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From: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Cheyenne, Wyoming
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
October 1879
Dearest Sister,
I generally consider being a train passenger to be a pleasant experience. The ride is generally smooth and it affords me ample opportunity to attend to my own thoughts and ideas, especially when a private compartment is purchased. Owning and operating a train, however, is no end of consternation. The maintenance of the boilers has a certain mechanical interest that quickly devolved into the tedium of keeping gauges set to certain levels with a dance of valves, levers and fuel. A task that could easily be managed by automation if I only had the time available to build such controls. Additionally, the tracks are not free and open as the tracks and trails. One must manage places where trains wish to go in opposite directions on the same track. And, since the tracks belong to a railroad company, interlopers like ourselves must either wait for the owners to graciously allow one to pass after the presentation of an appropriately userous fee or must use subterfuge to convince the various stations and company agents along the way that we are, in fact, supposed to be there.
The telegraph is an invaluable tool in this for the information traversing the wires unveil the entire inner workings of the railroad network. It is a simple enough matter to decipher their private codes and then use their own communication channels to obtain complete access. Timetables can be watched for openings into which our own small train can be inserted. Suspicions can be allayed by an advance forgery. False delays can clear track. It is an interesting enough game, but it takes me away from research I feel I should be pursuing.
Another distraction is the intermittent but nearly incessant interruption by the walking dead. Stopping at a station for water, we were once again set upon by a handful of ambulatory corpses. And though they were easily dispatched by removing the head or destroying the brain, I fail to understand why the people of the frontier still insist on burying their dead when, more and more, the corpses are infested with unnatural demonic forces, disinter themselves from their graves and assault the living. I imagine that a few instances of loved ones walking across the manicured garden parks of Eastern cemeteries to feast on the flesh of the living would put people off the notion of so-called Christian burials and encourage the Oriental industry of cremation. I would even go so far as to advocate the complete elimination of graveyards. I'm sure that society could find a better use for those wasted tracts of land. I even have a few sketches of massive, steam powered earth movers that could make short work of such a task.
But, no. The operators of this station seemed disinclined to take decisive action to rid themselves of the menace generated by the small family plot nearby, instead choosing to cower nightly behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Only their son William showed any initiative in asking if he could accompany us away from his home. At the time, we saw no harm and we thought his knowledge of trains and their operation might prove useful. He also claimed to know where an additional rail car could be obtained in Cheyenne.
The station attendant had mentioned having recognized some of the train's more unique design elements and our suspicion were that he was perhaps in league with the engineer Corrigan. Those suspicions were given foundation when Messrs. Tobin and Pace, scouting ahead of the train, saw riders out of Cheyenne sallying to meet us. A counter-ambush was quickly prepared and settled things with them quite thoroughly. And it was during the distraction of this fight that William took his leave.
We were fully expecting a fight on entering Cheyenne and made plans to continue through without stopping. It would have been easy enough, however, for a clever opponent to set the rail switches to trap us on a siding or redirect us to a track of their choosing. With that in mind, we approached at a lessened speed so that we would not be derailed. I rode in the engine with Zeke and Mr. Ho, the House of Pancake's bartender who turned out to be a sufficient engineer. From there I could manage the speed and watch ahead for the signals.
Immediately upon entering the outskirts of Cheyenne, we were set upon by riflemen on horseback. They paralleled the train, utilizing buildings as cover. Ahead on a warehouse platform I saw another squad of men. Many had rifles but two had large cylinders on their backs with hoses and directional nozzles. A man was working on the controlling mechanism of one of the cylinders, and even from a distance I could tell that something had gone wrong and he was desperately working to unjam the device. I leaned out the window with the intention of shooting him with a Winchester rifle and thus preventing him from effecting repairs. I had hoped that, after the fight, these devices would remain behind for recovery. However, one of my comrades, Mr. Tobin by the sound of the rifle report, chose one of the pressurized tanks as his target. The resultant explosion cleared the platform and collapsed the corner of the building.
With such an unstable combustible in a fragile container, it was probably better not to have recovered the devices.
