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Way Out West

Splitcreek, Arizona


a part of Way Out West, by Luv-is-a-Bug.

"Welcome to The West"

Luv-is-a-Bug holds sovereignty over Splitcreek, Arizona, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

1,321 readers have been here.


The town of Splitcreek was founded some 5 years ago by a down-on-his-luck miner by the name of Earnest Stanley. Out of food, out of money, and just about out of hope, Stanley found a forked river cutting through the nearby hills and made his camp. Two days later, he found gold in the river and struck it rich. What began as a one man show soon became a bustling mining camp, and over the next five years, a prosperous town. With new people coming every day, Splitcreek is booming.
Unfortunately, the growing population has caused problems. The wealth of the town has attracted some less than desirable characters, and with law and order in short supply, things are getting out of hand. Some people have taken to calling the town "Bloodcreek" as a result of the recent violence.
The threat of cowboys and outlaws, however, has not deterred business men looking to turn a profit. Hotels, banks, general stores and the like seem to be cropping up every day, and Splitcreek is on it’s way to becoming a big city. For now, though, the town consists of one main street lined with saloons, hotels, a post office, speciality shops (saddler, silversmith, etc), and other small businesses.
As with any good ol’ Wild West town, Splitcreek has an impressive number of saloons, most of them open all day and night. The most popular, though, is the Silver Spur Saloon, an establishment with the perfect mix of wealthy clientele, friendly barkeep, lots of betting, good liquor, and of course, rowdy bar fights.
The wide main street of Splitcreek is where most of the action takes place. Shoot outs, bar fights too rowdy to be kept inside, and the hustle and bustle of the town all happen here.
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Splitcreek, Arizona

"Welcome to The West"


Splitcreek, Arizona is a part of Way Out West.

3 Places in Splitcreek, Arizona:

14 Characters Here

Halley Quinn [54] "Silver Spurs what a place."
Morgan "Doc" Crowe [45] A cool-headed, tough-as-nails guy who really wishes he didn't give a damn
Wildcat Kate [35] Tenacious, hard-headed outlaw looking for trouble
Damian "Nomad" Kovacs [35] "I ain't here for any trouble, my days as mischeif maker are gone."
Jethro "Black" Blackburn [21] The local gunsmith and arms dealer
Cooper Winston [17] A good-for-nothing, womanizing, drunk asshole to the men, yet a rugged, smooth-talking, seductive bloke that makes the bodice tremble to the women.
Jack Westfield [12] '' Have one on the house... You know what have another one too''
Samuel MacTaggart [11] "Look son, if Id've given every one of you slack jawed bastards "just one more chance" I'd be up to me balls in your kind."
Hattie Thomas [10] *sighs* "Oh well back to work"

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1 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Halley Quinn
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Halley nodded at Leon as he talked about how it was Williams' fault, and that if she wasn't there he could've done worse to him. She got his face a bit more cleaner and less bloody. But the blood and his nose looked bad, besides he looked a bit wary. She looked into his eyes and listened to his instructions on getting what he wanted. 'Water, kerchief, got it.' She thought to herself.

"I'll be fine Leon. I can go get those for ya. No worries. Just please try and stay alive fer me." She smiled reassuringly at him standing up. "I'll be back as soon as I can." And with that she went off to the well. She avoided the eyes of the men and went on her way to her destination. She made it to the well and filled the bucket full of water. She carried it with both hands and had a bit of trouble carrying it, since she wasn't the strongest gal in town.

She went through the tents and came back to Leon's. She proceeded into it and saw the kerchief on his bedroll, took it, and picked up the bucket again. She made her way back to Leon near the campfire and set the bucket next to him. She sat on the side that he was dozing off to and held him up by putting an arm around him, and dipping the cloth into the bucket. She wiped softly at his face and cleaned it off.

"There ya go. All nice and clean. And it doesn't look as bad as you think trust me." She said smiling at him.

