The Blazing Gun Saloon

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

"Fer dang shore over mine," says Sarge. "I ain't understood three words o' that thar jibber-jabber. I reckon yore speakin' as ta why it's nigh onta impossible ta get outta this hyar town, an' iff'n you two can figger thet out I'll be beholdin' to ya." He takes the LeMat from his right side holster, and his "possibles" sack, and quickly and expertly loads the bulky handgun. "Well, ya'll jus' keep on a jawin' this over...meanwhile, I'm gonna skedaddle on down th' street an' keep an eyeball on thet priest...shore as shootin' he ain't up ta no good." Jedidiah touches the brim of his hat as he stands. "Ma'am." Finishing his whiskey, he nods to Brantley.
"Pleasure ta make yore acquaintance, Sar."
He exits the saloon. The weather is calming down a bit, and his eyes note the twin tracks left by O'Callahan's hearse in the dust of the street. He says to himself, "Reckon I'll jus' mosey on down thet way..looks like he's a-headin' fer the Smithy."

[Rockula]

Chief Angry Water nods to Sarge then resumes watching the horizon for those who are expected....

[MWBailey]

Brantley turned around slowly to all points on the compass, again, noting and marking with little pulses of tone added to the wire-strand recorder withion the case the position of each, to be reckoned in future by the clicks inserted into the recording by the device (but inaudible outside of the device before playback). Off to the west, and all four points, there were very faint signatures, as of eddies in the outlying borderline energy signature of the town. The affected area seemed by dead reckoning to measure about a half mile in circumference, judging by the centers of the diametrical equidistances of the eddies.

The eddies were common phenomenae in anomalous temporal events such as this; they tended to mark the event horizon, or the point beyond which anything entering the vortex would be unable to leave, and at which anything attempting to leave would be stalled and pulled back; in some cases, they even acted as mobile "watchdogs" that moved apparently of their own accord and captured escaping bodies and threw them back into the vortex.

The odd bit was that the field that contained the vortex and its event horizon was not centered on the Saloon, as MW had originally assumed it would be, but rather more in the direction of the smithy mentioned by Sergeant Gunn -- and at that point there was another, larger, more powerful and downright dirty stellar-core-like signature there; it was as if someone were either about to detonate or had just detonated a (very, very crude) stellar nuke there on the spot -- but it kept growing in intensity, and then fading back suddenly... It took Brantley a moment to realize that it was doing so in time with the rising and falling wind, and that the moments of intensity crescendo occurred just before the lightning flashed, every time -- and then the signature faded almost to a background level, only to begin to build yet again.

He voiced none of this, assuming that it would be too much information too soon, if the rest of the saloon's denizens proved to be as unversed as Thistlewaite claimed to be.

"Brantley?" Sally's voice seemed to materialize out of the smoky air of the saloon. "Brantley, MW, please answer. You're not in trouble, hon, but Committee are adamant that you stay there and figure out this vortex; it's a bad one, according to the Doc, and they can't scan it from here." Sally's voice sounded worried, as well it might; if the A.S.'s systems couldn't scan the vortex, it was quite a bit farther-reaching and more powerful than the Shadowy Gentleman had intimated...

Brantley traded voice for voice with the woman on the other end of the connection for several minutes, an dthen severed the connection after a few red-faced but happy lovey-dovey parting words. He ten turned to the young woman who owned the valise.

"Miss?" Brantley intoned, "I can't recall having heard your name, and if we're going to be working together, I'd prefer to not have to keep to the formalities all the time. I'm MW Brantley, Itinerant Customs Officer, Retired, attached as liaison to Customs Division 16; its a new department," he said, somewhat defensively, when her expression only changed slightly, seemingly indicating doubt of what he said, "created to deal with trans-temporal crime and damaging causal anomalies. Specifically, we target the devices used in such cases, Time itself being a bit too large a jurisdiction for any single underfunded and undermanned agency to control." He went on to explain that he needed the help of someone who at least was used to such things as space-fold and inlaid dimensions technology -- such as the young lady's valise. "And as far as I can tell, Miss, you're the only other trans-temporally experienced person here besides myself... "

[Thalesia Turnblood]

Great poisonous toads, Thalesia thought. Why can't life be simple? Why couldn't Papa Dearest have been a regular scientist -- not a mad one? Why couldn't he have told  her that the metal he forged to reinforce her arm would be attracted to temporal anomalies, getting her mixed up in this madness?

