Chapter Text
Chapter One:
The Road to Cochinay
1916.
Five years had gone by since all but one of the remaining members of the infamous van der Linde gang were no more.
Micah Bell was the first to start the avalanche; his frozen corpse was discovered in Mount Hagan in 1907; he died as he had lived — violently.
Javier Escuella and Bill Williamson had their storied careers put to rest by John Marston — in the years prior, they called each other 'brothers.'
Camaraderie is a strange thing, isn't it?
Then came Dutch van der Linde's end. Ross reported that John Marston had ended his reign of terror with a bullet, the placement of such a shot, to the gut, meant to cause a painful, lingering finality that many would feel was deserved. His corpse was found in a pool of his own blood, with fresh snow settling onto him like a cold blanket.
Then, there were the last to fall; John Marston and the man once called 'Uncle' — both went down by the gun of my organization — the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
Maybe one of my bullets had brought down Marston, and maybe it didn't.
Abigail Marston passed some time following her husband's death, some say of illness, some say of a broken heart.
Jack Marston to this day, remains a free man but not without sin — he is wanted everywhere from New Hanover to New Austin. The apple doesn't fall from the tree.
But first, before I go into further detail, I need to apologize.
I haven't introduced myself.
Many morally questionable individuals, you can say, have a number of names they have given to me, but the name on the birth certificate — and Pinkerton pay stub — states that my name is Edward Thompson Seton.
A strong name, wouldn't you agree?
I am entering my thirty-fifth year of serving in the Agency, and a good number of those years were spent rooting out the remaining outlaw element of the 'Old West', they call it, a most romanticized piece of history now portrayed in the picture shows.
And none so compelled me as the van der Linde gang.
There had been reports that Jack Marston had been spotted out in Cochinay — where Dutch had met his end.
And I was assigned to investigate.
I prefer to go about my work solo, and it just happened that I was to go at this one alone.
A lower profile raises less suspicion, they said. Marston had been staying in the shadows of late — unusual for him, but might as well play his game.
But why Cochinay?
'Came down to speak to Dutch's ghost?' I thought ruefully as I pulled out the 'van der Linde' and 'Marston' folders from my filing cabinet, and brought them over to my desk to sort through them in my usual slow, methodical manner that was something of a bother to my colleagues. I never paid mind; I just kept my head down and pressed on while they simmered.
My teakwood desk was a sizable, handsome piece with intricately carved details featuring scenes and wildlife of the Great Plains, accenting the drawers and compartments. Among a stack of journals and books, there was an Emeralite Co. Banker's Lamp; a classy little gift for my twentieth year. Overlooking my work was a taxidermied bobcat on the top shelf, forever frozen in a defensive position. My setup by the window allowed me a view of Blackwater — the Bureau occasionally spoils us.
It was early morning, and the town was starting to come to life. A young boy of maybe six years old, was running to catch up to a father, maybe an uncle, nearly tripping in the process.
And I was reminded of something.
No, not my own childhood that was rather, thankfully uneventful, if not a little dull, but rather that it was known that, despite how he would kill without thought, bring hell to earth, the wanton van der Linde had a soft spot for the boy.
I think the burning of the Braithwaite mansion could back that up.
Was he paying tribute?
I thumbed through some old reports in both folders; a Hosea-Dutch heist in 1885, another in 1890. A newspaper article from 1907 stated that van der Linde perished in a fire from a robbery gone wrong.
He had fooled us all.
I then turned my attention over Marston's folder where I decided to go right from the start; his first record of raising hell was in a 1913 robbery that wasn't the most successful; a bank clerk was noted to have been injured though not seriously, and only a fistful of money was taken. But over time, he grew bolder, more experienced; a year later, he was noted as having his first recorded fatality; a coach driver who attempted to fend him off during a robbery.
And then, the murder of Edgar Ross.
They say once a dog has the taste of blood, there's no stopping them from wanting more.
