The stars covered the Western plain, as a warm blanket would for a shivering child. Winslow loved to gaze at the night sky, especially after a long ride…which was the state he found himself in. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered. Yet, as he stared above and felt his eyes grow weary, drifting into a mild form of serenity, he enjoyed a moment of peace. Time well spent, not passing judgment on another soul nor having judgment passed upon himself.

Winslow Nash was a reputable lawman, one who had made a reputation for himself as an Indian fighter and conscientious lawman in many towns. Nash had been the sheriff of Albuquerque, New Mexico for the last two years. On a hot August evening the sheriff pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned back in his wobbly old wooden chair, staring at the stars, pondering what the meaning of them were, starting to have the inclination to sleep. Yet he would take a moment to consume one last cigarette before turning in.

At the moment he started to roll his cigarette Nash heard a commotion. One block over a woman was screaming, and an obviously drunken man was howling in laughter. The sheriff drew his .45 Colt pistol and ran to the fray. He then observed a woman, a prostitute known as Laura Niles, running for her life draped in ripped clothing, and a man, a known drunk by the name of Daniel Morgan, chasing her with the obvious intention of slicing her with a long knife. The sheriff felt he had no recourse but to dispatch him before he could do any more harm to the young lady. Unfortunately, it later seemed the Town Council did not agree that a half-naked man brandishing a saber, chasing a woman through an alley was just cause to shoot him in the head. So, Nash had no choice but to tender his resignation, and head to Yuma to take up their recent offer to make him their sheriff.

Two days into his journey he made camp beside the Red Branch River. As he stoked his fire, a buckboard wagon approached from the east. As the wagon approached, he saw that the driver was his old friend, Michael Lear.

Nash had fought along with Lear in the Indian Wars; they had ridden together for many years. Lear had saved Nash's life, and Nash had returned the favor many times. Lear was a tall man; he wore a 10-gallon hat, had grown a large beard, and one could see merely by looking in his eyes that he was a man to be reckoned with. Many years back he had been shot with an arrow in the shoulder as he drove his knife through the chest of Sioux Chief White Fox. His right arm never worked too well after that, so he had an eight-gauge shotgun special-made for him which could blow a man clean in half. Lear was with his new bride, JoAnn. She had long brown hair and seemed a higher class of woman, the type that Nash would've expected Lear to acquire; Lear had always attracted the best of women. He had that gift.

They sat at the campfire telling old stories from their past for hours; then, Lear's face grew a stern look and Nash knew he had something of meaning to say. "What is it Lear? I've seen that look before," Winslow mumbled.

"It's Gabe, Winslow. He be going to take a job as a deputy in Abilene."

"Damn that boy," Nash retorted. "I guess I'll be heading to Abilene before I be heading to Yuma, to give that boy a whooping."

"What you going to whoop him for, for doing the same thing you've done?"

"Maybe so, Lear, but killing ain't any way for a man to live." Nash packed up the next morning, and said his goodbyes to Lear and his wife JoAnn. "Lear, if I never see you again, you just remember I'll always be beholding to you for all you've done for me."

Lear nodded his head in compliance; he then mounted his wagon with his wife; and as Nash turned and started to ride away, he shouted: "Hey, Nash. Try not to get yourself killed anytime soon, you son of a bitch!" Lear then belched, as a last word of salutation to his old friend.

Nash entered Abilene under the assumption that his brother Gabe was now the Deputy Sheriff there. He had ridden hard for days before he entered the town. He retrieved his .45 Colt revolver from its sheath and spun its cylinder to affirm it was fully loaded with cartridges, as he approached the main street, for he had no foresight as to what he would face once he entered.

Nash immediately went to the Sheriff's office to verify the information that had been given to him. Abilene was not the town one would have expected it to be by its reputation. It was dusty, yet with muddy roads filled with horse scat. And it did not seem anything near as bustling a town as one would read about in the magazines prevalent in the East. He opened the door to the Sheriff's office, finding his brother Gabriel at the desk, cleaning his gun. "So it's true, damn it! Gabe, I told you a lawman's life is a dead end. No one wants to be around you, no one cares about you until trouble starts; then they come to you to stop it and eventually you will die. Damn you, I told you to be a farmer, a storekeeper, raise cattle, whatever would put down that gun that father taught us to shoot. Use your mind, not your gun, to prove you are a man."

Gabriel growled back: "Winslow, you son of a bitch. I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I heard you were dead two years ago." Then with a smile: "You look good, my brother."

Nash didn't smile back. "Can you tell me why you've done exactly what I told you not to do?"

"Oh, you mean don't do exactly what you have done to try to be a good man and save others, and use our skill with a gun to help the helpless?"

"Damn, I wish you weren't so much like me," Nash retorted. "I just want you to have a good, safe life, and I know from experience that the life of a lawman is a lonely, shallow existence that will sooner or later leave you dead and forgotten."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before and I know you're only trying to help; but I am following in my father's and your footsteps, so how can you blame me? Look at me; I'm making $40 a month and I am the Deputy of Abilene."

