Trouble Walked In

The saloon door creaked open, heralding a hot breeze and a figure silhouetted by midday sun. Not a few eyes glanced up from their mugs to squint at the shadow as it meandered through the doorway. The bar man — a man with a bushy beard who was wider than he was tall — paid the figure no mind until they strolled over to the bar. He continued polishing a glass stein as the stranger poured themselves into the seat in front of him. 

The character was as distinct as they had attempted to make themself indistinct. They wore a wide-brimmed hat, a scarf covering half their face, and a duster. The classic dress of a cowhand, wrangler, or an outlaw. One of the barmaids — an elvish woman with curls piled high and a low cut dress — eyed them carefully as she planted herself across the bar man. She set a pair of empty beer steins on the counter, and gestured for two more. The character didn’t speak a word while she stood beside them, eyes fixed on the barman.

“You want somethin’, stranger?” he finally asked when the stranger didn’t speak.

“Looking for a couple of good men,” the stranger replied, finally speaking. They had a silky smooth voice unbefitting of the rough wardrobe they donned. 

“Aren’t we all, sugar?” the barmaid joked as she came back with another set of steins. “What kinda men you lookin’ for? We got all sorts ‘round here.”

“Someone who ain’t afraid of gettin’ their hands dirty,” they replied. The voice was ambiguously epicene, but they wouldn’t remove their scarf to reveal any identifying features. “Got any of them ‘round here?”

“Plenty. Just gotta look in the right spot.” Her eyes drifted towards a group in the corner before she carried away another couple of full beer steins. 

They were a rowdy bunch, the four she pointed out, though not in a way egregious for a saloon. A pair of men, an orc, and a dwarf, all sitting in a circle around a rickety wooden table stacked high with money and playing cards. Each had a few stories carved into their skin. One of the men had a cigar hanging off his lips, dirtying the table with tobacco ash, and the orc leaned over a whiskey he looked to have been nursing for a while. The hatted figure stood back up and sauntered over to the table. Three pairs of eyes and a single eye glanced up.

“Mind if I join you fellas?” The figure tipped their head towards an empty seat. The human with the cigar in his mouth glanced over at the other three, who nodded back at him.

“Take a seat, bud.” 

The chair scraped over the wooden floor, irritating the sensitive ears of the elvish barmaid and the handful of other elves in the saloon. The orc — bespectacled and wearing the finest gear of the bunch — dealt a pair of cards over to the figure, frowning as he did. He hadn’t dealt the flop yet, nor did they seem to be finished with their opening bets.

“Here’s the buy-in,” the cigar-wielding man said, fanning out his cash on the table. “But I’ll let you buy short if no one’s got any complaints?” The other three shook their heads. The stranger reached into a little leather satchel hanging off their right shoulder and slapped a few bills onto the table. The orc nodded appreciatively, then continued the round of bets.

The four men laughed and cajoled as they played their hands while the stranger stayed quiet. They kept their eyes on either their cards or the face of the man betting. The dwarf was a professional bluff; his eye patch made for a better poker face than the impish grin when he’d raise behind the orc. The man with the cigar played a little more cautiously, calling more often than raising the pot. None of them played too fast or too loose, keeping each other on their toes as they kept the game running. 

Of them, the man with the cigar won the most hands. He had a keen eye for the others in the group. Seemed to know when they were bluffing and when they weren’t. The stranger could tell he was trying to get a read on them, but they kept themself as ambivalent as possible. 

“Never seen you around here before," the dwarf asked over a calmer hand. The man without the cigar had a clear edge, judging by the way he played his hand. He was quieter than the rest, until he got a good hand. But he still wore a perfectly indifferent mask.

“Ain’t been around here before.”

“So, what’s your story, wanderer?” 

“Nothin’ special.”

“Lotta ‘nothin’ special’ at this table. You’d be surprised how interesting nothin’ special can be.” The orc tapped the table as the bet came around to them. “Would you believe ol’ Jargal over here used to be a banker off in the city? Didn’t think they gave opportunities like that to his folk.” The orc waved his hand dismissively at the dwarf.

“Nothin’ special about being a banker out east,” the orc replied.

“Maybe out east, yeah. How ‘bout you, friend?”

“Ain’t anythin’ to tell, really.”

“Everyone’s got a story —”

“Leave ‘em be, Reider,” the man with the cigar said gently. “‘Less you plan on tellin’ him your story.”

“My story? My story?” The dwarf puffed out his chest. “I’ll tell anyone my story! No shame in —”

“You had to get ‘im started, Marlowe.”

