synecdoche
First Post
D'Artois replies "As you wish," and falls into step behind the Marshal.
Bad Moon over California
- Thread starter Bobitron
- Start date
Bobitron
Explorer
Weaving through the early morning traffic, people give your party right of way when the see a US Marshal rides at the front. You make your way to “Sarah’s Kiss”, a well-kept ferry waiting your arrival. The white-washed boat sits proudly in San Francisco Bay, small waves lapping against its hull with quiet slaps.
“Ah, Marshal Colburn. Right on time.” A burly Irishman in a white officer’s jacket walks down the plank to meet your party. “Sarah’s Kiss is ready for yer group, as agreed.”
You board the vessel, and it makes quick time across the Bay, dropping you off at the opposite bank in short order. With a rigid salute to Colburn and a short bow to the rest of the party, the Irishman starts howling at his crew, getting the ferry turned back into the Bay. San Rafael rises up in the distance, and your long journey north to the Sierra Nevadas has begun.
By Colburn’s calculations, you can travel about 20 miles a day. That means a long trek of over two weeks to reach the isolated community. Colburn lays out the basic plan, expecting to stop in a only couple small towns along the way for supplies. The first week of travel will see you pass through Napa and the gentle Sacramento area, and the twelfth day brings you into Shasta County. From there, you will leave the main road and spend a difficult three days circling the southern base of Mount Shasta to reach Deepwood, which lies northeast of the mountain.
The first day’s travel passes rather quickly, and with the fall of night you set up camp with the rapidly setting sun glinting off the Bay about a mile distant. After a quick meal of salt pork and beans, you settle in for the night, taking shifts to keep watch.
Waking in the morning, you eat a quick breakfast and drink a cup of Arbuckle’s, then mount up. This same routine repeats for days, and by the end of the fifth day, you are bored out of your mind. This is not the busy working travel of a cowhand, the nervous speed of a post rider, or the breakneck pace of a cross country stage, but a numbing movement with no activity. The sun is just starting to dip below the distant Coastal Mountains when a rider appears, one of the few you have seen yet. Nodding a greeting as he rides up, he opens his mouth and speaks with a long Texan’s drawl.
“Howdy. Care to share your fire?” Waiting for agreement, he says, “Much obliged, pardners.” He dismounts, his cowboy’s chaps and hat dirty from long days in the saddle.
“I’m Grant Buckley. My boys are about a mile behind, driving 300 special-bred cattle to San Francisco from the Bent J ranch up near Red Bluff. Some crazy would-be rancher from back east wants these ones put on a ship bound for Florida, of all places.” Grant shakes his head his quiet disbelief. "Glad to see someone else on the trail, though. These Californians think once it starts getting cold out, a man should stay inside."
As he helps you set up camp, a plume of dust rises in the north. “Movin’ right quick, ain’t he?”, Buckley comments curiously.
A single young man rides up, pulling his cow pony to a fast stop. “Buckley! The bridge at the Clementine Crossing washed out while the herd was crossing! We need you back up there now!”
Buckley’s eyes widen, and he jumps up. “Any of y’all got some skills roundin’ up beefes? We’re short handed as it is, and I could use your help most sorely.”
“Ah, Marshal Colburn. Right on time.” A burly Irishman in a white officer’s jacket walks down the plank to meet your party. “Sarah’s Kiss is ready for yer group, as agreed.”
You board the vessel, and it makes quick time across the Bay, dropping you off at the opposite bank in short order. With a rigid salute to Colburn and a short bow to the rest of the party, the Irishman starts howling at his crew, getting the ferry turned back into the Bay. San Rafael rises up in the distance, and your long journey north to the Sierra Nevadas has begun.
By Colburn’s calculations, you can travel about 20 miles a day. That means a long trek of over two weeks to reach the isolated community. Colburn lays out the basic plan, expecting to stop in a only couple small towns along the way for supplies. The first week of travel will see you pass through Napa and the gentle Sacramento area, and the twelfth day brings you into Shasta County. From there, you will leave the main road and spend a difficult three days circling the southern base of Mount Shasta to reach Deepwood, which lies northeast of the mountain.
