The mighty Mississippi rolls sluggishly past the docks of Natchez Under the Hill. Taverns, shipyards, dormitories, and more dot the riverbank as paddle boats lazily chug up and down the waterway, their smokestacks billowing from coal or occasionally the soft howl of ghost rock. Above the river bluff stand the proud manor houses of Natchez On the Hill, where the home of your friend, Jackson Greenfield, no doubt stands.
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Dot
You have all finally arrived in the city of Natchez, and it certainly seems to live up to its reputation. On the hill above, you can see the peaks of the large plantation homes that the city's wealthy favor, but they seem almost like a different world from the waterfront. Drunks, boatmen, and other shady characters roam the crowded docks openly and it feels more like one of the boomtowns on the frontier than any city Back East. The occasional brawl does make Natchez under the Hill more exciting though. Fortunately, Jackson was able to put you all up in one of the more respectable inns in town, a floating riverboat converted into a hotel known as the Steamboat Hotel. It's you're first morning all together and you finally have the opportunity to speak as a group and make proper introductions over a complimentary continental breakfast in the hotel's central dining room.
Plenty of folks figure there to be two kinds of elderly: those who sleep all day, and those who barely seem to sleep at all. Eli Creek has been firmly in the latter camp for most of his life, truth be told, and he's seen no reason to change things just because the years are wearing on him. He's an early riser, and he's in the central dining hall long before the breakfast even begins, mulling over a glass of whiskey--from his own supply, if the bar isn't serving just yet.
Eli isn't an attractive figure, although he appears distinguished enough. He's dressed in plain enough clothing, in a condition that suggests long years of wear with careful stitching and no great damage--at least not of a visible nature. His scuffed but soft-looking leather boots poke from beneath plain sturdy trousers, with a shirt, vest, and plain wool coat up top. A wide-brimmed hat is on a chair beside him, accompanied by a folded bundle that's likely a longer coat for traveling, apparently a beaten brown duster. Two accessories are visible enough, neither curious by themselves, but perhaps strange together: at his throat, a clergyman's collar, and slung round his thin hips, a gunbelt with a revolver in a holster, the whole thing looking well-oiled and cared for. Those with a keen eye might also notice the hilt of a knife peeking from one boot.
Eli's quick to look up when anyone enters the room, his eyes sharp and almost nervous at first glance. They quickly fade to a warm and welcome gaze, sitting in a warm and welcome face. Those eyes are set to either side of a handsome nose, crinkled by happy crow's feet at the edges; they're set under combed-back hair and thin, bushy, caterpillar eyebrows, and set over a mouth that eases into a smile between the groomed and trimmed beard and whiskers, all a silvery gray fading to white. But those same smiling eyes, a blue the color of fair seas, were sharp and cold as ice a moment before. They were eyes that promised danger, if only you were dumb enough to be looking for it. The initiated into the often ill-fated profession might recognize as a gunfighter's eyes: cold, appraising, and ready.
But even so, he smiles and nods and raises his glass to each new entry--perhaps as he decides they aren't looking for trouble, or at least not from him. He even greets them with a voice as dry and firm as fire-hardened timbers, the scent of good bourbon on his breath. "Good morning to ya. Hope you're well on such a beautiful day."
Walter stumbles down the stairs into the dining room second, rubbing sleep from his eyes and grumbling moderately. Solidly middle-aged, he has a morning routine which cannot readily be interrupted. He wears an old, stained, wrinkled tunic and well-worn, patched brown pants. He hasn't slept well in weeks, and it shows. Deep dark circles mar the undersides of his eyes. Looking at him, the eye draws next to his ruined hands, a wrinkled mess of loose skin caused by what must have been terrible burns. His hair is brown and thin, somehow both greasy and dusty, and balding in unfortunately-placed patches. His chin is stubbled, but it's doubtful from the thickness that he could grow any kind of decent beard. Walter looks dirty and working-class. He hasn't slept well in a long time, and he's somewhat bleary every morning before he eats and really takes stock of himself. His ashen skin and the unfocused look in his eyes give his insomnia away clearly.
He plops himself down wherever there is to sit before realizing that he has to get himself food. With a grunt, he stands back up again and goes to get himself a bowl of oatmeal, a few sausages, and a mug of coffee (a splash of milk and no sugar) and plops back down again. A big, broad man, Walter will need plenty to eat to be comfortable. Only after he's half-finished his meal does his consciousness awaken enough to acknowledge Eli. His gaze goes to the collar, the gun, the collar, and then back down into his oatmeal before he hazards a greeting with a gravelly, dry voice. "It ain't a bit early for that?" he asks, indicating the glass.
