- Posting Speed
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
A Sin of No Name
- Thread starter Kuno
- Start date
- Posting Speed
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
DAY ONE
The day dawns with more questions than answers. Last night's events left the newcomers squirreled away at the town's Inn for the night, and the morning carries over raw memories from what happened. There is barely time to process it. As they leave their rooms, they will find the day's paper left just outside their door, with a plainly written message on the back:
There is no mention of the previous night's murder.
A decrepit old man sits idly by himself in the Inn's lobby. Old Man Worth, as the townsfolk call him. When passing him, he will make verbal jabs about the newcomers before eyeing the young lady with suspiciously good focus--for a "blind" man.
The streets of Highland are scarce. One man, however, sweeps the front porch of the general goods store, cheerily whistling to himself. An odd thing, after such an awful tragedy…
@PoetLore @Red Thunder @Hamlowe @HellHoundWoof
Welcome to Highland!
After a particularly messed up night in town, I've given your characters a bit of freedom in what they want to do next. Interaction with the other rpers is an easy route. However, you also have other NPCs to possibly interrogate and investigate as to what happened. And don't forget there's a special town welcome waiting for you…. :)
This is the first day, so feel free to explore!
PLEASE REPORT TO THE MAYOR'S OFFICE FOR A PROPER TOWN WELCOME & WORK -- M.T.
There is no mention of the previous night's murder.
A decrepit old man sits idly by himself in the Inn's lobby. Old Man Worth, as the townsfolk call him. When passing him, he will make verbal jabs about the newcomers before eyeing the young lady with suspiciously good focus--for a "blind" man.
The streets of Highland are scarce. One man, however, sweeps the front porch of the general goods store, cheerily whistling to himself. An odd thing, after such an awful tragedy…
GM NOTE:
@PoetLore @Red Thunder @Hamlowe @HellHoundWoof
Welcome to Highland!
After a particularly messed up night in town, I've given your characters a bit of freedom in what they want to do next. Interaction with the other rpers is an easy route. However, you also have other NPCs to possibly interrogate and investigate as to what happened. And don't forget there's a special town welcome waiting for you…. :)
This is the first day, so feel free to explore!
P
PoetLore
Guest
Charlotte had spent most of the night reading, almost afraid to extinguish the lamp in her room. She'd heard the shot and the odd noises that filled her mind with far too many possible explanations for comfort. Her brother had come in to check on her after hearing the shots, and while she had appreciated it he was his normal condescending self as far as her fears were concerned. he blamed them on her books, saying they put crazy ideas into her head that ought not to be there. Thankfully he'd retreated to his own room shortly after seeing she was physically well. So afterward, even though she felt sure she would regret the lack of sleep come the morrow, she sat at the head of her bed with the blankets pulled up tight around her and attempted to console herself in an old favorite book, Jane Eyre.
Frank had tried to calm his sister but he'd long ago given up trying to make sense of her crazy ranting and raving about ghosts and monsters and other such nonsense. Had she ever seen such things? No. Was she ever going to see such things? No. The whole manner in which her mind worked troubled him, and made it difficult for him to remain in her company for too long. He loved his sister dearly, but there were times he was sure she was near insane.
Unlike his sister, Frank had no trouble sleeping once he was back in his room and things outside had settled down somewhat. He woke with the sun and cleaned up in the wash bin next to the bed. He hadn't brought much in from the wagons, since this was just a room and not the homestead he'd been expecting. Pulling on his thick boots and then stomping on the floor to settle his feet firmly in them, he reached for his side arm and buckled it around his waist. His overcoat was hanging near the door with his hat and he grabbed up both as he headed to collect Charlotte. Hopefully this place had edible food available. He was used to a hearty meal in the morning.
Tapping on Charlotte's door he waited, knowing it would take her forever to answer.
Charlotte saw the sun and heard her brother in the next room and figured for once she better be ready when he knocked on the door. Even though it took far longer for her to dress than it did him. Men would never appreciate the length of time it took to put on all the layers of clothing a lady was expected to wear. Petticoat, pantaloons, corset, underdress and dress plus the shawl and bonnet. Somehow she managed to get all but her shawl and bonnet on before he knocked. She was quite proud of herself. Only a minute passes before she opened the door. "Good morning Brother."
Frank was pleasantly surprised, "Good Morning Charlotte." They made their way down the stairs and passed the old man who seemed to be watching Charlotte oddly. Once outside Frank noticed there was very little moving. "Sleepy place."
Charlotte motioned across the street, "The merchant is up and about...perhaps he can direct us to a place to eat."
"He would appear to be the only one who can," He admitted ruefully. They COULD have asked that old man but he didn't like the look he was giving Charlotte. When he was alone, he would confront that old man. They crossed the street and he tipped his hat to the whistling man, "Morning Sir, I am Frank Peters and this is my sister Charlotte. We were wondering if there was a place folks might get something to eat."
Frank had tried to calm his sister but he'd long ago given up trying to make sense of her crazy ranting and raving about ghosts and monsters and other such nonsense. Had she ever seen such things? No. Was she ever going to see such things? No. The whole manner in which her mind worked troubled him, and made it difficult for him to remain in her company for too long. He loved his sister dearly, but there were times he was sure she was near insane.
Unlike his sister, Frank had no trouble sleeping once he was back in his room and things outside had settled down somewhat. He woke with the sun and cleaned up in the wash bin next to the bed. He hadn't brought much in from the wagons, since this was just a room and not the homestead he'd been expecting. Pulling on his thick boots and then stomping on the floor to settle his feet firmly in them, he reached for his side arm and buckled it around his waist. His overcoat was hanging near the door with his hat and he grabbed up both as he headed to collect Charlotte. Hopefully this place had edible food available. He was used to a hearty meal in the morning.
Tapping on Charlotte's door he waited, knowing it would take her forever to answer.
Charlotte saw the sun and heard her brother in the next room and figured for once she better be ready when he knocked on the door. Even though it took far longer for her to dress than it did him. Men would never appreciate the length of time it took to put on all the layers of clothing a lady was expected to wear. Petticoat, pantaloons, corset, underdress and dress plus the shawl and bonnet. Somehow she managed to get all but her shawl and bonnet on before he knocked. She was quite proud of herself. Only a minute passes before she opened the door. "Good morning Brother."
Frank was pleasantly surprised, "Good Morning Charlotte." They made their way down the stairs and passed the old man who seemed to be watching Charlotte oddly. Once outside Frank noticed there was very little moving. "Sleepy place."
Charlotte motioned across the street, "The merchant is up and about...perhaps he can direct us to a place to eat."
"He would appear to be the only one who can," He admitted ruefully. They COULD have asked that old man but he didn't like the look he was giving Charlotte. When he was alone, he would confront that old man. They crossed the street and he tipped his hat to the whistling man, "Morning Sir, I am Frank Peters and this is my sister Charlotte. We were wondering if there was a place folks might get something to eat."
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
Jorge del Rios
el Bandito Guapo
Forty dollars. Forty dollars. The remnants of a stash to make el Gobernador de California blush. Arms crossed, with a scowl to sour fresh milk screwing up his face, Jorge stood staring down at the bed on which he'd spent the night. Laid on its surface in carefully arranged piles lay an assortment of paper bills and various currencies of metal coinage. It wasn't much, nothing like what he was used to living on in the span of a month, let alone the unknown miles he was still going to have to traverse to leave the marshal's behind. Hell, he'd have to part with some amount just to leave the damned hotel. Unless...el Bandito Guapo
The night previous had seen fit to leave him enough of his wits to both leave his horse secured some small distance from the hotel and to request a ground floor room. Clothes on his back, money secured in various regular locations about his person, and saddlebag slung across his shoulder, the Mexican slipped through the window, careful to close it again before he left. It wasn't locked, certainly, but the town would shortly be long behind him as he moved east. The newspaper, and the announcement that lay upon it for him, remained in front of his door, ignored. Eyes squinted against the early morning sun, Jorge strolled down the dirt path, affecting a casual air.
He rounded the corner to where he'd left his horse, and the affect vanished. His horse was gone, with any sign of its even having been there removed. Even the damned horse droppings had been cleaned! Whomever it was that had done this knew what they were doing.
Jorge cursed loudly, earning him a gasp or two from the school marm passing by and a stern look from what appeared to be the local padre. He paid them no mind. Without his horse, he was stranded; no way in hell was he about to attempt eastward travel without one. Snarling and kicking at the wooden post that had so recently restrained his horse, Jorge weighed his options. Buying a new horse outright was out of the question; they were expensive at the best of times, and out here in the wilderness, their scarcity would drive the price even higher. Nor was he about to steal one. His freehand went to his throat, remembering Esteban and his punishment for horse thieving. Traveling by coach was likely to be nearly as expensive as buying a horse, and it ran the additional risk of recognition from law enforcement. No, there had to be another option. One that, preferably, kept him far from the damned sheriff.
Which meant the mayor. Jorge took a moment to roll a cigarette and lit it. The process was calming, providing structure for his frustrated and panicking mind to latch on to. Thus better prepared for finding a solution, Jorge turned and strode off, seeking the mayor's office.
- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per week
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- Evening by Eastern Standard Time
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Slice-of-life, Dying Earth fantasy, Sword-and-Sorcery, Sword-and-Planet
BANG
In the house two doors down from the inn, in the back spare room, Father McCarthy started awake. For an agonized space he waited for more gunshots that never came, then he prayed for sleep that would also never come. Instead, an idea occurred to him. Rising quietly, he crossed the room to the barely-glowing oil lamp. Shaking gently traced its outline to the winding key and turned, illuminating a face paler than usual from the shock. Squinting against the sudden brightness, he moved a pace over to the prie-dieu. On his knees he leafed through the Breviarum Romanum, murmuring the opening prayers: "Pater noster, qui est in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum..."
And so he continued. The familiar psalms for Matins of All Saints' Octave soothed his trouble. He prayed for the deceased, for the bereaved, for all who would be killed tonight and all who would be bereaved. Something about it seemed right. Perhaps he ought to try this, as a penance for the heathens of the town. A half-hour (at most) in the dead of night was a small price to pay for their souls. Moreover, perhaps he could sleep a bit later and wake with the dawn like the Good Lord bloody well intended before saying Lauds.
His voice shook as he murmured the Te Deum, not singing it for the first time in forever. Even after a half-hour of meditation in the dark, sleep did not come easily when he finally returned to bed.
†††††††
As soon as the sun winked over the horizon, Father McCarthy began Lauds. He finished in a scarce ten minutes before taking his saturno off its hook and leaving, ignoring the newspaper on the doorstep. There was no possible way the paper could know who had died the night before, and to him that was all that mattered. Once he found out who had died, he would say Prime and prepare to hear Confessions before Terce and Holy Mass. It was a simple plan, so naturally something would throw his mind off.
Something turned out to be an obscenity directed at nothing the priest could discern, from a rough-cut man of the Hispanic persuasion. Father shot a quick glare at the offender, then crossed himself and said a prayer for him. What else could be done? As he set off down the road, trying to ignore the dust already clinging to his cassock, he reminded himself of his question: Who had died?
