Jonah saw another bandit kill Algernon. He was an asshole anyway. "Percy! We've got to get to our horses!" Jonah quickly dashed down a back alley in the direction of the stables.

Despite Percival's somewhat precarious mental state, he still sighed heavily at hearing Jonah call him "Percy".

It didn't stop him following though, he just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.

Gunshots, screams, the smell of smoke. Trouble was afoot.

The church was empty of congregation, and the only person in it other than Zachary was his brother under Christ, Father Jones. The elderly priest looked up from where he was sweeping the aisles of Dodge's modest chapel as the noise came to them, a look of concern in his eyes. By that time, Zachary had already grabbed Mercy and loaded the shotgun, slinging a pouch of shells over his shoulder.

"Stay here, Father Jones," he said, clicking the weapon shut. "There are wolves afoot."

"But w-what about-"

By the time Father Jones manages to stammer that out, Zachary was already gone, bursting through the door of the chapel and into the town.

"THREATEN MY FLOCK, WOULD YOU?!"

Baffled, a bandit who was helping himself to the contents of strongbox he had hurled into the middle of the street looked up. Confusion flared across his features for a moment, and he grabbed for his gun. In that moment, Mercy fired.

A cone of flame and buckshot belched from the shotgun's barrel, knocking the man from his feet and setting his clothes ablaze. Striding forwards, a snarl on his features, he stalked through the town like an avenging angel sent from the Lord Himself. Another bandit was knocked from his feet by fire and lead, and Zachary growled as he rounded a corner.

He was near Dodge's stable, and Mercy's barrel swept up as he saw three figures down an alley. He lowered it as he saw them in more detail; two men and a woman, one of them with a mechanical arm, the woman made up like some harlot, but none of them looked like bandits.

"Good day there!" he called, waving a hand. "Are you in need of help?"

"Bandits," Betty said breathlessly. "We're runnin'." She recognized the man as one of the local preachers, but not one that required her services. She didn't have time to scoff at his ironic greeting of 'Good day,' and instead motioned to one of the horses.

"If you aim to live, you might as well borrow a horse. These ones ain't ran off yet." She dropped the pretense of being grammatically correct, given the situation. Her drawl was thicker in the heat of the moment as she tightened a few belts on the horse she was working on. She lifted her skirt up and mounted the horse, uncaring of the view she gave the men. Her bits were covered, and they were protected from the rough leather of the saddle.

She waited to crack the reigns until everyone who was going to ride was mounted.

Betty, surprisingly, took the lead at this point. Jonah didn't feel inclined to argue, especially after a bullet whizzed by. He straddled the burner, pulling two levers on either side of the chest. Steam escaped with a high horselike whistle. "Comeonbabycomeonbabycomeonbaby!" Jonah frantically adjusted the valves and gauges, until the burner stood up with a loud hiss. "Yee-hah!" Jonah continued to check the psi until everyone else mounted up.

Percival stumbled over to his burner, fumbling at his breatplate before he was able to remove it and clip it to a specially designed bracket. Now his breastplate would prevent him being shot in the back as they rode away from Dodge, as well as give him something to lean back against if he felt the need. He hopped astride the bronze plated burner, and fired it up, noting absently that it reached optimal pressure faster than Jonah's did. He smiled at the recollection of the hours he'd spent tinkering with her, then snapped himself forcefully back to the present. He stayed quiet, uncertain as to what would happen next. Sticking together had made sense while fleeing through the streets, but it might be every man, or woman, for themselves from here on.

For a moment, Zachary was torn; these three new arrivals were clearly making a break out of town, a reasonable move to make considering the circumstances. As a priest of the Lord, he was bound to not only protect the helpless but to also punish the wicked, and the wicked were still at large in the town. On the other hand, these three didn't seem to be well armed; one of them had a rifle of impressive intricacy, but while Zachary was no expert on machines he was fairly sure that it shouldn't have springs sticking out of its chamber like it currently did, and aside from that all he had was a revolver. The woman looked unarmed, and the last man had a carbine. He could hardly allow them to go out into the dangerous wilderness with just one decent gun and a pistol between them.

He strode to one of the stalls and pulled the door open, leading out his trusty mule, Mark, from within. The animal seemed to survey the party with disinterest as he was lead out into the open, and quickly Zachary strapped his saddle on and climbed onto his back while the two gentlemen with the burners raised the pressure. He slung his shotgun across his shoulder, allowing him to reach the reins but still grab the weapon quickly if the need arose.

"If there is nothing else keeping us, I say we should be going," he said. "Unless I'm mistaken, those bandits came from the south; our best chance would be going northwards."

"I concur. I think sooner rather than later would be the time to flee."

Jonah checked the gauges once more and finally pressed his feet on the rigid stirrup-pedals. The burner began trotting off northward, and after a hundred yards or so, Jonah checked to see that everyone was behind him.

"Onward, then."

Betty followed close behind the boy in the bowler hat, checking behind her once in a while to see if the other two were behind her.

