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Your coach was a swinging and swaying cage of the most sumptuous description - an imposing cradle on wheels. It was drawn by six handsome horses, and by the side of the driver sat the 'conductor,' the legitimate captain of the craft; for it was his business to take charge and care of the mails, baggage, express
matter, and passengers. You four were the only passengers this trip. You sat on the back seat, inside. About all the rest of the coach was full of mail bags - for you had three days' delayed mail with you. Almost touching your knees, a perpendicular wall of mail matter rose up to the roof. There was a great pile of it strapped on top of the stage, and both the fore and hind boots were full. You had twenty-seven hundred pounds of it aboard, the driver said - 'a little for Brigham, and Carson, and 'Frisco, but the heft of it for the Injuns, which is powerful troublesome 'thout they get plenty truck to read.' But as he just then got up a fearful convulsion of his countenance which was suggestive of a wink being swallowed by an earthquake, you guessed that his remark was intended to be facetious , and to mean that we would unload the most of our mail matter somewhere on the Plains and leave it to the Indians, or whosoever wanted it.
You changed horses every ten miles, all day long, and fairly flew over the hard, level road. We jumped out and stretched our legs every time the coach stopped, and so the night found us still vivacious and unfatigued.
One of the first passengers on board, Darvin tipped his hat to the driver as he got into the stage coach. He was wearing a white suit with tan pipping. A rifle case accompanies him, and a pistol on his hip.
As people get on, he gives a nod, and tips his hat.
A fair ways on to Dead Mule--out in the emptiness of the Plains--a man is standing, or so it looks from a distance when the coach first spies him. He's a tall, lean sort of fellow, with what could be a musket propped alongside him against some sort of barrier. As the coach draws closer, anyone inside can make out the grisly sight in more detail: a dead horse is sprawled along the side of the road, dried blood matted against the side of its skull. Lying atop the horse is a man's corpse, dressed in ragged and trail-beaten clothes. The two form a low wall of sorts, and against this the standing man leans.
The man wears working clothing of a man on the trail--beaten trousers tucked into leather boots, a vest over a shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. A wide-brimmed hat is perched on his head, shading his lean face and black hair from the sun. A thin beard shadows its way over his jawline, and as the coach draws near he looks up with dark eyes and a lopsided attempt at a grin. He waves, and as the coach slows he pushes himself forward from the corpses and steps up to the driver and captain. At this distance his armament is visible--the object against the corpses is indeed a Springfield rifle, and three Colt Army model revolvers hang in holsters on belts around his hips, accompanied by a long knife on one thigh.
The man peers up at the coach's crew and hooks a thumb at the corpse. "Room for two more? I'm headed for Dead Mule." He waits for the answer and frowns. "Just one, huh? Well, if that isn't my luck..." His accent is mostly the usual for this region, although tinged with something foreign. He turns to regard the corpses and half-turns back, squinting up from under the hat. "I don't suppose you and your other passengers would care for a half-baked rotting head joining me on the journey?"
With a sigh, he pats his hands free of some dust and retrieves his rifle from the mound, then returns to the coach. "Given the choice between fifty-five good American dollars, and his life, let no man claim Nikomedos Xanthapolous would choose the former." With that he passes the rifle up to the captain and clambers inside with the other passengers, giving them a slight tip of his hat in greeting as he does so.
"Well now, mon'ami. I cain't exactly say I'd enjoy riden' wit' a rottin' corpse. No sirree, cain't say that at all. Reckon I might make do with t'e head hangin' off de back of ta wagon, I guarrontee." The man's accent is heavily Creole mixed with Southern Louisiana. "T'en agayn, iff'n we be puttin' up wit' te' smell, I reckon a lesser share of te bounty might be in de wind?"
Devon had that muted look that spoke of having been in the war. He sat down across from Darvin in Dodge City. He nodded in greetings as he placed his black bag under the seat and leaned his own rifle case against the seat.
Dressed simply in a long sleeved shirt and vest he gazed out the window as the miles rolled past.
McBride, Devon McBride. No need to carry a disease vector into the coach.
"Trey rude of me, yeah?" Darven says, and tips his hat to the new comer. "Done been doin' that all over de damn place sin I got on dis here bone breakin' ta tei! I be Tarroh, Darvin Tarroh, mon ami."
Devon sighs and grabs his hat with one hand while rubbing his hand through his hair with the other. I can understand English, and I can understand French, but not so much when they're mixed.
He takes a long look at Xanthapolous, you a lawman?
