Katana and the Peacemaker

Chapter Four

... To Ugly

August 4, 1883

The mighty wheels of the locomotive screeched like a thousand amplified claws against a chalkboard as the monstrous vehicle came to a greatly forced halt before the Southern Pacific Company Railroad depot station along the railroad tracks at a small boomtown far from Bodie called Styx River, where a large number of people made poor by the misfortune of not striking it rich in the West lived, trapped beside their few wealthy counterparts; a motley of haves and have-nots. Most were drunks whose only goals left in life were to drink away their sorrows until they died, incapable of escaping whatever their misfortunes were easily. The locomotive’s smokestack puffed and whistled to signal the train’s arrival at the station.

The train was quite a beautiful work of art. The cars were painted green on the outside with golden letters on the sides advertising the name of the train, The Acheron, and its owning company, Atlantic & Pacific, co-owned by Southern Pacific. Everything about the train was maintained and kept as shiny as possible.

The inner workings of the train were rather grand. The woodwork was in dark colors and ornately carved and matched with the exemplary green cloth material that covered the walls, floors, bottoms and backs of the chairs, well cushioned and very comfortable. Everything was meant to resemble a miniature version of a millionaire’s mansion to make the wealthy passengers more comfortable. It advertised an extravagant staple of modern American technology, from the brand-new chandelier lighting to the bright and warm workings of the cloth.

Billy, whose facial injuries were already recovering and barely noticeable, stepped onto the platform of the depot station with his duffel carpetbag containing his money and other necessities inside.

He was met by the fat elderly conductor in his fancy uniform. The conductor smiled through a haggard face and gray beard, asking, “Excuse me… I’m Mr. Charon, conductor of The Acheron… May I have someone take your bag, sir?”

Billy shook his head and handed the man his ticket. Charon hole-punched it and handed it back to Billy, chuckling a little. “I love the design on those tickets. Coins popping out of a man’s eyes and mouth… The townspeople here sure have a sense of humor, huh?” Billy inspected his ticket again, noticed the artwork, laughed a bit, and continued onboard.


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The only reason Billy had gotten on with other wealthy folks in the first-class car, being as dirty and scruffy as he was, was because he paid just as well as the rich for first-class passage. Nobody questioned him, figuring he was some wealthy rancher or such. He had to bite his tongue multiple times to hold in his laughter when the car attendants cringed at his dirtiness. They cringed because they knew that they would have a lot of cleaning to do once Billy got off the train.

Enjoying himself in first class, the outlaw had taken to trying whatever food rich people ate or whatever they drank. Much of it, when he tried it, he found distasteful and unbearable to stomach. He called wine and champagne “sissy drinks.” The delicate food, from crab puffs to tinge bread, made him feel sick to his stomach, so he made frequent trips to the bathroom.

During most of the trip, he simply sat in his chair reading The Duke of Death by W.W. Beauchamp.

A few rich people, including a politician from Nevada, tried talking with him, but they left soon enough because of his vulgar attitude, mouth, and dress style. The only one left talking with him long enough to be considered a conversation was a curly-haired blonde woman around Billy’s age in a sparkling blue dress that bared her shoulders, white gloves that reached her upper arms, and a few pieces of diamond jewelry.

Once an old man with a curled white moustache, black business suit, and stovepipe hat named Increase Johnson gave up on talking with the strange young man, the woman came over and asked with a gesture to the chair on his left as he stared out the window on his right, “Do you mind if I sit here?”

Billy may have been a rude fellow regularly, but he was a softie when it came to ladies. He was polite to an extent, respectful, and sometimes found himself envying women in many ways. He was no gentleman and did not always treat ladies properly, but did have a certain moral code about his attitude toward women.

He turned to her, set down his book, and waved at the chair with a slight smile while taking off his hat respectfully, “Help yourself, ma’am.”

She smiled back and sat down with her hands in her lap. “Thank you.” She took on a slightly sterner voice as she held out her hand to him, “My name’s Sarah… Sarah Winston.”

