Hangin' Judges

Hangin' Judges

"Court's in session, stranger. And you're guilty of breathin' while Texan. The sentence is death."

What Are They?

Justice is supposed to be blind. Out on the Chisholm Trail, it's blind, mad, and carrying a scythe.

Hangin' judges are undead abominations that stalk the Chisholm Trail by night, dispensing their own twisted brand of frontier justice to anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. They're the vengeful spirits of five corrupt Confederate circuit judges who abused their power so thoroughly that the locals finally took matters into their own hands—and a length of good hemp rope.

From 1863 to 1869, these five magistrates ran a secret alliance throughout Texas and the Indian Territories. They stole land, ruined rivals, and framed anyone who opposed them for capital crimes. Don't like someone? Accuse them of horse theft. Want their property? Declare them guilty of murder. The judges had the power, the authority, and the nooses to make any charge stick.

But Texans are hot-blooded folk with a low tolerance for corruption. After six years of tyranny, the people rose up, rounded up all five judges, and strung them up from trees along the Chisholm Trail as a warning to other authorities who might abuse their power. Should have been the end of the story.

The Reckoners had other ideas.

Now those same corrupt judges walk again, infused with unholy energy and an eternity to dispense their particular brand of injustice. They haunt the Chisholm Trail from dusk to dawn, declaring arbitrary "laws" and sentencing travelers to death for crimes that change with their whims. The sentence is always the same: hanging. And the judges always carry it out.

Appearance

Each hangin' judge looks slightly different, but they all share certain unmistakable characteristics that mark them as the undead magistrates they are.

They wear long cowls or pointed hoods that hide their faces in deep shadow—you might catch a glimpse of dead eyes or withered flesh, but mostly you see darkness where a face should be. The robes are black or deep grey, stained with old blood and trail dust, torn and tattered from years of riding and killing.

The rope that killed them still hangs from their necks, frayed hemp nooses that sway as they move. Some say you can see the impression of the tree branch in the rope's knot. Others claim the nooses glow faintly in moonlight, marking them even in darkness.

Each judge carries twin Single-Action Army revolvers—but these aren't ordinary guns. The pistols are topped with wicked scythes, curved blades that gleam even in the darkest night. The combination weapons serve dual purpose: shoot you from a distance or hack you apart up close. Either way works for the judges.

They move with an eerie, deliberate gait—not shambling like common walking dead, but measured and purposeful like a lawman approaching a defendant in the dock. Because that's exactly what they think they're doing. To them, everyone they meet is just another criminal waiting to be sentenced.

The Arbitrary Law

Here's what makes hangin' judges particularly terrifying: their "laws" change constantly, following no logic except their own mad whims.

One night, they might decide that wearing blue is a capital offense. The next night, whistling "Dixie" warrants immediate execution. They've been known to declare singing illegal, or riding a paint horse, or carrying a particular brand of tobacco. It doesn't matter. Whatever arbitrary rule they've decided on that night becomes law, and the penalty for breaking it is always death.

Being from Texas is always a hanging offense. Every single time. The judges haven't forgotten who strung them up, and they take special pleasure in killing Texans. If you've got a Texas drawl, wear a Lone Star badge, or mention being born in the Lone Star State, you've just signed your own death warrant.

The truly maddening part? You have no way of knowing what tonight's crime is until the judge starts whispering it at you. By then, it's too late to change whatever you're wearing, carrying, or doing. You're guilty, and the sentence has been passed.

Hunting Behavior

Hangin' judges are solitary hunters. Each one stalks the Chisholm Trail independently, claiming certain stretches of road as their territory. They appear only at night—dawn sends them back to whatever dark holes they hide in during the day.

Relentless Pursuit

Once a hangin' judge has identified its prey—once it's decided you're guilty of tonight's arbitrary crime—it becomes relentless. The creature will pursue you until one of two things happens: you die, or morning comes. That's it. Those are your only options.

Running doesn't help for long. The judge has a Pace of 8 and will chase you through the night without tiring, without stopping, without mercy. It has tracking 5d10 and search 6d10, meaning it can follow your trail even in pitch darkness across difficult terrain. You can try to hide, but the judge will find you.

The only salvation is sunrise. When dawn breaks, the judge retreats—but if you're still in its territory the next night, it remembers. It comes back. And it finishes what it started.

The Whispered Verdict

The judges never speak except for one horrible habit: they whisper your crime. Over and over and over.

