Midday, April 11th, 1879. Blackthorn, Texas. Good Friday.

The Makeshift Jail

((Jake Lawrence, Katy Devon, Alouette))

Some mood music

The standoff at the house by the graveyard ends with Alouette. Somehow, the crazy clank managed to convince both the boys to give up. Or at least, to come back to town for questioning. Evans didn't like it, but the two dead men were adamant about not being disarmed and since Evans couldn't technically arrest them for being dead but still walking he decided the diplomatic approach would be just to take them in for questioning. He had the sinking feeling that they would have a lot to say.

To Jake and Katy, the two boys didn't look dead. Sure, the young Irish fellow had a hacking cough that would be worrying on anyone, and the hot-blooded Texan that was his partner kept rubbing his chest, and both had a pallor that could be considered "unhealthy." Alouette assured them all that they would not be in danger as long as they got fed plenty of fish.

The group managed to make it all the way back to the jail when the runner came up. "Marshal Evans! Marshal Evans!"

"Oh sweet Christ. What is it now?" Evans sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Gunfight at the Grand Bull, sir! That ranger and a couple others!" The runner gasps as he catches his breath.

Evans looks up at the heavens beseechingly, then sighs and shakes his head. "Deputy McCoy!" he says, to the rough-looking fellow who is standing there at the entrance of the jail staring at Alouette and the Texan "guest" with a mixture of shock and horror.

The deputy is still staring, open-mouthed.

"Deputy!" Evans shouts, snapping his fingers to get the man's attention. "I can see you are slightly overwhelmed here. Yes, this is who you think it is. Yes, he is back from the dead. No, I do not have time to explain any more. Now, do the duty you pinned that badge on to do and go help Ranger Hawkins at the Grand Bull. NOW!"

"And get plus plus fish," chirps the automaton.

Evans buries his face in his hands. "Yes. Get fish while you're out. Lots of fish."

The deputy, obviously out-of-sorts, just sort of nods before running towards the saloon as fast as his legs can carry him.

Evans waves the group inside. "Well, now." he says, turning to Jake and Katy. "We are surely about to have a number of new occupants for our tiny cell down stairs. I have to get it ready. Please be so kind as to take our friends here to our interrogation room and try to get some questions answered. Any questions that come to mind. I'll have more specific questions later when I've had a chance for a few drinks to wash away this day. And before you ask which room is the interrogation room...just pick one."

He stalks off downstairs to the cell, and up to the makeshift cell. He pulls out the keys. "Deputy Charging Bear." He says to the forlorn figure within. "We have developed a situation, and I need every able-bodied man I can trust. I frankly don't beleive the bounty hunter's garbage about the charges against you, but we can investigate that later. Right now, I need to know--are you willing to help?"

---

Meanwhile, at the Grand Bull Saloon

((Wildcat Hawkins))

The brawl was brief. It was brutal. Wildcat would be feeling it for a few days. But thankfully, it was all over with without any significant casualties. The two assassins had been subdued once Roland Frost, the proprietor who was limping from having his foot stomped on, tossed Wildcat the scattergun he kept underneath the bar. Now outgunned, the two had surrendered. The two patrons who had been shot weren't badly injured...just a couple of grazes.

The patrons agreed to fetch the marshal and not to lynch the pair while Wildcat got herself some decent clothes on.

She had just come down when a dark-skinned fellow in dusty trail gear carrying a pouch with the words "Pony Express" steps into the Grand Bull.

"Excuse me," he says, looking around at the bar patrons. "I have a package here for a Wildcat Hawkins?"

A dozen fingers point Wildcat out. The Pony Express man looks at her expectantly.

Wildcat was as tough as a pair of old boots and neither injury, nor fatigue, nor torture, nor starvation nor trepidation could ever so much dent the steel of her resolve, which had been forged in the hottest fires of hell itself.  Maybe the damn snake was right and Wildcat was actually a male, it would explain why Katrina realized Wildcat hadn't a lick of sense.

Katrina Hawkins however was a normal, relate-able human being who nearly pissed herself in a most unladylike manner whenever the bore of Colt's Great Equalizer was pointed in her general direction.  Somewhere under all that gruff talk and cigar smoking was the little girl the overly pious Daphne Hawkins had raised to fear the Lord and bake buttermilk chess pies.

Unfortunately the two of them had to share the same body, the same too small, bullet-ridden, saddle-rashed, bruised-and-banged up body that didn't rightly belong to a pure and uncorrupted law-dog in a just and caring universe.

Whatever the dispositions and true sexes of the three parties involved were (with the body having the most definitive argument among the three), there was one thing all agreed on:  Whiskey.  Wildcat needed to celebrate, Katrina was still horrified at the loss of her modesty, and the carcass just hurt like the Dickens.  Roland Frost was a damn good man to provide scatterguns and whiskey, the lot of them decided, as Wildcat downed her second double shot of the house blend, her Single Action Army trained on the surrendering ne'er-do-wells.

The speech of the feller with the rich complexion at first passed over Wildcat's ears, still plugged with self righteousness, self admonition for stupidity, and good old fashioned pain, but the chorus of pointing fingers was like a thousand candles in the darkness for her particularly dim cognitive state.

The cursory look at his effects and person led to a big smile, perhaps with still a little blood on her teeth where the libation had not fully worked its antiseptic magic.

"Oh feller, ya ain't rightly got no idea how happy ah might be to see ya'll.  Ya found me, Wildcat Hawkins in the flesh right presently.  Pardon the shootin' iron, it ain't fer you."

The Makeshift Jail

Jake watched the pair of would-be prisoners, noting their rather sickly look. They look like Jess and John did early on. The thought came to him without warning and caused him to shiver. As they approached the jail, Jake turned his whole upper body suddenly as though he heard something in the distance. His rosary shifted in his hand, making a gentle clanking as the beads collided. "Blasted crows," was all he muttered.

"Alright, Marshal Evans, Ms. Katy and I will watch these two and see if they're willin' to do some talkin' while you deal with whatever is happenin' at the saloon." Jake gestures for the Irish man and Texan to follow Katy into the jail. He stood outside for a moment longer, looking for something that might not actually be there.

Charging Bear sat against the back wall of his impromptu cell. He'd heard little from the outside world and looked like that was alright by him. Evans came into the room in a bit of huff and the native son stood to meet the temporary lawman.

" I'm more than willing to lend you whatever help you need Evans, thought you'd've figured that out by now."

Alouette patters into the front room of the miners' association and looks about, not straying too far from the not-technically-prisoners though it seems to trust Danny not to bite Katy at least.

"Do you have a name?" it asks the other pale fellow, genuinely curious.

In reply to Wildcat Hawkins (msg #2):

The rider takes a look around the saloon, shrugs, and says "Reckon you're right 'bout that." He strolls on over to her, pulling a large parcel from his satchel. He also pulls a pencil and a notepad. "If'n you'll just sign here, please...thanks." He hands the parcel over once she's signed. "Here you are, ma'am. Thank you for choosing Wells Fargo's Pony Express for your mail delivery needs, and I do hope you'll keep us in mind for next time."