Writing

Putting the start of the story together, cleaning up loose ends.

Writing Short Stories is entertaining, there’s four Chapter/Scenes in one go, Italics means the sentence needs changed, strikethrough means I just wrote something random, and its probably getting cut out.

At this point, there’s a lot of adjustments and major reworking, but I’m trying to keep up a good pace to finish the story soon, that means outline done by December.

I’m estimating 9 more scenes/chapters are needed, if I want to be done with the outline by December, that’s exactly 9 weeks to finish the plot out, I’ll be trying to make it as interesting as possible.

5 weeks plus the break to do a lot of editing and reworking, and I think I can have the first draft of the story out by then. We’ll do two more drafts after January to clean up plot holes, get better imagery, build the characters, etc. I like editing a lot.

Chapter 1:

The mining settlement of Fairview sat quietly in the frozen Albertan wasteland. Only a few men and women seemed active on the street as the stage slid up to the mounting station. The usual passengers began disembarking from the wide double doors: Walter Jackson, the town powerman returning from Edmonton; Bert Peterson, the mining executive; Miss Clara Austin, who ran the town dance hall; and two of her girls. The stage clerk looked down at his receiving papers, making the usual markings as he always did, but stopped abruptly and looked up, startled.

A tall, dark man stepped off the stage after the others, an imposing figure sporting a reinforced blue-crowned cloak. He moved quickly, heading directly for the office door.

Glancing back down at his receiving papers, the clerk gaped at the name of the passenger: Mr. John Halliday, in town on business. Reaching for his computer, the clerk began to type out a message.

The door hissed, and the dark man entered the room, walking right up to the clerk, who stopped typing his message.
“Morning, friend. I believe there’s a package for me that arrived yesterday.”

“Um, yes, yes, sir. That must be in the back. Let me just go and get it.”

The clerk stood up awkwardly and stepped into the back room. A little too quickly, the dark man noted, almost as if...

He stepped around the desk, glancing at the computer screen—classic passenger transport and financial software, but… With a few quick keystrokes, a new page opened: messaging software with a half-typed message, “Halliday the bounty hunter came in on the stage! Arrived with…”

Halliday stepped back around the desk, amused, leaving the message open. It was addressed to a man named Dutch Vanderbilt, evidently someone who liked to know who came and went in this small town.

The clerk returned, hefting the package in his two skinny arms and heaving it onto the counter. “If you could sign for it here…”

“Thanks, friend. I’ll be staying at the hotel. Is there a machine shop in town? Somewhere I can get a set of blades and a sled?”

“Yes, sir!” The clerk looked at him wide-eyed.
“We have two smithies and one machine shop. Both are down the street, past the saloon and the dance hall.”

Halliday seemed not to acknowledge. He slid a short lever down on the inside of his boot, and a thin blade extended from the front to the heel. He double checked it, sliding his hand down the blade, before repeating the process on the other side. Halliday straightened, picked up the package with ease, and stepped to the door.

“Thanks, friend, and give my regards to Mr. Vanderbilt.”

The clerk jumped, his eyes bulging, ready excuses already spilling out, but the door was already hissing shut.

Halliday stepped onto the street and pushed off, sliding past the general store and the dance hall. A scraping sound and a spray of ice shot up as he came to a stop in front of the hotel. Checking into his room, John opened his package, pulling out a long fixed-blade knife, which he strapped onto his belt, a few letters, a box of Churchills, two twin pistols, five extra magazines, and two sealskin holsters.

The pistols were sleek, 22-shot, short-barreled, with built-in silencers, lest a shooting blow out the hearing of the entire damn town. The holsters were slung low, with a short rope tying them to the leg, made for a quick and easy draw. Halliday finally began to relax. He knew by now the entire town had heard of his arrival, and if anyone wanted to test him, they were welcome to try.

Opening the letters, he skimmed through the first, noting the few details of the six shootings that had brought him to this forsaken town. Two of the shootings, it seemed, were over business disputes—a dealer not delivering the full package of slide, and distributors getting high on their own supply. The other four killings, however, seemed to have no reason at all. All in one night, four unrelated men, all forced into a fight and gunned down, each with a final shot to the head. There were similar incidents in the past, but this one was different. John had scanned the security footage multiple times, and while the shootings weren’t caught on camera, he believed he knew which man had done them. He had seen him board the stage north. It wasn’t much information to go on, but the north stage hit every town linearly, which made it simple for John to stop at each town and check the footage for the man getting off (arriving not on a stage they’d have his info.). Nothing so far, yet Fairview was the last town on the stage north, and here was where the man had to have disembarked.

