Hello all! So, I got this idea when I was starting my second playthrough of this game. I was thinking about how badass this guys end must have been, and I got an idea. Why don't I write it myself. Then, it hit me. How would things have changed had he NOT died. This is my take on a minor character and what impact he could have had had he gotten luckier.

The air was deafening with the piercing sound of repeater shots, that all too familiar music in my ears. I felt a stray shot pierce my shoulder, striking deep. The pain was nearly enough to take me off my feet. Nearly. I let out an animalistic growl in frustration, ducking behind a tree. This was it, I just knew it. At least I took a damn army with me. That thought almost gave me comfort.

I knew something was wrong about that fucking ferry job, I thought with a shake of my head. I took the risk to peak around the tree. There was still around a half dozen Pinkertons left. About twenty bodies littered the desert sands, staining the dull tan a deep crimson. A shot almost pierced my skull, and I ducked back. I looked at my carbine, checking ammo. Five shots.

Shit. I shook my head, chuckling dryly. I can't even take em all with me.

I waited for the silence that signifies reloading, and then I pounced. I ran out from the tree, ready to fire. Time seemed to slow as I advanced, with one peeking from behind a fallen tree, seemingly ready to fire. A well placed bullet between the eyes put that idea, along with much of his brain matter, out of his head. Another pair attempted to pounce from my left flank, readying their pistols. I spun to my side, putting a bullet in the head of one and the heart of another, taking them down. I heard the cock of a rifle behind me and spun, ducking low and firing a shot into my assailants skull right after he fired a shot at me.

Another bullet pierced my side and I howled, turning as time seemed to reach normal again. I shot the asshole in the face. I tossed my carbine down, drawing my cattleman and aiming at the one remaining Pinkerton. He smirked, an older man with no hair, as we stood at standoff.

"Mac Callander, it is an honor," he said with a sarcastic emphasis on honor, as the sound of horses sounded in the distance. Reinforcements, god dammit. Seems my luck's run dry. God, please tell me Davey got out, him and the others. I did all I could to draw em away, I hope it was enough.

"I haven't had the pleasure, mister," I smirked, wincing at the pain caused by my three gunshot wounds. Fuck, this hurts. "You know me, but I don't know you."

"I am Agent Milton, of Pinkerton Detective Agency. Now you, my young friend, are a wanted man. And I highly doubt that you'll willingly come alive, so," the man began, before slightly shifting his gun down and putting a round in my leg. I screamed, falling to a knee and dropping my gun. "I highly advise you to make any peace you need to with any higher power a worthless savage like yourself worships, because this is where you die."

"You mother fucker…" I spat, gritting my teeth and reaching for my gun. I felt another bullet shred through my arm and watched it go limp. "GOD DAMMIT! Just fucking end it already!"

"You killed a lot of good men today, damn fine men with families. Civilised men, men who's lives matter. I will not kill you quickly, because you do not deserve it," Milton snarls. He walks up to me, crouching in front of me and getting within inches of my face. I growl, low, spitting some blood into his face. Damn, that look on his face almost made dying worth it. He looked like a man possessed, wiping it off his face slowly. He grabbed me by the back of my head, knocking my hat off as he grabbed a handful of my hair. "Disrespectful fucking savage, I am civilization! I am death, coming for you and all your dirty fucking friends, do you hear me?!" He slammed my head into the ground, aiming his gun.

I closed my eyes, awaiting the inevitable. Well, guess I'll find out who made it out soon. The all too familiar sound of a gun blasting.

But, I felt nothing. I waited, but no pain came. I opened my eyes, and slowly looked up. I saw Milton, no gun in his hand and a look of shock in his face. Farther away, I saw a man in a dusty white leather coat on a ledge, gun smoking. His white hat blocked his eyes, and his face was completely clean shaven. Milton looked angry, but retreated quickly. I laughed, a quiet chuckle escaping my burning throat.

I was barely able to stay awake past that. I remember the man picking me up, I remember waking up once on a horse riding through Blackwater, but that's it really. Not until I woke up here, in some tiny ass shack I ain't ever seen before, with only bandages wrapped around my several bullet wounds and I raging pain in my skull.

"Oh, fuck me, this hurts," I groaned, rubbing my head.

"Well, mister, I'll have to take a pass on that first bit, but hopefully this little remedy I got'll cure ya of some'a that last part," the voice of a man came out, sounding like that of a much older and experienced man than myself, and I looked to see my savior from earlier approaching with a bowl. "It's a combination of herbs I grow around my ranch 'ere and some good ol Kentucky Bourbon. Drink up, friend."

Now, normally I don't accept unknown concoctions from strange men. But he saved my life, and my head felt like a horse had ran it over, so I grabbed the bowl and eagerly washed it down my throat. Until I tasted it, then I nearly coughed the nasty shit right up,

"Tastes like shit," I grimaced, putting down the bowl.

He laughed, a jolly and hearty laugh. "Yep, I concur, but it'll knock that nasty lil headache right out of that head of yours. Probably'll help ya feel less sore, too."

"It certainly can't make me feel much worse," I grimaced, trying to sit up. I was able to get halfway up before I moved the wrong way, causing a sharp pain to pierce through my chest and me to grimace.

"Slow down, there, partner, you ain't all the way better yet. You need ta get some rest," the man said, cleaning up the bowl. "You're lucky them bullets didn't pierce anythin' too important. The doc said you'd be fit as a fiddle in a couple'a days."

"How long have I been out?"

"A day or so. Now, back to bed. When ya can stand up, then we'll talk about my repayment," he smirked, and turned and walked out. I groaned. Of course, I should have expected he'd expect something in return. Nobody saves an outlaw from Pinkertons out of the kindness of their own heart or Christian duty, of course.

Well, I can think about that later. Now, I could use a bit more rest.

Here you go! Chapter 1 is out there! I've never really written in first person before so bear with me as I get used to it! Please review, I really appreciate any constructive criticism or thoughts. Ideally chapter 2 will be soon!