Night, April 9th, 1879. At the Old Church

Some mood music

Father O'Rourke stood, finally finished. It had taken him all afternoon, and much of the evening, to get the place in order, but now the old church was finally cleaned, and looked like a place or worship again.

The door creaked open, and O'Rourke felt his hand slipping to his gunbelt out of instinct. He hated the instinct, but the last father here had vanished under mysterious circumstances, and he had no desire to have the same happen to him.

There was a man in dusty clothes, with long hair and a slight overbite. O'Rourke recognized him...he'd been with that Nathanial Frost figure at the Grand Bull this morning, making threats.

O'Rourke was on his guard, but something about the man's demeanor sugeested that he wasn't looking to make trouble.

"Yes, my child? How may I help you?" he asked, guardedly.

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned." The man said, taking off his hat as he took a few tentative steps into the church. "And I am in need of confession."

O'Rourke nodded. "Come this was, son."

He led the man to a makeshift confessional, and took his place.

"Again, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." The man began, "Quite a lot. And it never really bothered me before, you know? But today I saw what was waiting for me. Today I almost died, and I felt myself slipping down into the fires of Hell. I swear, I could feel them licking at my boots when all of a sudden something swept down from above and carried me away. It was like an angel...and then I awoke, and I realized that I had better square myself with Jesus, or the next time I fall, there won't be no one there to catch me."

O'Rourke frowned. Angel? That sounded an awful lot like the clank..."Please, continue." He said, reserving judgment.

"Well, you see, it's like this..."

---

Night, April 9th, 1879. Outside the Oriental Theater

Some mood music

Luke crawled. It hurt to move...the bastard had plugged him good. Not good enough to kill him...at least not yet. But he didn't much like his chances without a doctor.

"Bastard. I'll get him for this." He muttered to himself as he hid under the boardwalk. When things quieted down, he crawled again. This time he tried to make it towards the back door of the theater.

There was supposed to be a show tonight, he remembered. Maybe the production was still around...maybe they'd be willing to help him.

He knocked on the door.

"I told you...our production is canceled! Didn't you hear me before?" Come a gruff voice from behind the door. "Go away!"

"Please...I've been hit...please help me..." Luke pleaded.

"Horace," came a soft, velvet voice. "Don't be rude. Open the door."

"Yes ma'am." came a grudging reply, and a lock clicked.

The door cracked open. Luke peered inside, but all he could see was darkness.

"Oh, look at you. You poor thing." Came the soft voice again. It slipped into his ears and crept down his spine, raising the hairs on his skin. He shivered in delight. "Look at all that...blood."

"Please, ma'am...I done been shot...please help me."

"Of course. Of course I will." The voice said. He could see a figure, long and slender, and he knew it went with the voice. "Horace, please assist the gentleman inside."

A pair of rough hands grabbed Luke's wrists. He was pulled into the darkness beyond the threshold.

The door closed. A lock clicked.

There was a brief scream.

And then all was silence.

---

Morning, April 10th, 1879. Victoria, Texas

Jericho Cantrell stepped off the train platform, used the restroom, had a quick meal at a dingy saloon, then made his way to the stagecoach station.

He stepped up to the counter.

"Well, hello there, my fine Negro friend! What can i do for you today?" the ticket taker asked Jericho. The large man resisted the urge to punch the man for the comment.

Instead, he just stated his business. "When is the next stage for Blackthorn?" he asked in a deep baritone.

"Blackthorn?" the ticket taker asked, surprised. "Didn't think we were still running stages to Blackthorn. Hold on and let me check."

The ticket taker vanished, and Jericho learned against the wall. While he waited, he pulled out a few of the posters he kept in a satchel under his arm, studying the sketches there, committing them to memory once more. He also reviewed the telegram he'd received yesterday. Yup. Blackthorn. He'd never heard of the place, and not a lot of other folks had, either. But it was worth a look, if this tip-off was anything to go by.

"Ah! Here we are sir! You're in luck, the next stage leaves in 20 minutes. Should be there by late afternoon or early evening. How many tickets you want?"

"Just one, please." Jericho rumbled.

He bought his ticket.

He wasn't the only one.

Morning, April 10th, 1879. The Grand Bull Saloon

The night was long, and for some, unpleasant. But the cock crowed in the morning, and the day began to shine.

