6GS solo campaign (with pics.)

[Legionnaire]

I managed to play 3 games in my continuing campaign tonight. Write-up and pics below, hope you enjoy it!  

In the spring of 1880 Zebulon “Zeb” Turvey, his wife and child and Zeb’s old friend Amos Cross make the big move down to New Mexico, Zeb has purchased a ranch and aim to breed horses and Amos seeks a climate that’s easier on his aching joints. Zeb has hired on three local men, there’s Miguel, a former Rurales and a veteran of many campaigns, Carlos who’s been a drover most of his life and had to defend both himself and the lifestock on several occasions and Frank, a young gringo. Amos takes up residence in the nearby quaint little village Esperanza and spends his days mostly watching the world go by from his porch and go on a bender once in a while, the Devil in the bottle still attracts his attention.

They haven’t been long in the area when Amos one day sees Zeb and his three hands ride through the village like bats out of hell, they just have time to pull up their horses before his porch.
“We’re after some horse thieves Amos, and if you’re not too busy we could use another gun,” Zeb says.
“How many of them?” Amos says as he rises to get his kit.
“Looks like 5-6 of them, they stole four of our best horses, Senor,” said Miguel the foreman with a grim expression.
“I shall not be long, I’ll catch up with you.”
“Thank you old friend,” said Zeb with a nod and that was all before the four riders once again set off.

Amos managed to catch up with them but had to ride hard to do that, a steed of less than excellent quality wouldn’t be able to keep up for long. The five rode mostly under silence, Zeb had earned his keep as a hunter for many years and his keen eyes were constantly scanning the surroundings for tracks. After some time at breakneck speed Frank shouted:
“Sorry Boss, but my horse is spent, she can’t keep up with you’se. Dang!” The youth seemed disappointed but there was no use in killing the horse.
“Don’t fret Frank, turn around and head back to the ranch. They have gotten further than I thought and we will head home again if we don’t catch up with them soon,” Zeb replied.

Pressing the horses just a little harder they see a dust cloud in the distance and upon investigating they find it’s six men herding four horses at a quick pace, the riders seem edgy. When Zeb and the four riders come into view, the six riders pick up the pace and draw their longarms! If there were any doubts, they were blown away. The pursuers are closing in and stray shots are fired on both sides, one of the rustlers jerk a bit in the saddle as if hit, but carry on riding and a volley is fired in return towards Zeb and his men. Amos shouts out in pain and tumble from the saddle, luckily he is not dragged along by his horse. Zeb hurries to his fallen friends side, Amos is grunting in severe pain and is clutching his right shoulder as Zeb dismounts.
“God Damn, the shoulder’s busted Zeb, I can’t move my arm.”
“That looks pretty bad Amos,” there’s a worry in Zeb’s face because there’s a large blood blossom on Amos green shirt.
“Can you quickly patch me up and get me on the horse? Then I can ride back to Esperanza, I’m no good to you in this way,” there’s frustration in Amos voice but he has to acknowledge the reality.
With combined efforts Amos is soon mounted and rides back towards Esperanza at a slow pace, he is slumped over more of shame than in pain, even though the wound hurts pretty much.

“Looks like we got one of them Wayne,” says Eric to the leader
“Maybe they will give up now.”
“I don’t think so boys, if anything, they’ll come down even harder on us now,” said Wayne with a slight tremor in his voice. If he had known who these horses really belonged to he’d never rustled them in the first place, but he recognized Zeb Turvey and the man that had been shot was his best friend, the gunman Amos Cross.
“How’s so boss, they’re three against the six of us?”
“That there is Zeb Turvey himself,” Wayne pointed out the man riding point holding a rifle
“and the man that we shot down is Amos Cross.”
“Shit Hellfire boss!!! What do we do now then,” it dawned on the rustlers what they were up against.
“We have to hole up and fight, they will never let us go away, their horses can keep up with us. Hopefully our superior numbers will be just what we need.”
A few minutes later Wayne gave the dismount command and they were scurrying for cover with their guns.
“They’re dismounting, Senor, and are preparing to fight it out.”
“I can see that Miguel so we do the same, now listen up, I don’t want these horses back at ANY price, so if anyone of us will be killed, we have to let them go. Amos is already badly shot up and Frank had to return back, there are six of them down there, but I count only four rifles amongst them.”
“Ok Boss, as you wish, I’m in,” Carlos said and dismounted, drawing a trapdoor carbine from the boot holster, while Miguel took his brand new Winchester rifle. Amos chambered a new round in his Sharp’s carbine and filled his pockets with spare cartridges. This was going to be a tough battle.



