<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_3.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Christian Specter<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3rd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Casino Morongo<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Deacon Sloane, Open<br/><hr/><br/><em>Rumor’s gotta be true, Man In Black’s gotta be here.</em>Christian thought to himself, his heart beginning to race and a bit of a sweat breaking out on him from the exhilaration and fear that clutched at him. He had never been this close to his quarry, and there was no chance in hell he was going to let him get away.<em>Who else would’ve murdered the poor Sheriff? Don’t make no sense. Sheriff obviously had dealin’s with the man who killed’m, or it woulda been more of a contest. That’s how the bastard works though, worms him way in before blowin’ everything to hell like a god-damn ghostrock boiler.</em><br/><br/>“Christian Specter,” called a voice from down the bar, and Christian slowly turned his head towards the source, giving Sloane a sideways glance. Christian had become used to this, and it more often than not turned deadly a few minutes later. A lot of men were insane enough to think drawing iron on a man widely considered one of the fastest draws still breathing was a good idea. All of those men were six-feet under.<br/><br/>Through that stern glare he was able to take in the man’s countenance. He was proud, perhaps a bit arrogant, but not crazy. This one wanted something from Christian, that much was obvious, but he did not want Spooky to test his draw speed. No, what this man wanted was likely to be far more subtle and leagues more dangerous.<br/><br/>“What brings you to Gomorra, ass end of the world, and to the Morongo, finest casino in the west?” the man continued, and then Christian knew who he was speaking to. The man beside him had to be the proprietor of this establishment. Tales of the Morongo had hit Christian before he reached town, known for its fine gaming and fair rules, well as fair as it got in a Casino, where the House held every advantage. This man was the House.<br/><br/>Christian turned on his stool, one hand dropping to his side languidly, just brushing past his holster. He was not drawing the gun, but the act was normally enough to frighten most men and women away from bothering him. When the man before him did not move, which he likely would not, Christian would tip his hat with his other hand then gestured towards the town square, “Huntin’ a Sheriff-killer, I suppose. Regardless of yer muckrakers claimin’ it to be Black Jack, it sure as hell aint. The man I’m trackin’ down, he has a gaunt face, wears all black, never gives his name, or gives one you can trust as far as you can throw a steer. You seen’m?”