Hi all, this is one of the books in the LM series. Enjoy XD

It was the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-one, and it was up west of the Missouri River in South Dakota, and the Dead Men, along with their unofficial member, were riding again.

This was still years before that damn fool Custer stumbled across all that gold in the Black Hills, years before Wounded Knee and the massacre that took place there. This was back before the territory was admitted into the Union, back before Deadwood, back before even that pitiful Treaty of Laramie promised the region to the Lakota people, a treaty that, if ever there was one, was drawn up just to be burned.

It was a time of gunfighters and outlaws and hard living and easy dying and of course, it was a time of mean-spirited, blood-slicked magic.

The Dead Men had travelled east from Wyoming, tracking their quarry, who'd led them a merry dance. But the longer they tracked, the easier it got. This was on account of the fact that their quarry had taken up with a Necromancer named Noche, who was developing a habit of leaving dead folk in his wake. Not regular dead folk either, but the kind that jumped up and ran around and had a madness in their dull eyes and a terrible, terrible hunger that could only be sated by human flesh. The kind only fire or a bullet to the brainpan could put down. Thankfully, fire and bullets were what the Dead Men specialised in.

Eight of them, all Irish, some of their accents a little muddied due to all the travelling and living they'd done. There was Saracen Rue, all easy charm and easy smiles, like a man trying to convince himself he's nicer than he is. Beside him rode Dexter Vex, one of the more thoughtful of the group, though he wasn't one to show it. The quiet one with the week's worth of stubble was Anton Shudder, and a scarier man was hard to find, even in this forsaken land. There was Erskine Ravel, recently returned from his sojourn to lands even more foreign and forsaken than this one, and Hopeless, a man of one name and many faces.

Riding in the lead was the scarred man, Ghastly Bespoke, and beside him the living skeleton, the one who looked like the Grim Reaper himself, the first of the Four Horsemen written about in the Bible and shouted about from pulpits up and down this wounded and pockmarked country.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

Skulduggery Pleasant's clothes were scuffed and faded, and his coat was long and may have been black once upon a time. Among normal folk, what these people called 'mortals', he'd take that kerchief from around his neck there and tie it over all those teeth that were fixed in a permanent grin, and he'd pull that hat down low over those empty eye sockets. He had two pistol belts, criss-crossing low and held in place with tie-downs, and in those holsters he had guns with pearl handles and long barrels. Colt Walkers, they were. Guns built for stopping men.

The final member of their group rode at the back. She was the unofficial member of the Dead Men, for obvious reasons. Little was known about her past but not many questioned her. Luna Midnight could handle herself well in battle, but she did not let her discipline in magic be known to those around her. Even someone like Saracen Rue was as clueless as everyone else on the subject.

Dressed in a burgundy dress with long sleeves ending in white cuffs and a corset, tailored by Bespoke, she sat side saddle. Her dress had a removable skirt with tight black trousers underneath so she would not be disadvantaged in a fight.

They'd been riding for days and their horses were tired and thirsty and the riders with flesh were chafed and sore. They came upon the town of Forbidden, and didn't think much of it. A town of three streets and dirty people who bathed not often or well. There was a mangy dog lying in the middle of the street, who looked at them with mild indifference as they passed. When they were safely gone, the dog offered up a feeble growl, then lay back down and went to sleep or died. Didn't make much difference to anyone which it was.

They found the livery down the other end of the town and the owner, an ungrateful piece called Sully, limped out into the sun, scratching himself in places soap hadn't touched in a long, long time.

"Yeah?" he said with a mouth full of spit. "What the hell d'you want?"

The Dead Men dismounted. Pleasant and Bespoke stayed at the back, them being the most likely to draw attention, and Rueand Vex looked at the proprietor and frowned.

"What the hell do you think we want?" Vex said. "We want our horses fed and watered. You own this place, don't you?"

The piece of work Sully looked at these men and noticed the woman stood just behind Vex with Hopeless. He straightened his posture and took another glance his posture and took another glance at the men, saw the steel in their eyes and the steel on their hips, and he lost some of his scowl and swallowed some of his spit.

"I do," he said. "Proud owner of Sullivan's Livery. If the paint hadn't peeled off years ago, you could see my name on the sign up there, even though it was spelled wrong and the 'y' was missing from Livery. I blame myself, not being able to read, and I blame the fella I hired to make the sign, him not being able to write. But regrets are what regrets are - we all have 'em, and those who don't have 'em don't miss 'em." He looked back at the woman to see if she was impressed with her first impression of him. Alas, she was barely paying him any attention and he slouched slightly. "Fed and watered, you say." He spoke, getting back to the point. "You can depend on me, provided you have enough coin to pay for such a service."

