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ItalianoBeef, Blood and Brotherhood
Del 3: Game Session no. 2
| Sunday december the 12th, in the lords year 1875 Cottonville, Runnels County, Texas In all good stories there is a setting, an event which takes place within this setting and some form of action or re-action to this event. If this is a good story or not, is not up for me to decide, however, it is becoming increasingly important to define the setting within which these events will take place. The small town of Cottonville in Runnels county Texas has a main street with two intersecting parallel streets that divides up the town. There is a number of businesses available for passers through, as well as the locals. There are two saloons, a hostel, a hotel with an adjoining restaurant. There is a laundry service and a barbers shop for those in need to wash of the wilderness. A store for all the daily goods one might be in need of, in addition to a baker, butcher and blacksmiths shop. For those in need of connection with the outside world, there are two stageline offices G & T and Lannigans, in addition to the post office. Lastly, to consolidate the town of Cottonville as a civilized place and not merely some lawless wasteland, there is a sheriff’s office and a church. An agreeable evening in pleasant company After having taken in the sights of the town, though admittedly there were few, Josh joined up with Nate in their room at the Cottonville hotel. Finding the man looking out the window or admiring the fine fabric of the curtains it was hard to know. But Josh found the room clean and containing all the conveniences one could need. Ismael feeling more as if he had spent a week in the saddle, rather than just two days were having second thoughts, when heading cattle, there would be nothing but endless days in the saddle, not to mention a complete lack of the conveniences he was currently enjoying. Meaning hot water and a wash-basin. The soap and scrape of the razor restored some sense of humanity to his bruised sensibilities though. In the evening, Nate, Josh, Ismael and Matthew met up at the Red feather saloon, James was feeling poorly and had chosen to get a few hours of rest. The red feather served a decent enough dinner, offered a few hands of cards and interesting conversation with the owner of the establishment, the bartender called Abe, was however unwilling to divulge information about the subject of Nates interest. Mainly the recent burial, and the events that led up to said burial. Instead the man busied himself on the other side of the room whenever possible and recommended that Nae talk to the sheriff, if he had further questions. The evening ended like most evenings do, with song of questionable quality and someone casting up their accounts. James was found in a state of less than graceful distress and a half empty bottle of Manos tincture, he was alive through and the somewhat drunken diagnosis of the patient indicated a combination of food poisoning and fatigue due to weeks in the saddle, stress and looking over ones shoulder whilst sleeping with one eye open. Thankful they had a roof over their head and weren’t in any type of rush, Matt rolled his friend over to his side, and went to sleep. Monday december the 13th, in the lords year 1875 Cottonville, Runnels County, Texas The morning found the early risers Ismael and Nate in the breakfast room at the hotel, shortly joined by Matthew, reporting on James comatose but feverless state. The three men were, after one cup of coffee into their breakfast, joined by Josh, who was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. When the news reached him that James probably should not be moved, meaning they were staying the day, Josh peaked up and suggested that they spend the morning doing some light exercise. Meaning, he wanted to see if his companions could use the iron they carried. So, one hour later they found themselves a few hundred meters out of town with four empty bottles Josh had talked Abe, the bartender at the Red Feather, into giving him the previous evening, but thankfully had not used for target practice then and there. Ismael showed proficiency for hitting targets, Josh turned out to be good at landing on his rear and Nate was mostly laughing. Someone who wasn´t laughing, was the sheriff. As he was studying us, his ‘Yellow boy’ none to subtly in hand. In the interest of not getting shot like dogs, and because of Nates curiosity that had been peaked the previous evening we holstered our iron and went to talk with him. Most prominently, Nate was curious about the recent murder. For some reason, the sheriff found it perfectly acceptable to divulge information about the city slicker who had come down with rapidly onset lead poisoning a few days ago. After inviting us to his office, he informed us that Mr Morgan Stiller was found last Wednesday an hour and a half out of town by the passing stageline. The man was transported to Cottonville but didn´t make it there alive. The man was identified by Mrs Jenifer Stiller, who was supposed to meet up with her husband here in Cottonville. The sheriff, claiming that he had done his best, admitted that he was out of his depth on this one, and because the murder had occurred within his territory, it was his mystery to solve. This combined with the no doubt quite insistent encouragement from the victims’ family eft the sheriff in quite the predicament. Henceforth, he offered us the opportunity to solve his issues for him, for free. Though Matthew thought that putting one’s nose into other people’s business, especially rich white people was a sure way to get strung up, the others appeared to be