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.
Alligators Fought off Central Christmas Tree!
By Sofia Kathleen Fairfax – Lead Correspondent
The hardworking people of the Five States have gone through a lot this year, with hard luck blues and countless woes. It’s the time of year to relax and celebrate being alive, often with others you care about. The great symbol of the festivity is the Christmas Tree, large and proud, decorated to the nines. Through hell or high water, nothing will stop this, not even the denizens of the swamps.
Workers in Saint-Denis, braving the cold and the snow, began to set up the central tree near the Bastille Saloon. Late in the evening, strange noises were heard in the darkness, followed by screams of terror. A group of alligators, perhaps from the harbor area, was attacking the workers. With the winds blowing and the sky without a moon, the only lighting was the occasional fire from the revolvers they possessed. Rounds flew everywhere, striking the ground, walls, and, only occasionally, the hide of the beasts. When all was said and done, two of the lizards were killed, the rest driven off. Multiple workers were hurt, but none died. Despite the experience, they returned to their duty and set up the tree, then returned home just as dawn broke.
It is not an easy life, and it is unlikely to be written about in the history books. But I shall remember people like this, until my last hour.
Minor street fight in Tumbleweed ends behind bars, not graves
By Alois Burditt
A brief but spirited altercation disturbed the dust-blown calm of Tumbleweed this week, after a wandering cowpoke chose provocation over discretion. Witnesses report the man approached a local resident along the main stretch and offered an unmistakable salute by way of a raised middle finger. The local, taking understandable offense, responded by shoving the offender, an action which quickly escalated matters. A punch followed, then another, and within moments the two men were trading blows in the street to the mild interest of passersby.
The exchange was short-lived. Lawmen arrived promptly and separated the pair before the fight could worsen, placing both under arrest for disorderly conduct. Neither man sustained injuries beyond sore knuckles and wounded pride, and both were lodged in the local jail overnight. By the following day, after tempers had cooled and the desert sun had done its work, the men were released without further penalty. Authorities noted the incident as foolish but mercifully contained, a small reminder that in Tumbleweed, even minor disrespect can still find its way into a cell.
Snowflake moose eludes hunters in Ambarino’s high country
By Jane Duran
Hunters operating in the upper reaches of Ambarino report a baffling pursuit of the so-called Snowflake Moose, a rare creature distinguished by its near-white coat, which allows it to vanish almost entirely into the snow covered terrain. Recent snowfall has further erased signs, leaving tracks softened, filled, or altogether misleading. Though confident they had the animal’s trail, the hunters soon realized the land itself seemed to be playing tricks upon them, guiding their efforts back upon themselves rather than forward toward any clear quarry.
“We tracked it around our camp, in circles and all over,” said one of the pair, still sounding uncertain of his own words. “Then figured it was likely right next to us a few times and we didn’t notice.” The men claim they managed to take a photograph of the Snowflake Moose during the pursuit, yet no one who has viewed the image can discern the animal within it, only snow, trees, and empty ground. Requests by this paper to examine the photograph were not returned, leaving the creature once again unconfirmed, unseen, and perfectly suited to the quiet mystery of Ambarino’s winter wilds.
A hard lesson follows holiday cheer in Strawberry
By Nick McCrary
Christmas week brought a novelty to Strawberry when the local general store issued gift certificates for the first time, much to the delight of relatives eager to give something new. Several children received the slips with bright expectations, only to find the store’s offerings less enchanting than hoped. Shelves held mostly vegetables, tins of beans, and work clothes cut for men grown broad by labor rather than young children. Faces fell as young holders of the certificates wandered the aisles, discovering that practical necessities make for poor surprises when wrapped in holiday promise.
One boy, however, found something that stirred the town’s attention: a small varmint rifle resting behind the counter. Before sense or supervision could properly intervene, the boy was soon outside showing off his prize, drawing a crowd as he prepared to use it. The excitement ended abruptly when a shot struck stone and ricocheted, catching the child in the eye. He is expected to live, according to those attending him, though the eye is lost. Strawberry has since quieted, the rifle put away and the lesson taken hard: that grown folks’ tools, no matter how tempting, are not toys.
A quiet Christmas Eve settles over the Five States
By Adam Parvey
Christmas Eve passed across the Five States with a calm so unusual that even veteran lawmen were heard remarking upon it in lowered voices, as though noise itself might spoil the moment. From frontier saloons to city streets, reports tell of a night largely free of gunfire, fistfights, or the customary drunken reckonings that so often mark the season. Word circulated early in the evening that unknown wealthy interests, never named and leaving no public record, had quietly offered gold nuggets to those who upheld the peace throughout the day. Whether rumor or fact, the promise traveled faster than any marshal, and it seemed to give even the most restless hands pause.
