<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane_zps29c9cdf3.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Deacon Sloane<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Casino Morongo<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Christian, Open<br/><hr/><br/>It took only a few minutes to cross the square amid the mumbling questions surrounding the mayor’s announcement.  For the average Gomorran, the shift between sheriffs would have little effect on their day to day activities; but Sloane knew the full implications of the shift. It was something to consider and discuss with his people – once he’d gotten some shut eye. Reaching the Morongo, his boots scraped along the wooden planking as he walked up the stairs and across the walkway, heavy steps taking him through the casino’s doors and into the main room.<br/><br/>At this hour, the crowd was thin.  The morning crew was currently taking care of the lodgers who came down for breakfast, as well as the hangers on from the previous evening who just couldn’t walk away from the tables, though only a handful of them were open at this time of day.  Some people were determined to lose their money at any hour of the day, and Sloane was more than happy to take it.<br/><br/>Sloane stood for a moment and admired the efficiency of his staff, which functioned like a well-oiled machine.  The smell of cooking bacon and eggs filled the air, along with the scent of strong coffee as the day began, and he decided that one more shot of whiskey was just the thing to make sure he slept for a few hours.  Crossing to the bar, he bent down to retrieve one of the bottles of the good stuff and began to pour himself a shot.<br/><br/>“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sloane said, as he spotted the man sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a beer.  Though he’d never met the notorious gunslinger perched on one of his barstools, he’d certainly read enough about his exploits, full of finely executed drawings of the man’s chiseled countenance to recognized him with a fair amount of certainty.  Whatever had brought him to Gomorra, it couldn’t be good; but it was certain to be profitable.<br/><br/>“Christian Specter,” Sloane said in a voice loud enough to carry the few feet to where the man was sitting, as he set the bottle down on the bar.  “What brings you to Gomorra, ass end of the world, and to the Morongo, finest casino in the west?”<br/>