I The train plowed through the snow at a dangerous speed, rocketing across the tracks; nothing that could slow it down. The railways had not been used in weeks and snow had begun to fall at a heavy rate, smothering mountains and trees, as well as most of the land in North America. Around this time of year, most citizens took the train’s as it would be far too cold on horseback. This was why he planned this for the winter - more people, more money. Arthur, his name was. Former gunslinger born and raised on the hot sands of Texas, he had be smart if he wanted to survive. At the age of fourteen, while him and his father were hunting, a gang of robbers and thieves murdered his mother and sisters in cold blood. Ever since, him and his father rode all over the damned state together, living off other people’s fortunes. After a good few years, his father’s health began to deteriorate and struggled to ride a horse at the best of times, forcing Arthur to do the only thing he could do to help make the pain go away. After burying the body, he rode hard across the dunes, eventually reaching a small settlement on the border of New Mexico – a livestock town with welcoming folk. He stayed a few months before continuing his trek to ‘fortune and freedom’, he used to say. Only a few weeks into his stay, Arthur had managed to manipulate the town’s drunkard of a sheriff into giving him the title of a deputy. He started to help out with deliveries to the local bank, which didn’t hold a fortune but could keep a man stocked for at least a few months. On his way out of town, he hit the bank and earned a sweet score of a sixteen-hundred dollars, which led him all the way up to the snowy state of Utah. Everyone on the train was dead. Most killed in their seats, oblivious to the scattergun pointed behind them ready to seal their fates. Some died in protest, one or two managing to pull a firearm from their holsters, but never made it to the trigger. Arthur now sat at the bar, staring out the window at the rocky mountainsides, bottle of Mount Vernon whiskey wrapped in his palm. He lit a cigar he’d found in the bar attendant's jacket, and blew a small cloud of smoke out the window.
I

The train plowed through the snow at a dangerous speed, rocketing across the tracks; nothing that could slow it down. The railways had not been used in weeks and snow had begun to fall at a heavy rate, smothering mountains and trees, as well as most... wild west stories
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oddysey_25
oddysey_25 Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   3 months ago
A gunslinger hailing from the hot sands of Texas takes his last ride, but to death or to freedom…?

I The train plowed through the snow at a dangerous speed, rocketing across the tracks; nothing that could slow it down. The railways had not been used in weeks and snow had begun to fall at a heavy rate, smothering mountains and trees, as well as most of the land in North America. Around this time of year, most citizens took the train’s as it would be far too cold on horseback. This was why he planned this for the winter - more people, more money. Arthur, his name was. Former gunslinger born and raised on the hot sands of Texas, he had be smart if he wanted to survive. At the age of fourteen, while him and his father were hunting, a gang of robbers and thieves murdered his mother and sisters in cold blood. Ever since, him and his father rode all over the damned state together, living off other people’s fortunes. After a good few years, his father’s health began to deteriorate and struggled to ride a horse at the best of times, forcing Arthur to do the only thing he could do to help make the pain go away. After burying the body, he rode hard across the dunes, eventually reaching a small settlement on the border of New Mexico – a livestock town with welcoming folk. He stayed a few months before continuing his trek to ‘fortune and freedom’, he used to say. Only a few weeks into his stay, Arthur had managed to manipulate the town’s drunkard of a sheriff into giving him the title of a deputy. He started to help out with deliveries to the local bank, which didn’t hold a fortune but could keep a man stocked for at least a few months. On his way out of town, he hit the bank and earned a sweet score of a sixteen-hundred dollars, which led him all the way up to the snowy state of Utah. Everyone on the train was dead. Most killed in their seats, oblivious to the scattergun pointed behind them ready to seal their fates. Some died in protest, one or two managing to pull a firearm from their holsters, but never made it to the trigger. Arthur now sat at the bar, staring out the window at the rocky mountainsides, bottle of Mount Vernon whiskey wrapped in his palm. He lit a cigar he’d found in the bar attendant's jacket, and blew a small cloud of smoke out the window.

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