Deadlands - Adventure - DN1 - Perdition's Daughter.pdf - Scenariusze - sensei_13

Deadlands Dime Novel #1

Perdition’s

Daughter

Fiction by: Shane Lacy Hensley

Adventure by: Hal Mangold

Editing and Layout: Matt Forbeck

Cover Art and Logo: Ron Spencer

Interior Art: Loston Wallace

Cover Design: Jay Lloyd Neal

Maps By: Jeff Lahren

Deadlands created by Shane Lacy Hensley

Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.

P.O. Box 10908

Blacksburg, VA 24062-0908

www.peginc.com

Deadlands is a Trademark of

Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.

Printed in Canada

PINNACLE ENTERTAINMENT GROUP, Inc.

Perdition’s

Daughter

Howdy, folks. Welcome to Christmas in the Weird West. In this

twisted tale of the macabre, you’ll learn how Betty McGrew came

to be called “Bad Luck Betty” and why it’s dangerous to mess

with sly cardsharps like “Velvet” Van Helter. And by the end of

this demented drama, you’ll see how a gunfighter named Ronan

Lynch left the world a hero and came back something much

more.

Prologue

Captain Ronan Lynch stood in the trench behind his men. The

long line of Union blue stretched off into the night’s thick fog.

Artillery thundered in the distance. Its flash seemed to cling to

the horizon, illuminating the thick fog and its own sulfurous

cloud. What the troop could see of the horizon looked like some

dim, twilight Purgatory between earth and Hell.

“Steady, men,” Ronan said, his Colt revolver in one hand and

his cavalry saber in the other. Behind him, hidden in the night,

he could hear the muffled whinnies of his troopers’ horses. He

had assigned only half the usual horseholders, one for every

eight horses, but he needed every man he had. The holders were

having difficulty keeping the nervous beasts still. Ronan couldn’t

blame the terrified animals—the smell of death was thick here.

They were somewhere in Virginia; he couldn’t remember the

name of the nearest town. The Federal infantry was getting

flanked by Confederates, and his lone cavalry troop had been

sent to slow the advance of an entire regiment. They were less

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Perdition’s Daughter

than fifty men with carbines and sabers sent to stop over four

hundred Confederates with breech-loading rifles and bayonets.

All Ronan could do was dismount the men and help them dig

shallow graves disguised as trenches. “There’s movement in the

mist, Cap’n,” whispered Ronan’s senior sergeant.

“Okay. Get ready, boys. Wait ’til you can smell ’em.”

A shot rang out but hit no one. Sharpshooters most likely. Or

the Rebs trying to tempt the Union boys into a hasty volley.

Fortunately, most of Ronan’s men had fought by his side since

’66 and didn’t take the bait.

“Here they come!” came a distant voice from along the line.

Suddenly a surge of gray emerged from the fog. The Rebs

looked like lost ghosts wandering through the mists of Limbo.

They halted. Ronan heard the ominous clicks of a hundred metal

bolts. Or at least he thought so. Something sounded different, but

there was no time to ponder it now.

“Down boys!” he urged as quietly as possible.

Hundreds of tiny flashes suddenly raced along the Rebel line,

accompanied by a thunderous retort.

“Steady!” Ronan urged one last time. The Confederates hadn’t

yet detected the dark-clothed Yankees kneeling in their shallow

trench, and so the shots flew overhead. Once the troopers fired

back, however, they’d be illuminated. Ronan had to make their

first return volley count. Their carbines were far inferior to the

Rebel’s longer-ranged, British-supplied arms.

The Confederates stopped firing, confused by the lack of

return fire. From the mist, Ronan heard a thick southern accent.

“Hold yer fire, boys! They’ve already skedaddled!”

The thud of four hundred boots sounded through the night as

the Confederates cautiously advanced.

Now less than forty yards away, the Rebs would soon see the

glint of a button or the shiny whites of angry eyes, and their

shots would tell true. It was now or never.

“Fire!” Ronan yelled. The fury of his veterans’ volley was

fantastic. Rebels fell in droves a mere thirty yards from the hasty

trench. “Reload!” Captain Lynch screamed.

The Rebels hesitated in shock only for a moment, then gave

their infamous battle cry. “Yeeeeeee-haaaaaaaa!”

The “Rebel Yell” tore into the Yanks like a thing alive, filling

even the veterans with fear and dread. Ronan was ready to stop

routers with the steel of his saber, but his men held.

“Fire at will, boys! Let ’em have it!” Ronan emptied his revolver

into the ghostly ranks. Slowly, it seemed to Ronan, his troopers’

carbines echoed his shots. They came in little spurts, each volley

dropping fewer Confederates as the shocked attackers rallied.

Now they’d fix bayonets, Ronan thought, and close in for the

kill. The cavalrymen had only their sabers—far inferior weapons

in hand-to-hand combat. They’d be cut to pieces.

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Deadlands - Adventure - DN1 - Perdition's Daughter.pdf

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