Edmund Redfield is a man who spends his Sunday evenings fighting wild dogs to the death in the woods. After kissing his wife to sleep he will take a piece of cooked beef out to the woods, place it on the floor, lay in wait within a bush, then once a hound comes Redfield tackles it off its four feet.

His first action is to break at least one leg, ensuring the dog does not flee the combat. One beast dies that night, it doesn't matter to Redfield who it is. Once the dog is crippled his favourite tactics are to pry open the dog's jaw and either amputate the tongue or rip off the jaw. However, his main method is to simply just beat the dog in the head or chest, it depends on how adventurous he is feeling and whether or not Monday is a busy day. Removing the lower jaw takes more physical effort, forcing bone and muscle away from bone and muscle is no small feat for even the strongest men, especially whilst having teeth dig into your calloused hands. However, amputating the tongue with bare hands whilst resulting in a quicker and bloody death for the mutt, requires a similarly bloody quick reflex. He only killed two hounds with the tongue rip method and the second time cost him his middle finger. "Accident sawing wood in the shed darling." He told his wife.

"Why would my Eddy do this?" His wife would proclaim if she ever found out that this is what her husband liked to do as a weekly ritual. "The truth is." He would tell her. "It is the only way I can feel anything."

Wrapping himself in his red woollen waistcoat for work everyday, having home cooked eggs crawl down his throat, letting his wife kiss him whilst caressing his thick black hair. None of these mundane pleasures do anything for Edmund, and they never have.

"Numbness has been my cross to bear ever since I saw my daddy swing. When he went my momma went to the dog and never looked at me again, she saw him in me. The only time I wouldn't feel numb is when I looked into that stupid dopey face and thought of plunging a knife into it. I obviously never did it, if I did I'd lose my ma as well as my pa." His wife would look at him as if she were about to puke, this would not stop him from talking.

"There was a night six months ago after work where I put a revolver against my head in the shed. Bryce had been yapping at the mill all day and it made me realise that I valued so little in my life that the only thing in my brain was his bullshit. I couldn't think of you, I couldn't think of this house, I could only think of him and how much he looked like that fucking dog my momma loved more than me."

Edmund would pause to bite his fingernails at this bit, trying to distract himself from how embarrassing he must seem to the woman that swore to God that she would stand by him to the death. "I was ready to kill myself in that moment, but I came to an even grander realisation about the things in my head. If I were to die in that moment, the last thoughts I'd have would be of Bryce Fucking Milligan. I didn't have many standards for a last thought, but Bryce did not meet them. I put the gun down on the table and headed out into the woods."

"As I walked, I started stripping down until I was shirtless. My mind was blank in the woods, I was back to numbness rather than despair. That was until I saw a big black coyote sitting in the bushes. I ran at it with the same suicidal intent I had a few minutes ago in the shed. I was ready for him to maul me with his big bastard claws but that wasn't how things went. I clasped a rock in my hands and bashed it in the face, there was a big crater in it like what the revolver would have done to me. I probably spent an hour hammering away at that corpse, getting its fur and blood intermixed with the slashes it had given me. Once my frenzy was over and I was sitting there drenched in dog guts I had a feeling I never had when I was standing at the altar, building our homestead, or receiving my first paycheck, bliss."

If this conversation had happened Edmund wouldn't have known how his wife would have reacted. Would she have divorced him on the spot, slashed her wrists, had him hung? Or would she have been kinder to the broken man. Held him in her arms and tried to make him feel some level of security in the embrace of a woman he didn't really love.

Edmund Redfield will never know how his wife would have felt about his nighttime hobby. For as much as Edmund Redfield is a man who spends his Sunday evenings fighting wild dogs to the death in the woods, He is as much a dismembered corpse on a Mississippi riverside laying next to the slain body of a wolf he had spent his last moments pummeling.

Scott Freeman had been going by the name Scar recently. It was apt. Sitting on his handsome and angular face is a large whip scar that ate away half his nose and painted a diagonal line from his top left eyelid to the bottom of his right cheek.

The name was particularly frightening to Carlton Young Jr, the man who had his lips locked around the barrel of Scar's shotgun with the word "patriot" inscribed on it. "Why are you doing this?" He tearfully mumbled. "We freed you."

Scar's eyes widen and a scowl forms on his face. "You never freed us. Just cause you ain't allowed to beat us to the point we piss ourselves does not mean you ever released your clutches from around our necks. You replaced slavery with indentured servitude, that's all you did. Changed the name. The only man that freed me, was me."

Scar looks around at the anarchy he had spread that night. Corpses of white men mangled and massacred by men who had only been considered free and equal by a piece of paper. These tyrants were now having their bodies roasted in burning fields of product that they had sacrificed their moral decency and the lives of thousands to farm.

