Beyond the Pale -Part 138
Hola, faithful readers!
Welcome to the City o' Gloom. The posse's adventures in this city are only just beginning. Since I'm winging it, I've decided to explore the city a lot more than we did in the original game on which this story is based. I hope you enjoy my humble offering in this regard. :)
Happy Trails!
*****
Reverend Matthew Tiberius Stone was feeling miles removed from his vocation as a priest on the morning of January 9th, 1876. There were altogether too many problems and mysteries coming together at the same time for his liking, and he was feeling rather murderous toward a good number of people, none of which made him feel any better about wearing his clerical collar. On top of that, the same clerical collar made him something of an object of fascination and stares and general mistrust in this city, which was filled with Mormons (or Latter-Day Saints, as they apparently preferred to be called, although the appellation made him cringe with its blasphemous overtones: Saints were made by God, not declared by men). Reluctantly he’d abandoned the collar that morning at the Restful Arms hotel, where Dr. Yates had suggested that he, Monroe and Blanton take rooms.
Monroe was going to be a problem, Stone was sure of it. Not only was the man uneducated and boorish, he was also loud and unsubtle, with the distressing tendency to talk out loud and in public about things that were better discussed quietly and in private. In fact, Stone had the sneaking suspicion that as much as Victoria James was a magnet for trouble, Winslow Polk Monroe might be an even worse magnet for trouble. At least Victoria seemed to be conscious that she attracted problems like honey attracted flies, but Monroe was blissfully oblivious to the fact that difficulties followed in his wake. Something would have to be done about him: Stone’s orders didn’t involve bringing Monroe to Denver, but he couldn’t see the man abandoning his only friend to the tender mercies of the Agency. Victoria for the moment had mercifully agreed to keep going with him, but he had the distinct impression that if she changed her mind, Monroe would back her up, and Stone knew that while he might be able to take on one of them (although he had his doubts about Victoria, who was not only fast with her guns but unnervingly accurate, even when her skills weren’t enhanced by evil spirits inhabiting her body), he certainly couldn’t handle both of them at once.
He pushed the problem from his mind. One thing at a time, he told himself, and his priority while in Salt Lake City was to find his contact and accomplish the mission that Samuel Q. Hellman had given him when he was still in Lost Angels and things had still been going mostly according to plan. After that there was the tricky problem of trying to stop the Revenant, supposing that the Revenant even chose to come to Salt Lake City at all. The strange gunman had been in the area of late, but he appeared to have no discernible pattern of behaviour that anyone at the Agency could see, sometimes appearing hundreds of miles away from his previous location. Not that Stone was about to reveal the extent of his knowledge to Victoria and Monroe: it wasn’t information to which they were entitled anyway.
He decided that his original mission was more important than whatever geas Marshall Courvoisier had laid upon him with his dying breath. Yes, last wishes were important, but the Agency came before those. The words “You will succeed at this, or die trying,” still echoed in his mind, and he had no desire to be the victim of an Agency cleaner crew. He would therefore find Nevada Smith first, and perhaps kill two birds with one stone. It wasn’t inconceivable that Smith would know about the Revenant, or even about the mysterious Professor Thaddeus Allman, however he happened to be relevant to this whole mess. Stone shook his head. Too many loose threads were hanging for him to truly be comfortable with this assignment. Things hadn’t used to be this complicated, he mourned as he walked along the soot-filled streets, ignoring the stares of Mormon passers-by. He blamed Victoria: until her, all his other assignments had gone as smooth as silk. Since she was the only variable, it had to be her fault.
