I would survey the town from a distance, scoping out any potential places to ransack.
Through Dust and Iron [RP]

The town is as poor as a frontier town can get, with bare streets, shoddily made equipment, and wooden cutlery. Even the wrought iron is cheaply made. The main point of wealth that you can see is a deposit of copper in wooden crates, where a person, presumably an overseer of the mine, is talking to what is presumably a deliverer.

“Nowhere is truly like home” is Bachi’s mentality. Not the hot, dry Arizona; not yet Utah, the Mormon State; not Wyoming or Idaho; no, it isn’t the same. But it’s not like he can go back to Mexico, his homeland, where Porfirio Díaz is mistreating his people. No, he is destined to wander until the dust settles. But he has a feeling it won’t, and that feeling has now taken him to Filthvale.
It’s incredibly, well, filthy, but Bachi isn’t called “the Wanderer” for nothing, so he begins to roam around.

A few of the children, women, and men that don't work at the copper mines look at Bachi curiously, given that someone visiting their little corner of the territory is not something they've really thought about. Nonetheless, they quickly lose interest and go back to whatever tasks they were fulfilling before Bachi came wandering about.

*I pull out mah banjo and I strum it loudly as I begin a country two step jig*
YEEEEHHHAAAWWWWW GETTER DONE FELLERS

The world quickly forgets this blip in normality, and the corpse is left out in the Montanan outskirts to rot, maybe to become a fossil.

I signal to two younger men who had set up a shoddy camp to head back to our home base.
"We're leavin'. Nothin' of value here."

The only source of water is an old well. It goes down for a while, and the bucket is old and rusty, probably infected with who knows what. The well is crumbling and old, though still extensively used, as seen with the worn rope and crank.
On a small hill, far away, another gang begins to survey the area with a telescope.

OOC: https://www.chess.com/forum/view/off-topic/through-dust-and-iron-ooc-and-sign-up-thread?page=1
I'm gonna do the opposite of what others did and put little effort into the actual opening post of the RP and leave in the OOC so read that instead rn
Filthvale, Montana Territory, January 1st, 1889.
Filthvale was your average frontier town in the Old West. It was comprised of only a few little small buildings made of wood, the saloon, sheriff's office, smithy, you get the picture. It had popped up due to the discovery of a small vein of copper, and a little mining town had sprung up around it, made up of the families of miners/minors WAIT. Really, the only thing differentiating it from other small mining towns in the Montana Territory was that some railroad company had promised to build a railroad right next to it, but they were a long time coming.
The sun rose, and shined in the sky, illuminating Filthvale in a golden light. The miners had already set off for their job in the mines and left the rest of the townspeople to their jobs. The deputy of the town, a wizened, nearly old man, sat back in his wooden rocking chair overlooking the town. He opened a newspaper, a local one, the American Amphitheater. As usual, the newspaper wasn't very focused on local happenings (seeing as there was none), but national ones. The deputy skimmed through the paper before sitting back and sighing. Today, it seemed, would be a slow day.
OOC: https://www.chess.com/forum/view/off-topic/through-dust-and-iron-ooc-and-sign-up-thread?page=1
I'm gonna do the opposite of what others did and put little effort into the actual opening post of the RP and leave in the OOC so read that instead rn
Filthvale, Montana Territory, January 1st, 1889.
Filthvale was your average frontier town in the Old West. It was comprised of only a few little small buildings made of wood, the saloon, sheriff's office, smithy, you get the picture. It had popped up due to the discovery of a small vein of copper, and a little mining town had sprung up around it, made up of the families of miners. Really, the only thing differentiating it from other small mining towns in the Montana Territory was that some railroad company had promised to build a railroad right next to it, but they were a long time coming.
The sun rose, and shined in the sky, illuminating Filthvale in a golden light. The miners had already set off for their job in the mines and left the rest of the townspeople to their jobs. The deputy of the town, a wizened, nearly old man, sat back in his wooden rocking chair overlooking the town. He opened a newspaper, a local one, the American Amphitheater. As usual, the newspaper wasn't very focused on local happenings (seeing as there was none), but national ones. The deputy skimmed through the paper before sitting back and sighing. Today, it seemed, would be a slow day.