Like the passengers on the Murdock Stage, the wind had woken well before dawn, stirring the endless stretches of grama grass with its cold touch as it swept southward, a sharp reminder that Spring, with its promise of awakening life, had not yet found its way to New Mexico. Save for a few workers and patrolling soldiers, the streets of Roswell were dark and quiet, still slumbering as Collin Murdock loaded his charges into the stagecoach and made one last check of his team of horses before departing the outpost.

The stagecoach itself was well built, an early model Concord, the wood weathered but sturdy, marked with the scars of past dangers, gouges and pocks from bullets and arrows, its survival a mute testimony to the skill of its driver. The interior provided enough room for nine passengers, though only eight boarded that morning, the upholstered seats covered with pillows, an attempt to preserve some comfort over the long trip ahead. As the silver haired Murdock stowed what bags the travelers brought with them, a slender man with the rangy look of a vaquero arrived, finishing the last vestiges of a cigarette rolled in a corn husk. He climbed up onto the seat beside the driver, laying a double barrel shotgun across his thighs.

The last passenger to board, a tall man in buckskins with dark brown hair and a thick mustache, pulled the door closed before taking an open seat beside one of the windows. Murdock circled the stage once more, making a last inspection before taking his seat and urging his team forward. As the horses gained a steady pace, the sky took on the color of a fresh bruise, deep violet, the first hint of sunrise. Even in the dimness, those within the stagecoach could make out the jagged ruins of Fort Roswell, its remains untouched since the battle that rendered it desolate. Eastward, lights flickered in the distant windows of the sprawling ranch house and scattered line shacks of John Chisum’s vast Jingle Bob Ranch, the cattleman’s hands already awake and attending to his herd.

Soon, orange washed the horizon, providing hints of the high country ahead. The thick grass raced past the stage, the open plain stretching almost as far as the eye could see, broken up only by the occasional mesquite or cottonwood. The growing light allowed the passengers to finally see one another clearly. For now, there was little to do but wait, watch the land roll past, and perhaps pass the time with conversation.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:30, Wed 24 Jan 2018.

Stagecoaches: The Devil's Own Rolling Stock.

Kate hated stagecoaches.  Hated them.  Where to begin?  They were cramped and full of people for one.  People smelled bad.  People told stupid stories she didn't want to hear.  People fiddled with their weapons like damn amateurs.  People asked questions she didn't want to answer. People who hadn't been in a stagecoach before were always so damn excited about it.  Everyone wanted to sit by the window.

The coach itself was always unpleasant.  This one wasn't the worst, but it was an old model suspended on leather straps.  In some ways that was better, but you really felt the bumps.  Your hind end would feel like you'd rode a bad horse all the way.  Her butt would stick to the leather of the seat.  And half the time you'd have to get out and walk alongside the damn thing or push it up a hill anyway, if she could even convince them to sell a woman a third class ticket.

But the worst part was it played on her neuroticism: riding in one of these took away a lot of control and situational awareness.  Due to certain... business endeavors, Kate knew well that with a little preparation it was too God damn easy to rob one of these things blind.  Too easy to stop, the passengers couldn't go anywhere once it did, hell, you could just take the boot and the strong box and not even bother them if you didn't want to.  You might lose out on some pistols and pocket watches and the like, but it saved time and reduced risk.  It just depended.

But that's what a professional might do.  Most of the robbers, like the idiots who sat in these things twirling their shiny new irons and muzzle sweeping their fellow passengers, were amateurs who were only obsessed with getting everything.

And she had to admit, even in her professional opinion, if she robbed a coach here, she'd get it all.  Doing it the other way was only smart if you could hit a whole bunch in a short amount of time, say you could take three for a hundred and fifty greenbacks worth of proceeds in the space of taking just one for a hundred and higher risk.  Out here, this was the only prey.  Take everything it had, or it's that much less you ride away with.

There wasn't anything for it.  Sit your ass down, make yourself rail thin, grit your teeth and wait.

So that's what Kate did.  Luckily she wasn't a particularly bulky figure and with her legs crossed and duster tucked in, she was compact indeed.  It also had the bonus of putting her hip up just a little.  Without a dedicated cross draw holster, it was very difficult to draw while seated, so she would loosen her rig and spin it around for these occasions.  The crossed legs helped keep it from slipping out of position.

There was one thing about stagecoaches which was somewhat useful for her however.  Every cow pie at least makes good fertilizer.  She'd heard that somewhere.

Kate didn't sleep particularly well, what with the night being full of goat headed men whispering the unmentionable sins they wished from her from the shadows.  A stagecoach didn't really let you sleep well, but you could doze and catnap, shaking out of it every so often on a hard bump or jostle.

She had perfected that backward lean and forward hat tilt trick, and had been in her half sleep since they took off, snapping out of it occasionally only to fall back in.

The last bump had awakened her and she was afraid she wasn't going to be able to get back to her dozy state again, but for the moment she was feigning continued uneasy slumber.

Bryan was always glad to put some miles between him and Roswell. There was something about the place that gave him an uneasy feeling and disturbed the inner calmness that he fought so hard to achieve, upsetting the delicate balance.

