Slim and wiry, bears himself well. Usually fancily dressed, as befits his profession. Face is dominated by the thick spectacles he wears.
Traits & Characteristics
A pretty nice fellow, all things considered. Others may disagree, but that how he sees it.
Ex Trapper, buffalo hunter, legitimate trader, cattle drover and placer miner who saw the light and turned to pimping and sharping. Now hoping to cream off some money from Canadians coming down through Kalispell for the Black Hills Gold Rush.
Sniffing out money and human frailty.
Can shoot straight with his glasses on.
Knows about trapping, mining (shaft and placer) cattle and horse-stock, but would rather others do the work and he relieve them of the profits.
Speaks a little Crow.
Aliases / Nicknames
Looking for a suitable building to open a theater/brothel/casino/you name it, in Kalispell.
Kith & Kin
Father, Mother, Brothers and Sisters may or may not still be alive and kicking in Bowling Green, he doesn't know and doesn't care.
Born and raised: Bowling Green, KY 24th August 1846 - 22nd August 1864
Ran away from being conscripted by both sides in Kentucky, 1864.
1864: To avoid conscription by both sides in the civil war, he moved to West eventually making Fort Pierre, South Dakota to work as a trapper.
1867: a trader at Fort Berthold in the Dakota Territory and, for a time, married to an Indian woman, the sister of a warrior named Limping Bear. Subsequently a cattle driver, trader, placer miner.
1873: His annus mirabilis. Finally seeing the light at Frenchman’s Ford, Montana Territory, he stopped giving his hard earned gold to dance-hall managers, pimps, card sharps and underhand traders, he joined their ranks instead.
1875: Realizing that there was more money to made in the impending Gold Rush taking money off successful miners than panning for gold himself, he came to Kalispell to bottom out the options.
"Oh, well, I guess I owe you a thank you then. I am still gettin' paid for this fight though?" suddenly it occurred to the young Irishman was that supposed to be in lieu of payment for the boxing bout? If so, he wasn't going to agree to that.
"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby..." Crabbe purred as he approached the young man and patted him paternally on the shoulder "Course you're gonna get paid: and if you win you get the purse on top." he assured him.
"No... the Claim... well you remember when me and Fa came to see you? And you signed that lil' old piece o' paper. Why that's an investment for the future, my boy. A man can't box forever, one day he'll meet his match ... not tonight, o' course!" he hastened to add "But one day when you're gettin' on and can't throw them lefts like you can now, and you find that little stream on your claim don't have no gold in it... you're gonna thank old Uncle Lorenzo fer lookin' out for you." he cooed gently.
"Yep, you, me and our sleepin' partner." He had never mentioned the name of the other man, the one who had sorted out the legal niceties of getting the Claim back from 'John Smith' while Crabbe, Lafferty and Grimes had 'sorted out' the man who had tricked the illiterate Irishman out of his claim.
"Mind you, there's been a little problem with our sleeping partner - he's kinda 'sleepin' beneath the sod' these days. His plans sorta went up in flames. As of two weeks ago, our partner's his daughter and heir: we should take you to go meet her some day soon." he informed the miner.
"I wish I could do such a thing as easy as all that...decide when to win the fight. Especially since I've never even seen this boyo in action," Robert shrugged.
"Haw Haw!" Crabbe laughed, he's gonna give you less trouble than that punch bag we set up fer you to practice on."
"Oh and I'd bet on Conor if you two did," he then grinned.
"Oh, 's that right?!" chuckled Crabbe. He caught Lafferty's eye. Now was a good time to tell Robert, give him a fillip just before the fight. "Oh, I forgot to mention, me and old Laff here and the late lamented Mr Grimes bumped into that feller Smith who diddled you out of your claim. We managed to persuade him to sign it right back to you, didn't we Laff?" he asked the Irishman.
Yeah, Crabbe was no slouch in a fight, all right - especially when it was three against one, the other fellow was tied to a chair and he himself was armed with a heavy leaden ended walking stick.