In the house two doors down from the inn, in the back spare room, Father McCarthy started awake. For an agonized space he waited for more gunshots that never came, then he prayed for sleep that would also never come. Instead, an idea occurred to him. Rising quietly, he crossed the room to the barely-glowing oil lamp. Shaking gently traced its outline to the winding key and turned, illuminating a face paler than usual from the shock. Squinting against the sudden brightness, he moved a pace over to the prie-dieu. On his knees he leafed through the Breviarum Romanum, murmuring the opening prayers: "Pater noster, qui est in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum..."
And so he continued. The familiar psalms for Matins of All Saints' Octave soothed his trouble. He prayed for the deceased, for the bereaved, for all who would be killed tonight and all who would be bereaved. Something about it seemed right. Perhaps he ought to try this, as a penance for the heathens of the town. A half-hour (at most) in the dead of night was a small price to pay for their souls. Moreover, perhaps he could sleep a bit later and wake with the dawn like the Good Lord bloody well intended before saying Lauds.
His voice shook as he murmured the Te Deum, not singing it for the first time in forever. Even after a half-hour of meditation in the dark, sleep did not come easily when he finally returned to bed.
†††††††
As soon as the sun winked over the horizon, Father McCarthy began Lauds. He finished in a scarce ten minutes before taking his saturno off its hook and leaving, ignoring the newspaper on the doorstep. There was no possible way the paper could know who had died the night before, and to him that was all that mattered. Once he found out who had died, he would say Prime and prepare to hear Confessions before Terce and Holy Mass. It was a simple plan, so naturally something would throw his mind off.
Something turned out to be an obscenity directed at nothing the priest could discern, from a rough-cut man of the Hispanic persuasion. Father shot a quick glare at the offender, then crossed himself and said a prayer for him. What else could be done? As he set off down the road, trying to ignore the dust already clinging to his cassock, he reminded himself of his question: Who had died?
H
Hell Hound Woof
Guest
While the Sun sat low on the horizon the creatures of the plains began to stir. The light began casting long shadow coated fingers across the brush covered dirt. As the shadows stretched across the land one could define the smaller shrubbery, larger juniper trees dotted around cast tall decorative shapes on the ground. Amid these shadows one large blob extended a great shadow. The blob stirred as the hair covered arms of a man protruded from beneath the lip of a native american ute. Where the blanket rose one could see the top half of a horse with a man tucked against it's warm belly. Following the arms out of the blanket came the mans head and torso exposing themselves to the courteously dim light of day. His eyelids stayed at a squint while one of his hands mussed his hair then while using the other hand for balance he affixed his hair behind his head. Lincoln leaned forward while still holding his hair behind him and began to look for his hat. After scanning his surroundings he saw the half full bottle of whiskey he'd picked up a day earlier sitting upright. The bottle sat a foot away from the pile of ash that was the last nights fire and Lincoln sat roughly five feet from it. With a sigh Lincoln dropped his hair from his hand and placed both behind him on the stomach of his horse. The action prompted the beast to stir then rapidly it got to it's feet disorienting it's owner. Lincoln's arms were pushed up and behind him like a chickens wings before he rose a foot from the ground. The blanket that had half covered he and his horse now lazily wrapped around Lincoln's legs causing enough hinderance to stop him from righting himself. When his weight shifted from the horses side to the ground he was gravity's helpless victim. He cursed at his horse as buttocks struck the rock covered ground. He rolled to the side to massage himself briefly then he stood to continue cursing his horse while it trotted around happily whinnying in his direction.
"Damn you Trotter!" He raised his voice, "Over active sum'bitch you better cool it, 'fore I sell your ass to the damned meat market!"
Lincoln turned his hands downward towards the ground as if trying to sense the location of his prey. He took a few steps backwards to see if he'd dropped anything and felt a soft object underfoot. Groaning he lifted his foot as he turned then knelt to pick up his now crushed staker's hat. He held the dusty hat with the brim clenched in his teeth as his hands worked his hair to some semblance of order. When he was finally satisfied he tilted his head back and took the hat in his left hand to place it on his head. He adjusted the angle of his hat then tightened his belt in the final act to complete his attire. He wore a now dirty-white Hubbard shirt on top of simple grey trousers with his belt-line bandolier just above his holster's. The leather boots he wore were the only thing out of place about him, during the war he'd taken a pair off a deceased union cavalry officer. Lincoln was checking his pockets hoping to find a nub of the cigar he'd had the night before. In the bottom of his front pocket his index and middle finger squeezed the cigar lightly in order to draw it from the pocket without damaging it. He could feel a sizable flake of a tobacco leaf beginning to catch the inside of his pocket and stopped. Lincoln readjusted his grip so that the cigar was clasped firmly in hand, he removed fist from pocket, then placed the thin end in his mouth. To his left the sound of glass cracking slowly then with a pop it shattered. In a huff he turned his head to the side to find the source of the commotion prompting the cigar to hang limply from his mouth in disbelief. Where the bottle had been there was now a large boot. That boot seemed to be bursting at the seems filled with something larger still connecting to it. Lincoln's eyes traced upwards to see what surely must have been the lovechild of an elephant and a bear. The seam of the mans shirt was saved only because he dared not button over his goitered neck and protruding stomach. Across his exposed stomach the man held a Winchester repeater which was dwarfed by the size of his hands. Looking past the bigger man Lincoln saw another, this one had a full beard and hand on the pistol on his hip. Though skinnier than the other he was no twig by Lincoln's standards. Assessing the two of them Lincoln could see they were not standing in a manner to share the campsite, they were here for something particular. Something they werent prepared to just have handed over apparently.
"That was my bot..." Lincoln began but was cut off by the smaller man.
"Was... boy..." After each word he let fall a large brown glob from his mouth, "Aint no more..."
"Aint nobody's no more, that'd be the problem..." Lincoln snapped back in a low growl.
"Well dont need to be any problems Mister. We didnt come out here for trouble with you," said the big man plainly trying to take Lincoln's attention "I'm Luther Biggs, thats Little Joe. We come out here from looking for someone."
"As obliged as I am for this little bit of conversation I got business in town about a half days ride from here..."
The big man stuck one finger into the open action bar pushing it down then racking it back up to chamber a round. Lincoln stopped talking as the sounds of the rifle had the trio fixed on each other. Lincoln at first bore an expression of surprise then his countenance seemed devoid of humanity like a beast threatened. Within some brief few seconds the situation had changed. Lincoln's eyes darted between the two firearms his enemies had between them. Little Joe had now drawn his pistol taking aim lazily at Lincoln's midsection from Luther's right. Luther himself had his rifle in front of him but not affixed on Lincoln rather more to his left, possibly at Lincoln's horse. As they stood now there were nearly eight paces between Lincoln and Luther, perhaps nine to Joe on the right. The men sat with their bodies faced towards Lincoln and he at an angle with his left leg towards them. On his right hip was his favored pistol and three quarters of his waist away on the other side sat the other in the gunfighter position. Measuring the gap he knew couldnt make it to them before they loaded him down with a hail of gunfire. His right hand began to sink downwards towards his pistol. Immediately Luther let a round fly from his rifle without bothering to aim. Lincoln's hand swiftly jumped from a ready position to over his shoulder as the crack of the rifle dissipated. A cloud of dust hung low around Lincoln's feet from where the round had fallen. Lincoln's horse Trotter brayed in fear and jumped once behind him before trotting a few paces away. The corner of the gunslinger's mouth turned upwards as he looked towards the men in front of him. He cocked his head to the side to block the sun beginning to show light on his unshaven face before he moved his hands to his sides turning them up like a showman.
"You looking for the Ol' South Cackalacky Kid?" He mused exultingly drawing out his moniker.
"The hell is that?!" Little Joe laughed through his tobacco filled jaw, "Cack calico? Boy you talk like some low..."
"Easy now Joe, aint no reason to antagonize this fella." Luther bellowed to his colleague, "We looking for a man darker of skin but not quite ashen. He's got gold teeth, funny accent but it dont match the Monsieur far as I can tell. Met him in Salt Lake, I been to Golden City, Ogden, and even down to damn Povo looking for his ass."
"The hell'd you want with O'Fellis?" Lincoln mumbled through the cigar in his mouth
Lincoln had tuned the man out after the world Monsieur. He needed to know little more than what he already knew and starting thinking. How fortune favors the unfortunate. Here he had been wandering from town to town in Utah thinking surely the man had been imagination. By fate here stood three men on the rocky soil of Utah foolishly pushing each other towards conflict. Even despite a common interest they would make no effoorts towards peace. All knew resolution was near as the sun began to rise higher in the sky casting the men's shadows farther. Lincoln's hand were still above his hips with the palms facing skyward. He held them there as he chewed the end of the cigar still stuck in his mouth. Biggs began telling a story not dissimilar to Lincoln's own. How O'Fellis had come to them in the middle of the night with a plan to rob a bank was truly the only difference. Already tiresome Lincoln happily assumed the story ended like his own, with Mephis T. O'Fellis disappearing before anything discussed could transpire. Then Luther mentioned where the pair were heading just in time for Lincoln to tune back. He caught two important words, Highland Range. So with that thought in mind Lincoln did the only thinkable thing to do, he asked for a light.
"Anyone got a match on em?" He said cutting Luther off mid sentence, "I'm typically a better listener with a smoke in my mouth."
To Lincoln's surprise Little Joe reached into the front pocket of his shirt to fish for what could have been a match. It didnt matter. Luther saw Lincoln's eyes dart to the other man and followed in kind. That was that. Lincoln's hands darted down, his right drew his pistol while the left moved deftly into position to slam the hammer back. He bent his knees to gain stability and slightly change his position as he took aim. With the butt of his gun now resting on his hip Lincoln squeezed his trigger. The first bullet erupted from the gun with a retort that caused Luther to gasp and fumble his rifle. Blood exploded from Little Joe's stomach then the crack of another shot firing. The next round struck Joe in the neck sending him spiraling to the ground with blood flowing around him. Luther shook his bewilderment after the second shot managing to chamber a round in the repeater he now tried to aim at Lincoln. Seconds passed as years when the adversaries eyes met to question each other. Lincoln had measured the mans intent in those few seconds. As the barrel of the repeater was aimed at Lincoln's head he dropped to his already bent knee. The crack of the repeater sounded followed by the sharp wine of it ricocheting off in the distance. A set of bright white teeth could be seen as Lincoln erupted into a boasting laugh while raising his right hand. He thumbed the hammer down then took aim, squeezed, thumbed the hammer, squeezed then again. The big man groaned in agony as he clutched the rifle desperately trying to maintain his footing. The barrel stuffed into the ground while he doubled over trying in vain to plug the two seeping wounds on either side of his hip. Lincoln stood with his right arm extended towards his opponent with the same conviction it held before. He approached cautiously but not slowly to make sure of his footing. Luther dropped to his knees and rested on his haunches. He struggled to pull his firearm through the dirt while trying to bring it to bear against Lincoln. With merciless precision he thumbed the hammer as he trained sights on Luther's rifle and squeezed slowly. Luther's rifle was flung to the dirt next to him. The big man went to reach for it but it was too late Lincoln was already upon him. As Lincoln neared Luther he shifted his footing then brought up his left boot heel in a swift forward kick to Luther's nose.
