Chapter One, Part Three: Wagons Roll, and the Cradle Rocks!
Once Mr Dryman utters the command, people rush into activity and with shouted commands, the clattering of equipment and people clambering into wagons and a few whip-cracks, echoing across the fields, the three-wagon train finally lurches into motion with a deep rumbling of wheels.
Jack R. Flint and Amos Dryman, the latter mounted atop his fine roan stallion, aid a handful of farmhands in driving the cattle onwards, whilst Alonzo and one other do likewise to the small herd of horses, keeping them in pace with the wagons.
As these folk are working, Grigor
[d3=1] joins Emma and Nowan in the supply wagon for a snooze, whilst Keethan
[d3=2] clambers up to ride shotgun (Despite his lack of shotgun, or indeed, a rifle) on the second wagon, with the kitchen and such, as well as Mrs Dryman and son. Seated beside the wagoneer, a one-eyed, grizzled deaf-mute veteran from some half-forgotten war or other, he soon dozes off to sleep,
[4] a mostly dreamless doze, lulled by the motion of the wagon.
As the wagons leave the gates of the ranch, only those with the keenest eyes might make out the small form of the other hired Gun, a reclusive fellow at the best of times, riding off down the trail far ahead in the distance. Most would only see the small puff of dust heralding a lone horseman heading away from them.
A short while passes, the wagons trundling resolutely down the small trail, widening slightly to form a dusty road as it meets those leading towards town from the other small ranches in the surroundings. Most of which, it's sobering to realise, are owned by Alistair Merrick, as a part of his ever-growing, ill-gained cattle empire. In the wagon driven by the Reverend Greenmore, who sits hunched slightly at the reins as he struggles with his inner demons, the snoring forms of the three seated in the back amongst various crates and sacks of food, tools and other supplies slumber peacefully. Nowan, snoring with shotgun leaning across his stomach and hat over his face,
[1] rolls over in his sleep, perhaps seeking a more comfortable position.
With a creak of wood and a slight scrape as his 'bedding' (pile of grain-sacks) slides off the crates beneath, he topples out over the backboard,
[1] flailing about and landing heavily on his head,
[2] luckily twisting as he hits the ground, his left shoulder absorbing the main force of the blow! It gives a sickening crack, and the others in the wagon all sit up abruptly as Nowan gives a shout of pain and surprise, clutching at his injured shoulder, bent somewhat in a wrong, painful-looking direction.
Meanwhile as he falls from the wagon, his shotgun and hat do likewise!
[6] Thankfully, sensing further destruction, injury and possibly a death or two, the stricken Nowan manages (thanks to his trained, gun-slinging reflexes) to catch the flying shotgun in his good hand before it can hit the ground and fire, although in doing so he topples over, doubtless doing further damage to his horribly-broken shoulder.
He passes out from the pain, his hat fluttering to rest on the ground nearby in an oddly peaceful motion, lending an air of surreality to the whole scene for the horrified onlookers. A few of the cattle look a little disconcerted by the whole thing, their dull brown eyes staring uncertainly at the prone man. It occurs to the more cattle-savvy that it's a
damn good thing that shotgun didn't go off...
You are just having the most lovely time, walking through the hometown you've not seen in years, relishing those familiar sights, smells and sounds, seeing the familiar faces... You hear a voice call your name, it's your mother! She's calling you, she says she's baked blueberry pie... Oh wow! You love Ma's blueberry pie! You turn quickly towards her voice, and all at once it seems almost like you're flying across the street towards your childhood home... Suddenly you awaken, to find yourself plunging through space, out the back of the wagon you'd dozed off in, head-first towards the ground... Eyes widening in shock, you twist as you fall, managing to take the bulk of the impact on your shoulder, although you still take a nasty, nasty blow to the head! Strangely, even as you hear a rather nasty crunch from your left arm, it doesn't overly seem to hurt. Your
head, however... Ouch!
Slightly dazed, you spot something rather dangerous-looking twirling through the air- Your shotgun! Oh shit! You throw yourself to one side, grabbing the weapon in your uninjured hand as it spirals earthwards. Your last thought before you hit the ground heavily and black out, is that at least it's not your gun-arm that just got injured...
Wounds acquired: Badly broken left shoulder!
Bruised head!
Nasty concussion!
Shattered dignity!
****
Sometime later, poor Nowan has been bundled into the middle wagon as it rolls along, wrapped in a blanket dosed and up by Mrs Dryman's special recipe Hot Chocolate: For Cheering Up, Making Things Right and Curing Worldly Ills (Hint: The special ingredient is a rather large shot of whiskey) as the Doc, Jack R. Flint takes a look at his shoulder, having cut away the injured arm's shirtsleeve. He inhales sharply as he sees the extent of the injuries, poking and prodding painfully at the badly-bruised flesh, looking a bit like a smushy, overripe fruit.
Nowan: The Doc's examination hurts like Hell, despite the warm glow from Mrs Dryman's hot chocolate. You can't move the damn thing much at all, and have to clench your jaw to stop from crying out in pain.
Probing gingerly at Nowan's injured shoulder, you can easily tell that it is rather bad... It seems the top of the large bone of the upper-arm ((the humerus)) has come at least partially away from the rest, doing God-knows what sort of damage to the tendons of the joint. You rather doubt he'll be able to use the thing again; if such damage had occured to his lower arm, you imagine the usual medical consensus would be to lop the thing off. The man writhes and grits his teeth as you examine the injury, even under the strong influence of the whiskey, telling you the shock from the fall has well-and-truly worn off.
Back up outside the wagon, Amos Dryman, feeling rather unhappy about the serious injury of his one-remaining gunslinger, finally catches his first glimpse of Rocky Gulch up ahead, the wooden rooves of the main town rising up out of the dusty adobe of the plains, with the incongrous dark stone of Merrick's Orphanage looming over it like a crow, or perhaps a rotten tooth, on the hill outside of town. Alonzo, keeping to himself as he drives the horses fowards alongside the cattle, sees it a moment later.
It looks a town like most any other out here, no-doubt filled with simple, hard-working folk, dust, hard whiskey, and, if the tales he's heard of this Alistair Merrick are anything to go by...
Trouble. A farmhand wheels his horse back towards the wagons, spreading the word as they approach.
It is mid-afternoon as the wagons roll slowly into the outskirts of town, and those snoozing in or on the wagons are woken rather rudely by Trevor Hutchins' gleeful shout from atop the rear wagon, "Yipee! About damned time we was gettin' here! Next stop, Rocky Gulch! Hard drink, soft beds, and soft women!" He punctuates his crude statement with a loud belch, then settles back upon the box, the oppressive heat enough to silence even him, it seems.
Up ahead lies Rocky Gulch. Beyond that? The desolate, disused trail out to the Black Forest, and the appropriately-named Blacktree trail. Those napping in the wagons snooze and stretch, and the travellers generally begin to rouse themselves to liveliness beneath the harsh, oppressive sun.
What sort of welcome there will be in town is anyone's guess...
Will y'all stay the night in town despite any threat of trouble from the despised Merrick, or will you roll right on through town, forgoing the chance of a last stop, rest and drink in civilization? Welcome to Rocky Gulch...
Wow, this method of updating is truly far, far easier, with the 3rd-person majority and 1st-person bits where required!
Also, Nowan... Er, sorry?
At least I gave you a THIRD chance not to kill yerself! ...Should've rolled a 6 like I'd told you to!
Edit: Also, I just noticed we're on 1880 views.
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Topic: Blacktree Trail - A Western RTD- First turn of Chapter Two about 30% done! (Read 12292 times)