The first day’s travel passes rather quickly, and with the fall of night you set up camp with the rapidly setting sun glinting off the Bay about a mile distant. After a quick meal of salt pork and beans, you settle in for the night, taking shifts to keep watch.
Waking in the morning, you eat a quick breakfast and drink a cup of Arbuckle’s, then mount up. This same routine repeats for days, and by the end of the fifth day, you are bored out of your mind. This is not the busy working travel of a cowhand, the nervous speed of a post rider, or the breakneck pace of a cross country stage, but a numbing movement with no activity. The sun is just starting to dip below the distant Coastal Mountains when a rider appears, one of the few you have seen yet. Nodding a greeting as he rides up, he opens his mouth and speaks with a long Texan’s drawl.
“Howdy. Care to share your fire?” Waiting for agreement, he says, “Much obliged, pardners.” He dismounts, his cowboy’s chaps and hat dirty from long days in the saddle.
“I’m Grant Buckley. My boys are about a mile behind, driving 300 special-bred cattle to San Francisco from the Bent J ranch up near Red Bluff. Some crazy would-be rancher from back east wants these ones put on a ship bound for Florida, of all places.” Grant shakes his head his quiet disbelief. "Glad to see someone else on the trail, though. These Californians think once it starts getting cold out, a man should stay inside."
As he helps you set up camp, a plume of dust rises in the north. “Movin’ right quick, ain’t he?”, Buckley comments curiously.
A single young man rides up, pulling his cow pony to a fast stop. “Buckley! The bridge at the Clementine Crossing washed out while the herd was crossing! We need you back up there now!”
Buckley’s eyes widen, and he jumps up. “Any of y’all got some skills roundin’ up beefes? We’re short handed as it is, and I could use your help most sorely.”
synecdoche
First Post
D'Artois calmly regards the frightened man, but replies "I'm afraid that my particular skill set wll be of little use to you, sir."
hobbit_killer
First Post
Bear Trap
"Well sir, if I can wrassle a griz to the ground, I should be able to handle a heffer or two. I'll lend a hand."
Bear Trap shifts everything carried on his horse except for his rifle and rope to his mule. He ties Mule up with the parties mounts and is ready to take Horse and help out.
"Well sir, if I can wrassle a griz to the ground, I should be able to handle a heffer or two. I'll lend a hand."
Bear Trap shifts everything carried on his horse except for his rifle and rope to his mule. He ties Mule up with the parties mounts and is ready to take Horse and help out.
The Shaman
First Post
Dakota nods and sets down his coffee cup. “With the Marshal’s leave, I can lend a hand.” With the practiced skill of many years, the wrangler saddles Lightning and prepares to ride out.
Committed Hero
Hero
Michael Sun-Hand-High
"I'll go as well, as long as I'm not needed in camp...."
Michael looks at the marshal to gauge his opinion.
"I'll go as well, as long as I'm not needed in camp...."
Michael looks at the marshal to gauge his opinion.
Riley McClean
Riley takes news of this apparant emergency calmly. After all, it isn't his problem unless the Marshal wants to take a hand. "Up to you, Marshal. You're payin the freight this trip. We got things to do, but if you want us to help round up some cows we can. Probably set us back a day, though," Riley guesses. "We can't ride these horses all day, then round up cows all night and expect them to be ready for another long day of riding tomorrow."
Riley takes news of this apparant emergency calmly. After all, it isn't his problem unless the Marshal wants to take a hand. "Up to you, Marshal. You're payin the freight this trip. We got things to do, but if you want us to help round up some cows we can. Probably set us back a day, though," Riley guesses. "We can't ride these horses all day, then round up cows all night and expect them to be ready for another long day of riding tomorrow."
synecdoche
First Post
D'Artois regards the Marshal. "You're the boss. As I said, I am sure I'd only be in the way here, unless those cows are looking for a dealer. But if you and the other gentlemen want to go lend a hand, I'd be happy to look after our camp here."
