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[b][i]Slightly[/i] Later May, 1888.[/b]

The thumb, recently wetted with a tongue’s worth of saliva, grasped the corner of the page with ease and cast it off to the opposite end of the book - to rest and recuperate with its siblings, until it was time once more for the reader to go through it.

A journal, in a place like this, was a man’s legacy - his entire life’s experiences and tribulations etched neatly upon pages yellowed by both time and smoke, a combination man and journal had experienced plenty of on their travels together... good times, bad times; tobacco smoke, gun smoke; to name a few. But now, well, Detlev only had a few pages left: a dozen or so, give or take, and he wondered if that was cause to procure a new journal or, well, a grim omen regarding a certain numbering of days. The real question was, what would he do with the journal when it was finished? He hadn’t the ego to ship it back to civilization for study, nor the front-loaded approachability to have his thoughts aired to so many besides - no, this had to go to someone close, someone he’d known a long time. But boy, that particular category had certainly dwindled to a sparse few in recent years…

He brought the cigarette to his lips as he contemplated, his eyes passing over the words on the page with a rehearsed knowledge of the ones that followed, the flow and patterns so well-retained over his many years that the images were easy to recollect and display upon the front wall of his mind… He only wished he’d begun journaling in his youth: the weight of the regret he felt whenever he struggled to recall an old friend’s name or the name of a place he’d been fond of was overwhelming on occasion, the threadbare memories impossible to clarify, even as they tumbled through his desperate fingers. Lost to time, yes, as he eventually would be… But if his journal lived on? Well, a piece of Detlev Schäfer, no matter how slight, might just trickle on into the next century.

The old Ranger’s Safehouse was quiet - by design, of course, given there weren’t many Rangers in these parts anymore… Unless he himself counted, and that’d be a stretch worthy of praise. A retired ranger from the offshoot’s offshoot, as far removed from the badge and duty life as a man can be, while still serving the same cause… And even that particular half-truth was enclosed on all sides by a miasma of wild theories and speculation regarding his division’s true origins and purpose. Not that he’d ever had the wild, sudden bouts of madness necessary to question the man in charge, no, but Captain Vorstag and his merry bunch of renegades were spoken of in hushed whispers these days. He hadn’t the heart to reach out - in case they were short a few bodies and asked him to return to Storm’s Verge… And he’d promised long ago he’d not return there unless his, or somebody’s else’s, life depended on it - and that particularly somebody else had to be someone he liked quite a bit.

The book snapped shut in his grasp, his eyes fixated on the peeling green paint of the old Ranger’s Safehouse door: he ceased all movement, his journal clasped tight and held close to his chest - not quite within the confines of his duster, but mighty close, and he strained to attend his senses to the commotion outside. The clattering of hooves, interspersed with minimal pauses - a fast horse, by his measure, and pushed to be all the faster by the rider’s urgency, enough so that Detlev rose from the rickety chair to stand tall, and snatched the lever-action from the desk upon which it sat. Jury’s out on whether the man’s bones or the chair creaked more when he straightened up, but it’d be a close call to say the least. The hoofbeats swiftly quietened down, around the town’s entryway he’d suspect - and slowed to a trot, one that quickly fell below a volume he could recognise, and as such, became intermingled with the evening’s festivities from within the town proper. 

With the sound of heavy boots upon long-worn wood, Detlev stepped out onto the alleyway that little safehouse was nestled just within: he’d had his little period of peace, a much-needed respite from the social obligations of living alongside other people - it was taking more time for the old nomad to adjust than he’d expected, after all. A dishevelled man, his unkemptness so incredible as to be almost audacious, stumbled past him and into the depths of the alleyway - his desire to flee so powerful, he didn’t even give Detlev a second glance. He repaid the man by offering him no further mind, and, as he turned the corner leading towards Amistad's main street, watched Sheriff Ramos march into the Sheriff’s Office with the stride and determination of a man possessed, and understood that something was indeed amiss. 

 All of a sudden, the old monster hunter didn’t seem so averse to being sociable. He stood, and he waited, leaning against the hitching post outside Hadfield’s with his rifle resting squarely over his shoulder, the occasional burst of light from the cigarette’s embers the only sign of motion or activity from the man’s personage. Where there had been no wind before, a sudden chill lashed through the air like a myriad of cascading, clawing fingers, each more desperate to swipe at Detlev’s exposed face than the last - eventually, he surrendered this particular skirmish of wills, cast his cigarette down into the dirt below and pulled up a thick, woollen scarf to protect his face. Whatever this elusive pressure in the air was, it’d veritably followed the sheriff back from wherever his travels had taken him - and was an ill omen, indeed.

It was then, the acrid smell reached his nostrils, and, with a cursory investigation upwind, he caught a glimpse of the puddle off to his side, glistening in the moonlight. 

[color=Gold]“Ah.”[/color] He said to himself, with a quick tilt of his head… Mystery solved.

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[center][color=Gold][b][i]"Schäfer's Rule #1 of Wandering the West: Good-will is as valuable as water - don’t go putting your bucket upside-down just 'cause it’s raining."[/i][/b][/color][/center]