"Ima get each one'a you city-slicker cock-suckers once I get out of here!" Slink Bradshaw yelled, struggling against the rope which bound his hands behind his back.
"Shut up and get in there!" John Marston yelled as he kicked the outlaw into a jail cell.
The deputies shut the cell door, locking Slink in. The bearded man slammed against the bars of his cell, screaming like a maniac and swearing his revenge.
"Sorry about the noise, gentlemen," Marston said as he tipped his hat to the deputies. "I thought he couldn't sound any worse than he looked."
"Or smelled," the Sheriff muttered as he walked away from the cell. "Well the train to Blackwater should arrive in the next half hour or so. Then you can escort our guest out of here. And, pardon my boldness," the Sheriff said as he motioned to the two dozen men waiting outside his office, "I hope those characters will be leaving as well."
John looked out at the members of Walton's gang that were loitering on the street outside, spitting tobacco, and hollering at women passing by.
"Don't you worry, Sheriff," Marston said with a sigh. "Those men will be out of your hair soon. They'll be helping me escort ol' Slink here back to Blackwater. Isn't that right, Slink?"
"... pieces of shit! You shut your goddamn mouth you buck-toothed..." Slink continued to rant, deaf to Marston's taunts.
"Seems like overkill for one prisoner," the Sheriff suggested.
"I'm inclined to agree with you, Sheriff. We thought Slink's gang would be tougher to put down so the powers that be decided we'd have to hire some outside help from some of Walton's boys. A few too many, if you ask me."
"Who wants this scumbag so bad that they would hire a posse like this?"
"Government man by the name of Edgar Ross. Speaking of which, I ought to have a word with him. Take care, Sheriff."
Marston walked into the street, stepping through the crowd of outlaws. Standing at the back of the posse was Edgar Ross and three other men in suits.
"Is Mr Bradshaw resting comfortably in his cell?" Ross asked from behind a thick, white mustache.
"I've done what you asked, Ross."
"Not quite yet," the government agent said, pointing an accusing finger. "We still have to get him back to Blackwater alive to answer for his crimes."
"How very noble," Marston said, rolling his eyes.
"Chin up, Mr Marston. The hard part is over. My acquaintances and I are going for a quick drink before the train arrives," Ross said, pointing to the other men in suits. "I'd recommend you do the same. Of course, for you, I'd recommend the bar across town. Tends to cater to criminals, outlaws, and... generally men of your type." Ross gestured to the boys of Walton's gang. "I think a few of them are already over there right now."
"Don't worry, Ross," Marston said, glaring as he walked away. "I know exactly who the criminals are in this town."
Marston arrived at the small bar and saw that they were, in fact, four members of Dalton's gang loitering around the stables outside. They were digging through the saddlebags of some of the horses, looking for valuables to steal. Marston walked by the four men, each of them reeking of whiskey and laughing like lunatics. One of them backed away from a horse holding a rifle.
"Get a look at this, fellas!" he yelled, examining the weapon in his hands. "We got ourselves a genuine marksman in town today." The drunk looked through the sights of the rifle. "WHOO-EY! I bet you could shoot a man's hat off at 200 feet with this thing!"
"275 if there's no wind," said a man in the street.
Marston stopped at the door of the saloon and turned to look at the stranger. His head faced the ground as he lit his cigar, hiding his face under the brim of his cowboy hat. He wore a poncho and his clothes were covered in dust. The man lifted his head, revealing his stern face and squinting eyes. The boys of Walton's gang spun around to face him and dropped their hands to their sides. The stranger seemed uninterested by the show of aggression.
"Looks like this boy wants his rifle back," said the outlaw holding the stranger's weapon.
"You boys don't need to worry about me," the stranger said as he finished lighting his cigar. "You and I know you were just looking at that rifle, but my horse doesn't know that. He thinks you're trying to steal it. So now you've gotten my horse nervous."
Walton's boys chuckled, amused by the stranger.
The man continued without cracking a smile, "So why don't you just apologize to my horse and there won't be any trouble."
The Walton boys burst into laughter and looked at each other. Their laughter stopped when the stranger threw back the front of his poncho, revealing the six-shooter by his side. "My horse doesn't appreciate your laughing."
Walton's gang dropped their hands to their sides again, prepared to reach for their weapons.
"Dumb bastard," Marston muttered as he walked into the bar. He didn't need to watch this stranger get blown away by four drunk outlaws. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. He had just wrapped his fingers around the glass when shots were fired outside. Marston sighed. "Here's to fools and their pride," he declared as he downed his drink and called for another. As he prepared to take a sip, a man in a poncho appeared next to him at the bar and ordered a whiskey of his own.
"Well I'll be damned," Marston said, looking up. "Thought those Walton boys knew how to shoot."
