@RoadRash@Monochromatic Rainbow

He had seen everything, from the first glint of sunshine upon the barrel of a rifle, to the extermination of the white immigrants; his eyes, bright and narrowed against the sun, had watched as the small boy broke from his fathers grasp and disappeared toward the southern reaches of the land. For what seemed like many moments, but had only been few, he had lain his body on a small crest overlooking the meandering river, his pinto, a finely bred animal of white patched with black, grazing quite happily behind him, and watched the man die - scalped as he went about drawing his final breaths - as his womenfolk, two young girls and an older woman, were trussed like captured beasts and thrown across horses necks to be carried away.

The raid had been so fast, so complete, that the mutilated German, his stripped body rotting in the mild heat of the day, had never stood a chance...

For much more time he had waited, and waited, and known that more would come...they always did. Whether they were dark-skinned Mexicans, whites of all descriptions, Americans called 'Texans' that believed themselves to be the true owners of this land, or others, he knew they would come. Sure enough, having waited many hours for their arrival, he was surprised when only two figures made their way over to the wreckage of the wagon and began to search about the scene of the raid.

Both seemed to be alert, experienced in tracking, and ready and armed for any altercations; one was a white man, grey streaks visible in his hair, having the 'gruff' appearance of many ranchers hereabouts - possibly even a former Ranger before their abolishment? The other, a woman not much shorter or any less imposing than her male counterpart, had something quite familiar to him in the way she moved and held herself, as well as the structure of her face. No, it would do no good to spook them, let alone attack them, for both carried weapons and more-than-likely knew how to use them.

What could he do? It might not be long now before the blue-coats came to see what had happened, or worse, before citizens of the nearest town came riding to the creek and went on their merry way, no doubt killing any native they could lay their hands on!

With no small sigh, finally rolling his body away from the lip of the crest to leave a barely imperceptible imprint in the dirt, he moved in a half-crouched position until his mount was within reach. It truly was a fine animal, with a lineage stretching back all the way from one of the many horses that the Spanish had left when they retreated from these lands, a rugged and hardy beast with a blanket for a saddle and paint marking its face and flanks; as he whispered to the horse, getting gradually closer, he slid with seemingly unnatural ease up onto its back in one fluid motion.

Hoping that the Great Spirit would give his divine protection, the lone figure cautiously moved out from behind the outcrop, walking the horse that it may drink from the flowing river; both rider and mount sat in plain view of the two unknown people as the horse took its fill of sweet water, a rare commodity in most parts of these Southern plains, and they were both watched in silence.

What they would see, should they look up to see it, would be an Indian warrior atop his favoured pinto; this Indian would be of average height, a little below five feet and eight inches, skin the colour of copper and with eyes of a deep, almost bottomless, brown framed by a mane of black hair resting lazily over his shoulders. In his hair sat two eagle feathers, not really of any consequence, but good for decoration.

On first glance it would be rather hard to tell whether the silent watcher was male or female - with a face and body which could be suited to either sex; lithe and slender waisted, but also broad-shouldered, arched brows and high cheekbones, butclearly hardened by years of being raised in a warrior society - if one paid closer attention to the clothing, and knew what to look for, they would see that they were dressed in the masculine attire of the Comache people.

Paired with the usual buckskin breeches and moccasins of the plain tribes was a shirt more suited to one of lighter skin, and around that was what looked very much like the blue coat of a Union soldier. In one hand was clutched the favoured weapon of these 'Indian Mongols' - so named due to their stunning feats from horseback - the eight foot lance, tipped with iron taken or traded from the whites or others with access to it.

Hanging from the blanket, or more correctly strapped in a quiver to the flank of the horse, was a short-bow and a leather encased group of arrows, the other flank just behind the left leg of the rider showing a round shield made of buffalo hide and adorned with patterns and paints.

For now nothing happened, but would would happen next was up to the half-Apache and her companion, whether it would end in peaceful speech or violence.



