The Ballad of Redwater Valley

Prologue

Wyatt and Cait Poe, the bounty huntin’ twins, even though she was eighteen and he was twenty-fo. Orphans of course, Ma and Pa went off one day and ain’t been seen since. The kids, then just eight and foteen, were left at home alone just surviving off the big brother instincts of Wyatt until a man came lookin’ for Marvin and found his children when they said they hadn’t seen him in a few days along with Ma. Wyatt and Cait was then taken to the inn at Mesa. The house were then auctioned off and the money went to the hotel to keep the poor sons of bitches fed, warm, and under a roof. They got to keep their clothes, a few personal items, and Wyatt was given his father's Cattleman Revolver during the final goodbye to the house.

Life at Sparrow Hall wasn’t so bad for a couple of young kids. They got warm food three times a day, they could run around in or outside, no parents could tell them when to sleep, they had no responsibilities but to grow up. Jacob Dwindle, the inn manager, became their father figure over the next few years. He watched over them, corrected them when they was wrong, patched them up when one was hurt, and made damn sure they was taken care of. He had no children of his own so they was a misfit family alright.

Being an inn and all, different faces popped in and out regularly. Tall tan men from working all day would come in for a drink then not be able to find the door when they thought it wise to leave, exotic looking women in colorful getups and dresses pranced around the bar area talking with men and occasionally women too, but what always caught Wyatt’s eyes were the cowboys. These rough looking men wearing cow skin hats and leather boots came bursting through the doors to Sparrow Hall and the whole damn bar would go quiet; people either starred or avoided eye contact in all. Some nights, Wyatt stay up late sitting with bartender, Barry Hopkin, at this point Wyatt and Cait knew most of the employees at Sparrow Hall quite well and they all seemed to like them as well, and would hear the most fanciful stories of the world he was yet to explore.

“I was riding through New Meadow on Jasper, my old brown coat Breton, when all of a sudden fifteen bandit sons of bitches was on me,” he said raising his hands in the air, “ I threw my lasso to the closest hog shit fucker near me and used him as a shield as I was shot from all directions. As I blocked every damn bullet headin my way, I was firing twice as many back and in thirty seconds, you heard me alright, thirty seconds I shot dead foteen worm westlers, poor son of a bitch I lassoed was shot to death by his own friends.” This last line seemed to make this cowboy happy as he laughed boastfully and took a swig of his whiskey, nearly falling out of his chair.

It was people like him that excited Wyatt when he told Cait of the stories he heard and added his own special twist which only made her excited too. Not in the too far off future would they be doin the same wild shit, runnin around with guns and explosions, catching crooks, and putting outlaws in the ground. But don’t let them fool you, they got their own fair share of law breakin’, especially after meeting Ludwig the beggar.

Chapter 1

The Bounty

April 13th, 1889

The sun is setting along the horizon

and the weather is still… the moon is

waning.

Hiding behind trees in a forest outside the cabin, Cait nods to Wyatt; the plan is going smoothly thus far. He begins to count down on his hand 3… 2… 1… BOOM! Cait expertly fires a single shot from her Schofield pistol at a bundle of dynamite sticks laying on the front porch and blows the door and surrounding wall wide open. The man inside, Grant Avery, is thrown five feet back from his table just after putting his dinner plate down, lamb chops and green beans. Grant Avery is wanted in every territory he has ever stepped foot in for one reason or another. He’s a middle-aged white man with a bald head and bushy face and stands around six foot. His apparel is nothing too extravagant for the area but still distinguishable. Grant’s face is priceless as he sees Wyatt and Cait Poe walk through the smoke into his house with a lasso and gun in hand.

“You- you’ve got the wrong man! I ain’t never done nothing!” Grant says with too much panic in his voice to be even slightly convincing.

Wyatt smiles and says, “Ha! If I let everyone go who said that, I would never take anyone in! Either way, I don’t give a shit!” he starts to laugh even more, “Wrap him up Cait,” he says cooly. As Cait steps forward, Grant quickly backs up a foot and pulls a Cattleman out of its holster and points it at her chest.