"Oooooooooooooooooh!" Luther wailed agonizingly, "You sum' bitch! I'm gonna fuc...C uh...CaUgh!"
"Shut the hell up already," The gunslinger rang heavy low southern accent as he forced his right boot heal down on the mans throat. He leaned down to place his right elbow on his knee. Looking down at the bleeding man with the crooked nose he spun his pistol around his trigger finger. Lincoln's fingers moved deftly out of the trigger guard to clasp the pistol by the barrel and cylinder. He lightened his foot on the man's throat as he dictated terms.
"I dont wanna hear no'mo moaning or groaning outta you. Next thing out of your pie-hole better be where the hell O'Fellis is... I will make you tell me so get to it."
"You killed Little Joey!" Luther sputtered through the blood. It wasnt his fault he didnt know the literal nature of Lincoln's words but it made no difference to the gunslinger. Leaning up and throwing the pistol over his shoulder with his right hand he turned his head towards Luther's midsection as it sank behind his back. His left hand came from behind his back like the shadow of death over Luther as it trained it's sights towards his crotch. Lincoln squeezed the trigger again then forced his boot further into the mans neck than before. Luther tried to howl but barely managed a wheeze as he writhed in pain. Lincoln leaned back in on right knee with his elbow again this time stuffing the barrel under the big man's chin and resting on his goitered neck.
"Tell me," Lincoln said as he cocked the hammer back again, "Now!"
" Aiiiicht! " Luther labored to say his next word while fumbling with his left front pocket, "Maaap"
Lincoln reached down to the mans chest with his right hand then smacked the man's hand away before reaching his index and middle finger into the tightly stretched pocket. He gurgled something else but Lincoln pressed harder on his throat to signify his distaste. Inside the pocket there was a small folded bit of paper containing newspaper clippings from The Highland Times. It was dated some weeks hence but what caught Lincoln's surprise was the drawing in the corner. Detailed with shading and no color but the same gold could be seen on the smile of Mephis T. O'Fellis' countenance. Lincoln looked Luther straight in the eyes as he lifted his foot from his throat then planted it on the ground to stand straight. Luther pointed the direction of the town with his right arm which prompted Lincoln to take aim at his head. The larger man sat there with the barrel of Lincoln's gun trained directly at his eyes now. Seemingly paralyzed by fear all the man could do was watch and wait for his death unfold.
"BANG!" Lincoln shouted as he squeezed the trigger to hear a metallic click, "Heheeeheeeee!"
Lincoln turned around to howl with laughter as the big man shook with fear when the gun sang empty. The gunslinger left the bleeding man where he was to whatever powers that be as he walked over to the blanket he'd used the night before. With a flashy movement he tucked his empty firearm into it's holster. He clicked his tongue then whistled twice to call Trotter to him while he folded the thick blanket. As trained the horse trotted up to his side then stopped and shook it's head with a light bray. Lincoln threw the blanket over the horses back then his saddle before finally securing the belt underneath it's belly. Hooking one heel into a stirrup then hoisting himself up with a grunt Lincoln straddled the horse and grabbed the reigns. He guided the horse towards the direction of the two men at a slow canter. Luther had now rolled onto his stomach attempting to crawl away from his assailant. Lincoln brought the horse around and in front of the man so that he had a birds eye view of him. Looking down at him with a crooked smile the southerner left him with a few parting words before turning his horse around.
"If you live to see the livin' or die to meet the dead. Tell 'em it was the South Carolina Kid who didnt shoot you in the head."
"Damn you Trotter!" He raised his voice, "Over active sum'bitch you better cool it, 'fore I sell your ass to the damned meat market!"
Lincoln turned his hands downward towards the ground as if trying to sense the location of his prey. He took a few steps backwards to see if he'd dropped anything and felt a soft object underfoot. Groaning he lifted his foot as he turned then knelt to pick up his now crushed staker's hat. He held the dusty hat with the brim clenched in his teeth as his hands worked his hair to some semblance of order. When he was finally satisfied he tilted his head back and took the hat in his left hand to place it on his head. He adjusted the angle of his hat then tightened his belt in the final act to complete his attire. He wore a now dirty-white Hubbard shirt on top of simple grey trousers with his belt-line bandolier just above his holster's. The leather boots he wore were the only thing out of place about him, during the war he'd taken a pair off a deceased union cavalry officer. Lincoln was checking his pockets hoping to find a nub of the cigar he'd had the night before. In the bottom of his front pocket his index and middle finger squeezed the cigar lightly in order to draw it from the pocket without damaging it. He could feel a sizable flake of a tobacco leaf beginning to catch the inside of his pocket and stopped. Lincoln readjusted his grip so that the cigar was clasped firmly in hand, he removed fist from pocket, then placed the thin end in his mouth. To his left the sound of glass cracking slowly then with a pop it shattered. In a huff he turned his head to the side to find the source of the commotion prompting the cigar to hang limply from his mouth in disbelief. Where the bottle had been there was now a large boot. That boot seemed to be bursting at the seems filled with something larger still connecting to it. Lincoln's eyes traced upwards to see what surely must have been the lovechild of an elephant and a bear. The seam of the mans shirt was saved only because he dared not button over his goitered neck and protruding stomach. Across his exposed stomach the man held a Winchester repeater which was dwarfed by the size of his hands. Looking past the bigger man Lincoln saw another, this one had a full beard and hand on the pistol on his hip. Though skinnier than the other he was no twig by Lincoln's standards. Assessing the two of them Lincoln could see they were not standing in a manner to share the campsite, they were here for something particular. Something they werent prepared to just have handed over apparently.
"That was my bot..." Lincoln began but was cut off by the smaller man.
"Was... boy..." After each word he let fall a large brown glob from his mouth, "Aint no more..."
"Aint nobody's no more, that'd be the problem..." Lincoln snapped back in a low growl.
"Well dont need to be any problems Mister. We didnt come out here for trouble with you," said the big man plainly trying to take Lincoln's attention "I'm Luther Biggs, thats Little Joe. We come out here from looking for someone."
"As obliged as I am for this little bit of conversation I got business in town about a half days ride from here..."
The big man stuck one finger into the open action bar pushing it down then racking it back up to chamber a round. Lincoln stopped talking as the sounds of the rifle had the trio fixed on each other. Lincoln at first bore an expression of surprise then his countenance seemed devoid of humanity like a beast threatened. Within some brief few seconds the situation had changed. Lincoln's eyes darted between the two firearms his enemies had between them. Little Joe had now drawn his pistol taking aim lazily at Lincoln's midsection from Luther's right. Luther himself had his rifle in front of him but not affixed on Lincoln rather more to his left, possibly at Lincoln's horse. As they stood now there were nearly eight paces between Lincoln and Luther, perhaps nine to Joe on the right. The men sat with their bodies faced towards Lincoln and he at an angle with his left leg towards them. On his right hip was his favored pistol and three quarters of his waist away on the other side sat the other in the gunfighter position. Measuring the gap he knew couldnt make it to them before they loaded him down with a hail of gunfire. His right hand began to sink downwards towards his pistol. Immediately Luther let a round fly from his rifle without bothering to aim. Lincoln's hand swiftly jumped from a ready position to over his shoulder as the crack of the rifle dissipated. A cloud of dust hung low around Lincoln's feet from where the round had fallen. Lincoln's horse Trotter brayed in fear and jumped once behind him before trotting a few paces away. The corner of the gunslinger's mouth turned upwards as he looked towards the men in front of him. He cocked his head to the side to block the sun beginning to show light on his unshaven face before he moved his hands to his sides turning them up like a showman.
"You looking for the Ol' South Cackalacky Kid?" He mused exultingly drawing out his moniker.
"The hell is that?!" Little Joe laughed through his tobacco filled jaw, "Cack calico? Boy you talk like some low..."
"Easy now Joe, aint no reason to antagonize this fella." Luther bellowed to his colleague, "We looking for a man darker of skin but not quite ashen. He's got gold teeth, funny accent but it dont match the Monsieur far as I can tell. Met him in Salt Lake, I been to Golden City, Ogden, and even down to damn Povo looking for his ass."
"The hell'd you want with O'Fellis?" Lincoln mumbled through the cigar in his mouth
Lincoln had tuned the man out after the world Monsieur. He needed to know little more than what he already knew and starting thinking. How fortune favors the unfortunate. Here he had been wandering from town to town in Utah thinking surely the man had been imagination. By fate here stood three men on the rocky soil of Utah foolishly pushing each other towards conflict. Even despite a common interest they would make no effoorts towards peace. All knew resolution was near as the sun began to rise higher in the sky casting the men's shadows farther. Lincoln's hand were still above his hips with the palms facing skyward. He held them there as he chewed the end of the cigar still stuck in his mouth. Biggs began telling a story not dissimilar to Lincoln's own. How O'Fellis had come to them in the middle of the night with a plan to rob a bank was truly the only difference. Already tiresome Lincoln happily assumed the story ended like his own, with Mephis T. O'Fellis disappearing before anything discussed could transpire. Then Luther mentioned where the pair were heading just in time for Lincoln to tune back. He caught two important words, Highland Range. So with that thought in mind Lincoln did the only thinkable thing to do, he asked for a light.
"Anyone got a match on em?" He said cutting Luther off mid sentence, "I'm typically a better listener with a smoke in my mouth."
To Lincoln's surprise Little Joe reached into the front pocket of his shirt to fish for what could have been a match. It didnt matter. Luther saw Lincoln's eyes dart to the other man and followed in kind. That was that. Lincoln's hands darted down, his right drew his pistol while the left moved deftly into position to slam the hammer back. He bent his knees to gain stability and slightly change his position as he took aim. With the butt of his gun now resting on his hip Lincoln squeezed his trigger. The first bullet erupted from the gun with a retort that caused Luther to gasp and fumble his rifle. Blood exploded from Little Joe's stomach then the crack of another shot firing. The next round struck Joe in the neck sending him spiraling to the ground with blood flowing around him. Luther shook his bewilderment after the second shot managing to chamber a round in the repeater he now tried to aim at Lincoln. Seconds passed as years when the adversaries eyes met to question each other. Lincoln had measured the mans intent in those few seconds. As the barrel of the repeater was aimed at Lincoln's head he dropped to his already bent knee. The crack of the repeater sounded followed by the sharp wine of it ricocheting off in the distance. A set of bright white teeth could be seen as Lincoln erupted into a boasting laugh while raising his right hand. He thumbed the hammer down then took aim, squeezed, thumbed the hammer, squeezed then again. The big man groaned in agony as he clutched the rifle desperately trying to maintain his footing. The barrel stuffed into the ground while he doubled over trying in vain to plug the two seeping wounds on either side of his hip. Lincoln stood with his right arm extended towards his opponent with the same conviction it held before. He approached cautiously but not slowly to make sure of his footing. Luther dropped to his knees and rested on his haunches. He struggled to pull his firearm through the dirt while trying to bring it to bear against Lincoln. With merciless precision he thumbed the hammer as he trained sights on Luther's rifle and squeezed slowly. Luther's rifle was flung to the dirt next to him. The big man went to reach for it but it was too late Lincoln was already upon him. As Lincoln neared Luther he shifted his footing then brought up his left boot heel in a swift forward kick to Luther's nose.
