<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 12th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Sheriff's Office/Gomorra Jail<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Walter, Townsend, Open<br/><hr/>The front of the office was uncharacteristically empty - or mostly empty, save for Townsend taking what seemed like a siesta at the front desk.  He blinked and started awake at the sound of boards creaking outside the front door, and he looked up to regard the battered Englishman with his hat in his hands.<br/><br/>“He’s - “<br/><br/>He grimaced as a sound lit off from the basement below.<br/><br/><strong>POWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOW</strong><br/><br/>It was a rapid medley of gunfire, and Townsend ran a hand across his nose, looking tired and irritable at the nose from below.<br/><br/>“All damn<em>day</em>with that thing,” he groused.  “SHERIFF!  SOMEONE TO SEE YOU!”  He stomped on the floorboards, and the voice of the Gomorra Sheriff wafted up between the slits of the floorboards.<br/><br/>“WHAT?!”<br/><br/>“I SAID<strong>SOMEONE TO SEE YOU!</strong>”<br/><br/>“SEND HIM DOWN!”<br/><br/>Townsend sighed, and kicked his feet back up onto his desk.  “Stairwell’s in the back,” he said, thumbing behind him.  “Past the drunk tank.”<br/><br/><strong>POWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOW</strong><br/><br/>Townsend groaned as the sound came again, and dug a pinkie into his dirty ear.  “Christalmighty,” he groused.  “Ain’t gonna be able to hear shit for a week.”<br/><br/>The basement below was half-stuffed with boxes - only a handful of crates were actually opened, others sealed off and most of them stacked neatly against the walls.  There were pistols, carbines, shotguns, a pair of heavy buffalo rifles slung over one long crate.  There wasn’t just boxes of ammunitions - there was a reloading press over in one corner of the room, with boxes of empty brass nearby.  The only thing missing to make it into a certifiable death trap was barrels of gunpowder - although a steel trapdoor along one side suggested that gunpowder might not be far off, should it come to it.  There was everything a man could need to wage a small war.<br/><br/>In the middle of a cloud of gunsmoke, Nash Bilton was just rattling bullets out of the cylinders of a gatling pistol, picking up a fresh speedload chambered with twelve more rounds, and fitting it into the cylinder.  Downrange in the basement, a fullsized hand-drawn poster of what looked like Uncle Sam and his Confederate adopted counterpart, Grandfather Davis were tacked side-by-side on the wall.  Both were looking bullet-ridden and ragged, and Nash Bilton had a smile on his face worthy of a boy at a Whateley Christmas.<br/><br/>“Afternoon!”  He clicked the cylinder back into place.  “Walter, ain’t it?”