“Well hold on now-” Grant moves his sights from Cait to Wyatt. As he does this, Cait pulls her pistol out and puts a hole in his wrist.

“It’s $150 alive and $75 dead, they didn’t say nothing about injured,” Cait says grinning.

Cait walks her prisoner out of the cabin while Wyatt stays back and loots what he can find. Some cigarettes, old liquor, boxes of ammo, a deck of playing cards, and $60 in cash. Grant is fashioned securely atop of Hannibal, Wyatt’s huge brown coat Breton, when Wyatt comes back and mounts him. The bounty hunting twins ride off into the evening sunset, Wyatt with the bounty and Cait upon her pure black arabain horse, leading the way with her quick gallops back to town.

~~~

Nightfall approaches the west as does the pair of hunters, but they’re not the only people riding that way. From behind, Wyatt catches sound of hooves and sees five rough looking men on horseback trailing after them. Each of the men ride atop different style horses from riding to race and draft, American Paints to Thoroughbred.

“Bounty Stealers!” Wyatt says with disgust in his voice.

“It’s never easy is it?” Cait says, pulling off her sleek black horse away from Hannibal.

Now the two are spreading dust in opposite directions in an attempt to split the party chasing them or give Cait the opportunity to get behind them and pick them off. The roughest looking man of them, squints his sun beaten face and notices the girl trailing off but knowing the bounty lies on the other horse, he continues his pursuit. Wyatt, now knowing five men are on him, shouts, “Yaw!” and smacks the ropes against Hannibal, who understands what his master needs, doubles his speed. The desert has never been a forgiving place, not the people, not the animals nor plants, and especially not the land itself. The hum of the burning sun on the desert sand as well as the constant murmur of the wildlife makes the desert a noisy place but no sound compares to the sound of bullets flying through the air, especially the first one shot by Cait and her Carbine Repeater. The men look over and see a thoroughbred running with no one on, a man on the ground a couple yards back with blood coming from a hole in his head, and Cait pointing a rifle at her next victim. The next shot rings through the dry night heat and lodges itself into the neck of the next victim, making the odds three versus two. Their leader now looks frantic as he sees another shot being lined up and he pulls his rusted silver pistol out and aims back.

Racing through the desert, Cait fires shots at the three men and they match her speed and every once in a while a bullet grazes her leather jacket and causes her heart rate to increase. Wyatt, leading the chase, sees no chances to lose them in the shrubbery or the occasional cactus so he takes out his own Lancaster Repeater and fires blindly behind him. Two men now remain, one for each. Seeing his men die around him, the leader pulls back on his brown spotted American Paint’s reins and stops his horse and as his last partner, the newest member of the posse, is following suit he crashes straight into cactus and his horse runs away into the night, free at last. Sitting on top his horse alone in the desert night, his eyes grow in disgust and his frown reaches his chin with disappointment. The twins now ride off towards the horizon unimpeded and silent. Dead trees, small rodents, and different shades of sand back into the distance under the pale moonlight in the clear sky. No words spoken except the banter from the bounty but even that doesn’t last because it’s met only with a cold hard fist.

~~~

Mesa, one of the larger towns in Arizona, remains still and quiet in the evening setting. The usual busy streets are desolate in the cold air of the night. Some shops still leave lamps flickering in the dark, the bank, the sheriffs office, and of course, the saloon in the middle of the town: Smithfield’s. The saloon stands undaunted from the surrounding buildings with two stories and a balcony looking out over the main muddy road. The swing doors out front seem alive as they never stop moving, even through the latest hours of the night. Old oak and sand-whipped glass windows give this pub the true feel of the wild west. Located just a few buildings down is the law building. Painted above the porch roof is the word SHERIFF in white paint that is slowly peeling. The windows to the office are barred and high up only allowing light in. The door opens in not out so if someone were to… escape custody, they would have to break the door down rather than simply push it open.

Hooves rhythmically stop outside the oldest building in town. Two beautiful horses are hitched and a bounty is removed from the back of one in front of the sheriff's office. The rusted door swings open and startles the sleeping sheriff.