"There should be another town about three miles ahead," she said, adjusting herself on the saddle. "It's not the best place to be, but it's better than what we left behind. It's not on fire, for one. And if you give me an hour up there, I can make us enough money to last us a week."

She didn't have to tell them how.

"Point is, there's beds, clean water, and food. And I didn't grab anything for the horse." She patted its neck. "I'm sure.." she leaned over and glanced at its underbelly. "She would appreciate being fed and watered."

Percival was relieved the general consensus seemed to be to stick together. So as the others decided on which direction to travel, he drew his broken rifle from over his shoulder, pried off the mechanism, and began taking a closer look. He glanced up as he heard Jonah's burner start moving off, and followed behind him and the whore. He barely heard her talking about the town, and nodded vaguely as she spoke, his mind mostly on how to fix his rifle.

Despite having escaped Dodge, Percival didn't feel any safer than he had in the town. He was now riding with three people he'd only met that day, he only knew the name of one of them, Jonah, and he didn't trust him. He didn't trust any of them.

He had to get his rifle fixed. Soon.

"Are we an 'us' now? I didn't notice." Here I am with a homicidal priest, a madcap tinker, and a whore. Considering mother, this is probably exactly what she'd have wanted, isn't it? Going to have to visit her one of these days, I'm afraid.

Jonah looked back and saw Percival tinkering with the broken rifle. He fingered the steam cartridge, feeling for the hot line of pressurized water vapor. Half full. I may need a few more at this rate.

Jonah pushed these thoughts aside and pressed the pedals harder, catching up to the whore. "I suppose I and Percival can find work at a blacksmith or a railyard. You...do what you do, if you're so intent on staying with us. I don't mind anyone's company here, but it's your choice.

Jonah once again checked the cartridge. Half full...half full.

"The next town over would be a good starting point, certainly," Zachary said, from where he was at the rear of their small, impromptu posse. He still has his shotgun at the ready and occasionally glanced back at the town to see if there was anyone following. "No doubt there shall be some of the Lord's work that needs doing there, as well."

He realised something, and added; "I don't believe I've introduced myself; Father Zachary Trimble, at your service."

Betty looked back at the man and nodded. "Betty Bridges. They call me Black Betty. Shouldn't be hard to figure out why." She squinted against the sun. "We should head to the town quickly. The earlier in the day we find a place to stay, the better. I suggest a motel rather than a hotel, and if y'all are feeling a bit...conservative," she pursed her lips and raised a brow, her nostrils flaring at the word. "I can get my own room, though it would be wise to save money."

"I see no problem with sharing a room." Jonah turned to the priest. "Any objections, Father Trimble?"

"No? Alright then."

Jonah increased his speed and they reached the town within a half-hour or so. It was dingy, but in the West dingy was the standard. There was a saloon, several houses, a general store, livery stable, and smithy/ostler's.

Jonah rode up to the saloon and hitched his burner, pulling the levers again as it sank to the ground. "Well then. What's the first order of business?"

The sun was setting over the town, and the new group of would-be heroes(?).

Jackson OOC: do we do these header things still? whatever.

Jackson had left Dodge the day before, being warned that McDowell was likely on his heels. He'd spent the better part of the week thinking he'd given his hunter the slip, staying under the radar in Dodge. Now he sat in the saloon of a smaller, shanty town to the north. He was good friends with the bartender in Dodge, and that was who tipped him off, and was even nice enough to set him up with the digs he was enjoying now. This saloon had nowhere near the customers that Dodge typically provided, but it was better than getting lynched by McDowell and his bandits, plus it was a free room and a potential for tips. Jackson hadn't played in Dodge anyway; didn't want to get caught. Now, though, money was an issue, and he had no choice. He also had no idea that Dodge had been burned to the ground on his account.

He sat in a stool that he'd pulled into a corner by the side of the bar. There was a whiskey bottle by his feet, along with a tin can for tips, and his guitar on his lap. He lit a cigarette and took a puff before addressing his audience that seemed not to care. It never bothered him; Jackson played for himself anyway, and they usually came around after a song or two.

"This one ain't got words," he said to the uncaring patrons, "I'll get around to writin' 'em one day, but right now it's a damn good fingerpickin' tune."

And so he played. It was a more upbeat bluesy tune, with a sort of ragtime rhythm to it. By the end of it, some folks had started tapping their feet at least.

He looked up to see a group of travelers enter. They seemed worried, like they'd been caught off-guard recently. He didn't tap into any minds - he found that it often took a lot of spice out of life, and only did so when he deemed absolutely necessary. Either way, he figured they might be more inclined to tip; couldn't be worse than the rest of the crowd could they?

"Hey there, folks!" he greeted, "Got a particular tune you'd enjoy hearin'?"

OOC: Don't really do those any more, not unless we've got more than one character per poster


Zachary shook his head at Jonah's query, though he was unsure if the man saw the gesture. As much as he disapproved of the work Black Betty did, it was his place as priest to teach instead of judge; while the stick could sometimes be employed to prod someone back onto the path of righteousness, often a carrot was more effective.

