"A One Horse Town"

"A One Horse Town"

Writers Discussion ---- OOC Thread​

"You have a tell, Sheriff."

"Do I now?" Taylor asked, knowing full well that he did. It had been pointed out to him shortly after he'd recovered from his first gun shot wound, the one that should have ended his life. "And what would that be?"

The cowboy sitting on the far side of the poker table -- leaning his chair back on two legs as he casually toyed with the garter belt of the Saloon girl sitting next to him -- glanced to Taylor's hip, to the Colt strapped there. "When you approach a man you think might be faster at the draw than you ...you rest your hand on the butt of your gun. But when you think you're faster ...you rest it cross you belt buckle."

Taylor didn't have to look down to know his hand was casually placed on the .45's ivory handle, but he did, if only to feign that the man's insight was news to him.

"Interesting," Taylor responded softly. He looked back to the wanderer with a slight smile. The man had come into Crossroads three days ago, and with each sundown, he'd progressively become more of a concern to the town's only Law Man until tonight -- when he shot a Local for cheating at cards -- Taylor had no other choice than to bring the visit to an end.

"Do you think my lack of confidence in my comparable abilities is warranted?" Taylor asked. Taylor's smile widened when the cowboy's face showed a bit of confusion. Sometimes his East Coast education left the Locals here in Southern Wyoming scratching their heads at him. He clarified simply, "Do you think you're faster than me?"

The man answered as Taylor feared he would; with his gun hand already in his lap, he drew his gun in a flash and raised it to point toward the Sheriff's head.

Under normal circumstances, the man probably would have killed Taylor. But these weren't normal circumstances; the man had been drinking for hours, he was tilted onto his chair's back two legs, and he was over confident, the biggest factor against him, Taylor knew. Later, when he was quietly questioned by the Saloon's always-inquisitive owner, Taylor would admit that the man was likely faster than he was.

But, since Taylor hadn't drawn down in response, there was no way of knowing. Instead, as he saw the man make his move, Taylor rammed his weight forward against the poker table. Its supports caught the man in the knees, throwing him off balance. Instead of firing at the Sheriff, he grabbed at the table with his free hand and waved his gun hand for balance, firing a shot into the air and shattering a mirror above the piano against the far wall.

As the saloon girl screamed and ducked away, the establishment's other dozen patrons -- who hadn't expected trouble and already done so -- scattered, heading for doors and alcoves to avoid the gun battle.

It wasn't much of a battle, though. Instead, as the cowboy fell to his back and slammed his head against wall that he'd sat against in a vain attempt not to be surprised, Taylor flipped the table atop him, moved around it, waited for the man's head to again show, and brought his fist squarely down into the wanna-be gunslinger's face.

The cowboy screamed like a little girl, others would later say later, as the Sheriff crushed his nose. Taylor took the man's gun, then took him into custody, asking him, "You didn't think I was going to let you escape the rope, did you?"



Three days later, Crossroads had its first public hanging. Taylor hadn't advertised it, and yet nearly a hundred people from all over the territory came to witness it.

It wouldn't be the first hanging, Taylor knew. A mountain pass that had been cleared last fall, as well as the completion of a new bridge just this spring had opened the area to significantly increased wagon traffic, causing the tiny burg of Barrowton to be thought of, and subsequently renamed, Crossroads.

The quickly expanding town was now a way station to both those heading for The West for opportunities to enrich themselves and those who had already become enriched but yearned for home and were again heading back to The East.

And of course, with all those good people came the bad, like the cowboy now hanging from a robe unceremoniously tossed over the entry gate at the east end of town. Taylor ordered the man cut down and buried -- with a marker that only said Killed a man. Was killed himself. -- and then delivered the proceeds from the sale of the man's horse and other possessions to the widow of the man he'd murdered. Taylor took care of his Townsfolk, sometimes in ways that he did not prefer.

Then, as if it were any other day, he took a stroll. He stopped in each of Crossroad's sixteen businesses, exchanging greetings and collecting his pay. Taylor didn't get a wage from the town; the community simply was too small to guarantee an income to him. But each day the merchants and residents took care of Taylor, giving him a loaf of bread or a basket of vegetables, or washing and mending his clothes, or -- in the case of the Saloon Girl whose customer he'd killed days earlier -- tending to his needs occasionally.

It wasn't the best paying job he'd ever had -- he'd been a highly sought after Lawyer back in Chicago after University -- but it was better than panning for gold flecks in a cold river or shoveling coal on a east bound train full of hogs.

More important than his needs, though, were Crossroad's needs. The town needed a Law Man -- it needed a Deputy, too, but Taylor hadn't yet found the man for the job -- and he was the only man who had expressed an interest in it.

So, he continued his morning tour, thanking the hanging audience for coming to town and pointing them to the establishments at which they couls spend their money.

From the ridge that was the southern property line of the land he legally owned, Jonathan McGuire looked further south into the land that he was currently running a thousand head of short horned Hereford on, despite the fact that the land theoretically belonged to either the Federal Government or any of a number of homesteaders.

The Federal Government did not concern McGuire much; it was more than a thousand miles away and its only local representative was a frequently inebriated Claims Office Clerk who was known to make as much income from McGuire as he did his official employer.

But the homesteaders were another story altogether. With a bridge over the Siminoe replacing an inadequate ferry six years ago, and the opening of the pass through the Medicine Bow a year after that, quiet little Barrowtown quickly became exactly what its current name described, a crossroad for travelers heading west to new adventures or east with either their new found wealth or their tails between their legs.

