Realistic or Modern 1876: The War for Home

[The Silent Z]

In 1876 Taos county New Mexico life was quiet for folks yet that quiet hid a certain odor that ones sense of smell couldn't forsake or mistake. The smell was that of corruption, tyranny and fear all mixed together to bake one tragic cake in this life the folks called home, Home being set within the beautiful scenery of trees standing below snow topped mountains and the miles of land all around with green grass, yellow patches and dirt that would make any man appreciate the life one could build here. But for all it's splendid beauty and peaceful seeming nature, the county was offset by a crooked mayor, a greedy and bought sheriff with his goons for deputies enforcing a biased law all the while this was only the start as each month if not sooner a band of outlaws liked to ride into town like they owned the place and to that surely they were not mistaken as nobody stood in there way and held them into check...... least none who lived to tell of the tale or do so successfully.

How it all began only the townsfolk could say and only those still around to speak of the years earlier election.... And even then it would take a brave soul to risk such a sharing. However life might seem the folks of Taos county make a go of life in the town getting by through sheer determination, grit and the fighting spirit to persevere during hard times... possibly hoping one day to once again have their home given back to them or aided in its reclaiming. All kinds of folk pass through, all kinds call Taos home and all kinds I'm sure would like to see it return from the hands who run the town now days.

Meanwhile a different kind of soul has recently rode into town atop his beloved horse, Betsy, a paint who's age was climbing ever higher but strode along still with a strength to her steps. The man who rides into Taos never truly had a place to call home, he's seen one boom town to another, big city and all kinds of territory across the country as a gunslinger with a military past... They call him Irish, Irish McDavid others might call him Lawrence but none mistake him for a yellow belly once they've gotten to know him or have heard of him already, if not met. He's a hazeled eyed, straight faced and calm man who speaks his mind or merely lets his face do his talking for him but despite what life has thrown his way he's managed to live on and see more and more new places his most recent being the now, the county of Taos......

He's a gunslinger with a taste for cards and drink who doesn't mind where he sleeps as long as the nights go a bit quicker then his last. He's seen War, fought outlaws and Indians both while occasionally taking on gangs such as the copper gang of Montana though don't think he was alone as he wasn't for a few acquaintances were made that day. The twists and turns of life proving more unexpected each day as that venture reminded him during that time.

While Lawrence McDavid was new to Taos county his sense told him something wasn't right, he'd already seen a run in with the man he was surprised to see was sheriff and his simple goons who backed him and himself, of course. He's since seen to his horses care, stared down a man who thought it was time for his horse to be put down and found a saloon nearby to get a drink and wet his whistle, perhaps a quiet game of cards as he observed the community from his seat and eyes peering over a hand of cards, while a sliver of wood poked out and moved here and there from his lips having decided to quite his habit of cigars.

Time would see this was truly a war for ones own home........

Brax Maj StormWolf SandraDeelightful _SweetCandy_ lux-crescendo R i v e r okokapi (If I'm missing anyone here I apologize I'll correct as time moves forward)

 

[StormWolf]

In every town, there was always the odd ones who lived within the county line, but apart from the hustle and bustle of growing modernity. Some such folk lived apart because they could afford to, others because their profession demanded it, or simply because they were considered queer in the eyes of the average townsperson. Randall had considered which of these camps he might fall in, and simply found that he did not like people. To most, however, such was an offensive, if not downright distasteful notion. No never mind that a man like him remained unwed with no children at his age, kept company by livestock and one other younger fellow. Tongue would wag, rumors would spread, but it was never enough to keep them from buying beef and horseflesh with the Callahan brand. Standing on his porch in the late morning, Randall nursed a cup of coffee strong enough to float an egg with little consideration to the townsfolk, but rather the sweeping vista afforded him by his property.

The lion did not concern himself with the gossip of the lamb, after all.

