@kristoff_wraithborn: "Eh better sleep with one eye open...And a gun under the pillow" Drake said, rising to his feet, his heavy boots and spurs clanking down upon the creaky floor. He looked over and nodded to his own little fan club, he was a bit of a figure around here. Some days the morally ambigous Gunslinger would fight for good, others he was malevolent, But Murdoch thought all his actions were justifiable. "You'll need it to, seems the whole world's gon' mad...Not to say it was sane to begin with." He finally sat, extending his callused and cut hand for a moment "Murdoch...Drake Murdoch"
Drake took very close note as a lone man walked into the Saloon, his hat almost tipped down to mask his face, perhaps mask something deeper, perhaps mask his emotions. The black wearing bushwhacker had his feet crossed over and elevated on his table, a glass of rather cheap Irish whiskey touch his worn and beaten lips, eyes still keeping on the man. The stranger had an air about him, the way he strode into the bar, threw his gloves down without care, hostilities given to the barkeep, hell, even his his raspy breaths all added up to have him radiate apathy and a bit of either frustration or anger. Who could blame him though? Civil War, Crimes, Slavery, Mutant Hared, Catholics...All these things added up on both him, and the shoulders of this once young and ambitious nation. Those types of things get to a person, and it was obvious the outsider wasn't new to hardships. This in mind, Drake's voice stood out from the drunken ramblings and discussions of the bar, putting his drink down as he said"I haven't seen a face like yers around lately...Y'new here, stranger?"
Today was different. The generally turbulent town of Rattlestone did not have that same fiery conflict and drama it usually had, on this very day it was as if the world stopped turning. Not once today did an angry housewife barge into one of the many brothels of the town, upset at her husband's covert decisions. At no point today did two men walk fifty paces apart and draw their pistols due to a small argument about slavery. In this period of time, no single rancher went on a revenge filled quest to hunt a group of rustlers who stole his livelihood. Today was the noticeable date that not a single person was injured in the underground boxing club in the town, where businessmen bet on the best saddle hands, street toughs and many more gentlemen in bare knuckle fights. Today was the first peaceful day since that ever so iconic night where the cannons fired down on Fort Sumter at least for Rattlestone.
Thousands of the townspeople had gathered in the town square to see something eventful that they hoped would turn for the better. Two men, Tom and Ren Bollard brothers from Missouri had been captured by the local sheriff and his skeleton crew of men in the middle of a daring attempt at setting fire to a store that didn't pay protection money, Marshall Eric Leigh ambushed them, Winchester in hand as he killed two lackeys and winged Ren. He forced a capture upon them, and finally the seventy murders (mostly motivated by xenophobia and mutant hatred), ten train robberies, five shop robberies, two cases of arson, thirty different businesses extorted, an ambush on a local silver mine and enough mistreatment of the townspeople to cause serious emotional scars. It all culminated today as ropes were wrapped around the men's neck and Tom opened his mouth, his scraggly and chipped teeth moving for just a second to allow a long cough of Phlegm, followed by a giggle by Ren.
The Hangman said to the twins "Any last words, boys?" To which Ren said, laughter escaping his mouth, that sadistic smile so many unfortunate men and women had seen before they died "Go f*ck yerself, y'damn c*nt."
The crowd erupted into boos and threats, to which Tom cackled, addressing them "Hey! ya'll er' the ones taking joy in seeing two men die for christ sakes! Who's the real bastard?" He said
Fumbling and fussing occurred much to the anger of one Drake Murdoch, a lone bounty hunter and marksman who had been waging a one man war, of which him and the two had come into conflict. The Dead Eye killer shouted for a moment "I ain't afraid to say that you both deserve to die in public."
"Oh Shut Up!" said both the twins in unison, more of the crowd getting anger before the executioner yelled "Enough! Let's get this over with!" He said, his hand halfway cranking the lever before...
*BAM!* Blood seeped out of the hangman's hand as it was torn, a bullet whizzed through it and caused him to curse, before one more bullet was fired.
*ZZIP!* it sounded, the pistol sized shot was aimed just perfectly to cut through the ropes the twins hung on freeing them. Marshall Eric was present, and immediately pulled out his pistol as amongst the panic he spotted the gun man. A duster coat wearing guardian angel to the Bollards appeared, his Navy Revolver with the barrel smoking heavily. Marshall Eric couldn't make the shot, the shooter purposely burying himself with innocents in order to keep from a hasty move. This was not something the Dead Eye killer could stop, drawing his Custom Scholfield Revolver (Which contained nine pistol shots and one shotgun round), and rushed through the crowd, a shot firing into the shoulder of the man.
He let out an exclamation before pulling out a whistle, three horses soon galloping to the stage just in time for the Bollards to jump on, Marshal Eric Leigh firing a shot at them and missing at the same time Murdoch fired another round, instantly killing the duster coat assailant. This didn't stop the two twins as they ran off on their horses from shouting "Better luck next time, Old man!" Frustration filled the two somewhat do gooders as they shouted. The dust finally clearing.
The question that ran through the minds of every single person inside of that town was all in unison, almost a beaconing question?