It had been about half an hour since Marston and Marshal Johnson had apprehended Walton Lowe, and Marston was slowly making his way back to Armadillo. It was taking him much longer to get back to town than it had to travel the same distance away earlier, as earlier he had Abby at a gallop, but now had her at a mere walk.

It was early afternoon in the vast New Austin desert, and Marston took a sip out of his half-empty leather canteen. He put the cap back on and let it hang on his left side, over his satchel.

He had one hand on the saddle grip, and the other on the reins. He kept his head down as he relaxed his muscles, and he disappeared into his thoughts.

"Who's that? Are you really there?" He heard a voice ask, disrupting his thoughts.

Marston looked up and to his left, and saw a petite young lady with brown hair styled into a bun, and she was wearing a pink shirt with a dark-blue vest, a dark-blue skirt and white gloves. She wore a white hat with black feathers decorating one of it's sides.

The young lady was laying on the ground near a rock, propping herself up with her arms.

Marston stopped Abby at the side of the road and dismounted her, then started to approach the young lady. Marston thought of how he faintly recognized her, but couldn't figure out from where. He was unaware that her name was Jenny."Hello! Hello there," Jenny said as she laid on the ground, propped up by her arms.

"Howdy, miss," Marston said as he approached her. "What are you doing out here?" he asked as he took Jenny's arm and slowly pulled her to her feet.

"Uhm, I'm thinking," Jenny said as she breathed heavily.

Marston studied her face for a moment, then asked, "Have I seen you before?"

"Oh, yes I think so," Jenny said. "On the train from Blackwater, perhaps?"

"Yeah, yeah, you were talking with the Preacher," Marston said.

"Yes sir, I was," Jenny said as she took a couple steps forward.

"I don't know if it's so safe out here, miss," Marston said.

"Oh, you can just call me Jenny," she said, and then collapsed to the ground. Marston tried to help her up again, but she waved him off.

"I'm alright..." Jenny said as she stood on her knees. "Uh... I'm safe, because I have faith. So, faith...can move mountains. That's the whole point."

Marston looked around, quite confused, then asked, "You're trying to move a mountain?"

"Oh, no," Jenny said as she laughed softly. "I can't do anything. But with faith, I can achieve great things. I know that. I know it." She then started to stand upon her own, and Marston helped steady her.

"Want me to take you back into town, ma'am?" Marston asked. "You seem kinda unwell."

"No, I... I get such clarity out here, I see things purely." Jenny said. "The world is so beautiful."

"And full of things that'll kill you," Marston said. "Including illness."

"Nothing's gonna kill me, sir," Jenny said."

"Well..." Marston said after a short pause, "take care then."

As Marston walked away, Jenny collapsed into the dust again and started coughing.

Marston did not know how to properly help Jenny, and he did not want to interfere with whatever it was she was aiming to do, no matter how nonsensical he thought it was.

He mounted Abby, then looked back at Jenny as she laid in the dirt. "Let's go," he said as he spurred Abby, and she started to trot. Marston wondered about Jenny's wellbeing but knew that if she wanted to stay out in the wilderness, then it was her deathwish. He trotted away, leaving Jenny to her fate.

_______________________________________________________________________

It was evening, and Marston was sitting on a stool in the Armadillo Saloon. He had drank a shot of whiskey, and was now sipping on a mug of beer. He had his hat on the bar next to him, and his gloves next to that. On the wall behind the counter were shelves of liquor and beer, with a couple of oil lamps and a painting of a disrobed woman.

The saloon pianist played a ditty at the other side of the room, next to a grandfather clock. Throughout the saloon were folks drinking, mingling and gambling at the several round tables positioned around the room. There were dice games and Blackjack, and there was a private Poker table in the back room.

Marston had played a game of Blackjack earlier and won an extra seven dollars, and decided to use that for some drinks, food, and lodging. Considering that he had found twenty dollars at the Pleasance house earlier, he figured that he was having some pretty good luck that day. He was set for awhile.

"You want anoth'r?" the bartender asked Marston as he wiped the counter with a cloth.

"I'm good, thanks," Marston said. "But I think I'll pay for a room, got any available?"

"I do," the bartender said. "You want it?"

"For how much?" Marston asked.

"Two dollars and forty cents," the bartender said.

"I'll take it," Marston said as he reached into his pocket and counted out the money. "Here," he said as he put the money on the counter.

"Once you go up the stairs, it's the third door down," the bartender said. "And since you rented a room, all drinks are half-price until seven tomorrow mornin'."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Marston said as he stood up out of the barstool, grabbed his gloves and put on his hat, and he walked toward the stairs which were on the other side of the room. He walked between the tables where people were sitting by or standing near, many were talking and laughing loudly as they drank, smoked or gambled.

Marston reached the stairs and walked up to the second floor, where he could look down at the other people below. The second floor started as a narrow walkway that led into a wider area that was used as a sitting room, with a sofa and some chairs, along with a coffee table in the middle.

There was a man groping a prostitute on the sofa, and he made eye contact with Marston.

"Hey! Get outta here!" the man said.

"My apologies, sir," Marston said as he tipped his hat. "Ma'am."

Marston turned the doorknob and walked into the room he rented, then closed the door behind him. The room was small, with a bed at the far end in front of a window, an armoire, a small nightstand and a chair. There was an oil lamp upon the nightstand.

