Dorothy has refused to wear a dress ever since joining Bobby's crew. She prefers a simple shirt and man's trousers that she really does take some effort to keep clean, but inevitably it has a dirt mark or stain upon her outfit somewhere soon enough.
She doesn't sport much jewelry. Just a heavy belt buckle and a small copper pendant with two tiny emeralds embedded into it. This she usually keeps tucked beneath a scarf or under her shirt.
She wears a little too much eye makeup, darkening her brown eyes. Heavy rouge colors her freckled cheeks and pale complexion. Her lips she never paints. Even when they start to get a bit chapped in the winter, she dislikes having anything on them. Her blonde hair, well overdue for a trim, is often pulled into a pony tail or a braid that starts off neat but usually ends up falling loose beneath her brown and black hat that she wears like a shield, using it to hide her expression and emotions when her 'tough girl' persona starts to slip.
If she'll let you get close enough, she often smells of horses and whiskey with a small hint of mint
Around her hips she wears a pistol belt that contains her matching set of Smith & Wesson Schofield Revolvers.
Traits & Characteristics
Distrusting - People in general are not to be trusted. Overly friendly behavior is met with immediate suspicion.
Crude - often uses unladylike language.
Ashamed of her past - not the robberies... but the time spent as a Soiled Dove
World's oldest profession at Owen Donley's Brothel in Odessa, Texas
Outlaw in Robert Baker's gang of thieves, whose hideout was in New Mexico
Slight of hand - Picking pockets or stealing a bit of candy from the penny jars... she's gotten good at not being noticed.
Horses - avg skill level. She was taught by Sparrow Hawk, so she tends to get on and off on the 'Indian' side.
Gunslinging - though she carries two Schofield revolvers and has gotten to be a fairly decent shot, Dorothy has never actually killed anybody, even if she'll let you believe otherwise.
Aliases / Nicknames
Dotty Jackson, Angel Baker
(1851-1869) Pittsburgh, PA
(1869-1872) Odessa, TX
(1872-1875) Little Blackwater, NM
Kith & Kin
Brother - James (1845 - 1869)
Sister - Emma (1847 - ? most likely alive, though Dorothy hasn't seen her in over 6 years.)
1851 - Born in Pittsburgh, PA as the youngest of 3 children. Her father mines coal. Her mother works as a seamstress.
1854 - Father dies during the Cholera outbreak and things declined from there when their mother had trouble coping both financially and emotionally, turning to alcohol way too often, leaving Dorothy's upbringing mostly to her two older siblings. With little guidance, the young girl found herself left to her own devices more often than not, which led to minor trouble and petty thievery.
1869 - Her older brother James, tired of the coal mines, decides to head west. Dorothy, barely 17 at the time, choose to go with him. The brother and sister spent the next six months traveling slowly west, both picking up odd jobs. When funds were low, they'd sometimes resort to less than scrupulous ways of making money. Which usually meant Dorothy offering her "services" for the night and then she and James robbing him of his valuables.
This caught up to them in Texas when they unknowingly intruded upon the territory of Owen Donley, who ran several established brothels in the area. When he caught wind of this, he sent several men to put a stop to it. Which meant a bullet for James. And Dorothy was immediately added to his collection of whores, where she spent the next 3 years. Until...
1872 - The notorious outlaw Robert Baker (a.k.a. "One-Eyed Bobby") and his crew stopped for a night of fun at Donley's brothel. Bobby took a shine to Dorothy and, despite a bit of protesting from Owen Donley, took her with him, where she became one of his crew.
Spring 1875 - The bandit crew robs a train in Texas, making off with a bank transfer.
Early summer 1875 - Bounty hunters catch up with the bandits in New Mexico. One Eyed Bobby is captured. The survivors scatter.
Robert Baker (a.k.a. One Eyed Bobby) - captured in New Mexico. Hung in Texas.
Sparrow Hawk - Navajo, Bobby's right hand man - shot and killed in New Mexico
Paul Smith (a.k.a Smitty) - status: unknown, wanted in Texas
David Goller (a.k.a Bones) - killed in New Mexico
Charles Goller - status: unknown, wanted in Texas
Freddy Linch (a.k.a. Flinch) - status: unknown, wanted in Texas
Dorothy Parsons (a.k.a Angel) - status: unknown, wanted in Texas
Dorothy is currently at a crossroads in life... with Bobby dead and the bandit gang scattered, she's scared enough to try walking the straight and narrow for awhile. But she could just as easily fall in with a different gang of low-life scum.
I enjoy using dice for anything combat related. It makes thing unpredictable and exciting, even if my characters end up injured.
