<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>John Templeton<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (Deputy)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Late Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Polecat Saloon<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed, Ginny<br/><hr/><br/>The miners watching Ginny's posturing were doing their best to nurse drinks and avoid eye-contact – a pepperbox was dangerous enough at close range, but even across a bar it was a good guarantee of a ruined buzz and a trip to the doctor.  Money that most would rather spend on their drinks.  But a few eyes widened in warning, casting over Ginny's shoulder to the door of the Polecat.  A shadow crossed its path, the doors swinging inward while the soggy Whateley still blustered.<br/><br/>“You'll 'keel her,' 'uh?'  The voice that posed the question had a dry, mocking tone, and then there was the slap of a smokewagon clearing its skin, steel on leather.  Then the man who offered ridicule lunged, moving as Ginny turned, the hard butt of the pistol cracking at the base of her scalp.  He watched in detached amusement as the drunken Whateley toppled to the dirty floor of the saloon, spinning the sixgun in hand and sliding it back into the holster at his side.<br/><br/>“Now, call me old-fashioned, but I don't care a continental if you're a Whateley, or President Abraham goddam Lincoln rose up outta his grave.  You threat'n murder in my town, you're goin' to the drunk for the night.”<br/><br/>He raised his head, looking out from under the brim of his hat at the assembled miners, who had the looks of men over-entertained for the evening.  He met their gaze, waiting for one to brooch argument with him, his hand lightly on the six gun at his side, the 'deputy' badge a-glitter on his chest.  No one spoke, and the bartender scrubbed an invisible spot on the wooden bar.<br/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a4/Flatbush.png)</div>Behind him, Flatbush scowled, crossing his arms.  “Don't care if she's meaner'n than Bilton when she's soaked, you can't throw a woman in the drunk.  Those rips'll think you brought 'em free cunny.”<br/><br/>Townsend barked a laugh.  “You think we oughta charge 'em?”  He stooped to collect Ginny Whateley, tossing her up and over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.<br/><br/>“I'm serious as sin, John, you can't throw her in the drunk.  They won't give a damn if she's passed out, awake, or losing her whiskey.  We'll be stringing folk up for rape all week.  And if we don't we'll be putting down vigilance committees intent on the same.”<br/><br/>Townsend rolled his eyes, looking around the saloon.  “You been hanging out with Hunter too much.  I'll put her in the basement and lock her up good.”  He gave Flatbush a reassuring smile, then set out of the saloon.  Flatbush sighed and shook his head.<br/><br/><div align="center">*  *  *</div><br/><hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>John Templeton<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (Deputy)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Late Evening, One hour later<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed, Ginny<br/><hr/><em>An hour later</em><br/><br/>The blow to Ginny's head was near instant nausea when she awoke.  Her captor seemed to expect it, though, and as her eyes began to open, a bucket was kicked across the hard wooden floor of the Sheriff's Office basement.  It slid near her, and a figure lingered lazily on one of several wooden crates stored the basement of the office.  She'd been manacled to a wooden support beam, her arms locked in place behind her at the base of the beam.  The manacles were cold, and tight, cruelly cutting into her wrists.  The air stank of cheap cigarillos.<br/><br/>Townsend rose from his place on the boxes, and over his arm was folded the breeches, blouse and vest she'd worn into the Polecat.  He'd left her wearing naught but her boots and her underthings, and he tossed the finely made clothes back onto the wooden box he'd abandoned.<br/><br/>“Whateleys,” he sneered.  “High and mighty, with yer fancy house and your fancy clothes.  Lordin' over the rest of us.”  His words were dark with menace.  “Honeypot, it's high time someone taught you stuck up little cunts some humility.”<br/>