The Slow Train from the Far East
The wind howls through the dust-choked streets of Lester’s Gulch, rattling loose shutters and rolling tumbleweed past abandoned storefronts. Then, with a wheezing groan, a blue police box materialises in the centre of town.
The door swings open.
“Wicked!” cries Ace, leaning out into the blazing sun. “Looks like we’re in the Wild West, Professor!”
Behind her, the Seventh Doctor adjusted his hat and peered over her shoulder. “American Wild West, late nineteenth century by the look of it… though something’s not quite right.”
Ace grins. “What is it?”
The Doctor’s eyes narrow. “What do you notice?”
She scans the street again. Her smile fades. “It’s quiet… No gunfire. No horses. No livestock. Not even a piano from the saloon.”
“Exactly,” the Doctor replies softly. “Come along, Ace. Let’s take a look around.”
Windows are boarded. Doors are barred. The saloon stands silent. Lester’s Gulch is not a town at peace - it’s a town holding its breath.
At last, movement.
A knot of grim-faced townsfolk stand outside the Sheriff’s office, pistols close at hand. The Sheriff himself steps forward, hand resting on his holster.
“That’s far enough,” he warns. “We don’t take kindly to strangers these days.”
The Doctor smiles disarmingly. “Oh, how fortunate! I specialise in being a stranger. The name’s the Doctor. This is Ace. We couldn’t help noticing your town seems… unwell.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“You ain’t doctors,” one deputy spits.
“Ah,” says the Doctor brightly, “but I am the Doctor.”
The Sheriff studies him for a long moment. “You picked a bad time to visit Lester’s Gulch. Folks are sick. Real sick. Started a week back. Fever, shakes… then they just don’t wake up. We’ve quarantined what we can.”
At that moment, a distant clatter breaks the stillness - hammering, shouted orders, the hiss of steam.
The Doctor turns toward the sound. In stark contrast to the ghost-town quiet, the railroad station is alive with activity.
Crates are being unloaded. Strange men - not townsfolk - patrol the platform.
“Curious,” the Doctor murmurs. “A dying town… and yet the station thrives.”
The Sheriff squints toward the tracks. “Those men arrived two days ago. Didn’t come through town. Didn’t speak to me. And that,” he says darkly, “ain’t how things are done here.”
Ace cracks her knuckles. “So what are we waiting for?”
The Doctor flashes a knowing smile. “Investigation, Ace. Always investigation.”
The Sheriff nods to his deputies. “We’re paying the station a visit.”
Background
This game is inspired by the scenario of the same name found in Tales of Horror, the supplement for Fistful of Horror, itself an expansion of the core Fistful of Lead ruleset.
Turn 1
Steam hissed. Crates thudded. Low voices murmured beneath the canopy.
Their approach had not gone unnoticed.
Men in saffron-orange robes drifted from the platform and into the street with unnerving calm, forming a loose line. Their heads were shaved. Their movements precise. Disciplined.
The Sheriff narrowed his eyes.
“They look oriental… like the folk that laid the railroad tracks. But they ain’t dressed like no railroad worker I’ve ever seen.”
If the Doctor took offence at the remark, he gave no sign. Instead, he adjusted his hat and observed coolly:
“Not labourers, I think. Those are monastic robes. Shaolin by the cut of them. Which, Sheriff, rather suggests they are likely to be extremely dangerous in close combat.”
Ace grinned. “So… regular Bruce Lees, eh, Professor?”
The Doctor shot her a look. “Let’s hope not plural.”
“Well,” the Sheriff replied, resting a hand on his revolver, “we got pistols.”
The Doctor leaned slightly toward Ace and murmured under his breath, “You don’t happen to be carrying any of that Nitro-9 I expressly forbade you from bringing?”
Ace folded her arms innocently.
“Course not.”
“But it is primed and ready to go, Professor.”
The Doctor closed his eyes briefly. “I was afraid of that.”
The posse stepped from the boardwalk and began to cross the sun-baked street.