And why, oh why, had she decided to take his space-folding laboratory, which included Papa Dearest's brain in a very nice, very secure jar, on the road with her to her "normal" life?

Such are the vagaries of the Fickle Finger of Fate, she decided. And once in the vortex, there's naught to do but ride it out while incurring as little damage as possible.

"It's Miss Turnblood, sir. Thalesia Turnblood. You may have leave of my given name. So, in overhearing your conversation with your, ahem, friend -- I assure you it was not my intention to eavesdrop. I hope you understand. -- it seems that you, and now I, are expected to find the center of this anomaly, ascertain its cause, solve it, and leave everyone here more or less where and when we started when we stepped into this godsforsaken town."

The gentleman with the unusual pocketwatch and the Martian inner workings nodded hopefully.

Thalesia sighed. "All right. Let me know when the wind dies down long enough to let me open the valise. And the rest of you, help me clear these tables and chairs out of the room. I'm going to need all the space --" she paused and smiled. "A pun. I do love word games. In any case, I shall need all the space I can get."

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

Meanwhile, Sarge has been working his way toward the Smithy, keeping to the boardwalk, peering around the corner of each clapboard building cautiously before continuing..tracking a tracker can be risky business, and the role of predator and prey can be reversed quickly...especially with a man as dangerous as O'Callahan. He arrives outside the blacksmith's shop, and, sure enough, there is the hearse, the beautiful black horses standing patiently, although a bit nervously, their ears and withers trembling every time the lightning crashes. He makes his way to the side of the building, and peers in through a small window. Inside, he see's O'Callahan, and the smith, and what one would expect to see in a smithy..except for one thing...there is some sort of contraption near the back of the shop, made of shiny metal and surrounded by iron rings, and as he watches, blue lightning forms on the bottommost ring, jumps to the one above it, and to the next, and the next, building in intensity until it leaps upward from a polished knob on the apex of the whole affair through an opening in the smithy's roof. Every time it discharges, there is a corresponding flash of lightning in the sky, followed a split second later by a stupendous crash of thunder.
"Whut in tarnation?!?" he says to himself, quietly. He turns his attention back to the two men. O'Callahan is addressing the smith-"And just what, my good man, is that abomination over there in the corner? Some work of the Devil, I don't doubt!" The smith is a big man, as smiths are wont to be, and he retorts hotly, "And just what business of yours might that be, ...Father? The sneer as he says the word "Father" is evident in his voice. "If you don't have need of my services, you'd best mind your own affairs, and get out of my shop...I'm a busy man, a fellow came in here with busted parts for his mechanical spider a while ago, so I've got work to do." The blacksmith is a big man, arms bigger than the thighs of most men, but, so fast that Sarge can hardly follow the action, O'Callahan seizes him, upends the man and, handling him as easily as one would handle a puppy, uses a block and tackle and rope and in short order has the hapless man trussed at the ankles and suspended head downwards above his own glowing fire-pit. Like many true psychopaths, the "governor" in O'Callahan's brain is not functioning, or non-existent..he is easily seven times stronger than a normal man, and quicker than any rattlesnake. He leans in, and, lowering the struggling smith a notch, says again in his whispery Irish brogue, "Tell me what that is, my friend, or I promise you a little bit of Hell right here on Earth..." "OK! OK!" sobs the smith, clearly scared almost witless, " I swear, I don't even know what it really is...that middle part I found in a smoking hole in the ground near Roswell, in New Mexico territory! I brought it back here in my wagon and started tinkering with it...I was trying to figure out how to get it to make power for the shop." "If I let you down," purrs O'Callahan, "will you shut it off? It frightens my horses, and I suspect it has something to do with making it difficult to leave this pitiful hamlet...and I, sir, like yourself, have business to which I must attend..souls need saving, you see, souls of some very bad men." The big smith rolls his eyes in terror. "I can't shut it down! I've tried! Once I got it fired up, though, it shocks the hell out of me every time I try to touch it, and it just keeps getting stronger!"
Sarge ducks back down as O'Callahan, without another word, and leaving the poor smith suspended above the fire, turns on his heel and exits.

