NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This is a Semi-Open RP. If you would like to participate, post in the interest thread (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=377819) or send me a telegram and we’ll move things right along.

Here are the rules of engagement for the participants.


1. Try to keep your posts IC as much as possible.
2. Each nation can only have two characters, maximum.
3. Characters can only have tech that would have been available in and during the time of the western expansion of the RL United States of America.
4. No magic, unless it's of the sleight-of-hand variety.
5. No wanking or godmoding, obviously.
6. If you want to quit the RP for some reason, just write yourself out of the story.
7. Please run your posts through a spelling and punctuation checker if you have problems with either of those things.
8. Feel free to roleplay my character giving you drinks or a pack of cards.


IC:

A Saloon Story
A Texan Hotrodders Production: No Rights Reserved

My name is Cecil Lawrence. I moved to this fine town called Chassis about three years ago. After my wife died and my daughter married and moved out east, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I was fairly well-educated, but lacked any specific expertise. Except in the military, I suppose. I did serve as a cavalry officer for five years during the Hotrodder Wars. I don’t think my knowledge of tactics and field commanding is particularly useful in civilian life, though. So what was I going to do with myself? I was forty years old, five feet and eight inches tall, and while I was still healthy and could handle a gun, I didn’t think I wanted to try the cowboy life that some of my old army buddies had suggested. I just wanted a little place to retire on. After a few months of sitting on my ass, and occasionally pretending to do some yard-work while wearing my work trousers that were a gift from my wife, I got a letter from my uncle. He’s a carpenter who has lived in Chassis for twenty-some-odd years. He said he needed some help around his shop and his house, and he could give a room, board, and a small salary. I rode out to Chassis the morning after I got that letter, still wearing my work trousers and my white cotton shirt. It took me three weeks to get to Chassis.

I rode into the town at dusk, and found myself awestruck at how incredibly, fantastically dinky it was. I came in from the east, down the main road that was in actuality just an open tract of packed dirt. At first I thought that I had just picked the bad end of Chassis to ride into. I was wrong. There was no other end of the town. The whole damn town was the same ugly, smelly, messy dump. The whole town smelled of shit. Horse shit, cat shit, dog shit, and human shit. There may have been some goat shit or cow shit as well. I was not quite as sure about the goat shit and cow shit, because I couldn’t actually see any of the stuff. There were a lot of shacks scattered around among the buildings. Most of them seemed deserted or inhabited by wildlife of various forms. There were few real buildings that were around, and most were dilapidated houses, few of which had any light emanating from them. The first building I saw was a jailhouse, and then a rather nicely constructed edifice that had a sign out front saying it was a “Boarding House.” That building seemed to double as a whorehouse, given the attire of the many young women on the porch. The last building was a saloon, with the traditional half-doors holding the entrance. I never thought, as I rode past the dimly lantern-lit saloon to my uncle’s house a mile away from the town to the west, that I would end up working there.

After my uncle died, I started working at The Cylinder as a barkeep. I still remember my first day as clear as if it had happened last week. It was my first time walking into the saloon, because as a general rule, I don’t drink anything with alcohol in it, and all they have in saloons are alcoholic beverages. As I pushed aside the doors, I took in the smoky atmosphere and noticed a few other things too. Maybe it was my army training. To my left was a long smooth and polished oak bar that stretched all the way to the back of the room. It appeared that in order to get behind the bar, one would have to leap over it or come through the back way, which was locked and dead bolted. To my right was a large area with small round tables that I could tell had been made by my uncle. That made sense, considering that he was the only carpenter in town. I went up to the barkeep and asked for a job. He hired me on the spot. It turns out that he wasn’t getting enough “quality time” at the boarding house, and needed someone to replace him four or five days of the week. He showed me around the liquor stock, and also told me what to charge per drink. Then he showed me the shotgun that keeps people from getting too rowdy in the saloon. That whole year was one of the most interesting times of my life. Due to the new free-for-all immigration policies the government had recently adopted, and our location about 15 miles from the border, my first day at work I saw a few real interesting characters walk through that door…

Who I am? Does that matter to a stranger like you? I'm just the telegrapher. My name is Ike Callister, if you really want to know. My office is right between the Boarding House and the county gaol, but you probably didn't notice it. I guess it could use some paint, but I haven't found the time yet. Not that I have anything better to do...
I wasn't built for the army, like you. I proved to be quite good at morse-code, and actually I felt quite proud of myself when I got this job. Ofcourse I didn't know how small this town was. When I arrived, I thought it would grow quickly, as did most towns back then, but the government forgot all about this place, and me.
Though this town looks calm from the outside, it can get pretty hot right here. I lost my beautiful wife when some shitheaded gamblers started shooting over a stupid cardgame. I never gambled ever since. I can't forget her. She was so perfect, so devine, and they killed her. Give me another drink.
Thanks.
All the bad things will eventually get back on you, just remember that son.
I think I'm going to take a look at how the ladies are doing; they can make me forget her for a while.

The people cycle in and out of the Cylinder all the time. The thought always amused me and seemed fitting, but this new guy wasn't too bad. I think his name was Cecil. Made him sound like a dandy, but I didn't much care. He gave me my drinks when I asked, and kept his yap shut about the smoke, especially the Mexican stogies I prefer.

I'd say that I keep to myself, but I really can't. Somebody has to take money from rubes with more than they deserve, and that's what I do. Of course, they think they've got a chance when they sit down to play with me. Idiots. They think a few games back when they were a kid means they know how to play poker. They come up with silly rules, like "drawing" cards. Real men play stud, and if they want to sit at my table, that's what they play.

And that's what they lose at.

Occationally, one of them gets a little upset when I brutalize them at my table. That's why I keep a little Derringer above my wrist on a spring holster. I had to pay quite a bit for it, but after some tinhorn shot at me while I was going for the Colt on my hip, I decided that it was well worth it. Besides, people don't accuse me of hiding cards up my sleeve when that little one-shot pops out.

I like to keep my hat pulled down; it helps to hide my hazel eyes. I keep my clothes black, as it makes me harder to hit in a dimly lit saloon. I like my whiskey straight and my cards unmarked. When you're good, you don't need to cheat. Besides, cheaters tend to be drug out into the street and shot.

They like to call me Will. My parents liked to call me Wilford J. Harrington. I don't care what people call me, as long as their money is good.

---

Sinners.

The heathens and whores and sinners were everywhere in this modern day Soddom and Gamorrah. They drink; they take the LORD's name in vain; they break as many of His laws as they can find. If they weren't such ignorant savages, they would manage to break even more.

The Apostle Matthew could have been writing of this place when he said "Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?" (Matt. 23:33)

They deserve to be cast into hell; so that divine justice never stands in the way, it makes no objection against God's using his power at any moment to destroy them. The sword of divine justice is every moment brandished over their heads, and it is nothing but the hand of arbitrary mercy, and God's mere will, that holds it back .

And yet, it is my calling to take these whores and sinners and bring them into the light of God. I am Jeremiah Stoltzfus, the steward of their souls. They may disdain and spit at me, but I shall not be swayed from my divine task.

[* Taken from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God (http://www.jesus-is-lord.com/sinners.htm)]

Twenty-one years ago, in Kantano, there was a prophecy made. "The child of two smiths shall be the Chosen One..."
Twenty-one years ago, in Kantano, there was a child born. The son of two blacksmiths.

Of course, the one has nothing to do with the other. I, Burrakh at Ikhator leaned on the bar, grinning silently. Strapped to my back, the long, weather-hardened pole called the Ikhator, 'Tree's Weapon.' I was dressed completely in my trade's worn brown leather uniform, from the hood that half-covered my eyes to the boots protecting my wide, oversized feet. I tossed back one more shot of perhaps the nastiest whiskey in the saloon's stock and stepped toward the bartender. "Hey, 'tender, you looking for a guard on this place?

Twenty-one years ago, in Kantano, there was a prophecy made. "The child of two smiths shall be the Chosen One..."
Twenty-one years ago, in Kantano, there was a child born. The son of two blacksmiths.

Of course, the one has nothing to do with the other. I, Burrakh at Ikhator leaned on the bar, grinning silently. Strapped to my back, the long, weather-hardened pole called the Ikhator, 'Tree's Weapon.' I was dressed completely in my trade's worn brown leather uniform, from the hood that half-covered my eyes to the boots protecting my wide, oversized feet. I tossed back one more shot of perhaps the nastiest whiskey in the saloon's stock and stepped toward the bartender. "Hey, 'tender, you looking for a guard on this place?

Cecil nodded goodbye to Ike as the poor fellow left, and then looked up at the rather burly fellow wearing a pole on his back who had just asked him a question. He ran his hand over his balding pate and then across his rather grizzled and unshaven jaw, scratching his hand against the rough stubble. "I'll have to ask the owner about that, sir. Would you like to tell me about your qualifications so that I can offer the owner a full account of your suitability for the job when I see him next?"

I coughed once. "I am Burrakh at Tonaf at Ik-hator. I carry the Tree's Weapon upon my back. I have taken the Six Vows of Knighthood. I drink less of the stock than most prospective bouncers."

"I play a mean hand of five-card draw."

The sound of hoofs stomping next to his head awoke Gus. He was a middle aged man, average size and heighth during his time. The sun was already high when he awoke, the sun blinding his eyes as he blinked several times before making out the image of his mare standing above him, beckoning him awake. Gus rolled over, his hat was crumpled from sleeping on it. He fixed his hat as much as possible before sitting up.

He looked down at his pants, the same pants he wore for over a week now.....old and worn; dirty and unpressed. His shirt was soaked in sweat, as the heat of the morning and the dream he just had caused him to heavily perspire. He removed an old hand kerchief, wiping his brow slowly.

Sighing, he mumbled to himself, "I'm Gus Wallen, 36 years old, and do you think anyone in this shit hole place is going to know anything about me? I've lived an honest life my whole life....papa taught me that, and do you think I've got myself anything here to prove it. All I gots here is my here Atropus." The horse, at the sound of it's name, lowered it's head to it's master, allowing her nose to be gently patted by his owner.

Atropus was a fine mare; her coat shined, showing she was well kept for, and her build showed she was an strong and powerful horse, fast too. She nuzzled Gus's cheek and neighed softly. Gus pet her nose, running his hand along the side of her head gently. "Ah, Atty, you knows I love ya girl."

He stood up, shaking the dirt that collected over night. He stooped down, reaching inside his bag, to find a brush. He smiled to his horse as he ran the brush over her coat. He patted Atropus one last time before grabbing his bag and leaving into the city. Atropus followed aside of him loyally, as she always did since the man had saved her.

Gus would be new to this city. But he knew, like all other places he had been, that he would be rejected here. He left his business behind him, hoping to return one day. His journey out here was more a scavenger hunt, a persuit of someone whom he would hunt until the last of his days until he sought his revenge.

Guiding his mare into the town, he slowly walked into the dilapidated town. He cringed, thinking of the sights he would see here. This place preminsced of a perfect "get-away" for someone like Padro Nivez....the infamous horse theif from back home. He clenched his jaw thinking of the past he had and the score needing to be settled.

Limping heavily from an accident he had when he was thirteen, he continued into the town with Atropus at his side, looking first for the most probable place Padro would hide.

I coughed once. "I am Burrakh at Tonaf at Ik-hator. I carry the Tree's Weapon upon my back. I have taken the Six Vows of Knighthood. I drink less of the stock than most prospective bouncers."

"I play a mean hand of five-card draw."

"Ah. I'm not familiar what a Tree's Weapon means. Is it the...uh...thing on your back? And what are the Six Vows of Knighthood, if I may ask? That would be a good thing to know when I talk to the owner about your request." Cecil smiled slightly and continued, "I'm sure glad to hear that you aren't a big drinker, and if you like to play five-card draw, I can give you some cards to pass the time with."

Time stopped when she entered the saloon. Smoke that had been drifting became like a solid cloud, and drinks went untouched. A hush came came over the rough-looking men, and all eyes were drawn, and glued to her. This made Trixie Green a very happy lady, and hopefully before the night was through, a very rich woman. Ignoring the stares, she strode directly towards the bar, her smile wide and directed at her friend and bartender, Cecil. The man was a package of restrained sadness, and Trixie was attracted to his vulnerability. That, and the fact he had never hit on her, despite the fact she had made her availability very clear to him.

The bar was filling up, the card games getting noisier. Most of the regular faces were here, as well as some new ones. An exotic looking man with a large pole strapped to his back was staring at her, and she returned his look with a smile. Walking up to Cecil, she gestured him over. He arrived with a bottle of whiskey, and a single shot glass, which he set in front of her. He knew what she liked, and she liked it alot. She slammed back a 2 ounce shot, and closed her eyes, savoring the warmth. Then she looked at Cecil.

"Heya handsome, looks like a busy night. Anyone I should know about here?"

Time stopped when she entered the saloon. Smoke that had been drifting became like a solid cloud, and drinks went untouched. A hush came came over the rough-looking men, and all eyes were drawn, and glued to her. This made Trixie Green a very happy lady, and hopefully before the night was through, a very rich woman. Ignoring the stares, she strode directly towards the bar, her smile wide and directed at her friend and bartender, Cecil. The man was a package of restrained sadness, and Trixie was attracted to his vulnerability. That, and the fact he had never hit on her, despite the fact she had made her availability very clear to him.

The bar was filling up, the card games getting noisier. Most of the regular faces were here, as well as some new ones. An exotic looking man with a large pole strapped to his back was staring at her, and she returned his look with a smile. Walking up to Cecil, she gestured him over. He arrived with a bottle of whiskey, and a single shot glass, which he set in front of her. He knew what she liked, and she liked it alot. She slammed back a 2 ounce shot, and closed her eyes, savoring the warmth. Then she looked at Cecil.

"Heya handsome, looks like a busy night. Anyone I should know about here?"

Inclining his head in the direction of the man with the staff, Cecil spoke softly. "That new fellow there, Burrakh, was just asking about a job keeping order in this place. He seems to find you attractive, considering the way he stopped breathing for a moment when you glided in." Cecil smiled, and set the bottle of whiskey down next to the shot glass. "Drink as much as you like, Ms. Green. I'll be over there finishing my conversation with Burrakh, if you need anything else."

"Oh, don't be so formal with me, Cece...call me Theresa." Trixie said, again trying to bridge the gap between them. Why did he treat her like such a ....lady? She WAS a lady, but rough around the edges...Cecils manners were daunting and unfamiliar to her. She found that she liked it.

Pouring another 2 finger shot, she drained it more slowly, content to look at the crowd. Her eyes fell on the stranger, Burrakh. Not a bad looking fellow, she thought, but if he was looking for work here, she surmised that his coin bag was probably very empty. He wasn't THAT good looking, and she had a business to run, so she looked around the bar some more, hoping to find an easy, and wealthy, mark.

"Trixie!!!" Again all eyes went to the door. "Are yuuuu runnin' fromme?!! We was gonna marry and make babies!" Ike had been away for a couple of hours. He threw an empty bottle on the floor. It was obvious where he had left the whiskey.
"Am I not good enough?! Is it really only money that interests you? I paid you more than enough last month! Where is I gonna get paint now, without money? I don't want you any more... And this time I reeeaally mean it!" He looked around for a second and stumbled to the piano. Luckily it wasn't that far from the door. He put his finger on the central C. It made no sound. He knew that ofcourse. He often used to play piano for his wife. Thinking of her caused him pain, but it could also be the floor. He stood up, and walked to the bar. It would've gone faster if he walked in a straight line. "Gimme another one, bartender."

When she heard the drunken slur that was her name, Trixie didn't need to turn around...Ike was at it again. Usually a pretty nice fella, Ike got downright ugly when he'd had a few too many...and today, it looked like he'd lost count. She wasn't worried really...in this town, loud-mouthed drunks being abusive to womenfolk was frowned upon. Still, she didn't want ole Ike to get beaten, just because he was drunk, lonely and missing his wife. With a sigh, she stood and walked towards him. She spoke softly and calmly, like a trainer with a wild beast.

"Ike honey, no need to make a scene. Come have a drink with me at the bar, darlin'..."

As soon as Ike started moving towards the bar, Cecil bent down and took out a bottle of very special whiskey that was located behind the bar, conveniently adjacent to the shotgun. He grabbed a shot glass, and began to pour, all the while keeping his hand steadily on the butt of the shotgun, ready to whip it out and blow Ike a new airhole, but reluctant to do so. He prayed to God that Ike would just drink the special whiskey, ensuring that no one would have to worry about him for a few hours when the soporific took effect in a couple of minutes. Cecil set the shot glass in front of Ike, his grizzled face the bland visage of a man ready to kill and unhappy about it.

Ike looked at the glass, or tried to. He tried really hard. It was empty. "Let's not get married, yet... Ya know, I didn't even attend his funeral... Grey boots... Mmmmhhhh"
One hand still held the glass, while his head rested on the other one.
He slept.

Cecil watched Ike carefully, releasing his grip on the shotgun as the poor fellow's eyelids ponderously closed over his bloodshot eyes. Cecil sighed softly before quickly clambering over the bar and throwing Ike over his shoulder. He moved past Trixie to the entrance of The Cylinder, pushed open the doors and gently ensconced Ike in an old rocking chair that he could tell immediately had also been made by his uncle. The soft murmur of voices began to rise again, now that it was over. He went inside ready to work, aware that many would be needing a drink to calm them after being keyed up for the possible violence.

"The Ik-hator is a 1.8 meter pole of cured oak. I'm trained in safe use.
The Six Vows are as follows -
1. I shall protect my employer as my employer requires.
2. I shall defend myself from all attack with a minimum of harm to my attacker.
3. I shall never start the fight.
4. I shall not use my ability for evil.
5. I shall continually respect the One Psyche.
6. I shall do as I see fit in all other cases."

Wilford pushed his hat up just a touch as he watched the commotion over by the bar. He smirked a little, his hands shuffling the cards without any real thought on his part; almost as if his hands had nothing better to do and took it upon themselves to be busy, even if it ment shuffling a deck that had been shuffled countless times already.

'Trixie' certainly was a a nice piece of work, God must have had a party putting her together. And then there was Ike. Lord, what a waste. He chuckled softly. Ike wasn't all that bad. When he actually had money, he'd occationally "donate" it to the Wilford J. Harrington Foundation.

Since his table was currently empty, he set himself up for a game of solitare. It looked like the usual crowd.

---

Jeremiah spied Gus coming into town from his window, and his mind immediately started wheeling. The vagabond looked like yet another lost soul, there were so many of them in this town. He had a sinful look about him, again, a common feature. He felt his lip curling in discust at the filthy man, before sighing and whispering, "And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins. Use hospitality one to another without grudging. (1 Peter 4:8,9)" Clearly, it was his duty, and the LORD's will that he help this... person.

He smoothed his suit before stepping out of his house and greeting Gus with a somewhat forced smile, "Welcome to Chassis, stranger. You look... troubled. Is there something on your mind? For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. (Romans 10:10)"

Dawn Bradley dismounted and tied the end of her reins to the hitching post. She dusted her hands off on the front of her chaps, thinking about the stranger with the pretty mare they had passed on the way in.

"Bet you'd like a new girlfriend, eh Solo?" she laughed, slapping the big gelding on the neck as he gulped at the water trough.

He was a big, dark bay, quarter horse gelding. He stood 16 hands, and 10 yrs with muddy shoulders and flanks. Not much time for cleaning, and not much sense for it with the cow horses. A once-over with the curry comb was enough to break loose any caked-on mud, but did nothing to really clean the stains away. Dawn didn't look too much better. She was streaked with dust, most of which had blown off on the ride into town, but she was rarely truly clean. But then, why would she be? A rancher's life was not a clean one. She liked to think it added character, rather than detract from charm.

She patted the sleeping Ike on the shoulder before pushing her way into the saloon. Same old crowd it seemed, with just a few unfamiliar faces. She removed her hat, shaking out her short, windblown hair. With a wink at a few of the new ones she caught looking, she casually pulled up a stool at the bar.

"Whiskey," she requested, catching the tender's attention.

Cecil nodded as Burrakh finished the explanation of the pole and the vows, then said he would ask the owner about hiring him when next they met. He turned and watched as the saloon doors opened and discreetly enjoyed the very nice slim figure of the young woman who walked in with a firm, puposeful stride. She took a stool, unusual for a woman, and then asked for whiskey, which was not unusual at all. Cecil gave it to her, noticing that small clouds of dust were emitted when she made any significant movements. "Would you like anything else?" he asked quietly.

OOC: Thanks..I thought something sounded wrong. Fixed.

"That'll do just fine, suga'."

She took the drink with a kind of easy grace, and threw back a quick swallow. Her wince determined it to be nice and strong, just how she liked it. Only now did she take time to really notice the bartender. Not the same one she remembered, but then she had been too busy to stop by for quite a while. Years, it seemed. But then again, she was usually too drunk upon leaving to remember a soul.

"You new around here or is the alcohol playin' tricks on me?" she asked with a sweet smile, and rested her hand on her belt buckle.

Cecil coughed, lowering his head so that he could cover his mouth with his sleeve. He noticed her hand on the belt buckle, a very large buckle. Then Cecil raised his eyes and smiled softly. "I haven't been working here very long. Do you come here often, Ms...?"

"Bradley, but you can call me Dawn," she smiled, extending her hand in greeting.

"Hell...everyone else does. Sorry 'bout all the dust," she explained quickly, interpreting the cough. "It's been awful dry lately. With all the smoke in here, I'd hoped it wouldn't bother folks too much."

"Bradley, but you can call me Dawn," she smiled, extending her hand in greeting.

"Hell...everyone else does. Sorry 'bout all the dust," she explained quickly, interpreting the cough. "It's been awful dry lately. With all the smoke in here, I'd hoped it wouldn't bother folks too much."

Cecil took the small calloused hand she proffered and shook it gently. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Bradley...uh...Dawn." He sighed and added, "It's hard for me to be familiar with ladies. Marraige ingrains certain habits into a man after a while, and they don't go away easy. And don't you worry about the dust. A lot worse things than that get drug in here."

"Bradley, Dawn, whichever's easier for you," she brushed it off with a wink and a small gesture.

"So what brings you to this dirty ol' town Mr...what'd you say your name was again?"

"Bradley, Dawn, whichever's easier for you," she brushed it off with a wink and a small gesture.

"So what brings you to this dirty ol' town Mr...what'd you say your name was again?"

"Lawrence. Cecil Lawrence. As to what brings me here...I needed something to keep me busy after my wife died and my daughter married and moved away. I had an uncle, the carpenter who lives a little ways outside of Chassis." Cecil jerked his head in the direction of the old homestead. "He needed someone to help him out, and I needed something to do. Then when he died, I looked for a job here. That's about it."

"I'm so sorry for your losses...must've been painful. I didn't mean to.." she cut herself off, turning to her drink to hide her embarassment at brining up such memories.

"Well in any case, welcome, Mr. Lawrence. And if you're looking for daytime work outta this place, I'm always lookin' for more hands."

She laid a few coins on the bar and flashed him that carefree smile once more.

"I'm so sorry for your losses...must've been painful. I didn't mean to.." she cut herself off, turning to her drink to hide her embarassment at brining up such memories.

"Well in any case, welcome, Mr. Lawrence. And if you're looking for daytime work outta this place, I'm always lookin' for more hands."

She laid a few coins on the bar and flashed him that carefree smile once more.

"Thank you, Ms. Bradley. I appreciate the condolences." He smiled back at her and picked up the coins. "I might take you up on that offer of work sometime. I could use a little exercise." Cecil rubbed his belly that had been going soft for the past few years and winked.

He smoothed his suit before stepping out of his house and greeting Gus with a somewhat forced smile, "Welcome to Chassis, stranger. You look... troubled. Is there something on your mind? For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. (Romans 10:10)"

Gus, lost in thought, was startled by the unexpected greeting from a stranger. He jumped at the sound of the man's voice and quickly brought his eyes up to meet the stranger's. He noticed the man's clean appearence, and feeling unfit due to his dirty and uncleaned clothes, he lowered his eyes again.

The words ran through his head, "troubled......" He stood there unsure of how to respond, shifting his weight slightly. Atropus, nugged her owner's cheek slightly, as if beckoning him to respond.

Again, coming from a displaced world in his head, he shook his head and realized where he was. He looked to the stranger, realizing the man had spoke of a great book he once knew of. Keeping his eyes lowered he responded to the stranger, "Thank you sir. Troubled I am not, justa man with this here horse. Her name's Atropus...... Fine mare she is, wouldn't you say so?"

Breathing a sigh of relief as to his supposed cover-up, he patted Atropus's nose and smiled, hoping to maintain his facade.

"Thank you, Ms. Bradley. I appreciate the condolences." He smiled back at her and picked up the coins. "I might take you up on that offer of work sometime. I could use a little exercise." Cecil rubbed his belly that had been going soft for the past few years and winked.

She smirked slightly as he patted a stomach that could stand a little firming up.

"Get you up on a horse, and we'll fix that right quick." She nodded at his stomach slightly.

"My father died about 5 years ago, and left everything to me. It's not much, but I've grown up on the range and ranch life suits me. His cowboys have stayed on to help, but runnin the place by myself gets a bit tricky, so consider it an open invitation."

A tired old horse trotted slowly into town, it's owner sitting on top wiping sweat from his forehead. It had been a long day.

MacIntyre, or Mack as his friends called him, Haynes had just finished fixing a half mile stretch of fence for a rancher near the town of Chassis and he was exhausted, not to mention thirsty. Mack jumped off his horse and parked it in front of the saloon. Slowly he brought a gritty hand though his thick tangle of brown hair before walking inside, carbine in hand.