A voice rang out from beneath the station canopy - calm but edged with steel, the English fractured yet unmistakable.
“If you value your lives… turn around. Do not interfere.”
The Sheriff didn’t break stride.
“Can’t do that. Your arrival’s made my town sick. We aim to fix that.”
There was a moment of stillness.
Then -
A searing lance of light shot from the shadows under the canopy. It tore through the air with a shrill crackle, streaking toward the Sheriff’s chest.
At the last instant, the bolt faltered - sputtering, destabilising - before slamming into the dirt at his feet. The ground blackened and smoked, glassing into molten shards.
The Sheriff stumbled back.
The Doctor stepped forward, prodding the scorched earth delicately with the tip of his umbrella.
“Curious,” he muttered. “Not an arrow. Directed energy discharge. Compact. Contained. Very advanced.”
He glanced sideways.
“Ace.”
She was already holding the canister.
“Way ahead of you, Professor.”
Ace struck the fuse and hurled the Nitro-9 in one fluid motion. The explosive arced beautifully through the desert glare and landed squarely amidst a cluster of orange-robed monks.
For a split second -
Silence.
Then the world erupted.
The explosion blasted splinters from crates and shattered planks along the platform edge. One monk was thrown violently backward "Out of the Fight". Another dove behind a stack of cargo, robes smouldering. A third figure, distinct from the rest - clad entirely in white - moved with astonishing speed, vanishing into cover before the smoke cleared.
The Doctor’s eyes fixed on that retreating silhouette.
“Oh,” he said softly. “That’s not good.”
Turn 2
The Sheriff thumbed back the hammer on his revolver.
“Men! Take aim - return fire!”
Gunshots cracked across the street in sharp succession. The Sheriff and his deputies emptied their pistols toward the advancing monks. Splinters burst from crates and dust kicked up at their feet - but the robed warriors moved with startling speed. They scattered and flowed like water, vaulting barrels and rolling across the platform, their athletic precision making them infuriatingly hard to track.
“Hold still!” one deputy barked, firing again to no avail.
Ace was already digging into her jacket.
“Round two, Professor!”
She sparked another can of Nitro-9 and hurled it with enthusiasm - perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm. The explosive sailed beautifully… and completely overshot the clustered monks, disappearing over a railroad wagon before detonating in a thunderous blast somewhere behind the station.
A plume of smoke billowed skyward.
Ace winced. “Oops. Sorry, Professor!”
The Doctor didn’t look at her. He was watching the platform, eyes narrowed. “Quite all right, Ace. Useful data.”
The mysterious figure in white emerged briefly through the drifting smoke. Calm. Controlled. An arm extended.
A second lance of incandescent energy screamed through the air - this time straight at Ace.
“Professor!”
But just as before, the bolt destabilised mid-flight. It flickered, spat sparks, and guttered out only yards from her, scorching the dirt harmlessly.
The Doctor adjusted his hat, utterly absorbed. “Fascinating. Range limitation? Atmospheric interference? Or power instability?”
He paced a step to the left, muttering to himself. “Yes… yes, that would explain it…”
A sudden shout cut through his thoughts
The monk whose robes still smouldered from the first explosion burst from cover in a streak of orange. In seconds he crossed the distance to the posse’s flank.
One of the townsfolk barely had time to raise his pistol.
The monk struck - a blur of motion, palm and elbow moving with surgical precision.
The pistol clattered to the dirt.
The townsman fell hard, wounded and gasping.
The monk settled back into a ready stance, eyes cold and focused.
The gunfight had just become a melee.
Turn 3
Then - as if obeying a command no one else could hear - they advanced.
One monk flowed straight toward the Sheriff, robes snapping in the dry wind.
“Come on then!” the Sheriff growled, bracing himself.
The monk struck first, a rapid series of palm thrusts and snapping kicks aimed at ribs and throat. The Sheriff staggered but held firm, forearm absorbing a blow that would have felled a lesser man.