(OOC sidebar- MW, you might want to do a small edit above-Thistlewaite exists in this timeline, but at present he is an ordinary Sgt. Major, serving with Her Majesty's Horse Marines in China. He has yet to accidentally kill the little Chinese mage, inadvertently starting the Boxer Rebellion, has yet to acquire the alchemical potions which make him nearly immortal, will not for several years accompany Younghusband to Tibet, or cause the Tunguska event, or become friends with the Curies...all these things are still in the future for Thistlewaite. The fellow in this story is Jedidiah Gunn, who will eventually sire a son, who will have a son, who marries the daughter of Thistlewaite's sister, who will eventually give birth to Thistlewaite's great-nephew and namesake, T.E. Gunn, the detective. See? Makes perfect sense, eh?)

[MWBailey]

(OOC Sidebar: makes perfect sense, and my apologies for not checking it sooner. so its sergeant Gunn, not Thistlewaite.

Thalesia? I hope we're not getting too precipitous in our buildup; Not meaning to leave your character out of the Romance angle, either, its just that Sally ought to be included for continuity's sake, as she was mentioned as an intimate of Brantley's in a previous RP, and Brantley sort of bounces all over the timescape (to coin a really bad pun) as a sort of professional habit, so it's presumably relatively normal for his realtime timeline to still include Sally.

I'll edit and opost again in te later AM, I'm about tofall on my keyboard righty now. night...

[Thalesia Turnblood]

(Not a problem. In fact, it seems highly conceivable that Mr. Fullman (Thalesia's intended) may not show up in this line at all. Or if he does, not until later. Easiest, I think, to Deep 6 the romance line for now and just let the story run.)

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

Sarge waits until the hearse and its ghastly driver are well off down the street before he leaves his place of concealment. "Jehosaphat!" he exclaims, "Thet danged feller allus seems ta have me fixin' thangs up behint 'im!" He hustles into the blacksmith's shop...the smith is bawling like a calf, and his hair is starting to smoke. Standing on the lip of the firepit, Jed wraps one arm around the smith, and, as the tips of his boots start to smolder, he leans backwards with all his weight. O'Callahan strung the man up with as little effort as a man might use to hang a Christmas goose from the rafters, but its all Sarge can do just to shift the big man backwards, away from the center of the pit. "Now whut?" he thinks to himself, "I cain't reach the rope..." Drawing the LeMat with his right hand, he thumbs the lever on the hammer down, squints one eye and discharges the shotgun barrel towards the rope above the smith's feet. The rope parts, and they both tumble to the floor of the smithy...unfortunately, Gunn is bottommost, and the big smith knocks the wind out of him as they hit. "OOOOOOFFFFF!" says Jed. "Tarnation, ye're a big un, aintcha?" The smith frees his ankles, and, wisps of smoke still emanating from his hair, seizes Jed and lifts him to his feet, blubbering out little whimpers of thanks. " I thought I was a goner, sure enough, thanks, mister, thanks!" Suddenly Jed starts to jump and hop, almost as if doing a frenetic dance..."OWW! OWWOWWOW!" He abruptly plops back down to the floor, and snatches the boots from his feet. "Dang!" He looks at the tips of the boots...the sole of each is browned, and smoldering still. "That were a hotfoot for shore! Sumbitch! Them was my bestest boots, too!"

[MWBailey]

the sound of the sergeant's shotgun blast echoes down the street to the Saloon, and Brantley closes the pocket watch, which returns all of the deployed dials to the body of the timepiece, almost too fast for the eye to follow, everything folding and nesting with blinding speed. He then snaps the pocket device closed, and pockets both in their respective places, saying "Chief, if you don't mind, you can stay here with Miss Thalesia; I'm going down to check on the Sergeant and that odd preacher."