“God damn!” shouts the built man behind his cluttered desk.

“Sorry sheriff but we just caught this fucker. I hope you have room.” Wyatt says carrying Grant Avery on his shoulders into the empty jail.

“Toss him the first cell over there.” he says pointing to the far wall.

As Wyatt steps to the back of the room, Cait walks over to the desk and leans over the old man and smiles innocently.

The sheriff, annoyed from being awoken from his slumber, glares at Cait and opens a locked drawer in his desk.

“Here’s what the poster said, don’t offend me and count it here Cait.” Emphasis on her name.

One-hundred and fifty American dollars now sits happily in Cait’s gloved hands.

As they walk out of the office, Grant shouts out from his cell, “This won’t be the last you see of me Wyatt, not never.”

“I swear to the lord himself, if I hear anymore sound from you tonight Avery, I’ll save the law some rope and spill your blood in the cell you stand in, yeah hear?”

The light in the oil lamp on his desk goes dim once the door to his office closes. Another man paid for another man’s life.

“Well,” Cait says, “we’re richer than we were ten minutes ago and I know exactly what to do with it.” She says nodding her head towards Smithfield’s. Tired eyes meet electric eyes in a battle of will. Wyatt rolls his blue green eyes back and says, “Just one drink.” A grin from ear to ear appears on Cait’s face.

As the murmur of the saloon becomes easier to hear, the glass window outside is shattered with a body coming through it. With the sudden thud of a man and crinkle of glass on the dirt road, Wyatt and Cait Poe stand shocked having almost been hit by the flying man. A voice from within shouts through the new hole in the staple of town, “If you cheat me one more goddamn time Ludwig, I’ll have you strung up you fucking drunk.” From the ground below, the man, Ludwig, raises his right hand and flips off his assailant before it falls back down beside him. Cait’s scarred face shifts from disbelief to comedic in seconds as she laughs at the scene. Wyatt’s face shifts from bewilderment to worry quicker than a horse's tail waves in the wind. Crouching besides Ludwig, Wyatt lifts the man from being face down in the mud to on his side. Besides the dirt, blood, and bruises, Ludwig has definitely seen better days. A once young face has been cast about by the towering waves of cruel fate and weathered by the sun and misfortune. Even as his eyes open, the blue gray still shows pain.

Wyatt helps him to sit up and starts to brush off glass and mud.

“Cait, fetch me some water would yeah?” Wyatt says to his sister who is just watching over the two men. She then snaps out of her reverie and moves into the bustling bar disappearing from sight.

“How the hell did this happen?” Wyatt says taking a piece of glass out of Ludwig’s graying brown hair.

“Someone didn’t like my hand in poker.” Ludwig says cracking a smile.

“Well, he clearly didn’t like somethin’ ‘bout you.” he declares smiling.

“Wyatt Poe and you?” He says, taking his hand in a gentle shake.

“Ludwig, at your service.”

The two finish up their greetings as Cait comes out from the saloon with two pitchers of water. Thus, fate brought three soon to be friends, bounty hunters, and so much more together. And so the Ballad of Redwater Valley has begun.

Chapter 2

The Trio

April 24th, 1889

The spring sun is peeking over the

horizon…

The heat bares down on the newly found

trio as the ride eastward.

The American ground the horses trot on is hard, dry, and feral. Patches of grass sprout out dead between miles and miles of empty land. Showers of rain are scarce but enough to keep the trees, cacti, shrubs, succulents, and even the wildflowers alive. Although the wasteland is baron, brilliant colors still seep into the death like paint on the floor beneath a cool canvas. Colors of greens, pinks, reds, yellow, but mainly rust-beige. Animals still roam the desert floor. Gila monsters stride lazily across the hot ground, rattlesnakes seem to glide through the sands, wild boar, or as the folks around these parts say, “javelina,” run untamed kicking up dirt, toads croak in the distance, bighorn sheep roam the mountains and the hellish earth below, jackrabbits burrow underground to escape the heat like the prairie dogs with them, even jaguars have been seen hunting in the Arizonian wastes, but the jaguars aren’t the only creatures hunting.