It was at this point that Zeke pulled the engine's brake lever. Ahead on the tracks stood yet another one of Hellstromme's automatons, a dozen armed men, and the missing William. I considered releasing the brake and driving the train straight through the assemblage but was concerned that the fragile nature of Hellstromme's machines might cause it to explode and, if not destroy the train, at least crater the track. Instead, I adjusted my goggles, leapt up onto the tender and then onto the engine's roof. Striding across the boiler through the smoke and steam, I fastened the last of my ionomagetomic rockets to my pistol and took aim at the automaton as the train came to a stop. I fully expected a fusillade of gunfire to seek out my exposed position.
Zeke told me later that I was laughing in a manner that disturbed him.
Before I could fire, however, Mr. Bongiovi stepped out of the train and "called William out." I am sure you are aware of the hackneyed dime novel gunfight wherein two adversaries meet out in the street at high noon, verbally taunt one another then, with steely-eyed determination, draw their guns. The villain reveals his baseness by drawing first, yet the hero is faster and the guns report simultaneously. The villain's shot goes wide while the hero's aim is true and the issue is decided. Events unfolded essentially as that excepting that, instead of a single shot, Mr. Bongiovi fanned the hammer with his left hand, rapidly emptying his gun.
A sufficient number of rounds found their mark in William's chest to kill him instantly while those that flew past found equally fatal marks in the automaton standing behind as menacing backdrop. William slumped to the ground and the automaton began to waver and shake in anticipation of its own self destruction. Mr. Tobin walked up to it and, with a mighty heave, pushed it off of the tracks. It wobbled like a top for a few moments, emitted a piercing screech and detonated in a magnificent explosion.
Hellstromme's men, at least those that had not been knocked to the ground by the explosion, stood in astonished silence, dumbfounded by what they had just witnessed. I readied myself for the expected general melee once they realized that they outnumbered us by several factors. Unexpectedly, they holstered their pistols or lowered their rifles and backed away.
I have salvaged a box of parts from the machine, to add to the nearly complete machine I already have. I have not bothered to work on that project, deciding rather to write this letter of today’s activities while the occasional gunfire in Cheyenne tells of the my comrades having tracked down another of Hellstromme's men. I expect this activity to last into tomorrow whereupon I shall post this letter before continue on our way westward.
Your most loving brother,
Zebulon
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
October 1879
Dearest Sister,
I generally consider being a train passenger to be a pleasant experience. The ride is generally smooth and it affords me ample opportunity to attend to my own thoughts and ideas, especially when a private compartment is purchased. Owning and operating a train, however, is no end of consternation. The maintenance of the boilers has a certain mechanical interest that quickly devolved into the tedium of keeping gauges set to certain levels with a dance of valves, levers and fuel. A task that could easily be managed by automation if I only had the time available to build such controls. Additionally, the tracks are not free and open as the tracks and trails. One must manage places where trains wish to go in opposite directions on the same track. And, since the tracks belong to a railroad company, interlopers like ourselves must either wait for the owners to graciously allow one to pass after the presentation of an appropriately userous fee or must use subterfuge to convince the various stations and company agents along the way that we are, in fact, supposed to be there.
The telegraph is an invaluable tool in this for the information traversing the wires unveil the entire inner workings of the railroad network. It is a simple enough matter to decipher their private codes and then use their own communication channels to obtain complete access. Timetables can be watched for openings into which our own small train can be inserted. Suspicions can be allayed by an advance forgery. False delays can clear track. It is an interesting enough game, but it takes me away from research I feel I should be pursuing.
Another distraction is the intermittent but nearly incessant interruption by the walking dead. Stopping at a station for water, we were once again set upon by a handful of ambulatory corpses. And though they were easily dispatched by removing the head or destroying the brain, I fail to understand why the people of the frontier still insist on burying their dead when, more and more, the corpses are infested with unnatural demonic forces, disinter themselves from their graves and assault the living. I imagine that a few instances of loved ones walking across the manicured garden parks of Eastern cemeteries to feast on the flesh of the living would put people off the notion of so-called Christian burials and encourage the Oriental industry of cremation. I would even go so far as to advocate the complete elimination of graveyards. I'm sure that society could find a better use for those wasted tracts of land. I even have a few sketches of massive, steam powered earth movers that could make short work of such a task.