Nevada Smith, notorious Union spy and long-time Agent, had become a figure of local and even national folklore, helped not least by the books penned by Ignatius Martin Hymme (aka “I.M. Hymme,” ), which portrayed him as the dashing “Man of a Thousand Faces,” master of disguise and intrepid adventurer. The thrilling narratives, which had such distinguished titles as Nevada Smith and the Locomotive o’ Doom, Nevada Smith and the Lost Treasure of the Paiutes, Nevada Smith and the Automaton Enigma, Nevada Smith and the Secret of Factory #19, and Nevada Smith and the Black Mesa Showdown, had been a brilliant ploy invented, it was rumoured at the Agency, by Smith and Allan Pinkerton (back in the days when Pinkerton was more actively involved in Agency affairs) to both heighten the Agency’s prestige and to obfuscate Smith’s real work. In his books I.M. Hymme spoke often of the Deseret Café, where Smith was reported to meet most of his contacts. As a result, most people assumed that Smith met his contacts somewhere else, since no one would be stupid enough to advertise their presence in that fashion.
He caught sight of a small man in a dapper three-piece suit seated at a table with the latest copy of the “Deseret News” spread out before him, and a cup of steaming sarsparilla (the expressions on Victoria and Monroe’s faces had been almost comical when they’d been told that almost no one in Salt Lake City drank coffee) resting in a saucer. He moved up to the man and tugged the brim of his hat with his thumb and forefinger.
“Is this seat taken?”
The man looked up at him with bright, intelligent black eyes. “No, it’s quite free, as you can see. Can I help you?”
Stone folded his lanky frame onto the small wrought-iron chair and drew it up to the table. He’d never seen Nevada Smith before, but since this was visibly the only non-Mormon present, and Smith was meant to be expecting him, it seemed like a logical conclusion.
“I’m looking for Michael Mullwood,” he said, using the name of the man who pretended to write the Nevada Smith adventures under the pen name of I.M. Hymme.
The little man smiled, revealing a row of perfectly even, very white teeth. “Do call me Mike. Everyone does. It’s generally agreed that Michael is much too long a name for me.”
Stone smiled thinly at the joke. “Mike, then. I’m Matthew Stone. It’s a pleasure.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” They shook hands solemnly, and not for the first time in his career Stone felt a little foolish. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff seemed better suited to dime novels than to real life.
“I’m told that you’re the person to speak to if I need to get in touch with Nevada Smith.”
Mullwood arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you were told? I’m afraid that my reputation may far exceed my actual capabilities. I am but a humble chronicler, nothing more.”
“Mm-hmm.” Very casually Stone pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on top of the newspaper. Mulligan glanced at it as though it were of no consequence, then picked up his cup of sarsparilla and blew on it to cool it before taking a sip. “I think you’ll find everything’s in order,” Stone said noncommittally.
Mullwood put down his cup, then with the fingers of one hand unfolded the paper and read the contents. His expression didn’t waver, but Stone saw the black eyes probing him a little more acutely now. “It does look that way,” Mullwood agreed with his assessment. “So you’re looking for Nevada Smith?”
“That’s the short version.”
“I’d be interested to hear the long version, but perhaps not here and not now. I regret to inform you that Mr. Smith hasn’t been seen or heard from in several weeks. No doubt he’s undercover, trying to thwart a burgeoning plot of some sort, or eavesdropping on the Mormon elders. He’s fond of doing that,” Mullwood smirked, as though he himself was above such petty games.
“Pity. I was told he had something for me. Perhaps if I leave word, he can contact me at the hotel where I’m staying?”
“I’m sure something could be arranged,” Mullwood agreed. “Did I hear you say you were fond of rare books?”
Stone blinked, somewhat nonplussed, then nodded. “I have a passing interest in them, yes. I have somewhat eclectic tastes, though, I must warn you.”
Mullwood beamed as though he’d won a prize. “It just so happens that I, along with my partner Sydney Warwick, own a modest bookstore. You may have seen it, as it’s right near the Restful Arms.”
“Yes, that’s where we’re staying.”
“We?”
Stone made a dismissive gesture. “I’m conducting an escort to Denver. It’s of no consequence to my business here.”
Mullwood looked doubtful, but shrugged it aside. “Very well. As I was saying, I think we might have some books you would be interested in. How about you come by later this morning, and I can show you what we have?”
The interview was over, and Stone knew he’d passed. He stood, and shook Mullwood’s hand before departing. “It will be my pleasure.”
