Gunslinging Bird.

John stepped into the bar, and the music stopped. The wind softly blew in with him, an old crumpled paper ball, and a puff of sand following his boot.

He still had a black eye from the week before, and the cut on his hand had begun to scar over. On any other day, he'd have stepped into the bar to hoots, hollers, and he would have ordered a round of whiskey for the patrons, and the darkest, thickest beer for himself, in a wide tankard and a small bowl of icecubes on the side.

Now, for the first time, he was in a bar on business. Cold, angry, stark business.

The barkeep, Louis, nodded to him gravely, his orange beard bobbing slightly. This wasn't social John. This wasn't the personable, thoughtful collector. This was Bad John in full force, taciturn, and ready to swing a fist faster than a whipcrack.

And his gun was on his hip.

"Louis," John said, turning towards him, his eyes shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. "I'm usin' the basement. If anyone comes askin' for me, that's where I'm meetin' em."

"I saw yer sign on the edge of town." Louis tossed him the keys to the basement, an John caught them with his left hand. "You get the summbitches who smashed up my bar, got it?"

There were still bulletholes, missing bottles, and parts of the floor were bare where stools and tables were smashed, yet to be replaced. The blood on the walls had been cleaned up, but regulars still stayed clear of where bodies had fallen.

"An' you get that girl back, y'hear?" Louis patted John on the shoulder. John nodded, and unlocked the basement door at the end of the bar. He stepped down into the dark, and tugged a chain to turn on the light and the ceiling fan. He saw there a table that Louis had placed in the center of the room for him. There was even a pen and paper in case John needed it. Good old Louis. It was almost hard to stay angry when the man considered how much help the old, fat, ginger barkeep had been.

Before he'd come here, DAYS before, while still healing from his wounds from the weeks before, he'd placed a sign on the edge of town, asking for hired guns.

Now, he waited in the basement to meet them. And BOY, did he have a story to tell. Even more than that, he had a job to do.

Zack "The Reb'" Lee walked slowly towards the sign posted out near the edge of town.

HIRED GUNS
WANTED
ASK FOR JOHN FROM THE BARKEEP
WILL PAY HANDSOMELY

"Hmph," he grunted. "Things been a little tight since the damn Yankees started steppin up they're security. Maybe this little venture might be good."

He casually walked through the streets of the town, his pistols in their holsters on his hips and his rifle slung across his back. Albeit old, his grey and red Confederate Artillery Uniform was crisp and clean. "Always gotta look nice for the good ole southern folk" he thought to himself. Along the way the people started whispering "Its the Reb'", or "Sergeant Lee, what the hell's he doing here."

Among some, it was considered fame, but from others it was infamy. Everyone knew his allegiance to the Confederacy, and his uniform proved just that. Since the war's end, his entire battery, about fifty men all together, took their cannons, supplies and whatever else the could get and took to the west, forming a gang known only as E Battery, they harassed the hell out of any federal army supply trains, or just anyone who tried to give them trouble.

Soon he arrived at the saloon, his presence was enough to make several folks uneasy, and several more happy. He slowly approached the barkeep and sat down.

"Looking for a fella named John, says he needs some, uh, hired guns for somethin'."

The barkeep just looked at Lee for a moment "Basement. Go 'round the corner of the bar, turn left, down the stairs. He's waitin on ya."

Zack did as he said and soon found himself at the entrance to the basement. Turing the knob slowly, his pistol drawn just in case it was a Yankee trap. He crept in the room and saw a lone table, with a lone figure sitting at it.

"Awe Hell!"

Eduardo rode quietly into a new town, sitting on his white Arabian horse. She trotted slowly, ears flicking from time to time. Eduardo's horse, "Estrella", was not used to going slow. Her breed was among the fastest in the world, and somewhat hotheaded. Estrella loved to "ride like the wind" and anything but that was somewhat of an annoyance to her. However, despite her dislike for slow speeds, she obeyed her master out of a sense of unwavering loyalty. Without him, she'd probably still be cooped up instead of running free.