@Sombrero

Hugo Watts was a bull of a man, robust and leaning toward fat, and would have been seen as an overweight oaf if not for his excellent military career - one earned in the wrong army - time with the Texas Rangers, and for the quite obvious amount of muscle he had managed to retain into his middling years. He was also prejudiced, a racist, and a vehement adversary of all that the Union stood for...not that he would ever denounce the new lords of America within earshot of anyone but his most trusted companions!

Yes, he had slain his fair share of Yankees, Indians and freed Negroes during his time with the Confederate army, and he had enjoyed every moment of it; now he was consigned to a life of sitting behind this desk and trying to keep some form of law and order in the township of Laredo - something he did with an iron fist and the use of irregular forces. It had pained his soul when the Rangers, one of the finest fighting forces in America, had been disbanded by the Union, now he was forced to rely on half-trained ranchers, cowboys and retired veterans, and there were few enough of those to go around.

Sitting behind his desk, allowing the mild - but not too searing - heat of the day to close his eyelids for him, he was very nearly drifting off to sleep in the local jailhouse when he was disturbed.

Wiping a hand through his shock of sweat-slicked blonde hair, running it over his rounded cheeks and th stubble there, and making sure that his dirt-stained shirt of white and red kerchief about his neck were presentable, he gave a loud cough and a hack and then a wheeze.

"Who the Hell is it?!" He yelled at the door, "you'd best come on in, I'm a busy man."

No doubt his day was about to get busier, for outside in the streets of the town a posse was forming and preparing to make their way northward. What they would do once they found the culprits of the massacre no-one knew, but it would likely be short, bloody and result in more than a few deaths.

Moses opened the door, sunlight and sand meandering in behind him where it could. He walked with a different, less thuggish posture than usual, standing as tall as he could. It wasn't much, especially not compared to the veritable giant in front of him, but it was still a proud stance indicative of a man with business in mind.

With an attempt at the official pomp and circumstance of a prestigious agent, he took off his hat, but it was obvious by its suddenness (as if he had just remembered) and the awkward greeting smile that followed (When his sun-worn wrinkles would have you know he's probably never smiled in his life) that he's probably never seen either of those two things in the same place at once.

"G'Afternoon." Moses said simply, his voice rolling out of his mouth like a lion's roar with a throat full of pit gravel.

He paused for a second, considering his words, and through accident, misaimed frustration, or dumb luck, settled on the worst possible set of them.

"Y'say yer a busy man, so I assume your'n charge of the law 'rounn'ere?"

As he stood with his horse, Benjamin Ross felt a jolt of hateful envy spike in his gut. Men were gathering their weapons, he could see the Mexican hands already mounted and waiting for Bill. Storm colored eyes watched the well dressed young woman flounce forward with her man trailing behind her. She was going to go?! Shame heated his face under the wide brim of his battered cavalry hat. One time in his life he would have not only been one of the first called, he likely would have lead a hunt for savages. Years with the Rangers had taught him about fighting and tracking the crafty devils and now it was all for naught. He could still track at least, even if he was not so nimble anymore.

And just how far would you make it before the sickness hit?

Benj flinched inwardly, he had two or maybe three days worth of morphine left that he could stretch out over a week if he was careful and endured the milder symptoms. Anymore than that and he would get full blown sick. It was bad enough but on the trail after a dangerous foe it would not only bring his addiction to light it would put him and the rest at risk. That put a damper on the jealously surging inside of him. Even if Bill asked him to come with them, he was more of a liability.

Grinding his teeth, Benj hobbled back towards the doctor’s office. He took a position just outside the door, leaning part of his weight against the wall.

Having found her coffee quickly enough Harriet sipped it while meandering over to her medicine counters. In one of the drawers she opened there was a stack of tidy papers. Pulling one sheaf out and spreading it on the counter top she glanced through the window to see what was happening.

