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The road into Perdition is a river of mud and horseshit, baked hard at the edges where the sun can reach, but still wet enough in the middle to suck at your mare's hooves with every step. You've been riding since before dawn, and the dust has worked its way into every crease of your black coat—the same coat you wore when you stood behind a pulpit, back when you still believed the words coming out of your mouth.
Marshal Josiah Thorne. That's what the badge in your saddlebag says, though you haven't pinned it on yet. No sense advertising before you know the lay of the land.
Ahead, where the road narrows between two ramshackle buildings that mark the town's edge, three men stand waiting. They've arranged themselves like they've done this many times before—one in the middle of the road, two flanking. The one in the middle, a thick-necked brute with a beard like steel wool, raises his hand.
"That's far enough, stranger."
You rein in your mare, keeping your hands visible but relaxed. The other two—younger, hungrier-looking—have their hands resting on their six-shooters. Brothers, from the look of them. Same weak chin, same mean little eyes.
"Road toll," the bearded one says, spitting tobacco juice into the mud. "Five dollars to enter Perdition. Town ordinance."
You've seen this play before. Different towns, same sin. These would be the Clayton brothers—the telegram mentioned them. Local muscle, too stupid to be the real problem, too dangerous to ignore.
"Render unto Caesar," you mutter, more to yourself than them. Old habits.
"What's that?" The one on the left shifts, suspicious.
"Nothing. Just considering my options." You shift in your saddle, deliberately slow, non-threatening. Your Colt .45 sits heavy on your hip, and the Winchester in your saddle scabbard is loaded. But there's also five dollars in your vest pocket, and you're not officially on duty for another hour.
The bearded one grins, showing yellow teeth. "Ain't but one option, preacher man. Pay up or turn around. 'Less you think you're fast enough to take all three of us."
The youngest one laughs. "He don't look that stupid, Jed."
What is your response?
A) Pay their ridiculous tax. You're not officially on the clock yet, and there's no profit in starting your tenure with bloodshed.
B) Try to talk them down. Appeal to whatever passes for reason in men like these.
C) Make an example of them. Your hand finds your pistol's grip.
D) Write-in