Vex tapped Rue's arm. "Show the man some coin, Saracen." He went to join the others, who were walking down the wide patch of dirt called Main Street towards the saloon. The towns people gave them a decent birth, watched them with wary eyes and waited till they were out of ear shot to start whispering. Men with guns were never a good sign. Men who looked like they knew how to use those guns even less so. Most wrongly assumed the woman who walked with them to be their mistress and paid little attention to her if they were not admiring her.

Bespoke was first through the doors into the saloon. Inside were a few uneven tables, a solid bar and a cracked mirror. There was a small piano nobody played and the floor was dried mud and sawdust. As far as patrons went, there weren't many here, but all heads turned, and all mouths dropped open. To see a man of Bespoke's scarring was not something you're ever likely to see again, and most people seemed to realise that, so they made sure to stare extra hard when they first met him.

Bespoke tipped his hat to the room and walked up to the bar.

The other Dead Men followed, filing in one at a time. Pleasant came last, found a table in the corner to sit, watching the room from beneath the brim of his hat.

"Good day to you, barkeep," said Bespoke. "What sort of drinks do you serve here?"

The barkeep, a man who'd seen a lot and heard more, had never been one to allow ugliness to get in the way of making money. There was a time he'd even served a leper who had wandered through town, though he served him out back, away from the eyes of his regulars. Money was money, he figured, and it didn't matter a whole lot how many stumps for fingers a hand had if what it as holding cold add to the coffers.

Fact is, the barkeep hadn't even washed the mug the leper had used all that much. So the barkeep told the scarred man what was on offer and the scarred man asked for seven drinks. Saracen Rue came in as the seventh was poured, and they all drank like thirsty men, even Luna. Except for Pleasant, of course.

"Now that," said Ravel, "was a long tine coming. And it was welcome." He smiled at the barkeep. "We're looking for a friend of ours. Two friends, actually, would've just passed through here. Maybe you saw them. Maybe you served them two of these delicious and refreshing beers."

The barkeep said nothing.

"Our first friend," said Vex, "is like us - he's Irish. Tall and dark-haired and kinda pale, though in this sun he's probably reddened up a little. Wears a glove on his right hand. The other fella wears black and carries a staff with him wherever he goes, the height of a man."

The barkeep looked at the Dead Men and still said nothing.

"It's very important that we catch up to our friends as soon as possible," Rue said. " We have news from home that requires their immediate and direct attention. Tragic news. Time is of the essence."

"Haven't seen anyone," said the barkeep.

"You sure? Our first friend, he has green eyes. Normally eye colour means very little when talking about a man, but if you'd ever looked into those eyes, you'd remember them. Like a snake's. And the second, as I said, carries a big old staff. That's something to stick in the memory, isn't it?"

The barkeep shook his head. "Can't help you, fellas, ma'am." He nodded in her direction.

"Well," said Ravel, "that is a shame."

Bespoke turned to the dusty, dirty patrons. "How about the rest of you? Seen anyone like the men we just described?"

A few people kept staring at Bespoke's face. Others looked down at their beers. One or two, and this caught the attention of the Dead Men, flickered their gaze to a man who sat alone with his eyes fixed on his hands. He was so knotted up, he was shaking. The long silence that followed grew heavy and seemed to weigh down on his narrow shoulders. It grew so heavy he evidently couldn't take it any more and he jumped to his feet and went for his gun all at the same time. He made a mess of both, went stumbling and fumbling and panicking, and Hopeless crossed to him so quick no one knew quiet what was happening till the man hit the floor with a broken nose and no gun in his hand.

Hopeless walked back to the bar, put down the man's gun and picked up his drink, finished it just as the man realised he was bleeding.

"What did you do that for?" he said. He had a peculiar accent, German or Dutch or some such.

"You were going to shoot us," said Vex.

"I was not," said the man, though there wasn't a person there who believed him.

"People try to shoot me all the time," Rue told him. "Usually because of a wife or a daughter or a sister or a mother. The point is, I'm used to having people shoot at me. We all are. But we generally know why we're being shot at."

The man got to his feet, blood running freely through the fingers that cupped his nose. "I wasn't going to shoot you."

"I'm having a hard time believing you," Ravel said, "seeing as how you were going for your gun at the time."

The man didn't have much to say about that.

"What's your name, friend?" said Ravel.

"Joost," said the man.

"Joost? What kind of name is that?"

"Dutch," said Joost.

Rue nodded. It figured. From the accent and all, and anyway, half the world had come west to search for gold.

This was when Anton Shudder stepped forward, and the six other Dead Men at the bar seemed to step back, even though no actual steps were taken. Shudder looked at Joost, and the poor, panicking Dutchmanit seemed like the world was narrowing to a very tight space.

"Tell us what the man with the green eyes said to you," Shudder said in his quiet voice.

"Church," Joost managed. "He said something about going to church."