

THE DEAD RECKONING

### CLIVE CARPENTER
This book is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the publisher.

Cover art and design by J. Brian

Copyright © 2015 Scorpios Media, LLC.

All rights reserved.
FOR DYLAN

who continues to inspire me even though you're miles away.
SPECIAL THANKS TO

Margo & Angel, for giving me all the late nights I needed to get this book finished... uninterrupted.

Keith, for taking the steps that inspired me to explore this story deeper than the original short script it's based upon.

Karla, Mike & Bobby for being in my corner with endless encouragement and positive vibes.

And finally, saving the best for last...

my Creator, God Almighty, for blessing me with the gift of storytelling to share with the world.

### CHAPTERS

EPILOGUE

OTHER BOOKS
1

GUNFIRE and the cries of women and children fill the morning air in a small, isolated Choctaw village.

Nestled in the forest near a creek that snakes through a wooded landscape and spills into the Atchafalaya River Basin, the little community's peaceful Sunday morning is shattered by violence and bloodshed.

Toppled and in disarray, baskets of food and shattered pottery lay scattered among the eleven straw huts that stand surrounded by a squat wall of logs and brush; a tiny barrier that does more to keep children and animals inside the village than it does to keep murderous outlaws and riff-raff out.

Twelve armed invaders trample the ground on horseback, rounding up citizens and shooting any Choctaw men who attempt to fight back. These invaders are a gang of gritty, grimy men of various color - white, black, brown, and red - who call themselves Granger's Dozen.

Smoke trails rise from several camp fires and mingle with the gun smoke that hangs heavily among the huts as villagers attempt to find cover and loved ones amid the chaos.

It takes less than ten minutes, then, it's all over. The village has fallen, taken by surprise this quiet morning as its citizens had been going about their early morning chores. Now, five of the village men lay dead, including two elders.

After fifteen minutes, there is no stray movement in the village except for the lone wolf that wonders, aimlessly, between the huts.

At the far end of the village, away from the creek, all of the villagers stand huddled, unarmed, scared, and surrounded by the Dozen on horseback.

Women weep softly and try their best to calm crying infants and toddlers as the stronger men - some bloodied and bruised by the Dozen - surround their families and the remaining elders, shielding them from the violent invaders.

One invader holsters his gun and climbs down from his saddle. Ruggedly handsome at forty-one years old, Seth Granger wears the finest clothing of any of the gang members: black trousers, tan button-down shirt, black vest, wide-brimmed leather hat. His gun rides low on his hip, in true gunslinger fashion, and the gold chain of a pocket watch glints in the morning sun as it dangles from his vest. The week's growth of blonde hair on his face accents his vest and highlights his tanned, chiseled features.

Seth rolls a cigarette as he casually approaches the mass of villagers.

"Mornin', Chief," he singles out the hulking, village leader, Chief Red Bear.

Standing at nearly seven feet tall, Red Bear's imposing presence has little effect on Seth and his gun-wielding entourage. The large Choctaw man stares at Seth, his piercing gaze burning a hole right through the cocksure outlaw.

Seth lights his cig and blows the smoke through his nostrils.

"We got a meeting scheduled, you and me," he looks up at Red Bear, squinting into the sun that is slowly rising behind the mountainous warrior. "You didn't forget, now, did ya?"

Red Bear remains silent.

"I know you're a little disturbed," Seth casually glances around at the mess he's managed to orchestrate. He points to the surrounding huts with his smoldering cig, "Looks like we interrupted your Sunday brunch or something. But, I did tell you I'd be back."

Seth steps aside and sweeps his arm invitingly toward Red Bear's hut. "Let's chat. The sooner we talk and I'm satisfied with the state of our relationship, the sooner y'all can throw them five dead sacks of shit into the ground and get back to whatever it is you heathens do on the Lord's day."

Red Bear turns to the crowd, silently reassuring them that everything will be fine. Then, he turns back to Seth and walks toward his hut.

Seth takes a drag from his cig and looks at the crowd. "Y'all talk amongst yourselves," he says as he blows the smoke at them. "I'll be right back."

"Keep 'em entertained, will ya, buddy?" Seth shoots a wink and an evil grin up at his second in command, Jonah, still mounted on his horse. He grabs a bottle of whiskey from Jonah's saddlebag and falls in behind Red Bear as Jonah smiles, revealing a gap that once held his left front tooth.

"Yassa, boss," Jonah's bass-filled voice bellows sarcastically, followed by a nasty laugh. Jonah is just as physically imposing as Chief Red Bear. As a former slave, the years spent in the fields of a southern plantation have built Jonah into a hulking monster of a man. He is chewing on a mouthful of tobacco and wears several days of facial growth. A red bandanna protects his bald head from the sun. His most striking feature, however, is the long scar that travels from his left brow, across his dead, gray left eye, and diagonally across his face to his right cheek.

The rest of the Dozen join Jonah in laughter.

Some members of the Dozen are scruffy and unshaven, while others don't even look like outlaws at all. They all wear an array of different styles of clothing from old, dirty Calvary trousers to muddied and torn ponchos.

However, Jonah is not the only black man in the gang; there is also Noah and his younger brother, Zack. Mounted next to them are six white men: Waylon, Jordan, Billy, Jimmy, Slim and, Seth's third in command, Chuck.

Aside from Jonah, the only other two members of the gang who truly stand out are Tequila, a notoriously wanted, bushy-bearded Mexican gunslinger, and a statuesque Navajo renegade simply known as "Big Red".

Jonah spits a slimy mass of chew, leaving a string of drool hanging from his chin as he smiles at the huddled mass of villagers.

SETH ENTERS Red Bear's hut and the humidity from within sucker punches him right in the face.

"Christ almighty," the square-jawed outlaw takes off his hat, revealing his sweat-drenched, shoulder-length blonde hair, and fans himself against the overwhelming heat with it. "How the hell do you people stand this shit?"

He takes a seat on the opposite side of the hut from the shirtless Chief.

"It's too damned hot to even finish this thing," he flicks his half-smoked cigarette to the dirt floor.

Red Bear sits, silently, as Seth takes a deep drink from the whiskey bottle and winces as the effects overtake him for a moment.

He notices the Chief staring at him.

"I am so sorry, Chief. Would you like some?"

Red Bear says nothing and, with his chin held high in defiance, he just stares at Seth. A bead of sweat runs down the red man's forehead and into his eye; he doesn't even flinch.

Seth shrugs, "Hell, more for me, then." He takes another big swallow and corks the bottle. "Okay, down to business," He lounges back against the inner wall of the hut. "We've been through this how many times? I've honestly lost count.

"The last time I remember seeing you," Seth fans himself with his hat, again. "I offered you and your village the protective services of my security company. I know you're trying to live as a man of peace, Red Bear, so if you ain't gonna do the fightin' for your people, someone's gotta do it. Right?"

Red Bear stares right through Seth.

"You gotta agree that y'all can't live out here with no protection," Seth grins, his dimples exaggerated by the shadows of the hut, as he uncorks the bottle. "There's all kinds of bad men around here.

"I think I've proven my point here today," he takes another swig of the whiskey. "Twelve of us against all y'all; hell, y'all never stood a chance."

He offers Red Bear the bottle, again, "You sure?"

The Chief is silent.

"Now, Red," Seth puts the bottle down and starts to roll another cig. "Can I call you 'Red'? I got a Navajo pal right outside I call 'Red' and he don't mind at all."

Red Bear doesn't respond.

"Good," Seth licks the length of the cigarette and seals it. He lets it dangle from his lips while he digs out a match.

"This kind of protection ain't cheap, Red. I mean, there's twelve of us to keep fed and armed. Then, there's the horses and such," he lights the cig and takes a drag. "However, I'm a fair businessman, after all, Red, so I'm prepared to offer y'all a substantial cut rate."

He blows the smoke toward Red Bear, "Whadaya say?"

The Chief's gaze never wavers, not even when another drop of sweat rolls into his eye. Then, finally, he breaks his silence:

"We have nothing to give you."

Seth sighs and glares at the Chief. He takes an extended drag from the cig before deeply exhaling the smoke in a large cloud that, nearly completely, hides his face from the Chief.

"Goddammit, Red," he leans forward through the cloud. "I was afraid you'd say that," he lounges back, again. "Hell, I think you and me coulda been pals, but you got a personality flaw called 'pride'.

"Do you know what the Good Book says about pride, Red?" Seth spits out a tiny bit of stray tobacco from his lips. "It says 'Pride cometh before the fall.' Do you know what that means?"

Red Bear is silent.

"Shit," Seth's brow furrows in frustration. "I guess you don't. That book wasn't meant for you ignorant heathens, anyhow.

"Well," Seth stares at the Chief for a few moments, then, he stands. "Your decision tells me this meetin's over." He brushes the dirt from his pants. "Me and Jonah talked it over and decided to make an example out of you fine folks," he smiles as if he's rewarding the Chief a grand prize.

"See, I got a reputation as shrewd business man," he takes another quick drag of the cig. "And I gotta protect it. So, as soon as we get the word out about a gang of banditos running around slaughtering small villages, well... the others will gladly pay up for our protection."

As the big Chief studies Seth's body language, watching for anything that will tell him what the outlaw's next move will be, his hand slowly begins to move behind him, gripping the bone handle of his hunting knife.

"And to make sure the other bastard natives take us seriously," Seth takes one last drag from his cig, savoring the flavor. "There ain't gonna be no survivors. No women. No children. And sure as hell, no men."

He exhales a cloud of smoke and, in a quick, fluid motion, Seth displays his smooth gunslinger skills as he flicks the cigarette away and draws his Colt with the same hand.

The mighty and agile Red Bear moves in a blur that matches the outlaw's speed of the quick draw, snapping his wrist out in a flash and sending the knife across the hut just as Seth's Colt clears its holster.

Seth fires.

The bullet slams into the Chief's chest, knocking him backward, off his knees.

Red Bear's hunting knife sticks deep into the shoulder of Seth's gun-slinging arm, sending him reeling against the wall of the hut.

Seth's Colt hits the floor.

Screams erupt from the villagers outside at the sound of Seth's single gunshot.

"Shit!" Seth pulls the knife from his shoulder in a bloody spray.

He grabs up his pistol and spits at Red Bear.

Seth emerges from the hut, with the whiskey bottle in hand, into the waiting heat of the morning sun. Holsters his Colt. He glances at the villagers as he walks over to Jonah and motions for the big, black man to lean down in his saddle. When Jonah does, Seth snatches the knotted bandanna from his friend's bald head and leans close to his ear.

"Jonah," Seth's voice is even and smooth. "Why are they still alive?"

Jonah glances at the villagers. "I wasn't sho' if you..."

"Shh..." Seth cuts him off. He walks to his horse. "No survivors!"

He rips the blood soaked sleeve from his shirt and throws it on the ground.

Deafening gunfire erupts from Jonah and the rest of the Dozen. Villagers' screaming fills the air for several seconds as Seth pours whiskey over his bleeding shoulder. Wincing at the stinging pain, he wraps Jonah's bandanna around it to stop the bleeding before taking a couple of swigs from the bottle.

Seth turns to see the carnage as the last two sounds that echo away into the morning air are a baby crying followed by a single gunshot.

A few of the mounted men work to keep their horses under control after the last echoes of the ear-blistering blasts of gunfire are carried away by a quick and sudden morning breeze.

Then, silence.

The breeze comes to an abrupt, chilling standstill as an eerie cloud of gun smoke hovers above the mass of dead villagers.

Seth packs the whiskey bottle into his saddlebag.

Jonah is reloading his double-barreled, Howdah pistol. "Dat otta put the fear of God in the rest of 'em. Hey Boys?!"

The men laugh.

Without warning, Red Bear rushes at Seth from his hut, his primal war cry leading the way. His tomahawk raised high, ready to strike with all of the rage reserved for the devil himself.

Seth spins on his heels.

He draws.

Quickly unloads the remaining five bullets from his Colt .45 into the charging chief.

The pistol is back in its holster as the mighty, defiant warrior chief falls, headlong, into the dirt at Seth's feet.

"To hell with God," Seth stretches his neck to the left and feels his bones crack halfway down his spine. "They'd better fear me." He begins reloading his Colt, "Jonah, our service fee, please."

"Alright fellas!" Jonah announces to the rest of the Dozen. "Treasure hunt! Search every hut and form a pile over here."

The men let out yelps of satisfaction and laughter as they dismount, each reloading his gun.

Jonah looks over to his Mexican colleague, "Tequila, take Billy and Jordan and check those people. Put a fuckin' bullet in anyone still movin'."

"Yassa, Jefe," the burly Mexican is reloading his Winchester as he mockingly mimics Jonah's earlier response to Seth. He cackles a gravelly laugh through his black, scraggly beard. Then, he motions for Billy and Jordan to join him.

Jonah stands next to Seth and they both stare down at Red Bear's dead body, face down in the dirt with six massive, bloody exit wounds in his back.

"Took six to bring him down." Seth shakes his head in disbelief, "Stubborn bastard."

Jonah spits more chew goo onto the ground near Red Bear, "We all got a surprise for ya." He gives his mouth and chin a half-assed wipe with the back of his big hand. "C'mon, before dat stubborn bastard gits up and starts mo' shit."

Using his foot, Seth turns the Chief's lifeless body onto its back, "Good luck with that." He spits and smiles at his friend, then, follows him.

As they pass the mass of dead villagers, Billy and Jordan each put single bullets through the heads of a couple of village warriors who are still moving.

Jonah leads Seth to a hut and pulls back the leather hide covering the doorway.

A beautiful Choctaw girl is tied up, naked and gagged with a piece of cloth tied around her mouth. The scared girl attempts to scurry into a far corner as the two men stand in the doorway. Her naked breasts, partially hidden behind the long, black veil of hair that flows over her shoulders, heave with every frantic, frightened breath.

"Dancing Cloud... Red Bear's daughter," Jonah spits again. "She jus' hit womanhood. Untouched and pure and she's all fo' you, my friend."

"I'm touched, truly, I am," Seth smiles and pats his friend on the shoulder. "But you take her and share her with the boys." He takes one last glance at her, as if disgusted at the gift, "I prefer my women a little more light-skinned." He looks at Jonah, "No offense."

Seth walks away.

Jonah turns to Dancing Cloud, spits more goo and smiles. "Fuck you, boss. None taken."

He enters the dark privacy of the hut.
2

SETH IS ROLLING another cigarette, strolling through the village back to his horse.

Big Red, his Navajo renegade companion, approaches, "Seth, I got somethin'."

Red holds up a gold coin.

Seth can't believe his eyes when he sees the coin glinting in the noonday sun. He drops the cigarette, takes the coin and examines it.

"Where the hell did you find this?"

Moments later, inside Red Bear's hut, Big Red pulls back a blanket that the Chief had been sitting on and reveals a small leather satchel lying in a slight depression in the dirt. Several gold coins are scattered about.

"That Choctaw son of a bitch was holdin' out on me," Seth wipes his brow and squats down to examine the satchel. "Gather the men. I want every hut emptied."

Big Red walks away.

"Hey, Red."

The big Navajo turns.

"Finder's fee," Seth tosses a coin to Red.

Big Red nods a 'thank you', pockets the coin and silently walks away.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Seth is sitting outside of Red Bear's hut with the leather satchel, smoking a cigarette and counting the coins.

Jonah walks up and squats next to him. "Looks like Red Bear's hut was the village bank," He spits more of his chew off to the side. "We got us a few guns and some bullets, but dat's it. I gots Waylon and Noah gatherin' the food."

"Thirty-six," Seth tosses the last coin into the satchel and closes it with the draw sting. "All he had to do was hand over a few of 'em. Cost him his whole village. Damn, what a stubborn bastard."

He looks out over the pile of the dead where a heavy cloud flies has now gathered. "These people got too much fuckin' pride." He hands the satchel to Jonah, "Four for you, two for each man." He takes a swig from the whiskey bottle next to him. "The boys enjoy your little treasure?"

"Hell no. I took dat sweet flower fo' myself. She went oral on my gun... both of 'em." Jonah holds up his Howdah pistol, a menacing looking weapon. His deep, evil laugh sends a chill down Seth's spine.

Jonah stands and walks away.

Seth looks around at the disheveled little village and smiles at destruction he's brought down upon it, "Jonah."