And with Washington opening the region to homesteading three years ago, hundreds of claims had been filed for the territory around Crossroads. Despite all the dreams and filings, though, few families had put their stakes in the ground here. The land was harsh, water was scarce, and the seasons could be extreme. And with Crossroads far from the well established wagon roads, particularly the Oregon Trail, those with dreams of opening businesses that catered to those travelers didn't bother here, either.

But things change. A second round of Land Claim filings was bringing farmers, small time cattle ranchers, drovers, dairy men, and more into the area. They were finally putting down their stakes and -- far more concerning to McGuire -- putting up their fences.

Most of them were gone before the end of the first hard winter, of course. This was a hard land and these city folk simply didn't have the experience, knowledge, and will to tough it out.

And for those that did, there was, of course, a solution for them. When they walked into the mercantile -- owned by a couple who owed their existence to Jonathan McGuire -- and asked for credit until the fall harvest or sale of their mature stock animals, the aid simply wasn't available. If they had cash, they often found that the store didn't have what they needed.

McGuire had another little trick for the farmers who could simply go elsewhere for their starter seed: seed that had been left in the heat to burn and therefore wouldn't germinate. By the time the inexperienced dirt farmers realized nothing green was ever going to rise out of their lovingly tended brown, it was often too late to attempt a second planting; and if it wasn't, the land owner often didn't have the money for a second round of seed anyway.

If a farmer did manage to get a crop to push upward towards the sky, often a runaway stampede of McGuire's herd would trample the farmers future back to dust. He would, of course, reimburse the folks he'd wronged, but only for their expenses, not their true loss, which was the food they'd planned on eating that winter.

And there were more dirty tricks -- more than there were homesteaders to use them on -- and all with one intention: to get the homesteaders to abandon their land or sell it for pennies on the dollar to McGuire. It was how he'd expanded his initial 400 acre ranch into the 14,000 acre empire that it was today.

McGuire didn't consider himself a ruthless man. He'd never had any of the pesky homesteaders killed or even beaten, after all. Of course, there was the family he'd deprived of food and cash that tried to last out the winter on their meager stores, only to starve or freeze to death, which no one was sure. And there had been the widower who was trampled by his heard trying to get to his then-12 year old daughter, who had been down at the creek fetching water at the time. But McGuire had done right by the families in the end, or so he believed. He'd personally paid for the caskets and burials of the family that had died that horrible winter. And he'd given the orphaned little girl work on his ranch as a maid and later, when she'd matured enough to serve the men of the ranch, he gave her that responsibility as well.
So, all worked out in the end, he thought. His ranch was expanding by leaps and bounds, he was providing relatively well paying to the needy, and -- most importantly -- there wasn't a fence to be seen anywherethat McGuire didn't want to see one.

For now, anyway. He'd come to the South Ridge today for a reason. That reason -- a train of eight Conestoga wagons, accompanied by three dozen men, women, and children on foot or horseback and a multitude of stock animals on leads -- was just coming into view.

And while he was certain he would eventually have most if not all of their claims, he knew he couldn't keep up this fight for ever.

sorry, posted in the wrong thread. I will fill this space with my next IC reply

As the wagon train approached Crossroads, one of the few men with a saddled horse rode ahead to get directions, more in where not to go than in where to go. The group of 40 had been through or near six cities or town on their westward trek, most recently Cheyenne and Laramie. At each they'd run into a Sheriff or concerned citizen, eager to lend a helpful hand ...so long as they either spent their money at the local businesses and subsequently got the hell out of town.

On the outskirts of Crossroads, a sour-faced old codger point silently toward the blacksmith shop, the merchantile, and the Land Claims Office before finally turning his back on the rider and heading off toward a distant out house in a small grove of trees.

"Don't mind him," a voice called from the shade of a nearby porch. The rider shaded his eyes to find a man in a porch swing, his booted feet casually resting upon the rib cage of a massive, sleeping dog. As the Local gestured for the rider to come nearer, he explained, "Old Man Lewis ain't enjoyed a good sh--". He stopped short of completing the word, instead finishing with, "Let's just say that nature ain't been good to him for near a year or so, poor guy."

The rider smiled in understanding as he dismounted near the porch. He was about the respond when he caught sight of the double barreled shotgun leaning up against the building near the man; then, almost as quickly, found the badge just barely exposed by the lapel of the Local's heavy coat.

The rider neared the porch with obvious hesitation and caution, more than what an innocent man would require when greeting the Local Law Man. He put on his best smile, introducing himself tentatively as he jerked a finger back in the direction of the wagon train, just now coming into view over a short hillock. "John ...John Brown, Marshall. I'm with--"

"Sheriff," the Law Man cut in, rising slowly and walking out to the porch's edge to offer his hand. "Sheriff Matthew Taylor."

John Brown hesitated again, but took Taylor's hand in a quick shake. He glanced quickly to the big Colt on the Sheriff's waist, then met the man's eyes again, hoping that the broad smile he showed would hide his feeling of guilt.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Taylor."

"Matt," Taylor corrected, "Or Matthew works, too. We're pretty casual here in Crossroads. Passing through, or...?"

Again, John jerked a finger towards the approaching wagons. "One of our families has a claim to stake. Just north of town he'll be needing to find the Land Claim Office."

After the Sheriff gave him more accurate directions, he continued explaining about the need for a blacksmith and a dry goods store, then -- a bit shyly, not knowing whether or not Crossroads was dry -- asked where the saloon was.

"And what about you ...John...?" Taylor asked with a bit of a suspicious tone. "What can I help you find...? 'Sides a drink, I mean. Something tells me you're not the homesteading type."