They stabled their horses outside of a saloon, where they could get their bearings and some idea of what to do now they were suddenly thrown together. The building they entered was a grubby establishment, but all saloons were so that was no great issue. There was a musician plucking a guitar, and as they entered he called over to them for any requests.

"How about Listen to the Mockingbird?" Zachary asked. "That's a favourite of mine."

He glanced over at Jonah.

"Business? I personally wish to bring the Lord's retribution against those men who attacked Dodge. I'd be somewhat of a poor priest if I did not."

"I think o' that one as a fiddler's tune, but I can make due, I think," he said with a wink towards the newcomers. He took a pull of whiskey from the bottle and squirmed in his stool to get comfortable. He heard something about Dodge being attacked, but he didn't want to seem to interested.

"This one's about a dead lover," he continued as he plucked a couple strings to tune, "And the bird that sings o'er her grave...you mighta heard it once before."

I'm dreaming now of Hally, sweet Hally, sweet Hally,
I'm dreaming now of Hally...

The words came from his mouth, but he wasn't really thinking about them. Dodge was on his mind - what happened there? Had McDowell come a' calling? Would he come here next? His hope was to play the damned song well enough for one of these folks to speak with him a bit more. Maybe he could get the scoop from them. Maybe even a free drink and a coin in the can. A bluesman could only hope for these things.

Listen to the mockingbird, listen to the mockingbird,
The mockingbird still singing o'er her grave...

The song wasn't over yet; he'd let them get settled in, see if he could overhear something between songs, maybe even approach them if necessary.

Percival was still poking around with his rifle when they arrived in town. He'd been silent on the ride there, and was no more talkative now they'd arrived. He parked his burner next to Jonah's then followed the others into the saloon, feeling very much the hanger-on in the group, but not particularly bothered by it. He was used to it by now.

The guitarist in the corner gave the saloon a better atmosphere than the one in Dodge, though that could simply have been the lack of proximity to the slaughterhouse that made the difference. He didn't speak up until Jonah asked about the order of business, hot on the heels of the priest. "Well, I'd rather like to get my rifle repaired. I think I have all the spare parts I'll need, but it will likely take me a few hours." He almost managed to keep his nervousness at the priest proposed course of action from his voice.

"We'll need a room." Betty said, digging through her small handpurse. Oh, good, she still had all of her money she had taken with her. Fifty dollars would last them at least a week, and rooms looked like they came at a decent price here. Her eyes swept the room of the saloon and she sauntered up to the bar.

"Room, please." She said to the balding, sweaty bartender. He had been eyeing her sine they walked in the door, and that look meant one of two things to Betty; money or disgust. Sometimes the two came hand in hand, but as long as she had somewhere with a bed to sleep at night, she didn't usually care.

"We don't host orgies." He said, spitting on the floor near her feet, leaning over the bar to do so. "And we certainly don't serve no whores!"

She gave him a sweet smile and grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close.

"Listen here, sugar," she said in a low, syrupy-sweet voice. "Our town was just burnt to the ground. To. The. Ground. This bodunk town is the closest thing we have to safety and I'll be DAMNED if I miss my evening bath just because some hillbilly man who sees a pretty lady in makeup thinks she's a whore. Now. How much for a room?"

The man fumed, his face turning red. He yanked his shirt away. "Eight dollars! Per person! Per night!"

Betty reached into her purse and handed him eighty dollars with a smile.

"Here, sugar. Buy yourself somethin' pretty."

He threw the key at her, which she picked up with a pleasant expression and took a deep breath and looked at the group.

"Well, guess we better stay outta trouble, huh?"

Jonah cracked a rare smile at Betty. "I reckon so. That was some fancy stuff you pulled there; glad you're on my side, at least for now."

He took out his handkerchief and wiped down his sweaty brow. "I'm going to go have a wash, then I'm off to find a change of clothes, which I'll need if I keep travelling in this fashion."

"All in all, I think we were lucky to get out unscathed. Those men didn't mess around. I'll be seeing you around supper, Miss Betty, Percival, Father Trimble."

Jonah walked up to the room with a bucket of water for the washbasin. He settled into the lukewarm water and began cleaning off the day's grime. Well, Jonah Markwit, this is a change, eh? I think you might actually end up enjoying yourself.

Percival was uneasy.

The priest unnerved him, he'd never met one he could get along with, and one with a shotgun seemed like a worse sort than the usuals. He didn't know anything about the whore save her profession, he barely knew Jonah, and he'd nearly been killed. And he didn't realise it, but he'd forgotten about the blood.

Sighing heavily, he slouched over to a table in the corner, and began digging through his pouches, pulling out rolls of tools and various spare parts that he carried. he spread a cloth stained with machine oil over the table, detached the mechanism from the rifle, and set to work, muttering softly to himself as he did.

He was feeling a little better in no time.