This is an old idea I've had ever floating around in my head for quite some time, and I've always hesitated to actually do something with it as I've always wanted to write a piece for RDR but was unable to think of anything that was worth putting down in words and this idea just didn't seem like much to go off on. One day, I might actually write a serious RDR fanfiction, but for now, this will have to do.

I was originally going to write this in the style of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, but for this mini-series, I ultimately settled on a conventional narrative style.

The night had been silent, the ambience broken only sporadically by the cry of nightbirds. It was a full moon tonight, a great big globe of light hanging in a blanket of stars. A man stood on a hill, watching the black sky ahead of him. He squinted his eyes, making out faint landmarks. Fort Mercer, Plainview, and below him the rushing waters of the San Luis River. And his eyes darted to the Ramita de la Baya.

"Well, no sense in holdin' off this ride home any longer. Nuevo Paraiso is a nice place, but I can't stay here forever even if they are tearin' up New Austin and West Elizabeth for my head right now. I ought to visit Pa, Ma, and Uncle to let 'em know how I'm doin'… and clear my slate in the process somehow too." Jack Marston said to himself. He whistled a shrill note. Then the quiet glass of the night was shattered instantly as the sound of rushing hooves grew louder and louder until a large black horse was in front of him. It was a fast horse, and he liked it. Jack foresaw having to outrun some less than welcoming folks the moment he walked back onto American soil. And speaking of less-than-welcoming folks…

"That's Jack Marston!" He heard a voice echo through the air. He had run afoul of a British gambling champ while gambling in Nuevo Paraiso. And what an inconvenient time for this to happen. A man in a top hat and white suit, with an extremely elaborate mustache and goatee on his chin, faced Jack. He carried a rifle, and a legion of hired Mexicans on mules followed him. "You'll pay for robbing me of my fortune, Marston, you miserable American sod!"

"C'mon, Mr. Earwicker, it's gambling!" Jack said, hoping to defuse the situation before it led to the inevitable. "Sometimes you take a shot that doesn't pay off in the end, and you know, you gotta suck up your losses and move on!"

"Well, this shot is one that's going to certainly pay off… with your blood! I know about the price Archer Fordham had placed on your head, and I'm gonna be rich after I bring your head to him!" Mr. Earwicker swore as he got ready to pull the trigger on his gun. Jack sighed, and fired his Mauser. Earwicker screamed as the bullets slammed into his hand, knocking his grip off of the horse's reins. The horses and mules neighed in fear as the sounds of Jack's pistol spooked them greatly. But unlike the Mexicans and their mules, Mr. Earwicker was in no position to control his horse. And as an unintended side effect, he somehow got tied up and dragged behind the horse as it galloped off.

"Wow… Senor Marston, you truly are as deadly as the rumors say!" One of the Mexicans said in amazement as they watched the cursing Earwicker get dragged away into the horizon.

"So, are we on good terms?" Jack asked.

"Well, he wasn't paying us any good amount of pesos, so yes, I believe we are, Senor Marston!"

"I'll be off, then!" Jack said.

"See you again real soon, Senor Marston!" All the Mexicans said as they rode away.

Jack Marston stroked the mane of his horse, an American standardbred. He checked his ammo and supplies, making sure that he need not make a last minute detour to Chuparosa for gear. "Alrighty then, Josey, let's go!" With a yee-haw, Jack Marston seized the reins of his horse and held on tight as he galloped down the hill towards the bridge. Within minutes, he had crossed the river and was back in New Austin.

Just another day in his crazy life…

"Woah, what is it, Josey? Another rattlesnake? Or a cougar?" Jack asked as his horse veered to a stop. He held on with all his might, almost getting tossed off. "It's alright, it's alright!" Jack reassured his horse. No, there was definitely no killer wildlife round these parts for the moment, but he could hear what had spooked his standardbred. There was music ahead of him, and Jack could see the faint lights of an orange campfire. Jack, with a cautious trek forward, went towards the fire. He kept one hand at his Mauser pistol ready, just in case he happened to trek into another nest of bounty hunters or gang members who wanted to take out all their rage regarding his Pa on Jack.

That was one of the downsides that came with being John Marston's boy. Aside from having to clean up all his father's loose ties, he also had the burden of inheriting John Marston's fame. There were some perks, yes, but there were also all the downsides of having to deal with all the fame-seekers who decided to boost up their rep by being the one to kill John Marston. With John dead, rather than find someone new to pester, they all seemed to decide that killing Jack would suffice.

And truth be told, Jack knew that there was another problem. Even after all these months, he was still confused about what he was going to do. After killing Ross, Jack didn't feel the retribution he was expecting. The sonofabitch who killed his paw was dead with one clean revolver shot to the head, but where was his sense of fulfillment? The reward? Jack only felt emptiness and uncertainty as the San Luis river washed Ross's corpse away. His pa was still dead, and now he had just made the wrong sort of name for himself by killing one of the Bureau's former top men.

Once upon a time, Jack had dreamed of being a writer. He would write about men like his Pa, as well as the legends like Red Harlow and Landon Ricketts. Action-packed, dramatic adventures that would appeal to everybody. He would become famous and go on tours across the world. His Pa, never the most educated of fellows but the most caring that Jack knew, had wanted him to become a rancher. Make something of Beecher's Hope, live the good honest life John could only dream of having.

