The world spins on

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Thirteen years have passed since the attack on New York City and Washington, DC by Islamic terrorists.

I was a junior in high school at the time. I remember exactly where I was on the road when I heard on the radio that a plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York. I thought it was pretty odd, but the details were light, and in my mind I chalked it up to an accident involving a small aircraft.

By the time I made it to my first-hour class, that was clearly not the case. More planes hijacked, more crashes, more death.

The day was a blur of sorts; in only one class did we actually focus on schoolwork (math). For the most part, we listened to the news, talked quietly, prayed.

I also remember, late that night, crawling into bed and wondering if perhaps the whole thing had been some fevered nightmare. Maybe I would wake up the next morning, it would be September 11th, and no great tragedy had occurred, some 3000 American lives had not been lost.

I was wrong.

My wife has told me once that September 11th makes her feel old. Not because she’s particularly old – she’s two years younger than I am, and I haven’t even hit 30 yet. No, she feels old because of her students at the high school. For those of us who are old enough to have clear memory, there was a “before” and “after” – and the “after” made the world seem much darker and more dangerous. Illusions were destroyed, veils cast down – there was no denying there is plain evil in the world.

For those kids, though, there’s not really a “before”. They don’t have a concept of how the world changed for Americans on September 11th, 2001.

But it’s also important not to get caught up in the past. The world continues to spin on, and we can’t afford to be endlessly caught in the immediate aftermath of an attack thirteen years ago. It’s not healthy to fixate on a single point in time, and not allow growth, context, and understanding.

In the months following 9/11/01, many Americans would have rejoiced had Osama Bin Laden been immediately found and shot by American forces. But by the time the SEALs caught up with him and put a bullet in his brain close to a decade later, I couldn’t find any note of celebration in myself, because it wouldn’t make a difference. The fighting would go on, the terrorism would continue, the Middle East would continue in its terse infighting. There was no closure.

Never forget, but move on as well – the world keeps spinning.

Turning a corner

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Given that I’m a week into September and haven’t written anything substantial in quite a while, I felt the need to write a public-facing post here.

Guilt can really send someone into a spiral.

It’s not that I feel guilty about life in general. I have a wonderful wife that I spent quite a bit of time with. I have the best son ever in the Peanut, and I never feel like I don’t get to spend enough time with him. I spend time volunteering for projects with my church. I helped my brother pour a concrete slab and start framing out a new garage. I’ve switched over to baking all our own bread, rather than buying from the store. (The wonderful wife still does virtually all the other cooking.) I spent time helping on the family farm because my dad was badly injured in a horseback accident and the family needed help.

But what I haven’t been doing is writing.

The worst part is feeling guilty about it, because it paralyzes my ability to write. Then I feel more guilt, and the process repeats.

Contract Hunt has been over half done for quite some time, but my progress on it for several months now has been minimal…because of the loop.

It’s not unlike the problems I’ve struggled with in the past with depression. I had bad, bad problems with it in college; the depression and the guilt for screwing things up (because I was depressed) built on each other and paralyzed me, until I had a whole mountain of screw ups and I couldn’t dig my way out. It cost me an extra year of college (I should have been done in four) and a planned career path (education).

So now, the site is back up to date. The manuscript is laid out in Word, holes and all.

It’s time to write.

I serve a Risen Savior

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Typically, I don’t write about matters of faith or politics on this site. It’s not my strength, and there are a number of authors who share my beliefs in part or whole who write much more coherently on the subject than I can. Also, given my youth in both age and experience, I’d often be lecturing people that I could do better to listen to and learn from.

On certain occasions, I disregard that rule of thumb. Easter is one of those times. I believe the message of Jesus Christ is far too important, too big for me to say nothing.

But He answered and said to them, “I tell you that if these should keep silent, the stones would immediately cry out.”

Several millennia ago, eleven men huddled behind locked doors, hiding from the local authorities.

They had followed a man into Jerusalem the week before, in preparation for the Passover. That man, they believed, was the prophesied Messiah, the son of God! The Christ rode into Jerusalem on a colt and was greeted with praises and cheers.

A week later, their Messiah was dead – crucified at the hands of the Roman authorities at the insistence of the Sanhedrin. One of their own had betrayed him, and the other eleven had been too frightened to stand up for their leader. Only Peter had dared strike at the enemy, and mere hours later he had cowered away from claiming the Rabbi as his teacher.

