Ben cursed to himself as the loose boards made a clatter when he climbed over them. He looked around for a spot he might hide when someone came a-lookin', but nothing seemed very useful.
With a sigh he put his hands up when the musket poked through the door. "Ain't no call for gunplay. I don't mean to kick up a fuss," he said evenly.
He went inside with with the other man, sizing him up as they walked. He had the smell of a horseman about him, and moved like he knew what he was doing with that musket. Workin' stiff, Ben decided. Look on his face like he don't 'spect a man to fight dirty.
He gave the same appraising look to Kincaid and his goon when he saw them. That must be Alistair. Can't be two rich bastards in this place, Ben thought. He watched Mal coolly as well. Must've had the same idea as me. Don't like my chances of pinning a dead man on her with all these witnesses, though, not least herself. He sighed to himself as a perfectly good double-cross went down the drain.
I expect a hefty reward shared with her ain't as bad as no reward at all, he grudgingly thought. Maybe even with them goons, if we can inspire them to a change of profession, as it were. Then there's just Alistair with his tongue hangin' out to deal with. Ben grinned to himself at this optimistic view of things. Gambler, don't ever say I didn't grace you with a thought!
Mal had set her jaw at Kincaid's response. The two had stared at each other, her eyes narrow. Once one of the goons stepped out of the room, she felt pretty certain she could take both Kincaid and the remaining one, but she was curious about the noise. Besides, it weren't right to shoot someone in cold blood in his home.
A short laugh escaped Mal's lips when she saw Porter bring Ben in. She threw him a wink, and said, "Hey sugar. Was wondrin' when you might get here." The gears in her mind were working rapidly, trying to figure out what side of this thing Ben would be on. 'Rule 13. Always trust a dishonest man to do the dishonest thing.' It seemed to her likely that he'd help her through this bit, because it meant being able to double-cross her later, when the scale was tipped more towards his side. She could respect that.
She looked back at Kincaid, her smile changing ever so slightly before dissipating. While her instinct was to insult and badger him, she knew that it would just make him want to flex his muscle in front of his boys. "Medicine." she said simply. "Was takin' it out to Dry City. Fancy gnome hired me, name of Vincente."
Her eyes flicked between Kincaid and his men, but not over to Ben.
"Didn't mean t'be late. Had a hand o' cards to play with the Sheriff," Ben answered Mal with a slight nod, but he kept his eyes on Kincaid and his goons.
William grimaced as he saw the man trying to sneak around the back lot. 'Least he don't seem to be lookin' fer a fight,' he thought as the man put up his hands.
"C'mon," he said as he motioned the man to go through the door, then followed the man inside, musket trained on him the whole way, "And no funny business, awlright? Mr. Kincaid ain't a good mood."
---
Back indoors, William lead him to a seat near the lady. "Found this one skulking 'round back, sir," he said as he motioned for the man to sit. "Came quietly at least."
He stepped back, still keeping an eye on the man, but had his musket relaxed in his hands as he continued listening in on the conversation between Kincaid and the lady. He startled when he heard the lady mention Vincente. He was supposed to meet the gnome here for a job, but he'd been late. Then Kincaid had roped him into being a bodyguard not soon after.
"You know Vincente?" he blurted out, then immediately shrank back sheepishly as he realized that he'd just drawn attention to himself with the outburst.
Kincaid looks genuinely surprised. "The medicine?" He lets out a loud guffaw and then smiles condescendingly at Mal.
"You know you gunslingers amuse me to no end. You know the saying right? 'Gunslingers shoot gold from the hip?' Seriously, how much does a bullet cost you to make? 50 silvers? How many people could you clothe and feed with what you're carrying in your bandolier right now?" he asked rhetorically.
"No such thing as a rich gunslinger. Just the dead, the stupid and the desperate. Vincente didn't have the kind of money to buy that medicine. It was my property. Me and Vicente had a deal. And the medicine was payment for services pending. But then that damned fool done went and got himself deceased."
"So being the proper business man that I am, I'm taking my payment back."
Mal looked at the goon for a long while, before speaking, trying to gauge what he might have wanted with the dwarf. "Knew." she corrected quietly, finally breaking the silence. "He didn't make it."
Turning back towards Kincaid, Mal initially stiffened at his words, but then relaxed some, her fingers still keeping close to her gun. You know, just in case. "Yer right." She replied, shaking her head. "We 'Slingers are used to goin' without."
"But that learns us right quick the real value of things. You damned rich kids, thinkin' you're better'n everyone because of what you can buy. But what can you actually do your own self?" She looked with almost pity as she said that. The look of someone who knew exactly what their limitations were, because she had pushed them all as far as they could go, and had survived, and you poor boy, you don't know what trouble is, you don't even know who you are. "From the look of that girl back yonder, you ain't nothin' more than a petty thug. Takes a real tough man, beat up on a little girl like that, don't it? Same kind of tough man that would view medicine for sick children as 'payment' to be taken back on a whim, I reckon."
