Deadlands - Doomtown.pdf - Deadlands wersja angielska - sagitax

Doomtown:

First Story Arch

Story’s written by: Rob Vaux, Frank Bustamante, Steve Crow,

John Goodrich, and Tony Williams

Table O’ Contents

Forward

………. 3

Slide Shows, Gomorra, and Other Freak Attractions

Separations of Church and Soul

Alamo Redux

How to Get Ahead in Gomorra Without Really Trying

Finders Keepers

The Fightin’ Life of Arizona Jane

Introduction

………. 3

Episode 1, 2 & 3

………. 5

Revelations

………. 51

Just Another Fish Story

Executioner’s Regrets

Negotiations

Full Circle

Final Justice

The McCrackens’ Last Stand

Dangerous Game

Tempest

Cheaters Never Prosper

Bookworm

Final Assault

A Wilderness of Tigers

Episode 4

………. 9

Episode 5

………. 10

I’ll Met By Moonlight

Episode 6

………. 12

Corky’s Day at the Office

Episode 7

………. 14

Opening Salvo

An Argument Over Nothing In Particular

* * * *

Episode 8

………. 16

Aftermath

………. 74

A New Kind of Order

Ignis et Sanguis

Ticket to Ride

Episode 9

………. 18

The Smoke Clears

………. 84

An Open Mind

Sam’s Little Secret

Odds and Ends

Scorched Earth

Interlude

………. 23

Last Dance Before an Execution

A Light Snack

Mouth of Hell

………. 26

Friends and Promises

Street Justice

Traitors

Envy of All the Girls

Reaping of Soul’s

………. 36

A Snowball From Hell

A Game of Pool

Turn of the Cards

Forward

By Rob Vaux

Evenin', stranger. Why don't ya pull up a stool, an' make yerself

comfortable. My name's Charlie Landers; I sling whisky 'round these

parts, and I got enough sense ta keep my eyes open and my mouth

shut. Which means I kin tell ya just about anythin' you want to know

about the town of Gomorra here.

I bet yer figurin' to waltz in here and take over, ain't ya? Ya got that

look in yer eye that says you wanna be king o' the hill. Not that I

blame ya. There's enough money flowing through this place ta choke a

Rockefeller, and whoever's in charge is gonna get a hefty chunk of it.

That's reason enough ta make a play fer controllin' it. But before ye

start electin' yerself mayor - before ya bite off morea this town than

ya kin chew - there's a few things about it ya oughta know. Gomorra

ain't the safest place in Creation, an' if ya don't have a good idea what

yer gettin' into, it'll kill you quicker'n frostbite in January.

Yes sir, Gomorra, California. The biggest, baddest snake pit in the

Great Maze. Lyin' on top of more ghostrock than anyone's ever seen,

and full of every gunslinger, bushwhacker and con artist lookin' ta

cash in on it. Didn't start out like that, though.

In the beginning, it was just another pile o' scrub brush on the edge

of the desert, home to snakes and coyotes and not a whole lot else.

Back then, there was just one guy who wanted ta be out here, and

everyone thought he was crazy as a sewer rat. Called himself

Humphrey Walters, and he claimed that a vision had brought him out

there. He bought up a big plot o' worthless land, built himself a little

shack - smack dab in the middle o' nowhere, ya understand - and

settled down in it like a king in his castle. The few folk who passed by

asked what he was doin' out there. "Waitin'" was all he ever said. And

fer a few years, it stayed that way, just him and the snakes bakin' in

the California sun.

Then the Big Quake hit and the scenery changed a bit. Instead of a

desert, Walters found himself on the edge of the Great Maze - an' on

top of the biggest ghost rock lode anyone had ever seen. It was right

there, practically on top of his shack, and it didn't seem like there was

any end to it. All of a sudden, his empty little patch of desert got real

crowded, as anybody with two hands an' a shovel came lookin' fer

their little bit of paradise. The boom town sprung up overnight like

most boomtowns do, and since most o' the land belonged to Walters

anyway, they asked him to name it. He called in Gomorra, like in the

Bible, only spelled a little different on accounta it bein' the city God

destroyed an' all. Some of the church goin' folk raised a fuss 'bout it,

but the name stuck and our little burg was on the map.

