Bang Goes the Neighbourhood (Open)

[anskee5]

Getting his drink, Shawn took another swig. Blast. It was delicious. He turned to face to look at Doc Holiday. “Is she pretty?” He asked, leaning on against the bar. His staff was in the other hand. “She can't be more beautiful than my Rosalyn?”

Doc forgot about Shawn behind him until the bone rattler spoke up. He turned to speak to him after Campbell's and the female's conversation seemed to take a quieter more personal turn.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "yes, she is pretty," he told him. "I'm not sure about your Rosalyn but this gal is very pretty. Her biggest problem is she three sheets to the wind and the fourth one is flapping," he joked speaking softly to his friend. "She's got brownish long hair and blood shot eyes and she's so drunk she can barely stand so she's gotta lean against the bar nearly in a, what I would describe, a compromising position. Let me put it to you this a way ... I'd be willing to sample her charms, if you catch my meaning," he snickered slightly.

[Shawn Flanagan]

“Well, I hope she has a good head on her shoulders,” Shawn replied. “It be a shame to see a pretty thing to be hurt,” he continued. “Can you give me a detail what Campbell looks like, John?” Shawn sipped his wine, licking his lips.

Shawn's career was not like the common person's job. The position he was in was a profitable one. It was an honorable business. However, Shawn had to admit his business has a less of a chance going out of business. The cemetery was like a hotel. There are lots to be sold. The customer buys a vacant lot and dies. It becomes occupied; it was that simple.

The vibration of the emotions in the saloon was normal. The noise level was normal. The volume gone up a notch. There was a slight of silence where Duke was with his body guard. “Is Duke at four O'clock where I am at?” Shawn asked the master gambler.

[anskee5]

Doc moved over to the other side of Shawn so he could look at Campbell and silently describe him to the blind man.

"He's an older man, close to sixty, I'd say," he began. "He's a big man around the size of Magowan only bigger around. Very well dressed in business type suits. Well groomed with a neatly trimmed gray beard and gray handlebar mustache, pretty much like mine. Physically he's enormously strong with hands like hams. I fI dealt with him it'd be with great caution and never let him get the upper hand. Not even you, Shawn. He'd use you and then wipe his feet all over you. Watch your self when you deal with him. Just a friendly warning. Abe, a refill for both of us, please sir."

[Rio Daniels]

No one would have heard of Rio's wanderings in Del Fuego. She had stayed away from this town for as long as she possibly could because its memories were too painful for her. While her family's ranch had been just outside its district, Del Fuego was still the closest form of civilization that the Daniels had to escape to. Rio had ventured into town often as a little girl. The patrons had recognized her as the bright eyed beauty even at that young age. They had appreciated her spirit and her reckless ways. It was comical when she was a young child, for they didn't think she'd keep her restless ways. But how wrong they were. Rio only worsened as she spent more and more time away from the ranch and in the town. And then, when everything had happened, the two had mourned for the lovely family. Everyone had known of the Daniels. They were kind people and would do anything for anyone, no matter what. They had nothing but nice things to say about the quiet, little family from the outskirts of town.

Everyone was devastated when they learned of the attack on the rather successful ranch. Aaron had been a smart, good businessman. He had never delved into things that he couldn't afford, and he always took less than what he needed during trades and sales. He knew how to budget, and his wife knew how to ration everything perfectly. They never went hungry, but they didn't eat like kings. It was a perfect little life, and Aaron made most of the money off of his cattle and his horses. He was a breeder and it was quite obvious that he knew his trade well. The family would have survived for quite some time. Aaron would have been able to leave his ranch to his wayward daughter and to the family, if she ever chose to start one. Everything would have been fine and simple, if it wasn't for the greed of one man. Aaron never knew that Weldon was capable of such malice, and to this day, no one knows why the ranch was attacked.

Not even the sole survivor.

Rio was innocently unaware of what the man in front of her was truly capable of. And in her inebriated state she could not use her uncanny knack of reading people to see that his nerves weren't just from the joy of seeing her alive. There was something else buried deep, and if she were in her right mind she would have been able to read it in his eyes. However, she was more drunk then she had ever been before, and that was saying a lot because normally she never divulged in the poisonous liquid. She knew to stay away from it, especially because her father had told her horror stories of what it did to men. But she had needed it, or so she believed. It was safe to say that she would never touch the substance after this visit to town. It turned her into a fool and that was not something that she appreciated. Turning her thoughts away from her drinking habit, she regarded Weldon carefully as he spoke up, still looking absolutely shell shocked. She felt badly for surprising him in this manner and wished that there was something that she could have done to prevent it. However, there wasn't much that she could do. She couldn't change her face or her history.

"My apologies for the shock, sir. I survived 'cause of my pa, that's all." She told him honestly, a hint of sadness to her eyes. She wished she could have saved her mother and father as well. It would have made things a bit happier for her.

