John

By this point in the trip, you were not only cold and tired, but beaten, bloody, bruised and exhausted from being dragged to Red Rock with John “The Hangman” Ruth. In fact, you didn’t care if you were hanging or not, because anything could have been substantially better than the situation you were in. You two were miserable, sharing an emotion but not sharing it with each other.

It was about 7 or 8 hours into the traveling day and the coach intended on stopping later for the night at a little lodge called Minnie’s Haberdashery, and boy oh boy were you craving comfort, whether it be warmth, coffee, a bed, music, or, well, anything but being stuck in a stagecoach with this fella and O.B., the driver, who had hardly a part in this. A couple acts you’ve committed to deliberately piss John off have been, but are not limited to, kicking him, tapping your feet loudly, spitting, humming, whistling, and insulting the big bastard. He was being pushed past his breaking point— and you didn’t give two shits.

“Dammit, If you don’t cut that shit out right now, I’ll beat your ass to hell and back!” he said, firm and serious.