The stranger picked up his drink, "They didn't get the chance. Sorry about your friends."
"I wouldn't call them friends. So you can take your hand off your pistol."
"Good to hear," the Stranger said with a slight smile as he moved his hand away from his side. "Suspected your loyalties lay with those Walton boys when I saw you moving Slink Bradshaw into that jail cell."
"My motives are my own. I just know that there's a very valuable sum coming my way if I get Bradshaw to Blackwater alive and I don't care who I need to work with to accomplish that."
"Interesting philosophy," the stranger said as he finished his drink. "But if you keep running with dogs, you might find yourself put down like those four dogs outside." Marston made eye contact with the stranger as he continued. "Word on the street is that there's a pretty sizable bounty on that man's corpse. You never know what manner of bounty hunter might come after him." The stranger turned and left for the door. "Don't miss your train," he said as he left.
"You got a name?" Marston called out.
"Not in these parts," the Stranger said as he walked out the door.
Marston finished his drink and left a few minutes later, reaching the train station just as the train to Blackwater arrived. Ross's government agents escorted Slink into the train and the members of Walton gang wandered in behind.
Marston boarded the train and attempted to catch up to Ross. He entered the center-most of the seven carriages where Ross was pushing Slink into a seat.
"Ah, Mr Marston," Ross said. "Thought for a second that we were going to lose you too. Apparently some of Walton's boys are still at the bar."
"Yeah and they ain't leaving any time soon," Marston declared. "A man shot them. And he may intend to go after Slink."
"You think this rope can contain me!" Slink continued with his tireless protest.
"A man shot down our brothers!" a member of Walton's gang interjected. "And you let him walk away?"
"They were stealing his property," Marston yelled. "Those drunk maniacs were just waiting for someone to put a bullet in their heads."
"I say you're a coward, Marston. You goddamn-"
"Whoa, whoad, gentlemen," Ross said, stepping between them. "I know tensions are high but our time together will be mercifully concluded soon. We have barred any civilians from entering the train. It's just us and the conductors at the front of the train. The train will depart right now and, once we're on the road, we'll be safe from any bounty hunters. Now, Mr Marston, would you kindly wait in the front of the train?"
"It'd probably be better if I were here with Slink."
"Please, Mr Marston, I'm aware that there is a high bounty for Slink to be brought in dead. For this reason, I would rather just have my fellow government associates in this car."
"You think I'd cut and run for a quick profit?" Marston said as the train began to move forward.
"Perhaps you gentlemen," Ross said, speaking to the half dozen members of Walton's gang in the cabin, "would care to escort Mr Marston to the front of the train."
The outlaws jumped at the chance to exert authority over Marston and pushed him ahead. Marson relented and walked ahead. As they reached the head car, Marston looked out the train window at the town that was fading in the background. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man on horseback approaching the locomotive. He looked just in time to see a man in a poncho ride up next to the caboose of the train.
"He's boarding the train," Marston declared to the boys in Walton's gang next to him.
"Who?"
"The man I warned you about. The man who shot your friends. He's about to board the train."
"Sounds like you're looking for an excuse to leave," the gang member said as he blocked the aisle of the train car. "Ya know, I'm not entirely convinced there was a man at the bar. Who's to say you didn't shoot our boys?"
"You've got to be joking," Marston said, exasperated. "All I want is to get this prisoner to Blackwater. We can continue this discussion once we're there."
"Nice try, boy," the gang member said, drawing a knife and pointing it at Marston's face. "But I ain't letting you run back to your government friends. Now why don't you just sit your ass down?"
Marston raised his hand in a show of surrender and sighed. "You boys don't mess around, do you?"
"No, we don't."
"Is that why they give you boots like that?"
"Like what?" the man said as he looked at his own feet.
Quickly, Marston punched the man in the nose and spun his arm to force him to drop the knife. Before the other gang members could react, Marston wrapped his arm around the man's neck and used him as a human shield. As the Walton gang members filled their associate with lead, Marston dropped them with shots from his own pistol. Once the car was cleared out, Marston let his lifeless human shield fall to the ground.
He reloaded his weapon and started to head for the center car.
Meanwhile, in the center car, Ross had begun to hear gunshots at the front and back of the train. "I knew it," he spat as he loaded his gun. "Marston is going for the bounty. He must have an associate who boarded the back of the train."
"What should we do, sir?" asked another one of the men in suits.
"You two, go to the front of the train and take out Marston. You, come with me and we'll help Walton's boys take out the associate."
Ross and the other government man ran towards the caboose. The next train car they entered was empty. The rest of Walton's gang had headed into the back to investigate the source of the noise.
The two burst into the next car and Ross bellowed, "What the hell is going-". He was cut short by the sight of over a dozen dead Walton boys littered across the floor of the train car.
