Snake Skin | John Marston

Some Pumpkin

By 1914, three long years had slipped by since John Marston fell while defending his wife from the relentless pursuit of the U.S. Marshals. The woman, wanted in every corner of the country for her evasion of the law and a host of other crimes, had taken refuge in the dense underbrush of Armadillo, far removed from the bustling noise of civilization. Nestled among the howling coyotes, the parched cacti, and the endless stretches of sand, she spent her days in hiding. The lawmen were on a mission to rid the land of every outlaw, intent on cleansing the territory of savagery and bloodshed—ironically, through even more violence.

After severing ties with yet another band of outlaws, she resolved to keep her head down for the rest of her days. She simply didn't have the strength to fight anymore.

From time to time, lone travelers would wander past her humble abode, seeking directions or assistance. But she would scare them off with a flash of her guns or, if need be, a bullet. For the first time in her life, survival wasn't a thrilling game; it was a genuine terror that gripped her heart. After a brief taste of her dream life, she now found herself haunted by the specter of death, fearing the same fate that had claimed her lover.

Early in the morning, Y/N stirred from a restless sleep, roused by her horse's anxious whinnying. She quickly rose from her chair and peeked out the window, squinting against the dawning light. There, she spotted a man dismounting his horse and tying it up next to hers. He took his time as he approached her porch, each step measured and deliberate. Without a moment's hesitation, Y/N reached for the rifle resting near her bed, its weight familiar and reassuring in her hands.

Stepping outside, she gripped the rifle tightly, and the man halted mid-stride.

"Hello, Miss," he greeted with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Y/N studied him carefully, taking in the rugged lines of his face, the mustache that framed his lips, and the hint of a beard along his chin. He looked young yet somehow familiar.

"What's your business on my land?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the flutter of unease in her chest.

"Let me introduce myself. Name's Jack. Jack Marston. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N," he said, a touch too eagerly.

A wave of disbelief washed over Y/N, nearly causing her to drop her weapon. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, her eyes wide as she stared at him. "...Jack?"

"Believe me, Miss, I'm just as surprised as you are."

"Is that really you?" Y/N pressed, her heart racing. She waved him closer, the rifle now feeling like a mere formality. "Come in! Come in!"

Jack stepped over the threshold into her home. The place was small, barely big enough to accommodate a handful of folks, but that was the charm of it—out in these wastelands, it was hard to find someone who didn't want to be found.

Jack settled into the small, worn table, right across from the woman. Words caught in his throat, and an awkward silence stretched between them as they simply stared each other down. How many years had slipped by? Fifteen? Seemed like an eternity. But he recognized her in an instant, her face etched in his memory from the old wanted posters—he'd never forgotten her.

She'd been kind to him once, despite the harsh whispers he'd heard about her. Y/N, however, didn't seem to recognize Jack, though she couldn't help but see echoes of John in the young man's features. The resemblance stirred a bittersweet ache in her heart, a mix of nostalgia and regret.

Through the years, whenever Abigail spoke of Y/N, her words dripped with fondness. Abigail Roberts held no grudges against Y/N for stealing John away; she had taught Jack to think kindly of her as well. Because of that, Jack had grown up believing Y/N was the one who had saved him and his mother.