Pull up a stool pardner, lemme tell you a story…

Posted: April 29, 2012 in Uncategorized

Howdy pardners, done a little piece to reflect on my playthrough of Red Dead RedemptionAct 1.  Apologies for length and the bastardising of Stephen King’s writing style in the ‘Dark Tower’ series…


Some say the winds of change can chill you to the bone as they whistle their way up the main street of our town. Sure Armadillo, our little piece of dirt in the New Austin dustbowl, will have to buckle up its braces and face the new frontier but I’m here to tell you right now that don’t worry me two bits.

You’d think these new ideas would put the wind up an old timer like me but that’s the deal right there.  I’m old, don’t have too much left on the clock and got enough of my own wind (thanks to those beans Herbert sold me last week) so let change do what it wants and thinks is right with my town. S’long, when it’s time, I get my long stay abode up on that hill (with no bodily ‘early alarm call’ telling me my withered up bladder needs emptying, d’ya ken) then change can come right up to my front door and declare it’s moving in and taking the best room in the house.

No sir, what chills me are those stormy squalls from the past.  I’ve seen a lot of what’s come before in this town.  Some of it makes an Armadillo born and bred man proud but some of it will send you right to the saloon to lose it at the bottom of the nearest whisky glass.

One of them ill breezes picked up early last week.  Arrived one morning on the train from Blackwater.  Just a man, but one with a whole heap of baggage even though all he carried was the hat on his head and the piece at his side. He offered the name ‘John Marston’ to anyone who looked like they wanted it but I knew who he really was.  One of Van der Linde’s men.  A gunslinger.  An outlaw.

Some say that Van der Linde gave his men a love of nature, taught them how to hold a pen and read about the World.  Mebbe all that’s true but all I ever saw were his teachings of violence, how to look a man square in the eyes as you shot the life out of them.  At least that’s what Marston signed up to.  Right up to that train massacre when our John decided he needed a different direction in his wretched life.

Some say Marston isn’t here on his own steam, that he’s being pressed by the government to tie up some loose ends with regards to some old friends.  Working for Dutch? Or the Government? Different puppeteers, same puppet.  A dangerous one at that.

I’ve been told that if, like the times, the weather can change then so can a man.  Maybe that’s true too, I’m always learning new things even at my age (although that game of Liar’s dice don’t think much of my arthritic paws).  By many accounts, Marston has done a great deal of good up at McFarlane’s Ranch.  Helping with chores around the place, breaking in the horses, even saving some of old McFarlane’s best stock from a suspicious barn fire just the other night.  Other stories don’t paint quite the rosy picture.  It’s gone awfully quiet up at Pleasance House since John popped by with the firm offer of a land purchase.  P’raps it was a little overly firm.

My nickel’s worth?  I say you judge a man by the friends he keeps.  Sure our protector of the peace, Marshall Leigh Johnson, will count himself lucky that Marston turned up when he did to help with crooks like the Bollard Twins threatening to turn this town lawless.

But I’ve also heard that Marston has literally bin diggin’ up the past with that grave robber, Seth, up at Coot’s Chapel when he’s not emptying the pockets of gullible fools and fixing races with that shyster Nigel West Dickens. Not the first set of names I’d have come up with to ally against Bill Williamson and his band of merry men up at Fort Mercer.

Hell, mebbe Marston isn’t the past after all.  Perhaps he IS that wind of change,  made man.  If so, then that change cain’t be far away…and, from what my sore old eyes have seen these past few days, it’s going to be mighty messy.


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