"We are rough men and used to rough ways." – Bob Younger, 1876
The American West, California, 1873
The steam-powered locomotive shuddered and screeched to a halt at the darkened and deserted station on the outskirts of a dusty Californian boomtown. There was a pregnant pause before the train sighed in exhaustion and tick-tocked it's weighty presence on the weathered iron tracks. The lamps at the station swung in the growing wind, casting faint light on a lone man standing in the shadows.
The night was late, and the sky darkened with an oncoming summer storm. The wind howled through the station's busted windows, whistling a forlorn tune of sorrow and neglect. The city glowed faint in the distance, hidden by rolling hills and the rocky Western landscape.
The man shifted his weight in the dimness, letting a growl escape his throat.
The train was an hour late.
Stepping away from his post by the station's abandoned doorway, he calmly began to stroll onto the short walkway, his worn leather boots kicking up dust in his path. His sharp spurs creating a monotonous beat on the wooden planks. He adjusted his hat firmly down on his head as he stepped onto the dirt, tracing a path towards the train's express car.
As he approached, the door to the car slid open with a raucous bang, and a flickering oil lantern emerged from the car, followed by an suit-sleeved arm, followed by a capped figure, squinting at the strange man approaching the train.
"You there!" called the expressman into the faint night, "Are you The Sheriff?"
The stranger continued advancing. The expressman perceived the stranger's silence as threatening, and hurriedly fumbled for his gun, drew it, and pointed it at him.
"I-I-I…w-w-warn you sir," he stuttered, "I am entrusted b-b-by The Law and W-W-Wells Fargo of The S-S-Sierra Nevada Region to protect this h-h-here cargo…"
The stranger had finally reached the car, his hat pulled low, hiding his face from view.
"By The Law," the expressman said firmly now, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, "Step back." As he pulled back the trigger on his pistol with a firm and resonant 'click'.
As quick and as deadly as California desert lightening, the stranger whipped his gun from it's resting place at his holster, and aimed it into the car. With a smooth and measured gesture, he tipped his hat back, casting lamplight onto his face.
"I am the law," The Sheriff growled maliciously, and pulled the trigger.