Rolling out of the bed, the first one for more time than the barely awake figure could remember, Gerry perched on the edge, letting her feet touch the bare wooden floor. Stretching her body, finding that the luxury of the bed had caused more aches than her usual bed of the earth. She could barely recall the last time she had cotton covers and a pillow rather than the twinkling star strewn night sky and her saddle.

She rode into town the previous night, deciding to spend some of the money she had come into during her last time in a town, several weeks ride from where she was now. Not that she had taken the direct route, she always went a little out of her way, as she never knew who might be following for some reason or another; not that she had gotten herself in any trouble for a while, which for her made a change.

Grabbing her holster from the bedpost where it hung, she pulled it around her hips, jiggling the weight until it sat comfortably against her body. Then pulling on her boots, and grabbing her coat, she made her way towards the door, her stomach telling her than she needed some food or something in her stomach anyway. As she pulled open the door, she reached over and took her hat from the side, fixing it firmly on her head, completing her outfit, which did enough to disguise her figure, at least until someone looked too closely.

She made her way to the saloon, knowing that the bar was always the hive of activity, and the barkeep a mine of nearly all the information that went on in and around a town. Stepping through the door, she saw that there were quite a few people inside already, including the usual gambler waiting to cheat someone out of their life savings. She made her way over to the bar, pulling her hat down slightly to cover a little more of her face.

As she waited for the man behind the bar to become free, she watched the man playing patience, a good way to ascertain the level of the man’s game. Cheat at patience, cheat at everything. She grinned to herself, as she followed his play.

Trixie was chatting up some newcomers, one eye on the door. The visitors were farm-hands...coarse, hard-drinking but honest men who always had a smile for her, but little money in their coin-purses. She watched as Wilford, bless his soul, played cards by himself, waiting for his own "customers" to arrive. She called him "Slick Willie", but never to his face. Still, if ever she needed a partner to empty a town of all its cash, Wilford would be her first choice as an accomplice. The man was good. He wasn't hard on the eye either, though he hadn't made any advances on her. Pity, that.

When Dawn Bradley entered the room, Trixie's hand dropped to where she kept her Derringer. No love was lost between these two, though they had never really met. They were two very different women, and like fire and water, they didn't mix well. Bradley was the type that needed a strong back to finish her work, while Trixie simply needed to lie on her back for a job well done. Bradley was a looker too, though she hid it well. She watched with undisguised venom as Dawn started chatting with Cecil...not just chatting but...flirting? Her anger was just beginning to boil when another woman entered the bar.

She was different, this newcomer, simply because she was armed. She wore her holster low on her hip, and Trixie could see that the handle of her pistol was worn with use. She walked with confidence, and stood by the bar, waiting for Cecil to finish his conversation with Bradley. Trixie grabbed her bottle of whiskey, and a second glass, then sashayed over to where the new woman stood. Laying the bottle down in front of her, Trixie smiled at her.

"Ole Cece may be awhile, and you look thirsty...and I hate drinkin' alone. My name's Theresa, but all my friends call me Trixie." she said, pouring two long draws of the amber liquid.

Gerry watched as the woman walked into the bar, and it did not take her long to realise the kind of girl that she was. Not that she had anything against women of her profession, Gerry could have easily followed the same path, but each was dealt their hand by God and made the best that they could with what they had. She continued to flick her attention between the card player, the woman and the two at the bar.

More than a little surprise passed over her face when the woman approached her with a bottle of whiskey, not that she was about to complain, her mouth was so dry she was practically spitting dust. “My friends…” She grinned at the words. “They call me Gerry.” She picked up the shot glass and downed it in one, before returning the glass to the counter with a thud. “Certainly touches the spot.”

Trixie threw back her shot in unison with Gerry, and took a moment to refill both their glasses. As she did, she studied the newcomer with a curious eye, which she didn't bother to hide. She put the bottle down on the bar between them, then raised her glass.

"To new faces...I don't recall seeing you around these parts before, Gerry."

She pounded back her shot without waiting for a response. She took a small. silver case from her waistcoat, and withdrew a thin cigarillo from it, hand lighting it from the lantern on the bar.She offered the case to the other woman.

"Smoke?"

Gerry answered Trixie’s offer with a shake of the head, as she picked up the refilled glass. As she did so, she gave the other woman a look over, not that she noticed anything more than she had when Trixie first entered, just the usual type that frequented such establishments. But then a saloon with a…she smiled to herself.

“Just riding through.” She spoke carefully, almost as if she was afraid to give out too much about herself. “Been in the saddle for a while, thought I would stop and rest my head for a while.” Giving the bar a cursory glance, she nodded her head towards the door. “What’s the story of Chassis?” She asked in a devil may care fashion, even though it was a custom of hers to find out the people to meet and avoid in a town.

Mack walked up to the bar, still retaining a tight grip on his Whinchester carbine.

"Whiskey." He told the bartender, watching him as he retrieved a bottle and glass for him. He picked up both in one hand, his weapon in the other, and walked over to an empty table. Sitting down, he placed the drink on the surface and leaned his carbine on his chair. Slowly, he took a piece of brown bread and a hunk of cheese from his pocket, which he devoured and finished off with a gulp of whiskey.

Then he decided it was time to clean his carbine...

"I lead such a boring life..." He mumbled to himself as he took apart his weapon on the table.

After expressing his thanks to Dawn Bradley for her generous offer, Cecil went back to serving the alcohol that made The Cylinder go 'round. He smiled when he noticed, as he was pouring for a fellow carrying a carbine, that Trixie seemed to have made a new friend. The new one was a hard-faced woman with a glint in her beautiful eyes and a gun on her hip, the kind his wife had always despised on sight and the kind he had always secretly respected and admired. He would never go beyond the admiration, though. That sort of woman was often very touchy from dealing with men who didn't believe that anything with breasts could beat them. Quite a shame, really. Looking around the room idly, and at no one in particular, he wondered when the owner was going to come back from the "quality time" at the boarding house to relieve him. Cecil's stomach was expressing it's desires audibly now, and he wanted to take care of it before he got an ulcer.

“Just riding through.” She spoke carefully, almost as if she was afraid to give out too much about herself. “Been in the saddle for a while, thought I would stop and rest my head for a while.” Giving the bar a cursory glance, she nodded her head towards the door. “What’s the story of Chassis?” She asked in a devil may care fashion, even though it was a custom of hers to find out the people to meet and avoid in a town.

"Lot's of stories in Chassis, sweetie...and some of them true. We've got legend-chasers and treasure-hunters, lovers and losers, horse-thiefs and card-sharks, dreamers, drifters and desperados...and everything in between."

Trixie took a long pull from her cigarillo, the thick smoke creating a wreath around her face. She knew her own place in the grand scheme of things, and she had learned to thrive in the barely-restrained anarchy that was Chassis. She was a survivor, and she didn't get there by being in the dark, nor by being subtle.

"So darlin'...which of those are you?"

Dawn could feel Trixie's glare burning a hole in the back of her head for most of the conversation with Cecil. Calmly, she had ignored it. Just what was that girl's problem with her anyway? Reckon some folks just weren't meant to get on well. Dawn disliked Trixie for the simple reason that Trixie hated her. And so it had always been. She took a slow sip of the whiskey, savoring the burn as she surveyed the room.

She saw the tall fella cleaning his gun. He'd been working on a fence for her neighbor a few miles down the road, hadn't he? Yes, she'd passed him on the way into town. And that snake, Trixie, was chatting up a new girl. Pretty girl, that one, and she looked a bit nervous under all the questioning. Always have to know the in's and out's of everything, don't ya, Trixie? If nothing else, Trixie was always a good source for information...that is when she chose to share it. Dawn smirked into her drink, content just to unwind after a hard and dusty day.

Gerry let a small smile slip onto her lips, before taking another large swig of her drink, once more replacing the empty glass on the counter. “Maybe I’m a little of all, or none.” She looked straight into the other woman’s eyes, a cold look reflecting deep in them. “Miss Trixie, it’s not always a wise move to share too much of yourself too quickly, a mistake I made once, and have no intention of repeating. And you know what they said about Curiosity and the Cat.” She raised her eyebrow questioningly.

“I’m looking for a good place to partake in some food.” Gerry let a smile come back to her lips; it never paid to appear too rude when asking someone for assistance. “I feel like someone cut my throat but forgot to tell my stomach.” She could feel the eyes of several people looking at her, not that she expected anything less in such a place, strangers tended to get a little attention, until people realised they were not up to no good.

(tagging and winking at certain people in this thread. :-P)

As she waited for the man behind the bar to become free, she watched the man playing patience, a good way to ascertain the level of the man’s game. Cheat at patience, cheat at everything. She grinned to herself, as she followed his play.

Wilford sighed as he looked at the cards in front of him. He always hated when he threw down the cards and had nothing. Literally, there were no moves he could make, the cards on the table were uniformly bloody. He sighed again and flipped over a trio of cards. Blood on top. Another trio and more blood. He frowned, rubbing his eyes. Clearly Lady Luck was fucking with him. He cycled through the cards, shaking his head.

"I don't believe it," he muttered to himself. He ran through his draw pile again, just to make sure. He laughed softly, setting the cards down. He'd just delt himself a "perfect" hand: he couldn't do a damn thing. He'd never had this happen before and he just had to marvel at the stupidity of it all. "I need a drink..."

He glanced towards the bar and was a little surprized at all the people there. It was as if every tourist in the territory had decided to stop by and get a drink. "This just ain't my day..."

---

Keeping his eyes lowered he responded to the stranger, "Thank you sir. Troubled I am not, justa man with this here horse. Her name's Atropus...... Fine mare she is, wouldn't you say so?"

Jeremiah smiled thinly, "All are troubled, young man. For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23)." He glanced at the horse, looking it over placidly, "Mmm... yes, looks sturdy and quite capable of fullfilling her role as a servent of man." He turned his gaze back to Gus as if he was trying to peer into the man's soul, "Still..."

Christopher Tynn rode casually into the small town, miraculously un-dusty from the road, although his horse was so covered in dust it looked like a chestnut instead of a palomino.

He was not particularly distinguished looking, clean shaven with dark brown hair. Clothes well-made, but not particularly costly, and his pistols were ordinary - very well maintained, but ordinary.

He reached the saloon and tied his horse to the bar outside, casually rubbing its forehead as he looked around.

"What a dump of a place. Well, better than most of the places I've been"

Tin Chris shrugged and strode casually into the saloon, glancing around at the men, women and "ladies". A few steps took him up to the bar, where he seated himself on a bar stool a couple down from where the barkeep was talking to one of the women, one who paused to glare at one of the "ladies", who was glaring back.

Tin sighed and made a casual gesture at the barkeep, not in a rush, but desirous of a word.

Gerry let a small smile slip onto her lips, before taking another large swig of her drink, once more replacing the empty glass on the counter. “Maybe I’m a little of all, or none.” She looked straight into the other woman’s eyes, a cold look reflecting deep in them. “Miss Trixie, it’s not always a wise move to share too much of yourself too quickly, a mistake I made once, and have no intention of repeating. And you know what they said about Curiosity and the Cat.” She raised her eyebrow questioningly.

“I’m looking for a good place to partake in some food.” Gerry let a smile come back to her lips; it never paid to appear too rude when asking someone for assistance. “I feel like someone cut my throat but forgot to tell my stomach.” She could feel the eyes of several people looking at her, not that she expected anything less in such a place, strangers tended to get a little attention, until people realised they were not up to no good.

"Well now, that's something I think I can help you with..." Trixie leaned over the bar, her ample breasts straining against the thin material of her very low-cut upper blouse. She purred the bartenders name.

"Oh, Cecil darling...could you find out if Cookie still has some of that fine beef stew bubbling in the kitchen? Our new friend here could sure use a bowl of that...and a slab of bread, too...the fresh stuff. Thanks, Cece."

She leaned back, noticing the bar was still filling up. It looked like it could turn out to be a very busy, and lucrative, evening. She smiled back at Gerry, topping off both their glasses.

"You haven't lived until you've tried this stew, my dear...so, now that you are here in our little town...where will you be staying? Cece has a few rooms in the back, and they are cheap, but you'll be sharing them with all sorts of vermin."

She sipped her whiskey this time, letting the fiery liquid trickle down her throat.

"I don't usually do this, but I could put you up for a day or two at my place. I have a small ranch on the outskirts of town, where me and the girls can get some peace and privacy...I have a room there you can use."

Noise, chatter, voices.
Ike opened his eyes slowly. It was night, and getting quite cold.
He looked at the town he'd been living in for twelve years. All the original inhabitants have either died or moved away.
The deaths scared them away.

OOC: to be continued...

Watching silently for a moment, as Trixie went about ordering her food, Gerry let her gaze return to the other people in the bar. She lingered for a moment on the card player who seemed to have hit a bit of a wall in his game, she surmised that even the better card sharks could not win them all. The barman had moved his attention from the woman to a man who was cleaning his gun, she berated herself for not spotting his entry. Knowing exactly what was going on kept a person alive. From a quick glance she put the newcomer down as some rancher or some such.

Turning back to Trixie, Gerry stared kind of blankly for a moment at the woman’s offer. She had been to other towns before and had not experienced such hospitality. It took a moment for her to speak. “Your offer is mighty generous.” She gave a small smile before it once more disappeared. “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be staying, and I have a room at the hotel across the street.”

Of course, she was not sure whether staying in a house of women was really a wise idea, they tended to attract a lot of attention…male attention. And as much as she had nothing against their choice of living, she did not want the town’s folk to think. “Perhaps I could have time to think over the offer.” She smiled weakly, as she pointed back over the bar. “And thank you, for seeing to the food.”

Trixie looked at Gerry, understanding her reluctance. After all, she was a stranger to her, and the newcomer had no reason to trust the town skank, right? Anger bubbled in her briefly, then dissipated. The woman would have to make her own way here in Chassis...and not many were willing to help. Trixie always was, opening her doors to most of the female waifs that flowed through the town. Her ranch was a safe haven, much safer than anywhere in town, and Trixie remembered the woman that had given it to her, shortly before she died. Annabelle was a generous woman, and as her adopted daughter, Trixie could do no less. Stil, Gerry needed to make up her own mind, in her own time.

"No problem for the grub...food is good for the soul. If you decide you'd like to take me up on my offer, let me know. I need to go and make the rounds, so to speak."

She smiled, and took her leave of Gerry. She strolled past the newcomer at the bar, a dusty, rancher type (read: broke) and stopped at Slick Willie's table. Looking down at the unfortunate draw of cards, she smiled and ran her fingers across the back of his neck. Her voice was thick with promise.

"Want to try and change yer luck, handsome?" she asked with a smile.

Tristan Rynias, Thyrian. If he had a middle name that was a word rather than name, it would Arrogance

He saunters casually into the saloon of Chassis, wide-brimmed hat held lightly in one hand, carved revolver hilts peeking out from underneath his long coat. His shirt and waistcoat appear to be made of blue embroidered black silk, while his coat is made of the highest quality leather and bears a complex design on the back. Only the most widely travelled of people here would recognise it as an Eastern European symbol, one that would cause no little concern for an Athyrian. Athyrians get nervous when Thyrians start wandering around.

His face bears a faint sneer as he looks around the interior of The Cylinder, the card player, the rancher and the strange person carrying a stick, the woman who went armed, the one at the bar and the one talking to the gambler. He ignored them after a quick glance and walked toward the bar.

"Your best brandy and cigar."

Arrogance and a total expectation of obedience seem to leak from him as he speaks, either having not noticed, or simply not cared, that the barman was already talking to someone.

Nobility, probably, noone else was that arrogant. Except perhaps the extremely wealthy.

She had a nose for money and an eye for trouble...the well-dressed stranger was both. Trixie shifted slightly to keep an eye on the newcomer with the gorgeous silk clothing...clothing that cost as much as this whole town did, she figured. He had an arrogant look to him, as if he was used to being served, quickly and without question. She chuckled quietly, knowing it would not be long before someone took offense to this man.

Hopefully, she could empty his purse before someone emptied their gun into him.

A man walked up to the Cylinder. Wealthy, no doubt about that. He didn't notice Ike as he walked across the porch, straight to the bar. Ike stood up from his rocking chair. He couldn't remember how he got there. He looked at the chair, a fine chair, to find the answer. After nearly a minute he decided to go inside. He still felt a bit instable and his head ached. A lot of people. New faces. Ike hoped all the empty houses would get re-occupied. Some have been vacant for over ten years.
Twelve years ago, this town was alive. Within five years it became some sort of ghost town. Ike would never leave his wife so while everybody left, he stayed.
But there was one other person who lived here since Ike came to town: Will. Ike had lost quite some money to him when he still gambled. But that was a long time ago. Wilford, a mysterious guy. Addicted to his cards. They rarely talked. This time, Ike wanted to make an exception. He walked up to Will's table. It was always the same table, so it wasn't hard to find. The telegrapher sat down and waited for Trixie to finish her 'conversation'.

As she watched Trixie move away, Gerry could not help but think she had said the wrong thing, but then she had not arrived in town to make friends, then again, she did not want to make enemies either. She let her gaze follow the woman as she made her way over to the card player, a knowing smile appearing on her lips. For the briefest moment, and she was unsure why, she wondered if Trixie had ever been lucky with the gambler.

Before the thought could develop any more, her food arrived. She picked up the plate and took it over to a table on the far side of the saloon, and sat on a chair, making sure she could see all the inhabitants, not only out of habit but because she liked to watch people, bars could be no end of entertainment.

Tucking into her food, she looked up as the man entered, before focusing on her plate once more. The man spoke of money and arrogance, something she was not overly taken by, but something that tended to give others a chance at lightening his purse without him knowing it was happening. A man like that would swear on his mother’s grave that he could not be bettered. Laughing lightly to herself, she continued on with her meal.

Her gaze flickered about the room, studying each person in turn as they entered the saloon. Nothing too interesting yet, but then the night was still young. She could always count on this place for entertainment. Like Gerry, Dawn often fell to people watching. Hell, there wasn't much else to do out this way. This one in the expensive clothes would be the man to watch. If anything interesting went down, it would certainly involve him. He must have chips on both shoulders to stand so straight. No doubt he'd come down with a serious case of lead poisoning if he wasn't careful.

She laughed silently and finished off her drink, signaling Cecil for a refill. Ike had meandered back inside for a seat at Will's table. Seems he'd cleared his head a bit from earlier. He too could be a great source for amusement, when the mood suited him. But a part of her felt bad for him. Poor man had been through a lot in this place. She took a sip of the fresh drink, keeping an eye on the card table.

After Cecil had taken care of Trixie's requests (and had snagged a bit of food for himself), and was chatting idly with the fella at the bar, a real dandy walked through the doors of the saloon. Fancy attire, fancy armaments, and fancy speech like he was real stiff. Cecil sighed inwardly, knowing that these haughty type of folks were always a pain in the ass, expecting everyone to hop to their beck and call. Cecil knew that if he were going to serve this dandy (and he knew he would because it was his job), he couldn't let the dandy think Cecil was going to just do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. So he purposefully waited a few moments before filling the dandy's order, expecting no gratitude or friendliness.

Wilford smirked to himself as he saw Trixie come over. This wasn't the first time she'd hovered behind him, and he'd taken to viewing it as a game. For a woman like Trixie to fail at anything, let alone her "primary talent", had to be exceptionally frustrating to her. Wilford mostly just found it funny as Hell. He wondered if it made for an even more passionate night for the fellow that would end up with her tonight. Maybe he was doing some rancher a favor.

He turned his head a little a smiled a thin, barely existant smile, "One could argue, ma'am, that it takes incredible luck to have a game turn out this way. All a matter of perspective." He paused a moment and then grinned, pointing to his bottle, "Now where I'm having the awful luck is with getting that bottle replaced." He smiled sweetly, "Perhaps you could change that luck..." He wasn't sure if he should expect a laugh or a smack, but he quickly ceased caring as Ike walked over to his table.

The cards were scooped up as Ike sat down, Wilford immediately shuffling the cards as he looked at Ike, a sly, almost predatory grin spreading across his lips. "Ike... good to see you again. It's been ages... Fancy a game?"

He paused a moment and then grinned, pointing to his bottle, "Now where I'm having the awful luck is with getting that bottle replaced." He smiled sweetly, "Perhaps you could change that luck..." He wasn't sure if he should expect a laugh or a smack, but he quickly ceased caring as Ike walked over to his table.


He got both.

The first was a gentle *thwap* to the back of his head, and the second a charming giggle as she walked towards the bar, motioning to Cecil. As she was waiting for him to procure a fresh bottle, her glance swept the bar, coming to rest on Dawn. Her mood darkened briefly, then quickly cleared as her eyes met those of Gerry who was ravenously bolting down her stew. Trixie smiled at her, gave a little thumbs up, and turned back to bring Slick Willie a fresh bottle. When she returned, she saw that Ike had made his way to the table. She hurried over, not yet releasing the bottle. She smiled at Ike, who was still bleary-eyed, and whispered quickly to Wilford.

"Be nice, Will...he really has nothing left, y'know? Wait a second, and maybe I can find you a real mark, ok?" She put the bottle down, hoping that the gambler was feeling generous today. He was cold with the cards, but Trixie sensed that that was only part of the puzzle, and that deep within him was the soul of a warm and gentle man.

He wasn't sure if he should expect a laugh or a smack, but he quickly ceased caring as Ike walked over to his table.

The cards were scooped up as Ike sat down, Wilford immediately shuffling the cards as he looked at Ike, a sly, almost predatory grin spreading across his lips. "Ike... good to see you again. It's been ages... Fancy a game?"
"All those years, I never caught you cheating. I noticed your strength lies in your suspiciousness, Will. Your chalengers are too busy watching you, that they don't watch the game. But you should've noticed, I don't gamble.
Ten years ago. You sat right there. At your right-hand-side was Laurel 'Grey Boots'. On the other side of the table was Jack Saddle, and opposite you was the most suspicious guy on that table, that evening, whose name I still don't know."
Ike paused for a moment. He never talked about that evening. He decided it was good to get it off his chest. Ofcourse he had to watch out with what he told.

"The first to grab his iron was Jack. I was just entering the saloon when it happened. I still remember it as if it was yesterday. She was standing with her back to the door, next to Grey Boots."
Ofcourse, with She he meant his wife.

"The unlucky fellow took four bullets, all in the chest. He barely had the time to reach for his defence, but the 4.75" Fast Draw had already shot five times.
Jack got locked up on charge of double murder: The judge said the fifth bullet killed my wife."

"She was shot in the back, Will. His verdict meant she must have turned around real quick, and Jack lost control of his gun after killing Laurel. It's nearly impossible. Jack knew how to handle a gun.
I couldn't see exactly how it all went, because I was pushed aside by the judge's nephew; the deputy. He fired three bullets. Two of them are the ones behind you, in the wall. Your suspiciousness nearly cost ya your life. If the third one had killed my wife it would've cost the dep his job and the judge his credibility, because without the judge, the deputy, God bless his soul, would probably be no more than a navyboy."
For a brief moment, a reluctant smile appeared. He moved a bit closer and continued talking on a more confidential tone.

"When he killed himself, nobody knew whether to celebrate or mourn. But he didn't kill her either. I later discovered a rancher at another table made advantage of the confusion to shoot at the person he suspected of stealing a horse. This rancher used a 4.75" Fast Draw. The thief was saved by an unwilling heroine..."
Ike paused again hide his sorrow.

"The rancher died quite young. I said it before and I'll say it again: What you give is what you get.
His daughter is coming to town one these days. She left a couple of days ago. As a telegrapher, I know these kind of things." He smiled, "If she were a man, she might have arrived already."
He shifted the topic to a lighter level. He took a gamble at telling this. He knew exactly what to say, and what not, but what if Will asked some unexpected questions? It wasn't that Ike was a bad liar, but Will had a trained eye. Not a single facial expression would go unnoticed, even if he had fifty people around him. Or was that just what he would want you to believe?

Quick OOC: Wilford's only 27. Unless he was a card shark at 9, I don't think he was doing much 18 years ago. Maybe make it 10 years ago? He could easily be doing this stuff at 17.

Wilford laughed a little at Trixie's attempt at getting him to 'play nice'. "Everyone knows the risks." He took the bottle from her and returned his attention to Ike.

He hadn't expected a dissertation, that was for sure. He smirked a little at the opening line. Owen didn't need to cheat. He didn't even mind losing a few hands; he always won in the end after all.

As Ike continued, Wilford put down the cards: the old man wasn't kidding about not gambling. He continued to listen as he reached into a pocket in his vest, and pulled out a cheap cigar. He stuck it in his mouth and lit up.

After Ike finished, Wilford just sat there smoking silently. He didn't speak until the silence grew to the level of discomfort; almost long enough for it to seem like Wilford had no desire to respond at all. "Interesting, Ike." He blew a lazy smoke ring, "I'm kinda curious why you're telling me all this."

He casually held the cigar in his teeth, thinking, before pulling it down with his left hand, leaving his right hand vacant and unused. "Now, I know you aren't accusing me of anything, so that leaves me curious." He paused again, another plume of smoke floating out of his mouth, "It seems to me that whomever it was that killed your wife is rotting in the ground." He smiled, more smoke slipping from his lips, "By accident and happenstance, I'm sure."

He poured himself a shot, paused, and poured one for Ike too. "This ain't a confession; there's a preacher-man down the street for that. And this ain't a solicitation; I'm no hired gun. I'm tempted call this General Information and History, but you don't seem the type." He chuckled softly, "You thinking that this girl's come to make somebody dead?"

OOC: yeah, I expected him to be older. 10 years is okay.