Calling her a gunslinger would have been an outright lie, but she was fairly decent shot, at least with her left hand. With the right … well, it depended how big the target was. Flinch had taken the time to teach her and she’d been practicing and getting better little by little. Usually by shooting at cans that had been hung from a tree. Or sometimes having Flinch toss one in the air and seeing if she could hit it before it fell.
Bobby hadn’t liked to include her in the actual gunfighting though, always telling her it was too dangerous. Stealing the Wells Fargo cash from the South Pacific Railroad line had been the first time he’d taken her on a job and it had been such a success that there’d been no need for trigger pullin’ at all.
Still, there was some appeal to Billy’s suggestion. She didn’t have a wide skillset and she certainly wasn’t keen to ever step foot in a whorehouse again.
“Maybe you can point ‘em out to me tomorra?” she suggested. “Hey, you mind if I go get my horse and bring him up here?” she asked, standing up and gesturing to where the other horses were tied and then down toward where Pongo was. “Left him down there and he’s still got his saddle on…”
Dorothy wasn’t sure if Greer’s statement about these Steelgraves was supposed to be a direct threat or just a fair warning. It took her a moment to realize that maybe he thought she was here to do some cattle rustle or something. Ha! As if she knew anythin’ bout cows. If he really thought that, then he probably thought she had some friends lurking nearby. Good. Let him worry about it. Maybe that would help ensure he kept his hands to himself.
“Ain’t planning on messin’ with no one,” she commented, her eyes still lingering on Greer as Billy chimed in to try to smooth things over. “And ain’t upset,” she added, despite the fact that she had most certainly been overly touchy about Greer’s comment.
Seeming satisfied that Ol’ Dishwater there got her message, she let her gaze slide back over to Billy and allowed the tension to subside again. At first it seemed an odd question… after being lost for a week and with a wad of Wells Fargo cash in her saddle bags, employment wasn’t exactly forefront in her mind. But that money wouldn’t last forever and now that she gave it a thought, maybe picking up an odd job or two would let her get reoriented. Maybe figure out where she was going.
“Ya know anyone willin’ to hire a woman?” she asked. It was worth a shot. “I mean… anyone ‘sides the local saloon or the cat house?”
“None ‘round here,” she answered Billy about having family close by. She’d never even heard of Kalispell or Whitefish, but didn’t want to ask which state she was actually in and reveal just how lost she really was. Then they’d know for sure that there was no one within 100 miles or more who would miss her if she disappeared tonight. Still, the young man’s friendly nature was beginning to put her at ease. He reminded her a little of Flinch, who she'd always got on pretty well with.
It didn’t last long.
Dorothy bristled again at Greer’s questions. As if he were accusing her of something. Maybe something that happened to be true, but nonetheless, his tone put her back on edge.
“One that don’t plan on endin’ up at the mercy of some mud sill, Mister Greer,” she said pointedly as she set down the now empty plate, which might give the impression she was freeing up her hands to draw those guns.
It occurred to Dorothy that the young man probably wasn’t really done with his plate of food, but she sure wasn’t going to offer it back to him now. Beans weren’t exactly her idea of a gourmet feast, but right now they were the best thing she’d ever eaten and she shoveled them in like somebody was about to steal it back off of her.
It was only after several bites that she felt Greer’s rather uncomfortable stare. And her eyes moved back up to meet his with a challenge in her gaze as she scraped the plate with the spoon to get every last bean.
Looks bout as dull as dishwater, she thought, rather uncharitably.
“Dotty,” she said, taking the sticks of jerky and turning her gaze to Billy. “Jackson,” she added. She’d decided on that name at some point during the trek north. Seemed easy enough to remember and there were plenty of Jacksons back where she was from.
Billy seemed the more likable of the two, even if she thought he was probably at least a couple years younger than herself. So she looked at him as to ask, “We close to any towns?”
Dorothy watched the two men’s reaction to her, both of which gave her reason to keep her guard up: the younger with his hand resting on his pistol and the older giving her own guns the stink eye.
Maybe she should have left the gun belt with Pongo. It made the whole ‘damsel in distress’ act a little harder. But she’d be damned if she was going to put herself at the complete mercy of two strangers in the middle of nowhere. At least she’d left the wad of cash back in Pongo’s saddle bags. That might prove more difficult to spin some yarn about.
“Beans’re okay,” she said, a bit of her rough Pittsburgh accent slipping through. She’d picked up a little bit of a southern drawl during her time in Texas, but the northern habit of turning multiple words into one hadn’t completely gone away.
She hesitated when Billy waved her toward the fire, as if he was just waiting for her to sit so that he’d have an easier time getting the drop on her. But the plate of beans and the offer of beef jerky was compelling enough to let her stomach overrule her head and she sat, trying to force herself to relax.
