Well, I've been writing for a while, but I'd never done a Read Dead story. After reading Spawny's blog about a Read Dead book, I started playing around with an idea in my head. And lo, the short story you are about to read was born. Anyway, I wrote this with the intention of it being as action-filled and comedic as some of the actual RDR missions are. I feel pretty confident that I did the game justice. After you're done reading, if you wouldn't mind doing two things for me.

  • 1, write a comment and tell me what you thought about it.
  • 2, if you really enjoyed it, tell your fellow users of the wiki. The more the merrier!

Well, here goes nothin'!

A Red Dead Redemption Short Story

The sound of hooves thudding on wood echoed in the early morning as the people of Thieves' Landing were just now stirring. John Marston's horse slowly walked across the bridge toward the house he had purchased here a while back.
John's goal was West Elizabeth, for he had just caught Javier Escuella and killed Bill Williamson down in Mexico. As much as he would like to press on, he had been riding all night, and was worn out from the saddle.
As he approached his house, a prostitute from the opposite side of the road called out, "Hey, mister! You lookin' for a good time?" She grinned.
"No, ma'am. I thank ya'," John replied, getting down from the saddle and walking his horse the rest of the way behind his house, where a hitching post could be found. Tying the reins there, he proceeded onto the porch and then up the stairs.
Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, he found the door open half-way. John stopped and rested his left hand on the knob. With his right, he palmed his Cattleman.
Pushing the door open, John stayed outside, waiting for any shots that were to come, pass. After a few moments, he rushed inside, revolver drawn and pointed ahead of him, ready to blast anyone inside.
Much to his surprise, John found no assailents - only a frightened-looking Irish cowering in the corner. John holstered his weapon and walked closer. "Damn. What're you doin' here, Irish?"
Irish, who had been huddled down with his head between his knees, looked up, startled. "John! Jesus! You scared the piss outta me! I thought you was the feller that's lookin' to blow me brains out!" He came forward with his arms spread wide, ready to give John a firm embrace.
John pushed Irish away. "I thought I'd seen the last of you in Nuevo Paraíso."
"Well, don't get too excited to see me, Johnny boy," Irish replied.
"Irish, what are you doing here in Thieves' Landing?"
Irish walked over and shut the door, but not before peeping outside to see if anyone was around. "Say, John, do you remember them fellers that gave us that, uh...swell welcome when we went to Mexico?"
John took off his hat and took a seat in a chair nearby. "The fellers that tried to kill us? Them the fellers you're talkin' about?"
"Yep, those are the ones. You remember we had to kill all of 'em?"
"Yes, I remember the many times you've almost gotten me killed, now where is this going?" John was in no mood for Irish's games. He was tired and hungry after the long night of riding.
"Patience, John, I'll get there. So anyway, back in Mexico, it turns out we didn't kill all of 'em. The rest caught up to me while I was in Casa Madrugada, and let me tell you, they didn't get no friendlier after you and me parted ways. And I bought 'em all drinks!"
John gave a questioning look, for a generous Irish was something he had never seen. "You bought them all drinks?"
Irish twiddled his thumbs and looked out the window. "Well, I, uh, I meant too. Really, I did! Honest! It's just that some, uh, pressing matters came up and I had to leave the cantina after all them feckers got drunk..."
"So you had to leave Mexico again because you skipped out on a bar tab?" John had the feeling that he was about to get wrapped up in something that would hinder his plans of resting.
Irish nodded. "Yeah, so I came here. I knew you had a place here, and I didn't think you'd be back from Nuevo Paraíso so quickly, John Marston."
John stood, leaving his hat in the chair. "So those banditos followed you all the way here?"
Irish shook his head. "Oh, no! Them banditos don't know I ever left the country. They're probably still turnin' over rocks lookin' for me! I sure gave them the slip!" Irish nudged John in the stomach with his elbow and chuckled. "No, this guy here is an all new feller."
John sighed and rubbed the thick stubble on his face. "Tell me what happened..."
"Okay, hear me out, John. I won a bunch a money at the Liar's Dice table last night, and the fellers I was playin' say I cheated! I know for a fact that I don't think I cheated!"