Still, while Randall tolerated the townsfolk, they were a fine commodity to have, though the current mayor and his policies were difficult to abide. While no blood had been shed, Randall had seen how such paths usually end. Having walked such a road once before, he would not seek trouble, but instead be ready for it at the briefest whiff of rotten dealing. It required little change in his day-to-day. Randall had always been the type to sleep with his rig hanging by his bed, but it meant he was up later and waking earlier, always keeping an eye on the shifting waves of amber and emerald on the horizon. A crook in a higher office only made the jackals and vultures among men bold, and bold men were as dangerous as desperate men.

Throwing back the last of his coffee, Randall set his tin on the porch table and crossed the hard-pan dirt that separated the house and barn, chewing the grounds thoughtfully. Cattle and horses grazed in their pens, lazily milling from one cluster of brush to the next. Approaching the horse corral, Randall clucked his tongue twice. A singular red roar fox trotter raised her neck with a soft whinnie, tousling her champagne mane as she trotter over.

"Mornin' to you, too, girl," Randall said, his voice rough and smokey, but softened for her. Joan was his late wife's horse, a beautiful creature of fine breeding, a tradition he had finally be able to continue with with some fine purchases last year. Joan returned the hello with a gentle knicker, her velvety pink nose brushing the roughness of Randall's cheek, then plucked his hat off with her lips.

"Hey, now!" Randall called after her with a tone that was firm, but had no real bite to it. Joan pranced in a proud canter, showing off her prize to the others; a couple drafts, a handful of quarter horses, and few thoroughbreds. She ran an small circuit around her 'man', a Bay stallion with a strawberry roan who seemed to tolerate the spritely energy of the filly. "Joan, c'mere. You're supposed to be settin' a good example, goddamnit." Randall clicked his tongue again, and Joan trotted to a stop, giving Randall a long look. She was already far wider than her usual self, but her condition didn't slow her down one bit. Returning to Randall, she threw his hat in the golden-red dirt.

"You little shit," Randall chuckled, patting her neck, stepping far enough away from the fence to put his backside out of her reach. Randall's ass still had a scar from one of her 'love bites'. Brushing off his hat and placing it back on his head, he returned to Joan and patted her neck with a calloused hand, then rubbed her long nose. "You keep an eye on everyone for me today, alright? I've gotta go into town today. Don't take no shit from nobody."

Joan nodded her head with another whinnie.

"That's my girl," he replied, sneaking her a peppermint from his vest pocket. "James!" Randall barked, turning away from the horses to his ranch hand. In the years knowing the lad, he had been a hard worker and a polite enough feller, if not a bit of a suck-up or a milksop at times. Then again, not everyone had a rind on them, and Randall couldn't fault him for it. He was happy to pay the young man a couple dollars a day, seeing as the two of them split the work for what at least three people usually did.

"James, load up the milk and beef, then help me gettin' Bruce and Matilda hitched. We're headin' into town today." Randall bellowed, his voice smooth as a mile of gravel road. Years of the rebel-yell, a poor lynching job, and a bullet through the neck had done a number on the once-dulcet tones of Randall Callahan, but he found his present voice lent him an air that kept all but the drunk, stupid, or seasoned out of his way. Headed back inside, Randall fetched his bandolier off a pronghorn wall peg and loaded the leather loops with the meaty buffalo-killing rounds his Winchester loved to belch. He also snatched the blued street howitzer off its spot on over the hearth mantle and the satchel of loose buck from the coat closet. Shrugging into a plain buckskin jacket, Randall stuffed a few rolls of golden eagles into his coat jacket. He was never one to believe in paper money when he didn't have to.

