May 22nd, 1879

Railroad City, Missouri

Lower Lakeside District

105 yards north of Lake Canterra

Driver's Street. The name was as plain and direct as could be for a road. Dirty, well-ridden and littered with fresh manure, the morning's march of five-hundred head was the wake up call for the tightly packed denizens of the Lower Lakeside. The stench and the foulness created a dingy covering on these new buildings, and so gave a look of a much used and degraded neighborhood. In fact, it was not one neighborhood along Driver's, but four distinct worlds that rarely interacted, despite their proximity. This was the epicenter of a collection of hives of peoples, and farther to the east and west one could find Mexicans, Irish, Poles, Chinese and others similarly stacked and degraded. The western part of Driver's Street began with the Italian Block, with its blacksmith, dress shop, tenements and uncompleted Church of the Holy Spirit. As night came, this ethnic enclave shut its doors, especially now at cattle time. To the north of the Italians, across intersecting (and poorly named) Gardenia Street, spread the six acres and flowing wooden labyrinth of the Calico X Fields and Stockyard, the resting stop for the earlier haul. Cattle waiting on the train to escort them to their demise, enjoyed a spacious grazing pasture, elbow room the locals knew nothing about. Sturdy hands of cowboys had wrangled the herd here from a tremendous trek, taking the long route from Texas and around Indian Territory, where the war was being lost by the government. Up from Arkansas they came, routed and rerouted long past frustration. Depositing their herd right across the street from the humble sterility of the Russian Jewish Block, these hard men finished their toils, and without hesitation, angled across Driver's southeast to what they considered the right side of the tracks, to the Free Block.

The name was not to denote freedom from labor, but to title the inhabitants of the block. For every person in this compact area was a Freedman, Negro, most having come to the city in the years after the Reconstruction. Many fled the lynchings, the endless field work for a pittance, a South that never really changed. What was first a life in shacks and huts next to Chinese and Irish men working the rails altered slowly. Riches brought the law. Law brought codes and safety regulations. Regulations forced the construction of houses. But greed minimized those homes, transformed a once hopeful idea into squalid compartments of people piled atop one another, and divided by ethnicity. In truth, the only space these various folks had to enjoy was in the form of either the fecal street, or the nearby lake. The Negroes of the South fled to find the new life Lincoln offered. In the Rail, they found themselves cornered between cattle barons and more white disdain. Worse, along Driver's Street, those same barons got the law changed. Every saloon, dive, bordello and other assorted dive was designated, "to be henceforth only along the eastern portion of Driver's Street...in order to facilitate ease from congestion." In other words, Italians across the way, and even the few Jews at the eastern end of the road, got businesses and some quiet. The Free Block, every other weekend, became a cesspool for every drunken cowhand, mostly southern, to ply his ire on their homes, and their women.

As dusk arrived, the tired men bolted to the Free's drinking holes. Most immediately crept into the center of the block, where Little Foxes House allowed one to kill two birds with one stone: drink and loose gals. Others crowded the slender hall of B's Saloon, or fought to get into Sadie's on the corner of Driver's and Olde. Sadie's was a 'deep hole' as the locals knew it. Anyone who went it in would inevitably be either carried out by buddies, or by the undertaker. But the leader of the cowboys in town, Stilwell Sticks, was a much smarter man than most. He angled straight for a more refined type of cantina, the remarkable Bauble's Hothouse, almost in the dead center of the block. He took his ramrod with him, Cam Teeks, a brawny man too old to remain in his post, but too nervous to make trail boss. Both men entered the house, and liked what they saw. The owner, Monisha Bauble, once kept the garden at a plantation in New Orleans. Her establishment looked like a fine house that would just about fit in across the lake, on Victoria Heights. Her daughter, Thea, a dark skinned belle in a cream soft polonaise bustle with extensive ruffled train and hair swept back behind small ears, escorted them to a secluded table in a back corner. Not many people came here, at least, not many in their business. This was a special stop for bankers, attorneys and bookkeepers who desired to get away from the bustle of the Jefferson district. Sticks loved the corner table, mostly encased in a trellis that supported a wall of ivy. It gave him the necessary solitude from gossiping trailmen, and the city's upper crust, for him to enlighten his sidekick on a forbidden art, to plot a scheme.