The reason the pair approached so slowly was because Eduardo was observing the everyday folk like he always did when entering a new town. He was quiet, tipping his hat as a gesture of politeness. He'd smile at any children who saw him, and they returned his smiles. Sometimes he'd even wave, which would really excite them. 

The same could not be said for their parents. Despite his well known reputation as a "good guy", racial tensions in the Wild West tended to cloud some people's judgement of him. Eduardo was a Mexican, clearly visible by his black hair, brown eyes, and tan skin. His clothing was a blend of Mexican and white styles, evident despite the simplicity of his hat, shirt, pants, and vest. He'd chosen to adopt a more "white" look to ease some people's minds. After a war with Mexico, some settlers were wary of the Mexican that had chosen to stay in the United States. So despite all his good, some had trouble trusting him... at first. His actions eventually won people over.

Eduardo was known as a good Samaritan dressed in white, upon a white steed. Some religious extremists he met a long time ago had even called him an angel of the lord. While he understood their gratefulness, he refused to be seen as such. No man was worthy of that honour. In fact, Eduardo didn't even consider himself a hero, as most people did. He simply saw himself as a man trying to do the right thing in a world full of bad things. Usually he worked with law enforcement, but as soon as the law stopped being just... he stopped following it. Thankfully that didn't happen too often, providing Eduardo with a job as a "good" bounty hunter. 

Unlike most bounty hunters however, he ALWAYS went for the "alive" option, and when he shot it wasn't to kill. It was to wound, or maim at worst. Eduardo believed that he could change people, no matter who they were... even his enemies.

In doing so, he believed, he could TRULY vanish the evil in this world, his enemies. After all a great man had once said "Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?"

However, Eduardo only offered that chance to those whom took it. Today, he had a feeling that wouldn't be the case. On the very edges of town, he saw a sign looking for hired guns. As fate would have it, Eduardo was a little low on money and needed some cash. So, here he was, riding into a new town to see what the trouble was.

Assuming there was trouble. If the sign was looking for people solely to kill others, he'd want nothing to do with it. He did what he did to HELP people, not to eliminate them. Although that brought him issues with many people in life, even some his own family members, Eduardo knew that the wild west needed some morality.

Which, oddly enough, brought him to a bar. Eduardo got off his white Arabian horse, tied her up to a pole against her wishes, and stepped in. His presence turned a few heads, some eyebrows lifting in recognition. Eduardo ignored all this and headed straight for the bartender.

"Excuse me sir?" Eduardo asked with a light accent. The bartender, with his back still to him, finished cleaning a pitcher before speaking.

"Yeah?" the red bearded man turned around. 

"I saw the sign at the edge of town. The poster of the sign wrote that I should come to this bar to meet him. Do you know who I should meet?" Eduardo asked, in his slight too formal English. It wasn't he first language, so he took extra care to say things "right" in an attempt to be able to properly communicate with all English speakers he might meet.

"You're looking for 'Bad John' eh? Head to the back, and go down the stairs into the basement. You'll find him," the barkeep said, nodding. Eduardo thanked him with a tip of his hat, and followed the man's instructions. He descended the stairs slowly, his beige boots making light sounds on the stairs.

At the bottom Eduardo heard the shout of "awe hell", and as he looked he saw the door being opened by a man with a pistol drawn. Eduardo grabbed his revolver, ready to draw just in case. 

First of all, he'd do things diplomatically. 

"Excuse me sir, are you the one they call 'Bad John'"? Eduardo asked the man, dressed in a Confederate soldier uniform. That made Eduardo a little uneasy, as the Southern States had supported a policy of slavery... something Eduardo didn't take too kindly to. 

He hoped, however, that this "Bad John" was different.

John looked up. He was nursing a headache, so the shout of "Awe Hell!" made him wince. He looked up, and saw two gentlemen at the top of the stairs.

One was a man in a confederate uniform. He had his pistol out. "Hey, now, hey now, put that away." He took off his hat, letting the drawstring hang against his neck, the hat dropping to his upper back and dangling there. He squinted at the newcomer. "I know, and I LIKE, the owner of this place. No guns."

