Slim C. McWhit certainly earned his name. His momma had passed him off to an aunt and headed west as soon as she could travel, leaving him only with a daguerreotype and a given name. But if nothing else the woman was prescient, as people had often said–safely out of earshot–when observing Slim’s lanky frame and uncanny skill with the knife.

He made his living as a trapper, hunter, and occasional gambler, as did many of the old cowhands rattling around Prosperity Falls. Ever since the Ide raids had caused the settlement there to splinter–and drop its time-honored rules against gambling and making a dime off Ma Nature–there had been opportunity for folks like Slim.

A fellow Texan had arrived with Slim, one Coulton Baines. Colt Baines was cut from the same cloth and shared a similar story of growing into his name, even though he preferred Remingtons and Schofields for his trick shooting. Though they’d come as friends, the two soon parted as enemies over a woman, and not an establishment in Prosperity Falls saw one coming without a shade of fear over what’d happen if the other happened upon them.