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Character Portrait: Damian "Nomad" Kovacs Character Portrait: Kain Hadwin
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Damian followed the Sheriff, now fully aware that he must've known something about his past life as a bounty hunter, as he heard him motion for him to have a seat in an empty room.

"Alright sheriff, I'll bite. What do you know of the ruffians that caused last night's commotion, and tell me what you're planning to do and then tell me if it has anything to do with me." He said as he sat down. He half hoped that the sheriff was planning to deputize him in order to make sure whatever the Sheriff wanted him to do would be legal under his supervision. At least it'll keep his more angry violent side in check if all possible, if not make sure he didn't go nuts when shipping people to jail.

He didn't want too much blood on his hands, if nothing else. He also just wanted to live in a form of perpetual peace, not looking for a lot of trouble. If he needed to help the sheriff clean the town up for him, then that's what he'll do to get his peace, and hopefully some money in his pocket and his personal vault in his saddlebag.

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Character Portrait: Frank Gregory & Preston Rizzo
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#, as written by dig17
The town of Empire City, Colorado, drank the water coming off of the Huerfano river. There is a small cave branching off of the main dirt path where the wagons traveled back and forth to bring water to the town and where residents went to wash their garments and occasionally fish; the cave resided 63 yards away from this trail, and was hidden by a large thicket of bushes and trees, as this was where the treeline began before the large hills surrounding the town began popping up inside this forest. The cave was inhabited by the meekest of God's creatures, including frogs, ants, some very inbred bacteria, and the occasional bird seeking warmth in the winter. Coyotes were known to frequent the area, but it was never proven that they had kept their pack in the cave. The caverns led beneath the closest hill to Empire City, sometimes called Justice Falls for the various stories of men who fell and injured themselves after having something painful coming their way via karma. Inside this cave was something more vast than eternity, and something that even God could not touch; moss grew thick on the walls and floor where there was not dirt, and if one sat on it, it could almost be mistaken for grass. It was a special kind of green, the kind that was seen in the sky right before a tornado came through, or when algae glowed in lakes on special occasions. The dank air smelled thick, and the crickets inside hummed of mystery.

When Frank Gregory was 8 years old, he went to this cave with his older brothers, Rex, Jim, and Cleon, and explored the various caverns and corners of this cave. Inside, they found numerous Indian artifacts and drawings on the walls and ceilings, and as they went deeper, found more proof than Indians had once inhabited this place. There was something mystical about it, how it was a form of nature away from nature; the confined spaces, total darkness without his kerosene lantern, dripping spaces, and sheer heat reminded him of hell, but he only saw it that way after his brothers extinguished their lamps and left him alone, standing in the darkness of that cave, his existence melting into the cavern walls like the dew it had been sweating for thousands of years. He had never been so scared in his life as that one moment, that one defining moment that helped cultivate the mass of his character for every day after. All he could think to do was to be brave; his father, the largest man (and at the same time, the shortest man) he'd ever known wasn't afraid of anything. Frank braved the darkness of that cave and, with every ounce of patience his little body could muster, delivered justice to his three older brothers one by one before his ninth birthday.

That cave was the only thing on Frank's mind as the sun began to come up in the dusty town of Valverde, New Mexico. Ever since that day, he was visited by nightmares of going deeper and deeper into the cave, only to have his lamp extinguished by some otherworldly force. He was still stricken with fear, even at 35 years of age, and never was able to unpry how deeply the fear needled his lungs. Even during the war, he tried making himself scared on several occasions to evoke something useful out of his condition, but nothing hurt more than the cave near Empire City. It all seemed so far away, and rightly so; he wasn't even from Empire City. He was from a homestead outside of Jackal Flats, across the river and past the cornfield, the wheat field, the other cornfield, and Old Man Carruthers' 17 acres of dirt. The cave was so far away from his home, but the experience never left him. In that field, outside of Bonham, the only thing that comforted him and helped bring his mind back to the world was the cool air of the morning and the drops of dew running across the surface of his wool blanket and down to his shirt and neck as he began sitting up to observe God's next sunrise. He breathed deeply, taking in the freshest air he'd breathed since he had been to Tennessee, and smelled how close the grass was, the movements of his horse Tornado as he tromped around fighting bugs with his tail, and observed the stillness of the prairie as it all seemed to close in on him.

