Everyone won't be treated all the same, when the Man comes around

James felt relief as Henry guided their 6 horse stagecoach into the Wells Fargo yards. The trip was finally over, one attempt had been made to rob them, 3 men set up in the Rockys, James had shot two of them without warning, one in the leg and the other in his arm. All three retreated. Henry said he should've just killed the scum. But James had already given his fair share of death in the War.

It's why he left, deserted really, went West and got a job as a guard for Wells Fargo. The pay was good, and honestly he felt the stories of the robberies were mostly tall tales. Sure they'd run into a bandit or two, but in his year of employment he had yet to see any outlaw gangs.

But still, it felt safer in the yard and now the cargo was no longer his problem; he'd get the delivery slip, go inside, and get his pay. The nice thing about San Francisco was, with the chaos of the war, he got paid in gold. And everyone traded for gold.

The Cargo Boss came and matched up the manifest to the delivery and gave James his slip.

"Rest and Relaxation time," he said to no one in particular as he entered the office and approached the counter. He laid the slip down for the man behind the counter, who looked it over handed James a receipt to put his mark on, and then traded the receipt for the small bag of gold.

"And to think the Spanish couldn't find El Dorado, when they owned it the whole time," a familiar voice said from behind him. Too familiar, Agent Mark Lambert. A gruff and grizzled man in his late 40s.

Lambert had shown James the ropes and while he didn't hold any sort of grudge against him, he always felt uncomfortable around the man, like danger followed him.

"Agent Lambert," James said while nodding his head in a manner to excuse himself.

Lambert either didn't take or want the hint, James suspected the latter, "Hey, we're both Agents now, you can call me Mark. So I see you just got back from another successful run."

James's curiosity was peaked, since when did Lambert care about the success or failures of others. One of his first lessons was, if you die the cargo will be mourned, not you.

"What of it?" James said raising an eyebrow.

"I'm putting together a team for a high dollar run and your the guy I'd prefer to have sittin' next to me," Lambert said.

This threw James off, Lambert always worked alone. His motto was high risk, high reward. "If you want a partner, count me out. I don't do suicide missions."

Lambert pushed his large heavy frame closer, "Didn't say I was lookin' for a partner. Said I was makin' a team, six men total."

"What could be worth splitting six ways? And where's it goin', South of Mexico?" James scoffed at the idea but he also wanted to know the answer. Not only the pay and destination but why Lambert would want a team to begin with.

"Just three rich people, slip says Marshall, Carter, and Dark plus belongings. They wanna go to Riddle, Wyoming. And here's the kicker, there's a rail that goes there but they want the stagecoach the whole trip, not just any stagecoach either, they want number 1. And they want the six best gun men for the trip. I already got 4, with me that's five. With you as my second coachman and my front gun, well that's six." Lambert smiled showing off his missing buck teeth. James remembered asking about it while training, Lambert had said the other guy got worse.

"Still whats the pay and who're the other four?" James pressed on.

"Your sixth'll be bout fours times what you just got. And the other four, Agents Belltroff, Bowie, Carter, and Chandler." Lambert listed cooly.

These names were no small deal, they had all earned a massive reputation and wealth working for Wells Fargo.

"I know you can handle it James, the question is do you want it? Are you in or out? Need to know now cause if yer out I gotta find a replacement. We're leaving tomorrow at noon." Lambert said while putting his meaty arm around James's shoulders.

This was a chance he couldn't pass up. Working with these guys on this big of a job would put him on the map. He could have his pick of cargos and get a higher fee. "I'm in," James replied.

Lambert laughed and slapped him on the back, "Knew you were! See you tomorrow!"

James tossed the small bag of gold gently in his hand, looked like rest and relaxation were out. But maybe alcohol and a prostitute could fill that void.

The next morning James showed up around 10:30. He liked to arrive early and check everything to be in its place before leaving. However, this day found him to be the last to show.

"I thought we weren't leaving until noon?" he asked Lambert and the other gathered agents.

"I suppose we're not the only ones that like to arrive early for inspections. Clients are here too." Lambert pointed a meaty thumb behind his shoulder.