The big man turns to him.

Seth flicks his cigarette away and exhales a stream of smoke through his nose, "Burn it."

Jonah nods and walks away.
3

BATEMAN'S INN is a single story building near the center of Black Pine, a small town just a few miles west of Natchitotches, Louisiana. A crowd has gathered outside, chattering among themselves. Some try to get a look through the front windows.

U.S. Marshal Chess Jamison, tall and British, walks through the crowd as it separates like the Red Sea. He is a no non-sense kind of Marshal; short on bullshit and long on business. At fifty-two years old, he's handsome, fit, and takes total pride in his grooming practices, right down to his sculpted, graying goatee. Dressed in khaki pants, a white shirt, gold paisley vest and a tan cowboy hat, he wears his gun low on his hip as he approaches the entrance of the inn and walks into the building.

His stride is as confident and strong as ever \- even with today being his last day on the job - as he walks to the front desk, removing his hat and revealing his salt-and-peppered, shoulder length hair.

The elderly innkeeper, Shamus Bateman, stands behind the desk with a bloody handkerchief held to his nose, and his wife, Betsy, at his side. She hands Chess a room key as he sets his hat on the desk, never breaking his stride.

"He's at the end of the hall. Room twelve," Betsy quickly fills him in. "He's got Jenny... and his gun." That's all Chess needs to hear and she knows it.

Chess walks down the long hall to a closed door with the number "12" on it, painted in white.

As he approaches, a man's voice blasts through the door and echoes down the hall: "You're coming home now, goddammit!"

Jenny's voice follows, but is much quieter, "Please lower your voice, Cole. People can hear..."

"Shit on them!" Cole cuts her off. "You're my wife and you're comin' home with me!"

Chess quietly slips the key into the lock. He knocks on the door.

"GO AWAY, SHAMUS!" Cole's voice explodes from the room.

"Cole Martin?" Chess keeps one hand on the key, his British accent unfettered even after all the years of living among a population whose vocabulary is heavily laden with a southern drawl.

Inside room 12 is a queen sized bed, a wardrobe, small night stand and a chair in a corner opposite the bed, which sits next to an open window that faces the hallway door.

Cole Martin is a drunk, scruffy, burly, unemployed thirty-something and he stands, a bit unsteadily, looking out the window. He takes a drink from the whiskey bottle he holds in his beefy hand.

Jenny sits on the bed, frightened and shaken. Her pretty, twenty year old features are disheveled and her face is marked with a swollen left eye.

Cole lets out a half-hearted chuckle when he recognizes the voice of the Marshal. "Well, what do you know, it's the Brit with a Badge. What the fuck do you want, Marshal?" He spits out the word 'Marshal' with all of the mocking effort that his drunken breath can muster.

"I thought we could chat for a bit," Chess feels a little uneasy having to speak through the door. He's more accustomed to being in complete control of any situation. With the door between him and Cole, he knows things can go from bad to worse in a second.

"I got nuthin' to say to you," Cole's voice comes through the door loud and clear. "This here's a family matter, so git ta scrootin'. It's nunna your business, asshole."

"Cole. I can't do that. This became my business when you broke the law."

Nothing from the room but silence.

Coming down the hall from the front desk, Sheriff Chappy Boudreaux approaches Chess, who holds a hand up, signaling for the old sheriff to keep quiet. At the age of sixty-five, Chappy is the epitome of the weathered, old sheriff with his deep Cajun tan, cleft chin, square jaw and deep-set, sky-blue eyes.

Chess tries a different approach: "Is Jenny in there with you?"

"You know she is, shithead!"

"Can I speak with her?"

"Well, sure," Cole looks at Jenny. "Say somethin' for Marshal Shithead, honey."

"I... I just want to go home," Jenny manages to say through her broken sobs.

"Okay, Jenny," Chess attempts to reassure her through the door. "You'll go home very soon." Chess rests his free hand on the grip of his Colt 45. "Cole, you know it's against the law to carry your gun in town."

"Yeah? Your law, shithead. Not mine. Now take your ass back to Britland or where ever the hell you came from. Git the hell outta here before you piss me off!"

"Cole, how's your mother?" Chess makes one last attempt to get Cole to chat with him peacefully. "I haven't seen her in a while. Is she feeling better?"

"You're pullin' my leg, right? What are you, a doctor, too? Fuck you, shithead! Now back off so we can git outta here!"

Chappy snaps a smile at Chess. "Wow, dat's four 'shitheads'. Boy oh boy, does dis kid know you or what?" he whispers in a thick Cajun accent.

Chess rolls his eyes at his old friend, then turns his attention back to the door of room 12. "Cole, I'm going to open the door so we can talk face to face."

Inside the room, Cole has had enough. "Goddammit, you deaf sonofabitch! I said leave us alone!" He grabs Jenny, as she lets out a yelp of surprise, and forces her to her knees in front of him with his gun to the back of her head. He backs up against the window. "Either we walk outta here or I'm blowin' her head clean off!!!"

Chappy's hand goes for his own gun, but Chess quickly stops him and whispers, "I'm not killing anyone my last day on the job. Let me think." He lets out a deep sigh of frustration. "Dammit."

Chess carefully takes the key from the lock and looks through the keyhole. He sees an opportunity to put a peaceful end to the madness at hand: the window right behind Cole is opened halfway. He puts the key back in the door.

"Keep him busy," He whispers to Chappy and starts to head back down the hall, leaving the old sheriff alone at the door.

"Now, what da hell I'm 'posed to say to dis boy?" Chappy whispers after him.

"Anything... tell him a joke. Sing him a song. Just keep him occupied."

Chess continues on his way, heading past front desk and out the door.

"Shithead." Chappy thinks for a moment then looks at the door of room 12, thinking about what to do.

Inside the small hotel room, Cole leans against the window sill as he takes another swig from his whiskey bottle.

From the other side of the door, he hears Chappy's shaky, gruff voice singing way off key: "Camp town races sing dis song... doo dah, doo dah..."

Cole slowly lowers the bottle and he and Jenny stare at the door in bewilderment as Chappy continues to sing: "Dem camp town races five miles long, oh doo dah day..."

"Shut the hell up out there!" Cole chugs the last of his whiskey.

Chappy puts a stop to his terrible attempt at singing. "Cole, it's Chappy. Why don't you jus' let Jenny come out here in da hall so you and me can chat for a bit?"

"Can't do that, Sheriff!" Cole throws the empty bottle. It shatters against the wall next to the door. "Everything was fine until that Brit bastard came stickin' his nose where it don't belong!"

"You know dis ain't gonna end in yo' favor, son." Chappy warns him, his voice more stern this time.

There is an uneasy silence from the room.

"Dammit, Cole! Now, you let Jenny go and we'll settle dis peacefully or I'm comin' in!"

Chappy begins to turn the key.

"Don't you touch that fuckin' door! I'll put a bullet right through it!"

The lock *CLICKS*. The sound is amplified as it echoes in the hall.

Chappy freezes. He tries not to breathe.

At the sound of lock clicking, Cole raises his gun to the door and cocks the hammer, a *SHA-CLICK* that is also amplified in the confined space of the room.

"Shit," Chappy quickly dives to the floor.

Cole's pistol barks twice.

The two bullets punch their way through the wooden door in a cloud of dust and splinters and bury themselves in the wall across the hall.

Chappy lets out a deep breath and draws his pistol. "Dat li'l sumbitch."

Cole is cocking the hammer back for a third shot when his belt suddenly becomes tighter around his waist. In an instant, he is yanked backwards through the window in a shower of glass and splintered wood.

In the alley between Bateman's Inn and Hebert's Hardware, Cole hits the ground hard like a sack of rocks in the dirt.

Chess stands next to the shattered window, holding Cole's broken belt in his hand.

Cole, a little stunned, gets to his feet and sees his gun on the ground between the two of them.

He looks at Chess.

Chess doesn't lower his gaze for a second; he raises an eyebrow, daring Cole to go for it.

Cole takes the cue and reaches for the gun.

Chess lunges forward and quickly snaps the belt like a whip across Cole's face.

Cole screams and stumbles to the side, holding his cheek. He pulls back his hand to see blood. The belt's buckle has opened a cut just under his right eye.

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, you damned Brit bastard!" Cole spits as he wipes the sweat from his eyes.

Chess kicks Cole's gun further away from the two of them and tosses the belt aside.

Cole wastes no time and runs at older, more experienced Marshal.

Chess side steps and shoves Cole, head-first, into the outside wall of the inn.

Cole stands and touches his hand to his head. He sees more blood on his fingers and, with his forehead now bleeding, squares off against Chess with his fists up.

Chess doesn't back down, he puts his fists up, too.

Cole laughs. "You serious, old man?"

Chess responds with a solid left jab to Cole's face, snapping his head back. The drunk's nose quickly begins to bleed.

Cole wipes it with the back of his hand and sees even more blood.

"You son of a -" Cole swings a punch in a wide arc, under which Chess effortlessly ducks.

The Marshal lands three more swift left jabs to Cole's face, followed by a right to the stomach.

As Cole doubles over, Chess grabs his head with both hands and smashes the young drunk's face with a knee.

Like a ragdoll, Cole slumps to the ground, unconscious.

After a moment, Chess straightens his vest, brushes dust and dirt from his clothes and stands over Cole.

Chappy is at the window with Jenny. He looks at Chess and shakes his head slowly. "Shamus is gonna take a gator-sized shit when he sees dis window, Marshal Shithead." He shakes his head and laughs as he disappears into the room.

Jenny is alone at the window, staring out at Cole, who is now just an unconscious pile of shit in the dirt. Then, she looks at the man who put him there and admires him as if he were her own daddy.

Chess winks at her.

Jenny smiles.

4

THE SUN is just beginning to set upon the Choctaw village as smoke hangs in the air. All is silent among the smoldering huts. It's been over twenty-four hours since Seth and his Granger's Dozen made a very bloody example of the small village.

A lone wolf cautiously makes his way through the village to the pile of bodies. He isn't snooping for food; he was the village pet. He sniffs around a few of the bodies, then, sits near them and lets out a low, sad howl for his fallen surrogate family.

Only a day earlier, he had been running and playing with the children; chasing them and barking playfully. Now, something is different. There is a lonely, solemn silence and a sense of emptiness that he knows is not normal. He hangs his head and nudges at the hand of one of the fallen children with his nose. When there is no response, he lies down next to the body and whines.

Suddenly, his ears perk up. He hears something, and more than that, he senses something: life. Someone is alive among the dead and he stares at the pile, trying to figure out where it's coming from.

The wolf begins to sniff and make his way towards the center of the pile, crawling over dead men, women and children until he reaches a hand. It's an old hand, weathered by time, but it's alive!

His tail starts wagging and he quickly licks the hand. With each lap of his tongue, it becomes more alive with movement, reaching for him and touching his muzzle.

He nuzzles it like a long lost friend. He knows who it is by the scent. He begins to bark excitedly.

With the help of the wolf, Tall Feathers, the village shaman, slowly drags himself from the pile of the dead.

He has a bullet wound on his upper left shoulder and the right side of his head and face is bloody from a bullet that grazed his head.

The wolf rushes up and licks his face. He is rewarded with a gentle pat on the head.  
The old man makes his way to the creek and kneels at the water's edge, washing his face, as the wolf drinks from it alongside him.

With the wolf at his side, the weathered shaman makes his way back to the center of the village and stands staring at his dead loved ones. He feels lost. Broken.

He cries and the wolf lays at his feet, rests his head on the old man's foot.

Near the pile of dead villagers, Tall Feathers finds the body of Red Bear, laying face up with six bullet holes in his chest. He kneels and gingerly strokes the cheek of his fallen, mighty Chief; his beloved son.

Moments later, the old man is standing at the door of Dancing Cloud's burned-out hut where he weeps over the nude body of his beautiful granddaughter. She lies in the center of the smoldering ruin, untouched by the fire, with a bullet wound in her forehead.

He wraps a blanket around her body and drags her away. The back of her head is a matted mass of blood, brain matter and hair.

Tall Feathers systematically roams the village and gathers what he needs to prepare for a long night of mourning...

Of chanting...

Of raising the dead.

5

IN THE SPRAWLING TOWN of Natchitoches, the morning is a beautiful and sunny one. Townsfolk go about their normal, daily routines. But at the courthouse, Chess is working on changing a routine he's known for nearly twenty years.

In the court clerk's office, a U.S. Marshal's badge sits on the desk next to a document that Chess is signing. It is the last document in a stack of papers releasing him from all duties as U.S. Marshal.

When he is finished, he passes the stack to Chappy, who signs as his witness. Chess passes both the stack of papers and the badge across the clerk's desk to the cherub-faced elderly lady seated behind it.

"Good luck to you, Chess. We're all gonna miss you," she says with a wink.

"Thank you, Rose," he rises from the chair and smiles back at her. "You behave around that new judge, now. I hear he's got it bad for older women."

"Oh, stop it and get outta here, you old devil," she shares a chuckle with the two men and they leave her office.

In the foyer of the two-story building, Chess rolls a cigarette. The two old friends share the smoke and a hand shake as they head outside into the waiting summer heat.

"It ain't gonna be de same wit'out you." Chappy exhales a long cloud of smoke.

"I'll be around, you know that. Besides, I cannot, in good conscience, just stop attending Pat Remmy's monthly barbeques. I still hold the record for the most spareribs in two minutes."

Chappy sighs, wishing to prolong his visit with his friend but knows he can't, he must be on his way.

"Well, I betta get back to Black Pine 'fore someone else starts actin' a damned fool. You know how dey love to make de Sheriff work fo' his pay, yeah?"

"It's better than the alternative," Chess laughs, remembering the sound of his old friend belting out the words to 'The Camp Town Races'. "You just promise me to keep that badge on your chest for as long as you can, because you've got no future in the opera houses."

They laugh and Chess watches his friend mount up, "Be safe, you old French goat."

"You, too, ya cheeky British bastard." Chappy kicks the horse into a gallop and Chess watches as his friend rides out of sight.

Chess stands in the doorway watching Chappy ride away. He looks at his pocket watch.

"So, you actually went through with it," the newly retired Marshal recognizes the voice of the man behind him.

"Ah, Marshal Tanner," Chess turns to see another long-time friend and offers a hand shake. "Good day to you."

A short, squat fellow, Tanner's grizzled features make him look much older than his actual age of forty-one.

"It's sad," he bellyaches to Chess. "That the only time an old friend gets to see you is when you're in town on official business."

"Well, now you've got me for the weekend, old chap," Chess digs a small sack out of his vest pocket. Hands it to Tanner. "And I come bearing a gift."

The Marshal opens it. "You didn't..." He takes a strip of jerky from the sack and enjoys a big whiff of its aroma. "Mm-mm. That smells fantastic. You know I love beef jerky." He offers Chess a strip.

"It's not beef," Chess takes it and pops a piece into his own mouth. "I'll give you a moment to figure it out."

Tanner takes a piece for himself. "So, 'retired' Marshal Jamison, what are you going to do now that you've given up the law?"

"Oh, I haven't given up the law completely," Chess smiles. "I'm going into business for myself. Sort of a detective for hire."

"Ah, like Pinkerton?"

"They offered. I declined. I'd rather call my own shots. You know, take the jobs and keep the money on my terms."

Tanner muses, "Wow. Retired. I wonder what that feels like."

"Like I need a drink. I'm buying."

"Well, hold that thought, my friend," Tanner puts the sack of jerky into his shirt pocket. "Walk with me to my office. Someone wants to chat with you."

They cross the street, following the passing-by of a two-horse carriage.

"Is this a social visit, Tanner?" Chess tips his hat to a few ladies walking passed.

"Not exactly," Tanner tips his hat to the same ladies. "But in the interest of your new business venture, you may want to hear him out."

Tanner eyes the small piece of jerky left in his hand and pops it into his mouth, "Gator."

"Impressive, Marshal," Chess looks at his friend, stunned by Tanner's quick assessment of the mystery jerky. "That's quite the tongue you have."

Tanner grins, "That's what the ladies tell me."

TANNER OPENS the door to his office for Chess and follows the Englishman inside.

There are two large leather chairs in front of the Marshal's desk and sitting in one of them is a white man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a fine, tailored suit and wire-framed glasses. Next to his chair is a leather messenger's bag. He stands to greet the two men as they enter.

