[INTRO — DRIVING NORTHERN OUTLAW | 4/4 ~102 BPM | DREADNOUGHT | FIVE-STRING BASS | LOW TOMS] [MALE NARRATOR — low-mid baritone, clear, urgent, third-person] [Verse 1] By morning Jack had maps unfolded, Coffee black and shutters wide. Pike and Moss and Edwin Shaw Were standing at the table's side. Three men he'd stood against last night, Three men who'd voted other ways. Pike said, “I voted against you.” Jack said, “Good. Keep doing that.” [TELECASTER: 5→6] Then pointed Pike toward northern ground, Moss to guns and men, Shaw to stores and horses. Planning had begun. [Verse 2] [DRIVING 4/4] “How many Crows?” “Two thousand.” “How many dead?” Nobody knew. “Twenty thousand?” “Maybe.” “Fifty?” “Could be.” “A hundred?” “Could be two.” Jack tapped charcoal on the table. “They sleep?” “No.” “Eat?” “No.” “Water?” “No.” “Cold?” Pike shook his head. [RESONATOR: ♭2→1] Refrain They don't sleep. They don't tire. They don't hunger. They don't thirst. Every mile costs living men. The dead just keep on walking. No wagons rolling north behind them. No horses dropping dead. No bread. No grain. No winter coats. Just an army already dead. [Verse 3 — A Hundred Times] Jack asked how long two thousand Could hold against a hundred grand. Moss said twenty thousand rifles Might at least give them a chance. Pike finally asked the question: “How many do you want?” Jack looked down at two thousand marks Drawn thin across the line. “A hundred times.” [HARD STOP] Shaw stared. “Two hundred thousand?” Jack nodded. “For starters.” [Verse 4 — Guns] Moss laughed without amusement. “Where do we find that many guns?” Jack said, “They're already here.” County sheriffs. Ranch-house rifles. Mining camps and border towns. Militias. Armies. Private weapons. Seven Counties armed right now. Pike said, “Getting them to point them north might be the harder part.” Jack: “First we make them understand what's coming in the dark.” [Verse 5 — Black Glass] [LONG-DARK RESONATOR: 1–♭2–♭3–4–♭5–5–6] Moss tapped one finger on the map. “Guns didn't stop that Rider.” Jack laid black glass upon the table. “This did.” Silence. Shaw picked up the shard. “How much?” “Wagonloads.” “How many?” “Hundreds.” “From where?” Pike touched the map. Crown Junction. Moss muttered, “Of course.” [Chorus] [FULL BAND] Two thousand men. A hundred times are needed. Two hundred thousand guns before the end. Hundreds of wagons of black obsidian glass, And Seven Counties that don't yet understand. The dead need nothing. The living need it all. Jack stared at seven counties Drawn across the wall. [Verse 6 — Start With One] Two hundred thousand guns and people. Hundreds of wagons full of stone. Seven Counties busy fighting Over who should rule them all. Pike asked, “Where the hell do we start?” Jack studied all that ground. Seven Counties. Seven quarrels. Seven ways to shut him down. Then his finger found the North. “Start with one.” [Verse 7 — Home] Horace had a home to get to. Elena chose to ride along. Brayden had a sister Who believed her brother gone. Jack would take a dozen Crows And see the three of them there safe, Then put the numbers before Sarah— Every ugly calculation. Pike said, “Your sister first?” “She'll listen.” “And if she thinks you're right?” Jack looked south. “Then we find who's next.” [Verse 8 — Brayden] [DRUMS OUT | LOW WOOD FLUTE: 1–2–4–5–♭7, NO 3RD] Jack asked Brayden, “Sarah home?” “She will be.” “Alone?” “No.” Jack waited. “A girl.” Another pause. “Three black birds.” “Crows?” Brayden shook his head. “Bigger.” “How big?” “Horse big.” [PAUSE] Jack stared at him. Brayden turned south. “They're coming home.” [Final Chorus] [DRIVING FULL BAND] Two thousand men. A hundred times are needed. Two hundred thousand guns before the end. Hundreds of wagons of black volcanic glass. [Seven Counties] But first they needed one. No grand alliance. No banners yet unfurled. Jack Snow rolled the map. “We start with Sarah.” [Outro] [RIDING RHYTHM | DREADNOUGHT + LOW TOM] Twelve black coats rode out at morning. Horace. Elena. Brayden too. A blind boy going home. A brother thought gone with him. A new commander riding south With numbers no one wanted. [RESONATOR: ♭2→1] Far behind them, slow as winter, the dead keep walking. [CUT]
