The Dark Tower: Gunslingers of Redemption

[Gunneh]

The Dark Tower: Gunslingers of Redemption

OOC

The cantankerous motions of the wagon fell into a steady rhythm alongside heavy hoof-beats. It wasn't a steep incline, but enough to give this old ox trouble. On its last leg it was and regardless of how much Ray might've wanted just put his barrel to the poor beast's head, it had a task to do like the rest of them. It made him anxious though, to think they might soon be wadin' through the boonies with nothing but their horses and guns. There was some queer comfort to the cart's presence, and ole' Ray wasn't keen on losing it.

He put a flat hand to his brow and wiped away the long trails of sweat that had been running rivers across his face. Boy was it fucking hot, and a cloudless heat none the less but all the better. With the sun high in the afternoon sky, there would be no hiding from its hard gaze this day, most like it would follow them long and hard till the moonrise leaving the old man to bitch and moan, curse and shout and all things liken just cause he could. There be the real misery... Eh Sai Elias?

He wheeled his mount about and came up beside wagon and less importantly, the boy.

"Damn, Sai," the boy groaned. Mickey wiped the loose strands of his hair out of his face. "Don'tcha know this is the very meaning of hell right 'ere?"

"Best be quiet boy, or would ya like me to clout ya again?" the words were empty, but the meaning clear. "Just shut up and we'll be there in a bit." He scratched at an old sore that had been festerin' at the back of his neck for about a week or so and cringed as he felt old puss seep out. "What you think old man? Reckon we'll be reachin' The Planks anytime soon?"

"I'd set my watch and warrant on it," the old man replied, slightly tipping the brim of his hat down to keep the high noon sun out of his eyes. His eyes hit the sky for just a moment, his gaze locking onto the sight of the Demon Moon. Looks like that old bastard is hanging on for dear life, he thought. It's like he realizes that it's Reap Day and he ain't gon' be staying 'round for much longer.

"Keep your eyes on that beast, boy," he continued. "The damned thing looks like it's on it's last leg, ya kennit?"

Mickey patted the ox on its head, right in between its horns. A grim smile crossed his face. "Don't keel over on me, pard," he said, reassuring it with his gentle voice. "Y'all gonna get me to the town and back now, hear me?" The ox let out a guttural sound, replying to its rider. Mickey's smile faded as he once again felt the heat bear down upon him. He scanned the land before their roving band, straining his eyes to see in the burning sunlight. "We better be nearin' them there town soon," Mickey muttered under his breath. "Darn heat is gettin' ta me."

"Boy, you don't hear very well, now do ya? We'll be there shortly. Damn babbies these days. All of them just as impatient and loose of the lips as the last. I oughtta-"

"Both of you need to bag it," Elias interrupted. "You're not so close to Arthur Eld yourself Ray, so I don't expect to hear much out of your own loose lips till we get into The Planks." He sighed and wiped his hand across his forehead one more time for good measure. "Boy's got one thing right, though: If I had some land in Hell, I reckon I'd rather be having a palaver with the Devil himself right about now."

"All this talk 'bout Hell is fun and all," Mickey said through clenched teeth. "But just where are we?" He gestured to the stretch of land before him. The heat was playing tricks on his eyes; the very earth itself seemed to blur and warp the harder he stared at it. "No signs sayin' 'The Planks: Here' or nothin', eh?"

"Well there's an easy enough question..." Ray said. Reaching out a lengthy arm, he extended a finger in due line of their direction. "It's right up there, can't ya tell?" And sure enough, as he said, a few lumps could just barely be spotted out in the distance, their outlines seemingly merging with the horizon. "Maybe yer eyes just ain't as good as ya claim, Mick."

Mickey scratched at his head. "Maybe you're right 'bout that. Ah, well; I'd rather have some cool water than this here sight right now."



Their useless chatter seemed to fade out of Elias' head before too long, his eyes glued to the horizon as the buildings began to rise into actuality. He dipped the brim of his hat one more time, never taking his eyes off the little shanty village in the distance. Something didn't feel right about this place, but he wasn't quite sure what pulled him to that idea.

There'll be water if God wills it, he thought, finally turning to check if the other two even existed, whether or not they were still riding beside him was a different matter. His eyes fell on Ray and he shook his head slowly. "Reap Day in a little town, Ray," he said softly. "Mayhap there'll be a little more than just wood and some worn out stuffy guys on the bonfire tonight."

Ray dismissed the unpleasant thought with a shake of his head. "Be that the case, we're not here for nothin' more than what we came. If they feel like losin' themselves in the madness of this bloody war, that's their business, but we're not here as 'slingers... As much as it pains me, Sai Elias, we're here as beggars. We'll take what we can get and nothin' more. I still don't like this damnable business though." He spat as if to punctuate his distaste.

"Mayhaps you're right," Elias replied seamlessly, "and I'm just a set against this life as you are, but the boy don't need to see no Charyou Tree at seventeen. Shit, he might as well not even know what the goddam thing is."

"Y'all old coots be flappin' gums 'bout me, eh?" Mickey spurred the ox on with a soft prod in the side. The ox increased speed slightly, trailing just behind the two gunslingers. "Say it to my face, then, you ol' bag-a-bones!" Seated atop a dying ox, Mickey might not have looked so intimidating. Even if the ox wasn't there, he probably wouldn't of scared anyone. The stressed expression he wore was not too menacing.

Elias whirled around and caught Mickey with an open hand, jerking the boy's face in the opposite direction. "Hold your tongue, cully, lest thee forget the face of your father," the old man bellowed. "You came with us of your own free will, but your no better than the dirt caught between hoof and shoe!"

Mickey lifted a wary hand to his cheek, his mind reeling from the pain coupled with the solemn statement. He lowered his hand, taking the reins of his mount once more. His eyes focused on the constant shuffle of the horses' hooves before him. "Oughtta thank you, Sai Elias," Mickey said reluctantly. "So, thankee sai." Mickey still hung his head, his chin digging into his neck.

Ray said nothing; this was the old man's doin' and it wasn't his place to undermine him. Though Ray would help in his instruction, Elias was the sole reason the babbie had even come along. Be it far from him to interfere in the lessons of a stubborn student.

Yes, it be an odd trio they formed, a different kind of ka-tet fer sure, but a necessary one by any and all means. Elias Ventus, the old emissary of their order; Raystel Rea, the young gun with the legacy of his father, The Judge, at his back; and the apprentice Mickey B. Quicky, still tryin' for honor lost in his first failure. Their destination, The Planks and their task, one more suited to scavengers than them. "We should reach it by eve'fall." He commented to no one in particular.



Demon Moon shone brightly over the faraway mountains, though he dared not lay eyes on it directly - twas bad luck for anyone who dared take a good long look at the Demon, he'd heard. A small ironwood sign was driven into the ground just outside of the "city," its letters painted on sloppily with a dingy red paint that reminded Elias of blood. The letters were misshapen, some even turned the wrong way as they were supposed to sit. He stifled a shudder and read it slowly:

Welcome to The Planks, Pard.

Elias shot a glance at Mickey, a sly smile crossing his weathered face. "There's your sign, young'n."

[Guest]

The town was aptly named, that's for certain, but the bustling little shanty town had a peculiar air of charm about it that Elias hadn't felt in a long time. He smiled softly as the slowly dying sun cast a faded pink glow across his face. Somewhere nearby, the tinkling of piano keys melded with the ragged voice of an elderly gentleman. The instrumental was a little hard to distinguish, but he knew the lyrics as soon as the melody drifted to his ears.

"Hey Jude, I see you lad,

Take a sad song, and make it better..."

"There's the saloon, I wot," he said to both of them. "Mayhaps there's a game of Show Me going on where we could earn us a little bit of coin before we head out." He reined his horse to a stop near the hitching post outside of the saloon and slid off the side, his joints popping and cracking as his feet finally touched the ground. "How's about we get ourselves a bit of graf before we find us a place to rest?"

"Sounds fair, Sai," Ray answered. He gripped the reins of his animal, gently coursing it toward the front of their queer company. "Eh Mick!" he shouted back at the boy. "Why don't ya get yer ass on down to the Inn and get us a room?"

The youngest of the group rode up on a lumbering beast, an ox, catching up with the other two. He muttered under his breath as he struggled to dismount from it. Mickey wavered on the ground unsteadily before he finally regained his posture. He brushed long strands of hair out of his eyes, pushing it to the sides of his head. "Fine fine, Sai Ray," Mickey said with a frown. "I'll get that damned room, I'll show ya."

He scanned the rows of buildings, shielding his eyes from the heat with his hand. A large structure, slanting somewhat to the side, had a large sign stamped above its entrance that read:

Halfway Home Inn.

Mickey patted the ox on its head, then began his stroll to the building. "Better have some nice blankets or they're gonna see hell," he grumbled.

Elias pushed through the batwing doors leading into the saloon, his spurs ringing against the wodden floors beneath his boot soles. Eyes fixated on them, but especially on the bulges on either sides of their hips. A few people gasped, even more murmured in obvious pseudo-secrecy, but Elias paid them all no mind other than a quick nod to the few that dared give them a smile. He looked over to Ray as he bellied up to the bar, signaling for the barkeep to come his way.

"I'll need a good-sized draught of graf, Sai, if it'll do'ya fine."

"Make it two," Ray added after catching a look from Elias. The bartender gave the two a nod, hesitating slightly as the initial awe left him. It didn't matter if the they were gunslingers, in the end it was their money he needed.

Ray slid onto a seat right up front, more at home here than the other two might've guessed, having been in and out of bars like this since his days as a wild young'n. "So, what you say there Sai Elias? I don't know about you, but I doubt we'll be gettin' much help from this ole' place." He fished down in his pockets for a coin or two and dropped them onto the counter. "I mean hell, you'd reckon for a town right in the middle of it all, they'd be in a bit better shape."

