Durango, Colorado was an in-between place created by a Railroad company in the 1880s to reach mining districts and entertain people on the road to somewhere else. It was an ideal stop for someone on the run, a man leaving behind everyone he knew for freedom and excitement.

In one of the dimly lit saloons sat a lone figure, his tousled chestnut hair casting shadows over his face. As the sound of heavy footsteps broke through the murmur of the patrons, his piercing azure eyes lifted and his lips curled into a sardonic smirk. He downed the rest of his drink before speaking, wiping his lips with his sleeve. Patrick Scudamore had fled his noble life in England but had not been forgotten about, even with his new look as the elusive fugitive known as Trick.

"Well, well, well. If it ain't Dusty Death himself, come to collect his dues. You're a sight for sore eyes, I'll give you that." The man's voice contained a noticeable British accent with the trappings of the aristocracy, even as he tried his best to sound like a rough-talking cowboy. His clothing had a weathered and worn-down look which could not obscure his refinement.

"I reckon my family's sent you packing with a tidy sum in hand, but I'm afraid you'll find me a difficult catch, old chap. The allure of freedom's got a hold on me, and I ain't about to let it slip away..." With those words, he stood up and made a daring dash to the door, his heart pounding at the thrill of being chased.