These eleven survivors had thought they were going to change the world.

The day before the Passover, their dreams were crushed.

And now they hid from the prying eyes of those who had killed the Messiah, striving only to preserve their own lives.

Perhaps chief among them was Peter. He had been the loudmouth, bragging about how he would never fall away from the Christ. Yet he had denied the Master thrice and slunk away in shame.

Andrew, Peter’s brother, lived in his shadow, and now hid in it. He had left John the Baptist to follow the Christ, but perhaps in those dark hours he regretted his decision.

James and John, the Sons of Thunder, were silent in the aftermath of the crucifixion.

Philip was an early follower the Master, and recruited Bartholomew to join as well. Now they, too, felt the heavy guilt of abandoning him in the Garden.

Matthew had been a tax collector, as corrupt as the others of his profession. He had given up wealth and power to follow the Son, but now his sacrifice seemed in vain. He had traded the world for Heavenly concerns, but now had neither – only his own life, which was precariously in the balance with the Master’s enemies surely looking to eliminate the heretics.

Thomas had risked his life to follow the Master; his faith had been bold, and now his doubt was a dark reflection. Had he badly misstepped when he chose to follow the Christ? He had been so certain, and now all was lost.

James was perhaps the quietest of the group, observing rather than speaking, thinking rather than proclaiming. His silence now was in mourning as he wondered how he had been so wrong.

Simon had been called the Zealot for good reason, but now was only zealous in fear for his life.

Jude had always been humble, but it had never know the extreme he felt now. The Master had been taken from them, and there was nothing more he could do.

And the Twelfth among them, Judas Iscariot, had betrayed the Master – had betrayed them all! Unlike the others, he did not hide away in fear or shame; he instead hung himself, unable to live with himself after delivering the Messiah into the hands of those who destroyed them.

Eleven broken men. Confused, lost, mourning, regretful, ashamed.

And the Messiah arose.

And eleven men changed the world.

Eleven broken men crisscrossed the world they knew. Eleven broken men taught the gospel of Christ. Eleven broken men followed their order: to preach to everyone. Upon the truth of the Messiah, they built a church: not a building of stone or wood, not a chapel or humble country building, but a body of believers.

Upon simple truths: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. Love your neighbor as thyself.

I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.

Eleven broken men were defeated with the death of their Messiah.

And when He rose, when he shattered the bonds of death, he brought victory where only defeat had been.

Eleven broken men changed the world, with only the faith and power of a living Messiah: Jesus, the Son of God.

Because you have seen Me, you have believed. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.

The quick and dirty guide to writing a novel in 30 days

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I had been asked to teach a class of high school students for a day, to go over my advice to them on completing a novel in 30 days. They’re starting the project today, and due to unforeseen circumstances – a cracked head on my Jeep – I never got the chance to talk to them about it. Still, I had spent some time preparing and it’d be a shame for the information I’d compiled to go to waste.

Note that this isn’t a guide to write the Great American Novel in 30 days – this is merely a “spew 30,000 words in 30 days”, and hopefully have it make some degree of sense when it’s done.

The project is for a creative writing class, and was inspired by “NaNoWriMo” – National Novel Writing Month, which takes place in November. While I’ve never completed NaNoWriMo, I have written a couple of novels in a very short period of time.

There’s an old cliche attributed to Ben Franklin: “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.” I hated it in college, where I heard it often from teachers who didn’t care for my planning methods and thought I should be doing exactly what they told me to do. (I may or may not have a slight problem with authority.)

There are two basic tricks you’ll need to get the project done: outlining and committed writing time.

When I was in high school and later college, I had teachers who stressed the necessity of outlines. Outlines, I was told repeatedly, were a skeleton to help me organize my papers; the actual writing would flesh it out around the structure I’d built. Personally, writing three to ten page papers, I never found the need. I instinctively knew how to organize a paper, so the outline didn’t do much for me.

That changed when I started novel writing.

Sarah Hoyt wrote on the subject of “pantsing” vs “plotting” some time back. With all due respect to a veteran author who’s been at it way longer than I have, if you’re writing your first novel on a tight deadline of thirty days, you can’t afford to be a pantser. You need to plot.

Even among those of us who plot, the level of detail that goes into outlining a novel differs wildly. Some authors write fifty page outlines of a three hundred page novel. Some have character sheets/notes/files for every character in a novel, including detailed backgrounds, motivations, and physical descriptions.

