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dime_novel_heroFrom: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Deadwood, Dakota Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
September 1879
Blessed Sister,
It has become the habit of Mr. Tobin to send the simpleton Zeke on any number of errands in the hope that he might not return. Invariably, sometimes almost impossibly, Zeke does find his way back and on this latest occasion he brought news of a private train sitting idle on a disused siding above Sturgis. Remembering that the last remnants of Hellstromme's failed assault on Deadwood fled aboard a swiftly dispatched and then recalled armored train, we were understandably concerned that this may be staging for yet another attempt. With no further details forthcoming from Zeke and not wishing to allow them any opportunity, we set out to preempt any action.
Approaching stealthily, we found several normal cars and the engine resting with at least some pressure. It was obviously not the armored train that Hellstromme had sent. There seemed to be no one around excepting the engineer tending the boiler so, when we approached from the rear and the others entered the caboose to, I presume, search the cars thoroughly back to front, I proceeded straight away to the engine.
Somehow I still have the capacity to be surprised at the inability of people to answer simple questions. It is as if the world is composed of ignorant morons and it rests upon the few of us with intelligence to save them from their idiocy. The engineer was a case in point. Surely, one needs to be of reasonable intelligence to pass the licensing requirements and manage the sometimes sensitive operations of a modern steam engine. And yet, when I asked "Who's train is this?" he blathered about and answered my question with a question.
There were, of course, two possible answers that would be acceptable. The first would be to say that the train belonged to Mr. Corrigan for, in fact, that is who turned out to be its previous owner. And if the engineer had answered my question with "Why, sir, the train is yours," that also would have been an acceptable answer. It would have been the preferred answer as I was, at that point, taking possession. It would have been an answer that indicated a modicum of at least cleverness if not actual intelligence. Either answer would have prevented me from shooting him in the leg to expedite his getting out of my way. Alas. He, like so many others I have encountered, could not manage a simple, truthful response and suffered because of it.
As I brought the boiler up to full steam, those who had been Corrigan's gunmen began firing upon us from up on the treeline. They may have thought us common bandits. They may not have learned that their employer and their comrades that rode with him were all dead. In either case, they were sorely outmatched and, after a short but decisive gunbattle, we were able to return the train to Deadwood without further delay.
The others are terribly excited with having this conveyance. It would seem to have spontaneously been decided that we should leave Deadwood to take the fight directly to Hellstromme. And while I could easily see us armoring the cars, rolling the stock up the railline into Hellstromme's Salt Lake City factory and assaulting the gates, I don't see my comrades as being so intent on that single goal. And, as for myself, moving directly on Hellstromme, infiltrating his lair and putting a bullet through his head while he sleeps seems somehow unsatisfying. Incomplete. Indeed, all the trauma that Hellestrome has caused in his attempts to destroy me should be met with a truly final solution. The complete and utter destruction of his burgeoning empire.
One such route towards his destruction leads through the patent office. Aboard the train I found a safe and inside were Corrigan's automaton plans. While I have been so far successful in deriving much of his design from the deconstruction of the captured machine, to have the plans in my hands reveals many secrets that would have taken days or even weeks to discern. And, as I mentioned previously, Hellstromme is intent on keeping these machines secret. Imagine his consternation when the United States Patent Office comes knocking on his door for infringement of designs with my name on them. Well, I don't expect that the federal government will actually be able to pursue him into the Mormon's private kingdom but the image is an entertaining fiction.
And, in speaking of fiction, it occurs to me that this could be an opportunity for you to tap your underutilized writing skills. I know that you have had difficulty in finding a publisher for your works even though I know you to be an exceptional wordsmith. I wonder if you might try your hand at dime novels, drawing on my letters of our adventures on the frontier as inspiration. I have given cursory glance to a number of those typically mediocre publications and think that you could give fresh life to the genre. It would serve you in having your ability introduced as a gateway to publication of your more quality works and would serve me in that Hellstromme would surely learn of it and recognize both myself cast as the hero and his casting as the base villain.
Unfortunately, I feel you would probably have to use a masculine pseudonym, with the appreciation for your work returning second hand. The publishing industry might be ready to accept rollicking tales of the dead walking the Earth, vampiress gamblers, ancient demonic spirits and menacing mechanical men but the idea of a woman writer somehow frightens them. And it may be wise for other pseudonyms to be used as well, for while I expect that Messrs. Tobin and Bonjiovi would welcome having their fame spread through such retellings, I feel that Mr. Pace, as well as myself, would rather have a bit more anonymity.
As we are likely to be leaving Deadwood in a week or so, it may be wise for you to suspend the mailing of your return letters until such time as we have settled down again.