He looked up at the other man, squinting against the light. The man was partially in shadow, but he was dressed in a way that almost made John trust him right away. Then, John saw the color of his skin. He was clearly Mexican. It didn't change John's opinion, but it did rouse his curiosity a bit. Why was this guy dressed like a white man? Mexicans had a very interesting way of dressing.

"No, he ain't 'Bad John,' pea-brain. I'M Bad John." John pulled his hat back onto his head, and pointed to the table. "Both of you, get down here and take a seat. And BOTH of you, for fuck's sake," John narrowed his eyes, giving them an annoyed glare, "put the damned guns away. This ain't a trap. I'm hirin'."

"Sorry," Zack said as he holstered his pistol. "Never know when them Yankees might be tryin' t' stop me." He took a seat at the table across from "Bad John". "Name's Lee, Zack Lee, course most folks round here call me The Reb, or Sergeant."

His eyes flicked back and forth from John to this other, pistol wieldin' man who had entered the room. "So, what ya got fer us?"

"Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, dirtbag." Paul kicked the failed bank robber straight in his rear.

"Enrique," Paul looked up to his Deputy in training, the Mexican glanced down at his mentor from horseback. "You know the way back, right?"

"Si senor Redford." Enrique nodded. "I will take this bandit back to Redwater for you."

"Good work today, son." Paul looked quizzingly over towards the local saloon, a man wearing a Confederacy uniform having walked in there moments before. "I got something I need to check out, whiles I'm already here."

"Mui bueno, I will see you later heffe." Enrique replied, tying the bandit's wrists to his horse's halter, forcing the crook to walk along with him.

Paul, however, tied Destiny, his Morgan Stallion, to the post just outside of the saloon. Stepping up onto the wooden porch, he opened the two swinging doors. The barkeep had been busy wiping down the counter, glancing momentarily at the newcomer. Somehow, the barkeep knew what he needed, and without speaking a word, nodded towards the basement.

"Thanks pardner." Paul grinned, tipping his hat.

"No, thank you Sheriff. For your service not only as a law man, but to chase those Goober sombitches back to the plantations they come from." the barkeep continued wiping away. "Can I git you somethin' before you go?"

"I'm on duty barkeep," Paul nodded. "But I appreciate the offer."

"Anytime yer here Sheriff, it's on me." the man nodded a final gesture before Paul went into the back room.

Descending the stairs, Paul had his hand on his revolver. If that Confederate soldier wanted to pick a fight, or even set up an ambush, he wanted to be ready. Entering the basement, he was overcome with surprise to find a dark skinned gentleman sitting at a table, two hispanics, and the Confederate soldier to boot.

"Well ain't this the most miss-matched group of people I've ever seen." Paul scratched the back of his head, glaring at the Confederate soldier. "What brings ya'll down here? Name's Paul. Sheriff Paul Redford."

John removed his revolver from the holster, and placed it on the table, eyes narrow. "Gee, Sheriff, I'm so glad you're interested in meetin' new people." The mercenary's sarcasm came off thicker than syrup.

"Let's start with y'all sittin' down," John husked. He leaned forward, his chin resting on the back of his hands. "We can meet 'n' greet in a minute, but right now, I'd rather not have a Mexican, a Rebel, and a Sheriff all standing around with guns drawn in the basement of my favorite bar."

John took his index finger, and pressed it against the table. "Park it, people. I start talkin' when asses hit chairs, and guns hit holsters."

Luis rode into town, his all black clothing catching the eyes of more than few people. He didn't care, he just kept his eyes open for the bar where someone was hiring, and paying "handsomely". Luis was ALWAYS on the lookout for a high paying bounty, or any other job that paid well and involved roaming the West.

Luis reached the bar and pulled on his horse's reigns to come to abrupt stop. The black stallion, Bonita as Luis had called her, reared up onto its hind legs before coming back down. Luis dismounted, tied her up to a pole, gave her a stroke of her mane, and went inside the bar. 

Upon his entrance, things became deathly quiet. Those who knew who he was either left the bar, or avoided making eye contact at all costs. Those who were less familiar with him stared at his strange outfit.