When I first started out writing novels, I did a scene-by-scene outline. It wasn’t as complicated as it sounds – most of the scene descriptions were a single sentence, or even a phrase. It was a good way of organizing my plans for a story without losing track of story threads (which makes editing far more arduous). A number of authors I’ve talked to, including my mentor, use this technique for plotting their novels.

I’m actually a bit looser than that now. Destiny’s Heir and Dead Man’s Fugue were both written with a chapter-by-chapter outline. Basically, each was plotted to be a twenty-chapter novel, with a brief one to two sentence description of the major story changes/developments for that chapter.

Any way about it, that outline will give you the structure you need to start writing, which leads into the second part: committed writing time.

You must commit time to write. Just like a basketball player spends regular time shooting hoops, and runners usually have a time of day they always run, an author must have a regular writing time. With a project like this on a tight deadline, anything less will be a failure.

Writing fiction takes a particular frame of mind. Some authors have a very easy time slipping into it. Louis L’Amour, the famed North Dakota author, could sit down and write anytime he found a few free minutes, and he wrote prodigiously. Jack London wrote 1500 words a day; Stephen King just 2000.

However, it’s easier to write if an author-to-be commits certain time to it. It’s the same reason children are raised with routines – it gives structure to life, and makes day-to-day events easier. A five-year-old girl with a strict bedtime routine will quickly fall asleep at the end of her regular path because her mind is trained to do it. Setting aside a certain time of day each day helps the brain switch into writing mode, with less work and stress, leading to a more productive writing session.

(Stephen King works on novels in the morning, and consider afternoons “for naps and letters”, with evenings for “reading, family, Red Sox games on TV, and any revisions that just cannot wait.”)

And here’s where the two combine – plotting (outlining) and committed writing time.

Every writer eventually encounters “writer’s block”, which is a phrase without a real useful definition. The blocks happen for a variety of reasons – pantsers may not know what should happen next in the novel; an author may know what comes next, but doesn’t know how to write it; or even simple desire to not write the next scene, because it’s necessary but “dull” or just doesn’t speak to the author.

And there’s the beauty of an outline: you don’t have to write the story from beginning to end.

Don’t want to write the next scene in your novel? Don’t! Skip forward and work on a scene that you’re ready to write! You’re on a deadline – you can’t afford not to write, just because you’re feeling ambivalent about a scene in your novel. Come back to it when you’re ready, and work on something further down the road.

If you stop writing, you’ll never finish in time.

Dead Man’s Fugue was outlined but written pretty much beginning to end. Destiny’s Heir, on the other hand, had chapters written in a very wild order that didn’t make much sense, but the outline pulled it all back together.

So, to recap: use an outline, write every day (at the same time if at all possible), and write what you want to write.

If you follow those basic rules, you can finish the project in time – and you may surprise yourself with what you’ve written.

What I Didn’t Expect

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Becoming an author has some odd quirks to it – things I didn’t expect. Maybe some of it is being an author in small-town North Dakota, where few people do big or unexpected things. (And believe me, writing not one but two books, particularly in scifi/fantasy, is rather unexpected.)

I’ve been asked to talk to a high school Creative Writing class.

Now, granted, it was my wife who asked me directly, but some of the other area teachers have expressed at least moderate interest in having me speak, and I’ve had several suggestions that I should do so at area libraries as well.

One of the oddest things about indie writing is publicity. I’m responsible for all of it. If I want my name in the paper, I need to make phone calls, write emails, send press releases, and so forth. So, when I get a chance for publicity, I jump at it–including talking to high school classes.

This particular class is going to be tackling a month-long novel-writing assignment. (Hence, bringing in the novelist.) It’s inspired by NaNoWriMo, though it’ll be taking place in March this year. The students will have 31 days to write 30,000 words of cohesive story, and I’m being brought in to tell them how to do it. Sort of.

This would be easier if I had figured out how to do it myself!

Book Recommendation: Monster Hunter International

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Edit: Welcome, Monster Hunter Nation! I invite you to check out samples of my novels, the scifi thriller Dead Man’s Fugue and the new fantasy novel Destiny’s Heir. Just maybe you’ll wind up as an Angry Villager, though I’m not sure I want a fan base as well-armed as MHN!