Frank looked across the firepit to Preston Rizzo, a man who had saved his life in the very town they were now passing through. Their baptism by fire happened at this place in early 1862; as members of the Colorado volunteers who had marched south to kill Confederates over the New Mexico territory, they were met with stiff resistance from a group of partisans from Arizona territory, later known as the Arizona Rangers. Most of those boys didn't go home, and their ranks were refilled with boys from Texas, where the men from Colorado would shoot them down again. Even in the west, the spirit of the Confederacy was strong, and they proved it by charging their right flank multiple times with nothing but spears in their hand. With the most up-to-date percussion rifle technology, Frank and his kin delivered hell in volley after volley to those valorous souls, and now, 14 some-odd years later, they were still close enough for Frank to smell them.

Preston was still fast asleep, his head resting on his shoes wrapped up in a thick shirt. Frank himself had been resting on his rolled-up Army coat, which provided more cushion than town folk would think. He pulled the blanket off of his body and slid toward the firepit, assessing the condition of the coals that were still red underneath all the ashes. Indeed, there was enough heat to start another log on the way to cooking their breakfast. Frank quickly rubbed his arms to provide his skin warmth as he began assembling kindling to place on the coals, and did so before throwing the first log he touched onto the already-smoldering twigs and papers. With several motions and habits that had become second nature after all his years on the road, he prepared a small skillet and a coffee pot, and only stopped to think when Preston awoke.

"Oy, whas dat, Frankie?"

"Pig 'n coff. Hungry?"

"Nawh, ah chew sum hardtack onna road," Preston shivered a bit when he removed his blanket from his body, and began preparing a tin cup for coffee. "Secund thawt, ah take dat coffee thar, pard,"

Frank observed smoke coming from the spout of the coffee tin, and nodded toward Preston that it was ready. Preston grabbed the rope-laced handle and poured a fine amount into his cup, then putting the tin back on top of the fire pit's cooking grate, tipping the handle toward Frank before taking a very careful sip of the hot drink.

"Taste like crap, Frankie, you ain't doin' it raht,"

"Youse delusional, boy, iss de same as iss always been." Frank retorted.

"YOUSE delusional, old man, you never know'd how inna foisplace."

"Well don't drank it then."

"Ah'll drank yer dungcoff fer nah, iss da only thang keepin me from freezin intuh a popsicle."

Frank poured himself a cup and grew impatient with the bacon cooking on his skillet, and had begun to eat it half-crispy and half-raw.

"Yeh shouldn't eat that shit that way, Frankie, iss bad for ya. 'member Fox at Honey Springs? Ate that damn rabbit onna way from Gibson and was useless by the time the artillery started. You coulda put that rabbit back togetha with all tha parts he upchucked."

"Ah cooked it, Preston, yeh shouldn't hawk ovah peoples business, ya know that? Youse one nosy sunbitch."

"Well ah know howta make coffee,"

They paused another moment as the sun continued racing to the top of the sky.

"Where's we goin' today, pard?" Frank said between smacks of fried pig in his mouth.

"Well, lemme look," Preston retrieved a map of the area, trying to identify where they were and their path in relation to where they were going. "Where are we?"

"Judging by your judgment, we're lost."

"You're a sunbitch, too; what was that town we went to yesterday?"

"The one with the blonde whore standin' outside that laundry?"

"I dunno if she wuz a whore or not, but she was certainly a milestone. That town, yeah."

"It was Bonham. Bonham, Texas."

"Okay," With tired eyes, Preston focused on something too specific for work at that time of day. "Don't you worry none, that Father Brennan's the navigator, I think. We's just the guns."

"Well," Frank took another bite of bacon rudely. "we come too far to turn back now, ain't we?"

