The West: Tales of gunslingers IC

[The Whacko]

Elmore scowled at Cecil for a moment, his hand still dangerously close to his pistol. Then a moment later his hand left the weapon, though his expression still looked outraged. The big Cajun scowled and made his way back into the saloon, sitting down near the poker tables. He signaled to the bartender with a raised hand, and soon his was downing another shot of bourbon.

[Foster]

"You wouldn't get close enough to see my face if I wasn't." Swift stated as he rapped the barrel of his rifle against the bar for emphasis.

"I'll have a flask of brandy and a brace of cigars, to go. Oh, and buy that fellow over there a full bottle of bourbon. Don't let him leave until he finishes it." He said, gesturing to Elmore.

"If he wants to be in the big britches, then he's gotta act like it and learn to relax."

He noticed another fellow -with a similar taste in alchohol and cigars- relaxing at a table. And seemed in need of being taken down a notch someday.

"What room is that man taking?"

[dman0649]

Cecil nodded, hailing the barkeep and ordering the drinks and cigars. Swift’s drink was placed down in front of him, as well as his cigars, and Cecil tossed a dollar bill at the bartender’s back. No more paying for stuff like that today, he’d have to budget his dollars if he wanted to keep himself floating. He did have a shotgun that needed shells back in his room, and he was working on scrounging up enough money to afford a Henry rifle. He let out a sigh, and another breath of smoke, and calmly spoke, “I reckon that fellas’ ‘round these parts jus’ aren’t as friendly as what I’m used ta’. I’m a Yankie boy, after all. Just not used to all the southerner shit.” He tapped his cigarette’s ash into a nearby tray, and took another inhale a moment later. His eyes scanned across the room, looking for anybody that could possibly be trouble in the future. He met the eyes of Elmer a moment later, but broke the gaze, for the man was already mad enough at him, why intensify the unneeded rage. Cecil grabbed his glass, pulling his cigarette out of his mouth into his left hand, and taking a swig of the rest of his whiskey, pushing the empty glass down onto the bar gently. “No more for me, I’m tailing another man soon. Up in the woods north of here, a Cherokee, rumors say he’s been practicin’ the Ghost Dance. We’ll see if he’s really bulletproof soon enough, eh?..Think they called him Falcon’s Talon, somethin’ like that. Maybe it was Eagle’s Talon..Who gives’a shit, it’s a hundred twenty five dollars either way.”