As usual for him Austin wakes just before sunrise and is washed, dressed and walking down to the dining room just as the sun climbs over the horizon. Dressed in a blue work-shirt, trousers, and riding boots with a duster hung over his shoulder and a stetson in hand; one could easily mistake Austin for a rancher. However; with a six-shooter as his waste, a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt and a sharp look in his eye, you can tell this man is anything but. At just over thirty years Austin has dark brown hair, tanned skin, and a five o'clock shadow covering his face. He also has a number of scars on what skin is showing, most slashes but one obvious bullet scar on his arm.
As he sits down across from the old man with a cup of coffee he hangs his hat on the chair and rests a rifle against the table. The rifle has obvious adornments on it, silver etching, symbols carved into the metal, and a cross on a chain wrapped around the barrel. once settled Austin looks between the two men seated at the table. "Morning gentlemen." Looking to the preacher he nods in greeting "A fine day it is Father, made only better after a good rest in a real bed."
Eli watches Walter break his fast without comment, just silent regard. The creases of his cheeks around the thin lips deepen in a slight frown as he sees the damaged hands, the dark circles under the eyes, the sleepless demeanor. Another lost sheep. Or one who isn't lost, but harried by the wolves all the same. Lord, You know we could all use a little more herd, and a little less hurt. But I guess it isn't right to ask for what we can do ourselves. His hands don't drift to the gun on his hip, but he feels its weight all the same. A comfort, if a cold and heavy one.
When Walter greets him and comments on the whiskey, Eli gives a raspy, throaty chuckle. It's still dry and strong, but if his voice is hardened timber, the preacher's laugh is more akin to a branch of crisp autumn leaves. "When you get to my age, son, you won't find it a bit early for much of anything," he says. As if to punctuate his statement, he tilts the glass back, swallowing some of the stuff inside, and gives a contented sigh as he raises it to the other new arrival in greeting. "It does my stomach something finer than coffee, too. I hope you'll forgive an old man his morning libations."
As Austin settles in, both men get a closer look at the preacher across from them, and a little more strangeness about him seeps through. The eyes are that same bright blue, with a thin silvery flare around the pupil--maybe that's all that the icy look was, just a trick of the light with that light gray color, but no, it's here now and it isn't just that. The lines etched on his face tell a story like all lines do, but his aren't just of long years. They talk about hard living in that time, with plenty of squinting and furrowed brows along with smiles and sermons, presumably. There's a single scar, too, so thin and hidden on the sun-weathered skin, so long-ago skinned over that it's hard to notice until you're right up close, but there it is, and unmistakably a souvenir of violence: a curve from above the eyebrow, around toward where the jaw meets the ear, and down the cheek. It ends just over his beard, and anyone who's seen a knife fight can place its origin, clear as day. It's a scar that begs the question of why, and how, and whether there are any more beneath his well-kept, well-worn clothes.
But for now, he just greets the newcomer, and smiles at his response. "God be praised for giving us warm beds and soft mattresses, or at least the heads to make them ourselves. You've a road-weary look about you, son. Some time since you partook in the pleasures of goose-down blankets?" He chuckles and sips his whiskey again. Its scent is even stronger close up, especially when he laughs.
Walter finishes up his oatmeal and goes to get a second helping. "Fair enough," he grumbles in reply to Eli.
Glancing around at the guns carried by the other patrons, Walter grunts. "You guys expecting somethin' or do I haf'ta get my own piece?" He's uneasy about having left his Winchester in his room, but a rifle's not exactly easy to cart around unnoticed. He's got the big knife in his belt, but there was a phrase people bandied around about bringing knives to a gun fight.
If anyone had come bursting into the room at about the time the sun came up, they would have been greeted by a sight that almost anyone would deem unusual, especially for Natchez. A young Chinese gentleman, looking like he is in his mid-twenties (but with the way Chinese folks are, he could even be younger), sitting cross-legged and nearly naked in the middle of the floor staring out the window at the rising sun. Well, staring might actually be hard as he was spitting with his eyes close and breathing slowly but steadily.
