Two: Well Hello There, Lumberjack…

I refused to trudge.

Trudging involves slouching, lowering one's head, and admitting defeat to a situation. These circumstances weren't 'good,' not in the least, but it was hardly catastrophic.

However, there were moments when I found myself weaving a bit drunkenly. That was mildly alarming, especially considering the time I'd just spent crashing and stumbling through underbrush and the like earlier.

How had anyone managed to hit me that hard? The only two possible culprits were Amenadiel or Mazikeen, but I hadn't seen them since leaving Dr. Linda's hospital room.

Maze had a truly wicked set of infernal brass knuckles made of hell-forged steel, the only pair to exist. However, she preferred face-to-face combat whenever she was angry with me.

Amenadiel was known as the Fist of God for a reason, no accoutrements required, but he wasn't very good at sneaking.

The pain in my head was down to a dull throb, thankfully, but that wasn't helping to improve my mood in the slightest. How long had I been walking, anyway?

The smell of cooking meat pulled my attention to the right; a small fire crackled not far up the road. From what I could see, a man was camped beside a large wagon full of crates. A pair of horses had been tethered not too far away from the area. Strange.

"Hello there," I said before coming into the clearing; it wouldn't do to scare the chap, after all. And, my Dad, he was a handsome bear of a human being.

The man looked up at me. "Evenin', mister." He seemed wary; that was understandable, of course. "You lookin' to camp for the night?"

"If it wouldn't be too much of a bother," I said, appreciating how the graying edges of his hair suited him. He was a slightly weathered older gentleman, which added to his aesthetic as a rugged outdoorsman. "My name is Lucifer," I paused to gage his reaction. "Lucifer Morningstar."

"Uh huh." He stood, cocking his head to assess me. "That before or after takin' a real hard whack to the back of yer skull?"

Touching the still tender area, I winced. Of course he would think that. Seeing the man's general attire, what I had found myself wearing, and the incredibly primitive camping arrangement was becoming unsettling. "If I may ask, what year is it?"

"It's the year of our Lord, eighteen hunnerd an' seventy-one." He shook his head and sighed, expression softening. "C'mere, mister, an' lemme get a look at that."

"Thank you."

"Mind me askin' what happened?" The man gestured for me to sit in front of a log.

"I… I have no idea. While talking to… to Miss Decker, my friend, I suddenly found myself waking in a ditch." That was as much of the truth as I felt comfortable saying without coming off like an utter lunatic. While I can get away with seeming like an eccentric or delusional billionaire in 2018, the 1800s were not nearly so forgiving. With Chloe's life potentially being at risk, I would have to practice considerable restraint in that area. "I've absolutely no idea where I am, where she is, if she's been injured, or…." I couldn't bring myself to say the other possibilities. "I don't even know how long it's been since I was attacked or how far away I've been taken."

He gave a sympathetic grunt, picking up a canteen. "Well I can't do much fer ya tonight, 'side from seein' to yer head, but after we get to town I'll see if there's some folks who'll help me do a search fer yer Miss Decker."

"I… I sincerely appreciate that, Mister…."

"Isaiah Edwards."

Isaiah Edwards had a deceptively gentle touch as he cleaned the matted blood from the back of my head. His fingers tugged at a particularly stubborn tangle, making me grunt in discomfort. "Sorry 'bout that. Whoever hit ya really didn't mean for ya to be wakin' up. Ain't no wonder yer a bit tetched."

"Tetched? Is that supposed to be a word?"

"Oh, right, you ain't American." He chuckled. "It means yer a bit addled in the head." Isaiah shifted behind me. "Now, I don't mean no offense, but most folks ain't goin' around callin' themselves the Devil if they know what's good for 'em, neither." He pressed his wet handkerchief to the back of my neck. "An' you don't know what the year is, so it weren't a hard conclusion to get to."

"I see." Using Lucifer Morningstar was clearly going to be a liability; I would have to consider other names humans have given me that would be more acceptable. Ugh, this entire situation was giving me another headache.

"You feelin' okay there, Mister?"

"No." I groaned, rubbing the heels of my hands against my temples. "Bloody hell." My stomach felt… uncomfortable.

Isaiah put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You'll be just fine, mister. We'll be in Walnut Grove by early tomorrow afternoon, an' I know the Doc there. He'll see to yer head an' set you right in no time."

The scent of woodsmoke, horse, and the man's own natural odor was so comforting that I leaned into his touch.

"I'm sorry 'bout what happened to you an' yer lady friend," Isaiah said quietly. "We'll find her, though; try not ta worry yerself over it too hard."

If only it were so simple.

I decided to make myself useful in the morning by making breakfast; cooking tinned stew in a skillet over a campfire was an… interesting experience. Not something I'd want to make into a habit, but it was certainly a novelty.

My head was feeling better, though still incredibly tender to the touch. If it was going to be healing at a pace comparable to that of a human, then it had clearly been inflicted by one of my siblings.

If I could just figure out how in Dad's name they had managed to drop me into the past, it would narrow down whomever was responsible.

