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The sun rises, casting long yet welcoming shadows from the houses lining Main Street. The overheating sun that would soon high tall up in the sky, overlooking the whole of Haylliesburg and more, was for a moment forgotten about as the townsfolk began their day's work in a somewhat comfortable temperature. Now that's to say there were still a few things to complain about, like for example all the dust dirtening the women's skirts and dresses, or the stealing of cattle that had just began to haunt the normally innocent railroad town.

The biggest complaint however was well-deserved though; the lack of a sheriff in town.

It had not been a week since the last sheriff sadly passed away; Mark Goldberg was his name, a fine gentleman indeed, and a crack of a shot they said. Now you couldn't say he was exactly tough on crime, but few complained of his methods, so things were pretty quiet. Then the Stranger came into town. He, whoever he was - he left no name - quietly rode into town on a morning much like this one, and simply walked into the Sheriff's office without as much as a "Good morning" to the ladies watching him from the saloon. Apparently he walked into his office, produced wanted-poster of the Sheriff, shooting him in cold blood and leaving him with the wanted-posted nailed to his head with a knife.

Of course people were scared of such events, but so far things had gone quiet enough for the calm peoples of Haylliesburg; if you excluded the dust and the cattle-theft of course, and all those small lies that lurked beneath the surface. It was nothing special for this town, all towns across America were the same. But our story doesn't start anywhere, it starts here in Haylliesburg on a quiet February morning, with several unknown figures riding - or walking - into town. Some might even arrive with the morning train, a quite new addition to the growing town.

All that is certain is that those newcomers are in for one hell of a ride, especially if they find one of those wanted-posters hanging around or find themselves at the wrong end of a poker game. But hey, that's just a normal day in the Wild West.

A February morning had never felt so warm on the skin of Albert White. At first he had thought it was the stale coach air being oppressive and feeling warmer in his claustrophobic throat than it actually was. How strange it was, to be so uneasy in the coach, longing for fresh air and sweating, while having no issues with packed sleeping quarters of ships which had the potential to turn into hellholes more accursed than the dirtiest of diphtheria pest houses. But it turned out he was right: it was warm. Unnaturally warm, he thought alighting in the wide dirty thoroughfare.

It was no New England, that was sure. The winter sun never burned so warm up there in the north, not even in zenith. Here in Arizona it felt more like a pleasant spring. Courtesans seemed to agree, standing on the balcony of some joint, having a smoke and most certainly sipping laudanum as well, or some other substance in those bottles they held. He put the hat on and took the satchel from the coachman holding it for him allowing him to find the rest of his belongings: a long slender thing wrapped in cloth and a bag. He gave the man a coin and tipped the leaf of the hat in thanks as the coach left with neighing of horses.

He saw a fat man sleeping in a wheelbarrow across the thoroughfare in front of a telegraph company headquarters, his head bloodied and muddied. A smaller fellow, a child or the like, walked to him and took from his person a shillelagh and ran off. God damned thief. Lawlessness the first thing I see, even at cock's hour. This is a shithole. He spat. Better move the hell on.

The hotel doors were closed -- a note written in a halfwit's hand nailed to them, informing visitors they wouldn't be opening before noon that day -- but one of the saloons -- the one on the balcony of which prostitutes were hanging around -- wasn't. He walked in, the only person besides a bartender, a younger, slow in the head looking fellow, and another employee leaning plump and shirtless on the bar next to him, eating a piece of canned peach impaled on his knife. Hastily looking around, he caught a glimpse of a monte games table and above it a big hanging sign saying NO PRIESTS: IF YOU PRAY, YOU PAY. They ceased their chatting as he approached.

”Whiskey, please. And coffee.” He put money on the bar, enough money for two rounds of whiskey, looking first at them and then on the well-made quena flute framed in glass among the bottles in front of him, somehow knowing it was made of Christian bone.

Chris "Buck" Buckwood was already seated in the saloon, taking a whole round table to himself with his legs propped up onto the table, leaning his wooden chair backward. A silver coin danced between his fingers and a smile played at his thin, tight lips. Despite his casual demeanor, Chris Buckwood was hard at work.

His deep-set eyes flicked back and forth at all the patrons in the saloon. Scanning for an easy mark. His suitcase sat beside him, full of all sorts of gambling "devices" and snake-oil products. You never knew when a weighted die or a vial full of "Miracle Grow" would come in handy. The job never stopped, and Buck was always on lookout for some potential...clients.

So, there was Buck, legs propped onto the table, leaning backwards in his chair, with no one bothering or wanting to sit at the same table as him, and he seemed all the happier for it. He would keep his trap shut, for now. Bide his time. Take in the atmosphere. Read people. Then he might invite someone over for a game of cards.