As the sun rose, the shadow and light from the room slowly moved toward he sitting figure. When the light from the window completely surrounded Delan and he felt the warmth on his face for an extended period of time, he took one last deep breath and opened his eyes as he rose in one smooth motion, stretching at the end. He stood a bit taller than most Chinese, but looked leaner somehow. He stepped over to the bed where, instead of the typical outfit seen by most Chinese, he had laid out the outfit he wore on the trail, a bit neater than might be during that time though. Delan had found that dressing the part of a cowboy, gave him more of an opportunity to look like any other man on the street which usually helped him avoid the trouble that typically followed a “China-man in white clothes” attitude prevalent even years after his people had arrived in the area.
He quickly pulled on the brown pants, white shirt and black vest before sliding his feet into a pair of boots and buckling a gun belt on. While he felt he wasn’t good with it, several time not having one had brought more trouble than it was worth. Grabbing his hat, he headed downstairs to meet with the others.He paused in the doorway as there seemed to be a bit of a conversation going on. As he did, he spotted an empty chair out of the way of everyone and took a seat, quietly.
A waitress in a slightly worn dress comes around the tables, refiling drinks and checking to make sure everyone is satisfied with breakfast. She comes by your table after a few minutes and tops off the group's drinks before bringing out a plate for Xian.
Austin sighs in response to the preachers question. "It's been far to long Father. Was tracking down an escaped convict in Texas when I got Jacksons letter, took me another two weeks to find the little weasel before packing up and making my way here. All in all it's probably been about a month and change since I've had the pleasure of a real bed."
At Walter's nervous question Austin chuckles "Apologies friend, I've simply had to experiences getting ambushed to not have a pistole on me. And well, it would take an act of god himself to separate me from ol' Dead Man here." Patting his rifle as he finished Austin fell back into silence as the waitress refilled his coffee, nodding his thanks with a smile.
The elderly preacher nods at Austin's response. "Sounds as though you've been doing good work, then. I hope you enjoyed the respite. With young Greenfield involved, I'd wager there'll be beds aplenty, and work, too. It's always something with that boy, as far as I've witnessed." He leans back and sets his glass down, and though he gives a smile, his eyes seem to be studying the other man. A Ranger? Doesn't seem like one, Lord, leastways not the one you sent my way. A bondsman, then, most likely. Good, good. We'll need that kind of man, I figure.
At Walter's question, Eli also offers a short chuckle alongside the bounty hunter, throaty and dry again. "My reason's the same, more or less. I've spent too many years living where a gun is a man's only sure defense against trouble. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, as they say. And should any trouble start, I'd be more than obliged to keep you from harm. Might suggest taking cover under the tables, though."
He smiles and finishes off his whiskey in a long swallow. "So I'm the preacher, and he's the lawman. I think I spy a foreigner over yonder," Eli says, gesturing to Xian and raising his voice, "who's more than welcome to join us, unless he prefers to keep his own company!" He offers a wide, warm smile, and turns back to Walter. "But I admit a certain curiosity. What are you, son, to finish off this fine jest about the strangers on the riverboat?"
Drake had never been on a boat before he'd run into Jackson out west, and was already quite certain he wasn't a fan of them. He hated the way the wood rolled beneath his feet, the way he never felt like he was steady as if he were drunk without the warm feeling in his gut that came with a good glass of whiskey. The man hadn't slept, and it showed; the rings beneath his eyes were even darker than the rest of his face, and his black hair was scraggly and unkempt. At first glance, it'd be easy to mistake Drake for a Native—what with his looks, not to mention the talisman about his neck and the tomahawk that dangled from his belt—but the man had the same icy blue stare as Eli, even if they were duller from lack of sleep. He entered the dining room trailed by a bluish haze of cigarette smoke, and he swore audibly when he stumbled. "Dammit, Jackson. First I keep your ass from gettin' shot for damn near a month, and now you make me sleep on a boat." Drake frowns as he brushes a bit of ash from his poncho, a red and tattered thing, leaving the deer skull on its front slightly stained with soot. "When the hell does it end with you? If'n it weren't for that bounty..."
Drake grumbles again as he lurches forward toward the table, dimly recognizing the others were soon to be his compatriots. He takes another long drag from his cigarette before tossing it away, and exhales deeply. "Pardon me if I'm mistaken, but I take it you folks're here for Jackson, right?" Drake leans a gloved hand on the back of a chair while he pulls off his hat, then brushes at his riding chaps. All in all, the man seems out of place this far east; the weathered blue jeans and riding boots would feel more at home farther west rather than brushing up on the edge of civilized society, not to mention the gun belt and bandolier of fine black leather he wore even on his way to breakfast. As he moves to sit, one hand rests easily on the grip of a revolver, all finely worked wood and blackened steel; much nicer than you'd expect from someone of his apparent status. "The name's Drake, Drake Wills. A pleasure to meet ya'll, truly." He crosses one leg over another and lights a match before raising another cigarette to his lips. After a moment, he looks up across the table.