Brantley reaches under the duster, and unclips from the wooden stock-holster and whips out into plain view what had previously looked like a mauser self-loading pistol, but which is now seen to obviously be an ugly, wicked-looking , perhaps homemade blast pistol. He makes various adjustments to various dials and switches on the weapon as he steps toward the door, then slips his goggles on and almost starts to sprint down the street toward the smithy -- only to be nearly run down by the preacher, who is driving the hearse-and-hitch hell-for-leather down the middle of the street, as if pursued by a demon. Brantley calls after him, "Preacher! you can't get out that way or any other way! We're all trapped here until we can figure out how to shut down whatever machine is doing it!

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

O'Callahan whips the horses, and goes tearing down the dirt street. As he thunders past the Saloon, he briefly notes the top hatted Brantley shout at him, but the racket of the horses' pounding hoofbeats and the rumble of the iron tyres of the hearse make it impossible to determine just what the fellow was hollering about. He is counting seconds in his head, having noticed that the discharges from the infernal machine were about 8 seconds apart...if he can reach the edge of town before...but no. Again the flash of lightning, and the clap of thunder. He reins in the horses, and does a quick calculation. 8 seconds, and a quarter of a mile from the smithy to the opposite edge of town...88 miles per hour. Grimly, O'Callahan shakes his bald head...can't be done. Even the fastest horses- and his are racing thoroughbreds- can't run half that fast. He will have to find another way. He turns the horses around, and heads for the livery...might as well put them under cover, and allow them something to eat. He wants them in good shape for later.

[Miles (a sailor)Martin]

exiting a very large barn Miles (a sailor)Martin glances around checking the weather , then swears under his breath and heads for the saloon,as he starts across the street a blast of dust blinds him and he is nearly run down by a two horse hearse as it makes the turn around in the blacksmith's frontage. Diving aside to keep from being hit by the offside horse he rolls under the boardwalk for a moment to take stock and observe. . .
 rolling out from under the walk,  he climbs to his feet and using his old stetson he beats some of the dust and dirt out of his clothing then resumes his walk to the Blazing Gun.  Seeing Brantley he stops nods his head and says "good day to you Commodore might I buy you a cuppa coffee or tea  as your recomendation has helped on the part finding. Another day and  my airship will be as good as new  assuming that the weather will co-operate a bit I will fimally be able to make delivery to my contacts in Deseret.   

[Thalesia Turnblood]

Thalesia looked around the suddenly quiet saloon, empty but for herself and the Chief. They eyed each other for a moment before she turned back to her valise.

"Men," she muttered. "Oh look! Something exciting is happening! I believe I'll go run out and add to the chaos!" She punctuated her complaint with nasty little pokes at the locks sealing the case. "You know there's a reason that women are rarely shot. We don't run out in the paths of people who have guns."

The last key turned, the valise popped open, and she stepped back. The whiff of ozone mixed with the comforting scent of formaldehyde as the space above the opened case blurred and blackened. For the merest moment, a hole seemed to open in mid-air, sucking everything and everyone forward a pace, before it reached down like a funnel cloud and expanded outward.

From the midst of the maelstrom, a room began to form. Tables, bookcases, racks of equipment and test-tubes and jars all unfolded and took their place. Within moments, the contained storm had calmed itself, leaving behind an entire travel-sized laboratory in the midst of the saloon.

Thalesia stepped in with a satisfied smile. "There. Now I can get to work." And with a fond pat upon Papa Dearest's jar, she did.

[MWBailey]

Brantley looks at Miles in consternation; he's been told before he resembles Dreyfuss, even that he could be a doppelganger for the cantankerous old airship warrior, but no one had ever walked up to him and greeted him as if he actually were the "Cowboy Commodore," as some European and other personages sometimes denigratingly referred to him.

"I'm afraid we've never actually met, Sir," he tells the man, who was obviously himself an airshipman, " I do know of Commodore Sir Jaisen Dreyfuss, being a fellow acquaintance and sometime comrade of Captain Jonathon ("Mad Jack") Pulcifer, and this is not the first time I've been reminded of my resemblance to Dreyfuss, but I envy you in your experience of having met him; I never have. We move in, heh, slightly different circles. My name is Brantley, Officer MW Brantley, Us Customs, Retired. I 'm here investigating the phenomenon that is keeping everyone from leaving town." Brantley notices that he is still brandishing his homemade blaster, and clips it back onto the stock/holster.