Feeling selfish because of those thoughts, she sighed softly, turning her face away from Weldon for the moment. She readjusted her body out of the compromising position that the men took notice of, moving so her front rested against the bar instead. Still resting her elbows on the surface, she watched as Weldon ordered another drink. He looked strained and uneasy and for a moment, her clouded mind was put on high alert. Why was he acting...so put off by the fact that she was standing here in front of him? Her mind told her that it was because he just never expected to see her alive, but her heart told her that something was wrong, something was off. He almost looked guilty, disappointed. Something was off here and she didn't understand it. His hesitance during the toast to her only proved to put her on a higher suspicion level, and she watched him carefully, warily. This was her. This was the real Rio. She was a wary individual, and it was what kept her alive for so long. She nodded her head respectfully to him though, not wanting to cause him to question her. "Much obliged, sir."

Her accented voice peppered out in staccato tones, the shortening of her voice showing how her guard had come up. As he finished his drink, Rio allowed herself to become lost in her thoughts. Her absence from Del Fuego for so many years as a wanderer caused her to be out of the loop for information. Weldon was a good man. That was what her father had said and she had no reason to believe her father would lie. He wasn't that kind of man. So why did she have this unsettling feeling? Trying to ignore it, she heard Weldon's suggestion. A part of her wanted to deny him, to run from this Saloon as fast as she possibly could so she could breathe safely again, but another part of her wanted to figure this out. That curious part won. "Sounds good to me. Thanks for the coffee." She said honestly and went to the corner booth in which he had pointed out. She ignored the stares from the rest of the men, ignoring the rumors that were no doubt starting up about Weldon and her. Flopping down rather ungracefully into the boot, she sat up a bit, trying to regain her equilibrium. She looked at Weldon as he sat down across from her.

"So what do you wanna know 'bout me? I'm sure you've got some questions."

[Weldon Campbell]

(OOC: I've opted to put Weldon and Rio into an adjoining room where they can't be overheard. It also should permit them to talk without it interrupting the responses of others.

I want to have Jonah Arkken show up in the thread too come looking for Weldon but not actually see where Weldon - maybe think him upstairs with one of Duke's women - leaving Arkken in the saloon bar with Shawn, Duke and Doc for some interaction. Does that sound fair to all?

I'm not sure of proper protocol in RPing so figured it best maybe to spell out intentions and make sure I don't offend any of you partaking in the thread - thank by the way for being awesome in my first thread! You guys rock!)

Weldon walked towards the booth he had spied. He was unfamiliar with the layout of the saloon but as he approached it with the girl he saw doors near to it that led into a separate area. Again, more fanciful woodwork and intricate glass work inlaid on the doors. Weldon looked back to Duke and nodded to the room. It was more an indication that he was going to use the privacy of the room, whether it was the restaurant or more private poker games room, (Weldon was not sure and did not care) but he was going to enter it with the Daniels' girl for even greater privacy.

Weldon Campbell was not a man for asking permission, his look to Duke was more an assertion of what he was going to do. So he didn't even look to see what response the proprietor gave. But Weldon wanted privacy in case the answers he was going to squirrel out of the girl were to prove too dangerous to be overheard or would demand that he take lethal action to right the situation. For now, he would play his ear and see just what the girl had to say for herself and assess what he would have to do about her.

His nerves fell away as he marshalled his responses and formulated a plan of attack. He said kindly, "Your father? Presently, I'm more concerned for you lass and whatever happened to you."

They kicked through the doors to the other room and got into the nearest booth. The others watched them depart the saloon bar and as the swinging doors closed would have seen the girl flop down into the booth he selected just inside the door. It would serve to raise their curiosity more but their curiosity was already piqued so the risk was outweighed by what they might otherwise overhear.

The girl, huh if Weldon was empathetic enough would have considered just what this all meant to her and the feelings the past had to be dragging, but he cared not a whit. He cared only to learn the whats, the whys, the wheres, and the whos of her survival and what she had done.

"So what do you wanna know 'bout me? I'm sure you've got some questions."

The doors swung closed behind them. Shutting out the others and leaving Weldon free to 'interrogate' the girl. Weldon could charm the answers out of her through fake concern rather than some of his more forceful measures. Those he could resort to if it were required. But the girl was drunk and as clearly shocked to meet a figure from the past as he was.

"Well for starters, how did you survive? I mean, not the actual attack, you've explained that. It sounds just like your father to put you first." He gave her a grim sad smile. Inwardly he rolled his eyes and fumed still at the fact of her escape. It doesn't explain why those I set to the task of killing you permitted your escape but it explains how you escaped, Weldon said to himself. He effected a concerned citizen mantle. "But after the attack you never came forward. We hunted - search everywhere for survivors. We chased the Indians we thought responsible and killed those we did capture."

This was the truth. On Weldon's part it was not out of concern or out of some sense of retribution that fuelled the motivations of the townsfolk. Instead, he knew exactly where the Indians he had used for the job would be. He had arranged to meet them afterwards for final payment in guns and ammunition. But they they got the guns and bullets in a blaze of hot lead as Weldon led the men himself in an ambush on the Indians. Killing them all to buy their silence forever. And it had the added benefit of winning him favour with the townsfolk and cemented his reputation as just a concerned businessman who kept himself to himself, except when it mattered.

Weldon continued to weave a story that suggested his noble characteristics in the aftermath of the whole bloody affair. "We looked for some survivors those bloody savages might have captured."

