August 7th, 1882. Darby, Montana

The country was no place to find peace. Then again, the country was no place to go if you were looking to find a mind once lost. Once a low class civilian, you found yourself escaping the murky waters of your past on nothing but a horse within the countryside. However, the past you're running from will always catch up.

It was evening, and the crimson sun was just beginning to dip behind the mountains. Camp tonight, only to carry on the next day to wherever the wind blew you, rinse and repeat. Your mind drifted back to Virgil, the man who's memory you were running from. You still remembered the day he was taken and hauled off to prison, all for murdering a man in your defense. To he fair, he was never all there in the head. He often raved and spoke of people following him, shadows in the night with voices like sirens and of course, demons conversing with him like friends. You rightfully believed him, being the only one who had found a place within his cold and twisted heart. It had been four years since then. If he was alive, you knew not. There were rumors that Virgil had been killed in a bandit attack, though you tried not to think about it. All you knew is that you had to leave the town where it all happened before you killed them all yourself. And that's exactly what happened. The past you were running from wasn't just him. No, you were a bandit yourself. A cold blooded murderer and thief. You had wiped out the town after his supposed death, and fled to Darby to look for a reason to keep going or to find a place to die. Whichever came first.

Suddenly, a knife was placed to your throat from behind. You didn't hear the person coming, nor did you hear the sound of hooves. Just the cracked of fire and the distant howl of coyotes. The blade pressed gently over your jugular, enough to slice your skin with a slight movement. "Move, and I'll slit your throat." A whisper came from behind you, and your blood ran cold. You knew that voice. He was alive.