Marston took off his leather canteen, satchel and sleeveless denim jacket and set them inside the armoire. He walked over to the nightstand and took off his hat, gloves, and revolver holster and put them on it. He lit the oil lamp, and then took off his boots.

He sat on the edge of the bed, which had a stained mattress that was torn in some spots. He laid on his back with his head on the pillow, and he closed his eyes.

He could hear the sounds of the saloon, such as various voices, the easily audible sound of the pianist still tapping away on the piano, and the sound of the man and the prostitute as they fornicated on the sofa. But it did not keep him up, he felt that he was tired enough to sleep for days. He slowly fell asleep, and slipped away into his dreams.

Suddenly, he felt as if he was being shot through the chilly night air like a speeding bullet. Everything that he passed by was a mere blur, and yet he felt as if he could see all of it with striking clarity. He seemed to accelerate faster and faster until finally he came to a dizzying halt.

He was back in the desert, surrounded by shrubs and cacti in all directions. He could not feel his body, it didn't even feel as if it was there at all, as if he was one with the chilly air of the dark night. He could not hear or smell anything, but he could see everything with exceptional accuracy.

And what he could see was a young lady laying in a fetal position in the sandy dirt of the terrain, shivering and breathing with difficulty. She almost seemed to be praying.

"Why didn't you help her, John?" a deep, booming voice asked. "What happens when she dies -- and she will die -- and you did nothing to help her, despite how vain your efforts would have been? Will you try once more to help her before she reaches her end, or will you simply leave her to her fate? It's your choice, John. Neither choice is correct, but neither is wrong. I wonder how you will handle it."

Then, Marston felt himself glide back through the air, and it almost seemed to ripple in his path. Then there was a snap and everything went pitch black and without any perceptible dimension.

_______________________________________________________________________________

It was early morning when Marston calmly awoke, with the foreboding dream still fresh in his mine d. He cupped his hands on his face and rubbed his eyes, then yawned. He wondered about the dream and why he had it, but he figured that it was the liquor from the previous night giving him odd dreams.

Yet, he had what he considered to be a bizarre urge to ride out into the desert and find Jenny. He rose out of bed and put his boots on, then stood up and walked over to the armoire. He opened it and grabbed his sleeveless denim jacket, leather canteen and satchel and put them on. He walked over to the nightstand where his hat, gloves and holster were located. He equipped all of them, and then he slung the Spencer Repeater over his shoulder and walked out of the room.

He steadily walked along the walkway and down the stairs finding the saloon nearly void of people, save for those who were passed out on the floor or in chairs.

"Mornin' mister," the bartender said as he swept the floor. "It's passed seven o'clock so ya' missed the half-priced drinks, but you could get some breakfast."

"No, I'm good, thanks," Marston said.

"You sure?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah, I'm in kind of a hurry," Marston said as he neared the hinge doors.

"A'ight," the bartender said. "Well, take care then."

Marston left the saloon and headed for the hitching posts nearby, where Abby was hitched at. Most people of Armadillo were up and going about their business, and it seemed like the town was quiet and soft around this time of day.

Marston unhitched Abby, mounted her, then said "Let's go." They hastily made their way out of town, and into the barrens of Cholla Springs county.

After about an hour of trotting along, Marston arrived back to where he had last met Jenny. To his surprise, she was still there.

Jenny still laid on her stomach, propped up by her arms in nearly the same spot she was the previous day. She was coughing and breathing heavily now, almost gasping for breath, and she was clearly weak. Marston dismounted Abby, steadily approached Jenny and stopped in front of her.

"Miss Jenny? Miss Jenny," Marston said as he bent over with his hands on his knees. "It don't look like the almighty is much inclined to help you out here. I was kinda worried about you, so I brought you some medicine."

Marston reached into his satchel and pulled out a bottle of medicine, and he went to hand it to Jenny, and she reached her arm up to grab it.

"Oh! Oh, Heaven's!" she said weakly and deliriously as she clutched the medicine into her hand. "Oh, praise you Lord, I knew you'd save me!" She then placed the medicine on the ground and coughed.

"Excuse me?" Marston asked as he sat on a rock.

"You see, it was only through His will that you were ordered to save me," Jenny said, then coughed. "Tell me, were there angels in your vision?"

"Jenny, can I take you back into town?" Marston asked.

"Praise you, Savior!" Jenny said as she got onto her knees, looked up at the sky and put her hands together at her chest as if she were praying. "I knew you'd save me!"

Jenny then coughed and fell back to the ground.

"Will you come with me?" Marston asked, slightly frustrated.

"Oh, I'm fine here, mister," Jenny said, then coughed, and then her voice became horse as she continued to speak. "I'm in Heaven! Heaven..."

Jenny coughed more and gasped as she breathed. Marston then stood up and started to walk back to Abby. He had done all that he knew to do.

He mounted Abby once again, gripped the saddle, and started to trot away. He didn't look back. Jenny's faith was unbreakable, and it had sealed her fate.

Wiiiiiiind

John Marston entered through the open door of the Sheriff's Office, and then observed his surroundings.

To the left of the door was a brown desk with papers, books, an oil lamp and a telephone upon it. On the wall next to it was a barred window, and next to that a white cowboy hat hung on a hook. On the wall behind the desk was a locked gun-rack, and to the right of that was a small, barred window.

