WYATT

Prologue

The five men raced their horses down the main street of Horseshoe, New Mexico territory.
Hooting and hollering, they drew up in front of the Timber wolf saloon in a cloud of dust. Citizens quickly hurried to their homes, doors were closed and windows shuttered.
No one was fool enough to stay on the street when the Voight gang came in.

At the bar, the men ordered whiskey and proceeded to drink one bottle, then a second, getting louder as they drank. When the last glass had been emptied, the men, stumbling a little bit, turned to leave.
"That's four dollars gentlemen. " Said the barman.
As one, they turned to him. To a man their eyes were like looking into a bottomless pit. Or a grave.
"On the house boys. " said the barman.
The men nodded and walked out.

The town marshal came up to the men as they were mounting up.
"You boys best be on your way. Cain't be havin you taking things like you done." He said.
"Mr Marshal, we really don't give a damn. Now back on up. " Said one of the men.
The marshal took a step back and put a hand on the butt of his Colt.
"Ain't just gonna let you ride on out." He said.
Big mistake on the marshal's part.
The man who had spoken drew and fired in a snake quick motion. The marshal's head snapped back, a blue-black hole between his eyes.
The man holstered his gun and mounted up.
Only when the dust had settled did the townsfolk come out, gathering around the dead man.
No one said a word, except a youngish man.
"We cain't let em keep running all roughshod on us!" He said to the crowd.
"We's got t'do something y'all. "
No one said anything and other than to pick up the dead marshal, nothing more was done.
Frustrated, the young man went to the livery and saddled his horse. If the townsfolk wasn't going to do anything, he'd find someone who would.