7 PM.

The evening sun was traveling across the ruby sky, nestled in between the crevasse that is Sunset Legs. As Barr set his frothy beer down, he wiped a bead of perspiration from his neck and focused his gaze to the north-facing window of Sarabelle's Saloon. For a split second, all seemed right with the world. However, being oblivious was a temporary relief and Barr soon snapped back into reality. Entranced by the oncoming dusk, he took in the beauty and forgot the worries of his job.

"Shit, it's 7 already?" Barr noted as he looked at pocket watch. "Better get back to manning the fort." And with that, Barr raised himself up from the bar stool, struggling slightly to regain his balance due to the alcohol pumping through his brain. He downed the last of his ale, licked the remaining fizz off his bottom lip and slid it towards Sarabelle, who caught the gliding glass.

"Why y'all leavin' so soon, Barr? Gots somewhere to be?" she beckoned to Barr as he was leaving.

"That's right, ma'am. Gotta go back to the station and see if nobody don't need me. You and Anna have a nice day, ya hear?"

"We'll be sure to do that. Have a nice evenin', Sheriff Smithson," Sarabelle bid Barr farewell and returned to babysitting her clientele.

Sarabelle was an illiterate hussy of a woman, but a shrewd businesswoman. After she became widowed during the first year of Wildwood's establishment, Sarabelle built the Saloon from the ground up with the help of a few able-bodied men more than willing to help out a grieving woman with supple curves. Unlike many before her, Sarabelle chose to persevere and remained unmarried - not common for a woman in her position and of her age - and refused to sell herself to everyone with a half-empty pocketbook. Always a joy to discuss the comings and goings of Wildwood life with, she quickly gained respect and admiration amongst the locals.

Sarabelle had a knack for remembering her patron's names, but an even better knack for getting them to forget about their wives momentarily with her beauty. She knew how to turn on the charm and get a man to stay an extra hour, order half a dozen more brandies, and spend the last of his savings. Many of Sarabelle's less-respectable acquaintances who by choice or circumstance became prostitutes, viewed Sarabelle as one of them, whether Sarabelle knew it or not. Several of the prostitutes in the local brothel jokingly named Sarabelle the "Pocketbook Pit Viper."

Although widowed and left with an empty pocketbook and grief, one thing Sarabelle's late husband left her with was a daughter - Annabelle. She worked at the bar from a relatively young age - old enough to know what alcohol was, but not old enough to drink it herself - serving drinks and refilling pitchers. Now, years later, 18-year old Annabelle still works at the bar, but her role in the order of things has changed slightly. Now she enchants the local geezers on stage with her sultry dancing and form-fitting outfits. The mother-daughter duo bring in a decent living and apparently Sarabelle has no qualms about exploiting her teenage daughter in this way.

Like dogs following a treat waved in front of them by their owner, the patron's eyes glaze over whenever Annabelle is on stage and they follow her every move; judging by their blank stares, they pay more attention to Annabelle's denim shorts and toned thighs than they do to the Mexican guitarist playing beside her.

As Barr walked towards the Lone Star, the sheriff's station which he ran, he spotted an evidently upset woman banging on the door frantically. The damsel in distress seemed to require Barr's services immediately.

"Problem, ma'am?" he approached the woman with caution, as she was visibly hysterical and quite possibly mad.

"Yes! Please, my husband. It's my husband. Please, you have to do something. He set out earlier this morning to the Wildwood outskirts and he's still not back! I just know something bad has happened."

"Ma'am, please. We'll find your husband. He's probably off gambling, boozing or at the whorehouse. Don't you fret now," Sheriff Barr managed to subdue and calm the frazzled woman enough to extract some information out of her. "Come inside miss, we'll get this mess sorted out right away," and with that Smithson led the woman, by the arm, inside the station...

The dust billowed out behind the horse and it's rider as they thundered across the desert. The horse, a white as fresh snow, powered across the sand and the stones, the muscles under it's skin bulging and rippling. The rider sat hunched low on the horse, one hand on the reins and one hand clutching a revolver. A couple hundred yards in front of the horse and it's rider was another man on a horse. This horse, a deep chestnut brown, was beginning to show the strains of the long chase the men had been on. The rider that sat upon the horse was an unkempt man, his patchwork clothes rippling in the wind. The bank-robber/murderer Pete Lond fled across the desert, and the Bounty Hunter was close behind.

The two horses began to draw close to a town situated in the middle of a valley. An old wooden sign declared the town's name to be Wildwood. The Bounty Hunter and his quarry raced into the city outskirts, the setting sun giving the world a bloody-red hue. As the two men raced down the main street of the town, a single shot rang out. Pete Long slumped over and slid off his horse, the bullet having blown a hole the size of a orange through his heart. The chestnut horse continued to run for another thirty yards before realizing it was riderless. The horse came to a stop and stood there, oblivious to it's masters demise.

