Paladin - Have Gun, Will Travel

[jemmus]

Outside the hotel, a couple of boys come up and stand in the street and peer at the shooting through the door. One looks like he's around 15 years old, the other around 12. That fact that they resemble each other, and are wearing homemade shirts made from the same bolt of striped cloth, might lead one to believe that they're brothers.

[Grognardsw]

Outside the saloon, Paladin looked around and noticed the boys. He flipped a dime to the older boy.

"Kid, watch what happens here and keep tabs on the men who fought the cowboys. I'll be back within the hour, and you can make another dime with your update."

Paladin walked toward the barbershop, always a good location for picking up local scuttlebutt.

“Good afternoon sir,” said Paladin. He took a seat. “A shave please.”

While shaving, Paladin made small talk and got around to asking: ”Do you know where a Mrs. Virginia McCollum lives hereabouts?”

[jemmus]

Thank you, mister, the boy replies. Caleb, you stay here, he says to the younger boy. He goes up on the porch, squats down by the doorframe, and leans his head to puts one eye into the doorway. He seems to have pretty good sense for a 15-year old. Or maybe he's seen this kind of situation before.

The barber replies, and it turns out he's a talkative barber alright. Speaks as slow as molasses like almost all Texans, but talks long while he's doing the shave. Virginia McCollum? She's Daryl McCollum's wife. He has a farm and ranch about 5 miles east of town. They haven't been married very long. She's a real pretty gal. Daryl brought her down from Austin. She must come from money, because she comes to town dressed up as fine as an Austin dance hall girl. That doesn't make her very popular with the ordinary women around town, as you might imagine. That and the fact that she only attends services at the Methodist church around once a month and on Christmas and Easter. I imagine the way their husbands look at her when she's around might have something to do with it too. Heh-heh.

Daryl does alright, but he doesn't have much more than any other farmer-rancher does. He's a big, good-looking man, though. Maybe that's won her over to him. I went to school with him, all the gals were sweet on him, even though he's not very bright. He's not dumb, he just don't catch on very quick. Not to speak bad of him.

Need an Observation roll please.

[Grognardsw]

Observation vs 13 [1d20]=5

“Love springs eternal,” commented Paladin about Virginia. “She must have to get use to a different lifestyle here. Does she or Daryl have any enemies?”

Paladin wondered why a wealthy and attractive woman would marry a man like Daryl. A rare beauty could stir up emotions in town.

“I hope the sheriff gets to the saloon quick, I heard gun shots there. A bunch of young bucks stirring up trouble.”

[jemmus]

Paladin notices that is seems like the barber was about to say something else, but didn't. But it seems that the barber just can't resist sharing some gossip with the stranger. He replies, Well, I wouldn't say it so much of them having enemies, but of Daryl being an enemy of someone else. He lowers his voice and leans closer. It's said that Virginia McCollum run off and shacked up with Sheriff John Behan. It's also said that she's a little touched in the head. Behaves kind of oddly, kind of wild-like. Flits around doing whatever she wants like a month-old calf. No sense of modesty. Anyhow, it's also said that Daryl's blood is up and he means harm to the sheriff. That's understandable, don't you think? Any husband would feel that way. That's why Texas law allows a man to shoot dead any man he finds walking down the street with his wife.

Mister, I'll ask that you don't tell anybody where you heard that information. Right?

(Texas law actually did allow that, up until the mid-1980s. A husband in that situation could not be convicted of murder. Even if the husband had other reasons for wanting the victim dead (bad business deal, property dispute, etc. If his wife was involved with the victim, no murder conviction).

[Grognardsw]

“Of course, not a word,” Paladin assured the barber. ”And I'm sure the confidentiality will be returned?”

“That's a risky thing tangling with a sheriff. But when it comes to your wife, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do."

Mrs. McCullom may be touched in the head, but maybe she wants Daryl to confront the Sheriff and get himself killed or hung, thought Paladin. Leaving her free to hitch her wagon with John. Women could be clever sometimes.

"Well, thank you sir, a fine shave.”

Paladin gave the barber an extra tip. “Have a good day.”

The black-dressed, white-knight-for-hire left the barbershop and headed toward the sheriff’s office, asking the way if need be. He half-expected it to be empty, if the sheriff was doing his duty at the saloon.