Billy took the woman’s hand gracefully in his and, trying to remember what the proper way to greet a lady was, kissed it before letting go and saying politely, “Nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am. I’m, uh… Billy… Billy Martin.”

Sarah blushed a little when he kissed her hand. Unorthodox, but she decided to leave it alone. “Nice to meet you, too –”

She was interrupted by the moustached old man named Increase, leaning over her shoulder slightly and asking her, “Is this man bothering you, madam?” She shook her head.

“Hey, pard, we’re talkin’ here an’ the lady came of her own choice. Kinda rude to butt your large head into her social life, don’t you think?” Billy said to Increase with a glare and a smirk in close succession.

The elderly man glowered and placed his hands behind his back in a civilized gesture, elevating his head high and his nose even higher. “Not to be rude, but an uncouth vulgar young man such as yourself has no place in our social circles… or on this train, for that matter.”

Billy nodded, stroking his chin in a mockery of highly intelligent thinking. Then he gestured in an all-around direction. “You seen the railroad, right? Guess what? I built it.”

Increase snickered, “Huh! I highly doubt that, boy. You hardly look like Leland Stanford, John Rockefeller, or any proper businessman I know of.”

Billy launched himself from his seat until he towered over Increase by a few inches, looking down at him with a glare. “I didn’t say ‘owned,’ I said ‘built,’ you dumb shit.” He lifted his hands up to the man’s face in a claw-like position facing inwards, presenting numerous scars, bumps, burns, and other old works of damage done to them to the old man’s eyes. “With my bare hands… So don’t you ever tell me that I don’t belong on this damn train with arrogant pricks like you.” Billy plopped back into his seat. “Now, if you don’t mind, me an’ the lady were talkin’.”

The pompous old man’s eyes twitched with anger and he stomped back toward his business partners with an obnoxiously loud harrumph.

Billy sighed and said to Sarah, “Sorry about that.”

Sarah’s jaw was dropped in shock. “Um… Heh. Actually, it’s alright… Just… that was interesting and surprising. He was annoying, but I’m frankly surprised you said what you said.” She was actually laughing a little and taking on a more relaxed attitude.

“You can leave if you wanna.”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Really, Mr. Martin…”

Billy smirked. Odd woman, but he had no problems with her thus far.



“So… you managed to pay for first class, huh? What work are you in?” she asked to break the ice.

“I’m in business with Al Swearengen in Deadwood.”

Sarah’s smile faded into a dark frown. “By Al Swearengen, you mean the owner of the Gem Theater?”

Billy waved his hands suddenly, remembering Al Swearengen’s heinous reputation for the “entertainment” he provided in Deadwood, a lawless boomtown in Dakota Territory. “No, no, no… I, uh… I mean, I was in business with him… but, uh… then I grabbed all the money I had an’ split. I couldn’t take another day workin’ in that place.”

Sarah’s interested smile returned. “Well, that’s good… Most men, once they get into sinful occupations, just can’t seem to give them up.” She lightly touched a wooden carving of Christ nailed to the Cross on her string necklace.

Billy sighed and looked down in shame at lying to a Christian woman. Wanting to change the subject, he asked her, “So… what sorta work does your husband do, Mrs. Winston?”

She retorted in a slightly annoyed tone, “I’m a writer… And don’t call me ‘Mrs.’ I’m not married yet.”

“Sorry. So, uh… what do you write?” he asked, vaguely interested.

“Novels… Adventure, romance, and the like. I’m from Philadelphia, but I absolutely love stories about the Wild West. I’ve read the dime novels, of course, but they’re all very poorly written. I wanted to see what it was like for myself and write my own story, which is why I’m here. I’m looking for a real-life basis to draw inspiration from… maybe an outlaw.” Sarah’s eyes glittered with a young schoolgirl’s excitement upon saying this.

Billy chuckled a bit. “Ma’am… the West ain’t as wild as you think… Well, yeah, it is, but not – oh, jeez, I’m mixin’ my words up…” He groaned while trying to find the correct words to make his point.