First off, I’ll start with an apology – after a mere two chapters of Six-Guns & Sorcery, I dropped the ball. I’m working on getting back on track this week with both regular updates for SG&S, and getting some serious writing done on Contract Hunt.

That said…

Writers aren’t just writers. Every writer I’ve ever talked to is also a reader, and a voracious one at that. I came to the conclusion in January that one of the reasons I’ve been struggling to put pen to paper much lately is because I haven’t been reading nearly enough.

Don’t get me wrong, I read every single day – but I haven’t been reading the right sort of stuff. (I almost put a pun in there about the “write sort”, but it seemed a bit obvious.) So, to help get my mind changed off of focusing solely on the new baby and back into writing, I’ve been going through my bookshelves and rereading my favorites, as well as tackling the new books I got for Christmas.

One of those new books has been on my reading list for quite a while based on a dozen recommendations. I regret it took me so long to get to it, and I wound up reading more than half of it on Friday night when I stayed up until 2 AM with my Peanut who wasn’t real interested in sleep.

Monster Hunter International by Larry Correia gets the gold star from me!

MHI is Correia’s debut novel, and he’s since put out quite a few more. I haven’t read anything else of his (aside from his blog, Monster Hunter Nation), so I really wasn’t sure how much I’d enjoy the story. There are a number of authors who I follow regularly on their websites and get a lot from their nonfiction, but their actual paid work leaves me dissatisfied.

Important things to know about MHI:

1.) Be prepared for monsters galore.
2.) Be prepared for guns. Lots and lots of guns.

I very much enjoyed the book, which forced me to reflect a bit. I mean, I didn’t find the prose amazing by any means – it’s solid writing, with a sentence here or there that made me stop and scratch my head because of a clunk, but never so badly that it was more than a moment’s distraction. I figured out the twist at the end when I was halfway through the novel, so it wasn’t surprising. The romance angle felt as awkward as the romances in my own novels (which are admittedly less-than-stellar – my wife jokes that I “have the awkward guy down pat”).

I finally concluded that I enjoyed because it made no apologies for what it is. Correia’s biography indicates he is “hopelessly addicted to two things, guns and B-horror movies.” And it shines through unashamedly, and he makes it work.

I’m a fan of the TV series Supernatural, which is often on in the background while I’m writing (although that may be changing now that I have the Peanut underfoot; the kid doesn’t need to be exposed to that yet), but in the end, I actually found I enjoyed the MHI world more, which really surprised me. Dean and Sam Winchester’s arsenal in the trunk of the Impala is a pale shadow of the kit Owen Z Pitt totes around during MHI, and frankly, Pitt uses it a hell of a lot better.

Perhaps an extra bit of my appreciation comes from Correia refusing to handwave away issues in the same vein as other urban fantasy. My biggest pet peeve is how so many monsters in fiction are immune to anything but the special sword of slaying, and without the magic weapon there’s no way to win. Even some of the best urban fantasy I’ve read succumbs to the “my monsters are immune to gunfire” trope (I’m looking at you, Jim Butcher).

I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve seen a werewolf killed by pushing it out a high-rise window, and then dropping a desk on it. No silver involved!

At any rate, in spite of its flaws (which I really can’t throw stones at – Dead Man’s Fugue and Destiny’s Heir have plenty to go around), Monster Hunter International gets the gold star. If you’re looking for something entertaining to read, don’t hesitate to pick it up, and at 700 pages (which is what my Baen paperback ran) you’ll have a nice long read in front of you.

Believe me, it didn’t feel that long.

And I guess I’m going to have to throw in a copy of Monster Hunter Vendetta with my next Amazon order…

Six-Guns & Sorcery – Chapter 2: Losing Hand

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Short chapter today, for which I apologize. When it is edited together, it will likely be merged with either the previous or next chapters.

Micah did the only thing he could.

He heaved up on the table with all his might, scattering drinks, cards, and chips, as he tipped it all over on his foes.

And then he turned and ran like hell.

He had barely made it into the street before a strong hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed. Micah had no time to react before it swung him around.

The ex-Confederate had barely managed to recognize Captain Burns before the man swung his fist, hard, into Micah’s gut. He folded over in pain around the blow, but on the way down managed to throw a shot at the other’s knee.

And like that, he was tumbling free again. Given how fast the Captain had caught him, Micah doubted he could outrun any of the three, so he rolled to his feet with his fists cocked and ready.

