October 31st, 1877. Sundown. Socorro, Texas, CSA

Calling Socorro a "one horse town" was being rather generous, as the horse was more like a blind mule. It was dry, dusty, and brown, particularly in autumn. It's just a hop, skip, and a jump away from El Paso and Jaurez, which means that nobody actually stays here when they're passin' through. The Bayou Vermillion line didn't even have a regular stop here, just a platform that the trains only occasionally pause at.

Of course, that means the folk who do stop here usually don't like scrutiny...

Trace Hargrave was having a drink at the local watering hole, the Feral Dog. There was a dogfight on tonight down in the basement...he could hear the snarling and snapping from here. Wasn't no nevermind to him, though. He was in this speck of a town because Earl Johnson, a local rancher, was having rustler troubles and needed a good sharpshooter. Right now he was off the clock.

Katy Cox was at the Feral Dog here on business. Baltasar Leroux, once a big man in Bayou Vermillion, had skipped out on his employer...along with a barrel of a mysterious fluid. This stuff (supposedly) could raise the dead. Leroux was being hunted by Bayou Vermillion...but the Rangers wanted to get to him first. To offer him protection or, failing that, get that barrel out of hands where it might do damage.

((OOC: And that's the set-up! have at it.))

Every time Hargrave stopped in a saloon such as this, his thoughts always drifted to home. Summer always brought blackberries in the valley, which led to the making of blackberry mead. Since coming to these shores, everything he'd drunk had paled in comparison to that bewitching elixir. For now, until his drifting came to an end, beer would have to suffice.

He'd found a corner table that provided him with a clear view of the room. As was his habit, he'd brought his rifle with him, the lone possession he always made certain he had close at hand. He'd left it in its boot, propping it against the wall beside his chair in easy reach. Sipping his beer, he surveyed the room, taking in the gathered patrons, mostly ranch hands and drifters like himself, travelers passing through to El Paso. Despite old man Johnson letting him off guard duty for the night, he couldn't resist listening in to the to the talk in the bar, alert to any bragging that cattle thieves were occasionally prone to when the whiskey took hold of them.

Returning his attention to his beer, he took another sip, his thoughts drifting briefly to Roswell, the next town he meant to travel to when the job here was done. He was already feeling restless, ready to move on. Pushing those feelings aside, he resolved to focus on the present, remaining attentive to his surroundings, while doing his best to appear concerned only with his own affairs.

Katy looked around at the buildings on Main Street as she rode into town, trail dust turning her black duster into more of a gray duster. Her black sombrero kept her face shaded, and she had bundled most of her hair up underneath it for the ride as well. A few locks that had escaped her pins tumbled down toward her back. Her boots were also a dusty gray, though they were obviously supposed to be black as well. That wouldn't happen until after she'd had a chance to settle in.

With practiced ease, the ranger slipped out of her saddle and tied Isabelle to an available hitching post near to the Feral Dog. And now it was a one-horse town.

Katy looked up at the saloon and smiled to herself. West Texas sure wasn't so much like Austin. At least the man she was looking for ought to stick out a bit here. Or so she hoped.

With that thought in mind, Katy entered the Feral Dog and looked around for the man behind the bar. She may be on the job, but she was quite thirsty. She ordered whatever passed for ale or beer in this place and then looked around at the interior of the saloon, looking for a seat if nothing else.

<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4SdmIhsO0k">some mood music</a>

The barkeep, a big man with muttonchop whiskers and a burning cigar, looked up at Katy as she entered the saloon. He wasn't particularly chatty as he slid a beer her way.

The only open seat seemed to be back in the corner. There was a fellow at the table, carrying a huge rifle. Looked like it could take down a herd of buffalo.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:26, Mon 24 Oct 2016.