- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
All Daring no Cunning sounds about right.
Jine the Cavalry
- Thread starter natruska
- Start date
- Original
-
- Tags
- gaya (gay earth)
- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[x] Arrest the Reardons here and now. Two on three is perfectly fair odds with cover and surprise.
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/They
[X] Send Kuznetsov for back-up. Both Kuz. and Clemson will have to pass Cunning rolls to avoid detection.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Sorry, I didn't know what to do with this and for a while was kind of running away from the entire Gayaverse screaming, so I sort of stepped back from this.
[X] Send Kuznetsov for back-up. Both Kuz. and Clemson will have to pass Cunning rolls to avoid detection.
Brains is Clemson's strong suit. Brawn is, right now, not. Let's do the opposite of turning into dumbass Manassas Rangers.
[X] Send Kuznetsov for back-up. Both Kuz. and Clemson will have to pass Cunning rolls to avoid detection.
Brains is Clemson's strong suit. Brawn is, right now, not. Let's do the opposite of turning into dumbass Manassas Rangers.
Last edited:
1-9: The Cavalry Arrives
- Location
- Derna
It doesn't seem right to start a shoot-out here considering the hospitality these people've shown you. And if Garvey goes out there, you deeply doubt it'd end in anything but violence. You give Kuznetsov the nod and he heads out.
Y'know, if he'd told you his horse was out in the barn with the three 'bandits,' you might've reconsidered.
The ranger seems shocked that you'd trust someone you've known for years over a complete stranger who just climbed through your window. As soon as the door closes, the whining starts. "You really think he can bluff hardened killers? Man barely speaks the language, girl." You don't want her yammering on for the rest of the night, so you shoot back as you limp over to the open window.
"He's smarter than you look, ma'am." Garvey stares at you, clearly unimpressed, and you awkwardly turn towards the window to avoid her gaze. It sounded better in your head, okay? One of those quips that goes down in the history books. She starts to respond, slower now (like you're a child!) but you shush her and put your head out the window. Cold tonight, and it's hard to lean out a window with a bad ankle, but you can just barely hear voices around the corner. Kuznetsov and one of the men, you think. It's silent for a moment, then there's laughter and the voices start moving towards the barn.
Artjem Kuznetsov, Cunning 12, Roll 7, Success.
Garvey's standing at your shoulder, trying to look uninterested while she hangs on every sound that carries through the window. It's been quiet for the last few minutes though. They're in the barn now, so you can't hear a thing. Every moment without hoof-beats makes the ranger a little more relaxed, not to mention smug. Clearly they've seen through your ruse and she'll need to heroically save Kuznetsov when the shooting starts.
Then the barn door squuueaks open and you hear Kuznetsov riding away. You try not to smile when the ranger deflates, but predictably fail. He's only at a walk now, still chatting with the Reardon man, but he'll pick up the pace when he's out of earshot.
Sure enough, the sound of hooves picks up and then fades. You're resisting that primal urge to say 'I told you so' with a little more success when a door opens downstairs. You blink and miss a revolver flying into Garvey's hand, aimed at the door. The two of you share a silent argument as boots tramp up the stairs. Hand gestures don't really work, but body language picks up the slack.
Stern look. 'Put that away!'
Shrug. 'What else am I supposed to do?'
Glance at the wardrobe in the corner. 'In there.'
Confusion, then head shaking. 'No, no, hell no. That's stupid.'
Aggressive pointing. 'Do it!'
Exaggerated sigh. 'Fine.'
---
You've made a terrible mistake.
Mirabeau Garvey is a towering woman, and filled out with muscle besides. You just shoved her into a closet. A flimsy frontier wardrobe at that, not one of those fancy ones meant to hold 'eight small men.' It takes what little self-control you have left to suppress your laughter. Not because you're trying to stay quiet, the rattling of slats and strings of foul oaths coming from the closet sink any chance of that, but more out of fear she'll shoot you.
You chortle a bit, though. Fear won't control you.
The boots reach your door. There's a knock. You slam the closet slats one last time to get a hiss out of the ranger before moving to open the door.
