A quick Mexican melody, strummed by agile fingers, floated out of the train. Pancho Sanchez, better known as "Pancho the Kid," smiled as his horse pulled up alongside it. He liked a little music to go along with his train heists. The first passenger cars were always the best to hit; they were the most luxurious, and hence the location of everyone worth robbing.
With the reins in his hands and a cigarette in his lips, he spurred his horse, riding up to the coupling between the first car and the engine. He grabbed a stick of dynamite from his saddlebag and leapt to the train, his horse still matching its pace. He lit the fuse with his cigarette, jammed it in the coupling, and swiftly jumped back to his ride.
He slowed down, pulled away from the tracks, and moved his hat down over his eyes. A blast rocked the ground, splitting the engine from the rest of the train. It kept on going, but the passenger and freight cars lost momentum and quickly ground to a halt. The wheels were still rolling when Pancho strode into the first car, pistol ready in his hand, and cigarette hanging at a sly angle from his lips. He looked around, and the cigarette dropped to the floor.
The only occupant of the car was a Mexican man in a large, foolishly decorated, sombrero, sitting in the rear of the train. He was plucking away on his guitar, apparently oblivious to the robbery-in-progress. "Where's everybody?" stammered Pancho, feeling a fool.
"You dun' know, man?" he said, with a heavy Mexican accent. "It's a holiday, today. All de' white folk are celebratin'." A drunken slur also became apparent in his speech, for he had been celebrating as well. "'Sides from the engineer, I'm the only hombre on dis' train." He paused, tilting up his sombrero. "Seems leek yer robbery's sort of a bust, eh?"
"Appears so." Pancho replied, his accent much less severe than the other man's, but still present. He waved his gun vaguely in the man's direction. "Well, what've you got?"
"Me? Nothing but my guitar, man." Pancho had tried to learn to play guitar when he was younger, unsuccessfully. In fact, it was his extreme frustration with the instrument, and his resulting desire to destroy it, that led to the acquisition of his pistol and his accuracy with it.
"I hate guitars." Pancho was a young man of few words, a fact, along with the racial assumptions of the time, which led many to regard him as dim and inferior. Eager to prove otherwise, Pancho had set out on his journey for riches. At the start, he was wildly successful, and his name was known and feared for many miles. Recently, however, due to an increased presence of the law, along with an increased presence of rotten luck, he hadn't been faring so well. "I've got to get something; I used a whole stick of dynamite to blow that damned coupling." He paused. After a few moments deliberation, he found his singular piece of loot.
Riding away from the train and adjusting his new sombrero, he decided that, in the future, he would stick to banks; they may be riskier, but at least he'd be sure to end up with more than a silly hat.

The sun was setting as he rode back into Sweetwater, and Pancho felt surprisingly at home. It wasn't no Dodge City, but Pancho got plenty of excitement on the job, and didn't need any extra when he was off. And it certainly wasn't Mexico City, but Pancho wasn't sure if that was a bad thing neither. A train hooted in the distance, riling up his horse. "Whoa, there, Smoke." As they rode down the main street of town, the train hooted again, this time not too far off. Smoke whined again, "Ain't nothin' but a train, miel."
He rode over to largest building on the street, The Sweetwater Bar and Inn, and jumped off of Smoke, a small cloud of dust rising with his landing. He tied Smoke up near the trough out front and grabbed a fistful of dollars from one of the saddlebags. The train hooted again, longer and louder, as it pulled up to the station at the end of the street. Pancho looked, curiously, and let out a sharp, loud laugh: the train was car-less, and the rear couplings had been blown clean off. He tilted his sombrero a little, obscuring his face from view, and ducked into the Sweetwater Bar and Inn.

* * * * *
Colt Helmston parted the small doors and entered the saloon, the floor creaking under his boots. He scratched the back of his leg with one of his spurs and scanned the crowded room, looking through all the ruffians, scoundrels, and rapscallions for one in particular- a Civil War veteran with a serious gambling problem. As he searched, the bustle of activity soon slowed, and then halted, as everyone noticed his presence. Rather, they noticed his badge. He was a U.S. Marshal, and a figurehead of the law like that doesn't walk into a place of such ill-repute without intending to take someone back out with them, dead or alive.
He kept his hands well away from the dual pistols at his belt; he didn't want anyone to jump to any conclusions. When edgy criminals jumped to conclusions about lawmen, it always ended up with someone getting hurt, and Colt wasn't in the mood to hurt anyone. He slowly paced to the bar, still eyeing the room, and the usual atmosphere of the Scoundrel's Haven, as the saloon was called, soon returned, albeit slightly tamed in the presence of the law.