The Bounty Hunter dismounted from his horse, and began to walk towards the body. The townsfolk had heard the shot and were now peeking out of their stores and houses to see what the commotion was. The Bounty Hunter approached the dead man, knelt down, and rummaged through the man's pockets. He pulled out a small bag of coins and a small sheaf of papers. The Bounty Hunter abruptly stood up, pocketed the dead man's items, and went back to his horse. He climbed into the horse's saddle and began to slowly walk down the main street.

The Bounty Hunter's eyes scanned the buildings lining the side of the street. There was an assortment of shops, all of which were standard fare for any desert town. There was a general store, a tailor, a barber/doctor's office, and a bank. Standing a little bit off from the rest of the buildings was a large saloon, named the Sarabelle's Saloon. The Bounty Hunter began to make his way towards the saloon when he noticed a building he hadn't spotted before. It was a small, single story building, painted white. There were two barred windows on the front, and a slew of wanted posters stuck to the side of the building. hanging out in front was a wooden sign that simply stated Lone Star- Sheriff. And the man standing in front of the Sheriff's office, badge gleaming dully on his chest, could have been none other than the town Sheriff. And from the expression on his face, the bounty hunter named John Noble wasn't going to just saunter off into the sunset without answering a few questions first.

Yarba Kosata, “Our Rock ,” one of the most magnificent regions of the earth, with its amazing mineral wealth, its red crystalline soil and warm weather, has its belts of sterility and desolation, where the bones of many a traveller and animal lie bleaching in the sun, just as they fell years ago. Rockhorn respected the land and hated the whites for soiling it. He had traveled these lands for years and knew every cavern, cliff and cactus. He hated seeing what the whites had done to the land, building a town right in the middle of the Sunset Legs.

Rockhorn’s hunting party ventured out into the forbidding wastes, where the heat of the amber sun overhead pushed down on them. All their skill in the use of the traditional bow and the stolen rifles of the Wildwood men was of no avail, when there was no game to shoot. It would not be long before they are forced to live on horse flesh to escape starvation.

“Perhaps it is time for another raid,” Rockhorn’s fellow warrior suggested.

“No my friend, it has only been a week since the last raid. The Wildwood people will still be on their guard. The eagle seeks out her prey, but she knows when an animal is too big,” Rockhorn responded.

These Indians form a part of the Lakota Saboto nation and now make their home on the Glass. They are built well, resourceful and warlike hunters. Contrary to popular belief, they were not savage and had a rich culture, full of various deities and spirits that endowed each person of the tribe with an animal spirit and vigor. Although the whites would not believe it, these Indians had commendable self-restraint and would not attack Wildwood unless supplies ran low. Survival of the fittest was the law in these lands.

Had these warriors chosen to attack the settlement, casualties would have been plentiful, even If the town was prepared.
“There is no sustenance here. The rain spirit has not blessed these lands in a long time and the spirit of the vulture has taken away all of the game to hunt,” said Rockhorn worriedly.

“Red Eagle, we must travel the direction of Northwest. These lands are tired,” a hunter stated.
“I fear you are right, Sokot.”

The hunting expedition set forth towards the Northwest, past the Sunset Legs and Wildwood, heading into an area dangerously close to the Lakuna Pow’hatta territory.

The door of the Desert Rose swung outward, and from within came its owner, the lovely Sophie Satin, bedazzling today in her vibrant green silk corset and dress, each shimmering in the early morning light as she steps out onto the wood planks that circle the town square. Her lace sun-brella is decorated with tiny flowers along the entire edge, giving her entire image the finishing touches of healthy vegetation in bloom, something never seen around these parts. Her red hair hangs from her head is massive bouncy curls, her eyes accented wildly with charcoal to accent her pale skin and her green eyes almost seem to glow in the shade she carries with her. The dress is short enough to reveal her bright brown suede boots, completing the effect as her roots and lifting her four inches from the ground, putting her just over 6'1".

The rest of the town seems to be waking up as well in attempt to beat the worst of the day's heat as they take care of the more strenuous tasks of setting up wares and carrying heavy items about. While business is never great in the morning, there are occasionally those with enough time for a quickie, and those that can't will see her and think about it all day. She was successful for a reason, and even if she hadn't worked the sheets in over a year, she did plenty of her own to get the men into the door. Her ladies had been trained well enough to take care of things after that, for the most part. With a stretch of her curvy frame and an overly feminine yawn, she winked at the nearest laborer and giggled as she leaned against the wooden post that supported the small roof over her head.

