Carl frowns, scouring his awareness of the world trying to make sense of that. All he could think of was that if it was a joke, it was the worst he'd ever heard, and if Jesse was the Messiah he'd plumb give up religion. The trapped thought flutters urgently, but he can't grasp it.

He backs a step at Evans' approach, and if that nets him a questioning glance as to why he doesn't trust whatever the Marshal plans, he'll pull back his duster to show his shirt sticking redly to his side where said Marshal goddamn shot him.

"oh dear." Evans mutters at the sight of the graze. He points at the long tear in his own side. "I'm dreadfully sorry about that. I had no idea those damn ricochets had hit you as well." He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can only offer to mend what I've damaged, if you'll let me. If you won't, I insist that you at least let me escort you to the new preacher, who seems fairly handy with surgical arts."

Carl watches Evans a few moments, trying to work the man out, then gives up. He holds up a hand to the Marshal like 'wait' and goes and toes Dave into looking functional, pointing porchward then across town, indicating a bonnet visor, then out ranchward. Snake coils. "?"

Dave looks up. "I...I can help. Yeah, I'll fetch Mrs. Bradshaw." he says, and pulls himself up. He's a little wobbly on his feet, but he manages to take a few steps. He gives Evans a glare as he passes the dandy, then weaves his way up the street.

Carl whistles for Dave's attention before he's out of sight, and follows up with another whistle, miming taking hold of the reins of a wandering horse and indicating his cougar-injured arm. "..."

No need to tell Dave to be careful: he'd do the best his temperment would permit, and while Carl wouldn't put it past Dave to abandon a sidesaddle rider if chased by Comanches, he was pretty certain there were few things this side of Hell that could make him leave Percy's ma. Carl turns to Evans and nods briefly, moving churchward. With any luck, the Mayor would still be over there, and maybe the stranger wouldn't need Stride.

Carl leans against a wall a moment as a precaution and coughs until he can breathe freely. No matter if Evans sees the blood. The damn yank would just put it down to the beating, and that was fine. The priest would probably know what happened to Jesse, too. Carl's not sure what he feels about that.

Dave looks at Carl when he whistles, and nods in agreement.

Evans moves in and offers his shoulder for Carl to lean on.

Dave'd bring Hoss if he saw her. That was good. The faint rales in his chest give the mute a twinge of fear - he snorts softly at that. If I were a horse, I'd shoot me. Then Evans comes entirely too close to him; Carl surpresses a moment's crazy urge to turn and bite and just looks at him, perplexed.
"?"

He gives the Marshal a shove in case the man is falling over on him, moves past and watches warily from a couple of steps away to see if there's anything direly wrong with Evans. If there isn't, he'll carry on, occasionally looking back to check whether Evans has keeled over or decided to attack him until/unless the Marshal comes alongside. Hopefully it'll be one of Pa's good days and he'll be up at the church at the alarm as well. If it wasn't, and Pa was slumped red-eyed and mostway down a bottle when a pack of slavering bronc Comanche broke in...Carl catches that thought and examines it, frowning faintly. Then it'd be their own damn fault. Why should he worry about a bunch of injuns?

Carl shakes his head slightly and heads along for the church.

"Look man, I'm trying to help!" Evans says, exasperated. "The way you're staggering about you're liable to collapse in the street! I know you don't like me. I know I've glued you to the ground, stuck you in jail, and just now accidentally shot you...I'm trying to make amends for that. I'm offering an olive branch. I'm offering a chance to walk with dignity to our destination, rather than the ignominy of having to be carried should your legs fail you. We have a common enemy. We have a common cause. let's stop fighting each other and take what assistance we can get across the aisle. What say you?"

Carl looks at Evans a while, then hands him the jammed shotgun.
"..."

It's not a fast walk by any standards, but he can still stand.

The marshal takes the gun, quizzically, but then shrugs and starts looking it over. He curses softly. "Well, that's bad. The barrel's split. It's going to need replacing. I'm sorry." He sighs and follows along. "The best I can do for you is offer to replace it. There's a salesman in town who has a large inventory...much higher quality weapons than the General Store."