She grinned at the henchmen. "Don't get too comfortable, boys. Your employer might decide to pay someone else, have you killed at the slightest wrong move. Because he thinks he's better than you. He thinks you keep his hands clean." She looked back at Kincaid, her eyes set, and her voice determined. "But he's wrong. Look here, boy. You can justify it to your ownself however you like. Ain't no matter to me. And maybe I ain't proper or learned as you are. But see, from where I stand, with nothing to my name but a battered pistol and the trail of blood behind it, it seems quite simple, even for someone not proper or learned: The medicine is needed in Dry City, so that's where it's going."
Ben had to admit - Mal had a way with words. More to the point, she had the right of it about that medicine. It was goin' where it would score them the heftiest profit, not into the pocket of some rich idiot who didn't even realize he was outnumbered when he had two 'slingers against him, no matter how many goons he had. Sure, there was the guy with the musket, but he didn't look entirely convinced he wanted to die for a man like Kincaid. In any case, now Kincaid had a 'slinger on either side, and the musket-man hadn't bothered to disarm Ben.
Savin' a bunch of kids in Dry City wouldn't hurt none, either. Ben could use all the good feelin' toward him that he could get, and more. 'Sides, he wasn't one to let kids die if it didn't cost him much to help, though he'd never admit it in a million years.
Ben lounged in his chair, seemingly at ease, but he was ready to spring at a moment's notice. All that time among elves had to come in handy sometime, he supposed. He kept one hand on his weird-looking pistol, remembering what real threat sounded like and looking on this rich thug with airs with a faint smile of contempt.
"Best listen to her, Kincaid. Think of them poor children. Man that let 'em die is gonna gain a reputation among the... finer folk. Have a hard time doin' business with 'em when they're lookin' down their nose at you." 'Cause you're in your grave, he added to himself with a smirk.
"Oh. That's a shame," he said quietly. Although he didn't know the dwarf outside of an incomplete contract correspondence, William was sad to hear that his potential employer had died on his way here. And from the sounds of things, Mr. Kincaid was now reneging on a business deal they had even though the obvious successor was sitting in front of them.
He frowned and unconsciously started rubbing the hammer of his flintlock with his thumb, a nervous tick of his. He was starting to like his own deal with this shifty man less and less. What's to say Kincaid wouldn't back out at the last second with him too.
Kincaid's jaw tightened.
"That some sort of threat, girly?" he asks with a scoff. "You know, the two of you are starting to work my last nerve. But like I said, business is business. You want the medicine? Fine. I'll give you the same deal I had with Vincente."
He leaned forward in his chair.
"In other words, you work for me." He smiled viciously. "Actually, make that the two of you, and those pissant gnomes that were clinging to your skirt tails, earlier."
"Get 'em back here in an hour. Or I swear to all the Gods without Names, I will burn that medicine. And I'll do it just to see the look on your face. "
His eyes narrowed.
"I'll do it just because you should mind your manners when talking to your betters. Now the two of you spent an awful lot of time talking about the kind of man I am. Well, ask yourself this -- am I the kind of man who'd burn it, just for the hell of it?"
Kincaid leaned back and took a shot of whiskey.
"Now go on. Get. We're done here."
"Boy, you torch that medicine, it'll be the last thing you ever do," Ben growled. He wasn't about to play lackey to some two-bit thug. Once you got caught in that kind of work, it had a way of pulling you deeper. If he had a read on Mal, she wouldn't put up with it either. He stood and drew his pistol nice and easy, not pointing it anywhere... yet.
"We've been real reasonable up 'til now, tried to show you the right thing to do. But we faced Scalpin' Jack and took him down. You think we're about to bow in the dust to you? Maybe you ought to be considerin' if your boys can take us down before we fill you full of lead and steel. I'm gonna ask again, nice and slow so you'll understand it. Where is the medicine?"
Mallory narrows her eyes. She can't be sure if Kincaid really would torch the medicine just to spite them, but knows enough that she doesn't want to find out for sure. Seeing the two poor saps on either side of Kincaid, she's also fairly certain that she doesn't want to work for him. When Ben speaks up, she's about to open her mouth to say such. Hearing him causes relief to sweep through her. Much as she may not like the boy, it made the odds a bit more manageable to not have to take him down, too.
She nods, confirming what Ben says. "Ain't heard of many people survive a run-in with Scalpin' Jack, and he ain't survive a run-in with us. Expectin' you're awful close to standin' on the wrong side of me, Kincaid." Her hand starts to go for her pistol, as her eyes narrows further. "I ain't some barmaid gonna be beat on by you, and I ain't some boy you can order around like a dog. And I'm damned sure not workin' with no gnomes again. Now you best answer Mr. Dalton here before we stop askin' nice."
Sweat beads on Kincaid’s brow, and the hand holding his empty shot glass, rattled against the table slightly.
Mr. Gulch smiles at you pleasantly.
“Very well.”