Lauren had never been a fan of towns, the smell of horses and their waste in the air, the buildings, faded by the wind and covered in sand. There was never a lack of people, which Lauren didn't mind at all, better for him to avoid notice. The taverns all had an unpleasant, sweaty heat, they all had the same smell, from north to south, that of beer and stale blood, a hint of vomit and desert wind. All of it was bad, there was no spirituality, men looked down from their windows with empty looks on their faces, no one gave any thought as to why they were there, what land they had mauled to make the living wood into dead buildings that stood, filled with husks and false gods, altars used for drinking and not praying. The one thing that towns gave over the many redskin villages dotting the empty land was beer, cards, and the almighty Lady Liberty, half smiling from her half-finished face on a silver slip of dead rock. Her eyes filled with stolen hope.

Almighty Liberty got you warmth, weapon, hell, anything you wanted from anyone, Liberty could get you it. Liberty clinked in every American man's pocket, kissing herself over and over until she was taken and handed to another. Lauren had liberty in his pockets, on the front of his horse, and soon-to-be liberty tied to the back, moaning and shuddering at every trot. Some criminal he had remembered, a murderer who had fast hands and a silver tongue, Lauren hadn't noticed, honestly, he had lassoed the man and pulled his heavy body to a tree, tying him, hanging like a bridge, his feet flat on the ground but his back ramping up towards the tree, held there by a rope around his neck. Lauren had crouched down next to him, comparing poster to man, one yellow and black, the other... a poster.

Lauren had been in the town before, it had been much the same then, he had laid with one of the women of the town and fought with one of the drunks, getting a nasty cut around his eye. It wasn't much to assume much the same would happen, but that was what angered Lauren, he had been doing all of this for years, finishing his bounty, going to town, engaging his carnal desires and then leaving to take another bounty so that he would have the money to take his next one. Would this be his life? What had he first set out to do? Perhaps he needed time, to think, to find himself, but first, he had to complete his bounty. Stopping his horse at the outskirts, near a large willow tree and an old creaky fence, left slightly ajar. The dust from his beast's feet stung his eyes and silhouetted the old tree, just as gnarled and twisted as any in the west.

Lauren grappled with the man's feet, pulling him onto his shoulder with great effort as the man struggled against his binds, his angry yells muffled by a makeshift gag. Now, the sheriff's office.

Lily sat high upon the back of a powerful black stallion, its midnight colored mane drifting in the hot Arizona wind; her left hand wrapped around the horses leather reigns looking from side to side as she lead the horse down the main street. On the horses right side there was a long leather sheath containing her Winchester rifle, both her Griswold revolvers sat on her hips tucked away into similar leather sheaths attached to a belt sporting many more rounds of ammunition for the weapons. As she rode down the road Lily reached into the black leather vest she wore over her simple white cotton button up, pulling her flask from a hidden pocket using her thumb she popped the cap up; taking a long drink of the dark liquor which filled the steel container. She was already getting interested looks from the townspeople, not only for being a lone woman so heavily armed and alone; but for the three blue lines tattooed onto her cheek most whom saw it scowled and immediately saw her as unclean sullied by the heathen Indians.

Though she was more than used to such looks and simply ignored the stares, her hard brown eyes peering from beneath the shade of her wide brimmed hat she came up to the saloon and brought her mount to a smooth stop; swinging her body off the beast letting the hard leather of her boot soles thud against the dry ground. Lily wrapped the reign from her horse around a simple wooden post, near a water trough and several other horses; adjusting the fit of her belt as she entered the Saloon pushing the doors open with both hands letting them swing back into the shut position as she entered. Her right hand grasping the brim of her hat, pulling it off of her head walking directly up to an unoccupied stool at the bar; as she sat down Lily set her hat down on the counter her long blonde hair in a tight bun atop her scalp. Raising her voice in order to gain the bartenders attention showing her rather thick Southern accent, reaching into a small pouch and producing two dollars expecting to buy a whole bottle of whiskey; the money was dirty and had a few bloodstains across its surface. Her tone giving no hint of her taking no for an answer, looking directly into the barkeeps eyes with her own hard gaze; her hand setting the bills down on the bartop waiting to be served.

"One bottle an' a glass, if ya' please."

Eyes squinted, sweat dripped and his body was hunched slightly forward, a rope slung over his shoulder. It was nice and taut, the rope trailing down to a large blanket that was tied up in what formed an outline of a body. His weary eyes looked forward towards the town ahead. Haylliesburg, it was a chance to start anew, start fresh, for most anyway. Unfortunately, he had already gained quite the reputation in the west. Spoke his mind, did what he needed to and despite what he did, no matter the circumstance, he had a way out of it. Overall, he was a loose cannon. He sighed and followed it up with a raspy cough. It wasn't particularly odd to see someone dragging someone else behind a horse or on horseback. It was considered part of the norm, plus it really was no one's business as to why that person was in the predicament they were. No, this isn't what drew their attention. It was rather the shining star that rested on his open duster and the spurs that announced his arrival. A few gave him a hard look, only to go wide-eyed and look away when they saw how, when he turned, the side of his face looked like a wrinkled and torn leather. He begun to mumble to himself, mostly repeating "sheriff's office" over and over until he felt the rope shake slightly.