But, no. The operators of this station seemed disinclined to take decisive action to rid themselves of the menace generated by the small family plot nearby, instead choosing to cower nightly behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Only their son William showed any initiative in asking if he could accompany us away from his home. At the time, we saw no harm and we thought his knowledge of trains and their operation might prove useful. He also claimed to know where an additional rail car could be obtained in Cheyenne.
The station attendant had mentioned having recognized some of the train's more unique design elements and our suspicion were that he was perhaps in league with the engineer Corrigan. Those suspicions were given foundation when Messrs. Tobin and Pace, scouting ahead of the train, saw riders out of Cheyenne sallying to meet us. A counter-ambush was quickly prepared and settled things with them quite thoroughly. And it was during the distraction of this fight that William took his leave.
We were fully expecting a fight on entering Cheyenne and made plans to continue through without stopping. It would have been easy enough, however, for a clever opponent to set the rail switches to trap us on a siding or redirect us to a track of their choosing. With that in mind, we approached at a lessened speed so that we would not be derailed. I rode in the engine with Zeke and Mr. Ho, the House of Pancake's bartender who turned out to be a sufficient engineer. From there I could manage the speed and watch ahead for the signals.
Immediately upon entering the outskirts of Cheyenne, we were set upon by riflemen on horseback. They paralleled the train, utilizing buildings as cover. Ahead on a warehouse platform I saw another squad of men. Many had rifles but two had large cylinders on their backs with hoses and directional nozzles. A man was working on the controlling mechanism of one of the cylinders, and even from a distance I could tell that something had gone wrong and he was desperately working to unjam the device. I leaned out the window with the intention of shooting him with a Winchester rifle and thus preventing him from effecting repairs. I had hoped that, after the fight, these devices would remain behind for recovery. However, one of my comrades, Mr. Tobin by the sound of the rifle report, chose one of the pressurized tanks as his target. The resultant explosion cleared the platform and collapsed the corner of the building.
With such an unstable combustible in a fragile container, it was probably better not to have recovered the devices.
It was at this point that Zeke pulled the engine's brake lever. Ahead on the tracks stood yet another one of Hellstromme's automatons, a dozen armed men, and the missing William. I considered releasing the brake and driving the train straight through the assemblage but was concerned that the fragile nature of Hellstromme's machines might cause it to explode and, if not destroy the train, at least crater the track. Instead, I adjusted my goggles, leapt up onto the tender and then onto the engine's roof. Striding across the boiler through the smoke and steam, I fastened the last of my ionomagetomic rockets to my pistol and took aim at the automaton as the train came to a stop. I fully expected a fusillade of gunfire to seek out my exposed position.
Zeke told me later that I was laughing in a manner that disturbed him.
Before I could fire, however, Mr. Bongiovi stepped out of the train and "called William out." I am sure you are aware of the hackneyed dime novel gunfight wherein two adversaries meet out in the street at high noon, verbally taunt one another then, with steely-eyed determination, draw their guns. The villain reveals his baseness by drawing first, yet the hero is faster and the guns report simultaneously. The villain's shot goes wide while the hero's aim is true and the issue is decided. Events unfolded essentially as that excepting that, instead of a single shot, Mr. Bongiovi fanned the hammer with his left hand, rapidly emptying his gun.
A sufficient number of rounds found their mark in William's chest to kill him instantly while those that flew past found equally fatal marks in the automaton standing behind as menacing backdrop. William slumped to the ground and the automaton began to waver and shake in anticipation of its own self destruction. Mr. Tobin walked up to it and, with a mighty heave, pushed it off of the tracks. It wobbled like a top for a few moments, emitted a piercing screech and detonated in a magnificent explosion.
Hellstromme's men, at least those that had not been knocked to the ground by the explosion, stood in astonished silence, dumbfounded by what they had just witnessed. I readied myself for the expected general melee once they realized that they outnumbered us by several factors. Unexpectedly, they holstered their pistols or lowered their rifles and backed away.
I have salvaged a box of parts from the machine, to add to the nearly complete machine I already have. I have not bothered to work on that project, deciding rather to write this letter of today’s activities while the occasional gunfire in Cheyenne tells of the my comrades having tracked down another of Hellstromme's men. I expect this activity to last into tomorrow whereupon I shall post this letter before continue on our way westward.
Your most loving brother,
Zebulon
