The younger Baker brother, Wayne is substantially less threatening than his counterpart. With a slightly pudgy, round face, he often wears a friendlier expression and appears to be the less cruel of the two. Just like his brother though, Wayne is a big guy, and holds plenty of raw power in his stocky frame.
Clothing & Style
Wayne dresses simply, with work clothing and suspenders used for most occasions. He has never been a man of expensive taste, and this life out on the road suits him fine. He also has a bandanna, and matches it with a big ten-gallon hat to hide all but his eyes from the world.
Weapons & Equipment
Wayne sports a plain old Remington 1858 at his side, a weapon that does the job and won't complain. His pride and joy though, is a first-model Winchester, lovingly adorned with etchings along the stock and a custom varnish. He takes care of it like he would a child. Similarly to Clyde, most of his gear for day-to-day life is communally shared through the gang, and Wayne tends to hold no personal items of domesticity.
Traits & Characteristics
(+) Deadeye - Most outlaws can shoot, but Wayne can really shoot. With his winchester to hand, Wayne can clock a moving target across a paddock, and won't hardly have to think about it
(-/+) Compassionate - Wayne is a more sensitive soul than most would be under his circumstances. He cares, not just for his brother, but for the people they rob and the animals they rustle. Most of the time, this would be an admirable trait, but on an outlaw...
(-/+) Loyal to a Fault - Wayne idolizes his brother. He would follow him to the ends of the earth and back. Unfortunately for him, Clyde is often more interested in furthering his own means than that of them both.
(-) A Little Slow - Wayne isn't stupid, at least, not in the medical sense. He isn't very clever; in essence, and it tends to take a few tries before he understands a given subject.
If Clyde is the unflinching, unfeeling gun of the Baker brothers, then Wayne is the human hand that holds it. He can't help but feel bad when he's doing bad things, but will do them anyway, for love of his brother.
He likes to feel like a good person, and often will let the occasional victim keep their money on stick-up jobs. This soft side might have caused Clyde to drop him a long time ago, were it not for his skill with a rifle and his unwavering fealty.
(Former) Baker's Raiders (1861-1867)
Irregular Confederate Soldier
Baker Gang (1867-Present)
Rustler, Stick-up Man, Thief
Squinting Down the Sights...
Wayne is a dab marksman with his repeater. If you give him the shot, and he wants to take it - he will not miss twice.
Wayne learned the value of guerilla warfare when he fought side by side with his father and brother. He might not be able to put that experience to use so adeptly at Clyde, but he isn't entirely numb to it, either.
Rustling has been a large part of the Baker brothers' lifestyle these past few years. As the more compassionate of the two, Wayne has a particular knack for the care of animals. Even if they aren't his animals.
Aliases / Nicknames
Itinerant, based around Montana (1875-76)
Itinerant, based around Louisiana (1861-67)
Itinerant, based around the Southwestern United States (1867-75)
Place of Birth
Baker Plantation, outskirts of Alexandria, Louisiana (1846-61)
Kith & Kin
Clyde Baker - Brother, partner and fellow outlaw
James Baker - Father, deceased
Amelia Johnson - Mother, missing, presumed dead
Playing Second Fiddle, (1846-61, age 0-15)
The Baker brothers were born into an exceedingly wealthy family, with a fortune made almost entirely off slave labour. Immigrating from Jamestown to Louisiana in the early 1800s, James Baker saw an opportunity to capitalize on the natural resources of metals and crops growing in the purchased region, and bought up swathes of land upon which to make his fortune. Before long, he had become one of the wealthiest plantation owners in the region, yielding thousands upon thousands of dollars every year from tobacco, cotton, sugar, and precious metals.
Wayne, the younger brother, caught the short end of that stick. While he might have never been destined for the glory that heading an immensely profitable organization would bestow, he was slated to share in it, and never asked for more. He cared for his family unconditionally, and would seek to spend time with them, when they weren't too busy in the administration of their production empire.