A black hat, coat, vest, fingerless gloves, shirt, and pants were normal enough. However it was the balaclava that REALLY put the outfit together. It covered Luis's face from the nose down, and had a skull imprinted on it. The only human part one could see of Luis's face were his eyes, which intimidated all whom Luis which to.

Luis approached the bar keep, somewhat passive-aggressively.

"Now see here, I don't want to trouble so-"

"Just tell me where I can find the man hiring here," Luis cut him off.

"Excuse me?" the barkeep asked, a little surprised. He expected trouble.

"I said, where's the man hiring?" Luis asked, more aggressively.

"In the basement. It's-"

"I'll find it myself," Luis said, before looking around. Sure enough he found stairs leading to a basement and made his way in. 

---

Eduardo pulled back his vest, and removed four fingers from his revolver to reveal that although his hand had been on his revolver he hadn't actually drawn it. It was a sign of good faith.

At the Sheriff's entrance, Eduardo was somewhat concerned that what he just about to get involved in was illegal. Eduardo was on good terms with most law enforcement agents, and he'd rather not change that.

---

At the top he saw a Sheriff walking in. As he approached he heard "... I'd rather not have a Mexican, a Rebel, and a Sheriff all standing around with guns drawn in the basement of my favorite bar. Park it, people. I start talkin' when asses hit chairs, and guns hit holsters."

Luis smiled at the man's comment, somewhat amused. The mention of another Mexican, and that man being called by race gave Luis suspicion that the man could potentially be a racist... or at least your typical "wary of Mexicans" white settler.

Luis finished descending the stairs and walked in, coat pulled somewhat back to reveal his six revolvers in their holsters. He glanced at the assembled men: a black, a Sheriff, a Confederate soldier, and... Eduardo?! Luis's eyes blinked in surprise at the sight of his twin brother, not really expecting him to show up here. Eduardo had the same look of surprise on his face, but let it go. They both came here for a job, and they could catch up later.  

"I suggest we do as Senor John says, and sit. We came here to listen to him after all," Eduardo suggested, taking the first seat. 

"Agreed. I didn't come here for nothing," Luis replied, taking the second seat across the table from Eduardo, both of the twins now on either side of their soon to be employer.

"Gee, Sheriff, I'm so glad you're interested in meetin' new people."

Paul glared at the man by the table when he spoke this, his hand unmoving from the pistol in his holster.

"You'll have to forgive me if I seem brash. But when I see a god-damn Goober walking around towns that I'm sworn to protect, I get a bit cautious." Paul growled, focusing his attention back at the Confederate man, before looking back at the dark skinned man in the corner. "I'm intolerant of their intolerance, and to be fair, I'm surprised you of all people would want a Goober down here anyways, no offense t' the fact you're of a different skin color. I just figured there'd be tensions."

"Now, I don't know what ya'll're doin' down here, and by the looks of it, it seems a bit shady," Paul continued. "I just don't want any of the fine folks upstairs gettin' alarmed by anything here. So long as Mr. Goober Greycoat over here don't try anything funny, I could offer my services, iffin' you need some help."

"I just don't want any of the fine folks upstairs gettin' alarmed by anything here. So long as Mr. Goober Greycoat over here don't try anything funny, I could offer my services, iffin' you need some help."

Zack turned his head and faced the sheriff, a pronounced scowl ran across his face.  "Oh look at General fuckin' Grant over here! You know I could take workin' with these two Hispanics, and hell even darkie over there don't seem so bad, but you. You make my blood boil sheriff."

He stood back up, his manner of trying to keep good tensions within the room ran away when he heard the sheriff insult his heritage.  He didn't mind the blacks, or any other color, but if there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was a Yankee.  Especially one who chose to put down the South with every breath in their life.  

"Y'all sons-a-bitches think y'all are sooo superior to us, well guess what, ya a'int! If you want, ya damn Yankee, we can re start this here Civil war in this fuckin' basement!"

"Like ya'll thought you were superior to them folks that ain't white skinned? Ya sound like an ignant asshole! Ya'll think I hate the people from the South? Yer damn right I do, ya'll killed my family back in Bennington without a second god-damned thought! All yer Goober brethren did was run and gun any Union soldier's family down while they were trying to get away from it all." Paul tensed.

