In the desert wilderness, hidden by a sprawling cluster of red sandstone rock formations, a dying campfire flickered, partially illuminating a tall [Gunslinger] in a faint orange light as he hatefully loomed over a sleeping man with his revolver drawn and aimed down at him.
An empty bottle of whiskey lay sideways in the dirt, inches away from the sleeping man's fingers, and a dusty old hat riddled with holes rested over his face, obscuring his identity.
The [Gunslinger] pressed his lips together in a harsh frown and cocked back the hammer of his firearm. The movement made a mechanical sound that, in the comparative stillness of the night, was as loud as a gunshot, yet the noise did not stir the man from his slumber. Rather, he remained eerily still, almost corpse-like, his chest not rising and falling visibly as he slept.
The [Gunslinger] glanced to his right. There, at the edge of the solitary campsite, on the bank of a fast-flowing creek, three recently dug graves were marked by worn planks of wood roughly hammered into the ground and fashioned into crooked crosses. Writing was scattered across their faces, but with the dim light available their exact messages were undecipherable.
He swallowed a lump in his throat and rested his finger on the trigger, but at the last moment, he hesitated, doubt and fear sparking across his features as if he was afraid that somehow mere bullets wouldn’t be enough to kill the man beneath him.
Silent seconds ticked by slowly, turning to minutes, then the campfire shifted, a log collapsing loudly into the bed of embers beneath it, kicking up a spray of sparks.
With a panicked flinch, the [Gunslinger] pulled the trigger, firing off a booming hail of gunshots till the revolver clicked empty. Each of the bullets connected cleanly with the sleeping man’s chest in quick succession, the sheer force behind them enough to rock his body, causing it to lurch some inches up from the ground like he was having a seizure.
The [Gunslinger]'s hand shook as he reached down to his ammo belt and fumbled with it in the dark, attempting to reload as quickly as possible. He barely even noticed as a bullet slipped through his fingers and clattered to the ground. Its engraved surface reflected the firelight strangely, distorting its color from a dim orange to a cold blue that swirled and flickered unnaturally. Without even stopping to check the sleeping man's condition–to see if he was even still alive–he shot six more bullets into the man's chest.
Once more, he reloaded, feeding the last of his ammunition into the revolver's chambers. Then, despite the fact that blood pooled in the dirt around the man below him and that the man remained corpse-like in his stillness, he kept his gun pointed down at him, watching–waiting for the slightest sign of life–almost expecting him to burst back to life the second his focus would waver.
He kept his revolver warily trained on the man, not once taking his eyes off him until the sun peeked over the horizon some minutes later.
Only then did he allow himself to take a slow breath. He looked up at the burgeoning sky with a sort of thankful disbelief, like he hadn't expected to succeed, and now that he had, he wasn't quite sure what to do.
He shook his head, then with still lingering hesitance, he walked over and poked the man with his foot. The man did not respond, though the [Gunslinger] still jerked away as if he had expected a snake to strike out at him from hidden within the man's clothing. He waited a few more moments–just to be safe–then he leaned down and took the dead man's gun, tucking it away inside his baggy brown poncho.
The [Gunslinger] grunted and picked up both of the man's legs. He began to trudge backward toward the creek, dragging the man behind him like a sack of gold. Scattered across the campsite, he passed a series of wooden crates–some partially disassembled–with the insignia of the Barnem Corporation burnt onto their sides. He didn't bother to check their contents.
Once he reached the creek, he continued along its bank, following its path downstream as it wound around tall pillars of stone that cast long shadows in the first light of the day. The corpse leaked a dwindling trail of blood, marking his path.
Before long, he began to tire, his shoulders heaving up and down in exertion. The sound of the man's heavy jacket scraping against the rocks and dirt below was his only company as he continued onward until a scream–a disturbing and unnatural mix of those of several disparate animals blended together–rang out closely.
The [Gunslinger] flinched toward the noise, dropping the man’s legs.
A solid hundred feet in front of him, beneath an arch of sandstone, a monster stumbled out from behind a bend in the creek's path, swaying on four limbs like a drunken ape with its face pressed against the ground like a bloodhound. It stopped and stared at the [Gunslinger]. Its face was a canvas of pure black with no definable features, and the rest of its body was too consumed by a layer of similar darkness, leaving only the deformed silhouette of what was once a man.
Its hunger was palpable from its posture, and though it had no mouth, it screamed again, the inky darkness across its exterior shifting–twisting in on itself to form a wickedly sharp pair of claws.
