Realistic or Modern The Deputies

[Lord Bradorian]

The clouds rolled lazily overhead of the valley in which the town of Amberstone were situated as the sun tucked itself away beneath the horizon, and another day came to an end. For the Sheriff and Deputies, that meant returning to the office to debrief and lock up the Sheriff's weapons, as well as sorting out the night's watch. There was a man in one of the holding cells, so to have someone posted would be neccesary.

As his deputies filed in and found room around him where he sat at his desk in the corner of the small office, Sheriff Cooley leaned back in his chair and puffed a cigarette.

"Hey, everyone. Need one of you to head out to Creary's, keep an eye on things for the night. He's been complaining for weeks - coyotes, rustlers, other vermin of man and beast. Gotta show some support. Two dollars, twenty cents bonus. Who wants it? Bring a long gun." He asks his crew, rapping his knuckles on the desk. "Same offer for whoever's gonna watch Mr. Reaves for the night. Two-twenty." The Reaves fellow was a young out-of-towner, who had gotten rough with one of the working women down at Swearengean's saloon on Main Street, leading to altercations with the staff and their calling of Sheriff Cooley, who promptly ordered him to be locked up. He'd made no ruling on how long he'd hold Reaves for, whether he'd offer bail or send the case to the city and push for him to go to a trial and be institutionalized at a proper facility should he be found guilty. Probably not, though - it was rare for him to do so over minor offenses such as this.

The Crearys owned a farm about a mile up the road from town. Due to this proximity, they were considered residents, and their security fell under the office's jurisdiction. The old man, Greg Creary, is a mean bastard with a tendency to cuss excessively - none of you have ever heard him complete a sentence without at least one curse word. His many sons and daughters are scattered around the area; some live in town, some are farmhands, while some still are rumored to be riding with a gang of outlaws operating in the area known after their leaders, brothers Walton and Johnathan 'Whiskey Kid' Gibbs.
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[ZarbofftheFirst]

“I can head to the Creary’s,” Leslie said. “I know I ain’t his cup’a tea but I’ll hang about the outside of the property.” Leslie picked up his converted rifle and put it over his shoulder.

Any excuse to be in the wilderness was good enough for Leslie. The din of the whispering wind and the glow of the stars always put him at ease. Hell was other people, and the heavens above his only relief.

Leslie wondered why Sheriff Cooley would keep the Reaves boy in his cell. A good whipping by a couple of ranchhands might suffice to teach the boy some manners. But that was beyond Leslie’s station. Besides, there might be nobody around the Creary’s. And if Leslie could bag a coyote, maybe he could have the tailor fashion him a new hat.

 

[Lord Bradorian]

"Sure, but you'll have to check in with him - him or one of his sons, anyway. Both when you get there and when you're on the way out. Sundown to sunrise, mkay? Don't skip out early just 'cos nothing is going on," Sheriff Cooley lectures Leslie, before tipping his hat to the deputy, signaling his dismissal. 'Okay, so Mr. Hodges is gonna go take a walk. Who's got Reaves?" ​

 

[MrThe]

Lazarus speaks up, disappointed to have been beat to the punch by his lesser. "I'd have ruther done the Creary job but I suppose someone gots to look out fer the wimmin of this town. I'll keep an eye on our Mr. Reaves"

 

[ZarbofftheFirst]

Leslie left the sheriff’s office without acknowledging Lazarus’ comment and walked over to his horse, Paco. Leslie jumped up on the brownish red and white blotched horse, then turned his heels towards the road leading north. The sky darkened quickly as Paco and Leslie trotted down the main drag.

Leslie looked to his right to the hotel. Shadows brought lamps to light, and feminine figures gathered by the windows. Houses further down the way stayed dark. Storefronts across the street closed their doors and shuttered their windows: the smith’s shop, the barber surgeon, the pawn broker, and lastly the carpenter and sometimes coffin maker. Leslie looked back to the road, and followed it.

Leslie relaxed himself as he crested and descended the small hills in the landscape. One room homesteads in the distance stood in stark relief to the glowing orange and purple sky. The few distant figures vanished into thin air like the setting sun. Leslie came to a fork and read one of the few signs. Main Road, and Acolyte Road. The latter led to the Creary farm. Leslie took Acolyte Road, past the lone tree, a rock with a stagecoach wheel stuck beneath it, and a withered bull’s skull until he saw the Creary farm.

The Creary farm was like the old man, a gnarled core surrounded by many ramshackle additions. The farmstead made Leslie stiffen up and focus on the task at hand.

 

[Lord Bradorian]

Leslie A. Hodges
Creary Farm
ZarbofftheFirst Meredith
As you draw closer to the farm, you hear the sounds of women screaming and men shouting. Picking up your pace, you blitz down the tree-lined path taking you away from Acolyte Road and toward the Creary's. As the large farmhouse comes into view, you see a crowd. Many men carry weapons in-hand. Women flail in anguish, their hysterics drowning out any conversation you may overhear.

Two riders gallop off in your direction, and zip by you without a word. Behind them trails the familiar Gregory Creary, his face illuminated by lamplight. He carries a shotgun low in his saddle.

"Who's that? Oh. Mr. Hodges," Creary greets, sounding disappointed. "Something horrible has happened. The Jessops' plantation has been sacked, only thirty minutes ago. Jessie and Trent are headed to get the sheriff - more of my sons are headed out to see if we can't track the sumbitches, help some survivors. Can't get a straight answer out of the ones that escaped, but it sounds like it definetly weren't Injuns, and some negroes were with them, so not Bushwhackers either. Could've been that villain, Gibbs..." Creary explains, turning hoof and trotting back toward the farm, prompting you to follow behind him. "Callum! Ryan! Take Mr. Hodges and head out there! Sheriff Cooley won't be far behind, so wait for him before you do anything!"

Sheriff's Office
MrThe Sistros
"Sheriff! Sheriff! Come quick!" you hear the cries from outside. In the relative quietness of the night, the alarm likely startles the whole road. As Arthur and his deputies walked outside, Cooley ashing out his cigarette and taking his repeater into hand, several residents come out onto the street. Two boys, Jessie and Trent Creary, roughly pulled at the reins on their winded mounts, coming to a skidding stop outside the office. Callum's horse jerks and whips him around, but a lash from his whip settles the beast.

"Sheriff, outlaws attacked the Jessops! Killed at least a dozen and put their house on fire! It just happened, if you go now you might catch 'em!" Jessie explains with exasperation.

Without words, Cooley quickly darts back inside, opening the gun locker and passing out weapons to his deputies. "Who's coming? Get in here, get a gun!" Cooley shouts out, without looking inside, loading an Evans repeater and a short coach gun. Having been invited in, several townspeople line up to take a gun from the Sheriff.

"Mount up!" Cooley barks, climbing on top of his brunette Pacer. All-in-all, the posse consists of eight men, including Creary's sons and three citizens - Henry Stout, a bartender at Swearengean's, Javad Terard, a European prospector who had moved to the area and settled down with his family after having success in the gold rushes, and Oscar Wilde, a freeman with a reputation for impunity toward whites with a superior attitude, backed up by his willingness and ability to brawl. He'd beaten many local tough guys who feel he doesn't know his place. Though he wasn't anyone's favorite guy in town, there was no denying that he knew his way around a long-gun, and would be an asset to the Sheriff and his deputies should they find themselves in a gunbattle with the Kid's gang.

"Let's ride!" Cooley cries, leading the pack as they streamed out of town, spurring their horses hard into a full gallop.
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