Splitcreek, Arizona

Riding on his grey stallion ''The Colonel'' Bell headed for the town of Splitcreek. His duster was in the saddlebags together with his rifle and another revolver. The town wasn't hard to spot in this godforsaken desert and when the buildings started to appear by the horizon Bell couldn't help but to smile and put The Colonel into gallop.

He slowed down just outside of town and let his mount walk in with a steady pace. He dismounted and tied the horse to a pole outside of something called The Silver Spur Saloon. Bell could smell the smoke of tobacco and the laughter of the people who had spent most of the day in there, but the drinks would have to wait. Bell had business to attend to for once and it didn't involve shooting, stabbing or robbing. He exuces himself as he almost bumped into an older man in a hurry to the Saloon. As he turned something caught his eyes, a wanted poster with his many names on it.

The Bell-Ringer.. My my ain't I the famous one He thought to himself as he casually grabbed the edge and tore the poster down. He looked it over as he walked down the main street looking for the doctor's office. The wanted poster wasn't that flattering and the drawing off him wouldn't be much for a bounty hunter to go for. The only thing showing under the wide brim hat was is eyes, the rest of his face covered by a handkerchief. He ust be doing something right if that was their best take on him.

His fingers wandered over to his six-shooter as he passed someone who looked like one of them lawdogs that always chased him around the wilderness. But he knew better then to have a shoot out at noon in a town by himself and his hand moved back to hanging by his side quickly. He touched the brim of his hat with his other hand as he passed the men, they gave the same salute back but their eyes didn't leave the scarred stranger. He clenched his fists and looked up in time to see the sign to the doctor's office and stepped up on the porch and eyed the fella sitting infront of it.

''Howdy. I reckon you're the doctor of this town?'' He asked and once again touched the brim of his hat as he leaned against the rail, placing both hands on his belt.

Damian regarded the man who nodded at him with a small smile as he continued to look at the table, reflecting on the years he had been hunting outlaws that both deserved and didn't deserve to be outlaws. He never took anyone who stole from a general store because it would seem to him more like someone trying to fend for himself and his family (if the quarry had any).

Sighing Damian took off his hat and set it down on the table with one hand, then a few coins on the table with another, calling out to the bartender. "Bartender, A drink if you don't mind, I'm parched from traveling out in the desert." Running a hand through his rust-colored hair he sighed calmly and hummed to himself as he watched the bartender bring a pint of beer to him, regarding one of the other customers as a sad drunk down on his luck.

"First impressions of a town don't lie." he said to himself, "This town is starting to get on it's feet. However if bandits and outlaws keep comin' an' scaring good folk, it ain't natural." He sighed and took a long sip of his pint before setting it down and watching the saloon with a heaving sigh, wandering if something will turn up to make his day a bit easier.

Morgan woke with a start, the rocking chair lurching forward as he straightened up. He lifted the brim of his Stetson, regarding the stranger daring to disturb his afternoon nap with steely grey eyes, and shifted in his seat, though he didn't bother to get up. He'd barely been asleep five minutes; this'd better be one hell of an important call.

"That's right," he said, his eyes travelling over the man. He didn't look too different from anyone else who'd spent their days under a hot Arizona sun- rough, tan skin, sandy blonde hair, squinting blue eyes. The scars were a point of concern, but Morgan himself had a sizable scar on his left cheek. Still, there was something crooked about the man. It was a gut feeling, and Morgan always went with his gut. But you didn't go around Splitcreek shouting your opinions and suspicions at the top of your lungs, especially when the subject of your suspicion had his hands resting on a belt that looked to concealing some wicked weaponry.

Begrudgingly, Morgan got to his feet and stuck out his hand in the most gentlemanly manner he could muster. Even after many years as a doctor, Morgan never could bring himself to go along wholeheartedly with business or social formalities. "Morgan Crowe. What can I do for you?"

Bell removed his hat and held it in his left hand as he grabbed the doctor's hand and gave him a firm handshake. He seized up the man as he shook his hand and gave him a freindly smile.

'' Y'all got yourself a fine town here Dr. Crowe. I'm Roland Jones, bounty hunter.'' He said as he put his hat back on his head and placed his hands on his belt again. The scar on the doctor's cheek caught his eye but he made sure to only give it a quick look before turning his gaze back to the doctor. After all he wasn't here to make friends and by the look of the man infront of him he wasn't the friendliest kind either.

'' If you'd be so kind could you take a look at this cut here.'' He said and unbuttoned his red shirt, revealing a poorly bloodsoaked bandage covering a cut on his chest. That Bullhorn saloon gal could handle a knife and she'd used that knife on Bell when he'd become too drunk and too close. He skipped town shorty after before they started to look into who he really were and he couldn't trust no one in the gang to patch him up, not after their ''doctor'' Gordon the Stitcher was filled with lead by the law four months ago.

