Mission Statement:
To endeavor to bring to all residents of the Five States the most current and important news from across the entire Five States region. Never yellow, the Five States Herald vows to serve only the people of the Five States, from New Austin to Lemoyne, free of charge now and forever.
Rambling horde stirs unease across the plains
By Adam Parvey
A most peculiar disturbance has taken hold along the roads skirting the Heartlands, where a loose gathering of some two dozen cowpokes was seen wandering in erratic formation, their movements slow and uneven, their voices raised in a chorus that many described as deeply unsettling. Witnesses insist the men spoke in tones unmistakably human, yet the words themselves bore no sense nor structure, emerging as a tangled murmur that carried strangely across the open land. The group drifted without clear direction, pausing at times only to resume their aimless march, as if guided by no will of their own.
“It’s like they were walking dead,” claimed Martha Ellery, a homesteader who observed the procession from a distance near her fence line. “Not one of ’em looked right in the eye, and the sounds they made, it weren’t language, not proper. Gave me a chill clear through.” Others who glimpsed the band described similar impressions, noting the men’s slack posture and hollow expressions, as though each had been drained of sense and purpose alike. No violence was reported, though several passersby chose wide detours rather than risk crossing paths with the strange company.
Local lawmen, when apprised of the situation, made a deliberate choice to avoid direct engagement. One officer, speaking plainly, dismissed the more fanciful fears: “They were drunk, that is it, just intoxicated, not dead. It was best to let them wander and sober up.” Despite such assurances, the oddity of the reports has drawn quiet attention beyond the county. Federal investigators are said to be making inquiries into the claims, though they are quick to reject any notion of the so-called walking dead, attributing the affair instead to excess drink and collective foolishness. For now, the matter remains unresolved, lingering in the minds of those who saw it as something not easily explained by spirits alone.
Traveler’s confusion stirs brief uproar in Tumbleweed
By Jose Chavez
A heated and peculiar scene unfolded in Tumbleweed when a dust-covered traveler marched into town demanding payment for what he claimed was a visit to Bolger Glade. “I saw the advertisement, I saw the offer!” the man shouted as he wandered the streets, pressing his case to bewildered townsfolk who could make little sense of his grievance. The confusion was plain enough to those gathered as Bolger Glade lies clear across the territories in Lemoyne, far removed from the dry reaches of New Austin. Still, the man persisted, gesturing wildly as he recounted his supposed journey.
“I even saw a fort there, old forgotten relics of a battle raged long ago! And old artillery left behind,” he continued, voice rising with conviction. Yet his description bore a closer resemblance to Fort Mercer and the surrounding grounds known for Riley’s Charge, both well within New Austin’s borders. Once the matter was explained, patiently, if with some amusement, the man’s anger gave way to reluctant understanding. With little more than a muttered complaint, he turned himself eastward, setting off toward Lemoyne in hopes of finding the place he had meant to see all along.
Hunter bloodied in sudden hawk attack among the eastern Grizzlies
By Jane Duran
A solitary hunter stalking hawks through the thick ridges of the Grizzlies East found himself abruptly turned from pursuer to prey, after a sudden and violent encounter left him bloodied and shaken. The man, whose name has not been formally recorded, reported that he had been tracking subtle movement high in a tree line when the sharp cry of a hawk rang out nearby. “I lowered my rifle and looked around and there it was, coming right at me,” he said, recalling the moment with visible unease. With scarcely a breath to react, the bird descended in a swift arc, its wings cutting the air with purpose.
Unable to bring his rifle to bear in time, the hunter raised his arms in instinctive defense, suffering several deep gashes as the hawk’s talons tore into his forearm. He staggered and flailed, managing only to drive the creature off after a brief but punishing struggle. The attack left him with additional scratches across the face, though none said to be life-threatening. The hawk, having made its point, vanished back into the high timber. Those familiar with the region say such aggression is rare but not unheard of in these parts, where even the sky can turn against a man who lingers too long beneath it.
Dispute over bounty terms stirs tension in Blackwater
By Daisy Fairman
A disagreement of coin and contract set tempers alight within the walls of the Blackwater Police Station this week, when a bounty hunter arrived with two wanted men in tow, expecting not only standard payment but an additional measure of gold said to be promised for such a feat. The hunter argued that a standing offer granted bonus gold to any who delivered two West Elizabeth fugitives, and insisted their claim was just. The lawman overseeing payment, however, proved unmoved, countering that the reward applied strictly to separate wanted posters, not multiple names tied to a single notice. “Those men were both from the same poster, so did not qualify,” the officer stated, firm as iron.