Webb was already closing, his glasses glinting strangely in the night. Micah didn’t hesitate to throw a left cross, then a right hook. Neither blow landed; the other man turned them away easily.

Not undaunted, Micah continued to fire punches off, left and right, but Webb moved impossibly perfectly, as if he knew each of Micah’s attacks before the man made them. Micah tried a kick, but it never connected. How is he doing this? It’s impossible!

Webb’s grin was predatory as he effortlessly deflected Micah’s attacks. “Now, you die,” he hissed. “You have no chance against us. You should have walked away.”

Micah barely managed a thought, How is he talking so easily? between blows. The bespectacled man made no move to counterattack, but his hands and feet were a blur as he kept Micah’s attacks at bay. Why isn’t he pressing me back?

The answer occurred to him the same instant a flash of movement caught his eye. He was far too slow, however, to stop the big man, Mason, from smashing a hammer blow into his chest.

Micah had no time to prepare for the strike, but he doubted preparation would have helped. One moment he was swing punches with every bit of strength he had, the next he was flying through the air. The world spun, and he crashed into the snowing street, the cold biting at his face but doing nothing to extinguish the fire in his chest. Broken ribs? he wondered as he rolled over onto his back.

He blinked the stars out of his eyes, and when he looked up, all three men stood over him. “That was fool of you, boy,” Burns said. “Guess now I’ll have to kill you.”

He hefted a gun, which Micah belatedly realized was his own.

“Die,” the one-eyed man said as he pulled the trigger.

The Colt clicked on an empty cylinder.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said in bemusement. “You emptied this into me after the first bullet didn’t do the trick. That’s okay, I’ve got…”

Burns didn’t get a chance to finish his statement. She materialized in front of him, her whole body a blur of motion.

Micah could only watch in helpless amazement as Rota attacked all three men, armed only with a woodcutter’s ax.

Her first blow struck the Colt precisely, the weapon coming to pieces as it flew through the air. She immediately lashed out with the butt of the ax, catching Mason alongside the jaw with enough force to shatter bone. The big man staggered back, clutching his face. With the blunt end of the weapon she smashed Webb’s temple with killing force, and followed through so the sharp end rested against Burns’s throat.

“Now, now, Rota,” he said calmly. “What are you doing? I came here to recruit you, but I was perfectly willing to let you go. Now that you’ve done this, however, I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you, too.”

The blue-eyed, blonde beauty shook her head slowly. “You’re not capable of killing me.”

“Not yet,” Burns amended. “I will soon, though. Boys!”

To Micah’s amazement, both Webb and Mason stepped up beside him. Webb worked his jaw around, but it was clearly intact, and Mason…

He should be dead!

A small red marked had appeared where the ax had smashed into his skull, but beyond that there was no sign of what should have been lethal injury.

“Last chance to reconsider,” Burns warned the woman. “After we walk away, the next time we meet I’ll be killing you.”

“There’s nothing to reconsider. I’ve done it once. Never again.” She withdrew the ax from the man’s throat, but held it in a firm two-handed grip, her entire posture unyielding. “Besides, I survived the entire meltdown once. Why do you think I won’t a second time?”

Burns began to laugh, a belly-chuckle that eerily contrasted with the deadly standoff. “You are something else, Rota.”

“Leave,” she said coldly.

“Fine, fine. Just stay out of our way. I also advise you keep your little friend there from trying us a second time – without you, he’d already be dead.” Burns smiled at the fallen Micah. “Take my advice, boy: you already used all the luck you’ll ever have surviving this once. The next time, you’ll die.”

“Go to hell,” Micah managed to wheeze, his chest burning.

Burns ignored him. “Farewell, then, Rota. Three weeks.”

“I know.” She turned her back on all three of them, a deliberate move, and she allowed the ax to fall to her side with a one-handed grip. While all three of the men stared at her back, she knelt down next to Micah. “Are you hurt?”

“Ribs,” he managed. “Might be broken.”

Rota hissed in irritation. “You were too slow. You have no idea what you were hunting, do you?”

“Three ex-Union soldiers,” Micah gasped.

“So no, then.” She sighed and glanced back; all three men were gone. “Come, now. We need to find you a doctor.”

 

Six-Guns & Sorcery – Chapter 1: Ante Up

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December 1, 1876

“Is this seat taken?”

