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Samuel Cole

Some people say you can make a new life for yourself out West. 'Course, some people're full of shit. Me, I just want a little redemption.

0 · 178 views · located in Splitcreek, Arizona

a character in “Westward Bound”, as played by Collin115

Description

Given Name: Samuel Cole

Nickname (Optional): None

Gender: Male

Age:25

Good guy or bad guy? Explain: Sam likes to consider himself a bit of a good guy, but the world is never so black and white as to let men and women be either or. Sam doesn't mind helping people in need, he'd give a stranded man a hand getting back to town, or a starving man some food and water, but he won't outright jump in to any situation without having an advantage of some kind. He also doesn't do most things for free. The best thing Sam could say about himself is that he's looking for some redemption, and maybe for a place to settle after his time with the army fighting Indians. He's done enough bad in the past, and he somehow knows that he'll wind up doing more, but he hopes to do a little good before he dies.

Position/occupation (Sheriff, outlaw, rancher, barkeep, etc): Drifter, ranch hand for hire and gun for hire

Personality (Detail, please): Sam tend's to be more on the serious side. He'll laugh, smile, and cut up every now and then, but he isn't one to get too wild. Even when he drinks, it's more to forget and to calm himself than it is to get rowdy. He tend's to keep his words short and simple, and while he isn't book smart, he's got enough learning to read, write, and know his numbers. He tends to rely more on his common sense and life experiences than what he's read in some book though.

Sam is generally kind to people, if a little distant at first. He'd seen enough hardship and people's lives get ruined while serving with the cavalry under General Sheridan. Serving through the winter raids and seeing the massacre's of men, women, and children showed him more than enough death and destruction than he'd desired. Even now, seeing innocents getting robbed or hurt in any way leaves a bad taste in his mouth. One that he isn't afraid to get rid of with or without bloodshed.

Skills: Horsemanship, shooting on horseback, marksmanship. Sam has experience in both tracking and hunting, and isn't afraid to get dirty if need be. He know's how to break horses and train them, and has some experience as a farmer and ranch hand from his upbringing in Missouri. He's also level headed in stressful situations, after all, being shot at and have arrows fired at you will do that to a man.

History: Sam grew up on a small farm in Missouri as the fourth and final child of Johnathan and Elizabeth Cole. His younger years were good, a stern but caring father, and a kind and loving mother. Both did their best to raise Sam right, and while most of it stuck, Sam always had a bit of a taste for trouble. He was eleven when both his father and oldest brother went off and joined the Confederate Army, leaving him, his fifteen year old sister, and his thirteen year old brother to help their mom put food on the table. It was a few month's later that they learned that his father had been killed in battle, and his brother came home with a leg blown off.

The loss destroyed his mother, and his oldest brother distanced himself from the rest of the family. Sam did the same, his mom was a shell of herself, and his other siblings were constantly arguing over the years. Sam waited until they convinced their mother to move in with their uncle, and then, by the age of 17 with the Civil War over, he joined the US Army, seeking to get as far away from that farm on Missouri as possible.

Sam's time in the army was actually a little better. He learned to read, write, and work basic math problems. While that was nice, he took more value in the more practical skills he learned. Shooting, the finer points of horsemanship, things like that. He also made friends here, and soon considered his brothers and arms his family. He enjoyed his first tour of duty, patrolling the wagon train routes farther west, because then it was only fighting off those who attacked him. His final tour was what made him quit. It was by then that he was experienceing raids on indian camps, and being ordered to shoot women and children under General Sheridan's command. As soon as his term was up, he took his saved up back pay, bought a horse, and traveled the country working odd jobs. He's spent time as a ranch hand, a gun for hire, a bar bouncer, gambler, and even spent some time as a fireman on a railroad locomotive. Finally, he made his way out west, figuring he might find a place to settle down.

Personal relationships: Feel free to describe any significant ties to other characters here- enemies, allies, romantic interests, etc. Feel free to discuss these in OoC! :) None so far, but is open to making friends, although it'd be a slow process.

Appearance (Please provide a detailed description of your character. You may post a picture in ADDITION to a description, but not as a substitute. No anime, please): Sam is tall, standing at 6'1", and weighs around 190 lbs. He's not super muscular, but he definitely has kept in the same shape ever since leaving the army. He keeps his sand colored hair cut short, keeping the bangs out of his eyes and it up off his neck. Sam has forest green eyes that always seem to be scanning an area unless someone is talking directly to him. He has a light tan, due to being outside most of his life, and his hands are calloused. He tries to keep himself clean shaved, at most having a little stubble on his face at any time.