Thea gently placed down two tall glasses of lukewarm beer, smiled, and left them alone. Cam Teeks, looking about fitfully, began to tap his fingers on the cloth covered table. He looked at his boss, then around the house nervously. This place was too frilly for his liking, too manicured. Teeks liked the outdoors, open fires, men being men. Here he was in a setting best avoided, but his instructor insisted, and, despite his objections on the trail drive, the man agreed to come. What he had no idea of was what this very knowledgeable boss, this wise man, had to inform him of that would require such secrecy. It was against Stilwell's nature to sneak. He usually displayed a casual honesty, uprightness, and strength. But in the past two years, even Cam noticed the change in persona. He was just about to ask what was going on, when Sticks rested his hands on the table. He had only removed the left glove, an odd maneuver, he'd lately never removed either, and stared into the ramrod with blue eyes aglow.

"How long have we known each other?" he began.

"I dunno," said Teeks,"maybe four, five years, I reckon."

"You ever known me to lie?"

"No. Can't say as I have," Cam answered.

"Then let me tell you a secret, and I do mean secret. As in your very life depends on you keeping it! You hearing me?" ticks asked. His eyes were afire, muscles in his neck became visible with tension.

"Yeah, sure," Teeks agreed cautiously. "Just tell me, Boss. I'd rather you let it out than burst like grapeshot!"

Stilwell Sticks let out a long sigh, rubbed his scruffy chin with his strong left hand. He gazed off for a minute, lost in the past. Slowly, he turned to his sidekick.

"Remember two years back almost, we came through here after these town barons opened the New Southeast Trail? Ran a paltry hundred head past flood and famine to get it here just so they could keep the Plains Line from moving away?"

"I can't forget. We got waylaid cuz they wouldn't pay us! Fighting an' scrappin' for days. Luke was shot an' killed by those paid guns, so were you almost. Never got paid. Thanked the Lord when you came out of it so fast.!" exclaimed Cam.

"That's just it. I didn't 'come out of it'. I was laid out in Doc Falk's office, and I'll never forget it. Darn barons owned the hospital, and kept me out of it! Tossing and turning, praying to die. My hand...second blast from that shotgun ripped it up like a sheet in a twister. No arrests made, you all were run out of town the next day. And me..."

"That was bad," Teeks jumped in,"real bad, Mister Sticks. But in the end we made out all right. We saw you six days later in Branson, good as gold!"

"Was I?" the trail boss asked. "Am I?"

At that he removed the right, tan leather glove. Cam Teeks, an older man who had seen a lot in the wild, lost his breath. The hand of Stilwell was skeletal, but not bone. All skin was removed, only a translucent web of netting, like tight silk, covered over digits made of bronze. It seemed unbelievably to meld seamlessly into his wrist, which looked normal. Around the knuckles of each digit were gears and springs, boggling Teeks' startled mind. Sticks looked at it in a curious mix of revulsion and admiration.

"I don't understand," Cam hissed, "how can that be real? I mean, this is the strangest dang place in all the world, but I ain't never seen nuthin' like that!"

"The Blue Silence," the boss said plainly. He watched his hand flex and open, gears turn and springs squeak. "You left, but it's been public knowledge for a long while."

"Yes sir," responded the ramrod. "Every other man, woman and weed in this city caught a permanent case of the strange. But I never woulda guessed that you--"

"Oh yes," boss quipped," me! In the wrong place at the wrong time. That first drive cost me dearly, and I've been half a man ever since. But then, this haul made me think twice. Maybe, just maybe, it can be a blessing in disguise."

Cam was left with a dumb look hung about his dirty face. "I don't follow."

"I'm talking about paying back," the trail boss said sternly. "With the things this hand does, I do intend to recover what the barons of the miserly Rail stole from us."

His ramrod continued to stare in awe.

"But, don't it hurt?"

"No, but at first I couldn't move it. Thing kept gushing out hot gas and fire when I'd try. Doc Falk sent me to a man the next day, called himself Carver. How he knew the man was changed overnight I'll never understand. Odd little man, claimed the 'Blue' made him some genius an he had an ax to grind with what passes for law here. Smartest person I ever heard of, somehow he welded the gears and springs on, never felt a things. Made some claim about my whole skeleton being the same as my hand, but I don't know about that. Now I got control. And I have the means to execute my anger. Look around the corner. Tell me what you see."