Bruce and Matilda were a pair of their sturdiest draft horses, and their prime breeding pair. Bruce was well-behaved enough to not get randy when on a ride, though. He'd have to let them work through their business soon, though. Sturdy work horses like them would be worth a pretty penny. Opening the door from the barn that lead to the horse corral, Randall angled off to deal with Bruce. A hale and hearty boy, his weakness was always food. Taking off his hat, Randall dropped a handful of oats in it as he approached the mighty black stallion. He stamped his hoof at first, but quieted quickly at the promise of a snack. Plunging his massive snout into Randall's hat to munch on the oats, Randall eased the loop of a lasso around his neck and lead the draft horse into the barn. Matilda, also an American draft horse, was a dappled grey roan with a charcoal mane and tail. Though she was a good worker, she seemed to take issue with Randall specifically. As such, he opted to let James deal with her. He was a gentler soul. Maybe that was the key to it.

With the wagon loaded and the horses hitched, Randall took the reins and, with a flick and a click of his tongue, rolled towards the town of Aurora Edge. It was only a couple miles by wagon, and the sky seemed clear enough that they should arrive in the later morning. The landscape was moderately hilly, the slopes often so gradual that you would never notice them. It was fertile and dry land, a frontier gem, but it was still the frontier. People made what they could with what they got, and if they couldn't get more, many would resort to taking it. A few cattle rustlers and bushwhackers had made their attempts on the Callahan Ranch, only to be buried in a shallow and unmarked grave.

"We're gonna need horsefeed and coffee, bacon, eggs, flour, beans, whiskey. You know, the essentials," Randall said to James without taking his eyes from the solemn dirt road that cut through the bush. His Winchester lay idly across Randall's knees, the brass-plated butt facing James. "Spend yer own money on what you like, but if'n you used Ranch stocks, just make sure to replace 'em. Other'n that, enjoy a day in town."

* * *​

Frontier towns always seemed to follow a somewhat regular pattern, as they all sprung up around the same three demands: supply, sin, and salvation. Randall was not a spiritual man, and hadn't seen the inside of a church since the war. So, he was left with the other two. While his taste in painted ladies had been dulled by married life, he wasn't blind and his blood still ran as hot as the next man. That left him with 'supply', a cornerstone of his livelihood. Giving the reins a flick and a tug, Randall pulled the wagon up to the boardwalk outside the general store. Business first, then a stiff drink. It would be closer to noon than not, and that meant it would be high time for a sniff of whiskey.

 

[Brax]

​

“Aw, damn it!”

A man with a bushy, long silver beard slammed his fist against the table. He was more stocky than he was built or slim, as most men around his age would find themselves without a strict diet nor proper exercise. Revealing the cards as he placed his hand flat onto the table, it was easy to see that this man’s straight was not quite enough to take a table flush with cash. Following this introduction, a second hand would soon make its way onto the table, along with an audible jingle that was equivalent to music, as far as Roy was concerned.

“I’m at sea, fellars. I dunno how this one does it.”

A boy, no older than twenty, placed both hands over his face and wiped down. He had not bathed in quite some time, as the various stains of dirt on his face had been there up to even a week prior. Roy’s gaze turned from the hand that the older gentleman had played to the young man as he revealed his losing hand. He was attempting to play a flush, but to no avail. It was no better than the old man's straight - luck was not on this kid’s side today.

“I don’t have a tail feather left.”

The last man was a snipper-snapper, easily distinguishable to Roy by this body language. In particular, he had a habit of talking with his hands - but when he got concerned during play, his poker face was severely lacking. There were more telltale signs of his amateur skill-set, such as the fact that the only time the man ever shut his damned mouth was when he didn't have a hand. Without an extra word, the cowboy opposite of these three gentleman finished his glass of rum before pressing his hands against the wooden table. Now, Roy wasn't the smartest man out of the three; that was for certain. However, he did have quite a knack for making his own luck.

Roy stood to his feet, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth as his hands grasped the pile of coins and dragged them over to his side of the table. As he slid the cash over his full house, a waitress had made her way back over to him. He grasped a silver piece off of the table top and placed it in her hand, asking her to retrieve him another glass of rum. When she asked if he needed change, he merely waved his hand. Turning his attention from the beautiful young girl, the gun-for-hire removed a small knitted bag from his satchel. He slowly deposited most of the money into this bag before grasping two threads hanging from both sides of the opened end. Roy then pulled it closed, save for one piece. With the same hand, he grasped the edge of his hat.

