<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane_zps29c9cdf3.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Deacon Sloane<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3rd , 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Gomorra Town Hall<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open<br/><hr/><br/>For some, the early hours of the morning were actually the final hours of their business day.  When the bells began to ring, Deacon Sloane had finished his bookkeeping for the previous days’ earnings and was just about to lock his doors and head to his bed for the day.  Hearing a delay to his well-earned rest rung out in such insistent, iron tones was neither welcome nor amusing.  All it did was set his teeth on edge, and turned a foul mood even darker.  Still, no one with a stake in what happened in Gomorra could afford to dismiss the call of the church’s bells when they rang called for other than the faithful, and as a business owner, he had several votes to cast in any important decision that might be under consideration.  Still, he hesitated, standing just outside the door to the casino where he stood watching the herd of citizens surging towards the Town Hall, attention caught by the high pitched shout of one of the dozens of local boys, hawking the paper with news of the top headline.  Glancing down at the paper lying on the wooden boardwalk by his feet, he bent to retrieve what passed for the town’s news source and arched a dark eyebrow as it confirmed the boy’s claim.<br/><br/>Sloane and the newly deceased sheriff hadn’t exactly always seen eye to eye.  Sloane’s personal code of ethics was far too flexible for the largely by the book Coleman. He tended to take the position that the devil you knew was far better than the one you didn’t, and so had learned to exist and prosper even under the watchful eye of the eager lawman.  But that didn’t mean Sloane wished him dead.  It had just meant he needed to play his cards a little closer to his vest and be more circumspect, all well within his means and talents.  But now … now he’d have to learn and adapt all over again, and that just pissed him off.  What good was a carefully cultivated business relationship with the local sheriff if he could just be gunned down at any time by any random outlaw with a grudge against him? True, this new development afforded him an opportunity to put forward his own candidate for the open position, one carefully selected to be beneficial to his own interests, but the break in training period was always a bitch and a half.<br/><br/>“Damn,” Sloane rumbled, before turning and heading back into the Morongo.  Inside, he crossed to the large bar and tossed the stained paper on top of it before reaching under the polished surface to snag a glass and a half filled bottle of whiskey.  Pouring himself a shot, he re-corked the bottle and then tossed it back, checking his coat pocket to be sure his hip flask was filled before venturing out.  He might be willing to come to such a summons for the sake of his business interests, like a dog coming at his master’s call, but there was no way in hell he was going without a little liquid fortitude. So invigorated,  he stepped out into the harsh morning light, and then made his way along with the rest of the throng to the town hall under the relentless and already warm sun.<br/><br/>Sloane was just in time to catch the local insane Englishman come running forward to make his pronouncement.  Mycroft was a conundrum wrapped in a whole heap of crazy as far as Sloane was concerned, and so he paid the man little mind – unless he showed up at the Morongo with cash in hand, in which case he was happy to ignore the man’s eccentricities in favor of a little mutually beneficial commerce. But this outburst just had Sloane mentally shaking his head, expression carefully neutral.  Templeton, however, was all over the man, which matched Sloane’s feelings exactly as he waited for the details to emerge in Coleman’s death.  He didn’t have to wait long, though no details were especially forthcoming.<br/><br/>The mayor approached the announcements of the sheriff’s death with his usual forced cheerfulness.  Sloane had yet to determine if the man was naturally chipper or just plain stupid.  He always had a smile regardless of the circumstances, and this was one that would use a measure of decency, if only to project an air of sympathy to the good citizens of Gomorra.  This read more like a publicity stunt, an opinion further proved by Cochran’s bold announcement that he’d appointed that cocksucker Bilton as the next sheriff.  Sloane would have raised his voice to object, mainly because he hadn’t been asked for his opinion on the matter and he felt that expressing it was his due as owner of the Morongo, but their good judge beat him to it, raising all of the questionable ethics of Cochran’s action as well as reminding the populace of the proper procedure of electing a new sheriff.  Sloane had to restrain himself from laughing outright at the mayor’s resulting discomfort from Warwick's lecture.  It wouldn’t be wise to openly enjoy the schooling of one of his regular customers in public, but damn – the look on Cochran’s face was priceless.  Well worth the effort of postponing going to bed, however damned inconvenient it was.<br/><br/>Once the men slipped back inside the Town Hall, Sloane stood for a moment, watching their retreating backs.  Oh, to be a fly on the wall inside that damned room.  One day, he assured himself.  Naturally suspicious, he didn’t buy for one minute that Coleman’s death had been an accident.  Accidents could be arranged all the time, after all.  “Guess the show’s over,” he said to no one in particular, and then turned on his heel to begin the long walk back to the Casino and his waiting bed.<br/>