<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Late Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Black Jack's Lair<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Harley, Li-Li, Closed<br/><hr/><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a9/Rachaelsumner.png)</div>The others were calm, but Rachael Sumner, second in command of the Raiders, never really stopped moving around the camp.  Whether she was fingering her gunbelt, checking the ammunition in the bandolier slung around her shoulder, snapping off a crispy piece of bacon or simply putting her hands on her hips to glare at the entrance to the cave, Rachael never stopped moving.  She'd been awake since the news had hit last night.  Coleman dead.  Black Jack shot, and hurling himself over the edge of the cliff.  Rachael was the real deal, as outlaws went – she'd robbed trains and stagecoaches, shot a man dead at seven, had bounties posted on her in three states in the Union, two in Confederate territory, and two more in disputed lands.  She was also one of the few members of the Raiders well known without her mask – the large tattoo of a spade on her breast wouldn't have been noticeable if she were a modest woman, but she had a habit of keeping her shirts half buttoned, even mid robbery.  Few men could describe her face; the tattoo had actually made it onto a wanted poster, to Rachael's perpetual disgust, though<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/4/49/Flint_parker.png)</div>That wasn't to say the others weren't nervous, too.  They just had different ways of showing it.  Flint Parker had a hat tipped lazily over his eyes.  The Kentucky born redneck was born into a legacy of crime.  Illiterate, uneducated, and ever immodest, the red-headed raider  did his best to pretend to sleep, if nothing else to diffuse the tension of Rachael's constant pacing and fidgeting.  Flint had a rogue's charm – he'd been an outlaw since he was a twinkle in his daddy's eye; the Parker family had been thieves, bushwhackers and highwaymen for three generations.  Flint had once scooped a high-society dove up and over his shoulder in the middle of robbing a stage coach laden with Sweetrock supplies.  He'd ridden all the way back to the secret landing they'd moored the boat on before Black Jack had laid down the law.<br/><br/><em>“Ye can't keep her, Flint.”</em><br/><br/><em>”But I'll take good care o' her!  She won't bother no-one.”</em><br/><br/>Black Jack had scowled.<em>”She's a lady, Flint, not a pet.  Leave her here, the posse coming after us'll find her and bring her back to town.”</em><br/><br/>It was hard to say if the young damsel or Flint had looked more crestfallen, but Flint had given her a kiss that had curled her toes and earned a giggling slap across his cheek.  Flint had just given an aw-shucks smile and kissed her again, and Rachael had rolled her eyes when the little debutante melted a little, and didn't work up the verve to slap him again.  She'd waved goodbye and waggled her fingers, a hand trembling on her cheek as she sorted through the utterly improper feelings she had.<br/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/3b/Eddiebellows.png)</div>In stark contrast to the easy going, happy go lucky outlaw, Eddie Bellows brooded in a corner of the cave they'd made their home.  The Confederate uniform he wore was ragged and fraying, years old, but the dark eyed former soldier only removed it when he was bathing – which was rarely.  It was no particular distaste for being clean – when Eddie cleaned up, he looked a proper gentleman, but the man was a natural born wilderness scout, well aware of the power of scent to alert  prey or pursuers to his presence.  Eddie rarely spent much time in the cave – he far preferred the desert, and tailing Sweetrock supplies as they arrived by steam-wagon or conestoga wagon.  The scout was also a sharpshooter, and his dusty clothes hid a lean frame that seemed impossible to keep meat on.<br/><br/>The true blessing was the absence of Twitch.  The third underboss in Sweetrock's gang, Twitch wasn't so much a leader as a force of nature.  The madman lived for a gunfight, his reputation with a pistol second only to Black Jack's.  It wasn't so much the speed of Twitch's draw or the skill in his gun hand, as the wild-eyed bravery that had earned respect.  Twitch advanced fearlessly into gunfire, shotgun and pistols blazing until his foes or his ammunition were expended.  He never took cover, and if his enemies weren't dead by the time he reached them, he went to work with a Bowie knife and a maniac's laughter.  The only thing Twitch seemd to like was seagulls.  The strange man had managed to train a number of the birds as carrier pigeons, and seemed to prefer their company to people most times.  It was one of Twitch's gulls which had carried the news of the escape, but there'd been no more word for nearly ten hours.<br/><br/>He didn't handle tension well.  It made him feel 'stabby.'  If the quiet murmurs were any indication, and Rachael's booted heels grinding on the rock, Twitch would have been feeling 'stabby' four hours ago.  But Twitch was on boat duty – which meant long hours manning a hidden steamboat near the city, ready to evacuate any of the Raiders who made a rapid departure.  Hide nor hair had been heard from him or Black Jack since eight hours prior, and the lack of communication had begun to wear on even the relatively patient members of the raiders.<br/><br/>Rachael paced around the glowing embers of the campfire, grabbing another slice of the bacon and snapping it off with her teeth.  She ran dirty fingers through her hair once more, when a bellow echoed through the cave.<br/><br/>“Wooooooooweeee!  Goddam, but it feels good to be alive!”<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/1/1f/Thetwitch.png)</div><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/86/Blackjack.png)</div>Black Jack's voice boomed through the cave, and he sauntered into cave, Twitch following on his heels.  He'd turned a dirty undershirt into a bandage around his muscular torso, and he grinned wildly at the Raiders who'd already risen to greet him.  He tossed the armored vest he'd purchased discreetly from the Collegium onto a peg, along with his hat, and his duster a moment later.  His powerful arms and chest were bronzed by sun, and a broad grin broke his face.<br/><br/>“You son of a bitch!” scowled Rachael.  “We were worried sick about you!”<br/><br/>Black Jack gave an easy laugh.  “I believe that's the third aspersion on my mother's character I've heard In twenty four hours.  Apparently I killed J.P. Coleman.  Am I mean drunk, or just a forgetful one?”