There were a few rock formations and a small stream that the rustlers had crossed over, cover was sparse but there were some sad shrub around that’d suffice, so both the rustlers and Zeb and his men made the most of it. Carlos was the first one to fire his weapon, several times he reloaded and traded shots with one of the rustlers, puffs of gunsmoke drifted over the landscape accompanied by the reports. Carlos decided that the returning gunfire was a bit too close for comfort so he shifted position. Meanwhile, Zeb lines up his sights and squeezes the trigger. The bullet flies true and one of the rustlers fall backwards.
“Howie!!” one of the rustlers cry out and rushes to his side.
“You bastards, he’s dead. You’ll pay for that!”
Miguel cocks the Winchester and fire off several shots against another rustler that’s together with the leader, there’s an outcry and the man slumps to the ground.
“Grat!” Wayne brandishes his sixgun as he runs to his brothers side but it’s too late, Grat lies down staring up in the sky unseeing, half his lower jaw is missing and there’s a large exit wound in his back too.
“Grat!” Wayne cries and hold the body of his departed brother for a moment.
“Well, Howie won’t be needing this now,” says one of the rustlers and picks up the dead one’s rifle and holsters his pistol.
“You son’s o’ bitches,” grumbles the rustler that’s with Wayne and aims his rifle towards Miguel. The gun barks in his hand and he can see that the Mexican tumbles down, screaming in agony and drops the Winchester. Carlos creeps to the underbrush to Miguel’s side.
“Hey compadre, how are you doing?”
“Not too good, I can’t lift my arm and I’ve got split vision, must’ve bumped my head as I fell.”

With grim resolve Zeb fires at one of the rustlers but the shot goes wild and the rustler takes cover in the dirt, the rustler fires back and luckily the bullet is deflected off of a gnarly branch, Zeb spots the muzzle flash and fires back, the rustler screams and roll over on the side not holding the rifle anymore. Carlos is tending to Miguel and is fired upon, the bullets buzz around him like angry bees, he returns fire but only manage to kick up some dust on the rustlers, a bullet with his name on crashes into Carlos and he feels all of his body go numb and there’s a warm wetness in his lower abdomen, sitting down he stares at the hole in his gut, his mouth goes dry.
“Boss, both Miguel and I are shot up pretty bad, you’re on your own. Sorry Boss.”
Zeb feels a cold rage getting hold of him, his men are alive but not fit for combat, the rustlers will NOT get away with this!
Zeb trades several shots with one of the outlaws before one of Zeb’s shots hit him in the lower back and the rustler falls to the ground severely wounded.

“You there,” yells Zeb as he reloads the Sharp’s Carbine, the gun barrel is warm.
“you have two choices, the way I see it. Either we can continue shooting each other to pieces, but seeing that four of your men are out of action I personally don’t rate your chances very high. Or you can run away, leaving my horses behind and we call it quits. My two men are alive but in need of a doctor. What do you say?” Zeb checked that the Remington Army he carries is also loaded and ready to use if those two rustlers are going to do it the hard way.

“Damn! What do we do Wayne?” Tooth Franklin was nervous and why shouldn’t he be. In the last minute two of their friends had been killed and two were in a bad way. Wayne chewed on his lip, on one hand there were two of them, but on the other hand, on the other side was Zeb Turvey.
“Alright, alright,” Wayne shouted back.
“if I had known whose horses these were, I’d never taken them. Do I have your word that you won’t shoot us in the back if we leave?”
“You have my word, but just to be clear. If I see you again I will kill you, you hear me son?”
“I hear you Turvey, we are leaving your horses and getting out of here.”
Wayne and Tooth Frankling wasted no time but ran to their horses as fast as they could and rode away. Zeb gathered all the horses and loaded the wounded Miguel and Carlos up on them, heading back to Esperanza first to give them some much needed medical attention.

EPILOGUE: The two wounded rustlers were still suffering from the after effects of their wounds by summer, Carlos arm wound refused to heal properly so he had to be put on light duties. Miguel and Amos on the other hand made swift recoveries and by summer they were the same healthy specimens as before they were shot.

[Legionnaire]