Erik did his best to keep from jostling into the other passengers as the stage coach made it's way from Dodge City. "At least I shouldn't have to worry about drowning," he thought to himself as he recalled the beginning of his trip down the Ohio River until it reached the Mississippi. The 3 men hadn't said much to one another so far during the trip, mostly just comments on the weather and the flat land that passed by the window. "I wonder how much longer it will take the railway to reach this far. It certainly would make this trip easier," he commented to no one in particular. He took for granted how easy it was to travel out east.
When they suddenly stop in the middle of nowhere, he instinctively reaches down to his pistol. "I wonder why we're stopping here. Indians?" he says as he looks out the window. He raises an eyebrow at the man standing there watching carefully as he approached them. He grimaces when the man suggests he bring the head with him. "Thanks for leaving your "trophy" back there. I'll think we will do enough to smell up the coach by ourselves," he says with a grin.
"Be easier on my back, yeah!" Darvin comments, as the train is discussed. "But I hold Ma breath on dat, no! 'Course, if de train came out dis far, den dere wouldn't be as much chance for us ta make tres argent!" He taps his gun. "Far I can tell, ain't a gunsmith for hunnert mile around dis Dead Mule. Soon dere will be, an you just watch, be lined up fo miles." He grins.
"Glad to meet you, gentlemen." Niko chuckles as he takes his seat and the others discuss the ins and outs of having a corpse on board. "It's alright. The real shame is he killed the horse, but what can you do?"
Once he's settled, Niko looks up at McBride and nods. "I suppose you could say that, sir. I'm in the business of bringing wicked men to justice--or bringing justice to wicked men."
He turns to Darvin and raises an eyebrow. "You a gunsmith, then? Reckon you'll find business round here, to be sure. Maybe not from me, but a lot of folks could use a good gun at their side."
The coachman says, "Where ya headed, partna?" afterwards he collects your coach fare and slams the reigns up and down and the team starts heading in a westerly fashion again.
"Dead Mule'll do me fine," Niko says, slapping the outside of the coach. He leans back in and looks over the others. "So what brings you fellas out this way? Other than setting up shop as a gunsmith."
"I done tole you I is. An ever man can use a good gun by his side, even those what don' like 'em. Dat dere be a true damn word." The man responds with a good naturred smile. "So, you be a.. how dey say, Hunter of Bounties, Yeah? Dat be dangerous work. I get set up, you come on by my shop. I give you a discount on gettin' you gun fixed up, I don' guarontee."
Devon grabs his hat and tilts it low over his face as he wraps an arm around his rifle sheath and leans into the corner of the coach.
"I'm heading out west to try my luck at mining gold. Seems a bit more exciting than mining coal back home. Who knows, I might strike it rich and find a nice plot of land to settle on. I'm Erik Volker, by the way," Erik says as he extends his hand to shake.
The next few days go on like the ones prior, you share stories or keep tight lipped and talk about plans and lives, at round 6 the conductor would stop and set a fire and you would go to sleep but at around noon you come within sight of the town of Dead Mule.
The land around Dead Mule is arid and rough. The town itself sets in
the saddle of a low pass. Mountains rise to the west and a thumb of
mountainous hills juts to the east at Dead Mule. The countryside is
broken with many gullies and ravines. Twisted sandstone rocks rise
from the slopes and peaks of hills.
Dead Mule is built in a narrow pass that cuts through the thumb of
the Black Mountains. The land in the area is extremely rough and the
road is surrounded by high ground on both sides. Dead Mule sits in
the shelter of two jutting ridges. From these ridges, it is possible to see
most of the southern end of the pass. Little vegetation grows in the
area. except around the town itself. where a natural spring provides
water for a few trees and gardens.
Most of the buildings are wood. although there are a few adobe and
stone structures. The wooden buildings are made from rough-hewn
or unfinished logs. All the buildings have the appearance of miniature
forts. each being stoutly built to provide protection presumeably from Indian raids. Most of the buildings are continually coated with reddish-tan
dust.
At the southern end of the town is a large sign that spans the road, which is how the coach enters the town. On
the sign is printed, "Welcome to Dead Mu ... " The rest of the letters
on the sign have apparently faded out or been scraped off.
The coach master says, "Good luck! I must continue on."
Darvin steps down off the coach, grabbing his bag and rifle case. "Well now, I done paid to go to Dead Mule, not Dead Moo. But I reckon that ain't yore fault, mon ami." He chuckles, and looks around.
Niko steps out of the coach as well, and thanks the driver as he retrieves his rifle. He looks around the town, and lets out a long breath. "Yep. This is about what I figured I'd see." The bounty hunter's face is set somewhere between a grin and a frown, and his expression speaks of vague acceptance. "Shall we, gentlemen?"
