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Dusk.

Gerald Carlson watched as the magic hour began to fade away; the orange and indigo tinted sky fading into the deep blues of nighttime. Soon the stars would be out, and the moon. He was busy hitching up the oxen while Lila started the campfire. They were still about a day’s drive from Gideon; the little trading post that he planned to make some money at. He’d been driving along the high roads now for weeks with his daughter, teaching her how to wheel and deal with these salty types of men. She was young and pretty; that helped out when she batted her eyes and leaned forward on the dealer’s tables; enough to suddenly get a steep discount on an item.

Carlson was a simple man: spindly, with wiry dark hair. The years had been rough on him and his family; but a life of mercantilism traveling the roads and buying low and selling high had been the one thing Gerald Carlson found himself capable of. It had earned him a wife, it had earned him a daughter, it had earned him a nice enough carriage to travel the high roads between the cities. Yes, Gerald Carlson had a wonderful life. A skilled daughter who would soon take over for him while he found a nice farm to retire to? That was the reward of a simple life.

Marrying her off would be a fool’s errand. He knew that girl would become the richest woman this side of the Great River with her charm. He was proud of the girl and he knew that her mother (God rest her soul) would be proud of her. Gerald looked up as those deep blues started to fade into dark black. He saw no orange glow coming from where he’d told that girl to set up camp. What the hell was that girl doing?

“Lila, girl what in tar-“

Click.

Gerald Carlson’s heart sank deep into his stomach, deeper into his bowels. He felt like he was going to shit his heart out of fear. Standing to the side of him was a tall man with a gaunt face; a face ghoulish, as if there was too little skin to go over his skull, and it was forcibly stretched to cover the mass of his head. Even from a distance one could make out the sharp cheekbones and lines of his face, making him look almost like a skeleton wearing skin instead of a normal human.

“Lookie what we got here boys,” the voice spat from Carlson’s side. “I think we found that purty girl’s daddy.”

“D-don’t you lay a finger on-“

THWACK! The back of Gerald’s head exploded in a fiery pain, and he lost his balance toward the earth. He fell, tumbling down, down, down, catching himself on the earth with his hands. He couldn’t finish his sentence, and only groaned in pain. Thin rivulets of blood poured from the side of his head, mixing with the dirt on the ground.

“Did I say you could talk, you dumb fuck!?” A boot was planted in the center of his back. More pain sent shockwaves up Gerald’s spine.

Orange light sparked around him. Men holding torches; but Gerald couldn’t raise his head to see anything. The man with his boot on his back began to speak; Gerald barely moved his neck enough to see this new figure’s black leather boots; carefully and meticulously shined to an almost glossy sheen.

“Whatdy’a think?”

“LET ME GO!” A female voice screamed as she was pushed down beside her father. Lila Carlson, thin like her father; with dirty brown hair and a slightly crooked nose; a young woman that Carlson now regretted never marrying off. Never sending away from this world. In that moment, seeing her face down in the dirt next to him, Carlson did not feel like this was a reward for his simple life.

“He’s too old and scrawny to be of any use. I wouldn’t even use him as a bullet shield for the front. The girl might have some use on the market in Rojas.”

This new figure’s voice froze Gerald’s blood. His voice was smooth and dark; but it was not soothing. There was something sinister and cruel about the way the man spoke; something that made Gerald believe he would not live much longer. This was the voice of a man who had no love for his fellow creatures. Gerald also understood what New Rojas meant for Lila. Jefferson was a trading partner, but it was no place for a family to live. Especially new Rojas. Tears began to well up in his eyes as he tried not to picture his daughter as a slave to the bordellos.

“As for the old man? Kill him.”

“Yes sir!” The man giggled with sadistic glee. “I’ll be nice for you, you sniveling shit eater. I’ll give you to the count of ten to make your piece with God.”

Gerald Carlson began to piss himself.

“Ten. Nine. Eight.”

The numbers were like the ringing of the funeral bell. Gerald Carlson began to pray, sniveling and crying facedown in the dirt.

“Seven. Six. Five. Four.”

Voices came from the wagon. “Hey General! Come and take a lookit this guy’s cargo! It’s got that Blackfinger name stamped on it!”

“Three. Two.” The goon’s finger began to twitch as it lightly caressed the trigger.

“Stop.” The man’s deep voice pierced the drumbeat of Gerald’s heart. He could barely hear the loud voice from the man, as he slowly walked over to Gerald’s face-down figure. Large fingers began to grope Gerald’s hair, pulling the man’s up to face a man he’d only seen in pictures. Tall, slicked back, greying hair which was getting long in the back. Slight stubble from a face that had been riding the trails hard all day. For a jacket, he wore a tattered old piece with countless medallions hanging from the lapels. On his rested a hand crafted ivory handled revolver, a gun that had killed countless men and women over the years.

The General.

“Tell me about Blackfinger.”

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Howard Baker had led a good life. At least, in his mind he’d led a good life. He was proud of his accomplishments. His father had founded Baker’s Rest forty years ago, back when Howard was only twenty. By the time Howard was 25, he’d inherited his father’s place on the town council; he’d married a beautiful woman and they’d spent the past 40 years together in relative happiness. He’d raised three wonderful daughters. He had a grandson. He should have been happy.

“It’s not called Blackfinger, Mr. Johnson.” Howard said, fighting the desire to roll his eyes. “It’s Baker’s Rest.”

“I know that sir,” the young man in a too-tight suit said across from the oak table. “I just-everyone-“

“I know everyone calls it that. But I must ask you to at least respect my family name and call the town by it’s proper title while you speak to us here.”

“I know sir. I just…Mr. Booker, I wanted to ask you if you could perhaps…your library is the most complete record of the old world left. Back in Hayfield, we need a working mill and-“

“Mr. Johnson, I cannot simply give you my records.” The steel-eyed man sitting next to Howard answered, his face like a rock; only moving enough to talk and nothing more. “I can send out a team of engineers to help you with the mill. But it’ll cost a good bit; but it would be worth it in the long run.”

“We can talk about brokering a deal.” Johnson sighed, tugging at the bowtie around his neck. His face had been steadily turning pink, and now it was a bright shade of scarlet. A mix of sweat, nerves, a tight color and now? Anger. “You Blackfingers make it your mission to bleed out every resource of the poor people around here, hogging your machines to your damn selves.”

“It’s better than having people start wars over it.”