Sure enough, it's one of the Reardon's. Booze on his breath, eyes dull and glazed. He doesn't ask about the noise, you doubt he noticed, but he does stand a little closer than you're comfortable. When you ask about the booze, he says that Kuznetsov gave it to him. 'Odka' or 'odvaveet' or something like that. Good stuff. He should've been born in Caspia - the little man's from Caspia, right? You nod yes, having not the slightest clue if that's right.
And there he stops, stands looking over your head like he's preparing for battle. After a few moments psyching himself up, he flashes what you're sure he thinks is a winning smile - gosh those are some yellow teeth - and asks if, with the little man gone, you need any company for the night. Oh. For fuck's sake.
There's a metal click on your left, and your blood runs cold. In the corner of your eye you see a gun barrel pushed through the slats, aimed at the man's heart through the door. You'd wanted to berate this idiot for thinking it was okay to do something like this, get drunk and confront women in their bedrooms. You'd even had a flash of some cowgirl fantasy, of pulling out your gun and teaching him some darned respect. But that seems quite secondary now compared to the main goal: don't let Garvey kill anyone.
And so you get to work, though it sickens you. You tell him to fuck off, you're not interested, although you couch it much more politely. At the same time, you move closer and put the door between you and Garvey, trying to crowd the man back out onto the stairs. Plus, she might not try to shoot the fucker if she thinks she'll hit you (even if she is sour about the closet thing.)
But he doesn't budge. He just towers over you, too soaked or too unaware to take the cue. You glare and tell him to fuck off again, more plainly this time, but it doesn't seem to register. He croons something indecipherable, catches the door with his foot and creeps a little closer. And then, when you give him a little shove to get the message across, he pushes back hard. Your crutch flies off to the side as you lose your footing, land on your bad leg. A jolt of pain climbs your spine in an instant. You look to the left, towards the closet. Two dark eyes stare back. You can't read the expression, but at least she isn't shooting.
Yet.
And then you look back at the man, expecting some leering, sneering look of villainy as he closes in. But he hasn't moved at all. The Reardon just stands there, watching you writhe on the floor. A strange set of emotions crosses his face, like some old lesson from his mama unearthed itself and set to ripping him apart. Shame, fear, regret and more, all in a few moments. He reaches towards you with his right hand but stops himself with the left, like he's lost it entirely. He blubbers something still indecipherable and vanishes down the stairs two at a time.
Annaleigh Clemson, Cunning 13, Roll 12, Success.
You wait for the door to swing shut behind him before relaxing. Your crutch is over a yard away, but you still reach for it. Before you can grasp how pathetic this situation really looks, though, Garvey hops over your prone body and scoops it up. She squats down on her knees next to you to hand the crutch over, staring at the door as you pull yourself up on one knee. She smiles. "Maybe you should've just taken the offer. Seem a bit wound up." You don't glare, so much as just look at her in disbelief. The smile doesn't fade, but you can tell from the rest of her face that she knows. That she's out of line, making jokes like that. Especially considering how dangerous that was. You don't even try to keep the venom out of your voice.
"Kind of thought you'd shoot him, Ranger." She splutters a little as she helps you back on your feet (well, foot and a crutch.)
"Thought you didn't want me shooting anyone, Major. Told myself I'd shoot 'im if he took another step forward. He didn't." You tap your crutch on the boards a couple times. You want to shake out your aching ankle, but this'll have to do as a placebo. Garvey watches your ritual before continuing. "'less you're worried about me hitting him through the door. That's easy, girl. Once, was in a building just like this, shot two men through the floor. Now that's something."
You take a seat on the edge of your bed, look at the ranger with bleary eyes. Want to get some sleep, but she'll probably shoot someone if you stop watching her. Damn, damn damn. Well, you can at least get some entertainment out of it. "An' which one were you aiming for?"
Oh, she didn't like that.
---
Not having much experience, you couldn't say for sure, but you suspect keeping an eye on Garvey is an awful lot like looking after a toddler. There's the impatience ('When your man said 'an hour,' did he mean an hour there and back, or an hour both?'), the misplaced energy (no, you can't climb back out the window, even if you're sure you won't get seen,) and the general surliness (don't really need an example for that, do you?). So when you hear a hundred-odd hooves bearing down on the McCready ranch, it feels like divine intervention. The Reardon shouts of panic outside are music to your ears. You look to Garvey, about to deliver some witty quip about justice being served cold as a late snack, but she's already leaping down the steps three at a time.