The year is 1878, but the history is not our own. The Civil War

grinds on, neither side able to establish a clear advantage. A huge

earthquake dropped California into the sea, forming an amazing

labyrinth of sea-canyons known as the Great Maze. The Sioux Nations

have reclaimed the Dakotas. The Coyote Confederation dances the

Ghost Dance on the High Plains. Monsters stalk the deserts and prowl

the dark streets of the boomtowns. And the dead walk among us.

This is the world of Deadlands. In 1863, a vengeful Indian shaman

named Raven released the manitous - demons which had been

imprisoned in the Hunting Grounds for centuries. With the manitous'

return came a flood of supernatural energy and the awakening of the

Reckoners. These mysterious beings use fear to create Deadlands on

earth - areas where humanity's terror is so great it actually warps the

land itself into twisted reflections of itself.

The manitous and other monsters that roam the Weird West

create fear for the Reckoning, though to what sinister end they work

has yet to be revealed.

But where there are monsters, there are also heroes. These brave

souls are hex-slinging hucksters, Bible-thumping preachers, deadly

gunfighters, fearless Indian braves, wizened shamans, and mad

scientists armed with weird steampunk gadgets.

Gomorra, the town some call Doomtown, is a place in dire need of

such heroes. A huge vein of ghost rock - an amazing superfuel that

was discovered in the Great Maze - was struck in Gomorra, turning it

into a boomtown overnight.

The miners search the twisting caverns of chip away at the faces

of the Maze's towering mesas in search of the ghost rock, a substance

more precious than gold. After them come bartenders and soiled doves,

outlaws and law dogs, politicians and other hard-bitten folk, all

desperate to fleece the miners of the rock they spend their days

scratching out of the unforgiving canyon walls.

Gomorra's a hard place for hard people, and most that come to

town these days seem to leave it in a pine box.

That's why they call it Doomtown.

Introduction

Like everything though, Gomorra was destined fer some rough times.

It started with Walters, who went out in the Maze one day and came

back ravin' like a loon. They asked him what was wrong, an' he only

said "the rocks... the rocks is screamin' at me..." Some folks thought he

The Big Setup

was fakin' it; they said that the screamin' rocks musta been ghostrock

and that he had found the mine ta end all mines out there. Other

people said he was nuts all along an' that this was just the result of

too many years in the sun. But whatever the reason, the town founder

had gone, an' his fortune went with him. He's still around these days -

pan handlin' and occasionally rantin' 'bout the end of the world. People

keep him fed, and make sure he stays out of trouble, which some say

is the charitble thing ta do. Me, I think they're hopin' he knows

somethin', that his screamin' rocks 're the biggest damn ghostrock lode

ever, an' that if they keep him around long enough, he's gonna tell

them where ta find it. As long as it keeps the poor bastard fed, I

suppose it's okay.

Gomorra's problems didn't end there, though. With Walters' property

up fer sale, there was a bit of a panic ta snatch up everything he had.

The lion's share went ta the Sweetrock Mining Co., a firm back east

with a big interest in "developing Gomorra's resources." Meanin' they

grabbed everything they could git their hands on and set about

running the rest into the ground. When the dust settled, they had most

of the bigger mines, a fair chunk of the town proper, and the docks.

They git twenty cents of every dollar that comes through here, and

ship out the ghost rock like it was goin' outta style. I hear tell they're

even plannin' on settin' up their own rail line, which oughta be

interestin'. In any case, they're closer than anyone else to ownin'

Gomorra outright. They've certainly put a "civilized" veneer on things -

hotels, saloons, a dispatch station - makin' this place look like a town

insteada just a miner's camp. But don't go thinkin' they're on the side o'

the angels. Sweetrock's front man, Howard Findley, don't take kindly to

folks that git in his way, and people who complain about the

company's strongarm tactics have a tendency to disappear permanent-

like.

