"Howdy, cattlehands!" Alouette chirps at the nice men who want to talk to it, and corrects their confusion: "Angels belong to God, not Roland Frost, barkeep."

"Self is not mislaid angel - self is looking for the tiny kitten Dandelion, who is lost from the home of Sal Robertson, 8 years old. Also, protecting town from forces of Darkness and delaying apocalypse."

Then something occurs to it and it explains in case they were worried:
"Fear not! Have found priest."

The three thugs eye Alouette as it tries to correct them, lips curling.

"What was that about the priest?" the one on the left squawks, but the one in the leads stomps his heel hard on the squawker's boot.

"Shut up, Luke." he growls, then turns to Alouette and smiles. It's one of those smiles that's more about showing teeth than cheer, though the Automaton might not know the difference. "Well. Ain't that nice o' ya. Found a priest, lookin' fer a cat. Where might you have found this priest, I wonder?"

Tying the body down as best he can, Charging Bear looks back at Gabby and says simply, "Stay alive and keep that pickax handy. You mind coming to tell the Marshall what happened?" Yes or no, he takes the horse's rein then Charging Bear turns to Robert, "We'd best be going... Marshall will want to know about this."

"Yeah. Might as well...I ain't gonna get any more work done today anyhow." Gabby begins collecting his things together. "Wish I had more to show for it, though. Do ya think Evans'll pay a bounty for taking out such a dangerous thing?"

Robert shrugges. "Kain't hurt to ask.  But there's been more than one lately..."

"You mean more than this one and the one the auto-man in town were platin'? Tarnation. Looks like we got ourselves a reg'lar epidemic on our hands. You hear about that incident in Nacogdoches a couple o' years back? I heard the dead there all started risin' out o' the cemetery. Think they wrote a dime novel out o' the thing. Night of the Living Dead, they called it. Published by the Tombstone Epitaph people, and ya know how they like to make stuff up. But I tell you what, I'd sure like to get my hands on a copy o' one now. Might be a grain o' truth in it after all. Mebbe we could figger out how to stop it from happenin' here..." And Gabby continues to talk in that vein all the way back to town. It seems he earned his nickname well.

Charging Bear adds his story of encountering the walking dead, "I ran into another outside of town..." as the group heads into town.

"The one Alouette was burying, I ran into him outside of town.  Alive, delerious.  He expired right after we met.  Had a lump of ghost rock on him..."

Charging Bear:

[[OOC: I'm assuming Charging Bear is summarizing his tale for Gabby]]

Gabby listens as the Indian tells his tale, and nods, frowning. "Hmmm. Those boys sound like Doc Ward's posse. They're a mean crew. Call themselves the Dust Adders, though I got no idea why. Doc Ward calls 'em stock inspectors, which is a polite term fer guards who shoot anyone caught tresspassin' on his property or harassin' his herd. Had a sheep rancher try to set up shop last year, puttin' up lots o' barb wire fences an' whatnot. That didn't sit well with Ward, so we had a bit of a range war. The sheep rancher was later found tangled up in one of his fences...well, more like strung up, really. The Marshal ruled it an accident, then lit out o' town -- this were the Marshal 'afore Evans, mind. Bad, bad business. I'm glad to hear you made it out of a tangle with them alright, sir. You say they seemed to be after this feller? hmmm. That's a mite odd. A mite odd indeed."

Robert Micklethwait:

At the mention of Ghost Rock, the talkative old man suddenly clams up.

"You don't say?" He finally mutters after a long pause. "You don't say?"

OOC: Sorry, yes Charging Bear will summarize the events that happened to him, figured I'd gloss over it to keep things moving.

"Perhaps they know more than it would appear... who is this Doc Ward?" Charging Bear inquires.

"Th' savior o' Blackthorn. Or at least that's what most folk think. I ain't got quite so rosy a view o' him, but you don't need to hear my bellyachin' about that. He's from Back East. Georgia, I think. Folk call him 'doctor' because he used to be one, and still does some small amount o' doctorin', but these days he's traded his medical bag fer a ranch. He swooped in when the Mine went bust, bought up most o' the land around the mine fer grazin' pasture, and hired on many o' the miners what had no work no more as ranch hands. Fer the last five years his cattle have kept the town afloat, though it still ain't as big as it once were when the mine was in full swing. He's managed to avoid the plagues o' Texas Fever and prairie ticks that have shut down most other ranches around here, which means he's made a pretty penny with the price o' beef bein' so high. " he drops his voice conspiratorially. "And that ain't the half o' it, believe you me. Why, there's a whole passel o' strange things goin' on, and I'd bet my biscuits Ward has a stake in some o' them. You ever heard o' the Enlightened Society o' the Weepin' Moon? He's the one who runs the local chapter hereabouts. There's been strange lights out on his range, and activity near the closed down mine, and people seein' things they ain't wantin' to talk about. You 'member how I mentioned old mayor Bruebaker done sold his soul to the Devil? Ward is that Devil, I tell you what."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:59, Wed 14 July 2010.

The automaton remains quite oblivious to the atmosphere of impending doom, chatting on despite not quite understanding the question:
"Lost priests return to churches, cattlehand," it informs the most talkative Dust Adder. "He came from another place when the sky was falling, very wet, and fought a demon that was using stolen clay of a Union Soldier, with a big gun."
It ticks a moment. "Rifle. Other demons have been seen - self has been warning townsfolk to find priest, self, or Ambrose if Yankees are sighted."