It's really not fair. You survived this self-inflicted ordeal together, and after all that she abandons you to limp down the stairs alone. You make it right in your mind by thinking up some choice insults on the way down. Sure, you might never get the opportunity to use them, but it makes you feel better. Then, it's past the McCready's bedroom (you wave at them as you go by. Or wave at the shapes pointing guns in your general direction, rather. They aren't stupid, they want no part of this) and into the open air.
In the background, two burly troopers smash through the barn wall with axes. You wince. It's just wood planking. Shouldn't, uh, shouldn't take too long to fix, right? There's another deafening squeak as they crawl through and push the barn doors open, bringing a Reardon man - the drunk - out at gunpoint. Ten yards closer to the house the woman, Lora, is staring down a dozen guns. She still has her own revolvers on her hip, but she doesn't seem that interested in resisting. A woman shouts off to your left. You turn that way and see a trooper - Harris, you realize - aiming at the last man, shouting orders. He won't listen, though. He's making a beeline for the porch. Towards you.
Having lost track of Garvey in all the excitement, you nearly jump out of your skin when she appears behind you. She wasn't hiding, per-say. You'd just utterly failed to spot her sitting in the rocking chair next to the door. With the situation under control, she figured she'd relax for a moment. The ranger slips by you towards the steps, whispering something like "My cue." The Reardon doesn't even slow down as Garvey moves to intercept him, powered by desperation. You aren't sure what his plan is; maybe he thinks he can take hostages if he gets into the house and talk his way out from there.
Whatever he's thinking, he lunges towards Garvey as he reaches the porch. The steps slow him though, and the wild hay-maker he launches at her head is painfully obvious. The ranger ducks it with ease, the contempt clear on her face - this isn't even a real fight. In one fluid motion, Garvey pins the man to the wall and puts his lights out with a punch. The ranger shakes her fist out and curses the man's thick skull. Then she smiles brightly at you, chirping.
"Yeah, that felt good. I needed that." It's not clear if that's meant to be a threat or small-talk, so you choose to ignore it. Behind her, Harris points you towards the prisoners and starts heading that way. It seems awfully inconsiderate to make you go to them, considering they have working legs and you don't.
Still, you don't voice your complaints when you reach them. That'd be unprofessional. Nobody else is talking. Lora and the still-conscious Reardon just seem relieved that your troopers have put their revolvers down for a moment, and Harris is waiting for something. It's really rather uncomfortable, holding these folks at gunpoint in dead silence. You clear your throat and ask where Kuznetsov is. Harris, not getting the awkwardness, only nods towards the barn. Oh, he's taking a look at the guns in the cart. That'd make sense.
Well. Great. With your attempt at 'breaking the ice' barely even chipping the surface, you resign yourself to the silence. Luckily Kuznetsov is quick about it, and you're able to resist the urge to make uncomfortable small talk with your prisoners. He shuffles over to you and Harris, watching the prisoners suspiciously before whispering. "They are not Army guns. Maynard rifles. Breech-loaders, very fine." The little man nods approvingly.
While Harris explains to the gunner that he didn't need to whisper since the criminals probably know what guns they were smuggling, you hold on to one of those words. Maynard. It'd been years ago, back in the Bleeding Bonner days. There'd been an article about some priest a couple towns over from your home in Plymouth, an abolitionist. They said she issued a bible and a Maynard carbine to every abolitionist heading out to Bonner. "You're Laurel's folks, aren't you?"
Lora smiles sweetly. "No, we're just hauling rifles to exercise the horses." For a second it looks like she's going to say something else, but then there's a voice behind you. Garvey.
"The girl is one of 'em. She's been running guns for the last four-five years, first Bonner then here. The men are just hired guns, though. Reardons." She spits in the dirt like she's trying to get the taste of name out and shoulders past you, sparing a glance at your officers. "Thank you ladies, gentleman. I'll take it from here."
Kuznetsov seems shaken. Doubt anybody's called him a gentleman before. But Harris's expression sours. She moves between the ranger and the gun-runners. "I was told we were coming out here to arrest bandits. Do you even have something to arrest them on, besides a family name?"