Carl just nods, like of course he'll take the recommendation and go shopping at some point, sure. Evans can believe he'll be included or not as he likes.

Carl's very faintly sad about the old, chronically unreliable weapon, especially as fortune would have it it'd jammed on a split barrel rather than costing him a hand or worse, as though an object could be loyal. Ah well. Evans could carry or discard it, anyhow.

His knife worked, he still had his rope, and if someone who wasn't a Comanche found Hoss he could clean that pistol up and render it useable, not that the odds of his hitting anything that moved faster than a man at fast walking pace with it were particularly good. He'd work on maybe getting bandaged first, though. Between lack of food, sickness and bloodloss he felt curiously hollow and lightheaded.

Evans clutches the useless shotgun, apparently unwilling to relinquish it just yet. "Maybe I can make something out of the intact barrel..." he muses.

As Carl and Evans make their way toward the church, they can see trouble. People are running every which way...running away from the church in droves.

A small figure runs towards the pair. "Carl! Carl!" the little boy squeaks. "There's a riot at the church! There's witches an' gunfire an' everyone's attacking that no-good murderin' ranger!"

((OOC: It is possible to fix the gun, but it will take 1d6 hours and a Repair roll at -2 to accomplish. Since time is not on the characters' side right now, it will probably have to wait.

I'm actually going to have to knock Carl out to get him to the preacher to get treated, aren't I?))

The fluttering thought at last comes to rest: if Jesse was up, and Luke had come up, what about Charlie? but with the sight of the boy comes relief. Jesse would've been up last, so if Tim weren't et already, him'n his ma were safe. From his pa's corpse, anyway. Then the words sink in. What the hell, Ranger?

He nods to Tim and points down the street to the dark chestnut uneasily tethered nearer the church, miming the reins grab near his face and snorting.
"..."

When/if the boy goes, he'll turn to Evans, still mindful of the threat to use virtiol on further riots, indicate the spot where a star is usually pinned and point forwards with an air of urgent command. Evans had better go see what the Ranger was doing right now and make her stop it.


[[He's aware...it'd take him considerably longer on his own and doesn't have energy to spare for deadweight.

Well, he's going in the right direction...Loyal is as Loyal does. Hey, CB, you wanted to see what happens with a PC weighted for lariat skills? [points] Lookit, wrangler. Minus shotgun.]]

OOC: Nope that was Wildkitten, but I do think it is a cool thing.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:45, Wed 23 Nov 2011.

In reply to Carl Allans (msg #323):

Evans groans at the boy's words and Carl's movements and starts limping along as fast as he can manage. Tim, meanwhile, runs to corral the horse.

He does just as Carl indicated, grabbing him under the chin...but he's too small to get a good grip, and the horse bucks him, sending the boy flying into a nearby trough. {splash!}

the horse, meanwhile, trots merrily down the road, heading the exact opposite of the way Carl needed him to go...

((OOC: 09:39, Today: Tim Landers rolled 2 using 1d4, rerolling max with rolls of 2. Ride! Nope, that's not good enough for poor young Tim. he needs some training yet.))

[[Poor Tim...all right, so descriptions need a bit of clearing up here - if Stride is off directly away from Carl, he's acting completely crazy since there are big scary boomy things and lots of humans running in unpredictable ways that might get under his legs that way. On the other hand, if he's going exactly the opposite way to the way Carl needs to use him to go, he'll be trotting right towards Carl (more likely horse-psychology wise, since he knows Carl, but somehow I suspect you didn't mean that).

If he's neither going directly towards Carl nor away, nor inexplicably removed (e.g. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWA59dxKxSM) then where is he going, and are there obstacles in the way? In any event, is he in rope range?]]

In reply to Carl Allans (msg #326):

((OOC: Well...I'll say he's heading your way. You can try to lasso him, if you so choose. I was thinking the horse was at the crossroads, though...))

The wrangler frowns as Tim gets heavily nudged into the trough up the street. Boy needed to learn to use his weight...needed to have some weight, really. He'd try to see to that. Going by Charlie's height Tim ought to be a good 5'10" given a couple years, providing he got food in him most days.

