June 12th, 1877
You know, sometimes there's a man... a man for his time and his place. And that
most assuredly is Sol Bando, kicked back in a chair with the brim of his hat
low, almost completely covering his eyes. One moccasinned foot is resting on the
seat of a neighboring chair and the whiskey has been flowing. This ain't to say
that Sol Bando is drowning in that river. But he sure is floatin'...
[Sol]
Well, he's cleaner, but come nightfall he's no more sober. Now that at least
some of that Maddock dust has been washed off, he's ... fair to midland lookin'.
Handsome enough. Better looking and definitely more charming when his mouth is
shut. But anyway, I'd give him a 6'2" and, oh, about a buck-eighty in weight.
Lean. He's too broke to have a gut. Sandy-colored hair, a touch more blonde now
that it's halfway clean. When his eyes are open, they're brown. Probably Irish
given his want of drink and his overall temperament. Has the cut of an
Irishman's face, but he's tall. But the name 'Bando' puts him eastward across
the water from Ireland. You know, the place that goes by the name for a big fish
(aquatic mammal, actually). He's still bronzed like an injun. Working outside
all day will do that for a man.
It ain't exactly the height of fashion. He ain't never been to Paris, France.
Hell, he ain't never been to Paris, Texas. Even with an income -- and it's a
nice income these days, ladies -- his clothes are strictly utilitarian and not
brightly colored. He's wearin' a long-sleeved shirt, sort of a faded red. The
trousers are heavy, durable and a buckskin-like brown, turned a shade darker
than normal with the dust. The boots? Well, he's still wearin' those damned
Cheyenne moccasins. Bit in poor taste considering all the recent injun trouble.
But why replace boots that are in perfect condition? He may be a drunk, but he
ain't a fool...
[Lockett]
He stands tall, with a rigid posture and eyes that almost sparkle with a glee
that no man in his right mind should know. He sports a moustache and the
beginnings of a beard shadow, but all in all is remarkably clean as are his
clothes. When he speaks people notice the high-pitched tone of his voice and the
slight lisp. He wears a cleanly pressed shirt of stark white cotton, a finely
tailored black pin stripe vest, matching slacks and jacket. Fastened around his
neck is a thick scarf of royal blue silk, noted just below the closed collar.
His boots draw the most notice, narrow-toed, they appear to be made out of snake
skin. The heels are at least an inch high, adding to his medium height of 5'9".
On his right hand is a large gold band bejeweled with a large miner's cut
diamond. A bolero completes the ensemble. He carries no visible weapons, his
hands currently occupying themselves with a worn deck of cards.
Lockett swings open the saloon doors with a flare causing them to bounce sharply
against the walls. His manages to stay them as they snap back and he looks wide
eyed around to ensure no one saw that little display. "Oopsey." He murmurs then
steps within, letting the doors fall shut. Looking about the saloon he seems to
have decided there is a heaven and he's just been given a day pass. He meanders
through the many tables scouting the games that are in progress before
approaching the bar. "Lovely! Just splendid." This man is happier then a babe.
A finger cocks up the hat and a cool-eyed Sol Bando looks toward the commotion.
All that ruckus for one man? Well, I s'ppose any man that'd wear that scarf and
in those boots is sorta obligated to make an entrance. It's damn near duty. Sol
leans back, folding his arms across his chest and there's something that just...
clicks. Clicks as naturally as the lever on a Colt. Brown eyes watch the
stranger -- well, in that Sol has zero recollection of the man -- meander past
the games and then end at the bar.
Now, Sol's sitting at one of the round, non-gaming tables -- beats a sawhorse
any day -- and he's been here since sunset, which is when he goes off the
Quintan Clock. It ain't that far from the bar and that's just the way he likes
it...
Sol orders a Kentucky Bourbon.
Lockett orders a Bourbon from the bartender and slaps down his money with a
flourish. He turns while waiting for the kind sir to deliver the drink and
absorbs the room with a keen eye. Noting the relaxed man nearby, unoccupied,
Nathaniel smiles widely. "Well good evening to you..." He looks over the man's
outfit and determines, "Cowpuncher, fine dandy place this new building is, isn't
it?"