"Mmmmmmmmph!!!!" The blanket wriggled a bit.

"Shut it." His hard gravelly voice made its appearance.

"Mmmmmmmph!!!! Phhhhhhhh!" UHHHHHHHH!" Muffled screaming followed.

"Shut it, will ya." Agitation entered the fold as he tightened the grip on the rope.

"Mmmmmm - OOF! OOF! OOF! OOF! OOF! Urrrrrrr...." Whatever the body was screaming about was quickly silenced by swift kicks to the side and a final to the face.

"I - SAID - SHUT - IT - YA - DEADBEAT!" The final kick tired him out. He dropped the rope and took off his hat, running a rough hand through his drenched hair before placing the hat back on his head and hauling the man over to the sheriff's office. He made his way up to the front steps of the place, the bound and bagged man's head bouncing off the steps, and stopped in front of the door. He squinted his eyes as he looked at the door and turned to spit, however, taking quick notice to a well dressed man approaching. He seemed to be an important man. As he approached he held out a hand. The old confederate looked at it for a second before extending out his own.

"Can eye help ya?" His rough voice questioned.

"Are you by chance the new sheriff?" He cocked his head to the side and grit his teeth.

"You mean ta'tell me that ya dun have'a law here'in this town?" He asked taken back by the man's question who simply shook his head in response. The Confederate looked up and grunted. The rugged man took out a nicely made cigar and placed it in his mouth and started to chew on it.

"So are you mister-?"

"Hawthorne...Look've only come out this far cause this jackwagon shot mah horse after I'bin chasin'em from Amarillo and then shot'em and dragged'em a few miles from a town nearbai because apparently this town has a stable that I ca'get a horse from. So I'm gonna collect this man's bounty and then be on mah wa-" this was about the time the well dressed man stepped up.

"Please you need to stay. A lot of us here don't want to deal with anymore crooks and conmen. We'll pay you...Well." He gave the man a nervous smile. The disfigured man stood there for a moment and look down at the wrapped up and back to the man. Reluctantly he gave in.

"$500. I want five hundred dollars. $400 for his bounty and another hundred for the horse and I'll consider it." It seemed the one who brought up the offer now seemed to regret it.

"Th-tha-that's outrageous!"

"That's mah price. Tak'it or leav'it."

"Y-You're nothing but a conman!" The other man stepped forward, his tired eyes suddenly gained a sort of spark that one would if ready to fight.

"I'm the only darn sheriff ta show up in this hellhole of a place and since you came up to me about a lack of law here I feel it fair I get a starting pay and we'll go from there. Think'bout it. If ya need me, I'll be in'da saloon." It was with that he turned back towards the saloon, rope in had and made way to the front doors of the saloon. He approached the swinging doors, his Confederate hat visible from behind them. Hawthorne passed through the door and as he did he took in everyone there. @Vas Khaleen@Stekkmen@Sigurd

Many grew silent in the saloon for a second before going back to their usual business. It wasn't until the aging solider fulley entered with blanket-man in tote did they silence again, watching the man pull up to a stool near a young woman and bent down, untying the knot around the shoulders and removed part of the blanket, allowing the figure to take in a heavy, nasally breath. He turned to the other man at the bar and asked to help lift the man onto a stool. Once the captured man was on the stool he released the cloth knot around his mou-

"YOU PIECE OF SHIT! DAMN YOU TO HELL YOU GODDARN SHITSLI- Agh!" It didn't take long for Hawthorne to loose his patience again before slamming the man's head into the side of the bar.

[color=tan]"I was gonna getcha'a drink fer now but ya best watch yer mouth ya blowhard ther' ladies present."[color] He turned to @Vas Khaleen the woman next to him and tipped his hat.

"Ma'am" After tipping his hat he turned back to the bartender and called for to shots a whiskey. When he got them he helped his bagged man with his before taking his own, wiping his mouth from the liquid that escaped the hole in his mouth.

"So what yer gonna do wit'me now?" Hawthorne sucked on his teeth for a moment before turning to the man.

"..."

"Well?"

"Well ya dun robbed a train, killed a Texan ranger, shot mah horse and then tried'ta run. Whadda think is gonna happen?" He put back another shot and placed the glass on the table.

