Welcome to the town of Sweetwater, south of the Texas panhandle. The road here might have been a bit dusty, but the Sweetwater Saloon offers a place to wet a dry throat. The batwings open into a dark smoke filled room where an elderly man plays a halfhearted song on a badly out of tune piano. The portly Saloonkeeper collects the patrons' guns (and other obviously displayed deadly weapons) and stores them under the bar before he serves any alcohol.

The whiskey is rough and the crowd rougher! Phineas, William, Taylor, Mistihkoman, and Mary have fallen into a poker game with a man who goes the by the name of Mr. Logan. He's a well dressed man with a thin mustache and keeps losing more than he's winning. So far, Finney and Mary have each won 2 dollars, Billy 4, and Taylor and Mistihkoman each 3, all at the expense of Mr. Logan, who is growing... annoyed ... at his loses, but doesn't seem to be running out of dollars yet.

"One more round," Mr. Logan says, dealing out the cards yet again. "Let me win some of that back."

---

There are four windows at the front of the building. The bar is on the north wall while the piano and a stair up to the office are on the south. A lone pool table is nestled in the back corner, and two well worn tables and several scattered chairs fill the center of the room.

The money.

He had to go back for the money.

For what would not be the last time in many, many days, Taylor R. Jackson's thoughts once again returned to the pounds and pounds of gold stashed in that cave back in New Mexico. Ten thousand dollars lifted from stagecoaches, homesteads and banks from all across Arizona and California. Ten thousand dollars was the worth of his life. And all because of that one tip that goddamned snake of a Mexican fed them, gold magnate Karl Jorgensen would ensure that this chase was not going to let up until either him or all of the gang were dead.

Some of the gang said they were going to hole up in a ranch in Kansas. Yet a couple more said that they were headed up north in Dakota, probably rob some miners on the way there. And now here he was in this godforsaken town, gambling away what was left of his life's work to a darkie, a redskin, and a couple of dandies probably from up north. This was it. He was living the life. On an ordinary day he and his gang would have this entire saloon quaking in fear and spilling the contents of their wallets all over the floorboards. Now he was hiding like a rat in this ballsack of a town with his face splashed all over wanted posters from here to Phoenix. Granted, they weren't very good impressions, but he paid a boy a couple of cents to take down the most accurate ones plastered in the town square.

What was he doing here? Waiting? Planning? He felt aimless. He was lost. Why did he want to go it alone? An extra gun or two, while conspicuous, would have been useful in the case a bounty hunter or a Pinkerton showed up on his trail.

But well, it was only a few dollars. After one last round, he'd go up to his room and hit the sack.

"Your loss, mister," he muttered, taking the two cards the well-dressed man dealt to him.

Mistihkoman sat at the table stiffly. When he'd walked into the Texas he had meant only to trade the pelts he'd picked up. And get a small sum from it before heading back north. He'd wanted to avoid the glares and dirty looks the residents had started to give him the moment he'd come into town. Even if it's clear he's no member of the Apache, the Comanche or the Delaware, he's still an First Nations or Indian person from the America's. Canada treats his people and cousins a little differently from the States, so he'd not wanted to stay too long.

But someone had seen him pocketing several bills of money, and had dragged him into the saloon, despite his wish to not do so. the Firewater isn't exactly healthy. But he'd stayed, refused to pay for drinks of anyone else but himself and sat, watched, ignoring the attempts by people to get him to pay for their drinks. His Rifle, bow and the rifle club had been taken, but he still had his knife and tomahawk hidden under his vest just in case. He sniffs, and looks at the cards in his hand. He's not sure how he ended up at the table. He'd been sipping at a glass of whiskey before he'd been invited to sit at the table. And now several hands in he looks at the small stack of dollars. So far it's gone well.