Cam leaned almost to falling out of the chair, briefly drawing attention to himself. His eyes scoured the house of plants and a few well dressed patrons. He squinted. The farthest table, nearest the door, was occupied by two derby wearing associates he vaguely recalled.

"Is that...is that Curtis Belfort? One of the Calico barons?" he asked Sticks.

"Oh yes! That's him, alright. And the younger one with him? The man's son, Percy. It was Percy who hired the guns. Percy who got Luke killed, and took my hand. Curtis got the law boys to toss you out on your head."

"So," Cam asked,"what's your plan? I mean, I'm in all the way. But, what do you wanna do?"

"This hand," Boss whispered, "is my bane and my love. Whatever it did do, Carver made it better. I can let out hot steam, burning fire, or both. I'm, different inside, too. I can't really explain how, only that I feel hot around my guts always. I never get heated, or cold, or sick. That dustup we got into in Hot Springs a few months back, remember?"

"Yeah."

"All those punches Roger Vane gave me, not a single bruise. Barely felt it! I sort think I might be able to take on some of these new vigilants this town has about."

Instantly, Cam Teeks downed his beer, snapped his fingers for another while the boss covered his firing hand. The ramrod gulped the second glass dry, and let liquid courage rule his heart.

"Let's do it!" he yelled out. Now the people in the house were staring at the back ivy corner. Irritated but determined to avenge, Stilwell jumped out of the booth, and walked at full pace to the front, to Curtis Belfort and son. The father gave the appearance of a well-to-do scrapper, with large, calloused knuckles, and broad shoulders almost protruding from his tight suit. In essence he seemed like a bull without horns, crammed into men's clothing. The son, Percy, was eighteen going on fifteen, for he was quite short, very skinny, and much unlike his parent. The two men were unmoved at the sight of yet another angry cowhand.

"Remember Luke Braun?" Sticks asked in a commanding tone. He aimed his gloved right at the man's face. It's lack of a gun made Belfort giggle, and point at the boss mockingly. The son seemed highly disinterested.

"Forget something?" Curtis laughed.

That was when the glove smoked. It smoked and burned as Cam came up behind Sticks in a hoot and holler of 'Die!' at the seated duo. Belfort and his son got up clumsily, terrified, they headed for the door. It was too late. A dual cone erupted from the sinister hand, two swirling beams of steam and molten flame. Percy, the last to get up, received the tragic gift of both lines directly into his back. Thea Bauble and her mother, coming from the kitchen, screamed and ran into the back room. Percy Belfort stood still, hands shaking horribly out at his sides. His mouth smoked, and it was but a half second before the blare of fire fanned out of his mouth, nostrils and chest. Curtis, enraged at the act, turned about to grab his son from what he believed to be a burning building. Instead the vents of fire greeted the father, and both were consumed. To the horror of the hiding patrons, Sticks and Teeks ran their hands quickly through the pockets of both victims, and headed out the door. The house was aglow with screams and flames.

The two cowboys ran outside, only to be mobbed by the swiftest brigade of concerned citizens they ever saw. Swept up in a riot of questions and gawking onlookers, they tried to claim the real culprits were still inside. But they heard the screams of Monisha Bauble plainly.

"Stop them, those two cow men! They killed Mister Belfort! Killers! Killers!"

Many hands took hold of Cam Teeks, and he was shoved down hard into the street. But just as fast, fire raged just over the heads of the mob, with shouts coming from the powerful Stilwell.

"Get back! I swear I will burn you all. This whole miserable street can cease to be! Get back!"

And get back they did, but not from the threats of Sticks, or the fear of his hissing hand. They turned away from him, looking down the northern end of Driver's Street. Old Salty, the Free Block's most endearing citizen, motioned the crowd into a bucket brigade, to save the one distinguished place nearby. He too was one of the Rail's paranormals as well, whose blind eyes somehow saw much more than others, and sensed someone else was now arriving. An oncoming rider who would equalize this terrible situation.

It was not any police, but the precinct captain allowed the man to enforce the law. Coming down the road at full trot on a strong palomino, was a barrel-chested Negro, in a red vest and armed with a Winchester in his left hand. It was one of the Guild of Honor men, the ones who were changing the city daily. He was once so many things, but in the Blocks, he was every man's hero. He was Milo Thaddeus Love. His friends called him Chance. As he advanced, the frantic crowd yelled out to him about the fire, the Belfort murders, and the two wicked men who started it all.