“Fast, ain’t you?” he grunted.
The monk pivoted for another strike, but the Sheriff lunged forward with a hard shove, breaking contact and forcing the warrior back a step.
That was all the opening he needed.
The Sheriff raised his revolver.
“Draw beats fancy.”
He fired.
The shot echoed across the station yard. The monk stiffened, then collapsed into the dust - motionless.
Another blur of orange darted toward Ace.
“Oi!”
The monk’s speed caught her off guard. A sharp strike glanced off her shoulder, spinning her half around.
“Right,” she snapped, regaining balance. “Now you’ve done it.”
She tore open her backpack and yanked free her baseball bat.
The monk lunged again.
Ace swung.
The crack of wood against skull rang out like a gunshot. The monk dropped in a heap at her feet, groaning and clutching his head.
“Home run,” she muttered.
A nearby townsman, emboldened, stepped forward and levelled his pistol.
“For Lester’s Gulch!”
He fired. Another monk staggered backward and fell - out of the fight.
Meanwhile, the two deputies sprinted toward the station building itself.
“Door’s chained!” one called out. “Padlocked tight!”
The Doctor appeared beside them as if he’d been there all along, producing his sonic screwdriver with a small, satisfied smile.
“Well, that simply won’t do.”
He aimed it at the lock.
With a rising electronic whirr and a sharp click, the padlock sprang open. The chain slithered to the ground in a coil of metal.
The deputies stared.
“Handy gadget,” one muttered.
“Yes, well,” the Doctor replied briskly, “try not to shoot it.”
One deputy pushed the station door open and stepped inside, revolver raised.
“Clear so far”
A shadow detached itself from the ceiling beams.
Too late.
A monk dropped silently behind him and delivered a brutal kick between the shoulders.
The deputy was launched forward, crashing through a table and skidding across the wooden floor, weapon flying from his grasp.
Outside, the Doctor winced as the crash echoed out into the street.
“Oh dear,” he murmured. “That’s rather unsporting of them.”
From within the station came the sound of measured footsteps.
The monks were not finished.
And somewhere in the smoke and confusion, the figure in white had yet to make their move.
Turn 4
The monk advanced without a word.
“Not today,” the deputy spat, surging to his feet.
The monk struck first - a rapid combination of blows aimed at chest and jaw - but the deputy ducked, drove a shoulder into his attacker’s midsection, and sent both of them crashing into a ticket counter.
Wood shattered.
The monk recovered quickly, spinning into a vicious kick.
The deputy caught the leg.
“Got you.”
With a grunt of effort, he twisted and hurled the monk across the room. The robed warrior slammed into the wall and slid down, unmoving.
Breathing hard, the deputy steadied himself - then froze.
At the far end of the station stood the mysterious figure in white.
Immaculate robes. Calm posture. Watching.
“You!” the deputy barked, raising his revolver. “Hands where I can see ’em!”
No response.
He fired.
Once. Twice.
Each shot should have struck true - but impossibly, the stranger shifted just enough each time. A tilt of the head. A half-step to the side. The bullets tore through empty air.
The deputy stared. “That ain’t natural…”
The figure in white regarded him coolly - then stepped backward into shadow.
Outside, the tide was turning.
With more monks down, the Sheriff waved his men forward.
“They’re breakin’! Press ’em! Keep the heat on!”
Ace spotted movement near the stacked crates.
“Not this time,” she muttered.
She lit another can of Nitro-9 and hurled it low and fast.
It bounced once, rolled neatly between two orange-robed figures -
BOOM.
The explosion ripped across the platform. One monk was thrown clear off his feet, taking the full force of the blast. When the smoke thinned, he did not rise.
“Yes!” Ace whooped. “That’s how you do...”
She never finished the sentence.
A shape dropped from the canopy above.
A monk struck her in a blur of motion - a spinning kick that caught her squarely. The force lifted her off her feet and sent her crashing into the dirt.
