Just outside Thief River Falls, Minnesota, January 7, 1864
Glass shattered and fell to the cold, wood floor as gun shots sounded out. The pair of elven gunslingers ignored the discomfort of the cold and returned fire with vigour. Pania loaded her Winchester and took several careful shots through the now broken window. They had found this small, abandoned cabin as they made their way north, hoping to reach Lake of the Woods. But Captain Williams had been hot on their trail. Somehow, he had received word the pair had returned to the Union. And the chase began once again.
The pair of elves took turns returning fire as they would stop to reload, all the while attempting to devise some sort of plan of escape. All hope appeared to have gone out the window as Williams’ men surrounded the secluded cabin. There had to be at least fifty men with him, a formidable force for just two gunslingers. But their fame, or rather their infamy, had spread throughout the Union. Shani sneered as she thought of the dime store novels, wishing that they had never been written. Since they had teamed up, she found that there were new dime store novels, exaggerating even more of what they had done, and making them out to be cold killers.
Perhaps teaming up with Pania had been a mistake Shani often thought. She’d shake that thought from her mind as she’d realize had it not been for the elven bard, there would have been a few situations where Shani would have been dead. The same could be said for Pania as well. Had it not been for the lithe gunslinger, neither of them would be breathing right now.
Presently, that situation appeared to grow less and less likely that they’d walk out of the small cabin. Indeed, it appeared as though they would be dragged out and tossed into a pine box.
*****
Just outside Thief River Falls, Minnesota, January 14, 1864
Dieter Van Bueren brought the small wagon to a complete stop. The small trail that brought him here was just wide enough for the horse and wagon. He didn’t know why, but something told him that he needed to travel. It was just before Christmas, he first received the dream. An odd one at that. But it was the elves that had helped the village so long ago. He had to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. All he really knew was the burned out shack that still seemed to smolder in the cool air. Dieter looked to the shack with wide eyes, then caught sight of the shell casings that scattered the area. There was definitely a gun battle here. Did this have something to do with the elves?
His thoughts were broken as he heard the footfalls of a heavy horse. Dieter watched quietly as the Clydesdale walked into the clearing, carrying his equally large rider. He caught sight of a glint of silver, and knew right away, this man was a law man. Then there was more shuffling as other horses began entering the area. A dark skinned fellow on a fast mount. Another law man. And a small framed oriental man.
The Clydesdale snorted as a stream of vapours escaped his nostrils. The rider shifted in the saddle and took each new face in kind. Quietly, he took out his pocket watch and studied it for a moment, then looked to the canopy of the trees that surrounded the small shack. He took a deep breath and finally spoke. “I am going to assume that each of you received some kind of… message.”
“Pretty well spoken fer a US Marshal,” the old man said as he dismounted. Dieter saw the tin star of a Sheriff, but one that was well out of his jurisdiction. He had the accent and mannerisms of a southerner. The larger man that sat atop the Clydesdale only chuckled in his response.
“Oxford, in truth,” he replied. “But then, you’re quite educated yourself. Aren’t you, Sheriff Walker.”
“I wager ya already know ’bout that, Marshal Derringer,” he stated before looking to his partner. To Dieter, it was obvious that these men had some familiarity in the past. From the way they spoke they didn’t necessarily like each other, but they still held some respect for each other. “Ming, gimme a hand. I wanna take a closer look.”
Dieter watched as the pair walked toward the shack. To his right, the dark skinned man sat quietly. Dieter looked to him and extended his hand in greeting. “Dieter. Dieter Van Bueren,” he said in a quiet voice.
The dark man took his hand with a firm grip in reply and nodded. “Ezekiel Morgan,” he replied simply.
“Well, now that the introductions are over with,” Marshal Derringer said aloud as he dismounted his horse. “Perhaps we can find out what happened to the last stand of Shani Wennemein and Pania Alow.”
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