He shook his head sadly, pretending at the awful fate of those captured. He looked up at her blue eyes and offered a small, fragile smile that suggested words were not enough to convey his true feelings. He reached across the table carefully to take her hands in his gently if she were willing to allow it. "Wherever did you go lass?"

Weldon was not going to satisfied with glib answers of scant detail and cared not for how she survived only in what it meant in relation to him. He needed to figure out if the girl knew nothing about his actual involvement in the attack. He also had to decipher what her plans were and her purposes for returning to Del Fuego were after disappearing and allowing herself to be presumed dead in all those intervening years.

Looking at her attire and musing on just why, years later, an adult and knowing better, why she had chosen to keep her fate unknown, Weldon sussed that her past troubles did not end with the attack on the ranch. He figured she must have gotten caught up in some manner of criminal activity. She didn't look to be a whore, unless that was why she was here at Duke's to seek employ. But the fiery spirit in her suggested she would not broker the fool men that would pester her as a whore and make demands of her not on her terms.

But he doubted that she would reveal anything in her responses to him. But he could try to read between the lines of whatever she was willing to offer. "Where have you been this whole time?"

"What have you been doing with yourself? I mean, how are you surviving on your own?"

[Duke]

After the initial interest began to die down and the unlikely couple moved to a booth to talk privately Duke walked away with his bodyguard in tow.

"Very interesting," he spoke to Magowan as he lit a small cigar. "Did you see the big man's face when the girl told him who she was? I thought he was going to swallow his tongue," he snorted. "I might have to get to know that young woman better. She may be privy to some information about the bug man."

Magowan nodded. "I will keep my ear to the ground," he told him.

Duke nodded. "Do that. Keep an eye on the girl. Make sure the old fat man doesn't do anything to hurt her. And let me know when she tries to leave. I'll put her up for free in a room where no one will hurt her."

"Yes Boss," Magowan nodded and moved away into his usual dark corner watching the crowd and especially where Campbell and the young woman were sitting.

[Rio Daniels]

Rio could feel the eyes of the men on her. She didn't know what they were thinking or what they wanted from her, but she knew that they probably weren't having good thoughts. They either would want her removed from the bar because of her drunken state, or they wanted to remove her to their rooms so that they could have their way with her. Well, she begged them to all try to do something to her. She would have a knife to their throat or a barrel to their head faster than they could blink. She wasn't going to take anything from them lying down, that was for certain. Taking a deep breath now to try to calm herself, she wondered why she had gotten worked up in the first place. It was the damn alcohol, she was sure of it.

As he steered her in through some swinging doors, she was aware of his voice saying that he was more concerned about her than of her father. She was sure that it was sensible for him to worry more about the living then the dead, but it still made her furrow her brow in protest. She wanted to hear more about her dad. She wanted to know what he was like and she knew that Weldon had dealt with him more in his last month of life then any other individual. She didn't know what they were talking about. She didn't know that it had everything to do with getting Aaron's lucrative ranch and land. If she had, she would want to shoot Weldon dead. If she ever found out, Weldon would have to fear for his life if he didn't kill her first. Rio was all about revenge, and she hadn't survived this long because of her looks.

Sighing softly, she sat in the booth, looking a bit put out. Whether it was because of what she was discovering or her state of being, one couldn't be quite shirt, but she brightened a little at the sudden appearance of coffee. The mug in front of her was warm and inviting, and she blew on it to cool it off. Taking a swig, it was obvious that she liked her coffee black. Sometimes she would add sugar but right now she wasn't worried about that. The coffee burned her tongue and settled in her stomach like a rock, but she didn't care. It was helping. Somehow, it was sobering her. Or it could be this conversation. She couldn't keep her thoughts straight and that frustrated her. Hearing his first question, she raised her startling blue eyes to gaze inquisitively at Weldon. She was a smart girl, one that always thought quickly on her feet. She doubted he meant how she survived the attack again. He didn't seem repetitive, even in his shock.

Fixing him with a stare that was rather hard to decipher, she took another drink of the coffee and let him go on, figuring that he had more to say. She was right and she was thankful for the added seconds that she could remain quiet. However, even though she wasn't speaking, her mind was flying a mile a minute. She wanted to know more about the man that her father spoke so highly of. Why had Aaron though the world of him? Why was he there in the last month following up to her family's attempted murder? Her drunken mind was trying to put puzzle pieces together and they certainly weren't helping things at the moment. She was far too confused to try to figure out this mystery. She would need to wait until she was sober and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She was afraid he would slip from her grasp if she let him go after this meeting.

But he did deserve an answer. She had been silent for far too long. "My pa was a good man. It shoulda been him that survived." She answered in response to his praise of her father. It filled her heart with warmth to know that her father was thought of as a good man, even in his death. Sighing a bit, she looked down at the coffee in her cup, wishing that it somehow held the answers for her. When he said they tracked down and killed the Indians who had attacked her family, she didn't feel remorse. They deserved what they got. She just wished they had been killed before they got to her family. There had to be some crime that they had committed in the past that deserved death. She bristled when he spoke of the Native Americans and her family. "Good. They deserved to die. I'm thankful to ya and the townsfolk." She said in good spirits, letting him know that she was serious in her praise.

