Chapter 1

The hour was late; most of the main street stores had closed, and many of the townsfolk had returned to their dwellings. The only activity that carried this late into the night came from the saloon.

There were actually two saloons in this town: one, closer to the center of town, built first. It had been sold only a couple of months before, shortly before it's owner had built a second, independent of the rest of the buildings. The old saloon was no longer a saloon, really; it had been converted to a shoe store quite recently, yet most of the townsfolk still referred to it as the old saloon.

The new saloon--the bigger, more 'modern' one--stood dead center in the array of new department stores and hotels that had been built in the past years. It's owner, Bill Stafford, had seen the expanding town as a prime opportunity to invest, and had been quite successful thus far. The town had grown considerably over the last year, what with all the travelers, prospectors, and casualties trying to escape the War.

Yes, it was here they came. The West was expanding. It was also just far enough from the War to forget it. That's what many people had come here to do: whether they had lost property or loved ones, they had come here to forget, and start a new life. There were some, however, that could not forget.

The hour was close to ten. The streets were empty, save for two riders. They entered the town at a walk, hats pulled low. They had traveled long and far. They surveyed the town carefully as they approached the new end, slowly nearing the saloon. Music and laughter echoed from inside: many of the patrons had only just begun carousing for the night. The two riders tethered their horses to the feeding-post on the side, and entered the establishment discreetly.

The town had changed much from years ago. Back then, it was humble place; yet now, with the ever expanding business, the ever-new citizens, the town had fallen to a place of sin. The saloon had taken on being a brothel as well, and saloon girls moved around the room, dancing around groping hands and pretending not to hear obscene comments. Most of the patrons here were new citizens, arriving only in the last year or two, so anyone returning from the War would be strangers to them. And the two men entering the bar were, in fact, strangers.

They went right up to the counter. One man--taller, lankier than his companion--leaned with his back to the counter, and watched the living room carefully. The other, a man of middling build, with a gray scarf around his neck, motioned for the barkeep and ordered two drinks in a low voice. The barkeep nodded and poured him two glasses of some substance, and then quickly moved to another customer. The two men drank quickly.

In one corner men were gathered around a table in a game of poker. Laughter bellowed from that corner, only from one of the four playing. The winning man was a fat fellow, the front of his shirt wet with ale, and an empty mug in his had, head back in a great drunk roaring laugh. The other players looked slightly irritated, eying the small pile of coin that lay in front of him. A saloon girl sat on the fat man's knee, and another at his shoulder, stroking his arm and smiling.

"What 'bout, say you bastards, eh?" the fat man yelled. He picked up the deck and practically through them at the man on his right, bellowing "Your deal, boy!" He then took another swig of ale and broke into another murderous roar.

His opponent, a bearded man, hesitated before picking up the deck, looking at the others first. As he reached for the cards, a voice broke in.

"Deal me in, friend."

Immediately the fat man stopped laughing, turning to look up at the speaker. It was one of the strangers that had just entered, the man with the gray scarf. His companion, the taller fellow, still stood at the counter, pretending not to notice.

The fat man hesitated a moment, looking the man up and down with a drunk eye before giving another laugh. "Ha! Why not, I might as well steal your money too, stranger! Deal him in!" he commanded, rudely throwing a fat finger at his opponent.

The bearded man's eyes narrowed at the fat man, but then looked up at the man in the scarf and hastily shuffled the deck. He dealt out five to each man, then sat back. The fat man clumsily fanned his cards, and peered at them for a moment before snorting. He looked up at the man in the scarf. "Well?" said he with a drunken grin.

The gray scarf slowly fanned his cards, considered a moment, before placing two on the table in front of him. The bearded man dealt him. The fat man exchanged one. When he saw his new card, he laughed, but then sputtered and silenced himself. "Er, what are the stakes here, stranger?" he said, trying to contain a smile.

The gray scarf only looked at him a moment, before reaching into his duster and producing a small wrapped shape. Slowly he unwrapped it to reveal a golden medallion, inlaid with several diamonds, and a large ruby in the middle. As soon as it was revealed, the entire saloon seemed to quite. Even the fat man's jaw dropped.

"This," said the gray scarf, "for all of that." he said, pointing at the fat man's pile of winnings. "Quite a deal, if you win." He then casually tossed the medallion into the center of the table. All the eyes in the room seemed to follow it.

A smile slowly began to creep into the fat man's face. His eyes stared at the medallion. Soon the smile nearly consumed his whole face, and, with a start, he looked back at his hand. He snorted again. "Call!" he said with a laugh.

The gray scarf nodded. "Show me."

The fat man tossed his cards to the table excitedly. All hearts. "HA!" the fat man yelled, and looked around excitedly, expecting someone to cheer him on. He looked back at the gray scarf and found him staring at him. His smile slowly left his face as fear crept in.

The gray scarf only stared back, then, one by one, laid his card on the table. Four Aces. Then he smiled. Murmurs spread through the entire room, but the fat man could only stare at the gray scarf, his eyes widening each second.

Suddenly, in an act of desperation, the fat man lunged at the pile of winnings, attempting to grab as much as he could. Though drunk, his hands were fast; but the gun was faster. The gray man had his pistol out in a flash, and had fired it into the fat man's temple before he could even get his fingers around the medallion. Three more quick shots, bang bang bang, and the remaining players at the table were down, the other patrons backing away quickly. The gray scarf had only killed the fat one; the tall man at the counter had quickly dispelled the other three. With that, the gray scarf picked up the medallion and quickly wrapped it up, putting it back in his pocket. Pulling a wallet from the fat man's body, he smoothly scooped the winnings into the bag as his partner watch the rest of the patrons with his revolver still drawn.

Satisfied, the gray scarf nodded, flipped a gold coin to the barkeep, and began to leave, followed closely by the tall man. As he was walking out the door, the barkeep called after him. "Wait, you bastard, who are you?" The gray man stopped at the door, not turning around. He only turned his head slightly. "Robert Loxly." Then he left.