<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 3, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Casino Morongo<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Christian, Open<br/><hr/><br/>“Ya don’t say,” Sloane drawled as Specter drank his beer, unimpressed by the man’s reasoning concerning Black Jack, though his expression remained the same, carefully neutral.  Sloane was sure that if the notorious outlaw had a grudge against their former sheriff he’d be happy to kill him any way he could, contrary to rumors and reputation or not.  He was far more interested in the gunslinger’s theories about the way that Coleman died.  There had been precious little information given out at the Mayor’s excuse for a public announcement, and he was curious about Specter’s apparent certainty and how in the hell he knew.<br/><br/>“Izzat so?” Sloane replied, feigning a level of disinterest he didn’t exactly feel.  He’d need to scrounge around for more information on the details of Coleman’s death, and soon, before rumor and innuendo ran roughshod over facts until the truth was completely obscured.<br/><br/>“Yes, it is,” Sloane agreed seamlessly, glancing briefly around the Morongo’s fine interior, never missing a beat as Specter changed the subject.  “Long enough,” he replied, bypassing a true answer and substituting an oblique one in its place, meeting the gunslinger’s glare with an equally hard look.<br/><br/>“You looking for a room or other entertainment while you’re in town, Specter?” Sloane asked, hands resting lightly on the bar.  “Or are you just here on business?”<br/>