To his left, Paul Booker sat. Paul was only a decade younger than him, but the bastard looked like he was only pushing forty. Paul was Howard’s second on the council; though some of the other members felt it was nepotism: after all Booker was his son-in-law. But while others felt like this was him giving Booker power; it was the opposite for Howard. He didn’t trust Booker. Perhaps it was because Moira died of the flu so many years ago. Perhaps it was because Booker came into town out of nowhere, swept his youngest daughter off her feet and had her pregnant within a year. Maybe it was because he was the person everyone who came to visit wanted to meet with!

So Howard kept Booker at arm’s length. Always watching him, making sure he’d spill no secrets about Baker’s Rest. Even though Booker was the man behind the Blackfingers, even though he was behind the explosive growth and the building of the Foundry…there was always something alien about Booker. He’d just appeared in a storm one winter’s night over twenty years ago; looking half crazed and carrying a horse loaded down with books. Books! And some how, those books; not the farms, not the little ranches they had built on the outskirts of the town, not the station they had spent months to build to connect to the south and north rail lines-no, this man and his damned books with pictures and words on how to build a working water wheel, or a mill, or a steam engine, or a damn pistol. Books were what these people wanted. The only reason he tolerated the man was for his grandson; the boy was a sweet child and looked just like his mother. The fact that Alan had decided to work for him as well; instead of working in the Rookery with his father also helped.

Yes, sometimes he was a little harsh on the boy; but it was because Howard wanted his grandson to grow up to be a leader. If anyone was going to run Baker’s Rest, it was going to be that boy. He was a Baker in his blood and in his heart, and he’d see to it that none of Paul Booker’s influence tainted the ability to be a good leader in times of hardship. Yes, Paul Booker did help bring attention and influence to Baker’s Rest. Hell, over the years they’d set up the most basic kind of government with the other towns on the Great River; enough that a few plague rats from old glory carrying half-working old world weapons weren’t as frightening as they had been thirty years ago. But Baker’s Rest needed a Baker there. And Alan would be the next one. With his grandson, Baker’s Rest would always have a Baker taking care of it.

Yes. Howard Baker had led a good life to be blessed with such a kind grandson.

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Grandpa Baker was going to kill him.

Alan Booker just watched as the thin man sped off into the crowd with three loaves of bread. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This was supposed to be a simple market day; his first market day without Grandpa Baker barking orders at him. He would be the one selling the bread and bringing in the good profits. Grandpa was going to be so proud of him!

Except now Grandpa was going to scream at him for three hours on why they didn’t have enough grain to simply let a bunch of hasty vagrants make off with it. How he wouldn’t be allowed to go out for market day for three months. How he’d be better off working the bellows in the foundry, and how his mother would die of shame if she saw how much of a poor baker her sweet son turned out to be.

Alan Booker did not look like his father; his face was soft; with sandy blonde hair combed up; and his face was smooth. While he wore a nice buttoned down shirt with a pair of brown slacks; his white apron gave away his profession away easily. A matronly figure would squeal with delight at his innocent boyish look, aiming to pinch his cheeks and call him adorable. Alan was not a fan of that. It was bad enough that Maybe Waters teased his profession and his sheer enthusiasm for bread and pastries; especially when he wasn’t rotund like some of his fellows in the ovens. You dreaming when you oughta be baking, bread boy? Maybe’s teases were one thing; but Grandpa Baker’s were another. Alan, what would your mother say if she saw you like this? Laying around, letting a perfectly good batch of rolls burn for an hour? And for what? Bed time stories about magic and monsters? What good is all that reading gonna do if you let people starve to death?

Every imagined rant and curse made Alan’s stomach sink lower. His left fist tightened with anger, and he walked over to another stall run by Engineer Nails. “Hey Nails.” Alan said, handing the large man his breadbasket. “I need you to watch this while I murder a man with my bare hands.”

“Wh-Alan, son, what in the seven hells are you giving me this fo-“

“Thanks Nails! I’ll be back before you know it!” Alan had already run off deep into the crowd, pushing and ducking under planks and carts to look for that sonofabitch who stole half his damn fresh bread. While he moved, tumbled and dashed his way around his familiar turf, he replayed the morning’s events back in his head, over and over in a loop, like one of Doc Morrison’s light shows that he’d show when he passed through town.

He and Grandpa (and the others in the ovens) had been hard at work. Sweet cakes, rolls, pies and bread. They’d spent all the previous night preparing; and they had an early morning rush of baking. First the cakes and rolls went out for the morning market; Amy and Pete always took the morning market and came back with a killing. The afternoon market was Grandpa’s specialty: fresh baked bread and meat pies. Usually the bargemen came in with the morning supplies and would stop by for a Shepard’s pie or a fresh loaf. And today; since Grandpa had a council meeting, he would oversee it all. He carried the basket with pies and bread through the market; dodging and ducking his way to the Baker’s stall.

And then that damn tramp slammed into him.

“S’cuse me sir,” he said, turning his body away from Alan’s gaze. He stumbled away-but his gait was open enough that Alan could make out some of the fresh French bread he and Grandpa had worked on that morning.

“H-hey! You damn thief!” That was enough to spook the tramp into running.

And now Alan was running as fast as he could, wild-eyed, trying to find where the man was. “Henrietta!” Alan called to the stout woman behind the gunpowder stall.

“What is it Allie sweetie?”

“Did you see a tramp with some bread run by here?”

“I think he was makin’ his way to the station.”

The train whistle of the incoming passenger wagons could be heard now, even amongst the hustle and bustle of the market. Alan’s heart sank when he realized what the tramp was going to do. “I’ve got to stop him!” He shouted, turning and running towards the train station. If the tramp jumped the train…

Grandpa was going to kill him.

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The 12:15 train coming from Benningsfield was going to be arriving just on time. As with many steam engines of the time it was a monster of iron and scraps, all held together by human ingenuity and the sheer willpower that mankind will continue to thrive. It had been 80 years since
the fall, and yet cities and towns were still sprouting up, families were still being made and jobs were still being done. There was a testament to the tenacity to mankind to preserve through it all; to keep pushing forward. Just like a train. Burning fifty miles an hour, furnace burning hot coals; conductors and staff sweating to keep her pushing forward. A nonstop locomotive heading towards a destination: Blackfinger.