Erik follows the others out of the coach and stretches before gathering his things and looking around. "Well, from the looks of the area around here, I imagine it's tough to raise cattle, so maybe Dead Mu is a good description," he says with a smile, looking at the others for a response to his witty comment.
Devon steps down and grunts half a laugh. He pulls his black bag and rifle case from the coach, and looks around and heads for the inn. Lodging, a bath, and a fresh cooked meal.
You make your way down the street and see that the hotel is the largest building in the whole town. It is two stories high
and is made of finished lumber. It has a covered boardwalk (that
connects to the Sheriff's office) and a balcony around the front.
Inside. the ground floor is a saloon and restaurant. while the second
floor has four hotel rooms. In the saloon also reception there are 6 men, four of which are playing cards, one is behind the bar and the other is at the bar. There is also a woman wiping down the tables with a cloth.
The man behind the bar looking to be in his mid-40s says, "Huhu Howdy y'all! Welcome to the High Pass Hotel and Saloon. What kein I do ya fer? I is Hugh Webster concierge and propre...er um Owner at large."
"I guarontee, I could use a room, a drink, and a bath, yah! Not in that order though, I tole you right now." Darvin says, carefully setting the rifle case next to the bar, and putting his bag down less carefully. "I got an ahnvee for some gumbo, but I done tink ya'll gonna have dat, by god. So just whatever food ya'll done got."
"Room and board sounds like a good start," Niko agrees, patting his hat against his thigh to clear off some dust. "And something strong and good to drink. Need to give a pleasant toast to the gentleman we left behind."
The owner says, "That be $1.25 per night, we done gots jackalope soup on offer with grits. If that be to y'alls satisfaction."
GM rolls
"Cain't say I heard of Jackalope Soup afore, but I never turned down a good plate o' grits."
The man collects your money for the night and he hands you your room keys. You go upstairs to freshen up and you come back downstairs again and the soup and grits are ready for you at the table.
GM Rolls
One of the men at the table playing cards says, "Would any of you gentlemen be interested in playing a hand of Faro with us? We just happen to have two seats free."
Darvin shakes his head. "No tank you, me Defan Papare always tole me don' never play cards wit' anyone you don' know who 'der Mama and Papa are. Papare lived to be 90 year ol' before he die while savin' mah nephew from a 'gator. I tink I listen his words, I might live be 90 as well. Cain't hurt, yah!" He grins.
"I can't say I know what a Jackalope is but I'm hungry enough for a warm meal I guess it doesn't matter," Erik says with a chuckle following Darvin's comment.
After getting cleaned up, Erik sits with Darvin eating. When the man mentions joining the game, he casually scans the men at the table.
"It depends on what you are wagering. I just got into town, so I'm a little light on funds," he responds.
Volker
Devin comes back down, that's so much better after a long journey.
Devin takes a look at the men around the table after a quick scan around the room. My apologies gentlemen, I've not been inclined to cards. I had heard that there was need of a doc in these parts. That's what I'm here for.
Devin settles down at another table and looks at his plate jackalope? I've not heard of such a creature. After a couple of bites, they do taste good though.
Niko retires to his room for a short time, and comes down looking mostly the same--still dressed for work and trail life, and still with three revolvers on belts about his hips. He gladly partakes in the meal, chuckling at the comments from the others--"You've never had jackalope? You've been missing out, gentlemen."--and when the gambler asks about joining, he takes only a moment to think before nodding and ambling over.
"I've got no trouble with a little Faro to pass the time. Hope you aren't planning to clear a man out of his honest work's salary, though." He chuckles and winks at those he rode with in the coach.
The man smiles and says, "If you bet all you have, you may get cleared out. By the by name's Rupert, the man to my left is James Grafton and well this one here is Clyde and the other is Mirko. The minimum bet is $1.00"
Leaving off of the game, not really interested in it, Darvin nods at the bartender. "Tarroh, Darvin Tarroh. Gunsmith. Far as I can tell, not a gunsmith for a hunerd miles around. I done thought that be a good reason to set up here. If you know anyone what needs a their guns seen to, let them know. And if you know any store fronts in town that done been shut down and need a shop set up, do tell, yah!"
Erik considers the offer momentarily and then gets up to join the game. He tips his hat at the introduction. "Erik Volker. Pleased to meet you. My companions and I just arrived on the stage coach today. You fella's been in Dead Mule long?" he says as he takes a seat. He pulls $1 from his pocket and places it on the table. Not knowing these men, he watches everyone closely to make sure no one's cheating.