The man had a firm handshake, Morgan had to give him that. And he had pretty good manners for a bounty hunter, or else he knew how to put up a convincing front. Morgan saw the man's eyes flit to the scar on his cheek, but the man's mama must've raised him right, for he soon turned his gaze back to Morgan. He watched the man move his hands from his belt and unbutton his shirt, the sharp smell of an open wound immediately assaulting Morgan's nostrils.

Morgan whistled through his teeth as Bell revealed the cut, laying a surprisingly light hand on poorly bandaged gash. "You have yourself a disagreement with the missus, Mr. Jones?" he joked, leaning in for a closer inspection. "Why don't you step inside and I'll get you cleaned up an' have myself a closer look. Can't see nothing with all that gauze and blood in my way."

Morgan opened the door and stepped in, ushering Bell inside. It was small, one-room office, about 13'x13'. It was neat and tidy, save for Morgan's desk in the corner, which was an absolute disaster, and had the feel of a comfortable, well-used space. There was a sturdy wooden table in the center of the room, a couple of chairs, a bench stocked with various tools, and about a half dozen shelves mounted on the wall that held all of Morgan's books and medicines.

"Sit right up here, and I'll set to work on that gash of yours," he said, patting the table. Medicine was something Morgan did very well, and despite his laid-back demeanor, he was a very efficient man. He promptly scrubbed his hands in the wash basin the corner, then wet a fresh cloth to clean out the gash. He gathered the needed mix of salves and ointments from a shelf, picked up a roll of gauze, and headed back to the table, setting his supplies on the weathered wood.

"Now then, let's have ourselves a look. Shirt off, please, Mr. Jones."

Bell smiled at the mention of a missus, not being the one to stay in one place long enough without getting bored or beating her sorry behind to the next week. Those that he actually liked didn't fancy his way of making a living and often left him before he could leave them.

'' The gals out here sure got some more bite then the ones back home I'll tell you that Doc'' He said and laughed as he walked into the office, sitting down and watching the doctor wash up and pick through his supply. The place itself wasn't all that fancy but it beat having one of his boys spittin' on the wound or try witchcraft on him. Bell took off his hat again and placed next to him, a habit he picked up as a boy watching all the clients remove their hats as soon as they came into the bordello. Hell, Bell saw himself as quite the well raised boy except for all the shooting, stabbing and hanging from bell towers.

'' You are too kind Doc, ain't seen a friendly soul for days wanderin' 'round the desert, no sir.'' He chuckled and watched the doctor finishing up and approaching him. He quickly took off his shirt as instructed and grunted as the wound made itself known again. He would never make the mistake again to be fooled be a wench's innocent attitude.

Bell was a talkative fellow, it seemed, happy to chat as Morgan gathered his needed supplies. Morgan wasn't a particularly chatty fellow himself, but he didn't mind small talk, and as human interaction was part of the job, he was content to listen to Bell rattle on about feisty women and how kind he was. Actually, it seemed to him "Mr. Jones" was laying on the charm a little too thick, but hey, better a friendly fellow with a gash than some drunken idiot who'd shot himself in the foot.

Morgan removed his hat and tossed it onto his messy desk before turning back to Bell, his eyes roving the man's bare chest, which bore marks from several other scuffles. But back to the task at hand. He quickly found the tie on the bandage and undid the knot, carefully unwinding the dirty, blood-soaked rag from around the outlaw's torso and laying it aside. The wound looked pretty nasty, red and inflamed. Bell said he'd been out in the desert for days, so who knew how long the wound had been festering under the dirty bandage.

"My, that's quite a gash you got there," he murmured, laying a gentle hand on the skin just to the right of the wound. It was surrounded by dried blood and oozing fresh blood now that the bandage was off, prohibiting Morgan from inspecting the severity of the cut. "Now I'm an honest man, Mr. Jones, and I'm gonna warn you that what I'm about to do is gonna hurt like hell. If you'd found a doctor a little sooner it might not have been so bad, but that cut's infected from the looks of it."

Morgan shook his head, picking up the wet rag and gently pressing it to the wound. He quickly cleaned away the dried, crusted blood and dirt and was able to stop the bleeding by applying light pressure. The wound finally clean, he was able to take a closer look at the gash. "Deeper than I thought. I'm afraid that's going to need stitches."

The doctor opened a bottle and poured a bit of the foul smelling liquid onto the wet rag, then pressed it back to the wound. "Stings like hell, but it'll help the healing." Laying the rag aside, he fetched his sewing tools and threaded a needle. "All I've got for the pain is whiskey and a bullet to bite. Not much else I can do, but it'll be over soon enough. Shouldn't take more than three or four stitches."