знаток
First Post
synecdoche said:
"Well, two things I believe in are not lettin' a man in need go unaided and not leavin' one's goods unguarded. No need for you boys to feel obliged, but I say let's get to it!"
He steps quickly to his horse and mounts it smoothly. "D'Artois, you just fire a shot if you run into trouble, and keep that fire goin'."
Bobitron
Explorer
Buckley breaths a long whistle of relief, and cracks a gap toothed smile. Leaping up onto his still saddled horse, he starts off to the north.
D'Artois sits back down on a blanket, tilting his hat forward to block out the beams of the setting sun.
Reeling your horses about, you tear off up the road after Buckley. Hollering above the hoof beats, he calls out “We’ve got about one mile and a half to go. Careful of holes, this area is awful full of ‘em. Twist a horse’s leg like no one’s business. Clementine Crossing is a bridge built just a few years back! I can’t imagine what fool thing happened.”
Recalling what you know of the area, you remember the Clementine is a narrow river that threads down from Lakeport, a small town in the mountains to the west. It’s not a wide river, but has a reputation as a wicked one, with fast running waters. Clementine Crossing is the only bridge over the waters within about 15 miles.
As you rush through the brush and rough terrain approaching the river, you meet up with the wide, open space that looks trampled flat by south-ward drives. Looking north, you spot the glistening sheen of a river in the distance, lit by the red light of the setting sun. A cloud of choking dust rises from both shores, and soon enough, you hear the braying of panicked cattle. Approaching the river, you make out the broad forms of strange looking cattle heaving up and down in the river, with most already rolling hoof up, drowned in the fracas of those deep waters. A few cowpokes ride close to the shore, using long lassos to grab struggling beef from the Clementine. However, Buckley noted that they were driving 300 cattle, and you don’t note more than six or seven dozen in sight. Some of those aren’t even wet.
Buckley shouts out to one of his men. “Jack, what’s goin’ on here?”
“Thank God yer here. We’re doin’ what we can to wrangle up these ones, but most of the others have gone downstream.” the cowboy replies.
“What in the hell happened on the bridge?” Buckley shouts back over the din.
Jack’s eyes, already narrowed to slits to keep out the dust, nearly shut as he sneers. “We crossed without trouble, at first. Then I heard a loud crack, and a blast like I done never heard afore. That damn Dooley must have set up ahead of us! I found scraps of dynamite over by the bridge, and one of the ‘pokes said he thought he saw Callahan on the other shore. The damn wood's splintered into toothpicks!”
Buckley’s face stiffens into a marble-hard mask of rage. Drawing his rifle, he turns to you as Jack rides off towards shore. “Dammit, I never thought that mad Irishman would go this far. Looks like your help might be a little more important than I expected, Marshal.” He turns his horse east, calling out, “You men stay here and get these beefes outta the wet. Cal, yer with me. Dooley’s men probably set up east of here to catch the cattle as they went downstream. I’m gonna take the Marshal and his amigos and show them what happens to rustlers who mess with the Bent J!”
Turns out, Cal is the young wrangler that collected Buckley from your camp. His eyes betray his fear, but he grabs his reins tight and moves off with the rest of you.
He begins a quick pace east. Once away from the hullabaloo of the wrangling, he hollers out the particulars.
“Dooley is another rancher who fancies our herd. When Mr. Brahms of the Bent J sold to that easterner, Dooley put up a huge fuss, saying he was gonna hire up some guns to steal the herd if he had to. Aww, hell, they never got along much anyhow, so we didn’t think much of it. We set out the next mornin’. I figured we was well ahead of trouble, but looks like Old Dooley was serious. Callahan is one of his best shooters, and right good with a stick a’ dynamite as well.”
About a quarter mile up, you pass along the river bank towards two small hills. Suddenly, you hear a shot ring out from what sounds like a high-powered rifle. Glancing back over your shoulder, you see Cal’s eyes opened wide with shock, and a rapidly growing spot of dark red on his chest. His horse slows, and he drops from the saddle into a lump on the ground.
“Now that’s quite far ‘nuff, Buckley! We’ll shoot some more of y’all, if ya move any closer!”