“Ace!” the Doctor cried, horror breaking through his usually measured tone.
She didn’t move.
The monk settled lightly back onto the ground, poised to strike again.
The Doctor’s face darkened. “Now that,” he said quietly, “was extremely unwise.”
One of the townsfolk saw Ace fall.
“You leave the girl alone!”
He raised his pistol with shaking hands and fired.
The shot rang true.
The monk staggered, then collapsed beside Ace - out of the fight.
Smoke drifted across the station yard.
Several monks lay fallen.
The deputy inside the station faced an impossible foe in white.
And the Doctor knelt beside Ace, fear and calculation warring behind his eyes.
The battle for Lester’s Gulch was reaching its climax.
Turn 5
Silence.
Orange-robed figures lay scattered across the yard. None moved.
The Sheriff lowered his revolver slightly. “Reckon that’s the last of ’em.”
“Let’s not assume,” the Doctor replied quietly.
He knelt beside Ace, brushing dust from her jacket.
“Ace? Ace, can you hear me?”
She groaned faintly.
“That’s it. Brave girl.” He glanced up at one of the townsfolk. “Keep her still. Watch her breathing. And if she wakes up, do try to stop her from throwing anything explosive.”
The townsman nodded nervously. “Yes… sir.”
The Doctor rose, expression tightening as he scanned the railcars.
A deputy’s shout cut across the platform.
“Saw him! The stranger in white - he went into this boxcar!”
The deputy grabbed the sliding door handle and hauled it open with a metallic screech.
The interior was dark.
“Come on out!” the deputy barked, revolver raised. “You’re done!”
A heartbeat passed.
Then -
A brilliant lance of white-hot energy erupted from within the boxcar.
“Down!” someone shouted.
The bolt screamed past the deputy, slamming into the station wall behind him. Wood blackened instantly. Another scorched crater smoked where it struck.
The deputy stumbled back. “He’s still in there!”
From inside the shadowed railcar came a calm, measured voice.
“You should have left this place.”
The Doctor stepped forward slowly, umbrella tucked under his arm.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he called evenly. “You’ve brought something very unpleasant to Lester’s Gulch. And I’d very much like to know what it is.”
A pause.
Then the figure in white stepped into the light of the open door - unruffled, composed, eyes cold and calculating.
The Sheriff levelled his revolver once more.
“Last chance,” he warned. “Step down nice and easy.”
Turn 6
“For Lester’s Gulch!” he shouted, and charged into the boxcar.
“Deputy!” the Sheriff began, but it was too late.
Inside came the crash of boots on timber, the thud of bodies colliding, a sharp grunt - then the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.
Silence.
A moment later the deputy’s voice rang out, breathless but triumphant.
“It’s over! I got him!”
The Sheriff exhaled slowly. “About time.”
The Doctor, however, was already moving.
He stepped lightly into the boxcar, gliding past the shaken deputy and the crumpled figure in white sprawled against a stack of cargo crates.
“My word,” he murmured, scanning the interior.
Among the shipping crates and canvas-wrapped bundles stood a single object entirely out of place: an ornate, lacquered vase adorned with intricate gold patterns and stylised dragons.
The Sheriff frowned. “That don’t look like railroad freight.”
“No,” the Doctor agreed softly. “It most certainly does not.”
He produced his sonic screwdriver and swept it slowly over the vase. The device emitted a rising hum, its tip glowing faintly.
Ace, supported at the door by a townsman, called weakly, “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is…”
The Doctor’s expression darkened.
“Ah. Yes. That would explain the fever. The lethargy. The progressive organ failure.”
He looked up gravely.
“This vase contains the mummified hand of Wen Shen - the ancient Chinese god of plague and pestilence.”
The Sheriff blinked. “The what now?”
“Wen Shen,” the Doctor repeated. “A figure of myth… though myths, as I frequently point out, have a habit of being based on something rather more tangible. The energy signature is unmistakable.”
