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BangoSkankIn collaboration with @Cool Ghoul as Detlev Schäfer, @TaintedMushroom as Westley Maston, and @Archazen as Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne.
The Lord looks down from heaven
on all mankind
to see if there are any who understand,
any who seek God.
All have turned away, all have become corrupt;
there is no one who does good,
not even one.
on all mankind
to see if there are any who understand,
any who seek God.
All have turned away, all have become corrupt;
there is no one who does good,
not even one.
— Psalm 14:2-3
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The scent of old leather, burnt oil, and the faint musk of gunpowder lingered over Ramos' office; a small cubby of justice betwixt a landscape of chaos. He dropped into his chair, his hand brushing past the disarray of papers, maps, and ink-smeared ledgers crowding the desk. He retrieved his worn notebook and dipped the nib of his pen into its inkwell, the dark liquid blooming like blood upon the page as he made to swiftly record the night's grim findings. He made no effort to ensure the notes were particularly legible for anyone but himself, so long as he could return to them later. He never deviated from this practice, this ritual: after assessing a crime, he would commit every detail to paper, no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant. His thoughts poured from his mind, each stroke of the pen exorcising the weight of the last hour until the ink ran dry. Only then did he pause, allowing himself a brief moment of reprieve.
He found himself looking upon his Bible, which lay unopened on the corner of the desk. It had been a while now since he had sought its counsel; a thin coating of dust had begun to form in testament. It's spine, though, was cracked and worn, showing the signs of repeated, long-lived use. It had been an old friend to him, a guide through the dark. But at some point along the way, he had found himself questioning: how long would it lead him through the dark, with the promise of light? It felt like false hope, and yet he longed for its comforts. It felt like a fool's errand, and yet he cursed himself, guilty for roaming astray. He was unaware of his momentary dissociation, but it washed over him. His eyes glazed over, his physical brain stalled, and the immaterial mind wandered. He found no answers in this empty state, but pressed the cross he wore around his neck and closed his eyes for a moment, whispering a prayer that tasted of resignation rather than hope.
Admist this brief moment, wherein Ramos was lost in himself, his gaze snagged on a figure: a dimly-lit apparition who lingered outfront the bakery. The figure stirred his perturbation, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was only Detlev. He cursed himself for his anxieties and returned to the door, opening it; feeling a sense of relief as the old ranger moseyed over. No matter how bad a situation he'd found himself in, it couldn't be worse than what Detlev Schäfer had been through. Despite being ground down by the harshness of the frontier, he remained a good man; a reliable man. Probably the closest thing to a friend that Ramos had in this town, even if he wasn't intent on remaining in Amistad for more than a few weeks.
"Dios te bendiga; I'm glad to see you," Ramos said with a heavy exhalation. “Do you have a minute?”
In a gesture of respect seldom-seen from the rugged man, Detlev cast his cigarette aside and extended a hand out towards Ramos — which was quickly accepted. "I’ve got several, if you’re willing to share what had you charging back into town like hell’s hounds themselves were nipping at your boot-heels." There was a hint of a smile on the older man’s lips — honest mysteries were far more his wheelhouse than monster slaying these days… likely a consequence of the scarcity of the former, and the overabundance of the latter. Now, with their formal greeting complete, and Detlev’s hand now free, in one sweeping motion he was once again bedecked with a cigarette, and reached up to light it. The old lighter took a few sparkings gasps, but ultimately sputtered out, failing to evoke a flame.
Ramos reached for his own lighter as he ushered Detlev in, immediately clicking the less abused igniter into action, and restoring his ally's font of dopamine.
"Your hands are shaking, Benjamín," Detlev offered upon entering, his gaze lingering on the other man’s extended hand, that telltale shimmer of curiosity briefly lighting his amber eyes up, followed by a slightly less intense glare of concern — his previous hesitation had been out of respect for his old friend’s position: if he were to march into the sheriff’s office unbidden and started throwing questions around, well, it wouldn’t exactly be a response befitting the hospitality he’d received thus far… He’d expected to have to make a strong case for access to the old Ranger safehouse, but Ramos had given him the key the very same moment he’d asked — there was trust there, that much was clear, and Detlev was loath to deny it the reverence it deserved.
Ramos didn't directly respond, waiting for the door to creak shut behind him. "Sit if you like," he offered, remaining stood himself, hands resting on his hips as he digested his circumstances. He approached the whiskey on his desk, and glanced up to Detlev in wordless offering.