"Oooooooooooooooooh!" Luther wailed agonizingly, "You sum' bitch! I'm gonna fuc...C uh...CaUgh!"
"Shut the hell up already," The gunslinger rang heavy low southern accent as he forced his right boot heal down on the mans throat. He leaned down to place his right elbow on his knee. Looking down at the bleeding man with the crooked nose he spun his pistol around his trigger finger. Lincoln's fingers moved deftly out of the trigger guard to clasp the pistol by the barrel and cylinder. He lightened his foot on the man's throat as he dictated terms.
"I dont wanna hear no'mo moaning or groaning outta you. Next thing out of your pie-hole better be where the hell O'Fellis is... I will make you tell me so get to it."
"You killed Little Joey!" Luther sputtered through the blood. It wasnt his fault he didnt know the literal nature of Lincoln's words but it made no difference to the gunslinger. Leaning up and throwing the pistol over his shoulder with his right hand he turned his head towards Luther's midsection as it sank behind his back. His left hand came from behind his back like the shadow of death over Luther as it trained it's sights towards his crotch. Lincoln squeezed the trigger again then forced his boot further into the mans neck than before. Luther tried to howl but barely managed a wheeze as he writhed in pain. Lincoln leaned back in on right knee with his elbow again this time stuffing the barrel under the big man's chin and resting on his goitered neck.
"Tell me," Lincoln said as he cocked the hammer back again, "Now!"
" Aiiiicht! " Luther labored to say his next word while fumbling with his left front pocket, "Maaap"
Lincoln reached down to the mans chest with his right hand then smacked the man's hand away before reaching his index and middle finger into the tightly stretched pocket. He gurgled something else but Lincoln pressed harder on his throat to signify his distaste. Inside the pocket there was a small folded bit of paper containing newspaper clippings from The Highland Times. It was dated some weeks hence but what caught Lincoln's surprise was the drawing in the corner. Detailed with shading and no color but the same gold could be seen on the smile of Mephis T. O'Fellis' countenance. Lincoln looked Luther straight in the eyes as he lifted his foot from his throat then planted it on the ground to stand straight. Luther pointed the direction of the town with his right arm which prompted Lincoln to take aim at his head. The larger man sat there with the barrel of Lincoln's gun trained directly at his eyes now. Seemingly paralyzed by fear all the man could do was watch and wait for his death unfold.
"BANG!" Lincoln shouted as he squeezed the trigger to hear a metallic click, "Heheeeheeeee!"
Lincoln turned around to howl with laughter as the big man shook with fear when the gun sang empty. The gunslinger left the bleeding man where he was to whatever powers that be as he walked over to the blanket he'd used the night before. With a flashy movement he tucked his empty firearm into it's holster. He clicked his tongue then whistled twice to call Trotter to him while he folded the thick blanket. As trained the horse trotted up to his side then stopped and shook it's head with a light bray. Lincoln threw the blanket over the horses back then his saddle before finally securing the belt underneath it's belly. Hooking one heel into a stirrup then hoisting himself up with a grunt Lincoln straddled the horse and grabbed the reigns. He guided the horse towards the direction of the two men at a slow canter. Luther had now rolled onto his stomach attempting to crawl away from his assailant. Lincoln brought the horse around and in front of the man so that he had a birds eye view of him. Looking down at him with a crooked smile the southerner left him with a few parting words before turning his horse around.
"If you live to see the livin' or die to meet the dead. Tell 'em it was the South Carolina Kid who didnt shoot you in the head."
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SAMUEL & TERESA MAY JAMES
THE GENERAL GOODS STORE OWNER AND HIS WIFE | NPCS
That morning was just like any other to Samuel James, who stepped out of his store whistling a merry tune. His sprightly energy seemed to take away the years from his age as he began sweeping the front porch. He hadn't been long outside when he attracted the attention of a lovely young pair whose faces he had never seen before. The two introduced themselves as siblings. Newcomers, Samuel decided as he leaned against his broom and graced them with a good morning and a toothy smile.
"Eh, something to eat?" Samuel echoed, almost too loudly, as if he were hard of hearing. He pointed at the establishment just across his own. "Carmela's saloon is right over there!"
He leaned towards the pair just then, bringing up one hand to his mouth as he furtively glanced about. "But if you ask me," he continued, voice lower this time, "My wife's a much better cook than ol' Carmela," he shrugged, winking as he pulled away.
"Why don't you two come in? Come in!" He beckoned them forward, almost shaking with enthusiasm, as he climbed up the steps to his store.
Should the siblings follow, they would find perhaps the poorest excuse for a store they'd ever seen. The many shelves and cabinets displayed betrayed a disparity in the lack of goods on the shelves. Cobwebs hung loosely from the corners, and dust had begun to collect on the cash register. At some point, a rat scurried behind the counter, clinging to the shadows.
At the rear of the store, Teresa James swept away at the dirt streaked across the floor. Her traditional Native garb made her a peculiar sight against the decidedly Western backdrop. Startled by the sudden clamoring of footsteps, she looked up in surprise at the pair's entrance. Her eyes were noticeably red from crying.
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MARCUS TAYLOR & HUEY WICKS
WEAPONS STORE OWNER & ASSISTANT | NPCS
The dreary silence of the town's streets was interrupted by the sound of running horses clattering down the street. Breaking across the pastor's path, two men on horseback quickly came to a halt, the horses' hooves kicking up a flurry of dust and dirt in their wake. The men could be recognized as Marcus "Angel" Taylor and Mr. Wicks. The latter of the two rode a young pinto horse, a horse suspiciously identical to the one Jorge del Rios owned only a few hours prior. The darker man's eyes slid in Jorge's direction lazily.
"Good morning to you, Father," Angel said cheerily. He pulled up alongside the pastor and stuck his hand out energetically to shake. "You look well. Headed to the church?
"The mayor's asked me to refer you to his office before you move on over to hearing confessions. Didn't say so much as a whit for why, but that's the mayor for you. I sure can let you take my horse over there, if you're inclined to. Anything for the Lord's man. Just let me know what you need."
His smile was bright enough to lift the gloom from the morning.
"Me and Mr. Hicks here would be more than happy to help."
The scowl on Mr. Wicks face said otherwise.
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"Good morning to you, Father," Angel said cheerily. He pulled up alongside the pastor and stuck his hand out energetically to shake. "You look well. Headed to the church?
"The mayor's asked me to refer you to his office before you move on over to hearing confessions. Didn't say so much as a whit for why, but that's the mayor for you. I sure can let you take my horse over there, if you're inclined to. Anything for the Lord's man. Just let me know what you need."
His smile was bright enough to lift the gloom from the morning.
"Me and Mr. Hicks here would be more than happy to help."
The scowl on Mr. Wicks face said otherwise.
@Red Thunder
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Charlotte returned the man's smile even though she didn't say anything. Frank hated it when she spoke at such times, and since he seemed in relatively good humor this morning she was loathe to do anything that might change his outlook. The man directed them to a saloon and her nose crinkled at the thought, but again she did not voice her concerns. Her arms bend and her fingers twined at her waist in a small show of distress, but the smile on her face remained in place.
Frank followed the man's gaze down the street to the saloon but his attention was then drawn back by the man's next comment. They were invited inside and he knew Charlotte would not want to dine in a saloon, so he wrapped his fingers around her elbow and led her up the stairs and into the store. He glanced down at Charlotte and wondered if maybe she might change her mind about the saloon after seeing the inside of this place, but somehow he doubted it. Women had some seriously strange thoughts about propriety in his opinion. They were out west, and she was going to have to change her way of thinking about things. However, he was wise enough to realize that wasn't going to happen overnight. Seeing a woman sweeping in the corner, he removed his hat and tipped his head, "Morning Ma'am."
Charlotte's wide eyed gaze moved around the place taking in the cobwebs, the dust, the obvious lack of goods offered for sale and wondered how these people stayed in business. She then fixed her eyes on the woman and crossed over to her, "Good morning, "I am Charlotte Peters." She extended her hand and leaned closer, "Are you well?" She asked quietly seeing the red eyes and the salty tracks of fallen tears on her cheeks.
Frank knew Charlotte would make a beeline for the only other woman she'd seen. He somehow narrowly managed to stifle a groan of irritation and turned to the store owner, "Are you sure we are not intruding? We can get something at the saloon..."
Charlotte whipped her head around and shook it at him, "I would sooner pick blackberries in spider infested bushes."
"For the love of Pete, Charlotte..."
"I am serious Frank!"
His eyes slid closed and he moved to lean against the counter where the cash register was sitting. It didn't appear that it had been opened in quite some time, "Business has been a bit slow I take it." he observed, "If you have coffee and a pot I'd be happy to buy them..I'm thinkin' I'm going to need coffee....lots of it."
Frank followed the man's gaze down the street to the saloon but his attention was then drawn back by the man's next comment. They were invited inside and he knew Charlotte would not want to dine in a saloon, so he wrapped his fingers around her elbow and led her up the stairs and into the store. He glanced down at Charlotte and wondered if maybe she might change her mind about the saloon after seeing the inside of this place, but somehow he doubted it. Women had some seriously strange thoughts about propriety in his opinion. They were out west, and she was going to have to change her way of thinking about things. However, he was wise enough to realize that wasn't going to happen overnight. Seeing a woman sweeping in the corner, he removed his hat and tipped his head, "Morning Ma'am."
Charlotte's wide eyed gaze moved around the place taking in the cobwebs, the dust, the obvious lack of goods offered for sale and wondered how these people stayed in business. She then fixed her eyes on the woman and crossed over to her, "Good morning, "I am Charlotte Peters." She extended her hand and leaned closer, "Are you well?" She asked quietly seeing the red eyes and the salty tracks of fallen tears on her cheeks.
Frank knew Charlotte would make a beeline for the only other woman she'd seen. He somehow narrowly managed to stifle a groan of irritation and turned to the store owner, "Are you sure we are not intruding? We can get something at the saloon..."
Charlotte whipped her head around and shook it at him, "I would sooner pick blackberries in spider infested bushes."
"For the love of Pete, Charlotte..."
"I am serious Frank!"
His eyes slid closed and he moved to lean against the counter where the cash register was sitting. It didn't appear that it had been opened in quite some time, "Business has been a bit slow I take it." he observed, "If you have coffee and a pot I'd be happy to buy them..I'm thinkin' I'm going to need coffee....lots of it."