The Trio of bounty hunters ride down this land into the unknown. From the initial day they met Ludwig till now, they’ve grown closer and bonded. They’ve drank, they’ve captured bounties, they now even live together at the Inn. However friendly they may be towards each other, it alone cannot save them but the unforgiving soil below. Friends and loved ones have been rumored to get lost in the sands outside Mesa.

Midday sun beats down upon the posse. Sweat drips down their faces and backs; their stylish clothes aren’t always practical. Cait wears a dark black leather overcoat, a crimson red vest, black pants with red and white patterns down the sides, black high leather boots, a belt buckle with a golden skull, bandolier across her chest and shoulders, red mask hanging against her throat, and, finally, a curved black hat with a bullet hole in the right brim. Her attire has been carefully adjusted through the years. Once she snuck up behind a woman and slit her throat just for the belt she was wearing only to find it didn’t fit her waist.

Wyatt, rough-faced as he is, wears a brown overcoat with a dark green vest underneath. A small black tie lies between his white undershirt and his vest. “Crime can be stylish,” he always says when someone points his tie out. A black pair of slacks held up by a brown belt and a grey gunslinger’s belt, compliments his upperwear. Sleek black boots run up his legs with golden eagle spurs on the heel. His black Rexroad hat also remains spotless as he cleans his apparel regularly. If there’s ever a good time for a cigarette, Wyatt has one light between his fingers.

Ludwig on the other hand, is new to the fashion scene. Once belonging to a rich family, he had everything hand picked for him; as a homeless man, he had no options besides the rags on his back. Now with a little money in his pockets and people to impress, he wears a dusty brown coat, blue workman’s undershirt, blue jeans, two bandoliers crossing his chest, black boots like the rest of them, and a fancy black hat with a pink feather stuffed in the side. If that feather does anything, it confuses the hell out of bounties and gives the trio the upperhand, even if only for a moment.

Still, the posse of misfits ride down the barren wastes of Mesa with the sun forcing them into hiding.

“Hot damn!” Wyatt says as they pull off behind some rocks, “That sun is not given up!”

“We’ve been riding all day,” Cait chimes in, “Can’t we stop at the nearest town and rest up tonight?”

Wyatt opens the saddlebag lying against his horse and pulls out an old worn out map. His finger runs precariously down the page. He follows the roads they traveled, the shortcuts they’ve made, he even makes a point to remember the animals they’ve passed along the way. Finally, he arrives at the rockledge they’re under. Wyatt then moves past it and sees a town, Thatcher, just a few miles eastward.

Wyatt clears his throat and addresses the situation, “Alright, since you yella bellies can’t handle the heat-”

“Well, you were the one who pulled us off the road.” Ludwig adds sarcastically.

Wyatt just eyes him down and keeps speaking, “There is a town called Thatcher just a few miles east. I reckon we make it before the women even think about starting supper.”

At this last remark, Cait slaps her brother in the gut and says, “Watch what you say.”

“Nevermind I guess she’s hungry now,” Wyatt says as he flinches from the hit.

