Oh look, it’s this old varmint. c: And his mule, Nena. Who, unlike horses, can traverse gorges and rocky canyons and haul bigger loads.

Mostly everything is the same. Johnny Reb deserter, constantly wandering hobo, survivalist extraordinaire. He’s got a rifle somewhere there, possibly a big old stick with rattlesnake tails attached to it. Folks tend to think he’s some kind of old Injun Wise Man, but anyone who knows him knows he’s just sort of an eccentric old coot who’s been around the block about forty or eighty times. Rattlesnake tails on a stick? Warns rattlers he’s walking and tells them to keep away. Weird morning rituals? Yoga. Herbs in pouches and bags? Shit-tons of peyote holy shit that is so much peyote various blood clotters and herbs of various uses. And some thyme because he loves cooking with it. Flask of rattlesnake venom? 

Well, that one’s a little harder to explain, he says, drinking some down.

He tends to end up wherever trouble is brewing, despite at least one or five bounties on his head–like a darker, meaner lone ranger. Which might just be why he felt drawn toward the Little Town, while looking for someplace safe to bring his young ward, a pretty former saloon-gal with a sharp tongue, clever eyes, and a want for freedom, and help her settle down someplace away from her former life. 

He wasn’t exactly happy, to say the least, when he realized that after thousands of miles, hundreds of close calls, starving, being shot, other shenanigans–for both of them–and finally, FINALLY finding someplace safe, accepting, where Miss Love Not could prosper, there’s some jackass trying to take over the town and run everyone out.

We can’t very well stand for that, hm?