Thread: Wild Wild West: A Roleplay

Roy Callahan was a cautious man. He always had been. Even as a child he had never taken the dares of his friends, never leaped without looking. His father had raised him to be careful and aware of his surroundings at all times. He had never went through the clumsy stages other boys did when puberty struck. He always seemed to know exactly where every bit of himself was, and he liked to make sure every bit of himself stayed attached to the rest.

This was why, at this exact moment, Roy Callahan was feeling uneasy. Once again, he took stock of his clothing and gear, double-checking that everything was in its place. His spun cotton trousers were dusty, but free of wrinkles and most definitely there. His gunbelt was firmly encircling his waist, the leather well-oiled and tended. The loops that held spare cartridges for the immaculately kept Colt in the holster at his right hip were all occupied, the cartridges themselves clean and free of grit. His brown cotton shirt was buttoned carefully, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The Winchester '73 rifle he held in his left hand was fully loaded and ready.

His horse was stamping impatiently at the dry ground beside him, anxious to get to the water it smelled in the town well up ahead. Roy shook his head, his weathered brow furrowing in bemusement. Something was bothering him, he just couldn't place what. He raised his eyes again to the deserted town directly ahead, squinting a bit, searching out the shadows caused by the setting sun to the west. Deep, dark, almost unnatural shadows fell to the left of every building, the empty storefronts mocking him with their vaguely disturbing silence. What was it about this place that gave him the shudders?

Shaking it off, Roy pulled on the lead line in his right hand and started toward the well at the center of the small ghost town.

"Come on, you," Sam murmured, taking her stolen horse by the reins. She could kick herself for already growing attached to the overgrown mule, but Sam had a bigger heart than she liked to admit - especially in a world as uncaring and callous as the desert, ready to suck you dry and leave you for dead without a moment's hesitation.

She guided the horse to a post outside what appeared to be an old gunsmith shop. There, the horse immediately dipped his head into the trough in front of him. Sam was about to scold the beast for being such a dummy, but she stopped short as she looked down in the trough.

Completely filled with water.

Again the twitch was back. Her hands were on her holsters so fast, you'd swear they'd transcended space and time. Samantha looked all around, listening...waiting. She could almost feel a presence around here, watching her, but none of her senses could back it up. As far as she could tell, this town was as dead as dinosaurs.

But then where did this water come from...?

Sam started speculating about this as she headed cautiously towards the gunsmith's, her hands on her hips and her brow furrowed. Wild theories about underground water manes and deep desert wells came to mind, but Sam's thoughts were cut short as she stopped in front of the boarded up door to the gun shop. She was in dire need of more bullets and though there was a slim chance there'd be any in this heap of lumber, she'd be stupid not check with the journey she had ahead of her. Sam quickly made a mental list of her rations and decided that she'd better check around for some foodstuffs and water as well. If worse came to worse, she could always fill up her canteens with the water from the mysterious trough as much as the thought bothered her.

Taking a step back, Sam took careful aim at the door and launched herself into the air, kicking at the boards with such force that they easily splintered under her blow. She sailed into the darkness of the shop, landing easily in a hunched position before standing up to dust off her gloved hands.

Had Sam remained outside even a moment sooner, she might have noticed the outline of a man and his horse in the distance. As it was, Sam was preoccupied with what was inside the shop, gasping in disbelief as her eyes adjusted to the terrible darkness.

The Orphan was peering out into the distance from the anonymity of the darkened room when he heard a crash downstairs. He had been hiding in the small attic of the gunsmith's store for weeks now, and had grown used to having silence as his only companion. The cacophany downstairs grabbed him from his lethargy, however, and he bolted up as fast as he could.

His heart began to pound in his small chest, and very quickly the rest of his body immediately fell into the state of numb resignation to death that he had become accustomed to. It had been days since he had eaten, and the small jug of dirty water he managed to bring up with him the last time he ventured out was now dry, as was his mouth. His eyes had grown used to the darkness, his nose to the stench below. Perhaps death wouldn't be so bad after all.

