[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/e3smjDe.png[/img]
[sub]Courtesy: Lord Bowler/Julius Cary[/sub]
[h3][b]Billy Kingsley[/b][/h3][/center]
“Oh, how’d y’all get me roped into this game. I ain’t no gambler, but mees no complainin’ ‘bout winnin’ dis ere money.” Billy never gambled. But somehow someone got him into this game in the saloon in Sweetwater, Texas. He looked over at the older white man who was a few inches shorter than himself. He didn’t know the man, but he looked rough. He was wearing one of those wide brimmed ten-gallon hat, Billy always mocked when he rode the trail. Even the Comancheros he rode with thought those hats were awkward looking. But Billy convinced himself not to say anything about it. He suspected by his accent, the man was from the deep south. If he was going to get into a fight, it would be on his terms. He’d never heard a Louisiana accent, but knew it did not sound like anyone from Chicago, Indiana or Iowa. He spent most of his life up north, but had been in Texas for the past several years. He had gotten used to the Texas accent, but this gentleman did not sound like someone from Texas either. “You kin try n’ take dis money, Missa Logan, but I ain’t in da mind to be givin’ it away.”

There was another Yankee at the table, who went by the name of Finney. He was shorter than everyone else at the table. He could tell by his appearance, that he only recently arrived in Texas and did not know what he had gotten himself into. There was a time when he would view a northerner as an ally or friend, but having received the shit end of the stick more than a few times, he knew not to trust them as much as a southerner. But with this kid, he felt as though the young man would need his help more than a typical Yankee found in Texas. He made a commitment to himself that he would watch the kid and help if he needed, until he betrayed him somehow. With whites, Billy knew it was not if, but when.

Billy didn’t know what to make of the white woman or the Indian. He knew many Comanches and Apaches, but he never met someone quite like him. Billy addressed Mistihkoman, “Where you from, friend? Ah’ve lived with Commanches and Apaches. You be different. Ah reckon, ah can’t place where you from.”

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[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/i9SRWwX.png?1[/img]
[sub]Courtesy: Dick Brewster[/sub]
[h3][b]Phineas O’Connell[/b][/h3][/center]

Finney played cards with his school mates in Amherst. The stakes often were higher than the game here in the Sweetwater saloon. But somehow, he realized there was more at risk here than when he was at school. For starters, he knew all the boys he played with at school. These people he was playing cards with were all strangers to him. His father told him to be wary of strangers like these. He thrilled at being here in this backwater saloon, the smell of alcohol and burning tobacco. It all excited him. He had never seen a native before and here he was playing cards with one. He wanted to ask the man questions. He wanted to ask all five of the people at the table many questions but felt he would only scare them away if he threw too many questions at them too quickly. He made a point to observe their behavior and make inferences from that. Maybe he could develop a comfortable rapport with these people to ask his questions. 

Finney had met several colored folk either in Boston, Gloucester or Amherst, but they were usually fairly well dressed or at least comfortable. This giant of a colored man wore Cavalry trousers and boots. He wore a cowboy hat, one he’d never seen before. He wondered if he served in the army. “Excuse me, mister,” Finney looked at Billy. “Were you in the army?” He wasn’t aware black men served in the army.

“Yes sah,” Billy responded. “10th Cavalry. Buffalo Soldiers.”