Riding into town, he knew what kind of looks he’d be getting. It’d be the same looks he got no matter where he went. Being a bounty hunter, he was a friend to no one, and never a welcomed sight. The profession left a bad taste in the mouths of most people. Not that it ever mattered to him what other people thought, as he always was a loner anyway. On this occasion, he was bringing back another victim. Holding the reins of the horse following him with a body draped across it’s back, he could feel the fingers pointing towards him. Keeping his eyes focused ahead of him, he rode straight for the sheriff’s office. Stopping in front, he stepped down off his Palomino, and walked around to the victim of his Colt. He put his hand on the man’s back, and pulled him off the horse, letting the body fall violently to the ground. Brice Symon was a man who law officers were well aware of. If he was on a man’s trail, they rest assured that they’d be getting the man’s body without a trace of breath left within it. He walked into the sheriff’s office, and noticing the sheriff at his desk, walked over to him. Symon stood in front of him, pulled out a wanted poster, and dropped it on the desk. “He’s dead, I imagine?”, the sheriff asked. “Yep.” “Why do you bounty hunters always bring them in dead? The posters do say dead or alive.” “I’m not the one who made ‘em. It gives the option.” “Where’s he at?” “Laying in the dirt out in front.” “Don’t have much respect for the dead, do you?” “I don’t hear him complaining.” “Did you give him a chance to give himself up?” “No, but like I said, I didn’t make the poster. He’s just as dead with a bullet as he would be at the end of a rope. I just made it quicker.” The sheriff reached into a drawer and pulled out a box. Setting the box on his desk, he opened it to take out the reward money owed to Symon. “Here’s your blood money. Take it and get out of here.” “Don’t worry, sheriff, I don’t like being here any more than you enjoy having me. Just one more thing before I go.” Symon reached down to a stack of papers on the sheriff’s desk, and began looking through them. He picked out two, folded them, and put them in his shirt pocket. “Who’s death wish do you have in your hands now?” “Trist Ashton and Sloan Keogh.” “Why them?” “Gotta be somebody. They’re as good as any.” “How long are you staying here?” “I just want a peaceful hour or two in the saloon, and then I’ll be on my way.” “See that you do. I don’t want you around here.” Symon walked outside and saw a gathering crowd around the dead body that he left laying. He looked at them briefly before heading over to the saloon. He went into the saloon, and took to the bar, ordering himself a whiskey. After a few minutes of peacefulness, his drinking was interrupted by the town newspaperman. “You’re Brice Symon, are you not?” Symon turned his head slightly, and glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “Who wants to know?” “Well sir, I’m John Nelson, I run the newspaper here in town.” “Go away,” Symon said with a soft tone to his voice. “I was just wondering if I could get a few words from you to do a story.” “A story on what?” “A story on you. You may well be the most famous bounty hunter in the country. An interview with you would sell a lot of papers.” Symon once again glanced at the reporter, looking at him with contempt. He didn’t much care for somebody using him for their own personal gain. “Beat it,” Symon told him again. Nelson stood there paralyzed, wanting to try and convince Symon to grant him an interview. “If you don’t beat it, somebody else is gonna be doing a story on you...your obituary.” Nelson backed up, and quickly staggered out of the saloon as Symon continued drinking. He was a man of few words, hated small talk, and didn’t cotton to most people. He especially liked being left alone, being not too trusting of, or liking strangers. In his late 30’s, he’d been a bounty hunter for several years. Being a fairly big man of six foot three, he could be an intimidating man when he chose to be. He was left by himself for the next hour, and decided it was time to leave and begin the hunt for his next pair of victims. He didn’t just pick Ashton and Keogh as his next targets out of the blue. He already knew the general direction that they were hanging around. A week or two back he overheard a man who had a little too much to drink talking about the two of them. In his drunken state, he mentioned the area that the pair were in. He apparently was some sort of friend of the duo, or had dealings with them in the past. Trist Ashton and Sloan Keogh both had $5,000 on their head from the state of Kansas for various robberies, holdups and murder. They usually always traveled together, and sometimes had two or three other men riding along with them. They were rumored to be around Reno at the present time. As Symon rode along the trail, he kept looking back over his shoulder. Ever since he left town a few days before, he got an undeniable feeling that he was being followed. Although he saw no signs of anyone behind him, he could feel a presence on the back of his heels. Since tracking was his business, his instincts would usually tell him when he was close to someone. And his instincts now were telling him that someone was tailing him. Whoever it was did not seem to be in any hurry to catch up with him though, so he decided to wait for him. Since night was falling, he made camp with a clump of trees and bushes surrounding him, and built a small fire to make himself easy to spot. He put his gear down near the fire, and took up position behind some bushes. If the man came in, he’d get the drop on him. Sure enough, a half hour later, a man approached the camp. As he came in, not noticing anyone around, he took out his gun. He slowly walked towards Symon’s saddle and blanket placed near the fire. Symon startled him as