John smiled politely, feigning ignorance. "Not sure I know what you mean, Sheriff."

Taylor glanced down to the weapon belted across John's belly, virtually the twin to his own .45 except for the dark stained wood grip where his own was polished white ivory.

Before he responded, Taylor turned casually away from the man and descended the porch steps to the hard packed dirt, spared from becoming a muddy mess by nearly six weeks of cloudless skies. The move might have been seen by some as foolish -- turning his back on an armed stranger -- but Taylor had needed an inconspicuous distraction so that his shifting of his gun hand to the grip of his six shooter would seem incidental.

Once on the ground level with John, he again glanced to the man's weapon and explained, "You ground your front sight down smooth to the barrel. Allows for a quick pull. And the placement of your weapon ...well ...let me just say that I've only seen that done on a man who knows how to pull ... and likely has, once or twice."

John didn't respond immediately, instead just meeting Taylor's steady gaze with his own. After a long moment, he smiled and -- very slowly -- shoved his thumbs down inside his pant's belt. It was intended to look like a casual habit, like shoving a hand into a pocket or unnecessarily adjusting one's hat.

But Taylor took it for what it truly was, John's sign that he had no intention of suddenly pulling his weapon from its holster and shooting down a law man.

"I'm ...an escort, Sheriff," John explained. "Hired to get these people -- the ones going farther west -- safely to their destination ...that's all. I'm not looking for trouble or excitement."

Taylor studied the man for a moment, then gave a relaxed smile. He looked past John, to the wagons now close enough for him to begin making out the bedraggled, weary faces. "In that case, let's get your people situated. And--". His smile turned into a knowing smirk. "Once they're all on the way to being taken care of ...why don't you meet me down at the saloon. I'll buy you a drink ...and we can swap stories."

Taylor turned before John could answer and headed down the boardwalk ...on his way to the Jail ...to look over the more recent Wanted flyers for a likeness of his future drinking partner.

Kevin "2 Shot" Murdock

Kevin Murdock road into town on his old beat up horse. Brant was a good companion, but he had differently seen better days. He had a few bags of tomatoes tied to the saddle, and he planned to sell or trade them to the General Store while he was in town.

He didn't much care for the people here. He barely gave them a thought, except that he was glad they stayed away from his miserable patch of dirt he called home. He did have some run-ins with McGuire, but after a well pointed shot at the man... the first was always a warning, he hadn't seen him much. His lands were far away from the cattle McGuire raised., but Kevin had no doubt that he would have to show McGuire what the second shot never missed soon enough.

Murdock wore a dirt and dust covered tan long coat, his once black hat, nearly gray. His face had a weeks worth of stubble on it, and his steel blue eyes stared at anyone that came near them, warning them to back off.

He saw the Sheriff, a good man for a lawdog, walking to his little jail in town with some cowboy Kevin had never seen before... but he could tell the man was experienced. Gunslingers could always tell another with the way they walked and the way their eyes asset the other.

Murdock got to the front of the General Store, got off his horse and lashed the ropes to the post before it. Brant never wondered, but he didn't want some idiot running off with him now.

He grabbed his bags of tomatoes and walked in... only to see McGuire inside talking to the clerk. He groaned, not wanting to deal with the man now.

Taylor was just about to enter the jail when he caught sight of two of Jonathan McGuire's men, just down the boardwalk, suddenly rise from their seats outside the Saloon, their attention obviously set upon the same point somewhere behind him. He opened the Jail door, but turned to follow the gaze of the men ... and found Kevin Murdock just dismounting from his old nag before the General Store.

Taylor turned back to the two men in time to catch them dismounting the boardwalk, their direction set obviously on intercepting Murdock before he entered the small store. With a firm tone he called out, "Gentlemen...?"

They looked up to see Taylor with a knowing expression and slowed to a stop. One simply smiled, but the other -- knowing full well that the Taylor was informed of the recent occurrence -- began to justify their obvious intention with, "That son of a mule took a pot shot at--"

"I'm very aware..." Taylor cut in hard, silencing the man, before continuing with a softer voice, "...of what you think happened last month ... but your boss told me personally that he believes it was an accident."

The outspoken man laughed loudly, shooting a glance down the dusty street before continuing, "You know that weren't no accident, Sheriff. That shot--"

"Mister McGuire..."" Taylor cut in again, knowing that the respect the man had for the badge, if not him personally, would shut him up. He took an exasperated breath, then released it. "Your boss ... has decided it was an accident ... and therefore ... it was an accident. Mister McGuire is dealing with it as such ... you will deal with it as such ... and I will deal with it as such."

Taylor stepped out to the edge of the boardwalk, lifting his hand to rest upon the buckle of his gun belt, which to anyone who knew him meant he was invoking his permission to end any and all arguments with the power of his badge and the speed of his gun hand. "Or ... I will deal with you ... appropriately."

The man tried to maintain a hard, determined look, doing his best to stare down the Sheriff. But he failed. He diverted his eyes, then -- looking to his partner -- said softly, "Let's get a drink."

Taylor watched the two men head back up onto the boardwalk and into the saloon. He looked back to the General Store and watched as Murdock closed on the door, hesitated, then entered. Taylor wondered why the man who always seemed to be anxious to get in and get out paused for a few seconds ... and then saw the reason: tied up next to the Store in front of the Land Claims Office -- which even from here Taylor could see was unoccupied -- were the horses of Jonathan McGuire and the two men who rarely left the side of their typically unarmed boss man.

