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.