Bad Moon over California

[The Shaman]

Insuring that the horses and mules were prepared for the trip and securing fodder for the stock and extra rations for himself had filled Dakota’s time in town. The wrangler wasn’t bothered by heading out on the trail so quickly – weeks and months spent on the prairie among violent thunderstorms, swirling tornadoes, stampeding cattle, angry rattlesnakes, and jittery horses often proved safer than one night in a strange town.

It was also a relief to be busy, not to dwell on the marshal’s words around the campfire. Though he was only vaguely aware of it, the cowhand inherited many of the superstitions found among the cowboys, trappers, and scouts of the plains. Seeing to the stock was a familiar routine that helped ease his mind somewhat, and now he sits near the campfire singing as he does most nights on the trail, the story of the deputy nearly forgotten.

The song dies in his throat when Riley’s head snaps up and Dakota sees the fur-clad figure lumbering through the drifted snow. The wrangler reaches for his Winchester and chambers a shell, the *CLICK-CLACK!* of the lever audible as a snapping branch in the wintry night.

 

[Bobitron]

Riley's confident voice cuts through the wind and snow with clarity.

"Howdy stranger. You look like you could stand to warm yourself by the fire. You alone, or do you got someone else with you?"

The shambling figure slows his pace somewhat at the noise and comes to a near stop when he hears the loud action of Dakota's Winchester. After a short pause, he continues toward the camp, raising his arms to pull back his thick hood. The strong campfire light reveals the face of an elderly native; so wizened and wrinkled that it is almost impossible to judge his age. He seems to be weathering the stom well considering the thin frame and watery eyes that age has forced upon him.

As he approaches, he raises a hand in greeting and speaks in a voice that bears the confidence of leadership.

"Greetings, travelers. I am Bent Branch, shaman of the Wintu. Welcome to our lands."

 

[synecdoche]

D'Artois relaxes ever-so-slightly, but his hand doesn't leave its comfortable place beside his hip.

"Salut, stranger. As far as I'm concerned, there's room for one more at our little tea party, but we live in a democratic society, so I'll have to settle to cast my vote and wait to hear the voice of the people."

D'Artois slowly lowers his hand, as if in a gesture of good faith, and lowers himself to a seat beside the fire, though he never removes his eyes from the visage of the newcomer.

 

[Committed Hero]

Thank you for kind greeting, respected one. It is good to know that we travel in your lands with your welcome.

Michael moves swiftly to the old man's side and assists him to the campfire's edge. He will offer the shaman a meal; his own, if someone looks to object.

 

[Max]

Riley McClean

Riley stays back from the fire, opening room for the others to make room for the ancient Indian. Staying on his feet, he turns his back to the fire and watches the surrounding woods. He wants to be sure the whole group doesn't get so intersted in their guest that they forget to be aware of the surroundings. It's a tough bunch, but even the toughest sometimes forget. Checking the action of both pistols to make sure the cold hasn't affected them, he returns both to their holsters, adjusts his coat so he still has access to his guns, and assumes his self-appointed watch.

 

[The Shaman]

Dakota Turnbow

Dakota watches the shaman carefully, then looks into the woods from whence he came. The Winchester remains ready in his hands.

 

[hobbit_killer]

Bear Trap

Bear Trap sits quietly, the barrel or Ellie peaking out from underneath his buffalo robe. He mumbles something unintelligible to the tune or "...damn....tenderfoot....wailin'.....gonna....kilt"

Once the old man is by the fire he speaks up "You alone there old man, or ya got some friends in the woods. This coon got use for his scalp a wee bit more, so I'll have it plain from ya."

 

[Bobitron]

"Salut, stranger. As far as I'm concerned, there's room for one more at our little tea party, but we live in a democratic society, so I'll have to settle to cast my vote and wait to hear the voice of the people."

The man waits silently for the others to speak.

Thank you for kind greeting, respected one. It is good to know that we travel in your lands with your welcome.

Reaching out take Michael's hand, the man sits down and accepts his offer of warm food. "My thanks, Man-of-the-South. Your kindness speaks well of you and those who travel with you."

Once the old man is by the fire he speaks up "You alone there old man, or ya got some friends in the woods. This coon got use for his scalp a wee bit more, so I'll have it plain from ya."

"There is no reason to fear my presence, trapper. I am alone. The Wintu wish no harm on those who wish no harm on us. We have learned to stay out of the white man's doings and stay to ourselves." He lets out a deep sigh.

"I come to you to speak of trouble that has come to us, not to bring you troubles."

The Marshal speaks up sharply. "You come to the right place. Seems like we do nothin' but help out the locals on this whole durn trip." The anger leaves his voice quickly, however, and he asks for the man to continue with a more tender voice. "Sorry, shaman. We just got pressin' matters to attend to in Deepwood. Go ahead and say your piece."

The wise man's face turns to the ground for a long moment, and just as one of you is about to pipe up, thinking maybe he fell asleep, he speaks.

"I seek you because you go to Deepwood, not to sway you from your path. Three moons ago, our home was visited by one we always called Speaks with Snakes. He is a white man; a trader of trinkets, a liar and cheat at cards, a bedder of other man's wives, and a thief. We made him our guest, but he brought only untruth and poison to our people. I asked him to leave. He left in a rage, saying he would move on to Deepwood to sell his wares, but before he left he visited the tent of my youngest son. I found him in the morning, dead from the wounds Speaks with Snakes had inflicted. Falling Stream was a good son, and I don not doubt that he died the death of a brave." He speaks without regret or anger, just stating a fact.

"I tell you this because the talisman of my tribe has been missing since Speaks with Snakes left. It is the soul of our gaurdian ancestors in form; a necklace that contains the spirit of the wolf. I fear that he will use the talisman to commit great evils upon the people of these lands."

You glance over and see the Marshal's face, and it's not a purty sight. Fire and brimstone burn behind his eyes as he speaks. "And pray tell, wise man, what is this Speaks with Snake called by the whites? What's his christian name?"

The wise man looks up at the Marshal and responds. "Clayton Masters."

Colburn lashes out with a boot, kicking his coffee off the fallen tree where it sat with a curse. "That's the man we were warned about. Sounds like he's just as willin' to take advantage of the natives as he is of the white folk."

 

[Max]

Riley McClean

Riley has been listening from his guard position away from the fire, of course. The shaman's tale begs an obvious question. "Exactly what kind of evil can this con artist do with your talisman, ancient one?"he asks respectfully.

 

[The Shaman]

Standing off to one side, rifle in his hands, Dakota listens intently to the old Indian’s story. “I tell you this because the talisman of my tribe has been missing since Speaks with Snakes left. It is the soul of our guardian ancestors in form; a necklace that contains the spirit of the wolf.”

“The loup-garou,” he says under his breath. The wrangler moves over to where the posse’s stock are picketed, to check on the animals – Indians and wolves would both go for the horses if the opportunity arose.