Get some more men on that fire!" he ordered. "And drag some cowboys outta the saloons! Get cross th' street an' calm down them cattle!"

He brought the horse to a dead stop and jumped off, aiming the rifle square at the head of Stilwell Sticks. Sticks, for his part, stood and smiled. The ruckus brought together the blocks for a moment. Italians in their long johns, black men running out of the stables, and even the rabbi from the synagogue down the way woke up his neighbors to take action. Fire brought unity. Water was heaped upon the Hothouse from without, and within. Cam Teeks still laid on the road, his beaten face and head keeping him dizzy.

On the street, a standoff was taking place.

"That's a nice bit o' hand you got there," Chance said with a smile behind the rifle's sight. "Ah bet you get along with a certain Mister Carver, don't you?"

"Yes!" Sticks yelled," and I thank him for this opportunity to properly thank the bloated power brokers of this fine hole in the ground! Stilwell Sticks is the name, and I don't fear any man!"

"Good!" Love yelled back, "after we're done with this, you won't mind tellin' me where ah can find him. He's done a lot o' bad things, an' you have some terrible taste in friends."

The hand spat out fire. Chance squeezed the trigger. It was a shootout like no other. Fire melted the bullet before it ever reached the wild cowhand. Flame ruptured the body of the deputized young man, and he burned as he fell to the ground. His death brought to life Cam, who leaped up with more squeals of animalistic victory. The masses all around were unmoved, and continued to put down the house fire. Cam jumped all around Chance's burning corpse, while his smart boss took three steps back. Four steps. Ten.

Something wasn't right.

Not a soul stopped to help the black man. Not a woman looking along the side screamed or ran for the police station. They all focused on the house, now smoldering but saved from the put out fire. Stilwell could not take joy in his rapid double victory, because it was all too simple. No. It was all too common the way the people behaved. Did men burn regularly in this part of town since he last visited? He wasn't sure, but trusted his instincts always.

"Cam! Get away from that body!" he ordered.

Teeks turned to him, but didn't budge. "Why, Boss? This boy's deader than dead, an' we ain't getting' punished or nuthin'! We're running this burg now!"

Snip! Ping.

The body of Milo Love made four popping sounds, like fireworks. The remaining flames on his corpse immediately dissipated. More popping. A young Italian woman, running past to assist the exit of the choking Baubles, stopped for a single second to shake her head at Cam Teeks. Sparks flew out of the body, and all at once, a sound was heard like the stitching of many textile machines. Skin, once black and charred, fell off as incredibly new brown skin wove over the entire form. The popping and stitch noise increased, the body recovered and twitched. Cam could only stand and look, gripped in a state of shock. A great suction of inhalation occurred. Milo T. Love stood up, ash fell from him. He was brand new, and even the muscles of his body seemed to swell a bit, to improve in definition. As he sprouted a new crop of soft and tight curled hair, he gazed blankly at the ramrod. Then Chance's left hook punched the man's teeth out. The sidekick went down.

Stilwell Sticks forgot he had a hissing hand altogether, and ran for his life. Milo glanced at the Hothouse, smiled and winked at the Bauble family, the people working hard to keep a poor community intact. He then looked down at what was left of cooked pants. He was near naked, but admiring the added musculature in his legs. Deputy started to run after the cowboy, and, now fast as a horse, easily caught him by the nape of his neck at the edge of the lake.

"Your a crazed monster!" Sticks cried,"you and this whole city shouldn't be!"

Now his hand fired off at random, powered by fear. It went all across the night sky, but he dared not aim it again at this impossible person. Love turned the killer around to face him, and picked him up off the ground. Oh, how the deputy was grinning now!

"Ah tell you what," Chance started,"we'll trade secrets. Ah'll tell ya what just happened, an' you tell me where ah kin find bad Carver. Deal?"

"Uh-huh," the cowboy barely let out. Everything had turned on him so fast.

"Mah man! Here's the tale. Ah can't die. You done seen that's true, ain't you? But this here's th' real kick in the jaw...Ever' time ah come back, ah'm a little stronger, a bit more vigorous. You hear me?"