Kincaid turns his head violently in Mr. Gulch’s direction. “What?! But that money is supposed to—”
“Surely,” he said, interrupting Kincaid’s objection, “we can make an exception for the fine men and women who saved your life. I’m sure your father would be most accommodating.”
“But what about—”
“Must I repeat myself, Alistair,” he said with quiet steel in his voice.
Alistair says nothing.
“I feel I must apologize for my associate here. He is young, and brash, and not at all accustomed to proper diplomacy.”
“However, he does raise a legitimate point in that we now find ourselves with a task, we are woefully under-prepared to undertake. An expedition, with not a small amount of risk, I must admit, but that will pay quite handsomely. Say, 50 platinum. Each.”
“Ah, I see you are still somewhat reluctant to work with Little Alistair, here. Very well then, in that case, I can assure you that your employer will in fact be myself. And I can even guarantee my associate here will behave.”
He turned to Kincaid.
“Won’t you?” he asked in a pleasant tone. Alistair nodded mutely. Mr. Gulch smiles at Ben and Mal.
“There, aren’t I more pleasant to work with?”
Ben still wasn't keen on the idea of working for hire, but the offer of 50 platinum was enough to keep him from shooting. That coin would go down awful sweet, it was true. Eyeing Mr.Gulch with new interest, he revised his opinion of the man. Would it pay to get mixed up with his kind, or would it just mean more trouble down the line?
"I came a bit late for introductions. Who are you, and just what is this task you're talkin' about? Fifty coin don't seem like a lot of pay for genuine heroes," he scoffed. "Besides, there's a train waitin' to take me and that medicine to Dry City."
"Oh, yes, how rude of me. I am Mr. Gulch. An associate of Alistair's father, Sinclair Kincaid."
Now that they're taking a good look at him, Mal and Ben notice that Mr. Gulch has green ophidian eyes, like a rattlesnake.
"And it just so happens that the job is in Dry City. But I understand if you have other more lucrative engagements. Still, no need to decide today. We won't be reaching our destination until tomorrow morning."
'Stupid, stupid girl.' Mallory thinks, fighting the urge to slap herself. 'Of course Alistair isn't the one in charge. You knew his father was the rich one.' She closes her eyes, seemingly in pain, and opens them, looking at Mr. Gulch in a new light.
Completely ignoring Alistair at this point, Mallory looks Mr. Gulch up and down, and her hand relaxes away from her gun. Whatever else could be said about him, she was fairly sure that he wasn't going to shoot them. She takes a few seconds to consider his offer, thinking it too generous. Any man who was willing to pay out that much had something to hide, or something unpleasant to be done. Ultimately it may be that he was less trustworthy than even Alistair had seemed. In the end, she simply gave a shrug. "Got rules." she says simply. "Gotta know the job up front."
"Smart woman," he replies. "I can give you the details on the train, and you can make your decision then. No pressure."
"You seem mighty reasonable about all this, unlike your friend there. Tell you what, I'll consider the job once you tell us what it's all about." Getting mixed up with men who'd associate with Kincaid rubbed Ben the wrong way, but 50 platinum was 50 platinum, and that was worth a listen... even if Mr.Gulch no doubt had some plan to coerce their help. He struck Ben as the kind of man used to getting his way, and not the way Kincaid was. A dangerous man, not a fool. "I'll consider it even harder if you get your boy there to carry the medicine on down to the train for us." he nodded at Porter. That way he'd have his hands free in case there was a double-cross hanging in the air.
William grunted. 'Why do Ah always hafta carry the heavy stuff?' He didn't say that out loud of course. He was a courier after all, this kind of thing came with the territory. He allowed himself to relax though as it seems the tense situation had mostly resolved itself and all that was left was the bargaining.
Even better, it looked like Mr. Gulch would be the handler for the mission instead of Alistair. He didn't know much about the man -Mr. Gulch mostly kept to himself and let Alistair do the talking- but but he couldn't be much worse than the other man.
Mr. Gulch nods and Ben and Mal leave.
"Mr. Porter," Gulch calls out. "Our deal has not changed. But you will be working with these - heroes, instead of Vincente Ironsights," he said, smiling as he paused.
"And do not concern yourself with the cargo. We can easily hire less important people for that."
***
When the heroes arrive at the station there is a somber atmosphere as passengers await beside pinebox caskets, marked with the symbol of the Hangman and various other deities.
Many of the passengers are giving the heroes a wide berth, treating you as something otherworldly. Legends fit for dime novels but made of flesh and blood and walking amongst them.
Hamish approaches you wearing his Conductor uniform. It looks to be a size too big for him. And despite the grim serious look on his face, you're reminded once again of just how young he is. He thanks you all, and then shakes your hand, taking a moment longer with Leland and Loveless. He gives them a nearly imperceptible nod of gratefulness.
He makes a point of informing you that your tickets have been upgraded to First Class. And at first that is good news. But then you realize that no one aside from Alistair survived being in first class. And you share an entire Car with only him, Mr. Gulch and Porter.