With that in mind, it ain't a big surprise that Sweetrock's got more'n a

few enemies around here. Rival businesses, miners they run out -

anybody they've flattened on their way ta makin' a buck. Most of 'em

do their best ta stay afloat - figgerin' that any money they make's not

goin' ta Sweetwater. But one gent's not happy with just shavin' their

profits: he wants ta bleed 'em til they cry uncle. His name's Jackson -

don't know if it's his first er last name, no one's ever said - and he's

got a chip on his shoulder the size o' Texas. Jackson was a miner, an

independent operator who hit upon a pretty solid hunk o' ghost rock

out in the Maze. Most independents 're too small fer Sweetrock ta

notice, but Jackson's claim was a corker by God. When Sweetrock

heard about it, they didn't waste any time - seized the deed, claimed it

was part o' one o' their veins an' moved their people right on in. They

even sent a gang o' thugs to roust Jackson outta his hole. That may a'

been their big mistake.

Y'see Jackson's got the fastest hands anyone's ever seen, and he don't

take kindly to bein' pushed. He left his claim all right, but not before

puttin three o' Sweetrock's boys into the ground and promisin' he'd be

back fer more. He found himself a hideout out in the Maze somewhere

and started hirin' on help fer his new project - stickin' it ta Sweetrock.

Most o' the guys he got're scum - two-bit outlaws with nuthin' more

than a quick buck on their minds. But Jackson - they called him Black

Jack now - he's got enough brains to make up fer it. They started by

hittin' a Sweetrock shipment outside o' town. Then they robbed an

executive comin' out here ta see the operation. I heard they even sunk

a couple o' cargo ships out in the Maze. Black Jack and his gang are

makin' themselves right unpopular with the Sweetrock folks. The

feud's been escalatin' ever since, and it's gonna get real ugly before it's

all said n' done.

Which brings us to Gomorra's vaulted sheriff's department. Lord

Almighty, I don't envy those boys - tryin' ta keep Black Jack and

Sweetrock from flattenin' each other and the town while they're at it.

Sheriff Coleman's a good enough fella, and he does his best to keep a

lid on the town, but it ain't easy. The Sheriff used to be a miner ye see,

operatin' outta one of Sweetrock's big shafts. Sweetrock figures that

makes him one of them. But the Sheriff, he don't take kindly to bein'

ordered around, and he's made it clear that he ain't at their beck and

call. It gets a burr under their saddles, that's fer sure, but there's not a

whole lot they kin do about it. He stays away from their operations -

so long as they follow the letter o' the law -and keeps things as

orderly as he can around town. That's enough to keep Sweetrock from

makin' an issue out of it; that and the fact that Black Jack's convinced

he's nuthin' more than a toadie fer the mining company, and treats him

as such. With Jackson's gang raising thirty kinds o' hell, plus the

normal ruckus a half-wild mining town can raise, it's enough to keep

Coleman off Sweetrock's back.

And what're the sheriff and his deputies like to the rest of us? That

depends on who ya ask. Most people like Sheriff Coleman, as long as

he's not draggin' 'em off to jail. He's got an easygoin' way about him,

and tends ta make folk feel a little safer when he's around. His chief

deputy, though, that's another story. Nash Bilton, from San Francisco

before it got sunk, or so he claims. That man's like forty miles o' bad

road. He's the sort who puts law n' order above right n' wrong, and he

ain't shy about bustin' heads ta make his point. As long as Coleman's

around, Bilton stays more er less under control, but give him a free

reign and he'll run roughshod all over this town. He doesn't watch

himself, he's gonna end up on the end of a rope.

No town like Gomorra is ever complete without its wild cards. Here,

we got a whole group of 'em - the Distinguished Collegium of

Interspacial Physics. They started out small, arrivin' in little groups o'

one er two. Scientists, perfessers, inventors hopin' ta bring us a better

tomorrow - they come to the ghostrock like flies ta honey. All of 'em

got their latest gadgets in tow, gadgets which won't work without a

steady supply of the rock. Like attracts like, I always say, and pretty

soon those ones and twos had formed their own union. A whole mad

scientists brigade, complete with a meeting hall and dues. They claim

they need ta stick together in order to stay safe. "Lookin' out fer their

own interests," they say. I don't know about that, but the contraptions

they have're more than enough to keep most folks away. What's worse

than a guy with a ghostrock powered death ray? Twenty of 'em, all

lookin' out fer each other. Makes me shiver just thinkin' about it.