"I've just heard a gunshot from down towards the stable and going to investigate it," Brantley says,  "one of my compatriots headed that way a little while ago. Tell me, do you have any experience in dealing with trans-temporal travel or navigation?"

Just then, the hearse thunders past again, raising a choking cloud of dust...

(OOC: Yesterday,Monday, was my 49th birthday. Sorry about not mentioning it earlier. I'm sort of "iffy" about the whole thing, but no worries, I'll stuck with the RP and what all).

[The Abiliegh]

She coughed, delicately, as the hearse rolled by, her hands immediately moving to check her heavily styled hair. It was an unconscious habit, always ending with a fluff of her curls and a quick adjustment of the feather clip nestled in her piled coif. A tendril of her dark brown locks fell into her eyes as the disturbed air settled, but she left it.

A saloon... she thought with relief. S'bout time.

Having arrived in a carriage, the dust from the travel still clung to her. Images of a hot bath swam through her head, as a bar likely meant beds, and likely meant men willing to pay for them. She smiled ruefully a moment, to no one or nothing in particular.

She checked her reflection in the window, dingy as it was. Dressed in marigold skirts and an olive and brass corset, she managed to hide the several days she'd been without proper lodgings, so long as no one looked past her daringly exposed legs to her dusty, worn ankle boots. I could look nicer, but I could certainly look worse. Not that these ol' small-time cowboys and mountain rats are like to know the diff'rence...

Last, but certainly not least, she checked her weapons. Only the revolver at her side was noticeable, but the others.. they were in place.

And with that, she entered the Blazing Gun Saloon, a coquettish, coy little grin already playing over her exquisitely painted face. "Evenin' boys." She purred.

[[OOC: My dearest Sgt.Major asked me to join y'all. Hope I'm not interrupting! -Abi-]]

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

Sidebar OOC.  As "the boys" said to Mae West. "We're glad to see you're back!" Of course, it could be true also that, as Mae replied, "It's not my back you're glad to see!"
Thank you, dear Abiliegh...You have been missed!

O'Callahan leaves the livery, having given explicit instructions as to the care and feeding of his horses to the hostler, and, though he said nothing specific as to consequences should those instructions not be followed to the letter, that worthy hastens to rub down the beautiful blacks, procures oats for their meal, and cleans and lays in fresh hay in the stall wherein they will be bedded down. He is not in the habit of going to these lengths for the horses of someone just passing through town-or indeed for anyone-but something about the Preacher's aspect told him if he didn't do everything just so, he likely wouldn't see day after tomorrow.
The gaunt priest returns to the Saloon, and, as he steps in, the smell of formaldehyde wafts into his hyper-sensitive nostrils. He closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, and again one side of his slash of a mouth twitches upward slightly. "Ahhhh," he whispers, "I love that smell...have loved it since I was a child." Discerning the laboratory set-up by Miss Turnblood, he says, "Hmm.... don't know how you managed that, but it is a definite improvement on this place." To the barkeep, he says, raising his whispering brogue just a notch, "Another Irish Whiskey. Double. Best you've got this time." He resumes his place at the darkened corner table. His deep set eyes scan the room, and note that a very pretty woman has been added to their number, well, if somewhat scantily, dressed. "A professional, no doubt," he thinks to himself. Women hold no particular attraction for him, but he mentally adds her presence to the calculations always running in his head. Women, particularly pretty women, are sometimes useful...they can make otherwise sensible men do stupid things, and that is something he can usually turn to his advantage.

[CorneliaCarton]

A dark haired woman enters the saloon, seeking shelter from the hot sun. Her dark hair is tied back into a low pony tail. She wears a black tunic, revealing her bare, pale arms. Her long patched skirt swishes as she moves, her boots clacking on the worn wooden floor.
A gun rests in a leather holster around her waist, and a dagger rests in her boot, although it can't be seen.
Her blue eyes search around the saloon, looking for any familiar faces.
Upon seeing none, she walks over to the bar, sliding onto a stool.
"Water, please" She says, a Scottish accent coming through.