Like a cornered rat, the [Gunslinger] paled, warily fumbling across his belt in a rush to draw his revolver. In turn, the monster charged toward him, moving faster than any train or locomotive despite its awkward pattern of movement.
He pulled the trigger. His first shot went wide, causing a section of rock to crumble in on itself from the sheer force of the impact. The next shot, through luck more than any manner of technique or skill, landed cleanly in the center of the monster's face.
The bullet violently blew the monster's head off so thoroughly and quickly that it looked like it had been deleted from existence. Headless, the monster collapsed to the ground in a limp heap, its momentum carrying it some ways till it finally rolled to a stop in front of his feet.
With only four bullets left in the chamber, the [Gunslinger] eyed his surroundings, panting from the adrenaline that rushed through his veins. Then, once he had confirmed that the monster at his feet was truly dead and that there were no more hiding in the shadows, he holstered his revolver and shook out his wrist.
“Where there’s one, there’s always more,” he muttered.
He carefully grabbed hold of the deadman’s legs, regarding him as if he was some sort of boogeyman–a single shot had been enough to blow the monster’s head clean off, but the man whose identity was still hidden by a raggedy old hat…
The [Gunslinger] shook his head, trying to shake off the fears that needled against the back of his neck.
He waded into the creak's waters, dragging the man behind him, perhaps hoping to throw any would-be pursuers off his trail. There, he continued to trudge forward with a nervous gait that bordered on panicked, splashing through the crystal-clear water with each step, leaving a trail of ripples in his wake. The corpse floated peacefully behind him, buoyed by the current, allowing him to move faster with less effort. Somehow, the dusty old hat stayed firmly glued atop the dead man's face despite the jostling.
He followed the creek's winding route for a mile, maybe more, then came upon a flatter section of the wilderness–the end of the rock formations. He hefted the body out of the water and paused underneath the shade of a scraggly mesquite tree to catch his breath.
To his surprise, he found an oversized crate of dynamite resting under the tree's shade. The dynamite looked like it had been placed there recently. Before he could investigate how or why the crate was there, a series of gunshots echoed in the distance. They were faint by the time they reached his ears, but still, he flinched as if the weapon had been discharged mere feet from him, his head snapping in the direction of the noise.
Miles away, across the flatland, above another cluster of red stone pillars, twelve hawks circled. More gunshots rang out from that direction. The [Gunslinger] paled, visibly trying to conjure up some sort of plan from the recesses of his brain. He came up with nothing. A wild glint took his eyes as panic seeped into them, and his breaths became ragged. He had killed a man, and now he was in over his head with no easy way out.
A muffled mechanical alarm rattled off.
The [Gunslinger] paused in place, the wild glint fading from his eyes and his breathing coming under control so suddenly that it raised the question of whether the earlier display had been genuine at all.
Without having to look and without any surprise, the [Gunslinger] dug into the dead man’s waterlogged coat and calmly pulled out a fancy pocket watch. After double-checking the time and silencing it with a press of a button, he carefully tucked away the watch inside his poncho.
He stood and languidly stretched out his back. Behind him, a group of seven monsters, identical to the one he had killed earlier, stalked his shadow, peeking out from the surrounding rock formations, preparing to charge toward him at the slightest hint of weakness.
The [Gunslinger] turned and stared at them, taking their measure. His eyes were filled with disdainful amusement, and though physically he was no more imposing than before, the chimeric monsters seemed to sense something within him that gave them pause.
He turned his back to them, entirely disregarding them, and with a single hand, he picked up the corpse and began to walk away, dragging along the man as if he didn’t weigh more than a feather.
The monsters watched as he carried on with no sign of his previous exhaustion or fear, his gait now more casual–decidedly more confident. In the end, they never did end up attacking him, some animalistic instinct within them urging them not to, freezing them in place, urging them not to throw their lives away.
The [Gunslinger] quickly crossed the flatter section of land, passing by all manners of cactus and desert shrubs. On his way, he came across the stark white bones of a long-dead behemoth. Even partially buried and deteriorated by age, its rib cage stuck out of the ground at odd angles, reaching staggering heights comparable to those of the rock formations in the distance.
The growing heat of the day caused the air around the bones to shimmer.
The [Gunslinger] gave a wide berth around the remains of the dead beast, moving with a deceptive speed, each of his strides through some supernatural means carrying him the distance of multiple of a regular man's steps. Not long after leaving behind the behemoth, he reached a simple dirt crossroads marked by a worn wooden sign. It pointed toward two settlements in opposite directions–one much closer than the other.
