"So you're the one looking to buy up all of Silver City?" Ned asked, arms folded across his chest, hat tipped back as he looked up at the tall man on the other side of his desk. The man seemed to loom over him like a giant, his features hidden in the shadowy silhouette cast by the fading sun's rays coming through the dirty window glass behind him. Just outside the door, Ned caught a glimpse of another figure, and indian he thought, but he couldn't tell for sure.<br/><br/>"That's right."<br/><br/>"And what about them what don't want to be bought up?" Ned asked, not moving from his seated position. He tried looking into the man's eyes, but the gloom was making it hard to focus. He hadn't yet gotten around to firing up one of the old brass oil lamps that he used to keep the town's jail open after dusk, and while the night had yet to carry a chill, he could have sworn he felt the coldest breeze coming off the man before him. The stranger stood quietly for a moment, not speaking, seemingly staring at him although Ned couldn't see in order to know for sure.<br/><br/>"There's a lot going on in this town, Sheriff,"the man said. "A lot of it I know about. A lot of it involving you. I have a good idea that you're smart enough to know what I'm talking about. So let's make a deal. You stay out of my way, and I won't give you a reason to get involved. Keep doing what you're doing, and together, we can make a lot of money."<br/><br/>"And if I refuse?" Ned asked, acting shocked, lifting one hand to remove his hat, then running the other through his thinning, silvery-brown hair. "What then?"<br/><br/>"Then you'll get a new nickname..." the man replied, leaning over the Sheriff's desk, his dark features coming more clearly into view the closer he got to Ned's face. There was a darkness in his eye, darker than the night itself, and Ned could have sworn he felt his heart stop, if only for just a second, when he locked eyes with the man. Despite himself, despite his years of rustling up rowdy cowboys, card cheats, horse thieves, and drunks who didn't want to pay their bar tab; despite all of that, Ned began to sweat nervously, his creased brow glistening in the scant light of the setting sun. His brows lifted questioningly as the man spoke once more, and Ned felt his heart sink into his stomach.<br/><br/>"Ned the Red."<br/><br/>________________________________________________________<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://i132.photobucket.com/albums/q15/doogieporker/94uqfb7x0ihp3724e256.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Character: Desmond King<br/><br/>Location: Lola's Saloon - Entrance<br/><br/>Time of day: Sunset<br/><br/>Tagging: Lola, Tom, Ashley, and White Bear (Robert)<br/></strong><br/><br/><br/>By the time he reached the saloon, the sun had set, leaving the town in the first quiet moments of darkness. From outside the place, he could hear the raucous piano music, the din of chatter and the lilting melody of women laughing. Without warning, one voice in particular rose above the ruckus, singing<em>Clementine</em>with gleeful abandon, much to the amusement of the crowd within. Desmond glanced sideways to his companion, a rather stoic indian that had proven himself exceptionally loyal, before pushing his way into the saloon.<br/><br/>The establishment's swinging doors creaked on rusty hinges as the pair entered, and Desmond looked around the room. The place was full of farm hands, coal miners, cowboys and bankers. The usual gamblers were there too, he noted, and the real gems of the place,<em>Lola's Ladies</em>he'd heard them called, were in attendance as well. They worked the hopeful, lonely men like sodbusters working a plot of land, hoping for a fertile harvest by night's end. Desmond nodded to his companion, who moved across the bar room, drawing surprised looks from the patrons, many of which were used to fighting the natives on a regular basis. None rose to challenge the man, though, and those that did learned the harsh reality of dealing with an indian bold enough to live in a white man's world; he could take care of himself.<br/><br/>Standing nearly a head taller than every man in the room, Desmond cut a striking figure in his dark coat, brown buttoned shirt, dark pants and boots, and a black, wide-brimmed fedora. His hair was dark, streaked with silver, and he wore a thick beard cut to his jaw line. His hair touched his collar, and curled behind his ears so as to keep his vision clear. His eyes were a dark brown, almost like oil, and he looked like a man that had weathered many years in the saddle and in the bush. Around his waist was a thick leather gun belt, lined with individual bullets, and a pair of Colt 45 caliber pistols.<br/><br/>The tall, dark figure moved to the bar, finding an empty spot to lean against, and nodded to the bartender who eyed him with more than a little suspicion.<br/><br/>"Whiskey," Desmond said. "Cut it with a drop of sarsaparilla."<br/><br/>"Sure thing," the bartender said. "Soon as you give up them six-guns." The man pointed to a sign on the wall behind the bar that read<em>'No Guns or No Drinks'</em>, and Desmond nodded, reaching down to unbuckle his heavy weapons. He laid the gun belt on the counter, where the bartender scooped them up and placed them below the bar. A moment later, he handed Desmond his drink, who gulped it down in one swallow, the sweetness of the sarsaparilla helping to cut the bitterness of the whiskey.<br/><br/>"Another." Desmond said, laying a silver coin on the counter.<br/><br/>As the bartender moved to refill his glass, Desmond took one of the many complimentary cigars from the bar and stuck it between his lips. Striking a wooden match, he raised his other hand to cup the flame as he touched it to the tip. Puffing on the stogie, it soon glowed hot, and the scent of fine Tennessee tobacco wafted into the air. He puffed on it a few times, never inhaling, but savoring the flavor on his tongue, which paired well with the whiskey. He glanced about the room, his gaze lingering on the curvaceous golden haired strumpet and her ample bosom, before sliding over Tom. Desmond smirked. The man looked like all the rest, he thought, hoping that the money he spent would be enough to buy the heart of one of the saloon's whores. It was pathetic.<br/><br/>Finally, his dark eyes settled on Lola, and he watched her quietly as he drank his second glass more slowly. She certainly knew how to carry herself, drifting among the drunken cowboys like a bird among tree branches. If he didn't know better, he could have swore that she was intimately involved with every single man she stopped to talk to, such was the way she caressed and stroked their ego. He smirked again, admiring her ability to inflate a man's sense of self worth, only to leave him heartbroken by the night's end, and somehow wanting more. It was impressive, although he had much more effective ways of getting what he wanted.<br/><br/>When she drew near, he stepped away from the bar, putting himself in her path to block her from moving past him. When he had her attention, he took another drink from his glass, and narrowed his eyes, studying her own in the process. He puffed on his cigar, then nodded.<br/><br/>"You must be Lola," he said, his voice quiet, almost soft. "And this is your place. What a fine place it is. You seem to have a flock of regulars, buying drinks, trying to buy the hearts of your girls, and throwing away their money on cards every single night. I bet you make quite the profit. But I have to wonder...what kind of money would it take to get into your bed, Miss Lola? Hm? How much would one night cost me?"