Not everyone came by train, of course. Some rode in on their horses. Others took a carriage. Some came by barge or ferry; and the lucky few came by zeppelin giving them save passage over the most dangerous terrain.

This was market day. People were piling in from the hundreds from as far as New Washington, Brigham’s Stead and even New Rojas. Blackfinger was the place to buy anything. New handguns imported from north Kingston, where the Freetowns’ armory lay. Fresh grains from Georgetown to the east, or red maize from the west. Today was the day you could find anything and anyone you needed.

Passengers from all walks sat on the train. Bounty hunters. Musicians. Trappers. Doctors. Good men, dirty women, honest ladies and lying vagrants. The siren call of the city brought them all here today. All for one reason or another. Everyone comes around market day.

But no one ever expects what happens next.

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The wind began to blow...

It hit him coarsely across the back, sweeping his long coat. A norther, thought he. It'd only get chillier. He inclined his head, his drab blue eyes looking above, a hand upon his wide hat, and the other holding the reins of Copenhagen, with the wrist resting upon the saddle's pommel. He squinted. Bright, but not many clouds he could see. The trees at least would serve protection, but the damned floodplains chilled his feet when he dismounted, and he was sure it felt no more comfortable for his steed.

Ah, he thought, damned horse has survived this long through colder. He shifted in the saddle, adjusting his woolen blanket tied about his torso slightly before returning it to the pommel. He glanced behind himself, looking upon the cargo tied to the horse. Folded pelts strapped upon, hefty bags of salted and chilled meat. At Copenhagen's front, a neatly crafted pelt, the unmistakable stock of a Sharps protruding from it, and a black bag beside of it.

He thought, felt guilt, steered Copenhagen clear of the shallow waters, despite his wishes to avoid the turnpike. It meant nothing but trouble, the dirt road that ran south, splitting into goat trails up to Baker's Rest. However, he shifted his weight to the left stirrup, and slid himself off with a grunt, planting his feet upon the damp, uneven ground. It'd take a fair bit of time to get to Baker's Rest on foot, no less leading a horse low down with goods. But it was worth it, wouldn't wanna risk the steed collapsing out of exhaustion only three miles in the trek.

He gripped Copenhagen's leather reigns tight, tugging every so slightly forward as he maneuvered the wet ground, stepping over branches and snake burrows with care as he dotted his eyes about, especially to the turnpike only a couple dozen yards to the left. He thought he heard someone call in that moment, and gritted his teeth. Damned fools, he thought as he made full circle, looking to find nothing except the birds chirping their normal tune.

He turned, dismissed it. "Old age..", he muttered quietly as he continued forth. Just barely through the receding treeline due north, he could see the outline. Baker's Rest. He thrusted one foot into the stirrup and dragged himself aboard his trusty steed, and lightly tapped its ribs with the heel of his boots. They moved quicker yet, and the trees ended and the open floodplains began just ahead.

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Ah, market day. A collector's dream, a gourmand's paradise, a broke man's reminder of his place in life. The latter was the case of one Marcus E. Hamilton, who had spent the last hour of his day "window" shopping, so to speak. Except for the fact that he was neither shopping nor looking through windows. In fact, the proper term would probably be loitering.

Still, he didn't let it bother him. Since coming to Blackfinger he had come to terms with the concept of being broke, as he was sure many others had before him. As the noonday sun assaulted him from above, he scouted out the next merchant whose hopes he would raise in vain. Preferably one with a canopy set up for some shade. And free drinks. And free food.

Dismissing the grumbling in his stomach, a dark skinned merchant caught his eye further down the road- juxtapositioned with a stall full of shining chrome firearms. Shrugging to himself, and only slightly put off by the lack of shade, Marcus made his way over.

"Ah, good day, good day! I can see you're a fightin' man yourself, and with a good eye too! What's caught your interest partner?"

If Marcus could admire one thing about this overseas land, it was how their firearm industry had thrived after the blackout. Europe, it seemed, was miles behind when it came to developing new weapons, even if they were ahead in other aspects. For a time he ignored the Merchant's greeting, except for returning a nod of acknowledgement, examining each of the guns laid out before him in detail. Half seemed to be new products, completely unfamiliar to him in their function. The other half were from before the world collapsed, although none resembled the one he carried with him. Small surprise, given the place his was manufactured.

".357?"

Was his first response, indicating one of the newer firearms that he was unfamiliar with. He of course had no interest in purchasing it, but the question did have a purpose. He watched confusion cross the merchant's face for a moment, trying to recognize the accent and use the information it gave him against his customer in negotiations- like any good merchant would. That alone told Marcus all he needed to know. If the man didn't recognize an English accent, then he hadn't traded in Europe. Which meant that Marcus had no information to sell him. Which meant that Marcus was effectively broke for the means of this negotiation.

Still, the man recovered from his confusion quickly and set about plying his trade:

".357, the newest model from North Kingston in fact! Just as powerful as any shooter of the same caliber, but with so little recoil you'll barely feel your hand vibrating! Perfect for someone with fewer fingers to keep a grip on the gun- if you'll pardon my observation."

Oh, the man was certainly good, Marcus would give him that. If he had the money to spend then the offer would be tempting, but as it was he would have to settle for the gun he already carried. He made a motion for grabbing a coin purse- an act he had repeated many times today by now- ready to sightsee at another stall.

"Well sir, I'd say you have me convinced. Let me just- Ah, blast it I seem to have forgotten my purse. Terrible shame that- will you be here long? It's not a very long jaunt back to where I'm staying."

With that he turned away from the man, still pretending to look for his money.

"I'll be here all day! If you'd like though we can use that watch as collateral? I'd let you have the pick of the table- and as many rounds as you need to test it to your satisfaction!"

Almost reflexively the Englishman took the watch from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. It was certainly more valuable than anything laid out on that man's table a fact that both of them knew. To Marcus, however, it held more value than all the goods in that market combined. There was no chance of selling it- not even if he could retire until the end of his days with the money. With an apologetic smile to the man, he let it rest against his chest once more, replying:

"Sorry chap, I prefer to hold onto it. I'll try to pay you a visit later when we can do busi-"

At the moment someone attempted to run by him, bumping into him with quite a bit of force and grabbing the pocket watch as he ran past. Before the chain could even tighten against his neck Marcus had a hold on the man's hand, and with a tug snapped the man's wrist and sent him sprawling to the ground, his momentum dragging the Englishman down on top of him.