"Anyhow..." Crabbe continued, "I reckon that flabby Charlie Wentworth's as good as laid out on the the canvas already!"
"I don't be intendin' on losin', Mr. Crabbe but I think this here Charlie will have somethin' to be sayin' about it too," Robert was determined not to get overconfident.
Crabbe just shook his head. "Nah, fight's as good as over. Experience will tell, my boy, experience will tell."
As Caroline passed into the barn, Jemima caught Miriam's eye, nodded at the blonde's retreating back and silently mouthed her opinion of the woman "She's a Whore".
Meanwhile, within, Crabbe stuck his head into Robert's little 'tent' and grinned.
"Not long now, champ!" he smiled, his magnified eyes flicking to the other mick he'd hired to act as Cullen's second. "Good work Lafferty, he's looking great, like a puma, ready for the kill!" he cheered them both on.
"Still..." he corrected himself "... don't go and finish him off too quick, mind, Bobby-boy. I mean, if it's all over too quickly, those hyenas out there'll be baying for more blood! Me and Con' there'll have to strip down and knock seven bells outta each other!" he warned.
"Anyhow..." he returned to the pep talk "I reckon that flabby Charlie Wentworth's as good as laid out on the the canvas already!"
Mature Content: Bloody violence
With: Anyone Location: Barn When: Friday, 18th August 1876 Time of Day: 6pm - onwards.
The music crackled in the air of the old barn tonight, cutting through the myriad excited voices as the great moment of visceral conflict approached. Like some goggle eyed Pied Piper of Hamelin, Lorenzo Crabbe had a good percentage of the younger folk of Kalispell under his sway and doing his bidding. In the raised ring, Hector Wigfall, Arabella Mudd and the hitherto mysterious blind girl, Frances Grimes belted out music to entertain the masses until the fight began. 'Hitherto' because Frances seemed a lot less mysterious, somehow, blindfold or not, when she was frailing out Shootin' Creek at high speed on a five string banjo. Hector's fiddle and Arabella's guitaro could hardly keep up with her flying fingers. On the door, Hector's twin sister Jemma and Arabella's 'Bosom Friend' Miriam Kaufmann took the money: which was regularly siphoned off by the avaricious Crabbe.
He was counting the takings now, when he suddenly remembered they had to actually have a fight sometime. It was nearly past the advertised time for the Battle of the Century to begin: but people were still coming through the door and paying over cold solid cash! "Stick 'em another one!" he hissed to his little scratch band.
Frances nodded. "Bonaparte's Retreat, in G" she told the other two. "They're all in G!" complained Arabella, still sitting a distance away from the blind girl, in case it was catching, as she and Hector scrambled to catch up with the girl's electric playing.
Crabbe wandered over to the makeshift canvas 'Changing Rooms' he had put together at the back of the barn. Charlie was in there with his Wentworth Seconds. With Hector and Jemima busy elsewhere, he had been forced to bring in a replacement for Robert Cullen's sponger downer.
[OOC if'n you want to know what the scratch band sounded like:]
"If either of you two would like to make a wager on the fight, I'm running very good odds on both men. It seems the town is divided on who will win," Ben said, before addressing Speed, "By the way, Marshall, I run a clean book...you have my personal guarantee."
Crabbe wondered whether he should mention that all of his operations were strictly above board and legal, too, but then realised that this would only serve to weaken Ben's position rather than bolster his own. Guyer was good enough a lawman to have taken Crabbe's measure the first minute he laid eyes on him, and Crabbe was good enough a chancer to know it, and to make sure he steered clear of any trouble with the men carrying tin badges.
"My only problem is finding a referee" he said instead "I was going to ask you, Marshall, what we you being a respected and neutral party; but now ol' Charlie's your Deputy, you might be seen as partisan. Any ideas?" he asked. It was a genuine question, the person overseeing the ruckus in the ring needed to know about boxing and been entirely impartial.
He then added one last comment.
