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Once it was written, Tom never needed to look at the notes again. He just knew it. His note books stacked up, but Tom could not bear to throw them out, just in case he needed them. Occasionally, Tom would look over the other patrons, and take notice of what they were doing. Tom glanced over at Bob.
A few seats down from Billy, Whiskey Bob sat, clutching his bottle of whiskey nervously as though an entire army of redcoats would swoop in and end his life by confiscating his only joy in life, his whiskey. Occasionally, Bob would interrupt his steady diet of whiskey with a bit of VanderLuin beef jerky. A direct unstoppable result of the whiskey and jerky, Bob would erupt in a monstrous belch of spice and whiskey fumes that could have easily been ignited into a flame, rocking the tavern in chaos.
Overall, Bob was an unsightly individual in semi-tattered garments. Everyone secretly desired to throw Bob out of town. The problem with Bob being kicked out of town was that Bob was one hell of a scout. He had helped the town hunt down and catch more than its share of trouble makers riding through. Bob was called a flesh merchant because of his talents. He could sniff down and track any person that he had been paid to find. Some said he was better than the Indian scouts that the local tribes housed. Others said that Bob had lost his edge after he helped hunt down his cousin, Trevor VanderBundt. The town had hung and killed Trevor as Bob watched. That was five years ago, and that was when Bob became Whiskey Bob.
A couple seats down from Bob sat a young Irish fella by the name of O'Shay. His red hair, pale complexion and affiliation with the Church of Rome made him pretty much an outcast in a Dutch community. There were enough Catholics for a parish and a priest, but that did not make the Dutch community like them anymore. O'Shay was also a scrapper; the kind that would start a brawl just because the sun went down. O'Shay had spent many a night in the jail, throwing off the throngs of another whiskey binge. O'Shay had been sizing up the stranger in the corner with the hopes of starting a fight with a worthy opponent for a change.
The stranger had arrived not more than forty five minutes before Billy barged in covered in blood screaming he needed a doctor. The dark clothes and hood kept the stranger's features hid so that no one could get a good look at him. His gruff and deeply scarred face was normally kept hidden from prying eyes. A large sword and dagger were hidden underneath his large billowing cloak. A small pistol and his trusty Brown Bess sat on the bench next to him, pre-packed with powder and glass shot. His eyes shifted from person to person, listening to each man's response.
"I told you before, there ain't no such there thing as that." Whiskey Bob slurred at Billy.
"I'm tellin' you Bob, this thing was big. It was ten feet tall and five feet wide." Billy slurred his words.
"It grows about one foot with each gulp you take, Billy." Al barked at him, which interrupted Al's polishing ritual.