Taylor returned to the Jail door, closed it, and headed across the rutted road, eager to be within sight and sound of trouble before it came to be.

(OOC -- Next post will be for McGuire, coming in a moment.)

Jonathan McGuire sat behind the Store Keeper's desk, reviewing his books. Publicly, and legally, the gray haired old widower owned the store and was solely responsible for everything that happened within its walls, from what was ordered and sold to how much he sold it for to who he sold it to ... or refused to do the same for.

But everyone knew that the man had fallen on hard times a handful of years back, and then lost both his wife and only son in separate accidents and had had to hire a hand he couldn't afford to help with the heavy work. A loan -- with no interest but a great many strings -- had the Store Keeper's reins in the hands of Mister McGuire.

McGuire was fairly happy with recent events concerning the store's patronage. Those customers with something he wanted -- be it their savings or their land or, in the case of some of the fathers with beautiful daughters, or even attractive wives -- were served by the store without question, even given credit that was rapidly increasing to sums they likely often had nightmares about.

And those who didn't have something McGuire wanted had better of been walking through those doors with cash in hand. McGuire demanded it, and the Store Keeper honored that.

So when the Store Keeper heard the bell and looked up to see Kevin Murdock entering the establishment with his bucket of fresh tomatoes, his first reaction was to immediately turn to make eye contact with his keeper, Jonathan McGuire.

McGuire made eye contact with Murdock as well and, like the poker player that he was, managed to do so without his expression shifting in any direction. He simply stared at the man for a long moment, mulling over the various ways that he'd considered dealing with the man who'd put a piece of lead through the air over his head.

Ironically, McGuire didn't blame Murdock for the way the man had acted. He and his men had ridden up onto the ridge looking down onto Murdock's place on a full moon lit night. McGuire had wanted to get a view of the small ranch in the darkness, wondering whether a night time stampede might be a suitable way to get the small time rancher off the valuable piece of land he'd staked out.

McGuire's wealth revolved around two key resources: land, and the water on that land. And while Murdock's place was on the far side of the Federal Land being parceled out to settlers from McGuire's ranch, it had the best year round source of water for three, maybe four miles. McGuire had been running his livestock on the land up until a year ago, when a Cavalry unit with a Land Claims Agent came through and directed him off it. McGuire had done as he was told without question; it had been cattle drive time anyway, and his men had been about to move the herd north to the rail line and, ultimately, the slaughter yards in Cheyenne. McGuire knew that come next season, his herd would simply head back toward the smell of water, and all would be right again.

Only ... by the time the season returned, Kevin Murdock had arrived. McGuire hadn't been able to buy the land from the Land Claims Agent preemptively, but -- as he'd done with so many other people -- he'd simply planned on buying it from who ever the new land owner was. Murdock hadn't been interested.

And not only had he not been interested in McGuire's money, but he hadn't been interested in seeing four men on horseback -- reminiscent of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse -- lining the ridge above his place, looking down on him.

I would have shot at me, too, McGuire thought, staring beyond the sacks of grain and jars of rock candy at the farmer, rancher, and -- McGuire suspected -- former gun hand.

He turned his attention to the Store Keeper -- who almost looked like he was trembling, uncertain of how he was supposed to proceed -- and gave the man an affirmative, inconspicuous nod of his head.

The Store Keeper turned quickly, smiling broadly as he said, "Mister Murdock, how nice to see you today--" He hurried to the farmer, reaching to help him with the tomatoes. "--and what a wonderful crop you've brought in today. Same price as before...? To your account, or will you be shopping with us today...?"

Dry, brittle dirt crunched beneath her feet as Gracie Mae dismounted from her horse with a graceful swing of her leg out of the saddle. She removed her hide hat to fan herself and promptly wipe her brow with a muslin cloth before stuffing it back into the worn leather belt about her slender waist. The blonde woman squinted at the sun's glare as she moved around her brown mare, taking it by the reigns to lead it to the river's edge.

The cattle themselves needed a drink and short stop to graze on what little vegetation they could find. Their every move was watched by the intense stare of their sheep dog a black and white furred mutt named Tek. He sat patiently and intently, his tongue lolling as he panted.

Gracie bent to scoop a bit of the cool water into her hand for a drink herself, though paused to peer at her father who crouched beneath the shade of a knobby, leafless tree.

"Papa, ye a'right?" She called, receiving a nod in response as he took a swig from his cantine. He looked tired and weak, dark circles around his blue eyes, lines creasing harshly at the corners and around his mouth. Her father wasn't a small man, but he seemed a bit inflated at that moment..

Hiking her the skirts of her dress up about her slender thighs, Gracie tugged off her boots with a wince, soon to plop down onto the bank as she freed her sore, bruised and blistered feet, slowly dipping them into the water with a relieved sigh. They'd been walking for days, but her father didn't let on to where they were going. She trusted him completely, but she had to question if he even knew. He wasn't his old self, after all. He would get sick quite easily if he was out in the sun too long.

After relaxing a few moments, Gracie rose up and stepped barefoot to her horse, tossing her boots into one of the pack before she returned to the river, dipping her hat to scoop out some water and setting it in front of Tek, who lowered his head, but not his eyes, to lap at the water.

With a soft pat between the ears, Gracie brushed back her long, sun-bleached locks before moving over to her father to help him back to his horse, but as she did so, she spotted what seemed to be a small establishment. It was possible it was just a hallucination or a mirage, but a smile curled across her pink lips none the less.

"I think we're jus' about there.." she muttered to him reassuringly, taking his arm and helping him to his feet, watching a bit of water drip from his brown beard. Forcing a smile, despite fearing for his health, she guided him to his horse nearby, glad to see he could at least manage to get into the saddle without her having to push him up by his rear end.