On the other side of the room was a small table with two brown wooden chairs nearby. Hanging on the wall above the table was a brown clock, and next to that was an old bull skull and shelf with a lasso hanging from it. On the floor was a small black woodstove and a brown chest. The right side of the room was where the cells were located. There were two cells positioned side-by-side, separated by bars. The cells were dull and drab, each having a bucket and cot sitting upon grimy floors. The left cell's door was closed and locked, and within it was a dingy looking prisoner in loose-fitting clothes sitting on a cot who appeared to be drunk, and was mumbling to himself.

The right cell's door was wide open, and in it was a lawman sleeping on it's cot, snoring softly.

"Excuse me?" Marston asked in the lawman's general direction, under the impression that he was the Marshal.

"Hey! Hey!" the prisoner shouted at the sleeping lawman. "You got a visitor."

The lawman woke, and was slow at getting up as he started to cough and hack loudly, and he then spat a loogie onto the floor. The prisoner laughed at him.

"Shut up you!" the lawman said in a thick, high-pitched southern accent as he pointed at the prisoner. "And what you want?" he asked Marston.

"My name is John Marston," Marston said as he squinted at the lawmen in slight disgust. "You wanted to speak to me."

"I did?" the lawman asked.

"Apparently so," Marston said.

"Why?" the lawman asked after he smacked his lips wetly.

"I guess because we're both in the business of the law," Marston said.

The lawman stood up out of the cot, smacked his lips, and then spat another loogie on the floor. The lawman was of average height, but slim and scrawny. He had a thin face, and dark brown hair that went passed his ears, but he had little facial hair. He wore a lawman's outfit, which was a red buttoned shirt with a black vest worn over it, and a gold star badge on the vest. He wore black pants that were tucked into his brown boots, and around his waist was a holster with an old rusted Cattleman Revolver in it. On his head he wore an old, black bowler hat.

"You that fella from the train company?" the lawman asked as he leaned against the cell doorframe and scratched his buttocks through his pants.

"No, I'm from Fort Mercer," Marston said.

"Fort Mercer? You them, one of them Williamson boys!" the lawman said in a surprised tone. He awkwardly pulled his rusty Cattleman Revolver out of it's holster and pointed it timidly at Marston, holding it with both hands.

"Calm down," Marston said sternly as he pulled his own Cattleman Revolver out and pointed it at the lawman, holding it out with one hand.

"Go on, shoot him, mister!" the prisoner said to Marston. "Shoot him!"

"Go on what..." the lawman began, "you gettin' cute with me boy?"

The standoff between Marston and the lawman persisted for several moments until an older lawman walked through the front door of the Sheriff's Office. The older lawman had some faint wrinkles, short grey hair on his head, and a thick pair of sideburns on either side of his face. He had thick van-dyke facial hair on his chin and upper-lip. He was wearing a white buttoned collared shirt, with a red double-breasted vest and a black tie tucked into the vest. He wore brown pants tucked into his black spurred boots, and a gold star badge on his vest. He had two Cattleman Revolvers in dual holsters on either of his hips.

"What's going on here?" the older lawman mildly asked as if it were nothing. He spoke with a deeper voice than the other lawman.

"I got me one of them Williamson boys," the scrawny lawman said proudly.

"And I got me one of them idiots who give Marshal's a bad name," Marston said.

"Jonah, put your gun down," the older lawman said. Marston now realized that the scrawny lawman, Jonah, was the deputy, and that the older lawman was Marshal Leigh Johnson. Jonah put his revolver back in it's holster, and only then did Marston put his away.

"You must be the man from Blackwater," Marshal Johnson said as he lit a cigar in his mouth.

"Yes, sir," Marston began, then chuckled. "Listen, that dog ain't too bright, but he seems loyal."

"Jonah, get out of here for a minute," Marshal Johnson said after puffing on his cigar.

"Yes sir, Mr. Johnson sir," Jonah said glumly, then spat another loogie onto the floor. He then turned to Marston. "And you, oh, I done seen enough of your hide 'round here, friend."

"I think there's some schoolchildren down the way you can go frighten," Marston said after he chuckled sarcastically.

"Oh, hardy fuckin' harr!" Jonah said as he walked out of the Sheriff's Office. "Dickhead."

"What are you doing here, Mr. Marston, apart from frightening my deputies?" Marshal Johnson asked.

"I'm here to capture or kill Bill Williamson," Marston said after he turned to look at the Marshal.

Marshal Johnson stopped in his tracks, laughed at the thought of what Marston had implied, then said, "Okay." He walked over to the front of his desk and sat on the edge of it, cigar in hand.

"Can you help me?" Marston asked.

"He's outside my jurisdiction, he's in the next county," Marshal Johnson said. "Of course, Bill Williamson and his boys have tended to keep themselves away from my town."

"So you're happy to have him out there?" Marston asked.

"Well, I ain't happy, but I also ain't suicidal," Marshal Johnson said as he puffed on his cigar. "My job is to keep this town safe, not clean up all of these four counties. It's hard enough around here."

"Ya know...I hear you speak, and suddenly I'm reminded of how some of the people I respected most in my life had a problem with authority. What's wrong with you?" Marston asked sternly.

"Well, I'm sure you and your fine friends have enjoyed spending your time running around pursuing noble causes," Marshal Johnson said as he puffed on his cigar again. "My cause is to keep this town from turning into a living hell for the folks who live here. Whole world has problems, mister, and I'm here, doing what I can."

