In reply to Travis Sunday (msg #49):

“Damn it,” JEB thought as he threw himself into the crowd, “but perfect”.    JEB deftly moved through the crowd towards the young oriental gangster intent on killing Senor Gomez.  The killer emerged from the edge of the throng not more than a coffin’s length from the crime lord. He aimed a cocked pistol directly at the unsuspecting victim and squeezed the trigger.  JEB’s timing was flawless as he clocked the shooter in the back of the head with the butt of a Colt handgun as the pistol fired sending an errant bullet straight up in the air.  The shooter collapsed in an unconscious heap as the theatre crowd scattered in all directions.

It did not take long for Senor Gomez to be convinced.  JEB told him of Tommy Cho’s plan and the inexperienced operative confirmed JEB’s accounting by foolishly ignoring Tommy’s orders and taking matters into his own hands when Travis did not show up.  Now JEB needed to get to Travis quickly to help him take out Tommy and rescue the gunsmith and his daughter.  Gomez sent one of his bodyguards along with the Missouri lawman.  “You have my gratitude, Senor Beauregard,” Gomez said in parting as he climbed in the carriage, “and if there is anything I can do for you, do not hesitate to ask.  Sergio will tell you where to find me”.

Sergio led the way to the gunsmith shop using shortcuts known only to members of the underworld.  As they approached the shop, JEB looked for any signs of Travis but saw nothing.  The pair quietly approached the back alley door where JEB originally spotted Travis earlier that day.  The door was open.  JEB slid inside...

To be continued...

Pleased, relieved, happy aren't the right words to describe Randy's feelings upon finally meeting Ayasha.  Satisfied is perhaps the best expression.

The terms of meeting with Ayasha this time were dramatically different than any before.  She neither shot at not scoffed his presence.  No, instead she seemed, well, grateful.  Randy literally and metaphorically brushed the swear from his brow.
.::.
The next weeks seemed to pass too quickly.  She intently listened to Ayasha's instruction in her native tongue.  The big lug found it rather easy to pick up on another language since he wasn't so certain he liked his own.  Perhaps he couldn't speak the tongue perfectly, but he was certainly better understood in the native's language than his own.  Conversely, Randy found he learned of his mistakes speaking English by way of the new language.  Simply speaking, he got better.  No more did he use the wrong tenses or pluralize singular nouns.  He even dropped the all to confusing you'ns.

Unspoken as well, he learned of how misconceptions, generalizations and stereotypes cause more harm than help.  The tribe showed him ways of handling himself when others think little of him—seriously, how could anyone use little and Randy in the same sentence.  His self-esteem grew in unmeasurable ways.

Sadly, he bade farewell to the tribe.  So many warm and caring people with stories and jokes better than any he'd ever heard.  Truly, he was smitten with the Cheyenne.

Over the following years, Randy misted over when hearing of the struggles the Indians were having.  He was sad and feared for the lives of his friends.
.::.
The trip westward was difficult as they left in early spring, soon after the snow melted.  They traveled to Denver first.  The burgeoning town was full of wooden structures and tents, massive and small.

Randy was itching for a fight, or rather a bout.  Yellow proved a wonderful promoter with his easy manner and 'awe-shucks' humility.  In the gold rich town of Denver, money ran free and easy.  It seemed the prospectors thought it great sport to come into town, get liquored up and wager to fight Randy.  Ever the actor, Randy gave each a good show and made him feel the fight could go in the prospector's favor.  The big guy was done with taking dives years ago; now is the time to make money, lots and lots of it.  After a few months, the men we on High Street, as it were, and so they left.
.::.
The next months passed very slowly, it seemed to Randy.  They bounced from town to town, burg to burg and even campfire to campfire.  Eventually, in early '73, the trio end up in San Francisco.

In this seaside city, the hits kept coming.  Randy, with the guidance and support of Yellow and Travis, fought a bout about twice a week.  The money, again, was good.
.::.
Randy's wealth came with a terrible burden, however.  He spent so much time fighting, he developed chronic pain.  Often, his hands would be too swollen to hold a glass or fork.  His head and chest were bruised and bloodied on a regular basis.  He self medicated with opium.  The dragon was ever destroying his life.  Randy missed the departure of Yellow to  Texas.  The pugilist, if that monicker still applied, couldn't even remember meeting the cowboy's bride.

Travis saved Randy from the dark depths of the opium dens.  The man from the Sixth Michigan snatched up all of Randy's remaining money and force him to sober up and get clean.

By the end of 1875, Randy regained his fighting shape and stature.  He gained a small fame in the legitimate fighting circuit.  Although the big fighters were still back east, Randy got to fight in proper arenas with actual toe-lines and all with local up and comers.  His fame came from his crowd pleasing slap-stick antics

Weary from the fight racket, Randy retired in early 1876.
.::.

With the surge of testosterone Randy has during fights, his hair line has receded by a few inches.

Randy's part in the San Francisco story from Travis.  I hope he doesn't mind the embellishment.

..::..
“Really,” Randy said to the thug.  “I just beat the snot outta a big Spaniard on the docks not 15 minutes ago.”

The pugilist unbuttoned his sleeves and untucked his shirt.

