One does not sell the land people walk on (Justice, Montana)

[Billy Two-Guns]

Justice was not exactly the sort of town that Billy Two-Guns particularly enjoyed. Then again, no town would ever satisfy him. It wasn't anything having to do with lack of granduer or scale, but simply the fact that they had been sprouting up all over. They shouldn't be on his people's land at all; nothing that 'civilization' offered would ever be be better than the unblemished and wild land they lived in. These settlers and the troubles they brought weren't worth it.

It was easy to resent those who lived in Justice just for being here. The gold rushes were infuriating and the filth that followed them were foul and crass.

But, despite his contempt he knew that it was best to at least try and remain civil among these people. That didn't stop him from treating most he laid eyes on with curt words and as little interaction as possible. He was here to trade and make his own purchases. Occasionally he hired himself out to act as a guide for visitors passing through, but he had to be in a specific mood to allow himself to stoop to such a thing. And after all of his business was finished, he left town as grumpily as he'd came in. Once in a great while he actually visited the saloon, though it was always to refill his waterskin before leaving. The alcohol these people drank was foul and he wanted no part of it.



The tall bay that he rode walked easily down the main thoroughfare, weaving between horse and person alike with a smooth and unbroken gait. He passed without so much as a nod to those around him.

Where his final destination was was his business, and he had no desire to share hollow pleasentries with anyone.

[Two Dollar Jim]

Jim walked the rest of the way into town; the mule that had carried him from Fetterman was lame and not even fit for a plow. He'd sold it off to the knackers for twenty dollars, a hijacking even for the pack animal's shoddy condition. Still, the mule wasn't fit for nothing anymore and Jim needed money.

Incidentally he also needed boots. As Jim walked along the thoroughfare he could feel a toe finally wearing into eroded sole, signalling his dirtkickers' final days. Spitting into the dirt, he squinted into the sun as a tall Indian rode a taller horse leisurely in his opposite direction. Hooking thumbs into the front of his gun belt, he regarded the passerby.

"Stranger, you know a cobbler in town worth his salt?"

[Billy Two-Guns]

Billy allowed the bay to stop, and he stared down at the man who'd addressed him. He studied every inch of him, and came to the conclusion that this was one he didn't like. Just by the look of the man.

Another moment of silence before he spoke, dark eyes boring down upon the stranger.

"I do not."

[Two Dollar Jim]

Jim eyed the Indian's boots, and back up to the Indian's face. Brown boots. Worn, but not too roughshod. Basic and unassuming, but sturdy by the look.

"I got five dollars for them boots if it suits you."

The Indian had a stony look to his face. Either a poker player, or just had that way about him.

[Billy Two-Guns]

It wasn't a hard thing to refuse such an offer. He had other things to tend to, and standing in the street with this stranger was not one of them.

Billy nudged his mount forward, his dark eyes narrowing.

"Not interested."

[Two Dollar Jim]

"Seven dollars."

The thought of running both feet through what was left of his boots wasn't a good thought. He still had to find enough money to get a roof over his head for the next few days, and maybe a bit of chow. That meant he needed to hit the saloons.

Jim fished a cigarillo from his pocket and rolled it between a finger and thumb. He paused before pressing it to his lips, and instead extended it up toward Billy.

"At least your horse'll still have shoes."

[Billy Two-Guns]

Billy ground his teeth in annoyance. This sort of persistance wasn't something that he felt like dealing with. A slight tug of the reigns brought his horse to a halt once more, and the animal pivoted as another rider passed by.

"I said no. Go ask someone else."

[Two Dollar Jim]

Jim stiffened. Crotchety Indians weren't uncommon, but this was an inconvenient time for such a stubborn cuss. He pulled a match from his shirt pocket and struck it on his belt buckle, bringing the tip to the end of the cigarillo which he returned to his lips.

He exhaled smoke. No way he was going to jail on account of gunning down some redskin. Besides, this fella seemed to expect that sort of thing.

"Alright then."

He looked sidelong, and back again.

"Before you shake me off of them sturdy boots of yours, I don't suppose you've seen a man with one ear in this horse apple of a town?"

[Billy Two-Guns]

Against his better judgement, Billy paused at the mention of a man with one ear. An injury like that wasn't something one would forget seeing, and he seen just that on his way into town. Well, at least on his way past the whorehouse he did.

"I have seen a man like that, yes."

A gentle nudge at his horse's side was rewarded with the animal stepping forward once again. He needed to get to the general store up the way, and having answered the stranger's question, Billy felt he'd excersised enough politeness for the day.

[Two Dollar Jim]

Jim's eyes turned wild for half a moment, and he stared into the distance past Billy. As the Indian began to move off once again, he suddenly forgot his sorry boot situation.

"Whereabouts mister?"

Five years since that son of a bitch did what he did. Five years since all of it. Suddenly Jim knew he'd done right. He could smell blood all the way down the Bozeman Trail.

[Billy Two-Guns]

He made a gesture towards the same way he'd come into town.

"Saw him go into the whorehouse."

Billy had seen the look in the man's eyes from his peripheral vision, and knew that look well. It was the gaze of a man searching for revenge. He was no fool, and knew better than to place himself in the same area of a man and his enemy. It was simply not a good idea.

The bay was putting distance between the two, and Billy spoke over his shoulder.

"Should still be there."

[Crawfish Mullins]

Crawfish was finishing up another successful business transaction at the Bareback. He cinched up his belt, buttoned his shirt, slapped a damp washrag across his business patron's bare derrier, and took a few plugs of whiskey from a ceramic bottle. He paused in the doorway after throwing a fist full of three silver dollars on the oak table in the foyer, leaving his host to her own devices.