Carl takes out his vinagary handkerchief and wipes over his hands, then holds it tightly in his left fist several moments before putting it away, eyes on the wandering horse as he moves up. Stride wavers, but not quite enough to escape Carl's grab for his reins. Carl brings the beast's head down sharply and strokes over his nose left-handed, right fingers twisted in the reins just under the chin. He leans up and appears to whisper something in the animal's ear. The horse goes calm and stands placidly, like he wasn't ready to shy at all creation moments before.

Carl swings up, kicking the horse into motion before the red haze has quite cleared, and goes to check the boy's all right.


[[He will have to make life decisions, then - 'twas the direct opposite part that threw me. Och, no need to rope him if he's at a good trot this way...shift, Carl!
15 Ride, +red chippit. Hm, well I think that should cover emergency use of the Word. I must say it's somehow very satisfying to use practical folk magic in a world with real magic, tele/empathic animal bonds etc. Bucking is done with the back end, by the by.]]

Tim is picking himself out of the trough as Carl rides up. he's sputtering and coughing up water, but doesn't seem to be injured. "I'm sorry, Carl!" he pipes as the cowboy rides up. "I'll get him better next time!"

((OOC: *rimshot*

Alrighty, so I'm assuming you are, then, somewhere between the Red Eye Saloon and the Enlightened Society Lodge. As long as you're riding the horse, you have a Pace of 10 and a d8 run die, and wound penalties won't factor in to your movements. It would still take you a few rounds to get from where you are to the church/city hall/general ruckus area.))

Carl smiles faintly and indicates the horse. "..." Then he fishes out and flips Tim a nice silver coin, gives him a moment to catch and realise what it is, then nods towards the Red Eye, indicates going on, himself, then, looking grimmer, the church tower. "..."


[[ohh, now I'm slightly lost...you need to put the Lodge on the map, I think. Anyway, if the Red Eye's not sort of right there across the way Carl'll give the Littlest Dust Adder a lift over there. If it is, he'll tie himself in a bit and head straight churchward at a light canter, attempting to corral pedestrians and find out what the hell is going on along the way. (Cautious, yes.)]]

The boy nods and runs across the street to the saloon, leaving Carl all alone...well, alone except for Evans, who is still limping up the street.

((OOC: Yeah, that's a good idea...I have it marked on the map I have, but apparently not on the big one I posted here.))

Carl hopes he's not lying to the kid. He hitches his belt loosely to the saddle horn and winds the rope a turn about himself and it before returning the cordage to his uninjured shoulder where sogginess and friction keep it snug. Whilst he'd probably be dead before he was unable to stay in the saddle, on a less familiar horse with weird and critter-terrifying shit afoot it paid to be careful.

Carl touches heels to his mount and sets off swiftly for the church.


[[6 running for the horse.
Nope. I reasoned it'd be on one of the side streets between Main near the GB and the parallel street with the 'jail' somewhere. Heheh, Carl's going to get there to find Alouette holding Danny like it never stopped from the last time he saw it, Wildcat waving various weapons about and yelling at people, and everyone else running away...]]

Carl rides, easily passing the limping Evans. He sees the crowd before him, but there's too much confusion for him to make anything out just yet...

((OOC: Please draw an initiative card so I know where to place Carl in the next round on the Wild in the Streets thread. You'll be posting there next combat round.))

People are running everywhere. It's like a crazed retreat - a rout - or cattle set stampeding by an attack. Reflex flares his nostrils for the scent of blood and powder as he slows, though naturally even if there was a full-blown massacre up ahead he wouldn't be able to smell it for the rain.

At first Carl tries to dam the tide enough to get some sense out of someone, turning his mount side-on in the path of fleeing pedestrians, but that just causes them to dart around him and makes Stride nervous, so he switches to urging the horse straight on towards the source of the trouble as fast as he can make headway.

[[Righto. Next post thattaway... init: JD]]

This thread is closed. Continue posting on the "Wild in the Streets" Thread.