all too keen on the idea. Besides James wasn´t going anywhere so they might as well have something to entertain themselves with in the meantime. A trip out of town Finding the crime scene wasn´t difficult it was about an hour and a half to the north-east from town, interpreting it proved to be a challenge though, it had been five fucking days, a rainfall, a coach crew and the sheriff fucking up the scene since the events had occurred. All that was missing would be some newly appointed half-blind lieutenant shouting that ‘they had to push on’ in order to catch up and h would feel right at home. In short, the tracks were separated in four categories: -The coach crew, which was of no interest, apart from the fact that one of the men had a significant limp, probably damaged left knee. -The sheriff, and his newly re-soled boots. -Two sets of horse tracks leading to the crime scene, the tracks are parallel and without any significant speed. The riders have been traveling no faster than they can keep a conversation. In addition, one of the riders or horses left a blood trail. -And the same to horses leaving the crime scene heading west, one of them about a person lighter than when arriving, also, no bleeding and deliberate attempts at hiding the tracks. Of these four categories two were of interest for us, however, the five fucking days and the aforementioned rainfall, in addition to some skilled, and regrettably successful attempts at hiding the tracks of the departing rider(s). Yeah, they shook me off, I´ll damned well admit it and if you wanna be funny about it you go back there and do it better yourself. Hell, I´ll even show you the way there. And no, I am not touchy on this point! Anyway, the other track proved to be more rewarding, and we followed the track to a burnt down farm, judging by the growth around the houses, the fire must have occurred two or more years ago. The most significant discovery here was the fact that someone had buried a set of clothing. I mentioned it was blood soaked, as if someone had been shot in the chest and neck? The clothes looked more like those belonging to your average Irish farmhand of average size and stature, rather than a rich white guy though. With the clothes there was a gun holster, for someone righthanded, it was one of those holsters used by people who doesn’t live and die by the quickness of their draw. Clearly this man, died by the lack of quickness, or aim. A few hundred meters away from the farm, following the tracks a fishing pole with the initials J.D. carved into it was discovered. This track was lost in the wetlands and it is highly likely the riders came in towards the farm from the south-east. A slightly less farfetched event, but no less eventful Meanwhile in Cottonville, Nate was coming to the uncomfortable conclusion that he was significantly better at charming cattle than respectable women of good repute, and he did not feel fully confident that the recently widowed Mrs Jennifer Stiller would find him agreeable. However, shouldering his duty like a soldier he respectfully asked the hotel receptionist to arrange a meeting with the widow in question. They met half an hour later in Mrs Stillers well-appointed rooms over luncheon, where Nate, squirming, blushingly and somewhat stuttering explained his errand and the reason for monopolizing her time. Divulging that the sheriff had asked him, and his comrades to look into the late Mr Stillers murder. Mrs Stiller proved to be a rich source of information, instantly sharing her suspicions, in fact she reassured Nate that she already knew who had killed her husband. In-fact since Nate appeared to be a ‘Decent man’ who ‘possessed the qualities needed’. Mrs Stiller was more than willing to offer Nate, and the rest of us, but highly likely mostly him, after all Nate looks like the responsible sort, I mean, I would lend him money. But it is not like I am known for my judgement, after all I got strung up, literally and figuratively before… Regardless, I digress. Long story short, Mrs Stiller offered Nate money to avenge her husband, no really, she did. Whist simultaneously inquiring if he was the type of man capable of doing that. Short philosophical pause in the narrative, if someone believes, genuinely, as Mr Stiller does here, that the person they are talking to is capable of casual murder for money. The story is getting there but she offered $500 if her husband’s murderer didn’t make it to the authorities. Here I thought the price of a man’s life was closer to $0.80 since rope is about twenty cents per yard, clearly, I was wrong, maybe the discrepancy of $499.20 is for the trouble of not having to do the honors yourself? If you believe, genuinely that you are talking to a coldblooded killer, what will keep them from going after you next? Genuinely what is your plan, hire a killer to take care of the problem, and then hiring a second one to clear away the first one? Back to the narrative, Mrs stiller was as previously mentioned, kind enough to offer $200 for us bringing her husband’s killer to the authorities and $500 for failing to do so. In addition, she happily divulged some information of critical importance. Mr Morgan Stiller was a former blue coat in the civil war, I´ll spare you the details of his bravery in killing Greybacks. During his years of exceptional bravery, he served with a man called Frank Dawson, who naturally was a terrible human being committing war-crimes left and right. This Frank Dawson fella is of average build and stature, about forty years of age, left handed, has black hair like any villain worthy of their boots. In addition, he has a scar above his left eye, a bitter expression and is known to