“ — my story! I may be blind in one eye, but I’m sure proud o’ how I —”

“I didn’t need to get him started. He was headin’ on that way himself.” He puffed out a cloud of cigar smoke. The other human coughed as it floated into his face, his lips contorting awkwardly. 

“ — got my scars!”

“Ain’t no one in the mood to hear your blusterin’, Reider,” the elven barmaid called as she walked past them. “We all know y’lost you’re eye when you walked into a nail stickin’ out a fence by the McKinney ranch.” The dwarf's face went redder than a sun-ripened tomato and he hopped out of his seat. His height didn’t change significantly when he did so, but he marched towards the bar with the swagger of a larger man. 

“Now, you see here Líadan! You know damned well —” 

“I know what?” The dwarf followed the woman back to the bar grumbling loudly in a language the stranger couldn’t understand. The orc rolled his eyes but looked relieved to see him go. 

“So, what is the real story, stranger?” the man puffing thoughtfully on his cigar asked. 

“Like I said, ain’t nothin’ to tell really. Just lookin’ for a few good men is all.” 

“Yeah? You reckon you’ll find any out here in this li’l nowhere town?” The stranger raised an eyebrow then leaned forward. Their eyes shined with a conspiratorial gleam.

“Yeah, I reckon I already did.” The three left at the table put their cards down, and the man dragging endlessly on his cigar leaned back in his seat. A grin spread over his lips, as if he’d finally gotten his read on them. “I reckon the four of you will do nicely. You four and…” 

The stranger picked up a card and flicked it to a table behind them. A figure wearing a poncho with a hood snatched the card out of the air before it bunted his nose. He twirled the card in his fingers, icy blue eyes peering from the depths of the hood to the group. The other three turned to glance at the hooded man, who sat upright in his chair for the first time.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you,” the stranger said. “The posters don’t do you justice, Conall.”

“Conall? The Conall Madigan? Fastest gun this side of Dodge?” the dwarf asked as he came back to the table, hefting several steins of beer. The hooded figure dropped the hood from their head, revealing pointed ears and long blonde hair slicked back. He gave the dwarf a half-hearted salute and an annoyed frown. Not that he could be blamed; few men with bounties on their head like having their name announced in a crowd. Even if the sketches only carried passing resemblance.

“Fastest gun the other side of Dodge, too.”

“Well, then who’s the fastest gun in Dodge?” The orc rolled his eyes. “You’re tellin’ me the Conall Madigan is —”

“Christ’s sake, Reider, get off it,” the cigar-toter said. “‘Less you want that big mouth o’ yours shot off.”

“I don’t mean nothin’ by —”

“Wouldn’t that be a blessing?”

“Oh, well, ain’t that sweet o’ you, Jargal?”

“So, whaddya want a group o’ four slobs and a wanted gunslinger for?”

“Slobs?” The stranger’s grin was almost visible through the scarf, the way they smiled. “Y’all think I’m stupid? I think I know why a light-fingered orc ain’t a banker out east anymore.” The orc’s eyes snapped away from the dwarf, the greenish tone of his skin flushing red. “And you thought I wouldn’t notice that cigar hasn’t burnt out yet?” The man didn’t straighten up in his chair, but wore a grin on his face like the cat that ate the canary. “I thought magic was banned out in the west.”

“Not in Kansas.” He gave a little wink and puffed out another cloud of smoke. “But you still ain’t tell us what you want us for, rustler.” 

The stranger beckoned over the elf at the other table before considering opening their mouth. The elf — purportedly named Conall and wanted in three counties, at least — sidled over and dragged a chair up to the table. The other elves in the saloon cringed again, three of them audibly swearing and one of them spitting out a mouthful of sarsaparilla. He scrunched himself between the orc and the dwarf, eyeing the stranger with suspicion in his eyes.

“Well, I ain’t a rustler, I’ll tell you that. But I got a buddy, and he’s got a job. Which, you five might be the right fit for.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” The cigar finally left his mouth, dropped unceremoniously into the orc’s watered-down whiskey. The orc glanced down and sighed, as if he actually planned to gulp down the rest of the swill. “Do we look like guns-for-hire?”

“Nah. But I’m looking for better than hired guns.” A wolfish grin split his face and he turned his gaze to the other four men sitting at the table with him. The elf gave a scowl as if he’d pissed in his oatmeal. The other three, on the other hand, gave shrugs and half-hearted nods. 

“Alright, and what kinda job you lookin’ at?” The stranger’s eyes darted around the room, but no one in the saloon was listening. They all heard enough to know better than to keep listening actively. 

“You ever see those unmarked boxcars traveling through the station in the middle of the night? Let me tell you a funny thing about dragon hoards…”