Scar stood as a spectre in this scene of fire. His grey jacket and black shirt gave him a menacing and broad figure. That paired with his severe disfigurement and background of orange destruction made it so that Carlton fervently believed he was at the mercy of a demon rather than a man.

As he had this pathetic white boy whose lineage was built on incest and old money on his knees, Scar felt the blood of previous revolutionaries flow through his veins. Spartacus, Nat Turner, Toussaint Louverture. These were the kinds of men who stood up to the bastions of power of their time such as the Romans and Napoleon Bonaparte. It filled Scar with great joy that for just a second, he could consider his name fitting alongside those ones.

He looked into Carlton's eyes and saw the tears that he and his kin once shed. It almost makes him lower the shotgun, he doesn't really need to add another body to the pile. But then he remembers the other features of Carlton Young Jr. Not just the aspects of his face, but the aspects of his character that allowed for him to personally whip Scar's brother to the point he was broken and buried. If the roles were reversed, Scar would have been dead 10 minutes ago.

There is also another factor that decreases his mercy. Thundering hooves, bright lights, shouting from Southern tongues. The local law had come to liberate the town's darling. "For a second I considered freeing you Carl, doing something you weren't able to. But you hear them horsemen down there, they just signed our death warrant."

Realising death was incoming Carlton tried running, but no man could outpace a shotgun blast to the head. The noise rang out into the woods and commanded the birds to soar and the men to head faster to the plantation.

When the five arrive, they see a blood-smeared Scar approaching them with his shotgun in hand. They respond to Scar's threat in turn, raising their repeaters and blasting him to kingdom come.

The sheriff, who wore a brown unkempt moustache and chin patch, went to inspect Scar's body. Despite numerous holes and severe bleeding, Scar was still lucid with wide eyes and a grin. "Now I'll be free . . . in the kingdom of heaven . . . the arms of the Lord."

"Whatever you say, friend." The sheriff proceeds to put a bullet in Scar's teeth, his revolution ending as quickly as it started.

Sending scum like Rolph Redfield to swing under the hot sun was the highlight of Sheriff Mick Marlow's days. Rolph was his first but far from his last. If it were allowed, he would not house a man in a cell for a single second. No. He would have them roped up, on the gallows, and in the pits 10 minutes after entering town.

That is the way Mick would have it if he had real dominion over his town. However, he does not have dominion, nothing close to it. His town was run by a fat plantation owner turned oil baron, Carlton Young. Although he had "Young" as his family name his features were far more belonging to the name "Carlton." Blubber, beer-stains, bruises from fights over drunken poker games. Those were the defining features of the town's leader

If Mick had his way Carlton would be dead and buried but there are many factors standing in his way. For one, Carlton was a wealthy man. He had gone from selling cotton to selling oil, trading the cooking of one of America's favourite foods for another. Hanging a man of such stature would be an impossible task even for a powerful puritan such as Mick.

There were also the matters of Carlton's physical magnitude and magnanimous wife Margaret. Carlton weighed at minimum 300 pounds, he would more likely die from blood loss via cracking his legs open on the floor after breaking the rope rather than the rope having any real say in his death. And then there was Margaret, the only decent person with the name Young since she inherited it rather than being born into it. When condemning people Mick made it a policy not to look into the eyes of the people who knew the subject of the execution. It was generally easy with people such as the Redfields, a scum horde that would cause him endless troubles. But with someone like Margaret, someone innocent, he would not be able to bear it. By killing Carlton he would be condemning Margaret, a woman with no wealth in her maiden name, to death also.

Indulging in the impossible fantasy of putting Young to death was the way Mick occupied his mind when not hanging scoundrels. It maintained a high that would get him through long days of gruesome paperwork, ear-bleeding discussion from his deputies, and the whining of the two women that would await him at home and a motel room respectively. Putting to death the scourges of the Earth gave him a sense of hope for a just world. One where sins are punished in proportion to their severity. The glutton would die of a heart attack, the wrathful would die in a pool of blood, and the adulterous would die in shame.

Unfortunately for Mick, his desire to have one man killed blinded him to the hundreds of men he had actually put to death.

Whilst sitting out absorbing the joyous sun, feeling light reflected from the golden badge resting nicely on his orange jacket, he saw a suspicious figure wandering down the street. Just as he was preparing to light his cigar, he saw a revolver barrel emerge from the stranger's black jacket sleeve. "This is for Paddy!"

Two pellets ripped into Mick's abdomen. He collapsed to the floor clenching the bloody holes in his white shirt that were now staining the rest of his garments. He went for his own sidearm, but the assassin was already pinned down by his deputies, Bell and Collins. Despite their vastly different architecture, Mick and his deputies had the same foundations.

