An error:
“Hmm?” She turns, blinks. “Oh, yes. I get you. I’ll do my part, even if it tugs at my old man’s elbow. He knows you got to stand by your friends.”
There isn’t much left to say the whole ride back.
Preston Springs is quieter than you left it. The days pass as your prepare for the coming of the stagecoach and soon enough a veritable plume of dust rises in the distance, signals its approach.
The wagon clatters to a halt before you. At first glance it seems an ordinary mud coach with the usual spartan cab for passengers. The buckboard for baggage is only a broad slat and the top board for the driver is much the same. But the man atop it seems almost a child as he climbs down. Driven by six powerful horses, this is an ungainly tub hewn from mighty trees. The thorough-braces are of layered leather, must have been stripped from two full cows to cushion the jolts. With doubled wheels, thick axles and hand thick doors, it is the kind of wagon that almost deserves to have sails.
JT Preston swaggers out of the Mother-Lode saloon, eyes the stagecoach of unusual size that lies before him. “Finally. Tell me, is Hancock around?”
Bishop Hancock eases forward. “I’m here, Preston.”
“Good. My boys will get this thing loaded,” Preston begins, "while yours can ride on ahead to see if–
“I have orders pertaining to delivery of the gold-coach, nothing more.” Bishop Hancock replies, adds “no man’s life is worth giving up for worldly weights. Not even yours.”
“Wait, wait, you’re pulling out on me?”
“We have fulfilled our end of the bargain by building and delivering this beast. That is all I am required to do.” Bishop Hancock states, motions to his riders and sends them off. When they are gone, he looks to you. “Good Luck, Marshal. I hope you come through this alright.”
With that, Bishop Hancock takes up the reins of his steed and heads off to join his fellows.
Preston glowers all the while after him. “Typical. When things get a tiny bit rough, off they go.”
“Hmm?” She turns, blinks. “Oh, yes. I get you. I’ll do my part, even if it tugs at my old man’s elbow. He knows you got to stand by your friends.”
There isn’t much left to say the whole ride back.
Preston Springs is quieter than you left it. The days pass as your prepare for the coming of the stagecoach and soon enough a veritable plume of dust rises in the distance, signals its approach.
The wagon clatters to a halt before you. At first glance it seems an ordinary mud coach with the usual spartan cab for passengers. The buckboard for baggage is only a broad slat and the top board for the driver is much the same. But the man atop it seems almost a child as he climbs down. Driven by six powerful horses, this is an ungainly tub hewn from mighty trees. The thorough-braces are of layered leather, must have been stripped from two full cows to cushion the jolts. With doubled wheels, thick axles and hand thick doors, it is the kind of wagon that almost deserves to have sails.
JT Preston swaggers out of the Mother-Lode saloon, eyes the stagecoach of unusual size that lies before him. “Finally. Tell me, is Hancock around?”
Bishop Hancock eases forward. “I’m here, Preston.”
“Good. My boys will get this thing loaded,” Preston begins, "while yours can ride on ahead to see if–
“I have orders pertaining to delivery of the gold-coach, nothing more.” Bishop Hancock replies, adds “no man’s life is worth giving up for worldly weights. Not even yours.”
“Wait, wait, you’re pulling out on me?”
“We have fulfilled our end of the bargain by building and delivering this beast. That is all I am required to do.” Bishop Hancock states, motions to his riders and sends them off. When they are gone, he looks to you. “Good Luck, Marshal. I hope you come through this alright.”
With that, Bishop Hancock takes up the reins of his steed and heads off to join his fellows.
Preston glowers all the while after him. “Typical. When things get a tiny bit rough, off they go.”