<div class="floatright">(http://i132.photobucket.com/albums/q15/doogieporker/HellOnWheels_300111107124928.jpg)</div>Desmond King pushed his way into the saloon, his dark eyes scanning the raucous crowd within.  The place was rather full this evening, and the saloon's proprietor, Lola, was making her normal evening rounds, according to the reports of the eyes he'd hired within the town.  He'd been increasing his influence in town for months now, hiring informants and spies to tell him everything he needed to know about who ran things, who was well liked, and who had enemies.<br/><br/>It was only a week prior that he'd subtly purchased the property that Lola's sat atop, becoming the sole owner of the ground quite literally beneath his feet.  Certainly, it was an unscrupulous move, but it was the first step in taking over this growing little town, and making it his own.  He had enough money to do so, as well, and all that stood in his way was the opposition he would no doubt face from the few folks in town who fancied themselves independent souls.<br/><br/>But they would all come to see the light.  If they didn't, they would end up like the Apache bandits that had assaulted him earlier.  He'd left them all with holes in their heads, just a few miles outside of town, their bodies now food for the desert critters that roamed the land.<br/><br/>He was tall, just over six feet in height, and broad of shoulder.  His dark hair had only a few streams of silver in it, and the stubble that lined his jaw was only just growing silver.  A thick mustache and goatee rounded out his chin, and his hair was worn long at the back, just touching his collar.  He wore a dark shirt beneath a long, dark duster.  His trousers were a faded grey, dusty from the road, and his leather boots were thick soled and adorned with a pair of sharp spurs at each heel.  At his waist he wore two six-guns, with mother-of-pearl handles and well-oiled rotating chambers.  His stance was that of a practiced gunman, and the rotation of his hips spoke of a man that had spent a good amount of his life in the saddle.<br/><br/>Moving to the bar, he leaned against it, folding his arms on the countertop.  His gaze moved to Lola, and he watched her, waiting for her to come his way that he might make his presence, and his intentions, known.