Image

Sam normally wears his work and riding clothes, he never was one for a lot of flair with his outfits. His most notable possessions, aside from his gambler style stetson hat, are a railroad mans pocket watch, a Colt Single Action Army Revolver, and his Winchester Model 1873 Repeating rifle.

Writing sample (2-3 well-constructed paragraphs. You may delete this upon acceptance to the RP)

The thunder of horses hooves surrounded him as he drove his own steed harder. Steam poured from both animal and mans mouth as the hooves broke through the light snow, climbing up hill. The shouts of the men beside them urging one another on. The daylight was behind them as they crested the hill, a full compliment of soldiers. Their Colonel raised his saber in a halting gesture, causing each man to come to a stop on the hill and look down at what was in the valley bellow. Glancing to his left and right, Sam could see multiple of the men held torches dipped in pitch and wrapped in cloth. At the bark of the Sergeants orders, each man lit their torch, holding it away from them.

Below them sat dozens of tepee's, horses tied off and grazin on the far end of the camp. Smoke was lazily rising from the center of the camp, and only a hand full of people could be seen below.They'd all stopped what they were doing once the cavalry group had crested the top of the hill. "Men, ready your weapons!" The Platoon Sergeant called out from farther down the line of cavalry. Sam drew his pistol, pulling back the hammer, as did so many others in the unit. By now, the people down below were shouting and running around, others started scrambling out of the tents. The Colonel raised his saber again before bringing it down, pointed at the camp. "We've found the bastards! Charge!" He shouted out, drawing out the second word as he spurred his steed. The men spurred their horses again, shouts filling the air as they started thundering down the hill.

By now, the Indians below were scrambling to form a defense. Sam watched as men scrambled for whatever weapons they had, rifles, bow and arrows, spears. Anything that might bring down the rushing enemy. Suddenly, white puffs started appearing from the camp, followed by the sound of bullets cracking past his ears. A man off to his left and ahead of him fell from his horse, another horse reared up and fell back on its rider, but through fear or orders or rage, the rest continued the charge. They were a few dozen yards out from the camp before the order to fire was given. Sam lowered his pistol, controlling his reins with one hand. He fired off a shot at one of the puffs of smoke, watching as it drove the brave back into cover. By the time he fired his second shot, the line of cavalry was inside the camp itself.

The formation split, choosing paths between the tents to ride through. Sam forced himself to focus as his horse trampled a man. He fired at the shapes running from the tent, emptying his revolver. He saw at least one other running form fall as one of his bullets hit its back. He put his now empty revolver away before lowering his head and pushing through the camp, watching as the men with torches pressed them against the sides of the tents, forcing them to catch. Others tossed their torches into some of the larger tents, where this group was storing its winter reserves. The men burst out of the back end of the camp and circled around it's edge, stopping a little under halfway through. They were ordered to switch to their rifles, drawing newly issued repeaters from their leather scabbards.

The order to fire was drown out by the cracks of dozens of rifles. The smoke from the first volley quickly mixing with the rising smoke of burning tepee's and supplies. Sam fired round after round through the camp, sending them through the tepee's and at any forms who dared try to run. It wasn't till his rifle was empty and he'd started reloading that he actually paid attention to their targets. They'd been told that the camp was full of braves, warriors who'd been raiding settlers and killing innocents. Instead, he saw the forms of women, children, and the elderly laying in the snow. Their blood mixing together with the trampled snow to form a hellish mud. His eyes widened, and the screams of the ones trapped inside the tents filled his ears. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat. As the crack of the rifles filled around him, Sam closed his eyes, willing this hell to end.

Sam's eyes snapped open as he sat up from his bedroll. The morning sun was just now breaking over the horizon, and already the air around him was heating up. He looked around, seeing that all of his things were where they should be and his horse was still tethered to a tree branch nearby. He went over to his fire, raking around the coals as he added more kindling to restart it, even though he was all the way down south, he still shivered, the chill of ghosts past forcing him to relive that night.


My favorite desert is the Mojave Desert.

