So, here's the prologue. A nice long one for you too. I hope you all enjoy it – it's not really about the gang but… yeah, here we go.
21st June, 1902
Caliga Hall, Scarlett Meadows, LE
Caliga Hall had belonged to the Grays of Rhodes. But, in the past three years following their sudden and violent murder, it had been restored to its former glory. A red-brick three-floor house with a picturesque white porch on the front.
Inside the dining room, Roy Davenport sat at the head of the table, eating the fried pork as he idly flipped through the newspaper.
The Brotherhood of Southern Crusaders Strike Again!
Another attack against the Yankee laws as the Confederate renegades rob a train carrying payloads from New York. Marshal Matthew Daly, assigned to the case, states that it 'won't be long before the criminals are brought to justice. There is no Yankee or Confederate – only American'.
Roy rolled his eyes and closed the newspaper. In a year, he'd be forty-four. God… he didn't feel it. Perhaps it was the fact that he wasn't riding a damn horse all the time or dealing with nonsense like most businessmen. No, on paper, Roy Davenport was the landowner of Caliga Hall and its tobacco fields. Sadly, they gave very little yield – much of the soil wasn't suitable for farming. But Roy made the occasional penny as a lawyer – a damned good one, as well.
Because of his status in Rhodes (and the rest of Lemoyne, for that matter), Roy made sure he always looked presentable. Pomade in his dark brown hair, combed back, a neatly trimmed beard that did not obscure his angular jaw or sharp cheekbones.
At the other end of the table was Roy's wife, Valentina. She was a beautiful woman – all the attractiveness of an Italian and the refinement of a southern belle. Though she had been born in Sicily, she'd made Rhodes her home. With two beautiful southern belles as her children, she was regarded as much a southerner as her husband. Her olive skin and slender body didn't make her look forty. She smoothed down her red dress and dabbed the corners of lips with a handkerchief before sipping her tea.
"Mama," spoke the girl at the table, "can I have a cigarette now?"
"It's 'may I', honey…" Valentina said to the young girl.
Roy's emerald eyes flickered over to his youngest daughter, Paradise. Slender like her mother, Paradise had inherited more than her father's eyes: her hair was like Roy's – dark chestnut. Half of it was tied in delicate braids – most likely by Valentina, and the rest fell past her shoulders in deep waves and curls. Her skin was warm like peach skin and she'd inherited her father's sharp features.
"You already smoked through breakfast." Roy raised an eyebrow.
"Because I enjoy it," Paradise replied simply.
"Oh, let her smoke," Valentina said to Roy as she gestured to a dining maid. "It's only a cigarette, Roy."
Roy shook his head and glanced back to the newspaper detailing the Brotherhood's exploits. There was another article that caught his eye…
Rune Brody Gang: Beware of Outlaws!
Best-known for the murder of Frederick Herridge and the robbery of banks in Blackwater and Valentine, the Rune Brody Gang has been sighted in New Hanover. After rustling cattle from Emerald Ranch, law-abiding citizens in the states of Ambarino and Lemoyne are to be wary of the gang. Noted members are as follows: Rune Brody, Aiden McKneil, Luca d'Angelo & Alice MacKenzie. Sheriff Malloy of Valentine has warned that they are bloodthirsty, sinful and without guilt for the murder of numerous lawmen including his late deputy, Jonathon Cooley. "He was everything the law should be," Malloy states, "honest, god-fearing and just. A true American."
Eye-witness accounts in Emerald Ranch, NH, state that the gang are made up of criminal negroes and greasers with a single red Indian that is equal to them in terms of savagery…
"Papa!" Paradise frowned at Roy. "You aren't listening to me!"
Roy blinked and looked up from the newspaper. "Yes, honey?"
"I want a new horse."
"What about Sweetie?" Roy asked Valentina.
"Demi Barlow has two horses!" Paradise frowned.
"Two cheap horses…" Roy raised an eyebrow.
"What horse would you like, honey?" Valentina asked Paradise.
"Val…" Roy said quietly.
"What good is money if we can't afford as much as the Barlow's?" Valentina scowled. "I could always ask Guido…"
"No…" Roy sighed. "No, I suppose we may as well…" Roy took a sip from his teacup and glanced up to realize that the chair opposite Paradise was empty. The plate was bare and cutlery clean. "Where's Genevieve?" Roy asked.