Finally, Hamish nods at a younger gnome and moves toward the front of the train to the Engine. The small gnome with bubblegum pink hair pulls a string and the loud call of the steam whistle rattles your eardrums.
"All aboard!" she screams.
Mallory steps outside the Blue Rose, happy to be doing so despite how grim things had looked from within its blue double-doors. Shooting a glare at the clear sky, she pulled the brim of her hat down, and turned to see if Ben was following her.
Her eyes stepped haphazardly over him, looking all at once like they were trying to understand him, decide if he was a threat, and come up with a gold equivalent to what he was worth. It was clear that he was dangerous, but the extent of which was up in the air.
Still, he had gotten this far, and it seemed as though he could handle himself. And she should get to know him if they'd be working together. The idea left her feeling conflicted, though she was not sure why. [b]"What do you reckon, boy?" she asked noncommittally, before spitting on the ground as though she didn't care what he had to say on the matter.
Ben stood to one side of the doors, lighting a cigarette before deigning to answer Mal with it jutting from his lip. "I reckon it's just as well it didn't come to shootin' in there. I hear Kincaid's daddy ain't like his son. I don't need no extra trouble in Dry City." He let that statement stand as his answer - he didn't want to get mixed up in Mr. Gulch's business. He was a cold-blooded snake, that one - didn't even blink with two 'slingers threatening to take him down. Men like that had a way of making their trouble yours. Ben had plenty of trouble on his tail already.
He sighed and looked out at the hot sunlight beyond the covered entrance. Where was a nice easy claim jumpin' you could keep to yourself these days? 'Course, jumpin' and rustlin' was easier with a little help. He eyed Mal sideways. She had a temper, and no mistake. Maybe it wasn't too late to make a profit and pin the trouble on her.
He smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "First things first. Let's see about that medicine and hear Mr. Gulch out." Lowering his voice, he added, "You ain't a bad shot, girl. What I reckon is that whatever needs doin' in Dry City, it'd go easier with another 'slinger." Tipping his hat down over his eyes as he stepped out into the sunlight, he nodded to Mal. "See you on the train."
***
Ben couldn't entirely hide his grimace when he saw the gnomes getting on the train with them - it manifested in narrowed eyes and clenched teeth. Leland wasn't so bad, but he had half a mind to tie the Doctor to the roof. He busied himself rolling another cigarette and wondering how that sad sack of a man Alistair Kincaid could have survived Scalping Jack's attack. Probably played dead, he thought, eyeing the man suspiciously. Suspicion was an old, dear friend to Ben. It had kept him wary at times that had saved his life. He mused a bit on it in silence as he lit his new cigarette and let the smoke drift upward.
"Ain't seen nothin' like 'im before." Mal mutters mostly to herself, clearly somewhat disconcerted. Ben's response said it all, though - They were hired hands. They did a job, and then they got paid. Asking questions would only lead to trouble. Mr. Gulch did not seem exactly the type to reward curiosity. She remembers her own set of rules, and buries her questions down deep where they won't trouble her.
It's clear what he asked with his next statement. He wants her to back him up. 'Fool's already decided to take the job.' She thinks with surprise. Still, she has to agree that having another slinger along would be safer. Well, safe as can be given the circumstances. She reckons that she still can't trust him, but somehow that was easier. It was those you trusted that always hurt you, let you down.
She also reckons that Ben don't trust Kincaid or Gulch any more than she does. It still left the most important question unanswered, though: 'If it came to it, which of us would he side with?' She needed that answer if they were going to work together. 'Gettin' ahead of yerself, lass.' she thinks, forcing herself to slow down.
"Depends... on the job." She replies somewhat evasively, unsure of what to expect in a response. But he doesn't give one, just tips his hat and begins to stride off. She watches him go for a few seconds, thinking it was possible that there was more to Ben Dalton than she had first suspected.
With a frown, she turns and strides off towards the Apothecary, to get her free potion, hoping that this train ride might be less eventful than the last. Or at the very least, more lucrative.
Loveless holds the glass tube up to peer through it at the light, swirling its contents around. "Yes, that'll do nicely. I'll also need fifty minims of twiddleberry root extract and six ounce troy of sal mirabilis, if you'd be so kind."
The bell over the door tinkles behind him, and the gnome glances over his shoulder to see Mal entering. He eyes her up and down with a face befitting a poker game.
Albeit a very tired-looking face, as if he hadn't slept for nights on end.
"Oh, and four scruples of anhydrous solvent in two vacuum-locked phials as well," he adds as he turns back to the counter.
He watches with interest as the chemist works, aware the 'slinger had come to the counter... as far from him as was physically possible in the small apothecary shop.
After an extended silence broken only by the clinking of the chemist's glassware, Doc clears his throat while still watching the preparation of his purchases.
"While I don't necessarily approve of your methods -- shooting the glass out of our compartment door, for example -- I must acknowledge their effectiveness," he says coolly.
"You also displayed a great deal of skill with that firearm," he continues after a brief pause, finally looking over at her and tipping his head in the direction of her weapon. "I dare say we'd've had a much harder go of it had you not been involved."
