>>6297369
C) Make an example of them. Your hand finds your pistol's grip.

Throw his cross up into the air for them to catch, and then blast em

>>6297369
>Make an example

Render unto caesar what is Caesars, render unto fools what is fools

>>6297369
B) Try to talk them down. Appeal to whatever passes for reason in men like these.

>>6297412
+1, but first ask if they've received the gospel & offer it if they're sincere.

>>6297369
>C) Make an example of them. Your hand finds your pistol's grip.

File: dde55cdb932b6fb6052ba2aa1(...).jpg (61 KB, 736x1010)

61 KB JPG

Your hand finds the worn walnut grip of your Colt, thumb already moving to the hammer. Twenty years of muscle memory takes over—the draw, the cock, the aim—all one fluid motion.

"Verily I say unto you," you begin, your voice carrying that old sermon cadence, "whoever lives by the sword—"

The Colt roars.

The youngest Clayton spins backward clutching his shoulder, his pistol never clearing leather. Blood sprays across the weathered boards behind him.

"—dies by the sword."

The other two are moving now, but you're already shifting aim. The second brother gets his gun half-drawn before your next shot catches him in the thigh, dropping him screaming into the mud. The bearded one—Jed—is faster than he looks. His shot cracks past your ear as you lean hard left in the saddle.

Your third shot takes him center mass, but he's a big man and it doesn't drop him clean. He staggers back, firing wild. One bullet catches your mare in the neck.

The horse screams and goes down hard. You kick free of the stirrups, rolling through the mud as she falls. Your fourth shot, fired from your knees in the filth, punches through Jed's throat. He drops, hands clutching his neck, blood pooling fast.

Three men down in under ten seconds. The whole town is watching from windows and doorways. You stand, mud dripping from your coat, and put a mercy bullet in your mare's head. Then you grab the middle Clayton by his collar, hauling him upright despite his screaming.

"You're going to live," you tell him. "Long enough to tell me who's paying you."

>>6298207
The doctor's office sits on a respectable corner—white-painted boards, clean windows, and a brass nameplate: A. E. Alistair, M.D. - Graduate of Women's Medical College of Pennsylvania.

You shoulder through the door, dragging the bleeding Clayton. His boot heels leave red tracks across the floorboards.

"Doctor! Got a man here needs—"

"Table."

A woman emerges from the back room—tall, auburn hair pulled back tight, sleeves already rolling up. She doesn't look at you, just at the blood pooling under Clayton's leg.

You hoist him onto the examination table. She's cutting away his trouser leg before you step back, her scissors steady and quick.

"Femoral artery is intact," she says, fingers probing the wound. "But the femur is shattered." She glances up. Her eyes are pale gray, cold. "He'll likely lose the leg. You dragged him through mud and horseshit."

"He drew on a U.S. Marshal."

"Did he?" She doesn't look up from her work, reaching for a brown bottle from the shelf. "And where is your badge, Marshal?"

"Still in my saddlebag. On my dead horse."

"Hold him down. This will hurt."

You grip Clayton's shoulders. She pours carbolic acid directly into the wound. Clayton screams, thrashing against your hands. The sharp chemical smell fills the room.

She works without speaking—cleaning, probing, removing bone fragments with forceps. Her hands are steady. Precise. When she begins suturing, each stitch is exactly the same distance from the last.

"You killed the other two," she says.

"They gave me no choice."

"There's always a choice." She ties off a suture. "You chose the efficient option."

"You seem to have me figured out, Doctor."

"You're not complicated." She starts another line of sutures.

The words sting more than you'd like. Clayton groans, starting to come around.

"He's waking up," you say.

"Good." She finishes the last suture, steps back. "He'll live. Maybe even keep the leg if infection doesn't set in. Now get out."

"I need to question him."

"He's a patient." Her voice is ice. "My patient. And you're dripping mud and blood on my clean floor."

"I need him alive to question."