As the judge stalks you through the darkness, you hear that rasping, hollow voice: "Guilty of wearing blue... guilty of wearing blue... guilty of wearing blue..." Or "Texas... Texas... Texas..." The whisper never stops, never changes, never shows the slightest emotion. It's the sound of a sentence being passed, repeated endlessly until it's carried out.

Some folks go mad from that whispering before the judge ever catches them. The relentless repetition, the knowledge that death is coming and there's no appeal, no mercy, no escape—it breaks people. They make mistakes. They panic. And that's when the judge closes in for the kill.

Where You'll Find Them

The hangin' judges haunt specific territory:

• The Chisholm Trail—the main cattle drive route from Texas through Indian Territory to Kansas railheads
• Texas borderlands—especially areas near where the judges held court in life
• Old hanging trees—some judges stay near the tree where they themselves were executed
• Abandoned courthouses—crumbling buildings where they once dispensed their corrupt justice
• Lonely stretches of trail—anywhere cattle drivers and travelers must pass through at night

Each judge seems to have claimed territory along different parts of the trail. Locals sometimes know which stretches are haunted and by what arbitrary "law," but this knowledge is unreliable—the judges' whims change, and they occasionally wander beyond their usual hunting grounds.

If you must travel the Chisholm Trail, do it during daylight hours and make camp well before dusk. And for God's sake, don't admit to being from Texas.

Combat Capabilities

Fighting a hangin' judge is a desperate, terrifying proposition. These things were dangerous men in life, and death hasn't made them any less lethal.

Supernatural Gunslingers

Each judge carries twin Single-Action Army revolvers with a shootin': pistol score of 5d10. That's professional gunslinger territory. They can put bullets where they want them, and they've got an eternity to practice.

But here's the truly horrifying part: their guns reload themselves. One round after the revolvers are emptied, they're fully loaded again. No fumbling with cartridges, no pausing to reload—just continuous fire. The judges can keep shooting indefinitely, pouring lead at their targets without ever running dry.

Scythe-Pistols

Those scythes mounted on the revolvers aren't just for show. In melee combat, the judges use them with a fightin': scythe score of 5d8, dealing Strength +2d6 damage. That's enough to cleave a man in half with a solid hit.

The weapon combination is brutally effective: shoot you from a distance, then close in and hack you apart when you're wounded and desperate. The judges are experienced with both ends of their signature weapons.

Fearless and Immune

Hangin' judges are fearless—they never make guts checks, never retreat from combat, never show the slightest hesitation. They don't feel fear. They don't feel anything except the drive to pass sentence and carry it out.

Worse still, they're immune to normal weapons. Bullets pass through them like smoke. Swords slash at nothing. Your standard arsenal is completely useless against these abominations.

Masters of Intimidation

With an overawe score of 5d12, hangin' judges can break the will of even hardened outlaws. Their very presence radiates authority and menace. When they fix those dead eyes on you and start whispering your crime, it takes a will of iron not to panic.

They also have scrutinize 2d10, meaning they can read people well—identifying the weak, the scared, the guilty. They know who to target first to break a group's morale.

How to Survive Them

You probably can't kill a hangin' judge. Not permanently. But you might be able to survive an encounter if you're smart, fast, and very lucky.

Run Until Dawn

The simplest strategy is also the most exhausting: run. Keep moving, stay ahead of the judge, and pray you can last until sunrise. The judge has Pace 8, so a good horse can outrun it—but you need to keep that horse fresh, and you need to avoid getting boxed in or cornered.

Make for somewhere you can defend, somewhere with multiple exits, somewhere the judge can't trap you easily. Then play a deadly game of cat and mouse until the sun comes up. It's not glamorous, but it works—if you've got the stamina.

Leave the Territory

If you can get off the Chisholm Trail and out of the judge's hunting ground before it finds you, you might avoid the encounter entirely. The judges seem to stick to specific territories. Cross out of those boundaries and you're safe—until you have to cross back through.

Of course, figuring out where those boundaries are in the dark while being hunted is its own special challenge.

The Lawman's Gun

If you've got a legitimate lawman in your group—someone with a real badge, real authority, who's killed the abomination in lawful service—their bullets can put a hangin' judge down for the night. It's not permanent, but it buys you time.

This requires:

• An actual sworn lawman (not just someone claiming to be one)
• Good shooting—the judge is fast and dangerous
• Willingness to face the same judge again the next night, angrier than before
• A plan for what to do after you've "killed" it temporarily

The Hanging Solution

If you want to permanently destroy a hangin' judge, you need to hang it. This is monumentally difficult and requires:

• Capture: Somehow subdue the creature long enough to get a noose on it
• Rope: Strong hemp rope that can bear the creature's weight
• Height: A tree branch, gallows, or other structure high enough to hang from
• Time: The judge must hang until destroyed—which could take a while
• Defense: You need to protect the hanging site from the judge's supernatural strength

Some groups have managed it by working together: one or more lawmen shoot the judge down temporarily, others get the noose ready, and everyone works frantically to string it up before it revives. It's desperate, dangerous work—but it's the only permanent solution.