"Oh, and order some breakfast, will ya fellers, this poor girl's been standin' here an hour." he tipped his head toward Clara. Oh, Lorenzo was always considerate to the ladies.
"So Simons, I hear there's to not only be a prize fight, but some talk of a stage play? Interesting."
Lorenzo let Ben field this question, as it was aimed at him. He himself was always careful what he said to the bloodhound newspaper reporter and editor. Not that McVay ever printed lies: but he had a knack of printing what you did tell him in such a way that did quite give the impression of yourself that you had hoped for.
Then, "Mister Crabbe, you involved in all of this? doesn't seem to be in your bailiwick. Well, maybe the fight."
"Mr McVay, I'm sponsoring and running the whole shebang. And it's going to be an exciting and educational exhibition of the fine science of pugilism, too. We've got local talent in the form of Kalispell's very own Deputy Marshall, Mr. Charles Wentworth Junior taking on a wild young Irishman called Battling Bob Cullen. And it's a real grudge match, too!" he added on a whim. People were more interested in a fight if the two combatants were known to hate each other, rather than a couple of disinterested sluggers throwing hooks and crosses at each other.
He'd have to invent a story as to why the two young men hated each other, probably something involving an argument over a girl, that always went over big with the general public.
Phinn stood looking at Crabbe a long moment. "Crabbe, Simmons. You let me know the dates, be in the Union. We do posters and hand bills as well, if printed adverts strikes your fancy for either event."
"Will do that, Mr. McVay!" nodded Lorenzo "'It pays to advertise' as they say. Soon as I'm sure of the exact time on the 6th, I'll send one of my people around with the details." 'One of his people!' Crabbe thought that sounded pretty grand.
"Of course, there will be free entrance to the gentlemen of the Press who will no doubt wish to report 'pon the proceedings!" he added as a sweetener to a, hopefully, favourable piece on the event. A pretty cheap sweetener, too, as Phin was about the only 'gentleman of the press' in town.
A huge smile crept on his face, "You know Crabbe, you might come in handy after all."
"Well Ben, you know I ain't hard to get along with, what'd you want?"
Clara carried out then set two heaping plates in front of Mr. Simon and Mr. Crabbe,"There you go, gentlemen. Salt and pepper is on the table. Would either of you like any cream or sugar or both for your coffees?"
"Black will be fine," Ben answered. He looked down at his plate, before picking up his fork and tasting the bacon. "As usual, it tastes as good as it smells. My compliments, Mrs. Lutz."
"Er, yeah, me too." added Lorenzo distractedly, wondering what Simons was after.
After taking a few more bites of his breakfast, he turned to Crabbe, "I want to ask you about your ward, Bridget. Would she be interested in joinng a young ladies group, if my Aunt was in charge of it?"
"Why sure! She'd be tickled pink to join that there... er, 'Young Ladies Group'" he beamed. Frankly, anything that got Bridget off his hands for a few hours was welcome. He'd run a few 'Young Ladies Groups' of his own in the past, of course, but he suspected that this was something a little more upmarket and respectable.
"So, er, what happens at this 'Young Ladies Group'?" he asked, making it pretty clear he had agreed to something on his ward's behalf without really knowing what it was.
"As far as I know, he's still going to fight. Unless you know something that I don't," he told Crabbe in a light-hearted tone.
Lorenzo rubbed his hands together, a smile of satisfaction decorating his face. "Well, that's good to hear, Ben my boy, mighty good to hear. Apart from saving me the inconvenience of finding another pugilist, I reckon half the town'll pay to come and watch the local law having ten bells knocked outta them!"
"Besides, I think the fight is the least of my worries at the moment. According to you, I have go and find some shapely girls who can act and sing."
"There's Caroline Mundee at the saloon: she can sure sing and half her act's showin' her legs. I mean she's kinda..." the word he wanted to use was 'slutty' but as her long-time friend he tried to think of a better way of putting it, especially as her brassy nature hid an actually reticent sexuality. "... well, let's just say she might not be overly convincing as the innocent Ingénue!"