"You don't think so?" John stared Irish down.
Irish almost winced under John's glare. "Alright, so maybe I'm not sure if I cheated or not, but at the time a bottle was bein' passed around the table! Now them fellers say I turned over a couple o' me dice, but who knows for sure? I was pretty drunk..." Irish pointed at John. "You know how it is."
"Yeah I know," John replied. He grabbed Irish's arm and forced him toward the door. "Well, Irish, it was anything but pleasant seeing you again, but you best be goin'."
Irish wormed his way out of John's tight grip. "Whoa, whoa! You can't just throw me out! Not when I gots people trying to string me up!"
"When are there people not trying to string you up?" John pushed Irish out the door and attempted to shut it quickly, but Irish grabbed the door and pried it open.
"You owe me a favor, John!" He shouted.
"I don't owe you a thing!"
"I'm the one that got you into Mexico! Heard you got your man Williamson, too! All because o' me, if you look at it a certain way!" Irish kept pushing, but with John pushing on the other side, Irish was slowly losing ground, his boots sliding across the wood.
"Irish, you are a fool if you think I owe you any favors! As many times as you've almost gotten me killed?" John then pulled the door in, making Irish fall flat on his stomach without the door there to keep him propped up.
As Irish hit the floor, a loud crack ripped through the air, and a bullet pierced the wooden door frame. John crouched down and drew his Cattleman as Irish scurried inside John's safehouse, kicking the door shut.
"See! They're after me!" Irish shouted, looking at John. "C'mon, help a fella out!"
John holstered his revolver, walked over to the chair he had been sitting in, and picked up his hat. He walked over to the window and pushed the curtain aside slightly, peering out.
"C'mon out, Irish!" A man across the road shouted. He was holding a Henry rifle and had it aimed at the door way, not noticing John looking out the window. He was a rather tall, burly man with flat-crowned, flat-brimmed tan-colored hat.
"What'chu want from me, feller?" Irish shouted back.
"I challenge you to a duel! Step out here and we'll see what kinda man you is!"
"He's gotta rifle aimed at the door, Irish," John warned.
"Put the rifle down and I'll come out!" Irish shouted back at the man.
John watched the man lower the Henry. "Alright, it's safe, Irish."
"It's safer still in here. I ain't budgin' one inch!"
"You gotta go and duel him," Marston said.
Irish sat down in the chair John had previously been in. "Not one inch!"
"You get out there or I'll shoot you myself!"
Irish had an inquisitive look, as if he had a revelation. "Say,'re a rather intimidating fella."
John knew what was coming. "No."
"Well, I bet that if you set foot out there he'd back down in an instant. If I remember correctly, he's a scrawny whelp-of-a-man!"
John threw his arms in the air. "I just saw him out the window, he's a big fella!"
"But you ain't scared o' big fellas! Me on the other hand...I'm better against guys my size or smaller. Look," Irish stood for a second, but afraid John would try to grab him and throw him back outside, he quickly sat back down, "I'll make it worth your while. I'll pay ya'."
"Yeah, I'll bet you will," John said.
"Irish! My patience is running low! Get out here, or I come in!" The man after Irish could be heard loud and clear.
"You've gotta go out there, for me, John, for all the stuff I done for ya'."
John gave up. "You're not gonna leave, are you?"
"I'd prefer not to while that big feller's out there."
John sighed and walked to the window and looked back out. The man didn't have the rifle pointed at the door, so Marston walked to it. "I'll see what I can do," John said. "What's this fella's name, anyway?"
" appears to have slipped my mind."
John opened the door, took off his hat, and waved it outside. "I'm comin' out!" He shouted.
Irish stood as John was about to take a step. "Good luck, John. And don't worry, I'll make sure your remains get to your wife and boy."
John shook his head and walked out. He leaned on the banister at the top of the stairs and gave a slight wave to Irish's foe. "Howdy, friend."
"Who the hell are you?" Picking his rifle back up and pointed it at John, he said, "Is this some kinda game? I'll blow you apart!"
John raised his hands in surrender. "Whoa, whoa! No game, pal. I'm here to take you up on your offer to duel."
"That was an offer for Irish."
"I'm taking his place. His representative, if you will."
The man lowered his Henry. "Alright, get down here."