The lunge of the Chinese gangster didn't surprise Randy at all.  And no one should be surprised that his shirt was torn and ruined as the big lug dodged the clumsy move.  “I don't fight for free, so you best put up the stakes.”  Randy's loose shirt made the gangster slash at body parts that weren't there.

Bob and weave; shuffle and dodge.

Randy finally threw his first punch.  He swung at the man's head and connected.  “CRAP,” Randy exclaimed—his hands hadn't yet recovered from the earlier fight.  Since he was fighting the man bare-knuckle, Randy thought better of killing him.  When each pair of punches landed, and none missed, the man weakened.  On two occasions, the gangster connected with his knife.  Randy didn't cower from the flesh wounds.

Knocking a man out is much harder than killing him.  To subdue the Asian, Randy couldn't use killing blows from his knees, elbows or feet.

After a flurry of Randy's punches, his opponent looked lazily up toward the dark, misty night sky.  Thud.  Reflexively, the proper fighter threw his hands in the air and hopped for a moment.  Then he realized that no one saw the KO.

Before Randy left, he propped the man against the closest wall.  The only two things Randy took from the Chinese gangster was his knife and pride.

Randy walked further down the alley.

September, 1871

An exhausted Artemus barely notices the flurry of activity as his friends prepare to leave. He remains in the room to get some much-needed sleep. Hearing Randy ask who’ll join him for a whisky Art mumbles into the pillow, “You can owe me one . . .” and he trails off to dreamland.

. . .

Artemus is standing back from the table waiting for dinner to be served. A wide variety of smells fill the room – turkey for sure, and venison. Sweet potatoes too. Scented lamp oil waifs in and out, probably from the bordello upstairs. Art can’t remember where the stairs are to get there, but yes, that must be the scented oil smell.

JEB is suddenly there holding a small tray with several shots of whisky in small glasses. He offers and Art accepts. The others there accept too. Tink tink is the sound as the glasses tapped against each other in a silent toast.  The taste is full with flavors of  oak and smoke.

Travis says that’s a quite cougar, gesturing with his empty glass and Chance replies, “Yeah, he just leaped through the window” and points to the fireplace where the large cat is sleeping by the fire. “He been following us since Hartville. Can’t shake the bugger.” Adding “Guess he’s a mate, now.”

Art sets his glass on the tray and takes another and another and turns to see Hattie and Ayasha come through the front door into the parlor – Hattie holding two quail by the feet and Ayash several rabbits. Smiling they hold them high. Ayasha pushes Hattie’s hat forward covering her eyes.

Bakana and Amaroo, painted for a hunt, push in between them and dart around the furniture and out through the kitchen chasing an even faster goanna. “No running in the house . . .” calls Mrs. Osterfeld the duo. Lilly shoos them out with her apron and turns towards Art and says, “ -- 

. . .

Art takes a deep breath and sits up in bed. Alone in the room, Art rubs his eyes. He touches his cheek – it’s tender – but he’s feeling rested and turns placing his feet on the floor, then stands. Gathering his things he decides to pick a few supplies before leaving town.

<continues>

In reply to Randy Oldman (msg #54):


JEB entered the gunsmith’s home.  Travis  appeared  from the front of the home.  “It’s too late.  They’re dead.”

~

“What do you mean they’re dead?” Travis asked Moses as he stepped into the dark alley.   A light rain began to fall.

“The girl knew Tommy wasn’t going to let you live.”  Moses shouted at the man from the 6th Michigan who stood calmly 30 paces away.   "She got hold of a knife and stabbed him in the shoulder.  They took him to Doctor Chang.  Guess who he saw there?”

Travis exhaled slowly. He knew the answer.  He knew Moses was telling the truth and not just trying to rattle him.  “I should have killed Peng.”

“Yes.  You should have.  Tommy went crazy.  He sent me back to take care of his business.  You’ll be happy to know I charged him extra.”  Moses shifted his weight.  A flash of lightning lit Moses up.  His pistol belt was rotated forward, the Colt resting inches from his fingers.  Thunder rolled through Chinatown.

Travis didn’t respond.  He pulled his duster back exposing his Starr.  His right hand relaxed and drifted down towards his hip.

Moses strained to see Sunday’s visage.  He wanted to see something, anything that would give him an edge.  He received no satisfaction.  Sunday’s eyes were deadeyes; dolls eyes.  No hint of purpose, no indication of action.  He waited.  Sunday wasn’t known to draw first.  The longer he waited though, a worry entered his thoughts. “His people are dead and he’s not showing it.  He is entirely focused on killing me “ A slight shiver ran down his spine.  Before it turned to panic Moses went for the Colt.

A single shot echoed out of the alley and into the night.

~

In accordance with Chinese custom, the coffins were not carried directly to the cemetery but were first placed on the side of the road outside the gunsmith’s house where prayers were offered and paper was scattered. The coffins were then placed onto a hearse that started through Chinatown.  The procession moved very slowly towards the cemetery, with Sheng Li Min’s eldest son, now the finest gunsmith in California and Travis Sunday following behind with their heads touching the hearse.  It was the first time in Chinatown’s recent memory that a westerner was afforded the respect of a family member in these matters.  After the burial, Senor Gomez, dressed in black mourning attire approached Travis.  “I thank you again for the courtesy you extended me.  I will see to your request, personally.”