"I guess so," Preston warmed his hands on his cup and smelled the coffee grains wafting up in the steam. "But maybe we ain't."

"Well, we can't go back, can we?"

"Home? I don't know," Preston thought a moment. "Can we?"

"I don't know."

They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the idea of returning home.

"I don't think I WANT to, if that's what you're asking." Frank answered.

"Well, you wanna settle somewhere else? What about yer kin?"

"We's gonna be old men, Preston, and hardly any prospects in that dinky little town. Jackal Flats is drying up, just like this place."

"Yup," Preston stayed silent and very still and he thought. "You think there's good women on the way?"

"If there is, don't you tell nobody on the wagon about it. Iss good enough for them Confederate boys, and New Mexico is a God damned place. It's hot all the time, hardly nothin grows, it seems like a really shit place. The women that survive this Hell must have something worth falling in love with."

"This ain't Hell, Frankie. Indian Territory's Hell. It's the part of Hell that the devil didn't want."

"Ah'll drank teh that," Frank said quickly as he downed more coffee.


Within an hour, they were fed, packed, dressed and mounted, their horses beating one hoof after another closer Utah. Their hats were squeezed onto their heads comfortably, as they had been for years, Frank's hat having been with him since he was a boy. When he began doing real field work with his father at age 13, his father bought him a large (at the time) floppy black hat that covered him well when he worked. The sun was torturous in the mountains, and when he enlisted to fight in the Civil War, the hat likely saved his life as he marched from New Mexico to Georgia. The southern heat was unbearable; he had hardly dealt with such intense heat during Colorado summers, with average highs topping a little past 80 degrees, and if he had been using a standard-issue kepi, he more than likely would have died from heat stroke before the first year was over. Preston, however, enjoyed the kepi; it fit great, he didn't have to worry about brims getting in the way of anything, and it looked quite attractive on him. His war-issue kepi was also on his head as he rode toward Fort Trinity, but their worries had nothing to do with the sun.

They were hardened gunmen, and all they needed to focus on was the trail in front of them and making sure that they weren't faced with any trouble. Another month into their journey and they would be attacked 4 separate times, twice in New Mexico and twice in Arizona, by societal ruffians that wanted to take advantage of the frugal situation of the Mormons. Little did the bandits know, however, that Frank and Preston men were paid well to be armed well, and on every occasion, only one man got away to tell the tale of their failed robbery. Preston and Frank had become very skilled in the art of the gunfight, especially working together, and with the irregular tactics used by their unit in the war drilled into their brain, their minds go somewhere else when faced with a threat. This, however, was not one of their worries, either. Frank's main cause of concern was Preston's bold question at breakfast, the hint of a longing for permanent settlement in his tone as he asked if it wasn't too late to go back home. Before he left in 1861, Frank had a conversation with his oldest brother, Rex, concerning the blooming of a former military outpost where he planned to escape the war with his pregnant wife called Trinity (Rex wasn't aware that it was still referred with the 'Fort' connotation). He'd never heard of any towns named Trinity, as his brother had specifically called it, but a Fort Trinity was indeed on the map and provided a constant message of discontent by his own family for their own home. Maybe when he got back, he could answer some of the questions he was holding back.

Utah was even hotter than New Mexico, which Preston couldn't quite understand nor believe. He had been convinced that he'd passed right through the gates of Hell to reach Missouri, but he was gonna have some questions for his maker when he did finally pass on. He was astounded at how hot a place on earth could get for no apparent reason, except maybe for God's plan of balance. That would make sense to him. Everything in life was balanced; rain and slog in Missouri, sand and sun in Arizona, grass and hills in Indian Territory, snow and mountains in Colorado. At least it wasn't Italy. Jews didn't do too well where he came from; of course, Preston didn't exactly see any advantages of being a Semite in the USA, either. God's chosen people without a true home. Maybe one day.

