The stagecoach rattled on down the trail, heedless of the rain. Inside, three figures huddled against the cold.

One was dressed in an immaculate gray suit and bowler hat, with a trim mustache and slicked-back hair. Though he had feigned disinterest in his surroundings all through the ride, his shifty brown eyes darted about, taking in every detail.

The second passenger was a great bear of a negro, dressed in an old Confederate cavalry jacket and black stetson, a pair of humongous LeMats sitting in the holsters of his gunbelts. He was currently showing off one of these guns, which have been heavily modified to accept a bayonet, to the last passenger.

This last passenger, dressed in a slightly too-large brown coat and a white stetson, kept notes on a notepad as the large man spoke.

"...so you see," The large man said, "The custom work wasn't all that difficult, and with the sheathes made custom, too, it isn't any slower on the draw than a normal revolver."

"Oh, yes. Very good." The dapper man broke his silence with a roll of his eyes. "But tell me, sir...why? I mean, what point does having such an ungainly weapon serve?"

"Well, first there is the intimidation factor." The large man says. "Criminals are, deep at at heart, a cowardly and superstitious lot, and being the meanest motherfucker in the room helps when you're taking down someone who doesn't want to go to his fate. And there's the practical aspects. Having a weapon that is functional both up close and at range is the whole purpose of the bayonet, and the situations I've found myself in can change in moments, requiring a rapid shift in tactics." He says, grinning as the dapper man flinches at the profanity. "But mostly, I had them done this way because of the Judges."

He leans back in his seat, waiting for someone to ask the obvious question.

As the stagecoach jounces around a curve, Eli's pencil skids across the paper.  Damned hard to write at a time like this.  Moving it back to his spot, the reporter makes a few more quick notes.  Glancing up again, he eyes the extremely ungainly pistol and its equally intimidating owner.  Pistol that heavy...bayonet...slow on the draw...  Hard to keep steady and aim...  That blade'd be hell to try and use with any precision at all...  Just alot of bark.  Much like the owner.  All his thoughts aside, Eli smilingly keeps the big fella's converation going, "The Judges?  That sounds mighty ominous.  What kinda Judge would cause you to wear a big ol' hogleg like that?"

[[OOC: Some Mood Music]]

"You mean you haven't heard of the Hangin' Judges?" He asks, then grins. "Well, then. I've got a little story to tell."

"See, back in the Sixties, there was a group of judges who were making things mighty unpleasant for the folk of Texas. They used their influence to steal land, ruin their rivals, and eliminate anyone who stood in their way to wealth. Those who opposed 'em wound up the guest of honor at a necktie party, if you catch my drift."

"Well, it weren't too long before the folks along the Chisholm Trail had enough. They rounded up the judges and strung 'em all from trees all along the Trail, as a warning to others who might be tempted to overstep their bounds."

"How savage." The dandy says. "But I'm not quite seeing the connection."

"That's 'cause my damn story ain't finished, so shut up and let me talk." The big man growls back.

"You see, the Devil decided to get involved. He offered the Judges a deal: they could escape burning in the flames of Perdition, as long as they went back out into the world to collect the souls of those who belong to him due to the weight of their sins. So back from the dead they came, with twin revolvers fitted with scythes that will never miss, never jam, and never need to be reloaded. They will appear before their target, and whisper his crimes to him as they hunt him down. They never stop hunting their target until he either turns himself in or they catch up. And if they do catch up, well, then the next day you'll find the body, strung up from the nearest tree, with his sins carved into his flesh."

"Ghastly!" The dandy cries, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. "Why would you want a constant reminder of that?"

The negro breaks out into a large grin. "Because I admire their work ethic. In my line of work, that sort of dedication to the hunt is something to aspire to."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:03, Sun 31 Oct 2010.

Eli actually lifts a brow at that story, nodding along as he listens to it.  Great story....might be a good outline for a dime novel....  A few more notes are jotted down.  A talkative, egotistical person is almost always good for a few good stories.  Sometimes abit of truth as well.  Just have to keep 'em going at full steam, to whit, "Your line of work?  And what might your line of work be?" A pause and a knowing grin, "Somehow you just don't strike me as a judge..."

In reply to Elijah Fuller (msg #4):

"Bounty Hunter, sir." The large man says. "I find people, mostly dangerous criminals, for other people. Jericho Cantrell is the name. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

[[OOC: That would be a Common Knowledge check.]]

Eli thinks for a minute on that name.  Let's it kinda roll around in his head, checking if it hits something, "I think mebbe I have heard of ya...." He trails off as he collects the few facts that come to him...


OOC - Common Knowledge 4

[[OOC: You've heard of a "Jericho Cantrell" involved in the shootout between the Texas Rangers and Sam Bass a few months ago, and a story about a black bounty hunter helping John Armstrong bring in John Wesley Hardin, who is even now rotting in jail.]]

"You the Cantrell I heard helped bring in Hardin?" inquires Eli, pushing the brim of his hat up and eyeing the bounty hunter a little differently.  Maybe he ain't just a blowhard... "That musta been some kinda fight.  I heard that bastard shot a man just for snorin' too loud."

"You heard about that?" The man grins. "Glad that news has been circulating around. It was a joint effort, though. Had to go undercover to get close enough. Then I tipped off the Rangers. We cornered him on a train bound for Pensacola...it was a deuce to keep the civilians safe. Hardin drew down on Armstrong, but get this...he got his gun tangled in his goddman  suspenders! Can you beat that? The most fearsome outlaw to ever come out of Texas, and he fumbles his draw! And that's lucky for him, because I swear Armstrong was going to kill him otherwise. Now he's doing 25 years in Huntsville prison."