Ike looked at the glass. He took a sip while listening to Will. The youngman was wise for his age. He looked around him to make sure noone was listening, and asked: "You can keep a secret right?"
It was a rhetorical question. Without waiting for the answer he continued,
"It's not the girl I fear, because murderers don't scare me. I'm a murderer, and I probably killed more than anyone else here."
He didn't need to tell Will this. Somehow he wanted the credits for his murders, although he knew the prize could get him killed.
"Officially the deputy hung himself, and he was found hanging indeed. But look."
Ike showed Will his handpalms.
"These scars are the marks of my first murder. They remind me of my first mistake. I'm not here to make a confession, Will. I want somebody else besides me to know what really happened."
Telling this, and thereby having an accomplice, didn't quite reassure him as he hoped it would.
"When you visit the graveyard, almost all the crosses after my wife's are there because of me. It was me who scared the rest away and almost made this town a ghosttown.
My second murder was the rancher. The carpenter suspected me, and tried to telegram the city..."
Ike paused letting Will finish the sentence in his head.
"I made it look like an accident at his shop, which unfortunately slit his throat.
Annabel made me confess it to her when I was really drunk. Her own curiosity, and the fact that she could easily tell the sheriff, killed her. She 'choked' according to the official record. Yes, she choked on two well positioned thumbs. I could go on like this, but I'll tell you: only two folks on the cemetery died of natural causes the last ten years."
The telegrapher thought for a minute, seeing Will's confused look. He sat back comfortly in his chair.
"You do understand what I'm saying, right? 'Cuz right now, you're either my accomplice, or my enemy."
In his mind, Ike had done the right thing.

The temptation was there. It would have been very easy to flick his right arm out, let the Derringer pop into his hand, and blow a hole in Ike's head. He was too close to miss, and probably wouldn't be expecting it. It'd be vigilanty justice, but he could hardly be blamed. Hell, might even get a reward.

On the other hand, he was still curious about this confession. He had no idea why Ike was sharing this with him. Sure, there had been a few deaths over the years, but it had been a decade. Aparently, Ike was hoping that the confession would force Wilford into some kind of action, possibly to protect Ike from the law. Or that girl.

He flicked some ash from his cigar, "I'm neither. I'm not about to turn you in, but I'm not going help you. I don't want to get involved in a cover up for ten years of murders. Besides, it seems you've gotten away with them all."

Ike didn't quite know why he told all this. There are people who can keep this kind of secrets for themselves, and die at seventy, taking the truth with them in the grave.
"I'm constantly covering up, and the deaths just keep stacking, Will. If you decide to talk, the next one will be you. I don't want that to happen, so please be smart. I just need to find a way to make it stop. The people I killed were innocent, but they knew too much. I'm not gonna commit suicide, but I need a sollution, something to forget."
It all sounded confused.
"And yeah, if the girl or any victim's relative does some research, I might have to kill them too, you know what I mean?"
He hoped Will did, because he kind of lost track.

Wilford sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Well, shit, Ike." He took a drink from his glass, "I think your first step would be to stop killing people. After that? Well... I dunno. Skip town? Maybe head to Mexico? Maybe just lay low."

As she finished her meal, Gerry let her attention fall on the people at the card table. She grinned slightly to herself as she watched Trixie playfully hit the gambler, possibly following him turning down her advances. She could not really hear what was being said from her corner table. Her eyes remained fixed to the scene as the other man joined the table, someone who certainly did not appear to be the usual card shark, but then they tended to come in all shapes and sizes.

Whatever was being said appeared to be very serious. She watched their faces, and saw flashes of emotion flitting over each of the men. The younger of the two looked slightly taken aback, but about what the older man was talking, she had no idea. Not wanting to get caught up in any trouble, she turned her attention to the bar, looking over at the barman and the other customers that were near him.

She picked up her plate and walked it over to the counter. “Whiskey, please.” She leant on the bar, as she gave the other people a better look, while trying not to appear to be doing just that. As the barman gave her the drink, she placed her money on the counter, covering her expenses so far.

It all made sense what Will said, but it didn't help Ike much.
"I ain't leavin'! I can't help it! This town just attracts violence. I mean look around you, almost everybody is armed. It's just a matter of time before something bad happens, but in the meantime I wanna know what's going on."
He saw Will shuffle his deck, and asked what he'd been wanting to ask for a long time: "What are you gonna with all the money, Will? You think you can spend it before you get shot?" He grinned.

Tristan smiled faintly at the deliberate delay of the barkeeper, the casually cruel smile of the class who have too much on their hands, and too much money to spend filling it.

"Thank you. Is there anywhere...decent...to stay around here?"

One eyebrow raised in perfect imitation of Leonard Nemoy, his voice calm, calculating and cold. His pale gaze sweeps through the room once more, an amused chuckle at the concerned expression on Ike's face, before he turns back to the barman where his voice warms very slightly - possibly because he feels more relaxed holding a decent cigar, or else that he is genuinely trying to be friendly - an unlikely prospect.

"Anyway, back to the issue of lodgings and the town, since you should know your way around. Is there a decent place to stay, and is there anyone who has a habit of wandering around looking for people to kill?"

His accent is faint, but noticeable nonetheless. As he waits for Cecil's reply he lights the cigar while sipping his brandy, pale eyes watching the barman's face.

Wilford frowned, leveling his gaze at the old man, "Now look, Ike. From what you've told me, you're the cause of all this violence." He had taken to chewing on his cigar, using his left hand to cut and fold the deck. A pretty impressive looking affair, that was little more than nervous energy. His right arm continued to rest on the arm of his chair. "I can't make your problems going away. As I see it, your options are limited. Turn yourself in; suicide; skip town; or stay low and hope for the best."

Wilford's eyes narrowed catlike as Ike asked his final question. He voice dropped and grew very, very cool, "Ike, I know you weren't threatening me before, but now I'm not so sure. I'm also not sure what you're expecting out of me. I've given you my views, and my word not to turn you in. Can't much help with the rest." He calmly cracked the knuckles on his right hand, "Now... is there anything else you need?"

Tristan smiled faintly at the deliberate delay of the barkeeper, the casually cruel smile of the class who have too much on their hands, and too much money to spend filling it.

"Thank you. Is there anywhere...decent...to stay around here?"

One eyebrow raised in perfect imitation of Leonard Nemoy, his voice calm, calculating and cold. His pale gaze sweeps through the room once more, an amused chuckle at the concerned expression on Ike's face, before he turns back to the barman where his voice warms very slightly - possibly because he feels more relaxed holding a decent cigar, or else that he is genuinely trying to be friendly - an unlikely prospect.

"Anyway, back to the issue of lodgings and the town, since you should know your way around. Is there a decent place to stay, and is there anyone who has a habit of wandering around looking for people to kill?"

His accent is faint, but noticeable nonetheless. As he waits for Cecil's reply he lights the cigar while sipping his brandy, pale eyes watching the barman's face.

Cecil smiled softly and spoke in a confidential tone to Tristan. "I believe you'll want to speak to Ms. Green about that," he said, nodding his head towards Trixie. "She's always willing to help a man of your obvious quality."

Cecil smiled softly and spoke in a confidential tone to Tristan. "I believe you'll want to speak to Ms. Green about that," he said, nodding his head towards Trixie. "She's always willing to help a man of your obvious quality."

Dawn wasn't entirely certain of what was being said, but the nod towards Trixie left little to the imagination. She couldn't help but laugh. Remembering herself quickly, she caught herself and tried to diguise the source of her amusement by taking to her drink. This oughta be good..

Jeremiah smiled thinly, "All are troubled, young man. For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23)." He glanced at the horse, looking it over placidly, "Mmm... yes, looks sturdy and quite capable of fullfilling her role as a servent of man." He turned his gaze back to Gus as if he was trying to peer into the man's soul, "Still..."

Gus shifted his weight, taking the pressure off of his bad leg. He looked to the ground, confused about the events that had just taken place. He sighed, slowly meeting Jeremiah's eyes, but quickly bringing them down again. "You're right sir. Like everyone, I'm a nuttin but a sinner."

He looked to his horse, petting her softly, thinking about what Jeremiah had said to him. Stammering, he quietly, barely louder then a whisper, "Oh no sir.....my Atty......this here is no servent. My Atty.....she's a.....she's a....good horse. She's a.....friend."


OOC: Hey, sorry this response took so long. RL loves to be an absolute bitch to me all the time. :(

Cecil smiled softly and spoke in a confidential tone to Tristan. "I believe you'll want to speak to Ms. Green about that," he said, nodding his head towards Trixie. "She's always willing to help a man of your obvious quality."

She noticed the nod towards her, and took the opportunity to glide over to where Cecil was speaking with the newcomer. As she approached, she was again amazed at the quality of the man's clothing...the silk undercoat alone would cost her a year's wages, she was sure. Smiling seductively, she moved towards him until they were almost touching, her breath warm and sweet against his ear.

"A warm, soft bed is always available for men like you, handsome...but how about a little action first?" Trixie looked over at Slick Willie's table, where Ike was still speaking with him.

"Maybe a few rounds of friendly cards and a few drinks, then I'll give you something soft to lay your tired body in..." her smile was filled with promise and mischief.

Ike's fingers itched. The cards seemed good today. Maybe it was good to get back to normal life again, drink less, talk more...
"Hey, Will. See that guy over there? The rich one at the bar. I think we there's some profit over there. I'll play too." He picked up a card and with a smooth and swift touch he made the ace disappear into his sleeve.
"Telegrapher's hands", he smiled.
"We split the money okay? There'll be enough for us both."
The rich stranger was still at the bar. Ike looked at him, his pretty clothes and his arrogant attitude.
"What do you say?"

A faint smile as he follows the barkeeper's glance, which widens into something approaching friendly as Trixie appears beside him. He turns to her, glancing up and down. His arrogance changes subtly to extreme confidence.

"A soft place at night is always welcome, Miss Green, and action is generally a good thing. I am sure that you are knowledgable in matters of...comfort, and will entrust myself into your capable hands"

He follows her glance to the table and nods slightly - he is well aware that at least one of the two probably does this for a living. Most likely the younger one, who was playing against himself earlier, rather than the older, worried-looking man talking to him. A faint chuckle as he noticed the very slight handmovement, making a mental note of it but refraining from commenting.

"Yes, action can be interesting, and a bed much more so."

Wilford frowned as he saw Ike palm the ace, and sighed softly to himself. Few things irritated him more than a cheater; however, Ike was rather borderline, and Wilford felt no need to send him over the cliff. He simply kept the missing card in mind, and stayed ready to get the Hell out of the way in case the bullets started flying. This really wasn't shaping up to be his day, after all.

He snuffed the remains of his stogie in a handy ashtray (which was little more than an ash-covered plate) and glanced up at the dandy. He glanced over the man, quickly sizing him up and shrugging. The guy definately had money, and probably had an attitude to go with it. He shrugged his shoulders ever-so-slightly before speaking, "If you want in, have a seat. Game's seven card stud."

---

Jeremiah nodded curtly, "Indeed you are, and you should address that before you attend to whatever business you may have in this town, lest you face God's wrath. It is everlasting wrath. It would be dreadful to suffer this fierceness and wrath of Almighty God one moment; but you must suffer it to all eternity.*" Once again his gaze fell to the horse, "A friend? She is transient; your soul eternal." He waved a hand dismissively, "Becareful what you cling to. Your horse, your 'Atty' will not save you from the fires of damnation, only the LORD your God can do that."

*: Also taken from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God

Gus was stricken by the stern warnings from Jeremiah. Unwilling to fully comprehend what had been told him, he nodded his head and responded barely above a whisper, "Yessir," like an intimidated little boy before the school bully.

He turned away, without making eye contact, walking a few feet before turning around. Looking up to Jeremiah he spoke quietly, "Sir, how do you know that God exists for sure?"

Cecil was pleased. He had gotten Trixie to latch onto the rich fellow nicely. It was rare that he was successful in manipulating people, but even a blind pig finds an acorn occasionally, he supposed. He had never really wanted a romantic relationship with Trixie, though she certainly had her charms. After his previous marraige, he knew quite well what a relationship could truly be, and doubted that Trixie would be willing to give him that. She was too much of a free spirit, and probably always would be. He began to clean the shot glasses, keeping and eye on the table where Ike was sitting, and hoping that the telegrapher would not be causing any more commotion.

Gerry watched the rich man make his way over to the table with Trixie. She could not help herself grinning, put a purse front of anyone and see who jumped the highest to catch it. She wondered if there was some kind of arrangement between the two, some kind of a cut of the profits. Of course, her cynicism was kind of hypocritical as she had lightened a few purses in her time. Leaning against the bar, she kept her eyes on the table for a moment, before turning to Cecil.

“So, what is the story of this town?” She looked at the interior of the saloon. “It’s not exactly busting at the seams here.” Laughing lightly she flicked her head in the direction of the card game. “Is this the only entertainment?” She knew that most places catered for men or loose women, she smiled to herself as she wondered if she should take a change of career, before quickly removing the thought.

Gerry watched the rich man make his way over to the table with Trixie. She could not help herself grinning, put a purse front of anyone and see who jumped the highest to catch it. She wondered if there was some kind of arrangement between the two, some kind of a cut of the profits. Of course, her cynicism was kind of hypocritical as she had lightened a few purses in her time. Leaning against the bar, she kept her eyes on the table for a moment, before turning to Cecil.

“So, what is the story of this town?” She looked at the interior of the saloon. “It’s not exactly busting at the seams here.” Laughing lightly she flicked her head in the direction of the card game. “Is this the only entertainment?” She knew that most places catered for men or loose women, she smiled to herself as she wondered if she should take a change of career, before quickly removing the thought.

Cecil turned toward Gerry with a wry smile on his face, still cleaning the shot glasses. "I haven't lived here all that long, but the short version of this town's story is pretty simple. A long time ago, some people settled here and tried to scratch out a living. They succeeded. They stayed, and had kids, but the mortality rate here is pretty high (for various reasons), so the population doesn't grow much. The only businesses that bring in a big profit are the cathouse and the saloon, and they still don't make enough to bring in more businesses. Too bad. Does that answer your question, ma'am?" Cecil smiled softly again.

Nodding her head, Gerry smiled back. “I guess it does.” She looked around the place a little before returning her gaze to Cecil. “It’s a shame; I imagine this place was alive once.” She shook her head sadly. “So many good things end up dying, and you can do nothing by stand by and watch it happen, no matter how much you want to change things.” Licking her lips, she gave the barman another smile. “Give me a bottle of your best.” She did not normally throw her money around, but she felt like celebrating finding a nice quiet place that seemed to be trouble free.

Nodding her head, Gerry smiled back. “I guess it does.” She looked around the place a little before returning her gaze to Cecil. “It’s a shame; I imagine this place was alive once.” She shook her head sadly. “So many good things end up dying, and you can do nothing by stand by and watch it happen, no matter how much you want to change things.” Licking her lips, she gave the barman another smile. “Give me a bottle of your best.” She did not normally throw her money around, but she felt like celebrating finding a nice quiet place that seemed to be trouble free.

Cecil shrugged and opened a small cabinet with an odd-looking key. He removed a massive jug of moonshine, and placed it in front of Gerry. "'Here ya go. That'll cost ya five."

She had done this many times before, and with a fluid, unhurried motion, Trixie guided the rich fop to a chair directly across from Slick Willie. As he settled himself, she bent over slowly towards him, unashamedly showing him a promise of things to come. She whispered seductively in his ear.

"Winners turn me on: go get 'em, cowboy." Straightening, she cast a glance towards Wilford, and flashed him a quick wink and a small smile. She returned towards the bar, her smile getting wider as she approached Cecil. She still hadn't figured him out completely, and that bothered her. The fact that he had continued to refuse her very obvious advances also perturbed her. A small part of her feared that the bartender could well be one of those.

The stranger was still there...Gerry, was it? The mysterious cowgirl, spending her coin freely and drinking enough for three. Even now, Cecil was bringing her a bottle of his private stock, the clean stuff you could drink all night, and still feel great the next day. Trixie waited patiently for Cecil to notice her so she could get a refill of her own.

Such a great woman, Trixie. Very generous to share the stranger.

Ike looked at the palms of his hands. Somehow he hoped the distinctive scars would bring him some extra luck. Well, and if they wouldn't, his fingers would anyhow...
He was good, or rather, his fingers were. He wiggled them a bit. It was like the fingers knew what was ahead of them and they itched a bit. Cards. He rubbed his hands together and spoke: "What do you want to start with, stranger, and who's dealing?"

She had done this many times before, and with a fluid, unhurried motion, Trixie guided the rich fop to a chair directly across from Slick Willie. As he settled himself, she bent over slowly towards him, unashamedly showing him a promise of things to come. She whispered seductively in his ear.

"Winners turn me on: go get 'em, cowboy." Straightening, she cast a glance towards Wilford, and flashed him a quick wink and a small smile. She returned towards the bar, her smile getting wider as she approached Cecil. She still hadn't figured him out completely, and that bothered her. The fact that he had continued to refuse her very obvious advances also perturbed her. A small part of her feared that the bartender could well be one of those.

The stranger was still there...Gerry, was it? The mysterious cowgirl, spending her coin freely and drinking enough for three. Even now, Cecil was bringing her a bottle of his private stock, the clean stuff you could drink all night, and still feel great the next day. Trixie waited patiently for Cecil to notice her so she could get a refill of her own.

After he had given Gerry the jug of moonshine, he turned his attentions to the always lovely Trixie. He asked with a soft smile, "What can I give you this time?"

Wilford chuckled softly as he watched Trixie's show. She was shameless, and would perform for anyone as long as they had a couple coins to throw her way. He shook his head and proceeded to shuffle the cards properly, using both hands, the cards interlacing like fifty-two lovers mingling. "Seven card stud*, gents, we'll keep the ante friendly and small..." As he cut the deck with his left hand, he tossed twenty cents to the center of the table, the two coins rolling together before tapping each other and falling at the center of the table. After his guests had tossed their own coin, he started to deal; his hands moved quickly and cleanly, the cards sailing across the table with the practiced skill of a life-long gambler.

---

Looking up to Jeremiah he spoke quietly, "Sir, how do you know that God exists for sure?"Jeremiah's eyes blazed like the eyes of a madman or a fanatic. "How can I know? How dare you speak such blasphemy? Talk like that is a direct path to Hell, young man. You would be wise to not listen to the council of demons and of Satan. You're on a dark path, and should turn from it."


*: 7 Card Stud (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven-card_stud) is delt two down and one up, then one up three times, then one down. Betting generally after each up card and the final down card. Since it'll probably take forever and a day to actually role-play each round, I'm gonna start making assumptions on the game next post.

Wilford couldn't help but grin as the game played itself out. It was a tried and true method, really: let the mark win a few minor hands to build his confidence, and then bring down the hammer once he started betting more heavily. It didn't take too long for him to start winning solidly, and he quickly regained all he'd lost and even enough to make his opponents call it quits. He didn't feel bad about fleecing Ike a little bit; after all, the old man had attempted to cheat. And cheating was one thing that Wilford had no willingness to tolerate.

He sorted his winnings and stuffed them in his pocket before heading to the bar. He tipped his hat at Gerry, "Mornin'," and ordered himself a bite to eat. Ah... nothing like spending other people's money...

After he had given Gerry the jug of moonshine, he turned his attentions to the always lovely Trixie. He asked with a soft smile, "What can I give you this time?"

"Same as always, darlin'....a shot of bourbon and a smile." replied Trixie, sharing a moment of friendly intimacy with Cecil. She watched him, sipping her drink reflectively as he busied himself behind the bar. Her eyes then wandered around the dim saloon, catching Gerry's for a brief moment, then falling on Wilford. He seemed to be cleaning up, the stack of coins in front of him steadily growing. Ike looked despondent, but it was harder to read the richly-dressed strangers face.

Slick Willie was gathering up his winnings now, and walking towards the bar. She smiled at him, hoping he would thank her for bringing him yet another mark to fleece, but his eyes were on Gerry. She WAS attractive, if you liked tough, dust-covered cowgirls. Trixie was surprised at the jealousy that suddenly flared within her, and looked away quickly. The gambler had always been civil with her, though he had never taken it farther than that. At first, she had assumed that he preferred the company of men, but in the end she realized his real passion was the game.

Taking a large swig from her glass, emptying the contents in one go, Gerry looked up surprised to see that the card game had finished, and that one of the occupants had managed to walk past without her even seeing his approach. “Good morning.” She cast him a smile. From the looks of him, it would seem that he had walked away from the table with his luck intact.

She watched him walk over to the bar and order, as she poured herself another shot, downing it almost as quick as the first, feeling the burn of the amber liquid as it slid down her throat. She swallowed down the kick; never really understanding why she allowed herself to partake in the stuff, other than it eased the pain.

After handing Trixie her bourbon, Cecil started on making the resident gambler's order. As he did so, he kept an eye on Gerry. She had been drinking very heavily, and it probably wouldn't be too long before that fact started becoming very obvious. Cecil began considering what he would do if she passed out. He knew that leaving her out on the porch as he had done with Ike was out of the question, as one of the less respectable residents of Chassis would likely take advantage of her out there. Maybe Trixie would help if the time came. Before he knew it, Cecil was done with Wilford's order and had set a greasy plate in front of the smooth gambler.

It was at that point that Cecil saw the owner of the Cylinder walk in, back from his venture at the cathouse, no doubt. Mr. James Garfield was a fat, unshaven, mostly untalented lump of a man. At five foot six inches he stood lower than most men, but with his girth he probably weighed more than most men, too. Interestingly, the chubby entrepeneur always wore a ten-gallon dusty brown cowboy hat, even though he had probably never been a cowboy. He claimed it helped him with the ladies. Cecil rather suspected that it was more the money in his wallet that helped with the ladies. James certainly had little else going for him. At least his boss had come in sober this time. Peering a bit closer, Cecil saw that Mr. Garfield's skin was a bit red. He must have taken a bath.

She counted herself lucky to have glanced towards the doorway at the exact moment that the telltale bulk of James "Pinky" Garfield pushed through the swinging doors. Taking her drink, Trixie walked quickly to a corner table, across from Gerry but hidden from the main bar. The young woman had learned to avoid Garfield, his lecherous legend preceding him.

Trixie had friends down at Wanda's, the cathouse on the outskirts of town. Garfield was known to have more than a few perverse fetishes that those poor girls were forced to live through on a regular basis. That was another reason that Trixie was, and always would be, a free agent. She chose her customers with care, which kept her job pleasurable.

She smiled to herself, the name "Pinky" being an appropriate name that the ladies at Wanda's had given the fat man. She was happy that she would never have to find out if the rumors were true, though Garfield had made several advances in the past. There wasn't enough money that would make Trixie go down that road. She sipped her drink, nodding at Gerry who had watched her actions with amused eyes.

<<OOC: Gone for a week.>>

Ike must have had a bit of a stupid look on his face when Will left the table. He was on the winning hand in the beginning, but then Will's luck re-appeared. Ike knew he should've stopped at that moment.
Now he came with practically nothing, and would leave the table with about the same.
He had a good time though. He cheated wherever there was an opportunity, and on two or three occasions, Will saw it, so he had to forfeit that attempt. The stranger had no idea, without a doubt. He played a whole different thing. One of bluffing, and tactics. Ike wasn't very good at that, but Will beat the stranger at his own game.
The stranger was very quiet and focussed throughout the game, so Ike didn't dare to ask where he got his money from, and what he was doing in this town.

The telegrapher stood up, and walked to the bar. Just at that moment, Mr. Garfield came through the door. His appearance hit every single person in the saloon. Like a shockwave, there was movement. Trixie seemed to flee into a corner, as the bartender who was constantly moving around behind the bar, suddenly froze for a second or two.

Ike raised his finger, like a schoolboy, to get the attention of the corpulent man. "Mr. Garfield! There are three telegraphs for you, sir. One from Mr. Trent, who can't bring the supplies until friday, because his horse needs to be shoed, and there was something with the wagon, too, but that was a minor problem."
He handed them over. The proprietor curiously looked at the three short letters.
Ike went to the bar, took a seat, looked around, and got off his seat again when he saw the piano.
He touched the central C. No sound. He touched the D producing a nice, shrill sound. Shrill but nice.
He sat down before the piano, and placed his fingers. It was a looong time ago, but to Ike, playing piano was like riding a horse. Soon a cheerfull tune filled the saloon. That, and the amount of people, made the saloon cosier than it had been in years and years.

Wilford grinned slightly at the food served to him, "All this grease is to help it go down, huh?" He set to his dinner, keeping an eye the other patrons. He was mildly amused at the look on Trixie's face. Poor thing just couldn't get over the fact that he wasn't interested in her. He'd wondered about it himself for awhile, but then decided it was just the way things were. Might as well ask why spades were better than diamonds. They just were.

He didn't much respond to the owner coming in. After all, the tub of lard wasn't his boss. The fat man hadn't bother joining any of Wilford's games, so he was largely a non-issue. Of course, the reactions of others was always amusing.

Gerry, though she had been drinking several glasses of whiskey, was still in complete control of her senses, even if her head was feeling a little fuzzy and her thoughts were taking a little longer than usual to be processed. And it was during one of these sluggish moments of thoughtlessness that she rose from her chair, and picking up her bottle, walked over to where the card player had taken a seat in order to eat his food.

She sauntered up to his table, and gave him a smile, before indicating one of the empty chairs about him. “Mind if I join you?” She looked at him expectantly as she waited for an answer, the other people in the bar hardly registering in her mind. Not that the arrival of the bar owner meant anything to her, even if she had known who he was. “It’s been a while since I had good company…” She swayed slightly as the last glass of whiskey made its way through her body. “And even longer since I met someone with a conscience.”