Marcus regained his senses first, and not letting go of the twisted arm that was still clutching his watch, he curled his free hand into a fist and began raining blows and abuse on the man underneath him.

"You bloody footpad!"

Strike!

"Try and steal my bloody belongings!"

Strike!

"You'll pay me back for that little stunt!"

Strike!

"And you're damn lucky-"

Strike!

"- I'm not also charging you by the punch!"

By now the man was out cold, and Marcus easily retrieved the watch from his twisted hand. All of that had taken place in less than a minute, and as he dusted himself off he noticed the gaped looks of the people around him, and almost sheepishly he scratched the back of his head.

"My apologies for that, just handling a thief. If someone could get ahold of a constab- sheriff I think that would be wise."

With that, he noticed for the first time that the man had been carrying bread with him as well- no doubt stolen considering what had just transpired. One had been smashed in the struggle that took place, but the others looked to be in good condition. With a sigh he picked them up and examined the paper bags that they were in.

"Baker's Field Bakery"

That's about the least bloody helpful business name ever.

With a sigh, wondering if he was going to be able to even find the place, Marcus set off in the direction that the man had been running from, leaving the crowd to gawk in the street. After all, it's not like he had anything better to do with his time than try to return the stolen goods. And, as his stomach reminded him, he might just get a reward for it.

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The rhythmic rattle of an old train carriage; a soothing sway that could calm even the most distressed of souls with its endless, baby-rocking motion. One could lounge on the softly furnished seats, curl up into a tight ball, and tip their hat over their face in order to enter their dream filled wonderland; and this was precisely what Janelle was accomplishing.

She sat there on the rustic bench, snuggling herself into the corner, all while feeling the prickly nature of the fabric claw into her bare skin. The tiny barbs didn't even hurt nor did they inflict any sort of stinging sensation, instead they comforted her, scratching into her tiny body like a tightly wrapped blanket all while eating away at those pesky itches you discover while trying to get that much needed shut-eye. There she held her knees up towards her hat covered face, keeping her arms wrapped around her slender legs, the fingers woven together in an impossible to pull apart knuckle lock.

Opposite her, in their private room of solitude and sanctuary, sat her 'older' brother. The man had his legs bridging the gap between the two bench seats, using the end of the lounge that Jannel left vacant as a makeshift footstool for his heavy and hard-wearing boots. He held within his lap his beloved weapon of choice, a beautifully crafted string instrument that would produce a recognisable twang with each pluck of the cord. The fingers slowly played; the vibrations heard in a hypnotic harmony; and the calm melody of the banjo continued to fill the room with a tune of ambience and tranquillity.

Stephenson glanced out the window as he played, simply admiring the landscape that side scrolled past like a traditional theatre backdrop. The trees popped into view and left a few seconds later, while the hills and mountains in the distance moved across ever so gracefully. It was an odd sight that would never cease to amaze him as the objects of interest most far away felt as though they had more detail and depth than the props that whipped past only a few dozen yards away from the locomotive. His fingers suddenly froze, plunging the room into musical silence, leaving only the sound of the rattle from the train that pressed on.

Time continued to pass until the gentle query of the sleeping one chirped from behind the broad-rim floral hat. "Stephen... You stopped playing?"

Stephenson's attention turned towards his supposedly unconscious sibling, looking at the compacted body that made a noise yet hadn't even budged an inch. He peered at her through the rims of his round glasses to spot any sign of potential movement, past the tip of his bulbous nose that now pointed towards the join between the wall and ceiling.

"Hmmm..." it was a grunt of confirmation. Not even a small amount of effort was placed into opening his lips—the lack of effort to reply with a proper, audible response was remarkable. Stephenson lifted his hand towards his face and clutched the fat chamber of his wooden smoking pipe, taking a smooth puff of the fine tobacco that smouldered inside. He pulled the prince pipe away and ever so slightly opened his mouth, letting the smoke flow out like a stream to form a grey, misty cloud of status and superiority.

"Stephen...." A second question from the sleeping beauty in the same tone and curiosity as before, "How much longer 'til Blackfinger?"

This time Stephenson didn't even bother to make a sound. Instead he breathed through his nose with a heavy force of air, turning his his sights towards his banjo as he plucked one of the deeper tone cords. To the regular bystander it would appear as though the man was making every attempt in the world to ignore his sister, but for them this was sibling speak; a form of language perfected over a couple years shy of three decades.

Janelle understood his emotionless huff as she began the slow process of reanimating her nearly lifeless body, a morning ritual that—for this one time—was postponed to to the stroke of midday. A long arm stretch, the circular roll of her shoulders, and a tilt of her head to either side; it was a series of body awakening yoga stretches that gave her the much needed gift of free movement. Sneakily she peeked out from under her hat and looked towards her brother who was vacantly staring through the clear glass on the timber frame door.

"You didn't sleep again, did you brother?" Unlike the queries of before, this one had a tone of seriousness, a tone that felt much more adult in nature.

"Nope," his first words, "and you wouldn't sleep too if yer were the one carrying 'round a hundred dollars in your jacket pocket." Stephenson turned his head to face his 'kid' sister, looking at her over the top rim of his wire frame glasses, smirking a sly grin of confidence and amusement. She was the only person he didn't try to overpower with his expressions, she deserved more respect than that. After all, the two of them were a team and they had managed to get away with a sneaky little con that helped fund their holiday expenditure.

Janelle smiled as she rolled her eyes sarcastically, shifting her view instead to the open world outside, watching as the town of Blackfinger phased into view. The 12:15 from Benningsfield was pulling into a slow halt, on time and preparing for disembarking. The Two Tucker Twins had no idea what treasures were hidden in this town, how open and trusting the residents would be to unfamiliar newcomers, and whether they could use this new home as a place to lay low after their previous run of misdeeds.

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Isadora blinked groggily and roused herself. It was well past the time that people normally got up, but then again, Isadora worked unusual hours.

Isadora brushed out her hair the best that she could before putting it up into a messy bun. She envied her older sister, Minerva, whose hair was wavy enough that it fell naturally in loose ringlets, but not so curly that it was perpetually frizzy and impossible to manage. Unfortunately for Isadora, her caramel-colored locks fit the latter description quite beautifully.

Isadora walked across the cramped room that she shared with her older sister to the rickety old wardrobe that stood in the corner. Whereas Minerva's side of the room was neat and meticulously organized, Isadora's side was utter chaos. Minerva had long given up trying to get Isadora to do anything tidily.