Shortly after Travis Sunday left town on Horse for parts unknown, Tommy Cho was abducted from his home.  There was no resistance from his gang whose loyalty had been compromised in the preceding days.  Though he was never seen again, they say his screams were heard in the wharf area for a week.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:10, Mon 17 Oct 2011.

Very very nice, Travis.  Wow.

In reply to Randy Oldman (msg #57):

I enjoyed Randy's tales as well.  Everyone's doing a good job I think.

By the time Artrmus made it to the street in front of the inn, he was feeling like himself again. He thought about lighting a cigar but was enjoying the crisp fresh air and so tugged up on his trousers and proceeded down the steps to the street. A bonnie lass walked by leading a horse, upon which rode a young boy. “G’day ma’am.” Said Artemus. “Tch.” She said and turned away. The Aussie tipped his hat to the boy and got a smile in return.

Down a block and two over Artemus came to small shop. The front was tidy and young woman interrupted her sweeping as Art read the sign aloud, “Dodson’s Sundries.”

“Hello mister,” she said, “Me grand can help ya with what for ya needs inside,” She added with a smile and pointed towards the open door with the handle of her broom. “Irish,” Art though, returning the smile, “Thank you.”

The inside the of Dodson’s matched the outside with shelves packed in neat rows and no space left unutilized. “How might I help ye?” asked the tidy man behind the counter. A bowler hat sat in the windowsill behind him and robust shamrock overflowed a clay pot next to it. Art apologized for not having a list, but rather rambled through his things noting what was needed. The tidy man duly noted each item Art mentioned and then began his search. “Where is that lamp oil, now?” he said to himself as looked through a sea chest in the corner. Artemus looked at a newpaper laying on the counter. Turning it around Art scanned the headlines. “Yellow Fever Raging in New Orleans.” “Quick Steamer Trips Across the Ocean.” “Conspiracy to Restore the Emperor Napoleon.” And “Meeting of the Universal Peace League in Switzerland.”

Before Art could locate the story about Yellow Fever, the Tidy Man exclaimed “Ah yes! The oil! Slippery, elusive oil!” “Would you like me to just refill your bottle?”

“That will be fine,” Art said and handing over his flask. The Tidy Man filled the flask and looking at his list said “Let’s see, coffee. . .” and turned his attention to a metal can. “Ground?” he said? “Half of it if you please.” Replied Artemus. The man moved a very small quiver from in front of the grinder and set it on the counter and added a scoop of beans to the mill. The smell of coffee beans was unmistakable as he turned the crank. He wrapped it in a small piece of tightly woven cloth and tied it with a piece of twine, and another for the beans.

Artemus was busy studying the quiver and the four arrows it contain. Clearly they were not hunting arrows. Each had a highly crafted stone point but shaft was ringed with painted markings symbolizing the four cardinal directions. Each was wrapped mid-shaft with a small patch of rabbit fur. The flights were made of brown and white striped turkey feathers. The order of the colored stripes varied amongst the four arrows, as did the color of the rabbit fur. The quiver was only about an inch and half across, sized to hold only the arrows. From the quiver hung a small tight bundle of aromatic sage. Art smelled it. “They burn the sage and use the smoke to bless the arrows or something.” Said the man. Artemus looked up, “Ceremonial,” he said. “I took it in trade from a half-breed that lives a bit north of here.” “He helps on a ranch or something. Very honest fella. Walked back here in the snow because I gave him more potatoes than he paid for.” “Anyway he didn’t have enough money last he was here and so I took that in trade. Felt sorry for him. Not sure what I’ll do with them.”

“Let’s see what else is on the list,” said the shopkeeper and gathered each item one at time and set everything in a neat row on the counter. Art continued to look around the shop and continued to be amazed at the variety.

“I think that’s everything” called the man when he had gathered the supplies. Artemus was looking a small section of shelf that held several books. Art selected two and came to the counter. “I’d also like a sack of apples, and these,” and Art set the books on the counter. The man looked at them and separated them on the counter. “The Whale. Me granddaughter couldn’t stop talking about that one.” He said. “’Bout a big fish.” “And. . . that one, well, I wouldn’t let her read that one.”

“I’ll take the quiver too.” Said Artemus. “I don’t know what to charge you. If they ‘as shootin’ arrows I guess they’d be worth about a dollar. How’s that sound?” Art nodded and the man tallied the charge and handed Art a small slip of paper. Art paid and as he packed his supplies back into saddlebags and coat pockets, the man called out of the front door, “Erin, fetch us a sack of apples from the wagon.” “Right away Grand.” She replied and ran off returning in a minute with the sack.

Within half an hour Artemus had collected Caliber. The stable boy said he had brushed him and checked his shoes and tack and everything looked good. Art tipped the lad and rode to the city limits where he collected his weapons.

Before evening Artemus had put some number of miles between him and town and he was glad to be on his own, in the wide world again. “Gone walkabout!” he called into the night.

Art adjusted his lamplight and settled against his bedroll. Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled out one of his new books. He adjusted himself again and turned to the first page.

