Fantasy Flight Games

Yesterday, Hezekiah Whateley was in high spirits. The family’s secret railroad alliances were beginning to pay off, and he had personally ensured thenext stage of their plans by hiring Amos Hawthorne.

Last Night, Nathaniel Morgan was murdered. Now the sherriff’s men are poking around, saying they’ve got evidence against the Whateleys. Under this kind of scrutiny, Hezekiah’s plans--and the Dupont respectability--are in jeopardy. If he doesn’t act now, all their preparations may be for nothing.

* * *

Cassandra Whateley has no business visiting the Hanged Man saloon. It is the lair of thieves, whores, and ruffians. Even now, in the early morning, it is no place for a lady trying to maintain, as her brother puts it, "a reputation above reproach." She has never been here before, and has no intention to return.

"I’m surprised they sent you," says Shale, stepping from the back room and into the empty bar. "I was expecting Hezekiah."

"My brother had more important things to do," Cassandra says haughtily. "He is handling some family business with Mr. Hawthorne."

"Leaving you to handle the family business with me, eh?" Shale chuckles. "Guess I know your place in the pecking order." Cassandra’s face flushes angrily, but before she can speak, Shale continues.

"Have a seat, missy, and take a look at this." She tosses an envelope onto a table near her guest. Cassandra glowers at her, then sits, and opens the envelope and pulls out a sheet of paper. She frowns as she reads. Her eyes grow large as she reaches the bottom, then narrow. She glares at Shale.

"What is the meaning of this, Miss Congaree?"

"Just what it looks like, Miss Whateley. It’s a telegram, sent by your brother to an associate in Gommora, gloating about how Nate Morgan got himself shot and what a boon this will be to your plans - whatever those are. Nasty enough on its own, but what makes it so incriminating is the date. That’s right. The day before Morgan kicked off."

"Where did you get this?" demands Cassandra.

Shale smiles and shakes her head. "That doesn’t really matter, now, does it? What matters is that I have it - a couple copies of it, actually, stashed here and there - and that you probably don’t want the sheriff to have it."

The weight of Shale’s words sinks into Cassandra. She grits her teeth in suppressed rage. "What do you want?" she growls.

"Ah... now that’s the right question to ask," smiles Shale.