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Cormano Looking for work around El Dorado, Babyface overheard a few townspeople discuss patrols that were being held to secure the surrounding area around the settlement. Interested in the work Babyface asked about it and was referred to the sheriff's office to volunteer. Shortly afterwards he set out into the sweltering desert to patrol the area, and safeguard the settlement against whatever dangers might lurk out in the wastes.
Cormano walking the perimeter of the settlement Babyface remains wary of any possible treats he may face, this not being his first trip through the desert, he keeps his weapon at the ready, his .357 revolver in his hand. The beating sun hangs overhead, Sombrero shielding his eyes from the worst of it's rays.
Cormano Babyface pats his other weapon, checking if it's still in his holster, for now his trusty .357 will do. He scans the edges of the horizon, finding no threats to speak of. He relaxes somewhat and continues on his patrol.
Cormano hears the desert stirring behind him, he wheels around and spots a Raider attempting to get the drop on him.
Cormano The raider tries to react by raising his club and charging towards Babyface just as his .357 goes off! The round catches the raider in the chest, his charge immediatly halted. Babyface takes advantage of this and brings his revolver to his hip, fanning the gun as fast as he can, until the only sound that can be heard is the click of the hammer on spent rounds.
Cormano The rounds from Babyface's .357 punch through the raider, one after the other in rapid succession, each round finding their mark. Babyface's hands work nearly by their own, skillfully moving the shooting iron so that every round flies true, indicating a familairity to the weapon forged over a lifetime of use. The raider collapses to the ground, incapacitated by the hail of fire. Without thinking Babyface drops the last round in his pocket into the .357 and clicks the cylinder into place. Moving with the machanical precision of a skilled gunhand.
Cormano The raider watches Babyface approach him with the revolver leveled at his head. His mouth contorts into a silent scream, pleading for his life as the Ghoul thumbs back the hammer. Babyface's face remains stony, perhaps not even registering the raider as anything but another varmint that needs putting down. His eyes take on a glassy quality as he pulls the trigger of the revolver, barely hearing the dull crash as the round escapes the confines of the barrel and into the greymatter of the bandit.
Cormano Babyface glances over the crumpled remains of the raider, he opens the cylinder of the revolver and ejects the final round before stowing it into his vest. He slowly takes a seat on a nearby rock, feeling his aching joints creak as he settles into place. He draws his trusty .44, the revolver he's carried since he began this journey westward. He takes a moment to admit the weight of the Revolver, and for that moment it feels more real to him than anything around him.. Gradually the scene returns to him and he tisks, "Shoulda tried to bushwhack me fella." He rasps out, perhaps a note of meloncholy rings through his statement. He produces a handrolled cigar from his pack and lights it with a wooden match deftly on the heel of a trail worn boot. Each drag he takes from the cigar pours smoke from his lipless mouth. He remains alert to any possible further threat, But looking over the raider he could tell that the fellow was working alone. His ragged appearance and gaunt face betrayed a life of solitude. After Babyface finishes his cigar he rises with some effort from his seat, feeling the weight of the years for a time. He pats down the raiders body and takes whatever meager objects of value this villain clung to in life. "'Spose I should call it a day, one body's enough I figure." He rasps to himself, then moves on, headed back to town.