As he sets his cards down on the table, looking over at one of the spectators saying something about how he's not playing standard Indian Cards. Something about one on the head if you don't see it you lose. The short indian just narrows his eyes. Then turning back to look Logan, "Moniyew wants his soniyew back? Logan must win this hand then." He reaches down picks up one of the coins he won and flips it between his fingers, "We start yes?"

“Oh, how’d y’all get me roped into this game. I ain’t no gambler, but mees no complainin’ ‘bout winnin’ dis ere money.” Billy never gambled. But somehow someone got him into this game in the saloon in Sweetwater, Texas. He looked over at the older white man who was a few inches shorter than himself. He didn’t know the man, but he looked rough. He was wearing one of those wide brimmed ten-gallon hat, Billy always mocked when he rode the trail. Even the Comancheros he rode with thought those hats were awkward looking. But Billy convinced himself not to say anything about it. He suspected by his accent, the man was from the deep south. If he was going to get into a fight, it would be on his terms. He’d never heard a Louisiana accent, but knew it did not sound like anyone from Chicago, Indiana or Iowa. He spent most of his life up north, but had been in Texas for the past several years. He had gotten used to the Texas accent, but this gentleman did not sound like someone from Texas either. “You kin try n’ take dis money, Missa Logan, but I ain’t in da mind to be givin’ it away.”

There was another Yankee at the table, who went by the name of Finney. He was shorter than everyone else at the table. He could tell by his appearance, that he only recently arrived in Texas and did not know what he had gotten himself into. There was a time when he would view a northerner as an ally or friend, but having received the shit end of the stick more than a few times, he knew not to trust them as much as a southerner. But with this kid, he felt as though the young man would need his help more than a typical Yankee found in Texas. He made a commitment to himself that he would watch the kid and help if he needed, until he betrayed him somehow. With whites, Billy knew it was not if, but when.

Billy didn’t know what to make of the white woman or the Indian. He knew many Comanches and Apaches, but he never met someone quite like him. Billy addressed Mistihkoman, “Where you from, friend? Ah’ve lived with Commanches and Apaches. You be different. Ah reckon, ah can’t place where you from.”

---

Finney played cards with his school mates in Amherst. The stakes often were higher than the game here in the Sweetwater saloon. But somehow, he realized there was more at risk here than when he was at school. For starters, he knew all the boys he played with at school. These people he was playing cards with were all strangers to him. His father told him to be wary of strangers like these. He thrilled at being here in this backwater saloon, the smell of alcohol and burning tobacco. It all excited him. He had never seen a native before and here he was playing cards with one. He wanted to ask the man questions. He wanted to ask all five of the people at the table many questions but felt he would only scare them away if he threw too many questions at them too quickly. He made a point to observe their behavior and make inferences from that. Maybe he could develop a comfortable rapport with these people to ask his questions.

Finney had met several colored folk either in Boston, Gloucester or Amherst, but they were usually fairly well dressed or at least comfortable. This giant of a colored man wore Cavalry trousers and boots. He wore a cowboy hat, one he’d never seen before. He wondered if he served in the army. “Excuse me, mister,” Finney looked at Billy. “Were you in the army?” He wasn’t aware black men served in the army.

“Yes sah,” Billy responded. “10th Cavalry. Buffalo Soldiers.”

For Billy

The squat native set his coin down and let his gaze travel around the table. Moniyew and moniyeweskiwew and kaskitewiyas. It's actually quite interesting to see so many and to see the white men including their women and a man of a different colored skin. As he sits and waits for the next moves to be made he blinks a little. He didn't register it at first but the dark skinned man is talking to him. He takes a moment to think back and nods slowly. He smiles a little as he responds, "Comanche and Apache are my cousins. I am Plains Cree, from Montana territory and North into Canada, Saskatchewan and Alberta." He nods, "Scout, Tracker and Hunter." He adds patting his chest proudly. He looks the man over and nods respectfully, "Fine to see dark skinned man here. Good medicine." Finally he lets it out, "Mistihkoman, Big Knife, my name. What is your name dark skinned one?"

