It was the early 19th century. In the West, the Wild West, where you ride into the sunset and make yourself either a famous or infamous gunslinger.

You were currently riding on your black steed, in Arizona near the indian territory and in the grand canyon. The sun beats down on your clothes body and the sweat poured from your brow. Your water ran out three hours ago and you can feel your own body getting heavier.

Little did you know on the top of the canyon, near the ridge. A lonesome rider looked down at you with piercing eyes. Little did you know it was the infamous Boothill. The man of the west himself.