walls must’ve been regularly repainted to keep them so pure. The tobacco fields around it were tended by men and women arrested on small or false charges. A common practice since the emancipation forced on the state by the Dixie Problem.

Like many a Texan afternoon, it smelled of blood and pollen, a potent mix.

Stepping inside, it was all polished tile, varnished wood, and enough marble to make a Catholic jealous. More wealthy folks and government workers passed, giving him ugly looks. He gave them curt nods and tips of his hat. But he remembered each face. You could bet on that.

The secretary behind the front desk was a pretty little thing. She looked vapid with her tied-back hair and flowery dress, but Joshua reckoned there was a little more to her, if only because there pretty much had to be.

“The name’s Joshua McManaman,” he said, presenting his badge. “I’ve been called for the Governor’s Wanted Man posse. Brought some Solution gear too.”

The woman inspected the Solution symbol in his palm, a square of silver bullets. “I see. The others are already here. Go right up, Mr McManaman.”

“And that’s the second door on the right?”

“Yes, it is,” she replied with a small smile. Shy like, but cute.

Joshua gave her the same nod the fancy folk got, only he meant this one.

The woman flashed him her wedding ring, which was but a challenge. He made a real good note of her face before heading to the Governor’s office.

Governor Lester was in the middle of a tough campaign. A brawl most boxing fans would appreciate. No one liked being the worst place around and Texas was just that thanks to the Badlands. If you shouldn’t mess with Texas, the Triangle had somehow missed that message.

The Badlands’ continued existence fuelled Jebediah Angus’s challenge. A second generation Scot, he was a self-made man who sold rope. The kind he aimed to use to hang Governor Lester with. Angus was plain-spoken – i.e. charismatic but a bit simple – and had people questioning Lester on everything from taxation to trade. Most of all, he had Lester on the ropes – pun intended – over the Badlands mess.

And you could tell. When Joshua climbed the stairs, the air changed. Desperation, urgency. Just from the folks worrying over maps of Texas coloured red and blue, he knew the General was right: the Governor felt this posse was his best chance at re-election.

“Can I help you?” a strained-looking man with a posh accent and small, round glasses asked. He almost appeared out of nowhere. Soft feet, soft walk. Probably a soft head too.

“Joshua McManaman from the Solution.” He showed his badge again. “I’m here to lead the posse against Dustin Longe.”

The soft man frowned.

“The Wanted Man?”

“Oh, of course. One moment and I shall see if the Governor is prepared to see you.”

Great, more pomp and bullshit. General Ryman loved that stuff too, having layers around him so someone could only see him if it mattered. It was supposed to make him seem important. It just looked stupid. But Joshua would eat their shit and grin. He had ever since joining the Solution.

The soft man popped his head back out of the Governor’s office. “Please, Mister McManaman, do come inside.”

Within was a bright, white room. Might once have been the slave-owners’ master bedroom. If so, the beds and furniture were gone, replaced with desks and people shuttling paper around like gold. Before the great windows, the Governor stood. Beside him were two men who looked like clerks, a black man in a cheap linen suit and bow tie, and a Mexican-looking woman in a nun’s habit.

“Ah, Mister McManaman. It is so good of you to come. General Ryman said he was sending one of his best men. That would be you then?”

“I hope so, sir.”

The Governor smiled. Fake as a wooden nickel. He had a thick moustache, like most Southern politicians nowadays, but everything else about him was thin: slender face, thin form, and a smile to match. He had more to him before he took up office, no doubt. The rigours of the role had blasted the meat from his bones.

“Please, meet the other members of your posse,” he said, gesturing to his right.

Joshua stepped forward and held out a hand to the two men. “Pleased to meet you.”

The men looked confused, shook their heads.

The Governor smiled again. “Those are my Chief of Staff and my Campaign Manager, Mister McManaman. Though I’m sure James and Peter are pleased to meet you.”

“Then where is the posse?”

“We are your posse, Mister McManaman,” the negro said, stepping forward. He had close-shorn hair, ears like jug handles, and a moustache even thicker than the Governor’s. “The name is Bass Reeves. Marshall Bass Reeves.”

The woman simply nodded.

Joshua turned to the Governor with a stupid look on his face. He waited for the punchline, for people to start laughing.

“Everyone,” the Governor shouted, “could you please give us five minutes?”

The clerks, planners, and managers all filtered out quickly. James and Peter left too, leaving just the Governor, these… people, and Joshua.

“I sense that you are a little perturbed by those with whom you will be sharing a posse, Mister McManaman. Is there something the matter?”