She steps closer. You can smell the carbolic acid on her hands, see the little tunnels of her gray eyes, her lips somehow unaffected by the dry heat.

"You brought this violence to my door" she says. "You could have let him bleed out in the street with his brothers. Made your statement. But if he's in here, he's my patient."

How do you respond?

A) "He's a prisoner of the law. You will let me question him."

B) "He's a criminal, same as any other. It's your duty to help to me."

C) Say nothing. Let your silence and the gravity of the situation speak for you.

>>6298212
>Say nothing

she has us figured, no word is gonna change that. So let no word do it.

>>6298212
C) Say nothing. Let your silence and the gravity of the situation speak for you.

>>6298212
>C) Say nothing. Let your silence and the gravity of the situation speak for you.

I doubt she cares about the law that much. Duty might work, but its her duty to do what she can for her patient's health. So it does seem like having our little staredown is the way to go. I like her.

>>6298227
>>6298234
>>6299167

You meet her gaze and hold it. Those gray eyes don't waver. The only sound is Clayton's wet breathing and blood dripping onto the floor.

Ten seconds pass. Twenty.

Her hands stay folded across her apron, knuckles white where she grips the fabric.

Clayton's skin has gone yellow-pale, eyelids twitching. He won't talk for hours.

"I'll be back when he can speak."

"Twenty-four hours minimum. Longer if the fever takes."

You turn toward the door, and dried mud falls from your coat onto her floor.

"Marshal." Her voice stops you at the threshold. "Next time, use the back entrance. Where I keep the pig carcasses."

The door closes hard behind you.

The mayor's office sits above the bank—too much oak furniture crammed into too small a space. Through the window, two men are loading the Clayton brothers onto a wagon.

Mayor Harris pours whiskey, using both hands to keep the bottle steady. His vest is buttoned wrong, third button in the fourth hole, and there's ink on his collar from this morning's ledgers.

"Marshal Thorne." The bottle rattles against the glass. "Quite an introduction."

"They drew first."

"Yes. Of course." He drinks, coughs. "The Claytons were... well. Every week brings something new. Fires at the camps, missing cattle, the stage robbed twice last month."

"Who pays them?"

"The railroad needs land for the depot expansion." Another pour, larger this time. "People who won't sell have been... unlucky."

Through the window below, the doctor's blinds are drawn tight.

"You have proof?"

"If I had proof, would I need you?" His laugh comes out high and thin. "The town council wanted someone from outside, someone who couldn't be bought."

He opens the desk drawer and sets a tin star on the blotter between you. His thumb has worn the eagle smooth from nervous rubbing.

"One hundred a month, plus ammunition expenses, and the committee meets Tuesdays."

In the street below, blood still darkens the dirt where your mare died.

"Make it stop, Marshal." He swallows. "Before there's nothing left."

How do you respond?

A) "I'll handle it."

B) "What aren't you telling me, Mayor?"

C) "A town gets the sheriff it deserves. Let's hope you've earned a good one."

>>6299302
>What aren't you telling me Mayor

we can't be bought if we have any principle left

>>6299302
B) "What aren't you telling me, Mayor?"

>>6299302
B) "What aren't you telling me, Mayor?"

>>6299316
>>6299351
>>6299434

"What aren't you telling me, Mayor?"

Harris sets down his glass too hard. Whiskey sloshes over the rim.

"I don't know what you—"

"The ink on your collar. Fresh. You were writing something this morning that got you agitated enough to miss." You step closer to the desk. "You know more than you're saying."

His fingers find the worn spot on the badge again, rubbing the smooth metal.

"They have a camp. The Claytons." He won't look at you now, studying the whiskey in his glass. "Three miles out, down the wash where the cottonwoods grow thick."

"And you didn't mention this because?"

"Last man who rode out there came back tied to his horse. Gutshot." Harris pulls a handkerchief, dabs at his forehead. "That was two weeks ago. Deputy Carlson. He died slow."

"Who else knows about this camp?"

