The rickety lift rattled as it made its slow ascent, ornate grating shuddering every time a support strut or a door off onto one of Silverline Citadel’s many storeys passed from above to below. Friendly Dan winced as it did. He was here for the same reason many others would be: the moneyed interests of the Big Rock Financiers’ Council had called a meeting, one where all the big financial players of the Western Wastes would be represented. The topic, Dan didn’t know - this time, he wasn’t here as the face of Rawhide, but as bodyguard and attache for the bigger fish who was. Dan’s boss, Vespine Hennessey, rode next to him, her stance as relaxed as Dan’s was tense.
The lift rattled again and Dan instinctively reached for his tobacco pouch, but Vespine shut him down with a look like daggers. Not here, it conveyed, this is an upper crust company.
The lift finally chunked to a stop. Friendly Dan made the deliberate choice not to throw up. And the grate was opened from the other side by a bellhop, who gestured down the tastefully dim marble hall. Through the door at the end, the two were greeted by a penthouse meeting room of staggering opulence. Tapestries of the old Pureblood family crests hung from every pillar - including some, Dan couldn’t help but notice, that were an interesting choice to leave up after the ends their owners had met. Chandeliers lit the room from the high, curved ceiling. Through the west-side windows, the sun cast a light like a flame through bourbon across the whole room as it set over the Big Rock Mountains.
At the center of the room sat a long black marble table, and gathered around that table was… everyone. That was the only word Dan could think, everyone. Anyone who moved and shook the money in Lorado, plus a few. A dozen heads of Pure Blood families. A Digitarian with two heavily kitted guards, probably one of the reclusive Northheed bigwigs. Shred of the Topaz Tribe was here, flanked by her diligent note-taker, Scrawl. Cinderella and Chivalry Shane stood regally to either side of their father, Oberon. Henry Aspen sat representing Bear Claw Hunting & Trapping. At the far end of the table, half a dozen Diesel Jock chieftains fidgeted awkwardly, slowly soaking motor oil residue into the expensive fabrics of their chairs; Dan recognized Chief Mustang and Chuck Bentley, and noted an imposing figure in white armor seated to Chuck’s left. Lysinger of the Mortar Brigade was here with his usual thugs - interesting choice, Dan thought, that’s a pretty small fish for this pond - as was a delegation from Ironwood, and, Dan noticed with a twinge of satisfaction, Mistress Shrike of the Warehouse was not. Only one empty chair remained, at the head of the table, and it was to this that Vespine sauntered over and sat. Dan took up a standing position to her right as she addressed the room.
“Evenin’!” She began, the chatter of the room hushing in response. “Glad to see you’re all here. We can get started.
I’ll cut right to the chase. As y’all know, problems with the law - namely, absence of it - have been a pebble in all our shoes for a while now. Robbers on the roads. Gangs in the towns. Trading sabotage with our rivals, even with each other sometimes. These small town sheriffs ain’t shit enough to do shit ‘bout any of it. ‘Open season’ is the term I’ve heard used by my boys who keep an ear to the ground. You all know it. Everyone in this room can think of somethin’ you’ve lost or some pain in the ass you’ve had because of it.
So I’m here to propose a solution. A regional solution we can all invest in, that’ll give back to all of us.” Vespine smiled widely and took two maps from her bag, which she unrolled and passed down either side of the table.
“Y’all may recall that as prisoners accumulated from the wars of the past few years, we wound up stickin’ many of ‘em in the old prison off to the West of the Mortar Brigade, North of Ironwood. The group runnin’ the place, if you’re not familiar, has been callin’ themselves the Wardens. They’re a mixed bunch. Ex-Drylands Militia, old law dogs from towns that ain’t there no more, folk that lost everything to the Mastersons or the Von Lobos. But one thing they all got in common is… let’s call it a passion for justice.
Put simple, I want us to fund ‘em. All of us. Build up Locktown into somethin’ like it used to be in the way-back-when. Get money and people into the Wardens to make ‘em into law dogs. Big law dogs with big teeth, who can go everywhere. Let’s get us some law and order in Lorado, y’all.”
Vespine remained standing, leaned over the table, as her words sunk in. Whispered conversations rippled around the room, and finally the delegate from Northheed stood to answer first.