The posse was still being form, it was surprising to the nurse that it was taking this long. Normally people around here were eager to go off and chase Indians. Her warm eyes drifted to Mr. Ross who was seemingly conversing with his horse, then to a man hustling to the sheriff. Pressing her lips together in a small frown Harriet moved her coffee cup from her left to her right hand and fished a pencil out of her apron pocket.

She put the pencil tip down as if to write, then thinking better of it shook her head. Putting the paper away and stowing the pencil back in the apron pocket Harriet had another sip of her coffee as she carefully opened the door into the small room they had deposited the boy into. He was still out. Counting the rise and fall of his breaths the nurse was satisfied with his status and closed the door.

Another look out the window would tell her that Mr. Ross was returning, but he stopped just outside the door, apparently taking up his station there. Very well…

Harriet turned so her backside was to the door and pulled a small ledger out of another drawer. Setting her cup down the nurse gripped her pencil in her left hand and found a clean empty page in the ledger. Jotting down the date in a tidy quick hand she then began to write.

Young boy, approximately 8-12 years of age. Appeared in town, Indian attack. Fainted. No obvious injuries. Dehydration, sun exposure and exhaustion . Treated skin and put to rest. Will hydrate when awake next.

A new page was found and Harriet added the date once more.

Mr. Benjamin Ross. Approximate age28-34 years. Previous injury acquired in the line of duty. Severe break of the Fibula and Tibia? Reconstruction done in military hospital. Amputation suggested but patient denied.

Her dark eyes drifted over her shoulder to Mr. Ross who was still standing guard with his rifle.

Patient denied. Medial Condyle affected. Intense muscular tension and damage. Administered 3-6 minutes of deep tissue massage. Patient reported some relief. Stronger pain relief suggested, patient seemed uninterested.

Harriet smiled at this and closed the ledger, stowing it back in the drawer it lived in and her pencil back in her apron pocket. Plucking up her empty coffee cup she moved past the front door where Mr. Ross was lingering to take the cup back into the kitchen suits.

Upon her return she paused by the door to look out at the group finally gathering. “Took them a while didn’t it?” She commented conversationally. Warm eyes moved to Mr. Ross’ rifle and then to his horse who stood ready.

“You know… We finished with the boy so quickly… I had asked for your assistance thinking the posse would have already ridden out by now…” But obviously they hadn’t. “I see no reason why you ought to stay here Mr. Ross.” Other than that Mr. Cothran had told him to stay, but surely that had mostly been to aid Harriet? The likeliness of another attack, within in the town proper, was low. She didn’t need a guard.

Her brows rose questioningly. Did he want to go?

@Sombrero "Y'say yer a busy man, so I assume your'n charge of the law 'rounn'ere?"

A brief look of shock appeared on the face of Hugo Watts, the slightly rounded face quickly returning to a more neutral expression as he gave the figure before him - a man who seemed to be constructed from leather and scar tissue alone - an appraising once and then twice over with his own piercing eyes. Whomever this rude trail-trash was, he nevertheless had the stature and air of a soldier about him, and from his accent had likely fought for the Union; this was something that both drew Watts to him, and yet repulsed him at the same time.

"Son," he began with a heavy sigh, leaning back into his chair, "you had best answer ma' god damn question 'fore I blow your noggin' clean off...'case you forgit, I asked you who you are. Now oblige me with an answer, boy."

Hugo stood as he spoke, lifting himself to his full six-and-a-half feet of height, revealing his bear-like form for Moses to see as he casually leant over his desk to stare the Kansas man square in the eyes. If the Pinkerton man made note of anything, it should probably be the presence of an 1851 Colt Navy revolver sat low on the hip of the large enforcer, a favoured weapon of the Confederate military and one in the use of which Hugo Watts was deadly proficient.

Moses didn't break his gaze. While initially shocked at the size of the fellow in front of him, he knew that if worst came to worst, this would be a battle of guns... And as a smaller man, he had the upper hand. But he wasn't stupid, and he well knew he was hanging on the last straw here. He would waste no more time. He decided, as the man was angry, and Southern, to leave out his war history with a background that might just as easily have explained his scars... He didn't have to know that he hadn't been in the organization for very long...