Looking back over my shoulder, toward the road, my stomach clenched in worry for Chloe. Though, given the likelihood I'd been attacked by one of my brothers or sisters, perhaps she hadn't been anywhere near the hospital car park after all.

I could only hope.

Normally I enjoy a good conversation, but the situation was so confusing that I wasn't in a talkative mood. So, whilst I cleaned the morning dishes and Isaiah got the horses attached to the wagon, there was time to properly assess my circumstances and come up with a plan.

Firstly, I was wingless and in an era when America was still under the influence of their mostly Protestant Christian churches. Being 'the Devil' would make me a pariah faster than a leper with syphilis. 'Lucifer Morningstar' would have to be put away for the time being, as much as I hated to do it.

Frowning, I used a stick to scrape at a particularly stubborn bit of burnt food on the skillet. What in the bloody hell should I have people call me that would make hypothetically make sense for someone with a head injury to introduce himself as 'Lucifer Morningstar?' I remember in England they had referred to me as 'Old Lutherfud' at some point. Lutherfud sounded close to 'Lucifer,' but it sounded more suitable as a surname. I sighed. What good is a surname without the first? Old Sam, Old Nick, Old Harry, Old Ned, Old Billy… oh good Dad, no! Absolutely not. None of those sounded remotely pleasant.

The British certainly did like to put 'Old' in front of my nicknames, for some reason.

The Italians called me Dante….

Hmm, Dante Lutherfud. That sounded much better than any of the other combinations.

"You alright there, mister?" Isaiah asked, coming over from the wagon.

"Hmm?" I looked up. "Oh, yes, I'm… I think I've remembered my name, that's all."

"That's good, means yer head ain't as rattled as last night," he said with a smile. "So, what is it?"

"Dante Lutherfud," I told him, sealing my choice. "I suppose, last night, I must have mispronounced my surname." Watching his reaction, I added, "Apparently I come from a rather religious family, since my mind seemed to come up with the words 'Morning Star' immediately afterward."

"Well then, it's nice ta meet ya, Mister Lutherfud." He held out his hand.

"Considering everything you've done for me, please call me Dante."

"Sure thing."

I loathed to admit that, regardless of what condition the Detective was potentially in, there was nothing I could do for her. My stomach and chest ached painfully at the thought. Until I knew for certain…. Why did this hurt so much?

Enough of the maudlin pining. I looked around at the surroundings, searching for some sign of where I was. Couldn't very well plan anything without information. "Where are we?" I asked, mainly so I could stop Isaiah from singing yet another round of 'Old Dan Tucker.' Did he not know any other bloody songs? Fuck me, it was annoying.

"Couple hours outside of Walnut Grove."

"I'm not familiar with the town; are we in California?"

He gawped at me. "Hoo boy, you really are far outta yer way there, mister. Naw, this here's Minnesota." Shaking his head, Isaiah chuckled. "You must be right off the boat, not ta know that. Can's say as I blame ya none, though. Most of ya comin' over don't got no notion of just how big America really is."

Right, of course. "I… how long would it take to reach California?"

"Hmmm, I reckon 'bout six or seven months if yer settin' out from Saint Louis in the spring an' early summer. That's the best time for it." He scratched under his beard. "Be more close to a whole year, if ya set out any earlier or later."

Six or more months? "Aren't there faster routes?"

"Sure, if ya go mostly by rivers an' whatnot, but that's goin' right through the middle of wild Injun country; they'd sooner scalp a white man as lookit 'im."

"Wild… engines?" Had I heard that right? "Are the steam trains going feral, or something?" That didn't seem probable, given that they were machines, but one could never be sure with humans and their constructs. I've seen a countless Hell-loops that featured scenarios related to bloodthirsty driverless cars and ravenous aeroplanes with shark teeth.

My question made him howl a laugh and slap his knee, which was a bit much. It took Isaiah a few seconds to stop chortling before he could answer. "No, no, no, not train engines! Injuns! Ya know, the Pawnee and all them. Savages, Red Indians, whatever ya call 'em over there in London, England."

"You mean the Native Americans?"

He snorted. "Naw, that's what them Know-nothin' types back East call themselves."

"Know-nothings? Why on earth would anyone be proud to be completely ignorant of anything whatsoever?" Touching the back of my head, I winced. "I've the excuse of bloody amnesia, which is incredibly disconcerting. Bragging about being stupid seems a bit… counterproductive to any kind of success."

Isaiah looked at me, seeming perplexed. "How 'bout we, uh, go on a different subject fer now. I ain't exactly the best feller ta explain any of that political hoo-ha. All I know is trappin', huntin', doin' labors fer folks, an' drivin' wagons. I ain't much of an innalec type, ya know?"

"Right."

The rest of the drive took another two hours, but by then Isaiah was talking about how he'd come to the Walnut Grove township from Kansas. He spoke mostly about a local family he was friends with, moonshining, and something about the log mill.

I did pay some attention to his ventures in creating corn mash and distillery, but my attention drifted and I generally nodded or shook my head wherever necessary.

Coming around the final bend, I saw the town; the place barely rated above a hamlet. "This is it?"

"Yep. Welcome ta Walnut Grove."

The place did not look at all like what the man had been making it out to be.