"This town's always been like this," he replied, dropping his own bit of money next to Ray's as the bartender slid the drinks toward the two men and walked away quickly. Elias eyed the man as he walked away, wishing he'd have had enough balls to stick around so that the two 'slingers could get a palaver going with him, but it did seem like it was a bit of a dead end in here. Still, he felt that ka wanted him to be here.

He turned his attention back to Ray. "The ground's no good for alotta crops, it's a might seedy lookin' to outsiders and the only few money making operations are this saloon, the inn, one small general store and a brothel. Hardly any money is coming into the town, but there's a lot going out." He sighed and took a deep swig of the liquid, relishing the feeling as the burning alcohol made its way down his throat.

Ray took up his own glass and raised it to his compatriot. "Well then, a town like this has gotta have a few desperate folk runnin' about somewhere, eh? Here's to hopin', Sai." He took a long swig, draining it all in a few large swallows before slamming his mug back down on the bar. A bit dizzy, he raised his head up to look Elias in the eyes. "There must've been some reason ya chose the planks."

"Ka," he said simply as he raised his own glass and drained it quickly, the sound of cards slapping down against a wooden table pulling him back to reality quickly. He stood from the bar and went towards the sound, noticing the source of the sounds was a Show Me game in the back of the room.

Ray caught his stare and let out a dry laugh. "I can see ya found somethin' to occupy ya." He rose from his stool and nodded to the other man. "I'mma go see if I can't find who's runnin' this little slice o' heaven."

"May it do'ya fine," Elias replied, his eyes glued to the game, "I'll sit around and see what I can gather from the locals." He moved to the empty seat at the table and threw up a wave to Ray.

Ray just grinned and shook his head while making his way to the exit.

Elias was seated across from a rather pristine looking young man, his ebony hair slicked back by some sort of pomade or some other type of grease. A smile widened across the old man's face and he let out a laugh, nodding thoughtfully to the man that sat across from him. "Why, if it isn't Vincent Holliday himself," he said, chuckling softly.

[Weiss]

“Why, if it isn’t Vincent Holliday himself,” came a familiar voice from near the bar. The instinctive reaction would normally be to reach for his guns and prepare himself for a fight; nobody ‘round The Planks spoke Vince’s name in such a cheerful manner unless they were spitting a curse down the barrel of a Winchester with Vince caught at the wrong end.

This voice was too familiar to be any of the locals, though. When it spoke the name, it seemed genuinely pleased, as if greeting an old friend. Seeing as Vince only had one friend in all of Mid-World, that narrowed down the possibilities quite a lot.

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Elias,” the Doc responded with as much delight as a man of his character could muster. He stood from his place at the Show Me table and extended a hand for Elias to shake.

“Damn it, Holliday, I’m gittin’ tired o’ waitin’ fer you to finish dickin’ around,” came the angered beckoning of one of the sorer players in the latest round of cards. Vince retracted his hand and returned to his seat, clearing his throat as he lifted his cards and scanned across the five lined up on the table.

“One-hundred dollars, Holliday. You in or out?” the man continued to prod at the Doc, rushing him to get on with things. In all fairness, Vincent Holliday had a knack for pissing people off. Tapping on nerves was just another of his games; one that he often used to his advantage.

“One-hundred dollars,” he repeated the other man’s words, feigning contemplation as he once again surveyed the cards. “Must be a peach of a hand.” He took a swig of whiskey from a small tin cup, letting the anxiety build a bit more.
“I suppose I’m deranged,” he continued after a momentary pause, “but I guess I’ll have to call.”

He pushed a good portion of his money toward the center of the table – matching the other man’s bid. An old wrangler sat to Holliday’s left, an empty seat to his right. Its occupanthad folded on the river¹ only a moment before Elias had stepped over. The old cowboy threw his cards face down onto the table with a muttered curse of frustration. Just as quick as the last, he gathered what remained of his money, tipped his hat and was on his way.

“I suppose he couldn’t handle the pressure,” Holliday stated calmly, eyes locked on his sole remaining adversary. He wore a calm disposition the way others wore coats. He never took it off or let anyone see what was underneath. It gave him a condescending air that jabbed at prideful men with all the relentless precision of a needle.

“This oughta wipe that smug look off yer face,” the other man spat as he threw his cards down with the faces up. “Full house, Kings over Aces.” The victorious sneer he wore as he reached over to start raking away the pot made Holliday’s satisfaction all the greater.

“Now now, Johnny-boy, let’s not be hasty.” The Doc threw down his own cards with a pleasant smile. “Aces full o’ queens. Ain’t that a daisy.”

The switch from prideful smirk to angered snarl was an entertaining scene, but not one the Doc was unaccustomed to. If anything, he was a man blessed with too much good luck; though, it couldn’t begin to compensate for the bad luck he’d been dealt only months prior.

“You cheatin’ son of a--,” Johnny McClemment reached down with his right hand, intent on drawing the knife at his waist. Before his fingers could so much as graze the polished wooden handle, the cold barrel of a Colt was pressed beneath his chin, angled toward his throat by the distance at which the Doc was standing.

“Now now, Johnny-boy. Let’s not lose our temper. It would be a shame if one of us were to do something,” the Doc paused long enough for the hammer’s click to ring nice and clear, “regrettable.”

If Vincent Holliday was known for anything besides swindling locals out of their take at the Show Me table, it was his gunmanship. He could draw and cock the hammer before most men could find the handles.

The bartender was less than pleased with the idea of the walls getting repainted with the remnants of brain matter splattered by an unloaded chamber from one of Doc’s revolvers. With the saloon drawing more business than most of the rundown accommodations in The Planks, it was likely the old man kept a shotgun loaded under the bar top for such occasions.

Not that such extreme measures would be necessary. Johnny was sweatin’ bullets by then, eyes pinned to the glinting steel of Vince’s gun, chamber loaded and trigger half-pulled. “A-alright,” he stammered, backing away a step to put some distance between himself and imminent death. “You win, Holliday, but this ain’t over. You’ll get yours!” With that, Johnny gathered the remnants of his shattered pride and bolted through the swinging doors.

It was only after things had settled that the weighted silence became apparent. Holding the hammer at bay with his thumb, he pulled the trigger to and then eased the hammer to rest. A quick twirl and a small push and it was holstered at his side. That was the saloon’s cue to resume their business. The piano started back up with a typical Mid-World melody as Doc dropped back into his seat.

“Please, Elias, pull up a chair,” he invited his old friend to join him at the table, motioning toward the empty seat across from his own. “Would you care for a drink? Mr. McClemment was feeling very generous today.”

---

¹ The river, in Texas Hold ‘Em, is the fifth card placed into the community pool by the dealer, and serves as the last betting phase of a hand. The initial run of three cards is called “the flop”, followed by another card, called “the turn”. The fifth and last card is called “the river”.
For additional information on Texas Hold ‘Em, click here.

[Attie]

Halfway Home Inn.

A man who had begun his stroll in to the building grumbled just loud enough for Mariah to hear, "Better have some nice blankets or they're gonna see hell."

Mariah rose from underneath the counter that had been placed just next to the door with a smirk on her face. As he came in to view, she saw he was much younger than she had anticipated and stuck her tongue in her cheek as she spoke in a rather soothing voice, "Well, you can expect that you'll wake up to something nice in the morning, here, darlin'."

As she reached beneath the counter for the records and something to write with, her eyes never left his, and a smile never fell from her face. She knew good and well what most of the men his age wanted a room for, and she'd just as well let him and whomever the damsel may be have their fun. "I reckon this'll be a room for two?"

Before he could answer, she was accustomed to things like this. The young boy who brings the broad of the night into their inn, and not even for a good night's rest, either. Hell, no one really slept when those kinds of couples came around, and Mariah had always made it her duty to place them as far from the other occupants as possible. Still, it was a nice thought. Even if the damsel was potentially just a whore, Mariah had remembered a time when she had been lost in the throws and they had rented a space as well for a time. She was just as young as he, and at the time, it seemed everything in the world that she be right there where she was, laying into the man of her dreams.

Well, at least he had been. Now, she didn't so much believe in something like that.

No, the boy, as she now referred him to, found out that Felicia Gaines was better suited between the sheets than she, and threw away a love they had had for over a year. Instead of crying about, Mariah had decided to make the scene she'd always dreamed about when a man would come to cross her one day. Hell hath no fury, she would whistle the tune, and before you knew it, that boy wasn't sleeping with anyone for quite a long time, let alone anyone in The Planks, who were now well aware of just everything about him.

Mariah was a trustworthy woman, honestly, but there were just a few things that she deemed unworthy of such respects. If you made the choice to betray her trust, then you were obviously willing to give up everything she'd kept dear for you.

These were only a few of the problems that left Mariah the way she was, without a dream of any man, really, as moreso of a hope that she'd get to make something of herself, leaving this dreary town which she'd come so accustomed to. Maybe, in her dream world, this would even be the last set of keys she's loan out to a customer.

Mariah stepped away for a moment to look around the corner at her wall of keys, minding which ones were available. Should she offer the poor youngin' a one bed room for his night of mischief, or perhaps a two bedroom, in case things ran sour for them both? Or maybe, there was the slightest chance that this good looking kid had a higher cause for a place of rest.

Turning her head back around, waiting for his response, Mariah looked him up and down. The boy was rather handsome, but right now, he didn't look like he needed a long night without sleep. He, in fact, looked like he needed to rest. Immediately, she leaned over the counter, careful not to fall out of her shirt, and brushed part of her hair behind her ear, speaking lowly, "You're not here for that, are ya? Well, how many in your party will be sleeping in the Halfway Home Inn tonight, darlin'?"

Perhaps the company he brought would be a bit older than he, as Mariah felt like a cradle robber just trying to get him to buy a room. As she waited for his answer, her smile remained genuine.

[The Melancholy Spirit]

Gabriel had been sitting a foot from the window of his room, looking out across the vast barren landscape that led into The Planks. He had watched the travelers approaching from a distance out, following them in the limited vision of a worn spyglass. It wasn’t the best quality, making it difficult to make out any significant about most people or things at any decent range but as the trio came closer and closer things were slowly revealed. They were carrying firearms, that much was certain from an earlier point. It wasn’t enough to confirm his suspicions, though. Only when they were just outside of town did Gabriel manage to confirm their status: Gunslingers. At least one of them, at least; he recognized that one. “Elias…” he groaned under his breath.