Colt shifted his hat and nodded slightly in greeting to the bartender. Colt was on the young side for Marshal, in his mid-twenties. A brown Stenton Carlsbad rested on his head at an odd tilt. He rubbed his face, the 2-day old brown stubble rough in his hands. "I'll have one of whatever's best." Colt requested, his voice slightly hoarse. Colt smiled slightly, good-naturedly, making sure that it was clear that he wished no ill-will on anyone present, at least not at the moment. The bartender nodded, and fixed him a drink. "I was told that Gile Briggs frequents this place, he been here recently?"
"Briggs? The Confederate veteran?" The bartender asked; Colt nodded. "He's over there, drowning in drink. Ask him when he's planning to pay off his tab, will ya, Marshal?" He cast his hand in the direction of a scraggly, unkempt fellow at a table in the corner, staring into his mug. He still wore the cap of Confederate soldier, as if he hadn't admitted to himself that the war had ended nearly 5 years ago. He hadn't shaved in days- perhaps weeks- and his dark gray beard and hair obscured his face, but Colt could still make out the scar that ran from his left ear to up over his brow. He chugged down the rest of his liquor and passed out, his head hitting the table with a thump.
"That's Briggs?" uttered Colt incredulously. "That guy's worse then I expected, and I didn't have high hopes." Colt let out a small laugh, despite himself. Gile had been one of the most feared soldiers in the War of the States, by both the Union and the Confederacy. He had been a straighter and faster shooter than anyone, but he also had a notoriously short fuse, a characteristic only exacerbated by his fondness for drink. This, combined with his habit to build up an enormous amount of debt in a short time, led to many fights among his own men, which in turn led to a lot of dead Southerners. That's how he'd gotten the scar on his face: after losing for hours straight, and not producing any compensation for his debts, his opponent had taken a broken bottle to his face. He swiftly settled the dispute with a bayonet to his foe's gut, but his wound remained.
Colt cursed under his breath, thanked the bartender, and began to head over to Gile's table. The bartender stopped him, adding, "Be careful, Marshal. He's up to his ears in debt, and his creditors are getting eager to collect."
"That's what I'm counting on." Colt shot back, over the returning din of the bar, a smirk spreading across his face. He brought his glass to his lips as he stepped, fortifying himself with the drink. He pulled out a chair and sat down, his cup hitting the table loudly, jarring Gile out of his stupor. "Huh?" Gile muttered, beard soaked with spilled beer. Sighing, Colt signaled to the barmaid, who made her way over to their table, nimbly evading a pair of brawling drunkards. She raised her dress and stepped over a collapsed patron before reaching their table. She leaned on the table, bringing her face close to Colt's. She brushed her brown hair behind her ears, smiling. "What can I do you for, sir?"
"I'm fine, ma'am." Colt held up his glass, taking a sip. "But my friend here would like a cup of coffee, black." Gile looked at him, his head lolling slightly as a bewildered look crossed his face. Colt's badge glinted in the setting sun, catching Gile's eyes. They widened, and his head hit the table again.
"I think he's gonna need more than coffee," quipped the barmaid, laughing loudly as she went to get some anyways.
"Hello, Briggs." Colt said, calmly. No reaction. "Briggs, get up," he continued, repeating himself. Silence. He had a short temper, especially for scum like Briggs. He sipped his beer, "Briggs." He gently set down his beer, and then slammed his palm on the table next to Gile's face, shouting, "Briggs!" He sat up with a start, fear in his eyes.
"Jesus H. Christ! What're ya' trying ta' do, kill me?" Gile asked, jumpily.
"Not yet. Briggs, I'm Colt Helmston, US Marshal, nice to meet you." He removed his hat and nodded slightly to Gile, who hesitantly returned the gesture. The barmaid placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of Gile, who accepted it and gulped it down, knowing he was going to need to be sober, and fast.
"Well, Marshal Helmston, I'm still decidin' on whether it's nice to meet yeh." He replied in his Southern twang.
"Call me Colt. I believe that you will find it very nice, Briggs. You see, I know that, since the war, you've made a living as a gun for hire and- "
"That's no crime, Marshal." Gile cut him off, eager to defend himself.
"Indeed, Mr. Briggs. I also know that recently, you've been associating with one R.A. MacDowell."
"Again, not a crime." Gile started, though obviously less confidant of this assurance.