“Call me Ishmael.”


<continues>

In reply to Travis Sunday (msg #56):

JEB only had to hear the grave tone in Travis’ voice to know he was too late.  JEB holstered the Colt revolver and spoke empathetically, “My gun is yours.  Is there anything you need me to do?”  Travis looked at JEB with dark eyes and thanked him, but added “no, this is something I need to do alone.”    JEB simply nodded, gestured to Sergio and began to leave the gunsmith shop when he remembered why he came in the first place. Turning at the door, he presented an offer to Travis, “I never got the chance to tell you, but I came to town looking for Cole. He sent me a telegraph with a tender for work. If you’re interested, I’ll leave word with Gomez where to find us. Godspeed to you.”   

During the next few days JEB accepted the hospitality and assistance of Senor Gomez in tracking Frank James and Cole Trayne. The first trail ran cold, but Gomez quickly discovered the story surrounding Cole's sudden departure and JEB’s further investigation resulted in receiving the note Cole left for him. JEB returned to Gomez to leave word for Travis and with an uneasy feeling, JEB mounted his horse and left for Broken Hills, Nevada that day.

Continued …

Autumn 1873

Artemus really owed Travis a debt of thanks for the wisdom to set up a telegraph account in San Francisco. It had been useful in his business dealings and to remain connected (to however minor a degree) with his friends and trail mates. Artemus had also written a number of letters but, as it often took longer than the time he remained in one place to receive a reply, he’d taken to using the telegraph office as his return address and as such his box could contain both telegrams and mail.

In the spring of ’73 Art received a telegram that a letter had arrived from over-seas. It was likely a reply to his letter to his mother from 18 months earlier. It was of course too long to transcribe via telegram so Art traveled west to hold his mother’s letter in his own hand.

The story of Art’s trip there is entertaining to say the least, but as a tale best told with friends over several rounds of beer it is omitted here.

***+***

JEB had long since learned to listen to his feelings, and the ill ease that he felt over the results of his investigation into Cole’s departure could best be addressed by glass of whiskey and fine cigar. And that was how he came to find himself sitting alone this evening at a table for two at “The Saloon” on Grant Street staring at glowing ember on the end of his freshly lit smoke.

It is said that when one door closes, another opens. On this night lamp light from the numerous establishment in the growing urban area gave a soft, even illumination to the street and JEB could see the private coach roll slowly down the street to a stop in front of the Saloon. From the outside it seemed to be of quality construction, drawn by four fine horses. Two well-dressed men rode atop, one driving the other – a big man of some experience JEB could tell - just watched. As the coach stopped, he stood and stepped down and still watching opened the door.

An even more finely dressed man stepped out and speaking slowly, in flawless English with a High-Spanish accent said, “Senior, I am forever in your debt. If there is ever anything you need you have only to ask.” Another man stepped out, wearing a black duster and black hat. In the dim light he seemed almost a shadow, yet he seemed somehow . . . familiar to JEB.

“Don Ferdinand, I was my honor to have been of service to you. You have a beautiful family, and you are good man. It is this that makes you rich.”

“Ah Senior! This is why I like you! You are too kind to me.” “I shall keep the Villa in the Pinot vineyard – the one on the hillside facing the sunset – unoccupied in the hopes that doing so will encourage your return.”

“It is you that are too kind, Senior. Careful, I might take you up on that offer.”

“Indeed. Then I shall keep the wine rack stocked and books on the shelf for that day.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot, this is for you.” Don Ferdinand produced a small sack.

JEB tugged on his cigar, exhaled and took a sip of whiskey. A young woman appeared with a fresh glass and JEB nodded.

“These are for drinking now.” And he placed two bottles in the sack. “And these are to be enjoyed together.” He produced a book and small bundle of cigars tied with a silk cord. “Cervantes.” He said and handed them to the man in black and extended his hand in friendship. “Thank you.”

“Good harvest, my friend,” said the man in black. Don Ferdinand nodded and climbed back into the coach. The big man closed door and climbed back up beside the driver, and coach slowly pulled away.

The not-so-stranger watched the coach go down the Street and turn right, then he climbed the stairs.

“Been staying out of bar fights?” JEB said and pulled on the cigar. There was a moment of confusion processing the question but then as recognition set in Artemus Carson broke into a broad smile. “I’ll be damned. You turn up at the strangest times.” Then his look sank. “I saw the telegram about Owen. I’m sorry.”

JEB gestured to the vacant chair, and Art sat down. The woman appeared and brought more whiskey. JEB and Art talked for next few hours updating each other on the passage of the years. JEB convinced Art to come stay with him and told him in the morning they would visit Senior Gomez. JEB said Art would like him. But the acquaintance would be short for the next morning on the way there a young Chinese boy approached JEB and handed him a small piece of paper. The lad bowed several times as he backed away. “What is it?” Art asked. “Broken Hills, Nevada,” was JEB’s reply and they continued on to meet Senior Gomez.

<...>

In reply to James E. Beauregard (msg #60):

Travis is aavailable, and would be delighted to be written into Broken Hills NV if so desired.

