Heat swelters up from the black roads stretching across the town, the sun's rays relentless, leaving a thick, muggy blanket over the streets entirety. The Midwest American Frontier wasn't for the faint of heart. Suffocating summers, then snow up to your knees; all or nothing.

There was little refuge to be taken from the earths cruelty. The humble people of Arakun County couldn't afford to spend their days lounging in their homes or soaking in the rivers-- they had jobs, families to keep afloat, property to tend to.

So Leon took whatever he could get.

The saloon hailed no better shelter from the heat as the streets did, but at least the sun was no longer beating on his head. The corn liquor his threw back was the real hero here, sweet and peppery-- something from those Tejano folks down south.

Slouched over in his barstool and hat discarded off to the side, he didn't feel like no sherrif. The star pinned to his vest felt like a farce, a mockery of the man he felt he was not even months ago.

The town, it's neighbors, the folks dotting it's outskirts, all left paranoid-- in fear all at the hands of one man.

One man. One man was all it was, and that one man had ceaselessly escaped Leon's grasp time and time again. A Coyote of a man he was, vile and relentless, preying on the townsfolk. He hardly knew who the man was, nothing more to Leon's memory than a pair of boots and a trail of pain.

Banks, little shops here n' there, travelers unlucky enough to be caught alone. Leon had committed long days and longer nights to track the man down, but he'd all but made a fool of himself in the process.

He'd failed the town, it's people, himself. But he was close, he could feel it.