"So how d'you all know that squirrely bastard?" Drake spies Eli's clerical collar, and gives a grin that could make the hair stand up on the back of your neck. "What, did he stop in for a sermon, Father? He didn't quite strike me as the type."
What is he? Surely not a simple question to answer honestly, but perhaps Walter could scratch the surface without being too duplicitous. "I'm a miner," he says. "And, to be honest, a wanted man." Answering both Drake and Eli's question at the same time, he continues, grumbling "Mr. Greenfield pulled me out of the proverbial fire regarding some bounty hunters a few years back. We both figured I owed him, so I'm here to do this job." He pauses for a moment to spoon another mouthful of oatmeal. "Speaking of, any of y'all have any idea what we'll be doing?"
Idly, he considers going back to his room to collect the rest of his stuff.
Once more, Eli's eyes dart up, sharp and staring, to meet the newest comer. His cold, clear gaze roams over Drake's scraggly hair, the swarthy skin, the weapons, the tattered poncho, the talisman and symbols. His eyes follow the hand as it tosses the cigarette so casually off to the side, though they don't track the butt as it drops to the floor and smolders out. By the time Drake reaches the table, Eli's mind is made up. The rest of these men might be good men, Lord, but this one isn't. He's more like me, save us both. Thank you for that, Lord. Thank you kindly, indeed.
All the while, though, he's listening, and he nods at Walter's response, ignoring Drake's quip for the time being. "You're very honest indeed, for an outlaw. I didn't take mining for a crime-ridden profession. But one good turn deserves another, that much is true. And I'm not one to judge a man for what the courts have to say." He gives a smile as dry as his voice, and then pats his hands on the table and pushes to his feet.
"As for me, my name is Pastor Elijah Creek, although you can call me Eli." He pronounces it like Ellie, although something in it sounds less like the woman's name and more like a foreigner's. "Can call me Father, too. Not my technical title, but most folks don't know the difference too well before asking, and I've served enough papists who needed an ear and a church to let it stick. But while I may not be a Catholic, I am in need of another drink." With that, he lifts his glass, nods, and makes his way toward the bar. His ignoring the question is quite obvious, as is the fact that he doesn't seem to much care. The hairs on his neck, if there are any, lie as flat as ever.
He smiles and finishes off his whiskey in a long swallow. "So I'm the preacher, and he's the lawman. I think I spy a foreigner over yonder," Eli says, gesturing to Xian and raising his voice, "who's more than welcome to join us, unless he prefers to keep his own company!" He offers a wide, warm smile, and turns back to Walter.
Delan nodded and moved closer, As he spoke his face remained neutral, and his voice surprisingly had only a very slight accent. ”Thank you Pastor. I’ve found, unfortunately, that in mixed company it’s best for someone like me to wait for an invitation rather than make assumptions.”
As Drake and Walter continue the conversations, Delan took small bites from his plate and looked each of the men over, trying to judge their mettle. At the moment, it seemed that Jackson was the one that had brought them together, but would there be reason to band like wolves (and in that case, who may come out as the Alpha), or as simply Hyenas, fighting each other for scraps. In any case, Delen felt that it was worth all this to find his sister. Hopefully, Jackson would be able to follow through on the next bit of the trail...
Austin eyes Drake as he enters the room "Well armed, and rough lived, need to keep an eye on this one." However when Walter speaks up he straight up laughs. "And you tell the world you're wanted in front of a proclaimed bounty hunter? " Austin gives Walter a sharp look, "I'm going to assume whatever it was you did wasn't to bad, I generally only go after those who have hurt others in some way and you don't have that feel about you. but if I find out you're worse than I think then we are going to have words in the future. Anyway!" Austin quickly switches gears back to friendly, "My name is Austin T. Fells, best shot in the west with few exceptions. Bounty hunter by trade, I've spent the last few years riding around Texas. And to answer you Mr. Wills, I met Jackson on the road as he was about to be robbed by the bounty I was chasing, that man needs saving a good deal it seems."