Lily turned her head as she lifted the glass she had poured from the bottle she purchased, tipping the light cup backwards allowing the bitter whiskey to slide down her throat; not even so much as a wince coming over her face. Watching as the man with the scarred face and his less than enthusiastic companion came through the saloon, losing interest rather quickly however as the two sat beside her; pouring a second shot into her glass from the tall plainly labeled green bottle. Chuckling lightly as Hawthorne took concern over the others vocabulary in the presence of a 'lady', little did the man know she was a veteran herself; as was he evident by the hat and coat he wore two items she had lost in her own experience though the Griswolds on her hips usually made it clear she was no normal woman. As she downed the second shot of whiskey she set the glass down on the thick bar top with a solid thunk, her left hand wrapping around the neck of the whole bottle of whiskey leaning into the counter a bit as she turned her gaze towards the newcomers.

"Shit fire, you ain't gotta worry bout offendin me none."

Lily chuckled as she finished her sentence, most men not giving her that common courtesy that other women oft received be it because of her markings or her general stature but this one seemed to be a special case just by looking at him.

"You a Johnny Reb then? What division you serve in?"

@FallenTrinity

Bureau... bureau... tabernac... BUREAU?... Ah va te faire enculer... Lauren tossed the man to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Every building looked the same, not one of the buildings had any identification, except for maybe the saloon, of course, no place of law, but there's a place to fucking play cards! Yipee-fucking-ki-yay.

Spinning in place, trying to find someone, anyone who could happen to know where the sheriff was hiding, Lauren called out to anyone who passed.

"Ah! Tu! Oyoyoyoy!..." Biting his lip, Lauren took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Everyone in this town was either drunk or hungover. Either that or so utterly insipid that the sight of what looked Indian caused them to vomit in their mouth. Throwing his hat back on, Lauren unclasped his poncho and threw it over his shoulder. It landed on top of the poor man, who groaned and fought his hogties in an attempt to throw off the oppressive poncho. Lauren's eyes settled back onto the saloon, maybe there was someone with the authority to take the bounty in there.

Lazily picking the man off the ground, Lauren strode towards the saloon. Flicking open his pocket watch, he gave one look at the time, not even seeing it to be honest, before flicking it closed and stuffing it into a coat pocket. The tavern, of course, smelled just as he imagined, like piss and beer, just like every other tavern. A group of men sat in the corner playing cards, one looked up a moment, recognizing Lauren. The two stared a moment, a kind of stare only one you know can give, the same kind one might give a lover after a spat, the kind Lauren knew too well, or the stare a child would give a father he hated. Again, a stare Lauren knew too well. The man's turn came and he slowly lowered his head, his eyes not leaving Lauren's own until finally their souls parted and Lauren was free.

The bar was alive, the kind of life a lame ass maintains, ambling slowly and hobbling along, waiting for the almighty bullet to free it from the land of the living. There was no sheriff though, unfortunately, no matter that, Lauren was in a saloon, he had no choice but to play cards, it was his duty to himself.

Lauren's arm was getting very tired, he was nowhere near strong enough to hold up a man for as long as he had. Tossing the outlaw to the floor of the tavern with a thump, he kicked him over to a corner. Pulling off the wanted man's gag, he didn't even let the man have a groan before he had stuffed the now balled up gag into his mouth. He had no reason to, the man was just as unable to talk as before, but now he looked like a cooked pig with an apple in it's mouth, and that was amusing to Lauren on a level that little else managed to be.

Wandering over to the hold-em table, he took a seat and handed the dealer a few dollars. The man from before looked up from his cards, again they danced with their eyes. Lauren couldn't help but chuckle.

"Avec moi, sil-vous-plait." He said, turning to the dealer and crossing his legs. Talk had halted, and now everyone was staring at the magical injun, wearing a white-man's clothes and sitting at a white-man's table, speaking a white-man's language and having a white-man's skin. It was almost as if he were white, but no, that couldn't be correct, men couldn't just show up pretending to be something they weren't.

He turned in his seat a moment, catching a glimpse of a man who had half a face. That was something Lauren hadn't expected, surprising that the Indian got all the attention with that sitting at the bar. That didn't matter though.

There wasn't much that mattered in Lauren's mind currently, he was looking for something in his mind that he was having trouble finding. His elders back in Manitoba had talked about a man's quest, one that every man goes through at one point in his life. Lauren was getting older, he already had too many children, and yet he hadn't found his quest, perhaps it was time to stop waiting for it to find him, and time for him to actively search for it.