Folding the spyglass into itself he tossed it behind him, ignoring the clatter it made as it rolled across the floor and slammed into one of the bedposts. He remained sitting there, watching them more intently than before. As they came even closer and were easy to discern with the naked eye he began wishing he had the ability to read lips. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case which left him ignorant to their business in The Planks. Whatever it was, Gabriel didn’t like the thought of them being here. He’d spent too many years trying to avoid them. It would seem that was all about to come crashing down, however.

Two of them, Elias included, entered the saloon a short distance down the street. The third, a much younger man, was heading toward the inn. Gabriel scoffed at himself; the boy was barely into his late teen years. Avoiding attention from the kid wouldn’t be difficult at least; there wasn’t any chance of the boy recognizing his face. The other man with Elias, that was a toss up. Gabriel didn’t recognize him but that didn’t make it certain he wouldn’t recognize Gabriel. Elias was the one he’d have to watch out for.

Rolling out of the chair, Gabriel made his way toward the closet. Gently opening the doors he reached for one of the two personal items resting in its space. Buckling the belt low on his waist and tying the leather cord at the bottom of the holster around his thigh, Gabriel secured the revolver on his left hip. The rifle he left alone. Leaving the room, and locking it, Gabriel made his way downstairs in time to see Mariah leaned over the counter and speaking to the boy who rode in with Elias. He gave her a glance, accompanied by a nod, as he passed by both of them.

Out in the street he tilted his hat lower over his brow, cursing the heat. Crossing the street was uneventful, for the most part, until the point when Gabriel was about to enter the saloon when a man came bursting through the doors and off into the street. Gabriel turned to watch him for a moment before shaking his head and calmly the swinging doors before entering the saloon. As was common a tune was coming forth from a piano, men were drinking and flirting with this or that woman or risking what money they might have at the Show Me tables.

Gabriel didn’t linger at the threshold, trying his best not to bring any attention to himself. He didn’t immediately look for Elias either. He knew all too well how often Gunslingers seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads, or rather a sense of outer body vision, like a bat hanging from the rafters; especially the older ones. Moving to the far end of the bar Gabriel took a seat and ordered a single drink, more to remain inconspicuous than out of thirst. It was at that moment, as he did his best to get a look at the patrons through his peripheral vision, that Gabriel began wishing he had cut his hair. It was worn quite longer than most men in Mid-land, falling a few inches below his shoulders. It always had, no doubt that would only make it easier for Elias to spot him first.

[Guest]

“Well Yoren, we’d known they’d be comin’ around eventually, so what are doin’ now that they’re here? Ain’t like we can just send on back.” The younger man paced up and down the worn planks creaking with every step, his eyes locking with those of an older man whose hair had left him shortly after his youth.

Behind the desk the older man broke the stare and continued to scan a large ledger bound in thick leather laid out before him. His clothes looked moderately expensive but were dull and worn from years of long use. His fingers ran underneath a particular line of text and he leaned in for a better look. “I’ll agree, that probably wouldn’t do for them.” The man raised his head momentarily. “They know we have little to spare, but in war who doesn’t? It’s obvious they’re desperate just like most of the people in our fair little town, Daryl. The way I see things, you give them the pick of those grungy cells of yours and we make room for a few more. The streets have been getting cluttered with more trash by the day with all the refugees we’ve been getting. They’re welcome to bring along who they want, it simply means less mouths to feed.”

“They’ll be wantin’ supplies too, and-“

“Then direct them to the appropriate people. We’re not a charity organization, so what they get will be out of their own pockets. We’d be stupid to find ourselves on the wrong side of these so called “gunslingers,” Yoren said as he took a feather quill from an ink bottle and scribbled something across the page. “Be it knights or bandits, war makes savages of us all, so we can’t judge how they’ll react if were spurn them. They might turn and walk away, but they could just as easily butcher us and live off what remains. I’d rather that not be the case, and with this new deal we just closed, I would also rather they be out of here soon.”

The other man nodded and brought a nervous hand up to scratch his chin. “Well, they shouldn’t be nothin’ that can’t be handled if things happen to go awry. Looks like there’s just two of’em and a boy with scarcely a hair on his chin.”

The sheriff listened as old man Yoren’s voice dropped into a tone slightly more serious than the one before it. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that sheriff. If they are true gunslingers… Well it would simply be wise not to test them.” He hoisted the book up and turned to the dusty bookshelf that was just behind his desk. Placing the ledger in its proper place, he turned to face Daryl once more and his face broke into a livelier look as opposed to the stern one he’d been wearing for most of that morning. “Well, it won’t do for you to hide in this dusty old cave. They’ll be coming to you first, so you’ll need to keep watch. And if they head here first, make sure to cut them off.”

“Right ya are, Yoren,” the lawman spoke. Stepping towards the door, he pulled a faded brown hat over his brow head. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, I think that just about covers it.”

The door shut with a thump and Yoren sunk back into his chair. With the Reap just around the corner, it only complicated matters to have them here. He could only hope that they were far gone before this allotted supervisor their new associates were sending trotted into town, or things for the people of peaceful little Planks might just as well go up in smoke.

Bending down, he reached under the desk and pulled up a bottle and glass, placing them gently down on the smooth wood, and poured himself a drink. Yoren put the edge to his lips and swallowed heavily.
-

Ray gave a small nod to the man he passed on the way out, sporting an exaggerated grin only to frown upon not seeing one sign of acknowledgement. ‘Tough lookin’ people for a rough lookin’ place seems to be the way o’ things ‘round here…’ he mused while stepping off to the side of the building they had tied down their horses at. He approached his own and loosed its reins from the post they were wrapped around and gave the animal a light pat on the side before mounting up. Pushing his feet into the stirrups he kicked his heels once and began a slow, easy trot down the path.

Despite the heat from earlier, it was a cool night and the air was just right for riding. Most people were up inside their homes and a majority of the shops seemed to be locked tight with boards lining windows and doors. Not an unfamiliar sight, but it did nothing for the tension that seemed to hang over this reasonably sized shantytown. It was enough to make ole’ Elias nervous and the same went for Ray as well. He kept one hand on the ropes while the other reached out for the comforting feel of sandalwood under his long dark poncho.

There were other towns they could have gone to, but the senior ‘slinger claimed Ka picked this one. Like it or not, the Planks had been their destination. Like it or not, here they were.

‘Right… Now where’s a man ta go when he’s lookin’ for the sheriff…’

[Guest]

It had been too long since any ‘slingers were seen in these parts. Ever since she had run with Gabriel, it seemed that only one other had been seen around and even he didn’t realize what she was. She had been seventeen when she ran here with her friend. They had been on an assignment together when the worst happened. A shiver ran down her spine as she continued on with her tale of woe and adventure with the men in the saloon. Most hardly noticed her sitting with them since she wasn’t on the table like some whore or sitting in someone’s lap. She was sitting in a chair like the others and a hat atop her head kept her face hidden well.

Things had been going great until Elias and another walked in. She instantly recognized his face and fear had rushed through her veins. Dia stopped her story short and apologized to the men. She promised to finish later, but for now, she had something to attend to. As she was standing to leave, Johnny accused Vincent of cheating in a game of Show Me. A heavy sigh came from parted lips as she used the distraction as a means of cover to escape. Four steps to the door and Gabriel walked in. Had he seen Elias too? Biting her lip, Claudia decided to head to the bar and get a drink before taking a seat next to Gabriel.

“Not too excited about this are ya?” She asked, keeping her voice low in tone. Whenever Gunslingers came through the area, Dia did her best to act more like a man than a woman. Her long blond hair was up in a bun under her hat and her shirt was loose enough to hide her ample chest. Those steely gray eyes were locked on the table where Elias stood. Slowly, Dia brought her glass up to her lips and she sipped on the alcohol. It burned as it went down but the burn was a good one. Her free hand touched her hip slightly where she held one of her guns. They brought up memories of her Da and those back home in Gilead.

Claudia Sinclair quickly brought her hand back up from under the table and she looked to Gabriel once more. “What do you think he is doing here?” She prayed he wouldn’t look over here. The last thing either of them needed was someone recognizing them. She didn’t want to have to run again. The Planks had become her home. Yes, it was a sad thing to call this place a home, but it was true. She watched as Elias’s friend left and Vincent offered him a seat at the table. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad? As she tried to figure out what to do, a man walked up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. He whispered something in her ear that earned him a hard smack to the face.

Everyone around here knew Dia wasn’t one to deal with men trying to sleep with her. She didn’t work at the brothel or even hang around that place yet they never went away. The man rubbed his face and backed off, knowing full well the metal that lay against her soft skin at her hips. About six months ago, a man hadn’t known when to quit and she had been forced to draw her guns on him. That was the last time anyone had even seen him. No one really knows if she killed him or if he ran off with his tail between his legs. Not even Gabriel really knew. She had refused to tell him about any of it. Another sip of her drink and she began to relax a bit. No reason to stay on edge, even with Elias so close.

[Bird of Hermes]

The wind blew from the west down that old dirt path as it seldom did these days. Once you were about to settle down and conclude that this damned place was a wasteland, the gods dare give you a glimpse of hope. Ha! The sky seemed to think otherwise. That blasted red-orange sun was up at its peak as if challenging the wind to blow anymore in its territory. Still, one could get to enjoying the breeze, even if you knew that it wouldn’t last long and the sun’s hellish rays would triumph eventually. There was an old saying about the western wind. It said that, when the western wind blew down a path, it meant change was a-coming. Change? Change didn’t come to the Planks. Nothing that done any good ever come to the Planks. No, sai. This was a dead town. That old wooden sign out front served as the grave marker.