The last thing Mick would unfortunately see would be the crying face of Carlton Young. For all the disdain Mick had put on Young, the old man viewed Mick as a great favourite. He had performed an act of vengeance on Carlton's behalf, an act Mick had forgotten entirely despite being the only time he had ever put down a man with the gun rather than the gallows.

The last thought that would flow through Mick's mind was a prayer, a prayer for justice. He hoped that his killer would not have an easy death. That the rope would pull back on his neck so hard that the execution would be more guillotine than gallows. He also hoped that if Carlton did not die soon that his death would spark a desire for redemption in the oligarch.

Deep down Mick Marlow knew neither of these things would happen, but he had hope. And when a man no longer has anything to his name, hope is a mere arms-length away.

Luck was the source of Ilya Springer's pride. And for Springer pride gushed from him like a waterfall.

He was always one for daring yarns he would spin in the Black Adder Bar. He in his finely fitted blue shirt and neatly trimmed ginger sideburns would spend hours telling stories of the Springer Brothers' escapades for anyone willing to listen. They would range from mundane bar fights to wild train robberies that they pulled off by the skin of their teeth and made them thousands.

Whenever someone would call out Ilya on his lies, he would bring in an expert witness, his fat grey wearing younger brother Matthew. Despite his whimpery voice Matthew was somehow a more vivid storyteller than his brother. Whenever Ilya would make a bold claim, Matthew would back it up with double the verbal prose.

Together they would tell enough tales to fill a library of dime novels. On one particular night though, Ilya decided to recite a tale he had only kept within the Springer family.

"Ladies and gentlemen would you listen please." He stood upon a table with a Guiness in one hand and a cigar in the other. "Tonight I want to tell a tale not of me, but of my oldest brother, Abe."

Matthew looked at Ilya with great concern but said concern was brushed off by Ilya. "Abe always took pride in keeping us Springer's safe and together. But one day that security was jeopardised. Our youngest brother Paddy had decided to go out robbing his by lonesome, try prove something to us older lads. Unfortunately he got caught and manhandled by the fat old bastard behind the counter. Now my Paddy had his faults, but an inability in fighting was not one of them. He proper killed that fatass, didn't allow himself to get felt up by some greasy yankee. Unfortunately his valour was not rewarded, he was hung in that town not one week later for the simple crime of self defence."

Ilya wipes away a tear. "Abe did not allow for this crime against our family to go unpunished. He sent me and Matthew on a wagon out of town and told us to lay low for a couple weeks and that he'd meet us at a nearby creek. He said he was on a mission and that we'd need to get some things sorted for him. We never saw Abe after that talk, he had gone and killed the bastard sheriff that saw our Paddy hung. We never saw either corpse but we got the story in the paper a week later. "SHERIFF KILLED BY VENGEFUL IRISH" I was never more proud to be a Springer than in that moment."

"That's why we spin these yarns every day to you folks." Matthew perks up for the first time that night. "Paddy and Abe Springer are men that deserve to be immortalised as great rebels, men who put their family above any code society forced upon them. The Springer Brothers are true brothers and we seek to prove that every night we can."

Matthew's speech delivered with familial fervour got the entire bar riled up until the room heard a slow clap from by the entrance. "Very good story gentleman, I must say."

There are two thickly bearded men drenched in rain standing by the entrance, one fat and one slim, Bell and Collins. They hold up their revolvers to the two brothers. "What's this about?" Ilya asks as he sits down.

Bell holds a revolver to Matthew whilst Collins has his shotgun to Ilya. "This is about you being wanted for multiple murders and robberies in 3 states." Collins says smugly.

"And what murders and robberies are we talking about here? Them things so common now that dime novels are written more about fishing now cause it's a more thrilling field."

"I'm talking about the crimes you've been bragging about for a whole year in this pub." Collins' voice breaks when he shouts this. If Ilya didn't have a gun to his head he'd have snickered.

"Actually we've only been here for 10 months." Matthew's little comment earns him a glare from Collins before he goes back to Ilya.

"You and your brother are under arrest for conspiracy to commit the murder of Sheriff Michael Marlow alongside a myriad of other crimes."

"We didn't kill that sherriff, that was Abe. Abe's been punished, and we've had more than a little bit in terms of suffering in the face of his death." Collins snickers trying to figure out Ilya's authenticity.

"I know you Irish love a good yarn, so why don't I give you one of my own. Me and my friend Bell here were at both the hangings of your brothers. Paddy was my first one witnessed and with Abe, I was the one who pulled the lever." The atmosphere of the bar drops. Ilya is disgusted and Matthew is frightened.

"Marlow was always a judgy prick, for a long time I didn't get why. But then I looked into Paddy's eyes, really looked at them, and I saw things clearly. Men like you have a look that damns you. Separates you from any degree of decency or morality." As Collins talks Matthew looks at Ilya and notions at the revolver in his holster. He wants permission to fire.