There were, of course, a few scattered disruptions: a chair thrown here, a harsh word exchanged there, nothing beyond what the night itself seemed willing to forgive. For the greater part, riders passed one another with nods instead of glares, saloon doors closed earlier than usual, and cards were played without blood on the table. Whether men and women held their tempers for the weight of gold or for the rarer notion of shared peace remains an open question, but by dawn it was clear that most had chosen restraint. In a land better known for grudges than grace, Christmas Eve offered a brief and remarkable proof that the Five States can, when it wishes, lay its hands flat and let them rest.
In Valentine, a different sort of gathering before Christmas
By Emery Cosberry
For several days leading up to Christmas Eve, the town of Valentine played host to an uncommon sight: hunters riding in with dressed game, ranchers unloading sacks of grain, hides, and preserved meat, and townsfolk setting aside pride to organize the careful collection of it all. The effort, led entirely by volunteers, aimed to provide for the poor and struggling families of the region at a time when winter weighs hardest. Deer, pronghorn, poultry, tallow, blankets, and tools were gathered steadily, forming neat stacks where disorder more often reigns.
On Christmas Eve, organizers distributed the goods throughout Valentine in what they described as a symbolic gesture as much as a practical one. Food was handed over without charge, supplies passed along without names taken, and no sermons were offered beyond the act itself. Ranch hands stood beside shopkeepers, and hunters lingered to ensure the goods reached those most in need. The exchange was quiet, orderly, and notably free of the confrontations that have so often defined public gatherings in this town.
One organizer, declining to give his name, spoke plainly about the motive behind the effort. “Valentine is known for violence and the smell of sheep shit, neither are flattering,” he said. “So we wanted to do something good here to change that reputation.” Whether the gesture will leave a lasting mark remains to be seen, but for one cold stretch before Christmas, Valentine earned a different description—one written not in gun smoke, but in shared provisions and restraint.
Coal Killer vanishes from locked cell as Saint Denis reels
By Aloysius Levron
Authorities in Saint Denis believed the long and troubling account of the so called Coal Killer had come to an end when a man matching the now familiar description was taken into custody without resistance and lodged in a city jail cell. The arrest followed yet another death bearing the familiar mark, and officials moved swiftly, eager to demonstrate resolve after weeks of mounting unease. Word of the capture spread quickly through the city, and with it came an unexpected consequence: by morning, a small line of children had formed outside the station, whispering excitedly and craning their necks in hopes of glimpsing what many had come to believe was none other than Santa Claus himself, red and white clothes and all.
Police dispersed the children without ceremony, some gently, others less so, and assured parents there was nothing festive behind the bars, only a dangerous man accused of murder. Yet when officers returned to the cell later that same day, they found it empty. The door stood locked, the bars unbent, and the walls unmarked. No coal lay upon the floor, no taunting sign remained, and guards swore no one had passed their posts. Senior officials declined to speculate, offering only terse statements about “an ongoing investigation” and reminding the public that earlier assurances, now bitterly recalled, had once been given after the killer’s first disappearance.
Since the night of December 25th, however, something stranger still has occurred: nothing. No fresh victims have been discovered, no coal has been found, and no credible sightings have been reported anywhere in the Five States. Some take comfort in the silence, while others find it more unsettling than the killings themselves, as though a ledger has simply been closed for the season. Whether the Coal Killer has vanished for good, or merely stepped back into the dark to wait, is a question no lawman presently claims to answer.
\A face that stops clocks from Blackwater to Saint Denis
By Lucien Privitt
From the windswept mesas of New Austin to the damp streets of Saint Denis, a peculiar notoriety has attached itself to one itinerant soul whose name, mercifully, has been spared the public record. Described variously as “a man who looks like he lost a fight with a shovel” and “proof that the Almighty has a sense of humor,” this traveling figure has, according to widespread accounts, become the most remarked-upon visage in all Five States. Wherever he rides, laughter follows close behind, and even mirrors reportedly avert their gaze.
The man himself appears largely unbothered, though witnesses tell of frequent remarks shouted from boardwalks and saloon doors. “I ain’t never seen a face so determined to go in five directions at once,” said a ranch hand near Valentine, while a Saint Denis dockworker was overheard muttering, “If ugly were outlawed, that fellow would be doing life.” One particularly blunt observer in Rhodes claimed, “He looks like his ma and pa were arguing while he was assembled.” Despite this chorus, the subject continues his travels with steady purpose, hat tipped low but posture proud.
What makes the tale remarkable is not the cruelty of frontier tongues, but the man’s resilience. He drinks, trades, rides, and fights like any other, and those who have shared a campfire with him insist his character far outshines his countenance. As one woman in Blackwater put it, with a shrug, “You don’t need a pretty face to survive out here. You just need grit.” In a land where scars are currency and survival is the only true measure, the ugliest man in the Five States may yet prove one of its most enduring figures.
The Five States Herald 