For starters, welcome everyone, to my story, Red Dead Resolution. This has been a brain child of mine for some time, and I finally decided to start it. Now for starters, some things. First, I will make weapons work off real world standards, and not in game. Ie, the Hi-Power, while strong in the game, will be relatively weak in this (as in real life) and thus most Bureau characters will use an M1911. Likewise, I will be adding in other, period specific weapons.
Next, you'll note a change in some character's wardrobes, especially with Jack. This was to show him becoming his own person, and in his case his new outfit is a mix of Landon Ricketts' outfit, the Legend of the West outfit, and his original outfit.
Lastly, any questions, feel free to message me or post in the reviews. I can't make any promises with how often I'll update, but I'll try to stay regular with it. I hope you enjoy this story.
Cheers, Trum4n
Prologue: The Outlaw
Armadillo, 1915
Benjamin Hodges smiled drunkenly as he raked in the large pile of chips. He was doing well tonight, better than he had in a long time. The Walton's Gang members eyed him enviously as he made the $100, and now he was at $600.
He dealt the next hand, and checked his cards. A 9 and a King. He could make that work.
"Bet $10." He slurred.
"Raise, $15." replied another gang member, Eric Gross, who tossed in his chips. The rest of the table called or raised, ending with a pot of $52. Benjamin tossed in another $40. They kept going, reaching $164 when the last man folded, and Hodges again dragged the pile of chips and possessions over to him.
"Barkeep, another round!" he shouted. The man nodded and pulled out shot glasses, and then the whiskey. The other gang members nodded their appreciation. The whores kept an eye on Hodges, which he enjoyed, going as far as to tip his top hat to them and wink, which, in his state, came out as an exaggerated twitch. Oh, tonight would be good.
The doors to saloon suddenly opened, and a young man strolled into the saloon, looking round. He wore black pants tucked into black riding boots, a white button up covered with a dark gray vest and a black long coat, and a notched dark gray hat with a small feather in the brim. A bandoleer was slung across his chest, and a rifle was holstered behind his back. A big, intimidating Schofield revolver was holstered comfortably on his hip, opposite a satchel and a coil of rope. A Red sash was wrapped around the belt as a personal trademark. The boy's face was handsome, with a well groomed mustache and goatee, long hair, and sharp, strong angles, but already covered with a number of scars. He looked to be in his early 20's.
The boy casually scanned the saloon, moving over to the bar. He picked up one of Hodges' whiskies, threw money on the bar, and slammed it down in a smooth motion. He went to the next one before Hodges stood up angry.
"What the fuck you doin boy?" he snarled in a drunken rage. The boy turned and eyed him up and down, pausing on the hat, a trademark of Walton's Gang members.
"Having a drink friend." the boy replied.
"Those're my fuckin drinks boy."
The boy looked to the barkeep, who nodded in confirmation.
"Sorry friend. I'll pay you back f-" he began, but Hodges cut him off.
"The fuck you will, you're buyin us all drinks boy."
The boy stared at him ,suddenly still. "Don't call me boy, mister." he said, his voice hard.
"I'll call you what the fuck I want, bo-" Hodges' head suddenly shot back, a bullet hole appearing neatly in the center. The other gang members began to draw, and the boy gunned them down, all five of them, quickly, the Schofield suddenly in his hands as if it had appeared there.
The entire saloon had gone silent as the boy walked over to the bodies, reloading his revolver, the sound of the shell casings audible in the sudden silence. The boy nudged Hodges with his foot.
"I told you. Don't call me boy." he loaded in the last round and spun the pistol back into its holster. He eyed the table, and grabbed all the bank notes on it, turning to the barkeeper.
"Use the rest of my friend's earnings here to pay for everyone's drinks for the night." he ordered, and the man nodded.
"'Course, Mister...?"
"Marston. My name's Jack Marston." the boy said, turning to go up the stairs. An older man walked over to the bodies. All had been killed with a headshot.
"Holy Chrsit, I ain't seen anyone shoot like that since Landon Ricketts."
"Good reason for that old timer." Jack said to the man, stopping to look at him. "Landon Ricketts taught me." he turned away and kept going, feeling the shocked stares on his back. Jack Marston grinned.
...
Jack woke up to the sound of horses outside the saloon. A lot of them. He got up and put on his jacket, boots, gun belt and hat, and went onto the porch of the saloon, the bright sun biting into his eyes. He adjusted the hat and looked down, onto the street.