Paladin knocked before entering. “Hello?”

Somehow I’m not surprised Texas had such a law.

[jemmus]

There's a strong smell of human dung in the sheriff's office. There's no one here except for a man behind bars in a cell that's no more than 10 feet by 10 feet. On the left is a plank bed with no mattress. At the front of the cell is a bucket with a ladle. Another bucket is at the back. The man is wearing a straw farmers hat, and he has no belt or footwear. He has a few days growth on his chin and an embarrassed look on his face.


You picked a poor time to enter, mister, the man says. Sorry for the smell. The sheriff and deputy heard shooting off to the west and run out and rode off. There's nobody here to empty my slop bucket. He looks Paladin over. Uh, mister, do you think you could lend me a couple of dollars to pay my fine and get out of here? I'll pay you back, with interest. Or if not, could you take a message to the Methodist church for me? They might help out a fellow Christian.

[Grognardsw]

"What are you in for?" Paladin responded to the prisoner. "Are you from around here?"

While talking, Paladin stood next to the desk, glancing down to see if any legible documents happened to be on top.

[jemmus]

Paladin sees a small stack of papers lying on the desk. With a few casual glances, he quickly reads the body of the text of the document on top.
Sheriff John Harris Behan is directed to demand and collect from Mr. Edwin Darby, owner of 160 acres of land along Archer Creek, back county taxes from the year 1872 in the amount of $52.21. Partial payment, as well a promissory note for the remaining balance may be accepted, if the said partial payment is no less than 20 cents on the dollar. Payment in the form livestock or agricultural commodities such as grain, hay, or fresh or canned fruits or vegetables is not acceptable. Hays County, Texas is not responsible for transporting county taxpayers' goods to market for them, nor is it responsible for vending them for them.

Judge Archibald P. Fox
Hays County Justice of the Peace

If Paladin doesn't want the prisoner to notice him scoping out the document, he needs a successful Observation roll. Might as well roll another one too, while we're at it.

In the space of just a few minutes, Paladin encounters yet another loquacious gentleman. It seems that the people in San Marcos (population 732) are quite willing to share their thoughts and wisdom with a newcomer willing to hear them. No sir, I'm not from here, I'm from Waco. I'm in for a charge of vagrancy. What happened was, I did pretty good over some months playing faro in Waco. He pauses, proudly looks Paladin in the eye, and let's his understatement sink it. But faro in Waco's got a bet limit of 50 cents, a dollar at most. Waco's a little country town, nothing ever happens there except everybody went to church again and somebody's daddy the deacon got caught with a fifth of whiskey and cards in his pocket.

So I rode down to Austin with my earnings. Played at high stakes faro tables. Some as high as ten dollar limits. But I couldn't get no luck in Austin. No matter where I went, the cards were against me.

Well, you know, mister, the difference between a good gambler and a poor gambler is the poor one don't know when he's whipped. That is the mark of a cowardly gambler. Scairt by what he already lost, no guts to forget it and move along. He again gives Paladin the proud and knowing look in the eye.

So I decided that a change of scenery might be good to shake up the old luck. I headed south on the road from Austin toward San Antone. Plannin' to see the sights, stop in every town along and check out the faro crowd. Find a cow puncher job for a little while if I have to, mowing hay, well digging, whatever. And just drift along and enjoy things for awhile on the road to old S.A.

The jailbird sits down on the rough bed and continues to continue. But, compadre, here's what happened between Austin and this tadpole mudhole called San Marcos. I let myself get laylaid on the road. Three mostly-grown men and four boys. They took my money, my horse, my tack and saddle, my gun, and even my new shoes. I had to swallert my pride and ast them to leave me my hat. Because of a 10 mile walk in the sun coming up for me. In stocking feet with no shoes or boots. That caused a few of them to talked about just shooting me for back-talking them, but they decided against it. "Go ahaid and keep yer damn hat, feller, haw, haw, haw," etc. Them were some real mean boys, mister.

Mister, I'll tell you and I tole the sheriff, them boys had trail bandanas drawn up over their noses, so nobody could see their ignert country faces. But they were so ignert that they didn't have enough sense than to call each other by name. The older one was called by the name of Lucas, and the younger brother by the name of Clyde.