So begins...

Samuel Cole's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Morgan "Doc" Crowe Character Portrait: Samuel Cole
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The sun beat down above them as Sam wiped the back of his neck with his kerchief for what seemed like the hundredth time. He'd been steadily riding for a few days now, coming in out of Yuma in search of this little town. The gold rush was hitting big here, and he figured he might try making a little money to put in his own pocket. Who knows, the town was growing big with the influx of gold miners. And a fast growing town meant trouble. Maybe he could get work as a sheriff's deputy or some such.

He looked out at the empty desert around him, finally seeing the town in the distance. He pulled out a canteen which held the last of his water. He took a gulp for himself, then poured out a little into his hand, offering it to his horse. The horse was an American Quarter horse, a young gelding he'd had for two years now named Sager. He watched as the horse drank the last of the water greedily from his hands, chuckling a little. "Easy now boy, you'll take my hand hand off." He wiped his hand off on his trousers and put the canteen away.

He eased his horse into a steady trot, only letting up once they'd arrived at the edge of town. He sat up more in the saddle, his back was sore and he was covered in dirt and dust from the few days ride, but at least he'd made it. A new life, a new beginning. Well, at least that's what some would say. For Sam, most of his experiences with moving around some amounted to just a change of scenery and jobs, no new life. Nothing like that. No place where he didn't go to sleep at night and remember that winter.

He finally climbed off his horse, and lead it over to the hitching post closest to the saloon. He tightened up his pistol belt and stretched a little, then loosened the saddle on the horse some before turning and heading inside the saloon itself. He eased up to the bar, largely ignoring the older man a few seats down from him, instead glancing his eyes towards the long mirror hanging along the top of the bar, allowing him to keep an eye on his horse while he rested.

"A beer." He said to the ancient looking bar tender once the man gave him his attention. The man nodded, pouring him a tall beer that Sam accepted, glad for something cool after the heat of the day.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Morgan "Doc" Crowe Character Portrait: Sheriff Clifton Wheelock Character Portrait: Samuel Cole
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#, as written by Coupons
Shortly after the others had settled into their seats at the Silver Spur, the doors swung open for the town sheriff. He stood out compared to the road-worn visitors who sat at the bar, sharp-eyed as he was, bathed, with a trimmed beard, and wearing a clean, pressed suit. He was all in black, but for a white shirt and cravat which were tucked underneath his vest. He strode up to the bar in polished shoes and took a seat a few stools down from the other patrons, where he had a good view of the main entrance. He unbuttoned his jacket as he shifted to get comfortable on the stool, revealing, pinned to his vest, the silver star which was his badge of office; his revolver rested not far below it, in a leather holster on his hip.

He took off his bowler hat, setting it on the surface before him. His brown hair was long, but tied loose in a knot behind his head. He got the barkeeper's attention with a raised hand. “Breakfast for these fellows,” he said, pulling a half-dollar coin out of a vest pocket and placing it on the bar, “if they haven’t already had it.” He offered a knowing nod towards the doctor, along with a brief flash of a comforting smile. “I’ll have some, as well. And coffee, please. Too early for anything else.”

Image was important, Clif knew. It was part of the job, being a spark of hope in an otherwise grim existence. No matter how cynical he’s felt at times, he’s always believed there’s no harm in paying it forward, especially towards someone who might save his life one day. “You look like you’ve seen a lot of shit this morning already,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Have to keep that energy up, for your sake.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Morgan "Doc" Crowe Character Portrait: Sheriff Clifton Wheelock Character Portrait: Samuel Cole
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Morgan had just taken the first sip of his whiskey when a tall, scruffy stranger strode into the saloon and sat down at the bar. Caked in desert dust and wearing a thin sheen of sweat, Morgan swore that he could smell the man from where he sat. His filthy clothes and half-grown beard told the tale of a hard ride through the desert, and the doctor briefly wondered where the man had come from. Splitcreek drew all sorts, and with the way things were going these days, you could never tell whether the strangers who rode in were friend or foe. Morgan didn't attempt conversation, just kept the man in his peripheral vision and sipped his whiskey, which was just strong enough to dull the throbbing pain that had started up in his head. Morgan was used to these headaches; they tended to pop up when he was feeling guilty or upset, which, due to the shortcomings of small-town medicine, he often was. He took a long drink and stared down at the bar, his mouth set in a hard line.