"Why? What's happening?" Marston asked.

"Right now?" Marshal Johnson asked as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. "Well I got the railway, the people who pay my salary trying to get me to turn a blind eye to them burning down settlements up there. I got a bunch of cattle rustlers out near Pike's Basin need shutting down, not forgetting the gang that keeps murdering homesteaders out in the back country, and I got a bunch of hoods over in the saloon, drunk, threatening to shoot up the whole town. That's all I got today, but it's early yet. Give me couple more days and there'll be more."

Marshal Johnson filled the two shot glasses with whiskey, handed one of them to Marston, who accepted gratefully.

"Alright, tell you what," Marston said, then they both drank the whiskey. "Let's go deal with them hoods in the saloon, then we'll discuss Williamson."

"Okay, boy," Marshal Johnson said after a short pause. "You're a persistent little cuss, ain't ya'?"

"Only when things matter," Marston said.

"Let's head over to the saloon," Marshal Johnson said, then stood up and took the shot glass from Marston and set it on the desk.

With the Marshal in front, he and Marston walked out of the Sheriff's Office and into the dry, dusty air of the town. They grabbed their horse's reins and walked down the main road, bound for the saloon. There were people smoking, talking and standing on the open porches in the fronts of the town establishments, and there was a wagon and a few horsemen trotting along the road.

"So who we looking for?" Marston asked.

"A bunch of two-bit hoodlums, led by this fella called Walton. Goddamn road agents who prey on the stages comin' in and out of town. Drivers in Armadillo spend more time with their hands in the air than on the reins these days," Marshal Johnson said.

"And you're happy to let them drink in your saloon?" Marston asked.

"Happy? No. But the way I figure it -- better they're carousin' in there than out robbin' decent folk," Marshal Johnson said.

"That's an interesting approach to law enforcement," Marston said.

They neared the double-story saloon, and saw Walton Lowe, the hoodlum ringleader, leaving and approaching his horse.

"There's the dumb rat-bastard now," Marshal Johnson said. "Let's follow him. See what kind of hole he crawls into. Mount up, Marston. Walton's our man."

Then, Walton looked over and spotted the two men approaching him. He immediately mounted his horse and started to gallop out of town.

"Damn! He's seen us," Marshal Johnson said. "Get after him!"

The Marshal mounted his horse, Marston mounted Abby, and they took off in pursuit of Walton who had already gained the lead by far. They rode passed the train station, over the tracks, and along a dirt path that led through the desert wilderness.

"If Walton's as bad as you say he is, why don't we just beef him now, while we got the chance?" Marston asked the Marshal as they galloped at full speed.

"Because that ain't how the law works," Marshal Johnson said.

"Is that right, Marshal?" Marston asked in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

"And alive, he can still talk."

"Doesn't sound like he's a man to be reasoned with."

"He ain't. But a few days of my hospitality and he'll be tellin' me what I need to know. Walton's gang has been growing fast."

"Outlawin' is easy money for easy work."

"Cholla Springs, Gaptooth Ridge, Hennigan's Stead, these boys get around. Walton's a start, but there's plenty more where he came from."

They gallop for less than half an hour until they could see a small house on a hill in the near-distance. Walton had stopped there. Marston and Marshal Johnson stopped at the bottom of the hill, and dismounted their horses.

"He's up at the Pleasance house," Marshal Johnson said. The two of them started to move up the hill, which like the rest of the landscape, was covered in dry shrubbery and some cactus. The little, single-room house at the top of the hill was surrounded by a wood fence, some old crates, wagons, and an outhouse.

An outlaw at the top of the hill laughed, then yelled, "Looks like we got company, boys!" He then fired his revolver three times at Johnson and Marston.

"Damn, take cover!" Johnson said to Marston. Then two of them started running until they got to cover, each of them hiding behind separate rocks. Marston drew his revolver.

"We'll work our way up this hill," Johnson said as he drew one of his revolver's.

There was an outlaw behind an old wagon in front of them, and he popped up from behind it and fired two bullets from his revolver. The bullets snapped as they hit the rock that Johnson and Marston hid behind. He popped up again ready to fire, and Marston immediately shot two bullets into the outlaw's chest. The outlaw yelled as he hit the ground. "Move up!" Johnson said, and so they did, taking cover behind the wagon.

There was an outlaw behind the outhouse, and just as he turned around the corner to shoot, Marston fired a round and hit him right between the eyes, and he fell to the ground.

Another gang member came running in front of the house, and Marshal Johnson fired four bullets at him, missing the first three times but getting a hit in on the fourth. The man had been shot in the thigh, and he fell down in front of the house, wounded. He started to pull himself along the ground.

Marston moved up to the outhouse, and looked around the corner. As Marston did so, an outlaw from around the corner of the house fired a few bullets in his direction. Johnson gave covering fire, distracting the outlaw, and then Marston turned around the corner of the outhouse and in the blink of an eye, fired a bullet into the outlaw's throat. He gagged for a few seconds, and then hit the ground.

Marston and Johnson approached the house, wary of any more threats. They kept their revolvers raised, pointed around the outside of the small house.

Then, the front door slammed open and Walton ran out, but Marston put a bullet into the man's knee before he could get much of anywhere. He yelled out and then fell to the ground, grasping his knee in pain as it bled between his fingers.

