'Dynamite' Jack Nash



"He's got to be the most bloodthirsty maniac this side of the Montana..."

- The BlackWater Residents

seemed to see the potential in things others threw away, and this house was no different. He rebuilt it with his bare hands. Soon he bought cattle, and pigs, even chickens. I helped gather eggs

     In the year 1886 my father purchased a

off-white house with a matching barn collapsing

ranch on the west side of Great Plains. It was a beatdown

at its side. My mother was astonished when he told her

furious even. She raved about how we would never be able to pay it off. He simply pecked her on the cheek and said: “don’t worry love, I’m gonna make all our dreams come true”. My dad always

and pluck their feathers after he slaughtered them for our Sunday dinners. This was his dream, and I saw that in his smile and the way he taught me the things his father had once taught him. I remember sitting on his knee by the fire in the evenings. He cupped a glass filled with amber liquid and he spoke of his childhood, but only before his father died. They had a farm, just like the one he built. He told me his favorite memories came from his days on that farm, besides the day he married my mamma and the day she had me, of course. I remember thinking that one day, I would sit beyond my own fire, with my own son on my leg, with my own amber glass, and tell him about my childhood...My father died in 1890.

                 One night we were sitting before the fire when that same loud knock sounded at our door. My mother looked to me, doe-eyed and freighted. I was 14 then, old enough to understand, but too young to do anything about it. Outside I heard a man’s voice; loud, angry, and demanding. He shouted that if my mother didn’t let him in, he would take our farm the next day, and tell everyone in the town how my mother was spreading her legs to pay for the farm that my dad worked his whole life to get. In a moment of fury, I ran to the door and sprang it open. I tried to take his teeth out with my fist. Pain shot up my arm and I felt blood on my knuckles. Rage burned in my stomach. His eyes were dark and vengeful. He shoved me and I fell to the floor. He pushed past and another man entered behind him. This man was a giant compared to his boss, and he picked me up from the floor with one hand and held me to watch as my mother was dragged up the stairs. I fought. My strength seemed to grow with every scream my mother released, with every useless plea. Then her screams stopped. I don’t remember how long it was before the man came back downstairs, fixing his pants, a crooked smile on his face. He slipped a bloody knife in his belt, and only then did I realize his hands were covered in red. I don’t remember much after that. Somehow I got free from the man holding me. I remember retrieving one of my Father’s all-black Schofield Revolvers, and watching as the men left the house, eliminating me from their mind as a potential threat. I shot the guard first. It was a clean shot, he didn’t suffer... my father taught me to shoot a

Standardbred who was as dark as the shadows. I set the house on fire and then I left without looking back...


             My mother tried.. She was angry. My father had ‘made all their dreams come true’ and then left her to watch as they all crumbled. She kept us afloat for a while, but eventually, it was too much. I remember the hard knock on the door. He was dressed in a black suit with a black flat cap hat. I recognized his attire immediately. He was from the Blackwater Bank, where I went with my father, what seemed like centuries ago,to get the loan that bought our farm. I saw the fear in my mother’s eyes, the guilt that she wasn't able

to keep my father’s dream alive. She shooed me from the room, but I hid behind the cracking door frame and listened They talked in hushed tones, though I was able to hear well enough to understand that we were in trouble. My father hadn’t paid his debts, and now it fell upon my mother to do so. He left, but he returned the next night, just after my mother rushed me to bed much earlier than I was used to. I heard noises, groans, and squeaking, and after the door slammed I heard my mother’s sobs. This continued for years. We didn’t lose the farm, we didn’t talk about it, and I didn’t refuse on the nights my mother rushed me to bed long before I was ready.


gun real nice. My mother’s assassin turned to look at me, that same smile on his face: “well boy, you do have some balls after all”. I shot him in his shoulder first. Then his thigh. Then his stomach. Then I stood over him, and shot him through the throat. Deep red blood soaked the grass around him. I kicked him, once and then twice, and then I don’t know how many times. I dug a grave in the back yard under the apple tree and buried my mother there, next to my father. I strung ropes over the front porch and hung the two scumbags I had just killed there. Then I packed a bag and gathered up my Father’s horse, Whiskey, an American

gun real nice. My mother’s assassin turned to look at me, that same smile on his face: “well boy, you do have some balls after all”. I shot him in his shoulder first. Then his thigh. Then his stomach. Then I stood over him, and shot him through the throat. Deep red blood soaked the grass around him. I kicked him, once and then twice, and then I don’t know how many times. I dug a grave in the back yard under the apple tree and buried my mother there, next to my father. I strung ropes over the front porch and hung the two scumbags I had just killed there. Then I packed a bag and gathered up my Father’s horse, Whiskey, an American

                I spent the next six months riding the road, stealing food, weapons and supplies where I could. One afternoon I planned a robbery on a passing stagecoach outside Armadillo. I was about to strike from behind a boulder when a group of large men slid down from a hill on the other side of the path. They successfully took the coach and killed the man driving. Rage filled my stomach and before I could think better of it I stepped out into the road.