Casually, he leaned against the sign and waited, watching the horizon, tracking the paths of the hawks as they flew through the sky, slowly nearing his position.
He didn't have to wait long before seven rough-looking men on horseback rode down the road in his direction. They were an eclectic group. One carried an axe made of black metal wide enough to chop a man in half with a single swing over his shoulder, and another wore a cloak made of feathers and perpetually had his eyes closed. The rest were armed with various firearms, though they carried other armaments as well.
His lips twitched upward. He waved toward the group.
They stopped in front of him, intimidatingly blocking his path forward. Twelve hawks circled above them.
The group's apparent leader, a stout, bearded man, blinked slowly, taken aback by the sheer oddity of coming across a friendly, smiling man casually dragging a corpse through the desert. After checking the [Gunslinger]'s [Status], he regained his measure–from what he had seen, the [Gunslinger] was too weak to be a threat. He nodded and inched his horse forward a stride. "You seen someone come this way riding a black horse?”
“Can’t reckon I have. Who’re you looking for?” the [Gunslinger] said in a slow southern accent that didn’t sound right coming out of his mouth.
The rider squinted down at the [Gunslinger], alternating looks between him and the corpse at his feet as if he vaguely recognized him from somewhere but couldn't place his name. He spoke again after a handful of seconds. "Clint Abner. Rumor has it that he's been hiding out in the spires–hitting all the trade caravans that come through this way."
He hummed. "Can't say I've ever met the man. Last I heard of him, he blew up that village by East Ridge. The bounty on his head must be mighty large now if all y'all are willing to come down here on nothing but rumors."
The rider bared his teeth–two were made of gold. “Something like that.” A few of the men in the back of the group chuckled. “You see anything out here that might lead us to him?”
The [Gunslinger] nodded. He slowly reached into his poncho, revealing his holstered revolver at his hip, and pulled out the dead man's pocket watch. He fiddled with a knob on its side, then pressed a comically red button positioned on the top of its casing. "Around four hours ago, I saw smoke from a campfire 'round that way." He pointed toward the cluster of red sandstone pillars he had just traveled from. "Can't guarantee it was him, though. Just yesterday, I came across three bounty hunters who rode off that way."
The leader of the group gestured back toward the man wrapped in the feathered cloak. Six of the hawks that circled above flew off in the direction of the pillars.
He turned his attention back to the [Gunslinger] and stared at him for a handful of seconds, suspicious of him but unsure exactly why.
On the otherwise still day, a lone gust of wind swept through the wilderness, ruffling the dead man's dusty old hat and threatening to blow it away. The [Gunslinger] leaned over and placed his hand on it to keep it in place.
The rider raised an eyebrow, something clicking into place for him. He rested his hand over his holster, ready to draw it. “Who’s the poor fella behind ya?” he said, accusation clear in his tone.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The [Gunslinger] shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I found him floating down a creek. Maybe that Abner fellow got him,” he said, still outwardly relaxed despite the growing tension in the air.
“Awful lot of effort for a man you don’t know.”
He tucked away the pocket watch inside his poncho and grasped the dead man’s gun, twisting his torso in a casual movement so that the weapon would be angled at the group while still hidden within the folds of the baggy fabric. “Everyman deserves a grave.”
"Is that so?" He chuckled without mirth. "Take off his hat; I want to see his face."
“I’ll warn you, it’s quite the ugly sight…”
“Do it,” he interrupted.
“Alright. Alright.” He held a hand up in a placating gesture.
He squatted down and placed a hand on the dead man’s hat. Inside his poncho, the pocket watch ticked down seconds louder than before. His finger rested on the trigger, a twitch away from starting a gunfight he had no business winning. He slowly lifted the hat, revealing the bottom edge of the man’s face. He paused.
Not even a second later, an explosion rocked the horizon, flames billowing out from the distant red towers of stone he had come from, kicking up a plume of smoke and dirt. With varying expressions of surprise, the bounty hunters jerked toward the noise.
Calmly, the [Gunslinger] dropped the hat back over the man’s face and stood. “You reckon that’d be Abner or them other bounty hunters.”
The stout, bearded man, the group's leader, was the first to recover from his surprise. Not quite believing his luck, a bloodthirsty grin crept across his face.