Ludwig always laughs at the arguments had between the siblings. He idealizes the both of them. They are quite literally his heroes. Not a day has gone by where he hasn’t thanked them for saving him from what could have been. They always blow it off, it is just what they needed to. The twins know how it feels to be alone. Completely alone, save for each other. Growing up they had a closer bond than most brothers and sisters do. They needed one another. There was no one else looking out for them. Mr. Dwindle at the Inn was their father figure after they lost their real one, but they were normally on their own.

~~~

As the trio rides closer to the old sand whipped town of Thatcher, they each receive a look of confusion and a furrowed brow. The town lies before them with torn down doors, cracked glass windows, bullet hole riddled walls, ashs, even some stained blood here and there. The most noticeable of all is that Thatcher is completely deserted. The place has been stripped of all life and all signs of previous life. The stores have been emptied, the houses are still furnished but no food or supplies hide in the cupboards. Wyatt is making rounds throughout the main street, Mama’s Home Goods and Thatcher’s Bank are the only signs that are still legible. The golden beams from the evening sun begin to be covered up by the approaching clouds. With the clouds, comes the winds and sandstorms.

Cait covers her face with her red mask and enters the nearest building to escape the harsh winds. Barrels and tables line the floors. Across the room she notices a bar, however to her dismay, the whisky and wine have been stolen with the rest of the town. She then takes one of the empty beer bottles off the floor and chucks it at the wall opposite her and it shatters of course, pieces of glass go everywhere. Cait puts her hands under one of the wooden tables and promptly flips it and shouts. This outburst is over and soon as it comes. A few deep breaths and she is back to her feet. This whole excursion is cut short when her name is called from Wyatt across the street.

Ludwig and Wyatt are investigating the sheriff's office hoping that would give a clue to what happened at Thatcher. As Ludwig was opening the desk, Wyatt gasps. Carved into the wall in huge letters, Espada.

“Well,” Wyatt sighs, “We have our first hint.”

“Espada, Espada, Espada…” Ludwig repeats this over and over trying to uncover why he thinks he’s heard the word before.

“It means ‘blade’ in Spanish.”

“So it was the Spanish who have been here.”

“Yes and no.” Wyatt says with a giggle under his breath, a nervous giggle that is. He takes another long sigh and lights up a cigarette against the desk, “La Espada is the notorious Spanish gang.”

“Notorious for what?”

“Destroying towns and taking lives with, you guessed it, blades!”

“But there are bullet holes outside?” Ludwig gestures to the door.

“Well, yeah. CAIT!” Shouts Wyatt as he opens the door.

The sandstorm does not give up as Cait walks across town to the Sheriff's office. The whipping winds makes it difficult to close the door but with all her strength she is able to shut it. Her perfect black apparel is now covered in brownish sand.

“What is it you so desperat-'' Cait stops speaking mid sentence as she notices the carvings on the wall. “It's too dangerous to leave now, let's just hope they don’t send a patrol team.”

“I concur,” Wyatt says nodding, “It’s best we stay in one house and hold up for the night.”

“It’s going on eight now,” Ludwig affirms, “I can take the first watch.”

“It’s settled then.” Cait calls out.

“There’s a house on the other side of town with beds to sleep in. It’ll make a nice change.” Wyatt then takes one last look glance at the word then opens the door to face the storm.

The posse strolls across the dark town, hope is fleeting quickly as they know sleeping isn’t always easy, especially with the prospect of a dangerous gang. However scared they truly were, they didn’t show it. The lot of them simply keep their heads down and masks and bandanas up as they march through the sandstorm towards safety.

~~~

Off in the more elegant and populous areas of Mesa, the darkness from the night is broken by the intense and excited light of a casino. Red and white stained glass glow with the atmosphere inside. Gold painted words on a blood red sign spell out Wendigo. Between towns of old and traditional shops and inns, this building stands out of place in this new yet ever expanding city of San Louis.

The bar side is bustling with all sorts of exotic faces, drunk ones at least. Walking down the tremendous staircase in the back of Wendigo is none other than Sally Reed. A young woman, around twenty-five, with pale skin, golden pulled back wavy hair, a pompous yellow dress, and a look in her subtle green eyes that practically spells trouble. To her right, in a less extravagant cornflower blue dress with a white undercarriage, is Bessie May. Miss May is a darker skinned woman, a few years younger than Miss Reed, with curly brown hair which falls only a few inches above her shoulders, and sharp honey-dipped brown eyes. She is still learning the bar scene but Miss Reed is teaching her well. On the left of Sally Reed is, of course, Annabelle Wheeler. Miss Wheeler is a very young girl, just shy of sixteen years of age. She has on a tight corset with a flowing black and skirt. Her skin is fair and her hair is flat and to her shoulder blades. Each has a story to tell.