Bell clenched his jaw and murmured a swear as the doctor pressed his hands against the wound, which looked worse then he thought it would and infected nonetheless. What a pethetic end that would be to this outlaw: Death by saloon girl. That'd be some news. Bell had survived a bad childhood, a war and a life in the desert and what brought him down was that little Miss Daisy. He was janked out of his thoughts as he felt a stinging pain when the doctor put his hands to the wound.

'' You are man of your words Doc that did hurt like hell. I think I'll need a stiff drink and a cheeky gal after this'' He grunted and closed his eyes as the man kept inspected and poking at the deep cut. If the pain of having a wound crossing his chest wasn't enough now Crowe had to pour his salves into the mix, it felt like the devil himself was pissing in the gash and Bell once again clenched his jaw.

'' I'll take that whiskey if you wouldn't mind Doc, else you wanna' see me cry like a lil' baby.'' He said and took a deep breath as he tried to relax. Bell was used to pain, living a life of crime on the road he had hurt himself in more ways then people could imagine. But that being said it didn't make this cut hurt any less.

He slowly opened his eyes and looked down at the doctor's hands at work. He were skilled. Well it was hard for Bell to judge seeing as the closest thing his gang used to have as a doctor was Gordon the Stitcher who had been promoted do doctor after making good work on repairing chaps and shirts. The only good thing about good ol' Gordon had been his service with the Confederate Army back when and that he shared the same opinions about slaves as Bell, something told him the good doctor working on his cut was a Union boy, probably a veteran too. He promised himself not to ask, wasn't good to bring up political views with someone preparing to sew his chest shut.

Morgan nodded solemnly as Bell requested the whiskey, laying aside his tools momentarily to fetch the alcohol. He walked over to his desk, piled with papers and just about every odd and end you can think of. The desk was in chaos, but it was an organized chaos, at least in Morgan's eyes, and he knew exactly where the whiskey was. "Lucky you," said Morgan, producing a half-full bottle from the top desk drawer, "I just stocked up last week, so I'll give you what's left of this bottle."

He returned to the table and handed Bell the bottle, checking the needle again before ordering him to lie back. Taking a breath, Morgan started in on the wound, puncturing the skin and pushing the needle through. He worked quickly and with great skill, making neat little stitches across the gash. It would heal up quite nicely, he was sure of that, and as he tied off the thread he took a moment to admire his handiwork.

"Right then, all that's left is the ointment and the bandage, and I swear neither of those'll hurt a bit." He snipped off the extra thread and opened a small jar of ointment, spreading the clear mush in a thin layer across the cut. The bandage was next; a pad of cotton pressed over the wound followed by a length of cloth wrapped tight around Bell's chest.

"The stiches'll need to stay at least a couple weeks, but after that you'll be good as new. You'll have to be careful not to rip those stiches, though- they hurt twice as much going as out as they do going in. I hope any work you'll be doing won't be too...rough," he looked Bell right in the eye, a not-so-subtle hint that he was more than a little suspicious of the man.

Bell thanked him for the bottle with a grunt as he took it from the doctor's hand. He quickly took a deep sip before laying down. The strong drink made him ease up as the needle penetrated the skin and the thread pulled on it. Bell grunted and clenched his free hand as more and more of the wound was pulled together and stiched together. Bell didn't know if it was the booze, the pain or a mix of both but it only felt like he had time to blink untill the doctor was done and he sat up.

'' You are handy Doc an' I don' mind free firewater either '' He chuckled and took another swig at the bottle. He considered to save some for the boys out in the desert but decided not to. It wasn't enough to satisfy them all and he didn't need to lose more gunslingers thanks to their short temper. But he had promised them enough spirits to drown their sorrows and celebrate their success when they reached their destination, that would have to wait untill he was done with his errands.

He felt on the fresh bandage and smirked, looked a lot better then a dirty bloody rag covering his chest. Although deep in his own thoughts he didn't miss the remark about work and met the man's eyes with a cold gaze. He laughed and raised the bottle in an attempt to lighten up the mood. The bottle was placed on the table again and his now free hand wandered over to his shirt, he opened the right chest pocket and pulled out a neat bundle of bills and looked back to the man.

''What do I owe you Doc?'' He asked in a cheerful tone and finished with a bright smile. Even though the doctor seemed suspicous about him he couldn't help to like the man. He did his job and he did it well, something Bell valued in a man.

Damian's pint was empty before him on the empty table as he continued to look at it, deep in his thoughts that reflected upon himself and his past deeds. Despite the fact he was an ex bounty hunter looking for a more quiet job, he couldn't help but to think about the feeling of shooting his gun at an outlaw, a wrongdoer, someone crooked that needed to be punished. He sighed to himself, reflecting on the last few jobs he took as a bounty hunter.

Those memories were none that were good. It brought an unwarranted chill to his bones as he shook, recalling the chilling, yet enjoying last moment as the convict tried to run, but was then given a slug to the back. It made him happy and bitter at the same time. That's one of the reasons something like bounty hunting was unforgiving, one must be required to steel your soul.