Garvey stares the officer down, only glancing at you for a moment as if to say 'who the hell is this?' Behind the officer, Lora imitates Garvey's gruff voice. "'But they're Reardons!' This ain't Albia, sweetie. Not a crime to be Hibernian out here." She isn't very good at impressions, and the mimicry is almost as insulting as the words. You and Kuznetsov both glare at the gun-runner. She shrugs, "just trying to help," and you tell her to stop trying.
Garvey inhales sharply, like she's trying to keep calm, and then speaks. "Hiram here shot a man two months ago. Danny - that's the one back on the porch - just tried to assault me, an officer of the Republic. And you caught Miss Lora here with crates full of rifles, right on the border, when she's got a history of running guns. 'zat enough?"
It's certainly enough for you, but righteous abolitionist fury is burning through Harris. She takes a step closer, practically nose to nose with the ranger. "Then we'll take 'em in, Ranger. This is Federal territory. You don't have jurisdiction." You don't appreciate the way Harris is escalating this, but Garvey responds before you can calm things down.
"I tracked 'em through the desert for a week and a half. Didn't see a border out there. And now you're swooping in to take all the credit?" Garvey leans back and puts a hand on her revolver, her voice full of cold rage. "I'm not gonna let you Yanks steal this like you stole Los Palomas." You finally make the connection. Garvey. Like Stephen Garvey, who led the Manassi expedition to take Southern Califia. You don't dwell on the history too long, though. It's about time you put a stop to this.
"Garvey, be reasonable. You're not gonna pull that with a cavalry company around. Let's all calm down, alright?" Garvey's eyes dart around, taking in the couple dozen troopers in the area. For a second you think she's going to try, that she really thinks she could handle two-dozen troopers on her own, but then her hand drifts away from the holster.
"If you put that woman in an Alleghenian jail, she'll be out in a week. She's crafty, and her people have friends everywhere. You've gotta give her to me."
Harris snaps back, "Are you suggesting our jails are corrupt? Rich, considering all the stories coming out of your 'Republic.'" The ranger reddens. Damn it Harris, can you just shut up?
"Darn it Harris, could you be quiet please?" Harris recoils like she's been slapped. She looks hurt and confused, like a little kid who got punished for doing her chores. Maybe she thought she was doing what you want, standing up to the evil slave-catchers. She drops her guard and spins away, wandering off to sulk. It's probably unfair to call it sulking, but you're tired of all...this!
You turn back to the ranger. "I'm not going to let you hog-tie these folks and drag 'em through the desert. I'll throw them in the county jail at...Art, what's that town called?" Kuznetsov shrugs. Gah. All of your officers are useless. "I'll send the paperwork along to your office, Garvey, and you can get 'em transported in a week or two."
Garvey's disbelief is so obvious it's insulting. "Did you not hear me? You put 'em in a local jail, they'll disappear. I'll have to start all over. Y'realize I've spent months on this case?" You fail to see how that's your problem. Honestly, you're considering doing it out of spite. Before you can say something so impolite, Kuznetsov butts in.
"Could take them to military stockade in Los Palomas, ma'am. Hold them until higher-ups figure out what to do." The gun-runner, Lora, seems pretty disinterested, but that makes her jump in.
"Oh, army jail? Do we get uniforms?" That's the final straw. You're tired, your leg is throbbing devilishly, and you're pretty sure the troopers couldn't stop you from shooting everyone here in time. But that wouldn't solve anything. Well, no, it wouldn't solve everything. Just have to make a choice, and then get some sleep. Just gotta pick.
Y'know, if he'd told you his horse was out in the barn with the three 'bandits,' you might've reconsidered.
The ranger seems shocked that you'd trust someone you've known for years over a complete stranger who just climbed through your window. As soon as the door closes, the whining starts. "You really think he can bluff hardened killers? Man barely speaks the language, girl." You don't want her yammering on for the rest of the night, so you shoot back as you limp over to the open window.
"He's smarter than you look, ma'am." Garvey stares at you, clearly unimpressed, and you awkwardly turn towards the window to avoid her gaze. It sounded better in your head, okay? One of those quips that goes down in the history books. She starts to respond, slower now (like you're a child!) but you shush her and put your head out the window. Cold tonight, and it's hard to lean out a window with a bad ankle, but you can just barely hear voices around the corner. Kuznetsov and one of the men, you think. It's silent for a moment, then there's laughter and the voices start moving towards the barn.
