August, 1938

  Fine leather boots clapped the stone steps of the Arx Arcana, the high office of Grady’s Posse. Sitting within the idyllic slopes of the Yellowstone National Park, the Arx Arcana housed the official administration of the Posse, as well as some of its most valuable artifacts. Those stone steps to the structure held sacred value to almost every Six-Gun, but not the one visiting them that evening.

  Waving pines brought a pleasant smell to Yellowstone’s lone visitor. The energy of the benevolent wilderness passed through him, bolstering his Resolve. Such was the majesty of this most sacred of places.

  After entering through the large oak door, the visitor found himself in the massive lobby. Its plush seats had no butts in them. No glasses clinked at the bar in the far corner. The lobby lay empty, save for a single man in a plaid shirt and pressed pants.

  “Mister Baird.” The Plaidshirt attendant gave a nod and a smile, holding his clipboard. “Welcome to Yellowstone. You’re just on time. Are you thirsty?”

  The gunslinger in the delta-patterned poncho waved his hand, “Not really, friend. Wanna take me back now?”

  “Of course! The Council of Six are ready to see you.”

  As they stepped down the hall, the attendant took on a more confident look. Noting this, the gunslinger smirked. He knew that the Plaids liked to be around him. The feeling was mutual. To him, most of the Posse’s work was carried out by men and women in plaid. His brief contemplation on the subject came to a close as they reached yet another large oak door.

  “Alright. Feel free.” gesturing to the door, the attendant nodded again.

  Taking the door, the gunslinger let himself in. He was immediately struck by the low tones of a grand piano playing under the veil of darkness. He could see nothing in the room. Smirking, the gunslinger tried to stifle a laugh. Of course, he mused, the Council never dropped their theatrics.

  “Liszt.” Spoke the visitor, stepping forward towards the sound of the piano.

  A pair of brown eyes gleamed nearby in the dark as a Six-Gun entered a Resolute State. The visitor followed suit, his stark blues matching the intensity. Resolve signatures were unmistakable, like fingerprints. The visitor knew who stood near him.

  “Hungarian Rhapsody Number Two, Billy.” Those eyes spoke, the eyes of a high councilman of the Posse. “Your favorite, if I recall.”

  “Yeah, but not this first part.” Billy Baird stood firm, surmising the test of wits had already begun, “It’s powerful enough, but quite slow.”

  As if directed, the notes from the piano shifted to the jubilant tones and insane speed of the latter half of the piece. It began to play Billy Baird’s favorite part of any piece of classical music, the build up to the complete insanity of the Friska. Beginning somewhat slow and very quiet, it gathered intensity and volume with the speed of the keys hammering octaves back and forth.

  Billy grinned, “You called me down here just to play a diddy for me?”

  Five other sets of eyes lit up as the Council of Six revealed their Resolve to Billy. Though he stood surrounded by them in darkness, he could very much see them by their Resolve. None of them appeared to play the piano across the room; Billy assumed it was a Plaidshirt.

  After a moment, one of the councilmen began to speak, “A boy who identifies himself as Calvin Baird, your son, is currently operating within the Posse out of the Smoky Mountain Sanctuary, under the administrative care of Foreman Ivan Rand. He is afflicted with the magic of the Yellow Cult, having apparently been targeted by them.”

  “And?” Billy raised an eyebrow, “Why didn’t you have him sanitized?”

  With this, the Council fell silent again. Only the sounds of the piano continued through the darkness.

  The grin on Billy’s face took on a victorious quality. Clearly the game of wits was going in his favor.

  “Oh you expected me to be threatened, didn’t you? You WANT something from me.”

  “We want to know why you kept this child from us.”

  “I’m not required to tell you every time I get laid, councilman.”

  “You don’t ‘get laid’. That’s why we’re confused. This child is a unique vessel for the magic of the Yellow Cult. How did he come to be?”

  “I’m not interested in hashing all that out.” Billy waved a hand dismissively, “If you think he’s a threat you ought to deal with it. Don’t come at me with this.”

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  After another long moment the lights turned on. The councilmen who had all been present when things were dark had now disappeared, save for one. A man in a white suit and hat sat in a plush chair nearby, a corncob pipe in his hand. The piano in the corner and its plaid-shirted pianist remained as well, though the woman had moved onto Chopin. Billy took the opportunity to sit on a comfortable chair across from the remaining councilman.

  “Does my breath smell?” snickered the visiting Gun.

  “I think they got what they needed from you.” Councilman Charles Murphy struck up a match to light the pipe, “They know you’re not able to be manipulated with the boy. Ironically, that’s probably the reason he’s still alive.”

  “Don’t they know they can just ask for the things they want?” Billy raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been loyal to the Posse.”

  “I think you understand very well why they’d want some assurance against you.”

  “Do you?”

  Murphy’s brown eyes shot over to him, the Diamond engram present at all times in the powerful sorcerers pupils.

  “Ok, you ain’t scared of me.” Billy snickered, raising his hands. “So what do you want?”

  “I actually am curious about the kid. You ain’t got no wife, Baird. Can’t fool me.”