The saloon doors swung open a second time, creaking on their old hinges. This time Morgan didn't need to look up to recognize the purposeful footsteps approaching the bar. There was a crispness in the way the sheriff walked, a gait that wasn't exactly stiff, but was far from the easy stroll of any old cowboy. He was a big man, but he moved with intention, never expending more energy than was necessary. He was watchful and ominous, a presence that, depending on one's outlook, was either comforting or foreboding, and he had a way of clearing the street when he went walking by. The sheriff appeared in the corner of Morgan's vision, a sharp contrast to the stranger at the bar. Somehow Clif looked more intimidating in a smart suit than any rough-and-tumble outlaw in a filthy bandana.

He watched Clif remove his hat and set it down on the bar, Ed ready and waiting for the sheriff's instructions. Morgan smiled faintly as the sheriff ordered breakfast for him and the stranger and raised his glass in quiet thanks. Morgan and Clif had an unspoken understanding between the two of them, and a mutual appreciation for each other's service to the town. The doctor might have quietly disagreed with some of the sheriff's methods, but who was he to talk when he spent most of his day holed up in his office, trying to forget the last time he'd had to choose sides? War was a terrible thing, and it had scarred Morgan in ways he still didn't fully understand. No, he was thankful for the sheriff- thankful that there was at least one person in this town willing to take action. Things weren't so dire yet that Morgan felt he had to choose a side, and he prayed that day never came. For now the sheriff served as the dam that held back the filthy tide of outlaws from spilling into Splitcreek. How long that dam would hold exactly, no one knew for sure.

"You look like you've seen a lot of shit this morning already." Morgan felt another sharp pang of guilt at the sheriff's words. "Billy Hooker," he began, "John's youngest...he's not well. Infection." The heavy sigh Morgan heaved made it clear he thought the prognosis was grim. "Wish he'd come to me sooner," Morgan muttered. "There was no helping it by the time I finally got round to him..." Another heavy sigh. "Anyway, cheers, Sheriff" Morgan said half-heartedly, raising his glass once more. "And to you too, stranger," he said, acknowledging Sam. "Welcome to Splitcreek. You ought to stay on the good side of this man here." He gave Clif a wry smile. "May look smart in that suit, but he's handy with a knife."

"What brings you to Splitcreek?" he asked Sam, moving along to a lighter topic. The inquiry was innocent enough, but these questions were often telling.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wildcat Kate Character Portrait: Morgan "Doc" Crowe Character Portrait: Sheriff Clifton Wheelock Character Portrait: Samuel Cole Character Portrait: Oliver Hope Character Portrait: Johanna Baker
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Oliver wiped the handkerchief across his brow, the sweat trying to force its way into his eyes. Shoving the cotton square in his pocket, he pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and out of the way before hoisting the barrel onto his shoulder. Jo's fingers tapped a quick beat out on the railing behind the saloon.

"You could help," Oliver suggested. Jo laughed aloud.

"Now why would I help when I have you to do all the heavy lifting?" she asked playfully. He just sighed and hauled the barrel up the steps. All the other saloons were cutting their whiskey with turpentine or gunpowder, but the Old Man had never done that. So Oliver and Johanna never did it. In fact, they were almost religious about keeping the Silver Spur the same way he had kept it. Very little had changed. Neither sibling could decide if they were honoring the man that helped them when they needed it most or if they just weren't quite ready to let go of the way he did things. Or to let go of him.

One by one, Oliver rolled the barrels onto the back deck. He would load them behind the bar in the evening, but at the moment they needed to get back to the bar. Ed could handle a lot of shit, but leaving anyone alone to run the Silver Spur for too long was just asking for the kind of trouble that brought buildings down in flames.



Jo traipsed through the doors behind her brother. "Late breakfast, boys?" she greeted the men at her bar counter. She stopped in front of the stranger, ignoring the dramatic goings on of those she already knew. There'd be time enough for that any day. "You're new. You should answer him," she said in reference to Morgan's query. Oliver huffed a laugh from where he was cleaning abandoned glasses off the tables, but he didn't say anything to stop his sister from prying. After all, he was curious too. He'd take any way that he could satisfy his mind and still save some face.