Marshal Johnson hogtied Walton, and then lifted him onto the back of his horse, ready to be taken to the clinic and then to the jail.

Marston pulled a cigarette and a match out of his satchel and started to smoke.

"You're not a bad shot, Mr. Marston," Marshal Johnson said. "Why don't you check in with me next time you're in town?"

"I don't want to be no policeman, Marshal," Marston said.

"Nor did I, my friend, I can promise you that," Johnson said as he mounted his horse. "I'll see you soon, Mr. Marston.

Marshal Johnson rode back down the hill with Walton on the back of his horse, bound for Armadillo. Marston stood on the porch of the small house for a few minutes as he smoked his cigarette and looked out upon the vast desert landscape, and the few birds that flew in the sky.

He looked in the house through it's front window and saw that inside was a single bed, a dresser, a couple of shelves, a rug and a wood chest. He walked through the doorway and approached the chest, which he found to be locked. He took out his revolver, aimed it at the side of the lock and pulled the trigger. It was deafeningly loud in such an enclosed place, but the bullet had broken the lock.

Marston opened the top and rummaged through the chest. He found twenty dollars in cash, a box of revolver ammo, two packs of cigarettes, a box of matches, a stick of dynamite and a bottle of moonshine. He took all of it, and put it all into his satchel.

Once he cleared out the chest, he got up and walked out of the house. He went back down the hill and found that Abby was still there. He then remembered that he still had one of the apples that he had bought at MacFarlane's Ranch the previous day. He reached into his satchel, now reasonably full, and pulled out the apple. He held it up to Abby's mouth, and she ate it. Marston stroked her silky white mane, and then mounted her.

He took the reins, and cued for Abby to walk. And so, the two of them began traveling along a lonely dirt road through the desolate wilderness of Cholla Springs.

It was the morning after the day of the race with Bonnie, and Marston had just woken up in his room. He had decided the previous night that it was time for him to move on from MacFarlane’s Ranch and get back on the task of finding Bill Williamson. Even though his wound was still not fully healed, he had grown tired of the lack of progress in his endeavors.

He figured that the best course of action would be to go to Armadillo to meet with the Marshal there to see if he could help.

He got up out of bed, got all of his clothing and equipment on, and walked out of the shed. He expected this to be the last time he would be in there for a while. He unhitched Abby, mounted her, and then had her walk towards Bonnie’s house.

He rode Abby passed the general store, bank, and Foreman’s Office. Up ahead, he could see Bonnie hitching a horse to the front of a wagon, with another horse standing nearby.

“Ah, Mr. Marston, how are you?” she asked as Marston approached her on horseback.

“Good, Miss MacFarlane,” Marston said. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” Bonnie said. “Would you mind riding with me to Armadillo? I’ve got to get some supplies, and getting there and back is kind of an all-day affair since Armadillo is quite a ways from here. I could do with the company.”

“What a coincidence,” Marston began. “I was just about to make my own way there to talk to the Marshal. I was coming over here to say my goodbyes.”

“Leaving so soon?” Bonnie joked. “Well, you could hitch Abby to the wagon if you want to come along.”

“Sure,” Marston said. He demounted Abby and then hitched her to the front of the wagon along with Bonnie’s horse.

“You can take the reins,” Bonnie said as she climbed into the front seat of the wagon. “It wouldn’t do for a terrifying bounty hunter such as yourself to be driven around by a woman. Hop on up, Mr. Marston.”

Marston climbed up into the front seat and took the reins. He whipped the reins, making Abby and Bonnie’s horse move forward, pulling the wagon with them. The wagon’s wheels squeaked as they started to turn, and the wagon creaked as it moved along. They steadily moved through the ranch, in the direction of the train station.

“You’re looking much better,” Bonnie said. “Considering you were almost buzzard food a few weeks ago.”

“I have you to thank for that, miss,” Marston said.

“So do tell me, have you needlessly risked your life since we last spoke?” Bonnie asked.

“No, miss,” Marston said as he laughed. “I have not.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Bonnie said. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Oh, there’s always hope, Mr. Marston,” Bonnie started. “You can’t be a rancher in this kind of country if you don’t believe that.”

“An admiral attitude, miss,” Marston said.

“I suppose so, I can’t think of any other way to stay sane, to be frank,” Bonnie said as they crossed over the train tracks, passed the station. They were no longer on the ranch property, and were now following the road into the open prairies.

“What about you?” Bonnie continued, “Have you ever given up hope altogether?”

“Hope hasn’t really entered into it,” Marston said. “It’s not really something I think about.”

“A peculiar outlook,” Bonnie said as she gave him a look of question. “I can’t really say that I understand you.”

“I can’t say that I always do, either.”

“Oh, don’t be so deliberately enigmatic.”

“I’m not, miss,” Marston said in a surprised tone.

“Yes, you are,” Bonnie said. “You are being deliberately obscure as a substitute for having a personality.”

“I just know that there are two theories to arguin’ with women. And neither one works,” Marston said.

“I’m not even going to dignify that gibberish with a response,” Bonnie said after exaggerating a scoff.

They continued along the road in their horse-drawn wagon, traveling the seemingly endless prairies. They saw various wildlife on their way through, mostly birds, and also deer and rabbits.

