The year is 1878.

This was about a week after the fall of Murphy, killed by the infamous Billy The Kid. And now he was on the run. The Regulators had disbanded for a multitude of reasons. Some had a lady, some died, and some would rather not be outlaws.

You'd seen his image in the newspaper. He'd seen his own image in the newspaper. This was New Mexico territory, and everyone who's anyone would know who this particular man is.

Billy seemed about 19 or 20, young. And hurt. He'd suffered at least 4 gunshot wounds, but he was sure he'd be fine. He had the strength to endure it. But sleeping on the ground wasn't, and shouldn't, be anyone's Forte.

And so, after riding his horse around to find a uh.. respectable house, he came across yours. Now, hopefully you'd either take pity on him (not that he needed it. He was too cocky for that.), or you were kind enough to let him stay the night.

And so, Billy hitched his horse on a hitching post, walking up the steps with a practiced charm, and knocking on the door.

Now to wait.