OOC: Spot and Listen checks from everyone.
I hope the map below is clear enough for everyone, squares A-H down the left, numbers 1-13 across the top. The horse with no name (hehe) is Cal, now on the ground.
D'Artois sits back down on a blanket, tilting his hat forward to block out the beams of the setting sun.
Reeling your horses about, you tear off up the road after Buckley. Hollering above the hoof beats, he calls out “We’ve got about one mile and a half to go. Careful of holes, this area is awful full of ‘em. Twist a horse’s leg like no one’s business. Clementine Crossing is a bridge built just a few years back! I can’t imagine what fool thing happened.”
Recalling what you know of the area, you remember the Clementine is a narrow river that threads down from Lakeport, a small town in the mountains to the west. It’s not a wide river, but has a reputation as a wicked one, with fast running waters. Clementine Crossing is the only bridge over the waters within about 15 miles.
As you rush through the brush and rough terrain approaching the river, you meet up with the wide, open space that looks trampled flat by south-ward drives. Looking north, you spot the glistening sheen of a river in the distance, lit by the red light of the setting sun. A cloud of choking dust rises from both shores, and soon enough, you hear the braying of panicked cattle. Approaching the river, you make out the broad forms of strange looking cattle heaving up and down in the river, with most already rolling hoof up, drowned in the fracas of those deep waters. A few cowpokes ride close to the shore, using long lassos to grab struggling beef from the Clementine. However, Buckley noted that they were driving 300 cattle, and you don’t note more than six or seven dozen in sight. Some of those aren’t even wet.
Buckley shouts out to one of his men. “Jack, what’s goin’ on here?”
“Thank God yer here. We’re doin’ what we can to wrangle up these ones, but most of the others have gone downstream.” the cowboy replies.
“What in the hell happened on the bridge?” Buckley shouts back over the din.
Jack’s eyes, already narrowed to slits to keep out the dust, nearly shut as he sneers. “We crossed without trouble, at first. Then I heard a loud crack, and a blast like I done never heard afore. That damn Dooley must have set up ahead of us! I found scraps of dynamite over by the bridge, and one of the ‘pokes said he thought he saw Callahan on the other shore. The damn wood's splintered into toothpicks!”
Buckley’s face stiffens into a marble-hard mask of rage. Drawing his rifle, he turns to you as Jack rides off towards shore. “Dammit, I never thought that mad Irishman would go this far. Looks like your help might be a little more important than I expected, Marshal.” He turns his horse east, calling out, “You men stay here and get these beefes outta the wet. Cal, yer with me. Dooley’s men probably set up east of here to catch the cattle as they went downstream. I’m gonna take the Marshal and his amigos and show them what happens to rustlers who mess with the Bent J!”
Turns out, Cal is the young wrangler that collected Buckley from your camp. His eyes betray his fear, but he grabs his reins tight and moves off with the rest of you.
He begins a quick pace east. Once away from the hullabaloo of the wrangling, he hollers out the particulars.
“Dooley is another rancher who fancies our herd. When Mr. Brahms of the Bent J sold to that easterner, Dooley put up a huge fuss, saying he was gonna hire up some guns to steal the herd if he had to. Aww, hell, they never got along much anyhow, so we didn’t think much of it. We set out the next mornin’. I figured we was well ahead of trouble, but looks like Old Dooley was serious. Callahan is one of his best shooters, and right good with a stick a’ dynamite as well.”
About a quarter mile up, you pass along the river bank towards two small hills. Suddenly, you hear a shot ring out from what sounds like a high-powered rifle. Glancing back over your shoulder, you see Cal’s eyes opened wide with shock, and a rapidly growing spot of dark red on his chest. His horse slows, and he drops from the saddle into a lump on the ground.
“Now that’s quite far ‘nuff, Buckley! We’ll shoot some more of y’all, if ya move any closer!”
OOC: Spot and Listen checks from everyone.
I hope the map below is clear enough for everyone, squares A-H down the left, numbers 1-13 across the top. The horse with no name (hehe) is Cal, now on the ground.
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