Realistic or Modern Weeds {IC}

[Terrier B]

' A wild plant growing where it is not wanted,

and in competition with cultivated plants '
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Tuesday

May the 5th, 1885.

' A funny sort of Declaration Day '
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Independence

Missouri​

It was always odd. And that, annoyed him thoroughly. ​

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For it hadn't always felt that way. The uneasy notion of poignancy cycled through his conscious on a near clockwork routine. There was nothing much to stop it either. Nothing that effective anyway. Ugh. Christ...​

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The town was as busy as it usually was, perhaps a little livelier with the one-off addition of various relatives dressed in their Sunday best, visiting graves of the fallen as casually as if it were any other normal family reunion. But otherwise, it was seemingly business as usual. Valentine's grocer's was the most occupied, with the stables and smithy coming in at a close second. Ah, that reminded him, he needed to get Manni a new shoe...​

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Welp. ​

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Suppose he should get back to business of his own really. He'd taken, and very much enjoyed, his promised three days of rest and recuperation, and now it was time to get back into the swing of things. These days, other guides and wranglers were starting to rather passionately (Borderline obsessively) take part in this increasingly popular sensation called, 'advertising'. But Burdock could personally not A) See the point, or B) Be all that bothered. Signs, stalls, and salesman stood scattered and strews all along the streets of Independence. Each claimed to have the best deal goin', but Burdock Wilson? he knew much better than all of them. Oh yes. Definitely. For sure. The man knew without a shadow of a doubt, that he was the cheapest guide around in lil' old Independence Missouri. And therefore, there was only one form of 'adverting' he needed, word of mouth. Wasn't nothin' more reliable (or easy) than that.​

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And so he went to work. Still enjoying his well-earned restful return, he strolled into the office (Saloon) at about noon-ish, give or take, and settled himself down at his desk (Bar), ready with a big ol' welcome smile (Grimace) to talk business with any and all hopeful Cowpoke. ​

 

[MothSav]

Diluted swirls of red slithered out from around Ruth Anne’s nail beds. She stared down at them beneath the water, knuckles white with chill and grit burrowed into the pads of her fingers. She scrubbed the dried blood harder, effort be damned. No amount of cleaning would rid herself of the atrocity committed the night before.

Ruth Anne slid a hand from the water and splashed it over her face, resting her cool, damp palm over the base of her neck. The skin there had been split; crusty scabbing matted into the underlayer of her wavy brown hair. Ruth Anne pulled her wild locks aside to rinse them. She gently prodded within the injury, seeking how far it delved into her. Not enough to worry; enough that she’d keep it clean and hidden.

She rubbed creek water into the gash until the edges of it felt gummy rather than dried. Ruth Anne was grateful her loose blouse was a darker shade of maroon; a simple button up she had invested in for the trip. Her tan skirt was belted high, hitched up to allow for easy movement. When she righted herself, Ruth Anne ran her damp fingers through her hair and combed free the last few tangles. She left the underside of it wet, soothing her injury. Any other pains she had weren’t gaping; the bruise on her ribs stung when she breathed, the bashed shade of violet on her hip smarted when she walked. All pain receded in time. Ruth Anne reminded herself of this.

She linked her foot into the stirrup and flung herself upwards onto Spot’s back, spinning the mare a few times to settle her hotheaded start. Buddy barked, backing up a ways to give them space to maneuver. She felt the horse’s flank buckle with threats of a buck. Ruth Anne craned Spot’s head around, hissing out a noise of warning at the mare. After a few loped circles around the creekside, Ruth Anne was satisfied enough to direct her steed towards town.
She had pictured the entrance to Independence so many times. Each thought had her as a follower, trekking beside William with a loyal tip to her head and lips curved in a craggy frown. Ruth 1:16- And Ruth said, don’t urge me to abandon you, to turn back from following after you. Wherever you go, I will go; and wherever you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God. The Bible verse of her namesake had led her here, but now with no one to follow. Ruth Anne betrayed the first thing that had ever been expected of her to stand for.

She kept her head held high now, throbbing with every bouncy trot from Spot. Buddy kept up easily beside them, tongue flapping out the side of his mouth. Ruth Anne angled to a halt beside the hitching post of the saloon, swinging off and tying the mare. Half of her expected the sheriff to be waiting to arrest her already; the other half of her was realistic, knowing William’s body wouldn’t be located for weeks, if at all.

William had said he heard of a man who would lead them to Oregon cheaply. Some underground deal to be sought in the Independence bar. Ruth Anne checked her bags of meager provisions and stepped aside, casting one last look at horse and dog. Buddy’s tail thumped once in support.

The bar was smoky, filled with it’s own lazy conversations in the noon hour. Ruth Anne squinted through it, wrinkling her long nose and ambling towards the front. She tapped her nails into the bar; she checked them one last time for dried blood in the crevices and then ordered a beer. She glanced aside, sucking on her teeth, and raised a brow at the man at a lone table across the way. Ruth Anne waited to catch his eye before striding over.

“I reckon you’re the man with passage to Oregon.”

 

[Windjammer]

The sound of creaking wheels filled Wyatt's ears as he rode his wagon into town. It was a sound he was used to, to the point it was soothing. He rode slowly as he approached the saloon. He had been to it many times, but usually kept to himself, only entering a conversation when approached. However today would have to be different, as he would be asking about Oregon, and the trail that led to it.

Wyatt parked his wagon at the saloon. His two oxen, Walnut and Hickory, were chewing away at their cud. He entered the saloon and sat quietly at a table. The next table over sat a man who seemed to be there for business of some sort, and a young woman trying to get his attention. Wyatt didn't think much of it, but he recognized the man as the one many had talked some about. He had seen him before, many times in fact, but only recently has Wyatt been able to connect him with the Oregon trail.

While he planned to ask about passage on the trail, Wyatt decided to allow the lady to finish her conversation first. In the mean time, he sat back and began to smoke. He really didn't have much else to do, as he had recently sold his land, and was basically living out of his wagon. Yet somehow, he has managed to stay clean.

 

[Twin Fantasy]

Momoru hadn't considered the numbers of wagon-folk coming to town. Suddenly he felt like he'd struck gold. All these stupid people with their covered wagons full of... Well, of things. Necessities. The important stuff. As much bread as a boy and a raccoon could even think of eating. And some moron, some absolute bassoon, had parked his wagon outside of the nearest local saloon. Momoru was no longer allowed inside after poking holes in the beer barrels.

But outside? Fair game.

Peering back to make sure nobody was lurking, he shuffled around the side of the wagon. His horse, Bob, was strung up elsewhere to avoid major suspicion. (Bob was also stolen.) Then, he sent Fred to scout. Fred was a very smart boy, and also, couldn't get arrested. Nobody would dare arrest a raccoon. Quickly, Fred took to the back of the wagon and hauled his fat butt inside as fast as a man could imagine. Momoru crawled underneath the wagon to avoid looking suspicious. Or getting kicked out, for that matter. Not that they can kick him out of outside!