Five pages in, I paused at a new addition that was slipped in, with a date of October 5th, 1916, jotted down into the corner, along with the location.
Cochinay — Dutch's last stand.
More specifically, a detailed sketch of the cave opening on the cliffs of Cochinay.
Dutch's cave.
Unlike his father, the young man knew a thing or two about drawing. An illustration on the back showed what appeared to have been a personal library, and two smaller sketches showed a bathtub, possibly bloodied or rusted (how he could have managed it up there is a mystery within itself), and a chair with bone fragments. All rendered with stunning detail, right down to the texture of wood and the floor of the cave.
But it was the library that drew me.
What could be in that collection?
An unfinished novel, a personal journal that detailed the unravelling of his insanity? Or perhaps, far duller, it was merely a collection of his favourite books. It was known that he had enjoyed a little Evelyn Miller; a copy of one of his novels was found up in Mount Hagan. It had to have been Dutch's. Micah Bell, after all, wasn't the type who would enjoy intellectual reading. For as uninteresting as that sounds, a theme within the collection could be revealing, maybe with pages littered with his interpretations of the material.
In any case, I felt my interest in this old rogue rekindling, and all it takes for a fire to grow is the spark of a single ember.
And my embers were sparked.
The ride out to Tall Trees was largely uneventful; my mount was a steady buckskin Tennessee Walker gelding, Charlie, who had served me well for nearly a decade. He does not spook at the sight of buffalo — a rare sight these days — nor the bugle of bull elk. Nor is he bothered by the sight, sound or smell of the automobile that the Bureau prefers us to use.
But an automobile — the noisy, unreliable things they are, which give our approach away to our 'clients' — provides no companionship, no early warning to danger.
Good old steady, dependable Charlie. He would let me know of the presence of Grizzly, or even worse, the Skinner brothers, who for many years racked up the body count in the region of Tall Trees; any unfortunate victim to encounter them hoped for death as an escape. Sightings and encounters of them these days come few and far between — but a few is more than zero.
It was when we casually trotted down the trail leading into Tall Trees that Charlie decided to stop, tossing his head in that manner he does when something is afoot.
A pebble in his shoe? The scent of bear? The start of a forest fire? It had been a dreadfully dry summer, and those weren't unheard of in his region. Was it that cool breeze that stirred up all the scents of the creatures of the woods?
No.
But it was someone, something.
When the birds stopped singing, I felt the hairs at the back of my neck rise.
Let me state that I am not a superstitious man. I've been known to dismiss ghost stories and the like as mere campfire stories. But if my horse, the sensible animal that he is, feels there's something about, then maybe I'll get into my investigator role.
That someone, something gave a presence that was neither hostile nor welcoming — if anything, it was the neutrality of it that was what made the whole matter deeply unsettling. Few things are as unnerving for a Pinkerton agent as the feeling of being spied upon; I won't deny that we're hypocrites. Perhaps it was just some nosy camper, on their own and feeling defensive. With the reputation of some of the infamous inhabitants in the region, it was easy to feel that way here. Possibly, it was another agent, sent out to keep an eye out for me, should anything go awry with the Marston boy. They've been known to do such things, much to my annoyance.
Or was it the tortured soul of a Skinner victim?
Or maybe . . .
I shook my head in disbelief of letting my mind wander. I had some old memories from when I was a little boy (I was one once), listening to my dearly departed uncle telling me true but embellished stories from the Civil War and its aftermath. But that was then, a little boy who also dreamed of running away to join the circus, to go to the moon.
Imagine going to the moon?
'Get ahold of yourself, Edward.'
"Onward, Charlie."
With a reassuring pat on the neck, away we went.
I had not forgotten the original intent of my mission: to follow through with the reports of Jack Marston. With such a fresh report, it would be foolish not to, but I would be lying if I were a little hungrier to catch up on an old 'friend.'
An old friend who would have killed me without second thought had he still been with us.
More fidgeting from Charlie.
