Dan just let the shovel fall down. He took a step back, feeling for the wagon and pulling himself onto the back to rest. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and cursed the hot summer sun. Never once did he take his gaze off of the wooden cross before him. It was a makeshift construct, something he hastily nailed together. He had carved 'Bill Coulson' into it and stuck it into the ground at the head of his father's grave. He looked over at Mama and Sissy's graves. Sissy was shot and killed by her boyfriend almost six years ago now; Mama and Papa did good with her cross, even though the white paint was chipping off. Papa made Mama's cross after she died from the sickness five years ago, it was good too. Maybe Dan could have done a better job with Papa's cross, but the grief was just to much.

After getting some rest, Dan hopped off the wagon and placed his hand on the hot dirt. "Take care of Mama and Sissy," he said. He stood back up and reached for his revolvers, but stopped himself. Mama never liked guns. For her sake, he decided he'd check them later. He swallowed the lump of grief in his throat then finally turned away.

He climbed up on his horse and galloped down the west road.

---

After leaving the Coulson's Farmstead, Burt MacIntyre went west. The first place he'd come to was an old town called Pinkerton, somewhere in Mississippi. It was a busy place back in the day; a popular spot for anyone traveling out west. The old Mary-Ann Inn had a bar and rooms for rent, and the general store could provide folks with mining equipment, clothes, food, and more. The sheriff's office was small, housing only the sheriff himself and his two deputies. The rest of the town was specialty shops, stalls, a school, houses, and finally a white church. The area was quiet, surrounded by a sea of flat grassland, with the only real chatter coming from the local children.

The town was not nearly as busy as it once was. A few years ago the Boussy Brothers invested in a railroad that went past Pinkerton; folks could hear the locomotives and the even see the smoke, but they never saw the trains. There was no reason to go through Pinkerton anymore. Apparently, the Boussy Brothers intended to build a station in town, but Mayor McCullough had a falling out with the two entrepreneurs over profits.

Burt would have heard the train in the distance when he first entered the town; it was 5:00 PM, which was an unusual time for the train to be running by...

The Scotsman dismounted his horse, groaning with effort to carry his cuirass. It was certainly annoying to carry around as a civilian, especially in all the heat but he was damned if he was going to let someone stab him in the back or some squirrel-gun toting cowboy trying to take him as easy pickings just because he was too lazy to wear it. He went to the general store to buy some cartridges for his revolver along with some powder, shot and oxidized paper to create the massive cartridges for his howdah pistol. He would go to the cheapest stable but in it give a lot of money with a little extra for the owner to keep quiet. Finally, he went to the old Mary-Ann inn. He didn't get a room, merely getting himself scotch and looking about the place. His face was extremely sunburned because he had not worn his hat, a lesson he would never forget. Sipping his scotch he would place his revolver and sword on the table for instant access should he need it while he happily rolled himself some cartridges for his howdah pistol. This was the Wild West after all.

Satisfied he motioned to the bar-man to come over, the man no doubt certain that a man with a Scottish accent this far west would have some money. "Psst, this place is safe, right? No Mexican bandits nor Indians raiding, right?" he asked, keeping a weary eye out. Pinkerton was one of the places he had invested in when the civil war broke out, and he was hoping old deeds could be at least of some worth.