Down in the Grand Bull Saloon, all was quiet. None of the regulars were about, and aside from Roland and Audrey the waitress, the place was quiet. Everything had been picked up, but a window was still busted, and there was still half a table protruding from the rear wall.

Still, Roland has a smile as his guests begin to find their way downstairs for breakfast. "Hello! And what can I make for you, my friends?"

[[OOC: Post your morning rituals and get settled in to the new thread. [Private to Wildcat Hawkins: Expect a PM on you Night Terrors sometime later today.] Once everyone's made a post, I'll get this ball rolling!]]

The Ranger made her way into the saloon from the (free) rented room not looking quite as put together as she had before.  She had left the duster and Stetson behind for the moment and her hair was going every which direction.  Her eyes were drawn tight and beady.  She looks like she slept in her clothes and walks like some of the dead people the others had seen around town lately, only more corpse like.

"Whiskey."  Kat answers, looking like death warmed over and sounding like a surly baritone, her tone indicating the listener should either give her whiskey or go crawl into a corner and die.  Her gloves were tucked into her gunbelt.

Robert wakes with a jaw-cracking and wince indusing yawn.  He starts to rub his chin then flinches.  "Damn.  I hate not shaving."  He pulls on his boots and his spare shirt, picking up his dusty and bloody one from the night before, and heads down to breakfast.

"A big steak, rare.  And where is a laundry?" he asks Roland and he moves to Wildcat's table.  "Join you miss?" he asks.

Wildcat looks at Robert and says nothing as of yet, but Robert gets a better look at her from this distance and can see why she wouldn't.  She looks terrible.  Her eyes have heavy bags under them, and it's apparent if she slept last night, she didn't do a very good job of it.  The work blouse she wears isn't quite buttoned right either; the third button is somehow in the second hole and the first and third buttons are somehow loose.

Robert continues to move towards the table, "Or perhaps you prefer to dine alone?"

"Mreagh." Wildcat lets out an indeterminate grunt but pushes the chair out with her foot.

Roland, diplomatically, says nothing about the lady's choice of beverages so early in the morning, and only cocks an eyebrow at the gentleman's request for steak. "Would you like a garnish of hashbrowns and eggs with that, Mr. Micklethwait?" he asks as he brings Wildcat's whiskey. "And that would be the Robertsons, near the edge of town." he helpfully provides directions.

Wildcat takes the shot, and it instantly improves her mood even if she still looks terrible.  "Yer a gentleman and a scholar, barkeep."

Looking down at her misbuttoned shirt, she laughs.  "Seems I can't even dress myself Mr. Mickle-Fwate."

[Private to The Stray: Not going to say much more unless Robert or an NPC asks a question or something.  Evans is my first target but I'm letting everyone else make their "Folgers" post first.]

"Hmm, alright, that sounds good.  And coffee." Robert holds up two fingers.

Robert considers correcting Wildcat, then decides to wait for her to be more pulled together.  "I've had a few mornings like that m'self.  The hair of the dog can help."

OOC: is evan's in the room?  If so, Robert will motion him over.

In a quiet voice, he says, "Something came up last night.  I was back at the site of my shooting, and there was a body missing.  A blood trail led under the boardwalk, but no body was there, and I couldn't tell where he went after that.  We might have a wounded man in town.  Could be a danger to any of us or the citizens, or an opportunity to get some information.  But we need a tracker, and fast."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:46, Fri 10 Sept 2010.

Eavans walks down stairs. Though he's in better dress and is less disheveled-looking than Wildcat, he nevertheless manages to look like he's had a rough night.

"Coffee." He mumbles to Roland.

He's not in his seat a minute when Robert mentions their latest problem. "Oh. Wonderful. Look, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some breakfast before I deal with the raft of today's problems. If your wounded man is smart, he'll skip town and we won't have to worry about him. If he's holing up somewhere, then he's probably not going anywhere in the time it takes for me to have a cup of coffee and a platter of hashbrowns. And if he decides to be stupid and come to us, well, I'd like to have a little caffeine in my system before the shooting starts."

Robert shrugges.  "Fine by me.  I'm still waiting on my steak."

Robert leans back in his chair.  WHen his coffee arrives he adds a dollop of whiskey and sips it with pleasure.