A Meeting in Memphis

Posted on Sat Apr 25th, 2026 @ 6:55pm by Colonel Augustus "Gus" Brennan & J.R. McEntyre

2,579 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: Assembling the Troubleshooters
Location: Memphis, TN
Timeline: Date 1877-09-01 at 1430

[Memphis, Tennessee - Brennan Mansion]
[November 3, 1876 - 1430 Hours]

The telegram had gone out ten days ago.

Colonel Augustus Brennan stood at the window of his second-floor study, watching the grey November rain fall over Memphis. Behind him, a fire crackled in the hearth—unnecessary given the mild weather, but it gave the room the warmth and gravitas he wanted for this conversation.

His mechanical hand rested on the windowsill, fingers slightly curled. He'd stopped being self-conscious about the prosthetic years ago, but sometimes he still caught himself positioning it deliberately—a reminder to visitors that Colonel Brennan had paid his dues to the Confederacy in blood and steel.

The study was ready. Whiskey decanter on the side table—Old Dominick, the premium batch that most Memphis residents would never taste. Gus had invested in the Dominick distillery three years back, providing the capital to upgrade their equipment and aging process. The result was American whiskey that could stand alongside Kentucky's finest, though the distillery still produced their cheaper swill for the masses who couldn't afford better. Confederate economy being what it was, that cheaper version paid the bills while the premium product bought influence and favors among those who mattered.

Two glasses waited beside the decanter. The stack of reports and telegrams from Kansas sat organized on his desk, evidence of the pattern he'd been tracking for two months. The letter of offer rested in the top drawer, terms already laid out in black and white.

Everything prepared except the man he was waiting for.

J.R. McEntyre. Captain when they'd served together early in the war, before Gus's promotion and J.R.'s transfer. Now a Texas Ranger, which meant he knew violence and the law both—useful combination for what Gus had in mind. More importantly, J.R. was someone who understood loyalty, who remembered what it meant to rely on another man when artillery shells were falling and decisions had to be made in seconds.

Someone Gus could trust. That was rarer than money, and Gus had learned the hard way that you couldn't buy it.

Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention.

Gus turned from the window as Jameson appeared in the doorway, his secretary's expression carefully neutral.

"Sir, a gentleman has arrived. Says his name is John McEntyre, that you're expecting him."

"Show him up. And Jameson—we're not to be disturbed for the next hour. No matter what."

"Understood, sir."

Jameson disappeared. Gus moved to his desk, adjusting the reports one final time, making sure everything was positioned just right. First impressions mattered, even with old comrades. Especially with old comrades you were about to ask to do something dangerous.

He poured two glasses of Old Dominick—the good batch, not the rotgut most Confederates were drinking these days—and waited.

The knock came a moment later—firm, confident, the knock of a man who'd been walking into uncertain situations his whole adult life.

"Come in," Gus called.

The door opened. The former Captain, now Texas Ranger John Ross “J.R” McEntyre entered with the same confidence he had during the war.

His face had grown rougher over the years since Gus had seen him last, more gray in J.R’s beard than he had in the war, age lines around his eyes.

He still had the same hat, a fine stetson of gray atop his head that he removed as he entered. His clothes were the nicest he had, a white linen shirt, black vest with a pocket watch in the pocket. His gunbelt, leather, gleamed as if he polished it just for this occasion. In his holster was a signature LeMat Undertaker Revolver, the staple weapon of a senior Texas Ranger.

As J.R strode into the room, the soft ding of his spurs could be heard along with the thumps of his boots hitting the floor with each step he took.

He nods in greeting as he approaches Gus, “It’s good to see you old friend.” He spoke as he extended his hand as he greeted his friend.

Gus stood and moved around the desk, his living hand extending to clasp J.R.'s firmly. The mechanical one he kept at his side. Some things were too personal for brass and steel. "J.R." The name came easy, without the formality of rank or the practiced politeness of business. "Been too long."

He released the handshake and gestured to the pair of leather chairs positioned before the fire. "You wore your best. I'm flattered, though you didn't need to. This isn't a formal interview. We're past that, you and I."

He moved to the side table, lifting one of the waiting glasses. "Old Dominick. Premium batch. I bought into the distillery a few years back." He handed the glass to J.R., then took the second for himself. "To absent friends."

