Abner Mollard was a friend to the fledgeling city of Blackwater, and was a man notable for his outspoken support of modernisation. Like many other God-fearing Blackwater citizens, Mollard wasn't fond of the Mexicans - a hatred made even more profound at the death of half of Blackwater's young lads - and hoped that the fellers in New Austin would some day see the light, let the railroad through and, soon, become just as modern and developed as Blackwater now was. Abner was one of those kind folks who, despite his past out there, disapproved of the fellers from New Austin. He found the vast majority of them to be violent savages, and was apprehensive about letting them into his saloon at the best of times.
Then again, he was apprehensive of letting anyone in his saloon at the best of times. Abner Mollard was not a man to form alliances or friendships, for he had one too many broken in his past, and had decided to give up on them altogether. After this revelation, he decided to move up to Blackwater, where he once knew a sweetheard with whom he'd had a night of gratification. Their rendezvous had birthed him a young girl - a girl named Heidi - who's mother had died when she was four. Mollard abandoned a life in the Old West, and became one of the Blackwater folk, a God-fearing and charitable, if somewhat reclusive man.
But he wasn't the traditional God-fearing West Elizabethian as his kindred in Blackwater prided themselves on being. His past was a checkered one, and he was, before coming to Blackwater and starting his new life, not a very nice person. Mollard had been born in 1846 - though he doesn't know exactly when - to a poor cotton farmer and his wife, a tailor. There was no particular reason why he became a criminal. There was no sympathetic story about how his family lost everything; a group of outlaws never rode up, shot his parents and took him under their wing; he didn't lose 'em to consumption and get forced to find his own way.
Instead, one morning after he rode into town, he saw some outlaws ride out of the bank. He recalls these fellers as being the Bradley Gang - Leon Bradley, his younger brother Blanchard, Jim Finch and Waylon Swift. They rode into the bank at the fledgeling Armadillo, a poor town in an uncharted land. They went in, held 'em up for $721 in gold and rode outta there, not an alarm raised nor lady hurt. Thinking "hey, I can do that" was all it took, and Mollard, in 1862, rode off into the night. 'Course, it was many years 'till Mollard found out that the Bradley Gang were captured, shot up, and the remainder hung just a week later at what was then called the Foggy Creek, later a part of Lake Don Julio.
But it didn't matter. For almost twenty years, Mollard was a thievin', murderin', rapin' psycho who roamed the countryside with a gang of equally psychotic backstabbers, terrorising the good people of Cholla Springs and of Morcombe County up north. It was easy. Wasn't 'till some lawmen got to him in the winter at the start of that twentieth year that he saw how ridiculously lucky he'd been - them lawmen'd been lookin' out for the Wincott Gang (what they were called back then) for a good four or five years and had come up short a fair few times in catchin' 'em. That day was the day for Mollard.
For a few years, he lived sorta-straight - he was an attack dog for some lawmen down in Armadillo for a couple of years, and was a bounty hunter for the rest of the time. Them lawmen in Armadillo were low on guns, so they decided to straighten some of the Wincott boys out. Lyle Wincott, the man considered the head of the gang by most, blew off the heads of two deputies and tried to run off, but he were caught and hanged shortly afterwards. The other two, who's names escape Mollard, made their way up through Thieves' Landing, hoping not to run into any trouble among lawless men. Some lawman in Armadillo thought it a nice idea to stick a $2000 bounty on that feller's head, though, and God bless 'im - them boys up at Thieves' Landing handed the bastard in and got a good chunk of cash out of it.
It were around 1883, maybe 1884, that Mollard came to Blackwater for the first time. Met a lass named Lenore, spent a while, but left a bit afterward. Things went sour a little later on, and he learned then not to trust nobody, 'cause no good'd come of it. He came up to West Elizabeth and joined the military for a bit, between '87 and '89. It was in 1889 that a group of Injuns attacked their camp. They'd been perched up at Tall Trees, near Nekoti Rock, he with about fifty other men. Them Injuns came down like lightning and, in the space of three minutes, had killed or wounded pretty much every single feller there. Forty-two dead, seven injured, one missing. Stories say that the last feller got taken up and eaten' by 'em, or trained as some pet. Probably got lost in the snow or taken by a bear.