With eager anticipation,
Your brother, Zebulon
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
September 1879
Blessed Sister,
It has become the habit of Mr. Tobin to send the simpleton Zeke on any number of errands in the hope that he might not return. Invariably, sometimes almost impossibly, Zeke does find his way back and on this latest occasion he brought news of a private train sitting idle on a disused siding above Sturgis. Remembering that the last remnants of Hellstromme's failed assault on Deadwood fled aboard a swiftly dispatched and then recalled armored train, we were understandably concerned that this may be staging for yet another attempt. With no further details forthcoming from Zeke and not wishing to allow them any opportunity, we set out to preempt any action.
Approaching stealthily, we found several normal cars and the engine resting with at least some pressure. It was obviously not the armored train that Hellstromme had sent. There seemed to be no one around excepting the engineer tending the boiler so, when we approached from the rear and the others entered the caboose to, I presume, search the cars thoroughly back to front, I proceeded straight away to the engine.
Somehow I still have the capacity to be surprised at the inability of people to answer simple questions. It is as if the world is composed of ignorant morons and it rests upon the few of us with intelligence to save them from their idiocy. The engineer was a case in point. Surely, one needs to be of reasonable intelligence to pass the licensing requirements and manage the sometimes sensitive operations of a modern steam engine. And yet, when I asked "Who's train is this?" he blathered about and answered my question with a question.
There were, of course, two possible answers that would be acceptable. The first would be to say that the train belonged to Mr. Corrigan for, in fact, that is who turned out to be its previous owner. And if the engineer had answered my question with "Why, sir, the train is yours," that also would have been an acceptable answer. It would have been the preferred answer as I was, at that point, taking possession. It would have been an answer that indicated a modicum of at least cleverness if not actual intelligence. Either answer would have prevented me from shooting him in the leg to expedite his getting out of my way. Alas. He, like so many others I have encountered, could not manage a simple, truthful response and suffered because of it.
As I brought the boiler up to full steam, those who had been Corrigan's gunmen began firing upon us from up on the treeline. They may have thought us common bandits. They may not have learned that their employer and their comrades that rode with him were all dead. In either case, they were sorely outmatched and, after a short but decisive gunbattle, we were able to return the train to Deadwood without further delay.
The others are terribly excited with having this conveyance. It would seem to have spontaneously been decided that we should leave Deadwood to take the fight directly to Hellstromme. And while I could easily see us armoring the cars, rolling the stock up the railline into Hellstromme's Salt Lake City factory and assaulting the gates, I don't see my comrades as being so intent on that single goal. And, as for myself, moving directly on Hellstromme, infiltrating his lair and putting a bullet through his head while he sleeps seems somehow unsatisfying. Incomplete. Indeed, all the trauma that Hellestrome has caused in his attempts to destroy me should be met with a truly final solution. The complete and utter destruction of his burgeoning empire.
One such route towards his destruction leads through the patent office. Aboard the train I found a safe and inside were Corrigan's automaton plans. While I have been so far successful in deriving much of his design from the deconstruction of the captured machine, to have the plans in my hands reveals many secrets that would have taken days or even weeks to discern. And, as I mentioned previously, Hellstromme is intent on keeping these machines secret. Imagine his consternation when the United States Patent Office comes knocking on his door for infringement of designs with my name on them. Well, I don't expect that the federal government will actually be able to pursue him into the Mormon's private kingdom but the image is an entertaining fiction.
And, in speaking of fiction, it occurs to me that this could be an opportunity for you to tap your underutilized writing skills. I know that you have had difficulty in finding a publisher for your works even though I know you to be an exceptional wordsmith. I wonder if you might try your hand at dime novels, drawing on my letters of our adventures on the frontier as inspiration. I have given cursory glance to a number of those typically mediocre publications and think that you could give fresh life to the genre. It would serve you in having your ability introduced as a gateway to publication of your more quality works and would serve me in that Hellstromme would surely learn of it and recognize both myself cast as the hero and his casting as the base villain.
Unfortunately, I feel you would probably have to use a masculine pseudonym, with the appreciation for your work returning second hand. The publishing industry might be ready to accept rollicking tales of the dead walking the Earth, vampiress gamblers, ancient demonic spirits and menacing mechanical men but the idea of a woman writer somehow frightens them. And it may be wise for other pseudonyms to be used as well, for while I expect that Messrs. Tobin and Bonjiovi would welcome having their fame spread through such retellings, I feel that Mr. Pace, as well as myself, would rather have a bit more anonymity.
As we are likely to be leaving Deadwood in a week or so, it may be wise for you to suspend the mailing of your return letters until such time as we have settled down again.
With eager anticipation,
Your brother, Zebulon
