<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/1/1f/Thetwitch.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Twitch<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, Graham, Max Baine<br/><hr/>In a far corner of the Casino, a gambler’s eyes lifted at the commotion, as miners began to file out and cast their dour gazes at Findley’s right-hand man.  Max Baine was a well known face, a well hated one – it was Max Baine who’d purchased so much of Gomorra’s mines on behalf of Sweetrock, and he might as well have been the Herald of Hell for his role in Sweetrock’s acquisition.  While Baine returned their gazes, the gambler’s eyes studied him, a dangerous light glinting in them.<br/><br/>He slid his hand down to the gun at his side, running his fingers over the battered six gun and along the leather holster, taking comfort in a familiar friend.  Graham might have seen the gambler’s particular brand of madness on a battlefield before; that gleam held some hint, some sure sign that<em>things weren’t right</em>inside his brainpan.<br/><br/>He squeezed the thigh of the soiled dove on his lap, pushing her up and off.  There was a wide, almost feral smile on his face, and then he rose and spun a long coat over his shoulders, pulling the long blonde hair out from under the collar.<br/><br/>“The farmer takes a wife,” he sang, softly.  “The farmer takes a wife.”  He tossed back the remainder of his whiskey, finishing it in one long slurp and cracking it down on the table.  “Heigh-ho, the derry-o, the farmer take a wife.”  The words of the song were long, drawn out, making the children’s song a thing of melancholy rather than a children’s song.<br/><hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/27/Maxbaine.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Max Baine<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Sweetrock (Vice President)<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, Graham, Twitch<br/><hr/>Max Baine watched the bulk of the patrons leaving the casino, his smile painted on.  Expected, perhaps, or simply too proud to beg them back.  Or perhaps that had been the intention all along – to close down one of the places where women, liquor, food and entertainment were all of high quality and reasonably priced; or perhaps there were enough Sweetrock miners who wouldn’t be bothered by the change of ownership that this was to be a brief and uncomfortable transition.<br/><br/>But the tall gambler – or perhaps a gunslinger, from the way he wore that pistol on his hip – he caught Max Baine’s eye in a wholy different way.  He strode like a Viking of old, broad shouldered and certain the world was ripe for conquest.  The soiled dove who’d been sitting on his lap looked positively terrified, and the blond gunman leaned towards Max.<br/><br/>“The wife takes a child.  The wiiiiife takes a child – “  He leaned around Max, collecting a scattergun which had been propped at the weapon’s check near the door.  He leaned it back on his shoulder, the double barrels pointing skyward, and straightened.  He loomed inches over Max.  “Heigh-ho, the derrrry-o, the wife takes a child.”<br/><br/>Then he turned, slipping out the swinging doors, still singing as he walked.  From the street, strains of the song could still be heard.<br/><br/>“The child takes the cow…”<br/><br/>Max Baine looked around the Casino, now near empty, save Graham, card dealers, the bartender, and a trio of soiled doves.   A half dozen patrons remained.  Baine frowned, clearly more nonplussed by the blond gunslinger than he had been any of the surly, spitting miners.<br/>