They dropped the Mormons off in a town called Great Salt Lake City. They spent time with the men, and Frank learned a great deal about their religion and their culture. It was as crazy as being Godless in his book. He didn't know anything about stars or modern saints or Joseph Smith, but Goddammit, they were nice people, and they'd been hunted for as long as Frank had been alive. They were involved in violent revolt against the government years ago, something Frank had once heard murmurings about in Jackal Flats, but he learned why they did it, and why they believed so strongly. It made him reconsider the strength of his own faith, not only then, but until the end of his life. Frank had a feeling that he would never be as devout as the Mormons he accompanied through the southwest. It was all he could think about as he bid them adieu and rode away with Preston. Maybe one day. Maybe he could bring faith home to his family; it was all he could think that he could do.


It was right over the border, Preston figured, when they came to pass by a farmstead after losing the crude trail two miles previous. The entire path from the end of the road until they'd seen the silhouette of the farm house had been strewn with a pungent smell that only a man who had smelled a burning house would recognize; it was as though it had been scattered about their trail like a Catholic priest spreading incense at Sunday mass. Frank knew he wasn't going crazy when he saw the remnants of the home, standing crudely at the top of a hill, mostly burnt and sitting as a reminder of what once was. They sped to a gallop to approach the scene, and it seemed that it had burned awhile and died out before engulfing the entire estate; the outer walls were somewhat intact, but it was very possible that the inside had been gutted by the flames.

"You think any of that's salvagable? Worth lookin at in there?" Frank asked.

"Nah, leave it to the bugs. They're probably hungrier than we are. You remember Old Man Carruthers' barn?"

"What, the old barn on Carruthers' land?"

"Naw, the new barn that the old man built."

"He built it?"

"No, he's an old man, he got his sons to build it, the little Carrutherses. Anyhoo, he torched it when he thunk cholera took his swine. That shit's all gone now, it don't take long for places like this to go back to God piece by piece. Oh, back in Italy, we had this-"

Everything stopped. Everything in the entire world stopped moving, talking, singing, and existing as Frank noticed a body swinging from a large tree.

"Holy dogshit! Preston!"

Frank swung himself off of his horse and darted toward the tree where a pale man had been hanging for God knows how long. He was strung up high enough that Frank couldn't reach the rope with his knife, and looked back to Preston for help when there was nothing worth standing on nearby.

"Preston! Scattergun!"

From his rucksack, Preston retrieved his most prized possession, a 10-gauge shotgun made by master gunsmiths in Britain, probably one of the best break-action weapons to grace American soil. He tossed this amalgamation of steel and wood into Frank's arms, who inspected it for preparation to fire.

Frank checked the load and racked both of the hammers back with his thumb before pointing it up to the coiled rope on the branch. Frank squeezed the trigger quickly, and the weapon bucked hard in his arms as the familiar, sudden pop of shotgun shells destroyed most of the branch and obliterated the rope. The body fell quickly to the dirt, and Frank wondered why he hadn't waited for Preston to stand underneath the body to catch it. The man lay there, and Frank began studying his countenance, trying to find any signs of life out of the goodness of his heart. He dropped the gun and ran to the side of the body, trying to assess things physically, Preston finally having caught up and kneeling on the opposite side.

"I think we're too late."


Preston signed the crucifix across his chest as he confirmed it with his own eyes.

"He been dead awhile now. Not too much awhile, though; nothing's been pecking at him yet. He's a fresh body. This must've happened late yesterday." Preston answered.

"Well damn, we so close to this place, how didn't we know this was happening?"

"Acoustics is weird, pard, 'member when we fought with them Missouri boys at Wilson's Creek in Missouri? Didn't hear a Goddamn thing from the rally point at that cabin, you remember?"


"They says the sounds of the artillery and muskets was bouncin off the hills and such, and that's why we didn't know they was fightin over that cornfield until bloody men came lookin for help."

"Yeah, the sounds probably got bounced around this place. Lookit all the hills there, Preston, and all around," Indeed, the man's land was quite worthy of a painting from Europe; hills curved around other hills like waves fighting each other in a Colorado lake, the specific greenness of it all resonating exactly what state it belonged to through its colors.