*****
Welcome to the City o' Gloom. The posse's adventures in this city are only just beginning. Since I'm winging it, I've decided to explore the city a lot more than we did in the original game on which this story is based. I hope you enjoy my humble offering in this regard. :)
Happy Trails!
*****
Reverend Matthew Tiberius Stone was feeling miles removed from his vocation as a priest on the morning of January 9th, 1876. There were altogether too many problems and mysteries coming together at the same time for his liking, and he was feeling rather murderous toward a good number of people, none of which made him feel any better about wearing his clerical collar. On top of that, the same clerical collar made him something of an object of fascination and stares and general mistrust in this city, which was filled with Mormons (or Latter-Day Saints, as they apparently preferred to be called, although the appellation made him cringe with its blasphemous overtones: Saints were made by God, not declared by men). Reluctantly he’d abandoned the collar that morning at the Restful Arms hotel, where Dr. Yates had suggested that he, Monroe and Blanton take rooms.
Monroe was going to be a problem, Stone was sure of it. Not only was the man uneducated and boorish, he was also loud and unsubtle, with the distressing tendency to talk out loud and in public about things that were better discussed quietly and in private. In fact, Stone had the sneaking suspicion that as much as Victoria James was a magnet for trouble, Winslow Polk Monroe might be an even worse magnet for trouble. At least Victoria seemed to be conscious that she attracted problems like honey attracted flies, but Monroe was blissfully oblivious to the fact that difficulties followed in his wake. Something would have to be done about him: Stone’s orders didn’t involve bringing Monroe to Denver, but he couldn’t see the man abandoning his only friend to the tender mercies of the Agency. Victoria for the moment had mercifully agreed to keep going with him, but he had the distinct impression that if she changed her mind, Monroe would back her up, and Stone knew that while he might be able to take on one of them (although he had his doubts about Victoria, who was not only fast with her guns but unnervingly accurate, even when her skills weren’t enhanced by evil spirits inhabiting her body), he certainly couldn’t handle both of them at once.
He pushed the problem from his mind. One thing at a time, he told himself, and his priority while in Salt Lake City was to find his contact and accomplish the mission that Samuel Q. Hellman had given him when he was still in Lost Angels and things had still been going mostly according to plan. After that there was the tricky problem of trying to stop the Revenant, supposing that the Revenant even chose to come to Salt Lake City at all. The strange gunman had been in the area of late, but he appeared to have no discernible pattern of behaviour that anyone at the Agency could see, sometimes appearing hundreds of miles away from his previous location. Not that Stone was about to reveal the extent of his knowledge to Victoria and Monroe: it wasn’t information to which they were entitled anyway.
He decided that his original mission was more important than whatever geas Marshall Courvoisier had laid upon him with his dying breath. Yes, last wishes were important, but the Agency came before those. The words “You will succeed at this, or die trying,” still echoed in his mind, and he had no desire to be the victim of an Agency cleaner crew. He would therefore find Nevada Smith first, and perhaps kill two birds with one stone. It wasn’t inconceivable that Smith would know about the Revenant, or even about the mysterious Professor Thaddeus Allman, however he happened to be relevant to this whole mess. Stone shook his head. Too many loose threads were hanging for him to truly be comfortable with this assignment. Things hadn’t used to be this complicated, he mourned as he walked along the soot-filled streets, ignoring the stares of Mormon passers-by. He blamed Victoria: until her, all his other assignments had gone as smooth as silk. Since she was the only variable, it had to be her fault.