Stilwell could only hear fear, and feel impish. He shook.

"What ah mean ta' say is," Milo said,"thank you kindly for the gift."

"Gib-Gibb-..." Sticks mumbled.

"What?" the deputy asked.

"Gibbs Street. Th-the back room, at number forty four. Carver does his works there, skinny freckled man, large spectacles. I swear!"

"Well ain't you helpful? Ah almost can forget your murderous acts!"

"Can you?" quivered Sticks.

Chance frowned. "Nah."

"B-But they had it coming! They robbed us! Killed my man! What would you have done? Your some vigilant wonder, right? You would have done the same!" Sticks yelled, scraping the bottom of his gut to find bravado.

"Aw, ah'm just like you, is that it?" Chance asked with a returning grimace. "Well bless your heart!"

Crack.

Toothless Stilwell fell half into Lake Canterra, half on the muddy bank. The half-hour reign of Hissing Hand was over. Behind him, Milo could hear a dying down of commotion, the fire was out and the blocks were calming. He turned to see a gathering of various folks: Mexicans in a canoe, Italian children awakened by the din, cowboys tipping their hats in silent approval. Down the now more tranquil Driver's Street came a carriage, a square box buggy with considerable bumping and very weighed down. The two gray mares pulling the load halted just feet from the denuded man, its one passenger being the Commissioner of Police himself, Oscar Dunwich. A man crafted in a rounded bulk of fat from good eating, and muscle from a youth spent killing buffalo, the red haired and red-mustached man dropped hard out of the carriage, and straightened his tight pinstripe suit. He was forever dour, and feared neither man nor paranormal. All vigilants in the Rail, the good ones anyway, answered to him. The threat of fire must have been what brought the gruff man from First Precinct in Jefferson down here to Lower Lakeside.

"Now see hear, Milo," Dunwich huffed,"what in the name of Rutherford B. Hayes is going on down here? I pay you to keep the Blocks safe, not raze the buildings!"

"Don't look at me!" he replied, pointing at the back of Stick's unconscious head. "This curly wolf here is th' blame. Caught himself havin' a hog killin' time, so much so he beefed the Belforts. Ah got yer man, sir. All quiet now."

Dunwich gave his typical curt look, down at the criminal, then at his odd deputy. Love could always see the hate behind the commissioner's beady eyes, but knew Oscar was one of the few that gave him a fair deal, that treated him like a man. A heavy hand of red hair reached out to shake Milo's.

"Did you have to be so dramatic? A man I passed claimed you practically let this fool kill you! I've told you before to take them out if they murder!" Oscar declared, waving his hands out into Love's face.

"Yes, sir, you did say it. But you an ah both came from the same life as ol' Handy here. We know what its like, wanting to avenge a fallen brotha. Ah give him th' same chance as anyone else to surrender." Love answered.

One of the Commissioner's waving hands grabbed hold of the deputy's, hands were firmly shaken.

"Hmph! Good work."

Not another word between the two, Dunwich returned to stuff himself on his ailing coach, while riding up came two officers in city blues to gather Sticks and a muttering Teeks. The night's revelry was past. Milo Love walked back up the street, regained his sturdy horse and burned Winchester. Ammunition had gone off from the inferno, the receiver was trashed and the barrel a tad warped. He took a minute to gather his thoughts, and slowly walked across the way to the Italian Block, to the mercantile store of Mister Guglielmo. He rapped hard on the glass front door three times. The Guglielmo family, who had just gone back to bed, lit candles recently snuffed out and opened the door.

"Signor Love! Thank you for saving us again, yes! But, it is late, and--"

"Ah understand," Love stated humbly," it's just that ah have a pressing appointment with a man who makes some bad devices. A real bad kinda man."

He stepped back from the door, and raised his arms up, his smile was now a nervous one.

"And as you can see," he continued," ah can't go to a meeting lookin' like this."

"Of course, of course!" the merchant said. "Come inside now, yes? I know just the outfit to make a most profound statement! Sophia, vieni qui! We can get you very much ready!" he enunciated in a thick accent.