Getting up from the table he wandered to the bartender and gave him a few coins. "Thanks for the welcome beer, I hope to stay here awhile and help this town grow." He said in a kind, yet travel weary voice as he wandered to the doors and walked out. He looked about the town looking for the Sheriff's office. He wanted to introduce himself and make known to him that his services were available as a possible deputy.

If that didn't work, well, he'd have to figure out if he had to find a job in the town to fall back on or he came to this town for nothing. He sighed to himself in frustration as he wandered to the fence railing to lean on it. He looked at his horse who was drinking from the water. "I know boy, I know you're tired. We'll find a place to sleep soon. Trust me." He said to the horse as if he was trying to tell him wordlessly that, 'Well, we're here, but now what?'

Morgan gave a terse nod in response to the compliment, tidying up his supplies and returning them to their proper places. He had a bad feeling about this one, but you didn't go around Splitcreek acting on hunches and bad feelings. And even if this Mr. Jones character was crooked, it wasn't his job to go around throwing people in jail. There were plenty of people to do that job- hell, there were even people who liked that job, but Morgan wasn't one of them. Or was he?

Not today he wasn't. He'd lived five years now as a respectable man, and he didn't need to muddy his hands with the scum of the west. No, he'd done just fine as a doctor, and a doctor he intended to stay. And the money wasn't too bad either, as he was now reminded. He watched Bell produce the fat wad of bills from his shirt pocket, surprised (and a little unnerved) by the large amount of cash. What kind of man did a bounty hunter have to catch to make that kind of money? Unless you were the one being hunted, in which case it was fairly easy to round up a gang of crooks and terrorize the growing towns, looting and robbing and gambling the days away.

But again, it wasn't his place to judge. Business was business...right? "Four dollars. I won't charge you for the whiskey," he said, giving a tight-lipped smile. Appearing perfectly friendly and affable, Morgan was only too eager to rid himself of the man. Something wasn't right, and he didn't want to get mixed up in it. "How long you planning to be in Splitcreek, Mr. Jones?" he asked casually, putting away the last of his things.

Bonnie Bohannon stood behind her desk, arms folded across her chest as she idly played with the edge of  the lace collar of her cotton blouse, the smile of her slightly sun kissed face emanating her happiness as she surveyed the new school house. It was wonderful, the room was light and airy, with colourful pictures lining the walls along with shelves full of books, the freshly painted white walls and oak stained floors along with the flowers in vases on the windowsill was a vast difference from usual stuffy and gloomy school house which she had previously worked in. Yet here she was, stood in her very own classroom where she could begin to help bring some hope for a better future to the children of Splitcreek. Bonnie couldn't help the small laugh at her last thought, she sounded like one of those heroines from the adventure novels she enjoyed reading, with a happy sigh the flaxen haired woman gathered her things and walked down the middle aisle of the school house, turning to lock the door behind her. 

Bonnie smiled brightly as she walked through the grassy school yard back towards the town, she could not put into words how happy she was here, although she did have apprehensions about travelling out West but the fresh start was proving to be a good move, she enjoyed this ever growing dusty town, their was never a quiet day and it was a challenge, she like a challenge. 

Stepping out onto the the dirt road, she suddenly jumped back as a man galloped wildly across her path, dropping her books in the process she shook her head, although she loved the town, the inhabitants were another story. "Wonderful" she drawled in her soft southern voice as she bent down to pick up the books she had dropped. Standing up she dusted off her maroon coloured skirt and continued over the road at a quicker pace. Stepping up onto the boardwalk she walked over to the saloon where she would hopefully have a quiet drink and something to eat, although when was anything quiet around Splitcreek. 

As she reached the saloon she noticed a new face standing outside looking over towards the sheriffs office "is everything okay?" Bonnie asked the stranger with her usual large smile and happy demeanour.

Midafternoon found Annie Oakland strolling down Main Street, on route to the Silver Spur, which was her place of occupation. Their family homestead was a little more than a mile outside of town, so she rarely minded the walk. It was a little early to be heading into work, and heaven knew Jan Hass was fit to pitch a flying fit over it, but she needed to get out of the house. Ruth had let grandpa run the store today since he was feeling a bit better and seemed to enjoy the work (though she would undoubtedly be popping in at some point to check on him), which left her at home to continue to pester Annie about subjects she would rather were let be. Their fight today had been particularly scalding, leaving Annie feeling more frustrated and guilty than anything else.

She was dressed in a demure blue cotton dress that matched her eyes, though failed to hide her occupation. No matter how conservatively she might dress outside the Silver Spur, it seemed that everyone in town could tell which girls worked where, especially the women. It didn’t really matter that she was a saloon girl and not a prostitute (they happened to work out of the parlor house two streets over thank you very much), the “respectable” women of Splitcreek never failed to turn up their noses at her. They had lots of fun names for the girls like her who worked in the saloons, like scarlet women or soiled doves, but she had one for them too, stupid. She could make more in a night than they could a month, which gave her the personal satisfaction necessary to send a patronizing smile back their way as she made her way into the saloon.