"Not in and of itself, no. However, I need your," he pauses, gritting his teeth and steeling himself, "assistance." He despised having to ask it from someone like Gile, both a Confederate, and a downright criminal, but he didn't have many options, at the moment.
"Why should I help you?" Gile snapped, nervously, "You haven't got anything on me."
"Right. But, I do have something on me that you may want." Colt pulled a small leather pouch off his belt, and dropped it on the table, its golden contents clinking loudly." Gile's eyes were fixated on the pouch, and his demeanor quickly changed. In any other situation, he would have been merely greatly interested, but at present, in the dire financial straits that he was, nothing he would have had to do would have been too much. He finished his coffee, wiped his beard clean on his arm, and grinned.
"What d'yeh' need?"
"I need to apprehend MacDowell, and I've lost track of him over the past couple of weeks. You're the only person who's been to his hideout and isn't dead or one of his full-time goons." Colt stated, plainly. Gile groaned. Colt motioned for the barmaid to get him another coffee.
"You're not serious, are yeh'? That guy's a maniac." Colt smiled at the irony of the statement as Gile continued. "He'd whip me and string me up if he found out I'd helped yeh." Colt shrugged and nodded in acknowledgement. "And after he strung me up, he'd light me on fire." Colt nodded again, and Gile's eyes widened. "And then shoot me." Colt nodded, a grin starting to spread on his face as Gile furrowed his brow, obviously displeased at the effect his argument was having. "And laugh while he was doing it."
"And? What's the problem?" The grin was full-fledged, and Gile just stared at him, horrified.
"I may have been a lunatic during the war, but you've gotta know that these days I'm just a drunk with a gamblin' problem, but that doesn't mean I want to get myself killed, especially slowly and painfully." He paused, seeing that he wasn't changing Colt's mind none. He decided to try a different plan of attack. A bottle crashed against a wall behind them, shattering. Gile had already taken cover under the table before he even knew what was going on. He listened, but the noise of the bar continued as usual, except for the sound loud laughter coming from the other side of the table. Colt pushed back his chair and peeked under the table.
"Well, aren't you bravest fella' this side of the Mississippi?" Colt cracked, infuriating Gile. He quickly got back into his seat, but not without bumping his head on the edge of the table first. He plopped back in his seat, and continued, "How do yeh even know yeh can trust me? How do yeh know I won't tell them ya're coming, or just give yeh some bull location and be gone when yeh get back?"
"I wouldn't. That's why you're coming with me. You didn't think I was giving you all that just for some pointers?" Gile looked at him, blankly, speechless.
"They're gonna kill me."
"No, they won't. "
"How're you gonna stop that lunatic? No to mention the rest of his gang."
"These ain't just for show, you know." Colt smiled widely, again, and motioned to the pistols on his belt.

* * * * *

Shadows danced across Dack's face as Sheriff Guinness Mellone studied his features. Dack was still wearing the clothes of a pastor, though some would say he had soiled them. In the faint luminescence of the firelight, Dack took on an eerily demonic appearance, which Guinness supposed was appropriate. He idly checked that his revolver was loaded and rested it on his knee, ready to bring it to bear on Dack the instant it became necessary, if it did. "Why'd you do it, Dack? I've known you half my life, and the Dack Luther I know wouldn't kill anyone, much less slaughter 13 people. The Dack that I know couldn't even bring himself to put his lame horse out of its misery." Guinness remembered the event distinctly, as he'd killed the horse at Dack's behest. Dack's serene expression and his folded and manacled hands sent a chill through Guinness- the man had no regret for his actions. A coyote howled in the distance, momentarily riling up the pairs' horses. They were in a depression, surrounded by higher, sandy, land on all sides.
"Sheriff, you know as well as I do that all of those men deserved their fate. They were all conniving, greedy, lying, and treacherous men who cheated that town for years. If I hadn't stopped them now, it would have been worse farther down the road." He spoke almost monotonously, coldly, sending the message that he'd made his mind up long ago, and nothing Guinness could say would change it. It stung Guinness to be called Sheriff, like that, especially by someone he once considered a friend. Guinness had no love for those that Dack had killed, and he might have gone as far as to say that they deserved it, but Dack had gone too far.
"Not all, Dack." He said, fiercely. "Owen Bradley never did anything wrong by anybody. But that didn't even make you pause before you shot him." Dack had killed the heads of the town: four co-mayors, corrupt by any standards, the guards on their payroll, and Owen, who was merely meeting with them to request a loan to keep his family alive until the end of the drought. Dack didn't know why he was there, so he assumed that he was guilty.
