Desmond and O'Mally
December 29, 1873
 

December 29, 1873 It is Saturday morning. (6:45am) Desmond Tall and slender, reminiscent of a serpant--a snake, perhaps--Desmond Sneed is dark of hair, skin and feature. Standing a full six foot four, he moves with reptilian grace--starting and stopping fluidly as if movement is only an extension of the thought behind it. Likewise, his black eyes show little emotion beyond the basics, yet there is a steely, penetrating, calculating depth to that sharp-eyed gaze. His handlebar moustache, constantly twisted by nervous fingers, almost seems to slice his long angular face in half with it's linearity. Long black hair hangs in delicate rings down his neck and capes over his upper back. Desmond is well-dressed in immaculate black garmets, vested and cloaked. A silver and black gunbelt with matching boot dagger completes his image of sinuous charm. O'Mally: You look up at the man in front of you who stands well over six feet tall with wide shoulders. Your first impression might be a blacksmith.. or a lumberjack till you catch the shine of a five pointed badge pinned to the lapel of his long duster. 'A pretty boy' leastwise as the miners might call him, with his golden hair and sky blue eyes. O'Mally steps onto the porch pulling his duster closer around his shoulders to block out the morning chill. He pauses, pushing his hat higher onto his forehead so he can take a closer look at Desmond. Now there's trouble with a capitol B. As if it were mid-summer, Desmond Sneed sits on the porch of the Saloon in the center of Maddock as if he owns it. Consider this, perhaps, a foreshadowing of sorts. Consider it, perhaps, an explanation of his nature, as he can so casually withstand the bitter weather, his only concessions apparently the gloved hand curled around the mug of steaming mulled wine, and a black silk scarf tucked within his coat. O'Mally might not only recognize trouBle, but also feel a real homey familiarity with Desmond's features, as though they've stared at him from various walls throughout his long career. Oh, yes, O'Mally has stood face to face with a lot of Bastards in his time, some staring back from the flat expanse of a wanted poster and others equally lifeless at the end of a rope. A mild expletive too soft to be understood escapes his lips as he finds himself taking up a position by the railing and searching his pocket for a smoke. Damned shitty assignments. "Morning." And shall we mention that Desmond's legendary black destrier stands ground-tied in front of the railing? The huge black gelding that he purputedly rides on his stagecoach holdups, on his recent explorations into rail-road robbery... There he stands, white blaze the only mar in his handsome inky hide. Rumour has it that Sneed blacks out that blaze, before he sets out on a strike. Desmond himself slowly directs his gaze to O'Mally, studies the man for a longer-than-long moment, and then nods, agreeing: "Morning." O'Mally finds his bag of tobacco and sets to rolling his smoke, his hands revealing niether tremor of cold or nervousness. A man gives up being scared of the bad guys once he starts feeling like one of em, its all a matter of who's playing the prey this time. And perhaps he is stupid to take his eyes of Desmond, or smarter then he knows, as he surveys the horse for a longer-than-long moment. "That yer horse?" Another longer-than-long moment before a rather cool (as befits the weather) slick-smooth baritone answers, languidly. "Interested in buying him?" Sneed's face twists itself into the slightest shadow of an interested smile. Or a raptor's amusement. O'Mally feigns suprise. "He's for sale?" A slow whistle of appreciation as he examines the horse again, "Can't imagine a man wanting to part with a piece of flesh like that." And then he looks up, straight at Desmond, "Lessen of course it wasn't his to begin with." Not that he's accusin Desmond of horse theiving, no sirree. That same low slinky voice responds with the same utter languor. "I neither said he was my horse, nor that he was for sale. I asked if you were interested in buying him." Desmond's expression turns more into a smile. After the fashion of his hero, The Grinch. O'Mally chews on the end of his cigarrette, spitting loose tobacco towards the stair of the porch. "Well now, I reckon I already got myself a good enuf horse." Lie. He turns, dismissing the horse from his mind, but not once dismissing Desmond, or the threat he represents. "Congratulations." If ever sarcasm dripped from oh-so-polite words... Desmond doesn't seem to move. Serpent-like he seems to remained in so many coiled coils, silent, waiting for an opportune time to strike, or to be amused. His obsidian eyes, black mirrors, study the marshal. A glance towards the Sheriff's office belies a touch of nervousness in the man. Ain't likely to be much help from that front. Another soft curse. "Some men are gathering at the schoolhouse to form a posse." Desmond mmmmmns, "How very...Diligent." Desmond draws in a slow sip of his wine, the steam wisping to momentarily soften that harsh regard, "For what do they posse?" Slime like you, his eyes seem to say. "Indians, raiding up near Selby." A flick of his fingers send the stub of his cigarrette into the snow. "Many a good men giving up their warm beds to help those folks out." Not men like you of course. Beyond the porch railing to the north, Reardon saunters over from the east. Desmond slides his cold gaze past O'Mally to observe Reardon, but he seems to address O'Mally, "A posse is going after Indians? Do they expect to 'arrest' Raiders?" Desmond, for all his city coat and Eastern manners, finds the idea preposterous. Beyond the porch railing to the north, Reardon strolls off towards the saloon porch. Reardon hurries over from the northern road. O'Mally glances at the approaching man. "I reckon not." He shrugs off the images that accompany that thought and looks back at Desmond. "Course, I'll be staying around here." To see that guys like you don't think you run the place now. Reardon steps right through the center of town, with one destination in mind, and the sooner he can get there, the sooner he's out of the cold. Ever polite, is John Reardon, however, so he pauses long enough to smile, and tip his hat. Desmond sits in a long black trenchcoat, a black scarf wound around his neck, matching black gloves, one of which holds a rapidly cooling mulled wine. His (you guessed it) black gelding - a huge and handsome beast - stands groundtied by the