[center][h2][color=silver]Dean Jackson[/color][/h2][/center]
[hr]
[b]A few minutes before the firefight...[/b]

The saloon was full to the brim with people, customers mingling among themselves while the employees worked to keep the place going. As another hot day began in Dawson, the sun hung high in the sky. At the bar many folks were already drinking heavily, droplets of split liquor splashed onto the fine wooden surface but were quickly wiped up by the attentive bartenders. The working women within the tavern passed out drinks to tired patrons, all while flaunting their breathtaking beauty. At a small round table several gamblers sat, pint glasses spread over the table while they played cards. A prostitute sat on the lap of one of the men, whispering into his ear with a smile. For the moment it was peaceful, that momentary peace would not last long.

"Do they even know who you are?" The pianist asked, half jokingly and half rudely. Adjusting his glasses as he took his position at the bench in front of the old piano. 

"[color=silver]I don't need an introduction, friend.[/color]" Dean Jackson replied with a cocky grin. 

The former slave turned wandering musician knew these drunks, desperadoes and drifters wouldn't care what his name was. Ninety percent of them would be focused on the color of his skin. It didn't matter, part of him enjoyed the anonymity. Always allowed him to watch with such satisfaction as they were all utterly stunned at the display of musical mastery played before them. Dean tried to be a modest fellow, but considering how damn good he was at what he did, modesty could sometimes be difficult.

[color=silver]"Just play the notes I wrote on that sheet. If this goes good, I'll give you a quarter of the tips."[/color] Dean said calmly, tuning his guitar as he had his back turned to the audience. 

He stood upon a small raised stage on one side of the large saloon, an empty mug serving as the tip jar. The piano was to the left of the stage, and pianist just rolled his eyes, forced to go along with this performance. He didn't think he'd start his day taking orders from a negro, but his boss had no qualms hiring the man after seeing him perform previously. Gave as glowing a review as someone could. Once the old instrument sounded just right, he spun around and revealed himself to the crowd. Looking out at the room with a smile, none in the crowd returned the expression. Really he just saw glares, but that was something he always expected.

[color=silver]"Hello there, I hope you're all doing great today. My name's Dean, just sit back, grab a drink and enjoy the show."[/color] He said to the crowd, hearing a few boos and jeers in return. Then dove right into performing, gently playing a few chords as the piano started slowly. Dean began to sang in a slow baritone, as his fingers glide over the strings.

[i]Across the trail I rode
The sun sets low in the hills
Only moonlight lights my path
Then I heard them...
Then I saw them...
[/i]

Dean's hands picked up pace as he rapidly plucked and played his guitar, his foot tapping along to the beat of it as his fingers danced over the frets. The piano picked up pace, keys nearly pounded as the song sped up like a horse speeding through a field. His voice went up slightly in tone as he sang quicker.

[i]Three outlaws, three guns, aimed my way
I turned and ran, as shots rang out
My six shooter bared, three to one, no care
One down in a bloody heap, face-down in the dust[/i]

A few of the patrons grooved to the music, tapping their feet and nodding their heads. One of the prostitutes started to dance, swinging her hips as another grabbed her and the danced as a duo. Dean smirked as the instrumental carried, the frantic pace of the music chugging along. His hands shifted and moved around the instrument. He briefly glanced towards the doors as they popped upon, and a troublesome duo entered. He heard one in the crowd speak of Dawson's gang, and that caused the musician to blink, but not break stride in his playing.

[i]The other two rode hot on my trail
Bullets glided by in the wind
Another dead
But not me, partner[/i]

Then the piano player paused, as instructed, and Dean took centerstage. His fingers dashing over the guitar, as his feet tapped faster. He glanced back towards the crowd, having memorized the song from constant repetition. The chatter between the Coyote and Dawson's men drawing his eyes towards them. Dean had heard of Adams, never seen him before but heard the names in his travels. As the coin flipped in his direction, landing in the mug, he was in the process of singing again, the piano kicking back into the music. As the Coyote left with foes in tow, Dean watched them, singing.

[i]Wolves watching in the distance
Vultures in the skies
Dead men lie
But not I[/i]

A shot echoed in the outside and the song finished early. A firefight had a particular way of drawing all the attention. Many of the patrons jumped out of their seats, and looked out the doors and windows. Others took cover, Dean darted off stage. Leaving his surprised pianist behind. He dashed out the back door, tucking his guitar behind him as his other hand slipped into his holster. A smile went onto his face as he moved through an alley, taking cover behind a building and cocking his six shooter.

Dean had left the building.