The second letter, from a girl back in Montana, was an elegant, descriptive letter filled with longing, asking Halliday to return to her small town. She was an intelligent girl, very pretty; long dark hair and wide blue eyes, but these sorts of things never worked out. He was a bounty hunter and a detective who would never be comfortable staying in one place. Yet she would inevitably find another local man to fall in love with, as they always do. All the better, a young Mexican once told him, to ride off into the sunset before things get too serious, that way the princess won’t ever see you as her lousy, no-account husband. (Why?)

John dropped both letters into the fireplace and watched the flames curl around each page until there was nothing left but white ash. He would start on this case in the morning. Taking out a Churchill, he snipped the end and tested its draw before torching the end in the fireplace and lighting up. Just right. He pulled up his computer HUD. It was time to do a little looking into a man by the name of Dutch Vanderbilt.

Chapter 2:
The town was finally beginning to liven up as Halliday stepped onto the boardwalk that afternoon. The false-fronted buildings were rimmed in frost, butted up against the towering walls of ice. The Melting Pot Bar across the street from the hotel had men going in and out constantly, and a train of toboggans was parked outside the general store; two men with white leather overcloaks were wrestling a particularly awkward piece of strut metal into one of them.

Halliday crossed the street toward the blacksmith’s shop, sliding across the ice, following the sound of automatic hammers and the blowing hot air from electric furnaces. Inside, Old Jim Hendricks was bent over an oddly shaped circular piece of metal, attempting to close the circle and tack-weld it in place. As John Halliday shut the door behind him, Hendricks’s grip slipped, and the circle sprang back open. Hendricks dropped the piece of metal to the floor and kicked it across the room.

“No machine built yet that can turn a 8 mil peice of 1018 into a good enough circle, and this old man has to suffer every time someone needs one. What can I do for you Stranger?”

John spent some time surveying the shop with a critical eye. “Nice place you have here, a little messy, but I can tell when someone knows his stuff.”

“Been working in this business for 23 years mister, I’ve just about got it so’s folks’ll come to me for just about everything.”

“I don’t doubt it friend, I can see you have enough set aside for some 1095 in your stockpile there. I need a set of blades, the finest steel you have. Blunted tip if you can muster it, My boots have a 10 milimeter fitting. They should be fast sure, but I do a lot of scrambling when I’m out and about. And a good pair of spikers to go with them. I can assure you the extra time will be well worth it.”

Old Jim raised one eyebrow.

“Thats a steep demand friend, and some damned good steel I’ll be banging on. Who are you anyways?”

“I thought you’ve heard by now, that shrimp of a clerk down at the station sure likes to tell people bout all the unsuspecting men who come in on the stage”

John set two gold coins down on the table. “You’ll find out who I am soon enough, there is something you might be able to help me with though.”

He paused, and the blacksmith looked up, curious. “Maybe I can, what is it?”

“I’m looking for a man, his name is Dutch Vanderbilt?”

“Dutch … Vanderbilt?”

His face went from pleasantly curious to stone cold in a matter of seconds. John was caught offguard by the instant change in demeanor.

“Yes, a friend of mine did some business with him back in the states, do you know where I could … “

From stone cold to angry, just as fast as before.

“You’ll have to ask someone else I don’t know where he is.”

“Do you know what he looks like? Maybe his hair color, or..”

“NO! And don’t ask me again, and don’t come into my shop ever again, I don’t have time to make a new set of blades either, you’ll have to buy from the store.”

Halliday carefully leaned back against the wall, he stared at the man for a long moment before speaking.

“Alright then,” Each word was said deliberately, a clear threat behind them. “I won’t bring him up anymore, but it seems to me you had all the time in the world to get a fine set of blades fitted for me, and I was fixing to pay you well for your work. Now I think maybe I’ll forget about you just said if you forget about what I said. I’ll be back for the blades tonight, and you’ll be payed well, as long as I receive the product I’m expecting..”

John stepped back to the door. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement, no hard feelings, I really do need a set of blades,” he said.

Old Jim grumbled and turned back to his forge. John slipped out of the door, making sure to close it quickly.

The cool air washed over his face, turning his breath into puffs of fog as Halliday strolled down the boardwalk. Why had Old Jim changed so suddenly at the mention of this Dutch fellow? Was he protecting the man, or was it fear of something worse? And that clerk at the stage station—he’d been relaying information to Dutch out of obligation, or something more sinister? Something wasn’t right in this town, and Halliday was beginning to see that the pieces just weren’t adding up.

