For cowboys in the Wild West, "civility" and "etiquette" are less valuable than a cigarette.

Those well-mannered "gentlemen" died in the process of pioneering, and only the most savage, rude, and life-like ones comparable to cockroaches could survive on this land.

"Hey, bring me wine!"

The sturdy man sitting at the wooden table raised his angular square face, slammed the glass on the table, and the arm full of blond hair, and the tattoo in the shape of an anchor was very conspicuous.

"Don't rush me, I'm busy here." The fat man on the other side of the room threw out a wine bottle.

Two ragged male bodies were thrown in the corner of the hut, attracting a swarm of flies to feast, and in an annoying buzzing sound, the square-faced cowboy uncorked the bottle and poured a large gulp of unnamed liquor into his mouth.

"Are you going over there tonight?" The fat man turned around, the fat on his face trembling, and the three layers of his chin were stained with dry blood.

"I don't know." The square-faced man stared at his bloodshot eyes and opened his mouth to spit out a breath of wine.

"If you want me to say, that should be a fucking trap, I'm not going to believe their claims anyway." The fat man spat on the corpse.

"Not necessarily......" the drunken square-faced man began to elongate as he spoke, "I think—they're sincere." ”

There are many outlaws in this wasteland, and this square-faced man, who is the best of them, the prestige of "Father of the Plains", is spread throughout the West.

He is not the kind of sophisticated criminal who will plan carefully and then carry out the plan, but is more inclined to instinctively react: when he sees a luxurious carriage, he immediately goes up and robs it. happened to run into the enemy, and immediately opened fire without saying a word.

It stands to reason that a "crime of passion" like him should have died a hundred times a long time ago. Oddly enough, he survived every time.

This guy usually has more average luck, but he is like a god in battle, even in desperate situations, he can win inexplicably, and once set a record of single-handedly facing nine bounty hunters.

Because of this guy's strange physique that seems to be blessed by the gods, as an atheist, he will be nicknamed "Father of the Plains".

After a series of unbelievable battles, even the bounty hunters who paid for their work did not dare to take on the commission related to this man. This man still roams the western wilderness with his "instincts".

Of course, he knew very well that the reason why he was targeted this time was also because of his special physique.

The square-faced man pulled out the crumpled paper ball from his pocket, opened it and stared at the words on it, even though he was drunk, the words in his line of sight were still very clear:

Dear Father Plains,

You've been wandering the wilderness for a long time, but you still haven't found your purpose. Now, the time has come to join us and you will find true value. Like-minded friends are waiting for you.

Since there was no signature under the note, Father Plains did not know who had written the words. What made him feel dangerous was that the note had been found by his pillow when he woke up in the morning.

Father Plains is most proud of his terrifying perception.

Like his super-luck, his perception is part of his "instinct", and even in his sleep, if someone tries to sneak up on him, even if it is simply close, he will wake up immediately.

But this time, he didn't feel anything.

He didn't know when the other party put down the note, and he didn't know how the other party got close. The only thing that is certain is that the person seemed to be invisible, and even avoided his "instinctive" search, and quietly left this invitation.

"Hey, you're still thinking about this stupid thing?" The fat man said impatiently, "If I were you, I'd tear that thing up and pay to go to town to find a few girls to sleep in." ”

"I don't know what this is going on yet." Father Plains was a little distraught, and his companion's voice sounded like flies, buzzing incessantly.

"What's the use of knowing?" The fat man smiled disdainfully: "This mentally retarded didn't even leave a contact information, it must be a prank." ”

Is that really the case?

Father Plains also hoped that what the fat man said was true, but he always felt that it was not so simple. The guy who left the note may not be a simple prank, but ......

While pondering, Father Plains shifted his gaze back to the note, and then his eyes suddenly widened:

The text on the note has changed, and the original words have disappeared and have been replaced by new lines:

"You hate that fat pig, but tolerate him living until now because that idiot provided you with weapons and equipment."

"We can provide you with better weapons, and it's completely free. You've had enough of it, right? Kill him now, and our messenger will come to your door to show you what we are looking for. ”

What is it?

Looking at the new words, Father Plains rubbed his eyes vigorously and gave himself a resounding slap in the face, but the words on the paper still did not recover, they were still new.

"Yes...... Magic. Father Plains coughed.

He was sure that it was not a hallucination caused by his drunkenness, but a real event, and that the words on the note had indeed changed.

What's even stranger is that these words seem to have magical powers, which also cause subtle changes in his mood.

…… You hate that chattering fat pig, right?

Then kill him and shut him up forever. Then, you will have a better future.

Like-minded partners are waiting, and you have to do it right away.

……

Father Plains lowered his head, his shoulders fluttering, noticing his strange behavior, and the fat man leaned over and asked with concern, "Are you alright, man?" ”

Then, the fat man saw the text on the note.

"Wait a minute, this is ......"

The fat man, who had read the note, made a surprised sound. Then came into view the bloodshot eyes of "Father Plains" and the muzzle of the black hole of the revolver.

"You don't really want to ......"

As soon as the fat man spoke, his voice was interrupted by the rapid sound of gunfire.

Three shots killed his former companion, but Father Plains was still sitting at the wooden table, a wisp of green smoke coming out of the muzzle of the revolver in his hand.

Flies kept circling in the room, and the corpses went from two to three. Father Plains didn't wait long before there was a crisp knock in front of the hut.

"Who are you?" Father Plains pointed his gun at the leaky wooden door.

"I am a messenger sent by Mr. Spencer." The man's voice outside the door was magnetic: "I'm here to talk to you." ”

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