"Jack Jamison," Tanner handles the introductions. "This is Mr. Charlie Watson."

Chess and Watson shake hands while Tanner takes his seat in the chair behind his desk.

"Marshal Jamison," Watson seems almost star-struck. "It's an honor to finally meet you, sir."

"Well, thank you very much, Mr. Watson. But, I'm not a Marshal anymore and, please, call me 'Chess'."

"Chess?" Watson looks quizzically at Tanner.

"During the War between the States," Tanner begins as he leans back in his chair, propping his booted feet on the edge of his desk. "Mr. Jamison earned the nickname as the undisputed chess champion of Grant's Union army."

Watson is very impressed, and his face shows it. "Well, Chess, once again I am honored. However, I was not informed that you're no longer a US Marshal."

"I've only just retired."

They both sit and Watson picks up the satchel, opening it, "Well then, Chess, that makes my visit all the more significant. I've been sent here by the Governor on a matter of grave importance."

He takes out a photograph and hands it to Chess, "Tell me what you know about this man."

Chess studies the portrait of Seth Granger dressed in a military uniform, taken during his days in the Union Army. "Seth Anderson Granger. Born in 1842 in Joplin, Missouri.

"During the War Between the States, he served in the Union Army as a Lieutenant. Dishonorably discharged in 1862 after leading a squad of men on a murder spree across northern Arkansas.

"Soon after, he joined a gang of murdering bushwhackers calling themselves Quantrill's Raiders."

Tanner raises an eyebrow. "Well, Chess, that's quite the criminal encyclopedia you've got in that head of yours. I'm impressed."

"Don't be," he hands the photo back to Watson. "I trained him. And, had I been aware of the fact that he's a natural born killer, I would have shot him, instead. Though, now that I think of it, I must admit that I am at a loss as to what happened to him after the war."

Watson shoved the photo back into his bag, "I'll make it brief. Seth now leads his own gang, they call themselves 'Granger's Dozen' and they've been terrorizing citizens and small towns all across the Atchafalaya Basin for quite some time, now. Mostly roughing up Farmers and small businesses for what he calls 'protection money'.

"Just a few weeks ago, a church near New Iberia was burned to the ground with its pastor tied to the steeple. We know Granger had been attempting to extort money from him, but he has the people so frightened, nobody will come forward and testify."

"What about the local authorities?" Chess strokes his goatee.

"They're all just as scared."

Tanner interjects, "So, then send in the army and be done with them."

"I wish it were that simple, Marshal," Watson continues. "You see, two days ago, they slaughtered a small Choctaw village near the banks of Bayou Teche - every man, woman and child- then, burned it to the ground. We don't know why, but we assume it was for the same reason they burned down the church."

Chess looks at Tanner then back to Watson. "Well, if there were no survivors, how do you know it was Granger?"

Watson takes off his glasses and cleans them with a cloth from his breast pocket, "Two children had been playing in the tall grass on the outskirts of the village. They saw everything." He puts his glasses back on. "They ran home and later told their parents what they'd seen."

Chess sits back. "So, sending in the army would bring unwanted attention to a white man's slaughter of a Choctaw Indian village."

"Exactly," Watson agrees. "The last thing we need is for this to get out on a grand scale. It would cause panic among the American population for fear of an uprising of the Choctaw Nation, perhaps of all the Indian Nations."

Tanner lets out a low whistle, "Could you imagine? All of them rising together? It would be a massacre. Hell, this country is still licking its wounds from the War between the States and that was damned near 20 years ago."

Chess sits and ponders for a moment, then, looks at Watson, "Why me?"

"It should be pretty obvious, Chess," Watson leans forward. "You know this man. You trained him; commanded him. You, of all people, should understand how he thinks."

"A man like Seth Granger doesn't think, Mr. Watson. He only acts. He's a murderer and nothing more. Besides, he's way the hell down near the gulf, what makes you so sure I'll even take the job?"

"I'm not," Watson pauses. "But, the Governor sure seems to think you will. He hand-picked you because of your reputation for bringing in men like Granger. Not to mention, your past relationship with this man.

"The state of Louisiana is prepared to pay you ten thousand dollars to bring Seth Granger in alive to stand trial."

Tanner raises his eyebrows. He and Chess exchange glances, then he leans back in his chair, "Looks like you retired just in time, old buddy."

"The offer would have been same had he had not," Watson turns his gaze to Chess. "Only now, he doesn't get paid until the job is done."

Chess strokes his goatee thoughtfully, "Is there a 'dead' option?"

"Unfortunately not."

"Then my answer is no, Mr. Watson. Good day to you." Chess gets up to leave.

Watson stands up, as well, dumbfounded. "What? I just made very clear to you the possible repercussions of Seth Granger's actions. We could be sitting on the brink of another war \- not to mention a ten thousand dollar fee - and your answer is 'no'?"

Chess turns to face Watson and begins rolling a cigarette, "You're talking about hunting a man who has a total disregard for human life, Mr. Watson. Not to mention the fact that he's running around with eleven other men who share his passion for violence."

Watson stands in silence, staring at the floor.

Chess stares at him for a moment, then he looks at Tanner, who just shrugs.

Chess seals the cigarette and looks back at Watson, "Ten thousand for Granger and a 'dead' option. Plus, another five thousand for each man I have to kill to get to him."

Watson's head snaps up and he looks at Chess, "What?! Sixty-five thousand? Are you insane? How the hell are we going to know you've killed every member of that gang? Are you going to march into town with their corpses in tow to collect your bounty, Mr. Jamison?"

"Of course not," Chess smiles and strikes a match. "But you can bet your ass that when I bring Granger in, I would have had to kill them all to get to him."

He lights the cigarette, "And I'll take the ten thousand up front." He takes a deep draw.

"Now wait a damned minute..." Watson looks to Tanner for help.

Tanner just shrugs.

Chess exhales a cloud of smoke, "Non-negotiable."

"Non-negotiable my ass," Watson coughs through the cloud. "I don't know what kind of reputation you seem to think you have, but the deal is the money for Granger. It's a bounty. You don't get paid until you bring the bastard in."

"Again, good day to you, Mr. Watson." Chess starts to leave.

Watson is desperate. "Wait. You know we're not just going to pay you that much money up front without a guarantee that you'll even bring him in. You could just kill him and keep the money."

"Possibly," Chess nods in agreement. "But, why the hell would you even want him alive to begin with?"

"We need to show the public, especially the Choctaw people, that the government won't allow this kind of thing go unpunished. They will need to see justice being served."

"White man's justice," Tanner chimes in.

Watson glances at him then back to Chess, "Yes."

"For the slaughter of a Choctaw village," Tanner continues. "You're talking about taking the justice right out of their hands. Hell, Watson, they could rise up against us just because of that."

Chess exhales another cloud of smoke, "Sounds like you care more about saving face than seeking justice."

"You just watch what you're implying, Mr. Jamison. Mind you, that I'm here on behalf of the Governor."

Chess smirks, "Then you and his highness can go Granger hunting yourselves. Let me know how that turns out."

"Now, listen here," Watson protests. "So, this man killed a few savages. Who cares? But if this gets out, there could be a lot of innocent people killed. Good, Christian people... our own people. You'd be saving thousands of lives," Watson pauses to let the information sink in. "Now, the ten thousand for Granger is on the table. As far as your other demands, well, I can't make that decision."

"Surely, you know someone who can, Mr. Watson," Chess stares at Watson, thoughtfully, taking one last big drag on his cig and exhaling it. "Find that person and get back to me. You have until tomorrow morning."

Watson looks to Tanner, again, who just shrugs.

Chess smirks, again, "As handsome as the man may appear to be, Mr. Watson, I highly doubt you'll find the solution to your problems on Marshal Tanner's face.

"The telegraph office is a few doors down. You'll find me at Blackie's Inn this evening, after supper. Room 22. Good day to you, sir."

Chess tips his hat to Tanner, "Marshal."

Chess leaves.

Tanner smiles.

Watson is fuming, "Son of a bitch."

A BLOOD MOON hangs low in the late night sky over Natchitotches as townsfolk roam the main street in front of Blackie's Inn.

In his hotel room, Chess is lying on the bed on his stomach, wearing only a pair of boxers, while a topless, buxom brunette straddles him and massages his back.

"Mabeline," he purrs. "You've definitely got some kind of magic in those hands of yours."

She leans in near his ear and whispers, "Wait 'til I've got you on your back." She lays forward on his back, pressing her breasts into him and kissing his neck and shoulders.

A knock comes from the door.

"Darling," he stretches his arms out to the sides. "Could you please get the door?"

Mabeline sits up and looks toward the door, "What the hell do you want?!"

Chess looks at her over his shoulder, "Charming."

She playfully blows him a kiss.

The voice from beyond the door is familiar to Chess and one he knew he would hear again before the night was through: "Yes ma'am, my name is Watson. I was told I could find Chess Jamison here."

Mabeline leans forward to Chess' ear, again, and with a low, seductive tone she whispers, "It's for you, sweetheart." She tugs at his earlobe with her teeth.

Chess pushes himself up from the bed with her still on his back. "Business first, love. Then pleasure."

She gets off of him as he rolls off the bed. "Don't be all night, Chess, honey, the clock's running."

He puts on his pants and walks to the door, opens it, then steps out into the hall and closes it.

"Mr. Watson, good to see you again. I hope this will be a pleasant, albeit brief, meeting."

Watson is holding an envelope, "Okay, you win. Sixty-five thousand for Seth... alive."

"Very good. And the 'dead' option I requested?"

Watson smiles smugly, "Yes, Mr. Jamison. If bringing him in alive proves to be too much for you, we'll take him dead... for five thousand."

"What?"

Before Chess can protest any further, Watson cuts him off. "Non-negotiable."

"That's not even worth the trouble, dammit."

"Well, then try not to kill him, Chess." He hands Chess the envelope. "Your train ticket is in there. It boards in the morning... eight a.m. sharp.

"You'll pull in to New Iberia where you'll meet with Sheriff Tate. He already knows you're coming and he'll be able to get you started in the right direction.

"All of our contact information is in the envelope and we expect a report from you by telegraph next Friday."

Chess looks in the envelope and sees the train ticket and contact information and only five hundred dollars.

He glares at Watson, "I said ten thousand up front."

"That's enough there to get you started. Consider it a retainer," He grabs Chess's hand and shakes it, "Congratulations, Mr. Jamison, you are now, once again, a proud employee of the great state of Louisiana."

From inside the room, Mabeline's voice filters through the door, "Chess. Tick-tock tick-tock."

Watson glances at the door then raises a brow to Chess, patting him on the shoulder. "Now, go work off some that frustration, old chap," he growls playfully, then, walks away, whistling as he goes.

Chess watches Watson walk down the hall and out of sight. Looks back into the envelope at the paltry five hundred dollar advance.

"Son of a bitch."
6

IN THE CHOCTAW VILLAGE, under the blood moon, Tall Feathers, dressed in his ceremonial garments, is sitting on the ground between two large campfires. With his eyes closed and his hands raised high above his head, he sways back and forth as he chants ancient Choctaw verses.

The wolf obediently sits next to him as if it understands what the old man is up to and what role it will play in the fire-side event.

On the ground in front of Tall Feathers are several bowls, mixing tools and a knife.

Laid out beyond that, side by side at the edge of the village's sacred burial ground, lay the bodies of his son, Chief Red Bear, his granddaughter, Dancing Cloud, and fifteen dead warriors. Each body is wrapped in a ceremonial blanket. Lifeless faces stare up to the heavens.

After chanting a for few moments, Tall Feathers opens his eyes and looks at the wolf. Without any verbal command, almost by instinct, it lies down in front of him.

The old shaman takes a smoldering bundle of sage and slowly waves it over the wolf while chanting another verse. The smoke billows but, then, instead of rising into the air, it falls like a light fog over the animal. After a moment, the shaman holds the sage in front of the wolf and blows its smoke into its face. The animal never flinches.

Quietly and calmly, Tall Feathers takes the knife and cuts one of Wolf's hind legs and draws the blood into a bowl. The wolf makes no sound of protest.

After the old man has collected the amount of blood he needs, he takes a strip of cloth and gingerly bandages the cut.

Taking elements and powders from various bowls, Tall Feathers mixes it into the blood then sets the bowl in front of himself and lets out one last chanting verse.

He takes the bowl and walks to Red Bear's body. Sipping from the bowl, he spits the wolf's blood concoction in his son's face, then moves to Dancing Cloud and repeats it on her.

Into the night, as the wolf watches, Tall Feathers dances and chants, continuing to spit the blood over the rest of the warriors.

Then, caught up in a frenzy of ceremonial bliss, he moves on to the ancient graves of the burial ground, spitting and chanting and dancing among them until he passes out and falls to the ground.

THE MOON is dipping in the sky as the two campfires smolder, billowing thin streams of smoke. Tall Feathers is asleep next to one of the graves and the wolf, its hind leg still bandaged, sleeps next to him.

From among the graves, a thick mist begins to seep up through the dirt and patchy grass.

The wolf's head perks up. It stares at a nearby grave as the dirt begins to move, sending tiny pebbles rolling down the side of the small, bare mound.

A skeletal hand punches through the surface and reaches for the sky, followed by another, the remnants of flesh and tendons barely clinging to the bones. The long-dead warrior awakes from its slumber, dragging itself from the depths of its grave.

The wolf gets to its feet and begins wagging its tail, as if welcoming an old friend.

Arms, some bony and covered in rotting flesh and some just bare bone, begin to pop out of the graves all around the unconscious shaman as the dead, rotting warriors pull themselves out of the ground.

A thick mist begins to roll from beneath Red Bear, engulfing his body.

He opens his eyes. Under the light of the moon, they glow a golden hue.

After several minutes, the wolf begins licking Tall Feathers' face, waking the shaman from his ceremonial sleep. The old man pats the animal on the head and takes a look around.

He is surrounded by thirty warriors, some are new to death, thanks to Seth's attack the day before; some are rotting, decaying corpses; others are total skeletons. All are standing hunched, with knees bent, swaying side to side as if ready to pounce on their prey. And with them is Dancing Cloud, wrapped in her blanket, and beside her is Red Bear, his golden eyes staring blankly ahead, standing at attention like an obedient soldier awaiting his orders. The old man has awakened his very own army of the dead.

Tall Feathers approaches Red Bear, holds up a long strap of leather with a large bear claw strung to it. The towering Chief takes a knee and his father ties it around his neck. He hands Red Bear the torn piece of blood-soaked shirt that Seth left behind.

His voice is old and shaky but his command is loud and clear: "Bring me their scalps, my son."

Red Bear summons, Swift Arrow, the village tracker. Hands him the piece of bloody cloth.

Swift Arrow had taken a bullet to the back of the head the day before. A massive exit wound just under his right eye exposes the innards of his skull. His eye sits lower in its socket than normal. He takes the blood stained cloth and sniffs it like a hunting dog. Walks ahead a few feet and begins to sniff the air. Once he picks up a scent, he drops the cloth and he rushes off to follow it.

Without a sound, Red Bear and Dancing Cloud follow close behind.

Instinctively, the rest of the warriors take off after them, bounding, in long strides like a pack of wolves, across the creek; some leaping on and over fallen trees like acrobatic, Parkour runners.

The wolf sits next to Tall Feathers and howls to the moon, honoring the army of dead warriors as they embark on a mission of revenge.

A mission of reckoning.
7

ROOSTERS GREET the morning at a dogtrot house sitting near a small creek that opens up into the Bayou Teche. The front of the house faces the water and the rest is partially surrounded by forest.

A small boat sits on the bank of the bayou. Water softly slaps its stern.

Frank LeBleu is chopping wood in the front yard of his pig farm.

In the pig pen in the backyard, his ten year old son, James, is finishing up slopping the pigs as his scruffy dog, Gumbo, watches, panting in the muggy, morning heat.

James empties the last of four slop buckets and looks at his dog. "Come on, Gumbo, I'll race ya."

James takes the buckets and runs around to the front of the house, easily paced, then passed, by his barking, four-legged buddy.

The boy reaches the porch as his older brother, Walt, is stepping out of the house, carrying a rifle and wearing his large hunting knife strapped to his hip.