“Ah cheer up Sam, you can bring your banjo in later and play me a song, she was a sour prude anyhow.” Annie said consoling the drunken miner as she came in with a wink and her trademark smile. She’d only seen him come in a few times, but Annie was very good with names, you got better tips that way.

Bell nodded and handed over the four dollars and then proceeded to put the cash back in the pocket, he then put the shirt back on and buttoned it up. He stood up and stretch his back. It felt good to finally have that wound fixed up. Bell's hand moved to his hat and he placed it on his head while his eyes were fixed at the doctor. He remained like that for a moment before he went for the door, turning back to the doctor as he pushed it open.

'' You don't worry about me doc I ain't here looking for trouble. Thanks for the whiskey, I'll buy you a drink down at the saloon later if you fancy it. '' He smiled before walking out, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight after being inside the office for so long. For a moment he just stood there and looked at the town, the busy people hurrying down the street. People who unlike him did the same old thing every day. Same job, same home, same sleep. That life would be too dull for Bell.

He stopped outside of the old general store and once again saw a wanted poster dedicated to himself on the wall next to the door. He didn't pay much mind to it as he walked in and looked around. He needed rope, good rope. The cashier asked if he needed any help as Bell weighed a hammer in his hand. The cashier gave him a suspicious look and spit in a cup next to him. Hell you get a couple of scars and no one trusts you.

'' I'm just lookin' to buy some rope and a couple of cigars. '' Bell said and approach the counter. He gave the cashier a charming smile but he could tell the old man didn't like Bell's sort a bit. But the lust to make money was stronger then his morals as he began taking out the rope while Bell exhamined the different brands of cigars.

Jethro was sitting at his workbench in his shop, cleaning a Lemat revolver for a customer which had also asked him to engrave the barrel with "Boo".
"Maybe he thinks it´ll help him scare away some outlaws." He mumbled, smiling. Business was slow today and so far the only other customer he´d had was some drunken rancher asking if he had a gun that could shoot, and hit, five coyotes at the same time. Jethro simply said no and pointed him in the direction of the Silver spur, knowing that the man would soon forget about that idea and want another drink.

He considered closing early and heading down to the Silver spur for some drinks and maybe some rounds of poker, but then quickly came to his senses again, realizing that it wouldn't be good for business and probably wouldn't be that much fun either since the saloon would probably be pretty empty at this time of day.
There had been some commotion earlier that day, some outlaw riding by closely followed by the marshal. He had also heard some shoots being exchanged but nothing mayor. A part of him hoped that at least one of them had stopped shooting because their gun had broken down on them, then they'd have to get them fixed and he would have something to do! But that was a long shot and even if that where to happen they probably wouldn't come to get it fixed until tomorrow, and by then he´d have something else to do.. But look on it from the bright side, he thought to himself, as soon as you done you can spend the rest of the day relaxing!

So as soon as he had finished engraving "Boo the LeMat" he started picking out the things he´d need from one of the shelfs on the wall, he wanted to make sure that he didn't need to go back inside once he´d sat down and started reading. He hesitated a bit over whether he should bring a bottle of whiskey or not, the shop still being open and all, but decided that one glass wouldn't hurt . He then when´t outside, sat down and started reading, occasionally taking a sip from the glass and looking down the main street.

Jenny took cover when Kate shot, and hid there for the rest of the event.

Afterwards, she put her weapons away, and walked through the dusty streets. She heard footsteps behind her. The slurred sounds of a drunk man made her raise her eyebrows and turn to face him. "Jenn- Bonnie.. .Suck my.. Big.. Fat.."

Jenny didn't even have to think what he was going to say next, and slapped him. He grabbed her arms, and pushed down. Jenny had a small frame, and wouldn't be able to push him off if she tried. Within seconds, she was on the dusty, sandy floor, and the male was swinging his fists wildly at her face. She took around three our four punches before she lost her temper. She lifted her foot, and kicked him off. The two both stood up, and Jenny sneered. "My Ma' used to tell me I should never give the first punch.." She hissed, clenching her fist. "But I sure as hell will give the last punch, you damn fool." She grunted, her fist connecting with his cheek, and a loud crack emitting from it. The drunk reached for his pistol, but Jenny was too quick. She took one of hers out, and gave him a bullet in the chest.

"Now, Aint that a shame. I just let a drunk waste liquor. It aint even five yet, and we got drunks? Dang.." She muttered, walking towards the Blackburn Armory. She pulled up a seat from nearby, and sat next to Jethro. "I find it funny how you just watched me get attacked, and you just sit here drinkin?" She chuckled to herself.