"It'd be my damn pleasure startin' a fight right here and now, the colors yous are wearing on your back are ones of intolerance and straight up hatred. America is a land of Freedom, no matter what color yer skin is or who yer parents were or where ye came from!" Paul replied through gritted teeth. "My friends, brothers, and family fought to keep that freedom. If you want to settle this though, we do it outside."

The two Civil War soldiers eyed each other, both with their own unique hatred of the other.

"Here's some free advice; run on home to yer little Plantation iffin ya'll think your Confederate traditions are so damn right fer America. But I won't have that kinda Confederation intolerance here or any other town in my jurisdiction! But if yous got business here that ain't about that kinda stuff, you'd best sit yer ass back down in that chair, and we's can avoid confrontation."

John gave both of them a blank, bored, slightly angry look. "...What in the fuck am I even watching." He chortled, then, like a fever breaking, he raised his eyebrow and lowered his shoulders, sinking back into his chair.

"Go outside and kill each-other if ya want. The one who WINS can work for me. Gives me one less gun to pay." He took a swig from his canteen, and began rolling a cigarette. He struck a match in front of it, and took a few puffs, blowing a smoke ring, kicking his boots up onto the table. "I don't give a shit who wins, as long as y'all expect to get paid the same." John laughed heartily, his mouth puffing smoke like an obstinate steam engine. After weeks of stewing in anger over what had occurred to warrant this current hiring, he could use a little levity.

"You two going to fight too?" John pointed to Eduardo and Luis, grinning. "Are you long lost cousins or som-"

The dark skinned man's eyebrow raised suddenly. He noticed the look that Ed and Luis had shared, and saw similarities between them, even when they were in shadow. His eyes narrowed. Well, ain't that somethin'. They might be a matched pair. I  wonder if they'll work well together.

John waved his hand. "Whatever." Bad John changed the subject somewhat hastily, and pointed to the Sheriff and the Reb. "Go fight the Civil War outside, or both of you can it. This is a business meetin'. Show some got damn day-korum.*"

*Decorum.

"There's the fuckin' Yankee sumbitch that I love to put in the goddamn ground!" Zack snarled back at the pompous lawman. "Y'all just love to generalize don't ya. Oh, some southerns owned slave, they must all hate the fuckin' black folks." His hand went down and gripped his revolver tighter than a copperhead on a field mouse.

"You know what y'all suns-o-bitches did to my home, my town, MY FAMILY. You wanna know who the real monster is, look in a fuckin' mirror ya low down son of a bitch!" He spat a wad of chewing tobacco down at the sheriff's feet. "Wasn't you payin a lick of attention to what I's said. I said I like the darkies, and the Mexicans. I fought side by side with black, and the damn indians! You know what, I got about as much respect for them as I do my own white soldiers. But you, I don't have a lick of respect."

Then, he lifted his hand off his revolver, "Now, as a humble gentleman I am willing to put our differences aside for our generous employer here, but know this, you make one move, and I'll sit your ass down in the dirt where you belong. Y'understand?!"

John watched as the chewing tobacco hit the ground, and cringed. "Ew. GAT DAMMIT I know I'm gonna step in that on my way out." John stood, and stared at both of them. "You motherfuckers. I've been here for twenty minutes and I already hate you people. CHRIST! I should just do this job my goddamn self!"

John stormed into the corner of the room, and kicked a barrel, the wood breaking under the force of his steel toed boot. Dust billowed from the broken plank.

The door to the basement opened, and the red bearded bartender poked his head through it. "...There a problem down here, John?"

"GO THE FUCK BACK UPSTAIRS LOUIS!"

Louis withdrew from the room, shutting the door. Regaining his composure, John took a deep, relaxing breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

"Sorry Louis!" John shouted up through the floor, knowing Louis could hear him. Louis stomped once, and John heard the impact, knowing it to mean that Louis had likely forgiven his outburst.

"That's a gas right there, ya'll had to bring up the fact the other three gentlemen in this room are of different colored skin, yet here you are sayin' I'm generalizin' all you Goober sumbitches!" Paul's eyes flickered. "You yerself are generalizin' too, just so ya know. I fought my enemies, never ONCE did I even consider pointing my gun at children, women, or otherwise. I shot those that shot back at me, plan an' simple."