“Jerky too? I didn’t know no better, I’d say you boys were trying to butter me up,” she said, letting her voice soften to a tone she knew men tended to like and allowing a half-smile to erase her wary expression. Though that trick might not work near so well when she was dressed like a tomboy that got dragged through a thicket.
Some of Dorothy’s caution ebbed as the younger of the pair said she’d be welcome to supper. Maybe they were just a couple honest cowboys.
“I already got the horse,” she said, easing herself slowly out from behind the pine tree, eyes flicking back and forth from Greer to Billy to the half-eaten meals several times as she took a few cautious steps toward the fire, slowly illuminating something that might indeed look like a rabid wildcat girl.
Her trousers and used-to-be-white shirt were both dirty and stained, there was dirt under her fingernails, knuckles and forearms scratched from briars. A gunbelt with two revolvers hung on her hips. Her blonde hair might have been braided a few days ago, but now it was a tangled mess sticking out from beneath her brown hat. Her face was partially shadowed by the hat, but looked like it was a week overdue for a scrubbing, the remnants of some black eye liner smeared below her eyes as if she’d rubbed at it recently.
“Just got myself lost in the process…” she said. At least that was the truth.
For a second, she rested her hands on her gun belt, then quickly realized what she was doing and crossed her arms instead. No sense in giving them a reason to shoot her. Least not yet.
Dorothy’s heart rate shot up as the older of the two men called out in her direction, forcing her to decide on a course of action sooner than she’d planned. Her left hand moved to rest on her revolver handle. Bobby had gifted her a handsome matching pair of the Smith & Wessons and she wore one on each hip, but wasn’t yet good enough to effectively wield one on each hand.
"Just show yourselves...we don't want no trouble."
What would Bobby do here? Probably go be best buddies with these fellows and be eating their food and drinking their whiskey iffn they had any in no time flat. He’d been the charismatic type.
She was taking too long, probably making them a touch nervous. Plus, the smell of the beans was making her stomach complain and her mouth water. That alone was enough to rule out simply retreating into the darkness.
“Ain’t lookin’ for trouble, mister,” she called out finally, but didn’t yet move from the shelter of the pine tree. There was no disguising her feminine tone. “Got separated from my … wagon,” she lied, hoping the idea that there might be people looking for her would be enough to deter any liberties either of them might have a notion to take. 'Course, just in case, that's what the gun was for. “When my horse spooked and bolted.”
The normally high strung brown and white pinto gelding plodded along slowly, head hung down, his spirits seeming as low as those of his rider who slouched in the saddle.
Dorothy had been lost for a week now. She didn’t even know if she was in Idaho, Wyoming, or Montana at this point. All she knew was that she’d run out of provisions 3 days ago and was so damn hungry that she was beginning to consider eating the horse. But after running from Indians and being separated from Flinch and Smitty, the gelding named Pongo was all she had left. She’d spent a day hiding, then two days looking for her companions. Maybe they’d been killed. Maybe they’d fled. But she was no skilled tracker and had eventually come to the frightening realization she was on her own.
Yesterday, she’d run across something she thought was some kind of wild onion and had eaten several of them for her dinner only to heave them back up shortly after. Today, she’d found a pear tree with a few gnarled pears the critters hadn’t gotten yet. The fruit was hard as a rock, but at least something to gnaw on and seemed to be staying down. She groaned in self-pity as she halted the horse and slid off Pongo's right side, intending to unsaddle and hobble him for the night so he could graze while she rested. “Wish I could eat grass…” she muttered.
And suddenly… she caught site of a fire, which simultaneously filled her with hope that perhaps she’d stumbled upon Flinch and Smitty after all and fear that it was Indians. Hunger and hope outweighed caution and instead of unsaddling the pinto, she quickly looped his lead rope around a tree branch. “You wait here,” she whispered to Pongo, then made her way as quietly as she could toward the camp site until the two men came into view. Definitely NOT Flinch and Smitty. 5 horses though, which seemed to suggest there were three others around somewhere.
Dorothy crouched down behind a pine tree, eyes scanning the area in an attempt to locate the other 3 men before eventually returning her gaze to the two at the fire, warily eyeing whatever they were eating. They looked… rough. Not that she looked, or probably smelled, any better. She hesitated, debating between just going out there and asking if they’d share their dinner versus waiting until they’d fallen asleep in order to scrounge through their saddle bags. Either one was risky.
But while she debated, Pongo must have caught sight or smell of the other horses, for he whinnied loudly in greeting. Ding horse! She should have known he’d do that!
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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