Two months had passed since Garrett Rasmin arrived with his prisoner at the San Francisco terminus of the Central Pacific Railroad.

The train, having suffered delays that February night in Sacramento, had pulled into the station just before midnight. The men had had to wait even longer at the terminus, as the unloading of Bonny Red Bess took another thirty minutes because of some clerk's incompetence. Most of the other passengers had departed into the evening fog by the time the kid was released to Trayne and Rasmin. Several days ago, at the battlefield with the Comanche, Cole Trayne had told Jack to go with the Trautman girl, Johanna, back to The Flat. The traumatized girl had taken a shine to the wrangler's pooch, and Jack had reciprocated. It was clear to Cole that the girl needed Jack more than he did. On the other hand keeping Bess, who had been a gift from the wrangler's pard Meriwether, was clearly a necessity and so Trayne had elected to pay for the kid's passage on the transcontinental route to the coast. Richardson, Beauregard, Oldman and Rojas had decided otherwise, following Rasmin's lead and opting to sell their mounts rather pay the freight on the animals as well as purchasing their own tickets west. Selling their mounts had enabled them to pocket some coins for the journey, at minimum, and perhaps a start in San Francisco.

The journey had worn on the men. Sitting on a train for hours on end, even with the regular depot stops that allowed the travelers to get out and stretch their legs, was nothing like relaxation. Preoccupied with the delayed unloading of Bess and thinking about the comfort of a hotel bed, the men had no idea of the events awaiting them near the terminus.

The boo how doy converged on the group as if they had been waiting for Rasmin and his charge. Broad-brimmed black hats drooped to cover faces of the figures that emerged from the shadows and banks of fog. Black garments concealed their weapons, until the black hats had pressed into close quarters, with strong hands producing hatchets and knives from within fabric's folds. Rather than splitting skulls, the numerous attackers struck with precision, at limbs and torsos. The element of surprise, which enabled the boo how doy to acheive proximity in a matter of seconds, combined with the hatchet-mens' superior numbers (Rasmin had later estimated three dozen or more), making the use of firearms next to impossible for the heroes. It became a brawl, one that had all the markings of a fixed fight.

Oldman and Beauregard had lasted the longest, despite the poison that coated the hatchets wielded by the highbinders. Not to mention the venom-soaked needles from unseen blow-guns. Rojas and Trayne had fallen almost immediately. Jake and Rasmin fought for what seemed like a fortnight, but the poison overtook both of them. Finally, even the cigar-chomping lawman from Missouri, and the pugilist from the No Buffalo Outfit--who had knocked out several of the attackers, at least a few of which permanently--swooned from the cumulative effects of the poison.

The men woke up to find themselves in a strange room. As Randy Oldman came-to, taking in the familiar confines of the opium den, he had thought for a moment that he had dreamed a fantastic tale since his last dose, beginning with a rough spell down in Texas and culminating in a wicked brawl at the train station here in Frisco. No one else had spent the kind of time that Randy had spent in one of these places, so their awakenings proved less dramatic. They simply wondered how they had ended up in a small, fetid cube of space, piled on top of each other and their own belongings as if they were tossed in. In the few blinks of his eyes, Randy registered his companions in the den. He knew it was anything but a dream,  also realizing almost as quickly that this was one of the damnable tourist lures. Not a real den at all but a place where hucksters relieved rubes of their coppers and silvers--rubes who wanted to see the underbelly of the Barbary Coast but knew no better.

Oldman, Richardson, Beauregard and Rasmin forced their heads to clear. In a heartbeat, all four of the men realized that Cole Trayne and Senor Rojas were not among them.

-------------------------------

OOC: The Judge will post follow-up messages every day or so this week, for a serial start-up to this adventure. Please continue to read but hold posts until the Judge indicates the time is right. The Judge will bring in all the PCs during the course of the narrative.

EDIT: A point of fact that somehow (user error) got left out of this post.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:33, Tue 30 June 2015.

By the time the four men had taken stock of themselves and their belongings, the ramshackle door enclosing the ersatz den was opening. The men had already determined that they were not being held as prisoners. After all, what captor in his right mind would leave all of a prisoner's weapons intact and at hand? It had taken only a matter of seconds to suss out that fact, with each of the men putting hands on his nearby saddlebags, haversack or whatever means of conveying his items that he had chosen before boarding the train back in Omaha Wichita. And then tucked neatly underneath those items, his longarms, revolvers, knives and other instruments of destruction, er, defense on his person when the celestials-in-black had dry-gulched Rasmin's party.

If the door hadn't opened just then, the men might have had a speculative conversation as to the circumstances that landed them here. And if that man had been someone other than Charles Conway, any of the four might have skinned one of those weapons and demanded answers. As it happened, Richardson recognized the man immediately and had the gumption to make a quick explanation to his pards well-met in Texas . . . he knew this man and they ought to hear him out, presently.

Conway was a well-spoken and neatly (but not ostentatiously) dressed man. He listened more than he talked, asking Jake first to explain how they had ended up at the terminus (the night before as they all learned) and then offering important bits of information about what had happened after the boo how doy had attacked. Through the conversation, it became clear that Conway had rescued them--from the police or the Tongs or huddle'ems they would never know--because he recognized the past acquaintance of Jake Richardson. Conway's concise explanation lacked some details, such as why he was at the train depot at that time of night. There was no time for long explanations, the man had asserted with quiet confidence. To which Jake had agreed; it was enough that they knew each other and that by the grace of the almighty or some odd twist of fate Conway was there when the man from Wells Fargo had needed him. To boot, such trivia mattered not when it came to the part of the story where Cole Trayne was dragged off by the highbinders while the Mexican bled out in the avenue.