"Name's Moses Jones. Pinkerton Agent, humbly at yer serv'ce."

He remained still, in his composed military stance, his eyes locked on Hugo's. He messed up, and bad. He'd have to schmooze his way out of this little corner if he planned on working under this man's supervision with any hopes of freedom or efficiency...

"I'm sorry if what I said soun'ned disserspec'ful, sir," He added coolly and matter-of-factly, "I menna say it looks yer doin' a good job."

Collaboration between Sterling and idlehands

Benj turned at the sound Harriet’s voice, shifting his rifle in his hands, “Bill knows what he’s doing, no use to rush in without thinking. Better to be prepared than run out into a situation bare as...unprepared.”

Her brows raised slightly in something like amusement.

He cleared his throat, “Apologies, ma’am.”

Harriet shook her head. No need to apologize, she had worked around dying men most of her life. Then they didn’t spare words nor her genteel feelings.

He did want to go, his skills were those that would be needed even if he was a cripple his mind was still sharp enough. Tracking Apache or Comanche was not something for amateurs no matter how good they were with a gun or in a saddle, it took a keen trained eye to see the nearly invisible signs of the Indians passage. Bill had some experience but for the nearly seven years Benj was a Ranger that was what they did. In those days the Army was spread thin over the vast land and the Texas Rangers handled much of the searches.

There was still the matter of the morphine and how to procure it without raising her concern. His thoughts were interrupted by a thin cry of the boy. Benj jerked his head, hearing the child cry out first in German then in English.

Opening her mouth to make some sort of reply the nurse was cut off, turning immediately to the cry and hurrying back to the bedroom where the boy now sat up, panic in his face. Harriet bustled to the cot and settled herself down beside the boy, reaching for the glass of water she had put on the small table beside the cot earlier. He needed to rehydrate.

Searching his young face Harriet didn’t know what to say. All those soothing things she would normally tell a patient were lies in this case. He wasn’t alright, things were going to get better… His family? Harriet didn’t know if they were dead or alive but the betting was on dead.

“Here...Drink this…” She said instead.
The boy took the cup with both hands, gulping faster than he had before. His cracked lips parted with a slight smile and he began to thank her when he promptly vomited the water back up along with the bile of his empty stomach all over Harriet’s apron. Shivering he muttered a slurred apology, hanging his head at the shame of getting sick on the kind nurse.

The nurse smiled ruefully, shaking her head at her own folly. Of course she should have made sure the boy had something in his stomach… Silly not to have thought of that.

“No need to be sorry… It’s not your fault you are ill…” She patted the boy's shoulder gently before reaching behind herself to untie the apron.

She had crackers in the kitchen… Perhaps that would do. Standing Harriet balled up her apron.It would need washing.

Benj wandered back into the office as she rushed to check on the boy.. He looked over the shelves and tugged at the drawers, some of them opening smoothly only to be filled with folded linen bandages and canisters of mysterious powders and ointments. One of the drawers was locked and he guessed it was the one with the morphine. He cursed silently, hardly noticing the sounds of retching in the other room.

Harriet re-entered her medical room to find Mr. Ross standing at her counters, hand resting on a drawer handle. The first real frown crossed her face as she saw this and her warm brown eyes narrowed in first concern and then suspicion.

“Might I help you with something Mr. Ross?” She asked lightly by means of introducing herself back to the room. He had clearly been in some sort of deep thought and not heard her come in.

Holding the balled up apron covered in vomit in one hand her free one came to rest on her hip as she waited for the answer. She didn’t look cross, merely confused and half distracted about the sick boy in the back room.

Benj dropped his hand as she walked into the room on seeing her frown. He hobbled forward, using the cabinet to prop himself up, “No, just wanted to see how the boy was doing?”