A Different Kind of War, (1861-67, age 15-22)
When war came to the south, Wayne was hardly in a position to pick sides; understanding little about the conflict and caring even less. His father and brother however, did care, and that was enough for him. When the raiders were formed, he followed James and Clyde unquestioningly into battle, and played his part as an irregular soldier for the Confederacy.
When the war officially ended, with a Confederate defeat, Baker's Raiders were still fighting long on. Two more years of warfare passed, and they were branded outlaws by the state. Finally, on a resupply mission in a small town, a local constable recognized James Baker and threw him in jail. The raiders begun forming a plan to get him out, but a surprise visit from a Kentucky Marshall saw the Baker patriarch hanged in the streets of New Orleans.
Cry Havoc, (1867-75, age 22-29)
Furious, Clyde rallied the raiders and launched retaliatory attacks all across Louisiana. They killed, sabotaged, and stole for eighteen months until finally the realities of the situation became clear. The Baker fortune had been exhausted after six years of warfare, and the brothers had been declared enemies of the state. Many of the raiders left, sensing that the end was near, but Wayne knew he could never follow in their footsteps. They had lost so much, but Clyde was still his brother, and he would keep on fighting wherever their paths took them.
And so he did keep fighting. No more could they execute grand operations of sabotage, but they could still steal, and they could still kill. For the next seven years they pulled smaller jobs; rustled livestock, robbed wagons, stuck guns in people's faces and told them to pay up. Baker's raiders died, and the Baker gang was born, taking money by any means across the southwestern states. While Wayne might have harbored misgivings about their lifestyle, he would never speak against Clyde, and made to make the best he could out of a bad situation.
The Last Foe..., (1875-76, age 30-31)
Today, the Baker gang finds itself in Montana, in search of new scores and new blood. Time will tell if their zeal might be their downfall.
Miscellaneous reference images;
- Remington 1858
- Winchester 1866
Clyde and his brother Wayne are mostly throwaway NPCs to-be-killed for the potential cattle rustlin' thread, hence the less comprehensive nature of their sheets
Soon the numbers of ranch men were swelling across the field, and the two riders up ahead seemed vastly less threatening. With Brendan affirming that he could do something about the cows, José knew he was free to engage the riders, and hopefully take them down before they hit the forest.
He gave Loretta another kick and eased her away, out to the treeline. They streaked over the grass, her thumping hooves crushing small twigs as they went. José knew it was dangerous to ride hard this close to a forest floor, but if he slowed now, they would undoubtedly get away.
Loretta was snorting heavily, but did not whinny in complaint, sensing the severity of the situation. Seconds passed, José elevated in the saddle, and the little shapes of the rustlers grew. He was two hundred meters out, then one hundred, then fifty...
He pulled the pistol from his holster again, and raised it ahead of him. At a gallop, it was near impossible to aim, but the thumbed back the hammer and squeezed a shot off at the man ahead, before quickly grabbing the reins again to avoid losing control.
Head down, Wayne Baker rode for the treeline like his life depended on it, because frankly; it did. A few cows had entered the forest, and he knew that Clyde and Greene would be rounding them up and getting them away. Hopefully, these cowpokes would be too busy trying to recover the herd to chase them. Hopefully.
A shot whizzed over his head, and he craned his neck to check the direction it had come from. Off to his side came a man and a horse, intending to cut off their escape! Drawing, slowing, and returning fire would take too much time; all he could do was run.
"Cmon' ya nag!" he cried, spurring on his own horse, and pushing hard for the treeline. Over to his left, Finch saw the shot and mirrored his actions.
Jed tumbled to the ground, the bite of the bullet in his hand suddenly seeming quite insignificant as his horse was rammed by another, somewhere in the dark. There was a moment of weightlessness, where anything could have been happening, and then he hit the grass, a thump knocking the wind out of him. He began to push himself up, but within moments where was another, far worse pain shooting through his legs, as his horse came tumbling down upon him. There was a sickening crunch, and he shouted in pain again, grabbing at the grass in agony. He tasted blood in his mouth, and realized that he had bit his tongue.
From behind there came a gunshot, then another, and then a terrifying click from just behind his head.
