<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/58/Bowler.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Quinton Brassington III<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Muckraker<br/><strong>Date:</strong>June 14th, 1875<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Deer Creek, Arizona<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed<br/><hr/><br/>Quinton knocked the road dusk from his blower hat and dabbed at his sweat covered forehead with his embroidered handkerchief before nestling into his pocket and settling the hat onto his well quaffed head at what he was sure was a dapper and jaunty angle.  Deer Creek was such an odd little town for the infamous gunslinger Christian “Spooky” Specter to have settled in for a time.  He must have been laying low or hiding out from the law.  The imaginative wordsmith thought, a story already forming in his mind.  Quinton Brassington III, had first heard of the notorious gunman in Amarillo and knew at once he had found the muse he needed for his stories.  What better protagonist that an honest to God gunslinger.  He had been dogging the man’s trail for months now gathering tales from strangers about the man called “Spooky.”   That trail inexplicably led him to the little town of Deer Creek and even more inexplicably to the Deer Creek Saloon, the only eatery and watering hole in the dusty, dreary little place.<br/><br/>The saloon door swung open with a creek and he stepped into the cool dark interior letting his eyes adjust to the change from brilliant to less so.  The Saloon was just as dusty and dreary as the rest of the town.  It was early and there were only two men inside.  The barkeep, a grizzly bearded, gentleman in an old suit stood cleaning a glass behind the bar while the other figure sat hunched over his drink at the far end of the bar lost in his cup.<br/><br/>“What can I do for you stranger?”  The barkeeps voice sounded like he had been chewing gravel.  Quinton plastered on his pearly white smile and tipped his hat.<br/><br/>“I’m looking for information on a man that was rumored to have lived here for a time.  A Mr. Specter.  Christian Specter.”  The barkeep stopped cleaning the glass and set it down on the bar.<br/><br/>“Not the kind of man someone comes looking for.” The barkeep answered, but offered little else.<br/><br/>“I am a writer good sir, Quinton Brassington, III.  I am merely interested in the tales of the man’s exploits.”<br/><br/>The bartender snorted.  It was an insulting sound.<br/><br/>“He’s a lost soul.  Seduced by the Devil.”  The hunched figure spoke from the end of the bar, his once strong and sure voice now slurred by the empty glass before him.  Quinton glanced at the barkeep who only shrugged.<br/><br/>Quinton motioned to the barkeep for a glass.  It was much too early for a man to be drinking, but it would have been rude to use the man’s establishment without some form of payment.  He then took a seat next to the man at the end of the bar.  The hunched man was much bigger than his posture suggested.  He had the look of a man used to hard work.  His hands were knotted and veiny and his was broad of back and shoulder.  His salt and pepper hair had turned more salt than pepper and was disheveled and unkempt.  He looked to have weeks of wild beard grown covering his jaw and lips.<br/><br/>“You knew Mr. Specter?”  Quinton asked, pulling out a notebook from his jacket pocket as well as a pen.<br/><br/>“Aye, I knew him.” The drunkard said.  “He helped this town once, before the Devil got him.  Have you ever met the Devil Mr. Bassington?” the man’s voice lost a bit of its slur and was tinged with anger and sorrow.  Quinton glanced up from his notebook to shake his head.  The drunkard’s eyes bore into his own.  Those eyes would keep the author awake at night, they were the most t terrible and wretched things Quinton had ever seen, both burning and haunted and looked deep into his soul.  He gulped once and shook his head.<br/><br/>“Well I have Mr. Bassington.  Six months ago the Devil came to Deer Creek, the Harlot, the copper-haired devil Agatha Dunwich.  She appeared in my congregation on a bright Sunday morning.  She sat quietly in the back of the church and listened like the rest of my paritioners.  My daughter and I greeted her after mass like we always did for someone new to the Church.  She seemed like a polite and proper young woman, but that is the way of the devil.  He comes in many guises not all of them terrifying to the eye.  She smiled politely and made small talk.  I should have notice how she smiled brighter at Eliza, how much more attentive she was to her, but I thought it would be nice for Eliza to have such a pleasant young woman to confide in.  I was wrong.<br/>It seemed innocent enough.  They met for morning tea or brunch after church.  Eliza seemed happy.  Why did I not see the Devil at work?  Why did he taint my wonderful daughter?  I found them one day when I went to pick up my daughter early from that devil woman’s den.  I cannot describe the vile things that woman was doing to poor Eliza, but if that wasn’t horror enough.  She had poisoned Eliza against me.  Even as I sent her away with tears in my eyes, she pleaded with me not to make her go.  She wanted to live in sin with that she-devil.  I could not do that to my daughter.  I had to save her soul even as it tore out my own.”<br/><br/>Quentin was both disturbed and confused.  “But what of Mr. Specter?”  He asked seeing the madness growing in the old preacher’s eyes.  “I don’t understand.”<br/><br/>“The whore cast some sort of deviltry upon the man.  When we came to burn her out of her home and see her purified by holy flame for her witchcraft, he was there.  He gunned down two of the righteous as we brought down the Lord’s wraith on the whore of Babylon’s home and two more as they rode out of town.  My men swear the steed they rode had hooves flame and breathed fire that matched the she-devil’s hair.  That hair was the mark of Satan I tell you.  I should have seen the signs.  My poor Eliza.”    The flames of righteous fury and suffering burned themselves out in his eyes, but the madness remained.  The old preacher motioned for another drink and Quinton left his untouched on the bar.<br/><br/>“Did you get what you were looking for Mr. Bassington?”  The barkeep asked as Quinton walked towards the door.<br/><br/>“No, not really, but I think I have something I can use.  Do you have any knowledge of Mr. Specter or Ms. Dunwich’s whereabouts?” She asked.<br/><br/>“West last I heard.” Was the only reply he got.<br/><br/>“Thank you.”  Quinton tipped his hat once more and left.  If he hurried he could make it back to Tombstone by nightfall.  He returned to where the coachman was just hitching up the horses and settled himself in the cab to look over his latest notes.   The dapper young author was already mulling over a title for his new work...