“I ain’t no roller, gentlemen. Just tryin’ to make as much as I can off of California’s prayer book. All the best to ya.”

A small grin accompanied Roy’s comment as he turned from the table. A few paces toward the other end of the saloon, adjacent to the staircase was a barber and a single chair. The saloon was absolutely slammed, as it happened to be last spring. Men of all walks of life somehow gathered here; it acted as the central melting pot for the traveler's paradise that was Aurora Edge. New Mexico, in general, was home to plenty of Mexicans and Indians. More often than not, Roy found himself asking what the hell he had done wrong in his life to have ended up so far west.

​

The barber had just finished up cutting a gentleman and had been wiping down the seat when Roy took a load off, removing his hat from his head before placing a bit of change into the man’s hand so he could get a cut. As Roy’s hand reached over the side of the chair to place his hat down, an eight of hearts slid from the inside of his sleeve and fell gracefully onto the ground. His movements paused momentarily as he recognized just what it was. Roy noticed, but said nothing. He dropped the hat onto the card, hiding it in the process.

​

Sloppy.

Fixing his posture so that he was upright, he slid a hand into one of the front pockets of his vest and removed a cigarette. As he placed the end of his roll between his lips, the barber withdrew a small box of matches from one of his pockets and struck fire. Roy took a deep drag of the burning tobacco, inhaling as much as he could. A moment later, Roy exhaled the smoke through his nose while parting his lips to remove a small piece of tobacco from his tongue. The barber asked what Roy was planning on getting done. At the same time, Roy looked over at the table of the gentleman he had left. They had gotten a replacement in the short amount of time Roy took his leave. The waitress whom Roy had previously paid to retrieve him a drink had broken his attention, placing the drink on the barber’s table so it would not get any hair in it.

“Just take a bit off the top, if it ain't too much trouble.”

 

[okokapi]

Not many can say they love waking up before the sun for a day of manual labor. Unfortunately, neither could James. Though his work on Randall’s ranch called him to rise early, his personal morning routine called him up even earlier. One of the most important pieces to James’ morning ritual was prayer. On his knees, James asked for compassion, forgiveness, love, and always a little bit of luck to carry him through the day. He might also occasionally ask for God to look favorably upon Randall as well. James admired him and was always gracious for the kindness he showed to him in giving him his job. Though, he thought that Randall was a man who would find himself alone and without an ear to hear his last words.

James was usually at the ranch before Randall made his appearance on the front porch, tending to the usual morning chores. Though the work was laborious and tedious, it gave James a warmth in his chest to be doing honest work. He knew some townfolk weren’t as fortunate. He’d kept an open ear to the talk around town. Some rumors were so upsetting he didn’t dare pry into them further. He counted his blessings knowing that had it not been for Randall and a few other townsfolk that reminded him of what life could be, he’d be hustling and terrorizing just to stay alive. The work on the ranch was more suited for James anyway. He had a respect for anything that could kill him by accident and continue on to dinner within five minutes time. In turn, the animals usually gave him an equal respect.

Though he made a living of taking in horses and turning them out as trained ponies, he had never gotten used to spending hours upon hours working with a horse only to turn it over to the highest bidder. He never was completely comfortable with sitting in a barn to deliver a calf and then dropping that full-grown bull for the lucrative coin on its bones, it hurt him but he had a job. These conflicted feelings would come up at times and he was sure Randall looked down upon him for it, but then again, James thought to talk to the animals the way Randall did was a bit strange. James tried not to judge too much, all folk had their quirks.