Sarah folded her hands in her lap and leaned back slightly in her chair, an eyebrow arched in interest. “Well, by all means, continue with what you were saying. You’ve roused my curiosity.”

Sighing heavily, Billy looked her in the eye and said blankly, “There is no so-called ‘Wild West’ anymore. All that rootin’ tootin’ you see in them Buffalo Bill shows is either exaggerated an’ glamorized or entirely made up.” Holding up his fingers, he began listing off people, “Wild Bill Hickock, Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Billy Claiborne, Sam Bass, Tiburcio Vasquez, Johnny Ringo, Lame Johnny Donahue, Curly Bill Brocious, J.J. Webb, Little Bill Daggett, Jim Duncan, William Longley, an’ a whole shitload of others… You recognize ’em?”

Sarah nodded. They were all very famous outlaws or lawmen she had read about in dime novels or newspapers, though she was not seeing any reason why he was selecting such a wide array of men as examples that the mythic Wild West was coming to an end.

“Well, they all got one thing in common, Miss Winston: They were all killed within the last ten years… An’ those are the really famous ones. I ain’t countin’ the hundreds you never hear about or the ones thrown in jail. We got farmers an’ governments puttin’ up more an’ more fences an’ cuttin’ up the land like a pie, railroads an’ telegram lines stretchin’ all over the place like wildfire, all these huge companies puttin’ the common man down in the dirt, politicians an’ law enforcement either more corrupt than ever or more idealistic than ever – neither of which works, by the way – Indian tribes disappearin’ from these lands, an’ Hedy Lamarr appointin’ a Negro as sheriff in Rock Ridge… That’s how you know the times are changin’.

“The way I see it, there’s three kinds of outlaws left out here: The kind doin’ what they gotta to survive, the irredeemable sons o’ bitches doin’ it for thrills… an’ the kind stuck in it with no way out. My point is… things are changin’ whether those bad men like it or not, so they got three options: Give up their livelihood an’ squat into some normal life, keep doin’ what they’re doin’ here an’ eventually get caught or killed, or take their livelihood elsewhere to some place like Brazil or Japan or wherever.”

Sarah’s eyebrows arched at Billy’s vivid explanation. “Well… that’s… fairly deep.”

The young vagabond shrugged. “You work at the Gem a long time, you meet some pretty violent an’ colorful characters.”

“One question, though… What about railroad police? Pinkerton detectives? They’re quite relentless, I hear, so I don't see how running would change anything for those outlaws,” the young woman asked inquisitively.

Billy went completely silent. That, he did not have an answer to. He turned to look out the window, watching the darkened world pass him by. Hopefully, the Pinkertons are hundreds o’ miles away at this point, he thought somberly.


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On another car a bit further down the line of The Acheron, a man in a dandy black coat and bowtie with a flashy green vest underneath seated himself in a chair behind his heavy oak desk, carved simply but decorated in splendor with an array of glass and golden ornamentation giving his simple desk a grand appearance. On the desk front was a golden plate engraved in beautiful calligraphic letters with “P.L. Dibbs.” He was a short plump Norwegian-American man with a round smiling face that reminded one of Santa Claus and a black curled moustache that was so popular with railroad tycoons. Folding his hands in his lap and crossing his right ankle over his left knee, he beckoned to three armed gunmen in Stetson hats and duster coats.

“Bring him in,” he ordered in a voice that was thunderously baritone even at normal talking volume.

The African-American gunman nodded and opened the door behind him, revealing Donald Buchanen’s intimidating figure striding through the opening across the vibrant carpeted floor. With his hands behind his back and that snake charmer’s smile pasted on his face, he asked in that honey-laden venomous voice of his, “You wanted to see me, Dibbs?”

The man glared. “They call me Mister Dibbs.”

“Sure. Whatever… What do you want?”

