<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/25/Doggie.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>A stranger.<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>(n/a)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 12th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Midday<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Jones’ Mercantile & Trade<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>open, Jaelyn<br/><hr/><br/>The initial press of miners who were eager to get back to work was unending, it seemed.  They had bought a bewildering array of supplies, long starved for affordable goods and eating through what little money they had while waiting for Jones’ Mercantile to reopen.  They also ordered dynamite like mad - but apparently they didn’t expect her to retrieve it.  Instead the miners simply placed orders for it, and promised to be on the front door of the general store in the morning to pick it up.  It was accidental happenstance that one let slip that the regulation was city ordinance, even as it protected Jaelyn from having to leave the store unattended for even a few moments while it was filled with miners.<br/><br/>The whippersnappers more than earned their keep from filching miners, too - they kept their eyes on the crowd of miners, noting whenever a watch or a pack of cards disappeared into a pocket.  They brushed right by a moment later and filched it back, waiting until the miner with the five finger (or three finger, depending) discount had made their way out of the general store and replacing the item on the shelf without a confrontation.<br/><br/>When the stranger came in, it was just after lunch.  Most of the store had been picked over, with the whippersnappers out delivering new orders.  He was older than most of the miners, with grizzled grey hair and a scraggly beard, and clothes that had clearly seen much better days. His shirt and coat and vest were all stained a dusty brown, seams going threadbare and hems fraying.<br/><br/>He poked through the shelves, the air of a man who didn’t know exactly what he was looking for - and perhaps all he was looking for was some shade over his head.  He reeked of whiskey and the vague scent of cooked pork, and he scratched his fingers idly through his beard.<br/><br/>“Do you - “  his voice was cracked, and sounded parched.  “ - do you have any irons?”<br/>