Thankfully, they don't cause nearly as much trouble as they

could.They're a secretive bunch, that's fer sure, and they don't like

busybodies pokin' in their little projects, but they ain't lookin' fer

trouble. As long as the ghostrock supply stays steady, and they're left

alone ta do their work, they tend ta let folks be. Fer now, at least.

So what's the problem? The problem is that everyone else is

eyeballin' their gizmos, thinkin' that their Geocosmic Doohickey is just

what they need to settle an old score. If Sweetrock, Black Jack, or any

old lunatic lookin' ta get even ends up with a Collegium gadget... the

ante gets upped fer the whole town. Or even worse, they decide they

don't like somebody and wanna ace him themselves. An arms race is

the last thing Gomorra needs, and the Collegium's in a position to give

it to 'em - at the very least. If Gomorra's a pile of dynamite, then these

guys are a lit match, which makes 'em more dangerous than anyone

else combined. Be thankful that their noses 're buried in their

inventions; I hope ta God they never look up.

So there 'tis in a nutshell, the town of Gomorra California. Sure,

there's plenty o' reasons ta stick around: we got money, noteriety and

the best damn bartender in the west if I say so myself. The ghostrock

flows like a river, and from what I hear tell, we haven't even hit the

biggest lodes yet. If there's somethin' you want, Gomorra's probably got

it.

But ye ain't gonna get any of it without a price, a price most folks

can't begin ta pay. Ye gotta fight off a hundred other hoods and

cowpokes lookin' ta make their name. Things 're as bad here as I've

ever seen, and they're only gonna git worse. It's only a matter of time

before Gomorra goes up like one o' them Chinese firecrackers.

Think ya kin take this town? Finish yer drink, buddy. Yer gonna need

it.

Episode 1,2 &3

Episode 1-3

by Rob Vaux

The doors to the Fat Chance Saloon exploded outward into the

afternoon sunshine. A fat man with a tin star on his vest flew into the

street and collapsed in an ungainly heap beside a ripe pile of horse

apples. His opponent sauntered slowly after him, a tall black man with

the easy grace of an accomplished fighter. The stout figure staggered

to his feet, his piggy eyes red with booze.

"Black Jack Jackson," he slurred. "I'm playshing you unner arrest fer

ashaultin' an offisher of the law."

Jackson stood in the doorway. "Sure you are, Johnny," he said

quietly. "Just like Sheriff Coleman will fire you for drinking on duty."

The fat man stopped as the comment sunk in. He swayed back

and forth with a Herculean effort to remain on his feet. Finally, he

lowered his head and turned away from the saloon.

"Thish ain't the end of it," he growled.

"Of that you can be assured," his opponent replied. Pulling a neat

black handkerchief from his leather vest, he sauntered back into the

saloon. The impossibly small bartender continued polishing glasses, his

squashed face swinging between amusement and anger.

"Charlie," Jackson asked, "why do you waste perfectly good

whiskey on a slug like Templeton?" The tiny man shrugged. "His

money's good. And in here, he ain't buggin' anyone but me."

"And me."

"Yeah, I can see that." He gestured at a pile of broken glass on the

floor. "Yer payin' fer that whiskey bottle, by the way."

Jackson tossed a silver coin on the bar and cocked his hat back.

"Think he'll come back?"

"I wouldn't bet on it. Boy had enough rotgut in him to kill a horse."

"A shining example of our town's law."

The bartender stopped his polishing and leaned over toward

Jackson. His misshapen left hand flopped uncomfortably next to him.

"Now don't go condemnin' the law on accounta that skunk's butt

of a deputy. The rest do a good job o' keepin' the peace 'round here."

Jackson's face was unchanged. "They're in Sweetrock's pocket, all

of them. There isn't a real law here anymore than there's a real mayor

or town council. Just the mining company and the people they've

bought."

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