He returns his gaze to the chemist. "Things were far too hectic for proper introductions before. Loveless. Doctor Miguelito Loveless. Is there a name you go by?"
'Of course.' Mallory thinks as she enters the small and dimly lit shop and sees the gnome standing at the counter, looking at her. 'Iffin I didn't know better, I'd think the fella's been waitin' on me.' She thinks with a grimace.
As she approaches the counter and hears the gnome order even more things, she feels a twinge of annoyance seep through her. It crosses her mind that she could probably get her own order filled faster if she just killed him.
The idle thought became a strong desire quickly, when he called her methods into question. She narrowed her eyes, and didn't open them back up while he continued talking, apparently trying to butter her up too little too late. 'Boy talks as if he gets paid by the letter.' She thought with a glare.
She had the impression that, despite it seeming like he didn't know what to say, that he meant well, and for some reason that annoyed her even more. "Mallory." She replied almost curtly, and then nodded to the chemist. "Speaking of methods, I reckon you might be wantin' to avoid anything goes 'boom'. Might be a person tryin' to help you blow up next time, 'stead of a steel dog."
Doc stiffens momentarily at the mention of Leland's construct. Looking straight ahead almost as if staring through the far wall he replies, "Yes, that was... unfortunate. Though I did caution him beforehand."
He removes a glove long enough to dig some coins out of a pocket and drop them on the counter. Nodding his thanks to the apothecary, he accepts the bag of ingredients and hops down from the doctor's bag on which he'd been standing.
"Too, I had something of an epiphany while getting the train back under control, and believe I can avoid that sort of thing happening again."
"Mostly," he mutters quietly to himself.
"At any rate, Miss Mallory," he says as he stuffs his purchases into the medical bag and lifts it from the floor, "let us hope the remainder of our journey will be less... eventful, rendering your suggestion moot."
"Because," he says as he pauses at the door, turning to address her with a smile, "you of all people should know: The very nicest toys are the ones that go 'bang'!"
With that, he tips his hat at her and turns to leave.
Mallory can't help but grin and shake her head in response to the doctor's assessment. Still, she'll be more pleased to not have to deal with him again. It was enough to have to deal with Ben, while trying to unravel Gulch's plans for them. Throwing gnomes into the mix was sure to make it much more... She looked at the chemist as he worked, and groped for the word... Bitter.
Recalling something else that had bothered her about the gnome, she turned after Loveless, deciding that they weren't friends, or colleagues, and that she was free to poke him and see what happened. "Hey Doc, one last thing." She began. "That lady from the train. Miss Wen. You know where I can find her? Ain't much partial to half-breeds, but reckon there's something soft 'bout her, even if she don't seem the type to hero-worship those put down Scalpin' Jack."
Doc stops, door opened, gloved hand still on the knob. Staring unmoving at the sun-drenched street he replies levelly, "Not offhand, but there can only be so many lodging places in this town. Given her harrowing experience, if you're lucky she's still in bed."
He turns to look at her again. "And no need to explain your distaste for 'half-breeds.' I feel the same way about tallfolk in general," he says dryly as he pulls the door closed behind him.
Mallory glares at the door as it closes, wondering who that gnome thought he was. "Experience was harrowing for all of us." she mutters. "Don't see me cryin' o'er it." For a moment she finds herself hating Jade for not being there with them during the fight. The girl may have saved lives, but she was only delaying the inevitable. If Scalping Jack hadn't been put down, he'd have just killed them all anyway. Mallory and Ben had done the real work. The Hangman's work. The anger changes directions, focusing now on the Doc, for implying that she would take advantage of the damaged girl. That quickly passes, though, leaving her angry with herself, for realising that she absolutely would have.
Standing in the shop, Mallory thinks back days prior to the last girl, Kejal, noting that it already felt like a lifetime ago. She knew she'd forget her, like she'd forgotten all the men and women before. But in this moment, it was recent enough that she could remember the details. The girl's dark skin, how she had smelled, what it had been like. The memory blended with her imagination, and Mallory unwillingly considered Kejal's reaction upon waking up and finding that the woman she'd slept with had stolen her ticket to a better life. Mal let out a grunt, thinking that if she hadn't, all those people on the train might be dead, and didn't that justify it? Didn't that balance the scales? One girl's future for that of a dozen others or more.
She tells herself that it's how things are. It's the way of things out here. The world is hard, and you have to be, too. As she repeats it to herself, she realises both how easy it is to believe, and how important it is. It occurs to her that the day she stops believing it, is the day that Death finally catches up with her. While a thought that sometimes brings her comfort, knowing that the pain and hardship will end, this time it has the opposite effect. Mal suddenly finds that she no longer wants Jade, and just wants to get the hell out of town, and furiously slams her fist down on the counter, letting the crumpled up voucher fall out of it.
It's a somber, tense atmosphere as our heroes board the train, and take their place in the First Class cabin.
