Clint and another man had just crested a hill, each mounted on a horse; a Finnish breed, by the look and stature of them, and were carving down a narrow path that would deposit them alongside an access trail at Dead Reach Mine. Neither had spoken in some time, though Miller; a good man who’d been with the Huntington Co. for some years had grown accustomed to this. The big man -as he was so often referred to- hardly bothered with idle chit-chat or comradery. A point more stringently applied to those under his employ.<br/><br/>If the big man, with his mirrored lenses and weathered repeater on his back had friends, Miller couldn’t fathom who they might have been.<br/><br/>Once close enough to see the Mine and the figures milling about near it, he did speak, gesturing with a long arm at a gathering of the men who Jess had likely been gleaning information from. “Go around, find any man you can, tell them we’re paying a dollar a head for their story.” Miller nodded, having to squint for the still rising sun to where Clint had gestured. “Have Hannigan and O’Brien start taking their reports -they’ve got the best penmanship.” Another nod.<br/><br/>“Some of them might get a little squirrely about it. Tell them they don’t have to give their names, just their version of what happened. They’ll probably think you’re with Grand Venture, asking questions and such.<br/><br/>Miller hesitated, glad for the weight of a revolver at his hip. The look of the mine, desolate as it was, unnerved him for reasons he couldn’t identify. Nor was he willing to try. “And if they ask?”<br/><br/>“They won’t.” Clint replied assuredly. “They’ll see the coat, the weapon, they’ll assume. Might even attract a few hangers on, looking to make a quick buck. That’s fine, so long as the town sees those men coming to us.”<br/><br/>It would be enough, to get the town buzzing more than they already were about the newest arrival. Once they had something -anything- to grab ahold of, word would spread. Ears would begin listening for what came next from whichever voice rang loudest.<br/><br/>Miss Huntington, demure as she may have feigned, knew a thing or two about gathering a crowd.<br/><br/>Miller nodded with finality and urged his horse down and toward the gathering of men. Clint remained on the crest of the hill, hands folded on pommel and hidden eyes taking in the scene. Bodies, he didn’t need to be close enough to see their wounds to recognize the stiff posture of sheet-covered death. Terror, it was clear in the air, even back in town. The nervous glancing about from miners only confirmed that nothing had been resolved of whatever madness had occurred.<br/><br/>Spitting, tugging at the brim of a black, felt hat, Clint spurred at the beast and moved off in the opposite direction. Off to find whomever was still in charge of the whole mess.