"It looks like our payday just fell into our laps, boys." He gathered the reins in his hands and drove his spurs into the side of his horse. "Come on! We'll be rich by the end of the night," he said as he and the rest of the group, in a rush of excitement, hurried off after the trail of smoke in the sky, leaving the [Gunslinger] forgotten by the wayside.
“Hope you catch him. Remember me when you do,” the [Gunslinger] said, barely audible over the thundering sound of pounding hooves kicking up dust, the slow southern accent he had spoken in earlier entirely disappearing from his voice.
One of the riders shot a confused glance back at the [Gunslinger] but didn't bother to investigate the change. He was in too much of a rush to do so and altogether doubted whether he had heard the man correctly over the commotion.
Now, alone at the crossroads, the [Gunslinger] loosened his grip on the dead man's gun. He wore an odd expression like he knew he should have been pleased, but he couldn't quite be bothered to conjure up the emotion.
"Right on time," he said to himself as a horse-drawn carriage emerged from behind a cluster of sandstone towers near the crossroads, hinting at the possibility that the day's events may have been progressing according to a plan only he was privy to. Of course, that could have been bullshit.
The [Gunslinger], with his messy beard and mustache obscuring his features, didn't look much the planning sort.
The driver of the wagon, a short man who wore an ugly pair of spectacles, squinted down at him tentatively from the front of the wagon, conflicted and nervous, visibly considering whipping the horses into high gear and blowing past the [Gunslinger]'s position in a wide arc. However, as he neared the crossroads, he pulled the reins, bringing the wagon to a stop, his better nature winning out.
“What in the hell are you doing out here all alone?” the man asked.
“My horse ran out on me, and I had a meeting to make,” he said, the southern accent returning to his voice, though less pronounced than before.
"A meeting out here? What for?" A young boy peeked his face out from the back section of the canvas-covered wagon, trying to get a better look at the strange [Gunslinger].
"Planting seeds of doubt. Involuntary recruitment. It's all quite convoluted, but you know, sometimes that's how business is."
It was clear from the look on his face that the man, rightfully so, had no clue what the hell the [Gunslinger] was talking about. "Well…" He readjusted his spectacles. "Do you need a ride? I can hitch you a spot back by the barrels."
"Thanks. I'll take you up on that if it's not too much trouble." The [Gunslinger] hefted the corpse into the back of the wagon and climbed in, sitting on the floor next to a wooden barrel filled with liquor.
The young boy sat across from him and stared at him with childish curiosity. "Who's the dead guy?" he asked as the wagon began to move.
He took off the dead man’s hat, flashing his face for a few moments before putting it back in place.
“Clint Abner.”
The driver made a choking noise. The boy, on the other hand, took the information in stride, not looking overly surprised. "I thought he'd be taller," the boy said, deadpan.
The [Gunslinger] chuckled. "I doubt there's a man alive who ever could measure up to his Legend–me included. I'd love to say I bested Clint Abner, the famous outlaw, in a duel or otherwise prevailed through some honorable and valiant means, but the truth is I shot him dead while he slept because I knew, if it was any sort of fair fight, I'd lose."
The boy looked almost disappointed with the truth. “But, how’d you sneak up on him? He was supposed to be too smart for that.”
"Doubt it had anything to do with smarts. Good old Clint had been pushing his luck to its limits for a while now; it was bound to run out eventually." The driver tilted his head, pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversation but too interested to make much of a show of it.
"As for sneaking up on him: I didn't. We knew each other. Back in the day, most would even call us friends. Though, I'd disagree with that. That bastard dragged me into more trouble than I could count. Got me out of it on occasion too. He probably saved my life once or twice, but I could never shake my resentment for him even then. Ever since we met, he had rubbed me the wrong way. So, when one day, by random chance, we stumbled upon each other in the wilderness, we made a fire and talked, catching up on old times, drinking whiskey like it was water. Well, the opportunity was too good to pass up. No sneaking required. He fell asleep, and I shot him dead. Simple as that."
“That’s almost too disappointing an end to believe,” the boy muttered.
“It’s a good thing what you did. The world is better off without him,” the driver interjected. “We rode through Stone Point after the Blood Moon… It was terrible what he did there.”
The [Gunslinger] nodded, his expression unchanged.
“Why’d he do it?” the boy asked conspiratorially, the event in question sufficiently infamous that it didn’t require elaboration.
"That's quite the mystery, isn't it? Most say he did it for no reason at all. But I doubt that. Everyman has to have a reason, and most all of what is said about him–especially the good–is nothing more than bullshit." He looked out at the horizon, reminiscing some long past memory. "I doubt we'll ever know what drove him to do it. Even if he still was alive, I doubt he'd be able to give you a straight answer. He was never the type of man who could sit well with the truth–always the type to hide behind an act or a mask. My best guess…well, knowing him, it was probably something stupid."