Upon hearing the call from Randall, he swiftly gathered materials and dumped them into the wagon. He was a small man, but what he lacked in sheer brute he made up for in speed and efficiency. His stature became even more apparent besides Matilda. Standing even with her mid shoulder, he relied on the system of respect they’d build together. Approaching the heavy horse, she picked her head up and began walking towards him. Noticing that Bruce was getting escorted out, Matilda picked up a trot in the direction of James. She was more or less an easy horse for him, but at times she could be a bit of a bully. She tended to have a bit more energy than Bruce. Upon getting the rope around her head, James would have her canter around him, getting out the antsy energy. She’d give a few half-hearted kicks and toss her head but it only took a few rounds for her to come in the center and nuzzle up to James. He’d then lead her out towards the wagon. Getting her hooked up was a simple game of suggestion and reward. Thankfully, they’d gotten good at the game and she was hooked up and ready to go shortly after Bruce. James checked the wagon once more to be sure everything was secured and packed up, then climbed up next to Randall.

He settled back into the seat listening to the wheel grind down on the dirt. Randall’s voice broke the quiet with the list of items to buy. James drew up a list on a piece of paper from his pocket and a dull pencil he carried. He cleared his throat and responded with a simple, “Yes sir”. James hopped down once the wagon arrived in town and gave both Bruce and Matilda a small treat from his hand and tied a lead to a post. He then began unloading the items they were selling from the back of the wagon.

 

[Maj]

​

Claire had gone by many names through her life. Just a few years ago she had gone by Stella, and years before that an entirely different name. She was born with a name that she would be thankful if she could forget all together. The young blonde woman had always been on the search for some elusive blank slate, and she thought that maybe she had finally found it in the little town of Aurora’s Edge.

She had expected more resistance when she had stumbled into town. She was young, unwed and alone. Claire had expected even more resistance when she had walked into the saloon and threatened, blackmailed, and then bribed the old owner out of his establishment and convinced him to leave town. Although, a rare few knew that version of the story. Most just knew her to be wealthy enough to buy the old man out and he left town to spend his riches.

There had been some talk about a woman of her stature owning one of the most frequented places in Aurora’s Edge, but it didn’t last long. It was nothing a few free drinks on the house and a few pretty new girls working couldn’t fix. Claire was nothing if not a charmer and she soon had most of her regulars wrapped around her dainty little finger.

Her morning started much like others. Just before sunrise, her body shifted out of the peaceful save of slumber and into a slow consciousness. Long lashes fluttered against her cheeks as her eyes opened to a pale blue room, blanketed in the soft light of dawn. The labor of dressing was a long one, many layers of undergarments and gowns went into giving her the thin and curvy frame that she liked to wear. She pinned pieces of her wavy blonde hair out of her face and made her way down to the bar.

She had made her home in one of the more luxurious rooms for rent above the saloon. There were plenty others for her patrons to stay in and it let her stay close to her investment and make sure that it was safe. It wasn’t often that she had people who wanted to come to drink first thing in the morning, but it wasn’t totally unusual. Claire wasn’t the type to refuse any poor schmuck who wanted to pay her money. Plus the mornings were quiet, the girls she had hired to help her with the establishment hadn’t made their way in yet, and she had time to do the more tedious tasks that came with owning a business.

Inventory, books, accounting, Claire had taught herself everything she needed to be successful in running things. Numbers had come naturally to her, but had many other necessary skills in her lifetime. That was behind her now, she wanted a simple life, and to live along the straight and narrow. Keep her head down, make money off the drunks and live a quiet existence. That’s what she wanted now.

Claire’s old names were behind her and so was her past. She loved her little place, she loved her girls and most days she even loved some of the patrons. As if summoned by her thoughts she heard the double swinging doors move as someone entered her place. When she turned to greet them the blonde was all smiles and cheer.

“Mornin!” Claire moved back to the bar to wait on the elderly male who had entered her walls. “What can I get you?” He ordered something strong and cheap, and the girl had to do her best not to roll her eyes. They all wanted something cheap and strong. She found a cheap whiskey and poured him some in thick glass.