Wilford glanced up as he heard Gerry's voice, the brim of his hat still obscuring his eyes. Extending his leg under the table, he pushed the opposite chair back a little and offered a slight shrug, "Can't say as I do." He set down his fork and pushed up his hat, looking her over for a moment at her last comment. He was silent for awhile as he pondered what she'd said before he spoke himself, "Conscience, huh?" He thought about the word for a bit more; for almost too long to be comfortable before continuing, "I'm not so sure about that. I just took a total stranger's money, and damn near cleaned out an old man. Not sure how honorable I'd call that." He smirked, "And I ain't even getting into what the parson has to say about my job." He jabbed at his dinner a little with his fork, "Still... I don't steal horses or murder people..." He shrugged, setting the topic aside, "I'd offer you a drink, but looks like you've had your share already."

Gerry took the seat, placing her bottle and glass on the table before her. She allowed herself a moment to look at the man before her, not that she had not already done so while he was sitting playing cards. “You don’t seem the kind of man to cheat his way to another man’s fortune…that’s a conscience, isn’t it? Or maybe you just know you are good.” She smiled to herself, unsure whether she was stepping over the fine line that offended.

She looked at her bottle then, almost as if she was several beats behind the conversation. “Then let me offer you one.” She poured herself another glass, managing to get most of it in the glass then pushed the bottle over the table toward Wilfred. “None of the cheap stuff, just the best the house has to offer.” She leant forward slightly, and whispered. “Or so the barman says.”

From the shadows of the corner, Trixie watched as the stranger went and began speaking with Wilford. She was surprised when he offered her a seat, and felt a small pang of jealousy as Gerry accepted it and sat down. Suddenly, it came to her that perhaps Will actually did like woman...but not women like Trixie. Shaking her head sadly, she drained her glass quickly. Her throat still felt parched, and the lonely pain within her flared. She decided to risk Pinky's amorous advances, and sashayed back to the main bar, hoping that perhaps Cecil could help to fill the void she was feeling.

Wilford was finding himself in uncharted waters. He was used to Trixie's flirtations, and had learned how to handle and respond to them. He had also managed to figure out how to deal with most women he ran into. Make a couple slightly-lewd remarks, throw a wink or two, but not take it any further. The woman across the table from him rather confused him. He'd tried treating her like any other drifter, but that didn't work: she was offering him a drink and smiling in a more than simply a friendly way. On top of it all, he noticed a couple of dark looks from Trixie. While he had no intentions of becoming another notch in Trixie's bedpost, he also didn't want to lose her friendship.

He mentally kicked himself, this is why I don't talk to people. He pushed his plate aside and accepted the bottle from Gerry. It was so much easier with cards. There were only so many possibilities, and if you knew what you were doing, you could make educated guesses. Reading other players was just a matter of looking for something different then how they were before picking up their cards. As for figuring out what these women were thinking... he'd have a better chance flapping his arms and flying away.

He tossed back a couple quick drinks, figuring the 'shine would at least give him an excuse for being confused before looking at Gerry again, "Well... Cecil's been known to exaggerate a touch, but this stuff's pretty damn good." He took another drink and found himself thinking he should say something. The gears in his mind turned until finally locking in on the question he'd heard a million times coming from the barkeep's mouth, "So... what brings ya to Chasis?"

Gerry stared at Wilfred for a moment, almost as if he had been speaking a foreign language. She picked up the glass before her and downed the liquid in one go, as if it would help. “Why am I here?” She frowned, as if searching her head for an answer, and not necessarily the right one. “Chasis seems as good a place as any,” she slurred her words slightly, as she placed the glass down on the table, just managing to keep it standing upright.

“There is everything here a gal could ask for. Food, drink, a bed and company…” She looked at him oddly, and smiled, her eyes twinkling. “You know…Chasis seems like a quiet town…not much trouble.” She fixed her gaze to his. “A person could stay here for a while, if she found a reason to do so.” She reached over the table and grabbed for the bottle.

Wilford looked Gerry over. She was something of a puzzle, not many women went into the career she seemed to have chosen. He wondered if she was running from something. Wasn't his place to pry; the last thing he needed was to get all tangled up in someone else's mess.

"Well, I suppose it is. Been here most of my life, and its a pretty quiet place." He smiled a little, "Easy enough to find reason to stay, I guess." He shrugged, "Toughest part would be finding a job, I guess. You don't strike me as the type to work over at Wanda's..." He slide the bottle out of Gerry's reach, "Might want to call enough enough. Any more and you'll be on the floor, I wager."

Gerry shot Wilfred a look as her hand grasped air. There was no hiding the fact that she was displeased that he had move the bottle. “I’m more than capable of looking after my self, Mr…” The sentence hung in the air unfinished, as she looked questioningly at him, unsure whether she had been given his name or not. “I am perfectly fine…and…” She blinked for a moment, forgetting her trail of thought.

She continued to stare at him for a moment, and then smiled. “Let’s play cards…and before you ask…I am suff…suffish…more than able to match any man with a deck of cards.” Taking a deep breath, she looked at the others in the room, before quickly – without making her head spin – returned her focus to the man across the other side of the table.

Wilford smiled, "Harrington, but you can call me Wilford if you prefer." He peered at Gerry for a moment before shrugging and pouring her another drink; she wasn't his problem, and if she wanted to get completely drunk that was her choice.

He blinked at Gerry's request before pulling the deck of cards out of a pocket in his vest, "You want to play against me? I make my living doing this, ma'am." He absentminded shuffled the well-used deck, "I wouldn't want people to think I'm taking advantage of you..." He shrugged, pushing his empty plate aside and started dealing, "But, if you think you can still handle yourself, the game's seven card stud. We'll start nice and friendly and skip the ante this game."

"Thanks, Ike." James Garfield nodded respectfully at the telegrapher and watched for a moment as the smaller fellow started in on the piano. Then he did a quick scan of the telegrams and found that there was really nothing of interest. That Trent fellow was always late, so that was of little concern. James was smart enough to have stocked up enough supplies to last for several weeks yet, and proud of it.

James Garfield's eyes whipped around in his head as they detected a quick movement in the direction of the bar. It was Trixie, lovely Trixie. She appeared to be ordering a drink, leaning over the bar toward the new bartender he had hired called Cecil. He took off his dusty cowboy hat and used his hand to comb his thinning hair over his newly washed scalp. He approached slowly, trying to look casual and failing miserably to do so. He only managed to succeed in accenting his dumpling-shaped figure with what appeared to be a waddle of some sort.

He sidled up next to Trixie and said in an obnoxiously loud voice, "Trixie's drinks are on me, Cecil. Don't charge her a cent." As usual, his new bartender just gave him that soft affirming smile and a quick nod. It seemed to James that Cecil wasn't too bright, but he was a real good-hearted and honest fellow. That's the kind he liked to hire as bartenders. They didn't cause trouble, and that was good because trouble cost money. Turning to Trixie he gasped, "Hello, dear heart," and attempted to kiss her hand.

Keeping her eyes on Wilfred as he spoke, more to remain focused than any other reason, although she did find him interesting. She scanned his features, fixing her eyes to his. The way to win a game of cards was to ‘read’ the person you were playing against, and what better way that to look into the eyes, the first signs were usually spotted here.

Gerry did not see the glass come across it, but heard as it scratched across the table. She lowered her gaze to the drink for a moment, before looking back at Wilfred. “Thank you.” Despite her earlier reach for the bottle, she did not immediately pick up the glass and empty it rather the thought disappeared from her head as she watched him shuffle the deck.

“Have you been doing this long?” She smiled, as she watched his hands expertly work the pack of cards into their new order. “An old friend taught me this game when I was a child; used to love watching him shuffle…he used to do fancy tricks and things.” She let me mind wander back in time for a moment, before returning to the game. “Not that Ma was very happy about it…but then, she never was about anything.” Suddenly she laughed, almost knocking over her glass with her hand.

Wilford, being a professional gambler, was almost impossible to read. The eyes may be the windows to the soul, but Wilford kept the drapes pulled shut. However, as Gerry scanned his eyes, he looked right back at her, mildly intrigued. He smiled a little at Gerry's memories, "Well... never been much for deck tricks, but I do know a couple. Might be a little rusty though."

He gave her a brief run-down of the specific rules, assuming she knew what hands were better than others before starting the game in earnest. "I've been playing about as long as I can remember. Ma said I was born with a deck in my hands. I like it and I'm good, so I might as well make a living off it." He smirked, "Besides it's fun putting greenhorns in their place." He let her comment about parental disapproval slide. He didn't want to pry.

Gerry looked him over and laughed lightly…well, as lightly as someone can who is a little on the tipsy side. “Why do I not find that hard to believe, Mr Harrington…Wilfred?” She let herself settle down, and composed her thoughts. “I’ve been to a few towns…on my journeys…and yours is a familiar story.” She creased her brow as she thought, then smiled. “But then…I guess we all have similar stories.”

She let her eyes wander around the bar for a moment, her gazing falling on each of the patrons in turn, nodding her head slightly as if she was mentally finding a match to all. “Strange isn’t it? No matter how far you go, you always turn up in the same place.” She turned back to the table, and sighed. Picking up her glass, she downed the contents, coughing as the amber liquid touched the back of her throat.

Wilford shrugged a little, "Can't say as I can speak to that. Never really left Chasis, so I guess I'll have to take your word for it. I suppose you're right, though. I'd be surprized if folks like me," he vaguely waved towards the bar, "or them were unique." He grinned a little, "Can't say as I've met someone like you, though. Most women coming through here are either wives or like Trixie."

The games played out as much as could be expected when the participants were a sober pro and a drunk amateur. Wilford kept his bets low, generally only calling Gerry's bets, not wanting to completely fleece her. Unfortunately, the moonshine had loosened her purse-strings so Wilford quickly had won quite a bit of money. He frowned as he laid down yet another winning hand and looked at the pot and his winnings with a sigh. It just didn't seem right. Every fiber of his being told him to keep the money -- he'd won it, after all -- but a little part of him truly felt bad about taking Gerry's money. He picked up a silver dollar and rolled it between the fingers of his left hand before shaking his head, "Can't say as I feel right about taking this..."

Gerry sat back in the chair, seeing the last pile of her money disappear into the pile that sat in front of Wilfred. The expression on her face gave little away. She looked at him and smiled, as she picked up the cards before her, playing with them. “Did you not win fairly?” She laughed suddenly, not really knowing what she found so funny. She brought one of the cards up to her face and gazed at it first the front, before flipping it over and checking the back. “They look fine to me.”

She threw the cards onto the table, and looked at the man before her, then at the bottle that rested beside him. “We should drink to celebrate your win.” She patted her body, before a frown etched its way over her features. “You’ll have to buy, as I seem to be a little light.” Once against her laughter could be heard around the saloon.

Wilford scooped up the cards, his hands shuffling the cards of their own volition, clearly a nervous habit. He peered at Gerry, trying to figure her out, "That's the question, I guess. I didn't cheat, no doubt there, but I'm not sure the game was fair, considering your... condition." He set down the cards and poured a pair of drinks from the nearly empty jug. "At the very least I can pay for a nice room for you." He smiled, "I'd hate some lonely miner to take advantage of you."

He tossed back his drink and smiled a little at Gerry. He picked up the silver dollar again, placed it between his thumb and middle finger, looking at it a moment. He flicked his fingers sharply, causing the coin to spin around in the middle of the table. He grinned, "Maybe you can win some of it back tomorrow."

Gerry watched as the coin stopped spinning, and lay flat on the table between them. She smiled, as she picked up the glass and held it in front of her. “To the best!” Tilting back her head, she drank the contents of the glass in one go, before slamming the glass back onto the surface before her. Closing her eyes, she let the spinning effect swim over her, before she reopened them and gazed at Wilfred.

“So, tell me, Mr Harrington…what do you do once you’ve finished emptying the purses of those in the saloon?” As she spoke, she took off her hat, and pulled the twine from her hair, letting it fall about her shoulders, making her look more feminine. “Do you rush home to Mrs Harrington…?” She gave him a smile, as she watched him, her fingers moving to the top button of her jacket, popping open the fastening.

Wilford watched Gerry, half expecting her to pitch over backwards flat onto the floor or face first onto the table. He saw her waver and was about to hop up to pick her up off the floor, but she managed to hold it together. Impressive he thought to himself.

He about fell out of his seat himself as Gerry removed her hat and hair-tie. He'd never much thought about her as anything other than just another stranger. Sure she was friendly and not too bad at cards (despite being drunk), but she had been rather androgynous before. And now, she was showing off a little and... hitting on him? He coughed slightly, quickly pouring himself another drink. He wasn't quite sure how to handle this one, "Well, I usually stay here a bit, maybe go for a walk..." He slugged down the drink, "Ah, no... there's no Mrs. Harrington."

“You surprise me…I thought someone would have made and honest man of you by now.” Gerry looked around the bar, and then back at Wilfred, her eyes beginning to blaze with interest. “Perhaps the right woman hasn’t arrived in Chasis yet.” She smiled, as she ran her fingers lightly through her hair, twirling a few strands in her fingers. “Maybe one day.”

She let her gaze drift over his body, checking out the view. She recalled briefly his previous dealings with Trixie, guessing he probably had good reason remain in the Saloon, and yet there was something that made her wonder, before the thought disappeared from her head.

She let her eyes wander over the table, until they stopped on the coin that rested between them. Sliding her hand towards it, she picked it up, and let it ride over her backs of her fingers, smiling to herself. “My father always said that gamblers were heartless…I think he would have been surprised had he met you.”

Placing the coin against her thumb, she flicked it back at Wilfred. “I already have a room…paid for, but I appreciate the offer.” She leant forward a little. “Perhaps you would like to see it?” She winked at him and laughed lightly. She had the feeling, despite her drunken state, that he would not accept the offer.

When Ike had played a couple of tunes, he paused for a second, looked around. He recieved a small applause, and the chatter went on.
He nodded his head as a gesture of appreciation.

Yes, everybody was entertained. Even Will had company, and this particular lady held no cards. He observed the 'couple' a bit better. Will didn't really seem at ease. She had removed her hat and she was a fine sample of God's abilities.

Will, the cardplayer, the pokerface. It was all different. He wasn't playing cards, and Ike could see him almost struggling to look as neutral as possible. Without love, it all seems so simple, linear, but when in love, well...

Ike turned around, once more facing the piano. He set in a little balad, an oldie: 'When two souls meet'.

She felt uncomfortable, as she stepped towards the bar, a feeling that didn't come to her often. Out of the corner of her eye, Trixie watched Slick Willie and the stranger together, the attractive if terribly drunk cowgirl very obvious with her amateurish flirtations. Still, the cardshark hadn't left her yet, and Trixie felt a stab of sadness drive through her. She tossed back her drink, the amber liquor burning a line down her throat. Plastering her most professional smile on, she accepted the slobbering ministrations of Pinky Garfield. Trying not to be obvious, she wiped the back of her damp hand on the folds of her dress, and motioned to Cecil for a double. She really needed a drink.

Wilford almost looked hurt, "Well, I like to consider myself an honest man anyway..." Her near shameless flirting was truly blindsiding him, Ike's choice of music just making things worse. It was as if Lady Luck had been distracting him earlier so her evil sister Fate could knife him in the back. He almost dropped his shot glass when Gerry made her offer. The world was spinning out of control. He had Ike playing some syrupy love ballad, this cowgirl (what was her name?) was offering him her bed, and Trixie was throwing looks at him that seemed a blend of sadness and anger. He carefully set his glass down and shook his head, "Ah, that's a very nice offer, but I don't think it'd be proper for me to accept it."

Cecil caught Trixie's signal immediately and removed a very large glass from the shelf behind the bar. He had been expecting Trixie to ask for a drink. He had often noticed that most people needed either a drink or a bath after encountering Mr. Garfield. He poured the second-strongest stuff he had into the big glass and passed it over to Trixie. She gave him a grateful look a chugged it in her usual fashion.

-----------

James Garfield raised his eyes to Trixie's bosom after he finished kissing her hand in a fashion that he thought was romantic. He had always appreciated her fine figure and had always showed his appreciation in what he thought were subtle ways. But Trixie had never gone to bed with him. Perhaps it was time to quit being subtle so that she would get the message. He reached out and caressed her, a big grin on his face.

The damp and slimy hand sent chills through her, and Trixie had to physically stop herself from flinching. His beady little pig-eyes were locked on her chest, and Garfield started to turn a sweaty shade of red. She put her hand on his groping one, stopping the movement. She forced herself to go gentle on the fat man, though she truly wanted to just snap his pudgy fingers. She reminded herself that this...man...was the power in this town, and folks that disagreed with him usually didn't do so for very long.

Trixie had been able to avoid Pinky Garfield's lecherous advances many times in the past, but something in his manner was different tonight, as if he had a bad case of the angry's, and was looking for a likely victim to take out his frustrations on. Trixie blanched, realizing that she was the unlucky one. She tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip, his fingers digging into her arm.

James kept grinning until he realized that Trixie actually didn't want him. She didn't want him. But he was one of the wealthiest men in town. He had style, as evidenced by his cowboy hat. He had even taken a bath before coming to see her. And now she was trying to put him off. He tightened his grip on her arm, his eyes turning cold and dark. "Don't you think I'm good enough for you, dear heart?"

----------

Cecil noticed Mr. Garfield's advances and sighed. His boss was going to cause serious trouble in his own saloon, and Cecil would probably have to be the one to do something about it. His hand went once again to the butt of the shotgun beneath the bar.

Gerry looked at Wilfred for a moment, and then laughed, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” For a while, even with the alcohol clouding her judgement, she had the decency to blush at her behaviour. She had not meant to imply anything other than to make him release that she had no ill feelings to him winning her money, she still had enough hidden away back at her room. While sober she was a very cautious individual, her upbringing being most of the reason.

“Mr Harrington…I hope you did not…think.” She could feel the heat spreading over her cheeks. “I would…never…” She blinked several times, trying to stop the room from spinning. She closed her eyes for a moment, but that only made her head spin more. She stood up, knocking the chair over that stood behind her, her hands resting on the table as she made herself steady.

At the sound of the chair clattering to the floor, Garfield's eyes flicked away from Trixie's breasts, and she took the opportunity to jerk her arm from his grip, stepping a few steps back. Angry red welts appeared on her arm where the fat man had grabbed her. She realized at that moment that she would rather die than give herself over to Pinky Garfield...it made her very sad, and equally angry at the same time. She turned back towards the bar and looked at Cecil, beseeching him to help with her eyes. Reaching down slightly, her hand closed on the pearl-handled straight-razor she kept strapped to her lace garter.

Wilford waved his hand a little bit, "Oh no offense taken..." He jumped up, knocking his own chair over, as he saw Gerry almost fall into the table. He walked around the table slipping under her arm and helping her stand up, "I guess I will see your room. Come on, I think you need a lie-down." He helped her towards to door, "Easy now, one step at a time..."

“Really, I can manage.” Gerry attempted to prove her ability to stand on her own two feet, unfortunately they were having nothing of it. Instead of freeing herself from Wilfred’s help, she found herself leaning on him for support. Suddenly she burst into a fit of laughter. “Seems I can’t after all.” Slowly, with his help, they made their way across the saloon to the door.

As it swung open, she stepped through into the fresh air, almost falling over as her head spun. She tightened her grip on Wilfred, as she stood still for a moment, letting the swimming sensation stop. “I don’t know what came over me.” She tilted her head up at him and smiled sadly. “I think I’ve been sitting for too long.”

At the sound of the chair clattering to the floor, Garfield's eyes flicked away from Trixie's breasts, and she took the opportunity to jerk her arm from his grip, stepping a few steps back. Angry red welts appeared on her arm where the fat man had grabbed her. She realized at that moment that she would rather die than give herself over to Pinky Garfield...it made her very sad, and equally angry at the same time. She turned back towards the bar and looked at Cecil, beseeching him to help with her eyes. Reaching down slightly, her hand closed on the pearl-handled straight-razor she kept strapped to her lace garter.

As Trixie looked into his eyes questioningly, Cecil noticed with surprise that Mr. Garfield's hand moving rapidly toward Trixie's face at the same time the fat man roared, "You stupid whore!" The fleshy hand flew at Trixie with surprising force, but Mr. Garfield had apparently underestimated the distance because his hand moved past her face without touching her. After a second of wobbling, Garfield fell on the floor because in his haste to reach Trixie he had unbalanced his body by putting too much of his weight forward. It was not that he had to go far to do that, given his girth. Cecil tried to cover his relieved laughter at the ungainly man by turning it into a cough. Other patrons were not so discreet, and several quiet chuckles were heard in the saloon. No one laughed loudly though, because Mr. Garfield had a way of taking great offense at the smallest slights and no one wanted him to be able to single them out of the crowd.

She had been pulling out her straight-razor just as Garfield swung at her, missing completely and falling to the ground. As the patrons chuckled at his lack of balance, she slid the sharpened blade back into her garter, relieved she wasn't forced to use it. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Gerry and Wilford leaving the tavern, arms clasped together. The fear that had gripped her was replaced by a white-hot spear of jealousy at the sight of the two. She tried to understand it, realizing suddenly that her feelings for the card shark were obviously much stronger than she thought. An angry, evil voice spoke within her, suggesting that she may have a need for the razor yet. She ignored it, and listened instead to the voice that told her that Willie was a man, and that the flesh was weak.

She left Garfield in a fat, oily puddle of his own flesh, and walked to the door, looking out and watching as the two...lovebirds?...walked slowly away.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Will supporting his girl in the direction of the door. Well. Enough ballad, then.
He was thinking of another song to play, when he heard some comotion. He turned his face in the direction of where the noise was coming from.
Mr. Garfield was yelling at someone. Wait a moment, that was not just someone! It was the lovely Trixie he was threatening.
This isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right.
What wasn't right? That bastard threatening her? He was confused and angry and sad and determined and back to confused again.

Damn, he couldn't play anymore. His hands were too shaky. Trixie reminded him of good times. Some-one was threatening that. Some-one attacked his good times...
No, it can't be done. No! He didn't mean it like that. He's probably just drunk. Besides, he owns this place. If he leaves and no replacement comes... Wait, what am I thinking?

He wanted some sleep. Get his thoughts right. Ike ran out of the saloon, almost tripping over Will and Gerry as he rushed outside.

Wilford allowed himself to be used as a leaning-pole while Gerry took in some fresh air. He smiled down at her, "Something to be said for that." He grinned, "Half a jug of moonshine might have something to do with it to, of course." He gingerly slipped his arm around her waist, helping her stand, "Maybe a bit of a walk will help clear your head."

James Garfield struggled to lift his fleshy body off the floor. After several moments of constant writhing in an attempt to gain some leverage with which he could pry himself from the grimy planks beneath him, he gave up and called to Cecil. He growled, "Hey, Cece, would you mind helping me out here?" He heard Cecil clamber over the bar and felt himself being lifted to his knees, from which position James managed to move to a standing posture. Cecil said, "There you are, Mr. Garfield."

"Yeah. Thanks." James dusted his clothes off using his greasy hands and moved towards the door.

Cecil noticed this and inquired, "Where are you going, Mr. Garfield?"

"I'm going to find that stupid whore!"

Cecil kept on. "Well...I was kind of hoping that you could relieve me for a few hours, Mr. Garfield. I've been on duty for a long time and I could use a bath and a few hours of sleep."

"Oh, all right," intoned James resignedly. "I suppose you do need a break. Go on and be back as soon as you can."

"Yes, sir."

James watched the bartender leave and then turned back to the bar, looking for a good stiff drink. He sat himself on a stool behind the polished bar and nursed a bottle of whiskey.

----------

Cecil pushed the saloon doors aside and walked to the end of the porch. He saw Trixie off in the distance and started jogging towards her. He knew she was going to need protection now that Mr. Garfield had a grudge against her, and his honor as a gentleman demanded that he offer that protection. After closing the distance between them, he called out, "Trixie, hold up!"

That she'd been crying was obvious, her makeup smudged, and dark streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. She was walking aimlessly, her mind in a tempest and her emotions running unchecked. It was bad...real bad now, with Garfield making it obvious that he wanted to own everything in this town, including Trixie. That, along with Willie and the stranger walking off romantically into the moonlight, made for a wall of despair within her. She trudged on, uncaring of the thick mud that was staining the hem of her dress.

She heard his voice the second or third time he called out to her, but she didn't stop. She wasn't sure who was calling her until she turned her head to see Cecil jogging down the tavern stairs towards her. He was a good man, Trixie thought to herself, one of the few that treated her with respect, like a person and not just a callgirl. This thought brought the tears back to her eyes, and she stopped in the middle of the dark, muddy street, her body wracked with heavy sobs.

He didn't feel sleepy at all, lying in his bed, staring at the closet.
The closet held almost everything he owned besides the clothes he was wearing, and it held a dark secret.

He stood up and walked to his closet, but the moment his hand touched the nob he was repulsed by the thoughts that came over him.

He quickly jumped back in his bed and closed his eyes, but still no sleep. What could he do? There was really only one thing. He stood back up like last time. He reached out to the closet, but this time it seemed the nob was a thousand degrees when he touched it. He shouted some unChristian words that the preacher would certainly not approve with, and sat back on his bed, not knowing what to do, his thoughts waving back and forth like a stormy shore.

Cecil watched as Trixie broke down in the middle of the street. He kept jogging towards her, his boots plowing through the mud like a saber through a soft neck. When he reached her, she was in the process of falling to her knees, so he lifted her up by the waist and looked her in the eyes. "You need to be somewhere safe, Trixie. It's only a matter of time until Mr. Garfield comes looking for you, but he'd never look for you out at my place. You'll be safe there. Come on." He gently tugged her along after him, letting her cry into his shirt as they walked towards his old horse. After he untied the bridle from a post, he mounted up and hauled a still-sniffling but somewhat calmer Trixie up behind him. She clutched him tightly around his middle as they rode out towards his uncle's house and carpentry workshop that was currently Cecil's home.

