James Doolin had been watching the train ever since it pulled in. The antiqued machine needed to be lubricated at multiple stops on its way to the other side of the Mississippi; it was the process of a time before them, like an echo reappearing long after one has spoken. Indeed, James had always enjoyed seeing trains; they were the most complicated and interesting amalgamations of steel and fire that had ever graced his little farming community of Abilene, Kansas. Their whistles could be heard from over the largest hill he'd seen until he was 16, from what seemed like miles away; as soon as it was confirmed, he'd race to meet it with his brothers and sisters, waving the conductor on as the shipment of coal or food or people passed away from them like a dream at dawn. Those were the good days, filled with simple sunsets and pretty neighbor girls. As Leos' voice buzzed in his ear, he decided that it was all worth the work he was doing so far away from home.
"Ganger to tha Ghost, we's got a straight. Be ready to cash, please."
The plan was simple enough. The real question was if it would go right. He hadn't tried anything like they were about to, but after riding with the Kansas Rangers during the Bloodletting, he hadn't done much of anything more than twice. It was the lifestyle, the idea of adaptation inside the frame of their capabilities, which was more than they'd figure a lot of the time. Either way, it was time to sing old Willy and Val their cues; he had taken to singing old folk songs learned on the trail in Kansas as a way of confirming to his 'Posse' that he saw elements of their heists ready to be executed.
"Ah been with Sally, ah been with Sue, ah been with Cindy and 'er sister, too." He huffed up a breath. "Now ahm tryna settle down, start a family with that cute lil Kim," James paused a moment to take note of the plume of smoke coming up from the great steam engine on the train, hissing with energy. "But now that ah tasted blood, now this wine tastes too thin."
He realized most of the townsfolk seemed ugly. Really ugly. Royal Territory Of California ugly. These weren't farmers, surely; these were folk who made their living in the fort. Self-sustenance inside 'civilized' areas always resulted in the worst mish-mash of genetic code that could be combined. A blender of the bullshit; only the weakest members of the species lived in towns like this. James bent his head down to spit in the dirt, more out of contempt than necessity. One out of every five women who passed him were even worth glancing back at; out in the farmland, a farmboy NEVER gave the neighbor girls less than two looks. Maybe it was the water that made them so pretty; he had to admit, the water source of Fort Travis Junction seemed tepid, likely infected with some ungodly parasite. Perhaps this was God's own way of telling James that this state was cursed and needed to be robbed of their treasures, such as the one on the train he had caught wind about. Either way, all he kept thinking about was the sweetness of little Jolene Hutchinson.
"Ah got a needle, don' be alarmed, it shoots streams o' lovely things into my arm. Well ah'd sell my own mother for that sweet heroin." He tipped his hat to an older woman who looked back at him, somewhat disgusted or horrified at the lyrics. "Oh, now that I've tasted blood, now this wine seems too thin."
He began strolling toward the saloon. Maybe they didn't call it a saloon, or it wasn't titled the saloon, but Goddammit, it was a saloon. They served beer and pussy, and where he came from, that was called a saloon. Regardless, he didn't see much of a fighting presence there; no military or peacekeepers in uniform, for sure. If there were, they'd be served copper-coated candy if they decided to put up a fight once the gang rose into action.
"Sometimes the white coats, they hide black hearts, we learna to sugar coat the same black guards." The last part of this stanza was one of his favorites, surely one lyric he'd take to his grave; the Kansas Mounted Rangers sang the song often, and they'd get the loudest when the last stanza came about. "Well, ah turn lead into gold, ah'll cure original sin. Oh, now that ah tasted blood, now this wine seems too thin."
He stopped and looked out. He hadn't seen Willy or Val anywhere. Maybe he wasn't looking hard enough; maybe he didn't WANT to see them. At the very least, he didn't want to give their position away by constantly eyeing them as they moved, so he stood in place, leaning against one of the posts outside the saloon doors, staying out of the way as he reached into his coat and found a ratty cigar, which promptly went between his lips as he lit up a large flame from several matches at one time. He puffed the smoke out, enjoying the flavor as he took one last look around before breaking radio silence; nobody was talking. If they didn't acknowledge him, he'd have to improvise, and that would be too much fun.
"Willy, how's the rest of the song go, ah?"