<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6anzg7ITX1qdjxsro1_500.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Graham Neiler.<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown.<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4th, 1876.<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning.<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Casino Morongo<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open.<br/><hr/><br/><br/>Striding through the swinging doors of the Casino, Graham let his eyes adjust to the relative gloom within, squinting just a bit as he swept the area with his gaze. He'd gotten into town late last night, and his body was definitely feeling the mileage. First the train to Tombstone, then another to the railhead at Railhead, California. He'd gotten an old nag there which got him to Lost Angels, where he'd only managed to stay for a few days before he got the general intimation that he was none too welcome and ought to head on North. Riding guard on a caravan landed him at Lion's Roar, and he'd taken a train from there to Shan Fan, where he'd first heard of Gomorrah and the work to be had up thattaway. It had taken him quite a while, but he'd finally made it, worn out, nearly broke, and just about ready to put someone through a wall if they suggested he move on.<br/><br/>Folks weren't any too helpful to him at the Flophouse, but a couple of the older miner-types had let it slip that the Casino Morongo was a good place to meet new people. If he got lucky, someone here might be in need of a hired hand, or a hired gun. With that in mind, he went in with all his accoutrements about his person, scattergun hanging from his shoulder, big iron six-shooter at his hip opposite the long, curved saber on his left. He'd learned a while back that there were certain ways of wearing your gear to make it plain that however ready you might be for trouble, you certainly weren't looking for any; the best way was to hide it all under the folds of your one-size-too-big canvas duster. Even with that in mind, he'd only taken the shotgun due to the fact that his room at the Flophouse wasn't a solo bunking operation, and the door didn't even have a hook-and-ring lock to keep filchers at bay. He'd just have to deal with anyone who felt antagonized by the artillery, and hope its very presence kept things from getting too hot under the collar.<br/><br/>His eyes adjusted, Graham headed for the bar, sweeping his broad-brimmed hat off his head and dropping it down on the polished surface and following it up with a silver Dollar coin for the barman; he'd spent the last of his CSA scrip in Railhead, since he knew the further north he went, the less it'd be worth. "Cold brew to wash out the road dust,<em>amigo</em>?" He gave the guy his widest, friendliest grin, even though he knew it never reached his eyes the way it ought to if he wanted to put someone at their ease. Reflecting that he probably did still have some Shan Fan dirt stuck in his craw, Graham brushed at his sleeve absently, glad to see that nothing rose from his touch; he'd given the linens a good beating before lying down, and hung his clothes up for the same treatment. Probably ought to poke around and see if they had a laundry in town, just the same.