For the first time since she was a child, Trixie let someone else take care of her, if only for a moment. Fiercely independant, she had made her own way in the world, educating herself while using her natural attributes and aptitudes to finance her studies, and her freedom. She was in control, deciding who she would do business with, and responsible only to herself. Now, she simply felt tired...tired, drained and in need of someone elses strength. Surprisingly, it was Cecil who provided the strong shoulder that now protected her.

She let herself be lifted onto the old mare, the well-worn saddle cradling her comfortabley. She wrapped her arms around Cecil, and continued to weep softly as he kicked the horse into a steady trot. His thin body warmed her as they rode, and protected her from the damp wind that blew across the night. It had seemed as if only a few minutes had passed before they arrived at the bartenders homestead, a collection of wooden buildings in desperate need of a paint job.

He was very gentle as he helped her off the horse, lifting her from the saddle and depositing her gently on the hard-packed path. Trixie was pleasantly surprised by the strength she had felt in his arms. He led her to the porch of a small structure to get her out of the rain, and lit an oil-lantern. The bright light flared and hissed, and she saw him smile at her through the gloom. She returned his smile, tentatively, and spoke for the first time since Cecil had...saved her.

"I...thanks, Cece, I mean...well, thanks. I...I hope you won't get in trouble for doing this..." Garfield was the bartenders unforgiving boss, a man that would'nt hesitate to fire Cecil because of his kindness to her. She looked at him in the flickering lamp light, and brushed a few strands of wet hair from her eyes.

"I could really use a towel and a roaring fire...and a stiff drink. Are you going to invite me in?"

For the first time since she was a child, Trixie let someone else take care of her, if only for a moment. Fiercely independant, she had made her own way in the world, educating herself while using her natural attributes and aptitudes to finance her studies, and her freedom. She was in control, deciding who she would do business with, and responsible only to herself. Now, she simply felt tired...tired, drained and in need of someone elses strength. Surprisingly, it was Cecil who provided the strong shoulder that now protected her.

She let herself be lifted onto the old mare, the well-worn saddle cradling her comfortabley. She wrapped her arms around Cecil, and continued to weep softly as he kicked the horse into a steady trot. His thin body warmed her as they rode, and protected her from the damp wind that blew across the night. It had seemed as if only a few minutes had passed before they arrived at the bartenders homestead, a collection of wooden buildings in desperate need of a paint job.

He was very gentle as he helped her off the horse, lifting her from the saddle and depositing her gently on the hard-packed path. Trixie was pleasantly surprised by the strength she had felt in his arms. He led her to the porch of a small structure to get her out of the rain, and lit an oil-lantern. The bright light flared and hissed, and she saw him smile at her through the gloom. She returned his smile, tentatively, and spoke for the first time since Cecil had...saved her.

"I...thanks, Cece, I mean...well, thanks. I...I hope you won't get in trouble for doing this..." Garfield was the bartenders unforgiving boss, a man that would'nt hesitate to fire Cecil because of his kindness to her. She looked at him in the flickering lamp light, and brushed a few strands of wet hair from her eyes.

"I could really use a towel and a roaring fire...and a stiff drink. Are you going to invite me in?"

"Well...sure. There's not much point in me bringing you out here if I was just going to leave you outside to starve, now is there?" Cecil smiled a bit and produced a key from his pocket. He shoved it in the giant iron lock his uncle had always used and turned. The door swung open and he walked inside, into a short hallway where coats and boots lay to the side. He began removing his muddy boots laboriously while Trixie had her footwear off in no time and started wandering down the hall way and into the kitchen. Cecil turned back to the front door and secured it from the inside by turning the key in a lock identical to the one on the outside. When Cecil arrived in the kitchen Trixie had already found the only liquor in the place, a large bottle of tequila, and was sitting at the table. He smiled and shook his head at the sight. "You can stay in my uncle's room. The room with bathtub and sink is between the two bedrooms if you want to clean up," he added, indicating her muddy dress.

"Thanks Cece," she replied, smiling warmly.

He just nodded and added some wood to the hearth, stirring the coals and putting in a bit of kerosene to make sure the wood caught quickly. After that was done, he went to his bedroom and shut the door, laying down on his bed with a sigh. He was so tired, he figured he would just take his bath when he woke up in a few hours. Before he drifted off to sleep, he made sure to hide the housekey in a roll of clean socks in his wardrobe.

She stood watching the fire, the warmth against her chilled skin a welcome friend. Her damp clothing was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, the thick underskirt dripping with mud. Glancing towards Cecil's room, she quickly removed her heavy skirt, separating the layers and brushing the mud off, as best she could. Clad only in her underwear, the still-cold room shot a shiver through her, goosebumps appearing on her skin. She moved closer to the fire, and stoked it into brightness. The flush of heat warmed her, as would the tequila that Cece had so kindly left behind. She poured herself a long shot, and raising the glass to the closed door of her host, downed the fiery alcohol.

Nodding her head very slowly, suddenly afraid that if she moved it too much it might dislocate itself from her neck, Gerry looked up at Wilfred and smiled. “I think a walk might be a good idea.” She gingerly placed a foot out and took a tentative step, grateful for the hold that he had on her body. Her trust in her ability to be able to move of her own volition had disappeared totally, and she was relying on him more than she would have liked.

Grasping his shirt, her fingers tight around the fabric, she suddenly burst into a fit of laughter, before she managed to bring herself under some semblance of control. “You must think very poorly of me, Mr Harrington.” Feeling a little ashamed of her own behaviour, or more rightly her stupidity for getting herself into a situation that lowered her defences, Gerry frowned. “I’m not normally like this…I was just feeling a little flush.” Something that she no longer felt, due to her very bad performance at cards.

Wilford shook his head, "Oh, not at all. Cecil can be a real bastard with that 'shine. He usually 'forgets' to tell people how strong it is." He smiled warmly, "No need to worry, ma'am. I'm certainly not offended." He chuckled softly, "Besides, I'd say you held that stuff far better than some of the prospecters that come through here. And them Washington boys are just pathetic."

Gerry smiled, feeling a little more at ease, which was unusual as she rarely felt comfortable with strangers. She put it down to the effects of the alcohol. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future.” Loosening her hold, she attempted a few steps, which she managed fairly well, before her head spun and she once more tightened her grip. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this bad.” Never, she thought to herself.

She looked about her as they moved across the street, which fortunately was pretty quiet. The last thing she wanted was for her antics to become the entertainment for the day, keeping a low profile was important in this kind of place. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you for your kindness…” Though to be honest, she could not remember either way, and thought it was best to cover herself. It was never a good idea to upset people in this kind of town.

“You’ve always lived here, huh?” She let her eyes wander around her surroundings, before raising them to meet his gaze. “You never wanted to move on? See new pastures? Never wanted to check if the grass really is greener elsewhere?”

Wilford smiled, patting her on the back a little, taking things slowly as they staggered down the road, hoping the fresh, dry air would clear Gerry's head some more. "Oh, there's no need to thank me. Just doing my duty as an upstanding citizen of the community." He chuckled a little, "Besides, after the poker game, I figure I should repay you with a bit of kindness."

He was a little surprised as he looked down at her, the moonlight reflecting off her eyes. He composed himself with a slight shrug, "Well, can't say as I've ever had need to complain about the grass over here, I guess." He grinned a little despite himself, "You saying I might find something I'll like elsewhere?"

Looking up into his eyes, Gerry smiled and shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think you would find anything better elsewhere. I think you have everything here you need.” Her voice petered off into a breathy sigh, as she continued to gaze into his eyes. He really was not at all like she had expected from watching him play cards, but then that was his business persona, now she was seeing the other side of Wilfred Harrington…and what she had seen so far seemed very pleasant.

“I was just being curious.” She felt the smile growing on her lips. “It’s just there is normally something that keeps a man in the same town all his life…” Her gaze into his eyes grew deeper. “…and I’ve always enjoyed fishing.”

Wilford looked markedly less confident now that he was no longer hiding behind his cards. He was a man with a singular talent, and once in a situation far removed from that talent he found himself grasping at straws, desperate for something that made sense. Gerry seemed to rather nicely not fit into either of the two categories of women he was used to dealing with. Oddly enough, he could manage women flirting with him; Trixie did it all the time. Every now and then, one of the rich socialites would 'find the wrong room' and come on to the man who'd cleaned out their fat husbands. For some reason, this didn't jive right, and he was largely clueless as to how to procede. He was also pretty sure that Gerry knew he was feeling a little uncomfortable about it all, and was just having fun at his expence.

He cleared his throat, looking down into Gerry's eyes, only able to hold her gaze for a few moments, a small amount of color starting to fill his cheeks, "Ah... well... I guess I never had much reason to leave... I make a good living, and all." He blinked as she derailed his train of thought, missing any potential innuendo, "Fishing?"

Trixie had finished most of the bottle of clear shine that Cecil had left behind for her, each swallow pushing the events of the night further into the dark. She had finally decided to remove the rest of her damp clothing, and now sat comfortabley in front of the roaring fire, naked, the heat dancing on her skin. She regarded herself with a critics eye, noticing the bruising on her arm where Garfield had roughly grabbed her. She rubbed it absently, remembering the foul odor of the fat man. She shivered, more from the thought than the cold, and pulled her chair closer to the fire.

As the booze worked its magic, her eye had come to rest on the closed door separating her from Cecil, and her thoughts of him had been warm and comforting. As the evening progressed and the bottle emptied, her thoughts started to veer into a more...amorous territory.

She was young and beautiful, and possessed a healthy libido. Cecil was not as young, but he WAS a man. A good man. A man that Trixie felt was owed a debt of gratitude. Her hand drifted idly across her chest, brushing the silky skin, lowering to come to rest on her firm stomach. She could feel the heat rising, and not just from the fire. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts wander...

Laughing lightly, Gerry turned her eyes briefly from Wilfred, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Her mind was in a whirl, and in the morning she would have problems piecing the conversation or even the evening together. “You know, Mr Harrington, you must be the nicest card player I have ever met.” She turned her face back up to his, and smiled. “Not many would take their opponents for a stroll around the town.” She giggled slightly. “Especially those that had no money left.”

Taking a deep breath, she felt her head spin once more, causing her to stop, while she fought to focus on Wilfred. “If only there was some way I could repay your kindness.” She looked up at him, her face the picture of innocence, a slow smile creeping over her lips, as she watched his discomfort. “But alas…” She sighed, and turned her face from his, her eyes twinkling with fun.

Wilford smiled at Gerry, still helping to keep her on her feet, "Now, I don't take all of my opponents out for a stroll..." He blinked as he realised that his statement might be loaded, "Er... not that I'm trying to take advantage..." He coughed slightly as she continued to tease him, "N... no need to repay me... just trying to be friendly and all..." Not that he was necessarily opposed to the thought.

Gerry continued to smile, feeling strangely comfortable in Wilfred’s company, but she put that down to the drink, although there was something oddly charming about the man. “Well, I guess that’s pretty lucky…as I have nothing to repay you with.” She turned her face back to his, her arm tightening around him, causing her body to press closer to his. She shivered suddenly. “It feels as if it’s turning cold.” Even when she said it, she was not certain it was the weather that had been the cause.

A frown passed over her features for a moment, as she thought, a task made more difficult by the whirling sensation in her mind. “Would you like a drink?” She grinned, her eyes once more sparkling. “I think I have some left back in the hotel.” She looked down the street, straining to locate the building, before turning her head and gazing in the other direction. “Ah, there it is.” She looked at him smugly as if she had just discovered gold.

Cecil awoke to the sun peeking through his bedroom window, spilling a soft yellow light on half of his solid old bed. He felt his stomach rumble a bit, and decided to make his bath a short one for the sake of his tummy.

Upon moving out of the hallway that led out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, the still-damp Cecil noticed a slightly snoring Trixie slouched in a chair near the fire that was now only a small pile of coals. She was naked. Cecil shook his head and walked over to the chair, neatly avoiding crushing an empty bottle with his boot. He picked her up slowly and turned back the way he had come. Pushing open the door with his foot, Cecil laid Trixie on the bed in his uncle's old room, then went back and gathered her clothes, putting them by the bed where she would easily find them when she awoke. His stomach expressed its need once again, and Cecil hurried off to the kitchen to get some breakfast before heading back into town for work.

Wilford smiled a little at Gerry, coughing slightly as she pressed against him, "Ah, well... I suppose I could use a drink..." He grinned, "If nothing else, you won't make it to the hotel without help." He carefully lead her back to her hotel, "Easy does it... one foot in front of the other... that's it..."

Gerry turned her face up towards Wilfred’s laughing lightly. “Mr Harrington, I think I’m more than capable of walking.” She stopped again, gazing long into his eyes, her head tilting back slightly. Her eyes found his lips, tracing their shape, as if they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Her hand loosened its grip, gently sliding down his body. She leant towards him, her focus on his mouth, pushing herself closer, closer. Her eyes began to close, the thought of her lips pressed to his filling her thoughts.

“Woah!” Her eyes flicked open, her hand once more gripping his shirt, as her balance disappeared, her head spinning with her lack of focus. “I guess I’m still not as steady as I thought.” She felt a heat growing on her cheeks. “I’m…um…sorry, um, I don’t know why I…” Her gaze once more fell on the hotel. “I think we should go…now.” Returning to her original position, she allowed herself to be guided by him.

He picked her up slowly and turned back the way he had come. Pushing open the door with his foot, Cecil laid Trixie on the bed in his uncle's old room, then went back and gathered her clothes, putting them by the bed where she would easily find them when she awoke. His stomach expressed its need once again, and Cecil hurried off to the kitchen to get some breakfast before heading back into town for work.

When she awoke, she wondered briefly why someone was playing a drum beside her, then realized that it was simply the pounding of her head due to the bottle of booze she had nearly finished by herself. Holding her head, she cracked open one eye, tentatively, and reviewed her current situation.

She was in a bed, a strange bed, and she was very, very naked. Her clothes lay on a chair beside her, folded neatly. Looking around, she realized she was in Cecils bedroom and for a moment, she worried that she may have entered during the night, remembering the amorous feelings that had risen as the bottle emptied. Cecil himself was nowhere to be seen, and even though she had gotten fairly drunk, she didn't recall entering the room, or forcing her booze-soaked body on the gentle bartender. Not to say it didn't happen, but she was sure she would have had some recollection of an event like that.

SHe slowly levered herself upwards, and was disturbed to feel a wave of nausea hit her. Quickly, and wisely, she decided to put her head back down on the pillow, and wait for the brass band in her head to quiet down.

Wilford's pulse quickened as Gerry moved up to kiss him. He was caught off guard at least as much as she was when she stumbled into him, the two of them almost falling down in the middle of the street. "Awk!" Once they had both regained their balance, if not their composure, he once again helped her down the street.

Standing in front of the hotel, he looked it over. It wasn't a bad place, really; he'd lived there for a good number of years until his gambling had turned lucrative enough for him to have a small house built just outside of town. He'd saved for years to afford that house, but being here infront of the old hotel brought back a rush of memories. He smiled at Gerry, "So... which room, ma'am?"

Gerry looked up at the hotel and pointed to the last window on the left on the first floor. “That one!” She lowered her gaze slowly, knowing that any sudden movements would have her head spinning and possibly both of them on the floor. She gave him a smile and held him tightly, her fingers grasping his clothing. “I don’t know if I’ve told you, but I’m very grateful for your assistance.”

She did not give him time to answer before the two of them were walking again, through the entrance. They made their way awkwardly through the small lobby, getting an odd look from the owner, who nodded his head at the card player. “Good evening, Mr Harrington.” And said nothing else, despite the questions that were going through his head, as the two disappeared from his view.

As they neared the door, Gerry gave a sigh of relief, still unsure how she had made it up to the landing. Walking down the short corridor, she rested against the wall of beside the door, as she opened the door, almost falling through. “Home, Sweet Home.” She called as she staggered into the room and collapsed into a laughing heap on the bed, her movement bringing Wilfred down beside her. Releasing her grip, she turned her head to face him. “How do you like my humble abode?”

Wilford was more than a little surprised to find himself on the bed with Gerry and quickly sat up, clearing his throat, "Ah, well... this is a nice room... um..." He looked around the room. It was rather nice, actually. Very similar to the room he'd once lived in which was just across the hall, actually. He smiled at Gerry a little, "Yes, very comfortable. I used to live across the hall from this room, actually. I can think of worse places to spend the night..."

Sitting up as Wilfred did, Gerry turned her head, looking around her surroundings and laughed. “I’ve stayed in worse. At least it has a comfortable bed.” To demonstrate she bounced up and down a couple of times, the springs whining in protest. “Well, it’s better than the ground anyway.” She smiled as she looked at Wilfred. “Oh, I was going to get you a drink, as a way of thanks.”

Standing up, she wobbled a little before finding herself seated back on the bed. Shaking her head at her attempt, she stood again, this time keeping her balance. She grinned triumphantly, as she made her way over to the little nightstand over the other side of the bed, where she had a nearly full bottle of whiskey. “I don’t really know why I have this; I think I managed to acquire it at the last town.” She giggled to herself. “Shooting contest, if I recall, last bottle standing.”

She gave the task of pouring two drinks her fullest attention, careful not to spill any. Placing the bottle back on its spot, she picked up one of the shot glasses and turned, reaching over the bed with it, steadying herself as she did. “Probably easier to get it to you this way, I don’t think I can manage with both.”

Once he had taken his drink, she sat herself on the other edge of the bed, and picked her feet off the floor, swinging herself around until she was sitting against the headboard, her feet lying down the bed. Leaning over, she reached for her own drink, holding it in her hand, not even attempting to drink it. “Thank you for seeing me back safely.” She leant her head back on the headboard, her eyes half-closed.

Wilford grinned as Gerry staggered about the room, taking the glass from her, "Shooting contest, eh? I think I'd like a demonstration... once you're able to shoot straight, that is." He shifted a little so that he was facing her as she leaned against the headboard, "Just doing my gentlemanly duty, ma'am."

He sat in silence for a few moments as Gerry's eyes fluttered a little, "Perhaps you should get some sleep. I could see myself out..."

Upon hearing his voice, Gerry’s eyes flicked open wide as she sat up. “No, really, it’s nice to have some company.” She took a sip of her drink, before placing it on the bed stand then turned her face towards his and smiled. “And I invited you for a drink to say thank you, it would be impolite of me to send you away just yet.”

She fiddled with the buckle of her gun belt as she spoke, removing it from her waist and hooking it over the headboard, the action bringing his previous statement to mind. “I would be honoured to demonstrate.” She laughed lightly, as her movement almost sent her off the bed. “And I agree, I think a steadier hand may be wiser.”

Righting herself, she pushed herself upright, and once more looked at Wilfred. “Tell me a little about you, Mr Harrington.” She lifted her right foot towards herself and began to pull on her boot. “I’m told cowboys sleep with their boots on, but I find that a little weird. Do you?” She stopped her actions, waiting for his answer.

Wilford smiled, waving his hand dismissively, "You're inside. No sense leaving your boots on, now is there? Don't wear mine in bed, that's for sure." He turned to face her more fully while trying to figure out how to condense his life story to skip the boring parts, which he figured was most of it. "Well, first of all, there's no sense on clinging to formality here. You can call me Wilford.

"I'm afraid my life story doesn't have enough interesting points to fill a shot glass. Not too much happens in this town, so I can't say that I've seen much. Never been in the militia, and haven't gone hunting Indians or anything else that people seem to do. I mostly keep to myself and play cards."

He shrugged a little, "There's been a few people who didn't take well to losing, I suppose, and those times never end pretty, but aside from that I'd say I've lived a nice quiet life. I've heard about those riverboat poker games with huge pots, but I'm pretty comfortable, I guess. Besides, I'd rather not be that well known. The last thing I need is a bunch of people trying to make a name for themselves by beating me in a game. Or killing me, for that matter." He was growing more comfortable talking with Gerry, which was obvious. He still seemed a little concerned that she might start removing her actual clothing, which would probably make him exceptionally nervous. It was tough enough for a gentleman to be in a situation like this, after all.

Watching him for a moment as he spoke, Gerry then turned her attention back to her boot, listening as he described himself to her. She liked the sound of his voice, it was comforting, and made her feel less lonely than she had for a while. Despite her bravado and attitude, sometimes she just longed for a friendly face.

She finally, after a little effort, managed to pull off her boot. Dropping it to the floor, she wriggled her toes and smiled with relief. “I hear you can make big money on the boats. If I thought they would let me in on a game, I might be tempted myself.” She looked around the room for a moment, barely containing any of her belongings. They had been stored in a town with a friend, who would ship her stuff to her once she found somewhere she could call home.

Once more she turned her attention back to her boot, awkwardly beginning to work the second one off her foot. “Of course, I don’t think they’d let me on a boat like this.” She stopped her actions as she pointed to her body and laughed. “I’m told this isn’t very ladylike.” Her laughter filled the room for a moment then died as she looked at him, a frown suddenly marring her features. “Do you think I look like a lady?”

Wilford pondered for a moment. Gerry's question was certainly loaded, and a tactful reply might be difficult. She wasn't dressed like a lady, that was for sure; indeed, she looked like she was trying to look decidedly unladylike. All of her flopping around and the struggling with her boots had loosened her clothing even more, and Wilford was beginning to appretiate that Gerry could be a rather attractive woman, especially if she was to dress like a normal lady, as opposed to a cowboy. Maybe she didn't want to be called ladylike, but her frown would lead one to think otherwise.

He really had no clue what to say.

"Ah, well... perhaps not the most feminine of attire... but I'm hardly one to judge style," He indicated his own attire, which seemed to be of the 'black goes with anything' school of fashion. He learned forward, deciding to change the subject with an unexpected action, and grabbed her boot, pulling it off in a single, smooth motion, "Here, lemmie give you a hand with that..."

On the outskirts of town a horse rode into vision, a figure wearing goggles over his eyes to protect them from sand was saddled on the beast and he was urging it on ever faster towards the town.
'Faster Cuthbert, we must be there by noon or else the arrest warrent is still valid. I heard the knackers yard is good this time of the year!' The figure had a clear British accent, unusual in the middle of the west but not unheard of.
When the horse got to the town it stopped suddenly, throwing the man to the ground and raising a small cloud of dust. For a moment he layed there, then he hurridly got up as if nothing had happend.
'Dont make me upgrade you' he pointed an accusing finger at Cuthbert. If horses could snigger, this one was doing so.
'yes yes, fine, now come along. Bring the equipment.'
Several minutes later, he was the owner of a new smithy, and the smith was the owner of a large bag of gold.
'Well, it seems we made good time-' he flicked his wrist and a sundial shot out of his sleeve on an arrangement of shafts
'Two hours to spare I might add' He flicked his wrist again and the sundial retracted back into the depths of his coat. After looking around the street, he pulled a string on a sideboard slung over the horse and a sign unfolded.
Mckutchin and Sons- Guns and Hardware The 'sons' had been hastily crossed out
'Now stand there and look pretty. A hard task for you at the best of times I know' He bagan to unpack the saddle bags, some of which made clanking sounds as he moved them.

After he had fried up a breakfast of bacon and eggs and then eaten half of it, Cecil wrote a short note for the passed-out Trixie.

I've gone into town to work at the saloon. Breakfast is keeping warm over by the stove. You should probably stay inside and out of sight for a few days so Mr. Garfield doesn't find you. He'll probably give up looking after a couple days so you'll be able to go out again then. Please stay out of trouble.

Cecil


He laid it on the table where she'd be likely to find it and left the house quickly, locking the door behind him.

----------

James Garfield caressed a now-empty whiskey bottle and hummed softly to himself. He let his eyes wander and they fell upon a scrap of paper that had been tucked between a pair of mugs. He scanned the note swiftly and let it flutter to the floor when he was done. It was just a note from Cecil saying that some foreign fella had asked about a job as a bodyguard. James didn't see any need for a bodyguard, what with that loaded shotgun behind the counter. Still, it was very conscientious of Cecil to have left the note for him. James decided on the spur of the moment and a stomach full of whiskey to give Cecil a raise for being such a fine employee. Just as quickly, he forgot all about it when Cecil pushed the saloon doors open and cheerfully relieved him of his post. James also liked it that Cecil always called him Mr. Garfield. Most folks in this town wouldn't do that, the disrespectful lot. As James stumbled down the front steps of the saloon, he remembered Trixie and mumbled something about whores before staggering off in search of his lovely Ms. Green.

Sitting back on the bed, Gerry held on as Wilfred pulled off her boot, and dropped it onto the floor. She sat for a moment just wriggling her toes, bringing life back into them. “That’s much better.” She frowned slightly as she looked down at her body, and then laughed out loud. “I tried riding in a gown once, and almost fell off the horse.” She shifted down the bed slightly, and leaned back against one of the pillows which were propped against the head board. “I’ll not do that again in a hurry. Skirts were flapping; my mother almost had a fit. I remember her calling after me that no one would want to marry someone who dress had been around her ears.”

She turned her face to Wilfred’s and smiled. “So, taking her advice, I donned this, which if she ever saw I’m sure she would faint dead away.” A frown marred her features again as she turned away. “Sometimes I miss dressing up and going to parties…” She feel silent as her mind returned her to happier times.

Wilford chuckled, trying to imagine a woman, no, a lady riding a normal saddle in a ball gown, the hoops bunching up around her waist. His chuckles gave way to rather loud laughter as his mind made the image more and more ludicrous, the mental scene ending with her landing on her rear with a very loud thump. He eventually calmed down, smiling sheepishly at Gerry, "Ah, sorry about that... it's just a really funny mental image, ya know?"