Gus settled into the opposite chair, mechanical hand resting on the arm where the firelight caught the brass and steel. "I appreciate you coming on short notice. Telegram didn't give much detail, but this isn't a conversation to have over Western Union. Too many ears."

He paused, studying J.R. over the rim of his glass. "How's the Ranger life treating you these days? Still chasing banditos and cattle thieves across the continent?"

J.R raised his glass in toast before he took the chair opposite of Gus, letting himself sink into the fine leather, leaning back and crossing a leg.

"and there some," J.R remarked in his deep southern drawl. The trip from the plains of Dallas to Memphis had been a grueling one but he made it in less time than he had anticipated.

Sitting across from his comrade in arms, Gus would notice the fine shine to J.R's LeMat undertaker, his general appearance, having looked like J.R had gotten cleaned up, less trail worn and more presentable for this particular meeting.

"Your telegram was a big vague on the specifics, Old friend. Even still, you know whatever you need doin', I'm always there." J.R took another sip of his drink

Gus took a long sip of his whiskey, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The mechanical hand caught the firelight as he turned the glass slowly.

"You know Memphis, J.R. We're sitting here about ten feet off of Beale, in one of the finest houses in the city, built on good Confederate money and hard work." He paused, meeting J.R.'s eyes. "And none of it matters worth a damn when the world stops making sense."

He set the glass down on the side table and reached for the stack of reports on his desk. "Since August, I've had five separate incidents. Ghost rock mine shut down because the miners won't go back in. Claim the tunnels are haunted. Not superstitious talk, J.R. Real hauntings. Real voices in the dark."

Gus tossed the first report onto the low table between them. "Three wagon convoys vanished between Dodge City and the railhead. No Apache, no bandits, no witnesses. Just gone." Another report joined the first. "Two workers at my Fort Smith refinery, throats torn out by something the doctor couldn't identify as animal or human."

He let the papers sit there, evidence of a pattern that defied conventional explanation. "Rail crew torn apart. Warehouse fires. Sabotage that happened when no one was there to do it."

The mechanical hand flexed slightly. "Things have gotten strange since the Reckoning, but this is different. Someone or something is targeting my operations specifically. And the law can't help with problems that don't make sense in daylight."

He picked up his glass again, studying J.R. over the rim. "That's why I need you there, J.R. In Dodge City, all the way out in Kansas. I've already cleared the approval with the Rangers for a leave of absence, if you'll accept."

Gus's expression softened slightly, just enough to let the calculation show through. "I know I'm calling in debts here. I was good to you during the war, and I remember that you don't forget those things. But I wouldn't ask if I had another option I trusted more."

J.R took a sip of his drink and nodded as he listened.

"Sounds alot like you need experts in the unnatural. Something the Rangers been doin for some time. So why not use your connections in Richmond to call in the heavy hitters?" J.R asked, leaning back in his chair again.

Gus let out a short, humorless laugh and topped off both their glasses. "Because Richmond's heavy hitters answer to Richmond, not to me. And the moment I involve them, every competitor from here to Atlanta knows I've got problems I can't handle myself."

He settled back into his chair, mechanical fingers drumming once against the armrest. "Besides, the Confederate government's more interested in fighting the Union than protecting my business interests. Agency men would spend six months investigating whether I'm loyal enough before they'd lift a finger to help. And by then, whatever's targeting my operations would have bled me dry."

The firelight caught the edge of his glass as he gestured with it. "I need people who work for me, J.R. Not for Richmond, not for some bureaucrat's career advancement. People who understand that discretion matters as much as results. People I can trust."

He met J.R.'s eyes directly. "That's you. And that's whoever you bring into this. I'm not asking you to be a Ranger on loan. I'm asking you to build something new. Troubleshooters who handle the problems that don't fit in anyone's jurisdiction, that the law can't touch, that money alone won't solve."

Gus leaned forward slightly. "Double Ranger pay, generous expense account, and complete autonomy in how you get things done. All I ask is loyalty and results."

He paused, letting that settle, then continued more seriously. "You'll technically be on detached duty. I've cleared it with your CO. But there are going to be times where you'll need to leave your lawman hat on the hook when you head out. You're going to have to work with people of all types, J.R. Even folks you'd arrest on the spot under normal conditions." His mechanical hand gestured vaguely. "Of which these are not."

