The Shaman
First Post
After finding an acceptable livery stable to care for Lightning and dickering with the stable hand to pass the time, Dakota, Thunder, and Lucky head for the Rosewood. Passing the bustle of activity along the Embarcadero, Dakota takes in the sight of ships clustered in the harbor, the smell of the sea breeze, the sound of gulls squawking overhead. Despite the novelty of the scene to the plainsman, Dakota’s thoughts keep turning to the odd letter signed “Marshal Colburn.”
Why me? Dakota wonders. I’m no lawman.
At the Rosewood Dakota finds a hitching rail and tosses Thunder’s reins over it. The palomino wouldn’t move until Dakota returned of course, but it never hurt to keep up appearances. By long force of habit when visiting town, the wrangler dusts himself off with his hat brim as he peeks through the doors. Nice place. He looks down at Lucky waiting patiently beside him. Too nice for you, I reckon.
“Lucky, stay,” he says, pointing at a spot on the wooden sidewalk next to the doors. The mutt wags his tail once, circles twice, and sits where Dakota points, as still as a statue. Dakota scratches him behind the ears. “Good boy. I’ll see if’n I can find you a bone.” The dog’s tail swishes back and forth in anticipation.
Dakota walks through the doors and gives the saloon and the patrons a once over. A card game in progress at a table. A couple of dudes giving their money away and a couple of black-legs there to collect it. A few other folks sitting by themselves, eyeing the door. One has his guns tied low, his hands clear of any obstructions. Seen his type before. Dodge City. Abilene. Deadwood. Another is unmistakably a brave, purposefully keeping to himself. Not lookin’ for trouble. Smart Indian. At the bar stands possibly the largest human being Dakota’s ever laid eyes on, dressed in buckskins and carrying a huge rifle. I seen buffalo heifers that weigh less. Hope he’s a friendly drunk or’n this place won’t look so fancy for long.
Dakota wanders up to the bar and nods a greeting to the bartender. “Beer,” he says, tossing a nickel on the polished wood. Well, Marshal Colburn, I’m here. Your move.
Why me? Dakota wonders. I’m no lawman.
At the Rosewood Dakota finds a hitching rail and tosses Thunder’s reins over it. The palomino wouldn’t move until Dakota returned of course, but it never hurt to keep up appearances. By long force of habit when visiting town, the wrangler dusts himself off with his hat brim as he peeks through the doors. Nice place. He looks down at Lucky waiting patiently beside him. Too nice for you, I reckon.
“Lucky, stay,” he says, pointing at a spot on the wooden sidewalk next to the doors. The mutt wags his tail once, circles twice, and sits where Dakota points, as still as a statue. Dakota scratches him behind the ears. “Good boy. I’ll see if’n I can find you a bone.” The dog’s tail swishes back and forth in anticipation.
Dakota walks through the doors and gives the saloon and the patrons a once over. A card game in progress at a table. A couple of dudes giving their money away and a couple of black-legs there to collect it. A few other folks sitting by themselves, eyeing the door. One has his guns tied low, his hands clear of any obstructions. Seen his type before. Dodge City. Abilene. Deadwood. Another is unmistakably a brave, purposefully keeping to himself. Not lookin’ for trouble. Smart Indian. At the bar stands possibly the largest human being Dakota’s ever laid eyes on, dressed in buckskins and carrying a huge rifle. I seen buffalo heifers that weigh less. Hope he’s a friendly drunk or’n this place won’t look so fancy for long.
Dakota wanders up to the bar and nods a greeting to the bartender. “Beer,” he says, tossing a nickel on the polished wood. Well, Marshal Colburn, I’m here. Your move.