"So, How's business, Black?"

Morgan watched Bell go, slipping the money into his pocket. Wasn't here looking for trouble, he said. Only time would tell if that was true; wasn't anything to be done about it now.

With Bell gone, Morgan had the office to himself, and he considered returning to the porch and resuming his nap, but he wasn't much in the mood to rest now. Something had put him ill at ease, and he paced the narrow space, attempting to walk out his troubles. A drink and smoke, that was what he needed. $4 would buy a man a lot of drinks, but Morgan had already wasted the better part of the day in the saloon, working his way through a significant amount of booze and quite a few cigarettes.

He caught himself wondering what the status on the outlaw was; he wondered if the marshal had chased him down and thrown him in a cell yet. Last he'd heard were a few gun shots coming from the far side of town. Maybe he oughtta go and check, just to see if things were alright. But no, that wasn't his place, and he didn't want to make it his place, either. Things had a way of working themselves out without nosy do-gooders prowling the town, shooting anything that breathed on the grounds that they might be one of the numerous outlaws they'd seen posted around town.

Still...wouldn't hurt to poke his head out the door, make sure there wasn't some sad and sorry soul bleeding all over his front porch. Picking up his Stetson from his desk, Morgan set the hat atop his head and headed outside, his eyes smarting as the bright sunlight found its way under shade of his Stetson. He scanned the street, surveying the activity through narrowed grey eyes.

Bell had disappeared from the main street, presumably into a store or saloon. There was the man he'd seen in the bar, standing a few storefronts down outside the Silver Spur. Annie was just heading into work, and Miss Bonnie was headed down the street, probably on her way to get a bite to eat. And there was Jenny, dusting her hands off and heading for Blackburn's store. Uh oh, what had she done now?

He squinted, making out the form of a man lying in the dirt. His eyes widened and he quickly snatched up his medical bag before hurrying across the street to the form of the lifeless man. "Oh hell," he murmured as he knelt beside the man, eyeing the copious amount of blood soaking his shirt. He felt for the man's pulse, but the heart had long stopped beating, and he shook his head, plucking off the man's hat and laying it over his face.

Dead bodies lying in the street- didn't that make for a nice welcome to Splitcreek!

Damian was lost in his own mind, from looking at his horse and to the sheriff's office as he sighed with a small dissatisfaction. He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on it as he then heard something that made him jerk up in a startle. He turned to look and looked at the source of the voice who spoke to him in a kind and cheerful manner. His jaw almost dropped when he saw the beauty of the woman from her hair and eyes. He took his hat off in the tradition of his saying hello to women.

"Well, if you call just coming into town and feeling as weary as a thirsty buffalo alright." he said in a tired voice. "I'm new to this town, and I was half wondering where I can find a place to rest my head." He stated, and as he was gonna continue to explain his stomach started to grumble and groan. "Aw hell stomach, one pint didn't fill ya? Pardon me, I must now be getting hungry. Took me long enough to do so anyway. living off of boiled beans for several days travel makes one hungry."

Damian calmly cleared his throat whilst his horse gave a small whinny at him as if he was laughing at him which caused him to raise his eyebrow at his mount. "Laugh it up Abram. Laugh it up." Sighing he turned to the woman again. "Anyway, I never did catch your name."

The destination was a little south of stanleys point, but the ride was far from an easy and relaxing one. Especially for such a short one like Jan Hass, the horse more than once threatened to buck him off at high speeds into a trail of dust, and it didn't help that he was such that he was such a novice horse rider either. Each time he just barley clung to the saddle hoping for the worst of the wild to be over, as there were more than a few times he injured himself before falling of one of these infernal beasts. He should really invest in a passenger cart.

As he slowed to a trod not far from the mine he studied of the masses both mining and goldpaning surrounding what was left of river trying to strike it big. Most of the goldpanners were working alone, only able to provide a measly salary to hardly support themselves and their families. Most of the miners were all working together in a group, maybe around ten people. Jan prided himself for having one of the largest mining crew, at about twenty men all chipping away at the mine he personally called glücklich.

As he prodded by he was noticed by more than a few workers. Some glared at him, hoping that the simple act of hatred was enough to have him randomly combust in flames. Others were bold enough to throw raunchy, obscene insults and comments from far away for the purpose of being heard but not seen. It would be a understatement to say they hated him, but were also afraid of what he and his army of henchmen could do. Picking a fight with Hass could mean waking up in the middle of the desert with nothing but the shirt on your back if you were lucky. You don't want to know a about the people that weren't.

Slowly the mine entrance turned from a speck on the horizon to a crowd of workers surrounding said mine entrance.Why weren't they working? It wasn't a holiday, where they can just sit around and relax. As a matter of fact, there was never a holiday at glücklich. It was Needless to say he was furious.