He frowned slightly as Gerry turned a bit more maudlin, finding himself riding her emotional train along with her, even if he was largely sober. He smiled and gave her a little pat on the leg, trying to comfort her, "Can't say as I've ever been to a party like that. I've heard they're pretty nice, and I'm sure you'd look really pretty all dressed up, but..." He shrugged slightly, "I looked into buying a fancy suit once, figured I'd get all dressed up and find some place to go, see what it was like." He chuckled softly, "I couldn't stand the damn thing, it was just too stuffy and uncomfortable. I prefer to be comfortable, and, well, after trying that suit on, I started wondering about the get-ups that Trixie and her girls wear." He shook his head, "Everytime I see one of them walk by, I can't help but wonder how uncomfortable it must be."

He laughed a little, "Bet you weren't expecting this, huh?"

As if his laughter was infectious, Gerry found herself laughing along with him, her mind filled with images of him in a fancy getup as he described. She let her eyes move over his body, seeing him in a suit before fixing her thoughts onto his attire. “I think you look very smart.” She smiled. “And the suit dost not maketh the man. I have known men who have walked around in clothing that would feel the town for a year, and they would sooner walk over a stranger than give them a hand.”

She lowered her gaze to her own body, her hand travelling down the material of her outfit. The course material of her jacket so far removed from taffeta. She raised her eyes to his, and smiled again. “I never pictured myself like this…” Her eyes fixed to his. “But at the moment, I cannot think of anywhere I would rather be.”

Moving suddenly, she rose up onto her knees, shifting closer to Wilfred. She leant closer to him, her breath hot on his cheek. Remaining still, she looked as him, before her hand moved to his arm, stroking lightly down the length of his sleeve, downwards, until her fingers caressed his hand. “More whiskey?” She closed her hand around his glass.

Wilford smiled at Gerry, "Well, I'm glad that I don't look like some shiftless wastrel, thank you." He found it a little difficult to meet her gaze, but managed to, nodded dumbly. His fingers twitched slightly as Gerry's hand closed over his, not pulling back, simply surprized. He looked into her eyes, getting lost inside them. Despite the drunken haze, her eyes were still quite expressive. It took him awhile to find his voice again before whispering softly, "If you don't mind..."

Gerry remained for a moment where she was, her hand still resting on Wilfred’s before she took the glass and moved over the bed, stretching over to pick up the bottle from the night stand. “It’s very kind of you to come back here.” She lowered her eyes to the glass, as she poured some of the liquid into it and then returned the bottle to its place.

Moving once more to the middle of the bed, she presented him with the drink. Her eyes once more fixed to his face, finding it hard to look anywhere else. As she released her hold, she stroked her fingers over his, enjoying the feel of his skin against her touch. “I don’t get many visitors.” She grinned suddenly. “I think the outfit scares people off.” The smile fades until she is serious once more. “But not you.” She paused for a moment. “I’m glad it doesn’t scare you.”

Wilford smiled weakly, "Well, ah... it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do... couldn't have you staggering around alone. Some scoundrel might have taken advantage of you." He was about to drain his glass when her fingers wrapped around his hand again. Suddenly, he couldn't manage much aside from not dropping the glass.

She was such an... 'enigma'. He wasn't positive what the word meant, but he'd heard it mentioned years ago and it seemed to fit. The way the man had used it told Wilford more about its meaning than any book possibly could have. Yes, he was pretty sure it was appropriate. He still didn't know how to read her, but he was pretty damn sure that she was more than a little interested in him. It could just be the 'shine, but he had just enough ego to think there was more to it.

He smiled at her, looking over her outfit once again, thankful it wasn't terribly revealing, "No, the outfit's just fine... and I can't imagine why anybody'd be scared off by it." He cleared his throat a little, "Or you..."

The smile that Gerry gave Wilfred was warm, almost unaffected by the alcohol, as if for a moment, clarity was restored to her swirling mind. “Thank you.” She looked into his eyes, feeling the heat growing on her cheeks. Despite her getup, she was still a woman underneath not the hard exterior that she portrayed, and genuine kindness meant a lot to her.

“Mr Harrington…Wilfred.” She smiled shyly. “You are the kindest man I have met in a long time.” She blushed a little more. “Scoundrels, every town has them.” Letting out a little laugh, she made herself more comfortable on the bed, in the process bringing herself a little closer to him. “I thought you were a scoundrel when I saw you in the saloon. I was very wrong.” Her eyes remained locked to his, seeing the man beneath the façade. It was no wonder the saloon girl…Trixie had been so enamoured with him.

Wilford set the glass down, the whiskey inside forgotten as he smiled at Gerry, letting her get more comfortable on the bed. The fact that she was now even closer didn't bother him in the slightest. He removed his hat, tossing it to the foot of the bed, "Well, I'm glad your first impression didn't hold..."

He found himself unsure what to say or do. Part of him was ready to just let her sleep it off, but part of him was sorely tempted by other ideas. He ended up unable to really do either, just sitting there watching her and falling into her eyes once again.

Gerry smiled as she kept her gaze locked to Wilfred’s. “I’m glad too.” Her voice was low and sincere, and there were slight undertones of something. Want perhaps. It did not matter how hard she tried, sometimes she just needed to have company, not that she generally sought it out; in fact, she tended to shy away from male company.

Despite her state of dress and the way her life had turned out, she could not completely turn away from her upbringing, and had never been desperate enough to follow the path that some women in her shoes had taken. Yet, here she was sitting in a room with a man, drunk while at the same time oddly sober, and feeling something she had not experienced in a long time, if really ever.

Her gaze slipped from his eyes, and moved slowly over his body admiringly. She nibbled lightly on her lower lip, as she stopped her eyes going below his waist. Quickly, she returned her gaze to his, and smiled at him. Raising her hand, she brushed some of hair out of her face, pushing it behind her ears, in one of the most feminine movements she had made all day.

Keeping her eyes fixed to his, she shifted her body again, rising up on her knees, her face close to his. “You look like you want something?” She murmured softly, her voice huskier than normal, as her breath quickened. As she spoke, her fingers moved onto his cheek, stroking gently.

Wilford coughed slightly, Gerry's actions were rather soundly reminding him that, yes, she most certainly was a woman. She might not dress as one, but she was doing a good job of controlling the situation. He felt chills run up his spine as she touched his cheek, once again at something of a loss for words. He desperately attempted to retreat into humor, "N... no... that wouldn't be gentlemanly. Would it..?"

“No, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly.” Gerry smiled at Wilfred as she lowered her hand, her fingers beginning to work on her jacket. Deftly her hands made short work of freeing the buttons, and within moments her outer layer was lying on the floor, her body now clothed in a linen shirt, slightly off white. She rose onto her knees, kneeling beside him, looking directly into his face. As she watched him, her mind whirled with thought after thought, her conscience fighting the effects of the alcohol and losing.

Once more she nibbled on her lower lip, and then leant forward slowly. “But who wants gentlemanly?” Her voice was raspy as she moved closer, her goal evident. She tilted her head, preparing to kiss him, her eyes slowly closing ready to savour the feel of his lips against hers.

*BANG!!!* The sound of a revolver and shattering glass filled the hotelroom.

"Who are you to say what I should and should not do? Now you know how it feels when a perfect romance suddenly gets interupted by violence, ignorant cardplayer! Tssh. 'I think your first step would be to stop killing people', bah, how wrong can you be, huh?!", he would yell to Will.

No, he quickly put the gun back into his jacket, hoping the darkness covered him climbing up the porch's roof, peeking through the window and grabbing his gun. There would be no point in shooting her. Too much noise, too. He would never get away in time, because he would also have to climb down again.

He started his descent, slowly, silently. One foot at a time. He didn't notice this roof was so unsteady when he climbed it and this new found fact made him curse "Shi..." before he reminded himself that they could still hear him.

Fly finished unpacking his equipment and stepped out side to the evening air. he breathed in deeply. It smelt like freedom, the smell of horse leavings hardly spoilt it at all.
'What do you think my four legged friend? Are we going to make it big here?' His horse gave him an uninterested look and carried on eating from its foodbag
'Well what do you know, I think this place has a good outlook.' Just then he heard a crash from accross the road and he sighed
'A pity I should be meeting the residents in a gunfight. Ah well, an opportunity is an opportunity as father always said.' He went inside to put on a slightly different looking long coat, then wandered over to the source of the noise
'Ahem! Gentel- what on earth? Oh well, I'm sure I don't want to know. Hang on, I have the words somewhere' He flipped somthing inside a sleeve, then there was a grinding of metal, a spring escaped and papers with a short advertisement speech written on it went everywhere
'Oh blast....hang on...' He set to gathering the papers steadfastly ignorant of the insuing fight above

Cecil stared blandly at the bar. Not much was going on, so he decided he might as well get some cleaning done. Pulling a clean rag from under the bar, Cecil started working, putting all his elbow grease into it. He needed to focus on something mindless for a while. He needed to get the image of Trixie's shapely young form out of his mind. He wasn't a young man anymore and didn't have a young man's strong desires, but there was still desire nontheless. The desire needed to be purged. It wouldn't be right to act on those desires. Trixie was a carefree spirit, and Cecil was bound by the traditional notions of marriage and family. Nothing could come of it. By the time Cecil finished cleaning the bar, the rag had been worn down to a threadbare nothing.

------------

James Garfield wandered around the streets of Chassis restlessly, always searching for the object that would fulfill his desires. For as long as he could remember, his life had been like this. Forever moving. Never content. Always needing more.

Dawn finished up another glass of whiskey and set the glass on the bar with a sense of finality. Time to call it quits before she was too inebriated to ride, or to get any of the work done which was surely piling up in her absense. Those ranch hands were dedicated workers, but lazy if she wasn't standing over them. She laughed charmingly at a joke one of the patrons had told. That was the beautiful thing about the Cylinder...always someone to talk to.

Cecil had looked distracted for quite a while now. Dawn wondered what was up, but couldn't work up the nerve to pry. With a smile, she shook Doc's hand to seal a stud deal. He had some of the finest cow horses this side of the Rockies, and her stock could do with some better bloodlines. Old Solo just wasn't cutting it anymore, and with rodeos becoming more and more popular in the area, it was time to start training a few new ones.

She had been relieved to see Mr. Garfield leave. He was the sole reason she was almost happy to be counted as "one of the boys," despite what other hardships that created. At least it kept him out of her troubles. Withdrawing a handkercheif, she wiped the remaining dust from her face. And with him gone, she glanced over her shoulder at Cecil, her eyes lingering on the rag for the briefest moment.

"Think I could get a few biscuits for the road?"

Cecil suddenly perked his head up as Ms. Bradley laughed. She had a beautiful smile, that cowgirl. Cecil smiled and went back to cleaning, but Dawn soon interrupted him with a request for biscuits, of all things. Luckily, he had left some sitting in the small stove, wrapped in a clean rag. He didn't like to waste good food. After retrieving the biscuits he handed them to Ms. Bradley with a smile. "Here ya go."

She took the wrapped morsels gratefully, one less meal she'd have to worry about securing today. The damn things were stone-hard enough to pass for a meal at any rate. She grabbed her hat, patted old Doc on the back and bid a fond farewell to the boys still enjoying their drinks. But on her way out, she paused and turned. Curiousity and an amiable nature often got the better of her. Stepping back towards the bar, she lovingly placed the old hat back on her head and rested the now empty hand on the edge of the polished wood. Her vision flicked to the worn out rag for the moment, then to his face with a touch of concern and scrutiny.

"Everything alright? You've been a little off since you came back this mornin'."

Wilford lost track of the world around him. His concerns about how to proceed, the pile of money he'd left back at the saloon... Oh shit, the money! He wasn't broke and could manage without it, but he didn't like the idea of someone else having it.

Well that sure made things more difficult.

His mind scrambled, trying to figure out how to extracate himself from the situation when he noticed how close her lips were, and the feel of her body pressed against his. It's only money... he leaned forward the fraction of an inch remaining between their lips, kissing her.

Feeling his lips pressed against hers, Gerry let her eyes slip closed, savouring the moment. It had been a while since she felt this good. She raised her hand to his head, sliding her fingers through his hair, before bringing it to rest on the back of his neck, holding him to her. Her other hand sought out his, intertwining her fingers with his, guiding it towards her body, wanting to feel the warmth of his touch.

Slowly, she pulled slightly away from him, a smile instantly appearing on her lips, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m glad I lost at cards.” She spoke breathlessly, as she recovered from the kiss. “That was much better than money.” She applied a little pressure to his neck, and pulled him back into another kiss, this one less awkward than the first.

At the most cliché moment of all moments, right that moment, Ike slipped, shrieked and got enough grip with his hands just in time to not fall off the porch's roof. "DAMMIT!". Adrenaline shot through his body and all his senses were on fire. He looked up to the window he just peeked through...

Wilford smiled softly at Gerry, "No complaints here..." He gently pushed her down to the bed, the kiss deepening. He heard a vague noise coming from outside the window, but, like everything else, it was lost to him, all his attention focused on Gerry.

Eventually, he broke the kiss long enough to blow the lantern out before returning to her and kissing her again. As they kissed, he managed to remove his jacket and vest, tossing them aside. Being a perfect gentleman was far from his mind.

The light that trickled into the room was the first thing that Gerry became aware of as her eyes opened a crack; the next thing was the blinding pain in her head. Closing her eyes against both, she groaned slightly, wondering what had compelled her to drink so much. She had been warned in the past about the evilness that is alcohol and had managed to stick religiously to taking nothing more than a few sips. But yesterday…she could not even remember how much she had downed.

Her thoughts were busy with the suffering going on in her head that she did not at first notice that she was not alone in the bed, but this only lasted for a couple more minutes before her skin revealed a pressure against her. Once more she opened her eyes, this time quicker than she had planned, sending another stabbing sensation to inflict itself on her.

Focusing slowly, her eyes made out the familiar face of the card player. She looked at him for several minutes, the pain momentarily forgotten. “Oh, my…” She extracted her arm that was thrown over his chest, before trying to put a few more inches between them. “Oh…” Her hand shot suddenly to her forehead, as her head swam from her movement.

Ike scratched his ear and slowly opened his eyes. It was light. He couldn't remember walking to his home and stepping in his bed... It didn't quite look like his bed either. It looked more like a little bush -a flattened one, that is. Where was his bed? Where was his room? He looked up and wondered where he'd seen that porch before. Trying to get up, he was held back by a terrible ache in his brain and buttocks. Having a headache wasn't unusual, but the other problem was new to him. Then he decided it was better to just fall asleep again.

She took the wrapped morsels gratefully, one less meal she'd have to worry about securing today. The damn things were stone-hard enough to pass for a meal at any rate. She grabbed her hat, patted old Doc on the back and bid a fond farewell to the boys still enjoying their drinks. But on her way out, she paused and turned. Curiousity and an amiable nature often got the better of her. Stepping back towards the bar, she lovingly placed the old hat back on her head and rested the now empty hand on the edge of the polished wood. Her vision flicked to the worn out rag for the moment, then to his face with a touch of concern and scrutiny.

"Everything alright? You've been a little off since you came back this mornin'."

"I'll be fine, Ms. Bradley." He smiled his thanks for her concern, and went on, "You have a good day now, alright?"

"Maybe I'll see you around here again soon," he added hopefully.

"Alright then. Even a barman needs to talk once in a while, so if you ever need it, I'll be there to listen. You take it easy now, darlin."

She flashed him a final smile, turned on her heel and sauntered out of the bar. Outside old Solo was shifting restlessly and whickered softly at her approach. She packed away the biscuits in one saddle bag and pulled out a hoof pick from another. After a quick inspection to make sure all shoes were firmly in place and no rocks were caught up in the frogs, she untied the reins and patted him firmly on the neck. Reaching around, she placed the right rein over his neck and grabbed both of them in one hand with a fistful of mane. With the other hand on the mantle and a quick jump, she hoisted herself up and eased her feet into the stirrups. A quick jab with the spurs and a click of the tongue were all that was needed to coax the big gelding into a jog towards home.

The fly moved across the open blue eye. The eye didn't stir. The fly continued to move across the eye then the sound of something, or someone ,moving through the nearby brush caused the fly to stir and zip over to the horse that lay nearby.

"Good morning gent…ah I see you have attracted some local interest…" The voice came from a man climbing out of the brush towards them both. His accent was strange, in a century people would mistake it for Afrikaanian.

The man was hard to make out in the early morning, pre-dawn glow, which was why he was moving. "Ah, I see you need some assistance there son…" A coarse hand closed the lid over the boy's blue eyes. The man looked down at the whole in the kid's chest.

"You don't look more than sixteen….damn…well you shot Blackie and I shot you. Someone else got your horse."

The man pushed himself up to the side of the dead animal and placed his long rolling block rifle along side. He let his green eyes scan the line of brush trees along the river in the distance. In the early morning quiet, he began to talk out loud, in a whisper.

"Well you and your two friends have made this an interesting night. First you kill Blackie, which is a shame because he really hadn't earned his keep yet. But it was enough to draw my attention and let me kill the blond hared fellow. Of course, the tall one shot Blankie's packhorse and it fell in the river....and continued down stream....with our food supplies."

He paused again, listening and looking out at the countryside. By now it had brightened to show his attractive, scrub covered face and the indigo blue shirt he was wearing. An odd shaped hat, for hear at least, was on his back, held in place by a string around the man's neck. The other remarkable thing was the knife, sword, what have you, he wore on belt. The thing was as long as a man's leg from thigh to knee.

"Now then kid, you got out here, I plugged you and well Mr. Tall plugged the horse here. So now all I have to do is put a round through Mr. Tall and then perhaps I can get back to work…no…most of my food is down river someplace by now and the man who was holding my rod is now in the same condition you are."

He shifted slightly to open the saddlebags on the dead horse. "You know, your not much of a conversationalist…I know, I set an appointment with you and the grim reaper. You were trying to do the same to me…but let's see what you have to aliviate the hunger you and your compatriots have placed upon me?"

"Extra socks…all that need to be darned…let's see a box of ammo…that might come in handy. Oh so you were educated, or at least you had a Bible. A God fearing man perhaps?" Eyes went to a moment to the dead youth's face.

The man opened up the book. "I should say you read German, Ya, die jugen ist sher tote." He paused and started to flip the pages. Blinking in shock…
"My god, you rutty bastard you…you…well I think your going to be enjoying the flames of hell for eternity. Turning a Bible into a flip book of fornication. Well you could draw, but I seriously doubt you met a woman with breasts as big as that." A few sheets of paper fell out of the bible.

The man picked them up and opened the first. Glancing back at the tree line. "Well I suppose this crude drawing is of me…considering that is my name at the bottom. Peter Jennssen, although whoever wrote this spelled my last name and the word surveyor wrong…. There is no a in surveyor…"

He opened the second sheet of paper. "Ach himmel…well mister Johnny Bravo wanted dead or alive…with a two hundread and fifty reward. I guess I won't be burying you kid. I hope we get this over with before rigamortis sets in..."

He glanced up to see a figure trying to move slowly and silently across the field towards the smoke of a dead campfire. "How nice…Mr. Tall came out to play…."

Jennssen went to a prone position and pointed his rifle at the figure. "Ha…" he started to call out. The figure turned and fired his handgun. The bullet pelted the rear of the dead horse. The second shot was from the rifle. The figure went down.
"Well then Mr. Tall is down…better make sure he is dead…hmm. But first let's see if you have any food damn it."

Nelson Guffrey woke up on the plank bed of the Chassis town jail. There was nothing uncommon about that. Nor was there anything uncommon about the whiskey stains on his shirt, the layer of vomit in the cell’s poo bucket, the throbbing in his head, or the overwhelming nausea that nearly made him pass out again when he tried to sit up.

Nope, nothing uncommon at all. Nelson Guffrey had been there before, more times than he could remember - if he’d bother to try. Which he didn’t. His memories stank even worse than the bucket by his feet.

He pulled the bucket closer with the tip of his boot, positioned it between his legs, and relieved himself in it, only glancing down long enough to aim, then arching his head back to keep the stench out of his nostrils.

Getting up, he nearly tripped over an empty bottle and had to grab the bars of the cell not to fall on his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to catch his breath, but – Bad idea. He quickly opened them again, drowsily shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the cobwebs. You need a drink, Guffrey, he convinced himself. Need it bad. Need it now.

Nelson stumbled out the door of the cell, into his office, and plopped down on the chair behind his desk. Top drawer left – empty. Bottom drawer – empty. Crap! Top drawer right – forget it, he knew better than that. Christ Almighty, he’d have to go out.

He got up on his feet again without thinking about it – Just do it! Have to! – hastily tucked his shirt into his pants, and grabbed his gun belt. As he fastened it around his waist, he unbolted the door and braced himself for the morning sun. He didn’t need to bother putting up the “back in a little while”-sign – he hadn’t taken it down in weeks.

As he started moving towards the saloon, down and across the street, Nelson saw someone mount a horse and ride off, and a momentary surge of pain swept through his body, but he quickly pushed it aside. That Bradley bitch.

She was too far away to make out her face, but he was sure it was her – he recognized that horse of hers, and she didn’t let anyone else ride it. He wondered what she was doing out here. Maybe she’s shaggin’ someone in town, he thought, and was surprised at how much that stung.

He’d been courting Dawn Bradley for well over a year after her old man had left her that ranch, until she’d made it clear – in a way that was impossible to misinterpret – that she wasn’t interested. If it hadn’t been for those damn goons hanging around her ranch, he’d have… Bah, drop it, Guffrey. Slut ain’t worth it.

At the entrance of the saloon, Nelson paused for a moment, swiftly removing the sheriff’s star from his shirt and sliding it into his pocket. Never knew what kind of strangers just happened to be passing through town. Some folks didn’t take too kindly at a man of the law. No need to antagonize anyone needlessly, now was there?

He didn’t bother looking around the saloon and headed straight for the bar. The few patrons that were in at this early hour didn’t pay him much attention. Conversations hushed for a moment, then continued as if nothing happened. That’s ok, assholes, I don’t like you either.

That Cecil fellow behind the bar was giving him an odd look. What would that be all about? Maybe he’s the one Dawn’s shaggin’. Bloody hell, that didn’t even seem so far-fetched. He kinda looked the sort that was into those tomboy types. Was probably into – Cut it out, Guffrey, none o’your damn business!

He gave himself a quick mental shake, then concentrated on the task at hand.
“Whiskey. Three bottles,” he grunted, his voice more raucous than he intended.

Her ranch was a good four-mile's ride from Chassis proper, and to reach it required crossing a fair stretch of open country. Not quite desert here, but not quite prairie either. Vegetation grew thick around a small river which wound a good mile east of here, but elsewhere the land could get pretty sparse. She adjusted her hat and wiped a fresh layer of sweat from her brow. It could get mighty hot out here during a ride, regardless of the time of day. Though perhaps it had more to do with the heavy leather chaps than anything else. With a click of the tongue, she eased Solo into a lope, his long legs stretching in a ground-eating stride. She thought she saw a dead horse amongst the distant trees. That was always a pity. People rode these poor creatures into the ground. Habitually, she adjusted the lasso tied in front of her right knee, and the pistol secured in front of her left. Always a good idea to check them when changing gaits, considering that Solo didn't have the best transitions.

She watched the dead horse with a mildly interested gaze, but continued on towards home. Not far now. Reaching her right hand into the saddle bag behind her, she pulled out and nibbled on a biscuit, letting her mind drift to the promise of a nice bath before the day's work.

Jenssen had his wide brimmed hat down over his face to protect his eyes from the early morning sun and the stiff breeze that blew in from the east. The track into the town of Chassis from the northwest appeared to follow a nice level slope rising up from the river. An easly climb for Peter's gray andalusian, his pinto pack horse, and the tall man's former ride. She was a muddy brown mare in poor condition and of indistiquisable origin. Of course the mare was content her new rider, the body of Johnny Bravo slung across the saddle like a sack of potatos.

Likely only a one or two grade at most. But we're wandering a bit close to the border here. Jenssen pondered as he got his first glimpse of the town of Chassis.

This place looks like it is about one step away from only housing ghosts. I wonder what all the cattle smell is for. I guess only cattle ranches survived out around here....fairly dry country for anything else.

The small caravan entered the dust bowl known as Chassis and continued down the main street until they got near the jail and the Cylinder. Peter eyed the boarding house.

A cat house is a cat house, if it is Fasta, Amsterdam, Shangihi or some god forsaken group of buildings like this. Peter couldn't call it even a village any more, noting the number of buildings here now resided in by rodents and tubbleweed.

The hitching post before the jail looked like it wouldn't hold a pregant mouse, let alone three horses if they got spooked. It appeared the only viable buisness in town, besides the cat house, was a place called The Cylinder which seemed an odd name for a tavern, even in a country that didn't have nobles or knights. And tended to either serve distilled spirts or beer that would be better put back into the horse.

I wonder if they thought it ment something else? Jennssen pondered as he jumped off and tied up his horse. Jennssen pulled his rifle from its holster on the gray before walking over and hitching the other two. The pinto seemed intrested in drinking the water out of the trough.

Jennssen trudged over to the jailhouse and whacked on the door a few times. He stood at the door for a few moments and looked about.
"I guess he is at home."
Peter looked up and down the street at the few homes that appeared occupied and considered his options.

Go looking for him I'll likely get a facefull of buckshot. was his final analysis.

Jenssen turned and walked back over to the Cylinder. The pinto wore what looked like a large, lumpy white coat of canvas with various pockets sewn into it. Peter untied the flap of one pocket and pulled out a wooden case. The case had a rounded top and had two strips of inlay made of darker wood and mother of pearl.

He entered the Cylinder by pushing the flaps open with the rifle in one hand. He survayed the bar and its occupants before walking over to an empty table in the corner. He placed the rifle and the box on the table and walked back over to the bar, keeping his eyes on the groggy gentleman already there.