"Wait! I'm goin', too," James exclaims as he rushes past Walt and into the kitchen.

Walt never breaks his stride, "Betta hurry, then, squirt. I ain't waitin' for ya dis time."

In the kitchen, James rushes in and sets the buckets next to the counter where his mother, Caroline, is putting away the morning's dishes.

"'The hogs is slopped, momma," he manages to say between breaths. "I can go with Walt, yeah?"

Caroline continues to put away the dishes, "Where's he goin'?"

"Checkin' the crawfish traps," James dances anxiously, like he's on the verge of pissing himself. "Hurry, dang it, he's leavin'!"

Caroline turns to him, giving him a stern glare; one of those watch-it-kid-or-I'll-knock-you-into-next-week glares.

James hangs his head, sheepishly, "Sorry, momma. May I can go with Walt, please?"

"You mean 'May I go with Walt, please?'"

"Sorry. May I go with Walt, please?" He rolls his eyes.

She goes back to her work, "You mind him, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am!" He's out of the kitchen before he can even complete his reply, but not before catching a glimpse of his four year old sister, Madison, covered in her breakfast: eggs plastered to her face, hair matted with white gravy. "Maddie's playing wit' 'er food, again!" His voice carries loud and clear as he bolts out the front door.

Caroline turns to see the mess her only daughter has created. "Madison LeBleu," she grabs a towel and begins cleaning Maddie's face. "Good Lord, child. I swear somethin's not right with you."

JAMES LEAPS from the porch and races past his father, whose arms are loaded with a stack of firewood that he's taking into the house.

"Bye, pop!"

"Dammit, slow your britches, boy!"

"Yes, sir!" James keeps running toward Walt and the boat. "C'mon, Gumbo!"

The scruffy mutt darts out from under the porch, barking as he goes and nearly tripping up Frank along the way.

"Damn dog! Leave his mangy ass out there when you come back!"

Walt is already in the small, flat-bottomed boat when James helps Gumbo aboard. He shoves the bow of the boat into the water off before climbing in himself.

Walt stands at the stern working the oar. "You had to bring that smelly-assed dog?"

"Shut up. He smells better'n you."

FRANK CARRIES the firewood into the house to find his wife picking the food from Maddie's hair.

He laughs, "Again?"

"Yes, she gets more in her hair than she does in her mouth."

Frank puts the wood in a corner near the fireplace. He kneels next to Maddie, "You gonna stay tiny forever if you don't start gettin' some of dat food in yo' belly, li'l missy."

Maddie takes a crumb of scrambled egg from the table and feeds it to him. He kisses her cheek, then, he stands and pulls Caroline close, "My mornin' chores are done, for now."

"So? Mine aren't."

He kisses her. "Why don't you put her down for a nap? The boys won't be back for a spell."

She smiles and pats him playfully on the cheek. "Frank Lee LeBleu, you old devil."

They kiss again. Then, slowly notice that Maddie is watching.

Caroline sighs deeply, "She's a mess." She picks up Maddie and hands her to Frank. "Tell you what, you clean her up and I'll finish the kitchen... then we'll talk." She goes back to putting away the dishes.

Frank looks at Maddie and sighs. "See the kind of trouble you git yo' daddy into? Let's go get you cleaned up." He carries her out of the kitchen, "I ought to jus' put you out there with dem pigs, li'l girl."

8

FRANK IS LYING in bed with Caroline cuddled next to him, her head resting on his chest. Frank runs his fingers through her hair.

The late morning sun shines a beam through the open window. A thin cloud of dust dances in the light.

"I gotta git dem horses ready for when the boys get back," Frank says with a sigh. Now that playtime is over, work must resume. "I'm gonna send them into town for a few things."

"Mmm. More playtime," Caroline purrs. "You sly fox."

But, the quiet time is interrupted by an unexpected...

BLAM!!!

The sound of the sudden gunshot right outside the front door disrupts the tender, quiet time they share.

"LEBLEU!!!" The voice carries through the house from the front yard.

Frank quickly gets to his feet and begins to get dressed, "Hide Maddie and stay inside."

Caroline scrambles to gather the bed sheets around herself.

Frank grabs his shotgun and leaves the room, barefooted and wearing only his pants.

Moments later, he steps out onto the porch with his shotgun and comes face to face with eleven members of Granger's Dozen on their horses in his front yard.

"What the hell is wrong with you bunch of jackasses?! Git off my property!"

A SHA-KLICK from behind catches Frank's attention. He spins around.

Seth is sitting in Frank's rocking chair on the porch with a Colt .45 trained on him. In his haste to confront his uninvited guests, Frank had walked right passed their leader.

"What do you want, Seth?"

Seth casually begins to rock in the rickety chair, never lowering his weapon, "I want what I asked you for a month ago, LeBleu. I want my money."

"Money? I don't owe you nothin'. Git outta here."

"Can't do that, Frank. I'm not leaving here until I get my fee."

"Fee for what?"

"For protecting you and your family from all the criminals and savages that roam these swamps. That's hard work, you know. If I can't get my men paid, there could be a problem."

"I don't know what the hell you talkin' about, you crazy bastard. Now, take your friends and git the hell outta here 'fore I report you to the sheriff. You the only problem I see 'round here."

Seth stands and walks over to Frank, "I'm really trying to be patient with you here, Frank. But you're testing me. You've had thirty days to come up with my money. I got men and horses to feed."

"Who gives a good goddam? I got a family to feed!"

Seth steps up and gets right in his face, "What if you didn't?"

BLAM!!!

Seth fires his pistol into Frank's left leg.

Frank falls, screaming in pain.

"You try to be patient with some people..." Seth steps off the porch and walks up to Tequila. The grizzly Mexican hands him a lit cigarette.

From the front door, Caroline rushes to Frank's side in only her night gown; everything happened so fast, she barely had time to get herself properly dressed, "Frank! Oh God!"

The bullet hit an artery and he is bleeding badly, trying to stay conscious. He grabs her arm and squeezes through the pain.

Seth puffs on his cigarette and tips his hat to Caroline, "Mornin', ma'am."

"He's bleeding so much, I can't stop it. Please help!" Caroline is ripping strips from her night gown and trying to wrap Frank's leg.

"Yeah, that's a pretty nasty cut he's got there," Seth exhales a large cloud of smoke. "Now, about my fee."

Caroline is crying, frantically trying to keep Frank awake and stop the bleeding, but he is going into shock, "Take what you want, you son of a bitch!"

Seth is replacing the spent shell in his pistol, "I had already planned to do that."

Frank is going into convulsions. Caroline looks out at the men on their horses, "God! Somebody please help him! Please!"

Seth tosses away his cigarette and holsters his gun. "Tequila, help the man."

The burly Mexican takes aim with his rifle and shoots Frank in the head.

In the blink of an eye, the back of Frank's head explodes onto the porch in a mess of blood and brain matter. Caroline's face is covered in her husband's gore.

Frank's body twitches, then, relaxes as he bellows his last breath in his wife's arms.

Caroline loses control and grabs Frank's shotgun. She stands to face the men, "You bastards!"

Before she can get a shot off, Zack, Jordan, and Jimmy draw their weapons. They fire on her. Her body is rocked with a barrage of bullets, sending her reeling backwards off the side of the porch in a cloud of dust, blood, and sweat.

Fifty feet from the shore, James and Walt hear the thunderous blasts of the gunfire echoing across the water and watch as their mother's body hits the ground.

James grabs the rifle from the bottom of the boat and stands up, "Momma!"

Walt tries to grab him to pull him back down, "James wait!"

James fires.

None of the men see the boys, at first, and none react until Billy takes the shot right in the back. He falls from his horse.

The rest of the men turn and open fire at two boys.

Seven bullets find their mark in James' chest. He falls backward into the boat.

Walt is hit in the shoulder by a stray bullet as the small boat runs aground in the front yard. He grabs the rifle and is hit in the face by two bullets, followed by four in the chest. He falls overboard, splashing into the water.

Gumbo scrambles from the boat and charges at the men, barking and baring his teeth, ready to take a chunk out of the man closest to him.

Seth takes the dog down with a single, well-placed head shot.

All at once, everything is deathly silent as the echo of Seth's gunfire fades into the trees.

The men all take a look around at the carnage.

"Shit, what a mess," Seth holsters his gun. "Okay, grab whatever you can carry. Guns, food, ammo... whatever. Then, let's get the hell out of here."

Seth walks over to where Billy fell from his horse. The teenager is lying on his side on the ground.

Zack is tending to him. He stands as Seth approaches, "Took one in the back, Seth. He still alive but I don't know how he gonna do."

"Thanks, Zack, go help the guys."

Zack takes one last glance at his friend, lying helpless on the ground, nods to Seth, then, walks away.

"Billy, you silly sonofabitch." Seth kneels next to him. "You shoulda ducked."

Billy chuckles a bit. "It's kinda queer, Seth, but it don't hurt. I think I can ride, I just need some help getting up."

"Let's have a look see, buddy." Seth rips the back of Billy's shirt open. The bloody bullet hole is right in the center of his back.

Seth quietly takes his knife and sticks it into Billy's leg. He doesn't get a reaction from the boy at all. Seth knows he can't feel it. He wipes the blood from the blade on Billy's pants and puts his knife back in its sheath.

"Can you help me up, Seth?" Billy is scared and his voice makes no effort to hide what he fears may come next.

Seth quietly draws his gun, stands up, and shoots Billy in the head, "Nah, stay put."

The men are getting their horses ready and preparing to mount up, when Jonah hears a noise from the front porch. He turns to see little Maddie LeBleu standing over her father's body and watching them all go about their business.

He quietly walks over and stands in front of her. She looks up at the towering, dark stranger as he slowly draws his gun and points it at her face.

He pulls back the hammer.

With no warning, Seth catches Jonah with a punch to the face before he can pull the trigger. Jonah staggers and drops the gun. He quickly turns to Seth and finds the barrel of Seth's gun in his face.

"If you were any other man," Seth is eerily calm. "I would blow your fuckin' head clean off. If you ever draw your gun on a white baby again, I won't think twice about it."

Jonah spits blood. "She seent all our faces, jackass."

Seth looks down at Maddie. She is staring up at him with big, watery, blue eyes.

He holsters his gun and reaches down, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. "I'll take care of it."

He takes her by the hand and walks the little girl back into the house.

Jonah picks up his gun and rubs his jaw where Seth's fist connected, "Crazy sumabitch."

Inside the house, Seth lays Maddie down in her bed and gently covers her up, tucking the little girl into bed. Then, he hands her a doll, turns her away from him to face the wall, and places a pillow over her head.

Maddie begins to cry.

Seth pulls out his gun and cocks the hammer, "Don't worry, pumpkin, you ain't gonna feel a thing."

Outside, Jonah climbs into his saddle. "Mount up, boys. We be headin' out shortly."

The men take the order and mount up, when a single gunshot resonates from somewhere inside the LeBleu house.

Then, an eerie silence... even the birds have stopped chirping.

There is an uneasy stillness in the air as the Dozen watches their cold-blooded leader exit the house and walk past Jonah to his own horse, casually sealing a freshly rolled cig.

"Happy?" Seth holds the cig between his lips as he mounts up. "Jonah, take the boys to New Iberia. Pick up some supplies and have a little fun tonight. I'll see y'all back at the cabin in the morning."

The big man glares at him and spits the last bit of blood left in his mouth from the sucker punch.

Seth lights the cig and takes a deep draw before handing it to Jonah, offering a nod of apology to his pal. He looks at the house, "Burn it."

Seth kicks his horse into a gallop and rides off.

Jonah flicks the cig away and glares at Seth as he disappears around a bend in the trail.

9

IT'S MIDDAY when the train pulls into the depot in New Iberia. The crew goes about their duties as the passengers are disembarking.

Chess steps from the train, walks through the station and away from the platform, carrying his personal belongings in a bag over his shoulder.

Once outside, he heads down the bustling main street to find the Sheriff's office.

IN THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE, Deputy Dylan Manuel is seated behind a large desk snacking on pork rinds and reading 'The Adventures of Max Remington: U.S. Marshal', just some penny novel he picked up at the general store. With his baby face, Dylan looks no older than sixteen or seventeen, even though he is in his twenties.

The front door of the Sheriff's office swings open and in steps Chess, followed by the noise of the crowded main street outside and the loud whistle of the train echoing from the depot.

"Can I help you, sir?", Dylan drops the book and looks up at the stranger.

Chess steps up to the desk, "Jack Jamison, here to see Sheriff Tate." He drops his bag on a nearby chair.

The young deputy stands and shakes his hand, "Oh, wow, the U.S. Marshal. How are you, sir?" From his enormous smile and giddy demeanor, one would swear Dylan was shaking hands with his idol.

"Retired." Chess is rather impressed with the firmness of the young man's grip.

"What's that?"

"Retired Marshal."

"Oh, well, it's still an honor, sir." Dylan can feel himself becoming nervous, overcome with childlike admiration. "I'm Dylan Deputy Manuel. I mean, er, Deputy. D-Dylan Manuel. You can call me Dylan."

The deputy still has a grip on Chess' hand.

"You finished, Dylan?" Chess gestures to their hands.

"Sorry," Dylan snaps out of it and lets go. "I just ain't never met a real U.S. Marshal... er, retired Marshal... before."

"Well, don't cream your jeans, kid," Chess sits in an open chair. "I'm nothing special."

"Yessir," Dylan sits, too. "The sheriff'll be back shortly. You thirsty?"

"No."

"We got some Scotch," Dylan opens the bottom desk drawer and pulls out a bottle. "Sheriff Tate keeps it in the bottom drawer. He don't know I seen it, so sometimes I take a swig. But, then, I pour water back in the bottle so he won't know."

Chess sits silently. He just nods.

Dylan sheepishly puts the bottle back. Closes the drawer. Offers Chess a pork rind. "Pork rind?"

"No, thank you," Chess lets out a deep sigh.

"They're pretty good," Dylan continues his attempt at keeping Chess entertained. "Mrs. Sonier makes 'em. Sometimes she puts cayenne pepper all over 'em. They git hot something fierce, I tell ya."

Chess nods, feigning amusement.

"So, how long were you a marshal?"

Chess says nothing. He lets out a deep sigh and pulls out a pocket watch: 4:30.

"I'll bet you been doin' it for a while. You look pretty old." An awkward silence looms in the office as Dylan realizes he's just paid Chess an insult. He tries to change the subject. "Ever shoot anyone?"

Finally annoyed beyond his limit, Chess stands up, "Where's the saloon?"

"I thought you wasn't thirsty," Dylan is genuinely puzzled.

Chess glares at the deputy.

The front door bursts open and a short, stout man enters the sheriff's office. He carries a rifle, which he hands to Dylan, and a paper sack, which he puts on the desk.

Dylan takes the rifle, puts it on the wall-mounted gun rack behind the desk. He eagerly turns back to the sheriff, "Sheriff Tate, this here's..."

"Jack Jamison," Chess shakes the sheriff's hand, cutting Dylan off.

"Ah, Marshal Jamison. Sheriff David Tate, it's a fine pleasure."

"Retired," Dylan interjects.

"What's that?" Tate looks at Dylan.

"I'm retired," Chess cuts in, again. "I turned in my badge a couple of days ago."

Tate pats him on the shoulder, "Well, it's still an honor."

"That's what I keep hearing," Chess shoots a glance at Dylan, who is smiling proudly.

"Please," Tate gestures to one of the chairs in front of the desk as he moves in behind it, nudging Dylan away from his chair. "Have a seat. How was your trip, Mr. Jamison?"

"Chess," he offers up his nickname to the sheriff, as he takes a seat across from Tate, but the sheriff misinterprets its implication.

"Hmm, well," Tate replies. "I'm suppose we could indulge in a quick game, but I reckon we shouldn't put off this Granger business too much longer."

"No, Sheriff," Chess smiles. He chuckles a bit. "You can call me 'Chess', it's what everyone knows me by. No need to be so formal with all that 'Mr. Jamison' business."

"Ah, fine by me. Are you thirsty, Chess?"

Chess shoots a quick glance at Dylan, who is standing behind the sheriff silently pleading with him not to mention the sheriff's stash of Scotch.

Like a true gentleman, Chess keeps the secret and gets down to business, "Actually, I'm fine, sheriff. I would, however, like to discuss Seth Granger, if you don't mind."