Although he could barely feel his limbs, he managed to grab the large silver six-gun at his side and hoist it up to eye level. With a shaky hand he pulled back the hammer and trained it on the entrance to the attic, ready to squeeze off a shot at the first sign of entry.

Jacob Daikon woke from another bad nights sleep. He groaned as he got off the bed. Another damn day in this god-forsaken place. He picked up a bucket from the corner of the room and unlocked the door. He'd have to get water from the well for the day, although each day he'd have to lower the bucket down further and further to get water. Water was running out.

He walked outside and froze as he saw the approaching rider. He dived back inside the door, scraping his knee on the way back in. Surely the sheriff can't have found me yet. He dropped the bucket and crawled over to his revolver, trying to keep out of the way of the windows. He picked up the loaded gun and crawled back to the door.

If he was lucky the rider hadn't seen him. In that case he could wait here and at the first sign of movement shoot. He had to admit, it wasn't a good plan, but it was the only one he had.

Sam pulled a face, immediately bringing the handkerchief around her neck up to her nose.

"What the hell died in here?" she whispered, stepping lightly over the creaking boards. Should wouldn't be surprised to find a rattler or two hiding among the debris.

Sam coughed lightly at the dust she had stirred up. She could make out shadows now - a long counter where a gunsmith might have once stood. Behind the counter she could make out rows of gun racks held hostage by a mess of cobwebs. There were no pieces she could see, but perhaps there was some ammo hidden somewhere behind the counter.

Click.

Sam froze immediately, her ears practically ringing with the slight sound she'd just heard. She hadn't been shooting for fifteen years to not recognize the sound of a gun ready to fire.

Sam was not alone in the gunsmith's shop.

She scanned her eyes over every inch of the place while quickly and silently extracting one of her revolvers. Holding it steady, she glanced to the left where she could just make out a metal, spiral staircase that presumably led up into the attic.

That feeling was back- the foreboding feeling that she was being watched by an unseen presence. Sam did not take lightly to things she couldn't see.

Ignoring the spiral staircase, Sam returned her gaze to the counter. Peering up, she noticed that the boards separating the attic from the shop were sparse in some areas, perhaps threatening the break at the slightest pressure...

Sam's eyes finally fell upon an old broom leaning against the front wall near the door she'd recently smashed in.

Ah, to hell with subtlety, she thought, and with the brash boldness of a woman who'd been on the run for too long, she grabbed the broom with one hand and jumped up onto the counter. Let's see whoever's up there hide now. Sam immediately jammed the broom's end up into the ceiling above. The boards splintered in turn, giving whoever was above quite the startle. Same leaned the broom on the counter against the wall so its end extended into the attic. She stepped up onto the broom, which was surprisingly strong for how old it probably was. She peeked into the attic, barrel first, to find herself facing the back of a small man, perhaps a boy. The flash of silver told her that he was, in fact, holding a piece of his own.

Sam smiled in spite of the situation.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Creeeeeeeak.

The Orphan's finger reflexively squeezed the trigger, letting loose a deafening gunshot that found its mark somewhere in the wood above the staircase.

He heard a small scraping sound behind him, and with a frantic motion he rolled forward and to the side, aiming the revolver at the place he had just been sitting. There was no one there, but he caught a slight movement in the floorboards and so fired three shots into the floor. His tired fingers were still squeezing the trigger, but instead of gunshots he felt only the disappointing sensation of the hammer clicking into an empty cylinder.

He threw the revolver onto the floor and curled up in the darkest corner of the attic. He still had a small book in his left hand, and he squeezed tightly against his body. His eyes were shut also, and he found himself now paralyzed with fear. He knew he may have hit whoever was down there, but he wasn't about to check.

If he was going to die, now was the time.

He listened intently for any sound downstairs, and after about a minute he heard some rustling. Then footsteps. The sound of boot heel against wooden floorboard came closer and closer, then changed as it became boot heel against metal staircase.

Someone was coming for him.