GROZIT!

James Lonefeather is easily the most disagreeable man I've ever known.

Let me start at the beginning

After my injury aboard The Vengeance, I decided I needed a bit of a holiday. Being as my right hand was now made of obvious nano-technology, that was a little problematic. Fortunately, there was a viable technological solution to conceal this affliction: gloves.

I decided to stay off the seas for a while, and, so, I found myself in Earth once more in the city of San Fransisco, local time of 1888.

The city was mostly a civilized affair, though it was clearly a city of unfettered capitalism (which is to say largely controlled by those who had, through largely criminal endeavours, amassed the funds to, for all intents and purposes, own everyone else.). Even with that, however, it was a city where... most... of the crime went on outside of the average persons field of vision. In essence, it was a somewhat veiled imitation of the Nassau from my past.

I spent a bit of time wandering the city, which had the familiar feeling of optimism found any time a world or civilization was approaching the dawn of one of their arbitrarily decided new eras, as was the case here, being a mere twelve years before the beginning of their twentieth century (the idiocy of their numbering system stemming from the birth of a largely fictitious baby forty five hundred years prior, yet, for some reason this date was changed by fifteen hundred years on the orders of a number of rich, bald men in shabby robes.)

On the outskirts of the city, I happened upon the ranch and estate of a man named Emerson. He was, likely, the wealthiest citizen in town, as he owned all the local banks in San Francisco and the surrounding towns. In short, it was said that he owned everything.

As it happened, that afternoon, two of his ranch hands were preparing to shoot a young, though clearly angry black stallion who was in a corral with what HAD been a third man... or what was left of him. Not wanting to see whatever tragedy had occurred be multiplied, I interceded, stopping the two ranch hands. A scuffle erupted, which attracted the attention of Mr. Emerson.

"Mr.?" He began.

"Warital," I half-lied, "Donovan Warital"

"Mr. Warital, that horse seemed like a good investment at the time for three hundred dollars, as you can see he's strong and fast as The Almighty, himself. Trouble he's one crazy mean sumbitch. Hal went in there to try and break him and the damned beast struck like thunder! Kicked poor ol' Hal's head near off. Killed him instant. We got to put that beast down 'fore he kills again."

"I can calm him down so he won't be any more trouble, Mr.," I said, certain I was correct.

"Mr. Warital, if you can calm that devil down, you can HAVE him!" he laughed, "Hell, I'll even give you my best saddle to go with him."

I, of course, had to take the challenge, since I never could stand to see animals of instinctual intellect suffer. Mind you, it really was no challenge. A small, low amplitude, sub-audible gravetic pulse from my gravetic screwdriver, targeted to the horse's medulla provided an instant attitude adjustment, making the horse docile in my presence.

Clearly astounded, Emerson kept his word, giving me his saddle and the newly affectionate (at least to me) Thunderstrike, as he had been dubbed. I was also offered a job as a "freelance security expert" for the banks, which I took to provide some money to live in this era.

It was in this capacity that I met James Lonefeather.

James Lonefeather is easily the most disagreeable man I've ever... I've... already said that.

A bank in the Nevada territories had been robbed by a gang of outlaws lead by someone named Big Smith. Emerson sent me out to find and capture them. Nothing unusual in that, given my employment at the time.

The problem is that Smith had a three thousand dollar bounty on his head and Lonefeather was a bounty hunter.

I met Lonefeather en route to the town of Poker Flats. He was a wall of muscle in an old, but fairly well kept Union army uniform (though worn in a VERY casual manner) , carrying a double-barrelled shotgun slung over his shoulder and a cavalry peacemaker on his hip as well as a number of VERY large knives.

And a bowler hat.

He had the temperament of a starved, caged animal... very angry and very dangerous.

I told him my assignment, which didn't sit too well with him.

"Listen, fool!" he bellowed, "I don't care who signs your vouchers. Smith and his gang are worth forty five hundred dollars and that bounty is MINE. You get paid either way, but I don't and I've been doing this since I was fourteen, so out here, I'm the boss."

Laughing to myself, I replied "Whatever you say 'Lord Bowler'." my mocking tone was lost on him.

"I like that... Lord Bowler..." He smiled.

As we got closer to town, we got sloppy. Smith and some of his gang managed to get the drop on us in a valley. It was like being in a shooting gallery. Lonefeather got away.

I was not so lucky. I took three shots to my left heart and two to my throat. Thunderstrike took two shots to the neck.

I was fortunate that Smith's gang took off after Lonefeather because it didn't take me too long to reach the threshold of regeneration.

As I've discussed before, I take precautions for regeneration. I carry a vial of my blood with me, into which I channel the excess energy beyond the actual healing of wounds.

Of course, the regenerative process caused me to grow a new right hand, rending the nano hand I'd been using useless in that regard, however, there was enough excess energy from my regeneration to reprogram the nano-genes which made the hand up, allowing me to command the nano-swarm to repair what could be repaired in Thunderstrike and replace what couldn't.

I was, understandably, a bit confused, given the distance between myself and Bifrost, and so I mounted Thuderstrike and let him mostly lead the way.

Two days later, as luck would have it, we stumbled across the camp of Lonefeather, who was. once again, on the trail of Smith. I said the only thing that came to mind in my post-regenerative crisis.

"Bowler..."

With that, he leaped to his feet and spun toward me, a look of terror on his face.

"YOU! You're.... Get away from me, devil!" He shouted "I saw you die! You can't have my soul!"

For someone so huge, Lonefeather is incredibly fast. Before I could react, he had pulled out one of his knives, cut me deeply across the right side of my face, slicing my eye, and then got on his horse and ran into the darkness.

The shock of it all, however, was enough to bring me back to my senses. I pulled out my Stattenheim flute and summoned Bifrost, entering it with Thunderstrike.

Unfortunately, I was beyond the first eighteen hours of regeneration.

This will leave a mark.

Grozit! That was my favourite eye.