At each corner of the car there are two rooms side-by-side. There are 8 rooms total, and each room has 2 bunks. Hamish left the details of your sleeping arrangements to your own discretion. The rooms are technically smaller than the compartment you shared earlier. But it's nowhere near as cramped, and the beds are much nicer as well. Each room even has a small foldout desk and bench, where one could get some work done.
In the cross-section of open space there is a lounge area with comfortable chairs and sofas, with plush cushions and reading lamps. Gnomes arrive regularly to offer you food and drink -- all complementary, of course. And more than a few of the gnomes make a point of thanking you for your heroism.
The ride is smooth, and mostly uneventful until dinner. When suddenly Mr. Gulch stands up, banging a fork on his glass.
"A toast! To the Heroes of the Rails! The Slayers of Scalping Jack! May your enemies always tremble before you!"
Alistair glowers in the corner, but doesn't say anything to interrupt the proceedings.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said finally. "My name is Mr. Gulch. And if you'd like to hear my proposal, I would like to make you all very rich."
Leland and Loveless can now make knowledge checks on Mr. Gulch.
Doc wearily drops his bag on one of the beds. An eyebrow goes up as he notices how deeply it sinks into the mattress, and he presses on the bed experimentally.
"Nice," he mutters. "Now if only I can get some actual shut-eye on it tonight!"
Spotting the fold-out desk his eyes light up. "Mine!" he says to no one as he points at it. Digging his journal and a pen out of his bag, he opens the desk, pulls himself up on the bench, and begins writing. "Need to refine those thoughts from yesterday, codify the control equations," he mutters to himself.
The walls and door are less than soundproof, and the occasional clinking of glassware or bit of conversational laughter distracts him, causing him to grumble and refocus on his work. He'd had enough appreciation for his efforts already and didn't care to suffer through more of it. "People died!" he snapped at the last person who thanked him for his heroism. If everyone had made it out unscathed -- or at least alive -- that would be something worth appreciating.
No, he'd join them for dinner but, until then, he had work to do.
Ben, who had spent the day seqouistered in a cabin fiddling with his gun, exchanging old parts for new, had also only emerged for dinner. He appeared to be quite enjoying the largesse of the gnomes, though he didn't touch much drink, and when Mr. Gulch spoke, he leaned back comfortably with smoke curling over his head.
"I'm listening," he said noncomittaly. In truth, he'd pretty much decided he didn't want the trouble that came with working for men like Mr. Gulch, but he did like the sound of being rich. Money may not solve my problems in the next life, but they'd make this one a damn sight easier, he thought to himself. He watched the faces of his erstwhile companions as well as those of Gulch and his crew as Gulch spoke, looking to get a sense of where they stood.
When Mal boards the train, the gnomes are already on board. With one room occupied by Ben and another occupied by the Doc, she clenches her fists and sits down at an empty table in the common area, putting her feet up on it and glaring at everything and nothing.
It isn't long before she notices Alistair looking at her, and she quietly reaches into her bag, pulls out Vincente's Pistol, holding it up enough that he can see what it is, and places it quietly on the table pointed directly at him. Whistling, she begins cleaning her own gun.
By the time Mr Gulch raises his glass, she's cleaned it more than twelve times, and has been at least slightly inebriated for half of them. Rolling her eyes at his speech, she goes back to examining the barrel. It was getting old, and she knew she'd have to replace it before long. The idea left a hollow feeling in her stomach, knowing that she was getting old, too. 'Ain't a damn thing lasts forever.' She thought.
Her eyes grow noticeably when he mentions becoming rich, though. Ben responds before she can, and she shoots a glance across the car to him, uncertain of whether she wanted him to take the job or not.
After hours of carefully recording calculations and formulas, Doc leans back a bit and rubs his eyes. About to return to his work, he suddenly realizes he's hungry. Then it dawns on him that he hasn't eaten since breakfast. "Well no wonder," he mumbles, closing the book and standing with a stretch. He looks at the bed almost lovingly. "I am so going to enjoy your hospitality tonight. But for now, food's the thing."
Grabbing his cane, the gnome slips quietly out into the lounge area, which is occupied by most of the people he'd fought alongside as well as some rail employees serving food and drinks... plus a few people he doesn't recognize.
Except... that one fellow looks familiar somehow...
Choosing a seat some distance from Leland and out of his direct line of sight, he motions to one of the gnomes carrying a tray of appetizers, hungrily loading a napkin full of them. Another gnome with mixed drinks comes over but Loveless holds up his hand and shakes his head, quietly asking for a cup of tea instead.
The appetizers don't slow him down at all when dinner is served, but his fork stops halfway to his mouth, dread descending upon him, when Mr. Gulch calls for a toast. His trepidation is confirmed by, and he cringes at, the "heroes of the rails" appellation. He glances over at the toast-giver, then does a subtle double-take when he notices the man's eyes for the first time.
"Hmm..."
Doc's own eyes narrow in cynical suspicion at the offer of riches, and he snorts derisively as he returns his attention to the food on his plate.