On the whole, he preferred the stage coach to rail. Most of all, he preferred the open road and a horse, but better this than the rail. Here, he had the smell of the open air and the dust and the earth and the horses, of wood and leather and just a bit of oil that made their way into the chamber. The downside occasionally was the smell of his fellow passengers, but this day didn't seem to be as bad as the others. Something seemed wrong with traveling by rail; he preferred the rhythmic pounding of hoof-beats upon the ground than he did the sound of a train going over the tracks. It was ironic considering how much of his life he had spent laying down those tracks and repairing them.

Bryan maintained a respectable appearance, dressed well even under his coat. It always served well to make a good first impression when it was needed, and dressing respectably helped with that. It didn't always spare him from being called unpleasant names, but sometimes it did. The gunbelt that could be spied through the opening of his coat looked old and well used. The pistol within it looked as if he had purchased it within the week, smooth as a newborn. His boots looked like they had been polished a day or two back, but had seen the dust of the road since then.

Conscious of the economy of space, he didn't take up too much of it within the coach, sitting straight back and intertwining his hands, resting them across his lap. Having observed his fellow passengers once upon their boarding, he found no need to do so continually. He found it much less awkward to simply close his eyes, meditating quietly. He wasn't lost to the world, but he brought his mind to a state of stillness as they made their way across the high country into the open plain.

"You doggin' me, Chino?  I know you ain't sleepin'."  The strike of a match accompanied bemused tones as she lit a thin black cigarillo.  "Told you a while back that I ain't the marryin' kind.  Why you still chasin' me?"  Jacinta snuffed the match with two fingers and tucked the remnants of the charred bit of wood back into her pocket.

As they'd be spared any foul weather that might happen upon them, Jacinta had left her poncho and chaps tied with the rest of her bags.  Her rifle sat propped up beside her, wedged between her leg and the wall.  She didn't wear a six-shooter, though her belt had rifle rounds tucked into the loops.  For the sake of the other passengers, she'd bathed recently, which meant she'd dunked herself into the nearest river.  Her clothes were wrinkled and worn, but relatively clean.

She'd been to Lincoln a few times, mostly with her own horsepower, but just now the stage was a necessary evil.  How surprising it had been to see a couple of familiar faces among the passengers.  Pleased that it wouldn't be an overly boring trip, she regarded the Chinaman with warm eyes and a faint quirk of her mouth at the good-natured teasing.

Lost in thought, the veteran in the much-patched grey coat and drooping mustache stared out the window as the hills rolled by.

Jake preferred trains. He missed the rumble of them, the mechanical clanking, the whistle of steam, the feel of it...it was in his blood. But he'd just come from a bittersweet meeting with an old pal, one who still worked for the railroad that had bought out Dixie Rails, and...he preferred trains, but just was not in the mood to be on one right now.

Squeaky was still a bit hurt that he'd left when Lone Star bought out DR. He'd expected that. He hadn't expected his own aches at the decision to start up once more. But it just wasn't the same. Everything was about money now, not duty. The race to Lost Angels was long over, now, and without that direction driving the line forward everything just seemed so...petty. There was no grand mission anymore, no unifying cause. Just a thousand decisions made to pull the DR stock out of the gutter ol' Fitzhugh Lee had dropped it in. Lines were pruned, pay scaled back, and the new hires that came in...many of them hadn't even seen action in The War. They didn't know what all the old-timers had. They could never know, now that the War had officially ended.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow, the death of Dixie Rails. The line he'd fought and bled over was no more. The tracks were still there, sure, and most of the rolling stock...but something essential had been drained away.

Sighing, Jake reached into a pocket and withdrew a thingamabob. He couldn't bring his whole bag into the stage -- the man up front had been quite pointed about that, and had him put it with the rest of the luggage on top -- but Jake managed to squirrel away a couple of doodads to keep his hands busy, as well as a screwdriver and some pliers. He idly began to inspect the doohickey. It was a design that had come to him in a dream, a half-remembered flash of insight. He wasn't entirely sure what the thing was supposed do just yet -- right now, it was doing a whole lot of nothing. So he inspected with it, fiddled with it, adjusted a screw here and a wire there, then clicked the switch that was supposed to turn it on. It buzzed faintly, began to whir, then there was a spark from the Ghost Rock sliver inside it that powered the whatsit. There was a brief, ghostly shriek and a puff of white smoke, and the gadget went still again.

"Sorry 'bout that." Jake said to the other passengers. "Didn't mean to startle y'all."

Well... that animated the sleep-corpse that was Kate.

Mr. McGraw's apology saw the blued pistol in Kate's hand twirling in motion.  The familiar click of a hammer could be heard.  She had that iron out quick and she was red and livid, like she was reliving something.  The old gal was upright and taut and hell-bent for leather now.

This had the somewhat amusing effect of knocking her hat off, where it stumbled into her neighbor's lap.

She looked annoyed, and looked at Jacob accusingly.  But just as quickly, she lowered the hammer, and took a brief second to rotate the cylinder to put the hammer back down on the empty chamber before reholstering, all in a smooth, poetic series of motions.  Her muzzle control was perfect, at no point had she swept directly over any of the vehicle's occupants, though it might be hard to tell from the proximity.

