Then I answered thee out of the blood, and said: Who is this that repent because of the word of a little boy? Gird up now thy loins like a man; for thou shalt demand of me, and I will answer thee.
April 2nd, 1880
High on a hill overlooking the small, peaceful town of Weastwood Valley, a sprawling white house rose. Inside, smoke spiraled upward, gathering into a thick cloud against the ceiling. The air smelled of wine, beer, and the rich, savory aroma of a crown roast of lamb displayed on a large table at the center of the room. The people gathered around it laughed and giggled loudly as they drank and talked about worldly matters. Nearby, another group gambled at poker and chattered about their lands, property, and riches. They were the Callahan family and their partners, celebrating a special occasion. Along the bar on the wall, a barman bustled back and forth, serving the guests, opening bottles, and juggling them without a single mistake. Across the room, in another corner, four men were engrossed in a game of billiards, the soft click of balls echoing faintly. Near the entrance hall, a string quartet played the violins melodiously. “If destiny has seen fit to bring me here, then there is purpose in it”, said the host of the party, a middle-aged man seated at the head of the main table. He differentiated himself from the rest in his dark blue suit, his rings shining on his hands, and his long gray beard swaying gently as he spoke. “I am the head of this family—the chief, if you prefer—and I am more than all these... countrymen in the town below us.” He said “countrymen” with visible disdain. “Detestable people”, he used to say. “I mean, if no one were watching...” said the youngest man standing around the billiard table, “...and I had a gun in my hand... I’d put an end to that damn bastard Phillip before he even knew what hit him.” He raised his voice over the noise, gesturing forcefully with his wrist as if strangling someone. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bathing the room with light. Outside, rain fell, beating against the windows, muffled by the din of the party. It landed on the ground, turning the earth to mud. A tall figure in a black cloak and flat-brimmed black hat stood in the rain, unmoving.
Three knocks came at the door, and the maid went to answer. She opened the door and saw a man standing right there in front of her, holding a gun pointed at her head. Trembling with fear, the maid backed slowly into the room and stopped close to the entrance. The man entered right after. He wore a large black poncho, with white horse ornaments at the tips, covering him all the way to the waist. Under the cloak, two Schofield Model 3, with a deep blued finish and a smooth walnut handle, auburn tone, were partially visible. Upon the poncho, a two-point sling held a Winchester ‘66 to him, also known as “yellow boy”; her receiver was made with a brass alloy that shone like gold. One by one, all of the guests were seeing. Some of them moved their hand to the holsters, but remained still, waiting for the next intruder’s move. He stared under the hat, observing everybody for a time. His pupils constricted, light blue eyes half closed. So, he took out his hat. The man looked relaxed and gentle. His parted lips curved in a half-smile, pulling at the sparse beard and tightening the square line of his jaw. The guy looked to be in his forties or fifties. His gun belt, on his gray pants, had a lateral and a front black holster projecting from the poncho. “Gentleman, sorry for the trouble”, said the stranger. Stopped a moment to set his hat down on the bar rail, right in front of a scared barman. “My name’s Shane Harrington.” Everybody in the room shifted his gaze from his face to the guns and back again. “P-pardon, M-mr. Harrington”, interrupted the old man seated at the central table, stuttering. “But, why are you here?” Shane stared at him for a few seconds before asking: “Are you Mr. Archibald Callahan? The Baron?” Mr. Callahan gulped down. He also looked at the guns, but he fixed his eyes on them longer than the others. “Y-yes, I am, indeed, the Baron Callahan.” He drew himself up, the title steadying his voice. “Hmph. Seems you have a lot of enemies, Mr. Callahan.” The Baron’s posture fell again. “W-why?” Shane didn’t answer. He turned around and moved his hands to his haversack, taking some coins and setting them on the bar rail. “I’d like some Whisky, friend, please”, Harrington requested to the barman. He obeyed, bringing a bottle and filling a glass. “You remember Frank Langford, I assume?”, the intruder continued. Archibald agreed with the head. “So… Tell me, who is he?” “A-a landowner. And also a c-cattle baron, and a railroad magnate, if my memory serves.” “And you disputed some lands with him a while ago, didn’t you?” In that moment, Mr. Callahan started to connect the dots, and understood all. “That bastard…”, he grumbled, “sent you to kill me.” When Shane saw the glass, he ignored it, grabbed the Whisky’s bottle and took a gulp. “Sir, please”, a young man gave a step in front. “We don’t wanna trouble here.” The intruder stared him, and walked to his front. The youngster widened his eyes, his hand pressing harder the handle of his revolver. “Can I see that gun?” Asked Shane, and the young man was no answer. Harrington pulled out his gun from his holster, and whistled. “A ‘peacemaker’. This is a pretty good toy, son.” The revolver had some Victorians engravings, from the barrel to the frame. After spinning the gun on his hands some times, he returned it to the youngster. “What’s your name?” “I-I… forgotten.” “You can’t remember your name?” “P-peter.” “Peter… Peter what?” “Peter Callahan.” Shane kept quiet. He walked through the room, drinking the Whisky, and staring the people. So, he stopped close to the poker table, looking to the pile of money in his center. “Hey folks. Who’s winning?” He took from the haversack a cigarette and lit it while holding it between his teeth. He took a long drag before picked it up and let the bottle on the table. “I think you didn’t hear, but I ask a question. Who’s winning?” “Me”, answered timidly a old man, seated next to Harrington. “And who would you be?” “I am Amadeus Catalan.” “Oh, I heard about you. The quack who killed that poor bastard oil owner in ‘54, right?” “Listen here, son of a bitch…” His face filled up with fury, quickly turning red. “Tsk-Tsk”, Shane interrupted him, shaking head with disfavor. “I wouldn’t do that if i were you.” He stepped in front of the old man, who got goosebumps, the anger in his face being replaced by fear.