It was during this short battle that Mollard near-completely lost the use of his legs. An Injun ran right up to him, sliced the hamstring on his left leg complete through with a knife and then lodged it into Mollard's right knee. On the ground in agony, Mollard still managed to take the Injun down as he ran off before passing out. When he woke up, he was in a tent erected down at the Manzanita Post with seven other guys. Took him a good two months to be able to even walk again. Them Injuns got what were comin' to 'em, though - the Manzanita boys went up the mountain, cut down about a hundred of the bastards in their huts - but the damage was done.
In '91, he could move - sorta - and came up to Blackwater to find the daughter he never knew he had. He did have some cash tucked away, however and, in '93, took the Blackwater Saloon off Ollie Hinkley's hands. They fixed the place up and made a stack of money off it. Mollard managed to make a deal with Grover Platt - the darkie who ran the Blackwater Hotel - which dictated that he'd be allowed to stay there in exchange for ten cases of the finest booze the Blackwater Saloon has to offer a week. And he's been there ever since. Eleven years he's spent, skulking around up in here, coming down every now and then to go to Church or buy something at the general store, (Pratt usually handles the groceries for him) or maybe just for a drink.
There's a knock at the door. 'Yessum?' Mollard asks, a little curious. He wasn't exactly the most popular feller around, so people seldom came up to visit, whether or business or for a chat. So, naturally, curiosity came into the equation at some point. But nothing happens. No declaration of name or title, nothing. Mollard hesitates. 'Yes?' he asks again. There's nothing further. Mollard pulls himself up from the table on which he writes with relative ease. As usual, a bolt of pain shoots up one of his legs, and the other just flops kind of uselessly at his side. He puts his hand on the desk beside him to support himself, while his other hand searches for a cane, or a crutch, or anything.
He soon finds his ivory cane and, clutching it in his hand, starts making for the door, to see whoever this feller may be. 'Abner Mollard?' he hears from outside as he's halfway to the door. 'Be there in a minute, son,' Mollard says to the young-voiced man. Across the room he patters, until he's finally reached the door. With his left hand, he turns the handle, and then turns back and heads towards his desk again. The door swings itself open behind him, and he hears footsteps. The visitor walks into the room, his boots crunching on the dust of an unused section of carpet, just inside the door.
Mollard reaches the chair, drops his cane and throws himself back into it. 'Now, let's get a good look at ya' he says, and looks into the man's face. This man, he's seen this man before, somewhere. He doesn't know quite yet. 'Who're...' he says to himself. He hasn't seen someone quite like this feller in many years, not since... Richard Last. Mollard looks at the man. Behind the scars that cover most of the left side of his face is that of Richard Last. His nose is crooked in the same places, he has the same jet-black hair. Now that Mollard thinks about the man, this feller who's just walked in looks damn-near exactly the same as Richard Last.
Mollard's heart sinks. 'You Richard Last's boy?' Mollard asks the man, his menacing figure taking up most of the door frame. He swings the door shut behind him, and it closes with a metallic "chink". The man looks at Mollard. Mollard stares back at him. His brow furrows. 'I asked you a question, boy,' Mollard says, sweat on his forehead. The man looks back at him. 'Yes sir, I am' the man says. Mollard tries to say something. He tries to say 'Get yourself the hell outta my room' or 'You better be thinkin', otherwise you gonna do somethin' you're gonna regret', but nothing comes out. Mollard can't breathe. He feels like he's chokeing.
'Walton Last' the man, Walton, says. 'Why-' Mollard tries to speak, but he chokes on his word. He tries again. 'Why're you here?' he says. Just in case he didn't make it clear, he follows with 'What're you doin' here?'. Walton stares at him, a vague look in his eye. 'You killed my father' Walton says. Mollard leans back in his chair and opens his coat, shoving his hand inside, searching for a cigar. Walton's hand darts for his LeMat, which soon finds itself pointed right at Mollard's face. Mollard takes out the cigar, not particularly concerned, and lights it with a match on the desk.
'I killed your father' Mollard says finally, after taking a few puffs.
'Why?' Walton says, a hint of anger in his voice.
'Put that thing away and I'll tell you,' Mollard says, motioning towards the gun. 'otherwise you can shoot me, or you can get up outta here'.
