The Way of the Gun #1 - A Trail of Lead and Iron

Clarity back then was like any small town way far west. Guess you could say folks down there weren't askin' for much. Just as long as the sun rose in the morning and went down again every evening and that sometimes in between at opportune times (as the Reverend would say) there'd be just enough rain to keep the crops growin', most folks there were happy. We had a blacksmith who was also a carpenter, a pharmacist who was also a veterinarian and served as doctor in times of need and a reverend who was also the undertaker. There was a saloon doubling as a hotel, a general store, a bank and a jail and I don't mind tellin' ya the latter two didn't see much use. This was the quietest town south of the Tenmile Wash that's for damn sure. Our marshall had been the same for the last sixteen years, didn't seem to be much sense in electing anyone else, they said in the territories if your marshall was still alive after his first term then you oughta figure he must be a damn good one. Well I gotta say the reason Old Man Willie was still our marshall weren't so much because he was particularly good at staying alive. I mean not any more than any other folk in town in any case. No, we just didn't see trouble in this town and trouble didn't come and see us either and we was mighty fine with that. Our bank never held much and we was too far removed from the coach roads or train tracks to be worth it for any gunman set in some kind of bad ways to hang around these parts. It was a small, peaceful and I guess you'd say boring little town. We liked it this way. We hoped it would stay this way too. I reckon we shoulda known better.

Joseph Franklin Appleyard, US Marshall
August 27th 1911
Tucson, Arizona Territory




August 27th 1881
The sun hung high on a dry summer afternoon. Dusty, skin cracked and burning, you've been riding south all day only stopping once at midday to eat a can of beans, cold. No sense conveniently showing your location by way of smoke this far from civilization. It was upon the crest of a hill that you caught sight of what you thought at first was a mirage. You've never heard of any town that far south of the Tenmile Wash yet your eyes didn't deceive you. Right down there in the sun-drenched valley, a town alright. You'd taken time to study the map on the wall of the train station in Amberlene and you distinctly remembered there was no town or settlements that way. Which is why you came this way in the first place. A hunch as they call it. Served you well before in your line of work, intend on making it pay again. Well, who knows when that map was drawn? In the west there's new settlements popping up every few months or so and as such, cartographers rightfully gave up long ago on trying to keep their maps up to date.

Amberlene, that was the last time you had a hot bath, six days ago now. You were there to personally see your last quarry to the train that would take him to the state's penitentiary even if technically at that point he was off your hands, you just didn't trust the local marshall and his deputies to not let him loose once away from prying eyes. They looked too much the kind that liked getting bribed, and the man in their custody sure had enough stashed away somewhere to bribe a lot of financially challenged law officers. One-Eyed Jack Mcleary. Bad depth perception, worse temper. Killed six men in the last two years, two of them officers of the law and one of them Pinkertons. Train robber and killer. Heavy sinner by God's laws (not the kinds you follow) and defiler of virgins, not usually with their consent, too goddamn ugly for that for one. Compulsive gambler too, keeps losing at card tables like all of them but always gets his money back….one way or another. Mainly the way of the gun. Dead or alive the poster said and you would have brought him dead if he hadn't dropped his rifle because he was too damn drunk to keep his hands steady just as you were about to send him to his maker. You're not a man of much morals but you find it harder to shoot a man when he's unarmed and impaired. Well, you think, hopefully your conscience won't come back to haunt you in the form of a bullet through the heart a few months down the road, when he inevitably gets busted out of jail. Hell, that'd be another opportunity for you to make some cash on the same man twice you reckon. Wouldn't be the first time either.

But that was six days ago. All behind you now. Right now you're on a different trail. If you're on any trail at all even…that's what you intend to find out soon enough. Mcleary was good money but this would be the jackpot. Wallace Kilborn is the name that has dragged you this far south. "I'll tell ya about an outlaw named Wallace/Last name Kilborn/He's the Texas Menace/Started killing the day he was born". That's how the song gœs, heard it in too many saloons. Famous and infamous outlaw except nobody's seen him for months. Rumor has it the Texas Menace got scared when the state governor publicly called for his head and posted a 2000$ reward on it. Then all the Marshalls in the state and territories and all the Pinkertons in the southwest were suddenly on him like flies on a fresh pile of horse manure. His gang didn't like his sudden notoriety so they left him to fend by himself. That's loyalty among thieves for you. Surprising none of them killed him for the reward. The last time he was rumored to have been seen at all was around Dry Wells, 60 miles west of Amberlene. When you overheard about it at the marshall's office as you were taking in Mcleary you knew right away who your next target would be. Tracked, without a gang and running short on money, logic dictates that he would try to find decent sized towns with fat banks to rob. Everyone seems to be betting he'll go all the way to the coast or head north in the few states in the west where he hasn't commited any crimes yet. But you think differently. You think he'll head south in the wilderness, maybe even through the Indian territories if he's that crazy and all the way to Mexico if he has to. That's your hunch. The Marshalls have naturally no authority there, and the Pinkertons just aren't that adventurous. But you're a bounty hunter (and sometimes mercenary when the money's right), you deal with danger and death every day and its become your way of life. One day it'll be coming for you and it'll be just as well, you've never really known much else anyway. In the meantime you answer to no one and have jurisdiction everywhere the land stretches and you'll go wherever there's a dollar waiting.

If some stranger came through this town well…they'll definitely remember him, there can't be many people riding through every year, stagecoaches don't even come through that way, nevermind the railroad. Every new face is probably duly recorded like a mental photograph in the townsfolk's minds. That should be useful, IF your hunch is right. As you approach the town it becomes quite clear that this for sure isn't a new settlement like your first thought. The houses have that weatherworn look, and the trail leading to it looks like it hasn't been tended to in a while. You take one long swig of your canteen, downing every last drop, reasoning there'll be plenty of water to find in town. Less than a quarter mile from your destination you finally come upon a signpost. The writing is faded but after giving it a good dusting with your hat you can just about read the name and you smirk at the irony. Clarity.

Ride on to 1