"That son of a bitch!" Tate's demeanor changes when the reality of Chess' visit is brought back into focus. "They ride in, stir up a bunch of horse shit, then disappear into the swamp, again."

"Anyone know where to?"

Tate gets up and leads Chess to a map of the Atchafalaya Basin, which is covered in pencil marks. A few areas of the swamp are circled and those circles surround a small 'X' located south of town.

"The shit storm happens within a day's ride of that 'X'."

"And that 'X' is where I'll find Granger, isn't it?"

"There's an old gator farm in that swamp. Been abandoned for nearly a decade, now, but the cabin is still out there," Tate returns to his chair. "I used to have to run damned kids outta there for doin' stupid shit - includin' my young deputy, here."

Chess looks over at Dylan, who smiles sheepishly and taps his foot on the floor.

"Based on the location of all the shenanigans," Tate continues. "I'm guessin' they're usin' that cabin as their little playhouse."

Chess notices one penciled circle is cleaner than the others... a fresh mark. "Is that one the most recent attack?"

Tate nods. "We had an incident early this morning. A local family was murdered just outside of town and their house was burned to the ground."

"Granger?"

"Don't know for sure," Tate continues, "But there was a possible witness."

Tate leads Chess to a small holding cell at the rear of the office. He swings the cell door open.

Chess looks into the cell, then back at Tate, quizzically.

Tate gives him a nod. "Go ahead."

Chess walks into the cell and approaches a small bed in the corner where he kneels next to a little girl who is fast asleep.

"Maddie LeBleu," Tate announces. "She's the youngest of the family. The only survivor. A friend of the family found her walking to town alone. When they took her back to her home, they found the house in flames. The rest of the family had been shot dead in the front yard."

Chess gently brushes her hair from her face and her eyes open. She stares blankly ahead.

"Hello, sweetheart," Chess says quietly.

Maddie says nothing. She just stares through Chess as if he isn't even there. Her hair is partially singed and her face is dirty, smudged with soot and she smells of smoke.

"Did he try to burn her up with the house or something?"

"Don't know," Tate leans against the wall across from the cell door. "Maybe they never even seen her. Hell, she ain't said a word since she was brought in. She wouldn't even let us clean her up.

"She has an aunt coming to town to get her this evening, though. Maybe we'll get something out of her then and we'll know it was Granger for sure."

Chess notices a plate of uneaten food sitting on a small table next to the bed. He waves a hand in front of her face but she doesn't respond. "She's in shock. Has she responded to anyone?"

"She seems to have taken a likin' to Dylan."

"Get him in here," Chess stands and digs the photograph of Granger out of his bag.

Tate looks down the hall toward the front desk, "Dylan! Get in here."

Dylan enters the cell and Chess motions to the bed, "Could you sit next to her, deputy?"

The deputy looks at the sheriff, who nods in approval. Dylan sits at Maddie's feet on the bed.

Chess kneels in front of Maddie. He holds up the photo of Granger in front of her face.

Without hesitation she lets out an ear-piercing scream and backs away.

Tate covers his ears, "Christ almighty!"

Dylan quickly grabs her up and holds her.

Chess walks over to Tate, who is just as stunned by Maddie's scream as he is by the method Chess used to get it out of her.

"Looks like he's our man," Chess says as he walks past Tate and back to the front of the office, leaving the sheriff and his deputy staring at each other in total shock at his behavior.

Chess is putting the photo back into his bag as Tate approaches.

"What the hell's the matter with you? Is that how they teach you marshals to question a witness? And a child one at that?"

"I'm not a marshal anymore, so my methods are no longer in question when it comes to how I get the job done. Now, can you, please, take me to her home?"

Sheriff Tate looks at Chess for a moment, trying to figure him out. "Sure. What's left of it."

"Splendid," Chess nods, opens the front door and walks out.

"Splendid," Tate mocks him in a terrible British accent as he grabs his rifle from the gun rack. "Pompous ass. That's why you people lost this country to a bunch of colonists." He grabs a loaded bandoleer hanging next to the rack. "Dylan!"

The deputy comes down the hall from the cell, holding Maddie in his arms, as the sheriff opens the front door.

"When Connors gets here with Dr. Woodrow, I want you ride out and meet us at the LeBleu farm. Bring your pack and rifle. I gotta get this Chess fella out there before he scares the shit out of someone else around here."

He slams the door as he leaves.

THE BODIES of Frank and Caroline LeBleu and their sons have been removed, taken to town earlier and delivered into the hands of the undertaker. What's left of the house is still smoldering. The horses and pigs are gone and Walt LeBleu's little boat sits on the shore, the bayou's water lapping at its hull.

Sheriff Tate stands near the house, with two of his horses, watching Chess walk around and study the area.

Chess walks to the remnants of the house, most of which has been burned away. It's now a mass of black, smoldering wood.

"How little Maddie LeBleu survived all this is a miracle," Tate remarks.

Chess kicks through a pile of cinders.

On a part of the porch, untouched by the flames, Chess can see where Frank's head had been blown open; once a puddle of gore and bone but now a just large, caramelized blood stain.

Tate removes his hat and fans himself, "We found all four bodies. Bastards even shot the dog."

Chess is examining the boat, a puddle of blood and water stands in the bottom, surrounded by a cloud of buzzing flies.

That's when he notices several sets of footprints in the soft ground near the water. A couple of them were made with boots, probably by Tate and his deputies during their earlier gathering of the bodies. But, there are others that seem out of place. Some barefoot and some made with moccasins. They all lead away from the water; whoever made them came out of the bayou.

Chess follows them to where Billy's body had fallen when James LeBleu shot him in the back.

He kneels and examines the area in the grass where this mystery body had been.

Tate said they had hauled off four bodies. The LeBleu's bodies. He never mentioned a fifth.

The pounding of a horse's hooves resonates through the trees and announces Dylan's arrival. He dismounts, with his rifle in hand.

"Maddie's aunt showed up with Dr. Woodrow. They're takin' her home soon. Doc's got some papers for you to sign, Sheriff."

Dylan joins Tate and watches as Chess goes about his work in the middle of the front yard, away from both the house and creek, in an area where the two lawmen know there were no bodies found. "What's he doin' over there?"

"Don't question his methods or you'll never hear the end of it, kid."

Chess doesn't seem to be distracted by the two, not even by Dylan's arrival.

Bloody remains of brain matter, barely visible, have stained the now trampled grass and have attracted their own crowd of flies. It's obvious from the very faint blood trail that the body had been dragged away in the opposite direction of town.

Chess picks up a small piece of Billy's skull fragment partially hidden under the trampled grass, but then drops it when he sees something else in the grass: a small clump of hair with a bloody chunk of human skin attached. "Well, hello there," he says to himself as he picks up the patch of scalp.

He sniffs the hair, "You said you found four bodies?"

Tate puts his hat back on his balding head, "Yes."

"Two on the porch," Chess nods to each location as he speaks. "One in the boat and one in the water.

"That's right."

"So who was body number five?"

Tate exchanges glances with his young deputy. The two walk over to Chess.

Chess stands, looking down at the spot where Billy's body had been. "Someone died right here. Shot in the head."

Dylan scratches his head, "Well, their dog was shot, too, Chess."

"Well, that's a sad story, deputy, but it wasn't a dog that took a bullet to the head right here."

Tate looks around, "That's true. I think the dog was closer to the water," he points to where he found Gumbo the dog. "Over yonder."

"Well, whoever it was," Dylan is as dumbfounded as his boss. "They was gone when we got here."

Chess cups the clump of hair in his hand and looks in the direction the body had been dragged. "That's because someone dragged the body away before you arrived. Do you ever have problems with the local tribes?"

"No," Tate replies. "The nearest Choctaw village is about a half day's ride from here. But they're a peaceful bunch."

Dylan cradles his rifle, "Why?"

Chess hands the chunk of human scalp to Dylan, "Because Indians don't scalp dogs."

Dylan looks at the bloody clump of hair and flesh in his hand. He quickly realizes what Chess has handed him. Disgusted, he throws the scalp away and wipes his hand on his pants.

Chess continues his examination of the scene and finds hoof prints on the ground. "More than six or seven horses."

Tate walks over to him, "Yeah, we figure Granger's whole gang was out here in full force. They been out here once before. Frank reported it, but, he wouldn't take shit off no one. Probably tried to take them on himself. He was a hard man."

"Not hard enough," Chess kneels next to a trail of hoof prints and sees how they lead away in the same direction as the drag marks and moccasin footprints. It dawns on him that he may not be the only one on a mission to bring Seth Granger to justice. He utters one word: "Shit."

Dylan walks toward the front porch of the burned-out house. "That don't make no sense. All the bodies we found had heads full of hair."

Chess scratches his goatee, "That's because whoever took that body, and its scalp, wasn't after the LeBleus."

Tate puts his hands on his hips in angst, "So you're telling me now I gotta worry about a dammed bunch of pissed off Indians?"

"I'm pretty sure it isn't you who should be worried." Chess stands, his gaze fixed on the trail of hoof and foot prints. The bounty hunter turns and walks to the one of the horses, "Sheriff, I'm commandeering one of your horses."

Tate smiles a shit-eating grin, "You're ain't commandeering shit. You ain't a marshal no more. Remember?"

Chess mounts the horse and walks it over to Tate, then, digs a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and hands it to him, "Keep the change."

Dylan runs to his horse, "I coming with you."

"The hell you are, kid."

"Dylan could come in pretty handy," Tate tries to convince Chess to take his deputy. "He knows that area really good, plus, he's a damn good shot with a rifle. Won four championships."

"Well, hoorah for him," Chess won't hear of it. "But targets don't shoot back and they sure as hell won't try to scalp you. I don't need him following me around like a lost puppy."

"Lost puppy?" Dylan defends himself. "I can take you right to that cabin!"

Chess takes Tate's wall map, now, folded into a neat little square, from his breast pocket, "Don't need you. I'll find it myself."

Tate sees the penciled 'X' on the paper. "You thievin' sumbitch!" Tate's face turns bright red. "That's my map!"

"I left a dollar on your desk," Chess informs the sheriff. "I should be back in three days." He takes one last look at Dylan, "Stay!"

Chess rides off away from town in the same direction as Granger's Dozen.

10

AT THE EDGE of a heavy tree line, on a wagon trail just a half-mile south of New Iberia, stands Grover's General Store. Four horses wait quietly in the shadows near the back door while four members of Granger's Dozen are busy inside. It's well after closing time.

Chuck steps out of the back door and into the night air with several bottles of whiskey, followed by Tequila carrying a burlap sack loaded with bread, jerky, and fruit.

He walks to his horse and they load the saddlebags before Chuck mounts up.

"Alright, Tequila. You three just grab what you can carry and don't take too damned long. I can't promise the party won't start without y'all."

"I be there, pendejo," the gruff Mexican chuckles through his beard.

He watches Chuck ride off into the forest then heads back inside. "Ándale, maricóns!" He cackles and he walks through the back door.

Inside the store, Noah and Slim are gathering a collection of various items from different areas of the store as Tequila comes in through the back room.

"Permiso, cabrón," the gruff Mexican laughs as he steps over Grover's body. The store owner's throat has bled all over the floor from a deep slash that nearly connects both ears.

"'Ey, Tequila," Slim looks up from his task. "Take 'at bag and rope outside and load 'em up."

A half-stuffed burlap sack and a coiled rope sit next to the Grover's dead body. Tequila takes them outside.

Once Tequila is out of sight, Noah fans out a stack of $1 and $5 bills. "Hey, Slim, look what I found."

Slim drops what he's doing and rushes over to see the money. "Ho-lee shit, Noah. That's gotta be a thousand dollars there."

"No, dumbass. It's only fifty-four. Stupid."

"Don't call me stupid!"

"Then don't act stupid. Damn inbreed."

"Dirty nigg..." before the tall, white boy can get the second syllable out, Noah's pistol in his face, hammer cocked.

Slim stares at the gun for a moment, then, at Noah, his eyes steady and unflinching. He motions for Noah to look down between them.

Noah looks down to find Slim's pistol pointed at his crotch.

"From what I'm told, that's a pretty good sized target," Slim says in a low voice. "I probably won't miss." Slim cocks his gun. "Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry," Noah's facial expression doesn't change, "that you turned out to be such an inbreed."

They glare at each other for another moment.

Slim cracks a smile.

They both start to chuckle.

Noah smiles, "We pals?"

"Yeah," Slim holsters his gun. "We're pals."

Noah lays his gun on the counter and starts to separate the money.

Slim watches Noah count out his share, "That draw was pretty fast, though. Right?"

"Yeah, you was quick, Slim. I didn't even see it comin'."

"Hey, pendejos!" Tequila pokes his head back into the back store. "I'm going back to camp."

Noah quickly hides the money from his Mexican partner in crime, "Yeah, yeah. Take yo' Mexican ass on outta here."

"Shoo, ya smelly Spanish fly!" Slim chimes in with his own insult.

Tequila flicks his teeth at them and heads out the back door, mumbling a few choice words in his native tongue as he goes.

Noah and Slim look at each other and laugh as they go back to separating the money.

THERE IS a large campfire blazing into the cloudy night sky and the rest of the gang is sitting around when Chuck arrives. Several of the men surround his horse. He tosses a burlap sack to Zack.

Chuck dismounts and pulls two bottles of whiskey from one of his saddlebags and the men cheer as he hands them out.

Before any of them take a drink, Jonah walks up and grabs the bottle Jimmy. He holds it up in a toast, "To Billy!" He drinks.

All the men chime in with him, "To Billy!"

Jonah hands his bottle to Chuck, "Where's Noah, Slim and Tequila?"

"They'll be along. I got what I wanted and left." He laughs and takes a big drink, wipes the dribble from his mouth. He lets out a loud belch and follows it with: "Let's get drunk!"

All the men cheer.

NOAH AND Slim stroll through the back door of Grover's store and into the cool night air, carrying their booty to their horses.

As he mounts up, Slim looks off in the direction they're heading and, by the light of the moon, notices a lone horse in the distance. It's walking toward them with no rider.

"What the hell is that?"

Noah squints into the distance. "A horse, dipshit."

They ride out to meet the horse and before they get within arm's reach, Noah recognizes it. "That's Tequila's ride, man."

"Well, where the hell is Tequila?"

"Probably taking a big shit. Let his damn horse walk off, again," Noah slowly shakes his head. "You know this ain't the first time. Grab it and let's go."

Slim takes the reins of Tequila's horse and falls into a trot behind Noah.

The two outlaws scan the forest on both sides of the narrow trail as they make their way back to the campsite, just a few miles away.

Noah swats at a couple of mosquitoes. "Tequila! Where you at?"

"Pinch off that hot tamale turd and let's go!" Slim's voice echoes through the trees.

Noah turns to Slim and laughs, "'Hot tamale turd'? That's funny, man."

The slight sound of leaves rustling off to the left catches their attention and they scan the forest in the direction of the noise, squinting into the dark shadows. There is movement among the trees, further off the trail. Something is moving. Fast.

"Tequila," Noah is getting fed up. "Stop fuckin' playin'! I wanna get drunk before the sun comes up!"

"Yeah, stop wackin' your little halee-pee-no pecker and come on!"

Noah lets out a loud laugh. "'Halee-pee-no pecker'? Where the hell do you come up with this shit?"

"I dunno. It's just a gift, I guess."

The sound of rustling leaves now comes from the right side of the trail. They scan the darkness. Several silhouettes dart quickly among the trees.

"What the shit?" Noah draws his pistol. "You see that?"

"Tequila, stop messin' around!" Slim goes for his pistol, too.

Leaves are now rustling all around on both sides of the trail. It's as if the forest have come alive with animal prancing around in the darkness.

"I don't think that's Tequila," Noah cocks his pistol. "Someone else is fuckin' with us."

"Well, where the hell is he?" Slim cocks his pistol. Two figures are coming through the shadows on his left.

Noah focuses on a figure moving toward them from the shadows on the right. The figure leaps onto a large rock twenty feet off of the trail, and sits perched as if ready to leap.

A break in the clouds high above allows a bright shaft of moonlight to shine on the shadowy figure. Noah recognizes it as an Indian. But, in the moonlight, Noah can see that something isn't right about this Indian he's staring at. Its disheveled, black hair hangs past his shoulders in matted strands, framing his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes that seem to possess an almost a reddish glow in the moonlight.