Rojas was dead. It had stunned Randy, and caused the others to reflect for a moment at their relative good fortune. Stiil, the matter at hand was Cole Trayne.

Oldman, Rasmin, and Beauregard put their trust in Richardson's vouching for Conway. It further became clear that the man might be able to help them find their pard Trayne. A single question he asked of the men put to rest any doubts that they might have had as to his acumen . . . or sincerity.

"Were you by chance expecting others at this rendezvous? Perhaps a Professor Ringgenberg?" he had asked.

The answer being affirmative, and the additional information being passed in regard to the expected arrival of the man called Sunday, Conway suggested that the men stay here in the den, doing their best to act the part of the morphine addict, while he made contact with the Professor and did some other leg work. Randy Oldman assured Conway that he was up to the present task; the others offered the only reply that made any sense: a tired shrug of their shoulders.

EDIT: Another factual error found when re-reading the text.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:50, Mon 03 Aug 2015.

Knowing that Travis Sunday would not linger long in the area, ENS attempted to arrange his affairs with haste once he and Winters had arrived back in The Flat. It didn't take long to realize he would need much of a day's business to make all the arrangements. Fortunately, he had Pete Haverty's assistance in the matter, but the chances of chasing down Sunday seemed to fade with every step on the streets.

After all, the gunslinger had stated clearly his intention. He would ride west, rotating the horses to maintain best speed. A single-minded goal: reach San Francisco before Rasmin arrived with Trayne.

Winters and his granddaughters also had accepted the advice of Pete Haverty, establishing contacts with people who would give them fair prices for their remaining goods. Haverty himself offered a job to Lorelei as the caretaker of another stable on the outskirts of The Flat, which he had recently acquired and hoped to install as an expansion of his business. Both of the young women could live in the loft. Old Man Winters was grateful. It helped the way that the liveryman had expressed his propositions, in talking of the young women's future as separate from that of the old wanderer himself. Lorelei seemed to understand her grandfather's yen for the trail. She did not argue; instead, she convinced her younger sister of the advantages of the arrangement with Haverty. Her independence had never been devoid of pragmatic inclinations. She made Winters proud, even as he felt sadness and guilt at leaving his granddaughters. They would be safe and Winters would be able to help the professor reach the coast in a effort to ensure Cole Trayne's safety.

Counting their respective income from the sale of various goods, ENS and Winters made arrangements for their journey. Winters gave all of the income from the sales to Lorelei, save for the fare to the coast and a few dollars for meals. Neither men had mounts. The professor had sold Amadeus and Winters had sold the Trautman party's horses, except for one that Johanna insisted on keeping. With help from his acquaintance Jet Keenan, the professor lined up passage by stagecoach to Dallas, whereupon the duo would embark on a journey that involved a number of trains zig-zagging a route to Omaha before boarding on the transcontinental route to San Francisco.

The two men had become fast friends along the way. They found a common bond in their use of German. It gave them a sort of secret code to use as they wended their way westward. The old timer had traveled far and wide, but usually in a wagon, or on the back of a mule or a pony. Rarely in the confined space of a railway car. ENS had been in trains often enough, but the frontier had already introduced a number of surprises and challenges for the easterner. It proved much more enjoyable--and comforting at times--to travel with someone who knew something about the frontier. Winters knew enough--about current events and how to get by while in the towns and cities that they passed through--to smooth things out. He guided them around a couple of incidents that could have turned sour, including at a train depot in the heart of Arkansas. His folksy german accent seemed to appeal to people of all persuasions.

Finally, the two men had arrived at the San Francisco terminus. Their early afternoon arrival suffered no complications. ENS retrieved his freight, hiring a local conveyance to move the two large containers. A recommendation by the wagon-driver took them to the Palace Hotel, an impressive structure featuring seven stories. Of course, the next order of business was to determine whether Rasmin had arrived with Cole Trayne. The men began to ask around, as discreetly as was practicable while still obtaining results. An attempt to learn anything through official channels proved fruitless. The bureaucracy at the police station and courthouse alike had a pungency that hung heavy in the air. That evening, having begrudgingly accepted the fact that they would need to inquire elsewhere, the men found themselves at the famous Bella Union, at the corner of Washington and Kearney.

What they had not understood until the next morning, when they were introduced by the clerk at the front desk of the hotel to a man named Conway, was that their inquiries had been heard by someone who could help them find their pards. Having no other leads, and having heard Conway's abbreviated story, they agreed to follow him to the place where the four men who had survived the ambush were laying low.

Cole Trayne regained consciousness. It had lasted only five seconds, thankfully. The pain had become more than he thought he could bear. Somehow, he continued to endure it.

The wrangler had awakened two or three more times before the first ordeal had ended. Three. Definitely three. The counting helped him put aside the agony. The fourth time, he had found himself in a closet, on a hard-packed floor. His tormentors were gone. Or was he somewhere else? Hard to tell. Still, it was definitely the first time he awoke here.

The second time, Trayne stared at the low ceiling of the closet. He took inventory. Two broken fingers on his left hand. One eye shut. He remembered the pepper and his stomach convulsed.