It was then that she heard him say that they had looked for survivors. The Indians had captured her mother, they had taken her back to their camp or whatever it was that they called it. Hope sprung in her heart for a moment and she looked up at him expectantly. But he didn't provide her with the information that she so desperately required. She would ask him, she wasn't shy. Looking at him with demand and question in her expressive eyes, she spoke up. "My mother...they took her. Did ya find her?" She tried not to sound hopeful, she tried not to sound excited. If her mother was still alive then Rio had to find her. She had to make sure that the woman was alright. Looking at him with a brighter expression to her now, she was suddenly aware of him reaching across the table for her hands. Following his movement, he would be able to see that her guard went up instantly at his touch.

Rio wasn't a woman that gave into her fancies very often. She didn't let men touch her just because it made her feel good. She knew that Weldon was only trying to make her see that he was concerned for her, but it didn't sit well with her. She hated being touched unless that man was Lewt. Flicking her eyes up from his hands to his face, she did her best to hold her protest in. This man was just interested in helping her. She needed to be respectful, especially to a man that her father had looked up to. She listened to his barrage of questions, all focused on where she had gone and what she had done to survive. Looking him in the eye, she searched for a reason as to why she shouldn't trust him. He had her father's approval, so why didn't that seem like enough? Studying him for a moment, Rio didn't want to be honest with him.

She was a criminal. She had murdered men, she had robbed banks, she had robbed homes. She had stayed one step ahead of the law in many towns and because of her uncanny ability to look like a young man, no one knew what her face looked like. This was the first town that saw the real her and it made her uneasy. She could never escape if she was found guilty of a crime because they all knew that she posed as a man sometimes. The point was, Rio did everything that she could. "I ain't like no normal lady, sir. I survived because I didn't want to die. I survived 'cause my pa gave his life for me to live." She stated evenly, her words not as slurred as she was before. This topic was sobering her and that was dangerous for Weldon. The more sober she got, the more wary she became. It was a habit, something that she couldn't shake.

"I been everywhere, sir. Never stayed in a place fer too long. I figured the Indians knew they were 'sposed to kill three, and I wasn't plannin' on returnin' here so they could butcher me too."

[Shawn Flanagan]

(Anyone can join in this conversation)

Abe came over to bring to refresh Holidays and Shawn's drinks. “He's a brute who can wrestle a bull with one hand,” Shawn added. Taking the glass, Shawn took a sip of his glass, “I will take your warning, Doc,” he placed his glass down, moved his hands up his eyes. The nerves in his eyes are damaged, the doctor told Shawn. The nerves bring small migraines in the back of his eyes. He pushed himself against a stool, sat on it and his staff leaned against his crotch.

“There is something off in this small town, John,” Shawn started to share something to the other man, he waved for the bartender, “Whiskey, please,” the pain was bothering Shawn. “You know that feeling you sense a tornado. I feel like there is one here,” Shawn said quietly to Doc. The barkeep placed down the shots, Shawn took it, salute it, and he drank it down. It hit the spot. The pain in his eyes was going away, but he was getting drunk.

“It had been long over due, since Captain King had been shot. I reported that to the sheriff. The farm family was attacked by Indians and it looked nobody survived. Captain King was shot between the eyes before Inyan blinded me with poison,” he sniffed the air before he took his shot glass, “I have nor heard anything about the Military going after the Indians. It is like Washington never heard, or they don't care. The devil is sitting in this city like a throne. He's trying to pull the silver lining over the eyes of locals here,” he placed his left hand on the staff that was against his crotch. “With that, I am careful, Doc. You be careful too. It's like your gambling games. The devil can be at your game. The devil will make you feel you are winning. You take one blink the devil robbed you blind. He holds your soul on the fork for a trophy. Watch your back, Doc,” Shawn said as he finished off his whiskey.

[Jonah Arkken]

Jonah Arkken had watched as the figure of his hate stepped blithely down from the coach wagon with its team of fine horses. Arkken’s face twitched with barely concealed anger as the man disappeared into a saloon. Arkken’s craggy features looked up to read the sign above the establishment. It read, ‘The Blackbird Saloon’.

Resentment rose up like gorge in his throat as Arkken saw the lavish style of Campbell’s life, the fine clothes he wore, the finest horses that pulled his coach, the team of men who escorted the coach all the way into town. It was a lifestyle borne on the stolen fruits of the labours of better men. It was a lifestyle afforded by ill-gotten wealth of stolen lands. Arkken shook with anger as he looked upon his own dishevelled appearance, his grey features, his threadbare clothes, the straggly horse he sat upon and its torn saddle.

When the coach moved off towards the livery and the tall gaunt man who had stepped out of the carriage with Campbell walked in another direction, Arkken heeled his horse forward down the street. He had followed Campbell and his men at a distance from the ranch that had once been his. The bitter agony of seeing the ranch prosper and flourish under Campbell’s ownership twisted in Arkken’s gut. The horse cantered to a stop before the saloon. The man swept the street nervously as he looked for a sign of any bodyguards or muscle that might have hung back to protect Campbell. He saw none and felt his courage rise even as fear gripped his insides.

