How the West Was Weird: Campfire Tales

By Russ Anderson

Four novellas combining the western with sci-fi and horror.

This new addition to Pulpwork Press's best-selling HOW THE WEST WAS WEIRD series includes the following stories:

MR. BRASS AND THE CRIMSON SKIES OF KANSAS by Josh Reynolds. The robot Pinkerton is all that stands between President Teddy Roosevelt and an attack by sky pirates and Mr. Hyde.

HELL'S OWN by Russ Anderson. Zombies overrun a small western town, and the town's lone sheriff is the only one that's armed. Will anyone survive?

THE TALE OF THE BARON'S TRIBUTE by Derrick Ferguson. When a foe from Sebastian Red's past attacks him through his friends, Sebastian must undo the damage done to his loved ones and do battle with a foe who is, for once, in every way his equal.

GUNMEN OF THE HOLLOW EARTH by Joel Jenkins. Lone Crow, Doc Holliday, and Morgan Earp lead the surviving members of the Wild Bunch into a lost world at the center of the Earth, running afoul of dinosaurs, a tribe of barbarian women, and a posse of silver-hungry banditos who have followed them from the surface world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russ Anderson
• Release date: May 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465993274

Russ Anderson

Russ Anderson can usually be found in the suburbs of Baltimore, where he lives with his wife, his daughter, two beagles, and a very old, very angry cat. When he's not working for the man, he enjoys bicycling, making up stories, and pie.

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How the West Was Weird: Campfire Tales

Edited by Russ Anderson, Jr.

Copyright 2011 Russ Anderson, Jr.

Individual stories are copyright their respective authors.

Published by Pulpwork Press at Smashwords

All Rights Reserved.

Front cover art by Ian Mileham

http://www.pulpworkpress.com

These are works of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

MR. BRASS AND THE CRIMSON SKIES OF KANSAS

by Josh Reynolds

HELL'S OWN

by Russ Anderson

THE TALE OF THE BARON'S TRIBUTE

by Derrick Ferguson

GUNMEN OF THE HOLLOW EARTH

by Joel Jenkins

MR. BRASS AND THE CRIMSON SKIES OF KANSAS

by Josh Reynolds

August 4th, 1901.

From the porthole, Kansas looked like a sea of blood.

Jimmy Rast, Pinkerton agent and veteran of the Martian War, stared down at the rolling red bramble prairie and shook his graying head. It had been ten years since the aether pods of the Martian aggressors had landed in the sea of grass, ten years since they had succumbed to human courage and ruthlessness in equal quantities, but their presence was still felt. The immense red-iron pods they had tunneled through the expanse of space with had carried molds and fungi from their home-world to Earth and the red brambles that sprouted from them, unlike the Martians themselves, had flourished in the soil much to the detriment of farmers everywhere. The Science Consortium predicted it would cause mass ecological damage by 1930 if it was allowed to spread. McKinley had promised the residents of what was becoming known as the ‘Red Dust Bowl’ that the Federal government would see to the uprooting and burning of the alien weeds but his assassination at the hands of a Starry Wisdom cultist named Czolgosz had ended that plan in its infancy.

Roosevelt wasn’t nearly so concerned with alien weeds as he was alien technology and what the United States could do with it. Rast had his doubts – who really wanted to visit Mars after all? He’d been there and it wasn’t nearly so impressive as people made it out to be. Besides which when had the alien devices done anyone any good whatsoever?

A creak of metal joints pulled his attentions from the porthole and to his partner, who shifted in his seat with a peculiar insectile grace. Rast sighed and answered his own question.

Brass? You okay?

Mister Brass sat very still and sorted through his possible replies, one after the other, with a calculated precision. His face, crafted of brass and gold was that of a Hellenic statue though he had no memory of himself looking like that. Hands composed of thin steel wires and copper tubing beneath brass gauntlets lay face-up on his knees and he examined them with unblinking eyes. He wore a pinstripe suit, deep black and fitted perfectly to his artificial frame, a tie knotted neatly at the mass of tubes and cylinders that made up his throat, a golden stick pin in the shape of a stylized lightning bolt holding it in place. Gilded eyelids blinked with a click of metal meeting metal and he looked up.

Pressure changes take some getting used to, Brass said, in a voice like the scraping of a razor across a stone. Rast tried to repress the shudder that ran up his spine at the sound, but couldn’t. It wasn’t anything close to a human voice. Not really, and especially not when compared to what his voice had been like – well – before his ‘change of function’ as Mister Pinkerton had been fond of calling it.

If Brass noticed his partner’s reaction, he didn’t raise the issue. It had been nearly twenty years since he’d been human. He wasn’t sure to be honest, but he did seem to recall having flesh at some point. Flesh and bone, meat and muscle, these were the things men were made of true? Yes. Yes he had been a man once.

Now he was a machine. An automaton. A clockwork man. No, not just a man.

A clockwork Pinkerton.

And Pinkertons, clockwork or otherwise, don’t notice when people shudder. If they did, they’d never get any work done.

Pressure. Rast frowned.

On the liquid cushion for my... organic component, Brass said after a brief pause. It bobs.

Bobs.

In the liquid.

Yes. I understand the concept. I’m just trying to visualize it.