The preoccupied crowd does not seem to notice the women, but they notice the crowd. As they touch ground with the rest of the bar goers, Anna can be seen fidgeting within her tight corset, Bess is sheepishly eyeing over the drunks and sober, and Sally is standing in the hero’s stance with a grin and she inhales before releasing it smiling even more.

“Nothing smells better than that of money waiting to be made, isn’t that right girls?” Sally Reed says as she turns to face the other women.

“I don’t know, nothing beats the feeling of Whiskey after a long night of making said money.” Bessie May replies as she begins to bounce on her knees to get in the spirit.

“Can we just get started? I am starving and I hate wearing this damn thing!” Young Wheeler exclaims as she pulls harder on the sides of the corset.

“Fine,” shrugges Sally, “You know your places. Get on.”

At this, the women each take deep breaths before moving towards the swarm of people either at a poker table, leaning against the bar, just as they enter, and before they leave. The trio don’t partake in normal or acceptable women roles in a casino, they are known, at least amongst themselves, as hustlers. They use their looks, their charm, but more importantly, their skills and boldness, to smooth over guests at Wendigo to beg, barter, or steal: cash, jewelry, coins, or any other valuables they can get their hands on before the casino players truly know what is going on. This is a nightly activity.

The night moves on.

Chapter 3

The Mistake

April 25th, 1889

Nights of young,

Shall soon become old.

The desert moves with excitement.

When the weather is warm, crimes persist. The heat of summer is still reaching its height. The posse awakes before the sun is risen to ride along towards the location of the damned bounty, Juan Salvador.

As the dust is thrown behind the horse’s hooves, silence hangs among the peers. Fear, excitement, and most of all, haste, lingers in the rushing air of the posse. A sheet of golden light falls gently over the brownish red dirt and sand. A distant smoke trail rises in the early morning sky assuring the unnamed posse they are close to the poor bastard.

A cluster of white buildings grows along the horizon as Wyatt, Cait, and Ludwig draw nearer. The homestead is connected to the barn in a corner and there is a white stone fence, which matches that of the structures, crosses the dirt to make a square for the overall plot of land. Wooden doors and shutters close off the house and huge wooden gates shut the barn. The smell of shit and tobacco floats in the air closer and closer. Sand and wind have weathered the once new walls of the bounties hideout, but ever still they seem unscaved by that of human interference.

Dead bushes and tumbleweeds pass the group as they stop and dismount off their horse just a few yards to the entrance of the fence. The sounds of holsters being emptied and ammo being checked is heard not only from the three bounty hunters. As the group approaches the gate with numerous guns in hand, cattleman revolvers, carbine repeaters, and even a sawed-off shotgun found with a bounty many months ago, Wyatt stops and turns, “Wait back ‘ere until you feel it is necessary to engage you hear?”

“You walkin’ up alone?” Ludwig questions.

“I want him to feel less threatened than if all three of us approached his door.”

In solitude, Wyatt Poe walks across the porch to the worn wooden door between him and his prize. His gold winged spurs accent his steps with thunderous applause. Three hard taps on the door fill the silence of the world around; that and the hissing of bugs and calls of buzzards. The western world stood still for many counts before the creaking of the door broke the reverie of those beyond it. Standing before Wyatt was Juan Salvador, a slimmer, fair skinned man, with streaking black hair pulled around his head in a mean bun. Around his waist sits a scarlet bandana and schofield revolver. Brown workman’s pants, a white undershirt, an opened black vest, and tan shoes cloth him.

“Juan Salvador-” begins Wyatt before Juan cuts him off mid sentence.

“I know why you’re here. There is a price on my head for being an Espada, this is true. However, with it comes reason.” A thick hispanic accent is present through his words, “I have killed many men before, you know that? I have brought my blade over the necks of both knowing and unknowing victims, yes? With this, why you think you are any different? I could have shot you through my door, I can have my knife in your gut before you can even lift a finger, yet you stand in front of me? Why?”