He shrugged, and added philosophically: "You should audition her on stage, though. You can't tell until you see 'em up there, having to fill a great big place like that with their personality, you know what I mean?"
"You know Crabbe, if it weren't for you, I would have no-one to remind me of how important it is to get the right ladies for my theatre. I'll make sure that I'll give you the credit you deserve."
"Oh sure!" Crabbe grinned "If the thing's a smash, definitely tell folks it was all down to me. Course, if it's a failure, you'd best keep my name outta the thing." he joked in reply. "So, where you puttin' this wing-ding on - White Rose, I suppose?" he asked, thinking the recently deserted building would make the obvious place to convert into a theatre.
Glancing over at the Weavers, Ben smiled. Weaver was too busy leaning over to notice the scowl on his wife's face. No doubt she would have a lot to say to him when they left.
"Never mind them. Whatdya think? Operetta or, well, just about anything that gives you an excuse to show women in tights. Problem is finding girls who can sing and act and have real nice shapely legs." Crabbe half explained, half drooled. "And don't go looking at Muddy: she can sing but her legs are like pipe-cleaners, I've seen 'em."
He turned his attention back to Crabbe, "If Light Opera is what it takes to fill seats, then so be it. As I said, it all depends on who you get to and what shows you put on."
"Hmmm" Lorenzo agreed and then shrugged "Well, while we're talking of shows, what's this I hear about your Charlie up and becoming Deputy Marshall: does that mean he ain't intending to fight any more?" the bespectacled man asked with a genuine frown on his face. After all, he would hardly be able to ask the Deputy to arrest himself for bailing on his boxing contract, and he'd rather keep friendly with the law as far as possible.
Once Crabbe had killed Mercier, had achieved his aim, he felt numb; completely numb.
Then Ke Ni Tay hit Crabbe solidly on the chin, dropping him, and as the bespectacled man rolled over, the Colt fell from the mans hand. At that point Crabbe realised that he wasn't numb at all - damn that hurt! He half expected the Indian to continue to attack him, but the man moved on to more dangerous attackers and by the time Lorenzo started to recover his wits properly, it was 'all over bar the shouting'.
He adjusted his spectacles and sat up to see the soldiers with their guns on both himself and the Apache. "Don't point those things at me boys, I'm a white man!" he reminded them, hoping a healthy dose of native racism would direct all the barrels in the Indian's direction. Luckily, Captain Barlow made the gambit unnecessary.
"Alright, you men, lower your weapons. See to your horses, we will be getting out of here! Go! I got this!" Barlow approached both Crabbe on the ground and the Apache holding his bloody knife.
"Not sure what's happened here, Cap'" Crabbe commented, looking around in faux confusion "Fog o' War and all that."
"It seems our Mr. Mercier didn't make it. Just like his cargo," he asserted then held out a hand to help Crabbe to his feet.
"Yeah, I think a stray bullet must've hit the poor feller" Lorenzo said sadly, looking down at the arms dealer and the two bullet holes close together in his face, which was frozen in an horrible grimace.
"It will go down in my report he was shot dead by the Indians. Oh...and you are going to have to return that pistol, it's government property," Benjamin gave the man a knowing look.
"Oh, er, sure." Crabbe hadn't even realised he was still holding the Colt and held it out obligingly to the Company Commander, grip first. "I used a couple of bullets up, I guess, er, I guess the Army can bill me for them if it likes." He turned and took one last look at Mercier's sprawled out corpse. Good.
As for the Apache, he turned to him, "Good fight. Go tell MacIntosh we are heading back as soon as I get my wounded and dead properly cared for."
Crabbe watched him go, rubbing his chin. There were no hard feelings on his part: technically the scout had been doing the right thing, trying to eliminate a rogue element in the midst of their own party. It still damn well hurt though.
Well that was it. The three men who had done that to his wife were dead, and all three of them knew why they were dead. Now it was back to Kalispell: back for the final act of this miserable play that had been his life. His one last task: to take care of Bridget.
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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