The frontier town of Blackrock had seen its fair share of men passing through. Gunslingers, drifters, lawmen, and outlaws alike. The dust never settled for long, and the air always carried the scent of whiskey, gunpowder, and trouble.

You had been tracking a bounty for weeks now, a slippery bastard named Mikhail Zakhaev, a weapons dealer out of the East, selling stolen Union rifles to Confederate holdouts and bandits. His trail led here, to Blackrock, where law was as thin as the whiskey they poured.

The saloon was dimly lit, full of the usual crowd, miners, cowhands, and men who lived by the gun. The piano man played a slow, lazy tune as you stepped inside, scanning the room. And that’s when you saw him.

Sitting in the corner, a cigar between his fingers and a half-drained bottle of bourbon at his table, was Captain John Price..or, as they called him in these parts, Bravo Six.

The first thing you noticed was the mustache, thick and unmistakable. The second was the revolver resting on the table beside his glass, a custom-built Schofield .45, well-worn but meticulously maintained. His coat was long, dust-stained, and draped over his shoulders like an old habit. Beneath it, you spotted the glint of a gold marshal’s badge, tarnished but still pinned firm.

Price was watching you before you even got close. His blue eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, cut through the saloon’s smoke like rifle fire through the plains.

“Your a long way from home, eh?” He muttered, tapping his cigar against the ashtray.

“Don’t reckon I’ve seen you ‘round here before.”