Detlev’s eyes lingered on the bottle, then the man — he didn’t often imbibe, it wasn’t in his nature to dull his senses, but there was an unwelcome weight to Ramos’ movements, his fingers white-knuckled as he grasped the neck of the bottle. Whatever the nature of the illusive burden that sat upon the Sheriff’s shoulders was irrelevant — all that mattered was how clear it was to see. So, with a nod of his head, he acquiesced to the offer of a drink, and slung it back without a second thought: a subtle invitation for Ramos to do the same, should he need it.
“Two dead on a ranch not two-thousand yards out. Torn up to a shred. By the looks of it, the handiwork of a man, not a beast,” said the sheriff, knocking back a single shot. “Worst is, there’s been folk gone missing up the quarry way. I had my concerns before, but reckoned that people disappear of their own volition out here all the time. Couldn't find any trace before. But I’m startin’ to think it’s no coincidence.”
"Killing innocent folk belies a lack of perspective, more than anything else." Detlev offered — there wasn’t much feeling in his delivery, only a delicate undertone of contempt. "But a man operating wholly without perspective is dangerous in his ignorance… Though it may not be my place to advise you, I urge you to tread carefully in this, Benjamín: you hunt a monster who walks in the skin of a man, and on such hunts, one must be selective with their trust. I learned as much during my bounty hunting days… tell me, what will your opening gambit be?"
"I’ll get the lay of the land," Ramos said, dabbing the sweat from his brow: a bodily response that betrayed the cool of the night he’d just escaped. "But if this is as gnarly as it looks, ‘might have to mount a posse — should that be the case, I could really use a hand from an old friend."
"Then you have it." Detlev offered, the corners of his lips curling upwards briefly in an altogether slight but definitely present half-smile, indicative of seldom few years spent practicing the gesture.
A colossal crash echoed from the saloon, followed by a cacophony of smaller, lesser shatterings of glass, and both men were up on their feet. The rare moment of warmth that’d seemed so recent, so important, now faded, pulled out of their periphery by the cold, inevitable grasp of memory.
"¡A la verga!," Ramos barked. "Excuse me," he said, sparing no time in reacting, swiftly marching out of his office in the direction of the Kiskadee; his dominant hand hovering an inch or thereabouts from his waist-holster. He didn't stop to see if Detlev followed, but he doubted the ranger would stray too far.
Outside of the saloon, a groaning man was crumpled in a heap, the shattered remains of a window surrounding him. Ramos briefly appraised him, finding him to be carrying only minor scrapes, and to be bathed in the ripe scent of alcohol, and disregarded him.
"Enough!," he bellowed, blasting the swinging doors to the saloon wide-open. When the ruckus didn't immediately die down, he repeated himself, louder: "Hey, enough!!"
Twice was, indeed, enough. Ramos had a reputation for fairness in spite of harshness; and a call thrice would've been enough to have him blow his gasket. The townfolk of Amistad knew him well enough to gauge that today was not a day to test his moxie. Whether or not the comers-and-goers would maintain that same level of deference, it remained to be seen. With his warning call heard, and a stillness befalling the room, an exhale saw Ramos’ rage subdued. The castigator melted away, and the lawman returned. He scanned the room. Tables were overturned, chairs splintered, and a few patrons were still engaged in half-hearted grappling, though the majority had backed off at the sight of the sheriff. Big Jim, the burly fool with bloodshot eyes, stood by the bar, rubbing the back of his head and glaring daggers at a little guy across the room — a caravaneer Ramos knew not the name of, who stood poised, eyeing their surroundings like a cornered fox might. Ramos’ eyes narrowed. Big Jim wasn’t the type to start trouble unless he was deep in his cups. Ramos strode toward the oaf, glancing down at the glass shards scattered at his feet.
"You better thank your lucky goddamned stars I got here before McRiley," he said sternly, firstly regarding Jim. Behind the bar, there was a veritable chunk of a man; not the saloon’s proprietor, who must’ve been out back or otherwise preoccupied. "Now I’m only gonna’ ask this once; which of you jackwagons is responsible for this ruckus?," he demanded, looking around the room for an answer.
Maston's eyes began to roam, searching for any sort of alternative exit. He hadn’t necessarily started it, not in his own eyes at least. That didn’t mean he’d be confessin’ his part in matters anytime soon. He reached up to tuck his hat down, attempting to not look at the lawman who’d just barged through the door. Trouble on day one was certainly not what Maston was looking for but he’d be damned if it weren’t par for the course.
