New Mexico, 1893

it was not a good day for you, at all. You were low on money, you were in a damn food desert, barely any game for you to hunt so you could eat and you were running very low on water. To say the least, shit was getting bad. But things had gotten worse when you had bugged the wrong sonovabitch and got into an unnecessary shootout, scaring your horse away and you were running out of ammo.

just when you thought you were done for, the man shooting at you went stiff as a gunshot from behind you rang out and fell to the ground, a hole through his hat, and his head. You turned around and saw a man on top of a white Mustang in a long poncho, bandana and gambler hat, holding your horses reins in one hand and in the other, a six-shooter, smoke slowly floating off the tip.

you were frozen for a moment, before he got off his horse and walked towards you. Your hand was shaky, you didn’t have the guts to point your gun at this man, he looked dangerous. When he got close to you, you half expected him to shoot you dead right there, but he just held out your horses reins.

“tu caballo. I found it runnin’ away from the gun shots. What exactly happened here, tirador…?” the man asked, tipping his hat up so you could see his eyes better, his brow raised.