Mister, I come to this town with just a hat on my head. No money, no shoes, no horse, nothing. Sure, I asked Hoffman for a drink of water and shot of whiskey.I'll pay him back for both. I just need a little grubstake toward getting out of Sheriff Behan's Hays County jail....

Waco is a town of probably over two or three thousand people, around 60 miles north of Austin. It's on the Brazos River, and grew as a town because some enterprising company of businessmen built a bridge over the Brazos. That was quite a big deal for cattlemen driving cattle north to the railhead in Dodge City, Kansas. Far less cattle, horses, and personnel lost to drowning. Or being swept down the river, climbing out somewhere, and joining some rival cattleman's inventory and outfit. The bridge toll is shameless robbery. But weighed between the right hand and the left, it's worth it.

[jemmus]

The prisoner clears his throat and continues. I'll confess that I also have a charge of petty theft against me. What happened was, after I rode Shank's mare over them 10 long miles in my stockings, I was naturally very thirsty. So I went into the first saloon I seen, went to the bar, and ordered glass of water and a shot of whiskey. As soon as that Dutch barkeep set the shot down, I grabbed it up and knocked it back. The Dutchman said, "It vill be ten cents for the vhiskey." I replied,"I'll have to owe you that ten cents, sir, because durn robbers took all my money, my horse, my saddle, my gun, and even my shoes. Now I have no way of returning the merchandise to you, but I'll be back with that ten cents just as soon as possible." The Dutchman didn't like that. He said somethin in Dutch to his boy and the boy took off running out of the saloon. I ast the man where the Methodist church, and he just pointed a finger east. He was still mad, you see.

So started walking down the street to the east in my stockings, which by now were pretty worn through at the soles. I was looking for a steeple, and shore enough there was one. But before I could reach it I seen that Dutch boy pointing a finger at me, and two men on horses with badges looking at me. Before long they had me back in the Dutchman's saloon to hear his story. I freely admitted to having borrowed the Dutchman's whiskey and owing him a debt. But the sheriff said, "That's not borrowing, that's stealing. In addition to paying for the drink, you'll pay a fine for petty theft. Do you have anywhere to stay? Any kin or friends in town? To which I answered, "No sir," and told him and the deputy the story about being robbed on the road. "Then you'll also pay a fine for vagrancy," the sheriff said.

And that's how I ended up in this jail. I owe three dollars in fines and 10 cents for the shot. That sure did turn into an expensive shot of whiskey, didn't it now? I don't know how the sheriff expects me to pay fines, when all I have is my pants, shirt, holey stockings, and my hat. He said he's finding work with pay for me, but it's been two days, and still no work. That's why, mister, I ast if you could lend me a couple of dollars -- well, three dollars and 10 cents -- or contact the Methodist church for me.

[Grognardsw]

Two Observation vs 13 [_1d20]=(4)=4
Observation vs 13 [_1d20]=(10)=10


Paladin distractedly listened to the prisoner as he glanced at the paper on the desk. Edwin Darby didn’t seem to have any relation to McCullom, but Paladin’s steel trap mind filed the name away.

The West was a land of tall tales, and Paladin wasn’t sure whether to believe the prisoner. But he took note of the alleged robbers, the three men and four boys, the older brother Lucas and younger Clyde.

“Is your horse marked? What type of gun and new shoes did you have?” Paladin’s inquisitive mind couldn’t resist.

“I’ll talk to the sheriff about you.” Paladin walked out, adding: “Maybe your luck will change.”

The gun-for-hire mounted his horse, passed by the saloon to check with the boy if things were calm (“tell them I’ll see them later at the hotel”), then rode east to Daryl McCullom’s homestead.

[jemmus]

Paladin is able to read the document on the desk in the sheriffs office, and converse with man behind bars without detection. He guesses that the prisoner is telling the truth-- the way he sees or recalls it, at least. (Two successful Observation rolls) The man doesn't have the shifty-eyed, look left then look right, behavior of someone who's thinking about the past, then the future consequences of what he's about to say, of a liar. But there's certain odd air about this fellow. He might not be 100 percent right with all of his perceptions and faculties.