Josiah sat next to a small fire, and three other men, on the road leading to the small town of Haylliesburg. The four men had been riding together for the past five days, with Josiah having joined them as part of a bounty hunt on the way to the next town, and decided to stick with them for the company. Josiah passed a stout bottle of whiskey between him and the men, talking with them as stew cooked over the fire. The night was still and quiet, only broken when a voice called out "Mind if I join you four?" The men from the camp looked up, and waved the rider over, who dismounted and walked with his horse to the fire. "So what brings ye to our camp, stranger?" Josiah asked the man, passing him the whiskey bottle. The man took a large swig and said "Well, I'm riding out from Haylliesburg, on my way to the other towns near here. Supposed to be postin' notes for our new job openin'." He handed the men a flier, which they each read, passing it around. Josiah looked over it, nodding to himself, and mouthing the words as he read them. "So they be needin' a new sheriff? Well, I'll hafta look inta that. Been meanin' ta settle down, might just be tha right place ta do it." On those words, the stew began to steam and boil, signifying it was done...



Josiah Solomon Murphy was a simple man, with rather simple taste. He liked good whiskey, good work, good cards, and not much else. So when he rode into Haylliesburg that fateful day, he knew exactly which buildings to look for. He'd come here because of word about the town needing a new sheriff, which he'd heard from a couple camps over the past three days. He'd also come because he needed a good, stiff drink. So when a man in the center of town asked him why he had come here and what he was looking for, Josiah simply said "Saloon, lad. I'm lookin' fer a drink." The man pointed out to him which was the saloon, Josiah gave him a silent thanks, dismounted, tied his white Mustang stallion to the post, and walked inside.@Sigurd@Stekkmen@Vas Khaleen@FallenTrinity@bluetommy2

Stepping into the saloon, Josiah stopped to take it all in. The bar had the same smell of alcohol, drunks, and animals that he had long since grown accustomed to. Stepping up to the bar, he placed a small order. "Shot o' whiskey, if ye would." Taking his drink from the barkeep, he quickly downed it in one gulp, taking a second shot, and then a third, before paying. He noted the folks at the bar, finding the sight of a woman interesting, but not all that strange. It happens, after all. Then he noted the poker game. Most of the patrons were no different than the tens of other bar flies Josiah had seen in his travels, except one. The Native. Obviously a foreigner to these parts, Josiah felt an odd feeling, almost that of kinship with the man. So maybe that's why Josiah did what he did, stepping up to the table and asking Ye got room fer one more in yer game, there? It's been a few days since me last game."@bluetommy2

Words couldn't describe the feeling Erik felt inside him as he saw the tree houses of Haylliesburg rise up before him, there where he rode towards the town on his trusted stead. No wait, words could describe it; "Finally! Trodde jeg skulle dø der ute i ødemarka...". The man on his horse, speaking in that foreign tounge, had been riding for days now, following the rail for quite a while and almost giving up on reaching civilization; at least what little civilization one could find out there. He had been close to turning around, not wishing to take the risk of running out of water, when he had been startled by a train passing him. After exchanging a few words, he now knew that Haylliesburg wasn't too far away.

It still sure as hell felt that way.

The town looked friendly enough, except everything one could expect from towns like these. The ladies smiled at him at least as he rode in, the others giving him either scared or condemming eyes. "Morning." he said to a man passing by him, not receiving an answer from him. "Okay then..." Of course they didn't want to talk.

But then another man came up to him, seemingly eager to speak with the new stranger in town. A finely dressed gentleman, clear from the lack of dust on his clothes. Erik got off his stead, holding the reigns in his hand as the man approached.

"Morning mister. Can I help you?" Erik's accent was easily heard through his English, a clear sign of his heritage and alienness. The man in the fine clothes didn't seem too concerned, however, as he walked up.

"Yes, yes. Are you the new Sheriff? Please tell me that you are!"

"Ehm...I'm sorry?

"...God damnit. Pardon my French, mister, but you see Haylliesburg is a bad spot; we badly need a sheriff, but so far we've only gotten fiends, con-men and...and..."

"Banditter?"

"Yes, bandits! But you look like none of them! You seem like a man honorable and civilized! Tell me, do you have any qualifications to be sheriff?"

"I...eh...I was in the War and...I've herded cattle all my life.

"Great, great! That's just the kind of man we need! As a matter of fact, we've had trouble with someone stealing our cattle, so you can most certainly take care of that!"

Erik gave the man a questioning look, taking off his hat and rubbing his head as he tried to let it all sink it. "I guess I could help with that, if..."

"Thank you, mister! Fix that for us, and then you gave hand these in and forget that you ever was sheriff of Haylliesburg! But we'll be forever indebted to you! Thank you so much, and good luck with those thieves!"

And before Erik could muster any form of response, reaction, anything, he had been handed a key and a sheriff's star, before the man took off, jumping in joy as all their troubles were presumably fixed. Erik didn't see it that way, and just stood there with the key and star in one hand, the reigns in his other while his horse looked dumb-like at him.

"...Jeg kan vel værra lensmann for èn dag, eller hva Brynhild?" Erik said to his horse, waiting a few seconds as if to hear a reply from the stead. A neigh came from its mouth, something Erik took as an satisfactory answer and pulling towards the place he most needed to visit now; the saloon.