"Bit on the fancy side," spoken with a drawl that's not southern, and it ain't
Eastern or Northern either. A sharp-eared man might place it to California. The
correct answer would be Wyoming. Ain't much good come out of Wyoming, and Sol
Bando's no exception. "But they serve a mighty fine drink, so it makes up for
the Old World decor. But, fella, it seems to suit you to a 'T'." Sol pauses for
the delivery of the Kentucky whiskey, the way most folks would pause for a
funeral procession. Or Queen Victoria. He lifts it for a drink, not a 'slam'
mind you, but a swallow. "I am a satisfied customer..."
Lockett takes a moment to look the man over more carefully, noting the rather
mannish tan that seems to cling to Cowpunchers like a really well tailored suit.
Picking his bourbon up on from the bar he approaches, "Mind if I sit?" Course,
the man doesn't wait for Sol's answer, setting into a nearby seat with the
fanfare of adjusting his trousers and tucking down his coat tails. He sniffs the
Bourbon, swirls the liquid around in his glass and finally takes a small sip.
This is swished around his mouth like mouthwash, one must be sure to hit every
portion of the palate when exploring a new flavor.
The words 'I don't care' or 'Suit Yourself' or 'Sure' or any possible
combination were perched on the tip of his whiskey-slowed tongue, but none of
them get a chance to hit the air. Your butt in the seat sort of makes it all
irrelevant. So Sol Bando takes another swallow of the whiskey and tilts the
glass in his hand, eyeing the color. Brown eyes flick upward and he smiles a
rattlesnake smile, sort of sidewindin'. "Not at all," he finally says.
Lockett decides that while the Bourbon is a bit warm in his mouth, it certainly
is suitable to drink. He finishes the remainder in the shot glass and sets it
down, his smiling eyes watering from the heavy flavor of the drink. He looks
around the room, noting a few games but none of the pots are worthy then a two
dollar whore, not that Lockett has ever been with a whore, or a woman for that
matter. "That is interesting foot apparel you have on sir, might I inquire where
you purchased them?"
"Didn't ... I got them as a ... parting gift..." Of a fashion. "I spent some
quality time with the Cheyenne..." And lived. And got a new pair of shoes. They
must have liked him. Really liked him. The Kentucky bourbon is finished. And
once a man starts down that path, he can't rightly switch to another drink. Sol
cocks up his hand with the flick of a finger -- drunken former quickdraw
language for: gimme another drink -- and then folds his arms across his chest
again. "Comfortable as skin and strong as oak. They know how to make a
shoe...I'll give them that..."
Sol orders a Kentucky Bourbon.
Lockett's eyes widen with appreciation. "Indians? Really." He also orders
another drink, considering Sol's time with the Indians with intensity. "Tell me,
it is true that the men wear little more then a lion cloth when they go out to
hunt for prey?" Oh, do say they do. Do let Lockett picture tanned men in loin
cloths. His widened eyes are just completely stuck on Sol, unblinking lest he
miss the stoic man's response.
"Lions ain't that plentiful, and loincloths ain't that practical for horse
people." He lifts his glass for a salute to you, and then a swallow. "Depends on
what a man was doing. Loincloths sometimes. Nothing, other times. Far as leather
goes, well," a hand lifts and scratches and blonde-brown stubble. He shaved
about a week ago. "A lot of buckskin, a lot of buffalo, deer, antelope,
whatever's handy on the plains. Wolf," Sol tacks on a minute later. "Elk, and so
on. Lots of elk. More elk than people in Wyoming. In the winter though, a man
has to pile on the furs." He seems to speak with the easiness of experience.
"A man on a pile of furs?" Oh heaven, where does he get one?? Lockett's face
flushes and it likely isn't from the Bourbon. He holds onto the thought as long
as he might before polite conversation demands he continues, "Oh, you mean wear
them." He sighs wistfully, "I've never had the pleasure of wearing fur."
Brown eyes lock onto you for a second, half thinking.... nah, he couldn't
possibly be. Sol lifts the glass for another sip, eyebrow quirking up. "It's not
a bad life." So why did he leave it? Well, he ain't exactly been able to answer
that question himself. Apart from the obvious fact that the Human Beings are
ultimately doomed. A white man don't ask permission to do a damned thing on this
earth. "Unfortunately, when I made my great trek from Little Big Horn, I didn't
have my furs on me. Pity. Could've used them a few months back. The ground's a
mite cold in Montana..."