“Must be some fools on horses made ‘o sticks.” A sly comment to no one in particular escaped the lips of a certain shadowy female that went by the name of Baine Maii. The woman had been around this town for some time now and she knew how it worked. You come into the Planks already lost. You don’t come here looking to find anything because there ain’t nothing to find in this dim little town. There ain’t one thing here worth remembering. Perhaps that is why Baine came here. To not be remembered.

Either way, the lass was here now and if she didn’t find something to do soon, she would find it hard not to stand here all day cursing the lack of rain and singing old tunes. The lyrics to one such piece came to her in snippets.

“we rode on horses made of sticks”

How did it go again?

“he wore black and I wore white /
he would always win the fight”

As Baine walked into the main part of town, she overheard the whisperings of the gossip-loving girls that hung around smoking outside the brothel. She usually ignored their lot because she didn’t much care for their talk of passion-filled night meetings with the local men. However, a few words did reach her ears that were of particular interest to her. Apparently, three men had come in to town through the main road earlier today. The trio carried guns the likes of which the girls had not seen. There was some foolish chatter about the how a gun carried just right on the hip meant that a guy must be experienced in the sexual arena. She made sure to listen to no more of the conversation. The gossip around here was always littered with precisely that. Gossip.

The part that Baine was interested in was the guns. The song came back again.

“bang! bang!
he shot me down /
bang! bang!
I hit the ground /
bang! bang !
that awful sound /
bang! bang!
my baby shot me down”

Guns meant two things nowadays. It either meant you were running from the law or it meant that you were the law. People like Baine tended to wish for the former. The woman kept her head low for that very chance that it was the latter. A grim shadow always lay across her face hiding her eyes and down to her left cheek. It was intentionally so, her wide-brimmed hat gently cocked on an angle to give no one a good look at her face. All one could see was a lit cigarette hanging from pressed lips. One could not make it out if she were feeling sly or sad.

“now he's gone I don't know why /
and to this day sometimes I cry /
he didn't even say goodbye /
he didn't take the time to lie”

Passing the inn, Baine saw nothing of interest. There was a horse tied up that she had never seen before. But that meant nothing. Even she had an old mare to her name. Perhaps these people were just the regular passer-bys, looking for a place to spend the night and nothing more. The woman’s frame was casting shadows now on the paved area of the walkway, her billowing coat making her appear larger than she was. Who was she fooling?! Few people here even knew who she was. There was nothing to worry about.

“bang! bang!
I shot you down /
bang! bang!
you hit the ground /
bang! bang!
that awful sound /
bang! bang!
I used to shoot you down”

Why does everyone done gone think that someone is after them? The fever that spread like wild fire in her veins was due as red as her dark crimson corset against her dusty tanned leather slacks. There had never been a law-bringer here in ages. Hell! Baine had done her time. Wasn’t that enough? It had been years since she had been branded an outlaw. No one was after her head now. She had the scars to prove that. The woman would likely waltz right down into that saloon and see nothing but the old regulars at the Show Me. She would be wrong. But that would come later.

“he would always laugh and say /
remember when we used to play”

Baine opens the doors and walks through their gate-like bars. Damn! She needed a drink. And perhaps another cigarette. She certainly didn’t need what she was going to find. At least, she thought she knew what she needed.

Perhaps it is the past that makes us. Perhaps time only chooses to heal some wounds and not others. Perhaps it is our ka to live with what we had done. But sometimes ka can act like the wind through the desert. Sometimes it hides what we need in the sand until it is time for everything to be put in its place.

[Gunneh]

Elias chuckled and took the seat across from Vincent. "Still the silver-tongued gambler that I remember, I wot," he nodded slowly. "I've got to say that I didn't expect to see you this far out in the desert, Vince. Then again, I never thought I'd see anyone rake in a Show Me pot t'was over five-hundred coin,either." He raised a hand to the bartender, signaling for another couple of draughts of graf to come their way.

Several people entered and exited through the batwing doors of the saloon, but he none of them really caught his attention. The barkeep brought two hefty glasses of the graff and sat them before the both of them, walking away before Vincent had a chance to pay for them. He shrugged the feeling of something not being right away, though the thought still lingered in the back of his mind.

Out of his peripheral, he caught the nervous movements away from a table by what appeared to be a young woman, perhaps in her mind-twenties. She'd been trying her damnedest to hide her gender to the rest of the bar, but that quick moment while she stood showed her loose shirt pulled tight enough against her chest to see her womanly bits. He took another swig of his graf caught another entrant into the saloon: This time it was a man of medium height with hair that hung about his shoulders in a messy fashion. The man moved to the bar quickly, trying his best to remain inconspicuous, and the girl followed.

The woman spoke almost soundlessly to her friend, but he caught the movement of her lips: "What do you think he is doing here?" She was trying hard not to, but her eyes kept darting back towards him, causing the old man to smile just a bit. Claudia had never been the best at remaining camouflaged, now had she?

"Sorry, Vince," he replied after that long pause. "I lost track of the time." He chuckled and took another swig of his graf and sat the glass back down on the table. The sound of skin on skin rang throughout the bar, followed by the hurried sound of a man's bootheels clomping across the wooden floor. He never broke his gaze, though his smile seemed to grow just a bit more. "What brought you out here in the first place?"

[HawktheThird]

*edited*

[Weiss]

“Still the silver-tongued gambler that I remember, I wot,” Elias remarked, then reminisced on a time not so very long ago when Vincent had first taken to the art of gambling to make his way. By the Doc’s reckoning, ol’ Ben Haltry wasn’t expecting to lose that pot, either. In those days, Vincent was still new to the world of gambling and gun play, fresh out of the medical business where he’d made a good living until his sickness made it impossible to keep shop. That was the day he’d met Elias, hot on the trail of some bandits who had shacked up in Gilead after robbing a coach bound for Mejis. Holliday was no stranger to the patrons of a local saloon, and he had overheard a useful bit of information that he more than willingly contributed to the gunslinger’s cause.

Vincent’s father had been a lawman, and he held a firm respect for the outfit. Local sheriffs were prone to corruption and shady dealings, but never had he seen a gunslinger take the stray path. Elias was the very essence of that belief, a proud and righteous ‘slinger who’d see things through to the end if it killed him. It almost had, far as that went. The means by which Elias was alive today became the basis for a friendship that defied the laws of logic.

Since the events in New Caanan, Vincent had seen his share of badges, bars, bolts and bullets. More than one brush with the law had put him close to the hangman, but he’d lived this long on wits and charm, drifting from place to place until he found himself settled in The Planks. It was hard to make trouble in such a nowhere town and he found a good living off the Show Me pots.

Wrapped up in his own reverie, Vincent was only mildly aware of Elias’ preoccupation with a couple of the saloon’s patrons. It wasn’t until he was asked the reason for coming to The Planks that he returned to the present, idly lifting the glass of draft the barkeep had brought and taking a heavy gulp. Elias already knew of Vincent’s condition, but the Doc found it hard to deliver solemn news so soon after meeting with an old friend; his only friend.

“A specialist in Gilead thought that a dry climate might be good for my condition. I went place to place for a while, then came across this quiet little burg and made it home. As you can see, there’s no shortage of kind and generous folk around here.” He leaned forward a bit, resting his arms across the table and lowering his voice. “What about you, Elias? Never imagined I’d see you out here in the middle of nowhere.”

[The Melancholy Spirit]

Gabriel swirled the liquid in the glass before tilting his head and letting it slide down his throat. Sliding the now empty glass back to the bartender he focused his eyes on the wall behind the counter. He heard Claudia’s low voice in his ear. "Not too excited about this are ya?" Was that a rhetorical question? He raised a brow as it sank in, eventually closing his eyes and shaking his head. Of course he wasn’t excited about it. He groaned. It was bad enough that he had come into the saloon, possibly attracting attention. Claudia would have been better off staying where she had been though rather than moving to confront him. He scoffed, more at himself than anything. Had he simply stayed at the inn she probably would have done just that, remained where she was and gone unnoticed.

”What do you think he is doing here?”

He thought on that for a moment, though nothing came to mind. “Truthfully,” he said in a low tone without moving his head, “I don’t have a clue. You know him as well as I do. Ka guides his every motive. The man is a damned fool; albeit one I don’t particularly wish to cross.”

A moment later he heard the sound of her smacking someone. It happened too often. “You could have handled that more tactfully.” He muttered.

[Guest]

‘Might be things are worse off than we originally thought…’

The saloon had been towards the edge of town, a welcome sanctuary for any travelers who’d been ignorant or desperate enough to drag their asses along the main road to this town which piss pot in the middle of the war, but as he neared the core of it, the less he liked the look of it. Seemingly a homely place at first glance, albeit worn down, The Planks deceived, for at its heart were slums of an even larger slum. Each alley seemed to be clogged to the back wall with a multitude of raggedy patrons and what an assortment it was. Fathers, mothers, children, harriers, beggars, and vagabonds alike, if Ray had picked up on anything yet, it would be that this place had little prejudice for everyone lived in poverty.

He caught the wide-eyed gaze of a small young’n sitting around a fire with two others, an older woman and another boy maybe a year or two older. Ray threw him a wide grin, but the woman who must’ve been his mother, caught his stare and quickly turned him about. ‘Right… don’t spare me a second glance, kid. I reckon yer momma’s right on that account.’ He sighed, slightly let down by the small action, but didn’t break pace, or that was to say his horse didn’t. The gunslinger rose a hand up and rubbed the beast gently at the neck.

Refugees most like. The town’s position had several pros and cons, but it all seemed to be pointing that the former group had more influence around here. Being the middle stop on the main road, without a doubt, The Planks probably saw more than its share of travelers, but despite that it had never really seemed to prosper as a trade town or rest stop regardless of seeing a fair bit of business. The bad part was the fact they were sitting smack dab in the middle of nowhere and it’s damn hard to get help out in nowhere.

Looking around, he still found no sight of any damned, official lookin’ building and was beginning to think it might just be better to go searching in the morning with Mickey and Elias, or at least he had been.

