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WARDENVILLE, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS — MARCH, 1838 

MENTIONS: Gabrielle, Saint, and Juno Warden, Uriel, Sacha Tarasov, Gwen Goldsmith

Ask anyone and they’ll tell you: sunsets are always a little more golden in the foothills of the Franklin mountains, though in truth these glowing rays might be better shining elsewhere. All they illuminate in these parts is the gunslinging ways of the Warden family, a ragtag bunch of outlaws-turned-homesteaders who make their way west from French Louisiana to carve out their own slice of the newly independent republic. Here in Wardenville, Texas, it’s the matriarch Gabrielle who acts as sheriff to the town, her three children all set ace-high as her ultraviolent deputies of questionable ethics. There’s fierce competition between them, the question of who will take her place one of much contention amongst their mother and the townspeople alike. But their squabbles and caterwauling for power are made into petty cockfights when outside forces threaten their family — a bounty hunter named Uriel and their gang of addle-headed misfits roll into Wardenville one night and send their weapons stockpile alight, letting near half the town burn and taking Juno Warden in the fiery death toll.

A period of mourning passes alongside a period of rebuilding their town anew, though Juno’s absence is heavy on hardened hearts and therefore impossible to ignore. Plans for comeuppance naturally unfold after the dust settles, the Warden family spreading word and wanted posters of Uriel wide, across West Texas and beyond. A person of interest makes themself known when they approach Saint Warden again shortly after, an old paramour of his who he was once all-fired sweet on; he’s a travelling type, funded by his family who struck gold in the far-off territory of California. They ask too many questions, allude to a group of dunderheads who pay tribute to something greater than themselves — the flannel-mouthed fool Sacha Tarasov nearly gives themself away as one of Uriel’s own from the jump. From then on, the Wardens are on high alert, waiting for them to cause a fuss in town again.

As Remus Warden rides town to town speaking with sheriff after sheriff, giving fair warning of Uriel’s ways and the people in their party, he’s introduced to Sacha’s many faces; that four-flusher has several known aliases, certainly has plenty of disguises and tricks left up his sleeve. His many personas are put on display on many different wanted posters, though it’s the same sly face taunting Remus. All he wants is justice, an eye for an eye, to take one of Uriel’s people as his sister was taken, in an act of retribution and reckless abandon. At least now, when Sacha rolls into town again ( an inevitable evil, Wardenville a popular stop for those California types on their way out West ), Remus will be ready for them.

It’s relatively quiet for some time, though, trouble lulled to sorry sleep as months pass, and life in the little mountain town meanders on much like a slow-flowing stream. Things start to feel nearly normal again, despite their losses; Remus allows himself to get tied-up in the family business, he and Saint taking trips to run guns into bordering nations, selling to the Spanish and French colonies as well as the natives who seek to expel them. This trip is routine, run a hundred times: Remus is sent alone to sell their ever-popular six-shooter deep in Nuevo Mexico. Come upon a small township advertising their new saloon, word is the Pale Stallion boasts the finest barmaid on this side of the Missippi.  After days of riding and sleeping fireside, there’s nothing more refreshing than that first sip of whiskey; his horse Cleo is tied to the provided post outside before Remus Warden struts inside.

Saloon doors swing wide open, though his initial appearance goes unnoticed, the fabled Pale Stallion ever-popular and apparently hosting quite the shindig — with piano trills, loud laughter, thick-hazy smell of cigars and whiskey, Remus has no problem making himself comfortable ( and the only thing a hair out of place is the eerie green glow of their tinted lantern lights strung across the saloon ). Spotting the bar, he sets off to order when a voice calls out, “hold on there, partner.”

A rough sign hangs suspended by ropes from the saloon’s ceiling: CHECK YOUR WEAPONS HERE. The gruff voice, hidden behind a counter, calls out in response to Remus’ squinting look, “house policy.”

After a moment more, Remus loosens his gun belt, handing it over to the doorman. “Them’s the six-shooters,” he starts, bending down to pull a derringer from each boot. “I reckon you’ll be wantin’ the senorita pistols as well?”

The little man nods. “Yes sir, everything, includin’ knives.”

Too-loud laughter escapes Remus, who shakes his head at the thought. “Never was partial to knives.” With a polite thank you, he strolls off, feeling a bit naked without his trusty Peacemaker at his hip. However, with everyone similarly disadvantaged, he reckons there’s scant chance of misadventure.

Strutting up to the bar, he sets a silver coin from his trouser pocket on the bartop, offering a smile to the blonde-haired barmaid. “A whiskey, please. I’m in need of somethin’ to wash this trail dust off my gullet.” he says warmly, along with a nod in thanks to the lady. But she doesn’t meet his polite gesture, instead holding her stare and stern expression. 

“Whiskey’s illegal,” she answers simply. “This here’s a dry county.”

A frown finds Remus. “What’re they drinkin’?” he asks, shooting a thumb behind his back to the rowdy party behind him.

She finally smiles. “Whiskey.” When it’s clear that Remus doesn’t quite understand, she adds, “they’s outlaws.”