Watching his movement Harriet for the moment seem to accept that he was truly using the counter tops and drawer handles as a means to maneuver himself more swiftly. However this event would not be forgotten and at a later time the nurse would reconsider this moment with more uncertainty and less acceptance.

“He has been ill but I think he’ll be fine…” She gestured with the dirty apron in her hand before stepping over to her table and setting it down. With a expression of dislike she started to unfold the wadded up apron, apparently needing to get something out of the pockets before washing it.

He lied easily, his face never changing expression, “You thought about what they might bring back for you? If those folks aren’t...if they’re injured they’ll need help fast.”

Pausing in her efforts Harriet’s gaze drifted carefully to Mr. Ross. She had thought about it… But mostly she had thought they would be dead. “You think anyone will be alive?” It has been her experience that they weren’t.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he watched her handle her dirty apron and wondered where she might keep the key. It could be in a drawer but most likely the woman kept it on her, likely with the key to the office and her home. “I’m thinking I might just head out with Bill, I don’t think those Indians would be back this way. There’s the fort to consider, no doubt still a few of those blue coats there.”

“Of course Mr. Ross. You head right on your way, I’m sure they will appreciate a man of your talents…”

The main fighting unit had been called away a week ago to chase a warband south of Laredo that had robbed a stage coach and scalped the driver and passengers. It sounded like the red evils were really on a tear and there would be no aid from the cavalry to search for the boy’s family.

There was a sudden knock at the door and Benj moved over to open it. He jerked back as Mrs. Horton bustled through, her round flushed face aghast. “I just heard the news! Those savages are at it again. Where is that poor lamb? Bless his little heart.”

The nurse dropped her attempts to fish something out of the pocket of the apron to smile welcomingly at Mrs. Horton. “Mrs. Horton, how nice of you to come by…”

The reverend’s wife carried a shopping basket over one arm, her silver cross bounced on her heavy bosom. “Harriet you have to take me to him, we can pray for the souls of his family. God willing they’re in heaven right now and not in the grasp of the heathens.”

“Ah...Mrs. Horton, a kind offer but I do feel I must warn you he has had some shock and is being ill…”She nodded to the bundled up mess. “Perhaps silent prayer would be more helpful as his mind is currently…” The nurse trailed off artfully and the Reverend’s wife nodded in understanding.

Benj cringed slightly at her words, he was certain that was not what the boy wanted to hear but he said nothing.

“Here, just through here Mrs. Horton… I think a small snack might be in order for the boy...I doubt he’s eaten anything all day and the journey was very taxing…” Harriet showed the concerned wife through to the room with the boy, leaving Mr. Ross with the vomit.

“I have just the thing,” Mrs. Horton patted her basket, “I was going to visit Mr. Bern as he’s been sick, well you know that of course. I brought him some broth and fresh bread but I’d be happy to give the boy some. Just dreadful...the Lord works in mysterious ways and His will is often not understood at times like this.”

She went with the nurse to see the boy and Benj let out a huff of breath. She was a woman who could talk the ears off a mule. Once they entered the room, he shuffled quietly over to the messed apron and fished around in the pockets. His fingers touched cool metal and he gripped a ring with a few keys on it.

Glancing at the doorway, he gingerly took them out and tried the smallest one. His heart thumped as it clicked and he pulled the drawer open. Within it were glass vials all neatly labeled and syringes. He licked his lips, forcing himself not to be greedy and take all or even a full vial. There was one that had been opened and a third of it used already. He palmed it and stuck it in his pocket. Hopefully the doctor would think he had used it already and not give it much thought.

He locked the drawer back up and slipped the keys back into the wadded up apron. It was enough to see him through until the stage arrived if he was careful and measured. After the theft, he made his way back to the doorway, checking the progress of the gathering posse. His mind was made up, he would go and damn whatever Mr. Cothran said about it.