"I need some breakfast, hot water, and a bottle of whiskey…what of those things can I get here barkeep?" He asked in his oddly accented English.

Cecil gave Guffrey a cautious once-over as he entered the saloon. The man looked like the last thing he needed was a drink, but Cecil filled his order of three whiskey's anyway. Maybe Guffrey would drink himself till he passed out and wouldn't bother anything. There was always hope.

Shortly after Guffrey had moved to his usual table, Cecil saw another man come in. It was getting to be a busy day. The man gave him a list of things he wanted and asked if he could get them with a funny accent. At least...that's what it sounded like he was asking. "We don't have water at the saloon, but you can get your whiskey and breakfast if you're willing to wait a bit."

Cecil looked like he wasn’t particularly eager to serve him, but then he put the bottles on the bar without a word. That was one thing you had to give the man: he knew how to avoid a needless argument. For a bartender, that wasn’t an unimportant character trait.

Nelson grabbed the bottles, tucked one under his arm, and stumbled off to his usual table on the far side – not too far from the door, and his back covered by the wall. As he sat down, an odd lookin’ stranger entered the saloon. Well, every stranger was odd lookin’ to Nelson, but this one looked particularly unusual. A funny lookin’ hat, a rifle big enough to shoot a buffalo, and a knife big enough to chop the buffalo’s head off.

The stranger put his rifle on a table in the corner and headed over to the bar. Their gazes locked for a moment. Nelson broke eye contact almost immediately and put the bottle on his lips as if he didn’t have a care in the world. You just mind your own business, Mister, and I’ll mind mine.

"Obviously I do not have to wait for the whiskey." Peter said in a dry tone as he made a head nod towards the man with three bottles near the door. He nodded his thanks as a bottle and glass appeared from behind the counter.

Jennssen poured a half shot of whiskey and tipped it into his mouth. But he didn't drink it, just swirled it around in his mouth for a few seconds before spitting it into the spitoon nearby on the floor. He then poured a second shot and downed it. Relaxing he turned towards the door but kept a conversation up with the barkeep.

"Well then, how long until I can get breakfast? And what time does the local constable, I mean sheriff, return to his office?" He indicated the jail on the other side of the street with the hand containing another shot of whiskey.

Nelson hadn’t completely understood what the stranger had asked Cecil, but he was pretty sure he'd heard the word “sheriff”. And the man’s motion in the direction of the jailhouse was unmistakable. Crap. He knew he should’ve just gone back to his office, where he could bolt the door and fake unconsciousness until he didn’t have to fake it any more.

He contemplated a quick getaway – Old Man Jenkins’ shack was still pretty much in one piece, good enough to get hammered in anyway. But as he saw Cecil’s eyes turn to him, he knew he’d have to scurry away like a quail from a horse’s hooves if he wanted to avoid whatever was coming. And leaving that kind of impression on a man who was obviously looking for him would not be the wisest move he could make.

So he took another swig from the bottle and tried to look like a man who didn’t take no crap from anyone. Hell, with a little luck, I might just get away with it…

"Obviously I do not have to wait for the whiskey." Peter said in a dry tone as he made a head nod towards the man with three bottles near the door. He nodded his thanks as a bottle and glass appeared from behind the counter.

Jennssen poured a half shot of whiskey and tipped it into his mouth. But he didn't drink it, just swirled it around in his mouth for a few seconds before spitting it into the spitoon nearby on the floor. He then poured a second shot and downed it. Relaxing he turned towards the door but kept a conversation up with the barkeep.

"Well then, how long until I can get breakfast? And what time does the local constable, I mean sheriff, return to his office?" He indicated the jail on the other side of the street with the hand containing another shot of whiskey.

"It's about ten minutes to whip ya up some breakfast." Cecil looked at Guffrey as the stranger indicated the haggard-looking sheriff. "Guffrey? He doesn't keep regular hours. Doesn't keep any kind of hours at all, really. Besides, you don't need to worry about him. I hear he hasn't tried to arrest anyone in years," added Cecil in a confiding whisper.

Peter looked at the barkeep again. "Hmm, well I need to find him to get an affidavit and recipt for the corpse of Jhonny Bravo." He thumbed through several peices of paper in his breast pocket and pulled out the wanted poster. Then opened it on the bar as he continued the conversation.

"I don't wish to carry Mr. Bravo's rotting corpse all the way to what is this Peublo?...to collect my two hundread and fifty. Of course I doubt that the good citizens of Peublo would be unhappy if he is confirmed dead and buried here."

Peter pointed to the wanted poster. "So he need not arrest me...or Mister Bravo...who is currently not in the postion of making a protest if he was to be arrested." Peter downed the shot and poured himself another.

"But that seems a bit melodramatic and morbid at present."

Peter looked at the barkeep again. "Hmm, well I need to find him to get an affidavit and recipt for the corpse of Jhonny Bravo." He thumbed through several peices of paper in his breast pocket and pulled out the wanted poster. Then opened it on the bar as he continued the conversation.

"I don't wish to carry Mr. Bravo's rotting corpse all the way to what is this Peublo?...to collect my two hundread and fifty. Of course I doubt that the good citizens of Peublo would be unhappy if he is confirmed dead and buried here."

Peter pointed to the wanted poster. "So he need not arrest me...or Mister Bravo...who is currently not in the postion of making a protest if he was to be arrested." Peter downed the shot and poured himself another.

"But that seems a bit melodramatic and morbid at present."

Cecil scratched his grizzled chin a little before responding. "If that's the case, you better move quick. He'll be drunk in a few minutes and he's of less use to anybody when he's drunk than when he's sober...and that's sayin' something." Cecil smiled broadly. "Just don't make sudden movements. Guffrey gets sort of nervous...around strangers especially."

Peter looked at the barkeep. "So if he is not in the jail dead drunk I suppose, then where might I find this alchol infused sherrif named Gruffy."

Peter paused for a second, "It would not happen to be the three bottle drinker by the door would it?"

Peter turned to look at Gruffy. This country just keeps on getting worse and worse. as his eyes locked on Gruffy he wispered to the barkeep, "I suppose I could make him more pliable by offering to buy him three more bottles when I've got the paperwork?"

It was fairly obvious that the man near the door had been listening into the conversation and was acting a bit oddly. Peter was guessing he was the sheriff.

Peter looked at the barkeep. "So if he is not in the jail dead drunk I suppose, then where might I find this alchol infused sherrif named Gruffy."

Peter paused for a second, "It would not happen to be the three bottle drinker by the door would it?"

Peter turned to look at Gruffy. This country just keeps on getting worse and worse. as his eyes locked on Gruffy he wispered to the barkeep, "I suppose I could make him more pliable by offering to buy him three more bottles when I've got the paperwork?"

It was fairly obvious that the man near the door had been listening into the conversation and was acting a bit oddly. Peter was guessing he was the sheriff.

"Yep. That's him. Buying him a few bottles after he's done would be a good idea. Get working on that and I'll have your breakfast ready in ten minutes." With that, Cecil turned away and started collecting the ingredients for his usual greasy breakfast plate.

Peter nodded and held up the wanted poster. "Good Day Sherrif, I don't wish to disturb your breakfast, but I need your assistance on a little matter of Jhonny Bravo here. I need an affidavit and a recipt so that I can get the good people of Pueblo to pay me the reward without hauling him all the way back down there."

Peter pushed off the bar and walked towards Gruffy, "And then we can celibrate with a few bottles of red eye, my treat." Peter gave a wide smile at the last comment. Saluting the sherrif with a shot before downing it.

Hmm, drunk sheriff...and that jail was built fairly solidly, full squared logs rather than the normal local contruction methods...hmm

Nelson could hardly understand the man, but he got the gist of it. The wanted poster, “affidavit” – he relaxed a little. This was something he could handle without too much effort. At least he wouldn’t have to go out hunting down some rancher kid who robbed the poor fellow of his saddle bag, or something like that. Folks around here weren’t bothered too much by things like scruples when they came across a stranger camping out in the middle of nowhere. Then again, the fellow looked like he could handle himself.

The “few bottles of red eye, my treat”-part was something Nelson understood quite clearly. Well then, a stranger with a generous streak – that wasn’t something you came across every day. Ulterior motive? Probably. Did it matter? He couldn’t see why it would. Maybe the fellow figured on emptying Cecil’s register and hoped a passed out sheriff would guarantee him a smooth exit. Hell, if that was the case, Nelson was happy to oblige. Not like he cared or anything.

He grinned at the stranger as he took the wanted poster.
“Why, that’s mighty kind of you, Mister – what did you say your name was? ‘Course we’ll have to go have a look at this… Johnny Bravo feller here – positive identification and all that. But that shouldn’t be more than a formality.”

Peter nodded, "Peter Jennssen and Mister Bravo is waiting for us outside."

Well he perked up at the red-eye suggestion.

"Shall we go out and take a look at the young man before he starts to stink from the heat of the day?"

“Sounds like a plan,” Nelson nodded, and stood up. He turned to the exit, then hesitated and motioned Jennssen ahead of him with a sheepish smile. There seemed absolutely no reason to think that he’d get popped in the back by this fellow, but one couldn’t be careful enough these days. Jennssen seemed to hesitate for a moment as well, but then proceeded him out the door without complaint.

The Bravo fellow was sprawled across a brown mare that was tied up next to a pack horse and a gray andalusian. Nelson grabbed the corpse by the hair, pulled its head back and pretended to look at it carefully for a few seconds.

“Looks fine to me,” he smiled. “One less vermin in the world. Tell ya what, Mister Jennssen, why don’t you head back into the saloon, and I’ll go write up that affidavit in my office. And then we can have that drink you mentioned.”

Jennssen noted that the sheriff didn't seem to trust him much, having him exit first. "I think you will find you need to have some witnesses of your signigure Sheriff. So if you bring it back over we can get the barkeep to witness it and then we can start celebrating."

Jennssen pointed back at the bar. "After all he seems the only soul besides us moving at this hour."

"After all he seems the only soul besides us moving at this hour."
Nelson stared at him blankly for a moment. Now, was that just random conversation, or did he mean anything by that? That’s right, Mister, very few witnesses around here. And a sheriff who was more than happy to be taken out of the equation by less lethal means.

“Yeah, mostly deadbeats in this town,” he said, a slight smile on his lips. “A feller could get away with a lot in this town and not have to worry about no posse comin’ after him either. As long as he didn’t do it under the sheriff’s nose, that is.”

And with that, he turned around and headed over to the jailhouse, slightly swaying. If he hadn’t made himself clear by now, he never would. Part of him was curious about what Jennssen was up to. But not curious enough to be anywhere near the line of fire when it went down. He just wanted to get this guy his piece of paper, have a couple of drinks with him, and retreat to his office with a few more bottles. Whether Jennssen wanted to rape every broad in the cathouse, or knock off The Cylinder, Nelson would find out about it when he woke up. With a little luck, it was the latter, and good ol’ Cecil would wind up like that chap that was sprawled over the horse. Would serve him right for shaggin’ Dawn Bradley.

Jennssen turned and walked back to his Pinto. Opened up another flap and took out a small black bag, about the size of an ipod mini "Well I never thought I would be using you for this kind of stuff. But oh well.." He opened the case which contained a few small thin vials of powders of varying color. He pulled one from the case and hid it up his left sleeve.

Peter looked at the now faint name embossed in gold on the case and shook his head. Doctor Lawrence had been the ship's surgeon and a goodone before the landing. The mortar round had cut him in two, brining irony to the phrase Surgeon heal thyself.

He returned the case to it's pocket and walked back into the saloon. Walking over and getting his rifle and the box he left on the table. Peter sat down at the Sheriff's table such that he could look out the doors and keep his back to the bartender.

Peter rose again to get his breakfast.

Dawn stepped out of the bath a renewed woman. A full stomach and a clean set of clothes did wonders to lift the spirits. Her house and kitchen were empty - a good sign because it meant the rancheros were already out getting something done. God bless those men for staying on to help. They were like fathers and brothers to her, every one of them. Most had worked for her father for longer than she had been alive. She knew her wages were not quite what her father could promise them. But hopefully all that would change soon.

Strapping on a pair of spurs, she stepped outside. Most of the cattle were out to their grazing pastures and would remain there for another month at least. The horses were out to pasture as well, enjoying their time off as always. She took a bale of hay from Wayne and Keith and began seperating the flakes for feeding. Then there were grain and oats to distribute, water troughs to fill, fences to walk, stalls to muck, and then of course her star horses had to be put through their paces. Wayne doubled as a trainer and worked with a few of the horses on reigning, cutting and trail.

Leaving the boys to take care of some of this, she ambled off towards the barn and the milk cows. Once a week she used to sell the excess in town. Not even the lot at the ranch could go through all these bessy's produced. Now that the old girls were healthy again, the little extra income would help. Fetching Solo, she hitched him up to an old cart and loaded two full containers into the back.

"Sorry old fella...you'll get a nice long break starting tomorrow. Wayne, I'll be back in a few hours. Doc might be coming down today with his stud. Show him to Grace if I'm not back."

She climbed up into the modified saddle and clicked Solo into a trot. Any faster probably wouldn't be safe, considering the state of the cart.

It took Nelson a while to get that damn affidavit written. He had to clean out his clogged pen, and mix some water with his dried up ink. The result was a smeared, barely readable piece of paper, but it’d have to do.

Slightly aggrivated because of the effort it had taken him, he hurried back to The Cylinder. Well, at least he had earned that free booze. He didn’t plan on getting all buddy buddy with that Jennssen dude though. Just a few drinks, enough to be polite. And then he’d excuse himself and would retreat to his office with the rest of his whiskey.

He smirked at the late Mister Bravo, and went into the saloon.

Ah, morning. His bed was a touch less comfortable than it normally was. Odd, that. He kept his eyes closed as he slowly woke up, just enjoying himself for a bit. He felt much more rested than he had in a long time. He knew it wasn't because of the drinking, as that usually made for unpleasant mornings.

Memory flew about, desperately seeking context.

His eyes quickly opened when all the connections were made in his sleep-addled mind. Thoughts that it was just a dream were largely dispelled as he saw that he wasn't in his room; they were completely annihilated as he noticed Gerry lying next to him. He smiled despite himself as he saw the look on her face: seems she just made the connection as well.

He closed his eyes again, pretending to be asleep as he tried to think his way through this. It was possible she didn't remember last night, but the both of them in bed and naked would largely eliminate any lingering doubts. His mind started to drift at that thought as memories of the previous night's passion bubbled up. He quickly pushed them back down, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Eventually, it dawned on him that he had no hope of thinking his way through this. His wasn't smart enough, and this wasn't the sort of thing you can just think about. With a soft resigned sigh, he rolled onto his side and looked at Gerry, studiously avoiding looking below her neck (the sheet hide everything, but best not to push it) and smiled.

"Erm... good morning?"

Peter sat at the table quietly finishing his breakfast. "Ah Sheriff...glad to see you have my document. Peter stood and turned towards the bar with his now semi empty plate. Taking the document he placed it and the plate before the bartender. "Ah could you witness that this document here is from the Sheriff. And another three bottles of whiskey and a glass."

As the glass was handed to him, he took it in his left hand and let the thin vial drop to the bottom.

A small sample of powerer came out of the end just like it use to with the now dead doctor.

He placed the bottles down and then sat down. Pouring both of them a drink from the same bottle of whiskey.

"Well here is to Jhonny Bravo, and the generosity of the people of Peblo..."

He raised his glass in a toast towards Guffy and then took the shot.

Between the barbituate and the alchol Sheriff you should be so groggy in a few minutes that you won't be able to talk strait, let alone stand.

“To Johnny Bravo,” Nelson echoed, and he downed the shot. He smacked his lips and obligingly set down his glass for a refill.

“So who was the bastard, anyway? And did you just happen to run into him, or do you chase down vermin for a livin’?”

The second shot went down as smoothly as the first…

Most of the milk went to the general store, where the clerks could evaporate it, store it, or whatever the hell they did before reselling the stuff. As long as they were willing to pay her for it, she didn't really care. Another portion she donated to the cathouse. Personally, she did not approve of the profession, but we all had to make a living, and perhaps it would do them some good.

Whatever was left went directly to the Cylinder, presumably for cooking purposes, since it was a rare soul that ordered something non-alcoholic in there. She was preparing to rein in Solo, but spotted a stranger just inside the door, and sharing his table was an all too familiar form. Jesus, Nelson. Always drinking. She steered him around back instead to make her delivery there. Mr. Garfield would certainly enjoy the delivery if he was around, or so he always told her. He always had a few coins in exchange so she could tolerate his behavior. It never seemed like he was interested in her anyway, which was no great disappointment. Lifting the canister out of the cart, she knocked on the door, then opened it and set it inside out of the sun.

Solo was hot. He'd need to be watered after her business was done here. She exchanged a few words with Cecil since apparantly Mr. Garfield was out, then gratefully accepted her coin. Gathering the reins beneath Solo's chin, she led him around front again to the watering trough.

After witnessing as requested, Cecil pulled out the glass and three bottles of whiskey...also as requested. It was looking more and more like Guffrey was going to be as drunk as the cathouse whores had to be before they would sleep with Mr. Garfield. After six bottles of whiskey, the anxious Sheriff was going to have serious trouble seeing straight, that was certain. Dawn Bradley suddenly interrupted his ruminations with some milk to deliver, of all things, and Cecil payed her as well as he was able. She probably needed the money more than Mr. Garfield needed it anyway.

Peter shook his head, "I just happened to run into the gentleman and we took an immediate dislike to each other."

Peter took another shot and then laughed, "Of course I used to work for the Sheriff back home in my younger days." Of course I was just deleivering papers on my horse for him at age ten

Nelson grinned.
“Yeah, with some folks you can tell right off the bat whether you’ll like them or not.” And with some folks, it takes a while to find out, he thought, as he raised his glass in another quick toast and swiftly downed it.

He involuntarily turned his head at the sound of a horse passing the saloon – and saw Dawn Bradley leading that gelding of hers to the water trough. Crap. And here I am getting shitfaced again. Not that that was likely to hurt her impression of him – he had hit bottom with her long ago already, when he had tried to force himself upon her. Bah, if she’d just been a little more obliging…

“Excuse me for a moment, Mister Jennssen,” he said, and he felt himself get to his feet. He wasn’t sure what he was gonna say to her. Something nasty, something spiteful, something to let her know he was onto her – shaggin’ a lousy bartender after turning down the friggin’ town sheriff! But his mind didn’t seem to work as fast as it normally did. Come to think of it, he felt a bit shaky on his legs, as well. That was weird, he didn’t have that much to drink – yet.

Her face turned to stone as she saw him approaching, her fingers tightening around the reigns of her horse. Nelson tried to focus on her face, but it became a blur.

“Dawn – “ was all he managed to say before he took one final step closer and tumbled face first into the trough.

Peter watched as Guffy rose up, walked to the door started stammering to some girl and dropped flat on his face and into the water trough.

Peter stood up and walked out after him. He looked at Dawn for a moment, and tipped his hat to her. "Sorry Madam, seems the Sheriff got carried away celibrating the death of a known outlaw."

He pointed to the dead body on one of the horses nearby. "I think it would be best if I got him back to a bed and let him sleep this off."

Peter stradled the inert body of the Sheriff and pulled him up out of the water trough. "If you'll excuse us mam'"

Jenssen wasn't a big man, but strong enough to half haul, half drag Guffy Nelson across the street and into the jail. As he did so his hand felt pinched by something hard in the breast pocket of Guffy's smelly, sweat and booze covered shirt.

Inside the jail, Jenssen mangaged to get Guffy and himself into one of the cells and plop him down on the cot attached to the wall. Almost knocking over the bucket used as a comode. "Damn it...now what was that..." He pulled the star from Guffy's pocket and shook his head. Then attached it to his own pocket.

"Well Guffy, in the name of the citizens of this fair town, I hearby place you under arrest for drunk and disorderly behavior and the use of a water trough for public bathing. I am sure that is illegal He straitend and walked out of the cell, closing it behind him.

Key...my god where in the hell did you put the key to the two bloody cells in this jail. Peter put the star away in his pocket.

Pulling the sheet around her, she looked at him and smiled, feeling more than a little nervous and unsure what to say. It was not every day she found herself in this situation, not that she overly regretted what had happened, unless it him think less of her. “Good morning.” She felt herself blushing slightly. “Did you…ah…sleep well?”

She frowned suddenly, wondering what had provoked her to say something so stupid. Next she’d be asking if he wanted breakfast. “I..uh…I hope…um…” She faltered. Not sure what else to say, she leant forward and kissed him, that way neither of them could say anything the other might not want to hear. And it gave her time to think.

She watched Nelson stoically as he came out of the bar towards her. No doubt, he was going to make some comment again. Just try it. I dare you. She was tired of it. The man just couldn't take a hint. It wasn't that he was unattractive, far from it actually. He just lacked a bit of... sensitivity might be the best word for it. Just because Dawn was often lumped in as "one of the guys" did not mean she enjoyed being treated as such.

She would smack him this time if he made one more obscene comment. It would be well-deserved by now. But then something totally unexpected happened. He passed out right there in front of her. Now Dawn may have been a lot of things, but heartless she was not. This action actually sparked quite a bit of concern in her. Solo had spooked at the sudden motion and by the time she had gotten him calmed down, the stranger had pulled Nelson out of the water. Celebrating the death of a known outlaw? Somehow that just didn't sound right. She couldn't remember the last time the good Sheriff cared two licks about the law.

"Yes, of course."

She watched him walk off with Nelson in tow, but something just didn't jive. Perhaps she should stick around a bit and keep an eye on things..

Peter found the keys, under the desk covered in dust and cobwebs. "Damn it...when was the last time anyone was arrested around here?" He said to the room. The place was...well a dusty mess. Peter grabbed the three bottles of whiskey sitting on the desk and walked back into the cell. He placed them just out of arms reach on the floor. "Well that should do for when Guffy wakes up."

He shrugged at the scene and the man now apparently snoring lightly in the cell and shook his head. "Well I can appreciate that young lady being the cause of your problems Sheriff, they were mine."

Peter placed one key, then another into the lock, and forced the lock to break the grip of the rust that had formed durring disuse. Peter shook his head and held the large iron key ring in his hand, contemplating his next move. "No, that would invite suspision earlier than needed Captain." He said outloud. Too large to carry in a pocket, and people would notice him walking around with it. He looked about for some place to hide the ring incase of do gooders deciding to interfere.

Jenssen smiled and walked over to the long cold stove and opened up the firebox. He hung the keys on a protrusion inside. "Well we can get a cooking fire started later..."

He stood up and walked out the door and into the street. The woman was still standing their watering her horse. He went back over to the Pinto and put away the small vial, keeping his back and the large gray warhorse between his actions and her eyes.

She is curious about all this...

Solo tossed his head irritably, pulling on the reins. She had tightened her grip with all the uncertainty and the bit was putting too much pressure on his mouth. Quickly she released and he leaned down to the water again. Sorry, boy.

She scratched behind his ears and patted his neck apologetically. The stranger had avoided any prolonged eye contact with her when he came out, adding to the suspicion. Dawn shook herself with a mentally scolding for being so paranoid. Living out here you learned to trust your gut, but sometimes you'd end up reading too much into things. Especially with strangers in town. She turned her attention to Solo's back, adjusting the saddle higher on his withers, and pretended to adjust the girth and harness for the cart.

"He gonna be alright in there?" she asked conversationally.

I was right...
Having put away the evidence of how he had made his coup possible Peter turned and walked around the horse. "He appears to be suffering from exhaustion and too much drink. We used to call it "Liberty Flu" when sailors who had been working hard hours drank too much and then collapsed for a few days."

Peter leaned against the hitching post and looked at her. "Usually they would need a couple days sleep to recover." Peter started to think, She and the Sheriff didn't seem to well cordial a moment ago...attractive...no wedding ring...

"Should I convey your concern to him when he is consious Miss?" Peter just gave a wry freindly smile and leaned against the post conversationally. He started to pet the gray's head. The horse seemed to like it but wanted something. "Sorry girl no apples on me..."

"Coupla days, huh? He musta been working himself pretty hard."

She smiled slightly, and loosened the girth a bit. There was something very wrong about all of this, but she was bound and determined to mask it outwardly. Securing the excess latigo she stepped back and dusted off her hands, narrowing her eyes slightly at his suggestion.

"As for my 'concern,' that won't be necessary. Just wanted to make sure he wasn't dead. It'd be a shame if we had to find another Sheriff with the same questionable personality."

The venom in her tone was rarely evident, but this particular subject seemed to be the exception to her usual controlled demeanor.

"You a doctor or something?"

"Nah, just not sleeping I would guess, he doesn't come across as much of a do anything person." He paused again looking at her. "Well he is still breathing, and I doubt he will die...although sooner or later he will just drink himself to death unless he changes his ways."

"And no, I am not a doctor. Peter Jennssen formally a Captain of his Grace's Royal Marines of the Duchy of Alcona. I just had a good number of lost drunk sailors to haul back to the ship when I was in the service. I will keep an eye on him in case he gets worse, is there a doctor in this town Miss..er..?"

Obviously he was digging for her name, again.

Solo raised his head, finished with the water, and whickered contentedly.

"Bradley. But please, call me Dawn. Yes, there is a doctor of sorts in town. Lives a few houses down that way." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder and turned her head to breifly glance at a building near the edge of town. "Old Nelson does plenty... unfortunately it has nothing to do with the job, and is usually something better left undone."

She narrowed her eyes once more, remembering that night that had severed everything between them permanantly. He'd been drunk then, too. Still felt like just yesterday.

"Well Mr. Jennsson, that would explain a few things. Nice mare you have there by the way. I've always been a bit partial to grays. However, I can't help but wonder what brings an ex-military man way out here.."

