<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/de/Nash_bilton.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Sheriff Nash Bilton<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (5) Sheriff<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Sheriff's Office/Gomorra Jail<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open<br/><hr/>"CHRIST ALMIGHTY, TOWNSEND, SHUT HER ASS UP!"<br/><br/>He shook his head and sucked air through his teeth.  Jesus.  Townsend was far and away the toughtest guy he had on his team, but he turned white like a sheet whenever he had to deal with the girl.  He didn't get it.  He'd seen Townsend stand up to miners, to Blackjack's thugs, hell - he'd taken potshots at Blackjack himself.  One little red-haired cunt and it was like he forgot his balls in his purse.  Bilton scratched at his jaw, a shotgun rested on his knee and pointed at the door under the Sheriff's desk.  He was not going to go out like J.P. Coleman - gunned down while he was cleaning and oiling a gun.<br/><br/>But not just any gun.  No, no - this thing was a thing of goddam beauty.  He held up the multi-barreled gatling pistol, running his lips over it.  He'd crossed paths with a man in San Jose, and taken it from him.  They'd had a disagreement, and Nash's argument had been the more persuasive.  Or at least the faster.  But damn, he'd liked watching that gun work, barrels spinning, shooting off like a virgin between the thighs of one of Mi Greene's girls.  Bilton clicked the barrel from the revolver handle, sighting down the empty barrels for obstructions.<br/><br/>It'd be too slow for a quick draw - but he had a gun for that.  No  - no this baby was to give Black Jack a piece of his mind, the next time they crossed paths.  He was getting hard just thinking about it.  "<em>pewpewpew</em>" he muttered, giving the barrel one more spin before starting to feed rounds into it.  He locked the heavy barrel back into place with a satisfied click, closing one eye and squinting down the sights.  He kept the business end away from the saloon across the streets, aiming it at the wall.<br/><br/>He glanced up as Townsend came around the corner.  "Hey - where's Charlie?"<br/><br/>Townsend frowned, and sank into his seat.  "Took the day off.  Helping that new girl settle in.  Whatsername.  Jones' brat?   Little slip of a thing?"  His lips curled in a slow smile.  "Like to make her scream for Jesus."  He chuckled and eyed the bulky pistol.  "Those gonna be standard issue?"<br/><br/>Bilton gave a snort.  "Sure.  Soon as you hand me three thousand dollars."  Townsend gave a low whistle.<br/><br/>"You paid three thousand dollars for that?"<br/><br/>Bilton chuckled.  "Nope.  But a fella with a slow draw did."  He spun the barrel once more, admiring the easy way that it spun, and clanked it down on the desk.  He glanced down at it, then back to the cell, where the melody of the mad girl's song was drifting.  "What's the deal with you and Whateleys, anyway?"<br/><br/>Townsend's face went stoic, and he looked away, growing a shade paler.  "Just don't like 'em.  Big goddam creepy house.  Runnin' round like they're better'n everyone."<br/><br/>Bilton's eyebrow.  "You're a mean cuss, Townsend.  But I never saw a woman make you go white.  Tween Ginny and that little gash, I'd think you were afraid of the little ladies."<br/><br/>Townsend scowled, and drew his duster a little tighter.  "I ain't afraid o' nuthin."