Jack Marston is at a low point in his life. His family is dead, Beecher's Hope is in ruins, and he has nothing left to live for. Most days he spends so drunk he can barely remember anything, he kills and robs people at will, and there isn't an ounce...
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Mario hated Americans.
Such a proud people, with no regard for anyone but themselves, so eager to stick their greasy, white noses into other people's business that they destroyed anything and everyone in their path. They ruined all they touched, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind. And this man in front of him, this absolute bastard named Herbert Moon, was no different.
"I don't serve your kind in my store," Herbert grunted, leveling his pistol at Mario. "Get out of here, you dang greaser bastard, or I'll shoot you dead and drag you out back for the buzzards myself."
Mario spat a stream of tobacco juice to the rough, knotty floorboards of Herbert's general store in Armadillo. All he'd wanted was a bottle of whiskey. "My kind, señor?" he growled, his fingers twitching towards his own gun.
"Yeah, your kind," Herbert mocked. "Goddamn bean eaters who are coming here and taking all the good, American jobs that are left for hardworking men like me! You're ruining this country. Go back to Mexico, you fucking brown piece of trash! I'm Herbert Moon!"
As angry as he was, Mario saw an opportunity. He'd already spoken to several of the townsfolk here, and not one of them could remember a Mexican girl and a young, white man traveling together. As close as they were to the border, such a thing wasn't out of the ordinary here and would not attract much notice, except from men like Herbert Moon.
Like a coiled rattlesnake, Mario drew his weapon, firing just one bullet from it. The round hit Herbert in his shooting arm and he staggered back, clutching at a stream of blood as it flowed from his arm like the San Luis River. His now-useless fingers allowed his gun, a beautifully-decorated Navy Revolver made of blue steel, to clatter uselessly to the floor.
Mario knew people had likely heard the shot outside, but the few faces that bothered to peek through the store's windows merely noticed Mario, put two and two together, and went on with their day. Clearly, Mario wasn't the only one in this town who disliked Herbert Moon.
He took a step forward and strode around the counter, grasping Herbert by the lapels. When their noses were inches apart and Herbert had begun to gag at the smell from Mario's mouth, Mario growled and said, "A young, pretty, Mexican woman traveling with a young, white man with dark hair. Might have even pretended to be married. Have you seen them?"
"'Course I've seen them," Herbert grunted, his teeth gritting in pain from the wound in his arm. "I'm the only one who paid them any damn mind. Nobody else saw the danger we were in, the harm that comes from mixing races like that, of fouling pure, white blood with the scourge of brown skin!"
The clicking of Mario cocking his gun caused Herbert to whimper in fear, his glasses falling askew of his nose as Mario shook him by the lapels and pressed his gun to his throat. "Pinche gringo," Mario swore. "I'll blow your fucking head off if you don't tell me where they went."