He gestured toward the fallen stranger in white.
“And that gentleman, I suspect, was a member of the Tong of Lu Fang - a secretive order devoted to… shall we say… weaponising certain relics.”
The deputy stared at the body. “You’re tellin’ me we just shot some kind of plague priest?”
“In essence,” said the Doctor briskly.
Before anyone could object, he stepped forward, reached into the vase -
“Hold on!” the Sheriff barked. “You don’t know where that thing’s been!”
“Oh, I do,” the Doctor replied calmly.
To the visible disgust of everyone present, he withdrew a shrivelled, blackened hand wrapped in faded funerary cloth. The air seemed to grow colder the moment it was exposed.
Several townsfolk recoiled.
“Sweet mercy…” one whispered.
The Doctor held it at arm’s length, studying it and the vase with clinical detachment.
“Yes. Powerful containment field woven into the ceramic. Very clever. Remove the lid, remove the suppression… and the pathogen energy begins to seep outward. Slow release. Extremely effective.”
He glanced at the Sheriff.
“The sickness in your town was no accident.”
The Sheriff’s jaw tightened. “Can it be destroyed?”
The Doctor shook his head.
“Nothing on Earth could even scratch it. Fire would fail. Acid would fail. You’d merely spread the contagion further.”
He wrapped the hand carefully in his handkerchief.
“I’ll take this off your… well… planet, eventually. There are places in the universe far better suited to disposing of indestructible plague artefacts.”
Ace managed a faint grin. “Knew you’d say that.”
The Doctor gave her a reassuring nod.
“Lester’s Gulch should begin to recover now. Without the hand’s influence, the infection will burn itself out within days.”
The Sheriff removed his hat.
“Reckon we owe you, Doctor.”
The Doctor allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. Just doing what I do best.”
He glanced toward the horizon, where the desert wind had finally begun to blow the smoke away.
“Now then,” he added lightly, “does anyone fancy helping me carry a rather large vase back to a blue box?”
Final Outcome & Observations
This was a slightly different style of game for us, though still firmly rooted in the mechanics of Fistful of Lead. The original scenario from Tales of Horror practically shouted Doctor Who the moment I read it - it only needed a few narrative tweaks to drop the Seventh Doctor and Ace straight into the Old West.
For the antagonists, I used a Cult profile to represent the Tong of Lu Fang, with the cult leader granted access to an ancient tome for spellcasting. On paper, that had the potential to be game-changing. In practice, dreadful dice rolls meant the spells either fizzled or failed to have meaningful impact, leaving the cult leader far less influential than intended. A classic case of probability humbling grand designs.
The monks were built as melee specialists for two reasons. First, it gave me an excuse to field some miniatures that hadn’t seen the table in years. Second, I wanted to avoid a static gunline or defensive perimeter and instead force an aggressive, cinematic engagement. Combined with the Sheriff’s posse being restricted to pistols (6"/12" range), both sides were effectively compelled to close the distance.
However, deployment had a significant impact. Starting only 12" apart meant the action escalated immediately. Ace’s first well-placed throw of Nitro-9 proved devastating, crippling the cult force before they could properly leverage their mobility or spell support. That early explosion shaped the entire tempo of the game.
In terms of victory points:
-
The Sheriff’s Posse achieved the maximum 12 points (with the Doctor and Ace materially contributing to that success).
-
The Cult of Lu Fang managed just 3 points - 1 for downing a townsfolk and 2 for putting Ace Out of the Fight.
The result was a decisive victory for the Sheriff and his allies.
From a design perspective, increasing the starting distance or giving the cult more opportunity to utilise spells before contact would likely produce a more balanced and tactically layered encounter next time. That said, as a fast-paced, cinematic Wild West skirmish with a strong narrative arc, it delivered exactly the kind of dramatic chaos you’d want from a Doctor Who-inspired tabletop showdown.
Quite excellent
ReplyDeleteThank you.
DeleteGreat scenario!
ReplyDelete