With the silence outstaying its welcome, Ramos let loose a haggard, disappointed sigh: "Someone better talk, lest you all fancy yourselves a night in jail."
"Sheriff, I didn’t mean no trouble, it’s these drifters, sir, they’re always out pickin’ fights," Big Jim bumbled, still nursing his mildly bludgeoned crown. The large man raised his sausage-like index finger first in the direction of Maston, and then in a sweeping gesture towards the other newcomers.
Ramos narrowed his eyes towards Maston: a face he didn’t well recognise. He waited for explanation. It could well be the case that Jim was underplaying his own part in this mess; alcohol was lingering on his breath, after all.
Maston damn near cursed aloud when the big man pointed that meaty finger his way first. Christ, all he’d wanted was a drink after arriving in town and a bed for the night, not all this malarkey. "Now that don’t feel too mighty welcomin’, a stranger blows in lookin’ for meal and board ain’t barely been here a’day and bein’ blamed for all this ruckus. S’a mighty fine town ya’s got here lawman," Maston said with just a tad bit too much sourness in his drawl.
"Well, I don’t mean you any disrespect, mister —," Ramos said, pausing expectantly, waiting for the stranger to conjure up some verbal identification, his words laced with saccharine insincerity.
"Mister’ll do," was all Maston responded with, a slightly belligerent tone taking form.
"Well, Mister," Ramos echoed, clearly a little irked by the lack of compliance. "Looks like you and Jim'll be sharing a bunk t'night." He beckoned Jim, knowing quite well he’d come and follow, tail between legs, as it wouldn’t be the large man's first night in jail. The newcomer, however, Ramos had no reason to trust, so he made to restrain him.
Maston almost made to bolt, he genuinely considered it for a second. Clearly this whole situation had gotten out of hand and it’d be just like him to make things worse, his hand twitched slightly, an itch in his trigger finger whispering dangerously in his ear. His heart rate ticked up a couple notches and a sense of anticipation built: "Ah hell." He spit through gritted teeth, exhaling with frustration. It took every bit of willpower to keep it in check, but Maston certainly didn’t need to make matters worse. Any other time he might’ve drawn, but that same feeling that had drawn him here made it hard for him to jeopardize his situation on the first day.
With that, Ramos disarmed the coachguard, restrained him, and firmly, but with no sense of belligerence, began his delivery from out the saloon. Maston, while not actively seeking to break free of his bonds, seemed to challenge the sheriff somewhat, striving to inconvenience his momentary adversary. Ramos was used to it. These types always liked to make a show, make sure everyone knew they weren't soft-like. But they all ended up in the jail cell the same; wasn't worth it to run from a lawman after a bar-brawl; best-case, you became a wanted man, and worst case, you found a bullet in your head then and there. It was a much more rational decision to take the slap on the wrist and accept detainment, which most often would see you a free man by next morn'.
Before Ramos could shuffle out of the door, Maston in tow, another individual made their presence known. Reginald cleared his throat, a subtle yet deliberate gesture to capture the attention of Sheriff Ramos. "Sheriff, might I request a moment of your esteemed attention?" he began, his voice carrying a tone of respectful urgency. "I discern that you embody the very essence of bravery and integrity: a steadfast protector of truth, a shining exemplar of unwavering justice. With such distinguished qualities, it seems only necessary that you would be inclined to address a few irregularities. Surely, such matters fall within the scope of a man of your remarkable stature, would you not agree?"
Ramos raised an eyebrow, nonplussed by the gentleman’s jargon. He decided that he’d let him run his mouth, see if anything of use would slip out in the process, letting his grip loosen on Maston for a moment, but keeping him in eyeshot nonetheless.
Without waiting for a response, Reginald pressed on. "Excellent, then: the first issue — there is an utter lack of tea available, a grievous oversight that has left me in a state of profound dismay. The absence of such a fundamental comfort is nothing short of a travesty, and I implore you to rectify this most egregious error posthaste." He took a brief breath, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued. "Additionally, I have noticed the absence of any hourly chime from the town clock, and this simply will not do. Such neglect must be rectified immediately. Any town worth the merit of being recognized as one should have its clock tower be prompt and on time." Reginald’s tone grew more insistent. "This is a matter of utmost importance and surely falls within your purview to address. These are injustices that simply cannot be overlooked… I trust that a man of your caliber will see the necessity of these actions and will act accordingly." Reginald’s eyes softened slightly as he concluded, peering intently at the sheriff, ensuring the enforcement of his words.