Isadora donned a lightly-flared prairie skirt of ruffled rose calico that brushed her ankles and a fitted cotton blouse decorated with a few ruffled areas at the sleeve and neckline large brass buttons ran down the front of her blouse. She pulled on a pair of Minerva's practical boots for the time being-she would change into something flashier when it came time to open the saloon for business later in the day-and topped the entire ensemble off with a functional leather belt. Isadora decided that she would pinch a bit of lace and line the hem of her skirt in the aforementioned lace if she ever got the chance. Lace was very hard to come by, as expensive as it was, but if Isadora got lucky, she'd meet a nice rich lady who would be willing to trade a lace ruff or a pair of lace gloves for a bit of information. Though, Isadora reflected, she would never ruin a pair of lace gloves in order to decorate one of her plainer skirts.

It was Market Day, which meant that Minerva had been out all morning haggling with the vendors hawking their wares. Isadora felt sorry for the poor vendors. Minerva was one hell of a haggler. Something about her sharp, eternally disapproving eyes, Isadora imagined. And the way her older sister talked-like she was murdering each word as it came out of her mouth. Their mother referred to Minerva's extremely precise way of speaking as clipped. Mariana and Rosalina referred to it as mean.

Isadora made her way down the narrow staircase, which ended in the small office that Eleanora called home. Isadora's mother was there right now, busily scribbling away. None of the Langdales knew much in terms of reading (though Mariana and Rosalina had taught themselves more), but Eleanora and Minerva were good with numbers, a trait that Isadora most certainly had not inherited.

"Isa, finally awake, I see," Eleanora said without looking up. "I know what you've been fixin' to do-all's I'm sayin' is that you best get it done 'fore it's time to open. Use that pretty face of yours and see if you can buy me some new shoes for real cheap while you're at it, hmm?" Although an unknown disease had left her mother crippled when Isadora was only eleven, she had lost none of her brusque, no-nonsense attitude.

Isadora laughed and planted a kiss on her mother's cheek. "You got it, Ma," she replied affectionately, grinning widely. Isadora unlocked the lock box that contained the earnings for the week, counting out a handful of coins. It was Market Day, and by god, Isadora was going to shop.

Isadora was just about to step outside when a face popped out in front of her. "Isa! Are you goin' to the market?" Rosalina asked excitedly, her green eyes twinkling with mischief. Isadora laughed.

"Rosa! What are you up to now?" she questioned, picking up the armored parasol that the twins had created for her out of a durable but thin piece of metal Isadora had managed to acquire from a wealthy old man a couple of years back. He'd been looking for his daughter-something about her running off with a highly improper young man-and Isadora had traded him everything she knew about the aforementioned daughter for the valuable metal. She had planned to sell it at the market, but Mariana and Rosalina had insisted that Isadora let them tinker around with it. They were convinced it was some obscure remnant of the Old World, and Isadora frankly had no reason to believe otherwise. Out of the twins' efforts came a plum purple parasol decorated with little white bows and rosettes and gold swirls made from bits of scrap metal. Isadora adored the parasol; it was very pretty, it blocked the sun extremely well, and although she'd never had to use the bulletproof feature of it before, Isadora was sure that would come in handy some day in the future. She'd never been directly attacked, per se-sure, there were riff-raff in Blackfinger who thought to steal from the saloon, seeing that it was pretty much run by women, but Isadora's honeyed tongue and sweet smile usually deterred them. If Isadora's wiles didn't work, then Minerva's revolver and shotgun usually did the job very nicely. And the twins were perpetually rigging up some sort of contraption or the other. They had plenty of potentially deadly gadgets on hand, if the need arose.

"Well, I jus' wanted to come with you," Rosalina answered, sticking out her lower lip and giving her older sister big puppy-dog eyes.

Isadora frowned in mock-disapproval. "And have you finished all the dishes, young lady?" Isadora asked.

Rosalina's guilty look was all the answer she needed. Isadora sighed and relented. "Fine. Come along. But make sure you finish those dishes 'fore opening, you hear? Otherwise Ma will have your head."

"Splendid!" Rosalina exclaimed happily, her chestnut-colored curls bouncing up and down as she bounded out the door. Isadora shook her head and smiled to herself before following.

Langdale's stood in a convenient location in between a mess of piers and wharves along the Great River and the train station. It was the perfect spot for intercepting any relevant gossip. Normally, Isadora liked to find the bargers, but today, all the action would be in the marketplace. Isadora linked arms with Rosalina, balancing a basket in the crook of her free arm. "Are you goin' to tell me why you wanted to come so badly today, Rosa?" Isadora questioned, appraising her younger sister with a slight tilt of her head.

Rosalina grinned wickedly. "Nope."

Isadora let out an exasperated huff. "Don't play coy with me, missy. I'll be damned if this ain't about that explosive thing you and Maria have been working on for months."

Rosalina deflated slightly. "I should've known that you already knew," she groaned. "Will you tell Ma or Minerva?"

"Not if you don't accidentally blow our house down, no," was Isadora's cheeky response.

Rosalina smiled broadly. "That's why you're my favorite sister."

Isadora arched an eyebrow. "You sure that it ain't Maria, now? You two are as thick as thieves, mmm," Isadora teased lightly.

Rosalina shoo her head fervently, chestnut curls bouncing. "Nuh-uh, Isa. It's you, and you know it!"

Isadora laughed and rolled her eyes. "Kindly do shove off, Rosa," she answered, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth. The two sisters had reached the marketplace, and Rosa's emerald-green eyes flitted from one vendor to the next, searching for anything of interest. Isadora watched her with an amused expression on her face. She let Rosa survey the marketplace for another few moments before digging into her coin purse and pressing a couple of coins into Rosalina's hand. "Meet me back here in two hours, you hear? We gotta get back 'fore it's time to open the saloon." Rosa nodded quickly and dashed off.

Isadora immediately turned to the matter at hand: shopping. She managed to procure a jar of lip tint, a pretty little sun hat decorated with a wide burgundy sash and a bow, and Ma's new boots. For Minerva, Isadora purchased a plain wooden comb, as she'd accidentally snapped her sister's old comb while trying to untangle her impossibly frizzy hair the other day. Isadora shouted greetings and animatedly chatted with others as she went on her way; most of the faces in Blackfinger were easily recognizable to her.