More lanterns were lit, and Milo entered the store. Signor Guglielmo threw a blue afghan over the lawman's strapping shoulders a hot second before the Signora came down the stairs. He would be refit, impeccably dressed, and even rearmed by his kind neighbors, while he wondered why more people didn't get to know them or their culture. They fed him pork and bread and lentil soup, while he and the merchant discussed the best types of spur trigger pistols to put in his new vest pockets. Chance always preferred the .41 rimfire, and the merchant gladly put one in each of the two pockets of the gold silk vest. A quick wash in warm water from a beautifully made Neapolitan porcelain bowl got rid of the ash scent. He thanked the Signora and her husband, and exited. Spurs rolled and chimed as Love crossed the street once again, back to the Free, making a straight line for the porch of the Hatman. The store's owner, Marvin Malin, a short mahogany fellow with big eyes and a long mustache, was waiting with a hat in his hand.

"Knew you was coming, Chance," the Hatman nodded, "fresh off the block, tan color, diamond cut, like usual."

"Thank you, sir," Love offered. He took the new hat, and fit it snug to his head, just above the eyebrows. Perfect fit. He cared for them, and they cared for him, the way things should be.

Milo moved to his palomino, tied to the post in front of Bauble's, checked the saddle, and from it took a slab of brown leather he threw over his right shoulder. As he hitched up and took the reins, he looked about the night skyline, and then whistled three times. Fluttering of wings could be heard over the roof of Green's Boots, five doors down. Nimbly landing on the shoulder patch was a marvelous specimen of a bird of prey, a white-breasted aplomado falcon. It looked at man and horse, allowing Chance to stroke its lean head. The bird's presence brought the lawman solace.

"Poker Face! Where you been, you ol' rascal? You been huntin', huh? You catch a mouse today, maybe even a whole jackrabbit?" he asked as he patted the avian's back.

Two years, almost, had gone by since he rescued the bird from the dirty gambler, Jacob Pinch, that sordid night they all now called the Blue Silence. The bird was freed, but Milo Love was lynched for stealing.

Then he woke up. Chance was a whole different man after that, and the falcon, he found out later, was altogether different as well.

A pull of the reins, and the horse turned to leave the Blocks. They galloped off to Gibbs Street, to meet another with another wild man.

* * *

One had to cross the planks or the few covered bridges that lead over the muddy, garbage infused stream to reach the Lakeside district. Compared with the Blocks in the Lower, it was akin to leaving a war prison for Utopia. Once rider and horse passed the bricks of Fire Hall Number Five, and sets of multicolored Italianate row houses on either side of Wadsworth Street, the area ahead revealed manicured houses in a plethora of styles. At one time, wealthy Maya Cordero attempted to teach him the architectural styles of the times. On his horse he passed by decorative homes in the design of Mansard, Queen Anne, and so on. He passed an octagonal communal carriage house, replete with its own smith. Chance did not like crossing the stream, to here or to Jefferson, even to the mills and factories around Tyler Steel. In Lower Lakeside, the man had a purpose, had friends and self respect. Outside of that cramped maze, he was greeted with cold disdain, if he was greeted at all. Here, the residents tried desperately to imitate the filthy rich barons across the lake. In Lakeside, skin outranked badge, and Milo might as well have been a street cleaner, or a convict, let alone a deputized agent of their law. He pushed the horse faster up the road.

Let's get this over with.

Seven blocks of beauty he passed, until he finally made the left turn on to the forty block of Gibbs. Immediately something was off center. At the corner stood a four-storied, Romanesque, rectangular cube that was well labeled:

FIFTH POLICE PRECINCT-GIBBS STREET STATION

Right next to it, another pretty Mansard home full of long windows and crested iron rooftop, was street number forty four. That couldn't be right. That shouldn't be right.

Ain't nobody that bold to put up shop next to th' police, Chance thought.

He leaned forward on the horse, debated whether he should get backup from the boys in blue. No. He'd go it alone, better that than have 'help' from men who'd just as well shoot him as Carver. Dunwich wasn't around to argue for him, and Love's impromptu deputyship remained a controversy, despite his legacy of saving the city twice with the Guild of Honor. Long story short was City Hall owed him, coppers despised him. He rode up to forty-four Gibbs, a brilliant two-story Gothic Revival painted canary yellow, and dismounted.

