<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/de/Nash_bilton.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Sheriff Nash Bilton<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (5) Sheriff<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Sheriff's Office/Gomorra Jail<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open<br/><hr/>To the casual eye, Matthew Ford might have appeared unarmed, but Bilton’s wasn’t the casual eye.  Before he’d been a Law Dog, he’d been a bounty hunter of no small repute, and men had hidden Peacemakers, derringers, brass knuckles and knives on their person.  The trick wasn’t to watch a fold of cloth or the hang of a coat - it was to watch his gait.  No matter how a man carried himself, no matter how comfortable he was with a weapon at his side, the weight on the hip was a burden far out of proportion to its weight in ounces.  Men were<em>conscious</em>of their weapons, they kept their hands clear of them to keep from taking a bullet in the toe or the leg.  He’d heard of inventors like the Collegium or Smith and Robards trying to develop some sort of ‘safety’ that might keep a weapon from firing, but there wasn’t a reliable one in mass production, and every man who’d learned to draw and shoot had done so with a weapon that could fill him with lead if he wasn’t careful.  So Bilton didn’t have to see the gleam of metal to know Matthew Ford had entered the Sheriff’s Office with a gun at his hip.  The conscientious way he held himself was a testament unto itself, and the price of being able to spot an armed man was a lesson Bilton had paid with his own blood, and never forgotten.  He didn’t hesitate to align the shotgun under the desk with the newcomer, or to put his hand over the stock, finger near the trigger, as he leaned back in his desk and set down his newfangled gatling pistol.<br/><br/>The cells behind him were turned from the door - but that never stopped the passel of drunks from poking their heads out at every newcomer, or the vague reek of human feces and whiskey from seeping through the office.<br/><br/>Bilton’s eyes met Matthew’s in a silent stare.  “The late Sheriff Coleman had himself some pretty big ears,” he acknowledged.  He glanced at the papers, but waited to reach for them until Ford had stepped back from his desk.  He eyed the uniform Ford still wore proudly.<br/><br/>“Not to suggest that the late Sheriff Coleman had any lapses in judgement, but Coleman did a lot of damn crazy things.  Probably why he’s six feet under.  Your service to your nation was surely appreciated, but I don’t care to bring partisan politics from two thousand miles away into the town.<em>Assuming</em>you manage to find somethin’ more suited to the position, I ain’t hiring no one straight on to Deputy.  Anyone interested in joinin’ the Dogs starts as armed volunteer.  An unpaid volunteer.  You prove you can obey orders, bite when you’re told to bite, and bark when you’re told to bark, we’ll consider taking you on as a junior deputy.  Pay there starts at ten a day, and if you prove you can keep your head and ain’t yeller-bellied, we’ll see about moving you up to Deputy should such a position become available.  Fifty dollars a day.”<br/><br/>He gave a bemused smile.  “But that presumes you live out the week in Gomorra.  You want to strut around in a uniform and braid, thats your own business.  But you’re as likely to get a knife in your back in the dark if go on struttin’.  Plenty of citizens around here ain’t too fond of Union blue, just like plenty of ‘em ain’t fond of Confederate grey.  Me?  I don’t give much a damn.  Buncha fools fighting over votes for Presidents who’ll bleed ‘em dry in election season, and let ‘em starve three years out of four.  Ain’t that right, Townsend?”<br/><br/>Townsend gave a grimace from the corner.  “Some bigger fools than others.  Least in the South we were fighting for our way of life.  Damn Union was fighting to stick their nose in other people’s business.”<br/><br/>Bilton gave an easy laugh, his fingers never shying from the shotgun.  “But you ain’t never bled a man for wearing blue, right?”<br/><br/>Townsend’s smile was predatory.  “Not on the clock, boss.”<br/>