The conversation was had and Harriet whether she really wanted to or not was apparently going out with the posse to ‘aid any souls who were not delivered to Him as swiftly as the others’ while Mrs. Horton stayed here to take care of the boy.

It wasn’t like Harriet could argue that much, because ultimately Mrs. Horton was right. The doctor was out of town, and if there were any survivors she was the best suited to tending to them. Mrs. Horton was a good Christian woman and would by no means hurt the boy...Though her talk of heathens and praying for his family’s souls did seem a bit cruel at this exact moment.

And so Harriet left the Reverend’s Wife and the German Boy alone in the back room, smoothing her hands over her skirts where her apron should have been and looking about. Her dark gaze lingered on the apron which looked...different than how she had left it, but when feeling in the pockets she found all of the belongings…

Mr. Ross was back at the door and preparing to leave.

Miss Coleman found a new fresh apron, put the pencil, keys and other various goodies in the new pockets and put her sullied apron in the wash basin to soak. These tasks complete Harriet donned her bonnet and moved past Mr. Ross to leave the offices, medical pack slung in the crook of one elbow. Apparently she was coming as well.

Benj looked over at the nurse when she exited the office, he asked warily, “Off on a sick visit?”

Harriet shook her head. “Apparently it’s my Christian Duty to come and make sure that if there are any survivors I tend to them to the best of my abilities working in God’s graces.” Her warm brown eyes widened slightly at the thought and a small smile tucked into the corner of her mouth before being hidden with a hand .

“So I suppose you ought to come as well Mr. Ross. Mr. Cothran’s instructions were to make sure Nurse Coleman remained safe…” Though her tone was soft and practical, there was something almost mischievous about Nurse Harriet.

Benj took a deep breath. Bill was going to be pissed but when he looked at the nurse he could see the stubborn set of her jaw, daring him to argue. The trail of an Indian war band was no place for a woman, especially not the gentle sort, no matter how pragmatic she was. He finally nodded, “Fine, yes. He did say that. Let’s get going then, did you have a horse or did we need to fetch you one from the livery? The smith will rent them.”

“I don’t own a horse, so I suppose a rented one will do…” Harriet glanced up at the sun and then at the posse. Was it her imagination or was Mr. Ross not exactly glad to have her along? Then again Harriet wasn’t exactly glad to be going so there was that.

“I suppose we will be heading out soon. I’ll go rent a horse and meet you with the rest Mr. Ross…”

He waved his hand, “I’d better go with you, you can’t just grab any nag.”

Surprised he wanted to join her, Harriet nodded.

Limping along to walk beside her, he ducked to stay out of Bill’s line of sight as he spoke with some of the townsfolk. He took the reins of Lucy, the little grulla mustang and led her along. “You can ride well enough then?”

“Enough to get along. I rode back on the farm just to get from place to place, and had more official instruction when I was trained as a nurse in the army as we traveled a great deal and needed to move quickly…” But she was obviously no horse woman, born in the saddle and happier upon a horse's back than with her own two feet.

He tried to make small talk to take his mind off the morphine that sat heavy in his pocket, a thrum of desire for it coursing through him. Benj could wait, it wasn’t bad yet and he needed to be clear headed. Finding the balance of what he could stand from withdrawing and dosing himself was something he was used to doing by now. “I don’t know what we’ll find, it’ll likely be bad but no worse than what you’ve already seen. If we do chase them, Miss Coleman, it’ll be a longer ride than between farms and over rugged land.”

Harriet sighed. She hoped that if they did give chase they would leave her behind. Chase meant the others were dead and no need for a nurse. “I’ll try my best not to slow you down Mr. Ross…” She commented, trying to keep her voice pleasant rather than show the reluctance she felt.

As they approached the livery, he looked over at her, “Can you shoot?”

“I do know how to operate a pistol as well as a rifle…” Another army training. “But I haven’t in some time…” She didn’t much enjoy the prospect of killing another. “Can you?” She asked, smiling at her joke. Of course he could shoot. He had been a ranger!