It was obvious that her newest customer had been drinking well before he had arrived at her door. He smelled strongly of alcohol and a mix of unpleasant aromas. If she had to take a guess she would put money that he was still awake from the night before, and had drank himself straight into morning. On top of the smell came the almost intelligible garble of his speech, he was saying something to her that she was trying to decode. Claire had become versed in slurred speech, but even this was too far gone for her.

“Excuse me?” Claire asked, leaning in to try to hear him better. The man reached out and grabbed her wrist, his words didn’t become any more clear, but his sultry tone made it clear what his intentions were. She did her roll eyes then, and pulled her wrist back with a force that made the man flinch.

“I think it’s probably time to cut you off old feller, I’ll have none of that blather of yours in here.” He stood indignantly, cursing and shouting unintelligible words. Claire sighed.

“Sit down, drink your drink, and then be on your way.” Some of her old coldness crept back into her steel colored eyes and she stared him down. It was enough for him to oblige, and he grumbled and sat back down in his chair. She didn’t break her glare at him for a few more moments, and then satisfied that he was settled back in, continued her work of doing inventory on the stock of the bar.

Despite having her back to him, Claire wasn’t blind or stupid enough to not have eyes on him. She could watch him in the mirror in front of her, a fact that the male seemed to dumb to realize. He had a dumb smirk across his face as he leaned across the counter, to smack Claire on the rump.

Before his hand made contact with anything but her skirts she had spun on him, revolver cocked and eye level. The cold steel pointed directly between his eyes. He seemed fascinated by, like he couldn’t look away. The blackness of the open end of the barrel of a gun would always be more mesmerizing to a man than any woman, despite the fact both were equally as fatal.

“Are manners lost on you old timer? I told you to sit.” she commanded. It was jarring how quickly her voice went from light and inviting, to icy cold and authoritative. Like she was a witch and he was under her spell he had no choice but to do exactly as he was told, Claire knew this time for good.

 

[The Silent Z]

Lawrence "Irish" McDavid
​

The gunslinger had entered the saloon with a quiet face of calm that was straighter then a stiff drink on a cold day. Hazel eyes peering out with a steely gaze that glanced around the room soon taking notice of a opening at a table, looking on toward a older man and what couldn't be more then a boy sitting there with some cards laid out on the table and being gathered for another game. It wasn't hard to distinguish the lack of a bath from the boy or the stocky build of the older man suggesting a few too many meals of comfort and little excerise in comparison to the boy. Perhaps a retiree of some kind? Either way it spelled a game of cards was a opportunity soon into his arrival and that meant a good sign to him, made things easier for settling in early. Walking over with a black dress coat worn over his clothes in a form fitting manner, a sliver of wood hanging from his mouth a little bit of movement from time to time, whilst his eyes looked toward each man gesturing for permission to sit down and join this game of cards, an answer causing him to give a nod and begin taking off his coat to reveal more of his fancier clothing then most in his line of work wore underneath a coat. Irish sat down putting his feet together in crossing of one another, comfortably sitting in the wooden chair as his black leather gloves took his hand of dealt cards.

Eyes peering over the cards looking about the saloon noting the presence of a drunken older man and a younger woman who's appearance he couldn't see all to well with the elder man blocking his view. The hazel eyes then turned toward his card associates with whom a game had began. He looked toward them with a firm brow and peering eyes knowing his hand, knowing the poor deal he had been given the first round yet didn't hint towards anything of the kind, instead letting the two try and get past his gaze, past the look and see what they told him in the meantime.

Meanwhile as the two men looked at one another in wondering if the gunslinger was a mute or was aiming to talk at some point. Irish raised a brow and turned his lips just a bit as his sliver of wood adjusted, subtly reminding him the troubles of trying to quiet a old habit and replace with a piece of wood. The man rose two fingers into air and from his hand of cards as his other held onto them, signaling in a way for a drink perhaps two actually, but signaling for a drink either way when the lady or one of the ladies had a moment. Irish wasn't in any hurry after all and wasn't looking to get a cross look his first day..... well least not one from a woman on his first day in Aurora's edge.