Mary puffed idly at the half-finished cigar between her lips, the three successive pulls leaving a trail of smoke in the air. She enjoyed the occasional smoke, that and a shot of whiskey did wonders to help ease the soreness of days traveling on horseback. Though what Mary truly enjoyed was seeing the startled expressions on men’s faces when they saw her smoking casually. It was a sin, she was told. A hobby unbefitting a woman such as herself. She didn’t like the sound of that one bit. The things she did to uppity men like that… Well…

Mary looked up at the greasy man glaring at her from beside the bar, a cotton rag held up against a bloodied nose he received not ten minutes earlier. Not only had the greaseball gotten between Mary and her last cigar, but he had also roughly suggested she replace it with a rather inappropriate member beneath his pants. At that Mary had merely chuckled, grabbed him by the loose hair of his balding head, and slammed his nose right into the countertop. The bartender, who had witnessed the whole thing, merely shook his head and tossed the bleeding man a rag to soak up the blood now gushing from his nasal cavity. She locked eyes with the man and blew another long plume of smoke matched by a devilish smile. The ol’ greaseball stormed out of the saloon, the stomp of his boots on the hardwood floor attracting a few annoyed glances on the way out. She heaved a heavy sigh. From the looks of him, Mary could tell he posed no real danger. There was undoubtedly a tired wife and children waiting for him at home. Still, she would sleep with a gun under her pillow tonight – Mary rarely didn’t these days.

Her attention turned to the table where Mistihkoman and the colored man were sparking a conversation. She listened intently as the Indian spoke his name. Not being one to wait until spoken to, Mary quickly chimed in.

“Misty-what now?” She raised a confused eyebrow. Her experience with Natives had only been through pseudonyms, they took American names that were more easily pronounced by the English tongue.

“I outta call you Big Knife, then. Sadly, those Indian names sound like a mouthful of nails to me.”

Mary glanced at her cards on the table, letting slip a small smile before quickly recovering her nonchalant expression. She had absolutely nothing, but no one else needed to know that. She needed to win money any way she could anyhow. The room at the inn wasn’t cheap and she would have to win big if she wanted to last the month.

“I’m Mary. Mary Johnson. It's a pleasure." She loosed a charming smile, a stark contrast to a pair of hungry sea-green eyes.

Mr. Logan gave Taylor, Billy and then Mistihkoman a tight-lipped and annoyed smile at their statements about keeping his money. "Lady Luck is a fickle mistress, gentlemen," he said, managing to sound as if he thought them anything but. He put his dollar down on the table and then adjusted his clean tie with his meticulously trimmed fingernails, a somewhat obvious tell that he was displeased with his cards. "Perhaps she'll decide to smile on me this hand."

He glanced over at the woman smoking a cigar and then the young man that looked like he'd barely stepped off the train yesterday. He sighed in further annoyance. That either of them had even managed to win a couple dollars was exceedingly perturbing.

No one had asked him directly, but he inserted himself into the small talk anyway to hide his rather poor poker face. "So Big Knife is a hunter. What do the rest of you do for a living? Myself, I'm actually in the cattle business. Originally from Georgia, but I've been out here for awhile now."

---

There are others scattered around the room besides the saloonkeeper and the poker players: 2 men playing pool, a man at the piano, plus 4 roughnecks at the bar (there'd been 5 before Mary's would-be suitor left with a bloodied nose) and 4 at the second table, one of which glances over at the poker game every once in awhile.

Silently, Taylor listened to the other players around the table introduce themselves. They seemed safe enough, though he wasn't really here to make friends. The black man was from the Army - he could tell by the uniform he wore. They could probably have recognized each other, though he seemed a tad too young to have served in the war. Either way, he probably wouldn't appreciate his own war stories.

Suddenly, Logan raised his question. Ah, fuck. He wanted to be friendly. What if he was a Pinkerton? Shit, what if he recognized him right now and was planning to truss him up outside? His attention returned to the hunting knife he kept hidden in his coat. He also noticed the outline of the Native man's tomahawk concealed under his vest.