"Oh, I suppose she's out doing… something…" Valentina waved a hand. "Perhaps with Mr. Durand?" Valentina smiled.
"Perhaps…" Roy nodded as he set his teacup down.
"How long until he's made manager of the bank?"
"A year or two, I'd wager."
"I think you could… quicken that…" Valentina's deep blue eyes settled on Roy until he nodded.
"I'll have a word. But there's other business."
"What business?" Valentina asked. "Don't tell me Mr. Hughes is in need of-"
"Not law," Roy interrupted her as he rose to his feet, walking around the table. "It's our confederate renegades…" Roy looked down to Paradise and pressed his lips to her head. "I'll tell Avery to accompany you into Saint Denis. You may take the train with him and your mother and…" Roy looked up to Valentina. "Well, buy anything you want." Paradise smiled, satisfied, and lit her cigarette. "Valentina, extend my regards to your brother." Roy moved around the table to give his a small kiss.
"Always, Roy."
"Fetch Mr. Cooper for me," Roy said to the servant, who hurried away. "Has Ambrose left already?" Roy asked his wife.
"He left early – I didn't ask him where he was going…"
"No matter…" Roy muttered to himself as he saw the servant return with his most faithful retainer.
Thomas Cooper was a handful of years older than Roy, being fifty-four in just a few months. Thomas' hair was dark brown, with a greying bushy beard that sat at the bottom of his neck. A long, ugly scar cracked along his skin from his white eye. His other was dark and cold. He was paunchy and tall, dressed in a black shirt and vest. He looked somewhat… dishevelled, dressed in a black shirt and brown pants, a black overcoat draped over one arm and his brown hat in hand.
"Problem?" Thomas asked in his crackling East London accent.
"Perhaps, Mr. Cooper," Roy said as he picked up the newspaper and handed it to him. Thomas looked at the newspaper, then to Roy.
"Am I supposed to know what this is?" He frowned.
"That would be a newspaper, Mr. Cooper," Roy said as he received his hat from a servant. "They're very common this side of the Atlantic…"
"Hilarious," Thomas nodded.
"The Brotherhood's robbed a train from New York."
"And?"
"And I don't appreciate them conducting business that ended with the war."
"You want me to…" Thomas' good eye drifted over to Paradise. "handle them?"
"Nothing quite so rash, Mr. Cooper." Roy smiled. "Get word to Ambrose and go fetch Shelby from the Parlour; I'm calling a meeting."
Thomas nodded. "Mr. Davenport…" He glanced to the women at the table. "Ladies." Thomas bowed his head and left.
On the grassy banks beside Caliga Hall, Genevieve looked out across the calm waters. She knew alligators dwelled beneath the water, but she couldn't see them. It was a strange idea… a world beneath what she could see.
Genevieve squinted her dark blue eyes and wiped the sweat from her pale, oval face. Her mother's dark hair fell in waves over the lacing of her dress. She bit her thin lip and raised her slender arms, holding the nickel revolver with both hands. She cocked back the hammer of the silver Schofield revolver and aimed at the bottle, snatching the trigger back. Her wrists ached and ears rang but, perhaps most of all, she saw that the bottle still stood in one piece.
A man laughed from beside her. Ambrose was the middle child of the Davenport men. Roy's older brother, he was the one who dealt with the Brotherhood. Gave them their targets, collected their cut…
Ambrose stroked his dark moustache and pushed himself to his feet. "Well, you may not be able to hit a bottle… but I don't know a lady who can."
"How many ladies do you know?" Genevieve muttered as she cocked back the hammer.
"About as many bottles as you've hit today…" Ambrose replied with a smile. "Now, fire again."
"What would Roy say if he knew you were helping me with this?"
"Does it matter? And call him father, not Roy."
"Are you sure you don't want me to call him 'papa'?" Genevieve mimicked her younger sister's dainty voice before scoffing. Ambrose allowed himself to grin a bit. Genevieve wasn't as… traditional as Paradise in terms of what made a lady, but she was prepared to fire a gun and stand up for herself. She was a Davenport, through and through.