Mounting her own horse yet again, her skirts settling about her knees with her legs straddling the saddle, Gracie whistled sharply for Tek with two fingers between her teeth, pushing her horse forward to start urging the cattle on their way with the dog managing to keep them in a close-knit clump.

An hour had nearly passed before the father and daughter were approaching the outskirts of town with their cattle to Gracie Mae's relief. She swore she saw her father sway in his saddle from time to time, her gut turning with a furrowed brow.

"Papa?"

She blinked anxiously as she received no response.

"Papa!" She dug her heels into the side of her horse to catch up with him. His horse slowed as her father began to slip from his sattle, but just as she moved up beside him, Gracie snatched the collar of his shirt to pull him back upright.

With wide eyes, she saw his eyes were closed and his face was awfully pale. His brow was slick with sweat, though as she listened carefully for a breath, a haggard inhale soon came.

"Oh, Jesus, Papa!"

Glancing to the town ahead, they hadn't quite yet come into close enough range where she could call for help. Grasping for the reigns of his horse, she pulled her father's upper body against her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she guided his horse closer in a hurry, her breath shallow in her panic. Impatiently, she began yelling, calling for help, hoping to catch someone's attention.

Albert Tabbot

Abe was a man who kept his nose where it belonged, but it seemed that no matter what attitude you took towards other people's business, when you're a bartender you get to hear a lot more than you would want to know. He had heard so many secrets by now, that he found it best to keep his mouth shut and if asked about anything deny any knowledge. Of course there was some things that a man could talk about without having to face fists, knives or guns, these were the things that Abe did not worry to talk about.

As the two hired hands came into the saloon and swaggered over to the bar, it took all the control he had not to chuckle. So they were dangerous and had one of the most powerful man to back them, but they looked like whipped dogs when the Sheriff stopped them with just a few words.

"So what can I get you boys?"

The two sat down and placed coins on the counter

"Whiskey, keep them coming until the money is done."

He nodded, carefully counted the money and then placed two clean shot glasses on the counter, filling them up and patiently waited for the two to down their first drinks as they usually did and did now as well. He refilled their glasses and moved over to his beer glasses, inspecting them and found one that had a thumb print on it, pulling the rag from his shoulder, he picked up the glass and started polishing it.

"Yah know Tom, one day that law man will overstep his reach."

"Ah know Cas, the man thinks that he is untouchable, wearing that star. Like it makes him bullet-proof."

"Yeah, feel like I could slip a blade between his ribs tonight in that alley way next to his office yah know? Just show the bastard what happens when yah mess with us."

Abe placed the now clean glass back and walked closer to refill their shots, the one called Cas looked him over.

"You hear anything?"

Abe frowned,

"I heard you talking, what you talked about is none of my business unless you talk to directly, like you did now."

The two men grinned at each other and started talking again, Abe moved around behind the counter, checking his stocks and periodically refilling their glasses. When the money they had placed down ran out, they got up and walked out, to retake their positions and waited for their boss.

Kevin "2 Shot" Murdock

"Yeah, I be needing a few things." Murdock said as he put one of the bags of tomatoes gently on the counter for the clerk to weigh it.

Murdock knew he would at best get just enough from his tomatoes to get what he needed. "I need that shovel and hoe you have over there, and a few more hem-bags as well." Murdock pointed, though his eyes were on McGuire.

In Murdock's past he stole and robbed and killed. But McGuire just rubbed him the wrong way. Murdock's old life might have been dirty, but it was honest. He didn't hide who he was then... though he didn't much care to share that with others now.

McGuire on the other hand. He was a thief. Plain and simple. He might make it look like he was a man of the community, but he simply took what he wanted. All within the law, of course, but that still didn't stop him from being a thief that he was.

Murdock took his eyes off the Pillar of Society and back to the clerk. It was true he was lucky with this crop. He had saved the tomatoes from his best plant to harvest later, but that didn't mean the rest of the crop was bad. In fact, he was really lucky.

He knew it was nothing he did. The land was very good piece of land. Still might just be a few parcels of dirt, but it had a nice supply of water.

Now if he could only get that well going... He might be able to get some chickens and other plants going.

Evan Williams

Evan Miller was the typical young man in the west. Grew up hearing stories about outlaws and the great lawmen that brought them in, and was captivated by them. He wanted to be a lawman more then anything else.

He had just turn 18. For a few months before his birthday, he had been bugging the Sheriff about being the deputy, but always being blown off. Well he was 18 now, and he so wanted to be the deputy, and learn about how to keep the law from a man he admired. Sheriff Taylor.

Evan was wearing a blue and red strip shirt, and also had the latest fashion in reinforced pants were. Levi Jeans. They had cost a buck fifty, but his father thought it would be a good birthday present.

He wore a light tan cowboy hat he got from working hard, and spending his own money. He had a piece of straw in his mouth he was chewing on while he waited for Sheriff Taylor to show up, in front of the jail. He was going to prove to the man he would be a great deputy today.

He hoped.

This thread is a flashback to a few days before Evan William's 18th birthday, when he and Sheriff Taylor last discussed his future as a Deputy.

It included details about the town as well, so it's worth reading.

It also includes a female character, Sally, who is available if one of you wants to write her; as well as a banker who is available, too. (Neither has to be written; they are just NPCs.)

BTW, the above thread link is being put here in the IC, not the OOC or WDT, because it's a flashback in the story and I want lurkers to find it, too.

