Just another dusty town, so it seemed. Towns like this were everywhere, small spits of home in a sea of sand and heat. Heck, the only reason they existed at all was because of the railroad. Those engines can only carry so much coal and water; they need places like this to restock. 'Course, the men who work here, well, they're going to need homes, food, whiskey and the like. Before you know it, another spit.

Sometimes, people went out of their way to move into a place like this. Never could figure why. Guess some people just have different tastes than others. For my part, I like my climes a bit cooler.

And water. There's water in the places I like.

Seems kind of funny that I've spent the better part of my life in places like this, then, don't it? Places where not even the Indians have seen rain, where scorpions outnumber the men ten to one, where the only thing to drink is rot gut, 'cause the water would kill you faster.

Women are rare, too. Not a good woman; that's unheard of in these places. No, the best a man can hope for is the local brothel, assuming he can afford it.

Good God, I love it and hate it. I never could figure out why. The sun beats cruelly on those who wander the shifting sands; the very air you breathe is a good part dust. Bandits wander here and there, more than willing to kill a man for the price of a drink. God, I wish that was an exaggeration, but I've seen it.

Besides, it gives me my livelihood.

I hate being so hot, so dusty. I got saddle sores you could strike matches off, and don't get me started on the stink. I'm tired, hungry, thirsty, and I really could use a shave. God, what miserable country.

I love it.

We were finally riding into the town. I shot a glance over at the sign by the road. "Welcome to Middleton; Population: 42."

Figures.

The sound of someone spitting came from behind me. I turned back to my companion, my old friend, Felix Renton. Always thought it was a funny name for a Frenchman, but I'm not one to judge. His old trousers were nearly threadbare, patched and re-patched time and time again. I think he plans on keeping them 'til they disintegrate. A dusty poncho that doubled as a pillow on the trail hid most of him from view. The cracked leather hat on his head had been sewed down on one side to hide the bullet hole. On his back sat an old musket, already primed, just in case. Even with the advent of breech loading rifles, he refused to trade the old thing in. He's just lucky he's such a damn good shot.

Say what you will about the French, they can make stuff last.

We rode out way up the saloon, the "Buenos…" something or other. Getting off my horse, I hitched him up to the post and gave him a pat on the neck as he drank from the trough.

"Don't worry, Rufus, I'll be back later, 'kay?"

"I never could understand why you talk to him so much; it's not like he's going to answer," Felix said, spitting another gob into a spittoon. As he spoke, he drew another tobacco plug out from the inside of his poncho and popped it into his mouth.

"I never could understand why you chew tobacco; it's not like it does something other than cost you money," I answered back with a goofy grin on my unshaven face.

Chuckling softly, the Frenchmen said, "I suppose you speak true, mon ami. Anyway, I'm going for a shave."

"Right; if you need me, I'll be in here," I said, gesturing towards the saloon.

I stepped through the doors as we parted ways. It was just like any other saloon I'd ever seen, old wooden chairs, tables, the bar itself, and the staircase leading up to the rooms.

Maybe it had a bath somewhere around here.

"Why, good day, sir, what can I get you?"

I looked around for the voice, but couldn't find its owner. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my coat. Looking down, I saw a kid. His skin was a rich brown, and he was slightly round about the middle. He couldn't have been older than twelve, but he was dressed like most of the barkeeps I've seen in my day.

"Are you the bartender?"

"Yep."

"Oh. In that case, what do you got?"

"Well, we've got whiskey, whiskey, and not whiskey."

I furrowed my brow and asked, "What on God's green earth is 'Not Whiskey'?"

Shrugging his shoulders, the kid said, "Got me. I found the bottle while I was cleaning the place up. I've been using it for rat poison."

"If that's the case, I'll take whiskey."

"Now that's a fine choice, sir," the kid said as he made his way around the bar and poured me the drink. Setting it in front of me, I slammed it back and fought the urge to gag.

The kid smiled, "Good ole '69. Fermented two weeks in a steel bucket. Drink it fast enough and it'll only burn your stomach and not your throat."

I passed a hand in front of my face. "I think I can see through time."

Laughing, the kid said, "It can't be that bad. Even I drank it."

"What's yer name, kid?" I said as he refilled my shot glass.

"Well, the most appropriate name I've been called is Wade."

