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.
Bridget didn't even hear Caroline come in. After the torrid lovemaking session, or 'special hugs' as she thought of them, with Brendan, then the shock of Lorenzo's death, then Mr Guyer and Charlie coming and asking her all those questions, even though her damaged brain was reeling she fell asleep on Brendan's chest surprisingly quickly, out of mere exhaustion.
She fell deeper and deeper into the depths of sleep, it became darker and darker and then it became light all of a sudden. It was very bright, the Sun beamed down on the wagon that Lorenzo had stolen from her old 'owner' after he had shot him as he had begged for his miserable, worthless life. They were running away from Dodge and heading toward somewhere called Kalispell. It was last March. Except it was also now.
"Oh you're awake." said Lorenzo as she jerked into life. He glanced at her, a caring smile on his face. "You know this is a dream, right?"
"Yes" she replied "I always know it's a dream because I can talk all right and think straight in dreams, I mean, really deep dreams. Oh, you're dead, by the way."
"Yeah, I know. What a way to go! Well, no use crying over spilt milk."
Bridget looked ahead.
"Are we still going to Kalispell?"
"No." replied the man. He wasn't wearing his glasses and fancy suit. He looked different somehow, freer. "Not sure where I'm heading. Someplace nice, I hope."
"Am I coming" she asked.
"Not yet." he put the reins in one hand and reached over and hugged her with the free arm. He told her some other things and then finally said: "You'll go back again now, and when you come back to me here again, we'll nearly be there, at the nice place. how will that be?"
She smiled at him and lifted up her skirt a little and wiggled the toes of her bare feet.
"Do you always have two feet in dreams?" he asked, chuckling.
"Sometimes I have four!" she laughed.
Then the swaying of the wagon made her nod off again, and she awoke in her bedroom, in the dark. Something was happening.
Finally he looked up at Crabbe, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to choose his words carefully. "I...will take care of her. I will. But..." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I can't marry her."
It took a second for Crabbe to process this bombshell, he could literally feel the the blood pumping in his ears, hear it singing; and then he did it, exactly what the doctor told he shouldn't do: he blew his top. He was suddenly on his feet, whipping out a derringer from his vest pocket and cocking it as he bellowed "You slept with her knowing you had no intention of marrying her?! You god-damn son of a bitch!!"
The small black hole of the gun barrel was staring Brendan Connelly directly between the eyes. But the look of fury on Lorenzo's face suddenly morphed into one of agony: his gun hand and his free hand flew to his heart and then he was falling stiffly forward, slamming face first onto the table with a explosive BANG! that was far too loud and sharp to be that of a mere body hitting the wood. He slid off the table and onto the floor, his eyes sightless and one of the lenses of his spectacles cracked. The large and quickly growing patch of dark blood on his vest mute testimony to the fact that the small pistol had gone off as he had hit the wood.
Bridget didn't scream, she made a low horrible moan, like a wounded animal, and stumbled forward to throw herself on the body of the man who had been her rescuer, her father and her friend. She looked up and round at Brendan, confused, speechless, imploring his help.
It had to be admitted, when Lorenzo Crabbe entered Bridget's room and saw Brendan Connolly standing there, a primitive flash of protective anger did flash in his eyes. But he held on to it, and remembered. He remembered what was happening, his condition. This was actually what he wanted. He even managed a nod and a half-hearted smile.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you." he said mechanically. "Come down and we'll have a drink... when you're ready." he said.
"Charlie's gone," he said to Crabbe finally. The edges of his shirt flapped as he moved in front of Bridget. "Went to New York."
"Yeah." said Crabbe. This was evidentially no surprise. In fact, it had been his idea.
- - -
When Connelly eventually did come down, Crabbe had already helped himself to one drink. He was hitting the bottle pretty hard these days. A good slug of whiskey had put him in a better mood. The first one always did.
"Mr Connelly. Whiskey?" he asked and had started to pour a glass even before he heard an answer. Bridget had followed Brendan down, unconcernedly dressed in a light dressing down. Why not have her there too? He considered. After all, this concerned her, too. in fact, it was ALL about her. But his remarks were addressed to Brendan alone.
"So... I've been waiting for an answer. About you looking after Bridget when I'm gone. Is this it?" he asked.
Lorenzo felt like he was living two lives, thinking constantly of 'it' whilst carrying on his normal usual life. When he woke up of a morning, he had forgotten... but there was a horrible sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and then he would remember. He had been through what modern psychiatrists would recognise as the five stages of grief. At first he had simply ignored the diagnosis. Ahhh, he didn't feel that bad. It was just the odd spasm of pain. If he hadn't gone to see the doctor, he would never have known about what was wrong with him, ergo it wouldn't have existed.