"Yer cheating!" Oliver's head whipped around to find the gambler clobbering the table with his grubby fist and yelling. "Yer a goddamned theif! Ain't nobody that lucky!" Johanna's back straightened, and her mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Watch yourselves over there," Oliver snapped, but the gambler pulled out his pistol on the woman anyway. Guns were not something Oliver was really ever prepared to deal with. Drunks, yes, arguments, yes, but guns made him freeze up every time.

Johanna's hand found her own pistol under the bar, the rest of her body not moving an inch.

"You know the rules," she said. "If you're in here, you're pistol's in its holster. I'd hate for something bad to happen, and I'm sure the sheriff here would hate to have his breakfast get cold."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wildcat Kate Character Portrait: Morgan "Doc" Crowe Character Portrait: Sheriff Clifton Wheelock Character Portrait: Samuel Cole Character Portrait: Oliver Hope Character Portrait: Johanna Baker
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Sam kept eating for a moment longer before wiping his mouth and chin. Cocking an eyebrow a little when more dust came off than anything else. He looked over to the doctor for a moment before nodding and offering the man a handshake. "I reckon I'll be trying my best to stay out of any trouble. 'Specially with the sheriff. I'm Sam, Sam Cole" He said, chuckling a little before eating some more.

"As for what brings me here?" Sam thought for a moment. "I guess it was just time for a change of scenery. Got tired of shoveling coal into a fire box all day, even if it did pay good. Heard about this place and figured I might be able to make a little pay. Might even settle." He told the older man and the young woman who'd joined their conversation, pulling out a simple looking pocket watch with the Union Pacific Rail Road logo on it. He had a little money saved up, enough to buy a plot of land he figured, traveling like he did, you didn't spend a lot of money. He noticed that the young woman seemed fairly interested in hearing what he had to say, figuring that it was just part and parcel since she was working behind the bar. News was news, and a new face showing up in town was always of interest to others.

"Yer Cheating!" Sam heard the drunken man call out behind him. He slipped the pocket watch back into his vest pocket as soon as the commotion started behind him. He turned around in his bar stool, watching as the man slammed a fist down onto the table, staring at the woman across from him. Poker chips and cards clattered to the floor from the force.
The woman looked about as rough and trail worn as he figured he did, her braid had bits and ends sticking out at angles, and her face and clothes were streaked with dust. She hurriedly stuffed the money into her pocket and said something to the man.

As soon as the drunks hand went for his pistol, Sam slipped his hand down carefully, unbuckling his holster to free his gun to draw. He watched the exchange closely, waiting for the sheriff to take action first.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wildcat Kate Character Portrait: Morgan "Doc" Crowe Character Portrait: Sheriff Clifton Wheelock Character Portrait: Samuel Cole Character Portrait: Oliver Hope Character Portrait: Johanna Baker
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#, as written by Coupons
The sheriff was calmly eating his meal until the card game went wrong. All of the locals knew him as the quiet type; though usually friendly enough, he was a man of few words. Upon hearing news of the boy, “I’m real sorry to hear about that,” was the only reply which came. Once iron cleared leather, though, Clif put down his fork, turned towards the commotion, stood up from the stool, and spoke some carefully-selected words. “You just put that gun down on the table, now.” His voice was calm, but authoritative. His hands made no motion for his gun, his arms hanging idly by his sides. “If I think you’ve been cheated, I’ll see you get your money back, but you let me get a feel for that stranger first, before you go shooting her. Alright? Whatever happens, your worst choices start with pulling that trigger. I mean, sure, you could shoot her, shoot me, and shoot whoever else you think is a threat, but you ain’t got enough bullets to keep yourself from running, in the end. Nobody wants that. . . Not even you, if you think real hard about it. . . She ain’t worth it, and neither’s that money, so put it down.”

Out of words he thought might be useful, the sheriff just took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His hand drifted slowly to rest on the grip of his pistol as he exhaled slowly, just listening to the quiet stirring of the saloon. He hoped that quiet wasn’t the last he’d hear before his life was snuffed out in a flash of drunken anger. He’d been ready to die for a long time, truth be told. If he went now, he’d be fine to retell his own story on the other side, whether he arrived at the gates to Heaven or Hell. He was content, and he’d lived a good life, and that was all he could have hoped for, until now. Now his only hope was that what he’d said would get that man to put down his gun, and that he’d live to see mid-day.