He too felt as though a set of eyes was on him, boring deep into his instincts to flee.
"Easy, boy . . . "
Jack.
It had to be Jack.
I got my rifle ready, a fine Carcano — another example of the Bureau occasionally recognising us as something more than a cog in the wheel.
I still haven't used that new automobile they gave me in May.
It had been many moons since I had been to these parts; van der Linde was the draw.
Well, one of them.
A report came in that Dutch had been in the area with a new gang, just when I was preparing to go for a lion hunt with a good friend. It's fascinating how that man may not have been the main focus of my itinerary, but he manages to make everything about him. Or indeed, anyone who had been associated with him.
I never did get my cat on that outing.
Oh, how I longed to bring Dutch in. I wanted to pick his brain for answers (and not so gently inform him while doing so I missed out on the opportunity to bag one trophy but brought in another), but we can't always get what we want.
Instead, my fixation had to be directed at what he had left behind; I needed to know what made him the way he was. A broken childhood? Any of the disorders of the mind? Or perhaps, was the man always a sleeping tiger, ready to wake and strike when the opportunity arose?
So many questions.
I 'clucked' and gave Charlie a light reminder to move on, and he did, with reluctance.
It was when we moved deeper through the grove of redwoods that, not only did we like we were being merely observed, but that we were being followed. It was a deeply unsettling feeling; again, ambivalent; neither welcoming nor threatening.
And whatever it was had made the creatures of the forest fall near silent. Occasionally, the unsettling quiet was broken by the sound of a pinecone dropping on the pine needle-strewn ground. There was the occasional pecking of a woodpecker; narrow-minded creatures who won't stop their business over the matter of man, as they've done for centuries.
"There was a time when my entire being was about capturing Dutch," I spoke to Charlie as if he were another human; indeed, sometimes I feel horses are more understanding of matters than humans.
"At times, I've spent all night thinking where he may have last been when our leads turned up empty."
By morning, I would feel like those old penny dreadfuls described as the 'undead', those dearly departed that pushed their way up out of the grave to be among us again. Alas, it was never worth it; by dawn break, he would have put another twenty miles away from his last location. Dutch was known to have a peculiar sense of humour, especially at our expense. I wouldn't have put it past him to have known I had spent those nights pacing in my apartment, making his last location and calculating where he would be next.
Eventually, the Bureau would put a stop to my foolishness, though, not out of concern for my sanity — many a Pinkerton could be described as being a monster — but rather efficiency. After all, an agent is only so good when he doesn't have fatigue of the mind when he has to deal with the matter of an impending union strike.
The few times I did catch sight of van der Linde, in 1899, was when I spotted him on a merry ride with Matthews and Morgan in Scarlett Meadows. His company having an admittedly better shot than myself —and a lack of good cover — saved him from a bullet. I had set out to bag a nice buck that had been seen in the area, and had the circumstances been better, I may have bagged another trophy that would have been enough to retire very comfortably.
Sigh.
At another time, a few years prior, I caught sight of Dutch leaning back against a tree, enjoying a good read — alone, or so I thought. I was struck but how strikingly *small* he looked against that oak tree, how even vulnerable he appeared, at a dare I say it, *soft* moment. He was just a man and his book, laughing at something particularly amusing. He might as well have been an old man on a park bench, reading the paper with pigeons milling about.
Still, I steadied myself; this was a dangerous, wanton outlaw that needed eliminating.
But it was just as I raised my rifle to do my bit for society, when a wildcard turned up: Matthews.
Just my luck.
Charlie had no answer to my ramble of reminiscence and woe beyond a casual swivel of a bay ear to my direction.
He would've eaten a radish out of Dutch's hand as readily as from mine. I consider Charlie to be a good judge of character, but while Dutch was many things, he was a good horseman (and far better than his ill-fated attempt at driving an automobile). He had a fine Arabian stallion that he doted on — The Count —and was said to be the only one who he would let ride him. Reportedly, the horse was stolen from a Kentucky farm that bred fine Thoroughbreds. They had plans to breed him to create a line of quality Anglo-Arabians for both the show ring and as mounts who would be equally suitable and quality mounts for ladies as they would be with gentlemen.