Even as she licked her lips to turn up the heat, two men rode by, the shot rang out, and one feel from his saddle. Death was commonplace, though the shot made her wince briefly. Her biggest dismay was that she couldn't catch the attention of the shooter. As he headed towards the Sheriff's place, she knew he'd be a minute before coming back, so she shrugged and went back to trying to catch the attention of the more common passerby, fluttering her eyelids, and making precious, cutesy kissy faces.

Before Sheriff Barr was able to escort the woman into the Lone Star, they spotted two gunslingers riding through the Town Square from their vantage point near the Lone Star. The man chasing after the man closest to the Lone Star caught his prey and pocketed the man’s stash. Still holding onto the melancholy widow, they sprinted back towards the Town Square.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you were doing, but here we keep that kind of shit outside of the town proper. Feel free to blast someone’s head off, just don’t do it in the town square, ye durn fool. What if you had missed your target and hit a child?” Barr steamed and scolded the man. Smithson didn’t have much hope for the human race in general and expected very little of them, but this type of reckless behavior baffled even him.

“Who the hell do you think is gonna clean that up, huh?”

The dead man’s horse nuzzled his owner’s head, as if trying to awaken him. It was not beyond the mare’s comprehension that his owner was gone. Like a gust of wind, the mustang galloped off into the wild, leaving a trail of dust – and a fallen saddle – behind it.

As crowds of townspeople gathered around the corpse, none other than Annabelle rushed outside of the Saloon to join the commotion. “Oh my goodness, the hell is happenin’ here? All righ’, which one of y’all gonna move this crap away from my mom's pub? If she sees this, she's going to boil over.”

"Right away, Miss Annabelle!" a herd of middle-aged men answered their fair maiden's call. Like ants carrying leaves, they all grabbed an arm or a leg, hoisted the man into the air and carried him off towards the cemetery.

Tugging at Barr’s arm, the sobbing woman stared in horror. “ELRIC! That’s my husband…this bastard killed my husband! Don’t let that murderer get away, Sheriff Smithson!” the woman pointed an accusing, long finger at the bounty hunter, perhaps cursing him forever.

The Bounty Hunter watched as the Sheriff, a woman half mad with sorrow, and pretty much everyone in town came towards him. He listened to everyone's yelled complaints, keeping a calm look on his face the entire time. Everyone was yelling at him at once, making it hard to think, let alone hear anything. The Bounty Hunter raised his hand, a yellowed piece of folded paper held between two of his fingers. The crowd quickly silenced, as if the Bounty Hunter had cast a spell on them. He fixed the Sheriff with a calm, confident stare.

"I will be happy to answer all of your questions now that you all have quieted down. I will address the Sheriff first." The Bounty Hunter unfolded the piece of paper, which turned out to be a wanted poster. The face of the recently-deceased Pete Lond stared out from the page, with the large bold caption underneath: WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE.

"The man I shot was named Peter Lond, a bank robber and a murderer on the run from the law. I had been tracking him for a little over a week now. I finally caught up to him, just in time to witness him holding up a stagecoach. I announced my presence, and he began to ran. I shot him in town because I knew he was dangerous, and I didn't want to give him the chance to harm any of you townsfolk."

The Bounty Hunter turned to the hysterical woman. "Ma'am, are you sure that is your husband? That man there is Peter Lond, a notorious bank robber from out East. I was just doing my job." He took the woman's hand and place the pouch of coins into her open palm. "But... If you are convinced that is your husband... I believe this belongs to you. This was all the honest money your husband had left. I would assume he would want you to have it."

The Bounty Hunter turned away from the crowd and faced the sheriff. He stepped in close, giving an obvious sign that he was done talking to the townsfolk. "Well, I wish my entrance into town would have been a little less conspicuous, but oh well. Name's John Noble, and as you may have guessed, I am a bounty hunter."

Sophie had thought all of the excitement done for the morning, but even as she watched, half the town's men attempted to carry a body away for smooth Annabelle. That damned woman held far too much attention for having never parting those legs of hers, but no worries. Sophie knew they'd come to her when they finally wanted some satisfaction. She flipped a fan out from within the folds of her dress and immediately began to wave it beside her face rapidly, taking on the vision of a woman distressed by the sight of a dead man and unable to cope with the heat. She hoped at least one or two would come for her, and she'd offer them a small discount for her ladies' services.

The Bounty Hunter was barely visible initially, holding up a wanted sign. His voice carried as he addressed everyone at first, but as he approached the sheriff, Sophie could no longer hear the words clearly enough, and she had no idea what his name was. She hoped to find out later in the evening. For now, she focused on the small crowd as they paused outside her door to watch what the Sheriff Barr would have to say for the stranger. Her wrist began to tire of the rapid fanning, so while the town's attention was faced away from her, she dropped her arm and massaged her forearm, chewing lightly on her lip in agitation.

