 The shriek of the whistle broke through the still Kentucky sky. What a few game that the shaking in the ground hadn't chased off scattered, and the prairie held its breath with anticipation, waiting for whatever beast was to come. The trembling of the earth grew stronger, with every second, and with a final shriek of metal on metal, the locomotive careened around the treeline and shot through the prairie, dragging its 30-odd cars behind it like a maddened horse. The sound itself was enough to stop a man's thoughts, and inside, things were quiet. The polite stillness of a group of people comfortable in each other's existence, but unwilling to initiate conversation, suffocated the first ten cabs. They were filled with Union soldiers coming home after their long campaigns on the front, and the rear ten cabs were filled with black gold and coal, refined in Texas, and bound for West Virginia. The singular cab that lay between them was the prize, in it set 355 kilograms of an unknown metal bound for the Alexander University for the study of the paranormal in Memphis, and expected to arrive in no less than three days. Since the dean was not a man anyone wanted to disappoint, the conductor made the decision to book it to the nearest major junction and unload the ticking time bomb on some other poor bastard. The train car was not entirely empty of human contact, and front of the score of locked and filled crates sat a trio of guards on wooden chairs, and circling around a crate loaded with metal. Every bump of the train shook them, but it was leagues better than standing. Read'em, Weepfellers, laughed Union Investigations Unit Supervisory Agent Knight, throwing the cards on the table, Royal Flush. Agent Bauer simply scowled and laid his cards face down on the makeshift table. He lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another glass. The Hessian was a man of few words and fewer mistakes. The man at the opposite end of the table groaned as he rose from his seat, rubbing his back. He ribbed him as they both grabbed their pistols from the gun cabinet in the corner of the metal boxcar. Agent, already, McGee? Soon enough, Bowie would call you to Washington and send you to retirement. Knight's tone was mirthful, but his words carried weight. McGee was already graying, though the stress of his job played no small part in that. And every U.I.U. Agent knew that an assignment to the rural town of retirement was not an assignment anyone really wanted to take. The junction is close. Boomed Bauer in his dulcet tone. Knight nodded and shoved his pistol into his holster while drawing his vest tighter around him, and McGee looked at him expectingly. Yeah, yeah, I'm going, he grumbled, whispering a curse under his breath and stepping out the door of the cab. Wind slept him in the face as he stepped out, tearing into his vision. He shut the door behind him, glancing in through the slatted window to see Bauer and McGee starting another game of poker. The wind whipped through his short brown hair before he drew his stetson even closer to his cap. The guard duty would be most displeasurable today. Through the corner of his eye he spotted a silo, no, several silo-wats against the horizon, all men in dark clothing, and one holding something red. The train sped closer and they doubled in size and tripled for a split second as the locomotive grew close enough he was able to see the red object one of them was holding, a detonator with wires leading from it into the grass and creeping towards the railroad. Time slowed down. The figure leaned forward and placed his hands on the detonator. Knight drew his colt, his fingers slammed the trigger. With a bang a bullet exited the chamber. The figure pushed down on the detonator, a split second before a bullet tore into his shoulder and threw him from his horse. Knight wrenched the door of the cabin open and threw himself inside a moment before an explosion shredded his eardrums. His eyes watered and a scream escaped his throat even as the car flipped around him. The last thing he heard before being thrown into the wall and blacking out were the screams coming from the passenger cars as they flew off the tracks and into the dirt. Confederate inspector Jackson rose from his kneeling position in the grass with a white knuckle grip on his cane for support. The two men beside him that opted not to stay with the wagons looked up at the tall pale man for direction. He silently brushed specks of dirt away from his white suit and straightened his bullow tie, a grimace on his face. He looked down silently at the third man as he lay writhing in the dirt, bloodstaining his black vest. Now the fuck did he get me? Ugh, now the fuck did he get me? He grunted through his teeth, clutching the shoulder. Hugh, Wayne, go open the cab. Jackson made a point to ignore the wounded man. Yes, Colonel? The others scrambled to obey him, picking themselves up off the ground and approaching the wreck. The twisted hunks of metal dominated the formerly serene landscape, with more than a few bodies spread throughout the debris. Jackson turned his attention toward the other half of the wreck. There lay six bodies that he could see, and only two had inevitably fatal injuries. He limped through the reeds, leather boots kicking up dirt as he approached