"You talk or one of them' mutes?" A voice posed the question aloud from across the table bringing Irish's gaze to shift toward the older man with a silvery beard. Eyes simply peering toward him with a raised brow and tongue pushing his lower lip outward as his lips pressed down together, a light tap from his finger upon the cards and shoulder shifting a bit as he straightened only a little.

.............

Still not a word left the gunslinger as his eyes only looked on toward the older man then towards the boy upon hearing him speak. "I'm thinkin' he's a mute... hasnt said a word yet." The boy spoke looking toward Irish with look that seemed like he was trying to figure out how he lost his ability to talk or if he was born that way. Still not a word came from McDavid as he figured the more they focused on his lack of talk and less on their own cards, the better it played for him and his poor first hand. It wouldn't be hard to beat a couple of momentarily distracted men at a game he wasn't too shabby at... wasn't he best but not too bad if he said so himself. Meanwhile his straight face wasn't the easiest to read from past experiences told him.

While the game continued and Irish kept his composure the same, aside from a appreciative smile and nod to the woman who brought by his drink with a raise of his eyes moving up to meet hers with that smile and nod, appearing smooth and polite as a gentlemen should in his mind. Meanwhile looking about toward a barbers place of business and back to his cards. Irish eyed his fellows once more waiting to see their play and getting a further read of their tells and expressive manners.

 

[Brax]

​

The barber did exactly as he was told and trimmed only a few centimeters of Roy’s length. These days he never much changed up the style of his hair; such as there was rarely a time that he kept his face shaved. A few years ago in his youth, when he was a much hungrier man, things were quite opposite as far as his appearance went. Roy kept shaggy, shorter hair and a clean-shaven face for the most part. Not that it mattered much when he spent a majority of that time wearing a bandana hiding his identity, but that was another story entirely. Roy used a wide variety of different names back in the day, as to throw people off. However, the same did not go for his physical appearance. He had a bit of a distinguished look to him - the result of an love affair between two different races that left him with the features of both a Spaniard as well as a white man.

That was not what people remembered, though.

No, those who knew of Roy personally were well aware of the weapons he kept on his person. One of these was a sawed-off shotgun; it had an ironwood grip, matching it’s barrel. Iron sights rested upon the top. It’s frame was silver, matching it’s hammer, lever trigger and sights. On the outside of the grip was a single engraving in gold. It was the outline of South Carolina, Roy’s home state.

The bounty hunter pushed himself up off of the barber’s chair. He stepped aside before withdrawing a bag of coins from the inside of his vest, grasping a few in his hand and visually counting out a dollar. Roy paid the man his money before reaching over to wrap his digits around his glass of alcohol. With that, Roy nodded his head to the barber and thanked him for his service before taking his leave to the next part of the saloon. Roy’s plan was to finish the drink he was having, maybe order one more and then take leave with more money than he had walked in with. As he walked past the chair Roy was sure to pick his hat up off of the ground - leaving behind the card that had slipped out of his sleeve much like a robber left his trademark. When he settled back down, he was sitting at the actual bar of the saloon. He had just finished his drink and set down the empty glass to order another when the bartender graced him with a bit of news he was not expecting to hear.

“You get one free lunch with your drink!”

“What’s the catch?” Roy looked at the man sideways, raising an eyebrow up in response.

“No catch sir! Just somethin’ we do for our customers when they wet their whistle.”

This hadn’t been the first time Roy experienced an establishment claiming they had free lunch. Once, Roy had walked into a bar under the pretenses that with the purchase of a drink he would get a free meal as well; they had a boy no older than fifteen standing outside holding a sign saying so. However, once Roy purchased his drink and asked about what the free lunch was, he was served a large plate of butter.

Only butter.

“Yeah, I ain’t interested in yer lunch. But…” The man turned slightly in his stool, facing the poker table that he had been sitting at close to a half an hour ago. “You can give it to the feller sitting over at that poker table. The one with the red tie and the black vest. You can also fetch me a bottle.”

