Prologue: Blackwater
Through the murmurs of the patrons, clacking could be heard coming from the Poker table, where five men sat and played. Near the window stood a tall man wearing a grey outdoorsman's coat alongside a similarly colored grey tipped hat that obscured his eyes. The man in the grey coat leaned on the wall and faced the poker table, carefully observing each move whilst rolling a cigarette.
The man in particular he was watching was a far more flamboyantly dressed, mustachioed man, who was busy dealing the cards for the next round. So far, he had lost almost all his chips within the first three turns, but with flick of a five dollar bill he was back in the game.
As the cigarette smoke filled the air, many eyes were fixed upon the two cowboys. The only other sound other than the flicking of cards, was the unassuming tapping of a decorated jackboot against the wooden floor. It seemed like the man leaning against the wall was rather impatient with the game.
As the flop was placed down on the table, a wide eyed grin came onto the mustachioed man's face, revealing a golden tooth shining in the light. The other players seemed less than pleased at their hand, but nevertheless, no one folded. With each new card that was placed on the table, a slight tapping of the other man's jackboot soon followed. It didn't take long for the other spectators of the game to catch on.
In the otherwise small saloon, a rather significant crowd had begun to gather. When one thinks of the daily routine of a Blackwater citizen, this ordeal was most likely the biggest excitement in months.
Two-hundred-and-fifty dollars on the table, five players not willing to back down, the winner takes all. If anything was bound to cause a shootout in this city, it was going to happen tonight.
The turn is placed down, one more card to go and the sweat continues to trickle down the chins of the red-shirted cowboys opponents. Due to how the table was set up, it was as if he was at the very center, with both sides facing towards him. It was one against four right now. To his left sat a pudgy faced man with a top-hat and goatee, dressed in a fancy suit currently being ruined by the copious amount of sweating. Alongside the pudgy faced man was his brother, a much more muscled and leaned gentleman that did not take much interest in his appearance, which could be seen in not only his looks, but the smell of his breath. To the right sat two more individuals, one seemed a prominent police officer of some status, judging from the look of his badge and uniform and next to the officer was a bank clerk, hoping to buy himself a drink after a long days work of counting bills and playing with money.
For the few moments of utter silence time seemed to slow to a halt, as if the clock could not move any faster from all the tension in the air. The pudgy faced man's brother began to exchange looks between the two cowboys more and more, it would seem their act was falling apart. The two cowboys each in turn looked at each other. The one leaning against the wall gave a small and barely visible nod to the other. The game continued.
With a flashy sleight of hand the grinning cowboy finally placed down the final card. The river had been set. There was a jack, followed by a six, a nine, an eight and a ten. Promising cards, but not anything grand.
The Pudgy faced man looked down upon his cards, and was rather disappointed in what he saw. He had such high hopes for it, but in the end it was nothing more than an ace high. But, victory could still be secured if he simply could convince the others that his cards were stellar. This would be hard for him, as his brow was still soaked in sweat, no handkerchief could solve that problem. His brother on the other hand had a far more favorable hand, a pair of jacks, one on the table and one in his hands. The other card, a king of spades would help him in case someone else had a jack as well.
The officer remained as stone faced as ever. He showed no emotion, and therefore gave no advantage to the others. In fact, it would almost seem like he truly just didn't care about this game at all. Looking down at his cards, he saw a pair of nines, which was not really good nor really bad. The bank clerk on the other hand, seemed rather smug in that situation. He had high hopes for his hand, seeing as it effectively was a straight. He held a queen and a seven on his hand, and he could just picture himself taking home those 250 dollars right here and now.
The cowboy stared at his cards intently, never breaking sight of them with his one good eye, even when he was dealing the cards on the table. His opponents, however, did the complete opposite. All eyes were fixed on the duo and their little stage performance. This time, the cowboy behind him hit the floor with the heel of his jackboot, he wasn't even trying to be subtle about it at this point. Now would be the time for them all to make or break this game, the money was right in front of them and the cards were about to be placed down. That is to say, if they weren't hit with a sudden interruption.
The clock finally hit midnight and a thunderous sound filled the once silent saloon. As if prompted, an elderly man in a blue jacket and waistcoat stormed in quickly and called out to the two cowboys.
"Get to the caravan, both of you!" he ordered in a stern voice.
The two moved as if this whole situation had already been practiced a thousand times over and in a flash grabbed their belts, holsters and guns, with the grinning cowboy passing a tip to the bartender as thanks for the game and drinks on his way out.
Out in the cold and quiet city streets the saloon seemed almost like it belonged in an entirely different city. There were barely any lights working that usually illuminated the pavement, save for the moon itself, hanging ominously up in the night sky.
"What's wrong, something go bad?" the grey-jacketed cowboy asked.
"Arthur came and told me, Pinkertons are gonna be on our asses any second if we don't get out of here right now." said the old man.
"Did you at least get the money?" The Grey jacketed cowboy turned around to his partner in crime.
"Every single dime. They never saw it." he grinned, quickly flashing the bills and stowing them away in his jacket. "So I assume the ferry job didn't go as planned?" He went and asked the old man.
"I think so… But I'm not sure. I heard some shots being fired out on the lake. Let's just hope they're alright." The old man said as he mounted his horse.
Just then shouting could be heard coming from the saloon, it was obvious that they figured out the money was missing and soon the brother of the pudgy-faced man came roaring out of the saloon doors screaming bloody murder.
"I told you poker was a bad idea." The grey jacket man remarked.
"Really? Because you were quite enthusiastic about it when I told you about it."
"Only because you said you were good at poker, not a complete amatuer. You didn't even know any of the names of the cards."
"I said I was good at cards, not poker specifically."
"Listen here you little-"
"Both of you just shut up and focus! We don't have time to argue, or would you rather have this discussion behind bars?" the scene mirrored that of a father scolding his sons, only the sons were in their thirties and the old man wasn't their father.
"He started it." the two said in unison.
Their argument proved detrimental not only to their time, but also because of the fact that the pudgy-faced man's older brother seemed to hear them. "Just perfect." Hosea muttered under his breath. Just then several shots began firing from the distance towards the docks, even more trouble, not only for the three of them.
"Alright, here's the plan. Sebastian, deal with your friends back there. Friedrich, I need you to go find Arthur and link up with the others and get the horses ready. I'll find Dutch and the rest." quickly the old man rode like hell towards the docks and the two were left to finish the tasks assigned to them.
"Alright, you heard the old man." Sebastian said as he rolled up the sleeves of his leather coat.
"And just what the hell are you going to do against that fucking bear? Slap him to death?"
"I'll do what I do best."
"Which is?"
"Still trying to figure that out."