The man behind bars in socks replies, My horse ain't marked, and she's just a regular old swaybacked bay mare with a white blaze and white stockings. Teeth are all worn down in the back, especially on the left side, as you're looking in her mouth. Her main is roached, but her tail's long and not bobbed. She needs that long tail for the horseflies. They're thick south of Waco, don't you know. And come to think of it, thick north, east, west of it and in it too.

My gun, now, that's a 1851 model Colt Navy single action. Also called the Ranger Model. Which, by the way, is what Mr. Colt in Connecticut officially named that model when it came out. But as you know, everbody calls it the Navy Model. It's got the modifications for accepting modern brass-jacket cartridges. It was a cap and ball pistol when I come across it, way back when. Some people consider the Navy Model a little heavy. Well, that's because of the longer barrel. I'll ast you, mister, which is more accurate, a rifle or a pistol? And which has the longer barrel? The man stands upright, folds his arm across his chest, and shows Paladin a satisfied grin.

That's right, mister. It's the rifle. Because of the long barrel. My Navy Model can plug a silver dollar at ten paces nine times out of ten. It will put a fatal hole through any cards cheat, lawman, bushwhacker, or any other rascal you might come up against. One steady shot, straight through the heart, brainpan, or liver. They drop like squashed horseflies. You just have to adjust yer mind and be rapid with your motions (Here he does get a little shifty-eyed, as if not quite sure of his figures, calculations, and maybe being a a little too exuberant about the figures about the weapon hitting silver dollars).

Mister, that pistol that I believe you're going to find for me is distinct from all others who might also claims about stolen guns. First of all, because my fool younger brother adopted it as his own while I was away in the War. The durn kid back when it was jist a cap and ball revolver, he took it and carved the finished oak grip handle plates all up. He some kind of pitcher of a buck deer with mountains behind it into one finished hard oak grip. And carved his fool initials into the other side of the oak grip.[\dialog]

The jailbird sits on the rugged bed with his head in his hands. He calls out, black malice in his eyes and on his face. Mister! I'll shoot you dead the next time I see you! If ye prancing around the streets of San Marcos, Austin. San Antone, Waco, or farther beyond. I ast you to contact the Methodist church fer me. But you wouldn't do it. I will shoot you dead as soon as I see you prancing around the streets of this mudhole town again! Or out on the open road again. I ast you nicely to hep me out. It was yer choice, hombre!

[jemmus]

Sorry for the formatting of the last paragraph.
I can't get plain non-dialog text to display.

[Grognardsw]

Paladin noted the details the loquacious prisoner provided.

“I know a little bit about guns and rifles,” commented Paladin. “And I know threatening a man before he has a chance to help you is a fast way to lose that help.” (Assuming the last paragraph of dialog was said in Paladin’s presence. If not, disregard my second sentence.)

The gun-for-hire mounted his horse, passed by the saloon to see if the sheriff was there (if so, he stops to talk), and to check with the boy if things were calm (“tell them I’ll see them later at the hotel”), then rode east to Daryl McCullom’s homestead.

[jemmus]

The prisoner's threat was said before Paladin left the sheriff's office-jail.

The man clears his throat and his sinuses and slowly-- and not without a little dramatic flair-- spits on the floor. He looks Paladin in the eye with wild eyes and a crazy grin. Well, you cain't say I didn't give you warning, cain ye? You've been told and warned, so it won't be murder. It's a fair fight. You don't wake up one mornin, I don't wake up one morning. Your brains on yer card hand, mine on mine. I'll take them three dollars and ten cent what you wouldn't lend me from the sale of them fancy boots. I'll let you be buried with your fancy hat, I guess. After all, a hat is all I have to my name. But I do need a gun... His eyes drop down to look at Paladin's holstered pistol.

He looks up at Paladin's face. As if he realizes an error, and is wondering if the opponent caught. ::ahem:: When you're lying a dry gulch, I will give that gun to the local town's Methodist church. To sell or auction off, as they see fit, or do whatever the want to do with in for the collections plate. Fer the next feller who come across bad luck and couldn't get no help from any honest man who come along. He spits on the floor again. I little drier this time. But no less dramatic.