The saloon was already quite the populated arena for social interactions, with people drinking and playing games already. As soon as Erik stepped through the swing-doors, he was met with a wall of a thousand eyes - at least it felt like that -, a good five seconds of silence as he just stood there taking it all in. Soon enough the people went back to their normal business, and Erik followed their eyes inside the saloon. The two people all tied up he didn't pay too much attention to; his responsibility as sheriff was to find the cattle and bring them back, not bother with affairs in the saloon. Sitting down a chair away from a group of people already drinking and talking, he gestured for the bartender.

"Just a glass of water, please."

"Well I do.." he spoke up to answer her comment about offense. Hawthorne put back another shot before glancing back at the doors of the place, watching as some new people entered. His eyes squinted at the first one. A native @bluetommy2 who seemed to be dressed fairly well compared for being a injun. @DepressedSoviet Soon enough a second who he didn't pay much mind to, despite the brogue in his voice and finally @ONL-

"Guess they found a sheriff. I better still get paid for this."

"Horsepiss you ain't getting shi- sonova - urgghhh" A second slam of the head on the counter by Hawthorne. He went to take another swig but stopped and looked at the wrapped up man.

"Ya just dun know when to shut it, do ya?" Hawthorne turned to face the woman again. Johnny Reb...Haven't heard that in a while.

"Yes I was and I didn't serve no division." He clicked his tongue and glanced over at her, his voice a bit more stern than before. Having an idea of what was to follow he continued.

"I rode under Quantrill and Anderson and his fellas. The lot'o them got sand, but they were always on the shoot and they always found it....They always found it." He bit the inside of mouth as his voice muffled a bit as he put back his final shot for now.

"After Lawrence I decided I was done with the war." The man he captured looked wide-eyed before speaking up. Sadly, his words would come too loud and most of the saloon stopped and turned to face him.

"Wait...I know you...Now I remember you! You're the Bloodhound of Quantrill's Raiders! Jonah Hawthorne, right? I watched you-" Hawthorne shot a glare at Jesse, his capture, and drew his revolver from under his duster and with a click he cocked back the hammer. The S&W stayed underneath the duster to remain discreet but that famous revolver click was still as audible as ever.

"I reckon you shut yer pie-hole before I put a bullet through, got it?" His cold steely eyes spoke more than the steady hand the gun held did. After the man swallowed hard he placed the hammer back to its original place and slipped it back in its holster and turned back to the lady.

"Some damn bullshit ..." Hawthorne mumbled as he wiped the hole in his mouth clean before lighting the cigar that rested in his mouth. There goes a new start.

Grabbing his cards, Lauren held his mouth slightly ajar as he looked at them. A good hand, king of clubs and a ten of diamonds, lady luck was with him so far. The new player was sharp faced, the kind of look that marked one as experienced in whatever craft he had taken. In that, Lauren felt kinship, a strange kinship, but a kinship none the less. @DepressedSoviet

Lauren tipped his hat and offered a "Salut" before tossing out a few chips. He had a good hand, he could afford to bet. His old friend shook his head, jiggling his jowls, before calling. Lauren spotted the half-faced man draw his gun at the bar, everything going silent a moment as he did. Lauren placed a hand on his own revolver reflexively, thankfully the man put his own gun back before Lauren drew.

"Tu es completement débile." He muttered under his breath towards the man, just loud enough to hear himself over the saloon's renewed murmuring. @FallenTrinity

He looked over at his bounty, who remained struggling in the corner, groaning through the rag. Lauren really needed to find that sheriff, but he didn't feel like looking right now, he was going to win himself a card game.

Lily chuckled again as he stated that he had to watch himself, a smirk coming over her face for a brief moment as she tipped the bottle in her hand upwards taking a long draught of the dark liquor before setting it back down. Clearing her throat as she also glanced back catching sight of the Indian putting her on edge her left had dropping down to the corresponding pistol; a clear look of hate glazing over her eyes as she turned completely around on her stool. Dropping her conversation with Hawthorne completely as she slid off the tall seat, her boots thumping audibly against the wooden floor; walking at an above average pace towards the native and the dealers table. Her hand completely gripping the pistol grip now with the thumb already pulling the hammer backwards clicking it into place to slam down on a round and fire, stopping at the table and neglecting anyone else she stared straight at the native man spitting onto the table in-front of him.

"Tha fuck is a heathen injun doin here?"

As she spoke to the man her left hand drew upwards, pulling the hard iron forged pistol from its home; setting it heavy handed upon the wooden table on its side the men sitting around the table clearing away rather quickly from the gesture. All eyes shifting onto the woman whom was by all societal standards far from acting as expected, and the Indian whom was also shockingly present in a white man's town; the tension radiating off her strong her eyes seething with rage teeth pressed together.