"This ain't right, Frank, somebody strung him up for a reason now,"

"You're right, Preston, men who don't bury other men are looking to say something to people they don't know. And I do not know this man."

They knelt in silence, perhaps in reverence that they had set aside in the heat of the supposed emergency, considering it all.

"Well, we already done shot him down, least we can do is put him in a hole."

"Hell of a lot more than Cooper got."

"Yeah. Cooper."

The next 40 minutes were spent digging up dirt underneath the man's tree. The age of the men's bones had slowed down their pace considerably, which they had discussed for most of the time they spent working the grave. They ruminated about digging up mountains at Petersburg in half the time they'd already spent getting two feet under, and eventually settled at 4 and a half. They gave the man the honors that they were able to give, being respectful what was left of his existence. They piled on the dirt and formed a cross out of the branch that had eventually come off of the tree, having swelled and snapped and hung during their time there. The branch was wide enough that a man could write his name if they knew him, and the mound of dirt, that crude grave, added one more roll to the man's already-beautiful landscape. Frank and Preston said a prayer each for him and, as they did every night before falling asleep, asked for protection from such fates for themselves. Preston seemed transfixed by the entire event;

"Come on, pard, we've gotta move."

Preston, not wanting to show weakness or vulnerability, turned to Frank with a straight face.

"You know, I don't appreciate you throwing my new shotgun on the ground like that."

"Well, I don't appreciate you farting on the campfire when I'm getting ready to cook."

"You did it first."

"When I was a child. Are you a child?"

"I'm old enough to kick your ass."

"You're old enough to be growing moss on your balls."

"I get more hoochie now than you've ever had, Grampa."

"Hooch, not hoochie. You get hooch, because you're a lousy old drunk."



It was just after one o'clock when the horses Tornado and Leonardo carried their riders onto a lonely little street of Splitcreek, Arizona, a dusty place that made them feel sad. It wasn't the condition of the town, nor the people or things in it, but the atmosphere was just so that Frank and Preston both felt waves of unhappy air seeping up from the dirt beneath their hanging boots. This feeling rang inside them, like this place was not treating its people well; even the buildings seemed to bring the people down. Somehow, through the cheerless situation, Preston found it fascinating. Perhaps it was all their own doing; perhaps, in their minds, they were not happy to see another town, another pocket of society that they were never truly a part of. There was a reason that their forebearers sought the specific silence of Colorado's mountains, and perhaps they had never been connected to cities in the firstplace. Maybe, just maybe, they thought that the road would keep going, and they would travel forever on the road. They would never have to see another person or road, another vice or sin, another structure or trough; maybe they'd hoped that they would die before they would get there.

The truth escaped the both of them; it transcended their existence, just like the cave exceeded Frank's body, and left them with a bigger and bigger hole every time they talked to a bartender or stepped inside a general store. Preston knew he didn't belong there, but the entire reason he came was because he didn't belong in his home, either. God brought him there, just like God took him to New England and brought him back to Colorado. He hadn't explored Texas properly and always regretted it; surely there was something that could amuse his wanderlust hidden in the alleys or beyond the bricks and mortar. Frank, too, felt that he had something hidden in this town that was meant to complete him, but whatever it was, he had to find it. 'Fortune favors the bold,' Frank remembered from the Aeneid, one of his children's favorite books. It was spoken by the bad guy of the story, Titius, before he faced total annihilation by Aeneas' Trojans. Although this exact literary connection did not favor Frank's bold want, he was not going to stand inside the cave and wait to be eaten by coyotes. He had to keep making progress.

"Well, what the hell do we do now?"

Frank looked around the buildings, finding the first one with watering troughs for horses. They spotted what was clearly a bar, bearing the name 'SILVER SPUR', and it was the prettiest building they'd seen since the church in Great Salt Lake City. It was nice and big, and it seemed that this place was the reason for the lack of life in the immediate area. Frank nodded toward it and led his horse to the trough at the front; there was no doubt that their horses were thirsty, and chances were that Preston, with his sort-of-German blood, was also thirsty.