                   “That was mine”. The men were silent for a moment, then they broke out in laughter. I felt my face growing hot. I was fifteen and looked like a child to them. A sharp whistle filled the air and the men instantly grew silent. They parted and a tall man walked past, his eyes hard and features sharp.

                    “What's your name boy?” His voice was gravelly.


                   “Jack,” I replied defiantly, holding my chin up. I wondered how I looked to this man. I was small and malnourished. My dark hair matted and dirty. My gun held tightly to my front, a dirty bag strapped to my back.

                   “And how were you planning on taking this coach, Jack?” The man asked. My hands fall to the Schofield Revolvers attached to my belt, now engraved with Eagles on the handles. In one fluid motion, I pull them from my holsters and pointed them both at the man. Behind him, his men now pulled their own weapons. The man smirked and waved them off. He strode up to me, his hand extended.

                   “Doc”, he said simply. “Now put those away, boy”. I hesitated but obeyed. “We are headed to town. Fill your pockets, and come with us. I’m gonna buy you a drink, you look like you could use it.”

  • Hand-to-Hand combat prodigy. Specializes in knives

  • Sweetooth for Molotovs & Dynamite

  • Loyal till the end. Will give his life for his brothers. Prefers to take the rear on getaways and retreats

  • Master of roadblock and ambush strategy

   "Born into a life of hopeful circumstances proved to lead to a life of traumatizing hardship for Jack and his mother after the death of his father. As Jack struggled to find a sense of family and purpose he gathered a considerable bounty before luckily

finding asylum by joining the elite Born Brothers Gang."

                    Doc and his crew mostly rode around Cholla Springs. Doc was a gambler and was proud to say that he had been his whole life. It was said he was to be a quicker gun than Landon Ricketts. Doc was in his 40s and was extremely wise, cunning, and cocky. We never killed just to kill, we never robbed the poor, and we didn't rape the women. There was a code, as bad as we may be, we had order. Though Doc did have a sweet tooth for death, especially for those who resisted us. Together, we strung a lot of bodies up on the ol’ Hanging Rock, north of Armadillo. That was Doc’s personal favorite. Doc was beloved and admired  by many people. Doc was also dying.


                One night we camped at Lake Don Julio. A fire-cracked between us, and I saw the sweat beaded on Doc’s brow. He was getting worse. His coughing almost never stopped now. It was so bad that at times he hung back during an ambush because he couldn't keep quiet. For a moment I saw my own father. Over the three years that I spent with these men, I often saw pieces of my father in Doc, though only pieces. During my time with them, Doc had passed so much knowledge to me. He taught me how to scout out

perfect ambush areas, how to properly stage a stick-up, and how to not only survive but live on the road. That night I felt the urge to thank Doc. For taking the boy that my father left and turning him into the man that I am. I didn’t though. That morning we found him, a river of dried blood running from his cheek, skin gray and cold.

       My father’s last days were spent in bed. My mother didn’t let me visit him often - he needed his sleep, but I snuck in whenever I could. I wiped his fiery forehead with a cool cloth and cleaned the blood from his lips. The doctor called it tuberculosis. I didn’t understand why my mother cried so hard when he told us, not until after...

       After Doc died the gang disbanded. They were all too eager to fight, too quick to snap. Doc was the glue that held us together. Without him, we were just a bunch of misfits that were good at killing. On my way out of town, I rode past the McFarland’s ranch and on towards the Great Plains. I was older, wiser, stronger, and my thirst to avenge the death of my mother became overwhelming. I knew that the man who killed her was dead, my Father’s Schofield's had taken care of that. But in my mind, they were all at fault, and would suffer until I died. I swore this to myself. I was no longer the 14 year old kid who ran away. I lost everything and everyone that ever meant anything to me. I was going to make sure they did too.


