It was almost night at the San Lucas outpost just outside of Los Gorriónes, a small, dusty town on the edge of the frontier. The occasional buzzard could be seen circling the open lands in search of supper.

The air was tense. Father Michael thumbed through his bible. Clayton Roth marched back and forth along the wall with his rifle on his shoulder in the sort of ever-readiness that he was rarely without whether circumstance called for it or not. Finally, “Deuce” Mitchell sat leaning back in his chair chewing on his toothpick in a manner that seemed far too relaxed when compared to his current company.

Out of the still dusk light clomped the hooves of a lone horse. It immediately caught the attention of the three men at the San Lucas outpost and they peered out into the nothing of the frontier trying to pinpoint the location of it’s origin. Finally the silhouette became clear and galloped ever closer.

Clayton pulled his scope to try for a better look. It was the Pony Express. Finally, word had come.