The third time he awoke in the cell, Cole's mind registered fully his situation. They had taken their revenge, whoever they were. Probably, they weren't done. Else, why had they kept him alive, he thought, staring at the tray of mush that had been slid under the heavy door. No utensils.

The counting wasn't helping anymore.

Coop had wasted no time when Conway woke him that morning. He had listened to the man's instructions and took to following them without delay. Conway went on to the Palace.

A tense moment had passed when Coop--someone that none of the four men had seen before--entered the den, boldly. Most folks would give Richardson and the others a pass for being a mite jumpy, having trusted Conway but not quite sure whether all was as it seemed. Coop handled it well, though. He gave the air of a man that you wouldn't want to kick up a row against, unless you had no choice. Sure of himself, but probably not a braggart. He spoke quickly and confidently.

"Conway sent me." A hint of accent could be heard in the few words. That fact that Coop had produced a sack with foodstuffs spoke well of him, too.

The four men hadn't overcome the effects of the poison, or the hatchets. They had barely healed from the Comanche battle. Laying low made sense now. Nourishment could not be argued against.

Conway escorted Winters and the Professor from the hotel to the district called the Barbary Coast. At this hour of the morning, the streets were relatively quiet. Nonetheless, the saloons--and there were many of them--had patrons who had begun (or perhaps continued) their revelry. Sailors, miners and others who had come to claim the riches of the land. Brothels and saloons, it seemed, alternated throughout the streets. Conway passed by a row of cribs housing soiled doves who were visible through the windows from the street. ENS could not help but notice that one of them was engaged in her trade, in plain sight.

A moment later and Conway showed them down a flight of stairs to a bottom floor entrance. He ushered them through a small door and shut it behind him. A bitter odor filled the men's nostrils. Two turns down hallways, past dens of opium addicts by all appearances, Conway pushed open the door, staying true to his word to re-unite the men who had traveled from Texas.

Coop and Conway whispered a few words while the pards greeted each other. When the two parties from Texas recounted their tales to each other, Coop and Conway listened to the conversation. When asked, Conway assented to doing additional leg work. He knew the area and could locate Sunday if he had arrived. A few well-placed inquiries might buy him an idea of which Tong had taken Trayne. And time was of the essence. He would need funds to grease a few palms. A collection had been taken.

Having advised that the Professor and Mr. Winters return to the hotel or the Bella Union and continue their own efforts, Conway had led the two men back toward the Palace. He had given Coop a fact-finding task as well. They would meet at 3 p.m. at the Union, taking a seat at a faro table.

Meanwhile, the four men who had been ambushed would stay in the den until the others had some actionable information.

EDIT: added a phrase for clarity upon re-reading. And another typo found many months later!
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:24, Wed 21 June 2017.

Having ridden a trio of mounts some 1700 miles, Travis Sunday felt his heart swell once San Francisco came into view that February afternoon.

His journey had taken him through the New Mexico and Arizona territories, through Apache lands and difficult terrain. The pace through California had worn down his horses. Of course, two of them were not the same as those he taken from the Comanche a fortnight ago. He rode two shifts a day, sleeping only a handful of hours each night. He had calculated that it was the only way to reach his destination in time. Doing his best to spare Horse, Sunday rode the Comanche ponies hard until he had reached Mesilla.

That was his second stop for supplies, having passed through Lincoln already. In Mesilla, he found traders willing to swap horses, for a small fee. No choice, really, as he knew; nonetheless he managed to drive a decent bargain. Sunday had been alone on the trail before. He preferred having pards around, but he knew how to travel solo. Still, the times he had done it in the past never had the urgency of this journey. He reminded himself of that fact, often. Fresh mounts improved his chances of making it through the Apache lands, over the mesas and through the desert basins; worth every dollar.

Barring a near mishap with one of the kids in tow while passing through a shale basin, the trip through New Mexico went smoothly. He had seen Apache; they had seen him and yet they let him pass. He had considered offering one of the mounts in tribute if needed, but that need had not materialized.

That had changed soon after Sunday happened upon a scouting expedition against the Chiricahua, in the Arizona territory. The gunslinger had seen signs of Indian activity, and he recognized that the white men were looking for the same. He joined them for a day's ride, spending some of the time speaking with a feller named Ed Schieffelin, before the expedition's path parted from his as they returned to a camp they called the Huachuca. That night, on his own again, Travis heard a band of Apache attempting to sneak up on his camp. He had gunned down four of them before they withdrew. He mounted Horse and rode out after the Apache had retreated, putting ground between him and the Indians, but losing a heap of sleep that night.

In Yuma, Travis had traded horses again. He had the good sense to check at the telegraph office, and fortunately, his pards JEB and ENS had had the good sense to send a telegram informing him that they were boarding trains to the coast. As desperately as Travis wanted to spend a night in a hotel bed, to have a hot meal, or to take a bath, he knew he could not spare the time for any of those luxuries. Stops like the one in Yuma he made solely to re-supply and procure fresh mounts. Sunday could not afford to dawdle even for an hour. He did his best to hide his urgency, but the horse trader in this town saw through Sunday's veneer. Although Travis got two good mounts in trade, he had to pay twice as much here as he had back in Mesilla. For a moment, the gunslinger had thought to haggle, or just wait until he reached the border towns in California to make a trade. Finally, he took the deal, placing his bet on these new kids making it all the way to Frisco.