Dibbs opened a drawer, pulled out a newspaper, and tossed it on the desk so the front page was in the Pinkerton’s line of sight. There was a large photograph of train wreckage billowing smoke while surrounded by law enforcement scouring the scene, the headline boldly declaring: “COLD-BLOODED Train Robbers MASSACRE Passengers!”

Dibbs stared hard at the man before him. “Care to explain, Mr. Buchanen?”

“Oh, come off your soapbox, Dib –”

Dibbs slammed his fist on the desk furiously, interrupting in a deep mighty voice, “Damn it, Buchanen, tell me what happened!”

Holding his hands up to calm his employer down, Buchanen explained smoothly, “Relax… We did what you hired us to do: Cleanse your railroad lines of flies in the ointment… My men were hidden in the car compartments, the robbers attacked, we surrounded them, an’ a big gunfight was the result. Three got away. End of story.”

“And the thirty-two civilians murdered?”

Buchanen shrugged. “Collateral damage an’ good propaganda value.”

Dibbs raised a lone but highly accusing eyebrow of suspicion and inquired in a tone that screamed malice, “They were murdered by the robbers… right, Buchanen?”

That same smile from Buchanen that so resembled the one Satan wore whenever haggling for a person’s soul was all Dibbs received as an answer.

Clenching his fists until they shook like snake rattlers on his desk, the round man’s features twisted into anguish at the thought of indirectly causing 32 innocent peoples’ deaths by unleashing a hellhound on them.

It was Buchanen’s turn to frown. Sidling over to the desk, he raised one leg to sit on the edge and leaned in to speak, barely a foot from Dibbs’ face.

Slowly, he began in a most malicious tone, “Now, you listen to me, you hypocrite… You hired me to help you… To scare off any opposition an’ to use force as I see fit… To silence reporters who just happen to find out about your company’s little ‘engine malfunctions’ that could ruin you… To take out any stupid fuckers with the balls to rob your trains by any means I see as necessary…

“‘Worrying about the casualties of those in our way only slows down progress.’ That’s what you said… So don’t accuse me of trying to cover your hands in red paint! That’s blood you put there, not me!

“I’m here to ensure your company continues to progress an’ thrive to dominate the railroad industry. That’s what you wanted an’ I’m giving it to you… I am giving you your American dream on a silver platter, so why gripe about how you get it? The very point of business is to compete an’ dominate, so don’t bother pretending to care for how it affects people in the way. Just be glad you’re getting fat off the kinds of meals your family was too poor to make or buy you as a kid. The power you have buys you that.”

Touching his hand to the butt of his pistol, Buchanen finished, “Now… I would have absolutely no qualms about putting a bullet in your brain. That’s a kind of power you can’t buy.”

Dibbs suddenly broke into magnificent rolling laughter.

Snarling at what he perceived as mocking laughter, Buchanen drew his gun and pointed it at Dibbs’ face, only to find the man had pulled out a thick wad of paper money and held it up in front of the gun barrel, softly touching the paper to the cold metal.

“Now, that’s where you’re contradicting yourself… The only possible thing in the world that can stop that bullet from entering my brain is this… This is my shield… Are you so sure that a four thousand-dollar advance can’t stop that?” he asked while pointing at the gun with his free hand.

A tense period of silence ensued, during which Dibbs’ three gunmen standing by were looking on with itchy trigger fingers resting on their pistol butts. The last thing they wanted was for Buchanen to blow their only current source of income away.

Glaring eyes darted back and forth between staring daggers into Dibbs and greedily eyeing the money he was holding. Buchanen gave a low growl and holstered his pistol. Then he snatched the money from Dibbs’ hand and pocketed it.

Dibbs smirked victoriously. “You see my point, Buchanen? Anyone can be bought… or they can be eliminated. The choice between being a sellout and having to suffer for taking the opposite course of action is really no choice at all.”