[MWBailey]

With the Airship sailor in tow, Brantley made it to the smithy, just in time to see Gunn sit down and examine his boots. Brantley takes in the burns on the toes of Gunn's boots, the forge-fire burning brightly, the tell-tale fraying of the rope tied to the rafter above the forge, and the droplet-spray-pattern of the buckshot evident in only one sector-angle of the surrounding rafters, the holes in the shingles, and the smell of gunsmoke, the rope that still dangles from the burly fellow whom he takes to be the smith... and the Martian Scout-Class Stellar Core powerplant sitting in the corner of the smithy!

The out-of-place item sits there, humming in what seems to Brantley to be an evil, irritatingly insect-like manner, running at overload capacity, but in effect idling, as it continually discharges its built-up energies in pulses through a capacitance coil (or at least, thats what it resembles), that powers the lectric motor (an extremely simple but well-made home build) which turns the flywheel to which the reciprocatintg arm that oscillates the walking beam that pumps the bellows  which is why the flames burn so high and bright. The pulses obviously are not completely contained by either the coil or the circuit, as they or at least the extremely powerful thaumo-electrical field they generate obviously are causing the wildly-fluctuating weather outside. He is nonplussed, having expected something a little more elaborate and frankly, not so easily discovered, but then he remembers that he and it are standing in a smithy, the abode of the sort of person whom, like himself, tends to tinker and invent when left to his own devices.

Then, Brantley remembered the fact that such cores, even those of the lowly scout vessels, were contained and governed by the influence of what a certain time-faring race called an "eye of harmony," or pan-temporal dimensional inlay, sometimes called "spacefold," system. Such a system both contained the core itself, and allowed discharges to be reduced to more manageable million-volt increments; That was the source of power for  his own Chronojammer at MIT, back what seemed eons ago.

He had not quite achieved a space-fold apparattus, however, which was in fact the the original reason for building the Chronojammer device. A pity he had not known about the Martians or their cores back then;  in fact, he had only just recently found out about them, when the information was declassified for people at his level of exposure and trust. This did not seem to be either a chronojammer or a Chronojumper mechanism, though; in fact, if it was really a space-fold containment field, it wasn't a very good one, as it obviously was under very rudimentary control and was allowed to affect everything around it. perhaps that was how the device had appeared on earth: a trans-temporal traveling field resulting from a malfunction in the containment field of the apparently-absent scout vehicle.

As Brantley's eyes return to Gunn and the Smith, he says," You OK, Sergeant? from the looks of things, you had a relatively exciting rescue underway, there. I believe its safe to assume the Preacher did that bit with the rope over the forge fire? As for you, sir, " Brantley said, rounding on the Smith, "this is your shop, ain't it? He rests his hand on the butt of his blaster as the smith edges toward the workbench, and the rifle scabbard that hangs from a peg on the side of it. "Gunn and I have already met, sir, but allow me to introduce myself to you; I'm Malocolm W. Brantley, MWBrantley or or just MW or Brantley to my friends, and OFFICER Brantley to you, until you cease to be a threat! His voice rose in pitch, volume and cadence as the smith edged closer to the scabbarded weapon.

Please, sir, move away from the workbench, or you'll force me to draw and fire." Brantley said in a respectful tone that somehow punctuated, rather than eased, the implied threat, no, the promise of his words... "And while you're at it, s'pose you tell us where the vehicle from which you purloined that core, there, (he pointed at the device) has gotten to?"

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

Jed dips the soles of his boots in the water of the nearby quenching trough, touches a finger to them, and, satisfied, pulls them back on."They's jus' scorchified a mite," he says, "They's about due fer a re-sole soon anyways-reckon they'll do fer now." He inclines his head towards the alien device, and says to Brantley, "I'm a-figgerin' that thang over there is whut's a-causin' th' weather ta be so ornery and persnickety....I'se got some dynermite on my pack-mule over ta th' livery...reckon we kin blow that thar gizmo ta smithereens?"

[Thalesia Turnblood]

"First things first," says Thalesia. She unseals an unmarked jar and takes a deep whiff. She pours some of the contents into an open container hooked up to a simple treadle that she operates easily by foot. A scoop of this, a splash of that and a fire lit under a small stirling engine and very soon, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the formaldehyde and ozone.