I shook my head at the ignorance of some men. I had spent a good part of the early portion of my life fighting to gain freedom for black slaves, as had many others. So what do we do when that becomes a reality? We insult them, marginalize them, and basically treat'em like shit.

Letting out a sigh, I said, "Alright then, do you have an ash tray somewhere back there, Wade?"

Nodding, he plopped a small tin bowl in front of me. I lit up one of my cigars and puffed slowly. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. God, I looked like hell.

"If you want, there's a bath just in the back."

I shook my head at the kid's suggestion; "I'll worry about that later."

Slamming my second shot down, I nearly gagged for the second time. Smiling wide, Wade said, "Can you see through time, now?"

"The yawning chasm at the end isn't nearly as bad as what's churning in my gut," I said as I paid for the drinks.

"Well, you contemplate the end of all things while I take care of something in the back," he said, laughing once again.

I had nearly finished my cigar when I heard a voice say, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

I turned towards the sound of the voice and felt my jaw drop. I had never seen a woman so beautiful in my life. Her black dress had a slit up one side, occasionally revealing a glimpse of one long, smooth leg. The outfit certainly didn't hide any of her curves, and her gorgeous red hair was held up by a long feather. Of all things, though, it was her eyes that caught me. Two deep green emeralds, absolutely flawless in a porcelain face.

Evidently, my eyes gave me away, as she gave me a wicked smile that held no reproach, only mischief.

"I believe that would be a yes," she said as she sat down before me.

I really hoped I wasn't drooling.

Drawing a handkerchief, she said, "You're drooling."

Son of a…

"Most folk around here call me Kimberley," she said, chuckling as I wiped off my mouth.

"Ronald Stoppable," I said. Upon hearing my name, her eyes widened.

"The U.S. Marshal?" she asked.

I didn't want to seem arrogant, so I merely nodded. She let out a throaty chuckle, and I hoped she wasn't laughing at me. She reached over a put a hand on my arm. I nearly leapt out of my skin; it felt like sparks just leapt between us.

"Stop being so nervous; I'm just a woman."

"You're not a woman. You're a Goddess."

Oh, God, I hope I didn't say that out loud.

Her face reddened, and a smile as brilliant as a sunrise spread across her face.

"Well, now, there's a compliment."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She let out that throaty chuckle again, and I felt my heart skip a beat. How could one woman affect me like this?

"So, what draws you to Middleton?"

"Work, though I'm starting to wish that wasn't the only reason," I said, putting the stub of my cigar out.

"You might want to be careful there, Marshall. Some girls might take that the right way," she said, crossing her legs in such a way as to reveal more of her thigh.

Oh, thank you, sweet merciful God.

The bell at the front of the saloon rang out, and I nearly cried as my mark walked in.

There he stood, pistol in holster, skin nearly blue from overdrinking. Once shot a man over the price of a drink. That had only been worth a fifty dollar reward, but three sheriffs, two marshals, and God only knows how many civilians had raised that amount by quite a bit.

His name was Drew Lipski, but since he shot the last man to call him that, everyone just called him Drakken.

Two other men travelled with him. One was large and muscular, with a moustache and beard. Long hair hung from the back of his hat. He was a horse thief by the name of Mustang Ed; Reward: $1000.

The other man was… well, Goddamn, it wasn't a man at all, but a woman. Her skin was almost unnaturally pale, with a slight greenish hue to it. Two holsters rested on each hip, unbuttoned. The shine of the guns told me they had been oiled for quick draw. The wide brim of her hat kept most of her face in the dark, and her long, black hair spilled out the back. Her massive coat kept her pretty well covered, but every now and again, the coat split open, revealing a luscious build underneath. I didn't feel lust as her gazed at her; I just heard the alarm bells going off in my head.

Shego, a gun-for-hire. Suspected in a number of murders, but there wasn't a lick of evidence, any potential witnesses either dead or unreliable.

Well, this dream has certainly turned into a nightmare.

The drunken murderer walked over to the bar and yelled, "Bartender! Get me a whiskey!"

Wade ran out, a pen still in his hand, and quickly poured Drakken his drink. Slamming it down (without gagging, the stupid bastard), he had no less than three in short order. While he wet his whistle, Mustang Ed, spying Kimberley and myself, made his way over.

"Hey, Red, why don't you leave the stiff prick and come to a real man?"

Kimberley's face took on the appearance of someone who had smelled something bad as she said, "Sorry, but I only see one man in here."