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Upon first hearing the hoofbeats, Father McCarthy glanced back, hoping whoever had the idea to ride around town this early had the good sense to avoid the men mid-street. Fortunately, they did, riding around to his front. To his surprise, he recognized Mr Taylor, the alleged weapons dealer for the town, friendly as always, and his Negro assistant Mr Wicks, taciturn as always.
He shook Mr Taylor's hand with vigor. "I was in fact planning to speak with the Mayor first. I heard a gunshot during the night and would like to know if our town is, ah, less one man, so I may pray for his sake." He was about to refuse the horse, but noticed Mr Wicks glaring at the irascible Hispanic, and had the odd idea that it would be best to be absent the area soon. "I will take that offer," he said, "so long as it won't inconvenience you."
Of course, it didn't, since Highland was barely longer than three Baltimore blocks, scarcely a minute's ride at a trot. After tying Mr Taylor's horse at the post out front as they had arranged, he doffed his saturno and faced the church to bless himself. "Soon, Lord," he murmured, then he entered the Mayor's office, hanging his hat on a hook.
Inside, he explained his business briefly to the secretary, who bade him sit and wait.
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Jorge del Rios
"It inconveniences me, padre!"
Jorge has unintentionally fallen into the path of Father McCarthy, puffing with no small amount of anxiety on his hand rolled cigarette as he made his way toward the mayor's office. The sudden appearance of Taylor and Wicks had been surprising enough, and Jorge had shifted opposite them in an attempt to circle around and continue on his path. But Jorge had halted, quite suddenly, spinning on his heel and throwing his saddlebag to the ground.
"¡Maldito negro hijo de puta! You stole my horse!" In his anger, and indeed desperation, the firearms at his sides had gone completely forgotten. He raised his fists toward Wicks, his snarl nearly clipping the end off his cigarette. "Get off! Now!"
Mr. Taylor raised his eyebrows, but shrugged when Wicks gave him a look. So Wicks got dismounted. 'Imposing' didn't describe the man quite well enough; he was certainly taller than the Hispanic bandit. But Jorge didn't seem to mind. Without waiting for his opponent to ready himself, the Mexican lashed out, planting a fist solidly on Wicks' jaw. Wicks, in response, sniffed.
The returned punch was like getting kicked by a mule. Where Wicks' fist made contact with Jorge's nose, pain landed across his face, sending waves of pain into his brain and overwhelming it. The world went black, and Jorge didn't even feel the ground beneath him as he fell to it.
It wasn't even a full minute when he awoke, but the three other men had plenty of time to leave. They had, graciously, left his saddlebag. Yet Wicks was gone, and the pinto with him. Groaning, Jorge sat up. He cleared his nose, cursing at the pain as a globule of coagulating blood fired out from his nostril. The bastard still had his horse. And it seemed as though Taylor and Wicks had escorted the Padre to the mayor. Which meant Jorge's destination was still the same. Shouldering his saddlebag, he wobbled forward, following the hoof tracks through the dirt path. And drawing his pistol as he traveled.
It didn't occur to him that the Padre might have split off from the others. Kicking in the mayor's office door, Jorge leveled the revolver at the first person he spied: as it happened, the rather innocent Padre.
"Where's my horse, Padre? I need to kick that Negro's ass!"
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Lincoln had followed the wounded mans directions west across the foreign landscape of the Highland Range territory. It hadnt been more than an hour perhaps two when the silhouette of a town came into view. A long sigh came from his lips as he readjusted his position in the saddle. He reached behind his left leg to retrieve his canteen. Clasping the braided leather strap between two fingers he quickly unwound it from around a knob on the saddle. With a bend of his left arm he swung the bottle low then watched as the momentum dropped it in his right hand in his lap. Without a moment hesitation he uncorked the top and raised the canteen to his lips taking a swallow of what was left. Lincoln lowered the canteen then pivoted it's base to gauge how much water he had left in it. Clearly dissatisfied he clicked his tongue then clasped Trotter's reigns in his left hand to give them a sharp tug. Lincoln placed the cork top back in the mouth of the canteen as he began to dismount. The horse brayed and sneered as he planted a hoof in front of himself then stopped entirely. Lincoln unhooked a boot from the stirrups to climb down from the horse's back and leaned to his left. As his right boot struck the ground he yanked the left out of it's confines. Next he reached into one of the saddlebags on the horses rear before producing a metal dish with deep indent across the middle. Holding the metal dish in front of his stomach in one hand he raised the canteen to his lips in the other. He bit down on the cork with his front teeth then yanked his head back with the cork in his mouth. He tilted the canteen over to fill the tin while he moved to face Trotter head on. Extending his offering to the horse he began speaking while patting the beast on the neck.
"Nearly there..." He muttered, "I aint gonna sell you but if you pull some dumb shit like'at you did this morning and embarrass me. I will shave that fuckin' mane off your head. Dont'chu get to thinking you're going nowhere either because I'm tying you up, second we get into town."
The horse snorted into the tin which caused some water to splash out onto Lincoln's shirt. The southerner shook his head with a wry smile as he raised his hand to the horses ear. His index and middle finger were bent pressed against the thumb of the same hand with the ring and pinky extended. With one motion the smile faded and the forefingers extended in order to strike the animal's ear. Trotter reared back and brayed with his teeth exposed prompting Lincoln to step back in brief bewilderment. His hand turned the tin over causing the water to fall to the dusty rock covered earth. The horse planted it's front hooves down before throwing it's back legs in the air clearly unhappy. Trotter's lips twitched briefly before the maw opened in an effort to bite down on Lincoln's shoulder. The gunslinger's reaction was quick as he leaned back away from the horse and slapped it away.
"Yeah," Lincoln managed to get out through a chuckle, "Play like a dumb animal and I'll play you like one, big ol' dummy..."
Lincoln grabbed the reigns that now hung around Trotter's neck as he approached the side of the animal. With a grimace he sunk his foot into the stirrup while grabbing the horn of his saddle. He hoisted himself up then over and swung his other leg across the horse's back. Trotter reared again but to his dismay Lincoln held firm on the saddle. After the horse's front end came back down it's rider loosened the reigns slightly before slamming his heels into Trotter's sides repeatedly. Bolting forward the horse now moved at a fever pace unlike the canter it had before. Lincoln smiled and secured his hat low on his brow as he raced towards town and the possibility of his destiny. Eventually the steeple of a church came into view and he made out the architecture of other buildings as well. Just about a hundred yards away he clicked his tongue to signal the galloping beast to slow. From here he could accurately distinguish the buildings ahead of him to see they extended further west than he originally thought. On the side of the street to the south he could see the backs of a few buildings but across he could see the two main attractions of the town. The barbershop and the bank. 'Praise god for the civilized parts of the west' Lincoln thought to himself. He reached up to rub the stubble that had grown to cover his face over the few days he'd been traveling. As he breached the edge of town passing next to the church which to Lincoln seemed modest even for a town like this. Continuing at a slow pace into the town he made out the town bank. He'd need to make a stop there at some point to deposit the now $553 dollars in his saddlebags for safekeeping. At the right of the bank sat the barbershop with it's twirling barber's pole. The thick red, white, and blue lines did not presently move or seem to have for some time. In the window of the shop sat a sign that said 'Come In' but seemingly it was ignored for some time. Pity. Turning his gaze to the side left side of the street he saw the expanse of the town down the road from him. Down the street he saw some group of three men making some loud conversation but he paid them no mind. He now passed the mayor's office on his left just in time to see the tail of a black cloak tuck into it's door. Yanking on the reigns while squeezing his sides Lincoln halted his horse then flung himself from the saddle towards the now closed door.The heels of his boots struck the trodden soil with a thump but he maintained posture turning towards the Mayor's office. He checked down the street then back over his right shoulder to where his horse had been but couldnt find him. Turning the opposite way he found the tired animal lapping at a trough of water nearby. Finding no one in his immediate area Lincoln reached for the door with one hand and with the other clasped his right pistol. Pushing the door open was easy but finding what was inside was harder for Lincoln. O'Fellis was not here. No sign of the man he had hoped to find but rather a man cut from an entirely different cloth, the cloth in fact.
"Mornin' Father," Lincoln cleared his throat before regarding the secretary, "Ma'am."
The gunslinger tipped his hat before sauntering inside just enough to close the door behind himself. The secretary's desk was behind the swinging angle of the door which to Lincoln almost seemed intentional. After closing the door Lincoln took a step or two towards the scarlet haired maiden before him. Truly Lincoln was somewhat taken aback by the scarcely seen level of beauty that he was privileged to behold.. He removed his hat quickly in an effort to hide the obvious smile on his face. As the brim of his cap eclipsed the woman's eyes Lincoln's gaze moved downward. He couldnt help but remark in his head how brilliantly red her hair and how well it complemented the fair skin of her neck and chest. With no shortage of evidence he discerned her figure could only be the work of a corset doing it's job far too well. As his hat crossed over his chin he adjusted his jaw slightly and his gaze upwards to her eyes. The piercing emerald pools before him forced his own green orbs to abandon their mettle in search of a moments comfort. The moment fleeting however Lincoln made his inquiry before he could falter any further by wasting time.
"Had I known there were such pretty roses on this side of Mississippi..." He began with his accent thick but intelligible, "I would have found my way out here much more presently. Could I trouble such an angel as yourself with a personal query?"
The woman shot a shy glance to the Father before giggling a bit and looking to Lincoln again. She nodded smiling lightly before placing her elbows on the table with her fingers linked together. She rested her perfectly rounded chin on the thin knuckles of her gloved hands as she watched the handsome southerner prepare to speak. Before he could ask her name he was interrupted by the sharp wooden crack of the door being kicked open. Next the door handle struck him in the hip followed by the door bowling him over the desk causing him to flatten the woman against it. Lincoln's hat was crushed underhand as he forced himself upright with a growl similar to an animal's. The woman followed suit though clearly flustered she seemed alright for the most part.
"What dumb sum'bitch gonna..." Lincoln mumbled.
The doorway was now filled with a Mexican man who had no less than interrupted Lincoln. Not only that but was now threatening a man of god and cursing about negroes in his native tongue. To a Confederate war hero this situation presented a great many logical conundrums and certainly a story to tell his brother's back home about. Though partial to no side in this conflict the gunslinger had still been wronged and a lady's honor diminished so he tossed his hat to the table behind him. Lincoln's eyes darted down to the revolver in the man's hands then up to the blood staining the man's mustache. Assessing how this could play out for him and the parties involved Lincoln couldn't help but move surely with ferocity. First he raised his bended knee then extended his left boot to the door slamming it shut behind the Mexican. Before his own boot had struck ground Lincoln had drawn the pistol across his waste in his left hand. Tactfully he raised the pistol to take aim into the hole of the mans ear. A vicious smile spread across Lincoln's face as he thumbed back the hammer in anticipation of any sudden action. His boot heel met the wooden floorboards and rested his weight with a creak. Looking down he could see the second gun belt on the man's waist so he spoke. Though the tone was calm it would make many a steadfast man uneasy. The hints of a sick delight played behind what would seem like a bedlamite's warning.