"Yes, you done well for yourself, boy. I guess I'd be a hypocrite if I sat here and said you were not doing the right thing, when you are doing such as I am." Nash thought for a moment. "Just remember please, Gabe: take it slow and easy and let your brain make your decisions, not your heart."

"Let's get a shot, brother," Gabe commanded his brother. "How long has it been?"

"Too long, my young brother. Too damn long, Gabe." They had a few shots at the saloon across the way, and spoke of their childhood: their beloved mother, and their intrepid father. Winslow had hoped Gabe would not follow in his family's footsteps and be a gunman, yet how could he say Gabe was wrong in doing exactly what he was doing? So he gave Gabe his blessing, and left town that evening, heading to a new job that would make him the Sheriff of Yuma.

Three weeks after Winslow had visited him, Gabe's boss, a man that had a reputation of being a good lawman, but one who drank deep into the bottle every night and sometimes shirked his duties, left the town and said he was going in pursuit of a wanted man. Truth be known, he was merely spending the night with his fancy, Mary Paulson. That next morning, the outlaw Tracy Amidon approached Abilene; he was immediately spotted by three drunken so-called Vigilance Committee members. Wishing to reap the rewards of their deeds, they approached the gunslinger in the saloon. Tracy had not shown any sign of aggression, yet they knew it was him by his clothing, demeanor, and especially by the scar that wrapped around the left side of his face. They approached him like the drunken inept fools that they were, and tried to subdue him. Before they could even begin to draw their guns, all three fell dead. They lay on the dirty floor, reminiscent of large bags of flour thrown upon the store-keeper's dock. Gabe, alone and in charge by the Sheriff's absence, had no other option but to try to subdue Tracy, until he could obtain all the information he would need to ascertain if it was murder or self-defense.

Tracy turned to Gabe. "Boy, I have done nothing wrong. Those men drew on me and I had no recourse but to dispatch them. I have no problem with you; I can see you are yet a young man that has many years to live. Please just let me walk away."

Gabe swallowed hard. "Sir, I cannot do that. The Sheriff is out of town, and I am the law in Abilene today. I need you to come with me until I figure out what happened here."

Tracy looked at the Deputy. Gabriel could feel his thumb quivering, sweat pouring from his face; he had never felt a fear stronger than this. This man's piercing blue eyes, his demeanor, his voice; everything told him that if he faced this man he would die. But, he had sworn his word to the people of Abilene; he would defend them and be the law in the Sheriff's absence. He stared about; the storekeeper, the barkeep at the city saloon, the dressmaker from across the street, the twelve-year-old Cooper boy that had always looked up to him. They all stared at Gabe as if he were the one man that could save them from the ensuing evil. He had no choice; he thought of his father, and of his brother, and his beloved mother, and could not turn away. "You, whoever you are, come with me, or I must take you by force."

At that point, all of the townspeople ran and closed their doors; Gabriel knew he would be left alone to face this nemesis, a man he knew that could squelch his life as if flicking a fly from a window. Still, his pride and honor would not let him turn away. "Boy, I beg of you: don't make me kill you. Let me go; I am Tracy Amidon. I know you've heard of me; you don't want to face me, nor I you. Just let me go."

"I can't do that, sir," Gabriel replied. "I have an obligation to this town."

"For the love of God, I wish you did not feel that way, boy. I just wanted to come in town to get a drink, and leave. You're not taking me in. Walk away. If you try to stop me, you will die."

Gabriel was petrified. Yet he knew he was good with the gun, and he did not exactly know who this man was. He could not just let him turn and leave town, or he would be disgraced, and shortly lose his job. Gabriel pulled his revolver, aiming it at Tracy's head. "Please mister, come with me peaceably, or I will shoot you." Tracy turned and drove his piercing blue eyes into Gabriel's soul, overwhelming him with fear and the absolute certainty that he was about to die. But, he was too proud to relent.

Tracy then stated: "I am leaving. If you try to stop me, you will die." Tracy mounted his steed. Gabe was anxious, but was still able to admire the confidence and grace in which Tracy turned and slowly rode away.

"Stop there, or I swear I'll kill you dead! Now get off your horse and drop the gun," Gabriel said, as calmly as he could.

It was not even a second, or a half a second or an eighth of a second; it seemed instantaneous that Tracy turned and lodged a bullet between Gabriel's eyes, seemingly as easily as one would snap his fingers. Gabriel was dead.

Afterwards, Tracy wandered from town to town, trying to conceal his identity. He knew that Gabriel's older brother was attempting to track him down, yet he knew he could probably stay a few towns ahead of him. The closest Winslow had ever come was two weeks after Gabriel's death, 50 miles east of Yuma.