             One day I happened upon a bank shipment headed north towards Strawberry. I  was lingering by the stream, watering Whiskey, when I spotted the wagon that read “Blackwater Bank”. Perhaps this was carrying payroll, perhaps it was nothing - I didn’t care. I was only interested in vengeance. There were six guards on horseback with a pinkerton riding shotgun. I mounted Whiskey and hurried 2 miles up the road. I set a dynamite trap on the Upper Dakota River on the road from Strawberry to Blackwater. It was a perfect ambush spot, a narrow road with high cliffs on both sides, once that caravan entered the valley, there was no escape. I connected anchors to a few pieces of driftwood

in the river and constructed a dynamite trap in the water where they would be forced to cross. 4 sticks of dynamite in total await in the water. When one blew, they all would. I stood in the distance and watched them approach, my limbs tingling. I pulled out the Rolling Block, Docs last gift to me, and aimed at the dynamite planted along the southern side of the river. As the first guards passed with the stagecoach directly behind, I pulled the trigger. The deafening boom of the explosion filled the air. It blew up everything; the caravan, the horses, and the men. I waited for a couple minutes, until the smoke semi-cleared, then approached. One man was laying with his body in the river, red streaks snaking away from him in the current. His arm lay further down the river. He stared at it, eyes wide. A large gash in his stomach showed intestins. I stepped over him, a smile crossing my face. His death would come soon enough, no need to shorten his suffering. My eyes were set on the man hiding behind a nearby rock. He was on his knees, and as I approached he began begging me. A cut bled on his forehead, but he was otherwise uninjured. Just weak. I whistled a slow tune, similar to one Doc chose before a hanging. I leaned against a tree, pulled out a bottle of Guarma Rum, and slipped a smoke between my lips.


“You picked the wrong line of business, son.” I state, my voice even and cold. “When I’m done this here smoke, you’re gonna die. A lot slower than your friends too. Though, maybe not him.” I nod to the armless man turning pale as his blood stains into the river. I laugh, and the man begins to cry. He continues begging. I pull a dirty handkerchief from my pocket and stuff it into his mouth. I tied him up and threw him along the Blackwater side of the river. A cold, evil rush fills me. My father and mother are dead. Doc is dead. My home is gone. One of those

losses could have been avoided, and it is their fault. I want this man to feel all my pain. All the fear I felt when his colleague strode down my stairs holding the knife that killed my mother. And I know that I can make sure he does.


            I jerk the handkerchief from his mouth, and pull a stick of dynamite from my belt. His eyes widen in fear and I tap it to his lips. “Open up” I chuckle. I push the spur of my boot down against his ear, threatening to rip it from his head if he doesn’t comply. He trembles, and slowly opens his mouth. I place the stick in his mouth like a dog carrying a bone. “Bite” I command. I pull another sick and place it between his legs.

            “If you spit it out and make me walk all back down here, I’m gonna shove this stick up your fucking ass and ignite it. Understand?” He whimpers. I take that as a yes. I turn to leave but hesitate. “Ya know, it’s too bad I didn’t have a Mother around to teach me right from wrong...maybe this could've ended differently.” I know this man doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t matter. The words feel nice leaving my lips, almost as nice as when I snipe the dynamite

from a nearby hill just as two men come riding down the road. Pieces of the man fly in every direction, a cloud of pink momentarily filling the air. It was beautiful, so god damn perfect. The two men turned and quickly fled towards the town. I knew they would report to the sheriff. It was time for me to leave. I felt excitement and satisfaction, but I still wanted more. I don’t know if it was the vengeance, or if I just liked the killing. If that man

had never come into my life we may have lost the farm, but I might have still had my mom. I wouldn’t have joined Doc’s gang. I wouldn’t have become the stone cold killer I have become. The Bank made me this way, and they were going to pay the price.

                     Over the next two years I roamed the Great Plains, sometimes crossing the border into New Hanover. I robbed a lot of people. I ran a posse from time to time. I hold onto Doc’s morals, and never robbed from the poor. I was sure to hit every bank shipment that crossed through my path. My tactics were often different. Sometimes I used traps, at times ambushes, and occasionally straight up roadblock robbery. It always ends the same though, dynamite the shipment, and everyone with it. I was careful to


always leave one witness or survivor. I wanted them to know it was me, and why I was doing it... With such a path of destruction in my wake, the people of West Elizabeth began calling me "Dynamite Jack". However, with that fame comes trouble. A $20,000 bounty was placed on my head.

             I've decided to lay low and bide my time, as my luck is sure to run out. I’m heading towards Valentine, where I’ve heard rumblings of a tight-knit gang called "The Born Brothers". I leave the bank behind me, but I promise to return someday. I promise to burn the Blackwater Bank to the ground...