Arkken grimaced and shuffled nervously down from his mount. He groped for a better hold on the saddle as he slid off the mangy horse he had been forced to buy. The horse panted and heaved the long journey and its poor condition had spent the creature. Arkken imagined the horse was soon on its last legs but he could not offer any sympathy towards the animal when his heart coursed with so much anger.

He staggered, almost falling over as he landed on the compact dirt of the street. Arkken’s eyes bulged with alarm at how unsteady he was. His age was increasingly telling its story and he was no longer the keen, lithe horseman of years gone by. He was a broken man, made destitute by the banks and the machinations of Weldon Campbell. He had lost his family, his friends and all self-respect. He had thrown away what little Campbell had left him with through his angry bitter vendetta that led Arkken to seek answers from the bottom of a bottle. Before long, even his loyal wife left him and his kids disowned him.

The townsfolk of Del Fuego would once have recognised and respected Jonah Arkken as an honest, hard working ranch owner who had simple tastes and a god fearing mentality. That was fourteen years ago. But after the loss of his farm Arkken had to up sticks and head east to his wife’s family. But there, Arkken had been unable to let go of the belief that his farm had been stolen from him not through any fault of his own but by the avarice designs of Weldon Campbell who had snapped up his foreclosed ranch at a steal of a price.

Arkken hitched the horse and then ran a hand over his grizzled face. His unshaven jaw was grey with stubble and his face gaunt after years of drinking himself into a stupor, after years of letting bitterness sour his soul and the long journey to Del Fuego.

He was reticent and apprehension about facing the man who to him was the source of all ill that had befallen him. Cagily he stepped up onto the board-walk, his feet seeming to ring hollow on the wooden boards as he ventured towards the doors. Arkken smacked his cracked lips and again rubbed an anxious hand across his stubble chin. He did not want to have to face Campbell when the temptation of liquor was so close at hand. But he had come so far and could not turn back.

Yet he stopped, paused in the moment trying to decide upon the road he was choosing for himself. Should he enter and confront Weldon Arkken would be choosing a fight that he might not be capable of waging, never mind winning. But to turn back was not an option. He had lost everything because his hate for the man called Weldon Campbell consumed him. In tackling Campbell, Arkken might very well be putting his life on the line but it was the only to allow his life to move on or at least to seek some sort of closure to the sad last chapters of his life.

He took a deep breath and it escaped him in a shudder. His lip curled with the pull of an indecisive twitch and he felt his hands tremble. How could his mouth be so dry when his hands felt so clammy? He wiped them on the chaps of his pants and then fumbled his hands back to the holsters at his hips.

There he unbuckled the catches and pulled the pistols out of the holsters a small way to test their ease of escape. He refrained from yet again checking if he had bullets chambered. He checked and checked them again and again on the journey towards town. The whole while, itching to pull the pistols and pump Campbell with lead.

But he didn’t want to do that. Correction - he desperately wanted to do just that. To kill the man simply in cold blood. To see him just dead in the street. But such a fate was too quick, too easy, too clean for a man like Weldon Campbell who had caused him so much pain and loss. He would confront Campbell but he wouldn’t gun him down, despite the temptation. Arkken wanted revenge on Campbell. He wanted to show the world the true face of Campbell and see the man brought down.

Campbell had taken everything in his life. Arkken would strip Campbell of what he could of his life. Just as Campbell had left him with nothing he would leave Campbell with nothing. Arkken had once been a god-fearing family man and honest farmer. A man of simple means. A man with honour and simple honest pride. But Campbell had torn that man apart - left his ranch, family and life a shattered mess, left Arkken with nothing. Not even his pride.

Arkken looked up at the building before him. He felt the pull of his demons in the back of his head. They weren’t far from the surface but the anger for Campbell presently drove them from the fore of his mind. He blinked, coming to and aware of the fact he was standing stock still, fingering his pistols in their holsters before the Saloon. He was not sure how long he had actually stood there lost in his thoughts but he startled himself awake and allowed for a clear vision of what he was going to do. He seized on his thoughts of Weldon Campbell.

Fury fuelled Arkken and marshalled his reserve and courage to enter the saloon after Campbell. He told himself, ‘A man mightn’t have his pride, but he could have his revenge’.

[Shawn Flanagan]

Shawn lifted his head, turned his head so his ear was directed to the entrance. “Someone new?” Shawn said to Doc Holiday, “Don't say, it's the devil's imp,” he was jesting. He took a sip of his drink. Shawn knew he was going over his limit on drinking. The pain of his eyes was a bothersome. So, he had to take the pain away.

The Blackbird Saloon gone quiet, Shawn slowly lifted his head, where his ear paying diligent attention what was going on. There was not much to go by when you are blind, the individual was to far for Shawn smell him or hear him.

The blind man could hear the man moving about, he was near by, “Hello, partner,” Shawn said holding up his hand with his drink. “I am Shawn. Your new,” he offered his hand to the direction of the man. Was he accurate? No. He was close but Shawn was not allowing his new handicap stop from being nice.