"It smells like home." She decants a cup of dark nectar into a clean beaker and mixes in a spoonful of something from a jar marked C12H22O11. Holding the beaker by rubberized tongs, takes her first sip. "Perfect. Would anyone care for a fresh cup of coffee?"

"Oh, and miss," she says as a polished feminine finger reaches out to examine a set of rotating discs connected to two metal-lined glass jars. "I wouldn't touch that. You'll get a nasty shock."

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

[MWBailey]

(whoops, didnt know you were on yet, Sgt. Major! LoL... maybe it'll still fit)

'Holy effing..." Brantley starts, his cheroot, oddly enough still in his mouth, dropping out to spark and die on the dirt floor at his feet. "No, nonono, at least not here, or anywhere near the town; if that thing blows up it'll bast us, the San Juan Mountains, all of New Mexico and the Cimarron Strip, maybe, off the map!  it has to be be turned down, maybe repaired or jury-rigged to keep it from going wild again,  and then shunted to a different location. Then maybe we can blast it to hell n' gone...

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

The smith moves away from the work bench...he's had enough excitement for one day. "I wish I'd never seen the blasted thing!" He shakes his big head emphatically. "I didn't steal it...I found it. I was coming back up from Old Mexico, where I'd gone to get some silver...people like silver doo-dads on their saddles and boots and gunbelts, y'know....and I spied a piece of metal laying just off the wagon track. I know metals, it's my trade, but this metal wasn't like any I'd ever seen. Then I spied another piece, and some scuff marks, like something had hit the desert and bounced back up, then another place where something had hit, and more metal, then a trail of it, and finally this big smoking hole in the ground, with a lot of the strange metal scattered all over the place, and this," he waves his hand at the artifact, "sitting right in the middle of the hole." He looks around imploringly. "I didn't mean to cause any problem...I just thought it might be worth something, so I loaded it up and brought it back here, along with some of that metal. The metal's no good to me, though...I can't cut it, or drill it, and if I bend it, it just pops back into shape after a second or two. The machine, though...I noticed that it magnetized any iron I brought close to it, so with a little tinkering, I rigged it up like it is now. I put up a little box kite with a wire on it in the last big storm we had, and brought some power down to it that way...it fired right up, and it's been running ever since." He holds out his hand to Brantley. "Pleased to meet you, Officer. I'm Lewis Edwin Farnsworth, I'm a Mormon...that's why I didn't much cotton to that Catholic barging in here and giving me orders...but that Priest scares the willies out of me! He handled me like I was a kitten, and I'm sure not used to that! If it hadn't been for this fellow," he waves a hand toward Gunn, "I'd be cooked by now. I just like to tinker with things..I guess it's in the Farnsworth blood-my daddy did, too, and if I ever have a son, I reckon he will also."  "Wal," says Jed, "Iff'n we cain't blow it up, and this hyere feller Farnsworth says he cain't touch it without gettin' a shock, how the hell are we a-goin' ta move it?" He scratches his head, and looks suitably perplexed. "Hit's a puzzlement, fer shore."

[MWBailey]

"Let me and Miss Turnblood take care of moving it," Brantley said, hoping against hope that the enigmatic woman would be able to help --and more importantly, willing to do so. "Once these things start up, they're pretty much impossible to touch with human hands until they're shut down again. If you gents will pardon me a moment, I need to call this in."

Brantley took out his pocket device (the cigarette case) and opened it. Depending on the side that was opened, and which latch was depressed when one did so, one of several different configurations would open up and reveal itself. The one that opened up this time included a rotary-style telephone dial; wildly out-of-period, of course, but there was nothing for it; it was the fastest way to call into A.S. and the Committee that he had, and he felt there was no time to lose in this case.

Brantley's Pocket Device (The Cigarette Case) ]

Hello? he said, after  he had dialed and waited for several minutes. "Is that Sam-- Oh, hello, Sally," he said, warmly. "Yes, I've located the device. You're not gonna believe this one... Yep, its a space-folded stellar nuke core, alright, but it's martian...yes, I'm sure, I did work for them under compulsion for several years, after all...No, no other evidence of martian incursion here; blacksmith who found it, name of Farnsworth...yep, he looks like a relative, now that you mention it...Nope, he said he found it when he was coming back from Mexico with a load of concho silver when he found the site, looked like there was weird metal all over the place, and he loaded it, so apparently the impact, or the pilot turned it off... eh? Well, he says he did like ol' Ben Franklin, and flew a kite in a storm. ..yeah, especially if it was a big, bad storm like comes down off th' San Juans in the summertime...