Walter shrugs, although his heart is low. It strikes perhaps a strange chord that he doesn't react much to what some might consider a death threat. Perhaps it's confidence speaking. Walter is, after all, clearly a big man. Years of hard living have made him broad and strong, and he's obviously no stranger to pain. "It ain't my choice if Greenfield hires a man who'll kill me on the same job as me," he grumbles. "M'name's Walter, by the way. I'm an engineer by training, a miner by profession, a gunfighter by necessity. Nice to meet y'all."
He stands up, busses his own bowl, and departs the room for a moment. "If y'all will excuse me a moment, that looks to be my cue to collect my piece."
Drake chuckles audibly at Austin's introduction. "Best shot in the West, huh? Yeah, ain't never heard that one before, kid. I'm sure I'll never hear it again, neither." Drake, in what you already expect is an uncharacteristically respectful gesture, turns his head and blows out a thin line of smoke. "I ain't seen ya shoot kid, so maybe you're alright, but claims like that are gonna get you shot at by every half-assed gunslinger you come across who thinks he's worth sh*t. You better hope the best shot in the west never hears you braggin' about his title, boy." Drake just chuckles again, the already quite low cigarette clutched between his teeth. "Hell Walter—you said the name's Walter, right?—if Wyatt Earp over here tries to drag you to the marshal's office, just gimme a holler." He raises his eyebrows at Austin for a moment, then just shakes his head and changes the subject.
"Must be Jackson's in the business of nearly getting' himself shot then, from what I'm hearin'. Boy must've been shot at in every county from here to Arizona. Smart as he seems to be, I figured drawin' the ire of some outlaw was somethin' he was liable to only do once."
As the group is finishing up their breakfast, the matron of the hotel approaches them. "Pardon me, but I have a message for the Greenfield party. It was brought by a few minutes ago." She pulls a note from the front pocket of her dress and offers it up to the closest member of the posse. "I hope you've enjoyed your stay so far." With that, she heads back to work, leaving the party with the message.
Good morning,
I hope you're finding Natchez pleasant so far. It seems that your timing is truly impeccable. It is my great sorrow to inform you that my father finally passed yesterday evening. Most of his affairs are in order, but I must make funeral arrangements. If you would be so kind as to meet me at the Bluff Side Saloon, I can take you to my home and we can discuss our travel plans for the coming days.
Your friend, Jackson Greenfield
As Eli fixes himself a drink at the bar--well, fixes might be a strong word for what he does, as strong as the rye whiskey he pours straight into his glass without water or ice--he continues to listen. The sounds of Natchez and the river are distant compared to conversation in this empty restaurant lounge, and while age had wrinkled his ears, it hadn't dulled them just yet. So he picks up on the conversation, and so it's when Austin introduces himself as best shot in the West that the steel-haired preacher-man shows his first real emotional response, if a small one. His eyes, unseen by the others, seem to unfocus for a moment, staring at somewhere far away, or somewhen long ago
Best shot in the West, the smiling man said, the man with the fair hair and the bright teeth and the smile that never hit his dark eyes, and with that he went for his gun fast, too fast, and he shot before the barrel cleared the holster and that was enough, and Eli, ever the patient man, aimed and fired and a burst of red sprayed over the smiling man's crisp white shirt
and the whiskey spills over the edge of the glass onto his hand. He grunts and his eyes come back, and Eli brings his leathery hand up to lick off the nearly-wasted drink. He glances over his shoulder, and if anyone in the group has caught his mistake, he gives a sheepish chuckle and gestures at the floor. "Not used to tending bar on boats, I'm afraid."
By the time he's turned back to the bar, replacing the whiskey bottle, his smile is replaced with a frown. I haven't thought of him in years. The smiling man. First I did like that, wasn't he, Lord? First in a long line of poor fools. I guess I should pray this isn't one more. And lower inside, another prayer: It's been so long since I thought of him. Been a time since the other voice was here, either. I pray he keeps away, Lord. Keep him away, if you can.
Eli lets out a sigh, although it's barely different from his usual breath, and brings some liquid strength to his lips. By now, Drake's had his fun poking at Austin's proclamation, and Eli sighs again as he lowers the glass. It's always the talkers, isn't it? Just because you gave a man a tongue, he thinks he's got to use it all the time. But he's got some sense on his, at least. Like me again.