"Mister, yer fucked! We'll be havin' us a lynchin' bee, an' yer the guest of honor, lest a'course we happen ta catch more of you 'waddies'. Then well jest decorate us a tree with ya'all!"
"Gahd... lapdog... fuck you..." Jed managed, choking back tears as his lower body was crushed. With one final effort, he snatched for his pistol, it's handle just jutting out from below the fallen horse's frame, cocked it, and leveled it off in the vague direction of the voice to fire a shot.
The hammer fell with a harmless click, powder clogged with mud from the field. He thumbed back the hammer again twice more, and twice more the gun clicked fruitlessly.
Jed screamed, out of desperation, out of pain, out of anger, and threw the worthless weapon at Carson.
"Fuck you! Fuck you! You god-damn sisterfucker!"
Wayne saw the fall through flashes of gunfire and the screams of his lackey, and chewed his lip. He chambered his rifle again and moved to pick another target, but as soon as one settled in his sights, another four popped up behind him.
Even Wayne, doltish Wayne who had hardly ever made a decision of his own, could tell that they were outgunned. If they didn't run now, they would die here, Jed's wailing was proof of that.
He squeezed the trigger, but by now his target was long gone, somewhere in the night, and the younger brother had ceased to care.
"Finch, you still down there?" he called, and a faint 'aye!' sounded off amidst the gunfire.
"Cmon' we're getting outta here!"
"Aye!" came the report again, and Wayne pulled his horse to bear.
"Get up! Go on!" he cried, giving him a whack on the rump, and the gelding started off at a canter toward the opposite end of the field. Wayne tucked his rifle back into its scabbard and put his head down, hoping that he would find no bullet whizzing through the back of it.
The commotion from up ahead was a reference point for José as he made his way over the hill. His shot had clearly done something, judging by all the shouting, and he felt the rush of success as he crested the rise to see both Carson and Mr. Steelgrave himself, standing over a floundering horse and a downed rider. He watched as Carson executed the fallen horse, but from behind the crackle of gunfire had begun to fade, and silhouettes were shifting in the night. The rustlers were retreating. They would escape if they weren't cut off soon.
Ignoring the scene of the downed rider, José called out into the night for his mount; "Ven aqui, mujer! Rápidamente!" and Loretta, obedient as ever, began her trot back across the field to her master.
Quickly, José opened his colt, pulled a round from his belt and slid it into the chamber, topping up the shot he'd fired earlier, before holstering his weapon and mounting up once more. He spurred hard, and Loretta gave a slight rear and whinny, before shooting off at a run after the others.
A shout from across the paddock. The younger Baker brother sat in his saddle, chewing his lip. At his side, Jed glanced down anxiously.
"Oh, shit, Baker. We gotta get the fuck out of here."
Down by the mustering field at the base of the ranch came the shouting of men; orders being issued, hands mounting up, guns being loaded. Pinpricks of light rippled their way over the black expanse as lanterns were ignited and torches drawn from hearths.
"WAYNE WHAT THE FUCK?!"
The cattle had begun to stampede, alright. The pen had nearly been drained by now and cows were fanning out across the grassland. The sound of their march was deafening, and their frightened mooing swelled like foghorns in the dark. Through all that noise, Clyde's voice still found its way to his ears.
"ANSWER ME, YOU DUMB BASTARD!"
Around the side of the paddock galloped Frank and Clyde, the whinnying of their horses only adding to the cacophony.
"Damn it, Clyde I didn't know what else to do!" he protested lamely.
"You didn't know what else to do?!" Clyde roared, voice only slightly muffled beneath his bandanna. "You have fucked us, Wayne! You've god damn fucked us!"
To the side, a fifth horse joined their muster, as Finch rode down from the flank.
"I heard the shot, what's going on?"
Finch shifted anxiously in his saddle. In the cool night air, sweat rose from the flanks of his horse as steam. A small army of ranch hands would be upon them any moment.
"So, we run...?" the amateur rustler asked.