John Lobo

He was tired, it had been a long ride, it had been a long day, times like these he wondered why he was always drifting around, but the twin .45 Peacemaker Colts with their worn walnut handles reminded him just why. The Wolf never found a resting place without some younger idiot trying to become a hero. He had gunned down more men than he cared to count, the rifle in the scabbard next to his saddle was new, so new that he had not even worn off the gleam and smell of a new weapon off of it. The Winchester 1976 using the .45 calliber, he had bought it with money he found on ambushers, he left them to rot in the desert, from the looks of them it looked like they would not have been mourned anyway.

The horse nickered and he looked up, of course the water drew his attention, but the herd of cattle was what he had noticed first. He frowned as it seemed to his sharp eyes that the only guardian they had was a cattle dog. He allowed the horse move to the water and drink, he dismounted, filled his canteen and took a long drink from the flowing water. He got up, stretched himself out and mounted again, by now nobody had called out to him and the only sign of life was the dog and the cattle. He pushed his hat into a better position and trotted towards the cattle, moving around them to push some of the strays back to the main herd. He held up under the shade of a tree and noticed some tracks, he followed them and noticed that they led to the town.

So the owners of the cattle was not too far off, since he had nothing better to do he waited in the shade, rolling himself a cigarette, while keeping a wary eye on the cattle. The dog seemed to know instinctively that he was there to help and he took the chance to drink some water. John noticed just how alert the dog was and smiled, that spoke of good training and much love. He lit the cigarette with a match and carefully doused the flame before he continued to work on his smoke. In near silence he sat there, the only movement that of the horse and cattle.

Shading her eyes, Gracie stood on the main road near her and her father's tethered horses in her leather boots with her hand on her hip, the wind stirring the dust and the skirts of the pale blue frock that hung from her thin frame. Her father was being seen by the doctor, and having recently awakened, Gracie Mae could finally rest easy.

However, she now had one other thing to worry about; her growling, impatient, stomach. Pressing her hand to her flat abdomen, the blonde woman searched the strip of buildings. The town was small, and her choices seemed limited to the general store and the saloon, but with no way of cooking her own meal, she'd have to had one prepared. Her lips twisted into a nervous frown as she soon realized that left only one option.

Sucking in a breath, Gracie palmed the hat on top of her head to secure it in determination as she set off in the direction of the establishment, able to hear the music and the commotion from inside. Her heart was pounding in her nerves, knowing it was not the best place for a woman of her kind, and upon pushing the swinging doors open with both hands, everything seemed to stand still.

Trying not to reveal her uneasiness, she made her way to the bar where an open stool stood, far from any of the other patrons. She felt the stares upon her back, though was glad fot the mass of her blonde, wavy hair that fell over her shoulders as if she could hide behind it, even going so far as to give a slight forward tilt of her hat.

Unbelievable...

Matthew Taylor was standing on the wooden boardwalk just outside the General Store, praying there would be no excitement inside as Murdock and McGuire stared at one another over the establishment's offerings ... and then she walked into the saloon.

Taylor took one more glance into the store, decided everything would be fine inside, and headed for the saloon, knowing that the key word in his previous thought, of course, was she. The saloon wasn't exactly a place for good, wholesome women to be hanging out. Of course, Taylor didn't know that this particular woman was either, good or wholesome. But he couldn't take the chance of a misunderstanding taking place in the town's only bar.

The Saloon's owner was very particular about his clientele. Essentially, if they didn't possess a swinging dick, they weren't supposed to be there. Despite serving rot gut and renting rooms -- and whores -- to known outlaws and trouble makers, he was actually a God-fearing man who didn't think his own place was a place for a good to be. And, for those women who were not so good...? Well, they could only be trouble within his walls -- or competition to his two whores -- so they didn't belong there either.

Taylor stopped at the swinging doors and found just about what he'd expected to find: a piano player with his fingers hovering over the keys of a silent piano, the tight-faced owner with a rag stuffed deep into a beer stein he was no longer cleaning, and the bartender moving quickly out from behind the bar to deal with his new customer before his boss through a conniption fit.

Taylor stepped back a bit, deciding to watch how the bartender handled the situation before he, himself, got involved. He glanced back toward the general store, thinking At the same time this had to be happening...?

Albert Tabbot

He was quite surprised to see the young woman entering the establishment, from the draw of her mouth he could see that she was not at ease. He moved over to her, he knew that from her vantage point he had to look like a lumbering landslide. So he gave her a friendly smile and nodded politely,

"Good day ma'am, what can I get you? We have a nice beef stew with fresh bread and also fresh milk. First beer is free and after that you have to pay."

He indicated the price list behind his back and waited for her to reply. He hoped that she wanted a meal, that way he could have her join his wife in the kitchen and of course leave as quickly as possible. He knew that his partner would be having a fit by now, but if she was a paying customer, she needed to be served as was their agreement.

Jonathan McGuire sat in silence as he -- and the two men flanking him conspicuously and yet some how casually -- watched Kevin Murdock followed the Store Keeper about, collecting his needs.

Murdock, McGuire knew, was a dangerous man. And men like McGuire had three options when it came to dangerous men: Kill them, befriend them, avoid them, or ignore them.

McGuire could easily kill Murdock. Maybe not face to face, with the personal touch that a gunslinger might be capable of. McGuire didn't even carry a side arm, although he did carry a pair of small two shot Derringers, one in his boot and the other inside his vest. He could stand up right now, pull one of the weapons, and put a bullet in the man's back. But, even with his wealth and power, he knew he'd still finish the week dangling from a rope. Sheriff Taylor respected McGuire's power just far enough to let him get away with some of his shady dealings, but murder wouldn't stand.

