Pulpternative

By Pro Se Press

History is full of Wonderful Stories and Fantastic Mysteries. And One Question can make History so much more....

What If...?

PULPTERNATIVE asks that question, giving three authors the imaginative task of answering it. Putting a Pulpy spin on history makes anything possible. Explore what might have been in PULPTERNATIVE. From Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Jul 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311147035

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

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PULPTERNATIVE

By

Gordon Dymowski, Dragan Stajic, Frank Sonderborg

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

PULPTERNATIVE

A Pro Se Publications

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Cowboy of the Dakotas by Gordon Dymowski

The Totem of the Cursed by Dragan Stajic

Copenhagen Assault by Frank Sonderborg

Editing by Greg Cabaniss

Cover Art by Larry Nadolsky

Book Design by Antonino Lo Iacono

www.prose-press.com

PULPTERNATIVE

© 2016 Each Respective Author

Table of Contents

Cowboy of the Dakotas

Chapter one

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

The Totem of the Cursed

Copenhagen Assault

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Cowboy of the Dakotas

By

Gordon Dymowski

Chapter one

Pulling the reins tight, Theodore Roosevelt brought his wagon to a dead stop. Through the lenses of his spectacles, he saw a large, long-haired, greasy-looking fat man holding a knife to an Indian’s throat. A small crowd of onlookers was gathering. Roosevelt knew things might be tense in Medora, but he never guessed that there would be open warfare in the streets.

Jumping down from the wagon, Roosevelt gripped the handle of his revolver, preparing to draw if necessary. As the large man’s accomplice— a tall, lanky fellow clad in typical ranch wear—approached, the fat man pressed the blade of the knife into the Indian’s throat and stared directly at Roosevelt.

Put the knife down, Roosevelt’s eyes locked with the fat man’s. Nobody deserves to be treated like that. Not even him.

Not your fight, Four-Eyes!

Despite the knife to his throat, the Indian swung his hand backwards hoping to strike the fat man in the leg. Drawing his pistol, Roosevelt cocked the hammer back and took aim with one smooth arc.

Again, put the knife down, Roosevelt warned, his temper exacerbated by wearing a leather hunting outfit on a pleasant spring day.

Bet I slit this red man’s throat before you fire off one shot, Four Eyes! the fat man gloated, glancing towards his companion who was watching Roosevelt and preparing to draw his weapon.

Almost without thinking, Roosevelt squeezed the trigger of his revolver. Feeling the force of the bullet entering his shoulder, the fat man stumbled backwards and released the knife from his grip. As the Indian quickly crouched and picked up the knife, the tall accomplice drew his gun. In a swift blur of action, the Indian sprinted and slashed the knife upward, cutting into the man’s arm.

Aiming for the fat man’s thigh, Roosevelt fired a second shot and then aimed the gun at the ranch hand who was grasping his own arm. He wasn’t bleeding, but he was obviously hurt.

What’s your name? Roosevelt growled.

The tall man stammered, watching his rotund colleague attempt to limp. Rance…Rance Massey. He’s Jackson….don’t know his first name.

Roosevelt turned towards the Indian. In response, the Indian introduced himself. I am Marak. I came here to find out where my people are being held. These two men interfered.

As a fair-haired man approached riding a horse, the crowd began dispersing. As he rode closer to Roosevelt and Marak, both men noticed the golden sheriff’s star on the lapel of his vest. That easily explained the sudden disinterest of the crowd.

Massey, Jackson, the sheriff stated. "Get out of here. Now."

As he helped Jackson to his feet, Massey wrapped his arm around Jackson’s shoulder, providing him support. As both men limped away, the sheriff approached Roosevelt.

Name’s Walton, John Walton. And we’re much obliged Mr…?

Roosevelt. Theodore Roosevelt. I….saw the big one with a knife on this man’s throat, he pointed to Marak. And I just had to do something.

We’re….obliged, I guess, Walton regarded both men with suspicion. But I must admit that I’m having a bit of trouble placing your accent, Mr. Roosevelt.

Originally from New York. Own some land about 30 miles from here. Planning to spend some time here in town on business and then become a rancher.

Deep in the heart of the Dakota badlands? Don’t they have ranches in New York?

Saying nothing, Roosevelt took inventory of his surroundings. Despite the famous Dakota deserts, this town (Medora, if his memory was correct) stood in the middle of a lush set of woods right off the Little Missouri River.

