Prelude

September 1874,

        It was only the middle of September and already a blanket of snow had washed over the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, rendering the small, squat city of Jackson a ghostly, spectral version of itself sat square in the heart of a cloud of swirling white. As night drew onward, the city fell into a listless slumber, only a few gaunt figures trailing through midnight streets, warming themselves with near empty bottles of whisky and rum, ready to drink themselves into a stupor when the storm hit. They would’ve done anything to escape what was coming for them. At this point, everyone in every corner of the world knew that things were changing, knew that the past had tossed far and wide out the window and was now left to the vultures as carrion and drying bones.

Now, in 1874, near ten years out of the shadow of the civil war, the gears of the industrial machine were turning round and round and everyone seemed braced for the world to explode, or turn on its head, or do something. Anything. In the American West it was the age of the mining man, and the man that owned the most land was the king. It was the age of the gold tycoons, the railway lords, and those poor bastards who worked for them

        And now, as the snow fell over Jackson and the rest, a nugget of gold was about up there with the Bible itself as America’s most prized possession. And the man who owned the most gold was more than even the man upstairs could reckon with. But this isn’t a story about those mining tycoons and their gold. Well, not really. It’s a story about those Gods, or them more than Gods, and what happens when they bleed. And it starts here in Jackson, Colorado in the middle of September and the snow’s already a-falling.

        With the wind whipping as fiercely as a lion’s roar just outside, the tavern was the most popular place in the square. In fact, at this late an hour, it wasn’t starving out its lonely hours, but feasting on an endless platter. The place was bustling, a joint of warm orange light and stained floorboards, sticky with the smell of sweet amber ale in the lofty air, seats so filled that the drunks packed themselves shoulder to shoulder, swaying under the gently rocking moose antler chandeliers, spewing sick over the counter, and drinking themselves till their senses went numb. It was a veritable cesspool of whoring and decadence that the undertaker, Timothy Capperton, could not have found more appalling.

        He sat by the bar, singled out only by his lonesome perch upon one of the stools, smoking the most extravagant pipe one had ever laid eyes upon. To no one did he speak, and to very few did he even glance. Capperton was not here on a matter of enjoyment, for there was nothing he could’ve enjoyed less than immersing himself amongst the lowest scum of the city, the night dwellers indulging in their sex and their intoxication. No, Timothy Capperton was at the tavern on a matter of business, and it was no small matter at that. There were things at stake. While the very worst of the city marked their scent at the watering hole and spent their night oblivious to the world about them, the undertaker busied himself playing a very quiet, and precise game of mental chess.

        Across the room, veiled in a curtain of smoke, there sat a young man of charming looks, with a thin pencil moustache and a funny little southern drawl that all the girls found devastatingly attractive. Some of the fawning girls were so infatuated even, Capperton wondered if they would cut their usual rates in half for the man’s pleasure.

        “Him,” the undertaker finally asked to the bartender, in a voice gravelly and restrained, perhaps because he was masking the contempt just underlying the surface. He wagged his finger across the room. The bartender looked up from filling a glass and turned his attention to Capperton. “That man in the corner with the moustache and all the whores.” Capperton gestured with the end of his pipe. “Do you know him?”

        “Sure,” the man behind the bar said, setting down the glass with such fervor Capperton was sure the counter would split. “I know him. Comes in here every night he gets off from driving. Name’s Markus, if I ain’t mistaken.” He scratched his whiskers. “Markus Dane.”

        “Driving?” Capperton asked, sucking absentmindedly at his pipe. “And what does this Markus Dane drive?”

        “He’s got himself a stage coach route,” the bartender said.

        “A stage coach you say?” Capperton wondered, now drawing a figure in a puddle of spilled ale on the counter. When he pulled his finger away, it smelled ripe and citrusy. A crooked smiling face was left looking up at him from the counter. “Where does he drive to?”
        “Oh, all up along the mountains, way I hear it,” bartender said listlessly, now looking up at the cracks in the ceiling. A few men lumbered over to the bar and ordered more hooch. When he was done filling their glasses, the bartender returned to his thought. “There are half a dozen or so little squatter cities up ‘long the backside of the mountains you see. Markus, he drive up ‘em and there’s a stop in each one of ‘em. So he goes, picks up who is wantin’ to come an’ is willing to pay for it, and drives ‘em where they needin’ to go. Think he heads all the way to Charleston, that is if I ain’t mistaken.”

        “Charleston, you say?” Capperton wondered aloud.

        “That’s right,” the bartender said, draping a grimy towel over his shoulder. “Charleston. Little city in the shadow of the mountains. Real small. Real sweet. It’s right under that city with that sort of Spanish sounding name. Never could remember what it was called. Right by where Amaro Jones used to have all his mines.”

        “Ciudad de Roja,” Capperton answered.