"I got here at nine, the Yard Boss said the clients had been waiting in the coach for half an hour already," said Agent Stan Bowie. There was nothing to special about Bowie physically, he was in his early 50s and from what James had heard he wasn't much of a shot either. He did have a reputation for using explosives and avoiding dangerous areas as much as possible. James heard that his motto was, "He who fights and runs away, lives to get paid." Although looking at him James couldn't tell if he was a thinker or a coward, he supposed he'd find out soon enough.

Agent Alex Belltroff was easy to spot securing his gear to the coach and taking the rear right side bench that sat at roof level. "For a better view," James thought. He was easily identified by his clothes, not a bare patch of skin was exposed. James assumed this was because he wasn't white, he wished he could tell him that out here skin don't matter. But that would just make him liar.

Agent Nathan Chandler was also easy to identify, as he was a run away slave, turned bounty hunter, turned Agent. He had his bag, a Henry Lever Action and his cat. Supposedly that's all he ever took with him. Also, if the rumors were true, this would be his first escort with the company. James laughed to himself as Chandler took the rear left bench placed at sitting level for easy dismount, this was gonna be a new experience for him. Rich folk like to complain, a lot.

That meant the last man climbing on top with Bowie must be Agent Jeremy Carter. James hadn't heard much about him other than he always gets the package delivered, even if he has to carry it by hand.

The yard hands were already hooking up 8 horses to the coach. James looked at Lambert, "Guess we're leaving early."

"Guess so, hop on"

James tossed his bag onto the bench footing laid his Spencer Repeating rifle on the bench and pulled himself up. After securing the rifle for the ride, he decided to take off his coat and get comfortable. Revealing, much to Lambert's humor, 6 Colt Dragoon revolvers.

"Wars over kid." Lambert said mockingly.

James choose to ignore him.

"What's in the bag? More guns?" Lambert wasn't going to let this go.

"No, it's ammo and some rations. Look at y'all, carrying rifles and revolvers that don't match. I only need .44 rim fires for both. Save on space, sorting, and weight. Leaves extra room for a change of clothes, a loaf of bread, some damn good cheese I picked up in town, a bottle of whiskey, and an extra canteen of water." James replied smugly, taking a deep swig from his canteen.

Lambert laughed again, "Kid let it go, the war's over."

James pondered those words as he drifted to sleep, stagecoach 1 sure was comfortable, he began dream about how nice the inside must be.

+ Part 2

James woke after what seemed like the deepest sleep he ever had. The sun was setting already, he pulled out his pocket watch, 5 o'clock.

He sat up, find find his body overly stiff, it was his own damn fault for sleeping on the job. He looked to Lambert, "Sorry bout that, didn't realize I was so tired, here I'll take the reins." He reached for them but Lambert moved them away.

At first James thought he'd pissed Lambert off with his nap and being a shitty Second, but then he noticed a look of worry, not anger on Lambert's face. Lambert also wouldn't make eye contact with him.

Something was wrong. James began to take in his surroundings, where the hell were they? This wasnt the Pioneer Stage Line or the Butterfield Line. And why the hell were the Rockys so close already.

James, flushed with anger and confusion, drew on Lambert, "What the hells goin' on Lambert?"

"Now calm down O'Reilly! I was hoping you'd sleep until after our next stop, then I could explain it."

James pressed the barrel of his Colt into Lambert's side, "Explain what? How long have I been out?"

"Only two days, I had the lady slip a mix in your canteen. Guess your tougher than I thought, was s'posed to keep you out fer three days."

James cocked the hammer, "I'm not gettin' happier Lambert!"

Lambert let the reins rest and turned to look James in the eye, "Look I wasn't completely upfront about this ride."

"No shit."

"Hey the pay and destination are the still the same, I didn't lie about that. I just didn't tell you everything."

James uncocked his gun but kept it pointed at Lambert. "Well, what's the secret?"

Lambert looked like a kid that got caught lieing my the school marm, "They picked this crew, not me. They said it was all of us or they'd find a different way. And they want to be in Riddle within 10 days."

James holstered his gun, "Great I'm on an impossible run with some rich pricks that aren't gonna pay and the Stage Boss apparently likes druggin' people."

"Hey, we're gonna get paid fine."

"You could run these horses to death and we won't make it in 10 days! This isnt even an official trail, so we can't just change them out at the next stop!"

