So, that bard who died left behind a young bastard son of twenty one, who at this time was considered a complete and utter bum. His mother, Janett Gwynedd, as I remember was a real piece of work. She berated her son right in the middle of town's square the very next morning after his father's passing, calling both of them every name under the sun, moon, stars, rocks, dirt, dust, lizards, trees and then some more. Finally, she sent him away, telling him to never show herself before her ever again.

A couple of weeks later, I was still in this forsaken town for some reason or another. I think I might have been a bit too drunk to make my way out... I remember setting off for the next town at the minimum seven times, yet each time I seemed to circle back to the bar with a bottle in hand.

Now one day, some folks rode into town on these real pale white horses. The dressed extremely warm for the weather, so when I first saw them I thought they were of a circle affiliation or affliction and steered clear of them. But it's not me they were looking for. They searched high and they searched low, for John Jackson; the son of the bard who died of dysentery and ruined that one night of drinking. Eventually they found him hanging around a shady part of town and handed him some paperwork. I just so happened to be in the area.

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Now I did a little bit of snooping and eavesdropping and came to find out that they were bringing him the inheritance of his father; his father's estate and active coal empire. They malingered for only a moment, before the young man hoped on one of the horses and they rode off towards the setting sun.

This is where my peeping ends as it truly wasn't my business of their affairs. I heard from a little bird of some drama involving his mother after she learned but there's nothing I saw first hand. Folks said that she had tried to reunite with her son in any way she could. Now one morning, I was shopping for some milk. I was very thirsty. I saw her, talking to some men dressed rather plainly but they were out of earshot and I had more pressing priorities. I paid it no heed.

One grayish morning, it rained so I decided to sleep in for awhile. I enjoyed the luxury which I partook in only every day anyways since I was unemployed. It was disturbed though by the sound of a single gunshot piercing through the mid-brunch shenanigans. I remember looking out my window, to see little John Jackson laying in the middle of the street, shot by the men who his mother had been talking to. Word spread around town like a wildfire. Come to find out, they were debt collectors from back when his father was alive. But his mother didn't know. She cried for twenty four days and twenty five nights.

Snake's Canyon was very deserving of its name.