Artjem Kuznetsov, Cunning 12, Roll 7, Success.
Garvey's standing at your shoulder, trying to look uninterested while she hangs on every sound that carries through the window. It's been quiet for the last few minutes though. They're in the barn now, so you can't hear a thing. Every moment without hoof-beats makes the ranger a little more relaxed, not to mention smug. Clearly they've seen through your ruse and she'll need to heroically save Kuznetsov when the shooting starts.
Then the barn door squuueaks open and you hear Kuznetsov riding away. You try not to smile when the ranger deflates, but predictably fail. He's only at a walk now, still chatting with the Reardon man, but he'll pick up the pace when he's out of earshot.
Sure enough, the sound of hooves picks up and then fades. You're resisting that primal urge to say 'I told you so' with a little more success when a door opens downstairs. You blink and miss a revolver flying into Garvey's hand, aimed at the door. The two of you share a silent argument as boots tramp up the stairs. Hand gestures don't really work, but body language picks up the slack.
Stern look. 'Put that away!'
Shrug. 'What else am I supposed to do?'
Glance at the wardrobe in the corner. 'In there.'
Confusion, then head shaking. 'No, no, hell no. That's stupid.'
Aggressive pointing. 'Do it!'
Exaggerated sigh. 'Fine.'
---
You've made a terrible mistake.
Mirabeau Garvey is a towering woman, and filled out with muscle besides. You just shoved her into a closet. A flimsy frontier wardrobe at that, not one of those fancy ones meant to hold 'eight small men.' It takes what little self-control you have left to suppress your laughter. Not because you're trying to stay quiet, the rattling of slats and strings of foul oaths coming from the closet sink any chance of that, but more out of fear she'll shoot you.
You chortle a bit, though. Fear won't control you.
The boots reach your door. There's a knock. You slam the closet slats one last time to get a hiss out of the ranger before moving to open the door.
Sure enough, it's one of the Reardon's. Booze on his breath, eyes dull and glazed. He doesn't ask about the noise, you doubt he noticed, but he does stand a little closer than you're comfortable. When you ask about the booze, he says that Kuznetsov gave it to him. 'Odka' or 'odvaveet' or something like that. Good stuff. He should've been born in Caspia - the little man's from Caspia, right? You nod yes, having not the slightest clue if that's right.
And there he stops, stands looking over your head like he's preparing for battle. After a few moments psyching himself up, he flashes what you're sure he thinks is a winning smile - gosh those are some yellow teeth - and asks if, with the little man gone, you need any company for the night. Oh. For fuck's sake.
There's a metal click on your left, and your blood runs cold. In the corner of your eye you see a gun barrel pushed through the slats, aimed at the man's heart through the door. You'd wanted to berate this idiot for thinking it was okay to do something like this, get drunk and confront women in their bedrooms. You'd even had a flash of some cowgirl fantasy, of pulling out your gun and teaching him some darned respect. But that seems quite secondary now compared to the main goal: don't let Garvey kill anyone.
And so you get to work, though it sickens you. You tell him to fuck off, you're not interested, although you couch it much more politely. At the same time, you move closer and put the door between you and Garvey, trying to crowd the man back out onto the stairs. Plus, she might not try to shoot the fucker if she thinks she'll hit you (even if she is sour about the closet thing.)
But he doesn't budge. He just towers over you, too soaked or too unaware to take the cue. You glare and tell him to fuck off again, more plainly this time, but it doesn't seem to register. He croons something indecipherable, catches the door with his foot and creeps a little closer. And then, when you give him a little shove to get the message across, he pushes back hard. Your crutch flies off to the side as you lose your footing, land on your bad leg. A jolt of pain climbs your spine in an instant. You look to the left, towards the closet. Two dark eyes stare back. You can't read the expression, but at least she isn't shooting.
Yet.
And then you look back at the man, expecting some leering, sneering look of villainy as he closes in. But he hasn't moved at all. The Reardon just stands there, watching you writhe on the floor. A strange set of emotions crosses his face, like some old lesson from his mama unearthed itself and set to ripping him apart. Shame, fear, regret and more, all in a few moments. He reaches towards you with his right hand but stops himself with the left, like he's lost it entirely. He blubbers something still indecipherable and vanishes down the stairs two at a time.
