This is the town's most popular saloon (maybe because of the saloon girls). Though it can't boast the Mexican cuisine it has a full fledged kitchen like all good saloon's of the time, many gambling tables, and a room or three upstairs to rent for the night or for...whatever.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:59, Thu 25 July 2013.

Battles walked into the Shady Lady with one thought on his mind. Bacon! He paused at the swinging doors as he walked in to let his eyes adjust to the darker interior, then headed straight to the bar. There was only one other occupant in the place and he was face down on a table and looked like he'd been there all night. Town drunk most likely.

There was nobody tending the bar so Battles assumed they were in the kitchen where the heavenly smell of bacon wafted from. No matter. He leaned over the bar and grabbed a bottle. Tequila. Not Whiskey. Oh well. Good enough. He didn't bother grabbing a glass and drank straight from the bottle.
It burned going down and Battles slammed the bottle down on the counter.

"Can I get some service here?"

“You have somewhere to be that you can’t wait?” Molly retorted as she pushed through the batwing doors that led from the kitchen. “Your shoutin’ won’t make me move any faster.”

Molly Malone eyed the stranger who glowered at her as she came near, taking her own sweet time so that he could get a good look at what was coming and rile him some. Peeving a man was how she kept herself at a distance and made business go slow; and it bolstered her confidence so that she felt she was the one in control.

“You look as fierce as the devil himself, mister; but I’ve seen worse than you,” she laughed huskily, eying his guns and his get-up as she placed a shot glass alongside the bottle. “That tequila is sold by the glass or by the bottle, whichever way you like your poison.”

She stopped talking then giving herself time to appraise him, needing to know. Molly fancied herself a fair judge of most folk. A thick growth of whiskers and an eye patch obscured the gunman’s features, but the threat in his gaze was palpable. Grit dusted his clothes like it dusted everything when the weather was dry, but something told her that the menace she saw in him wasn’t anything that a visit to the bathhouse might wash away.

“This legitimate?” Molly playfully flicked the bit of shine on his vest with the tip of her finger; deciding at last to smile as her Irish-green eyes locked on the bluest blue.

He was fast. Very fast. No sooner had she flicked the badge on his chest then he had her hand in his grip, her index finger still extended where it had flicked his badge. He could have easily broken her finger if he had wanted.

"I hate Tequila. I want whiskey. And not some watered down rotgut. And I want breakfast and cold beer. Bacon if you have it but ham will do."

His one eye blazed at her, and he didn't seem to mind he was being a bit brutal with his grip on her hand.

"And yes. The badge is real."

He let go of her hand and slowly pulled the pistol from his left hip and set it on the bar.

"Now about breakfast?"

Startled by his cruelty, Molly would have slapped him hard then and there if she had thought she could get it done; but the bastard was on his guard and Molly figured he would quickly block her swing before she could lay a hand on him. Yet she stood her ground, assaulting him with a look and a sneer that made it plain he wasn’t worth the trouble he might bring her.

“There was no cause for that,” Molly hissed through even white teeth as she slowly raised her hand so that he might see the red mark of his grip where he had bruised her. “But then again some men are just mean to the bone.” Then, quicker than he expected she might be, Molly snatched back the bottle of tequila and placed it behind the polished mahogany long bar that had come second-hand from St. Louis and was the pièce de résistance that set the saloon apart and above the rest.

“If ‘tis breakfast your wantin’ then you best get movin’, me boyo . . .” Molly’s temper was up although she remained in control. Her voice was husky and threateningly soft, only her Irish intonation revealing her upset, “For you’ll be gettin’ nothin’ from me here and now,” she smiled again but her emerald eyes were as cold as ice. “You see the door . . . there is a cantina down the road,” she said before locking her jaw tight. And although Molly’s heart was thrumming to beat the band, she met the stranger’s steely gaze and did not flinch.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:56, Sat 10 Aug 2013.

A slow smile came to John's lips. He looked at the barkeep with his one good eye, and out of the blue, he winked.

"I AM as fierce as the devil himself, Sister. I have to be in my line of work. I'd be dead by now otherwise." Battles looked to where she was holding her wrist. "I'm...uh...I'm sorry about that. Sometimes I move on instinct before I think about things." Slowly he pulled his revolver back off the bar and re-holstered it. "You have my true apology, Miss. I'll be seeking my breakfast elsewhere. I am earnestly sorry for the trouble I've caused. I'm saddle sore and tired but that's no excuse. I'd probably have shot any other man I seen treat you thus. I'm truly ashamed. G'day to you, Miss."

Battles turned and red faced headed to the door.

Molly had been expecting mean from the one-eyed devil, and she had set herself to be as fierce as Saint Michael himself if the bullying gunman came at her again, so she was caught off guard when he winked at her, and she was speechless when she realized that his grumble of words was an apology.

He was at the door when Molly thought to call out to him; she had sensed something tender under the brash scruff, something vulnerable which had softened her heart and melted the emerald ice in her eyes. Yet Molly kept silent unsure after so many times hurt; only staring after him as she rubbed her bruised hand. 'If he looks at me,' she bargained, 'then I will beckon him in.'

It was only as he reached the door that John remembered his manners. Turning back slowly he tipped his hat.

"Beggin' your pardon again, Miss. I won't be troubling you further."

Battles paused briefly before pushing his way through the bat wing doors. What had he been thinking? To many months on the outlaw trail had made him to hard. He looked back briefly and tipped his hat again then made to leave...