"Half the town. But nobody goes near it." He hesitates. "Whoever's paying them meets them there. Every Thursday, Carlson said, before he died."

"Today's Thursday."

"Yes." Harris pours another drink with shaking hands. "It is."

You look out the window. The sun's past noon, moving toward afternoon. If someone's coming to meet the Claytons, they'll find an empty camp. Or maybe they already know what happened in the street.

How do you proceed?

A) Go alone. You work better without dead weight, and Harris would only be a liability in case of fighting.

B) "You're coming with me, Mayor." Force him to show you exactly where this camp is and what else he's not saying.

C) Head to the saloon first. Find someone who knows the territory and might have seen who comes and goes from that camp.

>>6299726
>C) Head to the saloon first. Find someone who knows the territory and might have seen who comes and goes from that camp.

>>6299726
C) Head to the saloon first. Find someone who knows the territory and might have seen who comes and goes from that camp.

>>6299726
C) Head to the saloon first. Find someone who knows the territory and might have seen who comes and goes from that camp.

>>6299749
>>6299749
>>6299762
>>6299784


You head down the stairs and out onto Main Street. The saloon sits catty-corner from the bank, three stories of unpainted pine gone silver from weather. THE GILDED CAGE painted in fading yellow letters across the false front. Someone's nailed playing cards around the sign—all spades, all face cards, most with bullet holes.

The batwing doors are propped open with a spittoon. Inside, the air hangs thick with tobacco smoke and the sweet-rot smell of spilled beer soaking into sawdust. A long bar runs the left side, mahogany once, now scarred with knife marks where men have played mumblety-peg. The mirror behind it has three spider-web cracks, each one taped over with brown paper.

Afternoon crowd. Maybe fifteen men, two working girls in faded purple satin. Conversation stops when you enter, then starts again lower.

The bartender—a fat man with pomade-slick hair—polishes a glass with a rag that's making it dirtier. His eyes track to your badge, then away.

You scan the room, looking for someone who knows the territory. Three men stand out:

At the bar's far end, an old prospector nurses a whiskey. Gray beard stained yellow around his mouth from tobacco juice, clothes that haven't seen wash water in months. But his boots are good—custom work with reinforced soles for rocky ground. His hands are steady despite the drink, and there's a Sharps rifle leaning against the bar beside him, the stock worn smooth from use. The bartender called him Silas when he refilled his glass.

Near the window, a young ranch hand practices his draw with an unloaded Colt. Can't be more than seventeen, face still smooth, trying to grow a mustache that won't come in proper. His holster's new, barely broken in, but he's fast—smooth and natural. The working girls keep glancing at him and giggling. Someone calls him Billy, and he grins like it's Christmas morning.

In the corner, back to the wall, a man sits alone. Dark hair, skin the color of tanned deer hide, clothes that blend gray and brown until he's almost part of the shadows. A skinning knife rests on the table beside a beer he hasn't touched. Nobody sits at the tables near him. Nobody looks at him direct. When the bartender brought his beer, he left it at the table's edge and backed away.

Each would have their uses. The prospector knows every trail for fifty miles—you can see it in how his eyes measure distance even indoors. The kid's eager, wants to matter, would probably work for the glory alone. The quiet one moves like a man who's never been lost, never been surprised.

Who do you approach?

A) Silas, the old Prospector: Best tracker, but he's already eyeing your badge with contempt.

B) Billy "the Kid": Young, eager, fast with a gun but green as spring grass.

C) The Trapper (name unknown): Quiet, competent, works for coin but probably nothing else.

>>6299899
>C) The Trapper (name unknown): Quiet, competent, works for coin but probably nothing else.

>>6299899
>Trapper

Just got to worry about being paid off

>>6299899
A) Silas, the old Prospector: Best tracker, but he's already eyeing your badge with contempt.

>>6299899
C) The Trapper (name unknown): Quiet, competent, works for coin but probably nothing else.