@FallenTrinity @bluetommy2

Erik did his outmost not to pay attention to what was going on around him, instead focusing on the cold glass of water he was given. Except that it wasn't cold, it was room-temperature and a little smelly. When he thought about it, the glass of water tasted of whiskey or bourbon, or even moonshine. Combine that with the brown-ish colouring of the water, and Erik was pretty sure he had been given a glass of trough water, in a glass used normally for booze. But why did he care about details such as these, when things were escalating quicker than a speeding train down a slope?

Wait, was that woman...pulling her gun on that Indian?

Okay, Erik was perhaps only sheriff for a day and perhaps only for finding the stolen cattle, but he was not about to a murder on his hands within the first minutes of his career. Especially not one by a former Confederate female soldier. Did that matter though? No, too much thinking, too little taking action.

"The same as everyone in this saloon is, exercising their freedom." Erik said as he stood up from the barstool and walked towards the woman now with her back to him. He wasn't expecting - or hoping - for it to turn any worse, but he still found himself resting his hand on the revolver at his side, just in case. "Frøken, there is no need to unneeded shooting today. I think you should go back to your friend at the counter and drink on."

"No, monsieur." Lauren said as he stood, lifting his hat slightly.

"La mademoiselle ne comprende pas." Lauren rolled his body downwards, taking his hat in his hand.

"Salut, mademoiselle, I am... Matey... englais est... not my... st-strong point." He struggled out, barring his teeth as he tried to recall what little English his father had taught him.

"Could-could tu... explain la word 'heathen' s'il-vous-plait?" He said, raising an eyebrow.

"Tu est tres belle, j'aime le chapeau, c'est tres mignonne." He relaxed his pose, approaching her slowly, holding his hands far out to his sides. Turning up a corner of his mouth, he leaned against the table, throwing his hat back on his head.

"Je suis vraimont desolee si je offensee tu, mais, je ne comprend pas le colere." He spoke very quickly, his voice deepened and his smirk widened. Lauren noticed the tattoo on her face, though he didn't recognize the purpose, he assumed it was native in origin.

His mother's tribe never tattooed prisoners, in fact they rarely tried to kill or even knock unconscious their foes, instead carrying a coup stick. Counting coup was tapping an enemy and retreating back before being caught oneself, if a Blackfoot's coup was counted they would be forced to leave the field. To think of it, Blackfoot wars were more like games, it made sense that they got easily defeated in battles with trained armies.

Whatever the case, if this woman had been tattooed as a result of captivity, there was little chance of him managing to seduce her like he had been attempting. Unfortunately he realized too late, and probably wouldn't have any time to apologize for his transgressions.

Lily stared confused by the mans strange tongue, lifting her revolver up off the table top as he stood up; pointing it directly at his chest a center mass shot was always a better idea than the fabled and often missed headshot. Stepping back a bit as the Norwegian spoke up keeping him inside of her peripheral vision, spitting short on the ground she kept her main focus on the Native; speaking up addressing Erik in a short annoyed tone.

"This ain't your concern, its me an' the fuckin' savage!"

Her index finger laid gently on the curved trigger of her revolver, her free hand already grasping at the other holstered pistol in the event she ended up needing it; all eyes in the saloon set upon the woman, indian and now the Norwegian attempting to defend him. All her thoughts resting on the injustice she suffered at the hands of similar Natives, despite the fact that an Apache dog solider wouldn't ever peacefully walk into such a town and his clothing wasn't that of the Apache; her opinion on the Indians being that they were all primitive killers. Which was a rather popular opinion in town as many had lost friends and loved ones to them, Lily glanced quickly to the side standing five feet from Lauren; and several more from Erik.

"Ain't no good come outta' his ilk, not never."

@bluetommy2 @FallenTrinity @ONL

Chris had watched the events in interest, and a smile crept over his tight features. He wondered, inwardly, what he would do. As much as he would like to annoy the woman with a keen interest on shooting somebody, he wasn't ready to cause trouble just yet. He'd been on the road long enough to learn not to shut out "clients" based on their skin color, or face, or whatever. Everyone was fair game, according to him. Still, he had no interest in seeing someone get shot. It was bad for business, got everyone on edge, no matter how hardened.

From his travels, he'd picked up some different bits and pieces of different languages. He had no idea what the Native man was saying,@Vas Khaleen@bluetommy2, but he had enough sense to know it was French.

"Elle... es...est....partiale." He said aloud, slyly eyeing the woman with the gun. He thought that was the word for prejudice. He hoped. It was one of the only specific words he knew, and he knew it completely by chance. He could say jail. Gun. Uh...bathroom.

He flicked his silver coin up into the air and caught it again. He reckoned it'd be the wrong time to ask anyone for a game of blackjack.