He could always befriend Murdock. McGuire had befriended men he despised much more than he did for Murdock and gotten by just fine. And of course, the land baron didn't despise the small time rancher and farmer so much; he only envied him the piece of property he had, or more specifically the water source that was on it.

Avoiding him would be the easiest tact. From what his men told him, Murdock only came to town two or three, maybe four times a month; and once his business was concluded, he was gone again. All McGuire had to do was have one of him men locate the man before he himself made a trip to town.

But avoiding Murdock sounded very much like ignoring him; it was something he didn't want to do. Jonathan McGuire's power and reputation were based upon his public face, upon his confronting those people in his community, either with a polite smile or a pair of vicious looking cohorts. He doubted very much that he could live out the next weeks and months, let alone years and decades, with a stand apart relationship for Murdock.

He stood and turned to the gun hand behind him, whispering, then -- dropping the register flat on the Store Keeper's desk so that the slam would attract the attention of both the merchant and his customer -- turned and ambled his way out the mercantile's exit with his second man glaring at Murdock as he led his boss outward.

Behind him, the man he'd talked talked softly to stopped near Murdock, looked him up and down, and said with a feigned, friendly smile, "Mister McGuire has requested your attendance at a dinner on his ranch ... Sunday ... after church services."

The man's smile widened into a sneer as he finished, "It's a family affair ... so ... bring your woman--" He turned and headed for the door, saying just loud enough to be heard, "--if ya got one."

Once out on the boardwalk, the man laughed loudly. Behind him, the Store Keeper looked to Murdock with a concerned expression. He said quietly, "Best take the invite. People 'round here ... well ... they don't turn down Mister McGuire."

Grace Mae glanced up a bit nervously at the bartender who approached her, unaware of the man who's interest she had peaked. Expecting to be refused service, the friendly smile on the man's face as he greeted her was a welcomed gesture, her own smile spreading across her lips.

"Beef stew and milk'll do," she replied with a nod, her eagerness to get her hands on some food clear in her voice. Glancing to the prices behind him, she bit gently at her lower lip and reached to dig into the small satchel clipped to her belt, pulling out her hand with a few coins between her fingers.

She slid them across the bar towards him, just about as eager to get out of there as he was to get rid of her.

Taylor watched in on the saloon for a long moment, his eyes shifting from Big Abe -- which the Sheriff, despite his badge and quick draw had never had the nerve to call him to his face -- to the Vernon, the principal owner in the business, to the trio of men ogling the woman from a corner table and back to the subject of what they were ogling.

She was a striking woman, the type to be clutching to a Governor's arm or riding beside a wealthy banker in a fancy coach or singing from a Chicago Stage; she didn't belong here like this, with her hair wind-mussed and her boots covered in dust.

But then, Taylor was an educated lawyer -- or, he would have been if he'd finished his last year -- who'd tried and won cases across two thousand miles, and yet here he was, too. Maybe we're meant to be together, he said, his lips spreading in a wide smile. Yeah, Matt ... she came all the way here from ... from where ever to marry the Sheriff and pop out future farm hands.

He stepped back away from the door, knowing he was just torturing himself staring at the woman's fine back side, and turned his attention to the sound of horses in a slow canter. Jonathan McGuire and one of his body guards were mounted and heading down the length of what some called Main Street -- even if it was the only street -- and his second man was just coming out of the General Store, adjusting his gun belt and straightening his hat.

Taylor wondered why the trio were currently a pair and a single; McGuire rarely packed a side arm, though he was rarely unarmed either, and his puppy dog side kicks were there to keep him from getting ambushed by one of the many people he'd cheated out of ... well, out of just about anything. Seeing one of them lag behind smelled of fist fight, as Taylor had heard no shots.

But when he got to the Store, he found Kevin Murdock just inside the open door with the Store Owner talking, seemingly without a care in the world concerning the powerful Mister McGuire.

With no worries to be tended to, Taylor turned back for his original destination and once inside immediately found the eager Evan Williams, practically standing at attention in his finest duds and his brightly polished Colt. Taylor just shook his head and, anticipating Evan pronouncement that his 18th birthday had just come and gone, said, "Fine, your hired. Although hired ain't much of a word, since even I don't get a salary. But if you want it that badly--"

He'd been heading for his desk as he talked and now reached in to remove a shiny badge from the drawer. He hadn't had an extra one, and to order one would have taken four to five weeks and cost him, not the town, four dollars that he didn't have. So he had the Blacksmith cut and polish up a piece of of a silver dinner platter they'd salvaged from a burned cabin a couple of years back, and now it looked almost as official as the one that graced Taylor's own chest.

He tossed the piece of metal through the air to the already broadly smiling boy, telling him, "Grab a shotgun from the rack before you leave, and a box of ammo for both. From now on, the town buys your shells ... which means I buy your shells ... so don't get crazy! Them's expensive! But first--" Taylor came around the desk carrying a beat up old Bible. "-- raise your right hand and repeat after me."

From the back of the covered wagon, a pair of black, dusty boots was kicked up and crossed one over the other. Nestled in a pile of blankets and pillows, a red scarf was draped over the young woman’s face, her arms crossed back behind her head as she enjoyed the ride. Soon, though, she felt the wagon lurch to a stop, the sound of boots climbing down from the front and jumping down onto the dirt.