JEB was right, Art did like Mr. Gomez. As they talked, Eduardo mentioned the recent unfortunate events in China Town and name Travis Sunday came up. “I can’t leave town without payin’ my respects to Travis. Do you know where he’s stayin’?”

Rising early, Art rode out, and with surprising ease located his old mate’s flat. There was hand shaking and backslapping and the shedding of tears over loves lost.

And so it came to be that JEB, Travis and Artemus joined Eduardo for breakfast and made plans to depart that same day.

“Getting to Broken Hills from here means taking the Donner Pass. We should avoid getting snowed in up there,” said Art

“Maybe we should bring some barbeque,” Replied Travis.

As the trio was preparing to leave, Mr. Gomez approached and said “I have been brought some unsettling news this morning. The man your friend shot . . . I think the police have concluded their investigation . . . but he had friends. And some of them are seeking to do your friend harm.” “If they discover where he was headed, I feel they would pursue him.”

JEB pats his badge. “We’ll see if they’d like to tangle with the law.”

Travis nodded “If they give me the slightest provocation, well . . .” Travis trails off, but adds “Eduardo, you can always leave a message for me at the Western Union office in town.” He tips his hat.

“Senior Gomez.” Artemus says and nods to his host.

“God be with you on you travels.” Eduardo says and waves to the three riders heading east.

Having successfully settled in Broken Hills, Cole decides that it might be best if he lays low for a spell. After the little misunderstanding in San Francisco. It might not be a good idea to attract too much attention. After a few days, he decides to find a job with a local ranch. His expertise with animals and ranch work made it easy for him to find a comfortable job that would allow him to blend in with the locals. The way he sees it, if anyone comes nosing about, it is always best to have townsfolk looking out for you.

One day, while working the ranch, Mack Lawson's 9 year old son found himself face to face with a particularly bold mountain lion. As luck would have it Cole and Jack was nearby. So happens, Jack didn't appreciate the intrusion so he made it his business to harass the big cat until Cole and Bess arrived. A few well placed shots from his rifle and the cat decided she
might have better luck hunting elsewhere.


A might grateful that Cole saved his son, the ranch owner offered Cole a permanent position. But, Cole respectfully declined. Telling the man that he was just passing through.

So Cole spends his days making an honest living and his nights at the local saloon.

As the days go by, Cole finds himself wondering if JEB got his message...
This message was last edited by the player at 23:26, Sun 23 Oct 2011.

[Adult Content]

Late Autumn 1871

Bolting down the hill, shirtless, barefoot, Bowie in his left hand – a soft thic-thic-thic sound of running feet on leaves. The buck planted his hooves and darted right. Artemus leapt over the stream and swung around a sapling in continued pursuit. Thic-thic-thic-thic. Over a rock. Under a bough. Thic-thic-thic - down the length of a fallen log. Stop. Buck and Aussie eyes locked, Art could see blood spilling from a spear wound behind his right foreleg. One slow step, then another: Art closed on the deer.

It bolted up the hill but was slowing. Thic-thic-thic. Art was breathing hard; it was perhaps half a mile since the chase started. At the top of the hill the buck circled a big rock one-way, Art circled the other. They collided; Art swung the Bowie piercing between the buck’s ribs and into its heart. Art leaned his weight on the buck he held it down and in moments it died. Artemus paused for a moment of thanks and respect for the buck; that because it died he would eat tonight.

In the silence he hears – voices – shouting – coming from over the ridge. Crawling on all fours he slowly looks over the crest. He sees a cabin and a small farm. There are several men on horses and another standing in front of the cabin holding a downward pointing muzzleloader. A woman stands on the porch and boy of six or seven runs out of the cabin and attaches himself to the standing man’s leg. Another woman appears – no – a girl, perhaps 16 comes out and stands beside her mother. One of the mounted men wearing a blue hat points to the girl and says something Art couldn’t make out. The woman is shouting now, the girl steps back, partially behind her mother. Another mounted man slides over to the first and seems to order him back – he must be the boss. Yet another mounted rider draws a pistol and points it at the still yelling mother. The standing man – the father – Artemus figures, raises his rifle to the man with the pistol. A shot rings out, from a fourth rider, the father staggers back, the rifle, now pointed skyward fires at nothing. The boy lets go the father’s leg and stares at his falling form. The mother screams and runs down towards the father. Her arms are held wide and Artemus can hear her scream “WHY?”

The rider who had said something to the daughter draws his pistol and shoots the mother twice in the chest. She turns to look up to her daughter and collapses beside her husband. The boy screams and turns and starts to run towards his sister on the front porch. The horse of the closest man rears up. The rider levels his gun and shoots the boy in the back. Twice.

The girl on front porch seems to be in shock. She’s holding her hands in front of her and seems to think about going to her parents and brother, or perhaps back into the house. She’s shaking. The rider who first spoke to the daughter –Blue Hat - says something else to her, but she doesn’t respond. Now the riders seem to be arguing about something. One rider is pointing at the girl; another is shaking his head and says “No.” All the riders have pistols in hand.