There were plenty of other travelers on the road as well, some of them lone riders while others rode in small groups. Some even travelled in wagons, like Marston and Bonnie, and many of those traveling the road were ranchers, while other's were simply passing through. Following the main road, one could see a ranch once every half-mile or so.

By now, they had been on the road for about an hour, and they passed by a small campfire with a man and a woman around it, with two small tented blankets and a horse nearby.

“You never did tell me where you live,” Bonnie said to Marston.

“I have a small holding, a farm up in Great Plains county,” Marston said.

“A farmer? Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England,” Bonnie said in mild disbelief. “And at what point during your day of hunting down outlaws do you find time to raise chickens?”

“Only been at it three years or so,” Marston said. “I guess I’m kinda new to it.”

“You’re telling me!” Bonnie said. “So, who’s looking after this farm of yours right now?”

“Uncle,” Marston said. “Well, he’s not really my uncle…as far as I know. He’s just an old dog who’s as lazy as a lizard on a hot day. The kinda fella laboring under the delusion that age brings wisdom.”

“Urgh…” Bonnie exclaimed, “sounds like the perfect person to leave in charge of your entire livelihood.”

“We go way back,” Marston began. “And I didn’t have a lot of choice.”

“I’d be getting back there if I was you,” Bonnie said.

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to do, miss,” Marston said.

Eventually, they had followed the road until they neared the edge of the ridge. The entire county of Hennigan’s Stead was on a ridge, and rose significantly higher than the rest of New Austin state, the rest of which was made up mostly or dry, arid lowlands.

The tall, long cliff that ran along nearly the whole width of the eastern part of the state represented the boundary between Hennigan’s Stead and Cholla Springs county.

___________________________________________________________

They had been on the road for a few hours by the time they had made it down the ridge via a road that gradually went down at an angle along the cliff at the side of it.

They were now in the dry lowlands of Cholla Springs county. The landscape was quite different from the prairies which MacFarlane’s Ranch resided within. Dry shrubbery and cactus plants dominated the sandy terrain of Cholla Springs, and settlements were few and far between. The sun actually felt more beaming hot there.

There were two other wagons in front of Marston and Bonnie, and they could see that nearest of them had people riding in the back, with one of them hanging his legs off of the edge.

“I think it’s funny I found you dying on the side of the road and now your driving me into town,” Bonnie said to Marston.

“You, have a strange sense of humor,” Marston said as he laughed softly.

“Well, you must admit…” Bonnie started, “it’s an unusual start to a friendship.”

“I didn’t realize we were friends, Miss MacFarlane,” Marston said.

“Oh, please. Now who's being funny?” Bonnie began. “I know that business with Williamson is your business, but... I don't know... You've been good to us... and... I don't think you're a bad man. A little stupid perhaps, but not rotten. I just worry about you gallivanting around these parts like you're some kind of deranged bounty hunter. Like Pa always said, don't go waking snakes.”

“I appreciate your concern for us lesser mortals, Miss MacFarlane, I really do,” Marston said. “And, if there was any other way out, I'd take it. I can assure you of that.”

For the next couple of hours, they traversed the desolate landscape of Cholla Springs county on their way to the town of Armadillo. At one point during that time, they passed by a well-known abandoned chapel called Coot’s Chapel, where a graveyard was located nearby.

Eventually, they had come within a few dozen meters of town.

“How well do you know New Austin?” Bonnie asked.

“I don’t,” Marston began. “We talked about coming down here many times but we never made it.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Bonnie asked.

“Me and the folks I used to…used to work with,” Marston began. “Yeah, New Austin, the last real outlaw country. Where the old ways still hold true. You do a man wrong, he'll shoot you for it. You do a man right...well, he still may shoot you for it. But at least you have an idea of what's right and what's wrong here.”

“Dear oh dear, Mr. Marston... What dreadful novel did you get that romanticized drivel out of?” Bonnie said. “Those days are long gone, if they were ever here at all. According to Pa, those days were just people shooting each other because they lost at cards. We'll be lucky if our ranch survives another five years. Businessmen are the new cowboys.”

The horses pulled the wagon into the eastern side of Armadillo. The main road went through the town, and then split off in two directions at the end once it reached the train station.

Along the right side of the main road, from east to west, was a dentists office, barber shop, medical clinic, gunsmith, the saloon, and some two-story houses in-between.

Along the left side of the road was a cinema, bank, undertaker, general store and freight station, with a few two-story houses in-between, mostly towards the eastern end.

There were two other streets in Armadillo on either side of the main buildings, and these secondary streets primarily had single-story houses lining them. On the far side of the north houses, there were a couple of barns and pens where livestock was raised.

At the far west end of the town at the intersection was the train station, and the Marshal’s office was at the far east end, to the left of two houses. There were telephone lines running along the sides of the main road, but not the secondary roads.

Marston and Bonnie rode their wagon through town, and stopped in front of the freight station. Finally, a trip that took over half a dozen hours was completed.

“So, this is Armadillo,” Bonnie began. “Manhattan it is not, but it does okay for us. Here, help me get some supplies. We need some medicine, so could you go over to the clinic and pick up everything on this list? It’s on me, don’t worry. The funds are in this sack. I put in a little extra than usual so that you can buy some medicine for yourself.”

“Sure,” Marston said as Bonnie handed him the list and sack of cash.

“Thank you, miss. I’ll pay you back.”

“I’m sure you shall,” Bonnie said. “Meet me in front of the general store when you’re done.”

