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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9
"What in God's name is going on here?!" Archer Fordham asked, staggering to his feet, finishing his glass of whiskey with one swallow as he did so. For such a drunk man, the precision and practice with which he drew his fancy, modern pistol was impressively stunning. It was a beautiful, silver color, and had been issued to him by the Bureau of Investigation when he'd first started there as a young recruit. It wasn't that long ago, but it seemed like an eternity now. Even after everything he'd been through and all the alcohol he'd just consumed, the pistol still felt firm and familiar in his grip, just like shaking the hand of an old friend.
Archer's eyes slid to Jack Marston, who'd drawn a cattleman-style revolver Archer recognized all too well. It had belonged to the kid's father, John Marston. He'd know that worn pearl grip and blackened steel finish anywhere. Even though Edgar Ross had gifted John a nice, modern pistol like Archer's, the ex-outlaw had always seemed to prefer revolvers for some reason. Like father like son, Archer thought, smirking slightly. With his long, dark hair and deep, angry, brown eyes, Jack looked the spitting image of John in nearly every way.
The whole saloon had fallen silent. Many of its patrons had pointed their own guns at the angry, Mexican man in the doorway, a man who stared at Eva with something in his eye that gave Archer an unsettling, almost nauseous feeling in his gut. The man was as angry as he was ugly.
As the man's eyes slid over the star-shaped badge pinned crookedly to Archer's chest, he at last seemed to look somewhat afraid. He likely hadn't expected a lawman to be in a bar this early in the day. Most men didn't; after all, alcoholism was a one-way ticket to losing one's job as a federal marshal in most cases. But Archer was something of an exception to the rule. After all, he'd won his own share of medals for helping to bring in Javier Escuella, and for his part in the killing of Bill Williamson and Dutch Van Der Linde. He was too decorated to be disposed of.
"Chingado," the Mexican man swore in Spanish, slowly lowering his gun as nearly ten other guns pointed their barrels directly at his head. "You the Marshal?" he asked stiffly, nodding in Archer's direction.
"You can see my badge with your own two eyes, can't you?" Archer sighed peevishly. This man was as dumb as he was mean it seemed. "Just what are you doing here, Mr..."
"Alcalde," the man growled, his eyes narrowing as they slid over Jack and the Mexican woman he was shielding. "Mario Alcalde. And that's my whore he has. I've come to take her back to Mexico with me. I'll even have her give you a free fuck for your troubles."
The girl made a strangled, guttural sound that was half scream and half crying. "Mario, no!" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Shh," Jack comforted her, making sure to keep himself between Eva and Mario. "It's okay, Eva," he said quietly. "I won't let him hurt you."
"Fucking son of a bitch," Mario growled in Spanish. "She's mine. Give her back."
"Easy there," Archer said quietly, waving his pistol at Mario. "Are you familiar with the thirteenth amendment of the United States Constitution, amigo?"