It wasn't until the sun had begun to set that they reached town. It was uncertain why the [Gunslinger] had even bothered to hitch a ride with the wagon. Through whatever supernatural means he had earlier utilized, he was able to walk a good deal faster than the wagon without any apparent effort. Well, whatever the case may have been, now that they had arrived, rumor of Clint Abner's betrayal and subsequent death at the hands of his old friend, a mediocre at best [Gunslinger], had spread like wildfire through the small town courtesy of the wagon driver and the young boy.
The [Gunslinger] waited outside an alley on the outskirts of the town, leaning against a wooden wall, counting the thin clouds. Like with most things he did, there was no apparent reason for his doing them.
A hawk peered down at him from the top of a nearby building, watching his every move.
A half-hour later, he leaned over and lifted the bullet-ridden hat from Abner's face. In some intangible way, he looked different–a collection of a hundred small changes. The [Gunslinger] nodded, satisfied.
He dragged the corpse behind him to the center of town, attracting a whispering crowd that followed behind him at a distance. He stopped in front of the bounty office and tossed Clint Abner onto the raised deck at the local Sheriff's feet. The hat that had earlier been so glued to him easily rolled off, revealing his face
"I'll be damned. You really got the son-of-a-bitch," the Sheriff said with a shake of his head as he compared the man's visage to one of the many wanted posters that hung on the wall. It wasn't a perfect match–the eyebrows weren't the right, and his hair was a bit too long–but it was close enough to be immediately believable.
Of course, in the matter of large bounties, close enough wasn't good enough. A member of the Church of the Old God was needed to verify the claim, for they had the rare ability to peer into the past of those whose Legend's had grown large enough and see the circumstances of their death. The exact details of the ability were a tightly kept secret, but it was generally know that the ability was diminished the longer it had been since the date of the death but similarly enhanced in duration and strength with Level–for a member of the church of sufficient power, half a day shouldn't pose an issue.
“Call for Father Rodriguez.”
"No need. I heard the news." An old man in a black robe stepped onto the deck, surprisingly spry for his age, and knelt beside the outlaw, placing a hand on his chest. The air took on a deathly chill as whispering wisps of white energy danced, fading in and out of pale existence, unerringly searching for something that wasn't to be found.
Something invisible snapped into place as the Priest closed his eyes.
Father Rodriguez was the most powerful member of the church for quite some distance, and before his days as a Priest, he had worked as a [Mortician], further boosting his abilities. No one was quite sure how far into the past he could see, but all that had encountered him before knew that in the matter of death, his word was as good as gold. If any detail was out of place, he would notice. In fact, just earlier that year, he had exposed a group of outlaws trying to turn in a fake bounty.
The gathering crowd craned their necks, trying to get a better look at the proceedings.
A minute later, the Priest rose to his feet with a cough. "What he says is true." The Sheriff disappeared to the back of the building to collect the [Gunslinger]'s reward.
The Priest motioned for him to come closer. The [Gunslinger] did so. “If I may give a word of advice,” he said in a low tone. “Don’t take the bounty. You’ll be killed.”
“Excuse me?”
The Priest coughed again, conjuring up the past having taken a toll on him in his old age. "You were not the only one in search of Abner. There was another group–a group of bandits masquerading as bounty hunters. They will kill you for it. If you leave the confines of this town with the money, the law won't be able to protect you."
“I appreciate the advice, but I’ll take my chances. I should be long gone by the time they ever hear what happens.”
The Priest let out a breath. “And if you are not, what name should I put on your grave?”
The [Gunslinger] glanced toward the wall covered in wanted posters with a nostalgic smile.” Bill. Bill S Weston.”
In short order, the Sheriff appeared from the back of the building with a large sack of money–an amount so large that the average man could retire on the spot and live the rest of his life in modest comfort.
The [Gunslinger] thanked the Sheriff, and then, with a wave, he left town, walking off into the sunset. That was the last anyone saw of Bill. S. Westin. No one was quite sure what happened to him. Some thought he had been eaten by one of the old monsters that inhabited the desert–a Goldtooth, perhaps. In fact, an old drunk who lived on the edge of town swore he saw a snake made of bone with golden fangs the size of houses blot out the setting sun in the distance for a moment.