"Sharp as a whip, ain't ya?" Ambrose grinned.
"Which whip? Grandaddy's?"
Ambrose rolled his eyes. "Focus on the bottle, Lady Ricketts…" He watched as Genevieve closed her eyes and focused on the target, squeezing off a few shots. He wasn't the best to be schooling her in gunplay – hell, Ambrose was the worst shot he knew. But his younger brother, Roy, would talk her out of it – Roy had a way of putting his ideas in others heads. And Shelby, well… Shelby was a dolt. Pampered almost as much as Paradise… No, Ambrose had looked after his younger brothers after their family lost their wealth with their plantation back in Georgia. But, a question Ambrose did not know the answer to arose in his mind.
"Why are you letting me teach you how to shoot?"
"Do I have a choice?" Genevieve asked as she squeezed off another round, making the bottle shudder, but not actually crack – off by less than an inch. "Shit…" Ambrose gave her a gentle nudge on the back of her leg with his ebony cane. She took the cartridges from him and began to reload the revolver. "You taught Avie to shoot as well."
"I did." Ambrose leant on the cane once more.
"He's the best shot I know."
"Was better than you in, what, three years?"
"Four," Ambrose replied. "And it ain't that hard – I'm a shit shot."
"Yeah, but he's really good."
"So why don't you ask him to help ya?"
Genevieve shrugged as she faced Ambrose. "He annoys the shit outta me."
While tent and wood saloons alike often fell into sickness, violence and disrepair, Rhodes' Parlour Saloon had stood the test of time. Apart from a single incident with the Lemoyne Raiders, all the patrons were of a desirable sort. Amongst most were handsome, well-groomed men resembling the dandies of a century passed. This was in no small part due to the parlour being owned and operated by the eldest of the Davenport brothers, Shelby.
Much like his two younger brothers, Shelby had dark hair. However, that is where their similarities ended. Shelby had no wife, no child and no reputation beyond his own lavish parties frequented by bankers, a church minister and a particular politician from Saint Denis.
Shelby emerged from his own private room on the upper floor of his saloon. He puffed on a cigarette as he began tucking his shirt into the back of his red pinstriped trousers. His gold silk cravat was loose and untied around his neck, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. His hair tousled and dripping in sweat. He pulled his braces up over his shoulders and removed his cigarette with a sigh as he began to put on his grey waistcoat.
"A little early for your escapades, isn't it?" Came the gravelly English accent of Thomas. Shelby let out a small smile and turned around to see his brother's favourite dog standing there, puffing on a cigar and swilling a glass of whiskey around in a tumbler glass.
"That's a big word for you, Tommy," Shelby said softly as he began to fasten the buttons of his shirt, "can you spell it?"
Thomas sipped the whiskey, letting out a breath of relief. "Your brother wants to see you."
"I presume you mean Roy." Shelby made his way towards the table, where he picked up the bottle of whiskey. He gave it a whiff and let out a small cough. "After all, Ambrose has his own pack of mad dogs to do his bidding…"
"And you've another beast entirely…" Thomas glimpsed into the room Shelby had just exited – full of sleeping half-naked men with their arms draped across each other, the unmistakably sweet scent and cloud of opium heavy in the air.
"Oh, creatures, certainly, old cock." Shelby began to button up his waistcoat as he looked at the half-naked men. "But beasts? I'm hardly sure of that…" Shelby swept a hand through his hair and, in a matter of seconds, had transformed himself into yet another up-standing citizen of Rhodes, sweating on a hot day. He began to roll down his sleeves as he grinned at Thomas. "Y'know, old cock, I figured something out about you."
"That I'm not one of your beasts?"
"Ha! No, of course not! No, I've figured out that you…" Shelby wagged a finger at Thomas. "You would never actually hurt me. Despite your many-"
Thomas grabbed Shelby's finger and clenched. Shelby let out a yelp and was dragged down onto one knee as Thomas leant forwards, his white eye inches from Shelby's dark brown.
"I'd kill you for the sordid little bugger you are, Shelby." Thomas slid the silver Schofield revolver out of his soft brown holster and pushed the barrel into Shelby's mouth. "It'd be the best and last thing to enter your mouth," Thomas growled. Shelby made several guttural sounds which made Thomas frown. Shelby pointed with his free hand to the gun and Thomas removed it. "Sorry, mate, you were saying?"