“A bottle?”

“... I didn’t stutter.”

The bartender obliged and put the order in. Roy stuck his fingers into his vest to remove a book of rolling papers. He took one from the pack and set it down on the bar, before placing the book back into his vest. Immediately after this, Roy shoved his hands into one of the pockets belonging to his pants and withdrew a pinch of tobacco from it’s depths. He sprinkled the entirety into the open rolling paper before grabbing it and twisting it up with both hands. Then he applied some saliva to the end of the paper with a quick swipe of his tongue before he finished his roll, placing it vertically between where his hat met his head. Knowing Irish, he would inquire about who sent him the meal. Some things certainly never changed - the man looked to have aged a day since the last time Roy saw him, years ago.

The Silent Z

 

[The Silent Z]

They call em' Irish
​

The talk during the game had quieted down as both players looked to get a read on the quiet gunslinger sitting comfortably across from them. It hadn't taken long for Irish to figure the tales of his opposing players in the elder man and his younger counterpart, meanwhile with a card or two switched out for a fresh pair that only seemed to slightly improve his hand. The gunslinger looked up from beneath his hats brim and above his cards giving a slim peer of a gaze toward the two men and then a slight turn of a glance toward the bar, a move of his tongue and lips adjusting the sliver hanging from his mouth, a hand moving toward his drink, a shot of whiskey... Not usually his first choice yet a popular drink in this day and age and Irish didn't mind it one bit. Taking a slow intentionally so drink from his glass as his eyes peered at the two men like a pair of eyes just waiting for a move to be made yet weren't moved in the slightest by nerves or such a thing as that. Meanwhile the two card players looked toward one another then towards Irish with a slight clearing of their throats and slow breath trying to compose themselves.

During this time and Irish setting his drink down upon the table, the gunslinger turned his eye toward a approaching waitress, a pretty girl no doubt yet it wasn't her looks that initially sparked his curiosity and mind set a wonder. She had with her a plate of food that she soon offered and set upon the table next to his drink, a smile offering him a form of reassurance that nothing was odd here and perhaps it wasn't, but the way he saw it was like this.... He hadn't ordered any food, he would have perhaps in time but not yet and as far as he knew so far nobody here knew him personally to take such a gesture with him. Which only raised questions and nearly brought him out of his silence amidst the game of cards as his brow raised at sight of the food and when raised of glance toward the waitress about to speak, he needn't have bothered as she smiled and leaned down to inform him of the gesture made by the gentleman in black at the bar.

"Burnes......" Irish thought with a nod toward the woman and a familiar smile. "A mighty kindness." Irish spoke and tipped his cap toward Roy while he placed a hand in his vest pocket to pull a nice tip for the lady which he slid into her hand with a nice and smooth motion. "A beautiful smile and a free meal in hand, a dream as I live and breathe darlin' " He added with charming smile toward her and wink, while she turned and walked away, Irish returned to his game now looking toward his fellow players with soft chuckle.

"Seen a ghost have you gentlemen?" Irish spoke noting their slightly shocked expressions and glancing at one another. "I'm not a mute... Just a man who knows how play silent. Now I'll see your bet and raise you, shall we say... double? While proceeding to call." Irish continued seeing their reactions, the hesitation in their move to match his raise and show their hands but did so eventually leading to Irish giving a corner small grin as he revealed his pair. A decent enough hand to win the game and reap in the rewards as he tipped his cap and saw the two men shake their heads and leave the table.

Looking toward his food and giving it a glance over, Irish moved it closer toward him removing the sliver of wood from his mouth and began to take a bite of the sandwich and beans. Once it cleared with a drink from his glass, his eyes moved up as his hands dabbed his stache and goatee with a cloth, "I've got a few open chairs, if you'd like to join me..." Irish spoke toward Roy as he saw the man at the bar with a roll of tobacco. Something's never did seem to change though it did appear that Irish aged a bit more over the years.

Brax