Six-Shooter

Morning

The day was still young, the rattlesnakes of night going back to hide in their holes, and when the bandits left for the Badlands. Also when the stores and shops began opening in the towns.

In Aransohn, a ranchhand by the name of Cornwall drove his old wagon into the street. Few people were out, of the few who lived here. It was full of supplies, such as grains and corn, pork and chicken, the usual things from the Jenning's Ranch. Cornwall rode to the General Goods store, owned by Mackie.

"What'cha got for me today Cornwall?" Mackie was already unhatching the wagon's tailgate.

"Just the usual... you know what I got, why ask me?" Cornwall was always upset over Mackie's usual smart remarks - or at least what Cornwall thought was smart.

Mackie stopped from what he was doing, "Now they ain't no need in being a shit, you here me boy?" Cornwall didn't say a thing. He simply eyed the man. Cornwall didn't bother to help, Mackie unloaded the whole of the wagon alone. Cornwall jumped back on the wagon to go back to the Ranch.

However, he hesitated, "Mr. Consmith sends a message to the Marshals, expects you to deliver his message."

"I ain't no courier or messenger boy... but git on with it."

"It would seem as if more gangs of those bastard outlaws have moved into the Badlands, soon'nuff these whole lands will be the Badlands. Best watch'it you hear? I don't reckon a Posse is gone do much 'bout it, so just tell the Marshals to keep it under control 'round these parts."

Cornwall began driving off. Mackie would no doubt deliver the message - his business depended on it. Cornwall however, never knew about the Lackton Gang up ahead.

Contrary to some's belif there are people who're more demon than man at times. One such man, known to the dead as their wrath, was currently siiting at a table, with four other men playing poker. A quick scan of his cards and the opponent's faces, and a desicion reached him mind. Four of a kind. I'm a lucky sod.

"Your move Edward," One of the other player reminded him.

A sly smirk almost made it's way onto his lips. With all four kings, they can't get a royal flush... I'll risk it. he thought then spoke, "All in..." He pushed the large colection of poker chips he'd won from the other three towards the pile.

"I call," the one on Edward's left stated, doing the same with his meager amount.

"I'm foldin'. Junk Ace-high ain't gunna do me any good." The man across the table stated, showing his loosing hand.

"I'm foldin' too. Pair of two's as useless as a Junk nowadays." The man to Edward's right stated.

"Well then, show us your hand," Edward asked calmly. It turned out to be a three of a kind of aces, with a two fo hearts and three of clubs. Edward placed his hand down, smiling triumphantly. Four kings and the Ace of Spades, "Seems I've cleaned you three out then."

The two that had folded only just realized that they had no chips to put in, "Well buggery." the one across the table said.

"That's 'nother one to ya Edward." The one who hadn't folded stated.

"You were told I'm a demon at poker," Edward replied nonchalantly, "I think I'll let you keep those chips. I've got enough money already," Edward stood up left adding, "Try not to lose them too quickly." He returned to the room he'd bought in the saloon and stood in the center, in thought. Business will pick up soon. Someone's going to die and I'll be contected about it. It better not be the Marshall who does it.

James woke up as the sunlight flashed through his window and onto his eyelids. He stretched as he got out of bed, and began dressing himself.

"Another day at the ranch," he muttered. Through various means, as well as through the work he'd done at the ranch, James had acquired enough money to afford a small house a little ways from the ranch where he was employed. As he walked out the door, he mounted Dusty, his small horse, and went on his way to the ranch. The small horse strained under the weight of his large master, but it was resilient and got him to his destination.

As he walked into work, James noticed that the ranch hands grew deathly silent. This disturbed him, but he walked into the chicken coop to collect eggs as he did every morning, despite this. Once inside, James noticed his friend, George Little, a fellow ranch hand, there as well.

"What's gotten into everybody, George?" James asked him, "They look like they've seen a ghost." George leaned in to whisper something to his friend.

"You're the talk of the town, James. Your picture is posted on all the buildings." James's face grew white.

"You don't mean...?" He began. George was one of James' few friends in Aransohn, and his only confidant. George was the only one who knew of his past.

"They've found you, James. You either have to take down those flyers, leave town, or face the law."

"They'll kill me if they find me," James began as he turned his back to leave the coop, "I'll go into town and take down all the flyers I can, and if anyone gives me trouble, I'll kill 'em dead. I can't keep running, and if it's a fight they want, it's a fight they'll get. I might not make it back, and if I don't, well, it's been nice knowing you, George." With that, James began to walk out of the coop.

"Good luck," George said.

"Thanks, I'll need it."

-----

James rode into town with his face covered to keep from being recognized. He rode Dusty back home to pick up his shotguns, just in case, and spent the bulk of the morning tearing down flyers. Things went smoothly, and he decided to relax after the stressful time he had had. Walking into a saloon, James noticed a few people playing poker as he walked toward the bar. Resolving to join them after getting a drink, James unwrapped his face as he reclined into a barstool, and asked for a shot of whiskey. As the bartender turned to get a bottle, James' heart sank. He noticed the bartender had a wanted poster on the other side of the bar. Fortunately, he didn't chance it a look as he turned to give James his drink.

"Here you go, sir," he said, placing the shotglass on the bar.

"Thank you kindly, barkeep," James replied shakily, putting money on the counter.

Mid-Day

Marshal John walked from out of his office, into the glaring heated sun. The weather was going to be fine, no clouds unless you peered hard at the horizon. Marshal John kept his hand on his Schofield Revolver, which was a .45. He knew better to not take his hand off, no telling who's eyes would be watching you under hats.

"Marshal John?" John looked to his left, and a vigilante was jogging towards him. "Marshal John, it is you! Listen, we got some scrufflers 'round here somewhere, breakin' the law and all kinds of crazy thangs."

Marshal let out a long breath, "Damn it, I thought we had this town straight. What's the problem?"

"That 'ol ranchhand you got posted up on the buildin's 'round here, they gone. I ain't seen a single one since this mornin'. No one ain't saw no one take'em down, but I got reason to believe folks ain't wantin' to say much."

"James huh? He got contacts here in Aransohn? Who woulda known... Shit. Probably some of his own takin'em down, you reckon?"

"I got reason to believe so, sir."

"Well, git on it then. See if you can find any leads or anything. I'm heading down to the Ranch to see if I can git anything from there. I'll see ya back." Marshal John tipped his hat at the vigilante, who scurried off. He walked beside his old office, where his horse Dune was hitched. He climbed on, and began heading for the Ranch.

It'd sure be nice if we could get old Shotgun John on this trip, thought the Marshal, then he'd be in some real trouble...