[Jonah Arkken]

Arkken entered the saloon initially boldly, ready to confront Weldon Campbell. But when he entered the bar there was no sign of the man and the bar itself fell silent as all eyes seemed to turn on him. The saloon was empty of Weldon but it was not empty. He saw a well dressed man and another dressed in funeral black. A bruiser of a man sat to one end, his presence quiet but announced, his muscle had a manner of dominated the room. Arkken made sure to lift his hands away from his holstered pistols lest he gave the wrong impression to the bouncer.

And of course, as to be expected, behind the bar stood attentive barkeeps to where Arkken’s attention now swept. He ran a hand over his mouth, distinctly feeling the parched roof and dry tongue. As his hand dropped from his face he grasped it in his other to hide the tremble in it. All of Arkken’s reserve ran from him as his hungry, thirsty, eyes swept the saloon bar with the sweet nectar of the liquor behind the bar. He gulped and licked his lips. His face twitched. He swayed on the spot deliberating whether to indulge his demon to forget his vendetta against Campbell.

Then he was suddenly aware of the black clad man proffering his hand in welcome. It had the effect of stalling Arkken from caving in presently to the drink. Arkken blinked away his startled nature and took in the man before him, noting only now the eye patch. “Um, yeah. I’m new. Sorta.” Arkken looked about the bar his eyes roaming for Weldon but his gaze kept flickering towards the lined wall of drink. “I usta live ‘round these parts.”

He gave an uncomfortable and very self-conscious short laugh. Then Arkken caught himself and grasped the undertaker’s hand in turn. “Sorry! Pleased to meet you.”

He took off his hat then as a mean of keeping his hands busy. He held the brim of the hat in his hands, unconsciously turning it between thumb and finger nervously. Arkken’s eyes looked up the stairs. He imagined from the outside that such an establishment catered for more than just drink. Jonah wondered whether this was the purpose of Campbell’s visit to the saloon. He looked up to where the girls plied their business and he tried to figure if Campbell had gone up the stairs to seek the comforts of a pleasure woman.

He cast his eyes back to the two men stood at the bar and briefly worried what impression of a character his own wandering eyes and hungry looks were portraying him as. Would they think his heaven directed gaze was a desire to pay a woman for her comforts or did they see his ache to indulge in alcohol?

Uncertain now of his actions, his resolve robbed of him, Arkken’s face twitched and he shifted on his foot, his hat still in his hand.

[Shawn Flanagan]

The shadow of Jonah had removed something from the on top of his head, Shawn hopes it is a head. Shawn figured the man had removed his hat off. What kind of hat? Who knows? Shawn had no clue what social status the man was. He did not have the smell of a drunk, well, not yet. It was a shame to Shawn was excellent reading people's behavior. Jonah had interested features that Shawn would want to see. But there was a sense of confident with a mix of insecurity.

The handshake was what Shawn had to go by. The other man's hand shake felt it wrinkled like a person who had dried hands. It was not frost. The temperature was not cold. The man could be a hard worker and have hard working hands. No. The new comer's hand felt like his father but older. So, the man was about the same age as his father. Shawn's father is middle age.

“I am, Shawn Flanagan, ” Shawn introduced himself placing his glass down.“Barkeep,” he called, he pushed hair behind his ear. The undertaker stopped to tilted his head to try to hear where the bartender was. He squinted his eye to do so, it was a habit, he picked up. There he was, over to the left, "A drink for.....uhm, I do not know your name? Anyway a drink for my friend here and a refill for me,” he told the barkeep tapping his hand at his empty glass. “I've been here for a month,” Shawn continued to look at the direction of the shadow. His right eye was not like a regular person's eye. “I am the new undertaker, ironic, there is an Irish old song, name Flanagan's wake,” he leaned in. “Forgive me, what is that I smell on from you?” he asked.

[Jonah Arkken]

Jonah tried to awkwardly avoid looking at the man’s injury as they shook hands. Despite having one eye, Arkken felt he was sized up the man in his own way. Jonah could understand the necessity of a man measuring another man. The years had been unkind and cruelly violent to all the nation and Jonah was as much a stranger to these folks after so many years gone from Del Fuego. It was only appropriate that they might view him warily.

And yet, despite the fact the man was getting the measure of Jonah he introduced himself in a friendly open manner that recalled to Jonah that he had not given his own name. Shawn then proceeded to get Jonah a drink. Jonah was first struck by the friendly charitable nature of the greeting before he realised too late to refuse the offer. Or was it that a part of him did not want to turn the drink down? He dismissed that thought quickly. But before Arkken could try to mumble some sort of protest the Shawn’s follow up question completely threw Jonah.

Smell? Of course, Jonah decried, looking down at his dishevelled form and dropped his hand to wipe down some of the dust and dirt from his clothes. He used the wide brim of his Stetson to slap some of the dust from his chaps and pants. Jonah’s journey to Del Fuego had been a long and arduous one and with no funds available to him he had to make his way cross open country in the same clothes and many of the cold nights sleeping close to the horse. Arkken smelled of horse, manure, sweat and god knows what.