The one Artemus has guessed is the leader approaches the porch and dismounts. He climbs the steps to the girl and takes her by the arm, she seems to be hyperventilating and he leads her down from the porch. He touches her hair and she refocuses on him and hits him, and screams at him, and spits at him. He backhands her across the face knocking her to the ground. There is more commotion amongst the riders. Blue Hat is speaking now, he grabs his crotch and thrusts and seems to be pointing to the other riders in turn, “Then,” he seems to say and points his gun down and seems suggest shooting.

Artemus is aghast, they debating the rape and murder of a young girl.

The leader shakes his head “No” and with that shoots her in the stomach. The girl is staggered but doesn’t fall. She clutches her stomach but slowly turns her palm up and looks at blood on her hand. She seems to plead with the boss. He takes aim and shoots her in the chest and she collapses where she stood.

Blue Hat yells something challenging the boss and he responds by angrily gesturing to the group to holster their sidearms. They do. The boss walks to his horse and unties a quiver that was attached to his saddlebag. Walking over to the bodies he draws an arrow and thrusts it into the father, then another. It looks to Art that he’s sticking the arrows into the bullet holes. Two per body, eight total. The boss throws the quiver onto the front porch and mounts his horse. He rides over to Blue Hat and Art hears the boss say “Finish this up and burn it. The rest of you are with me.” Art counts five riders heading northeast, away from the cabin.

Artemus rolls onto his back and stares up into the canopy of a large apple tree. He turns back over again.

Blue Hat dismounts and approaches the bodies; drawing his knife and scalping all four family members. He touches the girl’s chest but quickly withdraws his hand and regards the blood on it. He wipes his bloody hand on the girl’s apron and turns and walks towards the house.

Artemus sees him enter the cabin. Thic-thic-thic-thic Artemus hears his own food steps as he finds himself sprinting across the gap between the ridge and the cabin. Shirtless, barefoot, Bowie in his left hand. Thic-thic-thic-thic. He doesn’t look at the bodies as he passes by. Leaping a tree stump Art then vaults the railing and crashes through the front door releasing a rebel yell into the interior of the cabin. Blue Hat sees the shirtless and barefoot stranger with eyes full of rage crouching before him. Before Blue Hat can draw his weapon Art springs forward striking him in the groin with the Bowie and burying its full length deep into his body. Blue Hat gasps and gasps again and again. Artemus stands and slips the gun from his adversary’s holster. “Won’t be needing this,” Art says. Blue Hat drops to his knees. Art punches him in the face and he falls over on his side. Grabbing a piece of rope coiled over the back of chair near the front door Art binds the feet of the villain and throwing the rope over a beam he hauls him into the air. Looking around the tidy one room cabin Art sees a bed that must have been the parents’. A fireplace has some stew brewing; potatoes are cut on the table. Two benches flank the table and Art notices a ladder leading up to a loft with an additional bed. A basket sits by the ladder with what looks to be a partially complete dress.

Artemus picks up a wooden spoon and tastes the stew. It’s warm and good tasting home cooking. Art thinks how the family should be sitting down to eat, not laying dead in the front yard. Blue Hat gurgles. Art walks out and mounts Blue Hat’s horse. He gallops back to his campsite. Locating Caliber Art removes the saddle and tack and blanket from Blue Hat’s horse and sets him free. Art dresses and gathers his things and rides back to the cabin. It is as he left it.

Entering the cabin Art sees Blue Hat still hanging from the beam. Artemus takes a shovel full of coals and tosses them up into the loft. He takes another and tosses it on the bed. In short order two fires are spreading. Art smashes the oil lamp on the floor and exits, closing the door behind him.

It is obvious that this attack was meant to look like Indians carried it out. If only there was some way to prove it wasn’t. Then Art noticed the arrows. He wasn’t an expert on such things but they looked similar to other arrows he’d seen used by local tribes. A look of realization spread across Art’s face. It was a very long shot, but . . . Artemus thought, it could work. It was the only possible chance. Art could never pursue official channels of justice. These men would be connected. They would be know, Artemus would be the stranger in town.

He retrieved his small quiver and removed the ceremonial arrows. He unpeeled the rabbit fur from around the center of each shaft. He pulled the sage bundle from the quiver and lit it. He holds the arrows over the sage and as the smoke drifted up and around the arrows Artemus remembers prayers his own tribe would offer. “Gods of the sky and earth and of the four winds and spirits of our ancestors, please let these arrows guide these four souls to the other side and please let these arrows guide their murders to justice.”

Then he withdraws one arrow from each body and replaces it with a ceremonial arrow. Art looks at the bodies with the mixed arrows. If the investigator of this crime is observant enough, Artemus hopes, deep in his heart that it somehow will bring the villains to justice.

The fire in the cabin is starting to spread. Artemus hears Blue Hat crying out. “Time to go.” He thinks. Art places the four arrows he extracted into the quiver. He rides to the ridge and lifts the buck onto Caliber placing it over the front of the saddle. Night was beginning to fall and flames were beginning to pour from the windows of the cabin.

Art rode west late into the night and didn’t stop to camp until well after midnight.

[1874]

The trio heads northeast, uneventfully through Sacramento into the foot hills of the mountains and towards the Donner Pass. Hunting as they go, they find the countryside bountiful and are able to maintain a good pace. By the fourth day they have adequate provisions to make it all the way to Broken Hills and so are able to quicken the pace further. Also on the fourth day the group crossed paths four fellas from the Smithsonian Meteorological Society and were comforted to learn the weather was likely to hold out for them through to the other side of the mountain range.

