Noon arrives in Lincoln. The cool breeze from the nearby mountains stirs the dust in the street. Along the way, doors are closed and shutters drawn across windows, word of violence having apparently reached most of those who make their livelihood along the town’s main thoroughfare. Only two figures emerge from indoors. Michael Kibbee, the newspaperman, still walking with a limp, his face yellowed with healing bruises, steps onto the porch of the Assay Office, a notebook and pencil in hand. On the opposite side of the road, Father Emiliano Narvaez exits La Iglesia de San Juan Bautista, waiting to see if any might require his ministrations.

From the south, a lone coyote gives out a yipping series of barks, possibly warning some of its fellows of a nearby danger. Otherwise, Lincoln is hushed.

A heartbeat passes, and a lone figure appears at the entrance to Wilson’s Saloon: the man with the twisted foot who promised to meet Kansas Kate, were John Kinney unwilling to do so. He lights a narrow cigar, watching the vacant street as he smokes.

Kansas Kate, for her part, was leaning against a rail, taking a draw from a dipper.  That was something she was still getting used to again, being thirsty.  But right now all thoughts of existential matters were gone.

"Well, ah'd say ah was dis'pointed, but ah ain't.  Ya can't be dis'pointed when you weren't expectin' mech."


17:49, Today: Kansas Kate rolled 1,7 using d12,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 1,(6+1)7.  Agility.

With those words, she drew her Schofield, but it was obviously not to fire.  Instead, it traveled around her fingers in wholly irresponsible ways (it wasn't loaded, but she wasn't advertising that until the finale).  After a few acrobatic twirls, she popped open its action, loaded it deftly, and returned it to its holster.

Dr. Wayland, his shopping done, had returned to the street along with Kate.  He had meandered to a good vantage point across the street from Kate, from which he good keep an eye on those at the saloon, but also anyone who might try to come around her during the duel.  Not that anyone would do such a thing, of course.  Murphy's men all seemed like very upstanding, honorable sorts.  To make his purpose for being there clear, Dr. Wayland had swept back his coat.  It cleared the way for him to reach his own weapon.  Weapons.

He did not attempt to twirl or be fancy with his gatling.  It was not a thing of fancy.  It was a thing of menace.  Of threat.  At least to anyone extra who might decide they want to join the duel uninvited...

The Doctor's hand didn't hover near the weapon, in fact he seemed to be holding a few small candied somethings.  Idly popping one into his mouth.  Just a spectator.