Deadwood Undertaker

Deadwood, late 1876. A rowdy and reckless undertaker’s delight. What better place for a killer to blend in? Enter undertaker Clementine Johanssen, tall and deadly with a hot temper and short fuse, hired to clean up Deadwood’s dead...and the “other” problem. She’s hell-bent on poking, sticking, or stabbing anyone who steps out of line. But when a couple Santa Fe sidewinders ride into town searching for their missing uncle, they land neck deep in lethal gunplay, nasty cutthroats, and endless stinkin’ snow.

Danger the likes Boone McCreery has never seen is brewing in the Black Hills. Fresh in from Santa Fe, he’s returned to Deadwood to seek justice for his uncle - and maybe to see about a girl. Little did he know his search for justice would have him stumbling into a hornets’ nest beyond his worst nightmare. One thing is for certain: The trouble he and his compadres chance upon deep in the trees is a long way from ordinary.

Jack “Rabbit” Fields knew a good thing when he saw it, whether it was a sound horse, a sure bet, or a pretty sage hen. When it came to locking horns with any curly wolves he ran into along the trail, he tended to shoot first - a notion that had saved his hide more times than he could count. But that was before he came to Deadwood. Now, someone is stealing freshly dead bodies right out of their graves, and Rabbit and his amigos are on the hunt to figure out who. And more important, why?

It’s a cold and snowy Christmas Eve in the rowdy mining town of Deadwood in the Dakota Territory. Rather than enjoy some drinks in front of a warm fire with her friends, contracted Slayer Clementine Johanssen has her horse saddled and weapons packed to head out into the hills and hunt down some deadly scallywags—alone. When her friends catch wind of her intentions, they set out to waylay her long enough to change her way of thinking...in spite of her mule-headedness.

Hank Varney’s the name. Miss Clem and me, along with the two Sidewinders from Santa Fe—we’ll get the sharp-toothed vermin cleared out. Now, some people say I’m lucky, but I don’t know if it’ll do me any good, what with the army of trouble me and the crew are facin’. If we don’t live through it, well, there goes Deadwood. Maybe even the whole of the Black Hills.

I’m a ghost. A specter, some would say. A spirit. A shade, the hallucination of a compromised mind. Whatever moniker you prefer, that’s me. Excepting that last one. Uncle MortonI ran freight and wagon trains for years from Missouri to Santa Fe. Courted death from arrows to snake bites, drowning to dysentery, each and every trip. Came through all that only to be dealt a bad hand in Deadwood. Got myself killed.