        “Come again?”

        “The city with the Spanish name,” Capperton nodded, growing increasingly tired of the man’s blunt stupidity. “You said there was a city with a Spanish name near the mines. That city is Ciudad de Roja. City of red.”

        “Right. Yeah, that do sound just about right,” the bartender finished in a blunt way of ending the conversation. Capperton understood. There was no more to be said, so the undertaker rose from his stool and picked his way across the tavern, gnawing at the end of his pipe, making little indentations in the wood with his teeth. The veil of smoke parted as he drew nearer to this Markus Dane, and the scent of sweat and coppery blood filled his nostrils.

With each footfall, the sound of Dane’s drunken proliferations grew more apparent. “Should’a seen his face, you should’a. Stumblin’ around, so far gone he weren’t sure which way were up an’ which way were down. An’ can you imagine it? Man so drunk he could hardly stand on his own two feet an’ he wanted to duel me? Needless to say, that poor cock sobered up real fast when I plugged a bullet in his fat tuckus.”

        The whores offered up a chorus of laughter.

Amidst the ruckus, Capperton appeared, a spectral figure with two luminous charcoal eyes that fell directly into line with Markus’. “May I join you?” he asked, decidedly ignoring the flock of women that crowded about the mustachioed gentlemen, draped over the side of his chair, hands caressing his chest. Capperton gestured to an empty chair opposite.

        “Well, I’m sorry but I was just talkin’ here to these lovely ladi—”

        “They can go,” Capperton said and he took the seat, sliding it against the tile floor, the sound grating and irritating. It garnered the response he wanted. Many of the women took leave and went to search the pockets of the other drunkards. Only a few lingered, and they lingered in the shadows, curiously, like mice. Markus Dane watched them go, giving a final, sad fleeting glance to some.

        “Sir,” Markus said as he slumped into his chair. “Is there something the matter?”

        “In a way, there is always something the matter,” Capperton said and he blew a plume of smoke into Markus’ face, pulling his chair as close as he could to that of the stagecoach driver. “I hear you are a stagecoach driver, no?”

        “I am,” Markus said tentatively, bringing a frothing mug to his lips. Some of the liquid splashed down his unkempt lapel. “Tonight is my night off, sir.” He dabbed the stuff off of his shirt. “If you don’t mind, would you maybe tell me who I have the pleasure of addressing?”

        “Not just yet, Markus Dane.” The shutters on the windows clapped unexpectedly, rattled by the chorus of wind whisking through the building. Dane leapt in his chair, eyes blinking rapidly and furiously as though he were a frightened rabbit. Capperton knew his type. The stupid look on his blank and unwitting face spoke volumes to the naivety of his nature. “I like to keep people on their toes.”

        “Well, sir, you have me on mine,” Dane said, his eyes humorless.

        Capperton exhaled a stream of smoke. “You are a stagecoach driver.”

        “Yes.”

        “I hear you go to Charleston, no?” The pipe sputtered and died in his hands, leaving only a wisp of gray leaking upwards into the cloud above.

        “That’s right,” Markus Dane said. “That’s my route.”

        “You drive a lot of people to Charleston?” Capperton flicked a piece of string from his pants, ran a finger through the thick tangles of his black beard. His question seemed to have given Dane pause, so he clarified. “You see a lot of faces?”

        “I suppose I do,” Dane agreed, though his eyes were slanted, suspicious.  

        “Well, I’m looking for one particular pair of faces,” Capperton said. He pulled two drawings from the insides of his coats, little charcoal sketches he’d scribbled into pieces of parchment. “And I was wondering if you might be able to help me find them.”

        “I misunderstand,” Markus Dane laughed, his little round cheeks bright and red in the tavern light. “I’m just a driver, sir. I don’t know anything about—”

        Capperton held a hand to silence him. “Just tell me if you recognize their faces.”

        Markus swallowed, leaned over to observe the drawings as Capperton laid them upon the counter. Immediately, Capperton caught the glance of recognition in Markus’ eyes, saw the way the tip of his tongue went to wet the corner of his mouth out of nervous habit. “Yeah,” the young man finally said, finger tugging at the end of his earlobe, “I think I know ‘em.”

        “And where were they going?” Capperton said.
        Dane pulled back, his chair groaning. “Sir, this sounds like somethin’ I ought not get mixed up in.”

        “I just want to know where they were headed is all. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just tell me where you took these two men.”

        “Sir—"

        “Before you say anything,” Capperton said, rising from his chair, “might I propose we step outside? There are far too many prying ears to be found in taverns. I’d rather our conversation went on in privacy.” The undertaker went out the door. Dane sat for some time, twiddling his thumbs and draining his ale, before he too, did up his coats and went to embrace the bitter cold. Once he had left, the last of the prostitutes finally dispersed and went to find other men to hustle.