the nearest one, and he gazed down. A young man, no more than 16 or 17, faced down in the dirt in his Yankee blues, probably enlisted to get away from a family. Jackson lifted his silver-handled cane, and in one smooth motion removed the entire base, revealing 30 inches of steel hidden in a mahogany socket. They grinned at his own reflection, a rare sight. And then, with a quiet precision, he drove the sword between the shoulder blades of the boy. A soft gasp left the prone body, and Jackson savored it. The wet thwip of the blade being pulled back out. He wiped it on the coat of the soldier and moved on. The whistle of a working song escaped his lips. There were three more deaths to confirm, and he mustn't dilly-dally. A drop of sweat slid off of Jackson's white mustache as he dragged the last corpse to its brethren and let go. They lay pressed against one another, all wearing their Yankee blues stained with red, so proud of their crimes. Jackson sucked in air, breathing heavily. Colonel, we found the car. He turned to the source of the shout. Wayne stood near one of the derailed cars as it lay on its side like a wounded bison waving his hand. He was sat on the upward-facing side of it, having just broken through the window. Jackson strode through the weeds of the car, stepping over the barely cold body of their late compatriot. He had made a mistake. We haven't been able to get the door open, Colonel, explained Wayne. The last thing won't break. Jackson leaned forward, hands resting on the top of his cane, his good eye focused on the handle to the door and identified the slight shimmer around it, a corona of light wrapped around the lock. He rose back up to his full height, whispering an ancient phrase, not seen in this part of the West for generations. He felt the red jewel embedded in the handle of his cane grow warm and then hot and then blistering. Swiftly, he tossed up the cane and caught it by his foot, flipping and slamming it against the car handle. The door flew open and immediately the report of a pistol buffeted Jackson's ears. He slammed himself against the door frame as Hughes fumbled with his holster. Baster, you dunce. He screeched, drawing his own pistol from his shoulder holster. The long ivory-handled revolver glinted in the sunlight, the swirling inscriptions on the chamber reflecting the rays. He braced himself, knowing that the weapon was already loaded and ready to fire. He threw himself into the door frame, spinning around. His pistol snapped back and released its cargo, a bullet in a shape that no man in the state could have named. It sped through the air, into the cabin, and into the eyeball of one agent Hans Bauer. Where it shattered, vomiting forth energy lesser men would have called witchcraft. Bauer's skull exploded outward, lining the car with gray matter. Another bullet, whizzed by Jackson and buried itself in the door frame. The gaunt man let himself drop onto the floor, but kind of crate covered with cards and whiskey stains. He sucked in air once more, ears ringing. He was really getting too old to be doing this so often. His voice echoed in the debris-filled cab. Put down the gun or the Yankees are gonna have to bury your corpse, peace, by God-damned peace. Silence. Then a screech of metal as a colt slid across the floor. Jackson rose, quickly leveling his gun with the tall, dark man lying against the rear wall. The red stain dominating that man's white shirt and his labored breathing probably had something to do with the length of splintered wood jutting forth from his stomach. In two long steps, Jackson closed the gap between the pistols, still dead on. They looked at one another, daring the other to speak, but neither had such intention, each steadfast in his belief that he was above the other's moral station. After an eternity, Jackson looked away and down to the floor. There was his cane there on the floor, wedged under a crate. Jackson's cool anger instantly gave way to hot fury. That cane was more powerful than any gun crafted by a man and this degenerate had forced him to leave it on the filthy floor. He bent over and pulled it up, slipping off its cover. The blade would be used once more before the day was over. Jackson neatly hopped out of the train car. The door to it lying shattered and useless at the hinges. His boots spurs clinked together as he strode forth, scanning the planes. Hughes trailed behind him meekly. His wane back with the rest of the men yet. Jackson questioned. I know, but they should be here any minute. As if on cue, the ground shook with the hoofbeats of horse teams. Jackson looked eastward, where a train of four wagons was quickly approaching and he turned to Hughes. Man in the train car. Go in and tie him up. I wouldn't advise touching more than you have to. Bastard's covered in his own blood. When the wagons get here, I want you to get a couple others and toss him into an empty one. He's got something I need. Yes, Colonel. Hughes scuttled off to do his job and Jackson turned once more to greet the wagon train and the laborers raising his hand. Hail. The man driving the foremost car wore a tired smile. Ah, Colonel Jackson Bright, I assume. Your reputation precedes you. The Colonel flashed a mirthless smile as he lifted his red-jeweled cane in greeting. Oh, I'd hope so.