<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>Dusk<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Jaelyn<br/><hr/><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ab/Stagecoach.png)</div>The driver of Jaelyn's coach knew how to dress the part, but a life in Lost Angels had made recognizing a Guardian Angel as easy as spotting a wolf in sheep's clothing.  The old man who played teamster was no natural hand with the horses – nor did he seem terribly familiar with the various difficulties of driving a coach.  He drove the horses through the desert trails until they seemed ready to foam white with sweat, then gave them just enough chance to slow and cool, to catch sips of water before he cracked reins and whips upon them.  He drove the horses like Lucifer himself pursued them, and there were times when Jaelyn caught a gleam of pleasure in his eye, a sadistic pleasure in pushing the beasts so hard.<br/><br/>They had made good time.  Far better than they ought – the road had been untroubled by bandits or the 'Army of Kwan' that roamed Southern California.  In Lost Angels, the news for weeks had been about the armies of Santa Anna clashing with Kwan's Chinese and Indian troops, and how the 'Ejército de la Noche' had been marching to claim all of California for the glory of Mexico.  Despite the rumors of Confederate, Union, and Mexican armies clashing, the roads had been empty, and the notorious army of Chinese outlaws had left them untroubled.<br/><br/>The driver had driven the horses through the day and the night, and the horses had somehow survived the ordeal.  The pair of black stallions would be easy to feel some sympathy for, but they were unpleasant creatures.  They had reared and snapped whenever Jaelyn had gotten too close, and one of the horses had gotten his teeth into her blouse, coming away with a mouthful of cloth, and near a mouthful of skin as well.   The coach had been a listless place to sleep, the driver never offering much by way of conversation.  He'd answered her queries with single syllables, keeping his attention on the road and not upon the young, would be martyr.<br/><br/>Then, without warning, the rear axle of the carriage snapped.  The jostle of a few rocks was followed by a sudden crack as the rear of the coach crashed into gravel and dirt. There was a long pause – the dynamite in the trunk of the stagecoach was<em>mostly</em>stable, but the sawdust and nitroglycerin had an occasional tendency to explode when jostled hard.  Even the hardened coach driver let out a breath after a few moments, then hopped down to examine the coach, leaving Jaelyn in the rear of the carriage.<br/><br/>“Saint's piss,” he swore, as he examined the damage.  His hand had gone to the holster at his side, and he glowered at the carriage, his eyes filled with fire.  His brow furrowed and darkened, as he knelt to get a closer look.  The sky was just beginning to darken.  Nearby, not more than two hundred yards from where the coach had crashed into the gravel and dirt, smoke curled up into the sky from a campfire.  The small glow of the fire's light illuminate the sky, and cast long shadows over the cacti and rocks of the darkening trail.