This Indian looks dead.

As he squints through the darkness, it's the large, jagged bullet hole just under the Indian's right eye that sends a chill down Noah's spine. It's an exit wound. He knows this because he's seen plenty of them, having been personally responsible for administering a good share of them, himself.

The size of the exit wound tells him that there is no way on this God-forsaken earth that the Choctaw warrior staring at him through the trees should even be alive, let alone perched atop a rock and eyeing him like a hunter would its prey.

Through the trees, Noah watches as Swift Arrow sniffs the air like a dog before letting out an ear-piercing war cry that opens the proverbial flood gates. All at once, eight of Red Bear's warriors run out from among the trees, coming straight toward Noah.

But there's something not right about these Indians, either. They move with a level of agility he's never seen, leaping over fallen trees and large rocks, like a pack of rabid wolves, in a seemingly unstoppable stampede. They're closing the distance a little too fast.

"Oh, shit!" Noah kicks his horse into a gallop. "Move it, Slim!"

Slim kicks his horse into a gallop, leaving Tequila's horse behind, and follows Noah down the trail.

Riding hard, trying to keep up with Noah and fighting to stay in his saddle, Slim sees at least a dozen of these dead warriors, on foot, effortlessly keeping pace with his horse. They are darting through the forest, some leaping from tree to tree, while others are running along on all fours like apes, bounding over fallen trees and large stumps.

The stench of decades of death and rot almost make his head swim.

Slim takes potshots at them as he struggles to keep up. "What the hell's going on? They're everywhere!"

Amid the chaos, trying to focus on staying in his saddle, too, Noah sees six of them running straight at him on the trail ahead.

He fires at them, hitting one in the chest.

The warrior staggers a bit from the impact of the bullet, but never loses its stride.

He is still coming at the two outlaws!

"Go left!" Noah screams over his shoulder. He yanks the reins and sends his horse to the left, going off the trail and into the trees.

Slim follows.

All around them, rotting Choctaw warriors are swarming like bees and closing in quickly.

Small tree branches are slapping Noah and Slim in their faces as they try to ride faster.

Slim raises his gun to fire at a skeletal warrior coming in from his right. At the site of the pale, bare bones in the moonlight, Slim hesitates to shoot, aghast at what he's seeing.

Without warning, another warrior leaps up from his left, across the trail, and snatches him clear out of his saddle.

Slim hits the ground, hard.

His pistol falls among the leaves.

He rolls several feet until his back hits a small tree with a SMACK!

He looks around frantically for more skeletons, a little shaken from the impact with a new, raw pain in his back screaming at him. He tries to get his bearings, groping the leaf-covered ground for his pistol.

He is surrounded by quick, darting movements of the warriors among the trees, accompanied by war cries that sound more like the howlings and yelpings of a wolf pack than anything human.

Slim finds his pistol and picks it up just in time to see the rotting corpse of an Indian warrior running right at him.

Slim fires from the hip.

The corpse is hit right in the head, snapping it backward as the side of it explodes in a dark cloud of wet gore and dirt.

It stops, for only a second, undeterred even after having half of its head blown away.

Slim pisses his pants as the corpse takes two strides and grabs him by the throat.

The thing screams in his face with a fierce, primal yelp accompanied by strands of nasty drool and bits of rotted flesh that bellows from its dead, decaying mouth. Its breath is foul with an unspeakable stench.

Slim nearly pukes from the odor.

The thing picks him up by the throat and throws him several feet.

Hitting his stomach on a stray log and landing face down on the forest floor, Slim hardly has a chance to catch his breath. He finally pukes a bit through his nose.

Two more corpses leap in the shadows. They grab his arms, holding him down on his belly.

"Stop!" Slim manages to swallow his vomit and catch his breath. "Wait! Wait! I'll put it all back! I'll put it all back!"

Red Bear steps from the shadows. The long, leather strap around his neck is already adorned with two human scalps; Slim quickly recognizes one of the tufts of hair as Tequila's ponytail.

Red Bear approaches. The bones of his right hand crackle and deform and the skin rips apart. Chunks of flesh and meat fall away as the hand stretches and elongates, morphing into a huge bear's paw.

Red Bear opens his hand, flexing his fingers and extending a deadly set of large, black claws.

Lying in his belly, unable to move, Slim can't believe his eyes as he watches the dead chief slowly walk over to him.

"Red Bear? You're supposed to be dead!"

Red Bear stands over Slim's back.

"Wait a minute! What are you doing? Stop! Please, please!"

The chief digs his claws into Slim's eye sockets. His eyeballs burst like tiny water balloons. A geyser of ocular fluid and blood squirts and gushes down his face.

The helpless outlaw lets out an almost inhuman scream as Red Bear rips his scalp from his eyelids to the back of his neck.

And it isn't a quick action, either. There will be no mercy for this bastard or any of his evil companions. The scalping is a slow and agonizing ordeal. From the moment Red Bear's claws pierces his eye sockets, Slim's body is consumed by a flood of anguish and a burning, indescribable pain that seems to have no end. Every fiber of skin ripped and snapped from his skull is an eternity of hell on earth.

His own screaming is making it impossible to think clearly; not even a thought of remorse enters his brain. There is no 'I'm sorry'. No 'Forgive me'. His brain can't even register the process it would take to speak a word.

But there is one thing his brain does keep going back to: the hope that he passes out from the excruciating pain before it's over.

But he doesn't.

He feels everything in the long, torturous two minutes it takes for Red Bear to complete his bloody, gory task.

NOAH IS riding as fast as his fucking horse will take him. The sound of Slim's long, bloodcurdling scream, echoing from not too far away, catches his attention.

He instinctively looks back over his shoulder to find where it came from. That's when a large, low-hanging tree branch catches him right in the side of the head, knocking him from his horse.

He tumbles down an embankment and splashes into a rapidly flowing creek. The creek water is waist deep and its current threatens to steal his balance as Noah attempts to stand up straight.

He staggers, dazed from his collision with the branch. Blood flows freely from a large gash on the side of his head.

Without warning, from the trees above, seven of Red Bear's warriors jump into in the water, surrounding him.

Noah swings wildly at them just before two of them grab his arms. Noah attempts to struggle, but is overwhelmed by the stench of rotting flesh. He can feel his dinner rising in his throat. He vomits into the creek.

"I've got about a dozen friends that will take your asses down if you fuck with me!" He manages to slur, still dazed by the blow he took from the branch.

Red Bear jumps into the creek right in front of him.

Noah squints to get a better look at the chief, "What the fuck is goin' on? All you bastards are dead! I saw Seth shoot your ass, myself!!!"

Red Bear is silent as he steps behind Noah.

"Wait! Wait, you son of a bitch! What are you doin'?" His words turn to screams, rivaling those of Slim's, as Red Bear digs his bear claws into Noah's forehead, ripping off his scalp, taking a part of his skull and some brain tissue with it.

Noah falls, face down, into the creek. With every beat of his heart, blood is rushing from his head wound. He is barely alive as the current carries him in the direction of the campsite. He is dead before he makes it thirty feet downstream.
11

AT THE CAMPSITE the remaining men of the Dozen are drunk and laughing loudly.

Waylon nervously stands with his back to a large tree. He is nervously trying to balance an empty whiskey bottle on his head.

A gunshot rings out as a bullet hits the tree, just to the left of the bottle. Waylon is pelted with bark and bits of the tree. He flinches. The bottle almost topples from his head.

Chuck is standing about thirty feet away and cocks his pistol for a second shot at the bottle.

Jimmy, Jordan, and Zack stand around, drinking and watching.

Big Red and Jonah sit by the fire, watching the dumbasses shoot at each other in the name of ego.

"Damn it, Waylon," Chuck hollers out. "Stand still asshole!

"It's someone else's turn to stand here, Chuck! Why do I have to?"

"Cause you're the youngest, dipshit," Jordan replies between chugs on his whiskey bottle.

"No, I ain't, pigdick! Slim's the youngest."

"Well Slim ain't here," Chuck takes aim, again, trying to keep the pistol steady. "So shut up and be a good little target."

He fires, again.

The bullet hits the tree, just inches to the right of Waylon's neck. He flinches again.

"Chuck, I swear, if you kill me I gonna shoot your balls off!"

"My turn," Zack steps up next to Chuck. "My grandpaps pisses straighter'n you can shoot!"

"Hold on, Zack," Jordan takes the whiskey bottle from Jimmy, as he's drinking from it.

"Damn it, Jordan," Jimmy spits. "I'm not done with that."

Jordan carries the bottle over to Waylon. "Spread your legs."

"Why? What're you gonna do?"

"Just do it, shitbird," Jordan kicks Waylon's feet apart and wedges the bottle between his legs, just under his crotch. He pats Waylon on the cheek, "Now, don't move, buttercup."

Jordan walks back to his friends and stands next to Zack, "Now, y'all hush and watch this."

"Go ahead, buddy," he nods to Zack. "Show 'em what I taught you."

Zack smiles. He stands still, takes a deep breath and stares at Waylon, who looks like he's about to faint from fear. His eyes lock with Zack's and, after a few seconds, sudden calm comes over Waylon. The look in Zack's eyes tells him he has nothing to worry about.

Zack takes a deep breath –

He draws –

BLAM! BLAM!

Both bottles explode.

Zack holsters his pistol before the last piece of glass hits the ground.

The men erupt in cheers and pat Zack on the back.

"Whoa!" Chuck can barely contain the whiskey in his mouth as he does a spit take. "Lightning Zack!"

"Y'all are a buncha assholes," Waylon staggers away from the tree, a little shaken and his crotch is soaked.

"Hey," Chuck notices Waylon's wet spot. "Waylon pissed his self!"

The rest of the men laugh.

"It's the whiskey, dumb ass," Waylon looks down and tries to dry it by fanning his pants.

"He can't hold his liquor!" Jordan continues the onslaught of razzing on Waylon.

The men laugh, again.

"Fuck all y'all!" Waylon walks through the trees, away from the camp. "I'm gonna kill everyone of y'all in your sleep. Except for Jonah and Big Red, you're swell guys. But the rest of you are assholes!"

Through the trees, Waylon follows a small path that leads to a marsh riddled with cattails, jagged tree stumps and moss covered trees. He can hear the men still laughing at him in the background. He unzips his pants and pisses into the tall grass near the creek.

Afterward, he kneels at the water's edge and splashes water on his face.

Under the light of the moon, filtered through the Spanish moss that dances in the light breeze, Waylon spots a dead body in the water. It is floating face down, drifting toward him. The closer it gets, the more he recognizes its clothing.

He stretches out over the water, reaching for the body from the shore, nearly falling into the creek. Turning the body over, he finds himself looking at Noah's face frozen in a death mask of agony. Noah's missing his scalp, exposing the white bone of his skull and a part of his brain.

Waylon is nearly speechless, but, he manages to muster up enough air in his lungs to scream. Before he can get a sound out, a pair of rotted arms shoots out from the water from beneath Noah's body. The raggedy arms pull Waylon's head under.

Noah's body floats away with the current, leaving Waylon to struggle against the pair of arms holding his head under the murky water. He grabs the decomposing limbs, attempting to free himself from the grip so he can catch his breath, but something isn't quite right about the arms he's clutching.

The rotted flesh is soaked from the marsh water and begins peeling in chunks under his grasp until his is holding onto nothing but bone.

He knows he doesn't stand a chance if he can't get his head out of the water. What he doesn't know, however, is that Red Bear has stepped out from among a stand of cattails behind him.

Waylon can feel someone walk up and stand over him. He's hoping that it's Chuck or Jordan, or any of his pals, coming to his rescue. But, all hope is lost when Red Bear rests a knee in the middle of his back.

The outlaw struggles even more as the big chief reaches into the water with his massive bear claw of a hand and rips Waylon's scalp off in a spray of muddy water and blood.

Bubbles explode on the surface of the water as Waylon screams, his face submerged in a muddy cloud below. Agony rips through his body as his lungs fill with water.

His left eyeball dangles from its socket before floating to the surface.
12

BACK AT THE CAMPSITE, the gang sits around the fire, passing around a small, burlap sack of peyote and swallowing dried pieces of the cactus while laughing about Waylon's wet pants.

"Y'all best leave that boy alone," Jonah gets up. "He's bound to kill y'all in your sleep."

"Keep your poop chutes covered," Jimmy chimes in. "Cause he's bound to hump you in your sleep."

The men continue to laugh as Jonah walks toward pissing area near the marsh. He approaches the small clearing near the marsh's edge and sees Waylon lying in the grass near the water.

"Don't pay them no mind, little man," he turns his back to Waylon, unbuttons his pants and pisses into the grass near the water.

"Hey, boy... Waylon," he calls over his shoulder, assuming that his friend is sleeping in the grass. "Hell, I guess you can't hold your liquor."

Before Jonah can button up, something in the creek catches his attention. He watches as Dancing Cloud rises from under the water, about ten feet from the shore. Her beautiful nude body glistens in the moonlight.

"Oh my God," his jaw slacked. "What have we here?"

She slowly, seductively slushes through the water to where he stands. Walks directly up to him. Caresses his face.

"You look like a little Indian girl I used to know," he is mesmerized by her appearance and, through his peyote-induced haze, doesn't quite recognize her as Dancing Cloud. "But, shit, y'all all look alike to me." He chuckles.

She smiles at him. Her right hand trails down to his crotch. She slips it passed the unbuttoned fly of his pants and grabs a handful of him.

Jonah is caught up in the pleasure of her breath on his neck and her grip on his manhood.

She kisses him.

He brings his hand to the back of her head and forcefully grabs her hair as he kisses her harder, more intensely. He stops. Looks at her, puzzled. Something soft, almost jelly-like, is squishing between his fingers at the back of her head.

A couple of days ago, when he shoved the barrel of his Howdah pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger, he gave her head an exit wound large enough to sink his fist into.

He pulls his hand away and looks at it. He is holding a clump of her brains, dripping with a blackish slime that is oozing from his grip.

He looks at her, puzzled, "What the fu..."

A hand reaches from behind Jonah and covers his mouth as two of Red Bear's decomposing warriors grab his arms. The stench of rotted flesh fills his nose. He's a bit lightheaded from it. He pukes through the fingers that cover his mouth.

Dancing Cloud holds up her right fist in front of Jonah's face. She snaps it open, extending her fingers. Like magic, black claws – three inches long and razor sharp – extend from her fingertips. Jonah's eyes nearly pop out of his head. He begins to struggle because he knows exactly where she's about to put them.

She slowly digs the claws into his crotch at the base of his manhood, sinking them deep into his flesh and the soft tissue of his groin.

Jonah tries to scream and struggles against the hold that the two warriors have on him; even his massive stature is no match for the inhuman strength of these walking corpses.

Dancing Cloud looks Jonah in the eyes with feigned passion as she shoves her hand deep into his flesh. Wrist deep. She smiles at his agony as she gives her wrist a twist, scrambling Jonah's innards deep inside his pelvic region.

His squirming is accompanied by endless, muffled screams. He's ready to pass out from the unbearable pain, when, with a quick yank, Dancing Cloud performs her own style of scalping: she rips Jonah's cock and balls from his body.

Jonah can feel the rush of his own, warm blood soaking his pants and running down both legs.

She holds her prize up to his face.

The dead men release their grip and Jonah falls to the ground. In shock to the point that he can't even scream, he can barely move. He tries to back away.

Dancing Cloud tosses his manhood over her shoulder. It splashes into the water of the marsh.

She steps toward him.

Jonah turns over and tries to crawl away.

Dancing Cloud pounces onto his back.

Under her dead weight, Jonah's blood curdling scream finally escapes his throat.

With black claws, now extending from both hands, she digs into his temples and rips his scalp away.
13

BIG RED, Chuck, Jordan are sitting around the fire.

Zack is teaching Jimmy the quick-draw.

Jonah's scream pierces the night air.

Zack and Jimmy instinctively aim their pistols in the direction of the scream.

"What the hell was that?" Chuck draws his pistol.

Big Red and Jordan arm themselves and look toward the creek.

Chuck takes a step toward the sound. "Jonah?" He calls out, scanning the cattails and trees. "Waylon?"

