The Jean Marc Archive at Saint Denis University Library was always a quiet place. Rows of old books and journals documenting the history of the area lined the shelves. A young man perused the shelves, specifically the section with all the journals. The resident historian and the archivist, sitting at their desks across from the young man, both thought that he bore a slight resemblance to one of the old outlaws of the Wild West. However, they couldn't quite place it.
The archivist approached the young man as he was scrutinizing one of the shelves with journals dated from 1890 to 1910. The young man had wispy, shoulder-length hair that flowed like a waterfall. His piercing eyes could stare right into your soul, if it weren't for his otherwise gentle countenance. He wore a button-up flannel shirt, dark jeans, and old faded cowboy boots.
"Young man, how can we help you?" the archivist asked.
I'm lookin' for a journal written by an old outlaw around the late 1890s. I don't know his name, or I'd tell you." He had definitely been raised on a farm, given his politeness and his light accent when he spoke, the archivist thought to herself.
"There's only one that fits that description. The journal of Arthur Morgan. Is that what you're looking for?"
"I suppose so. Can you tell me where to find it?"
"Unfortunately, Arthur Morgan's journal is in our deep archives. It was donated many years ago by the Marston family. Only library staff can have access to those records, as they're very fragile."
The young man got a disappointed look on his face. "Oh. Well, that's alright. Thank you for your time."
The historian watched the young man walk away as the archivist returned to her desk. He couldn't stand seeing disappointed people in the library, so before the man walked out the door the historian said, "We could discuss some sort of internship if you would like."
The man turned around and smiled. "That sounds wonderful," he responded. He walked over to the historian's desk.
"I just need your name to get started," the historian said, sitting down at his computer.
"My name is John. Pleasure to meet you." The young man held out his hand. The historian took it and shook it, noting how strong the young man's grip was.
"The pleasure's all mine, John." He wrote down the name. "I take it you live around here? What's your address?"
"55 Cornwall Court."
"Have you lived in Saint Denis for long?"
"I've only been here for a few months," John responded. "I moved here from West Elizabeth. My family is an old pioneer family. They settled a homestead up there around the early 1900s. Surely you've heard of it. Beecher's Hope?"
The historian snapped his fingers. "Ah! That's why you look vaguely familiar. You're a Marston, right?"
"Yes sir," John said, chuckling. "My great-grandpap was John Marston, the famous outlaw from the Van der Linde gang. My grandpap, Jack Marston, told me stories when I was a young boy. But we lost him back in '93 and I haven't done much learning on my family history since then. 'Cept the bits of history I got in school learnin' about the Van der Linde gang."
"You know, there's more to their story than the schools teach," the historian said. "I take it that's what you're looking into?"
"Yes sir," John responded.
"We do have a small collection of things from the Van der Linde gang here, and I do know that the history museum just a couple blocks over has some as well. Ever been that way?"
"I have. They got one of Dutch's old pistols there, a bar of gold that was alleged to have come from the ill-famed Blackwater ferry robbery, a bunch of old camp supplies, and a book that was owned by my grandpap when he was a young boy. But the archivist said you have Arthur Morgan's old journal and that's what I've come here for."
"Well..." The historian looked at the incomplete internship form, then closed it out. "Seeing as how you are a Marston...I guess we can skip the formalities and just show you. Come with me." The historian held open a back door behind the desk and John followed him into their deep archives. The historian immediately found the shelf dedicated to Van der Linde curios and removed Arthur Morgan's journal.
"You knew exactly where you was goin', didn't you?" John remarked.
"I did," the historian responded. "I wrote my dissertation on the Van der Linde gang. You can probably still find it at the college in Blackwater. I'm one of the leading experts on Van der Linde history, in fact. I had the pleasure of being the last person to interview your grandfather back in '92, when I was still an undergraduate student."
"That's amazing," John said. "Do you know where their old camp sites were? That's one of the things I wanted to look at."
"Yes, it's all here in Arthur's journal," he responded. "Without this journal, and without that interview from your grandfather, I probably wouldn't have even been able to write my dissertation. The Van der Linde gang wasn't very well documented outside of newspapers and law enforcement reports of the day, most of which are still held under lock and key at the FBI office in Blackwater."