Then he'd got angry. Why him? What had he done to deserve it? He hated everybody in Kalispell , even Bridget. Why couldn't they have it: dumb, dull, grey people. Damn them all. But... maybe he shouldn't be so angry. Maybe if he thought kindly of people, did kindly things, well, maybe God or Jesus or some Chinese God of Fa's would think kindly on him. Maybe some divine miracle would take this all away. That had keep him going for a while: a couple of weeks, a strange couple of weeks where Crabbe was the kindest man in Kalispell. But an increasing depression crept in, and ever growing despondence which convinced him more and more that it was better to end it all by his own hand than to wait for the pain and disability that the disease would bring before his eventual pathetic demise.
Then he was at peace. He accepted it. The only problem was Bridget. He couldn't abandon her. If nobody else could clearly accept and love her as he, against his own will almost, loved her, then he would look after her in his own way. He would take her with him.
All that was there, in the back of his mind as he climbed the now familiar wooden stairs in the old funeral parlour: the fifth stair creaked as it always did. He reached the top of the stairs. Strange, he was worried about the crippled girl's safety: the girl he had now decided to... no, kill, murder, these were too strong. He would let her sleep, is all. Sleep, dream, and then sleep on and on and dream no more.
"Bridge?"... "You in there? You all right?" He knocked and opened the bedroom door.
A shout from the crowd went up as Charlie Wentworth went down and, above it all, Arabella' voice screaming "Get up Charlie, Get up!! You was just winnin'!!!" This hubbub even caught Lorenzo Crabbe's attention and he looked up to see what was going on. He checked his watch. Hmm, the fight hadn't lasted quite as long as he had hoped. Maybe the young deputy would stagger back to his feet, but as the man doing the refereeing counted him out, that seemed increasingly like a @Longshot.
Crabbe pushed though the crowd and hustled a blue-uniformed army officer out of the way. "Excuse me, Commodore, I need to speak to this little lady!"
He whispered to Caroline urgently.
"Hey, Mundee, help me out will ya? I told that Cullen to hold back, but he's bloodthirsty, he's knocked that deputy out in record time and this mob's going to get ugly, feel they've been cheated, half of 'em'll be demanding their money back." The idea of that made him feel sick, especially after he'd spent the whole of the fight counting it out several times.
"Listen, I'll get Hector to break out his fiddle again, and Muddy to come on down off that ladder with her gee-tar and you get up there and sing 'em a song, while we scrape Wentworth off of the canvas." he suggested "And make it a long song! That'll hold 'em!"
He stepped back a bit and nodded to Crabbe to await any other hyperbole from the fight's organizer.
But Lorenzo was done. He nodded to the more than capable referee "I'll be in the back counting up the money..." he glanced at Charlie and Robert "... not too keen on the sight of blood." he grinned and deftly climbed out between the ropes, his pockets bulging with cash.
It was fifteen minutes past the time the fight was due to begin. Crabbe decided that anyone who was coming had come, and the crowd were starting to reach a suitable state of expectation and suspense. He climbed into the ring and a hush fell on the assembled multitude punctuated by the odd shout of excitement from the more rowdy elements amongst the throng.
Lorenzo beamed down a their upturned faces: each representing so many dollars in his pocket: the boxing match itself more a mere formality for him, but of greater import to those who had gathered to enjoy the bloodshed, risk a bet, or enjoy the finer points of the noble art. Not to mention the two men who had to actually fight!
"Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen!" he started in grandiloquent style "Lorenzo Crabbe enterprises has the greatest of pleasure in announcing the commencement of tonight's phenomenal flurry of fisticuffs! A bombastically beautiful bounty of boxing! A pure premium of pugilistic perambulations!!" It was meaningless rubbish, of course, but a crowd always liked a little bit of ambitiously addleheaded alliteration.
There were cheers as well as the predictable shouts of "Get on with it!" and "D'ya swallow a dictionary, Crabbe!?"
"Ladies and Gentleman..." the Lords had presumably left for some reason "... permit me to present to you: in the Red Corner... the terror of Flathead Valley, Bobby "Basher" Cullen ..." he waited for any applause to die down. It didn't take long. "... and in the Blue Corner, your very own local boy, Charles "Crippler" Wentworth!" The applause was a little more sustained this time, which was understandable for a more recognised local figure.
"Gentlemen..." looked like the ladies had left, too, leaving only Caroline and Arabella "... your referee for the evening...." he looked about for the fellow who had agreed to undertake that responsible and troublesome task. And there he was!
"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!"
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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