More tales located here: http://www.comicvine.com/profile/cbishop/blog/wild-western-roundup/103567/
12th February 1857, Columbia, Missouri
“Did you hear about Fitzpatrick?” asked the Postmaster as he busied himself as Black Snake Betty eyed the local notice board.
“No,” she replied with a shrug.
“Damn fool slipped and fell under the train yesterday, lost both his legs! May not make it through to this evening.”
“That’s…real unlucky,” she replied hiding her knowing smirk as she pulled down the wanted poster of Morgan Fogg. “Any more of these?”
The Postmaster rubbed his top lip in deep thought before rummaging through a pile. “Just two. That one and this one I hadn’t put up yet. Came in this morning.”
“Seems Judge Clemens thinks I can’t do the job he paid me for,” said Betty as she crossed the room. “Arrogant gavel tapping hick. May I have these?”
He hesitated before handing it over. Betty flicked him a coin. “Rather not have any competition is all. Much obliged.”
Morgan Fogg emerged from the tepee to greet the rising sun. His arm was bandaged and held snugly in a sling. A little girl, no older than five, stopped cold and stared at him in amazement.
He crouched down to her level and smiled. “Hi.”
She screamed like she’d been bitten by a rattler at a pitch only little girls and animals being slaughtered can manage. Morgan slowly stood back up. “Nice to meet you too.”
Honiahaka, his father’s sister, came to greet him. <How do you feel Red Bear?>
<Tired but good> Morgan said. <Where am I?>
<Reservation> she replied sadly. <White man says we stay here>
<Is there anything I can do to help?>
<You can leave!>
Morgan turned to see a large Indian brave standing behind him, arms folded, scowl on his face. Morgan looked at the man before realising it was his cousin, Hiamovi. <Been a while Whirlwind>
<You do not belong here Red Bear, never did.> Hiamovi said gruffly.
Honiahaka poked her son in the chest <He is your cousin and our guest!>
<Have I done something wrong?> asked Morgan.
<White people speak with forked tongues and bring trouble!> Hiamovi grunted.
Morgan pointed to his face <Do I look white?>
Hiamovi spat on the ground <You do not belong here> And he stomped off.
<What is his problem?> Morgan asked. Honiahaka took him by his good arm and led him towards the sounds of drumming.
<His wife was killed when the white men told us to move. He is angry and you are the closest white man>
Morgan shook his head <White people call me red, my people call me white.>
<You walk two worlds Red Bear> she said <A blessing and a curse. Whirlwind will come round. You were best of friends as children. Now come.>
They wandered down to a large flat dirt circle as seven men danced and yelped as over a dozen others banged drums in time. The tribe slowly came together as the dance intensified. Morgan watched intently as memories of his father doing this when he was a boy, much to his mother’s disgust.
<What are they doing?> asked Morgan as he tried to remember himself.
<Sun dance> Honiahaka handed him a cup <Thanking Maheo for the new day. Hoping it will be better than yesterday>
“Maheo...All spirit,” Morgan said in English “God, as my mother would say.”
He sipped the drink as he watched the ritual as the sun slowly rose.
12th February 1857, 12 miles out of Fulton, Missouri
“The Hook Hand Gang?” Ellison Quimby scoffed as he rode along with The German, Klaus Mannheim, and the owner of said hook Frank Waterman. “Who put you in charge anyways?”
“Zis is not a gut name,” added Klaus.
Frank reared his horse. “Well you got a better name huh? And seeing as you ain’t done nothin’ but complain is probably the reason I’m in charge!”
“You only haf one hand,” added Klaus as he stopped. “Zis iz not leadership material. I shall lead uz.”
“Ov…” Ellison started and then remembered what the big German had done to the doctor back in Jefferson. “What’re you going to call us?”
“Nacht Räubers!” declared Klaus proudly.
“What in the blue blazes does naked rubber mean?” shouted Frank. “This is Missouri not Prussialand you giant bearded idiot!”
Klaus drew his hatchet “I will loze more than your hand mein friend if you speak to me like zat again.”
“ENOUGH!” yelled Ellison. “Like women you two! Can we just do what we agreed to do? Maybe I'll just ride on out to Utah and join my cousin's gang in Bleach where they act like men.”
Ellison whipped his horse and galloped on. Waterman and The German glared at each other for a while before they followed him towards Fulton.
<How long is he staying?> muttered Hiamovi asked his mother as they sat by the fire for the evening meal.
<As long as he wants. He is family>
<Not my family!> snapped Hiamovi as he stormed off into the night. Morgan watched his cousin, placed his food down and started after him when Honiahaka grabbed his arm.
<Leave him. Chasing a bee only makes the hive more restless>
Morgan looked at his aunt and not knowing how to say it, replied in English as he walked off. “Sometimes you just gotta get it out in the open”
13th February 1857, Columbia, Missouri
Black Snake Betty stood waiting for the stagecoach; the other two passengers stood a noticeable distance from her. Betty turned and stepped towards them and yelled “Boo!” making them jump.
She looked at her pocket watch. Morgan Fogg hadn’t shown in Columbia which Betty had assumed would be a logical port of call for him using the information she’d gotten via Sheriff Abraham Wallace and Fogg’s troubles in Jefferson City and Fort Smith. Betty checked her watch again. The noon coach was running late meaning she’d be late into Jefferson; another day lost on the trail of the man known as The Red Fog.
13th February 1857, Fulton, Missouri
“Reach for the sky!” yelled Frank Waterman through his bandana as he charged into the bank, gun in one hand and shaking his hook hand. The terrified customers of the Fulton Municipal Savings & Loans screamed as Klaus hit a man in the back with his hatchet sending him to the floor like a dropped deer as Ellison Quimby, with his bandana pulled up also, covered the door with his Springfield Model 1855 rifle musket.
“We are…” Waterman pondered, remembering the arguments on the way to Fulton before having a burst of inspiration. “The Morgan Fogg Gang!”
Morgan woke up, clinging to a tree that he’d made his bed as he’d wandered through the night trying to find his angry cousin. In the distance he could hear the tribal drums starting as the sun crept over the horizon. He rubbed bark and morning dew off his face as he stretched to get the kinks out. A snap of twigs caught his ear. He went for his gun but it was back in the tepee. Slowly he turned, hoping it wasn’t the werewolf come to finish him off.
To be continued…