Constant clopping was all that could be heard on the desolate dirt road. Tumbleweeds blew across the path carelessly, the wind echoing in with a slight whistle every now and then. Barren land was all that could be seen with the naked eye, sparse cactuses and dried up plants were the only things populating the torn, broken ground. Riding the horse was a man wearing a black jacket and a dark brown hat, a revolver sitting firmly in the holster on his right hip and spare ammo decorating his belt. On the back of the horse was the corpse of a former outlaw, though barely recognizable as such, due to the large bullet hole in his head, staining his body and clothes with a now-dried shade of crimson. His face was left disfigured, and flies buzzed around the dead human with a consistent, annoying buzz.
Slowly, the horse increased in speed as the sun hit the highest point in the sky, signaling that it was noon. In the far distance, a small town could be made out. Civilization was nearing, and the rider slowly adjusted his hat, spurring his horse to increase the speed even more. The corpse on the back of the horse bounced, almost rhythmically, every time the horse moved forward.
As the horse came closer and closer to the town, a broken and busted sign, dangling from a cut rope was the first thing to greet them. Through the dust, one could just make out the letters, spelling 'Welcome to ARMADILLO'. The rider slowly eased up the horse, coming to a stop just outside a small building to his left. A sign, slanted downward from one end to the other, plainly read 'Sheriff' at the front.
The front door to the Sheriff's building opens, and Marshal Leigh Johnson steps out, placing a hand on his hat and removing it, wiping the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead off with his sleeve. He glances to his right to see the man stepping down from his horse. Marshal Johnson slowly approaches the man.
"Pick up that wanted poster, did ya, son?" He asks, inspecting the corpse.
The rider, unresponsive, simply picks the dead body up off of the end of the corpse, and in a very casual manner, throws the body onto the ground, directly at the feet of the Marshal. The Marshall glances down, and turns his head away momentarily, a disgusted expression on his face. He walks around the body, and nods to the rider. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out $250 in cash, and proceeds to hand it to the man. But suddenly, he yanks the money back as he glances over the rider's face.
"Do I know you?" Johnson asks, taking in the man's facial feature.
The rider had long brown hair coming down to his shoulders, left messily and unattended to, while harsh black eyes stared directly into the Marshal's. A goatee-like facial hair style was present, though it appeared the man hadn't shaved in some time, and a full on beard was growing beneath it.
"What's your name, son?" Marshal Johnson asked, after getting no reply to his previous question.
The rider quickly sent a hand out, snatching the money from the hand of Marshal Johnson. In one swift movement he turned, pocketed the money, and proceeded to mount his horse. As he began to ride off, he shouted back at the stunned Marshal, revealing his identity.
"Jack Marston."
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
As dusk came upon New Austin, Jack Marston sat on a rock near his campfire, thinking. With a foot propped up on an adjacent rock, and a stick in his hand, poking idly at the fire, he contemplated the events that had taken place in the last few years of his life. Both of his parents had died, but he achieved redemption by mercilessly killing the man who had murdered his father. Justice was served, as far as Jack was concerned, and somehow, it just wasn't enough.
Watching and seeing how deceitful and cruel both people, and the world, could be, changed him as a person. He no longer saw moral boundaries, and he had become a cold, ruthless bounty hunter as a result. He blamed everyone, and everything. Edgar Ross, the government, his father, his childhood, and his long-dead sister were all contributing factors to where he was right now, camped out in a desert in the middle of New Austin.
Recalling just how much he had changed, he was drawn back to the bandit he had turned into the Marshal earlier today. After an intense gunfight with the bandit's thugs, Jack had shot the bandit, William Blacklight, in the shoulder once, and then approached the poor, surrendering bandit. William pleaded for mercy, and asked to spend the rest of his days in jail, fearing death, much like everyone else. But Jack hadn't heard a word that the piece of scum said, he just placed his revolver in the man's face, and pulled the trigger without a second thought, showering blood everywhere.
Even though he chose to travel and work alone, Jack made a decent living for himself. He had started to hit the bottle pretty hard as well, always taking the evening after a long day's work to hammer down several shots of his favorite whiskey at the local saloon, then proceed to lose the money he'd heard, drunk as a skunk, in a game of poker. Then, the next morning, he would wake up next to a whore whose name he couldn't remember, get dressed, and proceed to do it all over again.
Yeah, this was the life.
Jack tossed the stick he'd been using to poke at the fire away carelessly, and flopped down onto a pillow and blanket he had set up for himself. It was a piss poor excuse for a camp, but when the ground was the only bed you knew, it worked for him.
He lowered his hat over his eyes so he was surrounded in darkness, and proceeded to endure yet another sleepless night, tangled in the thoughts of his past. Hopefully tomorrow he could find a stockade of alcohol and two whores, maybe that would be enough to kill away the pain for one night.