go by the name James Brewbaker on ocation. Stiller got Dawson put in front of a court-martial and by witnessing, got the man sentenced to 12 years in prison. Dawson, had probably read to many 10 cent novels, and promised that he would get his revenge. Whilst Dawson was being dragged off to prison, Stiller was whistling a merry tune all the way to Chicago where he and Mrs Stiller lived up until recently. When word reached them that Dawson had escaped prison, they decided to re-locate to Santa-Fe. The plan, according to Mrs Stiller was for her to go ahead and make the new house ready for their new life, and Mr Stiller would meet up with her here so that they could go there together. Then, according to Mrs Stiller, Mr Stiller met his untimely end at the hands of Dawson, and his possible comrades before Mr Stiller could be re-united with his wife here in Cottonville. A meeting of like-minded After his meeting with Mrs Stiller, Nate de-toured to the stable, endures the stable hand that James was in fact not dead, before heading out, looking for the rest of the company. Which subsequently meant that the four riders met up a bit outside of town, sharing their findings. Nate, to his credit expressed marked concern at the thought of accepting money for coldblooded murder. Whilst Ismael appeared to have a more relaxed, relationship with the concept of revenge. No matter how much Matthew wanted to tell himself that he was ‘just’ a tracker, his hands were stained red, so any moral argument from him would fall flat in this question. It was decided that the information should be taken to the sheriff, who to his credit took the developments with a stride. Examinations of the clothes that Mr Stiller allegedly had worn when murdered showed that what was believed to be a hole made from a gunshot, was in fact cut with a knife. The sheriff thanked us for our assistance and promised that he would return to the scene tomorrow, something Matthew thought pointless at best, but in the end considered joining the man in doing, for nothing else than the chance of finding out where the murdered shook him off. Standing on the street sharing a cigarette, the four men started talking, which produced significantly more questions than answers. Maybe, just maybe they were of the suspicious sort, which would surprise absolutely nobody. But things were not adding up, Mrs Stiller is the one who identified Mr Stiller and is the only one who knows what he looks like. But Mr Stiller, or the body identified as Mr Stiller, was not wearing the clothes he was killed in when he was found. Someone shot him, and dressed him in clothes fitting his social station, hiding the laborer’s clothes he wore when killed. Why was he here? How did Dawson find him? Is that even Mr Stillers body in the coffin? The words body-swap was mentioned, and though no one local was missing, as far as they knew, according to the locals, it is not uncommon for travelers to pass through the town. In order to straighten out a few of these question marks, the congregation sought guidance. Or at least answered from the pastor who conducted the burial. Pastor Joshua Hayden, a dedicated tea drinker, to Nates great dismay, had not recognized the man in the coffin, which was to be expected, since Mr Stillers was from Chicago. Neither did he recognize the clothes we had found upon description, though he did admit that there were plenty of Irishmen living in the area. Not to mention all the people who pass through, especially cattle-herders. Though this is not prime season for that. Neither did the pastor recognize the initials J.B. that were carved into the fishing pole. The good pastor did invite us to mass and encourage us to return at a more opportune moment, meaning, not well after sundown. Since it appeared that the mystery would not solve itself, and they had for all intent and purpose taken a job it was decided they would stay in Cottonville. The hostel owned and run by Edgar and Sarah Stinnson and his wife offered homey rooms with finely embroidered curtains, which were largely lost on James when Matthew unloaded the mans all but dead weight from his shoulders onto the narrow floor space between the cots inside the room they were sharing with Ismael. After dining at the Red Feather, the four men hit their bedding, exhausted after a long day. The lumpy mattress was digging into Matthews shoulder blades creating a sensation of sleeping on a rocky hillside, only without the benefit of clean air. Instead there was a district cent of un-washed body and odors saturating the room, That was not what was bothering him, like a dog chewing on a bone his mind was churning. Too busy to allow him to sleep. There was something about all this that just didn´t, seem right in regard to the logistics of this, it would make a lot more sense to take the train from Chicago to Kansas City via Saint Louis, The Union Pacific Railroad to Pueblo and then The Santa Fe coach road the last bit. Why on earth was he taking this godforsaken de-tour around Oklahoma? Sure, he wasn´t some expert on the subject of geography, but he could not see why a man would stumble around in what for all intent and purpose is a lawless warzone without a damned good reason. Which admittedly might be Frank Dawson trying to kill him, but who was Matthew to judge? Besides, the logistics was only one thing of all of this that didn´t add up. |
Fortsättning:
Del 1 (9 dec 2019)Del 2: Game Session no. 1 (9 dec 2019)
Del 3: Game Session no. 2 (9 dec 2019)
Del 4: Game Session no. 3 (9 dec 2019)
Del 5: Game Session no. 4 (9 dec 2019)
Tillagd 9 dec 2019 Noveller #Egenupplevt #Rollspel #Geeky/nördigt
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