Part I: The Whisper of the Ancients
The Badlands stretched like a wound across the Dakota Territory, its jagged cliffs and spires clawing at a bruised sky. In the summer of 1875, the air hung heavy with dust and the distant rumble of thunder. Deep in a canyon known to the Lakota as Mako Sica—Bad Land—a circle of painted stones glowed under the flicker of a sagebrush fire. Old Man Crowfeather, a Lakota shaman, knelt at the center, his weathered hands clutching a buffalo skull adorned with eagle feathers. His eyes, clouded with age, burned with a fire that defied the creeping dusk.
Around him, a dozen tribal elders chanted, their voices weaving through the wind like threads of a forgotten song. They sang of Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, and of the land's anger—a plague not of disease but of greed, carried on iron rails and white men's promises. The railroad, snaking ever closer, had devoured sacred hills, uprooted burial grounds, and turned rivers to sludge. Crowfeather's ritual was a plea to cleanse this curse, to summon the spirits of the land to drive out the invaders.
He raised a bone knife, its blade etched with star patterns, and sliced his palm. Blood dripped onto the skull, sizzling in the firelight. "Hear us, ancestors," he intoned, voice like gravel. "The iron beast devours our mother. Send us warriors—spirits of storm, fire, and shadow—to break its chains." The elders' chant swelled, drums pounding like a heartbeat. A gust tore through the canyon, scattering embers into the sky, and for a moment, the stars seemed to pulse in answer.
But the ritual faltered. A hawk's scream pierced the night, and the fire sputtered as if choked. Crowfeather's eyes widened. The skull in his hands cracked, a hairline fracture splitting its brow. The elders fell silent, their faces etched with dread. "The spirits refuse," Crowfeather whispered. "They say… one hundred and eight ghosts will rise from this land. Not to heal, but to burn. Their light will blind the greedy, but their fire will consume them too."
The wind howled, carrying his words into the void. Far beyond the canyon, in a world of iron and blood, the first of those ghosts was already stirring.
Part II: The Fall of Sam Jackson
Fifty miles away, under the same star-streaked sky, Sam Jackson stood on the porch of his homestead, a weathered Colt revolver at his hip. The plains stretched endless before his small ranch, a patchwork of wheat and cattle trails carved from years of sweat. Sam, a former Union sergeant turned farmer, had built this life with his wife, Eliza, and their daughter, Sarah. He was thirty-five, broad-shouldered, with eyes that held both the steel of war and the hope of peace. His journal, tucked in his vest, bore the words he'd scrawled that morning: This land is ours, not by deed, but by blood and plow.
But the railroad was coming. The Iron Pacific, owned by magnate Cornelius Gao, had eaten half the county, its tracks slicing through farms like a butcher's knife. Gao's men—sheriffs bought with gold, thugs armed with Winchesters—had been circling Sam's land for weeks, offering pennies for acres or threats for refusal. Sam had said no, every time, his voice steady but his hand never far from his gun.
Tonight, the air smelled of trouble. Eliza stood beside him, her auburn hair catching the lantern's glow. "They're coming, Sam," she said, her voice low. "I saw their dust at sundown." Sarah, barely ten, clutched her mother's skirt, her eyes wide with a child's unvoiced fear.
Sam nodded, scanning the horizon. "Let 'em come. This is our ground." His words were brave, but his gut churned. He'd seen war—Gettysburg, Shiloh—but this was different. This was home.
The hoofbeats came first, a low thunder from the east. Then lanterns, bobbing like fireflies, and the glint of steel. A dozen riders, led by Sheriff Amos Tate, Gao's lapdog, reined up at the fence. Tate, a weasel-faced man with a badge pinned to greed, smirked. "Jackson, time's up. Sign the deed or we burn it down."
Sam stepped forward, Colt drawn but low. "Ain't signing. This land's mine, legal and true. You got no claim."
Tate laughed, a sound like dry bones. "Legal? Gao is the law. Last chance, soldier." His men fanned out, rifles cocked. One lit a torch, its flame licking the night.
Eliza grabbed Sam's arm. "Sam, don't—"
The first shot cracked before she finished. Not from Sam, but from a rider's rifle, aimed high to scare. It didn't. Sam fired back, dropping the torchbearer with a bullet to the chest. Chaos erupted—gunfire lit the dark, bullets splintering the porch. Sam dragged Eliza and Sarah behind a water trough, returning fire. "Stay down!" he roared, his soldier's instincts kicking in.
But there were too many. A bullet grazed Sam's shoulder, blood soaking his shirt. Eliza screamed, shoving Sarah under the trough. "Run to the barn, Sarah!" she cried, grabbing a shotgun from the wall. She fired, downing a rider, but a second shot caught her in the chest. She fell, eyes locked on Sam, a wordless plea.
"Eliza!" Sam's voice broke, raw and ragged. He crawled to her, gunfire be damned, but her hand was already cold. Sarah's scream pierced the night as riders torched the house. Flames roared, swallowing the life they'd built. Sam lunged for his daughter, but a rider scooped her up, galloping into the dark. Tate's laugh echoed: "Gao wants you alive, Jackson. To watch you break."
Sam fired blindly, tears blurring his aim. A rifle butt cracked his skull, and the world went black. When he woke, dawn painted the ruins red. His home was ash, Eliza gone, Sarah vanished. His journal, miraculously spared, lay open in the dirt. He scrawled one line, hand shaking: They took everything. But I'll take it back.
He stumbled to his horse, a bay mare named Thunder, and rode west, toward the Badlands. Gao's men would hunt him, brand him an outlaw. But in his chest burned a storm, one that would call others like him—ghosts of a broken land.
Part III: The Threads of Fate
Miles away, the shaman Crowfeather sat alone in the canyon, the cracked buffalo skull at his feet. The elders had fled, fearing the spirits' wrath. He traced the fracture with a trembling finger, seeing visions in the embers: a man on a horse, blood on his hands; a gunslinger with panther's eyes; a preacher wielding fists like hammers; a woman with a whip of fire. One hundred and eight souls, bound by rage and righteousness, their names written in the stars.
Crowfeather whispered to the wind: "The ghosts are waking. The Badlands will sing their song—a song of fire and sorrow." Overhead, a meteor streaked, its light splitting the sky like a blade. The curse was cast, not by spirits, but by men's greed and the land's unyielding heart.
Far off, Sam Jackson reined Thunder to a stop at the edge of the Badlands. The canyons loomed, a maze of shadow and stone. He didn't know what lay ahead, only that he'd never kneel again. His hand rested on his Colt, and in his mind, Eliza's voice echoed: Fight, Sam. For us.
The wind carried a faint drumbeat, a whisper of things to come. The first ghost had risen.