Annaleigh Clemson, Cunning 13, Roll 12, Success.
You wait for the door to swing shut behind him before relaxing. Your crutch is over a yard away, but you still reach for it. Before you can grasp how pathetic this situation really looks, though, Garvey hops over your prone body and scoops it up. She squats down on her knees next to you to hand the crutch over, staring at the door as you pull yourself up on one knee. She smiles. "Maybe you should've just taken the offer. Seem a bit wound up." You don't glare, so much as just look at her in disbelief. The smile doesn't fade, but you can tell from the rest of her face that she knows. That she's out of line, making jokes like that. Especially considering how dangerous that was. You don't even try to keep the venom out of your voice.
"Kind of thought you'd shoot him, Ranger." She splutters a little as she helps you back on your feet (well, foot and a crutch.)
"Thought you didn't want me shooting anyone, Major. Told myself I'd shoot 'im if he took another step forward. He didn't." You tap your crutch on the boards a couple times. You want to shake out your aching ankle, but this'll have to do as a placebo. Garvey watches your ritual before continuing. "'less you're worried about me hitting him through the door. That's easy, girl. Once, was in a building just like this, shot two men through the floor. Now that's something."
You take a seat on the edge of your bed, look at the ranger with bleary eyes. Want to get some sleep, but she'll probably shoot someone if you stop watching her. Damn, damn damn. Well, you can at least get some entertainment out of it. "An' which one were you aiming for?"
Oh, she didn't like that.
---
Not having much experience, you couldn't say for sure, but you suspect keeping an eye on Garvey is an awful lot like looking after a toddler. There's the impatience ('When your man said 'an hour,' did he mean an hour there and back, or an hour both?'), the misplaced energy (no, you can't climb back out the window, even if you're sure you won't get seen,) and the general surliness (don't really need an example for that, do you?). So when you hear a hundred-odd hooves bearing down on the McCready ranch, it feels like divine intervention. The Reardon shouts of panic outside are music to your ears. You look to Garvey, about to deliver some witty quip about justice being served cold as a late snack, but she's already leaping down the steps three at a time.
It's really not fair. You survived this self-inflicted ordeal together, and after all that she abandons you to limp down the stairs alone. You make it right in your mind by thinking up some choice insults on the way down. Sure, you might never get the opportunity to use them, but it makes you feel better. Then, it's past the McCready's bedroom (you wave at them as you go by. Or wave at the shapes pointing guns in your general direction, rather. They aren't stupid, they want no part of this) and into the open air.
In the background, two burly troopers smash through the barn wall with axes. You wince. It's just wood planking. Shouldn't, uh, shouldn't take too long to fix, right? There's another deafening squeak as they crawl through and push the barn doors open, bringing a Reardon man - the drunk - out at gunpoint. Ten yards closer to the house the woman, Lora, is staring down a dozen guns. She still has her own revolvers on her hip, but she doesn't seem that interested in resisting. A woman shouts off to your left. You turn that way and see a trooper - Harris, you realize - aiming at the last man, shouting orders. He won't listen, though. He's making a beeline for the porch. Towards you.
Having lost track of Garvey in all the excitement, you nearly jump out of your skin when she appears behind you. She wasn't hiding, per-say. You'd just utterly failed to spot her sitting in the rocking chair next to the door. With the situation under control, she figured she'd relax for a moment. The ranger slips by you towards the steps, whispering something like "My cue." The Reardon doesn't even slow down as Garvey moves to intercept him, powered by desperation. You aren't sure what his plan is; maybe he thinks he can take hostages if he gets into the house and talk his way out from there.
Whatever he's thinking, he lunges towards Garvey as he reaches the porch. The steps slow him though, and the wild hay-maker he launches at her head is painfully obvious. The ranger ducks it with ease, the contempt clear on her face - this isn't even a real fight. In one fluid motion, Garvey pins the man to the wall and puts his lights out with a punch. The ranger shakes her fist out and curses the man's thick skull. Then she smiles brightly at you, chirping.
"Yeah, that felt good. I needed that." It's not clear if that's meant to be a threat or small-talk, so you choose to ignore it. Behind her, Harris points you towards the prisoners and starts heading that way. It seems awfully inconsiderate to make you go to them, considering they have working legs and you don't.