Late on the fifth day of their trek while walking the horses with Artemus leading the way through a highland meadow and as he stepped through some low brush the Aussie disturbed three quail. Two popped up and darted north and the third to the south. In a flash of quick drawing magnificence Travis spun, stooping such that he rotated his body around the revolver and BAM - BAM he shot the heads, the HEADS mind you! off of both birds. Twisting he shot the third quail striking it in the neck. All three birds fell. Disturbed by the commotion a hare suddenly bolted! In the blink of any eye Travis holstered his first pistol while drawing the second and finishing the hare mid leap. The three men were laughing hard “Meat on the menu tonight, boys!” Said JEB. Drawing the Loomis from the saddle holster he added “Maybe there’s more.” And sure enough another quail sprang from the brush very close to JEB and headed straight for him. Leveling the Loomis JEB let both barrels go – KOOKOOOOMM. The bird vanished in a mist and cloud of feathers hung in the air. “Think ya got ‘im, pard.” Said Travis.  That evening the men enjoyed a bounty of quail and rabbit and rounded out the meal with some baked apples.

In the morning, just after starting the three located a trail heading up and began to follow it when Travis abruptly halted the group and seemed to be studying something in the dirt. “What is it?” Artemus asked. “Hmmm. Don’t like that. These tracks – horse shoe tracks – look to have Chinese characters cast into them.” “That alone isn’t a concern. But this. . .” Travis points out a particular character, “this is a symbol used by one of the harbor gangs.” Travis moves to another spot and looks even more concerned. “This symbol, I think, means we need to move along. When we get to Reno, I want to send a telegram.”

On the three went, Artemus often, but not always leading the way. He pointed out where the Donner party became trapped. Along beautiful trails, seeing fantastic vistas they continued. Travis explained that his concern was that the man Cole killed, Sebastian Love - Boss Love, to those who’s misfortune it was to work under him - had friends in low places. And if they were ahead of us then we need to move along.

Arriving in Reno in the evening, the group proceeded directly to the Western Union office and Travis sent a message to Eduardo Gomez.

EG CONFIRM IDENTITY OF POSSE LEADER STOP SUSPECT HARBOR CONNECTION STOP REPLY CARSON CITY STOP TS

Sleeping in a real bed seemed to appeal to Travis and JEB. Art would rather sleep under the stars, but tonight the group turned in early, rose early and continued on to Carson City.

Approaching the edge of town by the afternoon. Art says, “I got kin here somewhere. Town’s named for my uncle - my father’s youngest brother, Kit. Kit Carson. Haven’t seen him since I was about five though. Came though here after Lily died but he wasn’t around. Don’t seem like we’ll have time today either.” Again the group proceeded directly to the Western Union office. JEB said “I’m going to leave you to the telegram and make an inquiry on my own with the local law.” They agreed to meet up later.

“Sunday, Travis Sunday. Anything waiting for me?” Travis said. The telegraph was chattering away. Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. One man listened and transcribed, another took the small slips and filed them. The third, a small, older man with spectacles worked with the customers.

“Let’s see,” he says as looks into grid of small bins, “yes, sir, right here. Came in about an hour ago.” He hands Travis a slip of paper:

TS CONFIRMED LI QUAN AND FOUR OTHERS STOP TWO LOCALS AND TWO CHINAMEN STOP THEY ARE LOOKING TO CATCH A TRANE STOP SUGEST CAUTION STOP EG

“Is there a reply?” Ask the old man. “Not today.” Travis says back. Turning to Artemus he adds, “Let’s find JEB.”Meeting up again Travis fills his friends in on what he knows. “Li Quan was some sort Chinese monk. Supposedly betrayed his temple, then fled to America with four other renegades. I hear he’s the man to see if you need to line up a lot of Chinese muscle. He’s expensive, but effective. And a bad hombre, if we can avoid him we should. He’s got more lives than a cat.”

JEB chimes in, “And it seems like your friend came through here yesterday. He kept a low profile but was noticed. Seems like he left out of town heading northeast which they tell me . . . is the longer way to Broken Hills.” “So we have an opportunity to get ahead of them. If we head southeast following the river to Walker Lake, then northwest through some rough into Broken Hills”

“I know the river and the lake. It can get dry but there will be water for the horses.” Says Artemus. “We should leave right away and get in a few more miles before dark.”

“One other thing,” said JEB, “the Marshall said that there was a railroad payroll moving through Nevada in a few days headed for San Fran. Marshall didn’t know about any posse for Cole, but thought they might be looking commit a robbery.”

“Maybe he heard it was a two for one special.” Said Travis and patted Horse’s nose.

“We’re lucky that it isn’t summer, the heat would probably kill the horses. As it is the nights will be cold.” Said Art. And it was indeed quite cold at night, but they built a big fire every night and made hot coffee every morning. A bit after noon the riders cleared a ridge. Travis raised his binoculars and panned around a bit. “That’s it.” He said.