Focus, Taylor. Focus. Remember the plan.

"Uh, Johnson. Barnabus Johnson. Bounty hunter."

Taylor looked at his cards. Not too great, but not terrible either. He could fold, but he decided he would raise the stakes on the table and ride his bet out to the end.

“Fine to see dark skinned man here. Good medicine.” The Cree spoke him his unpronounceable name, "Mistihkoman, Big Knife, my name. What is your name dark skinned one?" Even Miss Mary found it difficult to repeat.

“Nice to be making your acquaintance, Misty-Ko-Man and Miss Mary,” Billy responded to the Cree man and the woman. He looked at his hand and agreed his skin was a darker color than most.

“What do the rest of you do for a living?” The gentleman who dealt the lousy hand and was supporting the pot quite nicely asked.

“My name is William Kingsley, but most folks call me, Billy. I ain’t got no job at the moment. I was a soldia with the 10th cavalry for more than a few years. I been rambling from job to job just ta git by. Ah grew up in Illy-noy.” Billy looked up at Mr. Logan. “Are you a hirin’ man, mistah?” Billy looked at the cards he was dealt; the ace of clubs and the two of hearts. ‘Here’s hoping the community cards present somethin' worthwhile,’ Billy thought to himself. ‘Maybe four clubs or a few more aces would be nice.’

Billy did not mind the tobacco smell from Miss Mary. It was an odor he had grown accustomed to over the years. He tried smoking tobacco with Commanches, but never picked up the habit.

The other dandy claimed to be a bounty hunter. Billy doubted that lie, but took the man at his word. Most bounty hunters he met, looked more like the Johnny Reb across the table.

Phineas found the conversation fascinating. He listened to the others and breathed in Mary Johnson’s cigar smoke. He tried cigars back at Amherst, but never liked the taste. It was not something he would do again. “Miss Johnson,” Finney looked around the table. “Gentlemen, my name is Phineas Eugene O’Connell from Gloucester, Massachusetts. One of the finest fishing communities in the United States of America,” Finney spoke with an eastern Boston accent. “Most people call me Finney. It is my nickname. I am here for an investigative reason and I find you people quite fascinating. For me it is a calling, you could say.” Finney had a youthful grin or smile plastered on his face. He was excited to be here. The setting was perfect for his purpose. The people sitting at the table were perfect. He was in the moment and loved it. “To be honest, I am a writer. I graduated from Amherst not long ago and have journeyed out to Texas in order to see the West first hand. I want to learn what you know and experience it myself.” As a sidebar, Finny felt compelled to share a little history with his companions. “Did you all know that roughly thirty years ago, Texas was an independent country?” Finny looked at his cards; the five of clubs and the seven of diamonds. He threw them on the table, “Fold.”

Mistihkoman smiles, "Interesting people. Good medicine though." He looked at his cards again. A pair of twos, if he remembers the lessons that one moniyew taught him at Fort Edmonton, then this meant he had a chance, a slim chance but a chance. Anything could beat his pair at this point, unless the cards in the middle played nice. He hoped. But did not hope hard. He tossed a coin into the middle, "Maybe this help the deal." He nods feeling like he did this right.

He takes the time to look up at everyone. This Phineas seemed like an interesting sort. And seems quite proud of who and what he is. Interesting white man. Then this Mary Johnson, strong woman, good medicine indeed. He liked this Billy Kingsley, he had a good soul to him he felt. Incredible medicine that. But what made Mistihkoman wonder is this Barnabus character. Something about the words wrong untrue. But he couldn't place it. Like it was well something wasn't right he couldn't really tell.

He gave a sniff then nodded slowly, "So shall we play more. I am in." He nods putting his cards back down again on the table face down. He smiled slightly, just slightly, hoping to look confident in what he's doing.