Nevada Smith, notorious Union spy and long-time Agent, had become a figure of local and even national folklore, helped not least by the books penned by Ignatius Martin Hymme (aka “I.M. Hymme,” ), which portrayed him as the dashing “Man of a Thousand Faces,” master of disguise and intrepid adventurer. The thrilling narratives, which had such distinguished titles as Nevada Smith and the Locomotive o’ Doom, Nevada Smith and the Lost Treasure of the Paiutes, Nevada Smith and the Automaton Enigma, Nevada Smith and the Secret of Factory #19, and Nevada Smith and the Black Mesa Showdown, had been a brilliant ploy invented, it was rumoured at the Agency, by Smith and Allan Pinkerton (back in the days when Pinkerton was more actively involved in Agency affairs) to both heighten the Agency’s prestige and to obfuscate Smith’s real work. In his books I.M. Hymme spoke often of the Deseret Café, where Smith was reported to meet most of his contacts. As a result, most people assumed that Smith met his contacts somewhere else, since no one would be stupid enough to advertise their presence in that fashion.
He caught sight of a small man in a dapper three-piece suit seated at a table with the latest copy of the “Deseret News” spread out before him, and a cup of steaming sarsparilla (the expressions on Victoria and Monroe’s faces had been almost comical when they’d been told that almost no one in Salt Lake City drank coffee) resting in a saucer. He moved up to the man and tugged the brim of his hat with his thumb and forefinger.
“Is this seat taken?”
The man looked up at him with bright, intelligent black eyes. “No, it’s quite free, as you can see. Can I help you?”
Stone folded his lanky frame onto the small wrought-iron chair and drew it up to the table. He’d never seen Nevada Smith before, but since this was visibly the only non-Mormon present, and Smith was meant to be expecting him, it seemed like a logical conclusion.
“I’m looking for Michael Mullwood,” he said, using the name of the man who pretended to write the Nevada Smith adventures under the pen name of I.M. Hymme.
The little man smiled, revealing a row of perfectly even, very white teeth. “Do call me Mike. Everyone does. It’s generally agreed that Michael is much too long a name for me.”
Stone smiled thinly at the joke. “Mike, then. I’m Matthew Stone. It’s a pleasure.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” They shook hands solemnly, and not for the first time in his career Stone felt a little foolish. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff seemed better suited to dime novels than to real life.
“I’m told that you’re the person to speak to if I need to get in touch with Nevada Smith.”
Mullwood arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you were told? I’m afraid that my reputation may far exceed my actual capabilities. I am but a humble chronicler, nothing more.”
“Mm-hmm.” Very casually Stone pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on top of the newspaper. Mulligan glanced at it as though it were of no consequence, then picked up his cup of sarsparilla and blew on it to cool it before taking a sip. “I think you’ll find everything’s in order,” Stone said noncommittally.
Mullwood put down his cup, then with the fingers of one hand unfolded the paper and read the contents. His expression didn’t waver, but Stone saw the black eyes probing him a little more acutely now. “It does look that way,” Mullwood agreed with his assessment. “So you’re looking for Nevada Smith?”
“That’s the short version.”
“I’d be interested to hear the long version, but perhaps not here and not now. I regret to inform you that Mr. Smith hasn’t been seen or heard from in several weeks. No doubt he’s undercover, trying to thwart a burgeoning plot of some sort, or eavesdropping on the Mormon elders. He’s fond of doing that,” Mullwood smirked, as though he himself was above such petty games.
“Pity. I was told he had something for me. Perhaps if I leave word, he can contact me at the hotel where I’m staying?”
“I’m sure something could be arranged,” Mullwood agreed. “Did I hear you say you were fond of rare books?”
Stone blinked, somewhat nonplussed, then nodded. “I have a passing interest in them, yes. I have somewhat eclectic tastes, though, I must warn you.”
Mullwood beamed as though he’d won a prize. “It just so happens that I, along with my partner Sydney Warwick, own a modest bookstore. You may have seen it, as it’s right near the Restful Arms.”
“Yes, that’s where we’re staying.”
“We?”
Stone made a dismissive gesture. “I’m conducting an escort to Denver. It’s of no consequence to my business here.”
Mullwood looked doubtful, but shrugged it aside. “Very well. As I was saying, I think we might have some books you would be interested in. How about you come by later this morning, and I can show you what we have?”
The interview was over, and Stone knew he’d passed. He stood, and shook Mullwood’s hand before departing. “It will be my pleasure.”
*****