After concluding a lively conversation about the scintillating topics of decorative millinery and Mrs. Blingchester's potential extra-marital affairs with her friend Joanna (Isadora was a firm believer in small, dainty little top hats adorned with an equally small feather or rosette, while Joanna had an unfortunate propensity for wide-brimmed monstrosities adorned with ostentatious poufs and ruffles), Isadora wound her way into the middle of a group of vendors selling firearms. She immediately dismissed the more practical options, instead examining the more decorative pieces. There was a gorgeous ebony-stock percussion muff-pistol that would have suited Minerva well, Isadora thought, if Minerva actually cared about the aesthetics of her weapons (which she didn't). There were a couple of blades with intricately carved hilts, and even one that was inlaid with rubies and pearls that twinkled prettily in the bright sunlight. They were well beyond her means, of course, but who said that a girl couldn't look?

One or two of the passerby gave her strange looks-what was a young woman carrying a parasol decorated in bows and cloth flowers, of all things, doing here?-but otherwise, business was as usual...until a scuffle broke out a couple of feet away from Isadora.

Isadora watched with interest as a man yelled at another about stealing, punctuating his words with violent blows. Isadora felt like rolling her eyes. Men. Ain't there anythin' they can do without hittin' each other? she thought incredulously. Nevertheless, it was over rather quickly, and the man apologized for his actions before continuing on his way. Isadora was thrilled. These things weren't necessarily uncommon, no, but Isadora was an artful spinner. Oh yes, she'd have plenty to say about the incident.

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Across one side of a moving train cart, a man with a black, leather cowboy hat, black leather duster coat and only a red bandana to stand out was sleeping, with his legs crossed and propped up against the table that was bolted to the train floor. At least, that's how Jesse McElroy wanted to appear. The brim of the hat was steeped low to cover his eyes, but he was still able to see a lot of the cart he was riding in. There was no work to be found in the last Freetown, but Jesse knew there was always work to pick up in Blackfinger. His cart was mostly empty of people, save one. This wasn't so much of a big deal. The less people to deal with, the damn better. Less people to get in the way too. However, a girl on the other end to Jesse seemed very awake, and very tired because of this. 'Girl must not be used to trains..'. The bounty hunter thought to himself. That was his first thought, but upon closer inspection, he noticed that there might be more to this girl, most likely strapped beneath her poncho. Jesse glanced at his rifle on the table next to his feet.

'Just in case...'

“What?” Came a hard query. She must have caught his eyes on their last pass, out of the corner of his own.

Jesse looked up, his face now revealed too as he stared at the girl dead straight. He wasn't fond of this girl already. Definitely not one of those 'be a momma or some Saloon waitress' kind of girl. This was one who's killed, nah, kill-s. Jesse could tell just by looking at her. She was younger than Jesse, a good 15 years younger. Damn kids running their mouths.

"Not a damn thing, kid..." He replied, his mixture of rough gravel and southern accent voice echoing throughout the cart. Time to see how much bark this girl's got.

Darcy scowled. “Well don’t get moody with me, yeah? Lookin’ at me like some wet cat. Christ.”

Jesse couldn't help but smirk, probably not helping his situation. Not that he was mocking her, he just thought her comparision was funny. "Don't get yappy with me. I ain't gonna say you're a total clutz, but you're still a Greenhorn kiddo, so pipe the hell down." Jesse scolded like an angry father. He couldn't stand young punks that thought they were hot shit and knew better. He didn't even give her a sour look to begin with, goddamn...

“Don’t get– ” She shuffled around, looked at him like he’d just started speaking another language. “What in the hell are you even talking about? ‘Greenhorn’? You dull? Are you actually dull? Am I supposed to know you?”

"I'm a Bounty Hunter kid. Go by 'Blackjack'. It doesn't take too long to work out another killer anymore. You're a young one too, probably ain't been handling one of these for ten years at least..." Jesse explained as he unholstered his six-shooter piece. Merely to demonstrate as he holstered it back again. "Also, you're cocky as hell. Dead giveaway, really."

Darcy nearly rolled her eyes into her skull. “Cocky. I’m cocky. That’s real ripe comin’ from the cunt. You name your guns? You look like the type to name your guns.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "Wait, what? People... do that?" He questioned. Honestly, he never really stuck around other gunmen long enough to check if they do that shit. Whole thing felt like a waste of time, then you get attached to the gun and you don't wanna get rid of it even though the other gun is clearly superior. "Shit like that pisses me off." Jesse responded quite simply.

“Yeah, well..." Darcy huffed. She clearly hadn't expected to agree on anything with him, and it didn't seem a pleasant surprise. “You'd just better watch it, struttin' around like that, eyein' on folks. You're lucky I'm tired--and forgiving. Not everyone's as forgiving as I am."

The Bounty Hunter did nothing but smirk. "You're right. Normal gunslinger would probably be trying to shoot me right about now." She wasn't a bad kid. But if she was in the killing business, boy has she got a long way to go. Not that Jesse is perfect, but he's gotta have some level of skill if he's been doing what he's doing for this long. Jesse turned his head and looked out the window. "Sun's almost at it's highest. We can't be that far from Blackfinger now." Jesse mentioned.

“Well thank God," she said, and leaned her head back against the window. “Good enough place. Ain't New Rojas, 'course. Now that you oughta see. Makes these Free Cities look like dumps."

Jesse shot the young girl a spiteful look. Anywhere was better than that den of criminal scum. Mind you, was there even a law these days? "Ain't nothin' better than New Rojas, ya mean..." He retorted, as if he was correcting the girl. Jesse lost all respect for that shithole long ago. "You from there?"

She sniffed, a proud smirk worked onto her face. “Shit, I might be."

"Wipe that shit eating smirk of your face, Kid. I'm from there too. Nothing good ever comes out of that place. Lemme guess, you're in a gang? Working for a gang? Forced to work for a gang?" Jesse suggested, all previous excuses from past bounties who operated in New Rojas. "Shit, you're the leader, right?" Jesse joked, openingly chuckling to his own jest.

Very quickly her grin did vanish for an ugly glower, and she soured again. “I'll have you know I'm a respectful businesswoman, doing respectful governmental work, yeah?. It's a skillful, honest living. Clearly not everyone can hack it."