Witnesses say the air grew tight enough to snap as the bounty hunter’s hand drifted toward their sidearm, prompting a ripple of unease through those present. For a moment, it seemed Blackwater might trade paperwork for gunfire. Yet calmer voices prevailed, and the hunter, though clearly aggrieved, chose to holster their grievance along with their gun. They departed without further incident.
Duel in Valentine!
By Odell Clifton
Valentine’s main street, so often the stage for rowdy scuffles and drunken reckonings, bore witness this week to a quieter sort of violence, one measured in breath, nerve, and the twitch of a finger. The well-known bounty man Tom Lockburn, long whispered about in earlier reports, appeared not at the sheriff’s office with a bounty in hand, but standing square in the thoroughfare opposite another armed fellow. The two men were seen in low conversation before the matter turned grave, their hands hanging loose above their revolvers like coiled springs awaiting release.
Several townsfolk, drawn by instinct or unease, gathered at a cautious distance. “I seen it plain as day,” remarked Elias Turner, a stable hand, who claimed he’d paused mid-hitching to watch. “That Lockman fella, he didn’t flinch none. Just stood there like a fence post while the other one talked himself dry,” said another witness, using a known alias of Lockburn’s. Another witness, a shop girl by the name of Clara Hensley, offered a more trembling account: “They weren’t shouting. That’s what made it worse. It was like they’d already settled it in their heads. When the guns came up, it was over in less than a blink.” Those present say the report of gunfire cracked once, then silence fell hard upon the street.
Notably absent from the affair was any intervention by the law, though deputies were observed keeping a watchful distance. One deputy, declining to give his name, spoke candidly when pressed: “Duels between consenting adults may not be legal, exactly, but not worth our time. Better to keep it contained and folks out of harm’s way.” When the smoke cleared, Lockburn alone remained standing. The other man was carried off by onlookers, his fate left unspoken but plain enough to read in their faces. As for Lockburn, he holstered his iron without flourish and departed as he came, quiet, steady, and leaving behind more questions than answers.
Strange encounter on a lonely isle off the Lemoyne coast
By Mathilde Orry
A curious and troubling account has surfaced from the marshy fringes beyond Lemoyne’s coast, where a lone cowpoke, having rowed out in search of crabs upon a small, nameless island, instead found themselves at the center of a most bewildering ordeal. The individual reports sighting a pristine deer upon the island, an uncommon but not unheard-of presence, and taking the shot clean. Yet as they set about their work, a child appeared without warning, emerging as if from the very reeds, and began firing upon the already-felled animal. The pelt, by all accounts, was ruined in short order. Startled and unsettled, the cowpoke fled the scene, though the strangeness had only begun.
“They threw several bolas at me, then I saw the kid in front of me, then I don’t remember a thing,” the shaken witness recounted. What followed remains a blank in their memory. The cowpoke later awoke not upon that distant island, but along the shoreline near Rhodes, having been discovered unconscious and brought in by passersby. No sign of the child has been found, nor any clear explanation offered for how the individual came to be transported so far. Whether mischief, madness, or something less easily named, the affair has stirred unease among those who travel the coastal reaches, where the fog hangs thick and the land keeps its secrets close.
Mattress Magnet Enters Five States!
By Sofia Kathleen Fairfax – Lead Correspondent
What type of bed do you sleep on? For some, it’s probably a question that has never entered their mind; for others, it’s all they think about at night. Running the gauntlet from silk to just straw. I use neither for the record; it’s a wool mattress. As with almost anything in this fine nation, there’s a large industry that creates these mattresses. Most are in New York, since they believe the eastern seaboard is where you’ll get the most business. One of these mattress titans, thinks otherwise.
Charles P. Rogers, of the eponymous Charles P. Rogers Company, is the self-titled mattress king of America, selling high-priced mattresses near and far. He is fairly old, 70 come next year, and with old age comes a certain devil-may-care attitude. In what is considered a financial risk, he intends to open a store and production facility in Saint-Denis to reach the southern and western markets.
Construction is already underway, with an estimated completion date roughly around Roger’s birthday. The news is the talk of the town for the upper class, and a painful joke for anyone else. Those unable to carry much in funds will undoubtedly walk by the store window, glimpsing the well-made beds that will not be used. A fitting metaphor for our times, I’m afraid.
The Five States Herald 