"What?!" Brantley exclaims, the color draining out of his face as he hears his boss's/paramour's repetition of the Committee's decision, "Sallly, you can't be serious! Chronojump that thing to the homebase? Good gawd, Sally, this thing barely hauls me and Pulsifer's airship! -- Well, of course I've got the black box ball-and-chain... oh, alright, sorry, sorry, I know they can hear me, I just don't like the damned thing. Gives me headaches whenever I pass a Mass Covalence anomaly... yes, there's a strong portable spacefold device close by, its owned by a Miss Thalesia Turnblood... I'm not sure, I think she mentioned her father or someone... oh. OK, Well, if I can turn it down or off, I'll call you back and get the instructions for transporting it...bye, hon..."

Well, I need to get back to the saloon, fellows, and talk to Miss Turnblood about a few things,' Brantley said. Mr Farnsworth?  you can stay here and keep an eye on things. Mr. Martin, if you could stay here with Mr. Farnsworth to watch the device, that'd be a good idea. If that preacher comes back and starts trouble, send him to me and the saloon, tell 'im its a highly delicate legal and diplomatic situation, and that the machine could blow us all up if its triggered in the wrong way. DO NOT let him touch it, or anyone else, for that matter. If the preacher or whoever insists on taking matters into his own hands, Mr. Farnsworth, fire your rifle six times for the distress call, and I'll come a-runnin'."
( OOC Sidebar: Welcome, Miss Abileigh, and Miss Carton. Abileigh, will you be returning to your previous character, or adopting a different one? just trying to keep up...)

[The Abiliegh]

[[OOC: new character, dear. I believe dear Mrs Cross had a rough time of her last adventure, and is looking forward to some quality alone time with Tommy   That said, I'll get a real post out tonight, after I go to my pool league. Hitting the felt with some cowboys ought to put me in quite a good mindset!]]

[The Abiliegh]

She sized up the room while heading to the bar, offering a smile to any who met her eye.

"Interesting crowd..." she spoke softly to the bartender, more to catch his attention than to conversate. They exchanged a knowing glance, from one professional to another, and after she received the nod she was looking for, she ordered a whiskey.

Two women, and a priest... and not one to her liking, by the looks of it. Her mood was dwindling.

And then another man came into the saloon, looking rather like he had a mission, and she decided that perhaps now was the time for listening.

She determined he was heading for the rather peculiar woman, and so she faced away, taking a sip of what could only one day hope to be a single-barrel whiskey. And then, she tilted her glass just so, allowing her to watch the interaction as well as eavesdrop.

[MWBailey]

Brantley strode into the Saloon, fastening the flap of teh holster over the butt and action on the back of the blaster, and securing it in it's place. He took out his pocket device, opened it to a different set of instruments from the last, and fiddled with the ambient energy-detection controls. he close dteh device, and tucked it into the left front inside breast pocket of the duster.

"Miss Turnblood, May I have the privilege of your help and attention? We seem to have need of your spacefolding apparattus, if it can be used on things... other than... your... he paused, looking around in slight astonishment (he'd seen such before, but not on such a scale!). His voice tried to carry on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, but it was difficult with the laboratory which was not there an hour before, staring right back at him. "Laboratory...?"

(OOC: Brantley hopes to move the device to the saloon, using the pocket devices as "vehicles" and Miss Turnblood's spacefold laboratory as a destination. Please feel free to throw monkey wrenches (maybe monkey wenches as well...don't look at me like that, it was only a joke...) into the works; a gunfight, Bandit attack, whatever, might be a good action Idea; maybe there's a problem with Miss T's laboratoryor something... Mad Jack's going to show up soon, sucked into the vortex from a later  year...

I really don't mean to be bossy, if anybody has a different Idea, heck, its probably better'n mine, go ahead and post it and let's do it.)