"You wanna see about gettin drunk, pard?"

"That sounds just delightful, but there's a gun shop right there that you may wanna waste some time at." Preston replied with a grin, bringing his own horse beside Frank's and dismounting quickly. They stretched for a moment as they slapped the reins around the front posts behind the troughs, and slowly jumbled through the front doors and into the building. The place was bustling and busy; it made both men uncomfortable. There were opportunities to gamble across every foot of the space of that building, to which Frank and Preston promptly ignored and began walking toward the bar. Suddenly, Frank stopped and turned Preston to him.

"Nah, they's closed, and that's a fact. I'm just gonna stand outside awhile and get my legs warmed up, take in some air. You stay civil in here, aight pard?"

"I'm a civil man; you just worry about getting your fresh air. Imma get some mugs and sit the hell down; my rear's rawer than that rash you got in Missouri. Come see me when you're done." Preston said as he began scooting toward the bar. "Howdy, pard," Preston said to the bartender, tipping his battered Union-issue kepi to the man. "I need a couple glasses of beer, and I also gotta pay you for our horses,"

Frank walked outside and tried observing the street, trying to pay attention to any townsfolk that might be around. They'd been riding too long and they had money to spend; and all he could do was stare as Splitcreek stared back at him.

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Character Portrait: Jan Hass Character Portrait: Richard Jones Bell
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"Watch where your going, you dirty hick!" Hass hollered as another horse and cart sped by, blowing up a storm of dust
around him and nearly running him through. From afar, the unknown driver screamed bloody Mary and threw a volley of insults, all the while racing off toward the deserts unknown expaces. If hass had half a mind, he would walk up to that cart and... do something mean and dirty, but not today. Today, he had a job to do.

Standing up, he dusted himself off, carful not to let any dust or grime land in his sweet, sweet... actually, he didn't know what he was drinking, not that he really cared. The most he knew was that it was a labeless bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. As long as it wasn't one of the bottles he pissed in as a joke. Now that he thought of it, he might of given it to one of those drunks that turned his bar into a confession booth, sobbing about one thing or another. A smirk crossed his face as he thought of a nameless booze-hound taking a long, hard drink before he realized he was drinking piss! That always cracked him up.

"Mr. Hass!" The forlorn voice dragged him back to reality, all the while startling him and causing him to drop his drink. It shattered into a thousand pieces on the dirt packed road, and the juices leaked into the sand.

Turning his attention to the horizon, he could barley make out the lumbering outline through the glare of the rising sun. A overloaded cart bearing a lone driver, being dragged along by a scrawny and meager horse. This man was hass's own; Jeffery or johnny or something. He prayed to god that the fool could actually count like he said he could, otherwise he was in a world of hurt.

"You got the stuff?!" Hass yelled from the roadside as the caravan teetered toward him, the weighed horse slowing as he sensed he was nearing the goal.

"Yep, all of it sir. 15 bottles of whiskey or anything with the same sting, 3 kegs of-" Hass simply raised his hand and "whatshisface" stopped dead in his tracks. "We're all geared up and ready to go, i mean." He finished.

"You mean I'm ready to go; not allowed to bring any company..." Hass pointed out as he struggled into shotgun before booting the lone man out of the drivers seat into the dust.

"But Mr. Hass..." he continued " How am i supposed to make back to town? Hass?" He simply stood there as Hass crawled towards the meet, with the goods in tow.


Slower and slower Hass urged the horse as he buzzards bluff crept over the skyline and the passageway narrowed. Saying he had butterflies in his stomach was a great understatement. It was more like his very innards threatened to leap out his throat and sweat pooled on his forehead. He was very carful to keep a keen eye on the surrounding rocky plateaus and steep cliffs, with lots of hiding of hiding spots. It was starting to don on Hass why "Mr. Bell" choose such a place to hold this certain deal.