Others, a more dramatic minority of the town, believed that the [Gunslinger] had been killed by the enraged ghost of Clint Abner. Of course, there was no proof for that claim either. No, most reasonable people believed that he had been killed by the seven bounty hunters who had raced through town soon after he had left, enraged by the trick he had played on them. After all, it was the most reasonable explanation–all signs pointed toward it, though that didn't necessarily mean it was the truth.
No, before all the lies and the stories, there was just the disappointing truth.
It all started with a boy who, whenever the chance would allow, would sneak off to the southernmost bench in the railroad depot to watch trains bound for the frontier disappear into the setting horizon, all the scratches and dents on them, like the dreams they represented to him, fading into an idealized fantasy as they raced into the distance. He was never quite sure why he so badly wanted to disappear off into the frontier–he had all the superficial things most others wanted and nothing much to complain about. Nor could he ever quite put his finger on why he would cry silently on some nights when he was alone, wishing there was something more to his life.
He guessed he was just ungrateful, or there was something else fundamentally wrong with him–the makings of a bad person resting just below the skin.
Often, he'd sit there till he was the last one left in the station, not wanting to return home just yet. No one ever asked what he was doing there. And his parents, so busy with work and social events, never noticed his absence.
Down at the station, the only one he ever interacted with beyond a few cursory words was an old train conductor who had fallen into the kind habit of regaling him with stories of the most recent news and events from the frontier. He didn't quite believe the stories. It seemed almost too ridiculous to believe that the sky had fallen in Jura and that, subsequently, it had taken more than a month to pick all the bits of the clouds out of the sand. Or that on the edge of the frontier, dragons existed.
Even if he didn't believe them, the stories were constantly on his mind, almost compulsively so. More often than not, when he wasn't at the station or reading about the frontier, he'd be staring out a window, imagining the type of life he could lead there–the type of hero he could be.
He knew that one day, he'd go there.
The years wilted away, and his lonely silhouette of a childhood ended rather abruptly. So, too, did his tears, his heart growing colder. Of course, his dream of becoming a heroic cowboy riding a dark horse never came to pass. Somewhere along the way, he took a wrong turn and fell off the straight and narrow.
As with most things, he couldn't pinpoint how exactly it happened or where he had gone wrong, but through some ironic mix of good intentions and bad luck, he ended up as a conman. He liked to think that he was good at it, though he never took the chance to test that hypothesis. He never took any large jobs–any that would draw undue attention–always electing to fly under the radar, for without a [Role], he knew that if any serious suspicion landed upon him, it would be his end.
He liked to think he was different from the other conmen and scam artists he encountered because he only targeted those who could afford it or deserved it. However, like with the tales of the frontier the conductor had told him, he never could quite believe the stories he told himself. Deep down, he knew it was all bullshit–just lies he told himself to make himself feel better.
He wasted the years away, switching names and identities like pairs of clothes as he continued down his mediocre path of crime till one day, after placing two bullets on an overgrown grave that he had not visited in years, he returned to the train station with a ticket in hand.
The conductor looked surprised to see the ticket. “I never thought I’d see the day… What made you finally decide to go?”
The man grinned widely. "Don't be dramatic. I'm just going on a little vacation to see the sights," he said in a personable tone. "Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll end up in the newspaper. You know, like the guy you told me about who stumbled upon that treasure chest halfway buried in the river." He finished with a laugh, making it clear what he thought of his chances of finding buried treasure.
"Ah, that'd be the day." The conductor inspected his ticket before handing it back to him. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did; stranger things have happened."
He chuckled again. "Well, here's to hoping." He stepped onto the train, his smile fading and his steps becoming heavier as he walked down the rows. He took his seat and stared out the window as the train pulled out of the station. A solemn expression crossed his eyes as if he knew that this was the last time he would ever see the place where he had been born.
Five days later, he reached the end of the rail line–the official start to the eastern edge of the frontier. As he stepped off the train, carrying a small trunk in one hand, the conductor stopped him.
"Wait. What name should I look for in the papers?" he asked, halfway joking. Though with legitimate cause, for through some twist of male insensibility, they had never exchanged names in all the years they had interacted.
The man looked at a board near the center of the platform covered in wanted posters. He chuckled. "Clint. Clint Abner," he said, combining the names of two minor outlaws into one.
In his mind’s eye, an old yellowed page appeared, somehow solid despite possessing no physical qualities. Words slowly printed themselves out upon it.
Congratulations! Role Unlocked: [A Stranger In A Strange Land].
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