Still, you don't voice your complaints when you reach them. That'd be unprofessional. Nobody else is talking. Lora and the still-conscious Reardon just seem relieved that your troopers have put their revolvers down for a moment, and Harris is waiting for something. It's really rather uncomfortable, holding these folks at gunpoint in dead silence. You clear your throat and ask where Kuznetsov is. Harris, not getting the awkwardness, only nods towards the barn. Oh, he's taking a look at the guns in the cart. That'd make sense.
Well. Great. With your attempt at 'breaking the ice' barely even chipping the surface, you resign yourself to the silence. Luckily Kuznetsov is quick about it, and you're able to resist the urge to make uncomfortable small talk with your prisoners. He shuffles over to you and Harris, watching the prisoners suspiciously before whispering. "They are not Army guns. Maynard rifles. Breech-loaders, very fine." The little man nods approvingly.
While Harris explains to the gunner that he didn't need to whisper since the criminals probably know what guns they were smuggling, you hold on to one of those words. Maynard. It'd been years ago, back in the Bleeding Bonner days. There'd been an article about some priest a couple towns over from your home in Plymouth, an abolitionist. They said she issued a bible and a Maynard carbine to every abolitionist heading out to Bonner. "You're Laurel's folks, aren't you?"
Lora smiles sweetly. "No, we're just hauling rifles to exercise the horses." For a second it looks like she's going to say something else, but then there's a voice behind you. Garvey.
"The girl is one of 'em. She's been running guns for the last four-five years, first Bonner then here. The men are just hired guns, though. Reardons." She spits in the dirt like she's trying to get the taste of name out and shoulders past you, sparing a glance at your officers. "Thank you ladies, gentleman. I'll take it from here."
Kuznetsov seems shaken. Doubt anybody's called him a gentleman before. But Harris's expression sours. She moves between the ranger and the gun-runners. "I was told we were coming out here to arrest bandits. Do you even have something to arrest them on, besides a family name?"
Garvey stares the officer down, only glancing at you for a moment as if to say 'who the hell is this?' Behind the officer, Lora imitates Garvey's gruff voice. "'But they're Reardons!' This ain't Albia, sweetie. Not a crime to be Hibernian out here." She isn't very good at impressions, and the mimicry is almost as insulting as the words. You and Kuznetsov both glare at the gun-runner. She shrugs, "just trying to help," and you tell her to stop trying.
Garvey inhales sharply, like she's trying to keep calm, and then speaks. "Hiram here shot a man two months ago. Danny - that's the one back on the porch - just tried to assault me, an officer of the Republic. And you caught Miss Lora here with crates full of rifles, right on the border, when she's got a history of running guns. 'zat enough?"
It's certainly enough for you, but righteous abolitionist fury is burning through Harris. She takes a step closer, practically nose to nose with the ranger. "Then we'll take 'em in, Ranger. This is Federal territory. You don't have jurisdiction." You don't appreciate the way Harris is escalating this, but Garvey responds before you can calm things down.
"I tracked 'em through the desert for a week and a half. Didn't see a border out there. And now you're swooping in to take all the credit?" Garvey leans back and puts a hand on her revolver, her voice full of cold rage. "I'm not gonna let you Yanks steal this like you stole Los Palomas." You finally make the connection. Garvey. Like Stephen Garvey, who led the Manassi expedition to take Southern Califia. You don't dwell on the history too long, though. It's about time you put a stop to this.
"Garvey, be reasonable. You're not gonna pull that with a cavalry company around. Let's all calm down, alright?" Garvey's eyes dart around, taking in the couple dozen troopers in the area. For a second you think she's going to try, that she really thinks she could handle two-dozen troopers on her own, but then her hand drifts away from the holster.
"If you put that woman in an Alleghenian jail, she'll be out in a week. She's crafty, and her people have friends everywhere. You've gotta give her to me."
Harris snaps back, "Are you suggesting our jails are corrupt? Rich, considering all the stories coming out of your 'Republic.'" The ranger reddens. Damn it Harris, can you just shut up?