Walton's hand doesn't move, and neither does his gun. It remains trained on Mollard, who eyes it. Knowing he's probably not going to make it out of here and accepting that his time has come, he decides to play it cool. 'That your pa's gun, Walton?' Mollard says, again gesturing towards the gun.
When Walton shows no signs of answering the question or putting away his gun, Mollard makes a decision. 'I was there when your father died. I shot him'.
'And my mother?' Walton says, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.
'I was there when your mother died, though I didn't shoot her' Mollard says.
'But you was there when she died. And you ride with the fellers who killed her' Walton says, his voice laced with subtle fury now.
'I don't ride with them boys no more' Mollard says. He looks at Walton and thinks "you have no idea". He debates with himself for a moment. Walton doesn't respond to the question. 'Do you wanna know WHY your father died, Walton?' Mollard asks him.
Walton looks at him, furious, and says 'Go on'
'Walton, your father was a liar. Your father was a cheat. Your father was a murderer. Richard Last was a monster who deserved to die-' Mollard is cut off by the cocking of Walton's LeMat. It cracks through the room, which falls into a state of deathly silence. 'You're lyin''
'I ain't lyin', Walton. Your father was a criminal. He was-' Mollard is again cut off. Walton stands, and he immediately goes silent. 'You're a murderer. You killed my father. Your friends are murderers. You're the ones who deserve to die'. Walton walks to the other side of the room. 'Stand up' he says.
'What?' Mollard asks, shocked. 'Stand up' Walton repeats. 'Pull out your gun and stand up'. Mollard reaches for his cane and, reluctantly and with some effort, pulls himself out of his chair. His hand falls to the desk, and he starts rummaging around for his old Colt. He eventually finds it, and holds it in his hand. 'Cock it' Walton says, and Mollard complies.
'Whatchoo doin'?' Mollard asks him, both suspicious and terrified. 'One' Walton says, shifting his LeMat in his hand. Oh shit. Oh shit. Mollard realizes what's happening. He hasn't duelled in years, not since '84. He hasn't even fired a gun for ten years. 'Two' Walton says, the sound ringing in Mollard's ears. The Colt rests uncomfortably in Mollard's grip. Will the gun even fire? It hasn't been used in damn near twelve years, the bullets might not work, or it might misfire or jam. 'Walton-' Mollard says, but too late. 'Three' Walton says, and both of the men throw up their arms. Walton fires first, and Mollard stops dead. His hand darts to his neck, and he feels wet there, followed immediately by pain. He can't breathe. He tries to talk, but no words come out.
He coughs and gurgules, blood running out of his mouth and drowning his hand, his clothes and the carpeting below him. His vision slowly goes away, becoming clouded by black. The pain dulls, and he very nearly can't see a thing. This all happens in the space of about two seconds. The cane falls out of his left hand and to the floor. He stumbles, and soon finds himself leaning on his arm, and the chair. He looks at Walton, to find tha the's already deposited the LeMat in its holster and turned away. Walton starts walking to the door. Mollard raises his pistol and tries to tell the man to stop, but nothing but a raspy gurgling noise comes out. He fires. He misses the man, however, and hits a gas lamp on the wall.
Walton spins around at this, and his hand goes into his coat. When it comes out, it wields a sawed-off shotgun, which fires into Mollard. Mollard feels the pellets pass clean through and near-shatter the window behind him. His chest and stomach are basically shredded by the pellets, and he stumbles backwards into the near-shattered window. Walton watches. Mollard's eyesight fades completely away. He feels the cold of the glass on his back, and topples backwards through. He feels a sudden rush of air that comes standard with falling out a third storey window, and smacks into the ground twenty-five feet below. Dead.
Walton scratches the back of his neck as he looks out after him. He hears a blood-curdling scream, and watches as a young woman in her late teens runs up the street towards the body of the lifeless cripple that lay before her. She pays no mind to the source of the falling corpse, caring not if it's a gift from heaven or a drunk that fell off the roof. The snow around Mollard's corpse quickly turns red, stained with his blood. Walton watches as the woman falls down next to him and screams something along the lines of 'Mr Mollard? Mr Mollard? Help! Somebody!', before turning back and walking to the door with heavy steps.