The two of them got off of the wagon and went about their tasks. Bonnie went to pick up miscellaneous supplies at the freight station and general store, while Marston went in the direction of the medical clinic.

It took a few minutes to get all of the medical supplies, but Marston had loaded all of it into the back of the wagon, and then he bought a few medicinal items for himself and put them in his satchel.

While he was at it, he went into the gun shop and bought some extra revolver and repeater ammo in case he would ever need them. That purchase used up the last of his own cash.

He helped Bonnie load the last of the supplies into the back of the wagon. It was now full with boxes and large sacks and other miscellaneous containers of supplies. Marston unlatched Abby from the front of the wagon, as he was not planning on going back to the ranch today and wanted to keep Abby nearby.

“Well, thanks for driving me,” Bonnie said. “It was nice to be able to enjoy the view for once. And a little company never hurts now and again.”

“You're more than welcome, miss,” Marston said. “Least I can do. Thank you for the medicine.”

“Why don't you have a look around Armadillo?” Bonnie said as she climbed into the front seat of the wagon. “You can always take the stagecoach back to the ranch later.”

“I might just do that. Travel safely, miss.”

“Try not to get yourself shot," Bonnie joked. "I won't be around to save you this time." She then rode off in the single-horse wagon, kicking up dust as she started her half-day journey back to the ranch.

Marston started walking east down the main road towards the Sheriff’s Office. Marston clung to the right side of the road, and as he walked by the bank, a deputy standing out front eyeballed him the whole way. As he went across the road, a couple of horseman rode by but did not greet Marston. The town was dusty and dirty, and full of low-lives and corrupt officials. Armadillo was quite different from MacFarlane’s Ranch.

He neared the Sheriff’s Office and walked onto the porch. The door was wide open, and he walked right in.

Over the next two weeks, Marston continued to help out around the ranch in increasingly significant ways. As his wound was well on it’s way to being healed, he was able to regularly take up shifts patrolling the ranch at night, and he helped out with the many other jobs that had to be done. Marston and the other ranchers that lived there got along well, and he had now been accepted as one of their own.

But Marston knew that despite this, he could not consider himself to be a permanent resident of the ranch. He enjoyed the time to rest and regroup that he had while at MacFarlane’s ranch, but that was all he had to do, other than repay his debt. He knew that his time living at the ranch was almost up.

It was a little after mid-day when Marston was riding his Kentucky Saddler, who he had named Abby, through the ranch on his way to the MacFarlane house to talk to Bonnie.

Once there, he hitched Abby outside the gate and then walked up to the front porch. Bonnie was not there.

Marston knocked on the front door, and he then heard footsteps approaching. The door then opened with a click, and Bonnie stood in the doorway.

“Oh, Mr. Marston,” she said. “How are ya’ doing today?”

“I’m well, Miss MacFarlane,” Marston said. “Thank you. How are you?”

“Well I’m fine, thank you,” Bonnie said. “So uh, how are your ribs?”

“Fine,” Marston said. “A little sore, but apart from a couple extra scars, it will be as nothing happened.”

“Good. Ah, come in, come in,” Bonnie said as she motioned Marston into the house. They both entered, with Marston closing the door behind them. Once through the front door, they were in a room that had light-green wallpaper with a blue rug on the floor, and there was a small end table in one of the corners, with an oil lamp upon it. Next to the front door was a window with brown curtains, and across the room was the beginning of a staircase that went up toward the second floor. In the space below the staircase was a brown dresser, and next to that was an open doorway that led into the next room.

Bonnie and Marston stood in the entry room, and Bonnie stood near the staircase while Marston stood in front of the nearest window, gazing out of it.

“You know,” Bonnie started, “you never did tell me how you met that Bill Williamson or what you wanted from him.”

“No miss, I did not.”

“Well, why not?” Bonnie asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I certainly don’t mind you asking, as long as you don’t mind me not telling,” Marston said as he turned to face Bonnie. “See, it’s a complicated and somewhat pathetic tale, and by telling you, not only would I be putting your life in danger, but also threatening the lives of some people I hold very dear.”

“Well, I apologize if I seem to be prying,” Bonnie said.

“And I apologize for my reticence,” Marston said. “I hope you believe me when I say that it’s simply out of respect for you.”

“Of course, Mr. Marston,” Bonnie said. “I understand that a city dweller such as yourself likes to have some exotic secrets so that us country folk are impressed.”

“I’m no city man, miss,” Marston said after laughing briefly.

“Yeah, but I saw you get on the train at Blackwater,” Bonnie said. “You were with those gentlemen in bowler hats.”

“I’m still no city man, miss,” Marston said, now having been reminded of the woman he had made eye contact with getting off the train at Armadillo. That had been Bonnie. He wondered why she had not mentioned it sooner. Perhaps she had been under the impression that he already made the connection. He turned to look out the window again.

“But I bet you can’t ride, Mr. Marston,” Bonnie said with an exaggerated smirk on her face.

“I’d hate to take money from a lady, miss,” Marston said ironically as he looked back at her.

“Oh, you won’t be,” Bonnie said. “I’ll race you right now...”

“If it makes you happy,” Marston said.

“We’ll see,” Bonnie said as she started to walk to the front door. “Alright, I’ll show you how we ride ‘round these parts.”