“I don’t worry too much about you slowing us down, as long as you got a good horse you should be fine,” he replied, looking over the stock in the pen. Some were old and some were barn broke and lazy but there were a few promising horses. “As for shooting, I hope it doesn’t come to it but if it does, we’ll need every gun we can muster. You can reload as well, that’ll be handy.”

Harriet didn’t have a gun….Did he want her to rent one as well?

He met her eyes briefly and muttered, “Not to mention self defense in case things go bad.”

“Of course…”

“Mr. Roberts, we need a horse to rent,” he spoke up to the smith who was shoeing a horse. “For the lady. Something calm and hardy, and not likely to jump at the sound of a gun.”

Harriet was watching out Mr. Roberts was holding his lower back as he straightened up from shoeing the horse. Chronic back pain from constantly being bent over such or perhaps it was more? Kidney pain? her mind wandered over the possibilities before Mr. Roberts spoke and interrupted the nurses musings.

A plain bay gelding was brought out for Harriet. A sturdy looking fellow he had the well rounded hind in and docile nature of his breed and looked with interest at Harriet as she offered palm for him to nibble. “His name is Piqueno and he should fit you well Nurse Coleman.” Mr. Roberts assured her.

Acquaintances made Harriet strapped her bag filled with medical supplies behind his saddle and mounted up as modestly as one could in skirts. This was not England, she would not ride side saddle but instead straddled the wide gelding in the western style tack, bunching her skirts about her legs to reduce chafing. Vanity be damned, Harriet didn’t care if she looked a bit awkward, having oozing saddles sores would be less appealing as she waddled around than riding with her legs ensconced in her skirts.

Bonnet readjusted and the nurse was ready.

The hairs on Dahteste’s neck prickled as she investigated the site of the attack, just like they did whenever someone was watching her. Standing up from investigating the arrows embedded in the cattle, she dusted her pants and coat off before scanning the horizon, sweeping along the dust, rocks, and scraggly bushes before her gaze alighted on a figure wearing a blue coat.

Her fingers twitched involuntarily but she stayed her hand, watching him for a moment as she took in the figure. He -presumably he based on the army coat- simply sat, watching them. A horse next to him drank from the river, and his hand on a Comanche lance, a quiver of arrows also visible.

She didn’t know how long he’d been watching them, but she figured he hadn’t just arrived. The Comanches didn’t speak the Apache/Navajo language, so she didn’t even bother using that, instead calling to the figure in accented English. “Hello, brother!” She began walking towards him, confident that he was unlikely to attack - and if he did, she was even more confident in her ability to perforate him before he’d gotten anything off himself. “Do you know who raided the wagon?” She paused for a moment, watching before continuing, “I cannot help but feel a sinking feeling that it was the Apache.” She watched silently for a response, already reformulating her plans in her mind to account for this new development.

@Sombrero@Monochromatic Rainbow

"Moses Jones...Pinkerton..."

Watts rolled the words around in his mouth, like a fine claret or, on the other hand, a foul tasting morsel, his expression unchanging as he scrutinised the agent in even more careful detail. Did this goose-shit Pinkerton think he could take him, here, in his own office? By the look on his face, as dim as it seemed, the lawmaker and executor in Laredo decided that he probably did.

"Will, Mister Moses, as you can see we're havin' a little problem at the moment," spoke the sheriff matter-of-factly, walking unannounced straight past the shorter and slighter man, pointing on large finger out the window of his office at the gathering crowd - a varied assortment of the poor and the rich, the armed and the weaponless, Mexicans, Texans and others - a truly mingled plethora of willing killers.

"Now, if'n you wanna be helpful, git the Hell out there and organise that there posse; some German child gone got his family scalped, came screaming into town not long 'fore you got here. Go tell 'em who you are, the wrecks probably up north aways."