"Tranquilo amigo, tranquilo... Now seeing as I've got the drop on you, you're gonna wanna hear me out." Lincoln heard the secretary gasp then drew his second pistol in his right hand taking aim at the man's gun.
"It's alright now miss. Go ahead, sit back down and affix yourself. This'll all be defused momentarily...
Now I reckon nobody here has heard of me but I aint no spring chicken in the killing game, saw plenty of it in the war. Even did a good bit of it and got some fame back in Dixie. Typically I wouldnt mind adding to my tally by three before I've even had breakfast but I got no qualms with the cloth, sons of Ham, or Mexicanos. If you hadnt of been so dumb to bust in here like a mule you'd be any other bean eater to me but now you're not. You just offended every-damn-body in here with that kickin'of'a damn long door in a damn... thin... room! On top of that you got the god damn balls to raise iron to a priest, sorry father...
I'm from where people aint amenable to people who act so brashly. We like to give 'em the chance their really looking for deep down to apologize. Us southerners is hospitable like that but we aint down south, are we? This here is the wild, wild west! Aint it? Where anything can happy to anybody long as there's a will to make it happen. So why dont'chu bare your immortal soul here to the padre and beg for forgiveness for this great offense against his character, then the lady too. It's that or you make a move then I make me a move to blow that mustache off your face then you bare your immortal soul to the lord above...
But hell! I'd hate to influence you if you're already on the right path hombre."
"Nearly there..." He muttered, "I aint gonna sell you but if you pull some dumb shit like'at you did this morning and embarrass me. I will shave that fuckin' mane off your head. Dont'chu get to thinking you're going nowhere either because I'm tying you up, second we get into town."
The horse snorted into the tin which caused some water to splash out onto Lincoln's shirt. The southerner shook his head with a wry smile as he raised his hand to the horses ear. His index and middle finger were bent pressed against the thumb of the same hand with the ring and pinky extended. With one motion the smile faded and the forefingers extended in order to strike the animal's ear. Trotter reared back and brayed with his teeth exposed prompting Lincoln to step back in brief bewilderment. His hand turned the tin over causing the water to fall to the dusty rock covered earth. The horse planted it's front hooves down before throwing it's back legs in the air clearly unhappy. Trotter's lips twitched briefly before the maw opened in an effort to bite down on Lincoln's shoulder. The gunslinger's reaction was quick as he leaned back away from the horse and slapped it away.
"Yeah," Lincoln managed to get out through a chuckle, "Play like a dumb animal and I'll play you like one, big ol' dummy..."
Lincoln grabbed the reigns that now hung around Trotter's neck as he approached the side of the animal. With a grimace he sunk his foot into the stirrup while grabbing the horn of his saddle. He hoisted himself up then over and swung his other leg across the horse's back. Trotter reared again but to his dismay Lincoln held firm on the saddle. After the horse's front end came back down it's rider loosened the reigns slightly before slamming his heels into Trotter's sides repeatedly. Bolting forward the horse now moved at a fever pace unlike the canter it had before. Lincoln smiled and secured his hat low on his brow as he raced towards town and the possibility of his destiny. Eventually the steeple of a church came into view and he made out the architecture of other buildings as well. Just about a hundred yards away he clicked his tongue to signal the galloping beast to slow. From here he could accurately distinguish the buildings ahead of him to see they extended further west than he originally thought. On the side of the street to the south he could see the backs of a few buildings but across he could see the two main attractions of the town. The barbershop and the bank. 'Praise god for the civilized parts of the west' Lincoln thought to himself. He reached up to rub the stubble that had grown to cover his face over the few days he'd been traveling. As he breached the edge of town passing next to the church which to Lincoln seemed modest even for a town like this. Continuing at a slow pace into the town he made out the town bank. He'd need to make a stop there at some point to deposit the now $553 dollars in his saddlebags for safekeeping. At the right of the bank sat the barbershop with it's twirling barber's pole. The thick red, white, and blue lines did not presently move or seem to have for some time. In the window of the shop sat a sign that said 'Come In' but seemingly it was ignored for some time. Pity. Turning his gaze to the side left side of the street he saw the expanse of the town down the road from him. Down the street he saw some group of three men making some loud conversation but he paid them no mind. He now passed the mayor's office on his left just in time to see the tail of a black cloak tuck into it's door. Yanking on the reigns while squeezing his sides Lincoln halted his horse then flung himself from the saddle towards the now closed door.The heels of his boots struck the trodden soil with a thump but he maintained posture turning towards the Mayor's office. He checked down the street then back over his right shoulder to where his horse had been but couldnt find him. Turning the opposite way he found the tired animal lapping at a trough of water nearby. Finding no one in his immediate area Lincoln reached for the door with one hand and with the other clasped his right pistol. Pushing the door open was easy but finding what was inside was harder for Lincoln. O'Fellis was not here. No sign of the man he had hoped to find but rather a man cut from an entirely different cloth, the cloth in fact.
"Mornin' Father," Lincoln cleared his throat before regarding the secretary, "Ma'am."
The gunslinger tipped his hat before sauntering inside just enough to close the door behind himself. The secretary's desk was behind the swinging angle of the door which to Lincoln almost seemed intentional. After closing the door Lincoln took a step or two towards the scarlet haired maiden before him. Truly Lincoln was somewhat taken aback by the scarcely seen level of beauty that he was privileged to behold.. He removed his hat quickly in an effort to hide the obvious smile on his face. As the brim of his cap eclipsed the woman's eyes Lincoln's gaze moved downward. He couldnt help but remark in his head how brilliantly red her hair and how well it complemented the fair skin of her neck and chest. With no shortage of evidence he discerned her figure could only be the work of a corset doing it's job far too well. As his hat crossed over his chin he adjusted his jaw slightly and his gaze upwards to her eyes. The piercing emerald pools before him forced his own green orbs to abandon their mettle in search of a moments comfort. The moment fleeting however Lincoln made his inquiry before he could falter any further by wasting time.
"Had I known there were such pretty roses on this side of Mississippi..." He began with his accent thick but intelligible, "I would have found my way out here much more presently. Could I trouble such an angel as yourself with a personal query?"
The woman shot a shy glance to the Father before giggling a bit and looking to Lincoln again. She nodded smiling lightly before placing her elbows on the table with her fingers linked together. She rested her perfectly rounded chin on the thin knuckles of her gloved hands as she watched the handsome southerner prepare to speak. Before he could ask her name he was interrupted by the sharp wooden crack of the door being kicked open. Next the door handle struck him in the hip followed by the door bowling him over the desk causing him to flatten the woman against it. Lincoln's hat was crushed underhand as he forced himself upright with a growl similar to an animal's. The woman followed suit though clearly flustered she seemed alright for the most part.
"What dumb sum'bitch gonna..." Lincoln mumbled.
The doorway was now filled with a Mexican man who had no less than interrupted Lincoln. Not only that but was now threatening a man of god and cursing about negroes in his native tongue. To a Confederate war hero this situation presented a great many logical conundrums and certainly a story to tell his brother's back home about. Though partial to no side in this conflict the gunslinger had still been wronged and a lady's honor diminished so he tossed his hat to the table behind him. Lincoln's eyes darted down to the revolver in the man's hands then up to the blood staining the man's mustache. Assessing how this could play out for him and the parties involved Lincoln couldn't help but move surely with ferocity. First he raised his bended knee then extended his left boot to the door slamming it shut behind the Mexican. Before his own boot had struck ground Lincoln had drawn the pistol across his waste in his left hand. Tactfully he raised the pistol to take aim into the hole of the mans ear. A vicious smile spread across Lincoln's face as he thumbed back the hammer in anticipation of any sudden action. His boot heel met the wooden floorboards and rested his weight with a creak. Looking down he could see the second gun belt on the man's waist so he spoke. Though the tone was calm it would make many a steadfast man uneasy. The hints of a sick delight played behind what would seem like a bedlamite's warning.
"Tranquilo amigo, tranquilo... Now seeing as I've got the drop on you, you're gonna wanna hear me out." Lincoln heard the secretary gasp then drew his second pistol in his right hand taking aim at the man's gun.
"It's alright now miss. Go ahead, sit back down and affix yourself. This'll all be defused momentarily...
Now I reckon nobody here has heard of me but I aint no spring chicken in the killing game, saw plenty of it in the war. Even did a good bit of it and got some fame back in Dixie. Typically I wouldnt mind adding to my tally by three before I've even had breakfast but I got no qualms with the cloth, sons of Ham, or Mexicanos. If you hadnt of been so dumb to bust in here like a mule you'd be any other bean eater to me but now you're not. You just offended every-damn-body in here with that kickin'of'a damn long door in a damn... thin... room! On top of that you got the god damn balls to raise iron to a priest, sorry father...
I'm from where people aint amenable to people who act so brashly. We like to give 'em the chance their really looking for deep down to apologize. Us southerners is hospitable like that but we aint down south, are we? This here is the wild, wild west! Aint it? Where anything can happy to anybody long as there's a will to make it happen. So why dont'chu bare your immortal soul here to the padre and beg for forgiveness for this great offense against his character, then the lady too. It's that or you make a move then I make me a move to blow that mustache off your face then you bare your immortal soul to the lord above...
But hell! I'd hate to influence you if you're already on the right path hombre."
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Jorge del Rios
"That's up to Santa Maria, cabrón. Maybe she'd have some input, if you didn't talk so much."
Jorge had remained stock still during the gunslinger's diatribe, his only movement during his threats a side eyed glance to assess the man. Dangerous, certainly; though the man's level of skill was unknown, he was clearly some amount of unhinged. He sniffed in displeasure and condescension. A painful act; his nose still throbbed from Wicks' blow.
"My horse was stolen, cabron, and last I saw, this Padre was in the thief's company. At least, I'm guessing a Padre." His eyes shifted back to the priest suspiciously. He'd been late come to the meeting of Father McCarthy with the two horsemen, and being new to the town besides, there was no reason to believe anything but his suspicions. "It's not- not- Extraño ... raro ... inusual ... unusual for thieves to hide as the Cloth.
"You mind showing me proof, Padre? This cabrón's iron is beginning to tickle my ear, and I need my horse back."
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Things escalated quickly in the scant few seconds that Father McCarthy waited. First came a genial Southerner—extremely genial, and quite forward at that. A priest could hardly approve of such forwardness when the man clearly did not know the girl (was likely as not to frighten her), but no particular words of chastisement came to his mind. With narrow eyes he watched the exchange about to play out, ready to interject if need be, but the next intrusion changed the situation radically.
The next instant, he was staring at the muzzle of a well-used revolver. Whatever was said next, he never heard, so nonplussed he was. He had seen his share of danger in the home country, crossing the Atlantic, and crossing Indian country. Nothing quite equalled being nose-to-nose with a Colt—he assumed it was a Colt, at any rate.