Finally he stopped in the middle of a open gap in the cliff face, surrounded by menacing spires on all sides. This must be the place. It only crossed Hass's mind now that this would be the perfect place to kill a man without much woe. He only hoped that was not his final day.

"OK! I'm here! And i got your damned stuff!"

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Character Portrait: Halley Quinn Character Portrait: Jan Hass
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Lucky Leon

Leon frowned and touched his beaten face and as his fingers pressed against his nose he flinched and grunted.

'' Aw heck I do hope my nose ain't broken. All I got is my uncanny good looks eh?'' He chuckled and slowly got up facing Halley still smiling. He'd be alright and as Bell said: Nothing makes you better at what you do than gettin' beat up. Leon didn't know if he agreed with that but he should get used to getting hurt if he was going to make it here and why not start easy?

'' I reckon you can use my bedroll. I can't let you sleep on the ground Halley.'' Leon said and got up from his seat with a grunt. Times like these made him miss the doctor of the gang, hopefully they would have a new one soon since no one here could be trusted with taking care of anyone.


One-Eye and his crew had arrived early at the site of the deal. It gave them time to plan and get ready if the german decided to backstab them. One-Eye and Abe placed themself behind a couple of big rocks in the center which gave them a good view over the land. Pete Swanson had climbed up on a small hill covered in bushes and rocks and had his rifle ready. One-Eye had told him to shoot as soon as he smelled trouble, which they all hoped wouldn't happened. They had burried the gold a 50 yards west of them and would only fetch it after they made sure it was all there.

'' You reckon he's gonna' show One-Eye?'' Abe asked and scratched his beard. One-Eye stopped sharpening his knife and looked up from under his hat.

'' He better less he don' wan' none of this gold.'' After his answer he got back to making the edge sharp again and it was clear that he didn't feel like talking. Abe didn't mind, he didn't like One-Eye and would often do his best to avoid being sent out with him. It all began with One-Eye ''stealing'' Abe's ''girl'' that he had paid for and Abe had gotten his revenge by pissing in One-Eye's bottle of whiskey that he kept in his saddle bag. Nowadays they just gave each other a dirty glare and did their best to remain civil after Bell had scolded them about their behaviour.

Soon both One-Eye and Abe was yanked from their thoughts by a low whistle coming from the small hill that Swanson was lying on. They looked up and spotted the cart filled with what hopefully was their payment. The place was all too quiet and they had no trouble hearing the voice of the german calling out for Bell. One-Eye nodded to Abe and they both got up and One-Eye walked out of cover as Abe remained behind cover with his pistol.

'' Ma' name's Richard Jones Bell and I do say it's a pleasure do meet you in person Mr.. Hass was it?'' One-Eye did his best to sound and act like Bell and for someone who had never met Bell they would surely not question it. He walked over to the cart and stopped a few feet infront of it.

'' I reckon everything we need is here?'' Past experiences told him that it could be a man with a rifle hiding amongst the barrels just waiting to blow a certain outlaw's brains out.

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One-Eye laughed and looked up on the german. He then let out a whistle, which made Swanson crawl down from his hiding place on the hill and hurry over to the place where they hid the gold. It was blocked from Hass' view by the hill and for all he knew nothing was going on. One-Eye grinned and leaned against the wagon.

'' So how's it like ownin' a saloon? I bet ya' got all the drinks an' girls ya want huh?'' As he spoke he motioned for Abe to come out from behind the rocks, still with his gun ready. They both seemed to have relaxed a bit but Abe's grip around his gun remained tight. Unlike One-Eye who was smiling and making small talk the look on Abe's face was grim and he looked like he'd rather be somewhere else.

Soon Swanson was back with a big dirty sack and he joined his two comrades. One-Eye took the sack from him and took a quick peek inside it. Heck.. If he had just killed Abe and Swanson he could have lived like a rich man for a long time. One-Eye threw the sack into Hass' lap and chuckled again.

'' Well this is the part where you start walkin'.''