The bet had been at least a push, he figured, as he approached the city on the coast with sunlight to spare on the fourteenth day. The horses had survived the march from Yuma. Unfortunately, a toll had been taken on Horse, despite Sunday's efforts to give him extra rest in the rotation. Even if the sturdy mount had been spared the weight of his master, he had walked the 1700 miles and his frame showed the stress. The trader in Yuma had offered a deal that would include Horse--and it would have saved Sunday a stack of gold coins--but the gunslinger could not bring himself to part with the kid. He hoped that rest and a healthy feed bag would bring Horse back around in San Francisco.

He had headed straight for one of the stables he remembered from a few years ago. Luckily, it was a still a barn and it was still taking kids. Travis arranged for all three before heading to the telegraph office. When the clerk asked him the destination for the telegrams, the gunslinger said, simply, "Here."

When Travis had given the clerk his name, he found a telegram in his own name being placed in his hand.

"Bella Union afternoon."
"Palace Hotel sunset til noon."
"ENS"

And so Travis Sunday, being less than an hour late to the gathering (and a day late to the party), entered the Bella Union and located his pards Ringgenberg and Winters. He found them with a neatly-dressed fellow and other faro players at one of the place's best tables. Sunday was introduced to Charles Conway and his associate Coop.

The hairs on the back of Sunday's neck had bristled when Conway lead them through the small door. Places like this on the Barbary Coast, or in Chinatown, or damned-well anyplace always put him on alert. This time, it proved unnecessary, seeing his pards assembled in the den as promised.

Sunday had taken ENS's word, and then Jake's word, on Conway. The gunslinger had to admit that the man knew of which he spoke. The combination of Sunday's and Conway's knowledge of Chinatown quickly led to a plan. They had ruled out several Tongs. And Sunday knew that this was no two-bit Tommy Cho business. The Tongs had grown in strength during the gunslinger's absence. Sunday and Conway finally agreed on the three Tongs that it might be: Sum Yop, Hop Sing or Suey Sing.

Their task for the night became clear. Work the streets of Chinatown and learn which Tong had taken Cole.

--------------

OOC: The Judge still has further posts to make, resolving Cole's situation and setting the adventure that will follow. Please hold PC posts as previously noted.

Cole Trayne had stared at the bed of watery mush on the tin tray. He had faced plenty of hard choices in his days. None had matched this one.

His stubborn defiance told him he would never eat their food. He would starve before giving in. His contemplative practicality told him he would need to eat if he were to maintain any hope of surviving this ordeal. By now, the wrangler 's thoughts drifted to his pards. Cole hoped that they had survived the highbinders' ambush. It occurred to him that they might be held in similar cells, pondering their own tray of mush.

The scales in his mind seesawed. As if to tip the balance, like a corrupt merchant weighing down the scale, Trayne put his right thumb into the edge of the mush. He touched something solid. Not the tray itself, something in the mush. Instinctively, he pulled his hand back. His weary mind focused and his heart pounded. Using his thumb again, he explored the mush, pushing around the object, which he judged to be some kind of metal. A key.

The wrangler's thoughts whirled. Somehow, he had an ally here. One of his pards? It did not matter. Either he had help and perhaps a chance to escape, or this was a cruel trick played by his captors. Or something his pain-wracked mind could not fathom. It did not matter. He pulled his legs underneath him. Attempted to stand. Wobbling, he had made it to one knee, steadied by his good hand against a wall. Taking breaths, he believed he could stand. They had broken his fingers, beaten and cut his head and torso, swelled shut his eye--which still burned--with the dried red pepper. His feet were bare; he remembered his boots being removed. They had threatened to cut off his toes, but he counted ten now, still. He remembered needles in his left leg, which sent waves of pain through through his innards. And yet, his legs felt sturdy enough to carry him.

Still on one knee. Cole reached into the mush to take the key. He wiped it on his torn shirt. Inspecting the door, he found no keyhole.  He pulled himself to his feet. holding the key in his good hand, now using his left forearm to steady himself against the wall while protecting his broken fingers. He listened, heard nothing. Deliberately, Cole pushed his shoulder against the cell door. It budged. He pushed again and it opened, creaking. He found himself in a small hallway, with three other similar doors. Surprisingly, he heard a beleaguered voice from behind one of the doors.

"Up stairs," was all the unrecognizable voice said. As if the voice had directed his vision, Cole looked to his left and saw a short staircase.

The gathering of information had pointed the men in two possible directions.

They had ruled out the Hop Sing, according to the report from a shúrén of Sunday. Meanwhile, the pairs who went out to investigate all got wind of a disagreement between the Suey Sing and the Sum Yop. ENS, Conway, Sunday, they all heard the same. Rasmin and JEB, too, who ventured out from the den despite the possibility of being recognized by agents of their enemies, had heard of the trouble. Each of the Tong's boo how doy had been seen on the streets in Chinatown, around the Barbary Coast and even in the hills in recent nights. Someone had seen two highbinders carrying a sack the night before . . . a sack that dripped blood down an alleyway. To which Tong they belonged was an item of disagreement among sources.