That thought fading, Eli returns to the table just in time to smile at the hostess and take the letter from her hand. He deftly unfolds it with one hand, and sips at his whiskey while he reads it aloud. Having finished, he sets it on the table for the others to look over, should they please. "Seems as though I could have saved for my new glass. I'd say a prayer is in order for the old man's soul, but I'll make do with a silent one on our way over. I fear Jackson's proclivity for, ah, 'getting himself shot' suggests making haste to his side might be in order. Even a nice saloon is a breeding ground for fighting, and I don't know this town is known for nice saloons." So saying, Eli knocks back the remaining whiskey in a few large swallows, sets the glass upside-down on the table, puts a half-dollar coin on top. Then he fixes his hat atop his head and drapes the folded coat over one crooked arm. "Haste makes waste, but sloth is a sin. Maybe even a deadly one."
Mention of Jackson’s father passing brought unwelcome memories to Delan. Shaking them aside after seeming lost in them for a moment, he lifted his glass in salute. ”May Yanluowang judge him well and bless him with a fast journey to rebirth.”
He downed his drink and smiled at Eli. ”One day Pastor, we may need to have a relaxing discussion on your ‘sin’ concepts and the way many of those who do not follow your Christ see things..”.
He rose and straighten up his clothing, waiting for the others.
Walter returns with his backpack, a well-cared-for Winchester, an ammo belt, and a few other personal effects. He's donned gloves to cover up the scars on his hands, and he returns in time to see the others apparently getting ready to go out. "We get a chore to do, finally?" he grumbles.
The posse gathers anything they feel the need to take and make their way down the boarding ram onto the shore. The docks of Natchez are already alive, despite the relatively early hour, though they seem a bit more under control than late into the evening. The drunks from the previous night are collecting themselves and heading home or to work for the day while early riverboats are already arriving at the docks, with hands on shore pulling them in and tying them down so the currents of the Mississippi don't drag them away while they unload and refill their boilers.
The Bluff Side Saloon is exactly where its name implies it to be. The high bluff on the east side of the town completely covers the streets in shadow as you make your way to the building. Business seems slow, but steady this morning as you see more than a few workers heading in and out for breakfast or an early morning libation. Inside is just as dimly lit, with lamps hanging from the ceiling to cast light across the tables. As you walk in, you hear a familiar voice. "That's a mighty fine hand, my friend. Unfortunately, a full house is better." Jackson Greenfield smiles as he lays down his hand in front of two fuming men at a table near the middle of the room.
As Austin walks into the saloon he does a quick sweep of the place with his eyes before stopping on the two men that seem awfully unhappy at the outcome of Jacksons card game. "Don't look now boy's but we may be saving our mutual friend's skin sooner than we thought."
Eli glances back to the foreigner in the group, and offers a smile. "Believe me, son, there's plenty who do follow Christ that don't agree on how we see things." There's plenty who would see a man like me hanged before preaching, for example. "But right now, I see little harm in suggesting we make quickly for young Mister Greenfield's side." As he reaches the door, the preacher claps Walter's shoulder and nods, looking at the Winchester. "That we do. And the tools to do it with, God willing."
On the way to the saloon, the old man keeps a spry pace, although not as quick as the younger men might have the capacity to maintain. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, as they say, and even as lively as Eli presents himself, the long years always take their due. A slight hitch in his gait every few steps--the sort of limp from an old injury, most like--doesn't help matters. Still, he makes decent time and is anything but short of breath when he pushes through the building's doors.
At the sound of Jackson's voice--and the words he says--Eli bites down a low groan. He gives a small nod in agreement with Austin's assessment, and one hand casually drops down to unloop the rawhide string holding his revolver in its holster as he steps toward the table where Jackson's playing. The wrinkled fingers are back up to his hat by the time he reaches the table, and he tips it before taking it off, placing hat and coat on an empty chair or table nearby. "Gentlemen. Lord smiles on us with another beautiful day. How does it find you?" His voice is something approaching pleasant, and even might be warm and friendly. But it's still dry and hard, a voice that doesn't quite know how to be kind anymore, even if the memories of those days linger in the timbre.
All three faces at the table turn to Eli as he tosses his hat and coat over one of the empty chairs beside them. The two men look, if anything, more unhappy at the sight of the older man. "This ain't your business, old man," the larger of the two grumbles.