Marston followed her out the door. Once through it, they went down the porch steps and along the path, then through the gate. Bonnie unhitched her horse and went to mount it. Marston unhitched Abby and mounted her. They both got into position, side by side on the road facing the east bridge that led out of the ranch.

“A ways down the road, there is a path that veers off to the right,” Bonnie said. “Just keep following it until it hit’s the main road again west of the ranch. Follow the main road until you’re back in the ranch. First one to make it over the tracks just next to the train station wins. Got it?”

“Got it,” Marston said.

“On the count of three,” Bonnie said. “Three...two...one... go!”

Then, Bonnie said "Giddy-up!" and her horse started running. Simultaneously, Marston cued for Abby to run, whipping the reins and saying “Come on Abby, let’s go!”

Both horses entered into an easy gallop, and then once they began to cross over the bridge that led over a shallow, dry creek bed, they quickened their pace until they were soon at a full gallop. The horse hooves thudded and clacked on the wood bridge until they hit the dirt road again and it went back to dull thuds.

“I trust you’re not gonna be a gentleman about this!” Bonnie yelled over the sounds of the gallops.

“You don’t know me at all, Miss MacFarlane!” Marston yelled back.

Their horses were of alike speed, as the two racers were tied so far, neither able to get passed the other.

“Neck n’ neck, Miss MacFarlane!” Marston yelled.

Once they had raced a little ways down the dusty main road, they made it to the path that turned right. Marston was already on the right side of the road, so he was the first to get onto the path. He pulled Abby’s reins to the right and she turned in that direction. Bonnie followed close behind, but Marston now had the lead.

They raced along the path through the vast, open, hilled prairies of Hennigan’s Stead. The mid-day sun burned bright as the two riders shot across the landscape. A few times they rode within the visual range of other, smaller ranches that dotted Hennigan's Stead. In comparison to these small ranches, MacFarlane's Ranch was far superior.

They raced uphill and downhill, constantly changing leads. One moment Bonnie was in the lead, the next moment Marston would be and it went back and forth like that. The two of them were both very skilled riders with some of the fastest, strongest horses around.

At the midpoint of the path, they came near the edge of the ridge and could see upper-San Luis river near the bottom of the ridge, and the flatlands of the Great Plains in the far distance. They raced near the edge until the path stretched back in the direction of MacFarlane's Ranch.

Eventually, when Bonnie was in the lead again, they came to a sharp right bend in the path that looped down a hill. Bonnie pulled her horse’s reins and turned sharply right with the horse angling to the side as it's hooves dug into the dirt of the path.

Marston caught up to her, and they were tied once again.

They could see the ranch in the near-distance, and they both were determined to get there first. They rode as fast as they could go down the road, kicking up much dust in the process.

They neared ever closer to the finish line at the train tracks, and yet neither could get ahead of the other.

They pushed their horses harder to go faster, but it could not be done. Finally, the two racers came within mere feet of the train tracks, and they both crossed over at nearly the exact same time. People around the train station looked at them as they rode passed, alarmed at the speed of their entry.

Then they both started to slow down their horses to a walk, and they stopped in front of the horse corral. They had no idea who had won, and they did not care.

“That was fun,” Bonnie said after laughing for a moment. Her face was flushed red.

“Sure,” Marston responded.

After several moments of sitting atop their horses, not speaking as they regrouped from the race, they gently rode their horses toward Bonnie’s house.

As they sat atop their walking horses, Bonnie broke the silence.

“You know, you should go pay the Marshal of Armadillo a visit sometime,” she said. “I’m sure he could help you deal with that nice Mr. Williamson.”

“Yeah, I might just do that, Miss MacFarlane,” Marston said as he looked over at Bonnie.

“You do whatever you think’s best, Mr. Marston,” Bonnie said.

They gently rode back to Bonnie’s house and stopped out front. Bonnie dismounted her horse and hitched him in front of the gate. Marston remained on Abby as he and Bonnie said their goodbye’s for the time being.

After Bonnie had gone back inside her house, Marston rode back down the road. He stopped at the general store owned by Gus McCloud.

He hitched Abby out front, then walked into the store. It was lit mostly by the two windows at the front, and was filled with all kinds wares. Meats, vegetables, some fruits, wheat, various décor, and various essential items. It even had liquor stocked in the back.

Marston was greeted by the store owner, Gus, who was behind a counter toward the back of the store that had a cash register upon it. Marston walked over to where the food was and picked out a couple of bright red apples.

He walked over to the counter and placed the apples on the counter, and he then requested a pack of cigarettes and a small box of strike matches. He paid for the two apples, the pack of cigarettes and the box of matches.

He put the items into his satchel and then walked away from the counter, toward the open double-doors of the store. He exited the store and stood on the front porch.

He walked off the porch and went to where Abby was hitched. He reached into his satchel and felt around until he pulled out one of the apples. He then put held the apple up to Abby’s mouth, and she bit into it, taking the entire apple into her mouth, making a crunching sound.

Marston then leaned up against the nearest wood pillar on the front porch of the general store. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. He opened it and pulled out one of the cigarette sticks, then put the pack back in his satchel and put the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

Finally, he pulled the box of matches out of the satchel and struck a match. It lit, and he put the flame directly under the end of the cigarette. It lit, and he sucked in slowly, and then took the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between the first finger and thumb of his right hand.

He breathed out with a sigh, sending expelled tobacco smoke into the warm, early-afternoon air.