The matter of Rasmin's part in all this had been resolved without much discussion. He had been attacked and poisoned just like Cole's pards. Moreover, he had been robbed of his prey and probably his payday. After Travis Sunday had buried the hatchet back on the Texas plains, an acceptance settled in among the men that Rasmin was not a bad egg after all. No one approved of the bounty hunter's decision to follow-through with Cole's arrest, but no one could say that Rasmin had not acted in a forthright and professional manner. And seeing as Cole had acquiesced to the journey, no one blamed Rasmin for the attack. Nor did anyone have reason to suspect him of having any foreknowledge of the events at the train terminus, although the notion to jab Rasmin with an "I told you so" had likely ruminated in at least one of the men's thoughts. At least until he pledged to help find Cole and to hell with the bounty.

Given their common circumstances, Rasmin and Beauregard formed a pair, as the group had agreed that none of Cole's pards should walk the streets alone, nor all at the same time. Likewise, Jake had joined Sunday for stint on the prowl, while ENS and Winters continued their efforts from their base at the Palace Hotel. Conway had gone his own way, leaving Coop to spend the time with Oldman in the den, as Mr. Big'un's ability to go incognito seemed less likely to succeed than anyone else.

"Besides," Travis had said to the big man--in a pleased-you-are-on-our-side manner--"We will need you fully rested for whatever comes next."

Rasmin had contacts in town and he knew how to keep a low profile; JEB's quiet demeanor allowed him to tag along without drawing much attention while still leveraging his skills learned as a lawman. Together, in addition to hearing about the activity among the two Tongs, they had discovered that the charges against Trayne had been dropped just hours before their arrival at the San Francisco terminus. Powerful convenient, that fact.

As Randy polished off a mountainous dinner, Coop wondered what all of this might come to. Conway had always treated him fair in their dealings. Coop had pocketed enough to make a living and hoped for even better prospects ahead. Still, this business sounded like difficulty. Coop had no inclination to go on the shoot just now. Having heard these men talk; however, he figured they all had sand. If anyone could rescue a prisoner of the Tongs, it was these men. So he did as Conway asked, and figured it was a better bet than the faro table. Coop and the big man got to know each other in those hours, the former learning more of the story about Cole Trayne's extradition and even something of the No Buffalo Outfit, a topic that seemed to calm the big man's mind.

When the last pair had returned to the den--that being Jake and Travis at roughly 1 a.m.--the men spoke of plans. A likely house for each of the two Tongs, that was the best information they could wrangle. Toss a gold eagle. And yet, the time for taking of risks had come. They had given themselves the remainder of the day to learn what they could. They had used up all of their favors, placed all of their checks on the table, and greased every palm worth grasping. Although another day might bring more information, it might on the other hand . . . .

The consensus was for action. They would rest until 4 a.m., whereupon pairs of men would use the cover of night to take positions near the each of the two buildings. From there, gain entry and find Cole. Or die trying.

EDIT: Minor formatting.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:00, Tue 07 July 2015.

Two groups had assembled, departing the den separately before sunrise.

Rasmin, Oldman, Richardson and Ringgenberg. The Suey Sing

Sunday, Winters, Beauregard and Coopwood. The Sum Yop.

Conway's role took him away from the action. He had secured a safe house for Cole's return--a residence where all of the men could lay low and recuperate after the rescue--and he would need to be there to ensure all was prepared. Some discussion had arisen over whether the professor should go with Conway, as well as what Coop's role in all of this might be. To his credit, Conway's man had expressed his reservations about this affair without beating the devil round the stump. He had known these men only for nigh two days. . . and besides, tangling with the Tongs seemed like a way to end a man's livelihood, not extend it. Nonetheless, as the plan developed, including the idea to assign one man in each group to serve as a lookout and a runner, the men found common ground in regard to Coop rounding out their numbers. And of the professor taking his place on the front lines, as it were, although after much debate they landed on the notion that Jake would be the best lookout for his group. The rifleman's sharpshooting with the carbine would serve as a last resort should this endeavor go south and spill into the streets. The other men had already deposited their longarms at the stable, where both Bess and Horse were put up, expecting that any outbreak of combat was likely to happen in close quarters.

The plan, far from perfect, had risks. It counted on a modicum of luck. The men who would attempt to enter each of the Tong strongholds had to acknowledge full well that they had placed their checks on the table, and that the turn of a card could change the outcome of the bet.

Light fog in the darkness gave them an initial advantage. Each group went its own way. A tactic proposed by JEB--backed by Winters and Rasmin--guided them. They would travel in two pairs of two men, with each of the lookouts and another pard lingering behind an advance pair, which would scout the building up close. When the two men made their move to enter the building, the third man would take their place while the lookout would take cover and observe.

Most of the rest of the plan had never materialized, although the planning had served its purpose. No more than ten minutes after Mr. Big'un and Rasmin had taken their positions, watching the Suey Sing house to measure the signs of activity before attempting to break down the back door, that door itself had swung open with a creak and a thunk. A stumbling figure appeared in the doorframe. He looked drunk. No, he looked like a man beaten. Broken. Not expecting such a fortunate happenstance, it took both Rasmin and Oldman several heartbeats to realize the man was Cole Trayne.

Randy rushed toward the small wooden platform where Cole stood looking side-to-side as if to get his bearings in the world. The wrangler registered someone running toward him and the instinct for flight took hold. Nonetheless, Oldman reached the platform in a few bounds before Cole had taken more than two painful steps. Randy grabbed the wounded cowboy, then steadied the fellow Buffalo. Unfortunately, the big man's landing and lunging on the wood deck had engendered a short series of rhythmic thuds, accompanying Cole’s clumsy exit from the cellar. Rasmin had given the hand signal to ENS and then rushed forward to join Oldman and Trayne.