No lights inside. Not a sound. But as he approached the cherry-stained door, he could faintly hear...something. Three knocks brought no one. Three more went unanswered still. Milo tried the brass doorknob. Unlocked. Per his moniker, he took a chance, and walked in. Aside from an oak sitting bench and hat rack, the house was empty. No other furniture, carpeting or photographs were evident. He tried to sneak into the kitchen, but couldn't keep the spurs silent. The kitchen also was laid bare, without table, chairs, or even cookware. Puzzling. Then, he heard the faint noise again, growing louder from the basement. Pumping sounds. Engine noises. In the back of the kitchen was a narrow door. Love crept to it, and cracked it open. The sound intensified. Yes, it was down below. The steps looked a tad dicey for such a stylish residence, but he went down them softly, cautiously.

At the bottom, Chance came into a bare opening of stone piles and dirt heaps. The noise of the engine came from a light at the back east corner, from whence shone a golden light. He maneuvered between the piles and heaps, and found the light came from an opening, dug into the basement wall. The closer he went to the corner, the more Love could smell axle grease, smoke and something burning. He came to the opening, a rough hole that was more torn down than carved out. Through that hole was an unbelievable sight, for he walked off of a dirt floor, and on to a grated walkway, a slender iron-encased hall lined with a bevy of pipes and gauges. Similar to the Stockwell and Company works, but darker. The oily smell reminded him of Seer's clock shop, but here there was also a tinge of foulness in the air. Ten feet in, he came to a long dining table in an alcove on the left. On it was a lineup of random armaments. Rifles bonded to steel gauntlets, the gauntlets coiled in belts of ammunition. Wicked sword-canes and even more odd, shotgun canes. He picked up a mysterious gun, a nifty spur trigger, one with a giant mainspring attached, and gave it good look while occasionally looking down the winding hallway. Liking the model, he opted to take it, and secured it with a latch to his belt. Poker Face gave a short cry. Suddenly, a pipe on the wall turned Love's way. At its end was a lens, displaying the disturbing image of a massive, crazed brown eye.

"Who is this? Is this the law?" a voice echoed. It came from down the hall. Chance ignored the monstrous eye and moved ahead.

"Is that the Undying Man I see with my little eye?" it asked again, followed by the hollowed din of laughter. "Should I be enraged, or honored?"

"You Carver?" Chance yelled out, as he and his bird moved ahead to take a position behind a curving wall of lead pipes. Up ahead, he could sort of make out the back of a man's leg, pinstripe pants and new Congress shoes, but he was well covered in wooden piles on a table. What was he doing? And he hated the name 'Undying Man', for the only ones to call him that were the whites who had lynched him, and regretted his revival. The name appeared in the newspaper for weeks, slandering him as a villain.

"Ah! You know me!" it elated. "How extraordinary! Will we do battle, for I have many guns with me?"

The lawman thought about it for a split second, shook his head. He twitched his right shoulder, and stoic Poker Face took off. Before the hidden Carver could get hold of one of his infamous weapons, he was rammed hard. But it was not a normal falcon that broke through the line of planks, but a leviathan, for the hunter increased in size, in mass, during its aerial charge. By the time Carver was slammed into his own accoutrements, Face had increased to a good twelve feet tall, hunched down to fit into the low-ceiling room. A fast and unexpected strike was Chance's preferred mode of arrest, and he was very glad it worked.

He got up from behind the piping and entered the chamber, squeezing past the huge feathering and bulky breast of his assistant. Wedged under the coils of four mighty talons was a frightened man, Love leaned on the bird's leg and looked down at his captive. It was nothing like the description Sticks provided. Chance expected a white man, lean, sporting glasses. Poker Face had taken hold of a short colored man, well built and exceptional for his outrageous sideburns that stuck straight out from the sides of his face.

"You sure you're Carver? The Carver, th' one what gave guns and more to a host o' thieves an' killers. Doyle Kane, James and Younger boys, th' Catalog Couple?"

"Of course," the criminal replied, "I take full acceptance of my works. As for my facade, well, your not the only Negro around touched by the events of July twenty ninth, 1877."

"You a paranormal?" Love asked, trying to see the way the trick worked.

"Yes! Very good. Somewhat intelligent, though nowhere near to me," Carver grinned.

"No matter. Ah've been huntin' for you a long time, an' now you, sir, are under arrest for selling guns, for consortin' with wanted men. It's hangin' time fer you."