  Billy’s eyes leveled to his, matching the intensity of his stare, “Does it really matter where he came from?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t. But why hide him from us? You really think we might’ve had plans for him?”

  “Lot of people have it out for me, you people notwithstanding.” Billy ran his hand along the leather arm rest of the big chair, “Lot of people who don’t have the nuts to step to me. They do got the nuts to step to a child, though.”

  The jab layered in the internal logic wasn’t lost on the Councilman, “I understand. Still, don’t seem like you care if we neutralize him.”

  “You haven’t. That tells me what I need to know. Lou’s in his corner too, he even convinced the Deadeye to keep him alive. I think the kid’s gonna be fine.”

  The Councilman patted his armrests, “Fine, Baird, you can be as cagey as you like about the kid. But he ain’t the main point for you being here. That event, a month and a half ago.”

  “I felt it from Ontario.”

  “Figures. This is connected to the Yellow Cult. Something’s coming, some kind of storm.”

  Sitting back, Billy smirked, “You wanted your favorite lefty back just in case.”

  “I believe its all connected. The shift, your son. Hell,” Murphy leaned in, “Did you know Calvin was just recently shot dead by some Oathbreakers in Chattanooga?”

  Knowing full well that this delivery was yet another test, Billy stifled his shock. He resisted the urge to lean in also, though his curiosity flared.

  “So he’s already gone then.”

  “Nope.” Murphy school his head, “The report says that Calvin was saved by the interference of Yellow forces. They must have their claws in him.”

  This information spooled up the turbines in Billy’s mind. He began calculating the consequences of this news, the implications on Calvin’s actual power input. Lou Cobb, in his letters, had never specified just how Calvin performed as a sorcerer. That primal excitement lifted Billy as he thought about just how strong the Yellow magic could really be.

  “Does Calvin actually perform Resolve sorcery?” Billy turned his head a bit, his features tightening.

  “He does. He just got his pistol this Summer.”

  Suddenly the Floridian gunslinger stood, flapping the poncho behind him. Murphy watched from his spot. Part of Billy wanted to focus on the piano as he stepped aimlessly across the room. He so loved Classical music, always had. The feelings it brought to his throat, particularly those bold and wondrous parts, reminded him that he was still alive. The other part of him begged to remain in frame, the part which pondered his son. His own blood, marked as a potentially powerful vessel for magic beyond his comprehension. Part of it made him jealous, the another part disgusted. The excitement lifted his chest.

  “Is he any good?” Billy studied a painting on the wall.

  It was George Washington Crossing The Delaware, a reproduction; The bold American general crossing the icy waters in the dead of night.

  “Logan Denton is his trainer. He says Calvin is surprisingly resilient and very skilled for his age. He wanted us to know that this is DESPITE his apparent abandonment.” The councilman sat still, hands crossed in front of him.

  Billy took in the words as he studied that most American image on the painting. What, he wondered, could Washington have been feeling in this moment. His critical gambit took him to a packed boat on freezing waters. As if to answer him, ice cold dread clawed up his throat. It was exhilarating. He controlled his breathing.

  “Say I slaughter these enemies we have, whatever Yellow storm is coming. What threat you think Calvin would be after that?”

  “How you gonna do that?”

  “What’s the answer?” Billy turned back to him sharply.

  Councilman Murphy caught Billy’s gaze like a baseball hurdling into left field. The eyes of Billy Baird were mad, gleaming with joy and fear and hatred, and everything else. First and foremost, Billy’s eyes leaked malice, from the very depths of his soul. Murphy understood why the Council distrusted him, intellectually, but until this moment he hadn’t truly understood. He was newer. Billy Baird reminded him that their practice could truly create great and terrible men. He was their fault. Their decisions had, at least in part, created this thing staring at him.

  “I think…” He cleared his throat, “That there’s an argument to be had, if you were to deal with the Yellow threat, that Calvin isn’t a real danger anymore.”

  “Do the rest of you rat fucks believe that?” Billy called to all unseen listeners, his eyes still glued to Murphy.

  The Six-Gun in the chair offered him no response. To Billy, no answer was answer enough.

  “Well, I suppose I’ll handle your problems for you, again.” That wide grin returned to Billy’s face.

  Murphy watched him step to the door, easily and comfortably.

  “I’m going to the Smokies anyway.” Billy’s voice seemed normal to Murphy, just as it had when he walked in. “I’ll help out with this Yellow Cult. Crush them hard. It may take a while though, these things do. Can’t snuff out an idea, not quickly or easily.”

  He turned back to Murphy, “Have to take your time, dismantle everything they have.”

  “They have your son.” Murphy leveled his gaze.

  “YOU have my son. That’s why you called me here.”

  The test of wits had truly ended, Murphy knew that. Yet again, Billy had their number. He didn’t offer any further comments. Billy left him alone with the pianist, who had dropped Chopin for Liszt again. Billy’s steps faded into the arpeggiated chords of Love Dream.

  The Posse's distrust of Billy Baird stems from his involvement in the St. Louis Massacre, in 1919. They understand that Billy is a loyalist Six-Gun, but they are unable to fully trust his judgement following the events of that black day.