The sound of hoof beats from behind spurred his fingers around one of the cool, sandalwood grips at his hips. ‘Who’s out ridin’ at this hour?’ He twisted his neck about to get a good long look, but found the figure all but invisible in the blackness. Normally that wouldn’t be too much of an issue, but it didn’t matter how good your eyes were if you had no light to see with.

“Ya lookin’ a little lost, pard. Might be I can ‘elp, though I gotta say, when people come pokin around here, they usually lookin’ for liquids, if yer’ knowin’ what I’m sayin’. Blood, or water.”

‘Water? What’s he think I am?’ Catching a better glimpse, he gave the man a grin and nod. ‘Must be some scavenger…’ He didn’t take the hand off his weapon but did wheel around to face the stranger. “N’sir, just havin’ myself a late night stroll about this fine spot o’ heaven.”

[Gunneh]

Elias removed his eyes from Vincent's gaze and started the beginnings of a hand-rolled cigarette, his eyes now trained on adding just the right amount of tobacco for his particular liking. "You know exactly why I'm here, Vince," he said softly, almost barely over a whisper. The dull roar of the crowd drowned him out to normal ears, but he knew that someone as quick as Vincent could pick up on it easily enough. The problem was that there were two other former Gunslingers in the room that could read his lips just as well as he could theirs.

"The war has gone and went a little south on us, you ken? Our numbers are dwindling fast, and the dinh is about as nervous as ever before to let us go out there in such small numbers. He's sent ten three-man tet's out looking for gunna, water, bullets and manpower." He started to roll the paper carefully, the tilt of his head causing his hat to shield his mouth just as best as it could.

"Problem is," he continued, "ain't no self-respecting man or woman sane enough to want to jump into anything with the way that it's going right now. Which is why we hightailed it out of self-respecting country and came to somewhere where people are looking for a way out." He finished the thing and stuck hung it leisurely between his lips, striking a sulphur match against the edge of the table and lighting the thing with a couple of puffs.

"This ain't no daisy of a situation we've got ourselves in, Doc. We're in the red and we need out like nobody's business." He pulled a long drag off of the cigarette and held the smoke in for a moment, his head suddenly feeling just a bit lighter. He finally lifted his head and caught the other man's gaze once again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the barkeep walking towards them, his eyes in just about the same state of mind that he'd been when Elias and Ray had first walked through the door. "And it looks like Reap is getting started off with a bang," Elias said aloud, the sound muffled because of the cigarette between his lips.

"Cry yer pardon, Sai," the barkeep said, "but the man that Doc pulled iron on is outside with a good sized group o' men. They're wantin' him to come out. They're aimin' ta kill 'im, I wot."

Elias pulled in another long drag and turned to look at Vincent before letting the smoke escape through his nostrils. "Your boy Johnny any count when it comes to threats, or does he just ride with that kinda crowd?"

[Bird of Hermes]

The last tendrils of smoke left her tightly held cigarette as she sat at the end of the bar. There damn never was enough tobacco in the cigarettes nowadays. The paper just burns up on you. She snuffed it out on the edge and threw it aside casually. She was all out again. She should have bought more while she had the chance. Seems the old general store was out of all the commodities. At least this dead end town still had a hefty supply of liqueur.

Leaning over the bar’s edge and off the end of her seat, Baine tapped the barkeep over and ordered some rum. While she waited, she nonchalantly scanned the bar for any person of interest. She didn’t pay so much attention to faces than possessions. Those guns the whole damned town seemed to be abuzz about wouldn’t be so hard to find. In fact, by the time her alcohol was delivered to her, she knew every person in the saloon who had a gun anywhere on them. It was a gift, you could say. When you are the way Baine was, you come to notice things like that. You always got to be in the know around these parts. There was a war going on whether the people here wanted it or not. With war came tensions and with tensions, recklessness. Baine knew how to stay on the right side of a gun’s barrel and that didn’t happen if you let yourself be played ka-mai.

It was one pretty fire-arm in particular that Baine had her fiery grass-green eyes on. The gentlemen it belonged to was sitting at the Show Me table in the very back corner. The man, who she didn’t recognize from around these parts, was speaking low to one she did. A volatile grin crossed Baine’s face as she left her coins on the table, abandoned her drink and waltzed over to the Show Me room.

“Well, lookee here what that cat done dragged in! If it ain’t the good Doctor himself.” Baine’s words are laced with sarcasm and a widening grin. For the first time you can see her face from beneath her hat and wild auburn hair. There was no mistaking it. A vertical burn mark crossing her left cheek clearly identified her to the man she was referring to.

She laughs with a hint of thinly veiled mania that always tended to resurface when she was enjoying herself. “So, who’d ya beat at the Show Me again? What poor fool’s gon’ have in for you this time?” She leaned on the table, her lithe frame barely shaking it. “You know well’s as I do that folks don’t take lightly to having their gunna done taken, even if the damn mai done deserved it,” she smirked knowingly. “Lest ya get caught at it. Nobody can’t say nothing ‘bout what they don’t know’s been taken.”

The barkeep interrupted anything else she would have had the nerve to say. Seems the boy had pissed on the wrong customer today. The fool had come back around for a rematch. Maybe she should have taken a swig of that drink after all. Seems she was going to be needing it tonight.

"Your reputation proceeds you, I reckon." Baine's eyes cross the saloon to the door and come right back around to the gun that started this whole conversation and led Baine to this place to begin with. Without much ado and a sideways glance to the man who held the pretty piece of metal, Baine straightened up and pondered what was waiting behind those gated doors.

"You might just be needin' that."

[Mickey]

Damn 'em, I swear, Mickey thought. He bit his lower lip as he walked towards the building. No way in hell I'ma be stuck 'ere with the lowest kinda job. Mickey B. Quicky ain't gonna be caught standin' at a register while the shit's goin' down, I tell ya! Why I oughtta rough up those two goons some day, I swear. Mickey glanced up at the front of the structure. "Better have some nice blankets or they're gonna see hell," he repeated.

Mickey wore a sour look on his face as he entered the building. When he forced himself to look up at the woman greeting him, though, the expression disappeared in an instant. He grinned sheepishly to return the smile she gave him. Mickey examined her; she was attractive. Too attractive. He was inclined to compliment her, but she spoke before he could.

"Well, you can expect that you'll wake up to something nice in the morning, here, darlin'." Mickey raised an eyebrow at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but silenced himself as she spoke again. "I reckon this'll be a room for two?" She went to the wall of keys, then turned back to him, leaning forward on the counter between them. Mickey resisted the urge to stare, trying his best to keep his eyes focused on the woman's hair or eyes. "You're not here for that, are ya? Well, how many in your party will be sleeping in the Halfway Home Inn tonight, darlin'?"

Mickey laughed nervously. "Three, pard. Maybe ya could give us two rooms, ya know? One room for 'em, and one for me." He smirked. Mickey brushed loose strands of his hair to the sides of his face. "I ain't spendin' a night wit' two ol' coots who been ridin' and sweatin' 'round in the sun all day." Mickey scoffed at the thought.

He pulled at his pant leg. The girl's beauty was unnerving and it was starting to bother him. Unsettling thoughts were distracting him.

"So, err - how much will it cost, ma'am? Oh, and while you're at it, can ya tell lil' Mickey here where I can find me a nice girl to, well, 'chat' with?" His smile spread across his face. Mickey snickered to himself.

It wasn't his true intention, though, to find a tramp to spend the night with. He kept his mission in his head still. Information about the town, and especially its residents, was the first objective he had to fulfill. Criminals, orphans, homeless - any poor bastard who needs a bit o' freedom at the price of fightin' for the 'slingers. That's what I'm lookin' fer. Mickey lowered his eyes, staring at the ground before his feet. "Any gossip 'round town ya could share with me, too?" he added. He bit his lower lip as he pondered his next move.

[HawktheThird]

Leagan pulled his horse up alongside the gunslinger’s, eying the man all the while. The stranger’s other hand made Leagan nervous, though the man had a right to grip his weapon. ...an’ keep yer’ knives close, she'd told him. In an environment like The Planks, Leagan made sure to do just that; the fact that he was a moderately well known resident changed nothing. The town wasn’t worth the dust it lay upon, and in any settlement as destitute as this, crime and violence thrived. There was danger abound.

Leagan knew.

Despite this, Le didn't so much as flinch towards his own arms. He wasn't keen on spending the rest of his night digging a bullet out of his side, no matter how badly he needed a viable excuse to get piss drunk (as though simply living here wasn't enough).

He nodded to the stranger’s weapon hand, meeting his grin with a healthy, but knowing smile. “ ‘Slinger, eh? Like I heard. Pinned ya right, I did, but don’t be turnin’ a worried eye on me. Me? I’m ‘elp. Name’s Leagan Rousse, an’ I’m figurin’ it’d be kind enough t’ tell ya a bit about this ‘ere heaven.” Seemingly more comfortable, he slowly drew his eyes away from the other man and shrugged, casting forlorn glances about their surroundings. Two conflicting adjectives came to mind when describing The Planks. Pathetic, and impressive. The people had an unusual resilience, determined to cling to life by whatever means necessary. Impressive. They went through a lot, particularly the refugees, surviving both the horrors of war and the depression of stagnant lives, repeating actions that, in the long run, did nothing to further their goals of self-interest and communal improvement. The despair was near inescapable, unless you were willing to embrace death. Most weren’t. Pathetic.

So they struggled, kicking against fleeting currents to drag themselves to the surface, if only for a brief gasp of air.

“It ain’t one. Ain’t nothing celestial 'bout this place, and there ain’t nothing safe either. Don’t matter if y’ got them shots on ya. Plenty of ways to kill a man, and our criminals know em’ all.” He gave a resigned laugh, adjusting the leather straps of reins in his hands. “And ya would think it’d at least be a tad bit better round here, wha', with the sheriff’s office nearby an' all. That little fact don’t seem to do much though.”

Despite his matter-of-fact tone and the oppressive subject matter, Leagan seemed strangely pleased. His eyes held the optimism of any scavenger, any fighter, any healthy man his age. The brown orbs shimmered in the fragile light of the Demon, radiating an unusual sense of comfort and control, despite all that might surround him.

