George Ryder rose from his bed with the first crack of sunlight, slowly fastening his clothing onto his body and placing his faded chester hat upon his head. He slowly stalked out of the building in which his gang possessed as a hide out at Twin Rocks, and hauled his barely awake body up the ladder to the roof top. On there, he could smoke his first cigarette as he watched the sun rise. He did this every morning, watching the plains of New Austin come alive from the height of the rooftop. The rest of his gang would not wake for another hour or two. 
In mid drag, he caught sight of lonely farmer a little ways away, shouting for help as he did his best to try and fend off the pack of wolves that were snapping at his legs. George merely watched in silence, his face blank of expression, as the man was eventually devoured. The farmer had been in close enough proximity that, if he really wanted to, George could have shot the wolves away from him. Yet he refrained. George Ryder was anything but kind.