July, 1888...

It was just after midday when a rough-looking cowboy rode into the small mining town of Prairie Dog Hills, Arizona. He had heard about this town, it was run by some bigwig tycoon who moved westward from Philadelphia after making it big in the cotton business. Indeed, that corruption was evident from the moment the cowboy passed the town's main archway, which was guarded by a pair of nasty-looking fellas armed with repeaters. He wasn't here to pick fights, he was simply looking for some work. He rode up to the saloon, hitched his horse, and stepped inside, the ragtime stylings of the establishment's pianist being the one consistent sound he could hear over the usual bar atmosphere.

"What'll it be, stranger?", the bartender asked in a thick Irish accent as the cowboy sat down at the bar. The rough rider lifted the brim of his hat and made eye contact. "Whiskey. Full bottle." The mustachioed barkeep grabbed a bottle from the shelf and put it on the bar in front of the new arrival along with a shot glass. The cowboy slapped the money down on the counter before filling the glass and downing his first shot.

"So what's your name, cowpoke?", the bartender asked as he cleaned a glass.

"Daniel O'Connor", the cowboy answered as he scratched his stubbly cheek. He normally wasn't one to make small talk, but this barkeep seemed the friendly sort.

"I'm Seamus Murphy", the man said with a smile, "Your family Irish?"

"My father was from Dublin... I was born in Philadelphia." Talking about his father made Daniel visibly upset, so the bartender chose to change the subject. "So, you're looking for work, I gather? I think Richard Davies is hiring ranch hands. His ranch is a mile and a half east of town."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Does he pay well?"

"Room and board and plenty of money, from what I hear. You can find him in town most days at-"

Suddenly, four big brutish thug types wearing matching black shirts, pants, and boots burst into the saloon, hootin' and hollerin' as they negligently fired their revolvers into the ceiling, scaring some of the patrons. Daniel turned around and immediately locked eyes with the biggest of the goons. He immediately recognized him, but kept his calm. The big guy stomped over to the bar and leaned over the counter beside him.

"Well, well, well, looks like we got us a fresh face. Where you from, little feller?"

Defiantly, Daniel didn't even give the brute so much as a sideways glance, instead leaning over and spitting on his boot. The thug looked down at his foot and yelled angrily, backhanding the bottle of whisky so hard that it shattered on the wall behind the bar, narrowly missing Seamus. The cowboy immediately knew it was time to make himself scarce, so he quickt bolted away from the bar and ducked underneath one of the other goons as he swung at him, kicking through the doors and making a beeline for his horse. Once he was mounted, Daniel whipped the reins and took off, the goons running out of the bar taking potshots at him. The guards at the main gate heard the gunfire and turned to see the cowboy who had only just entered town minutes before charging at them on horseback. They put two and two together and raised their rifles, firing and narrowly missing no. Now firmly convinced he was in mortal danger, Daniel removed his pair of Schofields from their holsters and put down the guards with two well-placed shots.

After escaping town, Daniel thought he was in the clear, patting his horse on the neck. "We made it, girl. We-" He was interrupted by a searing pain in his lower abdomen, followed by the delayed sound of a gunshot. Touching the spot where the pain was, the young man winced when he felt wetness in his shirt. He looked at his hand and saw it coated in bright red blood.

"Damn", he said faintly, the shock and the blood loss immediately getting to him. He didn't know where the shot came from, but he didn't have much time to think about it. He weakly got down from his horse, pulled some extra ammo and a water flask out of his saddle bags, and slapped his mount on the hindquarters. "Get outta here, girl!! Go!!" The horse reared up, winnied, and took off, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. Daniel turned eastward and started hobbling, balling up his bandana and pressing it to his wound. He heard the sound of a group of galloping horses coming from the direction of the town and panicked, tripping over a steep decline and falling on his wounded side.

"Aaagh!!!"

The pain was extreme and getting worse, and whoever had shot him was no doubt looking to confirm the kill. Quickly coming up with a plan, Daniel used his Bowie Knife to cut a swatch off of his pants, dab it with his blood, and leave it laying on the ground. The horses were getting closer, so he acted fast, hiding under a rock outcropping. The horses stopped right on top of him, and their riders dismounted. Daniel saw three pairs of black boots in front of his hiding place, one of the men reaching down to pick up the bloody fabric. He put his hand over his mouth to muffle his breathing and lay as still as possible, knowing even the slightest movement could make a sound and reveal his whereabout.

"Well, I hit him", one of the men spoke in a gravelly voice, "And looks like he's on the run on foot."

"Won't last long out here. No other towns for miles", another added, "Those damn Indians'll make a tablecloth outta his hide if'n they get to him. I say we let nature take its course and bring this back to Weatherford as proof."

"If it gets me paid, I'm all for it", the third one chimed in, "Let's just get back to town. I don't like being out this late, gives me the creeps."

"Well I'll be damned. Daryl, I think Billy's scared of the dark!!"

"Not the dark, those goddamn Injuns. I seen what they do to people, ya know. I seen the carnage they cause, I heard the screams of the men they scalp. When I was in the Army, they would do it within earshot of our camp to scare us."

The conversation continued but got quieter as the thugs mounted back up and rode away, leaving Daniel free to crawl out of his hiding spot. He stood up weakly and started walking south. Surely someone would be travelling north and offer to help him.

"Weatherford...", he rasped, "Weatherford, that son of a bitch..."

Blood oozed through the bandana and dripped from his hand, the pain only getting worse. Daniel's vision started to blur. He realized that it was hopeless. Nobody was travelling this road, nobody would come upon him in time.

"I'm sorry, Daddy", the young man gasped as he sat down and leaned against a boulder on the side of the road. He chugged down every drop of water in his flask before leaning back and closing his eyes. The last thing Daniel felt before losing consciousness was a pair of strong hands lifting him from his resting spot...