I don't think our guy is much of a talker either

>>6299930
>>6299959
>>6299962
>>6299969

You cross to the corner table. The man doesn't look up, but his hand moves an inch closer to the skinning knife.

"Need a guide," you say.

"No."

"Haven't said where yet."

He looks up then. Dark eyes, steady. There's a small leather pouch on a cord around his neck, worn smooth from touching.

"Clayton camp." His voice is soft, barely carries, rolling slightly with the melodic cadence of his people. "Whole town knows what happened. Whole town knows where you're going."

"Ten dollars."

"Twenty." He touches the pouch at his neck, a quick brush of fingers. "Ten for the guide work. Ten for the risk of being seen with you."

You put a gold eagle on the table. He doesn't touch it.

"When?"

"Now."

He stands—shorter than you expected, maybe five-eight, but moves like a tiger. Picks up the knife, slides it into a sheath you hadn't seen. The coin disappears into his vest.

"My horse is outside. Brown mare with the beaded bridle." He heads for the door, not checking if you follow. "You can call me Jay." At the door, he stops, looks back. "That badge means something to you?"

"It's a job."

"Man who pins metal over his heart should believe in what it says." He pushes through the doors. "Or the metal gets heavy."

The Clayton camp sits three miles out, down a wash where cottonwoods cluster around a dry streambed. Jay leads on his brown mare, never checking the trail, like he's following something written in the air. You borrowed one of the mayor's stagecoach pullers, a gray, heavy thing that has seen better years.

You leave the horses up top and pick your way down on foot. Jay moves silent through the loose rock. You try to match him but your boots scrape and clatter.

What's left isn't much. A ring of stones for the fire, cold now. Three bedrolls spread around it. Empty cans scattered—beans, peaches, a sardine tin crushed by a boot heel. The wind has blown sand into everything, starting to erase the story.

Jay crouches by the fire ring, runs his fingers through the ash. "Four days old. Maybe five." He points to marks in the dirt. "Many boots. Different times."

Brass casings glint in the dirt near a flat rock they used for target practice. Bottles lined up on the rock, some broken, some still whole. A deck of cards scattered by wind, the face cards torn in half—someone was angry about losing.

"They expected to come back," Jay says, touching one of the bedrolls. "Left their gear."

What is your primary method of investigation?

A) Follow the tracks. Focus on where they went and who they met.

B) Reconstruct the scene. Focus on what happened here.

C) Search their belongings. Focus on who they were and what they possessed.

>B) Reconstruct the scene. Focus on what happened here.
Having an idea of the incident will help us anticipate their movement.

>>6299978
B) Reconstruct the scene. Focus on what happened here.
Left their gear 4 or 5 days past? Must be some kind of story here

>>6299978
B) Reconstruct the scene. Focus on what happened here.

>>6300045
>>6300050
>>6300074

You walk the camp's perimeter, reading the ground. Boot prints layer on boot prints, but patterns emerge.

"Here." You point to a clear set leading from the fire to a flat spot near the rocks. "Someone stood here regular. Same boots, over and over. Watching."

Jay kneels, examines the prints. "Not working boots. City leather."

You move to the target practice area. The brass casings form a rough line—they were shooting from about ten feet back. But there's a cluster of different shells further out, twenty feet from the targets.

"Two groups," you say. "The Claytons practicing here, close. Someone else, showing off from distance."

".38 Smith & Wesson." Jay picks up one of the outlier shells. "Pocket gun. Man would have to be good to hit bottles from there."

You reconstruct it: The Claytons at their fire, drinking. City boots arrives, probably Thursday like the mayor said. Proves himself with some fancy shooting. They talk business.

Near the fire ring, a dark stain in the dirt. Not blood—too purple. You crouch, touch it. Wine. Better wine than cowboys drink.

"Company man," you say. "Railroad probably. Came here to pay them, brought wine to seal the deal."

Jay points to scuff marks by the largest bedroll. "Fight here. Not serious. Wrestling maybe."