"Why... Are... You... Men... Not... working! This is no holiday!" Jan bellowed at the top of his lungs. The large group of workers all stood still, staring at the ground and kicking the dust with their boots. Several seconds later they realized that the question in fact, was not rhetorical, and pushed one of of the smallest workers (Danny) forward.

"Well...uhhh..." The young man managed. He was scared out of his mind and sweating like a pig, all while being stared daggers by a very angry Hass. Finally he mustered enough courage to explain the situation." Well Bill sabotaged the mine. He blew up the main tunnel, stole a lot of gold ..." He stopped to gulp "...and made off with the loot."

"What..." Jan muttered. Those simple words let the workers know they were in serious trouble.

~~~

Several minutes later Hass was tuckered out from screaming, kicking, spiting and screaming in German. But he also had a plan.

"This is what we're gonna do..." The miners perked up and shuffled at the sound of the first coherent words in the last half hour. "We are gonna going to go grab weapons for all of us from blackburn... then we're gonna find this diebischen Bastard." The workers all nodded in agreement to the plan, but most were just happy that Hass calmed down.

Boarding their horses, they speed of toward the town and the gunsmith faster than you could blink. It was a race against time for Hass, and a race for their lives for the miners. In a matter of minutes they arrived, kicking up a storm into shops and bystanders right down the middle of main street. Hopping off his horse, Hass speed onto the deck and barged into the store.

"Blackburn..." He weezed, tired from his journey. "I need guns, and lots of them!"

Jenny grinned and stood up when she saw Jan. "Howdy. You need guns? I'll help, if you want." She grinned, whistling for her horse.

A pure white horse ran up to her, and she hopped on. The white horse was a Hungarian-Half Bred, a beautiful and majestic horse. They were graceful and fast, but not as fast as the American Standard bred. She took off her rifle, and tossed it to Hass. "Shall we?"

Bell paid for the rope and a box of cigarrs which he put in a bag just before the all too familiar sound of a gun going off reached his ears. He thanked the cashier and wished him a good day, the man responding with a grunt followed by '' Damn outsiders'' which Bell only waved off with another smile. He stepped out onto the streets again and spotted the good doctor hurrying off to some poor fella lying on the dusty road. He rested his back against the shop's wall and called out.

'' Told you Doc! You didn't need to worry 'bout me!'' He yelled and gave the frantic doctor an evil grin before he began walking down the street again. He wasn't surprised that someone got shot, people tend to shoot rather then talk out here. But that the man was shot point blank in broad daylight cought him off guard. But who was he to judge? Hell who didn't prefer shooting during the day?

The thundering sound of a group of horses yanked the man out from his thoughts and soon he saw the dustcloud at the edge of town. The group of men, looked like miners stopped infront of the place Bell was heading to. The armory. They were lead by someone who looked like a child to Bell untill he came close enough to hear his voice and see his face. The man was clearly angry and he shouted like the ol' devil was poking him in the back. Bell didn't feel like squeezing himself into the big sweaty crowd of miners and decided to wait untill whatever the man had gotten what he wanted. He sat down on a bench not too far from the armory and took a sip from his free whiskey while his eyes gazed over the street and the people on it. The dust began to settle after the miners burst into town and he could see several angry glares at the group of men who had caused such a stir.

"This is more of a pesonal matter." He bluntly said, placing the rifle back in jennys arms and shooting her a stern glare."I think me and my men can handle and finance this on our own acord, thank you very much."

The last thing he needed at this point in time was Jenny butting her nose in on his own personal matters, and the fact was he was not just going after bill for his gold back. He was going to get revenge tonight. The bloody kind of revenge that involved someone getting killed for doing something very stupid, like blowing up a mine and stealing from their employer. If Jenny knew what he was going to do, she would try to stop him. Besides, law dogs goody-two-shoes like her and people like Jan never got along, so why even try. Plus, he always hated owing anyone anything.

"So Blackburn, you think you can whip up enough weaponry to arm all these men?" Hass said, gesturing to the mass of miners behind him.

Darby watched as the rider bore down on him, unimpressed, shouting over the ringing hoofbeats for him to clear the way. His eyebrow arched slightly and a slight smile appeared on his face, as he listened to her. If she had really wanted him to move, she should have shouted “Faugh a Ballagh!”, the Gaelic battle cry used by the Irish Brigade, which meant clear the way. Of course that would have meant she knew him in some way and he had never seen her before. Still, it was more than amusing to have someone shouting it at him in English.

However, that smile went away, as the lead projectile buried itself into the ground at his feet and the miner’s ears rang with the report of the shot. He dropped the reins of his mule, the leather cords falling to loop over his arm and began to pull the rifle from his shoulder, just as the horse turned away and sped down a gap between a pair of buildings, leaving him in a cloud of choking dust. Grunting with displeasure, he grounded the butt of his rifle and snatched the kepi from his head with his free hand. As he waved the battered hat about, trying to clear the dust from his face, a second rider appeared. A giant of a man, who couldn’t be anybody other then the local marshal. Without a word, he began gesturing towards the alley with his hat, waving the lawman on.