"You come into my town and you start actin' all sneaky, an' you expect me NOT to get suspicious?!" Paul growled. "I'm sorry to hear my side of the military did that to you, but it happened to me from yer guys. Now yer threatenin' me within my jurisdiction, and have the nerve to mock me by chickening out of a duel? Yer damn lucky I didn't arrest yer ass for going fer yer gun, you sonnova bitch."

"Likewise to you, I'll put my differences aside from yers, iffin you are true to yer word about not being like the rest of them Goober bastards. You don't like me, and I sure as hell don't like you, but if this is important, we's got to work together if ANYTHIN' is gonna get done, but mark my words though; YOU pull a move I don't like, and I'll throw your ass in the slammer and sip sweet lemonade while you rot with the other scum of society."

With that, he too removed his hands off of his revolvers and cautiously stepped towards the table, deliberately sitting as far away from the Confederate soldier as he could.

"Then it looks like we gots an agreement." Lee said, rubbing his boot heel into the spot of chewing tobacco on the ground. "Now, John, I'd like to apologize for mine, and....his actions just now," he sat down back in his chair. "So, you gots a job fer us, well, lets get to discussin' 'fore something else goes to shit down here."

"Esto gringos están loco..." Luis mumbled in Spanish. Eduardo gave a small chuckle, watching the arguement. These were the people that made America "great"? Eduardo doubted it, it was the common folks. Not people with an unhealthly amount of pride for where they were born.

Eduardo, however amusing he found the arguement, didn't want to waste any more time.

"Si, now that the soldiers have calmed down... Perhaps you can tell us what the job is?" Eduardo asked.

"Yeah. Us professionals would like to talk business," Luis added, referring to himself, Eduardo, and John.

John raised his eyebrow, remembering his purpose here. He stood at the table, and put both palms on it.

"About a month ago, this bar got shot up." John spoke calmly, sitting in his chair. "I was involved in the gunfight. I shot two men dead, and strangled a third, in self defense, iffn you got a problem with that, Sheriff." He turned his head towards the Sheriff, then continued.

"The reason for the shootout was a woman who had come to the bar. She was unsure that going to the law for protection was wise, so she heard about, and came, to me. She offered me one hundred thousand dollars to make sure she got on a certain train a few miles North of here, and rode to Washington without incident. She was worried that a certain party intended to apprehend her."

John smiled. "She had dark brown hair, and sounded like she was a foreigner. From England. Real hoity toity and important. You get the picture. So, due to her good looks and money, I was inclined to assist her."

The mercenary's expression darkened. "Then, the party interested in her capture appeared, and things got...interesting. They opened fire on everyone in the bar but her. I narrowly avoided death, and fought back. There were three at first. I handled them." John recalled blood splashing the wall as he took his first shot. He remembered incapacitating the second attacker with a barstool, and shooting him dead. He recalled beating the third nearly to death, and when the man pulled a knife on him, John had put hands on his throat and squeezed. It was one of his more...HEATED debates, but far from the worst.

"Then, two more arrived. A woman, and a man. The woman was real slim. The man was built like a house of bricks. Damn near NINE feet tall. I shit you not, when I shot him, he shrugged off a high-caliber bullet like it was nothing." John stated the facts rakishly. "When I punched him, it was like slugging a bank vault. When I bit him, I could swear when his skin broke, I tasted crude oil instead of blood. Needless to say, he beat my happy ass damn near to death. The woman, the slender one, however, was ESPECIALLY scary." John showed true fear when he thought of her. "...I managed to get a shot off at her, and it hit her in the head. She was still alive. I got her between the eyes, and she was STILL ALIVE. Once again, I am not bullshitting you, she survived a bullet to the skull."

John turned back to the Sheriff. "I'm not sure what the law did to investigate, but when I came to, the woman was gone. Califur Greene, was her name. Those bastards took her."