Mary seems displeased with her cards and folds as well. Since Finny has folded, that leaves just Mr. Logan, Taylor (aka Barnabus), Billy, and Mistihkoman playing for the pile in the center of the table.

"I've heard some outlaws go on to become bounty hunters. Is that true, Mr. Johnson?" Mr. Logan asks Taylor. Though he frames it politely, there is a not-so-nice undertone to his question.

He turns his gaze to William, a short look of distaste passing over his face as the man asks if he's hiring. "My payroll is full at the moment," Mr. Logan said to Billy, taking another large sip of his whiskey and nearly rolls his eyes at Finny's sharing of Texas history... as if a kid from Massachusetts knew anything about Texas. "Time to lay down..."

The community cards are turned: King of Diamonds, 7 of spades, and 2 of spades.

Mr. Logan actually cracks a smile when the King of Diamonds appears. He's holding the King of Hearts and that bodes well.

But his smile falters when Mistihkoman hand shows the pair of 2s, giving him 3 of a kind. There was just no way in hell the savage native could have won... again!

"This has been fun gentlemen," he said, his thin cheeks flushed with anger, "but I believe I’ve been cheated! I’ll take my money back now, thank you!" He reaches for the pot, obviously intending to scoop it all up.

The 4 roughnecks at the bar set down their drinks. As do the 4 at the other table... attention in the room quickly shifting to the poker table...

Mistihkoman had thought his chances slim to none. Barely able in fact. So as the cards turned his elation rose. It couldn't be, another two card. A Spade, to add to his clubs and diamonds! A three of a kind, he remembered the man at Fort Edmonton tell him this is a good hand. He looked about the table, it's incredible. He won? He won. A big smile crosses his face, "Ah! Good medicine indeed. So much good medicine." He laughs softly and nods sagely. Indeed the time had come to lay down and he had laid it down the finest. Impressive really as he thought he had no chance. As he's about to voice his joy though, well things change.

As Logan reaches for the pot sounding quite put out Mistihkoman watches then his own ire burns brightly. They had taken his rifle, and bow and rifle butt club upon entering the saloon, but had failed to take his knife and tomahawk which were hidden inside his vest. As Logan extends his hands with that red faced look on his face Misithkoman moves. The tomahawk flits out and slams into the table top right between Logan's middle and ring fingers, missing his hand by mere hairsbreadths. He then whispers, "Do you know why they call me Big Knife?" And from the other side of his vest a hunting knife 40 centimetres long (1.3 foot), with a 10 centimeter wide (.3 foot) blade. It's a helluva a thing to see. Almost like the infamous bowie knife of James Bowie fame. He looks at Logan, his other hand still on the tomahawk handle, "I am a Hunter. And a Scout. And in battle these two professions make for fine bladework, Mr. Logan." His dark eyes glinted as he rose to his feet, he's a squat powerful figure, but with those two weapons he towers at the moment.

He grins, "You have Bad Medicine, Mr. Logan. It poisons your mind and heart." The dull glint of the blade in the Native man's hands almost like a dull star in the night sky. He raised it and pointed the hooked tip at Logan, "I would be glad to cut it from you if you wish." He turned the blade slightly the cutting edge of the blade catching the lamp light, "Come now white man. Continue your angry movements, so I may call on Omantiou as my witness to guide my hand."

Finney didn’t understand what Mr. Logan was doing right away. He may have been a bit slow on the uptake. None of his frat brothers would ever think to cheat or steal the pot in this manner. It was foreign to his etiquette. But when Misty Koman pulled out the small sword, he realized the grumpy old man was trying to steal the pot from him. He knew this was a fight he was ill prepared for and did not want to get involved. He would find a quiet corner to melt into and be a proverbial bug on the wall, watching what happened.