"Ever been to their old camp sites?" John asked.
"No, can't say I have. There's probably nothing left at any of them and most of them are only accessible by horseback."
"Well let me take a look at that journal," John requested. The historian handed it over and John read the first few lines:
I bought this new journal after the last one got destroyed in that fire all those months ago, whenever it was.
Haven't written or drawn much in the past few months, but I was missing it more than I thought I would, and finally near a store, so here I am, I guess.
After all that business up North and the fire, we spent a few months in the wilderness, traveling down from the NOrthern Grizzlies, stuck mostly in the western foothills of the mountains during the worst of the winter. Food was easy to find and life was good.
Dutch had a lead for some land we were going to buy, but the land did not match up to his criteria, or he got spooked we were being watched by the law and that somebody knew who he was, and we never bought it and we are wandering still.
We picked up a couple of new folk in the Grizzlies. Jenny, a sweet young girl we met abandoned on the roadside, and Micah - an outlaw Dutch met in a bar someplace. Dutch seems very taken with Micah, who is pretty hot-headed, argumentative and full of himself. Hosea and I are less sure. Guess we shall see.
Eventually we came out of the wilderness and are now holed up outside of Blackwater, although sometimes I stay in town, hunting for opportunities. I might be on to something. We got plenty of money, and the trail we took was so torturous and slow nobody could have followed us south and east, or figured out where we was heading.
"Blackwater," John said. "That's where the botched ferry robbery happened. That's where my great-grandpap was shot and a whole big massacre happened. They taught us that in school."
"Yes, the Blackwater Massacre of 1899 was the deadliest shootout in the history of West Elizabeth," the historian confirmed. "The horrible truth is that we may never know the full death toll, but over half of the town's police force and maybe a dozen or more Pinkerton agents were killed, along with a few civilians."
"So it looks like my next stop is Blackwater," John said. "See, I'm visiting all the places my family and the gang went to in order to gain a better understanding of who they were and what they went through. I want to find the true story of Dutch van der Linde's gang and how my family's story ties into it."
"That's very good of you. I will help you in any way that I can. Here, take my personal business card." The historian dug around in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a card with his name and phone number. John gratefully took it and read the name on the card.
"Thank you...Matthew Ricketts. Say, any relation to Landon Ricketts?"
"He was my great-great grandfather," Matthew responded.
"Is there any way I could take this journal with me?"
"Sadly, I can't allow that journal to leave this room. It's too valuable."
"That's alright, I was expecting that. Could you maybe leave me alone for a moment? I want to do some research in peace."
"No problem," Matthew said, smiling. He left the room and John immediately stuffed the journal into his pants. He then began digging through the drawer that the historian had left open to see what else was in there. A century-old romance novel by a Leslie Dupont. Old spectacles with a small tag that said "Strauss" on it. Another book by an Evelyn Miller. And a bullet casing with a note that said, "Recovered from the murder site of Leviticus Cornwall. Donated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation Archives in Blackwater, West Elizabeth."
None of these items were of much interest to John, so he shut the drawer and waited a bit so that Matthew wouldn't be too suspicious of him. John had learned at an early age that he had a certain proclivity for stealing and conning. Part of his family legacy, he guessed. He was also a decent shot with a rifle, though he had never killed a man and he rarely carried his gun anywhere except in his truck. Sometimes he wished he had had the thought of writing down Jack Marston's old stories, but having been so young when he heard them, he wasn't too hard on himself for not doing it. He hoped that this journey would bring him closer to his family and his outlaw past, so that maybe he could better himself somehow.
After waiting about fifteen minutes, John exited the deep archives and nodded politely to the historian and archivist. "That's about all I need for today," he said. "I'm making a trip out to Blackwater, but I'll certainly be back. And I ain't gonna lose your number, either. I'll call you if I find somethin' or if I need to know somethin'."