The denizens of the corner table in the Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon all raised their gazes from their cards to the newcomer.

“You’d best run along,” the sole woman at the table said lightly, a blonde beauty clad in leather. “The stakes here are higher than what you’re worth, son.”

“I think I’m a better judge of that,” he returned. “I’m worth more than I look.”

The dealer, a greying man with an eyepatch over his right eye socket, chuckled in apparent amusement. “That wouldn’t be hard, boy. How old are you?”

“I’m no boy,” the stranger said, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice. “I fought in the war. Isn’t that enough?”

“Did you now?” a pale, bespectacled man little older than the stranger asked. “Yes, maybe you did. You carry yourself the way of a man with battle scars.”

“Not scars enough,” the last card player commented, a man built like a railroad worker with broad chest and powerful arms. “He’d know well enough to leave a game alone.”

The stranger withdrew a stack of money from his pocket, counted off a hundred dollars, and tossed it down on the table. “Is that enough to buy into this game?”

The three men at the table laughed; strangely, the woman seemed unamused. “If you want in so badly, kid, pull up a chair,” the dealer said. “But don’t say you weren’t warned.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Micah,” he answered as he seated himself between the woman and the pale man.

“And what brings you to Deadwood in the middle of winter?” the dealer asked idly. “I call.”

Cards were laid down, and the big man took the pot with a trio of jacks. With the hand over, the dealer exchange Micah’s hundred dollars for chips and slid the stack back to him.

“I’m always looking for opportunities,” Micah said casually as he anted up, tossing a dollar chip into the pot. He waited until all five cards were dealt before he picked up his hand. “Word has it that Deadwood is a place of opportunities.”

“There’s opportunity here, yes,” the big man agreed. “Plenty of danger, too, if you’re not prepared. There’s no real law here – McCall rode out of here after shooting Hickok in the back, and he’s hardly the first. The tribes don’t like us here, either – they think these hills are sacred.”

“And you don’t?” Micah asked.

“Boy, there’s nothing on this world that’s sacred,” the man declared.

Micah glanced down at his hand – a pair of nines, with an ace high card. Enough to stay in the game, he decided, matching the current bet of five dollars. When it was his turn he tossed in two cards and got two in return, which did nothing to improve his hand.

“Now, where were we, Rota?” the dealer asked as he moved his attention from Micah to the woman next to him.

“I was telling you ‘no’,” was her dry reply.

“Yes, you were, but I’m urging you to reconsider.”

“There’s nothing to reconsider,” Rota replied sharply. “I told you, I’ve left that life behind, and I’m never going back.”

“Hardly,” the dealer returned. “You know it will happen, and if you work with me you’ll benefit greatly from it.”

“The lady said she wasn’t interested,” Micah spoke up.

“Boy, this doesn’t concern you,” the dealer said icily as the betting raised.

With only the nines, the bet was rising too swiftly to risk staying in, and Micah folded. “Where I come from, when a lady says no, that’s the end of it.”

“And where exactly are you from, Micah?” the bespectacled man asked.

“Alabama,” he answered.

The air seemed to grow colder at the table. “You fought for the Confederates,” the big man commented. “You sure you want to be sitting here?”

“War’s been done ten years and some,” Micah said coolly. “Northern aggression won. Does it matter anymore?”

“Only if you make it a problem,” the big man said gruffly. “We fought, but we weren’t no Grey backs.”

The man in glasses took the hand again and raked in the chips. Micah anted up again and waited patiently for his cards to be dealt. “So you fought for the North. Congratulations.”

“I’d be a bit kinder in tone were I you,” Rota warned him quietly. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“He’s just another Southern boy who doesn’t know when he’s been whipped,” the dealer commented dryly as he finished dealing out the hand.

An uneasy silence fell on the table, and hands were played without anything said beyond “raise”, “call”, and “fold.” The woman took one hand, the dealer another, and the man in glasses the last.

“That pile of chips isn’t going to last, son,” the dealer smirked as he passed out the cards again. “You going to throw more money in?”

“Maybe,” Micah allowed as he surveyed his own remaining chips.

“What brings you to Dakota territory?” Rota asked. “It’s a long way from Alabama, and no one comes here for the weather. Are you prospecting or trading?”

“Surveying,” he deadpanned.

“Where did you serve?” the big man asked, his tone a mixture of contempt and curiosity.