Billy on the other hand felt a bit suspicious about Mr. Logan from the beginning of the game as well as the Johnny Reb. He was curious about Miss Johnson and agreed with Misty Koman’s good medicine. He knew the Cree man, was a good person. When he saw the Cree stand up and threaten Mr. Logan after he reached for the pot, Billy stood up dropping his chair to the floor. He gave up his weapons when he entered the establishment, except one; his fists and feet. He was an experienced pugilist, having taken his licks many times.

“Mistah Logan, it would be in yo best interest if you rethought what you was attemptin’ to do heah. This is not gonna go the way ya planned.” Billy addressed Mr. Logan in a very serious tone. Billy looked at Misty Koman simply to let him know, he had his back.

As the tomahawk slams down, the man at the piano abruptly stops playing.

Mr. Logan flinches and draws his hand back about an inch out of reflex, though does not relinquish the money. The reason for his ‘bravery’ in the face of the threats becomes more apparent as the 4 roughnecks from the other table stand up and approach the poker table, as do two of the men at the bar…. The six of them positioning themselves to surround the table.

One bumps his shoulder hard against Phineas as they pass him, but otherwise do not prevent him from removing himself from the situation. None are holding visible weapons, but their postures make it clear they are Mr. Logan's muscle.

"Do you know why they call me Big Knife?"

“I assume because ‘they’ are savages that name their children after weapons,” Logan sniped back, his face growing even redder, looking down his nose at the slightly shorter man.

"Now, I don't know how, but you have all been cheating me. This money is mine."

From his vantage toward the front of the saloon, Finny can see the curtained windows of the upstairs office, one of which is quickly pulled aside by a short, fat man in a white suit to observe the scene below.



Green is stairs and a small landing. Blue is a second floor enclosed office. Red are two interior windows.

Taylor had been drinking quite a bit during the night, so he misheard Logan's question and took a bit of time to notice what he was doing with the chips. Stealing all the bets back? He had seen a lot of stupid folks during his lifetime, but no way could a man at the tables be that stupid - he was probably joking, maybe he was a bit drunk, surely someone would come and quiet him down...

Until he saw the Indian unsheathe his tomahawk.

He then realized the full gravity of the situation.

This man wasn't a Pinkerton, he was infinitely worse - a cheat.

And bit by bit, he remembered what happened the last time he came across a cheat.

As the tomahawk slammed down on the table, Logan angrily unsheathed his hidden hunting knife from his belt, its wide blade gleaming in the lantern-light. He pointed it straight at Logan, taking note of the hired muscle starting to surround him - no wonder he was so confident. But no matter. He would go for the prick's throat before any of them could bat an eye.

"I will gut you like a pig, boy," he snarled at the well-dressed man. "My fucking money, or your fucking life."

@Kelewen

SERGIO WESTWOOD

Their was a man in his late twenties at the pool table; having a friendly game with another patron at the bar. Waiting for the deputy to come fetch him for a job; from what he was told their was a outlaw by the name of Robert Hall. Sergio wondered when the dim witted man was going to enter the saloon; however it had been an hour and a half since he was told the deputy was going to come get him. So he was going to wait enough half hour before leaving; passing the time with this stranger.

His eyes looking over towards the commotion going on near the piano. Noticing a civilian that had somehow gotten himself involved in the situation. Looking over towards the other pool player; “Give me a moment” Nodding his head which the other player responded with one of his own. Walking over towards the table; with a pool cue in his hand. “Hi buddy, you wanna play a game with me?” He asked Phineas. Signaling him in a way to remove himself form the incoming danger.

It's an interesting thing, to see a man, even a red skin like Mistihkoman get angry, truly angry. The kind of anger that makes a man want to take a life. But the words that come out of the squat native's mouth are calm, almost dangerously so. As he speaks his nostrils flare, "I don't know if you're stupid, over confident, or cocky." He suddenly leaps, crashing down on top of the table, now towering over Logan, forcing the man to look up at him, and the paired weapons in his hands, "So I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, and hope you're joking. But if the next words out of your mouth are another insult..."

