topic 02: The Game (introduction of characters)

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You find yourselves in the area of Black Horse, a no account town that still has hopes of drawing the rail, but smart money says that ain't gonna happen. You're south of Rancho Bucareli and it's on the southern cattle trail for the railheads east. People hang on at Black Horse and even newcomers arrive as demonstrated by some of you gentle folk. If you take up with the townsmen, you'll need to guard against the hell-raisin' cowboys and the well-sotted miners along with any other trouble that might roll into town. If you took up with the ranchers, you'll occasionally have run-ins with the miners. Of course, if you're a miner, that grubstake is yours, but there's also Injuns to worry about. And Henry, down the crick, he what struck a bit o' the yellow, he got rightly rolled in town. Whiskey and gold don't mix. Come to think of it, whiskey makes just about every bad situation worse and every decent situation bad.

So, find yer bunks and rack down fer the night. Stage comes in the mornin'. Wonder who'll be on it?

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A cowboy rides into town, stops at the Dusty Spur Cantina and after slaking his thirst, asks about jobs for cowpunchers. He told to ride out to the "Hustlin' B." I hear tell they're short-handed. It's a few miles west o' here, a little bit north on the Chaco Road. Stray south and you'll run into the Tres Horas Ranch and they ain't none too friendly to gringos.

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The stage rolls in in the morning and stepping off is a rather well-dressed man, evidently one of apparent distinction and a bit out of place in this dusty town. He is clutching a black bag of the kind doctors carry. Riders are always scrutinized by the lay-abouts in town and greenhorns are of special interest, but none but the usual notice is given these stage riders. The man sees the Desert Rose Hotel as he alights and enters. Upon inquiry at the desk and through conversation, it is learned that the town's former doctor, Doc Barrister has returned east and his office is to let for $2.50 per week. Arrangements can be made at the Black Horse Bank.

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A strikingly handsome fellow, even under all the trail dust, ambles into with guns and a stern eye. He stops in at the sheriff's office and inquires in a slow drawl about a certain Mormon preacher. He's told that the fellow lit out a little over a week ago and though he, said he was headed back east to firm up the railroad contract, it's a good bet he's in Deseret. The fella left in the middle o' the night, an' not a mite too soon. A 'citizen's committee was aimin' to visit him the next day.

He then walks to the Shy Dog Saloon and spends the last of his coin on a warm beer and asks about gold and silver mines and placers. The bartender looks at him a moment, looks to one of the patrons who chuckles while the bartender guffaws. A mangy old dog in the corner lifts his head tot the sound. The newcomer simply waits, open-eyed and alert. This place was named for a dreamer like you, sonny, or at least his horse. Old man Peters still has a claim out there, but he spends most o' his time drinkin' and shackin' with that señorita o' his. The daffy spic supports his worthless carcass. Ah, don't let me shatter yer dreams. There's still ore that comes out o' the San Juan Mountains or in the run-off. Lot's o' dreamers and damned few strikes, but you may as well try yer luck like everyone else. Don' look like ya got any gear. you can get that at Eliot's, down the street.

When the fellow, says his name is Matthew, mentions his run-in with the "preacher" and the economic fallout from that, the barman says, Well, Cash is my name and I heard o' that feller, but without a grubstake, yer purty well up a crik. Ya might go on over to Lewis & Poole an' see iff'n ya might hire on there.