New Mexico, Summer 1880. After the word has spread about the rustlers, it’s been fairly quiet on Zeb Turvey’s farm and the business is starting to pick up. Once a week or so he rides into the village of Esperanza to see his old friend Amos Cross, for a drink and a chat. Nothing much ever happens in Esperanza, but say the peace and quiet that lasts… This Thursday is no different from any day, insofar as Zeb is concerned. He dismounts outside the local cantina and enters the cool building, Amos will be here in a little while, Zeb nods to Enrique the barman and is served the usual, a cool beer. There are a few men in here and a pretty young senorita is making her rounds, she’s got a pleasant laughter Zeb muses as he sips his beer, he takes out a spotted neckerchief, a gift from his wife and wipes his face, Christ it’s warm here.
“So that is the Biig Zeb Turvey,” a sniggering voice pipes up in the back. Zeb looks in the expensive mirror behind the counter and sees a young cowhand in the company of two friends.
“well, I can understand the Biiig part, look at the gut on him.” Roaring laughter sounds but Zeb just takes another sip of his drink. True, he’d never been a small man but now he’s getting older and have a good wife that cooks for him, and truth being told, he likes it just fine that way.
“Now, I don’t know about you guys, but I heard he needed a buckboard to take him to town today, his horse couldn’t stand the weight.” More laughter and sniggering. Zeb put the clay pot down on the counter wiped his beard with the neckerchief and turned around.
“You’re a funny little man, or so you think. You certainly have a mouth on you and if you don’t zip that up I will take you outside and dip you in the water trough like a little baby.” The tone was friendly and even slightly jocular but Zeb’s eyes never left the youngsters flickering one.
“Wha… wha…what dddddooo you mmmmm…” the youngster stuttered, trying to look cool but only managed to blink away tears.
“I mean that, if you don’t shut up back talking me, I will carry you by the seat of your britches, kicking and screaming, outside and dunk you in the water trough until you learn to treat people with a little bit more respect.”
The man stood up quickly, he looked furious and his hand was on the gunbutt.
“Nnnn…no one tttt…talks to mmmm… me like that!”
“I do, son.” Zeb didn’t take his eyes off the youngster for a moment, his hand was on the gunbelt, but not close to the Remington Army he carried in a cross-draw fashion.

The youngster glared at Zeb across the space of maybe 20 feet, his knuckles were white, he was gripping the gun that hard.
“Now, I know you’ve had a few drinks and you had your little fun, so let me tell you this. If you grip that gun harder you may shoot your toes off, because there’s a difference between carrying a gun and knowing how to use it.”
“Dddd… don’t talk to me like a child. I…I… can ddddd….draw and shoot ffff…four out of ffff…five tins.”
“Yes, you probably can, but can your tins do this?”
Zeb was middle-aged and overweight but he had been trained by his friend the gunfighter Amos Cross and those skills were deadly. With blinding speed his hand moved across and whipped out the Remington, cocking it and aiming it at the youngster in one smooth movement. The youngster swallowed hard.

“Eh… No… Sir.”
“Good, now beat it. My friend will come soon and he might take offense at you, he’s not as kind and generous as I am.”
There was a scrape of stools, and the trio headed for the door as fast as they could, almost tripping over each other in their eagerness to get out. Zeb holstered the Remington and turned to Enrique.
“You know those three are Walcott’s men?”
“Yes I do, that’s why I came down so hard on them. He thinks he owns the whole place and we small ranchers should just bow down to him, but as far as I’m concerned, that ain’t gonna happen as long as I live and breathe!”
“Si senor, many people feel the same, but he’s a powerful man.”
Zeb was going to retort, but at that moment Amos strode in, he seemed happier these days, probably because his joints didn’t ache as much as they used to, but he still wore his twin Colt’s in a double holster on his hips.
“You got anything to do with them youngsters running out of town as fast as their horses could carry them?”
“Maybe old friend, maybe.”

New Mexico, Summer 1880. After the incident at the cantina the word spread like wildfire and there were many laughters shared at that, but one man was anything but laughing, Jedediah “Jed” Wilcott, owner of the Cross Bar ranch, the biggest one in the area. He had come with lots of money and built up a thriving business, people assumed he was a wealthy businessman, but little did they know that he had earned most of it after coming out of the Civil War, there he had discovered he had an affinity for killing and for several years he had hired himself out as a gunman, quite successfully. His men worked hard, but they were also well paid and well treated, now one of them had fallen to become a laughing stock of the community and there was a risk that would have an adverse effect on his business. Wilcott brushed some lint off the shoulder of his expensive three piece suit and ran his fingers through his grey hair. Something had to be done. He rang a silver bell on his desk, as if on cue an immaculately dressed gentleman appeared.
“Caruthers, please summon Mr Stuttering Joe,” the man nodded and exited the study.

Liam “Stuttering Joe” O’Rourke was nervous and it showed, he was shifting from foot to foot and his armpits were damp with sweat, he took a deep sip from the glass with cold water but he still felt parched. When the Boss calls you come, asap.
“So… Liam is it?” Wilcott smiled towards him, and he could only nod affirmative, his throat was so dry that he couldn’t speak.
“We seem to have a small problem, but I’m confident that you will be able to find a solution to it.”
Liam felt a chill running down his spine, he didn’t like this one bit at all.
“A few days ago you had a run-in with a man by the name of Zeb Turvey and he bullied you, is that correct?”
Liam knew full well that Wilcott knew it was correct, but he expected an answer.
“Yyyyy… yes sir.”
“As a member of my staff I find that intolerable, just because you have a speech impairment, and he also threatened you at gunpoint. Such manners!”
Liam waited for Wilcott to continue.
“Here is what I would like you to do…” an evil grin spread over Wilcott’s face.

