Homer Benjamin Hartford, Jr sat on his pulpy white ass atop a fidgeting painted mare. His tremendous girth caused discomfort in most horses, even sturdy beasts such as this one. Homer’s fashionable clothing and derby hat, straight from the shops in Manhattan, were covered in a coating of orange dust. The dust coated his bloated, boil marked, sweaty face and tinted his normally gray handlebar mustache a sunset color. His horse, Louellen, shifted and bumped his companion.

The companion, a spindly Mexican with a sombrero the size of Texas, sat atop a stinking mule smoking a thick cigarette that didn’t smell quite like burning tobacco. Crisscrossed over the Mexican’s chest were two ammunition belts for a rifle that Humberto lost three years ago in a poker game just outside of El Paso. He thought they looked stylish, and people just assumed he still had a gun hidden somewhere in his bright green poncho.

On the other side of the river sat their enemy, the perpetrator of the collapsed bridge, with a wide grin.