[jemmus]

Paladin is about an hour ahead of the rest of the PCs. He's at around 1:00 PM, and everyone else is at around 12:00 noon. We don't know yet what the saloon will look like in an hour. But I suspect the Shootout Turns at the saloon will end pretty soon. Do you want Paladin to proceed to McCullom's place (and get there around 2:00), or have him check on the saloon at around 1:00 PM?

[Grognardsw]

Proceed to McCullm’s, but in passing by ask the kid if the sheriff showed up.

[jemmus]

The kid answers, Yessir, the sheriff did show up with a deputy sheriff. But it was after all the shootin had already stopped.

Paladin rides the 5 miles or so east of San Marcos to Daryl McCollum's place. It appears to be a pretty big place, maybe the standard 160-acre tracts from the old Mexico land grants to Anglo-American settlers. Which makes it not an especially big place by Texas standards. At the front at least, the land is surrounded by a post and sticks wood fence.

A sawed planks one-story house can be seen, and back behind it an old-style dog run cabin. Both of those are surrounded by another posts and sticks fence.*

A good barn with a hay loft stands off to the right, surrounded by a corral fence. Longhorn cattle graze the typical long gray-brown western plains prairie grass.

But there's one bull that looks to be of a different breed.

Paladin is well-read enough to know that this might be of the English Blakely or Blakewell breed, such as is favored in the north in the Ohio River valley area. They're not unheard of in Texas, but unusual. Perhaps McCollum is breeding his longhorn cows with the English bull, to improve the quality of the longhorn's infamously tough and stringy meat? That would imply that he's a more progressive and forward-thinking cattleman. But are there disadvantages for introducing a presumably more northern breeds into a Texas herd? Like everything else, changes to the status quo involve some risk. Is McCollum a calculated forward-thinking progressive, an ill-advised fool, or just an animal husbandry gambler rolling his dice?

But other than shaggy bull, McCollum's looks to be just another ordinary Central Texas farm and ranch.

Paladin dismounts, opens the gate into the place, rides through, and per usual customary courtesy, dismounts again and closes it behind him. Then remounts and rides toward the house. He sees three men, two young or middle-aged, the third thinner and apparently and older. in his late 50s in the barn and corral area. They're replacing rails on a cattle head chute. As he and his horse come up the road toward the house, the two younger men run to it and soon reappear with repeating rifles and a shotgun. They back to the head chute and a man hands the shotgun to the older man.

Paladin ride closer and sees that the three men are sweaty from above the hat band to chest of shirt. One, the apparent landowner, appears to be in his late 20s. The other in his mid-40s and he's missing a left arm. And the last in his 50s, but apparently somewhat infirm. Their firearms rest with muzzles angled at the ground in front of them. The men's eyes play over the gun for hire's. The youngest man raises his left hand from his rifle's stock, tips his hat back, and says amicable enough, Howdy, mister. I don't think I've met you before. Pardon the hardware. You know how it is. When there ain't no law or reliable lawmen, it's up to you to make yer own law on yer own land. What can I do for you now? Despite the friendly and welcoming demeanor, there's a cast of worry, sorry, and overwrought emotion on the younger farmer-rancher's face.


The first Anglo-American settlers built what were called "dog run" houses. They consisted of two square log buildings connected by a single roof. The shaded space between the two buildings was called the dog run. With no sawmills for making planks, the length of each side of a building was limited by the length of a tree trunk. To have enough space for sleeping, dining, cooking, and bathing(?), an extra structure was needed. Things needing protecture from exposure to the elements such as tools, harnesses, plows, wash tubs, buckets, butter churns, etc would be stored in the dog run.

[Grognardsw]

Paladin surveyed the ranch and kept calm as the men brought forth their guns.

“Good afternoon, I’m Paladin, from California. Is that a Blakewell? Nice ranch you have. I’m here to visit Daryl McCullom.”

Paladin kept his hands in view on the saddle pommel.

That’s interesting about the dog run houses.

[jemmus]

McCollom says, I'm Daryl McCollom. Good to meet you, Mr. Paladin. Yes, that's a Blakewell. He's young yet, he's never bred a cow yet. I hope he does his job and doesn't shoot blanks. Could I ask what the purpose of yer visit is? No, on second thought, come over to the house tell me over some some sweet tea.
Mr. Oliver, Dad, y'all come along too.

Paladin can go to the house, state his business from the horse, or otherwise move the scene forward.