The Aftermath

When a hangin' judge successfully kills its prey, it carries out the sentence with methodical precision. The victim is strung up along the Chisholm Trail—hanging from a tree, a telegraph pole, an old gallows, whatever's convenient. The judge then paints the victim's "crime" on their forehead in blood.

Travelers find these corpses come morning: bodies swaying in the wind, the word "BLUE" or "WHISTLING" or "TEXAS" scrawled in dried blood across their foreheads. It's a warning, though not one that helps much—how do you avoid committing a crime when you don't know what the crime is?

The bodies are usually left where they hang, becoming grim landmarks along the trail. "That's where ol' Tom got hanged for wearing a red bandana. That was three months ago—judge must've decided red was illegal that night."

Survivor Accounts

From the trail diary of Samuel "Sam" Houston (no relation), cattle driver:

"May 14th, 1876. We lost Mickey Donovan last night. He was riding drag when we heard the shooting start—must've been twenty shots or more, coming fast like someone with two guns who knew how to use them. By the time we got back there, Mickey was down and something in black robes was standing over him. Couldn't see its face, just darkness under that hood. It was whispering something over and over, but I couldn't make it out. We opened fire—I know we hit it, saw the bullets punch through, but it didn't go down. It just turned toward us and raised those pistols. We ran. God help me, we ran and left Mickey there. Found him this morning strung up from a cottonwood. Someone had written 'SINGING' on his forehead in his own blood. Mickey always did like to sing while he rode. Guess that was illegal last night. We're breaking camp and riding hard for Dodge. If we push the cattle, we can make it by tomorrow night. I don't care if we lose half the herd—I'm not spending another night on this trail."

Official report from Texas Ranger Captain James Wilson:

"Regarding the incidents along the Chisholm Trail: I have investigated seven deaths in the past two months, all following the same pattern. Victims found hanging from trees or posts, faces marked with various words in blood. Local testimony speaks of figures in black robes carrying strange pistols, hunting at night and killing for no apparent reason. I interviewed three witnesses who claim to have encountered these entities and survived until dawn. All three describe the same phenomenon: a hooded figure that whispers accusations and cannot be killed by conventional weapons. One witness, a U.S. Marshal named Davis, claims he shot one of these things six times center mass with no effect. I am forced to conclude we are dealing with supernatural entities beyond normal law enforcement capabilities. Recommend all Ranger patrols avoid the Chisholm Trail after dark and advise civilians to travel only during daylight hours. I never thought I'd write a report like this, but I've seen too much in this territory to dismiss the accounts as frontier superstition. Something evil walks that trail, and it's wearing a judge's robes."

Troubleshooter Tips

1. Daylight Only: If you must travel the Chisholm Trail, do it during the day. Make camp before sunset and don't break camp until full daylight.

2. Bring a Lawman: A legitimate law officer's bullets can at least temporarily stop a hangin' judge. It's not a permanent solution, but it beats running all night.

3. Know the Territory: Talk to local trail hands and cattle drivers. They often know which sections of the trail are haunted and what "crimes" the judges have been enforcing lately.

4. Fast Horses: Keep your mounts in good condition. Your life might depend on outrunning a Pace 8 abomination until dawn.

5. Defendable Camps: If you're forced to camp in hangin' judge territory, choose locations with good sight lines and multiple escape routes. Never camp where you can be trapped.

6. Listen for Whispering: That's your first warning. If you hear that rasping voice whispering the same word over and over, you're being hunted. Move immediately.

7. Don't Admit to Being Texan: This can't be stressed enough. If you're from Texas, keep it to yourself while on the trail. The judges always execute Texans.

8. Pre-Plan Hanging Sites: If your posse includes lawmen and you're serious about destroying a judge, scout locations in advance. Know where you can set up a hanging if you manage to bring one down.

9. Carry Strong Rope: If you plan to hang a judge, bring rope that won't break. Check it regularly. Your life might depend on it holding.

10. Respect the Threat: These aren't common outlaws or walking dead. These are powerful abominations with specific immunities and capabilities. Treat them accordingly and don't underestimate them.

"Court's always in session on the Chisholm Trail. And the verdict's always guilty."