“Erm ... sorry ... sorry about that. It’s been a long journey.” He flicked his tongue on his dry lips as the barkeep set the drinks down on the bar. “You shouldn’t have. That’s mightily kind of you.”

Jonah’s eyes feasted on the glass before him. His senses salivated with the desire to feel the burning sensation of the liquor down his throat. In a world that was turned on its head for Arkken drinking had become a solitude for him, a place to seek comfort when his wife, neighbours and friends would not listen to his woes and grievances, chief among them the robbing thievery of his ranch at the hands of Weldon Campbell. Then in the tumultuous upheaval of the war, Arkken had drunk to forget the bloodletting he had seen and the fighting he had reluctantly participated in. He shivered as some of those memories recalled to him now and it made his desire - the impulse - to grasp at the glass all the stronger and the reward all the sweeter.

But he reminded himself of his purpose here. He had to show some comportment in the face of seeing Weldon Campbell again. His eyes darted up the stairs again. He surely only had to wait Campbell out. In time, Campbell would surely appear at the top of the stairs and he would gaze down upon the face of Jonah Arkken and Jonah imagined the man would realise his reckoning had come at last.

“Forgive my manners ... Mr Flanagan.” Jonah said coming to, retracting the hand that had unconsciously reached towards the glass. So caught up in facing the beast of his past, Weldon Campbell, Jonah had been completely remiss in introducing himself to the undertaker. He supposed he was waiting to reveal himself before Campbell and had not thought to give his own name. Tempted though he was to remain nameless until the presence of Campbell, Arkken saw no harm in giving his name. After all, part of his purpose returning to Del Fuego was so that everyone would know him and learn the truth of Campbell’s duplicity and thievery.

“The name’s Arkken. Jonah Arkken.” He found his free hand was again cradling the glass in his hand without his even realising it. He turned the tumbler in his hand absently as he nodded to the fashionably dressed man at Shawn’s side by way of extended greetings.

Jonah breathed out heavily, feeling his nerves kick in again, trepidation filling his chest. He was increasingly unsure and wrong-footed by remaining in the bar and was not sure what the others were making of him.

[Weldon Campbell]

Campbell bristled at the mention of her mother. The utter and cruel barbarity of the Indians who had taken her was even chilling to a man of Weldon’s ability to wage violence. His mind flashed to the scene of the clearing.

Campbell held his pistol close to his face and his rifle lay over his hunkered knees as he used the telescope to scope the clearing. The horses before them whinnied, the savages chorused and sang, and the woman’s screams tore through the clearing.

The savages were cutting her flesh even as one of the warriors sated his pleasures. Weldon moved stealthily through the trees, picking his way carefully alongside his men. They moved in having surrounded the clearing after having lain in wait for the Indians to rendezvous. The savages had expected Weldon’s men to come later, after news of the attack had been raised. Currently they were unsuspecting that they were surrounded.

Had they been proper warriors, their senses would have been better attuned instead of being hopped up on opium and drink. Of course, had they been proper warriors they would not have been bought to do a pale face man’s bidding, even for the promise of guns and ammunition to exact revenge on the pale skins. But their weaknesses had been a point to exploit for Campbell and he cared not for the ignominious honour of the savages nor for the fate he and his men were going to mete out to the savages.

He gave the signal and his men surged forward through the trees into the clearing. Many of the braves looked up to see pistols and rifles pointed at them before the flash and concussion of the barrels tore through them. The attack was swift and brutal. Within moments the cohort of Indians were slain or fallen to the ground. Weldon picked his way through the bodies and unloaded his pistol into the faces of those still clinging to breath.

He approached the warrior who lay buckled over, shot and bleeding at the side of the woman who had been attacking. The brave turned to Weldon’s approach. The men surrounding them held their guns at the ready but they saw that Weldon stalked towards the man with purpose. He had been the wretch of a brave with whom this attack had been orchestrated.

Through laboured breathing the warrior asked of Weldon, “Why pale face?”

“Cause you’re a dirty dog that has served its purpose.” Weldon turned to look upon the ragged woman on the ground. Her face was bloodied and marred. He did not recognise her. He did not know whether she was a woman who worked on the Daniels farm or some poor girl the pack on Indians swooped upon after raiding the Daniels’ farm. He grimaced at her pathetic form even as she reached out in gratitude and pleading for her life. Weldon looked back to the brave. “You really are a savage.” He cocked his pistol and fired point blank between the Indians eyes.

The woman screamed at more violence before shuddering with relief that the Indians who had taken her were all dead. Campbell looked at her keenly. He stated rather than asked, “You’re not Mrs Daniels?”

The girl shook her head and sobbed, “The others. From the tribe. They might have taken ...” The sudden bang of Weldon’s gun interrupted her sentence. If she knew nothing she was of no use to Campbell. He sniffed and scowled at the bloody scene and then shrugged away any concerns.

The act was done. The Daniels’ farm was burning and ruined and it were his. He gave a smile to himself at the eventual fruition of his plan. He regretted not the bloody path he had taken for as far as Weldon was concerned Aaron Daniels had brought it upon himself. “You should have just sold to me Aaron when you had the chance.”