Suddenly he saw a sight further down the town's outskirts that caught his attention.

"Kip!"

A ginger-haired tagalong stumbled into the foyer without the foresight of pulling up his drawers.

"Dad-blame it Crawfish I ain't a-finished yet!"

Crawfish booted Kip in the rear end, causing him to nearly fall over.

"Put yer breeches on, its that Injun from down a ways. We gon' keel dat sumbitch!"

[Billy Two-Guns]

Unencumbered now, Billy made it the rest of the way to the general store without trouble. Stopping at the hitching rail, he dismounted with ease before securing the leather reigns around the well-worn wood.

Measured steps took him up onto the porch, and within moments he walked through the front door. A small bell chimed, announcing his arrival to the storekeeper - Ben Pratt - who looked up with the barest of glances. He knew Billy good enough to not bother with any sort of greeting, and went back to helping a customer.

For his part, Billy moved quietly through the inside, dark eyes taking in the wares offered. One hand resting on his gunbelt, he reached forward to idly pick up a small musicbox. No doubt for those women in town who had nothing better to spend their money on. It was a dainty thing, but pretty in its' own right he supposed. Still, it wasn't pretty enough to buy, and so he replaced it back on the shelf.

A few more minutes of random browsing, and he finally approached the counter.

From a leather shoulder bag slung across his back, he pulled out two clothwrapped bundles and set them carefully in front of Pratt.

"I have brought you more."

[Two Dollar Jim]

Jim walked down his own line of tunnel vision leading to the edge of town. The Bareback Brothel was curiously situated just outside the limits of town, apart from what smelled to be an opium den. A wide brimmed hat peered out the doorway, back in, and then out again. Two hundred paces out, and Jim could tell there was a commotion about.

He drew his gun. Across the street, a braid-headed chinaman watched him with the sort of practiced wariness that betrayed his experience with such matters of blood. He continued to press wet clothes along a scrub board, submerged in a tin basin.

He stepped onto the porch of the Bareback, his worn boots creaking against the wood. He paused, just shy of one of the four-paned windows at the front. The commotion inside continued.

[Andy McCall]

Andy was drunk, though she would never admit it.

Inside one of the back rooms of the Bareback, she sat in a soft cushioned chair; a bottle of whiskey clutched in hand. She came here sometimes looking for beautification. It was at least a monthly ritual for her, to hire one of the girls to doll her up with makeup and the like. Andy didn't go so far as to put on dresses, but she did take a particular sort of pleasure from having her feet and hands prettied up with whatever color nail paints her hired girl thought best.

A familiar voice disturbed her quiet, and Andy made a sour face.

"That dumb ox," she grumbled, taking another swig of whiskey and getting up from the chair. Her feet were bare, with fresh paint on her toenails, but that didn't matter to her.

"I'll be right back 'Phelia."

Andy threw open the door and stomped out. Down a fancy hallway, round a turn, and through the front sitting room she marched.

Crawfish was easy to spot, and easier to smell. She stormed towards him, his back turned to her.

"Mullins!"

[Crawfish Mullins]

Bleary-eyed and in the midst of sliding .45 Long Colt cartridges into his revolver's cyllinder, Crawfish turned about. Torn between a mean cuss Indian and a card cheat whore, he wasn't quite sure which he cared to deal with first.

He looked at Andy, and at her wet toenails, tumbling a bullet between his fingers as he did. Then he smiled.

"Kip, best finish on up!"

[Andy McCall]

She all but ignored Kip. That boy knew better than to tag along with Crawfish, but it seemed like he just didn't care. Not that Andy really lost any sleep over it. She'd had her peace and quiet disturbed, and she was just too drunk to let the matter go by, trivial as it was.

The bullet in his hand was ignored, and she stopped right in front of him, toe to toe. The hand that held her bottle came up, and the index finger unwrapped itself to jab into his chest.

"I've had enough o' your brayin' like some dumb packmule. You got yellin' to do, you do it outside and somewhere that ain't gonna disturb me."

[Two Dollar Jim]

The big loud idiot had his back to the door. That was all the invitation that Jim needed. He kicked the door in and stepped through, the hammer drawing back on his revolver about the same time as the muzzle kissed the back of Crawfish's hat.

Jim looked beyond Crawfish's shoulders at a pretty little thing that was likely to be one of the proprietors of the establishment. The ginger-headed stooge he'd seen through the window hadn't shown himself yet, but he was expecting him.

"Tell your boy to enjoy himself. If I see his face pop round that corner, I'm gonna hollow out your head."

[Crawfish Mullins]

Crawfish had a moment of clarity flash through his eyes like thunderbolts. His jaw went slightly slack, and he stared out at nothing at all, knowing full the tell-tale double click of a Samuel Colt hammer. For now, Andy and the revenge due him were forgotten. Somebody had it in for him, and he was liable to be on death's short list if he wasn't careful.

"Kip..."

He spoke in a tone that was fearful of getting too loud, lest a holler might trip that hair trigger behind his head.

"...you stay put now, y'hear?"

Perspiration intensified on his already-sweaty face. He looked to the side to make sure that Kip did exactly that, but didn't dare budge his head.

[Andy McCall]

What was this?!

Andy knew that Mullins had attracted enough rankled folks in his wake to line the Bozeman trail, but she'd never really thought that any one of them would find it necessary to put a gun to the man's head. She detested Crawfish, but she had no desire to outright shoot the man at least.

She looked over Crawfish's shoulder at the man behind him. If she were sobre she'd've left at the look in his eyes, but whiskey has a way of making you just not care 'bout stuff like that.

"Who're you?"