"First of all, I would like to say that, in memory of a good dwarf who died during the unpleasantness, and at the request of Miss Lewis and Mr. Dalton -- fine upstanding folks that they are -- Alistair Kincaid, on behalf of his father, has kindly agreed to donate several cases of medicine to some sickly folks in Dry City."
Mr. Gulch then raised his glass. "To your good health, and to the good health of Dry City!"
Alistair looked positively murderous, but remained quietly sulking. He halfheartedly raised his glass, but then downed its contents with gusto.
"Now, however, I would like to speak to business. I have need to hire personnel for an expedition. And all of you have proven yourself more than able-bodied. To be frank. I am quite impressed with you."
"Originally, my associate, Alistair, had hired on a well-known hero named Vincente Rosario -- or Vincente Ironsights, as he was more commonly known. Alas, he did not survive the goblins."
Mr. Gulch sips his wine, and pointedly looks at the Pepperbox Pistol laid out on the table. He cleared his throat discretely then spoke again.
"I offer 50 platinum to each of you. 10 paid upfront, the other 40 upon completion of the expedition. If you are all interested, then I will say more. If not, well, then it's been a pleasure. And I wish you all well. So -- what say you?"
Doc frowns subtly as he continues to eat, seemingly disinterested but listening intently.
Has that slimy used cart salesman feel, this one does.
"Forgive a fella for being a little suspicious, but that's a lot of coin and very little talkin' 'bout what exactly it is you need done. Is this job maybe not the kind of thing you want the Sheriff of Dry City meddlin' in?" Ben drawled, letting his peripheral vision do the watching of his fellows for him. He kept his eyes on Gulch.
"I ain't saying I'm UNinterested. I'd just like to know a little more before agreeing to anything."
"Perfectly legal and honest work, Mr. Dalton. As I said, it is an expedition. Specifically, we're going to Red Rum Ravine. Some of you doubtless know that this is a path not walked by the squeamish."
Mr. Gulch pauses a moment to let that information sink in.
"We are after the location of a laboratory that belonged to a recluse inventor. A gnome named Kent Spoon."
"No doubt whatever we find there will be invaluable and of great historical importance."
One eyebrow rises slightly at the mention of Spoon's name, and Doc finally looks at Gulch.
"I've heard of Ironsights. And I well know who Spoon is. Or 'was,' for those who believe he's passed on. But who precisely are you two," he says, pointing his fork at them, "and what's your interest in Spoon's laboratory?"
Mallory lets out a very unladylike snort at Mr. Gulch's explanation. "Ain't no wond'r the payment's so high. Like to not come back at all." She glances sidelong at Ben, wondering if he was considering taking the job. 'Ain't no skin of my back if the boy wants to die.' She tells herself, but can't resist speaking up anyway, justifying it to herself because he was a good Slinger, and there weren't many of those left around. "You surely ain't considrin'? Reckon you heard tales of that place same as I, yeah? Just as like to starve as you are to lose your mind and eat your own gun."
Ben eyed Mr. Gulch. There was a familiar kind of coldness about him. Here was a man used to getting his way, a man with companions like Alistair Kincaid - a man who could shut Kincaid up with a word. Ben had a feeling Gulch wasn't the only rattler in the room. The sand all around was probably full of 'em, spawn of the snake-eyed bastard himself - two dozen ways to see to it that they took the job whether they liked it or not, and maybe didn't come back to collect their coin at the end. Yessir, this would take some awfully careful steppin' to keep from gettin' bit.
Legal and honest - like a crow calls. Prob'ly easiest just to shoot 'em now, he thought sourly, 'cept the crew'd probably raise a fuss. Besides, he wasn't sure just how many he'd have to shoot.
"The lady has a point. The Ravine ain't the kind of place you just mosey on into, have a picnic and stroll on out of again. If this Spoon lost his lab there, it's like to stay lost," he tried, easing his way into a rejection. "I'm afraid I ain't much of a tracker, much less the kind you'd need for something like this. You need yourself a wizard, or maybe a local guide. Or maybe a gnome," he mused, hiding a smile behind his hand as he lit another cigarette.
"That doesn't seem an unreasonable request, but I do second the good doctor's question, and more to the point, why do you suspect this to be the location of this hidden laboratory?"
Turning to Ben,
"You always need a gnome. Wouldn't leave home without one."
Mr. Gulch smiled.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Dalton, I have already secured for us an experienced guide. And while I won’t say for sure we definitively know where to find Spoon’s hidden lab, we have enough evidence pointing to a location within Red Rum that I am willing to risk this venture. Risk and reward often go hand in hand.”
”In fact some of my evidence is sitting right here in this very cabin.”
Mr. Gulch than removed a small metal object from the inside of his vest and held it up. Ben and Mal can easily recognize what it is.
“You might recognize this bullet, Mr. Porter.” he said, looking to the man behind him. ”After all, it was dug out of your skull back in Dry City.”
