Smouldering embers and the German Marshal’s gas lamp pushed the shadows around; pooling them into darker nooks and niches within the cavern. The root-like growth that existed in the subterranean greenhouse, previously responsible for Marshals’ Wendel Kane and Jack Lightning trying to kill themselves and their companion, Octavius Wilhem, appeared to have weathered the combinded bombardment of flame and fire retardant. Curiousity pulled at Wilhem to study the plant further, but time was not kind to the pursuit of scientific inquiry as the cavern came alive with the echoing yells, whoops and screams of the Indian tribe. They appear to come from everywhere and, unfortunately for the marshals, they were.
Five braves appeared atop the precipice that they had climbed down. Another eight charged out of the shadows on either side. Even in the gloom and behind the thick black greasepaint, the red film across their eyes meant that the marshals would be fighting for their lives.
Four braves immediately charged Wendel Kane, brandishing tomahawks of rock and bone and swinging them with a ferocity that cut the smokey air in vicious waves. A formidable opponent but unfortunately for the Indians they weren’t aware of Wendel Kane’s attitude toward being outnumbered. Mainly it just meant more people to hit. Wading in, Kane swung with fists as hard as the stone walls and each strike sent a brave crashing to the floor.
Jack Lightning relaxed, almost slouched, her fingers brushing the butts of her lightning coil guns as three crazed indians leapt at her. There was a flicker from the gaslamp and in the brief dim glow two blinding bolts of light took the Indian numbers to one.