You look closer. Playing cards scattered in the dirt, half-buried. Someone lost at poker, got physical about it. The torn face cards make sense now—someone was cheating, got caught.

"They were celebrating," you say. "Got paid recently. Got drunk, played cards, fought about it."

Under the edge of a rock near the cold fire, something white catches your eye. Paper, partially burned.

You reach for the paper. It's a telegram form, the bottom half burned away, the rest water-stained and faded. As your fingers close on it, you hear it—that distinctive rattle, like seeds in a dry gourd.

The snake is coiled in the rock's shadow, two feet from your hand. Thick as your wrist, diamond pattern down its back. Its head rises, tongue tasting the air.

Jay goes completely still behind you. The snake's rattle increases, filling the wash with its warning.

The telegram is in your fingers now, but you can't read it without moving, and movement might trigger a strike. The snake's head weaves slightly, tracking you.

"Don't move sudden," Jay whispers. He's too far to help.

Your Colt is on your hip. A stick from the fire ring lies three feet to your left. Or you could just back away, slow and careful, come back for the telegram later.

How do you deal with the snake?

A) Draw and shoot it. Loud, but effective.

B) Slowly back away. Quiet, but leaves a threat behind.

C) Use the stick to flick it away. Risky, but quiet.

>>6300086
C) Use the stick to flick it away. Risky, but quiet.
I think our guy doesnt care if he dies, but he does want the job done. Maybe Jay will kill it with a knife throw lol.

>>6300086
C) Use the stick to flick it away. Risky, but quiet.

>>6300086
any reason not to back up slowly, grab the stick and shove the danger noodle out of the way?

>C
anyway, this is cool

>>6300090
>>6300165
>>6300231

You reach for the stick with your left hand, slow, keeping your right perfectly still with the telegram. The wood is gray from weather, light enough to move fast.

The snake tracks the stick now, head shifting. The rattle speeds up, louder.

You flick hard, a sharp sideways motion. The stick catches the snake mid-body, sends it flying toward the rocks. It lands coiled, already rattling again, but ten feet away now.

"Good reflexes," Jay says.

You unfold the telegram. Water damage and fire have taken most of it, but you can make out fragments:

...PAYMENT READY...
...THURSDAY NOON...
...LAND MUST BE...
...S. KANE, REGIONAL...

The rest is brown stains and burned edges.

"Kane," you say. "Samuel Kane."

Jay looks at you. "You know him?"

"Used to." You fold the telegram, put it in your vest pocket. "Regional what? Regional director? Regional manager?"

The snake has disappeared into the rocks. You climb back up to the horses, Jay moving ahead, silent again.

Doctor Alistair's office looks different in late afternoon light. Cleaner somehow. You knocked this time—the back door, like she said. She answered wearing a different apron, this one with fewer stains.

"Marshal." She doesn't invite you in, just stands in the doorway. "Your prisoner is stable. Still can't talk."

"I need your help with something else."

She waits. Behind her, you can see shelves of brown bottles, each labeled in precise handwriting.

"I have a damaged telegram. Water and fire damage. Need to restore the ink."

"And you assume I have the chemicals for that?"

"You're the college graduate. You tell me."

"Show me."

You hand her the telegram. She holds it up to the light, turns it, examines the edges where fire ate the paper.

"Iron gall ink," she says. "Standard for railroad telegrams. The iron has oxidized, turned brown. Gallic acid would restore it, make it readable again."

She looks at you, still holding the telegram.

How do you ask for her help?

A) "This is a puzzle worth solving. The chemistry of it should interest you."

B) "I'll pay for your time and materials. Name your price."

C) "We started on the wrong foot this morning. I need your help. Please."

>>6300238
C) "We started on the wrong foot this morning. I need your help. Please."

>>6300238
>C) "We started on the wrong foot this morning. I need your help. Please."

>>6300238
C) "We started on the wrong foot this morning. I need your help. Please."