Lambert let out a sigh, "That's why I drugged you."

Now confusion came back to James.

Lambert continued raising his hands defensively, "Carter knows a way through the mountains takes about four days on foot, but it's dangerous and horses won't go in. Best part is it comes out in Wyoming, bout 2 days from Riddle I figure."

James thought for a moment, this short cut wasn't possible, "That's a hell of a short cut but two problems, one it's bullshit or witchcraft and two this ain't cargo we can just carry through. These are rich people that aint about to get out and walk a few days through caves and ravines."

Lambert let out a sigh, up ahead he could see the fires of the encampment, "It may be witchcraft, but it ain't bullshit. It is stupidly dangerous though. If Carter had a horse he figured he could've gotten through without stopping. But there's "things" in there. From what he told me, wendigo."

"You gotta be bullshitin'" James said rubbing his temples, all this occult and magical bullshit was the main reason he left the war. He just couldn't take it anymore. "Still how do you plan on getting the horses to go into wendigo territory?" He said, hoping the answer would be dumb enough not to work, but somehow knowing it wouldn't be.

Lambert pointed ahead, "We're meetin' a shaman there, gonna trade our horses and some guns for six death riders. There faster and stronger than horses and they don't get tired, so we won't have to stop."

James had heard enough, "I'm out! When we get to this camp, you're gonna get me a horse and I'm gonna ride back home, I ain't dealin' with this mystic bullshit no more!"

A strange sounding echoing voice came from behind the bench, "That would be most disappointing Agent O'Reilly," James turned to find a brass speaking tube behind the bench.

James lowered his head close to the tube, "Then be disappointed, I don't do suicide runs."

The voice came back, "As long as you all follow the plan laid out there should be no problems or loss of life."

James spat, "Yeah well someone decided that drugging me was a better idea than sharing the plan. So I dont even know what the PLAN is."

The voice came again, "Agent Lambert, please stop the coach we would like to speak with Agent O'Reilly in private."

Without a word, Lambert brought the coach to a stop. A quarter inch thick steel window slide used for protecting cargo slid open on the thick steel door of the coach, "Agent O'Reilly, if you would."

James hopped down and walked up to the door, there was no way he was doing this, after Gettysburg, he had enough of this mystic bullshit. "Yeah, what do you want?"

A different voice spoke up, "We want you on this mission, its unfortunate that Agent Lambert was not up front with you but I believe we can still make it worth your while."

James sighed, "Mister, no amount of money, gold, power, or pride is worth dieing for. What could you possibly offer me?"

The same voice responded, "Revenge, the chance to make things right, and finish what you started. Plus the funding and information needed to do it."

James place a hand on his right hip Colt, "What do you know about me?"

The voice responded, "I know there was once a Special Occult Operative for the Union named Steven Smith. I also know Special Agent Smith was tasked with killing Rebel Agent 96. I know that most of the men slaughtered at Gettysburg, were freemen. I know Union Generals used this to draw out Agent 96 and his 682nd Calvary Brigade. I know you were Steven Smith, and that who are the only person to face Agent 96 and wound him, ending what would have been an unstoppable march all the way to Canada with unkillable ghost soldiers. I also know that after you saw the carnage caused by the 682nd, you shot you commander dead and then disappeared. Then James O'Reilly appeared in Saint Louis were the 682nd had been spotted. He fought a masked man until the masked man retreated. Sightings of the 682nd moved further west and so did James O'Reilly. Until finally arriving in San Francisco, where 96's trail went cold. James O'Reilly then joined the Wells Fargo company, delivering packages, money, and people all over the West, the whole time asking about a mysterious group of rebel soldier sightings."

"And your offering what? 96's head on a platter? I've fought him more times than anyone else and the only things I know about him is where he goes the 682nd goes, he's a hell of a fighter, and even I have never seen his face. So what do you know that I don't?" James said coldly.

The voice responded, "The 682nd has been spotted near Riddle and hasn't moved in a month or more."

James considered it, "Then why no calls for help?"

"There have been, many in fact. But what does a fractured Union care about a small town in the Wyoming Territory?"

"So you chose me to what, help with my unfinished business?"