Leagan’s boots were solid, and of black leather, though most of their surface area was concealed by the black trousers that fell over them. He’d donned a grey button-down, over which rested the array of torso-sheaths. His black coat, short and light, did little to conceal his weapons. He wore clothes that may have been considered ‘nice’ or ‘good quality’, were it not for the thin layer of blown dust that covered his garments. That was one thing he had to accept, that the dirt couldn’t be helped. The sand and filth was so plentiful that it found its way in between the floorboards and the gaps under doorways, and even more concerning, into vital eyes and lungs. His voice had a slow, grating tone, caused, he believed, by the frequent inadvertent inhalation of small particles. Torv's tracking allergens into the house certainly wasn’t making his condition better, and neither was constantly being outside.

“Ain’t tryin to bother, but I ain’t particularly buyin’ the ‘just a stroll’ bit. You got the visage of a searchin’ man.” Though most did.

[Weiss]

Vincent stood from his chair. A light grin adorned his features and showed how little he cared for what awaited him beyond the swinging doors of the saloon. After sorting his money into his pockets, he took his black fedora from the knob of his seat and placed it on his head, tilting it forward with a light tug so that the shadows hung over his eyes.

“Your boy Johnny any count when it comes to threats, or does he just ride with that kinda crowd?” Elias had asked as Doc was getting in the mood. The truth was simple enough. By himself, McClemment was no less a sniveling coward than most of the half-wit trash in The Planks. They worked in numbers, drawing in other refuse and clutter until they’d polluted the whole place and choked the decency from the dusty streets. Vincent had noticed it within his first week after arriving in the rundown shantytown, seeing the vagabonds and cutthroats dealing from the shadows of any dark corner they could crawl into.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” he responded to the question with a seeming level of uncertainty. Obviously the Doc wouldn’t know the answer. He wasn’t one to wait around and get shot for finding out if a man might deliver on his threat. The moment he felt threatened, Vincent would react violently, utilizing any means necessary to preserve his own life. He had fled the city to preserve himself. It meant nothing if he keeled over in a nowhere place like The Planks, done in by a two-bit criminal and a shit-brained gang of thugs.

“Well, lookee here what the cat done dragged in! If it ain’t the good Doctor himself.” That voice was familiar, if a bit unwelcome.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he responded to her last remark about things taken without bothering to spare her a glance. As far as the Doc saw it, everything he’d won was given freely. There was no taking involved with Show Me.

“Your reputation precedes you, I reckon,” she continued, glancing down at the Colt holstered on the Doc’s left hip. “You might just be needin’ that.”

“If they knew anything about me, darlin’,” he paused, peering at Baine from beneath his fedora, an amused glimmer in his eyes augmenting the seemingly misplaced smirk that had widened across his lips, “they wouldn’t be standing outside waiting for me.”

He straightened his coat and started toward the entrance. As he passed Elias, he placed a hand on the Gunslinger’s shoulder. “Count me in.”

The sun had all but faded beneath the distant horizon. When Holliday stepped onto the boardwalk of the saloon, he could scarcely make out the forms of several men waiting along the adjacent road. The one standing nearest held a crossbow, and he was the first to speak.

“Ya gone too far this time, Holliday! Ain’t no city-boy gonna come ‘round here and steal what gunna we don’ earned on hard labor!” The voice belonged to Johnny McClemment. The crossbow was aimed in the Doc’s direction, but the way it wavered showed a lack of experience on part of the wielder.

“Now, Johnny-boy, must we resort to violence?” the Doc responded. Against this many, he’d need some support. He knew Elias would already be making a move, and Baine wouldn’t likely let this opportunity pass without her own claim to the body count. It was always the same thing, no matter where he went. Gambling was his lifestyle, whether it was the Show Me table or a sunset showdown on the dusty streets of a third-rate shithole like The Planks. This time, he was relying on some real Wild Cards. Elias was a peacekeeper, no matter how the hand played. Baine was anything but. It was enough to elicit an incredulous smile, to think that he’d be in such a situation.

“You give back what you don’ took and might I can let ya off, Doc. Otherwise, I reckon this here crossbow might have som—“

A thunderous crack drowned out what might have come next. With an upward swing of his left arm, Vincent had grasped the engraved wooden handle of his left-side Colt and hammered a slug into Johnny’s shoulder. Bridging the gap between pulling back on the hammer for another shot, he reached back with his right hand and drew the twin from a second holster. He whipped it around while moving down the steps and onto the street, hastily moving toward the shade of another building where he could take cover behind the railing. Forcing the attention of the thugs away from the saloon would make it easier for Elias and Baine to make their move.

With the second gun drawn, he fired another shot toward the group of men who were readying their advance. The bullet dug into the ground and kicked up clods of dirt, but failed to land another target. As much was to be expected. The moonlight was doing little to illuminate such a wart on the ass of Mid-World. Even God cursed The Planks; Vince was sure of it.

He ducked behind the spaced railing of the building opposite the saloon in time to evade a bolt fired from the unsteady crossbow of the pained Johnny McClemment. Some of the other men had scattered into the shadows, drawing their blades and hoping to get the drop on the Doc before more shots were fired. This was about the right time for luck to start playing her role if Vince was going to see the sunrise.

[Bird of Hermes]

Baine knew who knew how to wield a gun and who didn’t just by glancing at the way it was held on their person. It wasn’t a hard classification by any means. One just needed to know what to look for. Enough guns had been drawn on Baine in her day for the girl to have an opinion on the matter. She could tell if a man was intending to use his weapon before the fool ever drew the pistol. It was some strange divine knowledge you get when you have survived being on the wrong end of the barrel for so many years.

The man who left the saloon’s swinging doors was one of the few who both knew how to wield a gun and had the strength to pull the trigger.

She was not one of them. Baine held a gun at her side. But the blasted thing found no such use in her repertoire. It had been her father’s; that was a long time ago. She barely remembered the days that she had not been without him. Any memories of her father, her mother and any life she might have had ended with the bullet that was jammed in the cylinder. That old gun never did work. The cursed thing may no longer carry bullets, but in place of those lead shells were memories that she just couldn’t shake. Three to be exact.

“One for sorrow
Two for mirth
Three for a funeral”

That was how it went, isn’t it? The first was for the sorrow that taking the gun from her dead father’s hands at such a young age had caused. The second was for the joy it gave her as she wore it while striking fear into the hearts of any caravan that dared cross that desert. The third for the day she almost died; the day ka brought her some stranger to release her from her bonds. What a way to see a gun!

That old revolver wasn’t the thing that would send Baine outside and into the fire. That was the job of a properly working yet less colorful fire-arm. The sound of the shot rang through the air even if she couldn’t see it. Any other day, she would be betting on who had taken the first shot. Tonight, however, she was itching for some blood.

Why? You couldn’t much say. Perhaps it was the news of a Gunslinger in town. Perhaps it was the old feeling she got when she had heard the shot. Perhaps it was that she was linked to one of them by an-tet. Perhaps there was no choice at all. Perhaps we just run when ka tells us to run and fight when ka tells us to fight.

The reasons didn’t matter. This place was damned gone and it was due time for some bloodshed. And hell would know that Baine was not one to find herself immune. The decision was already made. With a speed and efficiency of one that had done so a thousand times, Baine threw back her long dusty coat and grasped the tools of war. It appeared to be three long and thin pieces of wood and one wicked curved blade all in a row on her belt. All pieces to one deadly puzzle; pieces that were aligned in a matter of seconds.

The weapon Baine now held was a pole-arm of a foreign make. To the untrained eye, it seemed to be part sword, part staff and part just downright dangerous. We can only be certain about the latter.

Baine ignored the looks she received as she walked out of the saloon’s gate-like shutters holding the equivalent of pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Most folk in this part of Mid-World didn’t know who Baine was. The boys outside were all the same. But they were about to find out and find out they would, in the worst possible sense. As anyone could tell you, the worst sense of all is feeling.

Baine’s voice can be heard before the second shot is fired. “Which one ‘o you boys wot to know what ‘appens when ya draw a weapon ‘round Baine when she’s tryin’ to have a conversation?” She swings her weapon around to her side so that the tip is pointed to the man with the cross-bow and the shaft is supported by her side. “I suppose dat childe is you.” She laughs manically as she looks up with eyes that begin to gleam yellow in the night. “You gone done and been rude to the wrong lady, you manner-less bastard!”

Some poor soul was about to find out why Baine was called the ‘desert wind’ and it didn’t seem to matter who.

[Gunneh]

Elias watched as Vincent exited the saloon with the female falling in right behind him. There was a quick exchange between John McClemment and the good doctor. He could hear the shift in tones, no matter how subtle Vincent had meant for it to be, and he knew that the heavy irons on his hips were more than a little close to being skinned clean of their leather prisons. The old man's eyes found the barkeep and he nodded slowly.

"You got a back room that's got a decent lack of anything might explode, sai," Elias asked carefully, trying to keep his ears on the group outside as well as his attention on the older man behind the bar. The barkeep nodded quickly. "Get back there, and take the rest of them with you. I'm not one for having an innocent body for the undertaker to measure later." The barkeep nodded one more time and started waving his hands quickly, trying to get all of his customers out of the main room of the saloon and back into his own store room.

Elias moved quick enough to see the bullet pierce Johnny's shoulder, but then it went unnaturally dark. Unsure - and not truly caring at this point - of whether having the Demon Moon hiding during this little scuffle was a blessing or a harbinger, Elias made his way out onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon., ducking down as a bolt from a bah flew right through the air space that he skull had just inhabited.

"Fight's not wit'chu, 'slinger," one of the men called out to him, winding another bolt back into position. The man was uncertain about all of this, but that uncertainty didn't mean that it made him any less of a crack shot with his bah, and Elias wasn't willing to progress in this much further until the stakes were a little more even.

