3:10 to Blackthorn ((Elijah Fuller Intro))
The stagecoach rattled on down the trail, heedless of the rain. Inside, three figures huddled against the cold.
One was dressed in an immaculate gray suit and bowler hat, with a trim mustache and slicked-back hair. Though he had feigned disinterest in his surroundings all through the ride, his shifty brown eyes darted about, taking in every detail.
The second passenger was a great bear of a negro, dressed in an old Confederate cavalry jacket and black stetson, a pair of humongous LeMats sitting in the holsters of his gunbelts. He was currently showing off one of these guns, which have been heavily modified to accept a bayonet, to the last passenger.
This last passenger, dressed in a slightly too-large brown coat and a white stetson, kept notes on a notepad as the large man spoke.
"...so you see," The large man said, "The custom work wasn't all that difficult, and with the sheathes made custom, too, it isn't any slower on the draw than a normal revolver."
"Oh, yes. Very good." The dapper man broke his silence with a roll of his eyes. "But tell me, sir...why? I mean, what point does having such an ungainly weapon serve?"
"Well, first there is the intimidation factor." The large man says. "Criminals are, deep at at heart, a cowardly and superstitious lot, and being the meanest motherfucker in the room helps when you're taking down someone who doesn't want to go to his fate. And there's the practical aspects. Having a weapon that is functional both up close and at range is the whole purpose of the bayonet, and the situations I've found myself in can change in moments, requiring a rapid shift in tactics." He says, grinning as the dapper man flinches at the profanity. "But mostly, I had them done this way because of the Judges."
He leans back in his seat, waiting for someone to ask the obvious question.