The two men stood in the middle of the street, facing each other. John and his foe stood with their feet apart and their hands dangling just over their revolvers. They both flexed their fingers, waiting for the other to make a move.
From the buildings lining the street, crowds formed that were eager for the duel. From the window of John's house, Irish sat on his heels, peering just over the window sill, watching in anticipation.
Overhead, a vulture circled both of the duelists, eager for a meal. The streets were otherwise empty, and all of the onlookers were quiet, hushed, waiting for the shots.
John's foe squinted at him, while John's expression was as solid as a stone. The man became impatient, and his eyes grew wide as he made a move for his pistol. The eye movement was an indication to John that the man was about to draw, so John drew his own piece - only a couple of seconds faster.
John fired off four shots out of his Cattleman. One bullet grazed the man's jawbone, two went into his chest, and the other dug deep into his gut. John spun the revolver on his finger and holstered it. His opponent hadn't even gotten a shot off.
Now, John's biggest problem was getting Irish out of the place so he could some much-needed rest. "John, look out!" Irish called from in the house up above.
John quickly looked toward the saloon, where another man was pointing a Schofield at him. Irish, who had somehow gotten his hands on a Double-Barreled Shotgun, fired one of the barrels. The man fell, but when he did, three more men started drawing their own revolvers, obviously friends of the fallen men.
John turned and ran back to his house. Running every other step up the stairs, he burst inside. Irish spun around with the shotgun aimed at John's stomach. "Get that away from me!" John hunkered down by the window and drew his Cattleman, reloading the empty shells from the duel.
After firing a few shots, John handed the revolver to Irish, who started firing blindly. "Come an' get me, ya' slippery bastards!"
John reached inside his satchel and withdrew a bottle filled with a mysterious liquid sloshing around inside. "Let's see how this works out."
With this said, Irish's attention was drawn to the bottle. He sat down beside John and laid the Cattleman beside him. "Oh! Thank the good Lord! You brought a bottle! You, John Marston, are truly a man after me own heart!" Irish reached for the bottle with both hands.
"Get back, fool, this ain't for drinkin'!" John pushed Irish onto his side. Pulling a rag out of his pocket, he stuffed it into the bottle, with part of it dangling out of the neck.
"Don't stuff your sweaty ol' rag in there! You're ruinin' perfectly good drink!"
A bullet ricocheted off of the wood outside of the building and the two men got lower to the ground. "This is something I picked up in Mexico,"John commented. Lighting a match, John lit the rag on fire, and picking up his Cattleman, he smashed the glass of the window.
With his arm moving in a wide arc, the bottle sailed through the air and crashed onto the porch of the saloon, where the three gunmen were gathered. In a burst of fire, the three outlaws were engulfed in flame, and they lay on the ground, rolling and shouting in pain.
Irish stood at the window, watching, his mouth was gaped wide open. He started chuckling. "Sweet Jesus! I heard o' liquor bein' able to kill, but I never dreamed like that! Is there anything the drink can't do?" Irish guffawed and slapped his knee.


John and Irish walked out into the street, watching the flames burn brightly. "Well, thanks for your help, John, I'll be seein' ya'!" Irish waved and started walking away quickly.
"Irish," John called, making him stop in his tracks. "Those fellers were mad over somethin' bigger than a no-good, lousy cheater. What's the rest of the story?"
A sheepish grin spread across Irish's face. "Ah yes! Funny you should mention that, Johnny boy. I remembered while you was dueling that after the Liar's Dice game, I may or may not have...had my way with one o' them fellers' daughters. Now, I'm not sure, but it's a possibility. I was real drunk, John, you know how it is."
"Yeah, I know," John said, slipping his thumbs through his belt loops.
"Well, I'm gonna get a drink now. Care to join me? I swear, I'll buy for ya'."
"No, Irish. I just want to get a meal and some sleep."
"Alright, pal. Your loss. I'll see ya' 'round, Marston. Stay safe."
"Irish, as long as I'm not around you, I will be. Goodbye."
"Pfft!" Irish said as John turned around and walked away, intent on finally getting some much-needed rest.

The End

Thanks for reading, everyone. As I said above, make sure to leave a comment telling me what you thought, and make sure to tell your friends about it!

--SAMurai 04:45, December 14, 2011 (UTC)

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