“This is a bullet made of pure Adamantine. It was fired from a cartridge shell. It is flawless. Not a single dent in it. It should have opened up his skull like an overripe melon. You have the Gambler’s own luck, Mr. Porter. Now this bullet, besides being an interesting little piece of arcana, also has this.”
Mr. Gulch spun the bullet around until it showed a small indentation.
“This is the maker’s mark of one Kent Spoon. You were found only twenty miles from Red Rum, were you not, Mr. Porter?” he asked rhetorically. “This bullet pointed us in the right direction. And from there we were able to corroborate with other sources – I won’t bore you with the details. But suffice to say, we have enough to go on.”
“And the reward… “ Mr. Gulch said trailing off with grin. “Spoon was considered a mad man among his peers. But in many ways, he was ahead of his time. To find his hidden workshop would be – momentous.”
Mr. Gulch deftly spun the bullet down his fingertips like a coin.
“And I imagine that there are more trinkets like these as well.”
Mallory looks with surprise at Porter, as if it's the first time she's seen him, her eyes displaying a combination of curiosity and distrust. Without taking her eyes from him, she speaks in response to Gulch. "Jus' the one guide? Anything happens to him, the entire team is doomed. Seems though you're ill-prepared, and 50 Platinum ain't much good to me dead." Despite her many reservations, it's clear that Mallory is at least considering the idea.
"She actually. And I assure you that she is quite qualified. And while I agree, a second guide would be helpful, folks willing to go into Red Rum are few and far between. Those willing to do it enough to be good at it, well, they're a special breed. And as for danger -- As stunning as you are, Miss Lewis, I'm not trying to hire you for your smile."
Ben sat perfectly still, a musing expression on his face, but inside he was alternating between listing the things that would probably go wrong (with his death in bold at the end of them) and considering the amount of money he might make out of finding a hidden trove of adamantium tucked away in the Ravine. Greed was slowly making inroads on his resolve not to get mixed up with Mr. Gulch.
You're a blamed fool and no mistake, he thought acerbically. Not just for bein' willing to set foot into Red Rum Ravine, but for stepping into the snakepit of your own free will.
Then again, you've spent most of your life among worse snakes than him, right? Take along some chalk and mark the Ravine, how bad could it be? He knew it was a fool's thought even as he thought it, but that bullet in Gulch's hand danced behind his eyes hypnotically. The thought of those damn gnomes getting their hands on the trove instead of him was nigh unbearable.
He blew a stream of smoke and waited to see what the other 'slinger might be able to gouge out of Mr. Gulch by way of concessions.
He's countin' on your greed, fool, he thought to himself.
With a mental shrug he added, I know. But he ain't countin' on bitin' down on a bullet 'stead of a rat.
Doc snorts quietly at Gulch's comments. Of course there's "not a single dent." An adamantine bullet'll punch through almost anything. It'd be the presence of a dent -- even a scratch -- that would be noteworthy. Distracting patter and transparent flattery... he's working egos and using misdirection as would a stage magician. Trying to keep them from focusing on what he doesn't want examined too closely.
Loveless continues on with his dinner, seemingly only peripherally interested in the proceedings. But the aromas and flavors are temporarily unappreciated as he focuses all his attention on Mr. Gulch and what's being said.
Leland looks at the bullet with some interest, as adamantine seemed a bit excessive, all things considered.
"Well I gather that this long lost laboratory wont have the good fortune of being abandoned. Any chance Spoon might have been the one to pull the trigger, or are we looking at folks that already found what you're after?"
Mallory feels the weight in her bag that had come with murder. Even having had to split the bounty for Scalping Jack, the payment was still rather substantial. As her eyes flick between the people in the train car, the gears of her brain spin. 'Rule 16 is quit while you're ahead' she reminds herself. 'I know,' she retorts bitterly. Completing the job, she knows, would mean almost doubling the amount of money she had, surely enough that she could buy a nice farm somewhere and live out her days. She reminds herself again that there weren't many older gunslingers, and more of them were dropping every day. Her eyes drift to Vincente's pistol, and she shudders, though not from cold.
Her eyes drift back to Gulch, and she thinks about the bullet in his hand, and smiles. She ignores the others, focusing on the snake-eyed man, as if the meeting was only taking place between the two of them. "That's the case? Then I want an additional cut. Ain't like you'll find too many folk want to go in, and reckon most of them be looking to stab you in the back all the same, take the full treasure." She shakes her head. "I ain't like that." Cocking her head as if in challenge, she meets his reptilian eyes. "Don' get me wrong, I'd like nothin' more'n put a bullet in your friend there, no matter who his daddy is" she nods to Alistair, "but ain't work that way. Girl's gotta have a code, y'know?"
"But if you be wantin' me to risk fate worse'n death, take you someplace dangerous, I want a part of the profits. Reckon even little bits like that bullet gotta be worth at least a platinum." She thinks for a second before continuing. "I want 15 up front, so's I can get supplies, try to keep you breathin' free air. 20 when the job's done, and another 10% of whatever's in this 'Spoon's' workshop."