“I was expecting proper men.”

“Are we not proper men?” Reeves asked.

“Not the sort I take into the Badlands, Mister Reeves,” Joshua said, not seeing too much sense in riling him. “I’m used to fighting beside experienced men – and I do mean men, Miss – who have faced the Triangle more than once. That would be the minimum for someone to have a hope in Hell of beating the Wanted Man.”

The nun crossed herself. “Please, do not mention that place in my presence.” She sounded Spanish with her slight lisp.

Joshua tutted. What had possessed the Governor?

“Before you burn any more bridges, let me present these folks’ credentials. Marshall Reeves here is a fine lawman with over a hundred arrests to his name. He’s a tracker and a dogged defender of the law. All with less than a dozen kills to his name. The first negro Marshall, he is, and he’s got an aim which’d make any man weep. With one of your Solution guns, he’ll be able to take the Wanted Man from half a mile, I should think. Marshall Reeves comes with a reputation as a good aim, and a perfect record.”

“Those are kind words, Governor. And true.”

Joshua grunted. He supposed one of them would gain a useful skill eventually. He didn’t want to go out into the Badlands with him, but the colour of the man’s skin wasn’t a proper excuse. At least, not one he would make to the man’s face.

That didn’t mean he had to take this like a cheap whore. “And what about our damsel here? She can’t even take me fucking cursing, for Christ’s sake.”

The nun crossed herself again, proving his point.

“See?”

“Sister Irujo was sent by the Vatican as part Pope Pius’ works to help these United States in their time of trouble. I cannot speak for her beyond saying that she comes personally recommended by the Papal Office.”

That took Joshua aback. An actual recommendation from the Papal Office? That sure would be something. “Awful lot of forgeries flying about nowadays, Governor. I’m sure you tried to vet her, but may I see this recommendation?”

The Governor grinned, a wide smile on a thin man, and produced a thick wedge of velum from his drawer. Red wax beside intricate and painstakingly-inked writing. He made a show of looking it over before handing it to Joshua.

“I am sure you will find it is real.”

Joshua took the velum. Immediately, he felt the Vatican magic woven into their official notes. You didn’t need any skills to feel the small charge, like holding a beehive. This note, which spoke of Sister Irujo’s purity, faithfulness, and strength, was real.

“She is the real thing,” the Governor said, leaning forward on his desk.

“It would seem so.” Joshua looked across at the nun. “Pardon me, Sister, but I’m not right used to women in habits being any use in a fight.”

The nun gave him a small smile of forgiveness.

“I know the Marshall’s skills, but what is it you can do then, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I fight the demons and devils of Lucifer in the name of the Lord, repelling them and returning them back from whence they came,” Sister Irujo said, her voice softer than her words. “When the time comes, I will fend off the familiars and minions of the Wanted Man so that you and Marshall Reeves may capture him.”

Joshua looked back to the Governor. “Is capture your preferred option?”

“It sure is mine,” Reeves said. “A man must stand trial for his crimes, even if they aren’t quite a man. That’s justice, fair and true.”

The Governor pursed his lips. “It would be… preferable if the Wanted Man’s trial were public. As well as his hanging. People rather like to see such things.”

Preferable didn’t mean required. It might be a good old bonus, but the Governor wouldn’t lose much sleep over receiving a corpse. That was just dandy: far as he was concerned, the Wanted Man wasn’t returning to civilisation alive.

“It is also the Church’s will that the Wanted Man be captured.”

Reeves looked across at the woman, his brown brow creasing, but said nothing.

“Well, Mr McManaman? What do you say?”

“I say… I say that I owe you both an apology: I’m a little judgemental sometimes, though Lord knows we’re all sinners. And it looks like we’ve got ourselves a posse. A weird one, it must be said, but nonetheless. I’ve brought enough weapons for a small army though. You do wield guns, don’t you, Sister?” Joshua waited for the nun to give what he’d begun to think of as her usual nod. “Well, all right. If you’re both ready, we can leave now, try and catch the rest of the day.”

Reeves looked to the Governor. “Do I have your leave to begin, sir?”

The Governor nodded like a damn king. “Of course. All of you. I wish you all good fortune on your journey. No, your hunt.”

Of course he did. This little endeavour was the Governor’s last throw of the dice. It was a little tempting to see what would happen to the thin weasel if the Wanted Man survived, but not enough to slake his thirst for revenge.

“All right then,” he said to the negro and woman he would call partner, “let’s move out.”