"He was requesting a favor from an incarnation of the Devil on this here Earth. One doesn't request favors of the Devil and expect to go unpunished." Dack Luther replied, with utmost certainty in his voice. This certainty came from the religious fervor that, in combination with recent events, had earned him the moniker "The Angel of Death." Dack leant back against a nearby rock, out of the light of the fire, and into that of the moon. Its light, in contrast to that of the fire, looked as if it was cast by a ghastly halo, which, Guinness supposed, was also fitting. He scratched his short, bushy, grey-black mustache thoughtfully.
The sheriff didn't know what made a man snap like that, but he knew that it didn't happen for no reason. He was charged with escorting him to __, the biggest town around, for trial. Those in charge wanted him to be made an example of. Guinness knew that the verdict was already in, and that Dack would hang, and that didn't sit well with him. He had been close with Dack, and he felt that he had a responsibility to find out what pushed him so far, why he did it, and to find out if what he did was really that terrible.
Guinness had never been religious, but even he knew that the Church and God didn't condone mass murder. He studied the man who had once been his friend, and he got studied right back. He removed the spit from the fire, which held a small rabbit, now roasted. He idly took out his knife and stripped the meat from the bones. He piled the meat onto two small metal plates, fastidiously making sure he doled out equal portions.
Dack watched him with a detached curiosity; he hadn't expected such equality and fairness, after what he'd done. He fully believed that he was righteous in his actions, but he didn't expect others to see the truth so clearly. He believed that the only reason that Guinness would treat him as such was if he thought his actions were justified. He smiled slightly as he accepted the plate from Guinness, a small part of him glad to have his friend as an ally in the upcoming battle, even if he didn't know it yet.
Guinness, however, had no such thoughts. He treated Dack as an equal, not only because they were once friends, but simply because he was a fellow man, and as of the moment, innocent until proven guilty. Something- perhaps the noise, the lack of sound, the smell of fear, of anticipatory anxiety, or the predatory aura- set off his honed reflexes. He pushed Dack to the ground, sending him a steely glare that Dack knew well enough to not question.
He shoveled a plateful of sand onto the fire, extinguishing in a puff of smoke. He tossed their blankets over their belongings, making two passable decoys, at least in the night's darkness. He quickly led Dack over a small hill behind in front of them, pressing close two the ground. Sure enough, soon after, horses could be heard, and 5 riders appeared on the opposite hill. One was ahead of the others, the leader, Guinness surmised. Before he had anymore time to think, they let loose on the decoys with a variety of firearms, making sure their prey was dead. They whooped and shouted, obviously enjoying their perceived slaughter. Partially to himself and partially to Dack, Guinness whispered, "Damn brigands."
They halted their barrage, and that was Guinness' cue- he shot two men clean off their horses with his shotgun before he was even fully on his feet. He pulled his revolver off his belt and fired three times at another, shotgun held at his side. He only hit him in the shoulder- without the benefit of the shot's spread; it was a lot harder to hit a foe in the darkness with a bullet than a shotgun shell.
That was all he needed, however; thinking they faced much larger numbers, they fired a few wild shots, grabbed the reins of their fallen comrades' horses, and fled off into the night. Revolver trained on the two fallen men, Guinness breathed heavily as he listened to make sure the bandits didn't pause just over the hill to regroup. They didn't, the galloping faded off in the distance, and he smiled. He still had it.
He walked cautiously over to the bandits that remained. One's chest rose slowly and shallowly, the closer one lay completely still. He crossed his chest and closed the deceased's eyes. He heard Dack's grunt of disapproval not far behind him and made his way to the remaining man. His face was pale and he coughed slightly when Guinness put his hand on his fast-chilling arm. His eyes opened slowly as he looked at Sheriff Mellone, with a mix of remorse at his stupidity and respect for his enemy. "Who was the head man on this job?" Guinness asked, not forgetting his duty for a moment.
The man closed his, breathed deeply for a few moments, his nostrils widening with each breath, before stuttering out, "R.A.. Ma-MacDowell." Guinness' brow furrowed.
"MacDowell? Here? Nah, he couldn't have. He wouldn't've run that easily."
"N-not here, in charge." Guinness frowned, that meant not only that MacDowell was on his turf again, but that he had even more influence and power than before. He looked at the dying man below him and to the condemned man at his back, and he sighed.

* * * * *