he came out of the bushes behind him, pistol in hand. “Alright, drop the gun,” Symon told him. The stranger let his revolver fall to the ground, and slowly turned around to see Symon’s gray plated Colt staring at him in the stomach. “I’m not looking for any trouble,” the man stated. “You’ve been following me for two days now, what do you want?” “You’re Brice Symon, right?” “Depends on who’s asking.” “My name’s Conaghan...Jae Conaghan.” “Don’t reckon I know ya.” “I was in town when you brought that man in.” “Keep talking, friend.” “Well, I’m assuming you’re going after somebody else now.” “You best get to the point fairly quickly here. My finger’s getting a little tired.” “I was wondering if I could join up with you.” “Join up with me? Why?” “I’ve heard you’re one of the best.” “You hear well, but you didn’t answer the question. What do you wanna join up with me for?” “I thought maybe you could teach me how to do things. I’d like to be a bounty hunter too.” “Why?” “I think I’d be good at it.” Symon looked at him with a certain amount of awe. He could tell the kid had no idea what he was for. “How old are you, son?” “Just turned 19 last month.” Symon began realizing that the kid did not present any danger to him. He shook his head and holstered his pistol. He sat down and started eating some cold beans. “I don’t take apprentices. Besides, I work alone. Sit down and have some grub.” The kid picked up his gun, put it back in his holster, and sat down. Symon tossed him a can of beans. Conaghan looked at Symon, then down at the beans. “Don’t you eat it heated or nothin’?” Symon couldn’t help but be amused by him. “So hold it over the fire for a few seconds. When you’re trailing a man, you don’t always get hot meals. Sometimes you can’t risk a fire, so you eat it cold. You get used to it after a while.” Symon put the beans aside for a second while looking at the youngster who was having dinner with him. The kid made him curious. “What do you want to get started in this line of work for anyway? Ain’t you got family or something?” “No, I’ve been on my own since I was fourteen when my mother died. I never knew my father. He run out on us before I was even born. I’ve been working odd jobs around town since then to support myself. I have nothing to keep me there.” “This ain’t an easy life, son. You can die awful early if you don’t know what you’re doing.” “That’s why I followed you. You could teach me.” “Ever killed a man before?” Symon asked. Conaghan stared into the ground, and gently shook his head no. “Think you could do it if you had to?” “Yeah.” “What makes you think so?” “I just know that I can do this.” Symon had serious doubts about the kids’ ability to learn the craft, but he definitely seemed eager. At least he had that going for him, if nothing else. “Do you know what being a bounty hunter means? Or do you just know what the end result is supposed to be.” “Well, I’ve heard stories.” “I bet you have. I’ll tell you how it really is though. You can’t have a family, cause you’re never in one spot long enough to have a home.” “I don’t have any kind of family anyway,” Conaghan jumped in. “You have no friends cause you never get close enough to anybody to have any. You’re also an outcast in every town you come across who hate what you do. And believe me, there are some who view what we do as worse than the outlaws themselves.” “Well I wasn’t exactly enjoying what I was doing back in town anyway.” “You have to be willing to kill anytime, anywhere, in a split second. If you have hesitations, you won’t last long. You’ll be dealing with dangerous people who’ll have no regrets about putting you six feet under to get you off their trail.” “I understand.” “Think you can handle all that?” “I’m willing.” “You better be for your sake.” Symon took a deep breath, and sighed. “I know I’m gonna regret this, but I’ll let you come along.” Conaghan’s face lit up with a smile. “You won’t regret it, I’ll do whatever you ask.” “Understand one thing though, if you slow me up, or get in my way, I’ll leave you in a second.” “Understood,” Conaghan replied in agreement. “How’d you get started doing this sort of thing?” “I more or less stumbled into it a couple years ago. Had no money, no prospects, and no future. Saw a wanted poster of a man, went after him, and found out I was pretty good at this business. Just kept with it after that.” “No family of your own?” “No. You best turn in soon, we’ll get an early start in the morning.” Conaghan went to fetch his stuff, and take care of his horse, so he could bed down for the night. Symon continued sitting by the fire drinking a cup of coffee. His eyes were drawn into the burgeoning flames. Sitting motionless, almost in a trance, he was hypnotized by the fire. Through the ashes he could hear the frightening screams that he’d heard many times before. Unable to look away, he could still hear the woman screaming his name, begging for him to help her. Soon after, he heard a little girl asking him to save her. They were yelling his name running across a street. He couldn’t envision anything other than them running. There were no other people, or buildings. He heard them saying his name right after each other in rapid succession, over and over again. They were the driving force behind him becoming a bounty hunter. Those screams kept the hate inside of him flowing, enabling him to kill without hesitation. It was not always a nightly occurrence, but it happened more frequently than not. “Brice, you OK?” Conaghan said, breaking Symon’s concentration on the fire. Symon looked up at him without answering, and seemed startled and shaken. Conaghan put his hand on Symon’s shoulder, sensing that he was troubled by something. Conaghan’s voice broke his attention away from the woman and the little girl. The voices had stopped echoing through his mind, and the visions had now disappeared.