Fortunately, before he could make any un-priestly noise of fear, the Southerner took control with alacrity, calling the intruder's bluff and raising it by another pistol. Father McCarthy missed most of his tirade as well, focussing his energies on remaining calm. What would the Lord do, what would the Lord do—
He realized his hands had, involuntarily, risen a foot or so, presumably in a vain attempt to ward away the pistol. No need for that now. He slammed both hands down onto the arms of his chair and rose explosively—then, an instant later, realized the intruder's identity and latest question.
"Both of you are shameless," he began, his voice cold as the desert night. "I am no horse thief, but I never imagined Southern virtue could sink so low as to casually threaten murder in the presence of a priest and a maiden. I know nothing of your horse, señor. If you seek proof I am a priest, you may join me at the church in a half-hour or so. I intend to meet with the mayor before then, though, so you will have to wait."
Moments like these he was very grateful that the cassock could conceal how his knees shook. Firearms that were meant for killing men were new to him, and still nearly as terrifying as Hell itself.
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ADELAIDE GARDNER
SECRETARY | NPC
If a person had by chance asked how the secretary was as a person--just out of genteel curiosity, no doubt--here was what a fellow might've been compelled to say:
Adelaide Gardner was not an intelligent woman. "Clever" would be an overreach in character assessment. "Dumb" was a term reserved for less-thought-of townsfolk and not particularly attributable to her. She fell somewhere in the middle, a borderline average woman who performed precisely as most men liked. What she lacked in common sense and skills, she compensated with her striking good looks and charming ways. She was good to look at, but not much else. Everyone in town knew this.
They would say that Adelaide had never used a gun in her entire life. Couldn't be trusted with one, to be quite honest. Everyone in town knew this, too.
Well, maybe someone should've told Adelaide that.
There was a shotgun strapped to the underside of her desk in case of an emergency. The sight of guns seemed to make her panic, so the mayor had placed it under her desk out of sight, out of mind. As she crouched behind her desk, fearful of the growing tensions of the men, her gaze went to grey metal of the barrel poking out from between her books. Something in her clicked.
Before long, she had wrestled the shotgun from underneath her desk and hoisted it up, up against the curves of her body. Her limbs moved, disjointed, as if being pulled along by a puppeteer's strings. It was not until she spoke that the result of her actions would be made clear. Her voice cut through to bone.
"Hold it right there."
She held the rifle propped up against her right shoulder with a practiced grip, her eyes never wavering from the two gun-wielding offenders. They were close enough together that she could easily damage one just by shooting the other. Her expression was as blank as white canvas.
"Your guns." She enunciated slowly. "Drop them. Now."
The sight of her finger sliding by the trigger dissuaded any further dissent.
Unnoticed by all parties, in the shadowy nook of the office rested what appeared to be a large collection of blankets, with a black cowboy hat placed beside it. The blankets moved with a gradual rise and fall. A quiet snore sounded from beneath the layers; in response to this, the woman's hold on the shotgun tightened. Her eyes filled with a hard malice.
"Better do as I say 'fore I call for the sheriff."
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Jorge del Rios
Instead of causing him further anxiety, having yet another gun trained on him (or at least, in his general area) only served to make Jorge smile.
"Far be it from me, señorita," he replied, ever so slowly lowering his pistol to point at the floor before returning it to his holster, "to be the cause of disturbing a man's siesta. Law or otherwise."
The smile, and indeed the ready compliance, was a mask. Within, the bandit felt his heart race and his stomach twist. The sheriff!? Here?! What if he had seen the posters? What if he knew the transient Mexican had a bounty? His mind did flips over itself, seeking purchase on some course of action that might facilitate some form of successful escape. The cabrón might comply with the orders, which meant the secretary's guard might drop. If that happened, a few choice words might-
Jorge looked into her eyes, the beginnings of the plan evaporating. He'd seen that look before; hell, he'd had that look before. The look of a killer, cold to the consequences. Better, than, to do as instructed and drop the weapons. As slowly as before, his hand lowered to the buckle of his gun belt. But it's stopped as it touched the leather.
"The cabrón could still shoot me, señorita at which point you'd also shoot me shooting at him. Surely you wouldn't deny me a bit of comfort, so long as he has the means to kill me. I'll happily drop my armas when he does."
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Lincoln let loose an exasperated sigh as he heard the woman's voice behind him demanding him to drop his pistols. His face still holding a care free smile. What in the hell could possess this woman to train a gun on him after he'd just defended a man's life. He hesitated to do as she commanded. Drop his guns, weighing the conviction of her actions against the value of his pistols he stood still. Without pause however the Mexican followed instructions seemingly removed from his anger. After hearing the man try to slip a few digs in Lincoln broke free of the resting smirk with his own words of choice.
"Escucha aquí bigote," He delivered the words casually with a friendly southern cantor, "llámame cabròn una vez más y me aseguraré de que tomes tu última siesta. Sabes quién tiene quién. Tuviste suerte esta vez hijito."
Lincoln squeezed the trigger's of both guns then with his thumb holding the hammer's slowly allowed them to rest back in place. In a synchronized click the chambers of the revolvers rotated to their next rounds. Angling his wrists away from the man and the pistols by extension Lincoln began to lower his arms. With a final resigned sigh he stuffed his pistols into their holsters. His hands moved out to his sides slowly in an effort to show the secretary he had truly relinquished his arms. Turning around with his hands still outstretched he scanned the room to take in the huddled mass in the corner along with the priest then finally the woman still wielding the shotgun. Though seemingly less agitated than her voice had indicated before Lincoln decided to press on no further. The gunslinger's hands picked up his crumpled hat with a quick flourish before one fist was jammed inside to reshape it. He looked to the priest with a single slight nod and light squint. Lincoln's fingers set to work pressing the rim in hopes to reform to edge it held before his southern mouth set to work again this time delivering some semblance of a soliloquy.
"Sorry to stand between you and your God father, I'm not much for the murder of unarmed men." First addressing the priest then the woman, "But it looks like the lady here could stand to oblige. Seems like theres plenty of folk in here troubling your time ma'am so I'll be back to my own business. Caballero, déjame cogerte en la calle algún día, veremos qué muchacha te salvará. Or in English if you prefer, "Darling, may God give me strength to leave a rose so pretty'. Y'all have a good day now, my horse's'waiting."
Without further regard for the woman's intent Lincoln took one step backwards then turned on his boot heel to face door. The original assailant was correct that if it came down to it both men would be struck by the shotgun. Favorable odds as far as Lincoln was concerned. As he turned the Mexican man was as expected in his path again. His smile crept back onto his face as he made eye contact with the mustached man. In the minute scale of the interaction Lincoln had endeavored to communicate to the man the depths of his own conviction. The moment broke as quickly as it had formed when the gunslinger's hands brought his hat to place on his head. When Lincoln's face shown again it held no sign of tensions past or any sign of some to come, only simple and calm with a curved corner of the lip. Eyes as cold and green as sea weathered glass he turned back to the woman still wielding the shotgun. Knowing he had committed no crime his hands clasped the handle before he opened then closed door exiting without a care. Outside he was greeted yet again by the deposed barbershop, sheriff's office and yet undefinable bank. His left hand rose to his face to explore the stubble decorating his muzzle which prompted an idea. A bed would do him good as would a hot bath and razor. Surely he could find somewhere to lodge around here providing he didnt wind up having to bear arms for the third time today. To his right sat the church but to his left the town extended some six buildings further. A snort made him glance further left to reveal his horse still with it's head buried deep in the water trough. He clicked his tongue once and again to no avail so he decided to leave the beast to it's own devices for a moment longer. As he moved down the street he crossed in front of a house then after that the saloon. He stopped briefly outside the steps of the freshly painted place. It seemed lively enough thought perhaps a tad to soon to break his unintentional morning sobriety. He turned to look further into the town. Lincoln did spot a small inn directly facing him that seemed rather well located. Next to it he could see a barn then immediately it struck him that it was a stable. The inn itself surely couldnt house too many but judging from the streets Lincoln wagered there was a room available. He decided to press on away from the doors of the saloon in some manor trying to keep a level head. As his boots struck the packed dirt beneath him he thought back to the encounter he'd just had. Not half an hour since he had first dismounted his horse but already he had drawn and been drawn on. A smile crossed his face as he considered how suitable such a place was for him and for his prey. O'Fellis wouldnt have much of any reason not to come through here. Having seem the young lady with a gun Lincoln could assume there was fair chance that gold toothed spider could already be spinning his web here. Though in retrospect the entire situation was pretty favorable till she'd bared down on him and that mouthy Mexican man. Without consideration for the fact that the situation was well in hand she'd escalated the body count by one more for some reason he couldnt grasp. Toying with the idea as he walked he pondered on whether or not she was the type to enjoy such a thing or if she had acted in sense of panic. Couldn't be simple enough as one cut and dry dead guy, Lincoln thought to himself. He turned on his heel and looked back to his horse who now lazily stood in the street staring at the door to the mayor's office. In unison a series of clicks sounded off the man's tongue while his hands patted his stomach. Trotter twisted it's head sideways and began to trot down the street to follow Lincoln. Lincoln turned around satisfied and continued down the street twisting his head to take in the scenery. Across from him he passed the post office and on his left another house then back across the street he saw some people inside through the windows. He stared for an unintentionally long time before breaking from his days hearing Trotter's hoof beats strike the ground louder than before. He quickly turned his gaze to the building he now passed on his left. The building drew his nose soon after when he smelled the scent of flour. A memory of himself and his brother Allen being chastised by their nanny for playing with unfinished bread came to mind. A genuine smile crept across his face then faded soon after. Simpler times before the war. He stepped away from the porch of the bakery now to begin crossing towards the West Inn.His heart hardened again as he pressed further towards the inn with his horse keeping pace behind him in the road. There was some comfort in knowing his horse at least had the sense to stay near him. Some understanding of the bond they shared though certainly no deeper meaning than survival. As he passed the gun store he took a cursory glance inside to see the "Closed For Business" sign propped on a cabinet in the corner of the window. Lincoln sucked his teeth and pushed a breath past pursed lips.
"Damn shame..." The gunslinger muttered, "Reckon I'll come back later on..."
Now more than halfway across the street Lincoln could see a road sign pointing down a road to the right of the stables. It seemed to ambiguously mark the direction with a single arrow but to Lincoln it seemed unlikely any road would head further north. Utah itself was foreign compared to the coastal plains of home. Truly he wasnt versed in the scope of these new territories and statehoods being formed. Better to push such things from thought than wonder what he could find out soon enough. Almost entirely across the street now he turned to his left again to see a nook of four houses tucked into the southwest corner of the town. One was quite large with one next to it being comparably minuscule. The other two sat adjacent to either the gun store or the West Inn. The two seemed about the same size either comparably large to the small one still. An odd placement of such a shack but it seemed shameless in nature. Almost daringly so. Though he wasnt a burglar the idea crossed his mind that such places would make easy targets in the places he'd grown up. Thoughts faded from his mind as he raised his booted foot to the porch of the inn then stopped one foot still on the ground. He looked back to his horse then considered the nature of the man's words earlier. Horse thievery was afoot and with the contents of his saddlebags he couldnt risk losing his horse to such a crime. He whistled for Trotter to come near and the horse did as commanded. The large beast slowed it's pace while tucking his head low and approaching his owners side. Lincoln put a firm right hand on his horses neck then delivered a few long strokes on the flank. He unwound the leather strap he'd used to secure his saddlebags to his saddle then snaked his same hand under the saddle bags and hefted them onto his shoulder. With a quick adjustment he clasped the bridge of leather between the two bags where it rested on his collarbone. His right hand made a cup shape then patted his horse twice firmly on the rear to signal it's release. With a bray Trotter paced about for a moment while Lincoln made his way inside the inn. Once inside the double doors the southerner was affronted with the smells of must and mold with a topper of body odor. Not exactly amazing conditions but certainly he could find affordable lodgings. Scanning the inn he saw no sign of the proprietor or patrons only dust decorated the floor and furniture. After having waiting a moment in a silence interrupted only by the creak of the wooden doors Lincoln's patience grew thin.