But with each passing day, both of those dreams seemed to be just that. Dreams. A series of broken dreams spiraling further and further away from possibility with each second Jack was alive on this Earth. He had only meant to kill Edgar Ross… but the Marston legacy was proving to be a hard sort of life to escape. It was like a chain of dominoes… and if only Jack could've saw that getting his revenge was the first domino in line.

Jack sighed. He was sure that eventually he would figure out what he was going to do in this crazy world. Maybe seeing his family's graves for the first time since he rode off to take down Ross would help clear his mind a bit. Sure would do it better than his umpteenth shot of tequila, victory in Liar's Dice at Escalera, or screaming Mexican bandit dragged off to the authorities had done, anyhow. Well, either that, or a bullet or the noose would do it for him.

Jack reached the campfire. No cops, marshals, or bounty hunters. Just a bunch of travelers. Jack breathed a small breath of relief. Last thing he needed on his plate right now were another ten men in newly dug graves on account of him.

"Hey, sir. Wish to join our little fireside circle?" A man with a small fiddle asked him. There were several other men with instruments sitting around him, including fellows painted in blackface or red war paint. A goddamn traveling minstrel show, their faces illuminated with stark lighting by the flickering flames of the campfire.

"Well, might as well have something to pass the time with. I ain't in no big hurry to get to Armadillo anyhow." Jack said as he tied Josey to a nearby tear, and joined the fire.

"Now that we've gotten another member for our audience, why don't we start up another show?" The man with the fiddle said. Pointing towards a red-haired girl dressed like a boy sitting in a wagon a bit away from the fire, he asked: "What would you like to hear, Sam?"

"How about the story of Horrible Huey and the Gory Kablooie?" The girl said with a noticeable taint of apathy, leaning back. She was doing something funny was her voice, Jack observed.

"Goddamn it, not that again… we've been doing nothin' but Horrible Huey crap for ten months now!" The fiddle man cursed, and he turned to Jack. "Well, he ain't gonna be much help. But I reckon you will want to hear somethin' played, don't ya, stranger?"

"You mean she?"

"What? Oh, I see what you mean! Comedian, aren't ya? So anyways, you wanna hear a story or not?"

"Well, that depends…" Jack Marston asked. "What sorta stories you know?"

"A lot."

"Anything about John Marston?" Jack felt a collective shudder roll through the other denizens at the campfire.

"Somethin' I said?" Jack asked.

"Well, John Marston and the rest of Dutch's gang one day…" The Fiddle Man said, trying to hold back the tears… "It was just a routine trip to the bank, and my uncle was just standing there mindin' his own business… John and that wench Abigail… they… they just… nevermind, it's just too much. But yes, I do know a story about John Marston."

"Oh, what is it?" Jack asked with curiosity. His father had never told him much about his life before the ranch.

"It's just a rumor, but the events of this story happened recently… in fact, only a couple of years ago. Judgin' by your face I'd reckon you were just goin' through puberty when that happened." The Fiddle Man explained.

"Go on, you got my attention." Jack asked, not having the heart to tell the Fiddle Man what he really thought. Where the hell was a good book to read yourself to sleep with when you needed one?

"This story is not just about John Marston, but also about his quarry. You see, in Tall Trees there once lived a boy frustrated with his life. He was doggone tired of being treated like an insignificant speck of dust. And he was determined to make somethin' of his name b'fore the reaper came for him. So one day, this boy steals a horse from a traveler and makes his way south. When he gets to New Austin, he stops at Thieves' Landing and he falls in with the Bollards Twin's Gang…"

"So then what?"

"Well, he tries to do their thing. Robbery, kidnappin', and just causin' other sorts of general mayhem for the unfortunate residents of New Austin. But the thing is, the reason everybody b'fore has always treated this boy like dust is cause he's a bit of a puss. He thinks he's a real macho, deadly outlaw sorta type, but his own dick's too tiny to ever make that possible. Shrivels at the sheer possibility of getting' somethin' as tiny as a papercut. So he runs away from the Bollard Twins, and before long he's run away from the Treasure Hunters and Walton's gang as well. This boy finally decides to go into business for himself, but he decides to do something that's safer… baby steps, he makes excuses."

"So what does he do?"

"He gathers a posse of equally frustrated 90-pound weaklings such as himself, and they form a gang. A gang that terrorizes the West on a level that has never been seen before! He is the leader of this nefarious gang… THE TERRIBLE COWTIPPER!"

"I'm sorry, but that last bit sorta sounds like bullshit to me." Jack said.

"Shut up. Who's telling this story? You or me?"

"Well, I'm sorry. It's just"

"Creative license, goddamn you!" The fiddle man yelled, cutting Jack short.

"Geez, I'm sorry!" Jack said apologetically. He could see the other band members nodding their heads to him in battered sympathy.

"Good. Now, as I was saying, he eventually runs afoul of John Marston. Now this is when that fucking son of a bitch murderer was tryin' to go straight or some shit. The rest of the tale sorta went like this…" The Fiddle Man began to play his instrument. Jack sighed. Might as well stay and listen to what this traveling band of crazies had to say.