Forced to clear away a second cloud of dust, the ex-soldier slung his rifle, tugged his hat back into place and walked on. His mule followed along, placid as can be, now that the excitement had passed them by. He had three places to stop by on this trip into town. First was the bank, where he could exchange his collection of dust and nuggets for silver dollars. He wouldn’t have bothered but not everyone in town had a set of scales and it was hard to tip the girl at the saloon or the cathouse, with dust. The second was the Silver Spur, to wash the dust from his mouth. His final stop would be the general store in the morning, to get his supplies before heading back to his claim.

The bank was an easy stop in theory. One should simply have to walk inside and have their gold weighed and walk out with the correct amount of coin or bank notes (not that Darby would accept paper money, government or local bank issue). However, these banking types were sly and often tried to used extra weights to make the gold seem lighter then it was or crooked scales. You had to watch them closely or they’d take your money from out under your nose. Luckily, the teller in the bank today had been someone Darby had already had a...chat with about using unbalanced scales. However, his gold had to be weighed twice. The first time the weights had gotten knocked off, when the teller jumped at the sound of a gunshot His pockets lightly jiggling, the miner lead his yet unburdened mule over to the Silver Spur, ignoring the body laying in the street.

“You be a good creature Eletta” Darby whispered, lightly stroking the mule’s muzzle, trying to sooth her, after tying the reins to the hitching post. Some great band of men had just come riding into town, all of them following the short German, who ran the Silver Spur and own one of the largest mines in the area. Greedy little penny-pincher, the man could make a coin squeal before he was done with it. He half wondered what could make him so ornery, that he’d be willing to buy guns for the poor dumb fools who worked for him? Well, there wasn’t any reason to inquire about it, unless there was money involved.

He adjusted the strap to his rifle, as he stepped towards the door but turned back to the street. When he had first arrived in this town, he would have left the firearm along the empty bags on the back of his beast, along with the ammunition in his pockets. Nowadays though, someone would steal it. Hell, they’d try to steal his mule, save for the fact she liked to kick strangers. Besides, it wasn’t like everyone else in these parts didn’t have a pistol hanging off their hips. His gun would just be a bit more plain to see.

“Something personal” called the ex-soldier, in a reasonable friendly voice, “Mr. Hass or somethin that should concern all of us workin the river? If its somethin like that, I’m willin to help.”

His piece said, he turn back to the door of the saloon and stepped inside. Look around in a quick manner, he took a seat at an empty table and waited for one of the girls to come over.

Jethro was about halfway through his book when he heard a drunken mumbling followed by Jenny's voice: "My Ma' used to tell me I should never give the first punch... But I sure as hell will give the last punch, you damn fool." When he looked up the first thing he saw was Jenny punching the drunk so hard that Jethro almost expected the mans head to come of. The drunk reached for his gun but was dead before he reached it, Jethro was so chocked by how quickly that one insult had escalated that he didn't even notice that Jenny was now walking towards him and taking a seat next to him.
"I find it funny how you just watched me get attacked, and you just sit here drinkin?" She chuckled. He put down the book and stared at her. "Now what the hell was that for!" he exclaimed, pointing at the, now dead, drunk. "Attacked! Is that what you call being insulted?! I mean, i know you got an itch to use all that hardware your carrying around but you don´t have to go shoot the first drunken lowlife that throws a insult at you! He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

He looked back at the street and noticed that Morgan was running towards the dead drunk, probably hoping that he was still alive and not beyond rescue.
"I´m reporting you to the Marshal, seeing as the Sheriff is nowhere to be found" he said looking back at Jenny, now a bit calmer. He stood up, looking around for the Marshal, not seeing him anywhere he turned to Morgan. "Hey Doc! Have you seen the Sentinel? I am pretty sure that he´d want to know bout this."
Jethro turned back to the table and finished his drink. "Damn, what next? Someone´s gonna rob the Silver spur in broad daylight?" He said to himself, but then realized that that wouldn't be too surprising, he sighed.

Not long after a large group of miners lead by Jan Hass came riding down the street, stopping outside his shop. Hass was furious and was speeding towards him, looking like he could kill a man. Which is probably why he was there, Jethro thought, to get weapons so he could kill someone.
"Blackburn... I need guns, and lots of them!" He said, exhausted from the ride.
"Well your not getting any, and before you start yellin´ at me I´m gonna tell you why. First of all i don´t have enough to arm all of those boys you got there, and secondly I got a gut fellin´that your not going hunting game with twenty men on horseback, unless you hunt men for sport which i hardly think is legal, Mr. Hass."
He stared Hass in the eyes and made it clear that he wouldn't budge.