"Very well," the mad inventor said, "I shall gladly submit to your authority."

Finding it a bit too easy, Chance nonetheless tied the crook in ropes, while his aplomado shrank down effortlessly and returned to the shoulder strap. All three went out of the hall, the dirty basement, and went upstairs. They could hear a great commotion on the way up. Coming in the door, full force, was a squadron of coppers from the Gibbs Street Precinct, all pointing their guns at the hero. Behind them was a middle-aged man with gray hair, dressed in a brown suit of considerable age. Captain Stetson Durrant, the hardnose. The hater.

"Milo Love, is it?" barked Durrant from behind his men, "What in the world is your black behind doing in my territory? Well? Answer me, boy!"

"Carver brings me," Chance stated raw and loud. "He's right here, under your stuck up noses th' whole time! Take him, cuz' ah'm done here."

Police took hold, but of Chance's person, not the homeowner. A tussle took place, with the first three officers that came forth easily tossed aside. Carver looked on and laughed heartily. Love pushed at the police, but kept his burning eyes on the captain.

"What you doin'? He's th' one under arrest, not me!" Chance screamed.

"Boy, you are as dumb and simple as can be," Stetson said, "If you believe you can waltz in here, and manhandle a decent white man, and not pay for it."

Cops hit him with clubs, kicked him hard. But the returning enlargement of Poker Face brought an end to the mob scene. The falcon screeched with giant beak, deafening the law, snapping up two officers in its beak and hurling them harshly into the kitchen. As Chance stood, calm Carver hopped to Durrant. It made no sense, for Chance still only saw a short black man. What power was this?

"Captain Durrant, you know me, and the recent tragedy of my deceased wife, Layla. I bear no malice to anyone from the law, even if it is a confused darkie like him. Just untie me, please, and let him go back to his duties. I'm sure this misunderstanding will all pass away in time."

Carver smiled friendly like to the Captain, who smiled back. Love could only stare at Carver in a look of appalling shock.

"Fine, Mister Frish," Stetson said softly, "I can overlook it, if you're fine with it. You! Take you and your unnatural beast, and get back to the hole you came from. Don't let me catch you in Lakeside again. I don't care what Dunwich says, I'll have my men shoot you down in the streets!"

Chance couldn't quite believe it. He'd seen a lot since the Blue, and his own unreal talent sometimes gave him pause. But this, this was insane, and very ironic. Cops sticking up for a colored man, and the man pulling off the best confidence job in all the land. He should leave and forget it all, go back to his shack in the Free and let this 'Frish' live his good-hearted lie.

If it wasn't for the fact that Carver was a hardened criminal, he could. But this rat was a slick one, the greasiest ever. Love needed to think this out longer. He began to plan, and to smile once more as he and Poker Face glided for the front door.

"Ah'm out," he said to Durrant, "goin' down Lower. Y'all won't get no more trouble from Milo T. Love, no sir!"

Police were ordered back to the precinct, while Stetson and an untied Carver/Frish stood watch on the porch. Chance hitched on to the half asleep palomino. He waved goodbye, then stopped just enough to ask a question.

"Oh, Mister Frish," he started, "you got a real nice ace in the hole there. Guess you ain't movin' no time soon, huh? Too much equipment."

"Uh," Carver dragged out, "no, I suppose I do have too much to leave-- anytime soon."

"Heh," Chance laughed, "then ah reckon we'll meet again. Maybe when you're out and about. Thanks for the visit, an' thanks for the gun."

Nervous and scoring his eyes at a confused Durrant, Carver could only sputter out a foolish, "you're welcome."

Chance gave the villain a strong gaze, smiled, and nodded. Grinning as he spurred the horse into high gallop, Milo Love headed south, back to plan out his next move. Back to the familiar and the friendly. Back to reality.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you like this story, there's a whole world of it I call the Legacy Universe. A series, the Rail Legacy, details it starting with An Unsubstantiated Chamber, which is completely FREE on Instafreebie. Book Two, Cerulean Rust, is for sale on Amazon. Both links are below. My author page on Amazon lists LU (Legacy Universe) short stories. Read. Review. Tell your buds. Know your alternate history!

https://www.instafreebie.com/free/ropDh

https://www.amazon.com/William-Jackson/e/B00UC38FTI/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0