Clicking his teeth in his anger at himself for having accepted Dibbs’ upfront money, Buchanen changed the subject. “I still feel thirty-two dead an’ the explosion are convenient enough for you. The press has been hounding you for months for the last two explosions, claiming you’re deliberately ignoring safety regulations for profit’s sake… Well, now you have an explanation. Pin it all on the robbers an’ get every state from the Mississippi crying for the blood of the ones still alive. Men who robbed three hundred thousand cash bucks, murdered thirty-two innocent people, an’ dynamited three of your trains should be pretty easy to catch, prosecute, hang, an’ remove from being thorns in your side. You get the doubters of your company’s safety silenced, a gang out of the way, future gangs more than likely deterred from targeting your lines, me an’ my men get paid, an’ everyone goes home happy with lots of money.”

“What if there’s a leak?” Dibbs demanded.

Buchanen smirked and said with a wave of the hand, “Need I remind you I know all about your many clandestine violations of the Interstate Commerce Act… an’ no one but myself an’ my agents know? We gave our word to you. What happens under your hand stays under your eyes. That’s why the local Granges haven’t said anything against you for awhile now. There won’t be a leak, Mr. Dibbs… The only people who know about this are my agents under me, whom I trust with my mortal soul, an’ the men in this room.”

He then took a seat in a chair he pulled in front of Dibbs’ desk, relaxing into the comfortable material with a broad content smile across his face.

Dibbs shook his head. “Look at you, sitting in that chair like you’re God. How in blazing hellfire can you sleep at night?”

“I just… do…” Buchanen responded, his smile widening as he reached for one of Dibbs’ cigars from his box and inserted it into his mouth. “By the way, when would you like me to take care of those railroad workers of yours on strike in Nevada?”

Before Dibbs could answer, through the door behind the desk on his right-hand side stumbled Mr. Charon, who asked, “Excuse me, but the Pinkerton men you hired have someone with them outside for you.”

Dibbs nodded. “Bring them in.”

Through the door behind the gunmen came a man with his hands raised as two Pinkerton detectives directed him from behind at gunpoint. Their captive was none other than Jack “Twitch Trigger” Dobbins.

Buchanen smiled and removed the cigar from his mouth so he could speak, “Mr. Dibbs, I introduce to you Jack Dobbins.” He grinned arrogantly at Mr. Dibbs.

Dibbs took Buchanen’s remark in stride and stood up, folding his arms. “I thought there were three of you…”

Trigger shook his head. “No, the others split off. Could be anywhere by now.”

Buchanen, ever the persistant one, stepped closer until he was face-to-face with Trigger. “So where’d they go?”

Silence was Trigger’s response.

Buchanen interrupted the silence with… laughter. Pure hysterically amused laughter, along with some mild applause. “I’ll be damned… I heard Indians were good at the whole silence thing, but you’re good. You’re really good.” His laughter got louder and even more hysterical.

Just as soon as he started laughing more loudly, however, he abruptly stopped, drew his gun, and fired once into Trigger’s booted foot.

“DAGH!!” came the inevitable cry of pain. It was like music to Buchanen’s ears as Trigger collapsed to the floor.

Dibbs was quite unnerved by the sudden violent act, but not at all surprised by it. After all, he had hired Buchanen specifically because he could get the sort of jobs he hired him for done with efficiency, effectiveness, and very little fuss.

Squatting down, Buchanen tilted his head while watching the wounded man writhe about like a beheaded reptile on the floor and grinned that trademark sadistic grin of his. “Aww… I thought redskins couldn’t feel pain…”

No matter how many times one got shot, it was impossible to grow accustomed to the pain that came with it. Every gunshot wound felt just as excruciating as the first.

Incensed and clutching his shin in sheer agony from the injury, like a red-hot rod had been jabbed into his foot and left to cook the flesh there, Trigger hocked up and shot a full load of phlegm into Buchanen’s face before shouting, “FUCK YOU!”

Retrieving a handkerchief from his coat pocket to wipe the spit from his face, Buchanen glared darkly at the injured man before him. Cocking his pistol and pressing the barrel to Trigger’s forehead, he growled through gritted teeth, “You have exactly one minute to tell me where your pals went, starting now…”