Then, helpfully: "Priest will be in church, Sunday: much preaching is needed in town, Texas." It looks at the ruffians. "Y'all will bring your friends, children, relatives?"

Then to the one that spoke to it first, in case he doesn't know: "You have a plus plus pleasant voice."

The three thugs listen to the automaton rattle on. They don't seem to have quite fully grasped all the things it says, but the leader of the bunch does his best to sum up for the benefit of the others.

"So there's a new preacher in town, then. Yeah, I do think we ought to pay the new preacher a visit, thank you kindly." he grins that not-really-a-smile. "Oh? You like my voice, then? Well, I can't tell you just how very much your opinion means to me, thank you kindly." The sarcasm just rolls, but might be lost on the machine. "Now, why don't we all just mosey on out back to the street, and you can tell me more about this cat yer lookin' fer. Because I can help get it fer ya." he chuckles nastily, and the others, with dawning comprehension, also begin to chuckle.

The automaton is unfortunately ignorant of even the concept of sarcasm - it assumes it must be doing the right thing, though, since the nice man keeps thanking it. They must be very merry fellows, they laugh so much. Alouette wonders what they're laughing at.
"What is mosey?"

The Dust Adders begin to guffaw at this question.

"Well, to mosey is to walk around all leisurely-like." the lead one says. "Like this." He begins an exaggeratedly bow-legged walk towards the saloon doors, then pauses and waits. "Now you try it."

The tin can angel obediently moseys across the floor space like its Shetland pony just ran out from under it.

PM

[Private to Robert Micklethwait: The name "Ward" stirs a chord in your memory. It's a faint one, something about a case you were involved in a long time ago, before the war. Make a Smarts check with a +2 bonus to recall more, and tell me a bit more about your practice before you threw your lot in with the union.]

In reply to Alouette (msg #69):

The Dust Adders continue to laugh as the clank tries to imitate their leader's walk. They follow the two outside.

outside, the mewling of the kitten can be heard. The talkative man looks up, shading his eyes. "Aww...look there. That must be the kitty yer lookin' fer!"

"Hey kitty!" he says in a sing-song voice. "Here, kitty kitty kitty!"

The kitten, an orange tabby, pops its head over the top of the sign and lets out a pitiful meow.

"Hold right there, kitty! I'll git'cha!" The talky man says...then pulls his pistol and snaps off a couple of shots at the poor thing.

There's a screech of feline terror as the bullets plow into the sign facade. Shards of woods fly as it ducks back down.

"Aw, shucks!" The talky man says, still smiling that not-smile. "I missed it. Well, don't worry none, my tin can friend. I'll surely git it next time it shows itself."
This message was last edited by the player at 10:58, Thu 15 July 2010.

In reply to Gabby (msg #64):

"Won't expect such a small place to have so much going on... but as it is out of the way and hidden compared to a larger town, I can see why things are as they seem to be." Charging Bear muses as the trio head back to town.

"Well padner, it's Texas, the place so big things git lost in it...even things that'd be front page news in a smaller state."

The groups has reached the town by now...all that's left is moving through it to the Marshal's office.

"Let's move quickly through, we don't need much more attention." Charging Bear says picking up his pace.

Charging Bear, Robert Micklethwait, and Gabby pass through the town. They get a few odd looks and dark mutters from people who notice the headless Union soldier on the back of Charging Bear's horse, but aside from the fearful glances no one bothers them.

Unfortunately, when they arrive at the office, they only find a note pinned to the door:


You have no idea when he wrote the note, and you've been gone from town a couple of hours yourselves. he could be on his way, or just arriving at his destination.

[[OOC: I'll give John a day to post, before I drag him an Evans back from their jaunt to keep the story moving. Other characters might be showing up soon...the new character thread has just about run it's course, and they'll be wanting to see the Marshal, too.]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:59, Thu 15 July 2010.

The clank follows happily, talking about Dandelion as requested. At first it thinks the drawn pistol's at it, as usual, and starts to give its normal warnings on the consequences. As the shots fade, however, the machine isn't talking any more. It's very still. There's a muffled *thunk* somewhere around the word "shows".

"..."

Horse screams are worse than human ones. This scream has the same terrifying inhuman pain, but it's tempered by a vast white-hot inhuman rage, like an expletive from the mouth of God as the "angel" moves and throws itself at the shooter with all the violent grace of a plunging hawk. Brass hands held like talons find marks at throat and groin before they hit the dirt - the man's probably too distracted to notice what an awful lot of metal the thing's head is until he finds himself looking up at a heavy point a finger's width from the thin bit of the skull directly between his eyes. It seems to be frozen.

"Hail Mary..." *hsssss-tok*

In reply to The Stray (msg #75):

"Take the body to the undertaker?" Robert suggests?

[Private to GM:
11:43, Today: Robert Micklethwait rolled 14,12 using d8+2,d6+2, rerolling max with rolls of (8+4)12,(6+4)10. smarts.

14

he practiced law from 48 to 60, so about 12 years.  Since he's father was a sea captain, I figured he probably did a few cases involving maritime law, import/exports, more business type things, not so much criminal law

 ]

"I suppose so... don't expect the fellow to be moving much any more, and Evans can see him there." Charging Bear says in agreement.