"Good Lord," said the younger government man.
"Keep it together, son. He must've fallen back to the rear of the train."
The two began to advance, stepping over corpses as they made their way to the next train car. Halfway through the aisle, they heard a whistle behind them. The two turned around to see a man in a poncho hiding under a corpse with his gun aimed at them.
After a quick volley of gunfire, Ross fell to the ground clutching his chest. He lay on the ground, struggling to breathe.
He looked up to see that the man in the poncho had gotten to his feet and was investigating the corpse of a gang member. He recovered a bundle of dynamite from the dead body. As he investigated the explosives the man muttered to himself, "What have we here?"
Ross attempted to reach for his gun on the ground but, without taking his eyes off of the dynamite, the man in the poncho drew his pistol again and put Edgar Ross out of his misery.
On the other side of the train, John Marston had just entered the second train car to see two members of Walton's gang who were wondering about the source of the shooting on either side of them. One of the gang members saw Marston and aimed a shotgun at him. Marston dove behind a set of seats as the buckshot ripped through the air.
Thinking quickly, Marston fired under the seats to hit the exposed ankles of the Walton boys. As they fell to the ground, he finished them off with head shots.
As he fired into the last gang member, he realized he was out of ammo. He rose to his feet and sprinted down the aisle, hoping to get to the weapons before more men arrived. He saw motion behind the door of the train car ahead of him and slid to the ground to pick up the shotgun dropped by the gang member. As the door opened, Marston fired a single shot forward which took out both government agents who had just arrived to investigate.
Marston got to his feet and continued through the empty car up ahead. As he burst into the next train car, he quickly scanned the room through the sights of his shotgun, looking for anyone else who might pose a threat. The only other person in the room was Slink who continued to scream although there was nobody in the room to listen.
Marston ran forward with his eyes trained on the door ahead of him. As he reached Slink, he grabbed him by the back of the neck. "Shut the hell up, Slink! I gotta get you out of here!"
"The dynamite! He's got the dynamite here!" the lunatic yelled.
"What?"
"That man put dynamite on the car! It's right behind you!"
Marston turned around and, sure enough, there was a bundle of dynamite with a lit fuse sitting by the door he had just run through.
"Goddammit!" Marston yelled. "We gotta go now!"
Marston hoisted the bound man onto his shoulders and ran away from the dynamite. He had barely made it into the next car when the explosion knocked him off his feet. Slink landed by Marston's side.
"Untie me, you stupid hillbilly! If I ever-" Slink was abruptly cut off by two gunshots. Marston looked over and saw two bullet holes in Slink's head. As he looked forward, he saw the stranger standing at the halfway point of the car over Ross's dead body. Marston had dropped his shotgun in the explosion and was defenseless. He could feel the train gradually slowing as the explosion had disconnected them from the lead car. He figured he would be dead long before the train came to a complete stop.
"What do you know," Marston said, making eye contact with the stranger. "Put down like a dog."
"Pretty impressive work you did back there," the stranger said, holstering his gun. "Let's see how you do with a real weapon." He picked up Ross's pistol belt and tossed it across the train car towards Marston.
Marston rose to his feet and picked up the pistol belt. He cracked his neck and took a deep breath as he wrapped the belt around his waist. "You sure about this, stranger?" he asked.
"Whenever you're ready, cowboy," the bounty hunter said through gritted teeth.
Marston smiled as he looped the belt and let his hands hang by his side. Marston had survived dozens of duels. This felt different though. Ordinarily he could look across at the other duelist and sense his fear, see his hand shake, smell the sweat on his brow. But not this man. His steely eyes stared forward, right through Marston. He could feel his every movement being watched. If he so much as twitched his hand for his pistol, the stranger would spring into action. Marston had not witnessed the man in action outside of the bar or in the back of the train, but he knew he must be fast. But, then again, so was Marston.
Like lightning, he drew his gun. The same motion he had done a hundred times before. His hand quickly dropped to his waist as his fingers wrapped around his gun. His trigger finger moved slightly slower than the rest, so he would not apply pressure to the trigger until he was ready. His shoulders spun to present a more difficult target. He leveled the gun at his opponent. His trigger finger tightened. He felt satisfaction as a single shot rang out in the slowing train car.
He saw that his opponent had not yet fallen. He prepared to fire anotehr shot into his target, but he could not. He was surprised to see that he was no longer holding his pistol. His hand was empty and shaking. The gunshot had not been fired from his gun. He fell to one knee as the realization dawned on him that he had been shot. He felt the air escaping his lungs and he put one hand to the ground to steady himself. He looked up at the bounty hunter who still stood in the aisle of the train car. Marston coughed weakly before muttering, "I'll be damned." Marston fell forward into a pool of blood as the train finally came to a stop.