A silence hovered in the air for a few moments in the aftermath of Reginald’s rant. The patrons, baffled by such behaviour, which was frankly alien in a place such as this, exchanged looks of befuddlement, awaiting the sheriff’s reply. It was anyone's guess how Ramos, overburdened by many a pressing issue that superceded tea and town-clocks, would respond to such demands. Whether in lunacy or genuine amusement, he cracked a smile, which became a chuckle, and then a throaty laugh. This was met by confusion among many of the patrons, but, for a fair few, it was matched with laughter of their own. As his laughter dulled, Ramos poked a rigid finger onto Reginald’s lapel: "Listen, silver spoon, you must’ve took a wrong turn; this ain’t Buckin’ham Palace, and it sure as shit ‘aint no quaint resort. If you’ve got complaints on how this town is administered, I suggest you take it up with Mayor Davis; but I expect he’ll tell you the same thing I’m about to. We’re tryin’ our damnedest to just about survive out here, and as you can see," he gestured to the debris around him. "Your problems ain’t one, two, three, four, or five on my list."
Reginald, utterly aghast at the positive uproar his plight had incited, took a step to the side, his eyes wide with disbelief. Convinced that his concerns were of the utmost importance, he was utterly baffled by the laughter that ensued. With a deliberate and cautious grace, he lowered himself into a chair, wincing internally though his face remained a mask of composure. The audacity of these common folk to live in such squalor and yet not aspire to better themselves was beyond his comprehension. It was an affront to his sensibilities. Yet, he reminded himself, this was their world, not his own. Could it be that his words, so reasonable in his eyes, were perceived as unreasonable in the current state of affairs? The thought gnawed at him as he pondered the disparity between his expectations and their reality. As he sat there, Reginald dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, a gesture of both frustration and an attempt to maintain his dignified appearance amidst the bewildering circumstances.
Whether summoned by the fighting, the smashing, the hollering, or the laughter, Ol' McRiley burst in from out the back door. "Well, what in the hell!?," he snarled, his eyes forming daggers at the employee behind the bar, then at just about every patron who looked complicit in the shenanigans. "Can a man not go to answer the call of nature for, what, ten minutes, without this place goin' t' shit?!"
"All under control, Mr. McRiley," Ramos said, as he reclaimed his restraint on Maston.
"Well who’s payin’ for my damn window-glass?"
"I’ll make sure your windows are seen t’," he replied. "Maybe Prince Edward here’ll lend a hand," he pierced a glance over at the Englishman. He then turned his attention to Detlev, who watched on from the doorway. The lever-action the man had previously held ready now rested over one of his shoulders, but still remained easily to hand, should the situation have suddenly changed for the worse. Ramos approached, speaking in a hushed tone: "Can ya'... Could ya' get a scope of these?," he tilted his head back towards the new faces in the saloon. "Need to get these locked up, then pay the Mayor a visit... If you can get an idea of what we’re working with, it'd be appreciated."
Ramos knew he asked something of Detlev that would likely make the old ranger rather uncomfortable, but he also knew him to be a good judge of character, and a man who, above all else, had an interest in protecting the lives of the good-natured folk whose lives were presently at risk. He gave his old friend a strained smile, a token of his gratitude. He'd pay him after all this was done; not that Detlev had asked for it.
Before long, Maston and Jim were safely behind bars in the back-room of Ramos' office. The sheriff was grateful he had two cells, as he could only imagine what round two would look like in such a small, contained space. He looked down at the sorry state of Jim, and was satisfied with what he saw; a man who let his bravado and his temper get the best of him, and nothing much else. The other feller, though, he wasn't so sure about. It'd be worth questioning him later to see if he knew anything about the killings. Something told him that this man wasn't quite a homicidal maniac, though.
"When I'm back, you an' me are gonna' have a chat," Ramos said, looking down at the coachguard. He didn't linger to hear a response, and made his way outside.
As he mounted Captain, he mapped out the coming day. Mayor Davis usually woke up good and early: five sharp. Ramos would have to be at his door then. He'd have some morning coffee, and inform the good mayor of all the night's gruesome events; or, at least, the ones that the mayor needed to know. Then Ramos would get dear Nurse Davis and bring her along to collect the bodies from the ranch, then he'd secure the perimiter, then he'd be back in Amistad to continue investigations. But he couldn't sleep yet; he hadn't the time for it, so he banished the thought of sleep from his mind completely. First, he'd find Guillermo.