Within two hours the trio found themselves at the edge of the small town. “Where should we look for him?” Asked JEB. “I don’t know,” Artemus said motioning the others to stop, “but be careful there.” And he point to the ground about ten feet ahead. “Sidewinder.”

During his stay in Broken Hills, Cole has managed to befriend the locals. After the incident with the big cat, it wasn't that hard, the rancher was very popular, as was his son.

Hoping that JEB would have recieved his message, Cole would occasionally check in with the local saloon see if a any strangers have come into town. He also figures that it wouldn't hurt to watch his back. He did, after all, kill a man and skip town in a hurry.

One day, he got word that some strangers had indeed come into town. The description of one of them seemed to match JEB. Diablo is a damn impressive horse. Any stable boy couldn't help but notice him.

Cole figures, at some point, JEB would stop by the  livery to have his horse fed and watered. So, he finds a nice discrete spot to  keep an eye on the livery. Sure enough, after a short while he spots JEB. And, to his great surprise, his old friends, Art and Travis are with him!

He approaches his old friends and says  Damn, it is good to see you boys. I see you got my message, JEB.

He then leads his friends to a private spot where they can talk.

Soon after they reach a more secure spot, his friends tell him of the  chinese men on his trail. Cole is shocked that Chinese folks would be after him. He did, after all, shoot that boss to protect their own kind. But, he reckons, money trumps loyalty more often than it should. Damn shame.

Let's bushwhack those chinamen and be done with this. I don't want them nosing around here. these are good people. I won't see them troubled.

In reply to Cole Trayne (msg #68):

A look of consternation crossed JEB's face.

Being a lawman, I can't rightly bushwhack anyone. But I'm inclined to think we should have a chat with those men.

Art, being a man of few words and quick action, looks slightly disappointed.

I guess that's one way to deal with them. But, I'm thinking I'd like Cole's idea.

Looking first to Art and then turning his gaze to JEB, Travis replies.

Whatever you say, Mr. Lawman.

Cole takes off his hat and rubs his head.

Well, I've been here a while. I'm know the territory pretty well. I know a good spot where we can keep an eye on the trail coming into town. As soon as we see 'em we can go have our little talk, JEB.

Jeb nods, Lead the way, Cole.

Art looks over their vantage point with an expression of approval on his face.

Nice spot, Cole.

Travis smiles.

Should only be a couple of days before those men show up, I expect. My guess is that they won't be expecting any trouble on the road, since they probably believe you will be laying low. No need for them to sneak about.

The men then buckle down and wait for Cole's pursuers.

Sure enough, after a couple of days a group of riders shows up on the trail.

Art takes out his field glasses and takes a closer look.

Yup, looks like 'em to me.

JEB mounts up. Well, let's go see.

Cole and the others mount up and they ride down to confront the newcomers.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 01:27, Fri 04 Nov 2011.

JEB leads Travis, Art and Cole down the trail to confront then approaching men. As they get within 20 feet, both groups stop.

One of the men looks straight at Cole, with a look of recognition on his face. He whispers something to his leader.

JEB smiles. I see you recognize one of the men behind me. What is your business here?

The leader shifts a bit in his saddle. There is a bounty on that man behind you.

JEB's smile vanishes. shifting his coat out of the way, he reveals his badge. Seems you are a bit late. This man is in my custody. Are we going to have a problem here?

The stranger gazes at JEB and his companions. He's worth a lot of money, to me.

JEB replies. He WAS worth a lot of money, to you. Time for you to go back the way you came.

Travis pushes his coat back, revealing his pistols.

Art does the same.

Cole calmly keeps his hands on the horn of his saddle.

After a few tense moments, the strangers turn and slowly ride away.

When the men have ridden off, Cole turns to JEB.

I don't believe those boys are going to let this one go. I believe we should put some distance between this here town and us. How does Texas sound?

So, Cole and the boys head south. Being accomplished and experienced men on the trail, they all know when they are being followed. But, no one says anything on the first day. On the evening of the second day on the trail, Cole states the obvious The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. I believe we have company following us. We need to end this.

Travis looks at JEB and shrugs his shoulder. You did give 'em a chance, they got fair warning.

Art nods. Fair is fair.

JEB reluctantly agrees... I reckon I did.

Cole and the others find a decent ambush spot in a remote ravine, leaving a clear but not overly obvious trail.

After a few hours, the strangers approach and follow the trail into the ravine.

A few moments later, shots ring out.

A short while after that, JEB, Travis, Art and Cole emerge from the ravine and continue south.

No one follows.

In reply to Cole Trayne (msg #73):

The following morning the small band of brothers go their separate ways. Travis and Art have other business to attend to, so they take their leave of JEB and Cole and head for parts unknown. JEB being still on the Frank James trail that picked up some life in San Francisco courtesy of Senor Gomez, marks Fort Griffin as the next area to investigate. Cole is more than willing to lay low for awhile in a new town. The journey proves uneventful as the pair ride through the adobe landscape of the Texas plains and arrive at Fort Griffin under the noonday sun.

In reply to James E. Beauregard (msg #74):

Cole glances at his old friend as they come upon the old town.

Seems like a decent place to set a spell. Wouldn't mind a hot meal, either.