The Cursed Night
You unconsciously bite your lip trying to control the tension in your stomach: I don't have any breech-loading carbine rifle nor a musket; I have a good five-shot gun. As more than two I am dead. A pessimistic smirk comes involuntarily to your face while you mutter to yourself:
Of course, with my luck, it will be a bandit gang.
The mount's hooves sound increases until it doesn't let you hear the powerful river. You can finally see them among the lush pines. 5 men on horseback galloping with their faces covered and dirtier than a bucket of shit-riddled carbon; you don't have to be Newton to see that they are criminals.
Shit! What in hell I would do ... You think for yourself, desperately trying to find a solution that doesn't end with you dead.
And you don't like the only solution you get at all. But the men approach and force the rhythm they have possibly seen the wagon and want to jump on which vultures.
You hide behind an old bristlecone tree feeling the pointy needles leaves in your face.
They stop and as you expected they begin to loot and shake your dangerous components. Well, that may be useful to stop them.
The one that looks like the leader talks cheerfully to their company: "Look, Guys, it seems that the wagon is full of bottles!"
A man with more nose than face and girdle adds with a strong Hispanic accent: "Hopefully be a good Bourbon; that and the Virginia city's Wenches are all I need." The message is quickly chanted rudely by his peers.
You knock the hammer of your pistol, observing how your colt trigger goes down prepared to unleash hell on Earth.
Your nervous muttering between your teeth as soon as you press hard on the trigger: "I'll see you in hell!"
Your cart full of highly volatile explosive and toxic substances is like a barrel of TNT and your only chance to get out alive.
You know it's a risky bet, but as a swindler, you're used to gambling your life on Lady Luck.
Of course, with my luck, it will be a bandit gang.
The mount's hooves sound increases until it doesn't let you hear the powerful river. You can finally see them among the lush pines. 5 men on horseback galloping with their faces covered and dirtier than a bucket of shit-riddled carbon; you don't have to be Newton to see that they are criminals.
Shit! What in hell I would do ... You think for yourself, desperately trying to find a solution that doesn't end with you dead.
And you don't like the only solution you get at all. But the men approach and force the rhythm they have possibly seen the wagon and want to jump on which vultures.
You hide behind an old bristlecone tree feeling the pointy needles leaves in your face.
They stop and as you expected they begin to loot and shake your dangerous components. Well, that may be useful to stop them.
The one that looks like the leader talks cheerfully to their company: "Look, Guys, it seems that the wagon is full of bottles!"
A man with more nose than face and girdle adds with a strong Hispanic accent: "Hopefully be a good Bourbon; that and the Virginia city's Wenches are all I need." The message is quickly chanted rudely by his peers.
You knock the hammer of your pistol, observing how your colt trigger goes down prepared to unleash hell on Earth.
Your nervous muttering between your teeth as soon as you press hard on the trigger: "I'll see you in hell!"
Your cart full of highly volatile explosive and toxic substances is like a barrel of TNT and your only chance to get out alive.
You know it's a risky bet, but as a swindler, you're used to gambling your life on Lady Luck.