"Excuse me!" He announced heartily, "Anybody home?"
"Escucha aquí bigote," He delivered the words casually with a friendly southern cantor, "llámame cabròn una vez más y me aseguraré de que tomes tu última siesta. Sabes quién tiene quién. Tuviste suerte esta vez hijito."
Lincoln squeezed the trigger's of both guns then with his thumb holding the hammer's slowly allowed them to rest back in place. In a synchronized click the chambers of the revolvers rotated to their next rounds. Angling his wrists away from the man and the pistols by extension Lincoln began to lower his arms. With a final resigned sigh he stuffed his pistols into their holsters. His hands moved out to his sides slowly in an effort to show the secretary he had truly relinquished his arms. Turning around with his hands still outstretched he scanned the room to take in the huddled mass in the corner along with the priest then finally the woman still wielding the shotgun. Though seemingly less agitated than her voice had indicated before Lincoln decided to press on no further. The gunslinger's hands picked up his crumpled hat with a quick flourish before one fist was jammed inside to reshape it. He looked to the priest with a single slight nod and light squint. Lincoln's fingers set to work pressing the rim in hopes to reform to edge it held before his southern mouth set to work again this time delivering some semblance of a soliloquy.
"Sorry to stand between you and your God father, I'm not much for the murder of unarmed men." First addressing the priest then the woman, "But it looks like the lady here could stand to oblige. Seems like theres plenty of folk in here troubling your time ma'am so I'll be back to my own business. Caballero, déjame cogerte en la calle algún día, veremos qué muchacha te salvará. Or in English if you prefer, "Darling, may God give me strength to leave a rose so pretty'. Y'all have a good day now, my horse's'waiting."
Without further regard for the woman's intent Lincoln took one step backwards then turned on his boot heel to face door. The original assailant was correct that if it came down to it both men would be struck by the shotgun. Favorable odds as far as Lincoln was concerned. As he turned the Mexican man was as expected in his path again. His smile crept back onto his face as he made eye contact with the mustached man. In the minute scale of the interaction Lincoln had endeavored to communicate to the man the depths of his own conviction. The moment broke as quickly as it had formed when the gunslinger's hands brought his hat to place on his head. When Lincoln's face shown again it held no sign of tensions past or any sign of some to come, only simple and calm with a curved corner of the lip. Eyes as cold and green as sea weathered glass he turned back to the woman still wielding the shotgun. Knowing he had committed no crime his hands clasped the handle before he opened then closed door exiting without a care. Outside he was greeted yet again by the deposed barbershop, sheriff's office and yet undefinable bank. His left hand rose to his face to explore the stubble decorating his muzzle which prompted an idea. A bed would do him good as would a hot bath and razor. Surely he could find somewhere to lodge around here providing he didnt wind up having to bear arms for the third time today. To his right sat the church but to his left the town extended some six buildings further. A snort made him glance further left to reveal his horse still with it's head buried deep in the water trough. He clicked his tongue once and again to no avail so he decided to leave the beast to it's own devices for a moment longer. As he moved down the street he crossed in front of a house then after that the saloon. He stopped briefly outside the steps of the freshly painted place. It seemed lively enough thought perhaps a tad to soon to break his unintentional morning sobriety. He turned to look further into the town. Lincoln did spot a small inn directly facing him that seemed rather well located. Next to it he could see a barn then immediately it struck him that it was a stable. The inn itself surely couldnt house too many but judging from the streets Lincoln wagered there was a room available. He decided to press on away from the doors of the saloon in some manor trying to keep a level head. As his boots struck the packed dirt beneath him he thought back to the encounter he'd just had. Not half an hour since he had first dismounted his horse but already he had drawn and been drawn on. A smile crossed his face as he considered how suitable such a place was for him and for his prey. O'Fellis wouldnt have much of any reason not to come through here. Having seem the young lady with a gun Lincoln could assume there was fair chance that gold toothed spider could already be spinning his web here. Though in retrospect the entire situation was pretty favorable till she'd bared down on him and that mouthy Mexican man. Without consideration for the fact that the situation was well in hand she'd escalated the body count by one more for some reason he couldnt grasp. Toying with the idea as he walked he pondered on whether or not she was the type to enjoy such a thing or if she had acted in sense of panic. Couldn't be simple enough as one cut and dry dead guy, Lincoln thought to himself. He turned on his heel and looked back to his horse who now lazily stood in the street staring at the door to the mayor's office. In unison a series of clicks sounded off the man's tongue while his hands patted his stomach. Trotter twisted it's head sideways and began to trot down the street to follow Lincoln. Lincoln turned around satisfied and continued down the street twisting his head to take in the scenery. Across from him he passed the post office and on his left another house then back across the street he saw some people inside through the windows. He stared for an unintentionally long time before breaking from his days hearing Trotter's hoof beats strike the ground louder than before. He quickly turned his gaze to the building he now passed on his left. The building drew his nose soon after when he smelled the scent of flour. A memory of himself and his brother Allen being chastised by their nanny for playing with unfinished bread came to mind. A genuine smile crept across his face then faded soon after. Simpler times before the war. He stepped away from the porch of the bakery now to begin crossing towards the West Inn.His heart hardened again as he pressed further towards the inn with his horse keeping pace behind him in the road. There was some comfort in knowing his horse at least had the sense to stay near him. Some understanding of the bond they shared though certainly no deeper meaning than survival. As he passed the gun store he took a cursory glance inside to see the "Closed For Business" sign propped on a cabinet in the corner of the window. Lincoln sucked his teeth and pushed a breath past pursed lips.
"Damn shame..." The gunslinger muttered, "Reckon I'll come back later on..."
Now more than halfway across the street Lincoln could see a road sign pointing down a road to the right of the stables. It seemed to ambiguously mark the direction with a single arrow but to Lincoln it seemed unlikely any road would head further north. Utah itself was foreign compared to the coastal plains of home. Truly he wasnt versed in the scope of these new territories and statehoods being formed. Better to push such things from thought than wonder what he could find out soon enough. Almost entirely across the street now he turned to his left again to see a nook of four houses tucked into the southwest corner of the town. One was quite large with one next to it being comparably minuscule. The other two sat adjacent to either the gun store or the West Inn. The two seemed about the same size either comparably large to the small one still. An odd placement of such a shack but it seemed shameless in nature. Almost daringly so. Though he wasnt a burglar the idea crossed his mind that such places would make easy targets in the places he'd grown up. Thoughts faded from his mind as he raised his booted foot to the porch of the inn then stopped one foot still on the ground. He looked back to his horse then considered the nature of the man's words earlier. Horse thievery was afoot and with the contents of his saddlebags he couldnt risk losing his horse to such a crime. He whistled for Trotter to come near and the horse did as commanded. The large beast slowed it's pace while tucking his head low and approaching his owners side. Lincoln put a firm right hand on his horses neck then delivered a few long strokes on the flank. He unwound the leather strap he'd used to secure his saddlebags to his saddle then snaked his same hand under the saddle bags and hefted them onto his shoulder. With a quick adjustment he clasped the bridge of leather between the two bags where it rested on his collarbone. His right hand made a cup shape then patted his horse twice firmly on the rear to signal it's release. With a bray Trotter paced about for a moment while Lincoln made his way inside the inn. Once inside the double doors the southerner was affronted with the smells of must and mold with a topper of body odor. Not exactly amazing conditions but certainly he could find affordable lodgings. Scanning the inn he saw no sign of the proprietor or patrons only dust decorated the floor and furniture. After having waiting a moment in a silence interrupted only by the creak of the wooden doors Lincoln's patience grew thin.
"Excuse me!" He announced heartily, "Anybody home?"
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SAMUEL & TERESA MAY JAMES
THE GENERAL GOODS STORE OWNER AND HIS WIFE | NPCS
Teresa remained very still apart from her wandering gaze. Now and then, her eyes would flick over to her husband, then the guests, and back again. It was only when the other woman moved closer that Teresa found herself walking several steps backwards in response, the broom clattering to the floor in her haste. Embarrassed, she picked it up and gave the guests a small but forced smile. And yet the smile faded from her face as soon as it appeared. Before long, she was scurrying out to the backroom without sparing them a single word.
"My wife is not a very talkative woman, you have to forgive her," Samuel explained as he took up his place behind the cash register. "Teresa, why don't you get our customers something to eat?" He shouted, smile unwavering. Either he hadn't noticed his wife crying at all, or he did and just didn't care.
"No, no, business has not been slow," Samuel waved his hand dismissively, "Business has been just fine." At this, he blew the dust from the cash register and coughed.
"And some coffee, Teresa!" He added at Frank's plea.
In no time, Teresa returned with the pot of coffee and bread with a little bit of mold on them. She laid them out on the counter and positioned herself behind her husband, staring at the food like it was the most interesting thing she had ever laid her eyes on.
"So tell me, young man, what brings you to Highland? Any plans for the day?" Samuel inquired.
@PoetLore
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It became obvious rather quickly that Father McCarthy's attempt to defuse the situation only escalated it. A fourth gun now entered the situation, and the woman bearing it seemed cut from the same iron cloth as everyone else in this town. Father Thompson's last letter indicated a sudden downturn in Highland's fortunes, but to see drawn guns solved with more drawn guns brought the problem to the fore for him more potently than ever. Somewhere in his furious whirl of thoughts, he filed away a desire to preach about violence next Sunday.
Thankfully, four seemed to be the peak of guns drawn in this confrontation. The Dixielander departed as abruptly as the Mexican had arrived. The priest reminded himself to watch for that man, as well. He could sense dangerous potential in him, not merely of the violent kind. Something about how casually he threw his words to the Mexican and to the lady made the priest wary. He had known such boys when he was but a boy himself.
"Well," he began, wiping his brow, "I suppose that clears things up. For now." He turned as he sat back down, and then noticed the man slumbering in the corner. Somehow he had missed him. His first thought was wondering if he was a parishioner, but recognizing someone based on their hat—the only distinctive article not concealed by blankets or shadow—was fruitless. Perhaps he was a relation to the lady with the shotgun.
He glanced at the clock again. 6.15. "I do hope the mayor won't take long," he added, apropos of nothing.
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