He took a deep breath then shrugged off his vest and with a motion opened his shirt, bare skin, nothing to stop a blade or a bullet. He grinned dangerously, "I'll make you a promise Logan, I can hear others rousing around us. More moniyew hired hands? Patsy's for your command." His eyes opened wide and almost flashed, "But I make you this promise Logan. I'm right here...right now...your friends might get me in a rush, might get the soldier, and might get the bounty hunter, but before they can lay a hand on me." He lowers himself to the ground, his legs tense, "I'll have my hands, on you." He grinned then in a spine tingling moment of almost joy he lets out a war cry, a high, powerful blast of sound from deep in his chest, sounding almost like the howl of a wolf, the screech of an eagle and the chitter of a bear all at once, coming from the lungs of a braid haired hunter and scout perched above Logan, "I give you this chance right now, run away, out the back, out the front, through a window. But before this is over, many of us will be bleeding on the floor, and one of them will you white man. I make this promise to you now. And a Cree man does not break his promises."

Phineas was too frightened by the tomahawk and approach of Logan’s muscle to notice the pool player. Besides, he was now on the other side of the poker table from the cowboy with the pool cue. He did not know what was going on, but did notice the four men from the other table, approach his former card playing compatriots. They looked rough and Finney just wasn’t sure about a fight. He knew this was good stuff for his book, but didn’t know if he needed to risk his own life in the process.

Out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement from the second floor. A corpulent little man in a brilliant white suit took eager interest in the action below. He pulled the curtain wide enough to see it transpire below. Finney wondered who the fat man was. Maybe he owned the place and was about to watch his saloon get wrecked. Finney placed the corner of the bar between him and the emerging row in the middle of the saloon.

Billy caught the four men approach from the other table. He backed off Mr. Logan when Mistihkoman jumped on the table. He felt threatened by their presence and knew he needed to make an impact soon. The approaching stranger closest to him caught a left cross to the jaw and then a right upper cut right behind the cross. He readied himself for a fight after throwing the first two punches.

Mary, sensing the upcoming fight, slipped away from the table just a moment after Finney. Maybe she'd join in. Maybe not. Maybe it would depend upon which side looked like it was winning. For now, she'd content herself to watch the show from the relative safety of the bar.

Finney might not have noticed the invitation from the man at the pool table, but one of the thugs did. "Why don't you mind your own damn business, mister," the thug said to Sergio.

Mr. Logan, with his meticulously trimmed mustache, hair, and fingernails, didn't seem the sort that had ever been in a barfight in his life. And he wasn't about to start now.

As Taylor and the Cree man made their all-too-credible threats, Logan took his hand off the money and started to retreat. "Gentlemen," he began, purely intending to spin some bullshit line that would buy him a few moments to extricate himself from the fray before sending his hired thugs in to do his dirty work. But too late. Billy had just clocked one of his men.

The punches to the jaw sent the thug stumbling backwards. He'd probably be spitting out a tooth or two here in a minute.

Immediately, the others jumped into the fray. One grabbed the back of Taylor's chair to try to tip it over backwards with Taylor still in it.

A heavyset man wielding an empty whiskey bottle like a bludgeon, swung it toward Mistihkoman's face.

And one with a curly blonde beard threw a punch at Billy's gut to try to avenge his friend.

Logan himself simply tried to backpedal and get clear of the fight, though was backing straight toward Finney.

@Kelewen @Landain

SERGIO WESTWOOD

Squinting his eyes at the thug that told him to move on; Placing his hand on Finney's shoulder. “I hope your good with using your fist; cuz we're gonna get into one hell of a fight" He said pushing the boy towards the table at the far side of the room. Turning his attention towards the thug that had told him to piss off; "Go ahead make my day" He said stone faced. When the brawl was started by another patron; Sergio was quick to act and try and get the upper hand. Throwing a quick punch to one of the thug's liver.

Hoping to side line him with a hit to his head with the pool cue in his other hand. Hoping to knock him down for the time being and deal with the other thugs.