railing. "In your warm bed?" Desmond's polite question is offered back to the marshal, along with his emotionless gaze. Desmond nods back to Reardon. Reardon: Buff-tan snakeskin boots lie just below sharp-pressed pants of dark chocolate brown, belted with a belt that matches the shade of his boots. His shirt is off-white, or ivory in color, full-sleeved, in a card-dealer's style, under a vest of the lighter tan color; the buttons are, naturally, of dark brown wood, and well-polished. A jacket of the same dark brown as the slacks is worn over all, well-tailored, but not as 'obvious' as his former tailcoat. His face is now clean-shaven, the thin mustache having been shaved away, making the man seem a handful of years younger than the fourty he's seen. His hair, raven black, has grown a little longer than it's normal close-cropped cut, and dark green eyes that were once hard, have on occasion shown a softer light. All in all, he seems much changed -- including the bulge beneath his jacket which tells the keenest eyes that he carries a weapon. O'Mally offers a curt nod towards Reardon, his actions suddenly laced with a touch of defensive anger. "You could say that. Liken no one around here gets to making me have to be elsewhere." No one like you, the threat states. Desmond's study of O'Mally becomes quirked with a mild interest, before he turns to Reardon. "I must constantly admire the men the U.S. Government selects to represent them in the capacity of Marshal; I have never yet met one who could speak proper English." Then, with that comment, Desmond smiles back to O'Mally, "Pardon? Something about not having to be anywhere else...? I did not quite follow you." Reardon's smile widens. "Whether or not a man can speak proper English," he returns, with his clearly educated Bostonian voice, "should be the least factor in determining his worth, as a Federal officer." Another nod, as he heads for the saloon doors. "Gentlemen." There's a thought, that Desmond turns back to O'Mally, "Are you worthy, Marshal, as a Federal Officer?" Reardon strides off towards the saloon. O'Mally's eyes narrow dangerously towards Sneed though its a dance he isn't willing to start off just yet. No here, not alone, not with this particular snake. That's him, all bark and no bite. "I get the job done. Killing men for a living ain't nothing any man is proud of." Well... this man at least. Over the rail to the south, Cutter swings a leg over and dismounts. Furthered: "And this is why - I wasn't quite clear on your explanation - your warm bed need not part with your company, to 'arrest' raiding Indians?" What is clear is that Desmond Sneed has a laughably low opinion of the tactics - lawful and military - that the Federal government and Montana Territory undertake to control or protect their various populations. In the south road, Cutter saunters off towards the saloon porch. Cutter walks over from the road to the south. Desmond sits on a chair, dressed warmly, holding a mug of slightly steaming mulled wine in one hand. His huge black gelding stands nearby, saddled, relaxed, but not tied. Cutter: He wears an old Cavalry tunic with black pants and scuffed boots. A brown leather vest rests over the tunic with a well oiled colt .44 revolver holstered to his right side. He stands 6'2" with a build that fits. Wide shouldered and carrying himself with a certain unshakable air, he tends to command at least some minor amount of respect. Leathery hands and a copper complexion speak of a hard lived life, confirmed by the sincere gaze of deep grey-blue eyes. Dark brown hair is pulled back beneath a wide brimmed black stetson with a brown leather band. O'Mally follows Cutter's ascent before answering Sneed. "Yea now, I can see how you got everything all twisted. I will be staying on here, " a pause as he realizes he doesn't know the man's name. He didn't ask on purpose. "Making sure this here town is safe while most of the men are away." Most, that is, save a very suspicious looking man in black. "Now if'n there's no trouble here in Maddock, then mebbe I'll be able to enjoy that warm bed." He stares at Desmond, "Ain't going to be no trouble in Maddock, is there?" "I," Desmond returns evenly, unblinking soul-black gaze staring right back at O'Mally, "Never have any trouble in Maddock." Cutter does not interupt the discussion between the two men, not being the type to, and simply touches his hat politely by way of greeting. Desmond returns a slight nod to Cutter in greeting, but his attention rests almost solely on O'Mally. O'Mally leans back against the railing, abandonning the topic with a curt nod. "Let us hope that will remain to be the case." Allowing more of his attention towards the new arrival, O'Mally tips his hat, "Cavalry man, hmm?" Another government institution Sneed can sneer at. Desmond would really hate to have trouble here in Maddock, indeed. He allows his gaze to unfocus and refocus on a nearby woman in neat petticoats, hurrying along with a small child at heel. Cutter anwers with a small nod, moving slowly toward the doors of the saloon, "Was." Cutter strides off towards the saloon. O'Mally doesn't want the man to leave. Just yet. He nods, respect coming into his voice. "Helluva way to make a living." He glances at the black horse then to Sneed before calling after Cutter. "I wonder if you would buy this animal." A sigh, too late. That actually elicits something of a snort from Desmond. Humour? Sarcasm? Judgement? Unclear, for nothing but the cold snowy landscape reflects in ebon eyes. With an eerie silence, Desmond sets his drained mug down and rises. He's like the snow - see it, taste it, feel it, but something about its very volume, its very motion of collision against self seems more to muffle sound than cause it. There he is now, on two black-booted feet, regarding the Marshal evenly for another long moment before he turns and traces his way down the steps he'd mounted a scant half-hour ago, to the huge steed who greets him with perked ears and a soft whuffle. Mirth laces O'Mally's silent expression before his tugs his jacket closer and steps towards the warmth of the saloon, done freezing out here. "Morning." Hell, works as a greeting and a farewell. "Not much longer." O'Mally will miss the very warm, very human caress that Desmond spares for his horse, his only lasting partner. Then Desmond catches the reins over the gelding's neck and swings onto him, turning the black with leg, not reins, to an easy trot north. O'Mally strides off towards the saloon.