“Interested,” they stated with a weighty bluntness. “Let’s hear specifics.”
So Vespine laid out her plan. Each of the institutions would have different ways of contributing: some, like Black Diamond and the BRFC, would put up cash for payroll, while the Rolling Coalition would facilitate transport and Bear Claw would provide medical services and tracking expertise. Rawhide and Northheed would supply the various outposts the Wardens would need to set up across the region. The contingents from Ironwood and Die Fabriek had been asked here to give their blessings for the Wardens to pass through their territory coming and going from Locktown, and of course since the officialization of Locktown as a permanent installation would mean they had to accept certain risks.
It took deliberation. Numbers were bandied about, offers asked and counteroffers made. Friendly Dan didn’t speak a word throughout, except to whisper the occasional logistical detail into Vespine’s ear. But at last, the deal was done. Once the agreement was reached, only one question remained.
“Local Warden heads,” Vespine drawled, “for Perseverance and Barker Meadow.”
That made sense, Dan figured. Perseverance, the formerly nameless slum sprung up around the now defunct Forward Operating Base for the final siege of the Masterson War, was a hive of shady activity, one of the two main organized criminal hubs in the region. The other was Barker Meadow. Both would be hot zones.
Oberon Shane stood first. “The Financiers’ Council can offer Sachs Goldman for Perseverance.” A hushed chatter of agreement rippled through the assembly. Goldman’s work was known in the room.
“Ephraim Butcher,” Friendly Dan blurted out.
The room turned to look - including Vespine, who had told him to let her do the talking and now was smiling at him sweetly, possibly the most terrifying thing Friendly Dan had ever seen. No, second most, after the Anglerfish. Dan cleared his throat and pushed on anyway.
“I’ll nominate Ephraim Butcher for Barker Meadow. The, uh, Barker Meadow area. He’s done real good work for Rawhide as a bounty hunter for a long time. Some of the best.” He pulled off his hat, slicked his hair, put it back on. “Look… if we’re talkin’ ‘bout criminal networks in Barker Meadow… we know who’s at the top of that anthill. I don’t need to say it. We all know it. And if we’re gonna dance with that devil… it’s gotta be Butcher. I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else.”
The stillness in the room as his words settled made Dan squirm. He wanted a cigarette so bad. He could see the calculation on their faces as they weighed whether to trust his suggestion sight unseen. Whether they went for it was gonna make a big difference in what the ride down the elevator with Vespine would be like.
And then one of the chairs creaked as Liberty Moretti from the Ironwood contingent stood. She looked nervous at first, but cleared her throat and spoke clearly. “I can vouch. We saw a lot of Ephraim Butcher after the Masterson War. He brought us the Carsons.”
“Which Carsons?” The Northheed rep retorted.
“All of them.”
This caused a murmur. When the Mastersons had been wiped out, their allies the Carsons, along with the surviving mercenaries still infected with Crystal Heart, had scattered to the winds. There had privately been tremendous worry among many in this room that outbreaks of Biz’s influence in other morgues would follow as the infected eventually suffered death from mishap or mistake, but nothing ever came of it. Evidently that was because, as Liberty went on to explain, Butcher and his posse had hunted them down, one by one, and over the course of seven months had brought every single one back to Ironwood - alive - for their crystal infestations to be returned the the morgue from which they had originated. Not a single one unaccounted for. Even Friendly Dan hadn’t known that.
Dan turned his attention back to the room. Some of the shrewd expressions had turned pensive. He watched as each group deliberated quietly amongst themselves.
His kingdom, he thought to himself, for a cigarette.
In a lonely wooden watchtower somewhere in the Wastes, a black-clad figure kicked up his boots, lit a pipe, and took a shot of something strong, wiping a stray drip from the exposed bone of his chin with the back of a skeletal hand. At the sight of a single lonely light bobbing through the darkness, he reached and pulled a long-scoped lever action rifle into his lap. Then he waited. The light got closer. It was a figure, on horseback, looked like. Finally it cleared the treeline and hoisted its lantern up in one hand and a very expensive looking bottle of liquor in the other.
“Ephraim!” Friendly Dan’s voice floated up. “Got time to talk to a friend about a job?”