"Aw, man, they just fuckin' with us for razzin' on Waylon," Zack tries to convince everyone, including himself. "Right?"

"Y'all smell that?" Jimmy smells the air with quick sniffs, like a dog.

Jordan sniffs the air, "I smell rain comin'."

"Bullshit," Chuck inhales deeply and exhales quickly through his mouth. His nose crinkles. "I smell it, too. Like a dead animal."

"Yeah, me, too," Zack covers his nose with his shirt. "A shitload of 'em."

Without warning, a dozen of Red Bear's warriors rush the camp.

"Oh, Fuck!" Jimmy opens up with the first shot at one coming right at him. With barely any skin left on its rotting face, the corpse's head is mostly just a skull. The slug slams right into its cheekbone. The bone shatters, taking off half of its head in splinters and flesh.

The impact from Jimmy's bullet sends the dead thing spinning backward to the ground, but only for a second. It gets up, looks right at Jimmy with the only eye it has left. It rushes at Jimmy, again.

The rest of the gang opens fire in all directions. Charging corpses are hit with bullets, but none of flying lead stops the horde.

One warrior jumps onto Jimmy's back. The skullified corpse he shot slides up to his left leg and snaps the outlaw's knee like a twig.

Jimmy screams and falls. He is quickly dragged away into the forest by two more corpses.

Then, as quickly as they came, the army of dead warriors retreats into the forest.

The night falls deathly silent.

"Did you see that?" Zack tries to frantically reload his Colt. "I hit five of those fuckers and they kept comin'."

"Back to the cabin, now," Chuck leads the way to the horses.

"What about Jimmy?" Jordan scans the trees for his pal.

Jimmy's scream echoes through the forest.

The men huddle near their horses, scanning the tree for any more signs of their attackers.

Silently, from out of the trees, Jimmy's body sails through the air. It lands in the fire, sending up an explosion of glowing cinders and ash.

His scalped head is a disgusting mess of blood and bone, his left ear dangles by a thin strip of skin. His left eye socket is an empty void and exposed with the skin flapped open all the way down his cheek to his jaw bone. His body is still twitching and he moans as the fire consumes him. He burns alive.

"Fuck this! I gotta get the hell outta here!" Zack grabs the reins of his horse and mounts up.

Chuck and the rest of the gang do the same, "We need to get to the cabin! It's only about four miles from here. Let's ride!"

Echoing from the forest, the howling and yelping of the warriors surrounds them as they mount up.

"Wait, what about Jonah and Waylon?" Zack turns in his saddle, searching for them.

"You can stay and wait for 'em," Chuck kicks his horse into a full gallop.

Big Red and Jordan follow.

Zack takes another look at Jimmy's body, twitching and writhing in the campfire.

"Fuck that!" He takes off after the others.

They ride fast; faster than they ever thought their horses could carry them.

Chuck leads the way, followed by Big Red and Jordan, with Zack bringing up the rear.

The corpse warriors give chase, running after them through the trees and marsh, on either side and along the trail behind, with no signs of slowing down.

One warrior leaps onto a tree branch to Zack's right. Zack fires at it. The slug knocks the thing out of the tree.

Chuck catches a glimpse of a warrior to his right as it jumps at him. He ducks low and the corpse leaps over his head, scratching him across the back of the neck as it reaches for him.

Jordan is shooting randomly until he's out of rounds. He throws his gun away just as a dead warrior leaps from behind and snatches him off of his horse.

They are close to the edge of the swamp; up ahead is a large oak that serves as a landmark to the boundary separating the swamp from open, dry ground.

The remaining three outlaws race past the tree in a blur, as Red Bear steps from behind it. He watches them pass, holds up his right fist. The warriors stop their pursuit and stand with Red Bear, watching the three outlaws ride away across the open prairie, toward their hideout.

Red Bear knows their escape will lead him to Seth Granger

The outlaws are finally free from the confines of the surrounding forest. No more surprise attacks from a horde dead men leaping tree to tree. It's wide open terrain until they reach the swamp where their cabin is hidden.
14

THUNDER BEGINS TO ROLL as storm clouds that have been threatening to rain all evening finally gather in the sky above.

Several miles south of New Iberia, Chess has set up camp in a small clearing surrounded by trees. A small creek flows close by. The campfire burns low.

Chess is sitting against a tree, asleep.

He is awakened by the rumbling of the thunder and looks up at the sky and shakes his head slowly, "Louisiana weather, you're the worse."

He rubs his eyes, gets up, and walks to the nearby creek. He kneels at the water's edge. Splashes water on his face.

As he's rubbing his eyes, he looks up to see a dead body snagged on a fallen tree right in front of him. The body of a black man is bobbing in the water.

The sound of the thunder is getting closer as he reaches out over the water and grabs the arm, dragging the body to the shore.

The black man's skull, along with part of his brain, are exposed. He's been scalped.

Chess is pretty sure this is one of Seth's men.

"One less for me to deal with. Keep up the good work, whoever you are."

He leaves the body on the shore and walks back to the fire. He is opening his bag when his ears pick up the sound of movement among the trees.

Scanning the trees in the darkness, his nose picks up the stench of death, travelling on the breeze that meanders through the forest.

He draws one of his pistols, listening for more movement.

Another roll of thunder is accompanied by the sound of movement among the trees, barely audible under the rumbling in the sky.

Chess slowly walks away from his firelight and into near pitch black shadows of the trees.

PERCHED BEHIND a large pine tree, craning his neck around it to get a better look at the campsite, Deputy Dylan Manuel can see the fire, but, there's no sign of Chess.

"Where the hell did he go?"

A long, loud roll of thunder echoes through the forest and he slowly begins to stand to try for a better position. That's when he hears the SHA-CLICK of a Colt's hammer from behind.

Lightning fills the night sky and a clap of thunder makes his chest shutter as he hears a familiar British voice:

"I see the lost puppy followed me after all. I thought I told you to stay."

"I reckoned you could use my help," Dylan turns to face Chess. "Come on, did you really think I wouldn't follow you?"

Chess walks back to his campsite, "I don't have time to hold your hand, kid."

"You won't have to," Dylan follows, leading his horse by the reins. "I'm ready for this. I've been itching for a chance to do somethin' besides sit in that damned office all day or break up a fight at the bar. I want to be a marshal."

Dylan ties off his horse.

"You mean, when you grow up?" Chess chuckles at the thought.

"Hey, I'm 24 years old. I can learn a lot from you if you'll let me."

Chess sits against the tree and pulls his hat down over his eyes to rest some more, "How about learning to shut up so I can sleep, kid?"

Dylan rolls his eyes.

Lightning and thunder make another quick appearance as Dylan checks his gear. "Do you have any water? My canteen is empty."

Chess motions toward the creek with his thumb, "The creek is that way."

"Great. I'll be right back."

"Thank you, I'll sleep better knowing that."

Dylan makes a face at Chess, mocking him, then walks to the creek with his canteen.

Chess finally settles into the right spot against the tree when Dylan interrupts his solitude, again, running back to the campsite.

"Son of a bitch! There's a dead man over there."

"Yes," Chess doesn't move from under his hat.

"Well, what the hell is he doin' there?"

"Resting in peace. I envy him."

"You just gonna leave him there?"

"Yes."

Dylan begins to pace back and forth, "Well, I don't know if can sleep that close to a dead man."

"And I can't sleep this close to a blabber mouth. Shut the hell up!"

Dylan sits near the fire and sets his rifle next to him. He takes out a cloth and begins to clean his revolver.

Storm clouds continue to gather overhead, joined by more thunder and lightning.

"His scalp was missing," Dylan makes an attempt to justify his reaction to Noah's body. "It was a little disgustin'. Not that that kind of thing bothers me. I wasn't scared, just surprised, that's all."

He continues to clean his weapons, "Mom says I'd make a good marshal. Most stuff like that don't affect me. This one time, I had to carry a dead guy out of Mr. Channing's Hotel. I think he just keeled over in his sleep. Just some guy who was visitin' from out of town."

Chess says nothing. He just takes a deep breath and keeps the hat pulled over his eyes.

"I'll bet it's gonna rain like the dickens," Dylan continues, this time with a commentary on the weather. "We get some crazy weather down here. This one time it rained on one side of the street and the sun was shinin' on the other. Mom used to say that meant the devil was beatin' his wife."

"Jesus Christ, kid!" Chess throws his hat down and sits up. "Will you shut your damn hole for two seconds? I swear that mouth of yours could wake the dead!"

Just then, a putrid odor in the air catches the retired marshal's attention, again.

In a series of lightning flashes, as bright as daylight, the campsite and surrounding tree line are both lit up. And in that moment, Chess and Dylan can see that they are surrounded by Indians.

In the light of the fire, they can see that half of the warriors are nothing more than rotting corpses, some with bones and skeletal features in full view. Something isn't right, though. They're all standing as if they were still alive, but they shouldn't be.

"Jiminy," Dylan whispers as he scans the faces of the dead surrounding the camp. "I always thought that was just a figure of speech."

Chess gives him a look.

The two lawmen quickly get to their feet, side by side, with their guns drawn, facing in opposite directions, covering each other's backs: Chess with his two Colt revolvers and Dylan with his rifle.

The lightning continues to flash as the thunder screams at them in deafening claps.

Chess scans the faces of the surprise guests that are barely hidden in the shadows. Some of the faces are gruesome and near skeletal.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chess notices Dylan's nervous shaking. "Easy, kid."

"They look... dead," Dylan tries to keep his rifle trained on them one at a time, shifting his aim from one corpse to another. "What the hell's wrong with 'em?"

"Don't know, don't care."

"What do they want?"

"Why don't you ask them?"

Dylan decides to give it a try and begins to speak slowly, just in case the dead can't understand English, "What... do...?"

"Hey," Chess cuts him off. "Shut up. Just don't move and maybe they'll go away."

Another flash of lightning. It strikes a tree several feet into the forest in a shower of sparks. The tree bursts into flames. The sonic boom that accompanies the arc of electricity is nearly powerful enough to send Chess and Dylan to their knees.

As if cued by the lighting strike, the attack begins as the ten dead warriors rush the campsite, shouting war cries and howling as they come wickedly fast!

The rain that has been threatening to come down all evening finally begins to fall. Actually, it's a sudden and relentless downpour in heavy drops, creating a virtual curtain of water.

Chess and Dylan open fire.

Bullets are hitting the corpses.

The things keep coming. Not even head shots are keeping them down.

"Our bullets aren't stopping them!" Dylan works the lever and trigger on his rifle as fast as he can as the onslaught continues.

One rotted corpse gets close enough for him to bash it in the face with the butt of his rifle.

"No shit!" Chess, now out of bullets, pistol-whips one of the dead men as another jumps on his back. He grabs its boney arm and flips it off of him, leaving him holding the arm as it comes out of its socket. He quickly uses it to hit another corpse in the face as it comes at him.

None of the warriors are actually doing any harm, they are mostly running around and taunting the two men.

Red Bear steps out of the shadows, his long, black rain-soaked hair covering most of his face. The attack stops immediately as his warriors retreat into the forest, leaving their chief with the white men.

And, just as sudden, the rain stops its torrential downpour.

Chess and Red Bear lock eyes for a moment.

The mighty warrior chief slowly shakes his head from side to side, sending a clear message to Chess to stay out of the way. After a few seconds, Red Bear silently turns and disappears back into the shadows of the forest.

All is silent except for the rain drops falling from the leaves of the surrounding trees.

Chess and Dylan begin reloading their weapons.

"I guess we're lucky to be alive," Dylan shoves the cartridges into his rifle as fast as he can, in anticipation of the rotting warriors' return.

"They could have killed us long ago if they wanted to. They've been out here for a while." Chess finishes reloading his first pistol and holsters it.

"You saw 'em? You didn't say shit to me?"

The bounty hunter draws his other sidearm, ejects the spent cartridges and begins reloading it, "I could smell them."

"Well, if they weren't trying to kill us, why did they attack us like that?"

Chess stops what he's doing, and, with a start, snaps his head in the direction that Red Bear and his warriors fled. Something becomes clear to him. He runs back to the bank of the creek where he left the black man's body.

Dylan follows with his rifle cocked and ready to fire.

At the creek's edge, the body is missing. The body's drag marks in the mud are accompanied by two sets of footprints that disappear into the water of the creek.

"They took the body?" Dylan kneels next to the water's edge.

"Just like the fifth body at the LeBleu's place," Chess scratches his chin. "They weren't attacking us. It was a distraction." Another thought enters his mind. "Shit." Chess walks back to the campsite as he realizes what's happening.

"What?" Dylan follows.

"It wasn't just a distraction," Chess begins packing his waterlogged belongings onto his horse, "But a warning."

"A warning for what?" Dylan gets to his horse and shoves his rifle into its sheath hanging on his saddle.

"To back off."

"From what? Hunting Granger?"

"Yes! They want him."

"Good idea, because that was some pretty scary shit, just now. We should probably let them take him."

"Then, go home, kid," Chess hops up into his saddle. "I'm not losing a big payday to a bunch of dead Indians."

"You don't even know where they're going! How the hell do we track them in the dark?"

"We're all headed to the same place. Follow the stench," Chess kicks his horse into high gear and rides off through the trees toward Seth's cabin.

"Well, shit," the young deputy says to himself. "You wanted to be a marshal, Dylan," He climbs into his saddle. "Here's your chance." With a "Haa!", he kicks his horse into a gallop and follows Chess.

15

THE ONE-ROOM, slat-wood cabin sits on dry land in the middle of the marsh, surrounded on three sides by water. There are only two doors: one that comes in from the dry land in front and a back door that opens up to a small strip of dry land before dipping into the water. A couple of horses stand nearby, grazing on swamp grass.

The flickering light of a lantern glows in the front window - the cabin's only window.

Riding like bats out of hell, Chuck, Big Red and Zack arrive on their horses and come to a thunderous halt in front of the cabin.

Inside the cabin, Seth is sharing his bed with two women when the trio rushes through the door, interrupting Seth's little party.

Seth draws his Colt to confront the surprise guests.

Big Red, rifle in hand, takes up a position at the window.

"What the hell is wrong you?!" Seth lowers his gun when he recognizes his men. "Don't you assholes knock?!"

"We got a big problem," Zack begins to reload his pistol.

"Well, then get the guys together and handle it," Seth puts his gun away and goes back to kissing one of the women.

"They're all dead," Chuck is reloading his pistol, as well.

Seth ignores the woman when Chuck's reply sinks in. He notices that Zack and Chuck are reloading their weapons and Big Red is ready for action at the window.

"What the hell's goin' on?" he gets out of bed and puts his pants on. Seth looks at the women, still under the covers. "You two, out."

They sit up, huddled together, confused for a moment.

"Go, you whores!" Seth draws his Colt and grabs a handful of extra bullets, shoving them into his front pocket.

The women gather their things and leave quickly.

"We was attacked by Indians," Chuck finishes his reloading and stands near the window with Big Red.

"Those weren't Indians, man!" Zack takes up a position behind the stove. "They were something else. Not even bullets would stop those bastards."

"They wasn't 'something else', stupid," Chuck argues back. "Just a bunch of Reds kicked up on peyote."

"Bullshit! They ran like a pack of wild dogs!" Zack announces to Seth. "And a lot of 'em looked like someone dug they dead asses right outta the goddammed ground!"

"Alright!" Seth has heard enough. "Shut up! Both of you!"

There's an uneasy silence and a thick cloud of tension in the room, broken only by three words from Big Red:

"The Dead Reckoning." The big Navajo's eyes continue to scan the swamp outside the window.

Chuck, standing right next to him, switches his gaze from Big Red to Seth, then he shrugs in confusion.

Seth exchanges glances with Zack before looking back over to the Navajo warrior, "What?"

"It's an ancient curse of the early people of this land," Big Red begins to disarm himself of all of his weapons. "My father and the elders used to speak of it, long ago." He lets out a little chuckle. "I always thought they were only tales to scare children.

"The dead reckoning. A curse that raises the dead to exact revenge. Five generations ago, all of the elders from each tribal nation agreed that the curse would never be used again for fear of the dead revolting and reclaiming the world of the living.

"I thought the secret died ages ago. Looks like it survived. And someone has used it against us."

"Are you sayin' those crazy Reds out there are really Red Bear and his clan?" Chuck asks. "Bullshit! We killed them all."

