BingTheWing

♠ Showdowns & Saddles ♠

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."

♠ Showdowns & Saddles ♠

Yes, you can roll for me.

♠ Showdowns & Saddles ♠

How do I roll? It just says the list of rolls

♠ Showdowns & Saddles ♠

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.

Fog of Torvelt

y’all still there

Fog of Torvelt

Looks cool, will there be background info about the rest of the world so we can make CSes?

♠ Showdowns & Saddles ♠

Hm, I was thinking they spent the majority of the poker game not knowing each other’s names at first. Would be good for characterization if we were able to introduce ourselves IC I think

♠ Showdowns & Saddles ♠

@Kelewen Have the people at the table introduced themselves by name already? Because Taylor has almost certainly fed them a fake name if that was the case.

♠ Showdowns & Saddles ♠

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.