Too civilized, Roosevelt countered. Too much ignoble ease. I prefer leading a more strenuous life.

Fully aware that Roosevelt would not be forthcoming, Walton waved both men towards a building with a large window that announced HOTEL in gold embossed letters.

Why not join me for lunch? Hotel down the road serves some great food.

Sighing slightly, Roosevelt regarded himself in the reflection of a local store window: full leather hunting gear, hair plastered to his head by sweat, his spectacles placed firmly on his face. After months of living on the road heading deep into the frontier, Roosevelt thought this would be a relief, especially given the task he had assigned himself.

Sure, Roosevelt shrugged. Hopefully I can order some supplies, check into one of the rooms —could use a decent bath— and stay for a few days.

Walton turned towards Marak, and with some awkwardness in his voice, stated, You are more than welcome to join us.

Hesitating for a few moments, Marak eased slightly towards both men. They had not given him any reason to not trust them….at least not yet.

Almost in response, Roosevelt reached into an inner pocket of his hunting jacket and withdrew an envelope. Handing it to Marak, Roosevelt asked, Would you mind visiting the general store and purchasing some supplies?

Taking the envelope in hand, Marak showed surprise at Roosevelt’s action.

Of course we will, Walton stated. I’ll head up with him to avoid any trouble.

Fine, Roosevelt said as he approached the wagon, withdrew a large wrapped parcel and returned towards the men. Looks like there’s a barber right by the hotel. After months on the road, I will definitely need to clean up before lunch. I will join the both of you in about two hours.

Heading towards the hotel, Roosevelt turned to see Walton and Marak make their way onto the wagon. Stifling the urge to smile, Roosevelt turned and headed down the long dusty road.

***

When will we see our people again, Mr. Clanton? a young Indian woman asked the stern-faced man.

Turning towards her, the man calling himself Clanton flashed an evil sardonic smile. Flinching somewhat, the Indian woman shuffled backwards, then made her way back towards the village. Hearing sounds, Clanton moved towards their source. Within moments he found himself watching several village tribesmen loading bushels of grain onto his wagon. Thankfully, this village was only about half a day’s travel by horse, and having three horses pulling the wagon eased travel time somewhat. Right now, his men would be working to make sure nothing got out of hand and that this particular caper would run smoothly.

Allowing himself a moment of introspection, Clanton realized that much had happened since …what was it the papers called it? The Great Tombstone Massacre.

It seemed several lifetimes ago; a different name, a different face, a different set of circumstances. Running his hand over his face, Clanton realized the harsh stubble was a sign he needed to shave. After all, facial hair might betray his true identity. He had worked too hard on this to risk anyone learning who he was or what he intended to do in Medora.

Hearing a rustling sound behind him, Clanton grasped the hilt of a knife holstered on his hip. Turning on the balls of his feet, Clanton saw one of the young warriors of the village approaching him with great speed.

You! he pointed accusingly. Tell me when will you let our people go?

Keeping his grip on the hilt of his knife, Clanton smiled. His voice purred with confidence. I’m not holding your people, far from it. I’m trying to negotiate their release.

Liar! the warrior countered. "You are working with them! You take our harvest, our food, have your way with our women….and you have done nothing."

As the warrior’s grip tightened on his tomahawk, Clanton stepped backward, hoping to draw the warrior away from the small path.

Now, see here… Clanton paused to remember the Indian’s name.

Laren, the warrior spat, regarding Clanton with suspicion.

Clanton urged, Let’s not lose our patience…

Pointing the tomahawk at Clanton, the warrior stated accusingly, Lose patience? You dare mock us? I know about the stories, about who you work for.

Really? Clanton arched an eyebrow.

A murderer. A criminal from Arizona. A man named Earp.

As Clanton’s face twisted into a smile, the warrior regarded him with confusion.

One of my tribe went to town this morning, Laren announced, standing straighter and tightening his grip on his tomahawk, to attempt to talk sense to your people.

Maintaining his intense gaze, Clanton developed a slight sense of worry. However, now was not the time to panic. Plans were going smoothly. Laren’s accusations were as meaningless as his tribe’s smoke signals

Really?

He left earlier this morning, the warrior’s arm tensed as he held his tomahawk. Long before you came.

"Well, you’re