"Darn it Harris, could you be quiet please?" Harris recoils like she's been slapped. She looks hurt and confused, like a little kid who got punished for doing her chores. Maybe she thought she was doing what you want, standing up to the evil slave-catchers. She drops her guard and spins away, wandering off to sulk. It's probably unfair to call it sulking, but you're tired of all...this!
You turn back to the ranger. "I'm not going to let you hog-tie these folks and drag 'em through the desert. I'll throw them in the county jail at...Art, what's that town called?" Kuznetsov shrugs. Gah. All of your officers are useless. "I'll send the paperwork along to your office, Garvey, and you can get 'em transported in a week or two."
Garvey's disbelief is so obvious it's insulting. "Did you not hear me? You put 'em in a local jail, they'll disappear. I'll have to start all over. Y'realize I've spent months on this case?" You fail to see how that's your problem. Honestly, you're considering doing it out of spite. Before you can say something so impolite, Kuznetsov butts in.
"Could take them to military stockade in Los Palomas, ma'am. Hold them until higher-ups figure out what to do." The gun-runner, Lora, seems pretty disinterested, but that makes her jump in.
"Oh, army jail? Do we get uniforms?" That's the final straw. You're tired, your leg is throbbing devilishly, and you're pretty sure the troopers couldn't stop you from shooting everyone here in time. But that wouldn't solve anything. Well, no, it wouldn't solve everything. Just have to make a choice, and then get some sleep. Just gotta pick.
[] Let Garvey have them. She can figure out the logistics of moving three prisoners through the desert and you're having trouble caring. Maybe you'll feel bad later.
[] Throw them in the local jail. If they escape, that'll save you the paperwork and spite the ranger. Sounds pretty good right now, honestly.
[] Take them to Los Palomas. It's secure enough they shouldn't escape, and it'll get you out of this godforsaken desert.
---
ayy brmj guessed the twist because i'm predictable
sorry for the long gap between updates, it wasn't procrastination (not entirely anyway). classes were kicking my ass(es?) but now classes are over and I am writing instead of studying for exams. hopefully we'll finally get to the actual war part soon.
edit: a words
[] Throw them in the local jail. If they escape, that'll save you the paperwork and spite the ranger. Sounds pretty good right now, honestly.
[] Take them to Los Palomas. It's secure enough they shouldn't escape, and it'll get you out of this godforsaken desert.
---
ayy brmj guessed the twist because i'm predictable
sorry for the long gap between updates, it wasn't procrastination (not entirely anyway). classes were kicking my ass(es?) but now classes are over and I am writing instead of studying for exams. hopefully we'll finally get to the actual war part soon.
edit: a words
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- Location
- Farther than you think, closer than you expect.
[X] Take them to Los Palomas. It's secure enough they shouldn't escape, and it'll get you out of this godforsaken desert.
In my opinion, Artjem is the most levelheaded person in our entire company. And yes, that includes us.
Seems like gunrunning might be a little more serious than what passes for local law enforcement is equipped to handle anyway, and getting these prisoners back to Palomas lets us relay the intelligence as well.
Do we get to keep the rifles?
In my opinion, Artjem is the most levelheaded person in our entire company. And yes, that includes us.
Seems like gunrunning might be a little more serious than what passes for local law enforcement is equipped to handle anyway, and getting these prisoners back to Palomas lets us relay the intelligence as well.
Do we get to keep the rifles?
- Location
- Derna
Well, Garvey doesn't have much interest in hauling them back through the desert, so you'll be confiscating them. Normally, they'd be auctioned off or put in the nearest armory to rot for a few years, but you could pull some strings to keep them. That's actually going to be a choice in the near-future (near-ish, anyway.)
I will note for the record that while the other choices get these people off your hands, taking them to Los Palomas will mean they're still somewhat your problem. That's a fairly minor downside, but it's still a downside.
As far as I'm concerned, any wrong these people may have done is insignificant compared to the good they would be doing, and if I thought there was any real chance we could get away with making Garvey disappear and letting them go, guns and all, then I would be 100% for that. Unfortunately, someone would definitely talk.
[X] Throw them in the local jail. If they escape, that'll save you the paperwork and spite the ranger. Sounds pretty good right now, honestly.
- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Throw them in the local jail. If they escape, that'll save you the paperwork and spite the ranger. Sounds pretty good right now, honestly.