Shelby pushed out his tongue in disgust, gagging at the taste of metal and gunpowder before looking up at Thomas. "Are you enjoying this as much as I am, old cock?" Shelby asked. Thomas released Shelby's finger and holstered his revolver.
"See Roy, marry a woman and stop consorting with fucking sodomites."
"You take orders from us, Cooper, not the other way around-"
"I don't take orders. I do jobs. And the second I don't…" Thomas pressed his two fingers to Shelby's forehead and cocking his thumb forwards like the hammer of his revolver.
It was in the morning that Aiden and Lana went riding across the plains in search for any game to hunt. They trotted along on their horses, Aiden occasionally rubbing down Ryder's neck with a fond smile. He wasn't too used to the saddle yet and always wanted to start galloping. Aiden didn't mind – there'd be time enough for that later.
But, as Aiden looked up from his Turkoman and looked across the greenest grass he'd ever seen, in awe of the red clay and dirt that wound across the hills and fields, Lana's dark eyes were set on him.
Alice had always said that longing after a man would weaken a woman's resolve, and Lana felt that. She had lost her fire, her passion. She felt as though she wasn't the same young woman who'd stolen her father's revolver and fled across to America. She was, instead, a girl who had become too infatuated with a cowboy.
But that wouldn't be her for too much longer.
"Hey, you two!"
Lana turned to see a man waddling towards them. In torn and tattered, black and white stripes was a man, shaggy-haired and hollow-faced. Lana felt her face scrunch up at the look of the ugly man and glanced to Aiden, who was grinning.
"Well, now…" Aiden murmured as he leant on the horn of his saddle, "ain't you looking like a sack of crap?"
"Very funny," the man barked, "but, listen y'all, I ain't never… well, I did kill some folk, but I ain't never killed who they're sayin' I did!"
"Did they lock you up for murder?" Aiden asked.
The man paused for a moment. "Well… yeah."
"Sounds pretty fair to me…"
"We could turn him in," Lana said to Aiden. "How much money would we get for you, señor?"
"C'mon, Lady, please…" The prisoner whined. "I… I ain't never hated spics or said a bad word to y'all! Just… shoot the chains off me, please?" The prisoner stretched his legs apart to show the manacles between his ankles.
"You sore, sorry bastard…" Aiden grinned widely before looking to Lana. "I don't much reckon the bounty on his head will be as high as ours…" Aiden rubbed his chin. Lana frowned – she could hear Alice's voice in her head, telling her to reclaim her fire.
"And I reckon we should take him," she said pointedly.
"Lana, let's not-"
"My opinion is just as important as yours," Lana said. "And… and I've been educated – I think my say is worth more than… than someone like Luca or Near. And this pendejo isn't an outlaw like us, he's a murderer."
Aiden turned from Lana to face the prisoner with a raised eyebrow. The prisoner's lip quivered. "Oh, c'mon, mister!"
Aiden cleared his throat and looked over to Lana. "We ain't the law, Lana," he said finally. "Lawmen call me a murderer as well. Just like they call Rune one and Luca and…" He shook his head. "We help folk who need it, remember?"
Lana remembered Rune's rules all too well. To only shoot them who needed it. To help everyone who asked for it. And to put the gang first. Above anything and everything. Lana flicked her tongue across her teeth. Aiden may have been her equal, but Rune? He was their father, their leader. Rune didn't ask much of them, so she would honour his wishes.
Lana removed her revolver from her holster and cocked back the hammer, aiming at the glinting chain and firing the revolver three times until the chains snapped apart. The prisoner looked down at his feet in shock and let out a nervous laugh, quickly pulling the chains away.
"Thank you, ma'am," the prisoner laughed, "I swear, thank you, you've done right by me, I swear you won't regret it- both of y'all!"
"Get the hell out of here," Aiden snickered to himself as he watched the young man run away into the forest. "And get some new clothes!" Aiden shouted after him, shaking his head. "Damn fool…"
Well, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! The next one will be up at some point, I'm sure. Keep tuned and drop a review on what you thought.
I'm still accepting characters, so feel free to send them in!