Clyde shook his head, still fuming. "Fuck, they'll cut us down like dogs either way!"
He paused, rubbing his forehead in exasperation.
"...Clyde?" Wayne began, but his brother cut him off.
"Shut the fuck up, I need to think."
Precious moments passed, and when Clyde finally raised his head from his hand it was in a determined mask.
"Okay, we can salvage this. We're gonna try salvage this. Wayne, Finch, Sampson, you cover the rear. Greene and I are gonna muster what cows we can, drive em' into the woods. If you gotta kill a couple cowpokes you kill those fucken' cowpokes, just buy us time. We regroup at the campsite from the night before last, alright? Maybe there'll be one or two cows left for us to take. Now go! Don't argue!"
With the plan decided, Frank and Clyde wheeled their mounts around, and with a few shouts and kicks they galloped off after the herd. Wayne gripped his rifle. It seemed he'd be shooting it more than once tonight.
"Well, what now? We buy them time?" Jed asked.
"Yeah we buy em' time." repeated Wayne. "Fan out across the paddock. Pick the hands off as they come over the rise. If any of you run, I'll shoot'cha my god damn self."
"On what account are you in charge? You put us in this damn mess to begin with!" shouted Finch, growing frantic at the deteriorating situation.
"On account of I'm second in command. Fucken do it." growled Wayne, chambering his rifle.
Finch shot a look of misgiving at Jed, but pulled his reins to bear, and the three outlaws spread across the fence line, weapons in hands.
Down in the bunkhouse, José re-fastened his gun belt. In the back of his mind lay the memory that his pistol was cowboy-loaded, and there wasn't time to get out his second belt, his second revolver, or even his rifle. Five shots would have to be enough.
He sat his hat firmly back upon his head, and was making for the door when Granger burst through it, urgency in his voice.
"Get up, Goddamn it! They're after the herd!"
"'Mon' José, we got us some work ta do!"
So the worst was confirmed. Rustlers. He nodded at Carson before he darted out the door, put his head down, and ran for the horses. His boots fell heavy in the muck, and the sound of stampeding cattle echoed down from the hills. Horse hooves joined the din as ranch hands spurred their mounts up towards the paddock.
He careened into the stables, picking out Loretta at her stall, and thanked his good fortune that she still wore the bridle and saddle he brought her in with. In one deft move he yanked her reins from where they were tied, tossed them over her head, gripped the saddle horn and hoisted himself up.
The young mare snorted, and her breath came away steamy. After a moment to settle his feet into the stirrups, José gave her a quick kick, and they trotted out into the night.
"Martinez!" shouted Connolly at his side. "You know who's after the herd?"
José shook his head. "I didn't see them. Could be anyone."
With another quick kick he moved Loretta into a canter, and they crossed the mustering area, picking up speed as they went. "Ándale, ándale!" he cried, and the horse beneath him broke into a gallop.
He braced himself in the saddle as they streaked across the grassland. Loretta whinnied and tossed her head, excited to run after a month of rather mundane ranch work. Her hooves kicked up dirt as they went, and the whinny quickly turned into a determined snort. It was fortunate for José that he'd taken the time to secure his hat, otherwise it might have blown off at such speeds. However, he hadn't been able to throw on anything warmer than the work shirt he'd spent all day in, and as it blustered around his torso, he felt the whipping wind begin to chill his exposed skin.
Still, there was a rise in his chest with a weapon at his hip and an enemy on the horizon, and for a moment José was back in Mexico, tearing across the desert with the law at his back.
They sped past a blur that might have been old man Steelgrave himself as he mounted up to join the chase, though José could only spare a passing glance as he eased Loretta out into the paddocks, wind coursing through his curly hair. Gripping the reins in his left hand, he darted the right down to his hip, snatching his pistol from its holster and holding it at the ready.
Sagas of the WIld West is a roleplaying game set in a fictionalized version of the town of Kalispell in Montana territory. Our stories begin in 1875 and are set against the backdrop of actual historical events.Sagas was inspired by the classic television and movie westerns. Our focus is on writing, storytelling and character development.
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