J.R nodded, leaning back in the chair as he took another sip from his drink.

“Shouldn’t be too much of an issue. Who am I workin’ with if you don’t mind my askin’?”

Gus studied J.R. over the rim of his glass for a long moment, then set it down and settled back in his chair. The fire popped once in the silence.

"That's what I was counting on." He reached into the top drawer of his desk and produced a single folded envelope, setting it on the table between them. "Terms are in there. Pay is double your Ranger salary, plus expenses. You'll have an account through my factor in Dodge, man named Morrison. Draw on it as needed, keep receipts."

He laced his fingers together, the mechanical hand clicking faintly against the flesh one.

"Here's the job. I need a team. Not soldiers, not lawmen, not Pinkertons asking questions about my books. Fixers. People who can handle the kind of problems I just described and not come apart when the world stops making sense." He met J.R.'s eyes. "You're going to build it. Who you recruit, how you run it, that's your business. I trust your judgment. I wouldn't have sent that telegram otherwise."

He paused, letting that land before continuing.

"I do have two names worth tracking down. There's a professor out of Boston, Hooker, mad scientist. Eccentric is putting it charitably, but the man gets results and he doesn't rattle easy." He reached for his glass. "And there's an Anglican priest, Hawthorne. English, came down through Canada. Ran into some of the Weird up north, from what I understand, and didn't run from it." A brief pause. "A man of God who's seen what's out there and still shows up for work is worth having."
He raised the Old Dominick in a short, unhurried toast.

"I want the team operational out of Dodge by end of November. After that, the work will find you fast enough." He held J.R.'s gaze. "Do we have an arrangement?"

"We have a arrangement. Sounds like a good bit of work to be done" J.R smirked as he raised his glass.

Gus raised his own glass to meet J.R.'s, the mechanical hand resting steady on the chair arm. "More than a bit. But if it were easy work, I'd have hired someone cheaper."

He took a measured sip, then set the glass down and leaned back. The fire had burned lower, casting longer shadows across the study. Outside, Memphis rain continued its steady percussion against the windows.

"You'll want to get moving soon. November's half gone already." He gestured toward the envelope on the table. "Morrison's address is in there, along with authorization to draw funds. I've arranged for space above one of my warehouses in Dodge. Not fancy, but it's discrete and you won't have neighbors asking questions."

The mechanical fingers flexed once, a gesture Gus barely noticed anymore. "Wire me when you've got your team assembled. I'll want to know who's working for me, even if I don't need to know how you found them."

He studied J.R. for a moment longer, seeing past the grey beard and trail-worn edges to the man who'd held the line at Second Manassas when lesser officers would have broken. Trust was a calculation like any other, but some calculations were easier than others.

"One more thing." Gus's tone shifted, taking on the weight of experience bought at Shiloh and a hundred smaller battles since. "The Weird is real, J.R. Not superstition, not frontier tall tales. Real. And it's getting worse. Whatever you face out there, don't underestimate it just because it doesn't make sense."

The conversation drifted after that, settling into the comfortable rhythms of old soldiers sharing whiskey and remembering better days. They talked about Memphis and Texas, mutual acquaintances who'd survived the war and those who hadn't, the strange shape the world had taken since the Reckoning. Gus refilled their glasses twice more before J.R. finally rose to leave, envelope in hand, the terms of their arrangement sealed with a handshake and shared history.

After J.R. departed, Gus stood alone in his study, watching the rain through glass that cost more than most Confederate families earned in a year. The fire had burned to embers. His whiskey glass sat empty on the side table.

He'd set something in motion tonight that he couldn't take back. By the end of November, there would be a team of troubleshooters operating out of Dodge City with his money and his authority, handling problems that existed in the shadows between law and lawlessness, natural and supernatural.

It was a risk. But then, everything worth doing was.

Gus poured himself one last measure of Old Dominick and raised it to the empty room. "To calculated risks," he murmured. "And to old debts repaid."

Outside, Memphis slept under November rain. Inside, Colonel Augustus Brennan began planning the next move in a game played against an enemy he couldn't yet see.

 

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