Sign Up Withering Creek (A western!) [PG]

[Farto the Magic]

[FONT=Trebuchet MS][COLOR=DarkGreen] John ?Porktongue? Rogers sat in the bar. He was a portly man with a shaggy beard and lavish, though filthy, clothes. He sat at a table to himself, which was covered in mugs and shot glasses. The chubby Mr. Porktongue Rogers was more than a little intoxicated and swayed in his seat, both sides of which he hung graciously over. He got up, steadied himself, tipped his dusty hat to the barkeep, and walked through the swinging saloon doors.
The night air was dry and choked with dust. He walked down the single road of the town, which lead to his ranch on one side, and a series of tents on the other. He looked over and saw the familiar teepees of the Apache on the hills out yonder. The sound of horses drew his attention and he slowly turned his head to see five men riding into town. They were bandits by the look of them, as not one seemed to lack a gun. He reached in his pocket to get his valuables, frantically searching himself.
One of them motioned the other to him and a crack split the silence of the desert night, as Porktongue felt something oddly out of place. Maybe it was a rock in his shoes?or maybe it was the massive bloody spot on his waistcoat where the man shot him. With an audible thump, the fat man fell in a pile on the road.
The men ran into the bar, guns drawn. One of them, a shaggy Mexican man, approached the barkeep with a crazed look in his dark eyes. A smile flickered across his lips as he drew his gun and fired, sending the other man sprawled on the wood-floor of the bar. Two other men reached into the cash register and greedily stuff their bags with cash.
Across the street, the other two men broke through the windows of the bank and approached the tellers? area. One of them attached a hook to the barred door and the other man attached the other end of the chain to the saddle of his horse. He slapped the horse and it took off running, yanking the door from its frame. The man who was yet inside the bank ran to the vault and planted the dynamite. The fuse ignited and he ran like hell, leaving the building as the back half blew apart. The five men ran in and approached the vault. Gold nuggets the size of fists littered the ground as they scooped them up into their bags.
With one last look at the town, the five bandits rode off into the desert.

Here's where you come in. The sheriff of the town identified them as the foxcrest boys from nearby California. Zorro couldn't make it (lucky us), so you are to find them, eliminate them, and recover the gold.

Sign-ups are fairly standard, consisting of:
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Bio:
Description:
Weapons:
Reward: (for the completion of the mission)[/COLOR][/FONT]


[COLOR=DarkRed][SIZE=1]Just a heads up. [PG-13] is not an official rating, so I changed it to PG. Please keep that in mind for the future, thank you. -Ezekiel.[/SIZE][/COLOR]

[Nothing]

Name: Jack Mont the Dirty Traitor
Age: 27
Gender: male

Bio: When a big-time bandit kills a sherrif, they take his badge and use it like a fake ID in neighboring towns. Each bandit gang feeds their horses blue-dyed hay, so when another bandit needs to steal a horse, he knows not to mess with the ones with blue teeth. These are bandit secrets. Jack Mort knows 'em, because for seventeen years of his life, he too was a bandit. He didn't have a family or nothing, no real noble cause for his career. He was just another scumbag varmit, but God damn he was good at it. When a partner in his gang tried to cut Jack Mort out of his share for a bank job they did a few years back, Jack Mort got real pissed and went to the sherrif. "I's a gonna help you catch this rattlesnake who done cheated me, and you's gonna take down 'dem wanted posters in return." Fact and negotiation blurr together if you're a sherrif with Jack Mort's pistol aimed between your pretty eyes.

But Jack Mort wasn't the lucky sort. Some damn bounty hunter beat him to catching his former partner, and Jack didn't have anything else to barter the sherrif for his freedom. 'Till he heard about the Foxcrest Boys in California, that is.

Description: Jack Mort's got a clever face, and forearms that look to come to reckon in a bar brawl, though he ain't no muscle boy, either. Man's got one of those fancy hats, straight brimmed with one side flipped up, dirty brown like his wearing chaps. Blue jeans and a cloud grey shirt, too.

Weapons: Jack Mort and the gang he belonged to trainrobbed a french armory transport when he was twenty three. He got this purty little sawed off shotgun with three rotating barrels out of the deal, along with a six-shooter with a foot long barrel. Accurate at a hundred yards.

Reward: His freedom