Slaughter Gulch
"I'll be back for you later," you whisper to the Wild Turkey as you sit it down on the bar and turn to take your leave. The sun has just begun to dip over the horizon and a cool wind greets you outside.
Despite the carnage just across the street from him, it would appear the town's illustrious sheriff has remained sequestered within his jail house. Shaking your head, you make your way down main street on foot. It isn't hard to find the smithy. If the anvil doesn't give it away, the big horseshoe sign does. You circle around the building and settle down beneath an old elm tree to wait.
It isn't long before the sound of approaching footsteps reaches your ears. Manuel and two other men draw near and you rise to meet them.. "This is the gringo I tell you about," the Mexican says, nodding in your direction. "He made ol' sheriff Cunningham shit hisself."
One of the men steps forward and studies you intently. A brown overcoat shrouds his body, but you notice him clutching a shotgun beneath its folds. Interestingly, a red bandana is tied to his forearm. You notice similar bandanas tied to the forearms of Manuel and the other fellow. "What's your name," the man in the overcoat asks.
"There's some call me Rosco, but most of them are dead now."
"You see, Boss," Manuel says with a laugh, "I told you he's a crazy hijo de puta."
"Well, I'm Malcolm, and if that pistol on your belt is for more than show I have a proposition for you." Malcom fishes a cigar out of his pocket and the third man, a spry fellow with a bushy beard, steps forward to light it. Mal takes a puff and eyes you carefully. "There's a coach due tomorrow morning," he begins, talking around the cigar, "I don't mean for it to arrive. It's carrying wages for Fort Rotham, about three days west of the Gulch. I ain't gonna lie to you, it's bound to be well-guarded. But it'll be worth it. You want in? We'll cut you fifteen percent of the haul."
Despite the carnage just across the street from him, it would appear the town's illustrious sheriff has remained sequestered within his jail house. Shaking your head, you make your way down main street on foot. It isn't hard to find the smithy. If the anvil doesn't give it away, the big horseshoe sign does. You circle around the building and settle down beneath an old elm tree to wait.
It isn't long before the sound of approaching footsteps reaches your ears. Manuel and two other men draw near and you rise to meet them.. "This is the gringo I tell you about," the Mexican says, nodding in your direction. "He made ol' sheriff Cunningham shit hisself."
One of the men steps forward and studies you intently. A brown overcoat shrouds his body, but you notice him clutching a shotgun beneath its folds. Interestingly, a red bandana is tied to his forearm. You notice similar bandanas tied to the forearms of Manuel and the other fellow. "What's your name," the man in the overcoat asks.
"There's some call me Rosco, but most of them are dead now."
"You see, Boss," Manuel says with a laugh, "I told you he's a crazy hijo de puta."
"Well, I'm Malcolm, and if that pistol on your belt is for more than show I have a proposition for you." Malcom fishes a cigar out of his pocket and the third man, a spry fellow with a bushy beard, steps forward to light it. Mal takes a puff and eyes you carefully. "There's a coach due tomorrow morning," he begins, talking around the cigar, "I don't mean for it to arrive. It's carrying wages for Fort Rotham, about three days west of the Gulch. I ain't gonna lie to you, it's bound to be well-guarded. But it'll be worth it. You want in? We'll cut you fifteen percent of the haul."