Finally, Remus laughs, using free hand to dispel any confusion. “Well, don’t let my luxury duds and pleasant demeanor fool you. I, too, have been known to violate the statutes of man — and more than a few of the laws of the Almighty.”

From down the bar, a peculiar fellow in miner’s denim speaks, voice carrying across quieting room, even as his head hangs low, hat rim of hat covering face. “You ain’t no outlaw,” a pause passes, a look shared between barmaid and the sudden speaker, “and we don’t drink with tinhorns.”

At this point the crowd hushes, piano notes slow to a surefire stop as the feeling of hundred eyes hits Remus at once. He rises from seat at the bar in response, slow to stand, hands lifted high in a gesture of peace. “It seems you are no better a judge of a human bein’ than you are a specimen of one.” His words pick up volume as faces turn towards them, putting down hands of poker and abandoning the cleared-out dance floor in favor of watching the beginnings of a fight that riles up in front of them. “Just on a brief inventory, I’d say you could use yourself a shave and a brighter disposition.” The challenger picks up their face and stares Remus in the eye, no longer meaning to hide his identity. He gets a front-row view of Remus as he clenches his jaw in anger, finally recognizing the other; he must be among trusted friends to not don some kind of disguise here, as outlaws are want to do. “How long’s it been since you last showed your ugly mug ‘round my neck of the woods, Sacha Tarasov?” he spits the name, an insult in itself. “Now I know where you and your muckety-muck Uriel rub elbows when you’re not terrorizing my town, murdering women.”

Smug grin on face tells Remus little other than Sacha is as pleased as pudding with all this sudden attention thrown at him. He too rises to stand, dim green lantern glow flickering off his fancy belt buckle and the gold chain of a pocket watch, a sign of the swollen wealth of those famed goldrush types. The crowd pushes in a bit closer as he stands, soft murmurs underscoring their conversation. “Well since we’re acknowledging’ the corn, I reckon it’d be more fun this way, Warden. An old fashioned game of cat and mouse sure does tickle my fancy more then moseyin’ on into that jail cell of yours.”

A bit incredulous, perhaps bewildered by the crowd flanking their side, Remus’ eyebrows raise, taking two calculated steps to stare Sacha down. “You won’t even try to deny what you did to Juno?”

They shrug, unaffected by Remus’ approach. “Why deny what which gave me so much pleasure?”

Remus snaps, charging at Sacha, planning to knock some teeth loose before delivering proper punishment once his iron is back in hand. The crowd roars to life as he manages to knock Sacha to the ground, throw a clean punch or two to his jaw and wind him up for a few more. One of his posse leaps into action, pulling Remus off their friend again before anything gets too bloody, even if the crowd seemed to like the excitement. 

Struggling against the other, Remus knows he’s outnumbered if he chooses to challenge Sacha in his own domain. He shouts, “your jig’s up, Tarasov. No more runnin’ and hidin’ in Uriel’s underskirts, c’mon out and show me how a real outlaw answers for his crimes.”

The other, still recovering from heavy hits to his face, holds handkerchief to nose, all busted and bloody. “Your shootin’ iron work?”

Teeth are clenched tight in anger as Remus answers. “I reckon it does.”

Even outlaws respect the unspoken rules of this lawless land — a person of honor challenges you to a duel, and you answer, you alone, with no tricks up your surly sleeves. This challenge goes further back than some saloon-side scuffle, goes deeper than drunken squibble betwixt disagreeables; as Remus loads his six-shooter, branded with family name and filled with family-made bullets, he thinks only of his sister and how she suffered senselessly at the hands of their sworn enemies. If there was any real justice in the world, it’d be Juno here leading the charge of retribution for her brother instead.

“You ready, bottom-feeder?” Remus shouts from down the main road of town, holstering pistol again. Such is the dueling custom: draw, aim, fire. First to land a bullet wins.

Standing across from their challenge some hundred-odd yards down the road, Sacha returns loaded weapon to their hip holster, too. “Yessem.”

“D’you need a count?” Remus asks.

Sacha laughs in response, fingers still on the handle of his gun. “No sir.”

In as long as it takes Sacha to respond to the question, Remus draws his gun, aims, and fires, bullet flying across the distance.

The noise rings out, echoing off the hills. Sacha reaches for his hat, takes it off and turns it in his hands, inspecting the once-clean woolen felt. There is a hole on each side, bullet-sized and bloodied. “Well,” he says simply, “that ain’t good.” A breeze blows through, sending his limp body crumpling to the ground.

Pleased with himself, Remus blows out the smoke from the end of the revolver, holstering gun once again as he approaches the body of Sacha Tarasov, failed outlaw and gold mining rebel rouser. He kicks the body with his boot, confirming Sacha is good and dead.

“Good riddance.” Remus says simply, leaning down to pocket their weapons, check them for any money on their person ( a small burlap sack inside coat pocket will do nicely for a monetary prize ). Then, he grabs Sacha’s arms and begins dragging them back towards the saloon, readying to strap the body to Cleo’s back, who waits happily at the horse stall. “Let’s you and I hope Saint isn’t too green with envy over my good fortune,” Remus muses, digging rope out from saddlepack, beginning to tie the old dead weasel to his steed.