Lockett simply nodes in agreement at that sentiment. Cold doesn't begin to
express the way this man has felt over his last winter in the territories. He
shudders and picks up the drink he ordered earlier. "So, tell me. I am new to
town are there accommodations to be had that are a little ..." He glances at one
man who appears to have passed out in the sawdust. "More secluded for a man of
refinement."
For the first time in, well..hell...maybe you're the first person around this
town to get an actual laugh out of the man. "Refinement? Hell, friend, I don't
even know how to spell refinement." But he knows what it means. "Well," a
scratch of the side of his face again, "... there's the boarding house. I expect
it will do until you can find some proper lodging. I'm used to sleeping on the
ground. I'm not sure I'd recognize a comfortable bed with actual linens." But he
knows they exist. He ain't been cowpunchin' forever. Actually, he ain't
cowpunchin' at all, he's convincing horses they want to be ridden. Sol Bando
finishes his second whiskey with an 'aaahh' and a punctuation mark of the glass
on the tabletop. "Boarding house is civilized enough." Uses pretty big words for
a cowboy.
Lockett considers. "Boarding house? Is that the soft of thing where they stick a
bunch of men in a room with a couple of cots that out number the men, and the
room smells thickly of sweat and male odor and unwashed male bodies..." As
unappealing as this sounds, Lockett seems quite enthralled with his description.
"..that sort of thing?" He almost squeals when he laughs. "Oh no. That certainly
won't do. Cots are just to small."
Sweet Jesus, you know, I think he may be. Sol's eyebrows shoot up and the
normally stoic expression and demeanor cracks for a look of ruddy bemusement.
Now, what could cause a man to color like that? The implication or experience?
The momentary loss of stoicism to shock is recovered after another moment. A
moment spent motioning for another drink. "I only peeked in one night. Looked
more like a hotel to me. But ... then... what do I know about hotels?"
Lockett perks up, "Is there a hotel here?" Now that would be ideal, Lockett
could have a bath with maybe just a touch of fragrance oil to make his skin nice
and soft and soft sheets to slide between and wiggle his toes. The man blinks
and looks at Sol again. "Well, from what I heard there wasn't. So I suppose the
boarding house is the only option?"
"I think it's the most ...refined option..." Sol drawls out, taking another sip
of whiskey. He kicks back in his chair again, tempted to kick back all the way
and tip it on two of its four legs. "I hear they're going to build a bath
house..." he says. Sort of sudden like, but quiet and crafty. Like an 'aside'. A
'For Your Information'.
Lockett's eyes widen. A bath house! Oh what joy, imagine not just men, but naked
men who are dripping wet. Oh yes! Yes! He's definitely found heaven and he
intends to stay here till he goes to hell in a hand basket. The smile is just
from ear to ear as he finally speaks, "I see. A bath house. Well, cleanliness is
next godliness they say." He fans his face to tamp down the flush.
I think the man's going to explode. I'm not sure I want to be here for that.
When he sees you light up at the thought of a bath house, Sol takes another
swallow of whiskey. "Yeah, the Chinaman's all hot for it. Apparently it's
supposed to be healthy, along with godly. Whereabouts are you from, if you don't
mind my asking. Oh, Sol's the name," he says in introduction. He never gives the
last name. It's.... bad luck...
Lockett considers. Chinaman? He inquires, "They will wash your clothes while you
bath?" How convenient. He lets the question go unanswered, of course, what else
would a chinaman do. "My name is Nathaniel Edward Locket, the Third. Named after
my father's father you know." In case the third wasn't a clue. "I'm from ..
somewhere.. abouts.. New Orleans."
A southern dandy. It ~all~ makes sense. He ain't.... funny. He's just Southern.
Sol seems to relax becoming one with the chair that holds him. In full stoic
mode. "Never been there. Family moved here from the Old World, and I been out
here ever since." Sol lifts the glass and takes a sip. "Passed through Kentucky,
got acquainted with the only two things worthwhile from Kentucky: horseflesh and
whiskey. Horses die," Sol notes, "..but whiskey is forever..."
Oh, but he's funny alright.. but Lockett prefers the term Eccentric. He nods at
that mantra and raises his own glass, quickly downing the contents. He gasps for
a breath afterwards. This man is not used to drinking heavily. "Well now, I
suppose I should be finding that Boarding House."
Sol nods, "Nice talkin' with ya... good luck on finding a room. Hopefully
half-refined..." Sol gives another sidewindin' smile and nods again. The
stoicism returns. As easily as whiskey is lifted to his lips.