Chapter 1: Eva

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The hot air stung Jack Marston's throat and made it feel as though it had grown a layer of fur

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The hot air stung Jack Marston's throat and made it feel as though it had grown a layer of fur. What he wouldn't give for a sip of something cool to drink, even if that something was whiskey.

He was in Mexico, or so he thought... The days had begun to blur together now. He spent most of his time drunk, and the time he spent sober he mostly spent with his father's gun in his hand, looking for any excuse at all to use it. This might be New Austin. It might be Mexico. Either way, he didn't care. He wasn't bound by borders or laws anymore. Not now that he had nothing left.

He couldn't remember where it was he'd stopped riding Buell. The horse was getting old and needed a rest, and this place would do. It was perfect for a lawless son of a bitch like him. Casa Something-Or-The-Other was its name.

Still, in spite of all the prostitutes roaming around and all the other sinful occurrences (Jack made sure to watch his wallet for pickpockets), the place had a nice stable, perfect for Buell to rest and eat some hay. Although he didn't really care for anyone besides himself these days, Jack made sure the horse was well taken care of. Buell was one of the pitifully few things he had left of his father anymore.

Jack tried not to think of his family much. Perhaps that's why his waking hours were spent in either a rage or a drunken stupor, and his sleeping hours were spent in dreams. In dreams, his mind seemed determined not to let him forget. He'd hear his mother, Abigail, singing to him in a soft voice or playing her piano, and he'd see his father's scarred face turned up in a smile as he worked in the fields, tending their crops. Sometimes he even dreamt of loved ones long dead, like his Aunt Susan yelling at his Aunt Tilly, or fishing happily with his Uncle Arthur.

He hated these dreams because, although comforting in the moment, his heart always felt ripped in two when he awoke to find it was all a fantasy, no more real than any other passing thought. As fleeting as dust in the wind.

After a quick stop in the local cantina to purchase a bottle of whiskey and rent a room for the next few days, Jack made his way down to a small, shabby, but surprisingly clean room. He lit a cigarette and sat down on the bed, holding it between his lips as he uncorked his bottle of whiskey and set it on the small nightstand to the side of the bed. He could see the smoke swirling in the shaft of light that managed to escape from behind the flapping cloth that covered his window. Alone in the darkness, Jack brooded, watching the glowing embers fall from his cigarette and shine brightly for just a few seconds before fizzling out on the floor.

He'd just begun to relax after a few sips of whiskey, when he became aware of the sounds of shouting outside his window.

It was a man and woman, and like an irksome fly, the sound of her voice grated on him the longer it went on. She was pleading with a very drunk-sounding man in Spanish, crying and screaming in pain after loud thuds that sounded like fists on flesh. "Mario, no!" she pleaded, beginning to cry. "No, por favor , no!"

Thud.

" Puta ," the man growled in response. " Callate !"

The woman let out a bloodcurdling scream.

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