Author's Note: This is my first Fanfic, and this is the first chapter of said Fanfic, so I'd rather quite like it if you could post some honest reviews. Also note that this is the only chapter that features a bunch of old codgers in a bar, so if you're not particularly fond of this one, you may still like the later ones.
'You guys hearda Walton Last?'
'No, who's Walton Last?'
'Guy outta Nuevo Paraiso or some place. Old West gunslinger.'
'I think I read about him in a penny dreadful one time'
'Oh yeah, Walton Last!'
...
Four men sit around a table, a little worse for ware, in the crowded Blackwater Saloon. Noise fills the room, people shuffle around, and there's a general air of friendly hostility. The world is changing. Gone are the days where you need to worry about outlaws and gunfighters riding through town to shoot you and steal your possessions. Now are the days where you have taxes and the flu to worry about, pats to the thieves and shootists of old.
These men, like all of those around them. All wearing the same pretentious three-piece suits. all sporting the same facial hair, all drinking the same drinks, all conversing the same conversation. One of the four, Lester Habersham, twiddles his finger in a glass of scotch nonchalantly. He's leaned back in the chair, feigning comfort. A quiet man by nature, he seems to believe that shifting his position will somehow result in all eyes on him, like it was some sort of heresy or mortal sin.
The man next to him, Earl West, a very large and very outspoken man, especially among his company of three. He seems entirely devoted to the conversation, this boisterous and overly-excitable man making his contributions heard and known. Picture a Texan oil monger. The third man is Riley Fortisque, the eldest of the group, nearing his late-forties while the others don't look a day past their mid-thirties. His face drooping, his hands wrinkled, and jowls down his chin and neck, this man sits with a cigarette and holder dangling out of his mouth, a glass of scotch in his hand and a pompous expression on his face.
The fourth man, Lionel Shackleford, is probably the most eloquent, and most normal, of the four. He sits, disinterested, scratching at the tabletop. This man is the youngest, most well-kept and cleanest of them, with a finely trimmed goatee, a golden pocketwatch, a well-made suit and slick, combed hair pressed by his bowler hat. Lionel, Earl, Lester and Riley are doing what they do day after day after day. Sitting around, talking about nothing in particular and drinking expensive scotch, while the wife at home tends to the seventeen plus kids. This time, they appear to be deep in discussion about a character in a dime novel they read once. Funny how things work out.
'Weren't he that guy who shot Richard Wallach?'
'Nah, that was Pat Stevens-'
'No, it was Walton Last'
'How'd you know if it's Walton Last?'
'Cause I know, okay? Read it in a dime novel-'
'Them penny dreadfuls don't tell the truth. About as accurate as a one-armed spastic, they are'.
It doesn't really matter who's talking, or when. In the to and fro of their day to day lives, all their conversations seem to blend together. Usually, one of them plays Devil's advocate, regardless of whether or not they believe what they're saying, just to carry on the conversation until the next pretentious twat comes around and has a game of billiards that they can watch. They don't take much notice of who's speaking unless something particularly interesting comes up, so neither should you.
'No, I swear, I saw him once!' Riley says, finally spicing up the talk.
'You? You old codger? Not sure you could even remember that far back'
'No, I saw him! I saw him, I swear' Riley continues.
Lionel is intrigued, and not in the least bit disinterested.
'Assuming you did see Walton Last... well, what was he like?'
'I never saw much of him, I-'
'Ha! There you go!' Earl loudly chimes in. Lionel looks at him in annoyance.
'Riley, go on. What about Walton Last?'
'Walton Last, he rode into town one time in-'
'Which town?'
'Armadillo, I believe. Or the- it was someplace. Anyway, he's rode town on this big, black horse in 190-'
'Walton Last never rode a black horse!'
'Did you see him?'
'Did you?'
'Walton Last's horse was always white'
'In the books maybe,' Riley continues his story, 'but I saw him for real. He came into town on this big black horse, back sometime in 1905 when the Old West were dyin', and the New West were just comin' in,' Riley begins. 'This was back in the day when them Mexicans were movin' in from the south like nothin', populatin' our towns, an' more civilized folk from the North were comin' down and civilizin' us. 'Round this time, I was just fifteen or twenty, an' Blackwater was just startin' gettin' built'.
And so begins the legend of Walton Last.