Taking this as her cure, the raven-haired woman pulled herself out of her nest and climbed out the back, stepping her own boots down to the arid terrain. Ruby hadn’t had any particular destination in mind, but had convinced the man to give her a lift and take her as far as he could. It hadn’t been hard. Ruby had a talented mouth.

Combing her fingers back through her unkempt hair, she tangled the red scarf about her neck and shoulders, reaching into the wagon to pull out her shotgun and her pack before kicking it back over her shoulder.

“Where’s this?” she asked, turning her gaze over her shoulder towards the town nestled into the valley. Didn’t seem too bad.

“That there is Crossroads. This’ll be a good place fer ye hitch another ride if’n ye want one. Folks come passin’ through here lef’ n’ righ’..” The man tipped his hat towards the small settlement, letting his eyes wander the young woman’s lithe body one last time before she turned on her heel.

“That’ll do it then..” she replied, flicking her pointer and middle finger in a bid-goodbye. “Adios.”

Strolling into town not long later on foot, Ruby passed by the man guarding a group of cattle with a dedicated mutt, her shotgun laid across her slender shoulders. She gave him no more than a nod of acknowledgement on her way, glaring through the light of the sun.

Contemplating her next move, the woman came to a stop, letting her pack fall to the ground as she scoped out possibilities for her next destination. Soon, she made her way over to the porch of the saloon, curious to see just what kind of people occupied this small town, and who she could expect to encounter.

Settling down into an old rocking chair, laying her shotgun across her lap, Ruby propped her elbow up onto the arm of the chair, letting her chin rest on her knuckles as she began her typical routine observations.

Albert Tabbot

Abe counted the money, handed her the change and motioned for her to follow him, he led her into the kitchen where his wife Ava was busy as usual. Apart from the huge stove, the cupboards and working table, there was two benches with chairs, all scrubbed clean to the point of almost gleaming.

"Please ma'am, have a seat."

He walked over to a barrel and from it pulled a covered pitcher with milk, he poured a tall glass and placed it on a bench.

"Ava, the young lady had purchased a meal, would you please fix her up with a plate?"

Ava chuckled,

"Vern still getting fits when ladies instead of sluts walk into his place?"

Abe just smiled,

"I think more it will be safer back here for her than with that crowd inside. You know how they get."

Ava chuckled and placed a bowl with a very aromatic broth and two slices of bread with butter on them on the bench. Ava had long curly brown hair, green eyes, a soft face and full lips always ready to smile. The thing which set her apart from the other woman in Abe's home town, was her height, she was very tall for a woman and yet still proportionally built. Abe gave his wife a smile and kissed her cheek,

"I'll go back to go tend to the thirsty throats,"

He gave Gracie a friendly smile,

"Enjoy your meal."

With that he left the kitchen and dining area

Kevin "2 Shot" Murdock

Murdock just stared at the retreating man though the door to the general room.

"Best take the invite. People 'round here ... well ... they don't turn down Mister McGuire." Said the store owner. Kevin did learn his name. Nor did he care.

"Yeah, well tis a good thing then I'm not from 'round here myself." He glared at the store keep, grabbed his stuff and left.

He saddled his belongings onto the horse, but thought for one long hard moment. He let his eyes travel around the town of Crossroads. Heh. Town. What a joke.

His eyes fell upon a raven haired woman sitting in the rocking chair in front of the saloon. She was different from most people. But Murdock could tell she wasn't that experienced... yet. She was young. And the young usually stayed that way... after a bullet was placed between their eyes.

"Brant, I think I need a drink. Just be a little while." He said into the ear of his loyal companion. With that he walked slowly but deliberately with purpose across the street... to the front of the Saloon.

As he stepped up onto the board walk, he looked down at the young woman with the shotgun in her lap. "Better be careful, you might lose an eye with that thing."

He didn't even stop to hear her response, if any. He just walked right in, to the bar, and said, "Whiskey."

Evan Williams (Deputy!!!)

Evan just stood there part in shock, and part of joy. The smile on his face threaten to split his face in half. He looked down at the piece of tin in his hand. He didn't even know how he had caught it.

He looked up slowly and straighten up as Taylor came back with the old beat up bible. He raised his hand, the piece of tin still in it. He blushed quickly and put it into his left hand.

After repeating word for word of the oath Taylor spoke, Evans still couldn't believe it. He put the piece of tin and somehow he felt like he stood ten feet tall.

He grabbed the shotgun and the box of shells from the rack and turned back to the Sheriff. "Trouble?" He asked. Barely a minute and he was already going to help fight crime! This was better then any nickle novel.

Albert Tabbot

"Gooday Mr. Murdock, a whiskey it is."

Abe liked the grumpy man, only for the reason that he was a straight shooter, didn't hide behind words, said what he meant. He placed a whiskey glass on the counter and poured into it the beverage asked for most of the time. Of course he had some Moonshine, personally brewed, but most people steered clear of it as it was a bit too strong for their tastes. And there was the beer, this was on the other hand too weak for his patrons.

He had noticed the woman taking a seat outside, her actions placed her a world apart from the young woman he had escorted to the dining area. He had seen that Mr Murdock showed little to no interest in her, but with Murdock being the closed book that he was, Abe could not tell for certain.

"I hope the tomato crop is good this season, Ava said that she would like to dry some to make stews and soups later in the year."

This link falls into the time line right here. It is a Personal Thread between Taylor and Evan that takes place right after Evan is made a Deputy.

We are doing this scene in a Personal thread because I am hoping that all of us writers can all finish this first day of the RP for our characters soon and move to the next day. I don't want the mission these two are on -- which might take a couple of real days to write -- to conflict with the rest of the IC thread's timeline.