"Might not've started that way," the elder Gunslinger called out, "but that bolt that's still vibratin' in the wall behind me tells a little different story, pard. Seems like you mighta been aimin' to get me, you ken?"

"I ken very well," the man returned, "but do ye ken that yer gonna have one stuck through yer heart if ye stand up just one more time?"

"I kennit very well, sai," Elias replied, his left hand now inching down to the holster on the same side. He took a quick glance trough a gap in the railing and saw Mickey and a pretty redheaded girl standing in the Inn's doorway, his own assailant not but 10 yards away from th 'prentice. If I could get that damned boy over here , we'd have one hell of a chance to force these thugs down, he thought.

Then there was his moment: The bah bearing man took a few steps closer, trying to inch his way into a reasonably easy area for him to take the Gunslinger down. Somewhere to his right, a knife wielding man inched in as well, trying to force Elias between that proverbial rock and hard place. He'd have to jump quickly and shoot blindly, but it was his only shot at this moment since Vincent, the girl and himself all had their backs pressed against the wall at that present time.

He shot up and brought his left hand off of the still holstered weapon, using the palm of his hand to fan the hammer back quickly, four more shots ringing out through the night sky. Two shots (one for each men) struck center mass, and both men fell to the ground. The other two shots buried themselves into the dirt as he cursed himself for the wastefulness.

"Hile," he roared. "To me, apprentice! To me!"

The boy seemed dismayed to have to leave the pretty, young thing, but he raced out of the Inn and into the street just as fast as he could. Elias flicked his wrist quickly, allowing his finger to escaped from the trigger guard, and tossed the free pistol to the boy. His left hand moved quickly to unsheathe the holstered revolver, the barrel pointing straight towards Johnny McClemment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mickey catch the pistol and situate it on his hand with a quick twirl.

"Say your lesson and say true, Mickey," Elias called out to him. "This is your first test."

[Attie]

"Three, pard. Maybe ya could give us two rooms, ya know? One room for 'em, and one for me." He smirked. Mickey brushed loose strands of his hair to the sides of his face. "I ain't spendin' a night wit' two ol' coots who been ridin' and sweatin' 'round in the sun all day." Mickey scoffed at the thought.

Mariah rolled her eyes, returning to the keys counter to catch the amount of rooms for two and one she had available. The youngin' sure was what she expected, but she smiled at the child, winking at him, "Of course. I can only imagine that you'd want that time to y'self."

Upon exchanging the cost and the payment, Mariah picked up two keys and welcomed him up the stairs with her, ignoring his comment about company later on from any woman or anything gossip she'd heard. if he wanted a story, she could direct him to Claire, but Mariah had a feeling he wasn't looking for that sort of fun and games. Neither would Claire, Mariah mused.

Waving a hand into the rooms that were next to each other, she addressed the drawers, the mirrors, and the bathroom that connected them. "I gave y'the option of the connected bathroom for whatever purpose y'party has amongst y'selves. And.. Keep it to y'selves." She gave a stern look to him, a warning that came from her charge of the inn. "Knowledge is power, and the less anyone innocent knows, the less trouble they'll likely to be in. Y'hear?" She eyed the boy for a moment before tossing him the keys and waving him to follow her once more.

Walking down the stairs, she want around the counter to check them in by name, so that she could recognize the rest of his party when they would arrive, but then the boy ran outside of the Inn like a fire had been burnin' his ass, bolting faster than lightning to get across the street, or perhaps just into it.

Mariah, unfortunately in the airy white skirt she had worn for work, couldn't hop over the counter like she'd have liked to to keep up with the boy. Instead, she rounded the corner of the counter as fast she could, making it to the doorway before she stopped herself, grumbling under her breath about bad company and how people were likely about to get hurt.

Watching only the beginning of the scene, she saw the youngin', apparently named Mickey by another man who looked rather serious in the situation, catch a gun, do a few tricks and get himself ready for the ruckus as if he'd been out there the whole time, knowing exactly what was going on.

She could have sworn the kid looked back at her rather hurt that he had to leave just yet, as the first man roared, "Hile! To me, apprentice! To me! - Say your lesson and say true, Mickey, This is your first test."

At that moment, she began to think about the rumors and stories she'd heard of people like these folks who gathered up in the streets. She knew not whether she should run back inside for cover, like those folks in the building across from her seemed to be doing, or if she should stand out and ... Do what, exactly? Embrace the ka that had brought them here, of all places, outside her inn, of all sites, and involved the last customer she'd probably have today? As she stood there just behind her doorway, she thought to herself, What the hell would I do anyway? Stand here and dance? Good grief.

Ka could shove it up the ass, for all she cared at this point.

[Gunneh]

The toss had been quick, the catch and twirl from the boy even quicker, and Elias knew that three large calibers on what he guessed to now be five bodies meant that the tide had changed in their favor, that the Big Charlie Wind was blowing in the other direction. He allowed himself the pleasure of standing, his old bones popping in their sockets as he did. The spectators were coming in droves now, their faces lit by the eerie glow of what few electric lamps remained in the world. In the artificial light, he could make out the two bodies on the ground and five more standing still as corpses in the street.

"Take your leave, boys," Elias called out. "There's no need for anymore blood on the street than there already is. Take what's left of your pride and get the hell back to wherever you crawled out of."

"Ya might be right, sai," came the reply. Who had said it? His fading eyes squinted beneath the thick rimmed spectacles till he could make out the shape that could only be Johnny McClemment holding his shoulder. Was there something else in his hand? Sure the man couldn't be that stupid, could he? "Aye, ya might be right indeed. And mayhaps we should get our asses back to our hidey-holes and leave ya be, say thankee big-big."

"That'd be what I said, Johnny," the old man said. A dark chuckle resonated through the darkness, a chuckle that could only mean the worst.

"Mayhap we should," the man continued. "An' I'd warrant it if ya hadn' laid my brothers down in cold blood! Ya think I can jus' sit well with that, old man?!"

Elias would have answered, would have tried his best to talk the man out of what he was planning right now, but he just wasn't fast enough. In the faint glow of those electric lamps, he saw Johnny's good arm draw over his shoulder and then back again, quick as lightning. The shine of a metal blade flashed in his eyes as the knife sped towards him. So this was that moment before death that he'd always heard about. There weren't any memories flashed in front of him, no ghosts of past loves coming out from the shadows to take him across. Hell, he never even heard the Man Jesus ask him whether he was ready (Would he say yes or no? Probably the first.)

He just closed his eyes and waited for the pain. Waited for the blood to roll down his chest. Waited for his knees to give out and send him tumbling ankles over elbows into the street below. None of those came, though, but what did come was even worse to his ears. The sound of the blade piercing cloth and skin followed by the guttural grunt and sputter of a man with a near burned-out flame.

Elias opened his eyes and saw Mickey falling to the ground in what seemed like slow motion, the old man's iron nowhere to be seen in the boy's possession. He looked back towards where the boy had been standing moments before and saw it lying in the dust, the red-headed girl eying it almost wantonly. She was fearful, but determined and his tossed a quick nod her way.

Grab it, sugar, he thought. You'll know what to do with it if ka asks of you.

He turned back towards the thugs in the street in just enough time to see Mickey hit the ground, clouds of dust puffing up from around the boy's twitching body. Johnny was signaling for the rest of his posse to press on, to take no prisoners, but it would be the last thing that sai McClemment ever did in this world. People were screaming now, but Elias couldn't hear a word of it. All he could hear was the sound of his flattened palm fanning the hammer back, then the click of the trigger and the flash from the muzzle. The sights and sounds repeated one last time, both bullets digging into the same spot between Johnny McClemments eyeballs, before Elias slid the gun back into the holster on his hip.

Was that Vincent that was yelling at him? The Doc's mouth was open and he was surely screaming, but at what Elias was not sure. Everything sounded so distant to him now, so foreign. Maybe it was Claudia, who had just appeared through the bat-wing doors, Gabriel close behind. Had they their guns drawn? Did he care? All he wanted to do was to get to the boy in time, to help if he could and pray if he couldn't.

His knees hit the dirt near Mickey, his hands searching out for the boy's face. The knife was buried deep in his chest, probably piercing the heart if Elias guessed right. Blood dribbled down the corners of his mouth, though a smile widened across his lips as he finally found his old teacher's face. "D-d-did I-I p-pass, sai," the boy asked innocently, coughing up more blood onto his shirt. Elias almost broken down then and there, but he held himself for as long as it would let him, a big grin plastered across his weathered features.

"Aye, sai Mickey," he said softly, still absent of whatever hell was taking place above and around them. "You passed with flying colors, I wot." The boy's smile widened briefly and then softened quickly, the light of life gone from his eyes. That was where the old man had had too much: He pulled the boy's head into his chest, soft sobs wracking the Elias' body.

[Guest]

The sound of gunfire had drawn Dia into herself. She knew it was Johnny and his band of boys, but something made her hesitate. They were out their shooting at Doc and Elias. Why hadn’t she gotten to her feet faster? The blond had just sat there, dumfounded as to what to do. Her hand twitched above her irons and the hat had come off her head, allowing her long white blond hair to fall to her shoulders. Looking to Gabriel, she gave him a look asking him what he wanted to do, but his eyes had been locked on the batwing doors.

When the sounds of gunfire had ended, Dia stood and began a slow walk towards the exit of this place. Others had already left the place to watch what was going on. It seemed everyone in the Planks had come from their home to see the Gunslinger take on Johnny and his men. Claudia hated when things got like this. This place was usually peaceful and that peace had been disturbed. While she blamed Elias and his men for some of it, she knew it was Johnny’s temper that had started it all. Bright blue eyes had seen Johnny bring his good arm back lightning fast and the gleam of the blade made her shout out to Elias. He had to move! Why was he just-

What happened next nearly made Claudia scream. She had drawn her guns too late. Elias had taken care of Johnny before his comrade had even hit the ground. The young woman reached out to the man who was once her mentor, but he was already at Mickey’s side, pulling the young man close to him. A few men had stepped forward, friends of Johnny’s she recognized. With guns drawn, she stood behind Elias to guard him from whatever the men were planning. Just the sight of pretty little Dia with irons in hand made each of them step back.