A group of ten Walton's Gang men were hitching their horses and moving for the saloon. For him. Jack went back into his room and opened the chest there and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and a bandoleer of shells. He put the shotgun in his back-holster and the shells across his chest, listening for the creak of the stairs. Nothing yet. He checked the Schofield, like Ricketts and his Pa had taught him, and walked out of the room, drawing the shotgun but keeping it low, down by his side.
Four men had entered the saloon and were talking to the barkeep, threateningly. One of them made a sweeping gesture behind him, indicating what could be smashed, or burnt perhaps, if they weren't helped. Jack overheard his name once, and grinned.
He reached the stairs and strolled down, watching the gang members, and picked out the leader, a big son of a bitch with a thick black beard and a Springfield carbine. He goes down first.
Jack raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The two barrels roared, blowing the man to the ground in a shower of gore and blood, his chest suddenly open. The others spun as Jack broke open the gun and loaded in another two shells, sprinting for the nearest table. He dropped to the ground and kicked it onto its side, making a shield. It was old hardwood, good enough. The gang members opened fire, revolvers and another carbine barking, the top of the table shattering into splinters.
Jack blind fired with the shotgun and dropped it, drawing his Schofield. He stood up and shot one man through the chest, twice, the blows knocking the man back. He went to the next one and fired without aiming, managing to put one round into the right shoulder. The man was spun around and hit the saloon wall, but began to get back up, switching his revolver to his other hand. Jack dropped back down, scooping up the shotgun and reloading it.
He moved from the cover and dived, firing with both weapons, making up for accuracy with the sheer amount of metal he was firing. the wounded man was hit again in the leg and dropped, screaming. The other man took the shotgun blasts to the stomach, hitting the ground hard and not moving.
Jack hit the ground in a bad landing, and could only watch as the wounded man brought the revolver to bear, angrily, his teeth curling in a snarl. Suddenly, another shotgun boomed, and the man's chest was shredded. Jack picked himself up and looked at the barkeep, who had cracked open his gun and loaded another two shells into it. He nodded to Jack.
"No one threatens my establishment." he stated, and Jack laughed and tipped his hat. Six more left. Jack holstered the shotgun and reloaded the Schofield, moving towards the door. He exited calmly, and quickly sighted the other members, who had heard the shots and were leaving their positions to see what had happened.
Jack went from left to right, dropping them one by one faster than they could react, each one an expert headshot. in seconds, it was over, and the bodies lay in the street. Jack eyed them all for a second, before he walked away, reloading the revolver. He strolled down the street, holstering his gun, before stopping at the local coffin-maker. Jack entered and apologized to the man.
"Sorry about all the extra work Mister." He said, and tossed $30 onto the man's counter, and left.
...
Blackwater, 1915, two days later.
Archer Fordham scanned the paper again, his eyes stopping on the word massacre, and the name, Jack Marston. He could barely get past those three words. Marston. Fucking Marston.
"Jesus Christ." He said, and looked up at Junior Agent Tom Mason. "We've confirmed this?"
"Yes sir. It's the same Marston who's been robbing coaches, bank wagons, and the occasional train . The description fits, right down to the revolver he likes."
Archer nodded. "The Schofield. His father liked it too." he said. Tom looked at him, surprised.
"You knew his father?"
"Yep. John Marston. Member of Dutch Van Der Linde's gang. He recruited him to hunt down the gang, back when Edgar Ross was my boss. Later, we went after him, and got him. Ross retired shortly after. The family, well, we never looked for them."
"Why not?"
"Why would we? They hadn't committed a crime. Between you and me, I always thought going after Marston was a mistake. Guess time has vindicated me." Archer laughed slightly. "Ideas?"
"We should go after him sir. With our resources we can-"
"Resources? Mr. Mason, the Bureau office here is you and I and two other agents. Not a lot of resources. Most of the army is out trying to keep Pancho Villa's revolution from spilling over the border, and the local police wont go off to hunt an outlaw in New Austin. And I sure as hell will not take a posse after Marston if he's this good." He stabbed a finger into the paper. "16 men total, ten of them out to get him and prepared for him, all of them violent men."
Tom nodded, seeing his point. "Sir, should we wire Chicago, get more men?"
Archer stared at the paper, not reading it. Marston. Fucking Marston. "Yes. Yes, Mr. Mason, please do so. Good men, and as many as we can get. We'll need them."