As if bored by the entire unfolding events, Hugo stretched his arms and then placed his hands back on his gunbelt, giving the Pinkerton Agent a sly half-smirk as he walked back to his desk. In one fluid motion he quite deliberately placed both booted feet onto his desk, his quick but beady eyes looking over his own feet as he spoke, "consider this your first assignment, assumin' you gonna want to take it, of course?"



Boy-With-Handsome-Face, or at least as he was called in English, let a thin smile show across his lips as the seemingly half-bred individual of the inquisitive pair spoke to him in that imported language. Through his not unattractive features showed a neat row of teeth, oddly white for a migratory culture with no organised dental care, and he lifted up one slender hand in a half salute and half wave from the back of his pinto. With exceptional economy of movement, he twisted the lance in his grip and placed the sharpened end firmly into the sandy riverbed next to him. A moment later and he slid from the back of his pony, leaving it to drink and wonder as it would for now.

Brother she called him...brother...yes, he was dressed as a man, and in the society of the Comanche - quite unlike that of the Lakota, Crow or Blackfoot, there was no place for those who did not feel the same in their own body. In the Crow, for example, a man who dressed as a woman was used as a focal point in their sundance, while in other tribes they were seen healers, or simply as any other. In the Comanche bands they were just seen as odd, including himself.

"Shik'isn," he replied by way of greeting, using some of the limited Apache he knew, and assuming from her outward appearance alone that she would understand it as well, "it was..." his eyes looked about for a moment as his mind worked, "indaa," he used the Apache word for 'white person', and pointed to the only completely non-native figure in the area, using sign language he gestured to himself and then to his face, "faces covered, dressed like ndee but not ndee."

Oh there had been genuine Apache with them, no doubt of that, the scalping methods certainly suggesting as much - far too precise for any white impersonator to copy - but the group had been directed by a small band of whites, and that much he knew.

"They took the women, young and old, take them that way."

This time he pointed off into the distance, in a rather general direction it must be noted, too busy studying this woman who seemed both strong in body and quite easy on the eye. An interesting mingling of white and Indian blood, not something that a Comanche was unused to, his own people adopting many persons of every race into their bands for various reasons, but he had never seen one so perfectly 'balanced' before.

"Well accourse, Sir." Moses shrugged, as if his order was not a mere task, but a fundamental fact of life. Almost (but not quite, as that could push it over the edge to sarcasm) incredulous of the idea that there could be any reason he wouldn't go and set things straight with the posse.

Moses often found that authority figures outside the military liked that kind of acceptance. He thought perhaps it made them feel safe, feel like Moses was as loyal as a dog, and, if he was particularly lucky, as stupid as one too. Moses always felt equally safe, keeping expectations low and all that. Nobody expects a dog to counter a cunning plan. Nobody expects a dog to stop an operation it's too dumb to understand. In a new place like this, being dumb and short-spoken is the name of the game... Everyone trusts a dog.

Without another word, he swept his hat back up onto his head, turned around, and walked out the door, closing it quietly behind him. At best, he was on uneasy terms with the crass old bear in that jailhouse. But it could have gone worse. Much worse. As he strolled in the Inn's general direction, he grumbled something incomprehensible, which was either an attempt to dislodge stray phlegm or stifle the sudden unusual urge to think out loud. Or neither, perhaps. But there were a few things he needed before heading off into the wastes up north, and the first things he needed were the rest of his guns. Especially if he was going to head off into the wilderness with that stinking lynch mob, and especially if that place was populated with an angry band of braves...

And, luckily, the business was done without issue. Guns retrieved and horse lead behind him, he greeted the mob in a firm but cordial manner, his deep, raspy voice carrying throughout the crowd without need for overwhelming volume.

"Alright then, fellas." Moses began, eyeing the crowd contemplatively, "Sheriff sent me over te organize this posse here. Anyone got an idea how far North this wreck is? Who's involved? We're gonna need guns and we're gonna need supplies t'be able to travel, and to hunt down whoever did this. We got eithera'those things?"