Chapter 3:
John strolled down the frosty boardwalk, the ever-growing crystals crunching under his leather boots. He thought back to the Vanderbilt file, dug up from an acquaintance back in the meltland. A clean record, for the most part: no business ownership of any sort, no fingerprints, no felonies. Only a single police report, out of the Boston Settlement back east, with nothing of significance—just a minor vehicle wreck. He noted the model of sled: a 3062 Qualinus, brand new at the time, a hefty chunk of change to lose, even if it was his fault.

No account of Vanderbilt to go on; he got the feeling these townspeople weren’t going to offer much about their secret goings-on. But there were other ways to get this kind of information, mainly in the mining settlements out of town. The miners out this deep were a bunch of ice-rats, diving in the slush, pulling up whatever junk they could find. Intimidation from a town hundreds of miles away wasn’t going to do much for them. John considered his options: he could keep asking in town to figure out what he could; he could take that clerk outside and reconfigure his face until he got some answers; or maybe he could take a pint of tequila out to the mining settlements, let the long-awaited burn loosen their tongues.

He was beginning to draw more attention walking down the boardwalk. Glances from passersby lingered when he looked away, immediately turning to apparent blindness when he turned.

Walking past the Tailor’s, he noticed a shy face behind a veil of long dark hair looking across the store and through the glass over to where he was walking. A tailor, he thought. Now that’s something I might just pay another visit to when all this is over. My cloak is in need of repair after all. He made sure his gaze penetrated the frost and glass until she knew he was staring right back at her. She turned away quickly, ducking behind a line of sealskin. (why??)

Halliday chuckled and continued down the boardwalk toward the home side of the small town. A series of archways marked the entrance to each residence; he knew there would be caverns and bunk pods multiple stories deep inside each archway. Steamer chutes were visible through the ice, piping hot air up to the power plants near the surface. As a boy, Halliday had worked as a sweep inside the steam chutes, climbing inside and resealing leaks, checking the density of the outer material of the chute all the way up and down. The memory clung, still vivid in his imagination.

When a man works for long enough in a trade, he begins to notice the work of other men doing the same work: areas where the other man does something different, taking note of quality work and mistakes that may be present. John scanned the chutes now, smirking at the overuse of the bubbling putrid sealant used to cover the many leaks that compound over time. One chute, however, was devoid of sealant—very unlike the other homes. John walked closer. Either the chute was just installed, or whoever the occupant of the home was had used 8-mil stainless steel for his damn steam chute.

Upon closer inspection, the chute seemed to reflect the deep blue back out, indicating polished stainless, not the crinkled aluminum with the outer coating.

Looking around at the house, every other detail began to jump out, screaming hand craftsmanship, quality materials, intricate design. Someone had spent years on this dwelling, sparing no detail. The numbers in the address plaque on the door were lined in columns of two, each one a different type of metal: 294779—29, 47, 79, the atomic numbers of copper, silver, and gold. The two copper numbers had ionized over time, turning to a solid blue-green. Straightening, John took another long look, then started back for the restaurant, a certain feeling of respect for whoever put this masterpiece together.

Chapter 4:
Every settlement out in the ice was different, it seemed, but they all needed the same basic things; Power from thermal vents deep in the earth, or nuclear powerplants far away, running conduit for hundreds of miles until they reached the designated settlement. Most towns were set up similarily, false fronted buildings, and a boardwalk to keep out of the ice, standard tradesmen, blacksmith, sled mechanic, farmers, electricians and whatnot, all of it was needed for any two-bit town to keep working. The other thing all towns needed, was industry. There had to be some export, some reason for the people to be living there in the first place. Down south, the export was manufacturing, thermal powerplants, rooted deep in the earth, with their factories sitting above, making every good, tool, and toy known to man.

Up north, deep in the continental glacier, the industry was mining. A town like this probably supported a dozen mining outfits, and all their men, who evidently weren’t around on weekdays, and only came to town at end of the month when they go their paycheck, there they would spend it all on booze, women, and gambling, and maybe some extra gear if they had anything left over.

These mining outfits had to travel far from the towns, as the supply of silver, gold, copper, and scrap metal would dry up quickly, and the company would move to the next location. The earth under the glaciers was often under immense pressure, creating a mess of meltwater, and half frozen ice for the miners to work with. Many of them died, but the companies that needed the raw materials so badly were willing to pay whatever it took to get them, and when anyone becomes willing to pay whatever it takes, only the dregs of society are willing to do their bidding. The wild young men of the north, who chased cash, booze and women, lived like dogs, diving in the slush day after day after day, and had no concern of anyone in the town and any of their influence.

"Hardly even allowed in polite society,” John mused, that was the type of man he was looking for. These boys wouldn’t care at all some sidewinder in town is trying to scare everyone into secrecy, and would beat the brains out of anyone trying to nose in on their business. That was a good sign, but John had no illusions on the type of undertaking this would end up being. Wild men like this were unpredictable, but this seemed like the best way to get some answers on the goings on in town.