Never had anyone seen the woman draw her weapons. She never had a need to. Claudia tried to keep her past a secret. To them all she was just some storyteller who had wandered into town not long before Gabriel. To the people of The Planks she was just a cute young woman still coming into herself and finding out who she truly was. She had chosen to walk a righteous path, keeping away from the brothel and even the men had a high respect for her. The Claudia they say before them was not that same woman. Now she was a hardened fighter, someone trained to kill when need be. Her gray eyes were steely and cold. “Out of here! All of ya!” The sharp tone of her voice made some cringe and back away. Dia knew this would be the last time she would see her home. After this little outburst, she was going to have to leave with Elias and the others.

[The Melancholy Spirit]

Screams, blood cries, the hail of gunfire, chaos personified. It was the cacophony of death. Gabriel found himself idly staring at the doors as everything outside registered as an all too close white noise. He hated combat. Much easier to remain unseen and take out your target from a distance. Better they never knew you were there. It figured that Elias had to be in town for this moment, and that he would without hesitation take up sides with the doc. Gabriel scowled, he’d just as well see the doc take them on alone and come out of things a little more pale and with a little less blood. Of course that would have made the other fools murderers, all the more reason to take them off the face of the world. Then he could have handled things quietly though, one at a time. But no, Elias just had to come into town.

Ka be damned...

The curse was low, barely more than the simple movement of his lips. Claudia was now moving toward the doors. With a groan Gabriel rubbed his eyes momentarily before pushing away from the counter. Why did she have to involve herself in this? More importantly why did he care enough to follow her? He knew the answer, but denied it, trying to tell himself that it was some mysterious force that was guiding his actions. Ka, the old man would have said. May he be damned as well…

Coming out of the door he caught a brief glance at what little he could see; Elias sobbing over a body, Claudia standing over him like a sentinel shouting at the ruffians in the dark street. Having drawn his gun before walking through the saloon doors it was natural instinct to bring it up to eye level, pulling back the hammer as he did so and squeezing the trigger just as the barrel leveled out over the chest of one of the men prepared to throw a long knife towards them. “Don’tcha know better than you try talking sense into these bastards?” he barked at Claudia as he moved grab Elias by the collar. “An’ where the hell is your resolve, old man?”

[Bird of Hermes]

Time. What a clever rouse of battle! It does not flow in movements, in strides or in assaults; not in weapons drawn, paces made or strikes readied. Time in battle flows in its own way and that way is intentions. A battle is made of intentions. Guns rise because of will, knives slash because of intent and blots pierce because of thoughts. For no other reasons do the instruments of war ring out in song.

But intentions can change and that was just what was happening. Those who had not intended to fight were now in positions that just moments in time before would not have been so. A man and woman now stood behind the old gunslinger that was cradling the younger one in tears. A girl stood paces behind another man seasoned in the use of a gun with a startling new opportunity lying at her feet. Even herself was poised with a choice and a change of intention. Young or old, experienced or not, killer or innocent bystander… Battle forces each, without distinction, to make a choice.

Baine, like the others in this fight, was not exempt from making this choice. It was her choice to enter this fight under the Demon Moon. That was not in question. However, intent is not always a ‘yes or no’ question with a simple answer. Sometimes, the answer you make is one that you don’t even understand. Sometimes, it is just too complex to fully grasp. Call it ka, call it gan, call it what you will. Sometimes, the answer to the question is one of mystery: a thing not understood until long after the decision is made.

She watches as the scene unfolds, her weapon aimed and ready. Baine darts in and out, dodging bullets and bolts. The woman attacks any and all who attempt to attack herself, without distinction.

Baine makes the choice to stand by the elder gunslinger, moving to do so. It was one of those decisions that was ka’s doing. It was one of those damned things that one attributes to gan were they look back on it right before char claims them. It didn’t make much sense at the time. Baine had no connection to the older gunslinger. She wasn’t even sure what he was called. But, the man reminded her of someone from long ago… a person that had meant a great deal to her.

On a whim. Perhaps that’s all intentions are, these choices that we make, these decisions we make in battle… perhaps that is all they are. Just whims.

[Weiss]

Guns. Shouts. Death and all that brings it had manifested into the streets of The Planks for the sake of a month’s pay. The Doc had brought mayhem to another little piece of Mid-World. The sounds of chaos had drowned out everything else. He couldn’t think. There was only a low rumble, like the resonant roar of thunder that persists after the sudden crack and flash of lightning.

Seven bullets. Between both Colts, the Doc had only seven bullets to his name. In the back of his mind, he was aware of it, but as he ducked behind the rail of a small shop bordering the dusty street he could only bide his time until those seven little shells could be put into use.

“Ya think I can jus’ sit well with that, old man?!” Johnny McClemment’s last words rang loud and clear through the haze. He was talking to Elias. Without knowing why, the Doc stood and turned, looking over the railing as a knife was loosed from Johnny’s good hand. The low ring of air whistling past the sharpened steel gave way to a telltale thump that accompanied its piercing the cloth and flesh of another man.

Vince had watched it happen, disbelieving the whole of it. Elias’ young apprentice had abandoned reason – abandoned his firearm and his life – to place himself between Johnny and Elias. Before Mickey could hit the soil, the Doc was already stepping into the dimly lit street, eyes narrowed by a furrowed brow that brimmed with the most lucid anger to adorn his features in many a year.

The pieces shifted. Forms darted from here to there, but it didn’t matter. Seven bullets were pounded through engraved silver barrels, erupting in flashes and leaving behind a thin trail of smoke as they tore through the brisk evening air and thumped against the flesh of the cadaver known as Johnny McClemment. Elias had done the job with two shots between the eyes, but that was too good for what the thug deserved. Vince heard a loud click as his hammer struck a spent round, followed by the same noise from his other revolver. He’d wasted all seven bullets, lamenting only that he only had seven to waste.

Johnny’s corpse, a few ounces heavier for the ten bullets buried, finally managed to fall, having staggered nearly a meter with the barrage of bullets pounding into his flesh. The goons who had followed him blindly into the fight, looking for fame and spoils, were awestruck. In their whole lives, they’d not likely witness such a fury unleashed upon a single man as Elias and Vincent had just struck upon Johnny McClemment.

A woman – one that the Doc had seen at the saloon from time to time – stood ready at the defense of Elias, who now cradled the dying Mickey Q. It wasn’t long before two more surrounded the gunslinger, prepared to take on the thugs who were still standing. Baine and another man that the Doc didn’t quite recognize; it was a familiar face, but, as with the other woman that had come to Elias’ defense, Vince couldn’t place this new, gun-toting presence.

All the same, the outcome of this scuffle had been decided. How so much firepower had been concentrated into the shithole regions of The Planks only God could know, but as long as the bullets were flying in the other direction, Vince wasn’t going to complain. After spending his own shells, he had ducked next to the patio of the general store again, dumping the casings from his revolvers and holstering them beneath leather straps. There wasn’t much he could do at this point, but if the opportunity presented itself, he’d make do with the knife he kept sheathed at his right side.

[Attie]

While the scenes before her were dramatic in themselves, and the boy who'd just checked out her rack was now dead at an older gentleman's feet, along with a crowd of people circling the lot of them in awe, Mariah had not forgotten the bad company that remained around the area, and could still harm the rest of those who were up in the smoke out here. Her eyes followed the 'bad guys', one of them, a Johnny McClemment, down for the count as the older stranger blasted his couple and then the man she'd seen around The Planks lately decided to follow suit. Make sure the bastard was dead, she heard herself speak under her breath.

As the second gunner pulled out his bullets on McClemment, her eyes followed one of his would-be lackeys, cowering from the rest of what would surely happen to them now that their figure head was out of the scene. Her eyes narrowed, and she quickly turned behind her to see if anything of use was nearby. She wasn't worth anything, so if she screwed this up, it's not as if there'd be some great terror like that which had pursued the poor boy's death. Alas, there was nothing, so she turned back to watch the coward, her nostrils flaring.

Ka would get him, she thought. It always did.

But then the Doc, who hadn't paid much attention in his state of trauma for the lost life, headed for the exact same spot that the lackey had been hiding, and she couldn't remember for the life of her if that lackey had been armed. Surely, Ka wasn't playing the cards in his favor?

Without a thought, Mariah bolted out from her Inn, charging the scene as if she were about to tackle the boy and the crowd that surrounded him. She saw the defense of the crowd turn to her as if ready for her attack, but seemed only to eye her curiously as she tripped over her skirt a few times, falling at the foot of where the young boy's gun had fallen, and unclaimed.

Did the thing had bullets in it? She didn't even know. Should she just throw it at the coward that still appeared undetected? She didn't have time to think about that. Instead, she called out in either stupidity or an act of insanity, shouting at the man to catch him off guard as he began to raise something blunt behind the Doc's view.

"If you're lookin' for a third body for the count, then you'd better make sure it ain't yours," Mariah snarled, pointing the gun with both hands, as she'd seen the way it recoiled before. She figured she'd have better aim with better grip. As soon as she had a clear shot, she pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Was the damned thing out of bullets? The coward looked at her as if she were a joke, and by this time the others in the crowd had noticed the cause of alarm. Someone muttered, "Cock it," and when Mariah looked over and saw the gesture, she followed suit, then aimed a second time. By this time, she heard the Doc curse, ducking quickly. Without another thought, Mariah felt the recoil, making her feel incredibly stupid at the way she had to take a step back, but, hey, it was her first shot.

Apparently, that was all that was needed. In disgust, she took the gun in her hand to use as a blunt weapon instead of a ranged, sprinting over to where the coward once stood with her skirt hiked up in her free hand. Looking over the ledge, she didn't have to see him to know that she'd hit him, but she didn't know if it'd be enough to take him out rather than just leave him there whimperin' like a woman in labor.

Mariah looked to Doc, biting her lip, "What?" She shrugged, "Am I supposed to shoot him again?"

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