        “I know what you think,” Capperton said when Markus entered into the freezing chill of the main drag. The undertaker was stood with his back to the glow of the tavern, basking in the flood of orange light. He turned and prodded Markus in the chest. “I know men like you, men who pretend. Pretend to be nothing but the common man, sane as everyone else. But all you are nothing more than actors playing a role. You look down on people like me, think I am the freak, but I know better.” Capperton leaned in close, so much so that Markus could smell the pipe smoke on his breath. “I know who you really are.”

        “I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

        Capperton laughed, a charming throaty laugh that seemed warm and comforting, but reeked of something far more sinister. “You are a funny man, Markus Dane. I think you know what this is worth to me. You are playing to my wallet. How much, you think, will this man pay for what he wants? Do not deny it. You are curious. If you were not curious you would not have come outside. There was no one making you. I had left. You could have gone back to your petty whores and your ale, if you had wanted. But that is not what you want.”

        “And what do I want?” Markus asked. “You seem to know so much about me.”

        “Did you enjoy it?” Capperton said as the two set off down the main road, heels clicking on the icy cobblestone bricks, lit only by the scarce street lamp, and the silvery shine of the crescent moon beating upon the sleepy town. “The man you described shooting in the ass. Did it make you feel good? I don’t blame you if it did. He was a drunk and a coward. And after all, he was the one who challenged you. Yet…you lack principle. Men like you pretend to be good, but your heart belongs to the shadows. Your lips are full of lies, but your eyes speak the truth. There is a temptation in your heart. Perhaps you do not recognize it yet. But it is there.”

        “I ain’t really interested in your philosophy, mister,” Markus said.

        Capperton sealed his lips.

        “How much,” Markus finally said, “are you willing to pay me for those two names?”

        “How much do you want?” Capperton said.

        Markus paused, licked his lips. “They went to Xavier. I remember them ‘cause they were curious lookin’ fellows, the pair of ‘em. It had been rainin’ hard that night, the only night it ever did rain here in Jackson an’ they was soaked from head to toe. This one…this one called himself Harvey, the other one said he didn’t have no name.”

        “Harvey, you say?” Capperton said.

        “Harvey Richter,” Markus nodded. “Spoke with some kind of funny accent.”

        Capperton nodded, sheathed the two charcoal drawings. “Markus,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”

        “I’ve never seen you,” Markus said.

        “I’m an undertaker.” The smoke warmed the air between them. “Do you know what that is?”

        “You work with dead people,” Markus said.

        “Quite right,” Capperton nodded. “And on one particular occasion, I had a very wealthy man approach me and tell me he wanted his wife to be buried as beautiful as she was on their wedding day. So, he comes to me and he gives me her wedding gown and tells me to make her pretty again. I put her in that gown and I cleaned her face and I did her hair. And perhaps from afar, she would’ve looked as gorgeous as any bride ever has, but there is no fooling the living. No matter how much you dress up a corpse, they are still a corpse. And no matter how a man may act, there is no hiding what is in his soul. I can see it here.” He pulled the flap of skin down by his eye. “I see it in you. I see it everyone who lives and breathes.”

        Markus swallowed.

        Capperton pulled a train ticket from his coats along with a roll of paper bills. Markus’ eyes widened. It was more money than he had ever seen in his life.

        “So you say they went to Xavier?” the undertaker finally said, once Markus had caught his breath. “The men in the drawings, they went to Xavier.”

        “Yes, sir, I drove them there, sir,” Markus gasped, seemingly winded, empty. “But that was months ago, I don’t think they’d be there now.”

        “Did they say what they were doing?” Capperton asked.

        Markus shook his head. “I ain’t supposed to ask.”

        Capperton nodded, turning his gaze to mask his disappointment. “Take this train to Xavier. Find these men if you can. Take the drawings. Ask anyone who will listen if they remember seeing those faces and by what names they called themselves. And if you find them, write to me immediately. My name is on the back of that card, just there.”

        “And if I never find them?” Markus said.

        “Then I suppose that would make this goodbye,” Capperton smiled.

        “Sir—”

        “Ten in the morning,” Capperton said. “That’s when the train leaves. I plan to rendezvous with you soon. I still have some matters to attend to here. Until then, I give you my best.” The undertaker set off down the street, silhouetted by the fine gray mist emanating from his splendid pipe. Before he had disappeared, he turned over his shoulder: “Oh, and Markus, don’t bother looking for your coach in the morning. It’s part of my fee.”

        Markus looked down at the train ticket in his hand and then at the wad of money. In the end, he stuffed them in his pocket and went back to the bar for another pint. If this was his last night in Jackson, he was going to spend it warming his bed with one of the prostitute girls and drinking till he was numb.