“Hold on, mister,” Molly called out at the last moment, a wry smile crooking her soft mouth as her teasing glance met his gaze, “If you think you get to sashay on out a’ here without puttin’ a nickel down for that swig of tequila, you’ve got another think comin’,” Molly laughed invitingly as she curled her finger beckoning him back.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:19, Mon 29 July 2013.

Battles sighed as he slowly shook his head and walked back to the bar, reaching into his pants pocket for a ready coin. Here he was a lawman and he'd damn near stole a drink from a saloon. He was tired. No more over-night rides for him. Maybe he was getting old before his time.

"I'm sorry, Miss." Battles said again as he tossed a half dollar on the bar. "It's been a long over-night ride and my wits just ain't about me. For your troubles and my poor manners. You said there was a place down the street I could get some breakfast? If I might inquire, I noticed the US Marshall's office across the street. Is there a town sheriff or constable, or should I be reporting in to the marshal once I've had my vittles? I like to pay my respects to the local law when I'm in town."

As Molly listened to the stranger talk she recognized what had been indiscernible at first, that there was a decent man beneath the scars and guns and leather bandolier which were the devil's armor. The notion shed a ray of light upon him, enough so that Molly put aside her first impression and set about satisfying the customer.

"Whiskey not rotgut," Molly's honeyed laughter was soothing as she set the bottle and a shot glass before him. “The beer and bacon need fetchin’ so you stand or sit as it pleases you while I see about makin’ you happy.” There was wile in Molly’s beguiling which may have been business as usual or something else entirely.

“The marshal’s office is down the street to the left, near enough for when there’s trouble but not so close as to put a damper on the good times, if you know what I mean,” Molly answered easily, her smiling eyes sweet on him as she scooped up the coin with the hand that had turned livid from his roughness. “Marshal Jericho comes by like clockwork, you tarry long enough you’re bound to meet.”

Battles wasn't sure what to make of the barmaid. She had a mercurial personality.

"Well...then... if I may still get breakfast here, add the ham to the eggs and bacon. And some fried 'taters if you have them?  I like my eggs over the 'taters. And a biscuit. I'd surely appreciate a biscuit with butter and honey. I've eaten nothing but venison jerky for two days. I've a powerful hunger. But I'll take what you got, mind you."

Battles slung his leg back over the bar stool he had occupied earlier, then paused briefly, looking thoughtful.

"Uhm....did you say Marshal Jericho? I've done some fightin' with a man named Jericho in the war with the Apache. But is was Major Jericho. He was a cavalry officer. You wouldn't know his full name would you? Can't be to many Jericho's about?"
This message was last edited by the player at 20:10, Tue 30 July 2013.

"Cy is Cy as far as I know. When we talk it's not about where he's been." Molly replied, her answer saying everything and nothing which was her way. Then she flashed a breathtaking smile as she backed away from the bar. "I'll see to your breakfast now."

The food was hot and tasty, just as he had ordered and quick to arrive; but the hand that served up the plate was not Molly Malone's.

Battles couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a breakfast. It had been a month or two at the least. On the trail he'd been riding you ate what was at hand when time allowed. Breakfast was usually coffee and beans, and sometime jerky. In fact, lunch and dinner were pretty much the same if you got them. The occasional rabbit or deer if you were lucky would cut your trail. He'd found one night when he'd set his bedroll down in the wrong place and was particularly hungry, even rattlesnake made good eatin'.

But though he rode the fabled outlaw trail, John J. Battles was no outlaw, so he didn't poach from the few who farmed the area, or steal cattle, though he'd sorely have liked a steak. Steak. Even though he was plumb full from the breakfast he'd just finished Battles knew what he wanted for lunch or dinner already. He was in a town now so no reason he couldn't have three squares and a cot, right?

Battles pushed away from the table and stood, dropping two silver dollar pieces on the table to pay for the meal and bottle. The fiery Irish redhead hadn't brought him his meal, nor had he seen her since but he imagined that was because of the rude way he'd behaved. He'd been out on that trail learning the lay of the land to long. He knew the first half dollar would have payed for the meal, but he'd meant that for the young lady not for the food. He didn't imagine the bottle cost more than two dollars but he'd make it good later if it did. Hell a gallon of whiskey could be got for three dollars. The expense should be covered he reckoned.

He grabbed the full bottle of whiskey from the table. He hadn't had a drop because he figured he'd already been mean enough, though he still planned on having his fill. He'd had a beer which he'd been gratified to find had indeed been cold, but coffee had actually washed down such a fine breakfast best so he'd stuck to that. For now.

Turning, Battles headed for the door, but looking back hoping for one more glance at the redheaded firebrand, he very nearly plowed over a young cowhand coming through the door.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Mister. Careless of me." Battles said tipping his hat, but checking to make sure he still had a firm grip on his whiskey bottle.

As he climbed the few steps up onto the sidewalk in front of the saloon, Clay couldn’t help but gaze back to towards the stage office and wonder after the young woman, she was after all the first female he’d seen in a while.

His periphery vision and more than a little instinct drug his attention back the entrance to the saloon, as a rough looking character sporting an eye patch steps through the doors although he is looking behind him "Beggin' yer pardon, Mister.Careless of me.” He says.  Clay deftly sidesteps the approaching man “’Ant no bother mister, was part distracted myself “he replies as the stranger passes him.