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The rain was falling hard over Gap Tooth one late night, and all travellers in the region had found shelter in the caves that were bore into the mountains surrounding the region, or found some kind soul to take them in for the night. In Rathskeller Fork, a tall, powerful Scotsman, who was dressed in dirty old church clothes and a ripped top hat had just loudly barged into the saloon, took a seat at the bar, and yelled, "WHISKAY!" at the top of his lungs in a thick scottish brogue. The bartender brought him his glass and said sarcastically, "a bit louder next time, I don't think the citizens of Armadillo could hear you very well." The Scotsman sneered at him, downed his whiskey, and yelled "NOTHER!". He began to sip this glass and turned to the man next to him who was wearing a bandana around his face. The man was gazing into his drink when the Scot asked him, "So what, did ya just rob a bank er sumthin?". He was slurring, so he must have been off drinking elsewhere before he showed up. "Nope" the man replied, pulling up his bandana to take a drink of his scotch. "So what is it? Yer jaw fall off? Or d'ya not want to be recugnized?" he slurred. "I guess you could say that." The man replied. "So, where do ya come from, eh lad?" the Scot said. "No where really, I'm just a drifter. I go from place to place looking for work, and then once I've worn out my welcome there I move on." "So a bounty hunter?" said the Scot. "Yea, I suppose. Not always killin' though, I do other things too that I'd rather not talk about." The Scot said "What, are ya a bloody prostitue?" chuckling as he said it, then began to cough violently after sipping his wiskey. "No, I'm not." said the man gravely. "Relax boyo, I'm just pullin' yer leg. The names Murphy Bates, yerself?" "...Joseph" the man said hesitantly, "by any chance, did you ever know a man named John Helms and another man named Owen?" Murphy put his drink down, and smirked. "Yea, once. But if ya know them, I'm sure ya know how I-" Murphy stopped mid-sentance and his smirk faded. His eyes widened and he began to gurgle, coughing up small amounts of blood. Another man, also wearing a bandana around his face, had buried a knife six inches deep into his back. The man thrust the knife deeper into his back, twisted it, jerked it upward, then grabbed Murphy's shoulder and pulled the knife out. Murphy slumped forward and his head hit the bar; he was dead. The patrons began to scream and panic as the two masked men walked out of the bar and to their wagon. They both got on and pulled off their masks. "Mighty fine knife work back there Johnny boy" the man said with a grin streatching from ear to ear. "Well, you kept him occupied long enough," John said, "honest to God Owen, I never thought he'd shut up!" "Well that's another name we can cross off of our list, haha! Who's next?" "Elijah" John said, "Elijah Benson". "To Armadillo then!" Owen said, pointing off into the distance as they road in the pouring rain to their next victim.