“I can’t say what happened your mother. We did look. We stopped them attacking one woman but ... too late. Poor woman was ... too far gone.” If Weldon was concerned for the hope that seemed to spring up in the young woman’s face he was not concerned about dashing that hope cruelly. He sniffed and breathed heavily through his nose as he was inclined to do. Probably because of his earlier years of boxing and getting his nose broken twice making his breathing sound much heavier than it was.

“We tried to hunt them all down. We got some of them who attacked the farm but ... never ... never could it be enough to balance out the horror and evil of those savages.”Weldon feigned sympathy to the girl, inwardly groaning at going over the same old matter and sounding like a moronic Churcher but trying to appear sympathetic. “I’m sorry Miss Daniels. I truly am.”

She let him take her hands in his and he sensed how guarded she was. It was only natural that she would be guarded. She was a lone woman in the world fending for herself and someone who had witnessed the very worst atrocity one might imagine. Weldon had expected no less from her but he had to appear as if he were making a rapprochement out of concern and sympathy as a decent ordinary citizen.

Likewise, Weldon did not expect her answers to be forthcoming. "I ain't like no normal lady, sir. I survived because I didn't want to die. I survived 'cause my pa gave his life for me to live." She was to Weldon’s mind being cagey and again this was natural given the horrors that she had witnessed. But Weldon also suspected the woman had cause for keeping her head down and keeping quiet.

Welson listened as she explained where she had been and gone. All of it very vague and scant that suggested she had gotten up to things in the past that she shouldn’t have.

"I been everywhere, sir. Never stayed in a place fer too long. I figured the Indians knew they were 'sposed to kill three, and I wasn't plannin' on returnin' here so they could butcher me too." Her further explanation that she never stayed in any place for long seemed to bear up his theory that in order to survive the girl - the woman - had turned to crime in some capacity to make her way in the world. She claimed she was running form the Indians, and there was probably some truth to that, but Weldon believed she was also running form the law too. Of course, that was Weldon trying to read between the lines of what she said and he could not be sure but could only imagine it were so because Rio had survived for so long on her own.

Weldon strangely appreciated that, appreciated the strength of character. By rights, she should have been dead, not just by the hands of the Indian savages but by the cruelties of the world she had escaped into. Shelter, food, comfort and support all had to have been lacking as she grew up. And she was, no doubting about it, a beautiful young woman but to a woman in her lone and lowly position such an attribute was more often than not a curse rather than a blessing.

“That’s understandable.” He told her, trying to comfort but careful to not over do it or patronise her. In truth, he did not want to patronise someone who had endured so much and had survived. To Weldon, Rio was a reminder of his own tough lot in life and how he had had to do what he had to do in order to come out on top. Yes, she was also a potential threat to his future but there was something about her that pulled at him. It wasn’t guilt or any sexual attraction. It was the kindred spirit of a survivor, the recognition of the steely look in her eyes that marked her as someone deadly and potentially dangerous.

It meant he would have to proceed very carefully with this young lady and yet ... despite his mind screaming that he should arrange for the woman to meet with an unfortunate accident, there was a niggling curiosity about her. Weldon found himself wanting to know the ins and outs of how she had survived. He wanted to befriend her in order to do so, even though the endeavour would be highly dangerous.

Weldon reckoned though, that if she were an outlaw as he suspected, then that was something he could lord over her if she were to become a threat to him. He simply could not imagine how Rio would ever learn of his involvement with the ranch and demise of her family.

Weldon let go of her hand to free her. He sensed she was uncomfortable with his touch and he too was uncomfortable at such intimacy especially when it was a facade. He took his cup of coffee and drank from it. He smiled at her serenely. “The main thing is that you’re alive. It’s what your father would have wanted after all.” Curse him to hell for helping you to escape.

Then Campbell cleared his throat. He found himself voicing a thought that surprised himself and it troubled him too. “There’s a tree on the ranch. Near to the house. It were struck by lightning years ago one night. I was due back in Boston the next day and in the morning the men were at work on the tree clearing the part sheared away by the lightning hit. The strike cleaved that tree right down the middle.” He twitched his mouth and bearded chin lost in the thought of the tree, the image strong in his head.

He came to from his reverie and explained to Rio who probably wondered what this sudden divergence in the conversation was about. At that moment in time, even Weldon Campbell might have been hard pressed to say. “My business concerns kept me in Chicago for some months but when I returned I was surprised to see the tree still standing. I had expected the tree to have been cut down. Cleared away. The strike had blasted it. It were dead. But no, no the tree somehow survived despite the trauma of the strike. It still had growth. It still had life. It still had fight.”

He looked up into the expressive, beautiful and dangerous eyes of Rio Daniels. He saw so much potential danger in her eyes and yet Campbell found himself unable to quite think straight looking at her. Those piercing blue eyes bore into him, the self same eyes of the girl who stomped the porch planks in front of her father when Weldon had called on them. Even then she had been fierce, stubborn and headstrong. The years, her experiences, had only forged her more so.

“You’re like the lightning tree. You survived. You endured and you still have fight.”