"You and your brother could be more innocent than Old Man Abe, but either way you have the look. The look that makes it necessary for all your type to be sent to the gallow—" Ilya nods. Matthew rips his revolver from the holster and fires a shot at Collins' head. It misses. Bell however, does not.

Matthew's brains are sent out from the front and into the face of Ilya, the only living Springer. Ilya flails wildly as a shell-shocked Collins restrains him. "YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! YOU FUCKING SAVAGES! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

Bell silently approaches Ilya and whacks him in the head with the revolver twice, knocking him out. Bell stares at Collins before bluntly stating "Keep your head in the game before you lose it, quit the theatrics."

Bell holds the door open as Collins carries an unconscious Ilya out of the now fully silent bar. Collins would hang his second Springer brother two weeks later.

Dear Chrissy & Johnny,

My travels are going well. Entered Mississippi the other day seeking out more scientific discovery. And my lord is it a violent state. My alchemical pursuits have been regularly interrupted by me bearing witness to some real cruelty.

For example, I was walking through the woods trying to set up camp a month or so back and I heard an animal cry loudly. I went to check the noise out and what I saw... What I saw was a feller beating the poor beast to death. He was shirtless, covered in scars, and howling to the sky like a mad man. He didn't have no knife, no gun, no nothing. It was a truly upsetting sight. On one hand he was probably defending himself, I saw tears on his face. But on the other he was hollering in a way that was in no way pained. It was like he was proclaiming victory to the rest of the woodland critters. I don't know if he noticed me, but if he did, he didn't care. I found out recently he died in those woods. I guess he died doing what he loved.

Alongside the woodland man I found myself in the company of a sheriff and his deputy. One was a slim man with a sunken face and somehow more sunken personality. And the other was a fat man who had a kind demeanour yet also an air of danger to him. The slim feller had an Irishman on the back of his horse, and he was bawling. He was shouting for me to help him kill the two lawmen. "They killed my brothers." He kept on claiming. Unfortunately for him I don't travel with no firearms and he didn't seem to be in no position to begin an attack on his captors.

The slim feller was particularly nasty to the Irishman. He'd slap him over the head and seemed to take pride in the brother-slaying accusations. The fat one engaged in a fair amount of conversation with me but when I'd reference the Irishman or Slim's conduct he'd stonewall. I had the feeling that if the Irishman was on the fat man's horse, he'd be getting a far worse bollocking than what Slim was capable of. I'd split from the lawmen later that day and saw a paper saying that the Irishman was hanged, the last member of a bandit gang.

Things aren't too hostile though. I've invited two men into my camp. One is a crippled old gunslinger with a cut-out eye. Meanwhile the other is a big mean bear of a man. I'd say he probably eats people if it weren't for his carrying of a King James Bible. But with men nowadays, it's hard to say.

I've had some paranoia about sharing a camp with these men. Riding near outlaws is one thing, as long as you don't bore, insult, or look like a good mark they can be quite personable and help you get across the country with more ease than without them. But sleeping near them is another matter. The moment my eyes close I could have King James' 250 pounds of pure muscle sitting on me and throttling me whilst the cripple raids my pouch for elixirs and manuals they could sell for a pretty penny. Cause that's all some men's life work is to other men, a pretty penny.

I guess I gotta keep in mind that if these men wanted to rob me, they'd have done it earlier in the night. They'd have shot me in the skull, dumped my corpse a few feet away, and slept in my station as if I had never been there, as if it were theirs.

This is how men've got me talking now, kids. All about violence, killing, always looking over your shoulder for some Apache or outlaw. I think this country really brings out the worst in some men. This place is so expansive that for some men they've gone their entire lives without any sense of civilisation. It's like they don't know no better. They treat scalping a feller the same way they'd treat opening a particularly tight can of beans. Luckily, I've never seen a scalping, but I have seen the aftermath, and I met a feller who'd somehow survived it. Went by Alastair Black or something like that. He was quite the prick but I guess a knife scraping against your skull ain't exactly going to improve your moral character.

I guess I gotta have some hope though. I wouldn't be an alchemist if I didn't believe in hope for a better world. Hope for when the power of the philosopher's stone can be harnessed to push humanity just that one step farther. But for now, I and all other men just have to deal with their lot. The scalped man has to deal with never having a nice-looking haircut again, these two outlaws have to deal with sharing a camp with a stinky scientist, and I have to deal with being separated from you kids for at least another 4 months whilst I write out my alchemical findings. I think once published my works are going to bring some good esteem and wealth to our family.

Anyway, sorry for all this yapping. I hope to be in correspondence with you two again soon. And if I'm not, look into the names Jim Dyer and Cillian McCavern, The Cripple and King James respectively.

Lots of love from your dearly beloved father,

Jebediah Selmy.