Jackson, on the other hand, smiles and gets to his feet. "Father Eli! I think you've somehow managed to get even older." He offers a hand to the preacher and smiles ruefully at his own joke. "And is that the rest of our merry band I see lurking near the door? Come in, come in. I think these gentlemen will be buying us a round, if it's not too early for you. Lord knows I need it." He stops for a second. "Not taking his name in vain, of course."
Eli gives a thin smile to the men, an upturning of the mouth that noticeably fails to reach his eyes. They're cold again, appraising and unimpressed, and show no signs of changing for these men. "Well, then, I suppose it will have to be a personal matter," he replies. His voice makes it clear he won't be moved on this, and his icy stare suggests that trying to do so will make things get ugly, and quick.
After a moment, the old man turns to Jackson and claps his shoulder with one hand, shaking with the other. "We all get older all the time, my son," he chuckles. "I'm not sure about who all you've called to your side in these troubled times, but I'd wager we all came for the same reason." At the younger man's comment on taking names in vain, Eli clicks his tongue and nods. "Of course you're not. I've never heard a man speak ill of God when it comes time to ask Him for a drink, and I'd never judge a man ill for asking." He pauses, as if searching for words of comfort, and upon failing Eli resorts to general sentiments. "I'm sorry to hear about your father's passing. He was a good man."
The preacher didn't know the elder Greenfield very well, of course, but most folks, when it came down to it, were generally pretty good, in his reckoning of things. And even if they aren't, you still give them salvation, Lord. So come end of the day, no need to speak ill of the dead. So he shifts his things from the chair to the table and pulls the seat out, only asking once he's sat down, "You don't mind if I sit with you, gentlemen?"
Grumbling and sighing, Walter lowers himself into one of the seats around Greenfield, though not either of those seats which are right next to the man. He keeps a wary awareness of the poker players, but doesn't pay them too much close attention. Attention can bring its own sort of trouble anyway, and people got angry when losing poker every day.
He nods at Greenfield, and asks, "So, what do you have for us?"
The cold stare from the preacher seems to shake both of the men. "Bad luck to pick a fight with a holy man anyway," the larger man mutters as he pointedly looks away from the others. He and his friend order drinks for the group before snatching up the remains of their money and stalking off looking disgruntled.
Jackson chuckles as Walter comes to join them. "On the other hand, some folks don't change all that much." He offers a hand to Walter as well. "Come now, everyone. Let's all gather round. I'd rather not have to shout across the room."
Austin chuckles at as the disgruntled gamblers stalk off before spinning a chair around for himself. "Good to see you again Jackson, sorry it had to be under such circumstances. My condolences for your father, I hope his passing was peacefull."
"Agreed, I'll speak for the lot of us and say we're sorry for your loss. I never did meet the man, but... well, I'm sure he was a good man, your father." Drake takes the glass and gives a smarmy nod to the two gamblers—now having migrated across the saloon—before taking a long swig of his drink. He leans back in his chair, and sighs as the front legs pop off of the ground. "So, where's this old plantation house exactly? What's the plan?"
Jackson smiles and shakes the hands of the rest of the group before they fill up the table. "Peaceful as can be I suppose. He went to sleep and simply never opened his eyes again. God rest his soul." He crosses himself once before he takes his own seat. "But more on to the business at hand." Jackson tries to put on a cheerful expression, but it's not hard to see that he's trying to bury a much more somber look. His smile doesn't quite seem to reach as high as it could and his eyes are dull. "The plantation is one of three properties my family owns, up in eastern Tennessee. It's set in the foothills of the Appalachians, so there should be some lovely mountain views nearby. The funeral should be tomorrow. We've been expecting his passing for weeks, so we've made as many preparations as we could in advance. After my father is safely seen on his way to the Lord's side, we'll head up river to Memphis and I'll purchase a few wagons to carry the supplies. Then we'll head in to the plantation and survey it to see what needs be done and clear out any... troubles that might have moved in while it's been left fallow. Seem reasonable to you gentlemen?"
Walter wrinkles his brow listening to the younger man speak. While he felt for him - truly, losing family was an experience that Walter could empathize with - he was troubled by some of the implications of what he was saying. "A less observant man," he begins, carefully, "Might think that you're hirin' us to do a bit of home improvement, or that you think there might be some squatters up in there property. But you know none of us is carpenters or nothin'." He squints at the man. "Is there somethin' you reckon is there that needs five hired guns to take care of? It'd be best if we had all the information, you know."
As maybe a way of ameliorating the situation, he throws up a hand and says, "Do it either way, just thought I'd ask if you knew anything you didn't already say."