These words pierced the mind of Wyatt. He is a man of many words but this bounty has posed him with a question of why. The air not only became sour for the men on the porch, but that of the crew watching as well. Would Cait and Ludwig see Wyatt die just yards away with no way of helping besides vengeance? Could it even be called vengeance if it was so willingly allowed to happen? These thoughts were quickly left behind.

“Say, let us test your mettle in a man’s gamble. A fist fight. Mano-a-mano, sí? First one to knock the other down wins. I win, you leave and I don’t kill you. You win, well I guess we will see.”

With this quick change of plans, Juan shoves Wyatt back a few feet. They both now stand at attention in fighting stances. Wyatt has still remained quiet. Juan who quickly notices the others standing idly, “Oh I see you brought backup, eh? I hope they are ready to see you get bloody!” As Juan says his last word he lunges forwards and swings to the right making direct contact with Wyatt’s jaw. Blood begins to boil beneath the skin of both of them. With a few blinks and a head shake, Wyatt makes a quick move to the left stopping halfway on his foot and jabs straight into Juan’s liver.

The two continue fighting and the others stand by watching in either horror or excitement, it is hard to tell. Two punches to the nose sets Juan back a couple feet. He spits the blood out of his already swollen lip as he lets out a little smile and begins to bounce on his feet a bit more energetically. As Wyatt sees that his opponent is getting weak, he takes another swing right to left temple of Juan. However, Wyatt took this sign of weakness by mistake. Juan may be physically weak, but his demeanor and love of the fight is only growing stronger. As the punch nears hitting Juan’s head, Juan steps an inch to the side, raises his left arm to block the blow, then as Wyatt is temporarily stunned, he seizes his opportunity and lays four hard punches into Wyatt. The first punch hits Wyatt right in the kidney, the second in the sternum, third against his throat, and finally across Wyatt’s left temple. As the final strike hits Wyatt, he is knocked to the ground, lying unconscious.

The question of whether Cait and Ludwig looked excited or in horror was quickly resolved. As their leader falls from that final blow, a sense of shock and confusion quickly overtakes whatever emotions they had before. Now, in almost silence, Juan Salvador stands in blood, that of his own and his enemy’s, breathing heavily. The buzzing of the heat of Arizona is still hanging gleefully as if no event just took place. Juan shifts his view from his battered foe to that of new foe.

“Well,” Juan begins, “are you gonna be true to your-” Before he can finish his question, Ludwig tosses his frayed lasso overtop of the bounty and it tightens around his legs pulling him to the ground. Juan grunts and thrashes at the dirt as Ludwig reels him in like a fish out of water. Dust flies into the bright blue sky of the horizon as Juan’s body is pulled across the ground. Once their bounty is in grabbing range, Cait takes the butt of her rifle and burries into his skull. Now there are two unconscious bodies lying in the dirt.

Three horses stand unphased a few yards back. Hannibal, the brown Brenton, stands in between Omen, the black Aribain and Oscar, the soft grey Kladruber. Omen is equipped with a brown saddle with green felt lining and holds numerous pots and pans that hang off the sides of her. Oscar on the other hand, was one of a few horses less than $100 in a stable at Mesa so he is fashioned with a plain brown saddle and normal set of stirrups. Hannibal, proudly boasts between them wearing a red, gold, and black bounty hunting saddle purchased from Mesa’s Sheriff who supposedly took the saddle off of one of his own bounties years before he was Sheriff.

Within the next few moments Hannibal has Wyatt Poe safely atop of him and Omen holds the bounty, Juan Salvador, hogtied on her rump. Ludwig walks out of the house carrying the few things he thought the posse might need that Juan does not: a bottle of whiskey, a set of playing cards, a blade with a handle of black and skulls which he slid into his boot, and an ugly gray blanket.

“A blanket really?” Cait says disappointedly.

“It may get cold on the ride back,” Ludwig replies, “These are about the only possessions I got.”

“Well, mount up it's gonna be another day's ride back to Mesa.”

As the two mount their horses, the sun continues to rise, increasing the temperature to near 90 degrees fahrenheit. Still, the posse pushes on and disappears until the horizon’s mirage swallows them.