Winslow Nash had ridden into Red Bluff. His first stop was to the tumble-down saloon owned by Laura Rose. Winslow had a relationship with her, off and on, for many years. Nash slung the shutter-doors back in front of the saloon. Laura looked up from the bar that she had been gazing at in boredom, and saw the man she had always loved and admired. "Nash!" She ran and embraced him. "What are you doing here, Nash? I'd given up hope of seeing you again."

"Laura, it's my brother Gabriel. "He has been killed by a gunman called Amidon. Tracy Amidon."

"Winslow, that bastard was here two days ago. He killed three men. They called him out when they recognized him as the great shootist. They were only boys, 18, 19 at the most. I suppose all who see him have the inclination to take him down, to feel they are the best.

"I saw it myself," she went on. "Tracy did not provoke anyone. He simply sat at the bar and ordered a drink. The three young men recognized him and called him out. He tried to avoid the fray, yet they would not allow it." Her voice wavered a bit. "They pushed him. Confident in their numbers, I guess, the biggest of them confronted him, barking, 'You, Tracy!' Tracy stared at his shot glass, trying to ignore the ramblings of an idiot." Laura caught her breath, and went on: "The big one said, 'Tracy, I am calling you out.' Tracy looked up at the boys. He didn't raise his voice. He told them: 'I'm going to say this one time: leave me alone.' All three boys cackled with laughter, mocking Tracy's repulsion. The biggest and dumbest of the boys drew his revolver. Winslow, I'm telling you: before a man could blink his eyes all three were shot in the head, their brains splattered on the wall. Then, Tracy threw his shot glass at the mirror behind the bar, screaming, 'Dammit, these three young men are dead!' He stared into the faces of all who were in the bar. 'Why? Why? I came here to have a drink, not to kill.' And then he turned and left. It was horrible, Winslow!"

Laura begged Winslow not to chase Tracy. She insisted he was not human; he killed people at will and no one could out-draw him. Nash calmly told her: "He may be the toughest man God ever strung a gut through, but I know he is the man that killed my brother."

Winslow followed Tracy's trail for a few more months. He was not hard to follow; he left dead bodies wherever he had been. But he was hard to catch. Laura's words finally sunk into him. Why follow this demon? He could not bring Gabe back by killing Tracy, and he would probably lose his own life for the effort. So, with a troubled mind, Nash eventually felt it was time to relinquish his quest.

Tracy had heard that Winslow Nash had settled down in Yuma, and was the Sheriff there. So, years later when he figured Nash had stopped looking for him, he was relieved; Tracy already had his hands full staying clear of every jackass west of the Mississippi, since he had a bounty of $10,000 on his head in three states. Tracy was sure Nash was just lying in wait until the day he could come and view his body in some town square, under a torch, with a crudely-written sign laying above his head stating: Murderer. So, Tracy stopped worrying about Winslow Nash, for it was already his full-time job squelching all of the would-be gunmen attempting to slay him every time he approached civilization.

Tracy walked cautiously into a saloon in a small town 20 miles west of Yuma, Arizona. He wore an unusually large rimmed black hat that had obviously endured many years of inclement weather. All of his attire was black. He wore his hat low, barely revealing his brow, in a failing attempt to conceal the six-inch scar that stretched from his eye to his chin. This scar was to his detriment, as it was the distinguishing mark that was used by all to identify him as the notorious gunman, Tracy Amidon. At a glance, his chiseled, weather-beaten, scarred face spoke many words. It was that of man tortured by his past; yet one could also see that he possessed a power that few could ever attain.

He approached the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. After consuming the contents in one gulp, he tapped the shot glass on the bar so to request another. At that moment, two cattle hands, who considered themselves to be proficient with a gun, queried, "Are you Tracy?" Amidon did not answer. Again, the cockier of the two men repeated, "I said, are you Tracy?" Amidon whispered to himself, 'Damn it, it usually takes at least four drinks before someone recognizes me.' Then, Tracy replied:

"What if I am, you ass? Just let me be. I am in route west. I wish only to be left alone."

"Oh, so you are the one, the one they say is the best. 'Tracy'…what the hell kind of name is that, anyway?" The two jackass cattlemen roared in laughter with their brethren in the saloon.

"I'm going to say this one more time: leave me the hell alone," Tracy commanded.

"How do you think you have the right to give us orders, Mr. Bad Ass Gunman? I think all that they say about you is bullshit, and you are just a coward living on your reputation."

Tracy turned to face the two men. "If you are going to do something stupid, do it now, or shut up."

Seemingly at once, the two would-be gunfighters attempted to draw their guns from their holsters. Tracy turned and proceeded to dispatch both men before their guns came close to becoming a threat to him. Before either man hit the floor, Tracy was already consuming the remaining contents of his shot glass. He whispered: "God, I am so done with this life. Both of these men had mothers, and maybe wives and children. I cannot live like this another day; I am tired of killing."