The Ballad Of Addison Black (Part 1)

                       He heard it off in the distance. From about a quarter of a mile or so. The stampede. The rumbling thunder across the prairie floor. A squadron of five of the most ruthless bounty hunting fiends that money can buy. All riding in a tight pack behind Sheriff Red Redman. Commissioned by Montague J. Becks himself & a small assortment of like-minded lawmakers & railroad tycoons in & around the township of Lithium Heights & other surrounding villages in the Northern Comstock Territory.

                         The vultures flew from the decaying branches of autumn. Dogs howled as if it were the apocalypse. His horse, riled & skidish, still tied to the trough out back. The Ballad Of Addison Black. Wanted Dead Or Alive.

                          Jumping from his rest, he gathered his personals. Grabbed at his Winchester & belt of ammunition, capped his skull with leather & ran out the back door to saddle up the stallion. He untied the beast & placed his foot in the stirrup, threw his other leg over the horse & with a mighty "Heyaa!!" he bolted across the grounds, leaping over the small fence enclosing the lost, little property of a fair young maiden whom once long ago, road beside him upon a bedazzling silver pony. He buried her out yonder by the willow tree after stricken, she was, with pneumonia at the tender age of 20.

                          It was at this point where the ballad begins. For, before the illness had taken its toll, she went by the name Ophelia Pratt. A minister's daughter, born in the Province Of Majesty. The youngest of three sisters whom guided by the minister & his good wife inside a cavalcade of immigrants migrating south to the promise of a new territory. Staking claim & settling down upon the piece of property just a few miles outside the dusty village of Lithium Heights.

                          Old man Pratt built himself a ministry in the converted barn at the foot of their property & began services for those in need of prayer. Most of his congregation consisted of other immigrants who traveled across the plains with his cavalcade & others who arrived later to help build a community for themselves with grit, determination & a belief of the divine. A belief of prosper.

                          Ophelia was just a small child back then. She stuck to helping out around the cottage with odd chores here & there & assisting her sisters laundering the wash down by the creek. All for the payment of some rock candy the old man would pick up on one of his trips into town. A real charmer she was. Light sandy locks with a mothers cut that made her appear to be more tomboyish than daddies little girl. Wide sights of deep brown that buckled your knees when she'd give you one of her infamous puppy dog stares. A real sweetheart of a girl. Angelic.

                           Old man Pratt done stuck to his preaching & laboring in the barn. Real good with his hands, the old man. He done plum built himself up a fine rectory out of that old, decrepit barn. Frame by frame. Board by board. All with sweat, spit & a grand dogma that solidified his Justus. His fidelity. His allegiance. His podium, a pulpit of power. His gusty speech, baritone to the ear & thick with bravado, barking the wrath of the lord with Holy Scriptures spat from his language like a tornado of spiritual banter. The elder statesman of the community he was. Striking the fear of God into everybody's soul & sermonizing them with the encouraging passages of faith, existence, glory & the reverie of togetherness & the prayer of synthesizing a society of mankind with trust & brotherhood! Can I Get An AMEN My Brothers & Sisters!!

                             It was the age old story of wealthy businessmen with fat pockets who buy up property to expand some kind of rootin'-tootin' scheme planed in order to fatten their pockets even more or swindle good samaritans out of their lease with last minuet loopholes & false dictations only to gobble up the acres themselves to settle in on it, mine it, rape it & sell it off at ten times the amount swindled. Well, this here tale is of many of that. For what old man Pratt didn't know, a mighty nifty fine express line of railroad tracks were to be laid upon the territory & a plan of action to run the new path of industry, right square plum-tucket through the heart of the old man's property. His deed. His land. And there wasn't no goin' around him neither.

                              Montague J. Becks got his start in oil. He started purchasing up little mining towns around the Comstock Territory & pitting people to work & mine for gold. Got himself a good crew & paid them handsomely to slave drive & work horse the s**t out of poor & petty men, mostly immigrants to the New Territory who left behind them everything they owned for a small stake of life in a new civilization.

                               After a shear bombardment of all the miles within the Comstock Territory, he began to build up the little dusty village of Lithium Heights. Buying up the hotel, saloon, gambling joint, whorehouse, the law, the politicians & the judge. Made friendly with the population by throwing his tycoon cash around town, sponsoring festivals & harvests, keeping the town sanitary by ordering up the best in lawmen to hound out the pillagers, desperados & cattle punchers & keep the streets safe & sound for the families & townspeople whom call this land home.

                                "My good neighbors!" he would always call them when he'd publicly speak from atop the stairs that lead up to his main office in the middle of town. Then proceed to babble on about some high falutin' top brass gibberish with a tall political stance endorsing a new mayor of some sorts or prim up the common folk before bantering on & on about changes here, progress there, unity all around. A mighty winded smoke screen to get everyone's attention, trust, confidence & vote. Lining his pockets with a strong arm in just about every business, law, church & farm all within the town limits of Lithium Heights. And with the new plans of the railroad line connecting Lithium Heights to the neighboring towns around the Comstock Territory, he knew he was sitting on top of a gold mine. For, a track brings a train. A train brings people. People bring money. Revenue.

                                   He came to envision a real money town. A town built for comforting high-class transients & tourists to spend their pockets on the businesses of Lithium Heights with its properly dressed streets of family garnishment & equality for the masses. A fortune maker of a town. With lots of gambling, saloons, whorehouses & can can shows. A city of the cleanest gluttony where, with a real strong law to keep the ruffians in line with the most brutal & hideous tactics, people would flock to with bankrolls & satchels full of money to spend & spend again.

                                    Addison knew he was running low of ammunition. But he was a good shot. He road the stallion to the outer perimeter of Comstock where the brush trees of forest begin. He wondered if they would stop at the homestead or just charge full throttle for him & his bounty. Sheriff Redman possied by five of the most ruthless, deputized murderers with silver bullets backed by the finest cash. He just assumed there was no turning back. Except to face the gallows.

  He started towards the foothills. The stallion footed with iron. Bread for a quick getaway. Trained for an all day sprint across dusty, rocky trails & off beaten pathways that may or may not lead to one's salvation.

  The morning sun rose hot in his eyes. A dirty bandanna collected the beads of sweat upon his exhausted face. If he can just make it around to the riverbed where a lonesome hideout awaits his weary bones of execution. He will then be able to catch a fair breath & quench the thirst of himself & the stallion.

  That is if the pack ceased to follow.

  Sheriff Redman & clan arrived at the homestead of ghosts. Surrounding the shack with a military poise he surveyed the lay of the land. He saw that the stallion was gone. His beady eyes viewed, with knowledge of the fact, that Addison Black was too smart to take 'em all on at once. He'd never stand a chance. And therefore fled. He ordered two men to stay behind & rode on ahead with the other three men towards the foothills. Hot on the trail of the largest bounty ever placed on a man in the Comstock Territory.

                                       It was the pressure old man Pratt felt against his congregation. He knew what he had possessed. Montague J. Becks had the power & money to take it all. And he did want it all. But what Becks didn't expect was the will of the peasants to stand tall upon their ground. So he hired local wranglers to pillage, scare & drive away the good people of the congregation until their spirits were finally broke & the precious dirt of turf was finally his to rape legally. And his plan of action began to take effect. Slowly in small droves, the humble folk of the prospering congregation could take no more & began packing up their personal belongings & leave their dreams & opportunities of happiness behind. Broken & scared.

                                         But even after a dwindling society made their way elsewhere, old man Pratt, stubborn to the core stood his ground.

   "That son of a b***h can have my land." He said. "Only after my remains are buried in it!"