The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The reins chafed uncomfortably against his sweaty palms, the rough leather rubbing them raw with every jolting stride of his horse. He hated this. He hated waking up every day, soaked in his own sweat, blinded by the sun, scorched by the unforgiving heat with no relief in sight.

But John Marston was on a mission, and he wasn't going to let the inhospitable Mexican summer stop him.

Every moment, he was on edge. He had the eyesight and sharp accuracy of an eagle, constantly scanning the landscape, searching for its prey, waiting silently but vigilantly.

Even now, as perspiration poured down his forehead and into his squinted eyes, he was watching. He was alerted by every slight movement around him, every shadow, every sound, and during the nighttime, ever flickering light.

John Marston didn't settle. John Marston was a perfectionist. He realized he didn't have time in abundance, and he knew he couldn't take chances. Taking a chance and letting one slip by, even just one time—that would be the time he would miss his target. So he stopped them. He stopped all of them with a bullet.

Usually, they were innocents.

But sometimes as he looted the body, inspected it, he would note the roughness of it, its strength, and he was glad he was able to shoot them down before they did the same to him.

Maybe it made him a bad person. Maybe it made him a downright villain. Most people called it trigger finger. He preferred the term maximum security.

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The fire flickered steadily, and as he stared into its soothing light, his vision blurred and tunneled out. It was the flames and him, close together; the desert around them seemed to disappear with the rest of the world. This was the soothing thought that made him feel safe enough to lie down. The false sense of solitude took the edge off his constant paranoia, and he was lulled to sleep.

He was soon awakened by a feeling of constraint around his ankles. At first he thought he was dreaming, but the sensation of restriction soon transformed into outright pain. He hissed, sharply inhaling between his teeth. As his eyes flickered open, he could still see the smoldering embers of the fire. All else was total darkness.

It wasn't until he attempted to rub the sleep out of his eyes that he noticed his hands, too, were bound. Flipping and writhing on the ground, he turned himself away from the fire, disoriented and unsure of where his captor could be. It was only the sudden burst of heat on his back that let him know his fire was revived.

But by who?

With one final surge of strength, he flipped once more, and there he was. The one John had been chasing all over the desert, the one that had somehow evaded him time and time again. The one that had the upper hand all along.

Tum Bell Weed sat in mocking silence next to the now raging fire, a box of matches at his feet. That son of a dog, John thought. He wanted me to be able to see him as he killed me.

His ugly face of tangled straw seemed to sneer and grin at John by the haunting glow of the fire. The wind blew, but he remained firmly rooted close—but not close enough—to the flames. He was always stronger than the others, thought John Marston, and too strong for me.

"Listen here, Weed," he rasped. The long, tangly limbs of Tum Bell Weed's tumbleweed cronies were now wrapping around his ribcage, crushing him, suffocating him slowly. He lost the desire to fight back, physically and mentally. It was nothing short of shameful to be laid so bare and vulnerable in front of his nemesis. His nemesis the dead plant, nonetheless. "You may kill me now, but my legacy is untouchable."

He could practically hear Tum Bell Weed's laugh. Except tumbleweeds don't laugh, so he had to imagine it in his mind. And it was incredibly evil and derisive.

He realized they were big words for a man in a position like his, but they had to be said. He couldn't die in total disgrace; he couldn't leave the world at the hands of his enemy without leaving behind so much as an insult. He had to leave Weed with something that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Suddenly, he heard a voice shouting from what must have been a hundred feet away. "Eh, hombre! Eh, you okay, man?" It was tinged with curiosity and concern. John was just opening his mouth to cry out when the tumbleweeds that bound him pulled tighter than ever, rendering him incapable of doing much else but holding still, his mouth and eyes wide open in shock, desperation, and blinding pain.

Then, as quickly as the flash of agony washed over him, it was gone, leaving him feeling crushed and bruised.

"Eh, man," The voice was closer now; the man was no longer yelling. "You alright? Ay, you don't look so good..."

A wave of throbbing pain surged from John's core and he shook with a body-wracking cough, flashes of incredible discomfort popping up everywhere with each movement he made. Blood spattered the ground next to his mouth. He could see the man through teary eyes, reaching out tentatively to touch him.

"Don't," John said suddenly, harshly. It hurt to speak. "I'm done," he uttered simply. "Don't try." Once more he coughed, involuntarily pushing dry air from his crushed lungs. Warm blood dripped down his chin, down his neck. His life drained from him. "But tell…"

"What is it?" The man begged of him. "What?"

"Make sure my son knows…he has to find…the one that defies the wind."

"What are you saying, man?! Stay with me, stay with me! Keep your eyes open! Keep breathing…"

The man's desperate pleas faded into white noise before cutting out completely, and all John Marston could hear was the ringing of his own ears. He saw very little, just the blackness of the night and the blurred orange of the fire. He felt more pain in his last few moments than he could recall in his entire life. And there, crumpled pitifully somewhere in the inhospitable Mexican desert, John Marston took his last breath.

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Stay tuned for Chaper 2: JACK'S REVENGEEEEEEE!