Zeb was woken up by the thunder of galloping horses, gunfire and smoke! His little daughter who was two was crying and was held by his wife. He pulled on a pair of boots and rushed outside in his long johns holding the Sharp’s Carbine. Miguel, Carlos and Frank were shooting at several riders armed with torches, and they were targeting the wooden buildings. Zeb fired at some of them but didn’t hit any in the darkness and the chaos, they soon rode off and Zeb and his men had more important things to think about. In the growing dawn the smoke was thick over the ranch, they had managed to save most of it, but there were damages that needed repairing, as Zeb surveyed the scene he whispered one word.
“Wilcott.”

Later that day Zeb and Miguel, the ex-Rurales man, ride into Esperanza to purchase replacements for what had been lost in the fires and also seek out Amos Cross, Zeb’s old friend. In low voices they tell him what had happened at the ranch and after the purchases they make their way towards the cantina. Before they reach it they see three cowhands loitering outside, one of them is “Stuttering Joe”.
“Hello Turvey, where’s the fire at?” sniggers and cat-calls from his cronies are heard.
“That sounds like you know all about it, so I come to claim payback for what you lot destroyed.”
“I’m a man that pays my dues, let no man say otherwise,” Liam puts his hand in the pocket and throws a nickel at Zeb, the coin lands in the dirt.
“There, now we’re even, that’s all you’re worth to me!” Liam spits out angrily
Zeb looks up slowly from the coin to Liam, there is not a trace of kindness in his face, only cold Death. In a low voice that carries well he says:
“That just bought you a bullet from my gun, Stutters!”

“Stuttering Joe” and his two cronies slowly walked out on the street and squared off opposite Zeb, Amos and Miguel, about 20 yards separated them. The town folk that had heard the word exchange were getting off the street but too curios not to look. A stray dog was barking in the distance and you could hear a pin drop, a slight breeze wafted up grains of dust over the street. Suddenly it happened! As if he could read minds Amos drew both his long barrel Colt’s that he wore in a low slung double holster on his hips, people who saw this say that was the fastest draw they’ve ever witnessed, one spectator swore it was even faster than when he had seen Wild Bill. With uncanny speed and accuracy Amos filled the half breed with lead even before anyone else had had time to react, his hammers clicked on empty chambers as everybody else drew their guns. Miguel had served with the Rurales and was no stranger to violence, his large revolver came out of the holster fast, so fast that the opposing cowboy is still drawing his when Miguel levels the gun barrel at him, a shake of Miguel’s head is all the cowboy needs to slowly let the gun glide back in the holster and raise his hands in the air. Zeb has lost none of his speed and is only slightly slower than Amos, certainly quicker than Miguel, and his Remington is unwavering at “Stuttering Joe” before his gun is out, but Liam is furious. With a snarl he tries to yank his gun free but Zeb’s Remington barks once and Liam feels the air is knocked out of him, it hurts like hell and he can’t stand upright, there’s a lot of blood forming on his shirt, he clutches the lower abdomen, the gun is still in the holster.
“Yyyy… you shot mmmmm… me…”
“That I did boy, so unless you want to be buried six feet under I suggest you give yourself up. I won’t ask again.”
“Mmmmm… Mr Turvey?”
“Yes boy.”
“It hurts a lot.”
“Good.”

AFTERMATH: Liam “Stuttering Joe” O’Rourke was still suffering from the gunshot wound by Fall 1880, despite Wilcott’s generous help with hiring a doctor it would be Winter 1880 before he was fit for work, by that time he was highly dependent of stimulants. This incident would spark a nasty business that would be known as “The Esperanza Range War.”

CAMPAIGN: Zeb Turvey is a Rep 5 Mountain Man (Brawler, Lame, Familiar with Remington Army Pistol) with 6 XP (need 8 to become Rep 6!) and Amos Cross is a Rep 5 Gunfighter (Drunkard, Crackshot, True Grit) with 3 XP, Miguel is a Rep 5 Ranger with 1 XP and Carlos and Frank are both Rep 4 Cowboys, Carlos is a Veteran. In the last gunfight I rolled 6D for Amos Draw and scored 6 successes!!!

[Elbows]

Excellent story-tellin'.  Now you need some trees...

That first game looked like a knife fight in a phone booth in that piece of terrain!  Things got a bit...Topsy..Turvey? (BADUM-CHING!)