Jesse smirked. He clearly hit a nerve. "Whatever you say kid, but if you're peddlin' something, then I ain't buying it." The Bounty Hunter has clearly said enough. She was a kid, but she was a kid with a gun. They're even more dangerous. Jesse stared out the window as the 'oh so glamorous' Baker's Rest, better known as Blackfinger, was pulling into view as the train was slowly coming to a halt. Jesse cleared his throat and picked up his rifle, resting it upon his shoulder. "Good day to you. Miss." Jesse said as a farewell. This was going to be a long day.

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Finkerton swerved his glass cup in a smooth and prudent manner, discreetly gazing down towards the walking crowd of townsfolk as they conformed themselves to the town market which lay only a block away through what the businessman could see from out the window of his room just on the second floor of his bar. Overhead, the crowd was all the more distorted the moment his eyes carefully followed towards the town center, a place he would have to visit as he made his way towards the train station which was probably eminent in its arrival. Finkerton was well suited for who was to arrive from the station, he wore a suit as black as ash, his blonde hair combed over. A man none other than the bareknuckle heavyweight champion, Alan Brucci, who had just finished his 63rd bout which had ended in a 47th round knockout.

Though for the time being until his arrival, Finkerton waited cautiously before awaiting a knock at his door that was soon to be eminent. Finkerton drank the shot of hard whisky with one gulp, leaving his empty glass cup atop his mahogany nightstand before leaving his room and into the office that lay behind his hard wooden door. Outside, his office, an organized work area which had a door that lead through into the hallway corridors that overlooked the bar outside though that wasn't where he was heading. Turning to his left, Finkerton abruptly shoved the wooden doors of his balcony open to make his presence known to all eyes that could be possibly watching him from outside the bar though was met with none.

Finkerton himself could admit that was a paranoid man, but such a man of his position must always needed to be. Taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air, the man carefully inspected the newly incoming revenue of strangers and townsfolk alike gather towards the ever growing cesspool that was the marketplace, a place where the scum and 'honest' folk alike were to gather on this day. It was the scum often lurked during the night, but today would be an exception, for it was Market Day for the town of Blackfinger - a time where men and women of every trade could take the moment the indulge in opportunism. Such was the case for Finkerton the proprietor who most certainly had the opportunity to make business ends meet, both honest and scummy. Having just received an influx of shipments for this special moment, the man was well prepared to conduct his business for the week.

Market Day was more of something that lasted perhaps a few days rather than just one, though this was it's first and upon examining the dissonant crowd just ahead of him, there was an unexpected knock at the door that shouldn't have happened this early. The blonde Mexican businessman walked towards the mahogany door, and saw the expected presence of his bodyguard just as he opened it. He was tall, fat, and copper-skinned with a beer belly that stuck out his wretched stomach. He was complemented with sharply thin eyebrows and black hair that was pulled back into a pony tail to expose his leathery face. It was his robust bodyguard Jorge, a man who stood by Finkerton's side since the death of his mother many years past. Finkerton gesticulated a welcome-in to the man before shutting the door behind him.

"I thought we'had discuss you bothering me after about exactly thirty minutes past the hour." Finkerton reminded him amiably after reaching for the bright golden stopwatch he purchased many years ago when he still making his way in the world.

"Perdón, pero tengo algo importante que quiero decir con usted." Jorge said, looking into Finkerton's now slightly disappointed face, thinking that informality was his mistake. The man never often never showed concern over his actions unless at the presence of his blonde companion. "Señor."

"And I thought you'd promise to work on your English." Finkerton replied, proving that it wasn't formality that the large man needed to be concerned about. "No need for petty formality, you are my good and rather kind companion. Now, what you do want that's worth molesting me about 4 minutes prior to your supposed arrival?" Finkerton said, looking again at his watch.

"I am sorry." Jorge replied, his accent notably present. "It is Campbell. He -uh." Finkerton raised both eyebrows, his chin tightly tucked at his throat as if to expect a struggling explanation as to why the man didn't keep his word though he knew exactly what he was going to say the moment Campbell was mentioned. The large man bit his lower lip and looked as if to forage through a dictionary of English words in his thick skull in a manner that were to explain the situation at hand. Yes, this is what Finkerton should've expected of a man who barely spoke English but nonetheless saw it as benevolent practice. Unfortunately, the man never bothered to learn English, but Finkerton insisted on it nonetheless. "The land he purchased from you. I am afraid is not satisfied." Finkerton chuckled, remembering yesterday night.

"Well, I wouldn't be either if I were to make deal with a conman while well past his sober." He added, half smiling through his crooked smile. "If you should kindly tell that cocksucker to fuck himself and to not pester to me about it anymore - I believe that would be a sufficient solution to your concern." Finkerton turned and casually leaned against his hard wooden desk that was his work area. "And that wasn't him who purchased the property. It was his young and fucking idiotic cousin, remember? If he should've anyone to confront, it would be him. The deal's been made and I'm afraid fuck up's can't be amended after a proper handshake." Finkerton reminded him.

"But sir, he tells me he would like to reconsider a counter offer."

"Which is?"

"He did not say." Replied Jorge who then proceeded to shrug his massive shoulders. Finkerton nodded and gesticulated as if to tell the large man to lead the way and proceeding his way outside and into the bar and below him. Finkerton could see the solemn look of the man he had suspicions of showing up the night after a certain transaction. He was a tall and pale man with dark black hair and dressed in formal brown formal attire, his sharp facial features making his facial expressions all the more predominant as looked at Finkerton through his clear blue eyes with contempt. Aside him, his olive-skinned wife dressed in a beautiful green dress that complemented her dark brown hair.

"Well, it's certainly nice to see you Frank!" He lied as he made his ways down the sturdy wooden stairs. "You and the wife certainly look well! Pleasant to see you both, hope you had a good morning?"

"I did not, but rather I've awoken to a nightmare upon realizing the transactions that were transpired as of last night." Frank said, trying to hold his subtle anger behind the projecting amity.

"Oh?" Finkerton replied, pretending not to know as he made his way down into the bar.

"Don't you fucking act like -" Frank Campbell snapped though was interrupted by an intruding tug of his smooth cooper-colored coat by his wife as if to remind her husband who exactly he was talking to. She looked up towards his husband with her brown eyes to which Frank then took a moment to clear his throat while Finkerton sassily then put both hands on his hips, leaning forward as if to listen to a child. "I believe you know what I'm referring to: The property purchased by my rather -em", he cleared his throat to look for a polite way of putting it, "naive younger cousin who I believe was not in his right mind as to make any decision at such a moment in both his life and what events that subsequently transpired as of last night."