The day was drawing to a close, as the setting sun began to disappear over the western horizon. The "Desert Wolf", Evangaline Murphy sat atop a tall buckskin horse bareback with a simple blanket. Most of the stallion's body was a brilliant golden hue while his legs, mane, tail, and snout were ebony black. After scanning the western landscape, Murphy turned her blue-green eyes southeast, where she could barely see the outskirts of the small town of Wildwood. It would be good a place as any to rest or a few days, but she was in no hurry. She had enough supplies to last a day or two and she was in ood to be around more people. She felt that continuous sharp pain in her shoulder and winced. Murphy had removed the bullet yesterday but she had to redress the wound.

After the incident on the Rockridge Express a few weeks ago, she knew the bounty on her head was likely to draw unwanted attention. Plus, if the gang she used to rob that train was still searching for her, and she knew they were, they'd likely check there anyways. She couldn't blame them to be honest....but she may have taken a bit more than her fair share....well, not all of the loot....but enough to draw their ire. And their bullets, which one actually hit her.

Reaching into the pocket of her leather trenchcoat, she pulled something shiny from her pocket. It was a sterling silver necklace with a bright red ruby embedded within it. The famous Maharajhan Ruby was th3e only reason she organized the robbery in the first place...but a few extra helpings of cash were a bonus.

She felt her horse tense for a moment and she lifted her eyes from the jewel before putting it back in her jacket. Her gaze looked in the same direction and spotted what he was looking at. It was a small group of riders, far enough to barely even be spotted. Focusing as best she could, she could tell they were natives. Given the area, most likely it was Lakota Saboto.

"That's all I need," she muttered to herself. Given the tension in the west between settlers and natives, she doubted her presence would be ignored. More than likely it was a hunting party, though what was left to hunt was a good quesion. Personally, Murphy never had a quarrel with the natives. She saw their point of view, by all means. As a thief, she knows what victims of the crime go through. But she knew better than get involved. Choosing instead to keep her head down instead mistakingly antagonizing them it would be best to camp here. The rocks provided decent enough shelter.

Stepping down from her horse, she patted his neck, "We rest here, Chief." The horse snorted, as if acknowledging her words. She smiled and grathered a few twigs capable to maintaining a small fire. She remove her pack from the saddleblanket and laid down a small cot. Grabbing some matches she lit a flame and saw the small fire grow a little.

She didn't bother tying Chief up, as he never wandered far. She rescued him a while back from a farm....well, "stole" tehnically, but it was for his own good. His previous home was hardly suitable. She found him in poor condition at a ranch where he was kept after being stolen from a wild herd as a foal. Now they were inseperable. Murphy lifted her head when she heard a familiar rustle. From the underbrush approached a rather large gray wolf with golden eyes.In his mouth he hedld two thin, scraggly rabbits.

"Well Timber, " Murphy said nonchalantly as he stpped closer, dropping the prey on the ground before her feet before sitting back on his haunches. "I see you had a better time hunting than I did."

Scratching th thick fur behind his ears, she smiled as he seemed to enjoy it. Timber was an old friend as well. They went back quite a few years. Looking to his catch o fthe day, she examined what little there was. To be honest, she didn't think he would even find something in this barren wasteland. But what he did find wa hardly a meal.

She removed her hat and wiping the sweat from her brow with her red bandana as her ashy brown hair fell in wavy lengths down her back. With a heavy sigh she pushed a few tossled strands of hair behind her ear before she pulled out a skinning knife and began to prepare their meal. Taking an occasional swig from her flask, she hoping the evening would continue on as normal with little interruption. Being ont he run was a hard life, but it was one to her liking.

With the rabbits cooking over th4e fire, Murphy took of her coat and looked to her right shoulder. The sleeve of her shirt was already seeped with blood. From her pck she pulled out another bandage. Lowering her worn white shirt enough to reveal her shoulder, she slowly removed the bloodsoaked dressing carefully. The small hole was far from healing. Ripping the bandage, she did her best to patch it up. She winced only slightly, and despite the severity of the wound she didn't seem to troubled by it. It would scar, but she could care less. Using what little water she had left, she tried to clean it a little before applying the new dressing.

It looked pretty bad, but Murphy was not exactly a doctor. Doing the best she could, se tended to it before pulling her shirt back on. Chief was going through the underbrush, trying to snack on wht little green there was despite the fct that it was mostly twigs. Timber laid down by her side and together they watch as the little varmits roasted on the fire.