Three voices could be heard laughing inside, and then a new one spoke, "Oh no. Not at all. We could care less about your unfinished business. However, we do need an occult specialist for this journey and while the Union may not have made dark deals signed in blood, we do know that there were deals made. Your just like the rest of them, if I had to guess I'd say you could view the immediate future when in danger. A useful skill, no doubt, especially for this dangerous trek."

The tube voice spoke again, this time without the metallic echo, "We have business in Riddle. The 682nd and Agent 96's presence would make business hard for us. Once the trip is over you'll be paid in double for your trouble and the drugging. Once we arrive, if you are willing, we will hire your services again to get rid of 96 and the 682nd, pay, weapons, and manpower will be provided as well."

James stood in silence, these guys had him pegged. He'd run away from the war but was declared killed in service due it being in the aftermath of Gettysburg and the survival of Agent 96. His commanders death was even blamed on 96, command assumed he was an assassination target. He didn't care about honor or courage or country, he hated it all, but the only thing he hated more was 96.

James turned and climbed back on the bench.

Lambert paused for a second, "So? How'd it go?"

"Lets go," James replied.

After arriving at the encampment Lambert set to negotiating with the shaman.

The rest of the team dismounted the coach, stretched, and began to look around. Before they could walk away, James stopped them.

"Hey! All you gather up! I got some questions," he called to the group.

The men reluctantly did so. They may have considered James their junior, but on this ride he was second after Lambert.

"I'll make it sort and to the point. Our employers selected us all for a reason. Lambert has experience killing wendigo in his younger days. I have experience in anti-occult operations, and the black riders and their leader 96, if we run into them. Carter knows the way through the mountain, which he better not fuck up. That leaves you three Belltroff, Bowie, and Chandler. I don't care what you've done or haven't done, I want to know what you can do," James could put on a pretty good intimidation act when he wanted, after all he was an Army Officer once.

Chandler spoke up first, "I can ride a death rider, my bones and flesh can split, its like being in two places at once, I can ride ahead and report back without comin' back. It was an unexpected side effect during a rebel occulist experiment on me. Also cat protects my body when it don't got no bones. He may be a cat but he can still get pretty mean."

Bowie sighed, "I was a weapon specialist before the war, real weapons not that mystical demonic bullshit. I made bombs and better cannons. I helped design that rifle you carry. During the war, well I just didn't fight. I did protect my town though, from the North and South. I'm good with traps and explosions. After the war, really no matter who won, I was considered a war criminal, so I came west. I don't much care for the mystic but I've blown up my fair share of 'em. Plus I brought the big gun along," he said pointing to the roof of the coach. On it sat something covered in a tarp, "It's one of Gattling's repeating rifles, just with a few modifications of my own." He added chuckling to himself at his own genius, "It'll rip through a stone wall in less than a minute."

Belltroff remained silent. He motioned for the others to come around the coach out of sight of the camp. There he took off his gloves, scarf, bandana, hat, and rolled up his sleeves. From what James could tell he was covered in some kind of armor, but not metal, more like a bug. Belltroff pulled a dirty bloodstained patch from his pocket. He didn't need to say anything, even if he could, the patch explained it all to James. Belltroff was a product of the Unions Occult Research Projects. James nodded and Belltroff covered himself back up. Chandler helped hide a spot the scarf missed on the back of his neck.

James sighed and leaned against the coach as the others went into the camp to browse for supplies and valuables, "So this is us. A band of war criminals and totured souls. Who knows maybe we'll find the peace we deserve on this ride. But I doubt it."

Carter spoke from behind him, "We were on opposite sides, you know? I was a scout, spy, and assassin. I almost got Lincoln once. Point is there is no peace for men like you and me."

James turn to face him as he continued, "The freeman, non combatant, trapper, and whatever is left of Belltroff; they get peace. But people like us, never. We knew what we were doing. We knew who we were killing. We weren't dragged into it and tortured. We joined freely and then left freely. Our crimes are ours alone and there ain't no peace from that."

Carter called over his shoulder as he walked away, "This shaman is all business and doesn't care for white men, if I were you I'd stock up now. Once the death riders are hooked up they'll expect us to leave."

"Don't forget to change your water!" Carter called laughingly.

[[collapsible show="+ Part 3" hide="- Part 3"]]