“Army of Northern Virginia, under General Jubal Early. Barely survived Waynesboro, and had made it back the day before Lee surrendered.” Micah’s tone remained steady and distant, as though he were recalling someone else’s history. “After that, I was done with the war and went back to Georgia.”

“Georgia?” the dealer asked. “I thought you were from Alabama.”

“Was that what I said?” Micah asked. He pushed a twenty-dollar chip into the pot. “Raise.”

“You sure you want to do that? That’s half of what you have left,” the big man commented.

“What’s money matter in a place like Deadwood?” he replied dismissively. “Where did you three serve?”

“Together,” the dealer said, “in the Army of Tennessee.”

“Under that bastard Sherman?” Micah asked.

“All the way to the sea in sixty-four,” the bespectacled man nodded. “Under Captain Burns, that is.”

Micah turned to the dealer as the woman called, and the man with the glasses took the pot again. “You’re Captain Burns, I take it?”

“Captain Louis Burns, formerly of the Army of Tennessee,” he confirmed with a tight smile. “Dismissed from the service after the war ended. Just as well, or I might’ve been scalped by the redskins by now. Good chance I would’ve been with General Custer six months ago.”

“Montana territory isn’t far from here,” Micah noted, “and the tribes aren’t happy about us here in Dakota. If you’re worried about the red men, why are you in Deadwood?”

All three men laughed. “I’m not worried about the red men,” Burns said shortly. “And they’re of no concern to me.”

“What did you do after the war?” Rota asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Well, a funny thing happened when I went home,” Micah said as the cards were dealt out. “See, General Sherman’s armies marched right across my home. I had heard about it, of course – we all knew about the way he burned our homes to the ground, destroyed our crops, stole our horses.

“But for all the things his armies did, they left the people alone. All the farmers, the smiths, the workers – the Union armies didn’t lay a finger on them.” He matched the bet, tossed in two cards and received two in return. “I think Sherman was smart enough to know that if he started killing everyone, there’d never be peace again – there’d be no healing between North and South.”

“So you went home to rebuild?” Rota asked.

“With hardly a penny to my name,” Micah confirmed. “Raise,” he added, pushing all the chips he had left into the pot. “But there’s a problem when you fight a war and you give orders. Sometimes, your orders aren’t followed.”

Rota’s eyes, brilliant blue, showed horror; the three men didn’t look up from their cards.

“It took me two years to find out what happened. Three Union soldiers disobeyed orders and slaughtered three homes full of farmers. No one knew why – it’s not like any of the dead were important or wealthy. And it took another three to discover their ringleader’s name, and five more to track them down.”

Micah laid his cards down on the table – two pair, aces over eights. “To Deadwood.”

Silence reigned over the table for long seconds as the three men looked up as one to Micah. The dealer, Captain Burns, began to laugh slow and cold. “You have no idea what you’ve done, boy. I’ll give you this one chance to walk away from this table alive.” His smile was sardonic. “You can’t beat all three of us.”

“I don’t need to,” Micah said. “Your two buddies here, Lieutenant Mason,” he said as he glanced at the big man, “and Lieutenant Webb,” with a quick eye toward the bespectacled man, “aren’t armed. You’re the only one.”

“So now you shoot me?” Burns asked.

“I’ve been carrying this same Colt 1851 since the war ended,” the ex-Confederate said shortly. “I swore I’d carry it until the war was over…for me. And tonight, that’s happening.”

“You made a mistake, son,” Burns said. “You should make your big speech after you’ve killed me.”

Micah opened his mouth to respond, but Burns was already rising to his feet, his right hand blurring for the revolver on his hip.

Micah was faster.

The Colt 1851 Navy barked, a cloud of black smoke blossomed, and Burns was falling backward. Micah didn’t hesitate, the barrel swinging first one way, then the other, to deliver a bullet each to the captain’s two companions.

He let out a long sigh, felt more than ten years of anger and rage begin to drain away. “It’s over,” he said, mostly to himself. “I’ve avenged my family.”

“You fool,” Rota hissed. “Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with?”

From the floor three voices chuckled, and all three dead men slowly rose to their feet as Micah looked on in horror. “What?” he asked dumbly as he swung the Colt around again, putting all three of his remaining bullets into Burns with no discernable effect. “What?”

“You were warned,” Burns said with a wicked smile twisting his lips. “Now, you pay the price for gambling and losing.”