Deadlands - Adventure - DN2 - Independence Day.pdf

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IndependenceDay
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TM
Deadlands Dime Novel #2
Independence Day
Fiction by: Matt Forbeck
Adventure by: Chris Snyder & Matt-Forbeck
Original Idea by: Shane Lacy Hensley
Editing: Matt Forbeck & Shane Lacy Hensley
Production: Matt Forbeck &-Hal Mangold
Cover Art and Logo: Ron Spencer
Interior Art: Paul Daly
Map: 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.
© 2002 Pinnacle Entertainment Group, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
PINNACLE ENTERTAINMENT GROUP, Inc.
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Independence
Day
Preface
Welcome to the latest installment in the ongoing saga of
Ronan Lynch. If you picked up Perdition’s Daughter , the first in
our ongoing series of Dime Novels™, then you already know a lot
about Ronan, his untimely demise, and his amazing rise from his
shallow grave.
At the end of that twisted tale, Ronan was left to explore the
whys and wherefores of his second shot at life. Since then, a lot
of miles have passed beneath his horse’s hooves, and Ronan’s
had many an adventure worthy of the telling.
He’s also struggled with the dark forces animating his corpse.
Most times, he’s won hands down, but other times it hasn’t been
so easy. There are gaps in his memory, and for one reason or an-
other, there are a lot of people out there willing to fill the spaces
in his rotting brain with lead.
Soon enough, Ronan saw the wisdom of putting Denver in his
trail dust. He’s wandered up and down the country, and just be-
fore this tale begins, he’s wandered his way into Kansas, right
back where he was at the start of Perdition’s Daughter .
As the Chinese proverb goes, Ronan’s been cursed with an in-
teresting life. We’ll get around to telling most all of his story
sooner or later, but for now we’re going to draw back the curtain
and show you just how your favorite undead character spent the
centennial celebration of the country he once fought for and has
since fallen out of favor with.
We’re talking some serious fireworks.
Page 4
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Independence Day
Chapter One
The dead man rode into Dodge on a pale horse.
The trail dust clung to his clammy flesh in the hot summer
night. He wriggled restlessly in his saddle, more out of habit than
stiffness. The wind blew hot out of the west, a breeze straight
out of Hell, herding the horse and its heavy load into the Kansas
cowtown.
The cadaver’s horse clip-clopped through the streets, slowly but
surely carrying him into the heart of town. Working his way past
the rail yards and the pens full of softly lowing cattle, the corpse
neared a pool of light and sound in the otherwise quiet night. A
wry smile creased a face weathered by things worse than wind
and rain.
As the deceased rider reached the saloon, the tones of a
mistuned piano drifted toward his ears. He slowly raised his sal-
low face, exposing his dark eyes to the gaslights burning within
the place. A freshly painted sign swung over the door on a pair
of rusty chains. It read “Dog-Eye’s Saloon” in blood-red script.
The dead man dismounted smoothly, showing no strain from
his many days on the trail. He tied his horse to the wooden rail
outside the boardwalk running in front of the saloon, lest the
skittish beast take the opportunity to leave him for good. Then he
strode up to the building and knocked open its bat-wing doors.
As he sauntered into the brightly lit room, he reached up to
doff his hat and then thought better of it. He walked up to the
gleaming bar, sat down in the middle of a row of empty stools
and said, “Whiskey,” in a voice weary with death.
The bartender, a stout man with a wisp of graying hair wan-
dering over his scalp, turned and slapped the drink down with a
practiced move. He stopped and stared at the man through a pair
of wire-rimmed spectacles as spit-polished as the mugs shining
in the rack behind him. His left eye wandered wide, but his right
glared straight at the newcomer.
“Do I know you, stranger?” The bartender’s brow furrowed with
the effort of boring through the thick layer of grime covering his
customer. “Your voice sounds familiar.”
The traveler pushed his hat back on his head and looked the
bartender in his eyes, a sparkle dancing in his dead orbs. “I spent
enough metal in here, Dog-Eye, so you damn well ought to.”
The rotgut peddler’s eyes snapped back together as they
opened wide. “Lynch! I knew it was you.” A wide grin split the
man’s head in half. “Where have you been, Ronan? Seems like a
month of Sundays since I’ve seen you around these parts.”
“Well,” Ronan began as he sipped at his whiskey. Dead or not,
the stuff burned down just the way he liked it. “These eyes have
seen a lot since they last set on Dodge.”
Page 5

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