But, we can't all get our way.
I eased Charlie down a fork on the well-worn path, where I came upon hoofprint impressions.
Fresh hoof imprints in the pine needles.
It was noted in the files that Jack Marston still rode horses; like me, he too hadn't yet taken to the automobile. They weren't always of quality breeding — often just some poor nag he would steal — and his care of them was reputedly not kind; they were something to get him from one place to another, a vehicle of escape and to get from one town to another. Dutch had obviously not shared his wisdom of fine horsemanship with the boy; I can reckon he was too busy thinking of his out-of-hand ideals.
And this poor used-up soul had a distinct limp, noted by one hoofprint being deeper than the rest. Something sore in the shoulder, if my reading of the tracks was correct.
And the tracks were leading to my destination.
'Cochinay, my old friend, I am coming.'
We stopped for camp by an abandoned homestead as the last rays of the sun had faded into a purplish hue. With that poor horse, Jack wouldn't be able to go too far, even if he didn't happen to give the wretched beast a moment to rest.
Ever focused though, I took to rummaging through the old log cabin, seeing if maybe, either the Marston boy had stopped by, or maybe, anything indicating that Dutch had once stayed here. The material I most held value to after my search were a few rodent-chewed journals written in Norwegian, a language I'm unfortunately not well versed in.
They had to have something, I thought in desperation. They would have had to come by here, maybe as merely shelter, if even as an escape from inclement weather, before they took off again. Even seasoned criminals couldn't fight off a blizzard.
Much of what I could make out in this ratty journal included inventories of goods, mentions of weather conditions, and a few problems with the local wildlife, as expected. There were complaints that a trip out to Blackwater proved unfruitful for roof tiles and other supplies; they'd have to make a return trip on a particularly rainy May. The dates ranged from 1907 - when Jack would have been a mere pre-teen - to 1910.
There was not a word I could find about Jack, but 'van der Linde' was written on a page that was left blank after it.
Had Dutch forced out the last inhabitant or inhabitants, or worse, did he or his gang abduct them and kill them? Perhaps, though not romantic, there was a chance that neither van der Linde nor Marston was responsible; this was Skinner territory after all.
Perhaps the local bears saw them out; a page in 1907 remarks that they had shot a large boar bear after it took 'their finest Morgan mare.' Indeed, after looking, I found the moth-eaten remains of a Grizzly rug by the old fireplace that may have once belonged to the horse killer, now. It seemed they knew how to deal with problem animals; they weren't going to let mere vermin get the better of them.
People, though, were and are a different matter. Oh, they are.
Yet, there was little evidence to suggest that the settlers met a grisly end, either by man or beast. The journal was found on the floor, as if it was left in a hurry, maybe thrown at an assailant. But there were no old blood stains, nor marks in the wood from a bullet or slash of a knife. And nor were there claw marks on or in the cabin to suggest that they were predated on by an animal, at least from the inside.
And who was the mystery writer? The Norwegian settlers, perhaps in complaint to their not-so-friendly neighbours? The writing didn't match, however, unless they felt like a change of pace in the calligraphy department. His presumed writing was on the fancier side, a contrast to the purely functional but tidy style of the settlers.
Van der Linde himself, perhaps, with fresh journals being in short supply in the log cabin, may have taken it upon himself to start an entry, but was disturbed by something and left before he could continue.
So many questions, no answers.
'You sly old dog, you, leading me on a chase, aren't you?' I thought to myself, with a hint of a smile on the corner of my lips.
Still, I took the old journal, left the cabin, and tucked it into Charlie's saddle bag.
The hunt for answers would have to wait; the Marston boy wasn't going to say 'hello, I'm here to turn myself in.'
And Dutch?
Dutch wasn't ready to give his secrets away.