Ed's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't an option, Red." With that, he picked her up like a small doll. Quite unexpectedly, she reached a fist out and broke Mustang Ed's nose. It didn't take the big man down, though, and Ed cuffed her across the face. She fell to the floor and spit a small goblet of blood on the ground.

Without a thought, I leapt out of my chair and planted a blow on his now very broken nose. He went down to one knee and drew his large hunting knife from his boot. Swinging wide, he tore two large cuts out of my coat. Left with little choice, I drew my gun from my holster and fired three rounds into his chest. He fell to the ground like a block of lead, and I heard a cry of anger.

"You little shit, you killed my cousin!" Drakken yelled, drawing his pistol and firing. Maybe it was a side effect of just having drunk those three shots or maybe he was just a bad shot. What ever the reason, he couldn't have hit the broad side of a barn with his aim. Well, he was a murderer, not a marksman.

I didn't have too much time to contemplate that as another shot rang out. Drakken fell to the ground, bleeding from the shoulder. I looked out the door to see half-shaven Felix standing there with his musket, a shroud of smoke around him. Without warning, Shego drew her pistols, one aimed at Felix and the other at me. Both Felix and I leapt out of the way as she let the lead fly.

I didn't see what happened to Felix, but I leapt behind an overturned table. As I ducked down behind the table, I saw a bullet hole in my coat. Good Lord, she was a good shot. Too good.

I didn't hear any more shots. Risking a look, I saw that Shego had left the saloon. I ran to the door and watched as she rode a large black stallion off into the sunset.

"Why did she run off like that?"

"I might have had a role in that," I heard an angel say. Turning, I saw Kimberley, a bruise on the left side of her face, and Drakken's pistol in her hand. Looking at that old, rusty thing, I was amazed it could even fire. "I gave her a choice: leave or die. She chose to leave."

"You're aware there are no bullets in this thing, right?"

"Yes."

I heard a cough from behind me and turned to see Felix stalking towards me. Although dustier than before, he seemed unhurt. "You alright, mon ami?"

"I'll be fine. She just got my coat, nothing else."

Nodding his head, Felix walked over (his bad leg stiff from all the recent activity) to the prone Drakken. Yanking the drunkard to his feet, he said, "I'll take this scum to the sheriff's office and get him locked up."

"Going to finish yer shave after that?"

"Oui. That barber, Monique, she is something else," he said. Catching a glance of Kimberley, he said, "but that's not important right now. I will see you later."

Felix and his prisoner walked off, leaving Kimberley and I alone. I turned towards her and found myself in the middle of a passionate kiss. Instincts taking over, my hands immediately gripped her derriere, causing her a shock. Leaning back, her eyes wide and the same mischievous smile on her face, she said, "You might want to be careful there Marshall. Some girls might take that the right way."

Oh, thank you, sweet merciful God.

I carried her up the stairs, past a dumbfounded Wade, and into one of the rooms. Once her feet hit the floor, she pushed me down on the bed and launched herself on top of me. She buried her mouth in mine, probing with her tongue. My hands managed to find a new purchase, and she moved all the faster.

"Oh, Stoppable.

"Stoppable.

"Stoppable."

"STOPPABLE!"

Ron's face shot up from his desk, his assignment stuck to half his face. His hands immediately shot out to the corners of his desk, knocking his textbook and beakers to the floor. The sound of shattering glass and the smell of something potentially acidic reached his nose. Yanking the assignment off his face, Ron found himself looking into the face of Mr. Barkin, currently substituting for the chemistry teacher.

"Stoppable, sleep is for home, not class."

"Yessir, Mr. B." Ron said.

"Man, why did I stay up and watch that all-night western movie marathon last night?" he thought.

Barkin turned his back and walked towards the front of the classroom. Ron, meanwhile, looked around. Surprisingly, almost everyone in the class looked ready to burst out laughing. Monique had the look of someone who happened to know a very important secret.

Kim, meanwhile, was completely red in the face. She was trying to hide behind her textbook. Ron could see the corners of a very large smile on her face, and strange, far-away look in her eye.

What was going on? Was even Kim laughing at him? It wasn't like this was the first time he fell asleep in class. He was about to ask her when Mr Barkin spoke.

"By the way, Stoppable, did you know you talk in your sleep?"

Son of a…