[CENTER][IMG]http://i.imgur.com/xd25o72.jpg[/IMG]


[B]Prologue 
Eastbound[/B]

[I]“The world is made up of two classes -- the hunters and the huntees.” 
-- Richard Connell[/i][/CENTER]


[B]The Preserve 
May, 1888[/B]

The Hunter listened hard for any sounds of movement in the brush. His quarry was nearby, he was almost certain of it. He’d wounded it twenty minutes ago as it fled through the night into the underbrush. He saw it limping away into the treeline. The Hunter followed a blood trail, slight though it was, through the growth. He must have nicked the poor beast in the leg. 

In his hands, the Hunter carried a Remington-Lee bolt action rifle with a large telescopic sight on top of it. Supplementing the rifle was a Colt double-action revolver on his right hip, on the left hip was a large hunting knife sharpened to a razor edge. He’d used all three weapons at one time or another to deliver killing blows to the various animals he'd killed over the years.  If the rifle couldn’t kill from far away, the revolver was perfect for a bit closer, and the knife for when you could feel the animal’s breath right in your face. That close encounter, now [I]that[/I] was hunting.

A twig snapped nearby. The Hunter stayed stock still and listened. He heard the sound of footfalls through the woods, at least twenty or thirty yards based on the sounds. Something scampered nearby and the Hunter gave chase. The beast huffed and puffed as it lumbered through the woods. It might as well have been advertising to the Hunter where it was. It ran into a clearing and ran as fast as it could run with a wounded leg.
 
The Hunter emerged into the clearing and saw the animal running through the open field even in the night time light. He got on one knee and aimed the rifle at the fleeing beast. He sighted the silhouette through the telescopic sight, exhaled slowly, and pulled the trigger.

[B]KRAK![/B]

The Hunter let out a cheer of excitement as his bullet went through the animal’s neck and dropped it. He whistled a cheerful tune and walked towards the downed animal, the rifle slipped over his shoulder. He looked down at the beast. She was a young woman, no older than twenty-five. Her long, black hair was tangled around her face and she wore a simple cotton tunic with bare feet. Blood covered the top of the tunic. She gasped for air and sputtered blood from her mouth. Her clear blue eyes were wide with terror, tears rolling from them and down her cheeks.

“P-please.”

“There, there,” the Hunter said in a reassuring tone. He sounded almost like a father reassuring a frightened child.

He pulled the long, sharp knife from its sheath. It glinted in the moonlight and sent a fury of panic through the wounded girl. He started to scream through her blood-filled mouth.

“No need to struggle now, girl. I’m here to put you out of your misery.”

She let out a long muffled scream as the Hunter’s knife went in for a killing stroke.


[CENTER]*****[/CENTER]


[B]En Route
June 30th, 1888
[/B]

Jonah Hex stirred from his nap and looked around the jostling train car. It was filled with people headed towards the city like he was. Even though the car was packed he was given a wide berth from the rest of the passengers. He caught a glimpse of his reflection against the train window and figured why he was alone. Hex, scary looking even in the worst saloon in the west, looked nearly demonic to the people in the east. 

He still wore his Confederate gray even now with the war over for two decades.  It was faded and worn, but Hex continued to keep it in good shape. The years had caused his scars to settle in on his face and sharpen in detail as he aged. His hair was short and hidden under his hat, but it was now almost completely white. This year was his fiftieth one. He thought about that for a bit. It was hard to believe he’d made it past five years, let alone fifty. With all he’d seen and done, sometimes it felt like two hundred years. Hell, he was a granddaddy now. Papa Jonah. Those words were unnatural, as unnatural as seeing a horse walking upright.

A conductor said something about a stop, followed by another, and finally the end of the line in the city. Hex kept to himself as the passengers got off and on at their stops. He had the faded telegram from two weeks ago in his hand. A Western Union man had managed to track him down to where he was holed up in the Arizona Territory. He had to give the man a lot of credit for finding him since plenty of people had tried and failed over the years. Hex opened the telegram up and read it again.

[I]Mr. Jonah Hex,

I have heard of your many exploits and adventures in the West. Your services and skills are needed in the East. Men of your gumption are badly needed in city. Enclosed is five hundred dollars, what I am told is a significant sum for the services you provide. More money to follow if you come to the city by the first of September. Address to my home follows. I hope to see you soon.

Yours,
E.D. Kane[/I]

Hex had planned to just take the money and ignore the telegram. He’d gotten plenty of appeals over the years from people, wanting his help in this matter or that. He had apparently become a figure of some renown across the country. Hex blamed that damn writer from Montana ten years ago. A simple affair turned complicated and Hex had to make a stand in a small town called Justice. The writer saw Hex square off with six armed men in a bloody shootout and went back east to write about the whole affair. Ever since then he was known as an “adventurer” and a “hero.” 

Right. A hero.

The only reason he was here was because whoever this person was asking him to come east, he obviously had more money than sense. If some big city dude wanted to pay Hex money to feed him a load of bull hockey about the Wild West and make him feel like a big shot, then that was okay. He’d done worse for less money. 

The conductor announced the end of the line as the train pulled to a stop in the station. Hex waited until the car was nearly empty before he grabbed his bag and walked out into the station. People were hustling and bustling through the station, but Hex was given another wide berth through the place. He came out the station and into the street.

The city was filled with throngs of people going to and from somewhere. Carriages and horses clopped down the dirt streets and nearly struck pedestrians trying to cross. Hex turned his nose up at the town. It was dirty, stuck ten times worse than any corral filled with horse crap, and was filled with dirty, stinking people who were all underfed and miserable. It smelled of pollution and desperation. This stench was the smell of progress and industry, the poor and exhausted people the great teeming masses who made the United States' growing wealth and prosperity possible. The Gilded Age, some fancy writer called it, but like anything gilded all that glittered was never gold. And this city was one the hubs of American wealth and industry. It was called the shining beacon of the East.

“Gotham City.”

Hex spat on the dirt street and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

“Hell of a town.”


[CENTER][B][h3]Fortunate Son[/h3]
Another Jonah Hex Yarn[/B][/CENTER]