"Gets him to the Bangtail," Randy had ordered the bounty hunter. "I means it. Run." The pugilist had no time for other words, as he heard what he assumed were the Tong's hatchetmen moving about after the sounds of Cole's escape had interrupted the relative quiet of the early morning hours.

Rasmin obeyed, glancing back over his shoulder as he helped the barefoot, bloodied wrangler move away from the building. The professor ran towards the Suey Sing house as instructed, while Jake deliberately whistled the tune that was meant to alert the other group should either of them have found Trayne.

Even in his weakened state, still suffering from the hatchet wounds of less than 48 hours past (as were three of his pards), Mr. Big'Un fought like a bear. His massive, bare paws clubbed and lacerated the boo how doy that streamed from the building. He fought with a two-handed expertise equaled by none of the highbinders.

Watching from his post, Jake saw everything: The professor running toward Rasmin, who dragged a ragged Cole Trayne. ENS stopping as if to examine the wounded man, while Rasmin had nearly lifted Cole's dead weight and barreled directly past the easterner. The professor, turning in his tracks and running after Rasmin, caught up to the now-burdened bounty hunter. Now, two men dragging Trayne towards the rifleman, while a ring of hatchetmen had surrounded Mr. Big'un and a few others scouted the perimeter.

Richardson had good cover; he had watched for several seconds, aiming his carbine, while Oldman fought. Jake wanted to squeeze off a round, but he did not want to hit his pard. And while the boo how doy had enjoined battle, they and Oldman had remained mostly silent. A battle of the old ways; with fists and knives. Jake understood. The big man was giving them time to escape before all of Chinatown had been alerted. The Texan clenched his teeth and continued to aim while Randy dropped a handful of the black hat warriors. The two men carrying Cole finally reached his position.

ENS had insisted that they stop right there. Rasmin, gasping, had relented. Jake whispered that they needed to stick to the plan. He urged them to run, much like the big man had just done. He would back Oldman’s gambit.

Moments later, as two more highbinders fell to Randy’s fists, Jake heard a shot ring out. Waal damn, he thought. So much for a quiet escape. When he heard the second shot, the rifleman discharged a round from his Spencer, taking out one of the black hats, and then chambered the next cartridge.

Several streets away, Travis, JEB, Winters and Coop had heard Jake’s whistle. More precisely, two of them had heard it, and they convinced the other two of the same. The four moved with a purpose toward the Suey Sing, still in their pairs and making haste without breaking into a run. They needed to remain in the shadows themselves, as long as possible. Almost there, all four of them heard the weapon reports. The gunfire changed their minds; the men broke into a run and approached Jake’s position.

The rifleman had squeezed off another round, wounding one of the highbinders when he saw Randy Oldman crumple. The mountain of a man had fallen to one knee, then disappeared inside the ring of the highbinders. Around Oldman, Jake saw, lay several immobile bodies in black garb. The survivors, only a few by that time, began dragging the bodies of their brethren into the building.

Jake thought to plug another of the black hats, but a police whistle pierced the fog in Chinatown. They could not be far away. Travis and JEB raced past the rifleman’s perch, closing the distance to the boo how doy. Jake covered his pards, ready to shoot if needed, but holding his fire so as to avoid the attention of the nearby constabulary--until he had no choice.

The highbinders efficiently rid the back-alley of their fallen brothers. Richardson counted maybe a dozen of the black hats had succumbed to Oldman's ferocious fists.They were gone by the time JEB and Travis had arrived. Meanwhile, Winters and Coop had joined the rifleman at his post. Jake offered no explanation of the situation. Like he had told the others, he told these two to make a beeline for the safe house. He would cover Sunday and Beauregard. Neither Coop nor Winters had been up to his neck in this sort of difficulty before. They listened to Richardson, high-tailing it out of Chinatown.

Travis and JEB came upon Randy’s motionless body. The police whistle sounded again, much closer now. No time for examinations or ruminations. The two old pards grabbed the big man from the No Buffalo Outfit, lifting and dragging his hulking frame from the scene and over to Jake’s cover. With Jake still keeping his vigil, the other two men had hoisted Oldman in a manner such that they could carry him and move more quickly. Jake remained behind to provide cover for as long he thought practicable. When the police entered the alley, he crept away quietly, confident that JEB and Travis had put enough distance between themselves and the Suey Sing house to avoid any of the policemen.

In waves, the men had made it back to the safe house. When JEB, Travis and Jake had arrived, carrying the dead body of Randy Oldman, a solemn mood fell over the place and its new inhabitants. Cole had been rescued, but at a terrible price.

---------------

OOC: One more narrative post and then the PCs can begin.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:13, Thu 09 July 2015.

Two months had passed since Garrett Rasmin arrived with his prisoner at the San Francisco terminus of the Central Pacific Railroad.

Two months since the ambush by the highbinders and the death of Rojas. Two months since they buried Mr. Big'un. They had stopped calling him that, as they convalesced in the safe house. It seemed disrespectful to call him by other than the name given to him by Fair Mary. They referred to him as Randy. Nobody could remember exactly how that happened, but the men were in unison. When they performed the burial up in the hills. When they contemplated what to do with his belongings. When they reminisced.