"He's right, Red," Seth sits on the bed, putting his boots on. "I took down that big bastard chief, myself. Y'all wiped out the rest of 'em. No survivors."

Big Red takes his twelve-inch buck knife out and holds it up between himself and Chuck.

Chuck swallows hard with a loud 'gulp' when he sees the blade.

"We missed one," The Navajo warrior cuts his own hand. "The only man who can perform the dead reckoning is the shaman." He takes the blood from the cut on his hand and applies it to his own face like war paint.

"How the fuck do we stop 'em?" Zack peeks from behind the stove.

"Only the man who placed the curse can lift it." Red continues. "Only other way is to kill him. That will end the curse and the dead will fall where they stand."

"Okay. See?" Seth stands up from the bed. "Easy enough. In the morning we ride out to that village and we drop his ass."

"That ain't gonna happen," Red turns to face him.

"Oh yeah?" Seth steps towards his big companion. "Why not?"

"The dead have been brought back to the world of the living seeking revenge," Big Red walks to the front door. "There is no stopping them, no outrunning them. And, they will have no rest until they've hunted us all." He looks at his leader. "Even you."

The big Navajo opens the door. "Make your peace with your gods, now. You're all gonna die." Big Red leaves his weapons on the floor. Stabs his knife into the wall. Walks outside. Closes the door.

Zack looks at the other two outlaws, "What the fuck?"

"To hell with him and his damned ghost stories," Seth takes back control of the situation. "We'll be fine. They ain't gonna find us way out here."

Chuck and Zack look at each other sheepishly and Seth sees it. It's as if they're holding something back.

"What's that look for?" Seth slowly approaches Chuck and gets right in his face. "You fuckers led them to me. Didn't ya?"

"I- I just thought we'd be safer here."

Seth cocks his gun and puts up under Chuck's chin, "Get out there with Red."

Chuck stares into Seth's eyes and sees nothing but a crazy burning in them, "But, I..."

Seth puts his finger over Chuck's lips to shut him up, "You brought 'em, you go out there and help Red fight 'em."

Chuck slaps Seth's hand away from his mouth, "Red didn't go out there to fight."

OUTSIDE, in front of the cabin, Big Red is on his knees with his eyes closed in prayer as he sways back and forth.

A thick fog breezes in, still and quiet, and hovers over the water of the swamp.

Without a sound, the silent mob of Red Bear and his men emerge from the fog like ghosts and surround the Navajo warrior.

Big Red finishes his prayer, opens his eyes and looks at the dead Choctaw chief, who slowly nods at him, bidding him farewell from this life.

Two zombies, standing behind, Big Red grab his arms. He shakes them off and looks at Red Bear. The Navajo renegade bows his head, ready to accept his fate.

Red Bear stands over him and, in a blinding movement, he snaps the Navajo's neck.

Big Red falls to the ground, dead. The chief rips his scalp away in a bloody spray.

INSIDE THE CABIN, Seth is pacing, trying to decide what to do.

"We need to make a stand here," Chuck starts trying to barricade the front door.

"Are you crazy?" Zack finally steps out from behind the stove. "We better off on the run. I ain't dyin' here in Seth's hump shack."

Chuck sees a figure move quickly passed the window. He draws his pistol, "Too late for that, now. They're here."

All is quiet for a moment as the three outlaws train their weapons on the doors and the window.

"What the hell is that smell?" Seth grabs his shirt off the bed and covers his nose and mouth with it, trying to fend off the overwhelming stench.

"That's them," Zack pulls his shirt over his nose.

The corpses outside begin scratching at the walls of the cabin.

All three men open fire at the walls, punching bullet holes through the thin planks of wood.

The sound of footsteps on the roof catches Zack's attention and he empties his revolver overhead. "They're everywhere!"

The roof collapses and three warriors come down with it, landing on the floor. They waste no time in attacking Zack as one jumps on his back. He spins in circles trying to get it off, knocking over the lantern in the melee.

Fire spreads across the floor as Chuck and Seth shoot at the dead men that are attacking Zack.

"Stop shooting! Damn it, you're gonna hit me!" Zack shields his face from any stray bullets.

"You're bein' attacked by dead Indians and you're worried about a fuckin' bullet?!" Chuck's pistol clicks on an empty chamber, "Shit!"

Flames are crawling up one of the walls as two rotted warriors break through it and come at Chuck. Barely evading their grasp, he darts out the back door, across a short patch of dry land and splashes into the murky water of the swamp.

Wading through the knee deep water as fast as he can, Chuck finds himself out of luck when four warriors, that are more skeleton than anything, shoot out of the water around him. They come down on him, taking him under the surface.

INSIDE THE flaming cabin, Seth looks out the front window and sees his horse through the thick fog.

The front door explodes in a shower of splinters as Red Bear bursts through it. He stands in the doorway, a silent hulk of a figure. Fog seems to seep between him and the doorway, making its way into the cabin. From under the long, black hair that hangs in his face, the giant chief locks eyes with Seth.

The bullet holes Seth put in Red Bear's chest are ragged and dirty and caked with mud and gore. The leather strap that hangs around his neck, adorned with nine fresh scalps, tells Seth exactly what the chief has come to collect.

"Not tonight, chief!" Seth takes a running start and dives out the window as three more corpses break through the walls of the cabin, which is, now, halfway engulfed in flames.

Seth hits the ground and rolls a few feet before getting up and running to his horse, just as those three corpses, now in flames, burst from the cabin and run for him.

He jumps on his horse.

Kicks it into a hard gallop.

Red Bear spots Zack struggling with three of his warriors. The chief walks up to him, pins him against the burning wall and rips his scalp from his head before throwing him into the fire.

"Seth! Shoot me, dammit! Shoot me, goddam you!" Zack manages to scream as he burns to death.

Red Bear's warriors walk out the back door, with their chief following close behind, as the cabin collapses from the raging inferno.
16

THE FLAMING dead warriors are right behind Seth, they seem to have no problem keeping up with his galloping steed. Several more of Red Bear's warriors are running and leaping over tree stumps among the trees on both sides of him as he rides as fast as his horse will carry him.

His Colt 45 spits lead at any dead man he can see until he is out of bullets.

"Shit!"

From behind the cabin, now fading into the distance, Chuck lets out a horrific death scream as, no doubt, Red Bear takes his scalp, too.

Seth enters a small clearing, and thinks he's home free, when one of the smoldering, decomposing warriors leaps from a tree on his right, knocking him out of the saddle.

They both hit the ground and roll down a small embankment as a crowd of dead men emerge from the trees and follow.

Seth gets to his feet and is overwhelmed by the stench of death and burnt human flesh all over his clothing. His head swims a bit as he tries to fight the charred, raggedy warrior. The corpse's flesh has all but rotted away from its skeletal frame.

"You want this scalp? Come get it you smelly bastards!"

Several more warriors pounce from the surrounding trees and join the fight. They are toying with. But soon enough, the charred one leaps at him.

From somewhere nearby, a gunshot rings out and the charred one is knocked to the ground.

Seth turns to see a young man on a horse, cocking his rifle for another shot. The outlaw is so distracted by the sight of Dylan that he doesn't see Chess ride up behind him and leap from his horse.

They both fall to the ground as the bounty hunter tackles Seth, nearly knocking the wind out of the outlaw.

Dylan shoots another warrior. And another. And another, until and they all retreat back into the swamp.

Chess and Seth get to their feet and square off.

Seth recognizes his attacker. "Colonel Jamison?" He laughs. "Now, I've seen some strange shit tonight, but I never expected you."

"I'm taking you in, Granger."

"You are? What are you, the law, now? I don't see no badge on your chest, asshole."

"I should have seen you hanged a long time ago."

"And I should have killed you back then when I had the chance!" He tries to circle Chess. "You humiliated me. Made me out to be a coward for doing my job!"

Seth rushes Chess and takes him to the ground.

Chess plants an elbow in Seth's face and gets to his feet as the outlaw lies on the ground holding his bleeding nose.

"You murdered civilians!" Chess kicks him in the ribs.

Seth rolls onto his back, "I killed the enemy." He gasps, catching his breath.

"I'm taking you in, you sack of shit. You're going answer for every life you've ever taken."

Looking up from the ground at Chess, Seth spots the bounty hunter's horse with his gun belt hanging from the saddle. He'll have to get passed the Brit to get to it.

Seth rolls out of reach and gets to his feet, grabbing handful of dirt as he rises.

Chess steps toward him as Seth flings the dirt in his face.

The bounty hunter reels from the stinging pain in his eyes and is met with more pain as the outlaw lands several punches to his head and body.

As Chess staggers away, Seth rushes to the bounty hunter's horse. But, his plan is cut short when Dylan shoots him in the leg, knocking him to the ground.

The young deputy chambers another round and takes aim.

Before he can pull the trigger, Chess staggers in between them, facing Dylan.

"No! Don't kill him, dammit!"

Dylan lowers his rifle.

Seth scrambles to his feet, reaches Chess' horse. He draws the pistol from the holster that is hanging on the saddle.

He fires once.

The bullet punches Dylan in the right shoulder, knocking him from his horse. He hits the ground, smacking his head on a log. He doesn't move.

"NO!!!" Chess turns to face Seth.

Seth trains the Colt on Chess and smiles an evil grin. "'Don't kill him', you say?" He wipes the blood from his nose. "So, how much am I worth? If it's less than ten grand I'll be greatly insulted."

Chess doesn't say a word.

"Nothin' to say, now?" The killer laughs. "It was nice knowin' ya, asshole. Tell the devil he'll have to wait for me a little longer."

Seth extends the Colt, pulling back the hammer.

Chess quickly makes a move to one side, hoping to evade the shot.

Seth fires.

Chess' head snaps backward. He spins and falls, face first, into the water behind him.

Seth takes one last look at the bounty hunter, floating among the moss and water lilies, and spits at him.

"Next time bring an army, you British bastard." He chuckles. He turns to take the horse and finds himself surrounded by Red Bear and his army of decomposing warriors.

Red Bear approaches him in large, menacing strides.

Seth backs away while he empties the Colt into the charging Choctaw. Only, this time, the towering chief keeps coming, unaffected by the bullets.

Red Bear grabs the outlaw by the neck, picks him up, and throws him to the ground at the feet of his warriors.

"Get away from me!" Seth swings at them as they surround him. "I'm warning ya, get back, you bunch of red skinned devils!"

Two of them grab his arms, lashing leather straps around wrists, tying them together.

"You son of a bitch! Let me go!" Seth can see that hostility is not the best tactic and decides to change his tune.

As Red Bear approaches, the outlaw tries to reason with him, "Look, Chief, I was wrong. Okay? I was just trying to keep y'all in line, that's all." He smiles at the big chief. "Hey, how about I tell ya where we hid the coins and you let me go. Eh? Deal?"

Red Bear holds up the small leather satchel filled with the gold coins he took back from each member of the Dozen. He jingles it in Seth's face.

"Fuck you!" Seth spits at him. "Fuck all y'all sacks of horse shit! You can't kill me! I'll be back just like you and I'll skin every one of you red bastards!"

Red Bear just stares at him with lifeless, coal-black eyes. He slams his big fist down on top of Seth's head, knocking the asshole unconscious.

17

SETH STIRS and slowly and opens his eyes. He is looking straight into the clear, night sky.

He is lying on his back, naked on the muddy ground, tied by his hands and feet to four stakes in the ground. It doesn't take him long to realize the position in which he's found himself. He struggles to get free.

"What the hell?" He cranes his neck to get a look around. By the light of two large bonfires, he sees that he is surrounded by more than a few fresh mounds of mud. He knows what they are: shallow graves.

Beyond the graves, standing all around him, are Red Bear, Dancing Cloud, and the rest of the horde of dead warriors. Now, he knows where he is: back at Red Bear's village.

From behind the haggard group of corpses, an old man approaches. He's the only one who doesn't look like he's been dead for a decade, though, to Seth he looks like he's not far from death's door himself.

Tall Feathers walks up to Seth. The outlaw remembers what his Navajo friend told him in the cabin about the Shaman's curse of the dead reckoning.

"You? You did this?" Seth spits at him. "You ancient sonofabitch, let me go. Now!"

Tall Feathers leans in close to Seth. Holds out a hand. Blows a white powder from his hand into Seth's face. Steps away, chanting as he takes his place next to the chief.

Seth coughs and spits after ingesting some of the powder.

Something under the mud beneath the naked outlaw begins to move.

"What the fuck?" He tries, again, to free himself.

The loose mud and clay of the shallow graves begins to stir. Slowly, several hands emerge from the mounds of mud all around Seth.

"Wha- What the hell is that?" He turns his head from side to side, trying to get a better look while squirming against the ropes to get away.

Ten of his own men pull themselves out of their shallow, wet graves and crawl toward him; the grisly sight of their bony, muddy skulls is enough to make him scream with fright.

They all claw their way toward him.

"Wait! Wait! Stop!"

The pain comes swift and relentless as his own men begin to rip him apart. Their fingernails have become elongated claws. They tear at his exposed flesh, opening deep gashes and jagged, bloody gouges.

Blood beings to spray from Seth's right arm, as Billy rips his artery wide open.

Each man displays inhuman strength as their hands grip and deliberately begin to break their leader's bones. There is an enormous pressure on his left leg and feels it break at the knee as Jonah bends Seth's own foot to his stomach.

Seth's throat is becoming raw from all of his screaming. He feels as though he can't scream anymore as his limbs are ripped from their sockets.

For several long minutes, the bastard screams, begging for mercy.

Massive blood loss seems to have become his saving grace, he feels himself about to pass out. But, the dead reckoning won't let him off so easily. It has one more nasty treat for him.

The ground beneath Seth moves, again. Big Red's massive Navajo arms shoot out of the ground on either side of his head. Finding their way to Seth's eye sockets, the dead renegade's claws dig in, getting a grip on the flesh of the eyelids and unleashing a river of blood as they dig into the outlaw's eyes. Every fiber of flesh is broken and Seth feels the blood run down the side of his face, clogging his ears, as Big Red slowly rips his scalp away.

As the slow and agonizing death consumes him, Seth delivers one final scream into the night.

Epilogue

_IN THE STILLNESS_ of the swamp, there are only sounds of the typical kind. Crickets are playing their music. Frogs are croaking their songs. Morning has come to the community of marshland creatures and creepy, crawling things.

Dylan is lying in the midst the morning's activity. He begins to stir a bit. The log that put his lights out before is now just an uncomfortable pillow. He slowly lifts his head from it and looks around as he sits up.

A light mist hovers over the green water of the swamp. A couple of ducks flutter in the water. A frog leaps into the drink, frightened by Dylan's movement.

The left side of his head is aching and caked with dried blood. His arm is throbbing from the pain of the bullet's impact. The sleeve of his shirt sticks to him from the dried blood of the wound. The slug from Seth went clean through.

Dylan gets himself together. When his head stops spinning, he stands up.

That's when he sees Chess near a rotted tree stump. The bounty hunter is silent and still, lying on his stomach with his legs in the water. It looks like he dragged himself halfway out of he water and passed out right there.

Dylan slowly staggers to the retired marshal. Turns him over onto his back. The side of the former lawman's head has been grazed by a bullet that opened a nasty gash, now, just a mess of dried blood. He is unconscious and weak, but alive.

Puzzled, the deputy looks around, but nobody else is in view. There is no sign of the outlaw, Seth Granger. No Chief Red Bear. No walking dead Indians. Even the stench of death is gone. There is nothing but him, Chess and their horses.

Still a bit dazed, Dylan slowly walks to his horse. He greets the steed with a gentle hand on the muzzle. He returns his rifle to its saddle-mounted holster. Finds his canteen in the saddlebag. Takes a deep drink. Rubs his eyes and takes another look around. Still puzzled. He wonders how long they been lying here. He's lost track of the days.

Was it all a dream? It couldn't have been. His bullet wound and the pain in his head are both very real.

It takes almost all of his strength, and the better half of an hour, for the deputy to load Chess onto his horse, laying him across the saddle and lashing him to it with some rope.

Afterward, he climbs into his own saddle. With one more glance around, Dylan grabs the reins of Chess' horse and begins the journey home.

OTHER BOOKS BY CLIVE CARPENTER