---

He went to say something until she turned and got up, making her way over to the poker game. Hawthorne squinted his eyes to see who she was going towards and once he caught sight he rolled his eyes.@bluetommy2@Vas Khaleen

"All hell." He grumbled as he stood and took a step forward, hesitating for a second before glancing over at the tied up man. "Don't go no where." He commanded before slowly moving towards the woman, who was now yelling and brandishing her pistol. The new sheriff had spoken up in an attempt to sway her out of the brewing conflict, like that was gonna help. First off, he was a foreigner, someone who probably hadn't been in this country long enough to have much of a say. Secondly, she was from the south, and from her mannerisms and the way she talked and drank and the questions she asked, she might've even been a former solider. Old confederate soldiers were stubborn, hard-headed individuals who did not deal with the bullshit of everyday life. Finally, Hawthorne thought, he was in over his head. He made his way over to him and leaned in.

@ONL"Boy, yer words aint gonna do a damn thing. Lemme handle this..."

"Miss, I know his kind dun do no good but so far he's shown no need for hostilities. He ain't lookin' for'a fight. He's here to play some cards. He spoke up nonchalantly, he had a strong feeling that meant butt kiss to her but he might as well try. Hawthorne moved in closer, positioning himself next to her raised arm and leaned in towards her so he could look into her eyes.

"You n' me were having a good ol' conversation over there, hate for that to go away jus caus' you wanna put some lead in his belly." He brought his hand and laid it upon her shoulder while his other adjusted his hat. He then turned to face her more, placing his free arm closer to the raised arm. His actions however, came across sincere and honest.

The clothed harpoon now leaned on one of Albert's knees, at ready, just in case. He sat slowly sipping on his coffee and preparing to take a shot of that whiskey that tempted him so. Bar fights were nothing strange to him. In fact, this was not even comparable -- save for the number of languages spoken at once -- to bar fights, real bar fights, a man might chance upon in godforsaken, uncharted islands of the Pacific or the Caribbean, fought between men just as forsaken and uncharted in St. Peter's book. Hell, even Iceland or Ireland, he thought. At least for now. Perhaps there'll be viscera on the boards ere I finish my damned drink.

Downing the first shot of whiskey and cleaning his lips with his sleeve, he said to the woman, although it might been to no one in particular: ”Saw a man cut a Pagan's throat just a while 'fore I came here. Over cards and a bottle of mescal. Looked just like the one playing monte here. Come sun-up, the murderer dead in horseback, no one knew how and when. And scalped, fucking tonsured to the brain. Among other things...” He made a pause to finish his second whiskey, then went on with a grimace. ”The ones who did it left a warning along the road for us, too. Scalped some poor bonepickers and left them rotting naked in their carreta, feathers stuck in their god damned eyeballs. A child among them. Now, imagine what they'd to do a woman.”

Vengeance was an old devil, Albert knew, a vice in all men, both heathen and baptized, aimed at both man and beast. He suffered from it too of course. He remembered some of the storm nights on the sea during which the howls of maimed wretched crewmen stroke harder than any thunder. They cried in the bowels of the ship, swearing revenge, predicting the demise of their beast-foe like some serenos or augers, guessing the future according to the lost limbs taken by the whale. Many argued they were more frightening than the largest leviathan that they so hated who, although a greatest beast to ever live, knew no thirst for intimate reprisal that, just like the whale oil fueled the lamp, fueled the hearts of many men and directed their thereon lamed spear.

”Our friend here has a point,” he nodded towards the man with the scarred face. ”Never substitute a good discussion with slaughter. Especially with the sheriff come to the town.” He raised his empty glass to the sheriff and tipped the hat with a smile. ”Sheriff.”

Lauren groaned as more and more people crowded him, either defending him or not. He was less than scared of this woman, and he certainly didn't need anyone's help. What he wanted was to finish his bloody game and then go find the sheriff. Well, it seemed that the sheriff had come to him, judging by everyone else's reaction. Now, he wanted to collect his bounty and leave, and with every word they said he grew more aggravated.

"Assez! Je ne veux plus rien entendre!" He yelled, slamming the table with his fist. Standing, he tossed his cards back on the table and cracked his neck.

"Ranger ton pistolet." He said to the woman, though he realized that she didn't speak french.

"Put... your gun... away." He said, quietly. At full height he was taller than most of the group, though he wasn't the most physically impressive. Just in case, he was prepared to throw his hand to his pistol at any moment.

Looking over at the sheriff. He motioned to the hogtied criminal in the corner of the room, easily stating a word he had said over a thousand times.

"Bounty." He said with a short nod, turning back to the woman with a scowl.

"Ranger ton pistolet maintenant! Ou je montrer tu un sauvage." He threatened, yelling at her to put away her weapon or he'd show her a savage.