She rubbed Solo's nose and pulled a dried carrot out of a small saddle bag for him to nibble on. Adjusting her hat, she regarded Peter cryptically.

Peter nodded, "One of those I see well I think the good Lord has provided the town of Cylinder a temporary releif from the actions of Guffy Nelson. But if it starts to look like he's going south I will go see if I can get a more proffesional opinon." Peter's eyes went up and seemed to search for which house she was talking about.

"I am in the...er...town of Cylinder because of my recent run in with some outlaws who ran off one of my pack horses, killed my assistant, and damn near killed me. I need to pick up a new packhorse, telegraph my employer, get a new assistant, and buy supplies." He turned and looked down the rail of the hitching post at the brown horse and its rider.

"Now it appears I also need to arrange to sell the Brown and get her rider buried, since I think the Sheriff would let them both rot right there til doomsday..."

He turned back towards her, a slight twinkle in his eye. "As to what someone is doing from the otherside of the world in this country. Well that is quite a story, and though I would love to re-tell it to a lovely young lady as yourself, I doubt either one of us has the time presently. Just chuck it under wanderlust I guess..."

Killing your wife and her lover in a fit of passion tends to make one travel far and wide. Even if you were drunk and only trying to scare them to stop fornicating right before you. popped into his head.

He paused for a moment and looked at Dawn not as a man looks at a woman but as an officer sizing up a junior.
"Although perhaps you'll answer me this, why is the town drunk the town Sheriff and not say you or the barkeep? Seems quite strange that a town would allow such to be their Sheriff."

It had become obvious that Dawn was not one of the Sheriff's supporters, and the bartender had seemed more amused than worried about a lawman who appeared to be nothing more than a living government subsidy to a distillery someplace.

She straightened up involuntarily under his scrutinizing gaze. Her father used to give her that same look when she insisted she could ride and work just as well as the boys he employed.

"He wasn't always a drunk. Always a man with a nose for the drink, but never this bad. I don't know for certain, but I have a feeling I'm part of the cause. Maybe it's this whole town, who knows. There were a lot of murders a while back that no one ever quite solved. We all just put them behind us and moved on. After all, it's not like we've had one in a while.." She flickered a gaze reflexively to the dead man down the way.

Solo nosed her playfully, so she smiled and rubbed his forehead with her knuckles. He always liked that. "As for me, it's not a job I'm particularly interested in. Don't reckon I've ever heard of a lady sheriff anyway. Nothing much goes on 'round here lately, so no one is bothered by Nelson being a drunk. He can be a great source of amusement sometimes."

She shifted her weight slightly, leaning against the hitching post on her hip while crossing her arms. "Now if you're lookin' to buy a horse, I have a few up for sale. If, uh, you don't find one here in town, of course." She smiled quickly and adjusted her hat, using the movement to break eye contact for the moment. "Stick around the Cylinder long enough and you'll run across the telegrapher, and the general store is a three buildings further down this road."

Other side of the world, huh? Quite a case of wanderlust you have there, friend. Maybe this stranger wasn't such a shady character after all. People get overly excitable in a place as bland as Chassis.

James Garfield was frustrated. Very frustrated. After an hour of searching the town, he had found no sign of Trixie anywhere. He plopped his rather plump form onto the porch of an uninhabited shack and wiped his forehead. Where could that whore have gone? After a few moments of rest, he got back on his feet and set out to search again. Trixie had to be around here somewhere. The town wasn't big enough for her to hide for long and she had no horses or other means of transportation to her name. It was baffling how she had eluded him for so long. James shook his head bemusedly as he walked down a dusty path between two buildings, still looking for that stupid, arrogant whore that had dared to reject him. No one turns me down and gets away with it.

So likely the telegrapher is a drunk too, great.

Peter followed the eye glance to the dead body. And nodded, "I am afraid there was a murder last night about four or five miles northwest of town. The man there shot down a man named Edmund Erhorst, otherwise known as Blackie. Unfortunatly he discovered that I can hit something at long range..."
Peter turned to look at the body again.

"Which ends the carrer of Jhonny Bravo, wanted by the good citizens of Pueblo dead or alive. Circumstances forced the latter as you can see." And that may not be the only shooting that occurs in the next few days

He paused again and turned back to face her. "But where is your place? Since I haven't seen a working livery stable in this town yet so I likely will have to head out your way." The sparkle in his eyes were back.

Quite, a livery stable for putting up my two horses tonight.

"Not too far a ride. About four miles from here, a little east of north. Not too hard to find, really. Just follow up the west side of the river and you'll be there before you know it."

She flashed him a bemused grin, visually searching the bags on the mare for any telltale shapes, then turned the gaze on him directly.

"Now I don't mind showing hospitality to a stranger, Mr. Jennsson, so long as I have your word not to kill me or steal anything. My help can get a bit protective if they sense ill-intent."

That was a true enough statement. Fortunately for Nelson, none of them had been around during their last encounter, passing comments aside. If the horses were going to have company tonight, she would need to pick up some more oats before heading back. Almost time to restock anyway.

Well the rifle holster was obvious even if empty. Peter was wearing a revolver in somewhat odd fasion, on the wrong side and angled forward. The sword bayonet sheathed on his right leg was a decidedly long for most people around here. Then there was the pinto and her blanket thing. Who knows what bumps under those flaps were.

How am I going to pull this off...well best not to act too suspicous and rejecting her offer would be that.. ran through his head.

"Well I am mighty er...obliged as they say. Although Dawn you should never call an Alconian a theif or a murder unless your planning on dueling them." He raised a hand and chuckled indicating that no harm was done.

"And truth be told I've had my full of cat houses the world over. So I promise not to murder or rob you Dawn, nor attempt to wo you under false pretenses." He said it in a joking manner, as though one who really thought the idea of murdering or robbing Dawn was more of a joke than any serious contenplation.

"No disrespect intended, sir. Just lookin' out for my own safety. And yours as well, knowing my boys." She laughed lightly with an apologetic smile.

She had to admit the weapons were a bit strange to say the least, but stranger things had come and gone in this town. At least the mystery of it was somewhat intreguiging, and that was at least a change of pace. She moved to Solo's side, tightening the girth.

"Alright, well I have a few things to get done before I head back, and I should really peek in on Nelson to make sure he's still breathing. So unless you have any more questions, I'll be off to my business. If you wanna wait around, I can show you the way, otherwise just follow the river. I promise you won't get lost."

With a hand gathering the reins under his chin, she encouraged the gelding to back up a few steps.

"I will see you tonight then, I have a few things to do around here myself."

He waved her off and then walked back into the saloon. Picking up his rifle, box, affidavit and the three bottles of whiskey. He nodded to the bar keep and then walked back across the street and into the jail. The Sheriff was still lightly snoring.

Peter looked about the space for a few moment as he placed his rifle and box on the desk. I had better do something about Dawn before anything else

He checked to make sure no one was around, picked up a dusty chair and tossed it towards the door. The thing bounced but didn't break. But the interior wood wall showed fresh marks where the chair had hit. Not good enough He pulled the tin star out of his pocket and threw it at the wall. A point stuck into some soft material between the logs and it stayed in the wall.

Peter then removed the keys from their hiding place and took them back over to the desk. He opened the top drawer and rummaged through it a bit before putting the keys down inside.

A quick inspection of the rest of the rest of the contents of the desk revealed a unloaded pistol, ammo, lots of papers, and a box of tin stars. "Well Sheriff I think I will pocket one."

Peter took a stiff drink of whiskey, opened the front door of the jail so he could have a clear veiw of his horses. And opened the box. It was actually a lap desk with a wide green writting mat and an inkwell. Opening the top half of the writting surface, Jennseen pulled out a few sheets of paper. He then pulled a blood soaked letter out of his pocket and placed it on the desk.


Dear Mrs. Bayhill,

I regret to inform you of your brother death yesterday at the hands of a known criminal...

He wrote in a steady almost copperplate handwritting.

She glanced back over her shoulder, leading Solo down the street rather than riding him. Decent man really, if you can get past the all the intregue. On with errands. Oats and grain were a necessity, but as long as she was in town, she might as well pick up a few other staples. The general store should be able to accomodate most of her needs.

Inside she made the purchase and began transporting the load to her cart. A quick handful of oats proved adequate incentive for Solo to behave himself in the harness while it shifted with some of the heavier items. Now to check on Nelson and head back to get some work done.

Leaving the dark bay tied where he was, she walked back down to the jailhouse and poked her head in the door. Nelson was quite obviously sleeping, and Jennsson appeared to be writing something.

"Seems quiet enough in here. You think he can manage to sleep peacefully and stay outta trouble?"

She watched the sheriff through iron bars. He was sprawled out on the cot like someone who had lost a fight.

Jennssen looked up from his writting and smiled at her. "I am afraid the Sheriff has er...gotten upset about our conversation." He paused apparently in thought, "Anyway he accused me of well...quite a number of things about my parentage and then said I was the worst deputy he ever had."

He looked about, "Which was news to me...maybe I look like a previous deputy or something?"

It was an obvious question. "Well anyway he threw a chair at me...badly then threw his star at me...I think he either resigned or attempted to claim he was the Emperor of Borno...or both. Then collapsed again. I locked him in so if he woke back up delerious again he wouldn't do too much damage."

Peter opened the drawer and pulled out the keys and walked over. Unlocking the door and walking over to Guffy. "He doesn't have a fever, although he looks a bit dehydrated...I was hoping he would come to soon."

Peter straitend back up. "I think one of us had best go get the doc while the other keeps an eye on him."

She shook her head uncertainly, glancing about the small room.

"You think he's in a bad enough way for a doctor?"

It was more of a clarification than any real request for information. Drinking until he passed out certainly wasn't a first for Nelson, but to drink to the point of needing a doctor...

"Do you think somebody might've poisoned him?" She considered it a minute, then laughed uneasily. "No, that's silly. He wasn't a good enough lawman for someone to want him dead. ...you stay here. I think I might have a better chance of finding a doctor."

Turning quickly, she headed towards the Cylinder. The old saloon was the epicenter of the town's social network. If he wasn't there himself, someone would surely know his whereabouts. Pushing through the doors quickly, she glanced about the interior of the bar, searching.

Doc Finnegan smacked his lips as he put the empty beer mug down on the table. He licked his tongue along his upper lip, cleaning the foam from his lush moustache, and belched appreciatingly.

“Refill, Doc?” Cecil asked from behind the bar. Doc considered it for a moment, then shook his head.

“Thanks anyway, Cece, but I think Lucille’s sausages have been thoroughly washed down by now.”

Cecil grinned, well aware that the reputation the Doc had bestowed on his wife’s cooking was mainly just an excuse to “wash down” his meals in the name of ulcer-prevention, and went back to minding his own business.

Good man, that Cecil fellow, Doc mused as his fingers played with the empty mug. Reminded him a lot of his uncle, the former town carpenter – God rest his soul – who’d been one of Doc’s closest friends. Like his uncle, Cecil was the quiet type, but not afraid to get his hands dirty. He liked that a lot better than James Garfield’s holier-than-thou attitude, even though Doc was usually exempt from the saloon owner’s antics, on the basis of being an “educated feller”.

This town was quickly running out of decent folks, he thought, glancing at his pocket watch. And time flies faster than a chicken with its tail on fire, was his second thought, putting the watch away again.

He should be heading out if he was gonna make it to the Bradley ranch and back before supper time. And if he wasn’t home by supper time, his stud would be the only one seeing some action today.

Oh, the hell with it, he thought, picking up his beer mug and heading over to the bar. Not like I’m a young man anymore, anyway.

“Changed your mind, did you, Doc?” Cecil grinned.

“I believe I feel a slight belly-ache just starting to develop,” Doc winked, rubbing his impressive tummy with feigned concern. “Best not take any chances.”

As Cecil refilled the mug and placed it in front of him, Doc noticed Dawn Bradley enter the saloon. He felt a momentary stab of guilt for ordering that last beer, but it quickly went away as he realized the concern on Dawn’s face had nothing to do with their horses’ amorous appointment.

“You alright, Dawnie?” he asked, ignoring his beer and heading over to her.

Peter looked down at Guffy as Dawn left. "Well she was almost right there Guff. The only problem is that I just drugged you, with the boiled root of the Deyllian Thistle which I doubt would get sold this far away, and definitly not a cheap item back home. A rarity outside of the Klatch and even more rare for a local doctor to have or even know about."

Which was true, few outside of Knotoss had any real contact with the Klatch. A land of feirce creatures and quite unfreindly people, those that had heard of it believed it a myth. Mainly because of the stories of the talking Walruses that ruled a fabled Kingdom. In this part of the world, the Klatch was equivilant to China or Mongolia, few had heard of it. Even fewer knew anything really about it.

She was visibly relieved at finding him here.

"I'm alright, Doc, but I think the Sheriff needs you to take a look at him."

She was somewhat concered that he seemed to be a little more than just passed out, but Doc would have the final word on what was going on.

"He passed out a bit ago, and got into an argument with a stranger. He's in the jailhouse, do you mind taking a look at him?"

The Doc grabbed his black medical bag – something he never left home without – and was out the door in a heartbeat. The combination of his mass and velocity turned the saloon’s halfdoors into a wildly flapping death trap. Dawn had to use her foot before she could safely get through, and had to hurry to catch up to him.

“You sure the Sheriff didn’t just have a few too many?” he asked as they approached the jailhouse, but he knew it was a needless question. If Dawn Bradley showed even the slightest concern for Nelson Guffrey, something was going on. Those two were not exactly overflowing with care for each other.

He didn’t much care for Guffrey himself, but he couldn’t let that influence his responsibilities as a doctor. He’d heard about the commotion at the water trough this morning, but the matter had seemed to be taken care of swiftly. Come to think of it, it had been pretty early even for Guffrey to drink himself into oblivion. Which only confirmed Dawn’s concern.

Well, only one way to find out, he thought, as he waltzed into the jailhouse like a steamroller.

Peter looked at the short, fat man who entered. "Are you the doctor? The patient is in here on the bunk, no apparent fever, collapsed this morning, then became quite irritated and irrational before collapsing again."

He pointed down to the bunk bed attached to the wall of the cell and stood up a bit straiter to allow the doctor into the cell.

Dawn stood in the doorway looking on. Part of her wanted to head back to the ranch before it got any later in the day, but another part of her wanted to stick around and make sure everything was alright around here. Maybe she'd stick around for Doc's initial diagnosis. Looking around, her gaze caught the star in the wall and the marks from the chair being thrown.

Musta been pretty upset for all that. I wonder what he was getting on about with that deputy talk?

Gerry's grabbing of the sheet pulled it from Wilford a little, dropping to just above his waist. He barely even noticed as he lay on his side, supporting his head with his arm. He smiled at her, "Best sleep I've had in quite some time." He grinned a little, "Seems I was a little worn out..."

He smiled at her after the kiss, seeming to be rather calm about the whole situation. He paused as he realised that he wasn't quite sure what to say. She seemed to be a little embarassed, but the kiss implied that last night wasn't entirely the work of the moonshine. He decided to go for self-depreciation, "Guess I wasn't terribly gentlemanly last night..."

Doc wasted no time with niceties and headed straight over to Guffrey’s side. He knelt down, pulled up one of the Sheriff’s eyelids for a moment, then produced a stethoscope from his bag and listened to his heart.

“Well, his breathing’s fairly normal,” he said after a while, “but his heartrate’s a bit lower than I feel comfortable with. Could one of you get some water?”

As Dawn ran off, Doc rummaged through his bag until he found a half-litre bottle of clear liquid.

“Oxygenated water,” he explained, when the stranger frowned at him. “Wound disinfectant, really, but it’s a quite effective vomit inducer as well.” What a peculiar looking hat, Doc thought. That fellow must be from quite a ways out east.

“And if you mix it with some baking soda,” he grinned, “it works great to get skunk smell out of your clothes. Leave it to my Lucille to come up with a trick like that.”

Dawn returned with a bucket of water, and Doc flashed her a quick smile as he rolled back his sleeves. Then he held Guffrey’s head back and carefully put the bottle against his lips.

“Bottom’s up, Sheriff. Come on now.”

Most of the oxygenated water ran down Guffrey’s chin and cheeks, but eventually enough got down his throat. The Sheriff coughed, swallowed, coughed some more, and Doc quickly motioned Dawn to help him.

They got him upright and over the poo bucket just in time, and Guffrey spewed out the contents of his stomach. Which wasn’t much, and what there was, was mainly liquid and slime. It didn’t seem like the Sheriff had eaten any solid food in a while.

Doc wiped off Guffrey’s chin with a handkerchief and checked his pupils again. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t very responsive.

“Let’s get some water into him,” Doc said. Dawn handed him an empty mug. He scooped some water from the bucket, emptied it on the floor to rinse out the dust, filled it again, and held it to Guffrey’s lips.

* * * * *

Nelson Guffrey was in a different place. No stinking jail cell, no rotting town of Chassis. He was on a ranch, in a clean bedroom, with fresh linen and the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen.

He was thirsty – his throat felt like a burning furnace. But then he felt the gentle hand of his wife in his neck, and the cool taste of water on his lips. He drank eagerly, swallowed until the fire in his throat was quenched, and smiled.

“Thank you, honey,” he murmured, as he crawled back under the sheets. I’ll tend to the horses in a few minutes…

* * * * *

“You’re quite welcome, Mister Guffrey,” Doc smiled, turning to the others. “I think he’ll be alright once he sleeps it off. Bit weird that he’s so far gone from what little he seemed to have into his stomach, but heck, I’d wager the Sheriff has more whiskey running through his veins than blood.”

He paused for a moment, then turned to Dawn. “Do you still want me to take Goliath over to your ranch, dear? I could – don’t think the Sheriff really needs me – but someone should stick around to get some food into him once he wakes up.”

Peter watched the whole thing. By now the drug had been absorbed with the alchol or most of it. "Oxygenated Water?" Which was quite intresting, if memory served the twenty year old book Trimethode had never listed away of determining oxygen levels in water.

"Unless Doctor he starts to be viloent again. He seems to have taken a dislike to me. But then that may have been whatever is in, or was in his system." Peter shrugged.

'Affix....this to that.....that to....the ratchet......lever.....and....there' Fly held up his contraption with a smile.
He walked ouside carrying a large barelled firearm in one hand, he aimed it carefully upwards and towards the yard behind the smith. When he pulled the trigger he dropped and covered his ears.......
But nothing happened.
He looked over to the yard, and noticing a distinct lack of craters he picked up the gun and shook it. He also noticed, it was hissing
'Oh dear' He threw it as hard as he could out into the street where it flew apart in a cloud of shrapnel
'Damn. The release got stuck again I suppose' He sighed
'Back to square one. And you can shut up' He glared at his horse, where he could swear it was grinning
'I need a drink. No, several drinks.' He walked slightly blackened into the bar and sat down
'A gin and tonic thank you'

'I need a drink. No, several drinks.' He walked slightly blackened into the bar and sat down
'A gin and tonic thank you'

Cecil looked up as Fly entered the bar. The odd fellow was now very sooty, looking as if he had started a chimney sweeping job the hard way and never finished. When he asked for a gin and tonic, Cecil handed it over shortly and smiled, saying, "Looks like you need a drink, man. What kind of mess did you get into out there?"

"Take your time, Doc. Grace won't be at the peak of it for another day or two, I'd say."

She watched the three men with carefully guarded concern, giving the most attention to the unconscious one. She was thankful to be blessed with a strong stomach, but after helping Doc with all that, she needed to stand by the door for fresh air. She slid down into a crouch, bracing herself with her arm against the doorframe. Her own stomach felt better in this position.

"How long till he wakes up, do you think?"

"Unless Doctor he starts to be viloent again. He seems to have taken a dislike to me. But then that may have been whatever is in, or was in his system." Peter shrugged.

“Violent?” Doc looked around and saw the remnants of a struggle. Boy, old Guffrey must’ve been quite delirious. Either that, or the stranger really got on his bad side, somehow.

“Son, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Even drunk as a skunk, I’ve never known the Sheriff to even look cross-eyed at an armed man. Women and children, now that’s another –“

He quickly cut himself off and glanced at Dawn. Lucille’s right, I talk too much. Doc was one of the few people who knew roughly what had happened that night on Dawn’s ranch, when Guffrey, after a few too many, had decided he'd been pretending to be all gentlemanlike for long enough. She’d had to knee him in the groin to keep him off her.

“Anyways, don’t worry about it, he probably won’t remember much when he comes around,” Doc shrugged. “But just the same, I’ll stay in town the afternoon.”

"How long till he wakes up, do you think?" Dawn asked.

“Hard to say, few hours perhaps. Depends a bit on – Dawn, you alright?”

He rushed over to her, crouched by the door, looking pale as a ghost. She raised a hand to indicate she was fine, but he knew her well enough to know that didn’t necessarily mean much. Stubbern as a mule, that one. Six years old, broken leg from falling off a horse, and rather bite her tongue til it bled than shed a tear.

But this seemed no big deal, just a bit of queasiness, which wasn’t surprising, considering the smell inhere. He took her by the elbow and helped her up.

“Alright, young lady, as your physician, I’m ordering you down to The Cylinder for a stiff one. My treat. You come along as well, Mister Whatever-your-name-is. We’ve earned it.”

"Jennssen, Captain Peter Jennssen..." He closed the cell door and locked it. "Doc, I'm locking the door for saftey sake. Call me paranoid but I think it best if we keep him locked up so he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else."

Peter threw the keys on the desk. "I'll leave them their in case you need them." And then grabbed several sheets of paper off the desk at the same time along with a small red stick that was slightly pointed at one end.

He followed the Doc and Dawn across the street and into the Cylinder.

Cecil looked up as Fly entered the bar. The odd fellow was now very sooty, looking as if he had started a chimney sweeping job the hard way and never finished. When he asked for a gin and tonic, Cecil handed it over shortly and smiled, saying, "Looks like you need a drink, man. What kind of mess did you get into out there?"

He stared ahead and sipped his drink for a second
'Gunpowder' He said after a thoughtful pause
'Definitley too much gunpowder'He sighed and held out a slightly sooty hand
'Fly Mkutchin. I'm new here, hardware and other jobs, across the street over there' He pointed to the smithy

'If you want a gun that can level a mountain, I'm your man. I just wish they would stop levelling the places I live. It's the firing mechanism you see' He held up a finger to demonstrate, oblivious to the fact the barkeep had no idea what he was talking about

'I can't quite get it to release such a heavy load quickly enough. And so....' Fly gestured to his sooty appearance
'It washes out well with the stuff I have. I'v had practice. Is there an alchemist around here with chemicals?'

Gerry returned Wilfred’s smile. She might have been feeling a little shy about waking up with a relative stranger, but like him, she had had her best night of sleep for a long time, and her smile was not entirely down to being well rested. “If I had wanted gentlemanly, I’m sure you would have woken up in your own bed this morning.”

She let her eyes travel down his body, stopping where it was covered by the sheets, before bringing her gaze back up to his eyes. She felt herself relaxing, and lowered herself back into a more comfortable position on the bed, her head resting against the pillows, the sheet snug against her naked body. Her biggest concern had been how he would react to her and to her surprise he had not jumped out of the bed, trying her like a whore.

Turning her head away, she gazed up at the ceiling, her smile lingering on her lips as she recalled as much of the previous night as she could, a little of it being a little blurry. Once more she turned her head, and gave him her most pleasant smile. “I…ah…thank you for staying.” She stammered slightly, unsure herself what to say.

As they headed towards The Cylinder, Doc saw James Garfield scurry about on the other side of town. Wonder what he’s looking for, he thought, but he didn’t dwell on it for long.

Entering the saloon, he noticed a grimy stranger at the bar, showing some piece of odd weaponry to Cecil. He was acting like a traveling salesman, though those types usually dressed a bit more to impress.

As he motioned Dawn and the Jennssen fellow to a table, Doc went over to the bar.

“We could use a little something to increase our blood flow, Cece,” he smiled. When the stranger turned to look at him, Doc nodded politely.

“And give this gentleman another of whatever he’s drinking. A man who’s carrying a gun like that, I wanna stay on his good side.”

Dawn made a quick detour to loosen Solo's girth. It seemed cruel to leave him standing there so long with the latigo cinched tight. Besides, the time alone gave her the oppotunity to compose herself again. She detested showing weakness for several reasons, one of which was currently snoring in a cell. She was grateful that Doc hadn't pressed the matter.

Returning to the two, she took a seat at the indicated table and rested her hat on an empty chair nearby. Sitting was a very good idea, and perhaps a drink might turn out to be just as agreeable.

"A beer please my good man, I need to cut back on my consumption today."

Jennssen sat down and looked over at the man who smelled of burnt saltpeper. "Who is the gentleman who appears to have...er...suffered a severe chemistry accident?" He asked his table mates.

Wilford grinned a little at Gerry's responce, turning it over in his head before smiling and nodding a little, "I guess you have a point there." He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. He followed her gaze, a slight red blush coloring his cheeks as he saw her pointedly avoiding looking lower at him.

He nodded absently as she thanked him, not quite sure how to respond. He simply tried to relax next to her, aware of her body despite the separation provided by the thin sheet. He hugged her a little, enjoying being next to her. His body flirted with falling back asleep until his stomach broke the silence. He gave her a weak apologetic smile, "Sounds like we should think about getting up..."

"Alchemist?" Cecil looked at the rather disheveled fellow curiously. "I don't know what that is, but you might want to ask around the bar to see if anyone else does."

After handing Doc and the surveyor their drinks and filling another for Fly, Cecil heard the saloon doors opening and watched as James Garfield walked through them, grumbling to himself under his breath. Cecil's rotund employer signaled Cecil for a drink and sat down at an empty table near the back of the saloon.