The mercenary stood, and paced. "Let me be perfectly fucking clear. My first objective is to get that woman back. I'm not wanting for money, but I want to stage a rescue out of SPITE for the bastards that took her, and kicked my ass, but with those two MONSTERS around, I may need backup."

John took a swig from his canteen, and continued. "My sources state that Cali was taken east of here, to a decent sized mine. There's quite a bit of manpower down there, but she's alive. If you throw in with me, I'll pay you to give me a hand in takin' her back."

"But when we encounter those two, I want them dead." He leaned forward. "I don't want my intention to be too mired in subtly, so let me tell you, I want them DEAD. Not incapacitated, not arrested. I want their heads totally removed from their bodies."

"Well this sure is somethin' I wasn't expecting, comin' down here." Paul replied, taking his hat off and scratching the back of his head. "Yeah, I was one of the lawmen that responded after the bar-fight. 'Course, Redwater's about a half a day's ride from here. So's of course I didn't get to see anyone that fits yer description. But I think I was the one that tended to cleanin' up yer mess. T' be honest with you, I can't blame you, let alone incarcerate you, just 'cause you defended yerself an' the lady."

"I ain't gonna help for the money, I'm fightin' this to take these bastards out. Especially if theys gonna terrorize my people. I don't take kindly to that." Paul nodded.

"You've got my guns and my permission as head law-man round these parts to do what's necessary, 'slong as innocent people ain't involved. Any trouble comes our way in the form of the law, I have the authority to call them off." Paul continued. " An' if you want, we can get into contact with my ol' friend from my time in the service. Name's Robert Wayne, one hardassed sumbitch with a drive fer Justice. Once a rifleman in my platoons in the war, he's become a helluva Gunslinger and a Cowboy. Hell of a shot, I seen him shoot a silver dollar from a barn window about fifty feet away, dead center. You want a sure-shot, he's yer man."

"Ol' Union Jack here's got yer sharp shootin, me, Johnny Reb's got yer firepower.  I can get E Batt up here with all the cannons and supplies you could use or want, course, I might need t' "requisition" somethin' to lug these sons-a-bitches round with."  

Lee stood up and looked over towards the sheriff.  "Goin' t' have ta ast ya fer some help on that part.  My boys got everything out battery had fer we took off, but we aint mo-bile.  And, you boys are in fer a real nice treat when you see what this army's packin!"

"Course now, I aint too damn greedy, ta hell with the pay fer now.  I am a soldier got dammit! I'm offerin my soivices t' ya fer this here belle.  A'int no place for nobody to be harmin a lady."

He turned his attention back towards the sheriff "Now I know what you're thinkin here pardner, I'll just wait till this is over and arrest this sumbitch.  Now, listen, I ain't a harmin no innocent people, an' I never did, you let me go, and I might just reckken I put my shootin days behind me. T'won't me that shot up yer family, and I damn the man who did, but I am a gentleman, now I s'pose we can git 'long, do this right, and come out as well, acquaintances, course now that don't mean I'll drop my colors."

He stuck his hand out "Whaddya say, pardner?"

"I'll help you recover the lady, and incapitate the two people you're looking for, but you'll have to finish them off. It ain't my place to take another man's life. That's for Dios to decide, and him only. If that means less pay, then so be it" Eduardo replied, very seriously. Someone needed his help, and he'd be willing to do it... But he didn't come here to kill.

Luis snorted in reply. "Fine by me. I'll save the lady, AND kill these folks you're talking about. I'll even kill them in a specific way if you want... If I get his reduction added into my pay," Luis said pointed at Edurado.

"Other than that, I'm ready to go. All I need are these revolvers and my horse. Fastest gunslinger in the west, expert at taking down entire gangs single handedly. Edurado over here ain't too bad with a gun himself, though he doesn't use quite properly," Luis said, getting up.

Damien walked up to the bar for a job but carefully looks at the bar, inspecting it, for any way out or for an attack before going in. the place seemed normal except for a few bullet holes and blood spots on the walls. 

Damien looked at the barkeep who seemed to know what he came here for and pointed to the basement. 

Damien nodded and walked over to the door and heard someone say, he doesn't use quite properly , before opening the door and walking down slowly. 

"Am late?" Damien asked, holding his hands up