"Call me anytime," Matthew said. "If I could find the time to take a break from work, I'd join you. Maybe someday. I wish you safe travels, Mr. Marston."
John exited the library and walked out into the sunny, hot Saint Denis air. Ever since the governor of Lemoyne had passed an ordinance for factories to cut down on emissions, the air was a lot cleaner. John wondered what it had been like for his namesake and for Jack all those years ago. When he got to his truck, he went to the back, to the attached horse trailer, and checked on his horse. Minerva was a silver dapple mare that had been John's horse for over ten years. She was used to being hauled around in the trailer, as John preferred to take her away from West Elizabeth for rides. He had bad memories of living there, which was why he had moved to Saint Denis, but he didn't mind going back for just a visit. He just hoped he wouldn't run into his father.
Once he was certain that Minerva was still doing alright, John unlocked his truck and hopped on in. Sitting propped up on the passenger seat was a Model 1873 Winchester Repeating Rifle. His father had had it custom-made for him on his 21st birthday. It was one of the only kind gestures he had ever gotten from him. He started the truck, put it in gear, and drove down the newly paved road.
Saint Denis had been a major city even 100 years ago, and in the 21st century, it was even larger. Many of the old architectural marvels of the city were still standing, but a newer part of the city with skyscrapers and modern architecture had been built up starting in the 1960s. The modern part of the city was where the university sat and where John lived, and since he didn't have much of a time schedule to keep, he turned the truck in the direction of Old Town Saint Denis. The places where his father and the Van der Linde gang would have seen.
The narrow, two-way streets in Old Town were quite different from the wide, multi-lane highways and roads of modern downtown Saint Denis. Well-maintained cobblestone adorned the roadways here, as opposed to hot asphalt. The old buildings had been beautifully repainted and restored after decades of neglect. A local historical society had spent years and a considerable amount of money on these restoration projects. Similar restoration projects had taken place in other spots around Lemoyne and the surrounding states. John was looking forward to exploring all of them.
John drove out of Saint Denis over the bridge in the southwest part of Old Town. To the west was Old Caliga Hall, former home of an old plantation family that mysteriously left Lemoyne in the late 1890s. Historians debated the final fate of the Gray family; some believed that they were killed by members of the Van der Linde gang, while others believed their feud with the Braithwaites drove them out of the region. John wasn't too interested in finding out the truth to that legend, but maybe it would come up in his research if the Van der Linde gang really did have something to do with it.
John drove through the tiny town of Rhodes, formerly dominated by the Gray family but now home to just a few old-timers and their families. The small town had no real political structure or even law enforcement. County sheriffs from Saint Denis would sometimes wander through to make sure no one was up to anything, but even they didn't care too much. The town never really was the same after the Gray family left. There wasn't even a stop light in town, though the road was paved and a restaurant served the occasional traveler who was desperate enough to stop there.
From there it was a long drive through swamp lands to New Hanover. John was thankful that the roads were in good shape this time; it wasn't too rare for them to flood during periods of heavy rain. Several species of bird glided through the waters, and an alligator kept its eyes just above the surface, waiting for its next prey. John wondered how long his ancestors and the Van der Linde gang had spent in the swampy areas of Lemoyne.
John stopped in The Heartlands to let Minerva stretch her legs for a bit, and to graze on the bunch grass growing out there. Her saddle sat in the back of his pickup, but he didn't feel like putting it on her, so as he had done several times he hopped on her bare back. The two of them rode through the beautiful fields and forests of The Heartlands for a few minutes. Minerva enjoyed being out and about and John enjoyed the bonding experience with his horse. He felt the breeze blowing through his hair and just wondered if his ancestors felt the same way about riding.
Once Minerva had been safely led back into the horse trailer, John started the truck again and made his way further southwest. John finally made it to the border of West Elizabeth. His old home. Where four generations of his family (him, his father, Jack, and John) had lived and raised families. John got lost in thought and almost didn't notice when he reached the large billboard sign that read:
"YOU HAVE REACHED BLACKWATER CITY LIMITS. POPULATION 150,000. TRAVEL SAFELY AND ENJOY YOUR VISIT."