For the first month, all of the men except for Conway and Coop stayed in, or near, the safe house. The exception was Randy's early morning burial. Trayne needed all of that month to recover. The men who had been dry-gulched by the boo how doy needed time to rest, too. Towards the end of that month, the men started to venture out into town, in pairs, occasionally. The two-room space was cramped and a group of fellers can only take so much togetherness. Conway had informed them that the buzz on the streets had died down. The police had never figured out who had murdered the Mexican. Apparently, they had little knowledge, or interest, in what happened that morning in Chinatown, having found only pools of blood and no bodies at the scene. Of course, the Suey Sing would not forget or forgive, but their activities indicated that they had considered the matter closed with the death of one of Cole Trayne's trail mates. So the laying low for a time had accomplished its goal. Cole had remained safe; the men--and Horse--had healed physically, and the group had avoided confrontation until Cole Trayne was himself again.

Garrett Rasmin had departed around that time. He had apologized to Cole. Clearly, he was embarrassed at being duped into bringing in the wrangler. He told the men he had a score to settle, but he would accept no help in the matter.  He had apologized to Travis Sunday for not having the chance to sip whiskey in a fine leather armchair. He offered a handshake nevertheless.

Cole still needed more time to recuperate. His vision in the one eye had not yet returned to normal. So the other pards who had made the trip from Texas continued to lay low, even if they had come out of hiding. Conway had given them a good deal on this apartment. The men had taken up another collection for the two months rent and supplies. Spreading out the cost made it easy to bear for each of the men.

In the second month, towards the end of March, the men had had more than their share of apartment living. They all moved about town regularly, all except Cole, whose vision was improving at a slow pace. They stayed clear of the Barbary Coast and Chinatown as much as possible.

Conway found the professor and Cole at the apartment a few days ago. He told them that he had been approached by a man who wanted an audience with the group. He wanted to hire them for a job. Conway said that the man, a Chinese named Xu Jie Jing, wanted to speak for himself. Conway said he could vouch for the man's authenticity; he was a respected merchant in Chinatown. Mr. Xu would come alone (escorted by Conway).

The men had talked and agreed to hear the man out. The meeting would happen tonight.

------------------

OOC: PC's should feel free to begin posting now, moving forward with RP from the morning of the day when Conway will be bringing Mr. Xu for the meeting (that evening). As the Judge has skipped time from the point of Randy's death to the start of this adventure, the PCs should also feel free to post follow-ups in the form of past-tense storytelling whenever needed (for example, if a PC had something in mind to take care of in town, or follow-up re: Randy's belongings, or wanted to share the PCs thoughts/perspective about past events, or what-have-you). In other words, the Judge is open to the PCs filling in gaps in the narrative. Please ask questions in the OOC forum, or in PM, anytime you want to discuss ideas about filling the gaps.

PCs need to deduct between $10 and $20 from whatever funds that they had upon arriving in San Francisco, depending on their means. The Judge leaves the amount to each individual, as he expects that some PCs would have kicked in a few extra gold coins to cover costs that might be a burden for other of their pards. The Judge will inform PCs individually in PM if there are other cost considerations or loose ends to tie up with the characters and their roles in the narrative.

The Queen of Spades . . . Jake had turned over yet another card whilst playing yet another game of Solitaire.  In the months that had passed since everyone's arrival in Frisco, the Texan had gotten a bellyful of cards, and of Solitaire in particular. Yet at the same time he had stuck to solitary pursuits, declining a seat at his pards' poker games whenever one was offered him.

For most of the time since the fight on the night of Cole's escape, Jake had worn a hang-dog expression, and had communicated with his pards using as few words as possible, resorting to grunts and hand gestures when they would suffice to get his message across. Clearly, the Texan was in a blue funk.

It was also clear enough what was eating at him. "I let Randy down," he had murmured to anyone who was interested, speaking in a voice so low that his listeners had to strain to hear his words.

"It ain't like I froze up," he had said more than once, his eyes getting that thousand-yard stare that told that he was replaying the events of that night in his head . . . again. Mayhaps he was trying to convince his listeners, or mayhaps himself . . . or mayhaps both.

"Hell, no . . . I seen the elephant too many damned times to freeze up. But it was just . . . so damned dark -- an' that fog didn't help none."

"It's just . . . I'm used to pickin' my mark, an' hittin' it -- or else comin' mighty damned close," he explained, staring down at the floor instead of meeting his listeners' eyes.

"An' that night . . . I couldn't see good enough to pick no targets to hit. All's I saw was a big, swirlin' mass of dark. I knowed Randy was in thaere somewhaeres, an' I was afeared of hittin' him if'n I fired blind."

"Waal . . . that warn't quite right -- I could see Randy's head an' shoulders, stickin' up above all them Chinks. But to fire low enough to hit any Chinks -- all's I could see was dark. An' I could tell how ever'body was movin' so damned fast -- that dark mass o' bodies warn't standin' still, not a bit -- 'twas movin' about an' writhin' like a passel o' snakes."

"Like I said, I could see Randy's head an' shoulders, towerin' up above the writhin' mass. An' I'm here to tell you, that big man was mighty damned fast -- like a greased-lightnin' bear . . . or, mayhaps a half-bear, half-painter."

"But Randy was countin' on me to back his play, an' when push came to shove, I didn't do enough. I reckon I dropped a couple o' them yaller bastards, but Randy had a lot more'n that on him."

"Guess I shoulda jest fired into the dark, an' took my chances. It mighta been enough for Randy to fight his way free . . ."

