<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>Open<br/><hr/><br/>When on the trail, there are three things a man longs for: company, a place to sleep, and a good horse. As of late, Christian had found it hard to find any of those with any frequency. While he was skilled with horses, cattle, and the like, his obsession with the hunt had run many a mare ragged, and he was kind-hearted enough to not put another animal through that. Instead, he walked or rode shotgun with passing carriages. Every town he visited up and down the Maze and The Great Southwest always seemed to have someone headed his way, so he was blessed to find someone to tag along with on most cases. The problem is, those people only let him come along fearing he might gun them down if they refused. A renowned gunslinger is not someone you say no to, whether or not they are like ol' Spooky and only kill those that ask for it by grabbing at iron. Arriving in Gomorra, Christian had suddenly found himself with an abundance of the first two.<br/><br/>The morning came all too quickly for Christian. He had found a soft bed in Agatha's home, and Agatha herself made for great company. They had spent time together years ago, he having pulled her iron out of the fire and she knew him well enough to at least get him to sit a spell and talk. He enjoyed conversation with Agatha, though they usually delved into the physics and mechanics of whatever device she was working on at the time. He would just nod, and listen, though in truth he really did not understand most of what she said. What was important to him, was that she did not fear him, not the way most people did when they found out who he was. Tales were told of Christian ‘Spooky’ Specter around saloon tables after drinking had been done. He was a killer, a dour old cuss that would sooner shoot you than speak to you. Rumors blazed that he had killed two dozen men, no two-hundred, no it had to be at least a thousand in duels on main streets across the Maze, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas they would say. To meet Spooky on the street was as good as putting the barrel in your mouth and pulling the trigger yourself.<br/><br/>The two had parted that morning, her explanation being a Lady's Tea she attended to which Christian had only arched a skeptical eyebrow given his knowledge of their history together. He had tipped his hat all the same and sauntered into the streets of Gomorra to begin his hunt in earnest. The Man In Black was here, had to be, as all the rumors and interrogations had brought him here. Christian just had to find out where the bastard was hiding, and he could finally serve up a nice, hot plate of justice, with a cold side of revenge.<br/><br/>He was wearing clean clothes for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Truth was, it was the first time in almost a year since he had had so much as a bath. He had been hot on the heels of The Man In Black for the longest time, that nothing else had mattered. Not bathing, hardly changing clothes, eating was only a priority so long as it kept him on the trail hunting. Agatha, however, had insisted. His clothes were fresh, smelling lightly of soap, his face was shaven save for the mustache and goatee he wore. His infamous leather duster hung about him, despite the heat, his Stetson worn low shadowing his face. Even his boots were polished and clean. He wore the rifle sling across his back, the notorious ‘Doc’ Winchester ’76 hanging comfortably about him. The most notable thing about him, however, was the engraved Peacemaker at his right. When ‘Reaper’ was drawn, it was said to be as efficient as the Grim one himself with ferrying souls to the afterlife.<br/><br/>During his prowl of the city streets, it quickly became clear just how close he had gotten to his seemingly ineffable foe. The newsboy hawking the latest headline was enough to stop Christian mid stride. He grabbed a paper and scanned through the story about the Sheriff’s death. So few details to provide any real depth to what had happened, but Christian knew the reality all the same. The Man In Black was definitely in Gomorra, and he was the one who had killed the Sheriff. From what Christian knew of Black Jack’s gang, they were not cold-blooded killers. While Christian was not afraid to face any of them in a gunfight, it was not something he was itching to do. They wouldn’t just murder the Sheriff at his desk like that, though, that was something<em>He</em>would do.<br/><br/>While the information was invaluable, at this point in time, it made little difference. The hunt was still on, and the easiest way to get information Christian had learned, was to talk with those too drunk to hide it. He pushed open the bat-wing doors of the Casino Morongo, a place he had heard all manner of information could be found. He sauntered up to the bar and tapped the counter, ordering a beer. Once delivered, he turned on his stool and looked over those sitting in the Casino at this time of the morning. It was likely desolate, but it was of little consequence. Those still there would be the ones that Christian wanted to talk to anyway. Hopefully, the owner would be available. He or she would be the most likely to know what Christian wanted to know: where the hell was the Man In Black.