Eli grins along with the fellow; the image of the fearsome Hardin with a gun stuck in his suspenders is kinda funny.  "Prison's just too good for a fella like Hardin, but I guess that's why I ain't a judge neither."  A pause, a thoughtfully curious look, "So what brings a bounty hunter of your pedigree out to a little nothin' town like Blackthorn?"

"The bounty was for his capture, not his death." Cantrell shrugs. "Couldn't collect if he was full of holes, sadly. He killed a good friend of mine, so the temptation was there...and it was there for John Armstrong, too, let me tell you. But it all worked out, and he can rot in prison 'till Judgment Day for all I care."

He shrugs at the question. "Well, there's a dearth of major outlaws running around. I'm looking for a kidnapper, a murderer, and a lady who ran away from her husband. The husband just wants his wife back, the kidnapper is wanted back East alive to stand trial...only the killer, an Indian, is wanted badly enough that they'll settle for having his corpse instead."

"Well damn....," mutters Eli, trying to sound worried and hide the fact he's actually quite happy with this news.  After all, that's just the sort of thing he was looking to stumble into.  "Sounds like a full dance card t' me.  How did such cornucopia of criminality end up in Blackthorn of all places? And how'd you pick up their trail out here?"

"Might be in Blackthorn, sir. It isn't a sure bet that any of these will have remained there, but it's a good bet they have at least passed through. Two of the names on my list were registered as passengers of the Great Southwestern Stage company, which indicates they aren't all that well versed in the way of criminality. The woman probably didn't expect her husband to be so concerned about her that he'd offer a reward for her return. The kidnapper, on the other hand, probably isn't thinking all that clearly...his little scheme was remarkably sloppy in the first place. The Indian...well, he's another story. I've had my eye on him for quite a long time. he actually served under me in the Cavalry before he turned to crime, so I make certain I keep an eye out for any and all reports of rogue redskins running around. I think I'm vey close now, but I won't know for sure until I reach Blackthorn and do some digging."

"Well, that souds terrible exciting," admits Eli, putting a hand up to steady himself against another bouncing sway of the stage, "I'd surely love to see a real bounty hunter in action.  Mind if I tag along with ya?  Can't go wrong with another pair of eyes, eh?"

"I suppose that won't be a problem." Jericho says with a grin. "As long as you don't wind up chasing them away when I get them cornered. You cause me to lose a bounty, and I won't be quite so friendly with you. You understand?"

Returning the hunter's grin, Elijah lifts a hand as though to ward off the very thought, "I'd never dream of it, Mr. Cantrell.  I'd hate t' ruin a good story."  Tucking his pencil back in a pocket, the reporter offers out a hand, "Call me Elijah.  Elijah Fuller.  Guess you could say I'm a newspaperman, though most folks'd probably just say liar."

"I suppose that depends on who you're reporting for." He replies. "Which paper do you write for?"

Keeping his proverbial cards close to his chest, Eli offers a noncommital shrug in return.  Though he does add a grin to keep it friendly, "Oh, whoever I can get to pay up at the time.  I've been printed up in the Houston Post and the Galveston County Daily, but I you always hope to get noticed by the bigger papers."  With a shrug, he admits, "Its where the money is.  Why d'ya ask, out of curiousity?"

"Well, not all papers are all that reputable. For instance, if you'd been working for a rag like the the Tombstone Epitaph, I'd feel justified joining the voices that would call you a liar. But those are good, reputable circulations. And who knows? This could be your big break!"

"Blackthorn ahead! One mile!" The driver says. "We'll stop at the Grand Bull Saloon...I'm sure y'all are hungry after our trip!"

Keeping his opinons as to the veracity of the Epitaph's claims to himself, Eli will simply offer a light chuckle and a nod of agreement, "It could very well be, Mr. Cantrell.  It could very well be."

At the driver's call, the reporter breathed a sigh of relief.  He liked to travel, but the bump and sway of a speeding stagecoach really could take it out of you.  He puts away his notepad and tries to flex his legs a bit, preparing to get back on his feet again, "Now, a little grub does sound mighty fine.  Either of you tried the fare at the Grand Bull before?"  He leaves the question open for the other passenger to join in, should he choose.  That fellow hasn't said much and Eli's always of a mind to know a bit more about everybody.

For the first time, the dapper man addresses him. "I'm afraid not. This will be my first and, hopefully, last visit to this part of Texas."

"Same here. I hope they make a good steak!" Jericho chortles.

Eli lifts an overdramatic brow at the man's words, leaning in a bit, "You best step careful when you talk about Texas, sir.  All partsa Texas are still Texas."  His lips slowly curve into a smile though, defusing the mock anger, "I suppose I'll let it slide on by for now though.  Though, I do havta ask...what would bring you all the way out to a place ya don't seem t' have too much care for anyhow?"

In reply to Elijah Fuller (msg #22):

"Indeed they are." The man replies, his tone leaving no mistake about his opinion of the rest of Texas. "And as for what brings me out here, I'm on a business trip. And since my business is none of yours, I would consider it a kindness if you do not pry further."

Elijah lifts his hands in a placating gesture, "Whoa now.  I was just tryin' t' be neighborly.  Didn't mean to "pry" into your important buisness.  No sir.  Just an overly talkative sort.  Its a Texas thing..."

"Well, I am not." he replies, and lapses back into silence.

"Entering Blackthorn city limits!" The driver shouts back.

[[OOC: Resume posting on the Chapter 8.1 thread]]