"Oh, that." Finkerton smiled lifting his finger, obviously pretending to have just realized what the man was in fact referring to as he casually walked further down the stairs meeting Frank at eye level. "Well, you see: the property is now under that rather generous and prodigal cousin of yours, so I am to expect that if he were to have any complaints - he might've chosen to confront me instead." Finkerton explained, putting his hands in his smooth silk pockets. "I hope he is a man that is to both keep his word and deal with his own issues himself. Is he not?"

"A boy who is likely to make such rash decisions under the influence shouldn't be a man who is likely to make anything that could be considered a decision at all." Frank justified, his wife nodding her head in agreement.

"And yet the boy did exactly that." Finkerton reminded him. "I apologize if any of your cousins actions inconveniences you personally." The blonde businessman added, his sincerity obviously absent in his tone. "Though a drunken stupor of a transaction is still nonetheless a transaction, and that property five miles from town that I've sold to that very same cousin is now under the name of that very rather 'naive' cousin." Finkteron added. "Unless you're willing to sell me that property to which I believe I should have to consider before rashly buying it." Finkerton obviously referencing to Frank's cousin in an almost joking way as the man subtly began to grind his teeth behind his humorless face.

"The only thing I can offer is to match the real price of that property. It's worth no more than fifteen thousand rather than the twenty five you charged my cousin." Frank walked closer to Finkerton, his voice becoming all the more solemn as he approached. "Fifteen and no more. I should have the law at my side if you are bound to rebut." Campbell's tone became all the more accosting though Finkerton did not fret.

"Well, do that if you will. Harrow, who is likely to return in just another few moments or so from his humble voyage abroad, shall be more than likely to discuss any legal matters regarding the transaction last night between your cousin and I." Finkerton casually responded, Jorge began to step forward if any violence were to commence.

"And I implore you to reconsider when push comes to shove." Finkerton gritted his teeth though his eyes read desperation more than they did assertiveness and frustration and although most men could pity his situation, Finkerton did not.

"Well, consider it reconsidered..." Finkerton returned with a solemn look that erased his former amiable face thus giving his answer to the man. His tone was low and husky; aggressive as if to ward off a predator while Campbell could only return with a disdainful look of useless contempt. "Good day to you, Frank!" The proprietor's face then slowly conjured a sarcastic grin as Frank lowered his eyes while Finkerton walked haphazardly past him. "Take care of the Bar Carlos. Harris, you're with Jorge and I." He asked the bartenders, while exiting through the small doors of the almost empty bar aside Jorge while Harris followed behind them. Holding his belt to check his sidearm, Finkerton took a moment to breathe before walking through the dirt road with Jorge and Harris at his side towards their priority destination: The train stop. Though not before walking through the crowded marketplace that stood in their way.

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Ernest didn't know how long he had been sitting there in the middle of the field, staring at his spilled sugar, but if he could wager in a guess, it would be with confidence that he would claim that he had been here for the better part of six hours. That in itself wasn't a bad estimate, considering how toasted his backside was. Most merchants would shrug off the mess and cut the losses; after all, there would always be more sugar, more vendors, more customers in the towns ahead. With enough speed and a little less time taken, the money gained probably would be able to cover up for the losses.
If only Ernest's market wasn't so niche in the first place. He couldn't expect to sell his confections to just anyone, especially when people of his class or below would literally kill to get their hands on the recipe to a treat fit for the wealthy. Then again, he wasn't sure if his customers wouldn't care about his well-being over that of the book he carried. In their eyes, he was probably a mangy old man that would sooner or later get himself killed in a terrible accident, and his book would be irreparably damaged so that the secrets of candy-making would die along with him. So why not send people to hunt the old man down and surgically extract all that information from him before anything worse could happen?

How many times had he thought that thought, only to have nothing come of it?

When the old man opened his eyes, he could feel his sore back sear against the leather of his coat. Thusly came his utterance of the word "chickenshit", and in a mad scramble, the man stripped himself of the cloak and tossed it away. The pile of confectioner's sugar had melted nicely into a puddle of bubbling caramel in the time he spent crying over his mess, and now he had wasted both time and potential money.

Perhaps the next town had something for him. Cheap land, perhaps, or maybe a few kind souls willing to let him borrow their kitchen. Or a river. Ernest could use a river's worth of water right about now, but...

Where exactly was the town?

The man looked 'round and around for any signs, but all he found was grass, trees, and more grass. It didn't help much either that the sun was at high noon. Unless he had a compass...right, compass.

Out came a canteen of thoroughly distilled water (boiled it himself), and out of that poured a good handful of cool, crystalline water onto the caramel. Immediately, the sticky brown pool of sugar hardened into a rich oak color, and thusly it could contain a pool of water. Now Ernest had to be careful here; it wouldn't be long before the water would diffuse the sugar, and he could only put in an object light, pointed, and magnetically inclined to...

Right, the sewing needle.

His breathing picked up into pants as he rifled for the needle in the backpack; if any said this was easier than a haystack, Ernest would be inclined for them to do the same, especially when said backpack is filled with equally shiny utensils and silverware of all kinds. Out came ladles, spoons, and measuring cups, but he couldn't really...

Ernest pulled his hand back as something sharp punched through his finger. Wincing as he did so, the candyman held his hand high up in the sky to find his needle impaling the callous betwixt his thumb and the heel of his hand. With a quick yank, Ernest tugged the needle back out, and dropped the bloody (no, literally) thing into the pool of water.

And thusly, it began to spin, the steel needle did.

Ernest sucked his puncture wound and waited for the business end to point north and...well, if that was North, then he'd just have to head west. The confectioner drew an arrow pointing North before collecting all of his things again, and soon he would be on his merry way to Blackwater.

---

From the East, most would see a man fitting the title of a Scrapper stumble into Blackwater's dusty streets. Like a shark floating through a school of baitfish, it would seem that the crowds hesitated to get near the man; after all, Scrappers were often the risky bunch that brought not only incredibly valuable wares from the Old World, but also incredibly dangerous diseases that lied within. Oh, but Ernest could do with a bit of buffer space. It would be too easy to rob a poor old man like him blind.