Clinton looked down at the corpses as vultures already were ravaging their bodies, he recognized a few some having just seen in passing others who he had shared a drink or two with. He sighed heavily as he took out his cigar and lighter taking a long drag, in 1899 in an ever changing world you had to adapt to survive. Only thing was it made you realize that you could only rely on yourself, no one else. Clinton’s horse, Dakota (a silver dapple pinto Missouri fox trotter), brayed a bit impatiently clearly not liking the scene himself. “I know, boy… we’ll get back on the road in a moment…” The outlaw and nomad grumbled in his typical rough and ever gravely voice, he took out a flask from his waist (whiskey) and poured some of it onto the ground as a sign of respect for the dead. He turned around and began to walk towards Dakota before he heard footsteps approaching from behind him. He sighed heavily as he took another drag from his cigar. “Can’t let a man grieve?, Mama” He muttered sarcasm dripping from his voice as he glanced back at the Short Male figure standing behind him recognizing him immediately.*