Kate leaned back, breathing deeply.

"My, that was startling, wasn't it?" Earnest remarked mildly, as he retrieved Kate's hat from his lap and passed it back to her. He favored her with a slight smile and McGraw with a slightly censorious, yet good-natured, glance.

"Since we're all awake, why not introduce ourselves? My name is Allgood, Earnest Allgood. I'm traveling to Lincoln to visit another minister and see whether I can help his congregation for a little while." He looked to the others with an inviting smile.

He had begun his morning prayers, as he always did, with a random verse from his father's testament. The practice smacked a bit of superstition perhaps and he knew the layout of the verses too well for it to be truly random, but he found the practice comforting. Today it was Matthew 28:19: Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

It seemed apt for setting out on a journey to assist in spreading the Word and comforting the afflicted. The Good Book was always apt and inspiring.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:28, Wed 24 Jan 2018.

Unlike some of the others, Albert absolutely adored stagecoaches. There were various reasons he'd had to ride out from his uncle's ranch to collect some things, but most of the time he'd had to ride, which meant paying attention for potential threats, occasional soreness to various body parts, and occasionally bad weather. One time he'd been stuck in the middle of a rather sudden rain storm. Cold and rainy were the worst combination.

Fortunately for the other passengers, Albert kept himself clean. Unfortunately for them, he had stopped keeping himself in shape causing him to take up a little more than his fair share of the bench. A ratty duster covered rumpled, though clean, clothes. A dark gray fedora was tipped forward over his eyes, as the ranch hand was planning to get some sleep.

At the commotion, Al pushed his hat so that he could see the others, and smirked over at Kate. "Always were a bit jumpy, weren't ya Katie?" His smile was thin, though the skin near his eyes crinkled. A pearl-gripped gun sat at Albert's hip, though he'd made no move for it. And didn't plan to - this should be a nice, relaxing ride, filled with being, er, nice and relaxed.

When the reverend spoke, Albert's gaze went over toward him. "Minister, eh? Well, Minister Allgood, I'm Al Cooper. I came to Roswell to run an errand for my uncle who owns a ranch near Lincoln. What sort of minister are ya?"
This message was last edited by the player at 20:53, Wed 24 Jan 2018.

Jake started a bit at Katie's pistol display, clutching his thingamabob for dear life, but as she relaxed, so did he. He shrugged sheepishly at the reverend's light glare. "Again, sorry." He said. "I'm Jake McGraw. I'm a..." he nearly said railroad mechanic. But no. Not anymore. "...a handyman. Fix up things as are broke down. I got a shop in Lincoln, was just in town gettin' some supplies and meetin' with an old friend who works at the rail head."

"You know, I figured if I stay close enough, one day you'll change your mind," he said, smiling at the familiar voice before opening his eyes to have a look at her.  Often surprising to many, there was not even a hint of an accent to his voice. One of few in the Chinese community born here, it made him stand out in the neighborhood he grew up in, but helped him fit in better outside of it.

Jacinta was easy on the eyes, but that wasn't what seemed most magnetic about her. She had an earthy sensibility about her, and seemed at home out in the open stretches of land. He had seen ample evidence of her skill as a rider and a tracker, skills that took a particular sense of patient discipline to achieve and perfect.

She was right, though, as always. He hadn't been sleeping, but meditating, and her voice hadn't raised him out of his state of calmness but somehow found a place alongside the gentle peace he found in the ride. The sharp intrusion of the gadget's shriek shattered that calm, however, though he didn't show it readily, instead turning to the source, but then more quickly to the passenger who had gone for a firearm - until she holstered it once more. He had made no move for his own weapon. The man with the gadget had a familiar look about him, and Bryan could almost swear he knew him, but he thought a second chance meeting here in this stage coach would be too unlikely so he let it be while he listened to the introductions, though it nagged at him.

"Well, I'll be," he said, reaching over to offer a hand to Jake. His own hands were strong, and though no longer calloused they showed signs of long physical labor in his past. "I knew that was you, Jake McGraw," he said.

He passed a look and a smile around the others. "I'm Bryan Lee, headed to Lincoln on the business of the Texas Rangers at the request of Governor Mosby." He peeled back his overcoat and the well-worn suit jacket beneath it, revealing the telltale badge pinned to his shirt. Circular and with bits carved into the middle to present a star, it had been made out of some Mexican coins by a gunsmith and previously worn by another Ranger who had come before him. He let the jacket and coat fall back down and leaned back into his seat.

"Pleased to meet you all, or at least, those I don't know already." He supposed it wasn't really that coincidental after all. There were no few people in these parts that had some history or association with Dixie Rails, and he'd met many of them.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:19, Wed 24 Jan 2018.

"Bryan? Hot damn!" Jake shook the ranger's hand readily. "I ain't since you since..." he paused. "...since that business in Tuscon. I certainly hope these are much better circumstances than that, though."

"Nothin' as crazy as Tucson, I hope," he said with a chuckle. "You got a shop in Lincoln, you say? Sellin' things or just fixin' em?"