John consulted his HUD, searching for mining companies in the area, coming up with several options. Many required going back on the trail the stage came in on, which was a no go. A single entrance and exit was just asking for something to happen, maybe this Vanderbilt guy gets antsy, and starts killing would-be detectives for getting too close. Or maybe Vanderbilt had nothing to do with it, there were so many questions, John put them out of his mind for the time being.

92 miles north was Crawfield and Co, most of which was developed trail, but the rest was a slippery scramble up and down a network of caverns, cave veins, and cliffs.

John needed his new skates, and a sled that would go climb any wall, maybe he’d get lucky if he asked nice enough..

It was evening as John strolled back into the warm red glow of the blacksmith. John closed the door, taking a look around for his new blades. Hendricks glanced up, and pulled a box off the table, hefting it onto the counter, with a thump. “Here you are Halliday, a new set of skates, 1062 steel, and I sharpened them for you to 270 grit, don’t think you’ll be needing any more than that.”


John thanked him, and took the box of gear, and stepped outside, carrying it across the street into the hotel.

Assume he tests his new blades, resharpening, and builds his kit for the trip to the miners cabins, resume when Kit is put together, John is walking out to his sled from the hotel, carrying his bags.

John stepped back to the boardwalk, looking up and down the street, just a few onlookers, the townfolk had become aware of his presence, and the word spread quickly about who he was.

As requested, the mechanic, who owned, rented and fixed all the sleds in the region, had his own sled warmed up and waiting in the parking station to the left of the street.

A young boy was checking the oil pressure, pulling the dipstick and reading the results on the front screen. John looked on, amused.

"You might want to start testing the hydraulic steering before letting anyone out on those rigs,” John said, and the boy looked up.

"Mr. Sanderson taught me only to do the gas, oil, and the engine check, mister, why the hydraulics?”

"On a long journey like the one I’m taking, the increase and decrease in pressure can cause problem if the hydraulic pressure isn’t exactly right. It may not cause any issues for years, but overtime the stress will start leaks in the seals.”

The boy looked back at the sled, "How do you check the hydraulic pressure? I’ve never done that before..”

"Alt 6 on the control panel, only after you opened the diagnosics, here..”

He showed the boy the correct keystrokes, and the desired reading came up. You see the pressure here, its just a little over what it should be, Sanderson probably overfilled it, anticipating leaks, but when you do it right, the leaks won’t come for some time.

He reached over the main hydraulic line, loosening a screw on one of the fittings, letting a little of the fluid drop onto the ice.

"See?” He said after rerunning the diagnostic, “That’s about right, and be sure to scrape up that fluid off the street..”

The boy looked at John, curious, “You said you were going on a long trip, where do you plan on going? There’s not many settlements around Fairview, except the..”

John smiled, “Except the mining outfits, yeah, I’ll be heading out to Crawfield and Co tonight.”

The boy’s eyes widened, “That’s dangerous mister, Ma says those miners are a rough lot..”

"Your Ma hasn’t told you the half of it, don’t say you heard it from me, but I heard every night, they cut the wrist of one of the miners, mix the frozen blood with vodka, and drink it to ward off spirits and bad luck. Right here,” He showed the boy his wrist, sliding his hand across. “They’re a crazy lot, plumb crazy..”

"So why do you have to go out to them, can’t you wait for the end of the month, and ask one when he comes in?”

"No time, and I can’t explain why, maybe you’ll find out when this is all over.”

The boy thought for a moment, “When you go out there, you might want to save a couple of your cigars for the Mr. Judd the Foreman, he comes in every month and buys a package at the general store, but I’ll be they are all gone within the first week.”

Halliday smiled, “That’s good advice, I’ll take a couple extras, what’s your name kid?”

“I’m James Mason, my Pa runs the general store, and I help Mr. Sanderson after school.”

"Well James, you’re good thinking on your feet, take this silver dollar for your troubles, I’ll be heading out.”

The boy took the coin, and walked back toward the machine shop, smiling.

John turned back to his sled, taking one last look at the diagnostic on the screen, then hefted his duffel bag, and tote of gear onto the back platform, swinging one leg over, and settling in for the long haul.

The cold air cut at his face and gloves, as he rode down the main street, south out of town, the ice turned from smooth resurfaced street, to the rough, shaved and cut ice of the trails outside of town. It was always just out of town that the roads were so bad, once you were far enough away there would be less chopped slush to plow through, and the tunnels would be back to reflected lines of deep blue.

John pulled his visor closed, and cranked the heated handlebars and seat to full. This would be a long one.