Don’t.

Too late. Rast smiled weakly. He stared for a moment at the too-perfect features of the mask-face of Brass then looked away, pulling his pocket watch from his vest pocket and glancing at it. Our shift is in five minutes.

Good.

Yeah. Good. Rast shook his head and snatched his bowler hat off of the armrest of his seat and twirled it onto his head. Can’t wait.

It is an honor to guard the President, Brass said, eyelids clicking as he watched Rast check the patented prototype Tesla Turbo Pistol holstered underneath his left arm. The gun fired iron-mix lead bolts by electrical propulsion. Ingenious really. It’s twin hung from Brass’ hip. Rast re-holstered his gun and snorted.

Only when the President has the good sense to stay in one damn place. Elsewise it’s just a pain in the ass.

The air-ship McKinley, while not the first of its kind per se was most certainly the first to be used for so sedate a purpose as ferrying the President of the United States on an air-tour of his constituency. The others, especially the armored sky leviathans pioneered by Jean Robur in the months before the first Martian contrail cut the sky open like a weeping sore, were little more than floating weapons platforms, held aloft by propellers and either cavorite engines or helium filled bags depending on the designer. The McKinley was the first such vessel designed for leisurely travel, at least in America. Europe of course already boasted the Marie-Louise and the Prince Albert, but both had been war-ships during the Martian incursion before being decommissioned to civilian use.

The top level of the ship was taken up by the dining platform and observation lounge. Polished antique tables, some built in the early 1600’s, were bolted to the carpeted floor and the portholes that dotted the rest of the ship had been exchanged in favor of more traditional windows through which the red landscape of Kansas was visible. The sky was quite nearly the same hue as the land due to the red dust thrown into the air by the wind. Fingers of red dust clutched at the windows as a dust-storm raged below.

It has a certain unearthly beauty I will admit, President Theodore Roosevelt said as he stood on the observation deck peering through an old fashioned brass telescope, his spectacles clutched in one hand and the other steadying the device on its swivel stand.

But beyond that, it’s a damned shame. Damned shame.

He looked up from the telescope and swatted it casually, causing it to whirl around in a circle before stopping at a slant, glass eye pointed towards the carpet. He smiled and turned his bright-eyed gaze on the aides and persona grata who clustered around him on the deck, all watching the dust storm build. Roosevelt cleaned his spectacles with the edge of his tie and stuck them back on his nose, repeating, Damned shame.

I don’t think there’s anyone here who doesn’t agree with you Mister President.

The speaker leaned against the balustrade of the iron stairwell that connected the observation deck to the dining platform, smoking a thin cigarette. Well dressed, ever so slightly portly and in his mid-fifties, Doctor Henry Jeykll smiled genially at the president and gestured at the window with his cigarette, continuing in his soft voice.

And that goes for my fellows in the Global Science Consortium as well, you can be assured.

Really, Henry? And how is Moriarty, the old sneak-thief? Roosevelt displayed his trademarked and often lampooned grin, teeth a startling white against the dark color of his bushy moustache.Still alive and kicking eh?

Quite. Happy as a clam is our dear James. But that’s beside the point. We have yet to hear from the United States on the proposal we put forth last month, Jekyll said, his voice mild. Despite this, Roosevelt stiffened as if he could hear some note of reproach in the words however slight.

I was told we’d sent our response Henry. Assured of it in fact. Perhaps you just didn’t like the answer.

Maybe so. I can’t speak for everyone, you understand—

And here I was under the impression you just had, another voice piped up, harsh and echoing with the ghosts of whiskeys drunk and cigars smoked. Roosevelt rolled his eyes as an older man climbed the stairs towards Jekyll, dark eyes shining with an odd humor. Or was I mistaken?

Mister Clemens, Jekyll said through gritted teeth. How have you been?

Oh just fine. My life’s as smooth as grits on toast. How’s your friend Moreau? Still playing mix-n-match with the good lord’s creations? Sam Clemens said, hands in his pockets, white hair bushy and wild, cigar dangling from his mouth. Clemens, sometimes known as Mark Twain, had become one of the more outspoken critics of the Global Science Consortium in the aftermath of the War for various reasons, including the infamous practices which had earned Doctor Alphonse Moreau the nickname ‘Sir Scalpel’ in certain circles. Clemens continued. "That little piece I did on him for The Globe didn’t make things too hot for him I hope," he said without a hint of remorse, feigned or otherwise. Jekyll snorted.

Moreau doesn’t read the papers.

As long as other folks do, I can live quite happily with that. Clemens looked around at those assembled on the deck and snorted. Though from the look of things I doubt I’ll find many readers onboard this flying thingamajigger.

Thank heaven for small favors. Jekyll frowned as he fixed Clemens with a glare. How did you even get aboard?

Henry Rogers brought me. I’m his ‘plus one’.

How lucky for him.

It is ain’t it?

You’ve been a professional gadfly since the War ended Clemens. One would almost think you wanted the bloody Martians to win.

Ain’t the killing I mind so much Doctor, long as it’s others doing it and not expected of me. That’s war. What I mind is the experimenting afterwards. Enemies or not, you can’t go cutting up a living thing just to see how they tick. He took a drag from his cigar