Grafton says, "Well I own the Grafton Stable but my teenage son is minding the shop right now. I take care of the horses and shoe them when someone needs their horse shoed. I've been out here for awhile. When I was a teen after a stint with Scott in Mexico and some mountaining up in the Sierra Nevada, I've been here with my family a long time."
Rupert who is dealing while he has the dealing box, Grafton has the coffin, says "I like to consider Dead Mule my most permanent spot in the territory. I heard Grant is going to go against Seymour in the election. Who do you think will win?"
The other two men at the table look confused.
Niko takes a seat with a smile and a nod. "Nikomedos Xanthapolous. Most people call me Nik, or Niko." He lays a dollar on the table and takes up his hand.
It's soon apparent that Niko may be a decent bounty hunter, but he's no great gambler. As the other men chatter, the Greek's keen eyes catch Erik fiddling with his cards, but he doesn't say anything--only catches the man's eye and raises an eyebrow with a small smirk. "I've only just arrived in town, so I can't say I know much about the political state. Between the two, I'd say Grant has the more auspicious name, but that holds water about as well as a canvas sack with a hole in the bottom."
The saloon doors swing wide to admit a man with the look of someone who has seen many days in the sun. He wears a white shirt, black vest, and brown trousers. He has no spurs on his boots and a pair of worn leather gloves hang from his belt. He removes his hat as he enters and sets it on the bar next to him. He carries with him a breach-loading rifle which he sets down next to him, leaning it against the bar.
"Root beer," he says, slapping the counter. "And I'll have a plate of that jackalope stew and grits."
Rupert glints at you and says, "Grant was the hero of Vicksburg and made Lee beg for mercy."
GM Rolls
The player's card and the dealer's card get dealt out of the box or shoe and Mr. Grafton and one of the hands win the first hand doubling their money by picking the right player's card.
Rupert then says, "Make sure you are keeping an accurate thing in the coffin would ya! Let's do another hand"
The proprietor says, "Sorry son, we're plum out of root beer but we do have beer if you want."
Darvin, after being ignored by the bartender, seems to be getting upset. "Well now, I tink I will go the hell to bed for now." He mutters under his breath and stalks up the stairs to his bedroom.
"Ah, nice pick. I'm in for another hand. As far as the election, Grant is a war hero so many people know of him and sometimes that is enough to get elected," he says as he places his next bet, again watching everyone carefully.
Thank you for the stew, it's good, especially after a week in that coach. How'd the town get it's name?
Devon sits back to listen to the proprietor and ask more more questions about the town and surrounding area.
As Darvin heads up the stairs to his room, he sees a man fumbling with his key outside one of the rooms. He's wearing standard work clothes. On closer inspection, you can see that he's wearing a gun belt, with a small revolver in the holster and a hunting knife tucked into it. He tips his hat. Howdy, mister. Names Lucas.
"Tarroh, Darvin Tarroh. Be damn glad to see some not everyone here a rude damn C'est sa Couillon." Darvin says, tipping his own hat as he moves to the door next to Lucas's. "Damn bartender can Beck moi tchew, I damn guarontee. That C'est sa Couillon better never ask old Darvin to fix his damn gun, I'll file the damn firing pin down to nothin, yeah."
GM Rolls
Outside the door, you see another stage coach limp its way into the town and then stops at the livery, while some of you are playing cards.
Grafton says, "The coach from Frisco done came late, it should've gotten here a few hours ago."
GM Rolls [spoiler] G , R , , D1 , D2, Niko
The cards are played and it turns out the big winner is two of the cowpokes and Volker is able to win his money back on this hand as well, but Niko comes up short.
Erik glances over towards the door at Grafton's comment before returning his attention to the game.
"Is that common or is the coach usually on time?" he asks as the cards are dealt. "Yeah, that's better," he says as he wins his money back. "Another hand?"
"Not for me, I'm afraid," Niko says with a goodhearted chuckle. "With my losses earlier today, I can't afford to go bust playing against better gamblers than I." He pushes his chair back and watches idly between the men and the coach, sipping his beer.
Lucas laughs. Wouldn't want ta make an enemy out of you.... What're you in Dead Mule for?
Darvin pauses, his door open a few inches. "I done come up from 'Nawlins, after de war, it kind of a sad place to be. Done some askin' 'round, and found out there ain't no gunsmith within' a hunnert miles of Dead Mule. Looked at a map, and it's dead damn center where ain't no gunsmiths, so I figger' dere be some damn good work for one, yeah!"
Charlie pays for his meal, then savors every bite. "Mighty good vittles there. Mighty good." He looks around the saloon, watching the card game with half-hearted interest.