"Hell . . . I don't see as how it couldn't a' turned out no worse that it did, no damned how," Jake muttered quietly, shaking his head.

And now Charles had told them that another damned Chink wanted to talk to them about some job. For old times' sake, as well as all that Charles had done to gain Cole's freedom here in Frisco, Jake was willing to listen. But the Texan was still in a blue funk, and he had a mighty short fuse when it came to even givin' Chinks the time of day, let alone a fair audience . . .

OOC: Deleted a couple of extraneous words, and added a couple of missing ones. No substantive change in content.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:58, Sun 12 July 2015.

In reply to Jake Richardson (msg # 11):

No one blames you for Randy's death.  He made a choice to place a pard's life over his own. It was a good death.  A noble death.

If anyone's to blame it's me.  If Rasmin dies in Texas, none of this happens.  The butcher's bill came due, when my I hesitated to end a life I knew needed ending. I predicted something like this would happen and it did.  You had no idea what was going to happen.  Apparently I did, and did nothing about it.

Regardless, it's time to move on.  Randy had a troubled side of his soul and now it's at rest.  All you can do is define yourself by your actions and not your past.

Travis looks over.

Red Jack on the black queen.

Charles Conway wasn't necessarily a ghost as the six men saw him periodically. He stopped by to check and chat, or more accurately, listen. His engaging smile and genteel presence was never intended as an air of superiority. Conway was neatly dressed and always clean and shaved.

Through the course of the two months, Conway pointed the men in the direction of certain proprietors who were worthy of business, whether for their good work, fine goods, or simply because they didn't converse much while conducting business. In nearly all cases, the young man simply pointed the pards in the direction of the business and said they'll be treated just fine. Perhaps there was a time, maybe two, that Conway himself took whatever complement of men to the shop for whatever reason for the introduction. All in all, it really made sense to know a man who knows the merchants.

Dark-haired with fair skin, Conway was certainly a city boy by all appearances. Only on rainy days did the men see him wear a hat, otherwise, his hair was oiled and combed neatly. He usually wore twill pants, a nice-looking shirt, and a jacket. His boots, not the same as the cowboy-style the men wear yet similarly sturdy, were always neatly polished. On one notable occasion, he was dressed in a very fine, expensive-looking suit; the kind maybe a politician or rail-road executive might wear. He made no-nevermind to his apparel, as if it were any other day of the week, especially Sunday.

Conway addressed each of the men by his title and surname. His diction was impeccable and his grammar was similarly on spot--of course, that is when he spoke. Sometimes he wrote notes in a notebook which he kept in his jacket pocket, other times he simply looked squarely upon the man speaking and absorbed every word.

Charles Conway arrived at the flat prior to evening meal. With him, he brought corked bottles of clean drinking water, a small crate of clean drinking glasses, and a plain wooden tray.

"Gentlemen," Conway speaks plainly to the six friends, "I might recommend tidying yourselves at least a little before I bring our guest this evening. Nothing too much, I don't know what Xu Jie Jing is asking and rough looks might serve his purpose. A washed face and combed hair, however, is a nice sign of respect for this man.

"Mr. Xu is perceived as a respectable businessman in his community, although I, myself, do not have occasion to conduct business with him. I know nothing of what he asks of you men except his description of 'an honorable mission,' in his own words. He knows the names of the two of you," Conway motions to Travis Sunday and JEB Beauregard, "but I know not if he could sight you nor what it is he gleans. He also knows of your departed friend, Mr. Oldman, and the man with whom you traveled, Mr. Rasmin."

The San Franciscan continues with an assessment of the men. "You all have no reason to be trustful of this man whom you only learned of today. I only ask each of you to listen to his proposal with respect; it will be my first hearing of it as well. After such time, you give proper contemplation for the man and the mission."

As he spoke, Conway maneuvered a table to an offset location in the main room. He placed only two chairs at the table, in opposition of each other. One chair was closer to a wall. "Please offer Mr. Xu this chair when he arrives. Another of you, who shall speak on behalf of the venture, should sit opposite him. No one else sits nor speaks. The seated men will conduct the conversation and might ask others to speak in due time. Please do not speak out of turn as it will weaken your negotiation leverage. Should anyone have a question, hold it until the end of the conversation unless you are asked directly. Do not tax him with many queries, certainly no more than four.

"The Chinese culture respects a strong leader, I should speak with that man now."


OOC: Any character who speaks/understands Chinese, please let me know before the meeting. It might be important later.

edit: omissions
This message was last edited by the player at 04:42, Mon 13 July 2015.

In reply to Jake Richardson (msg # 11):

"You did the right thing, Richardson," said the bounty hunter before he had departed the company of the men at the safe house.

"If you had done differently, things could have been much worse. You had the position of cover we needed. Firing from it would have given away that position when we needed it most. Instead of taking Cole to safety, we would have been engaged by the highbinders."

Looking more than a mite blue himself, Rasmin added "If Randy's death is anyone's fault, it's mine."
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:26, Tue 14 July 2015.

In reply to Garrett Rasmin (msg # 14):

Even a stranger could see that Cole was in a right foul mood. In barely a whisper, Cole joins the conversation.

I set this whole mess in motion, and because of it, two of my 'pards have died. This is on me.

Cole pauses a moment, a grim look of deadly determination slowly appears on his face.

I mean to find out what this is all about. This ain't over. Don't care how long it takes. This ain't over. I owe Randy and Rojas at least as much.