Seen climbed between old growth pines into the Sierra Nevada. When he looked back, the entire great basin lay out below him, until it vanished into a haze of dust and clouds. Somewhere down there was his salt pan, and his hut, and his holes. Ahead waited something larger. A promise that he might have a chance to do something more than dig in the desert. Something that might fill him up in a way that none of his spirit quests or mushrooms ever could.

A trading post sat in the trees at the top of the ridge. A small clapboard building with 'saloon' on a sign at one end and 'general store' at the other. Brush grew right over the paths he followed. Not even the animals had been this way in a long time. Their tracks - old, faded markings in the mud- and other signs of their passage jumped out at him, surrounded by a soft pink glow. The newest was months old.

Even the npcs had vanished. Where did they go? Did they move to more populated areas, or just fade away? Seen picked his way around the mud in the pitted grass field in front of the saloon. Less careful travelers had left tracks there, three distinct sets. The bat doors squeaked when he pushed through.

All eyes were on him. A grinning, dirty old man sat at a table at one end, near a player piano that sagged in the middle. He carved the tabletop with a big bowie knife. John Bearcat sat at the bar, with a red haired woman who wore a sheriff's badge. Bearcat wore a sneer, and had painted his face in white contours so he looked like a grinning skull. This gunslinger had better be right about needing a soldier. John Bearcat was an uncontrollable brute, and even after everything Seen had told James, here John was.

The woman openly studied Seen as he made his way around the tables to the bar. "I'm Margaret," she said, extending a hand.

"Seen Mighwood," he replied.

"Excuse me?" Margaret yanked her hand back and sprang off her barstool. Her hand was on her gun faster than Seen could follow.

John caught her elbow before she could raise the revolver. "Relax," he drawled, "That's just his stupid name."

"Sorry," Seen said. He glanced around, glad it hadn't come to violence already. "I guess you're all here because of the gunslinger?"

"Why else?" John asked, leaning back against the bar. "What are you here for? Selling snake oil or the hokey spirituality?"

In all these years, John Bearcat hadn't changed. Seen imagined that, in some distant memory of a lost world, John was the kind of asshole who picked up girls in a bar by telling them how pretty their friends were. "Maybe the plan involves bouncing whores on your knees,” Seen said. “Or maybe crying in their arms at night. You aren't good for anything else."

John rushed off his stool and had Seen by the collar before he could react. Seen's feet left the floor, and John pulled back his other massive fist - Margaret slid between them, deftly freeing Seen from John's grip and shoving John back toward the bar. She didn't notice the revolver Seen had drawn, or pretended not to. "Children!" she admonished. "You aren't boys, don't behave like it. We came here for a reason and let’s save the fights for after."

Seen holstered his revolver, but he held it just long enough to be sure John saw it. The big man's eyes narrowed as they flitted across the cold steel barrel. That's right, John. One shot for one punch. "Fine," Seen said. He pulled out the stool next to Margaret and sat.

John growled, but he also sat. Margaret was between them, which might stop any further hostility.

"Is that Margaret as in Iron Marge?" Seen asked.

Margaret glanced at him over her whiskey glass and nodded.

"I didn't know he was recruiting Iron Marge," Seen said. "I've heard things about you."

"Good things, I hope."

Seen shrugged. Some bad things too, but no point in going down that path. It'd just cause more friction. "So, who’s our other friend?"

"Don't know," Margaret said. "He arrived not long before you. Hasn't said a word, just went over there and started carving."

Seen studied the old man. The man's eyes never strayed from the three of them at the bar, even as he carved large curls out of the table top. The man was scrawny, even thinner than Seen, and Seen couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meal that hadn't already been picked over by a crow. He wore prospector gear, which explained some of it. This was probably the type to wander around in the mountains alone, which of course begged for Seen to wonder what use this man could be. Iron Marge and John he understood, they were both deadly. Even his own purpose he understood, once James Sniper had explained it to him. But what would they need a prospector for?

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The prospector had a wide, crazy grin and eyes that both couldn't hold still and managed to stare. The way he looked in two directions at once crawled under Seen's skin and he found himself swatting imaginary insects off his arms. Most interesting, and the last thing Seen noticed, was that he didn't carry a gun. Seen played a shaman, and even he wasn't stupid enough to go around unarmed.

Margaret thrust a whiskey glass at Seen, then poured a couple fingers into it. She winked. Outside, the tinkle of spurs on the porch announced the arrival of the final member of their party. James Sniper pushed the door open and hung his sombrero on the hook beside it.

"Gentlemen," James said, holding his hands out to encompass the entire room. "And Marge. You look as lovely as always."

"Stuff it, gunslinger," Margaret said, and upended her whiskey glass.

Seen sipped at his. Mods, it was strong. He could have used it to clean grease off a locomotive.

"Seen, Marge, John," the gunslinger said, "I see you have all met. Allow me to introduce the fifth member of our band." He stepped up to the grinning prospector. "This is Wayne. Wayne, say hello."

"Oh boy," the old prospector said. He looked up at James the way a dog did at its master.

"This raid likely to involve a lot of prospecting?" John asked.

"Wayne has some useful talents. As do all of you - shaman, soldier, lawman."

"Law-woman," Margaret said.

"And I am sure you are each wondering what role you have to play in this grand adventure." James pulled a chair from Wayne's table and propped one boot on it, leaning on his knee. "Especially since I have bribed each of you with a different promise."

"Get to the part where we shoot them," John grumbled.

John really hadn't changed at all, but Seen discovered he agreed with the large man. "Skip the speech," he said. "We're all already sold or we wouldn't be here, at least I wouldn't."

James looked between them, then behind himself at Wayne. "You're all sure?"

"Oh boy," Wayne said with a nod.

James shrugged. "The Developer, the man who cursed us with the rune of recall, didn't vanish like you might have thought. He's been held all these years by the moderators in Boulder."

Margaret was nodding along. That did more to make Seen believe than anything James could have said. Iron Marge seemed somehow down to earth. If she believed this tale, Seen saw no reason to question it.

"That is our prize," John said, holding out his hand and then clenching it into a fist. "They have had him for five years, and nothing in this place has changed. It's time their reign of tyranny comes to an end."

The Developer - Seen could think of no greater prize. No amount of gold would matter if they freed the Developer. In his gratitude, he would lavish gold upon them, and equipment, and npcs if they desired that. John would. The Developer could even give them the power of a moderator.

"Oh boy," Wayne said.

"Yes, and explosions, my old friend. There will be explosions."

Wayne grinned, nodded, and went back to his carving. He muttered something under his breath, over and over again. Seen couldn't hear it well enough to make out the words, but he could guess. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy..."

Margaret leaned forward on her stool, whiskey glass balanced in her hand. "If the Developer is captive, like you say, then he's guarded by at least two moderators. Andross and Sam don't leave Boulder. And the other two aren't ever far away. Plus you have two American controlled towns to deal with, and probably the Texans as well, thanks to their new alliance. That's over eighty players between all three towns. What are five of us going to do?"

"First," James began, "We need to drive a wedge between the Texans and the Americans..."