Life is a hard thing in mid 19th century, 1865 the year of our lord, on border of the Arizona/New Mexico territory. The â€˜wildâ€™ in the â€˜Wild Westâ€™, is quite literally defined right here, by the crazy tough, and just plain mean men and woman that make up the general populace of this area. â€˜Lawâ€™ is a figurative term, that is more of a general guideline than the hardboiled absolutes of back East;  out here men and woman are free in the truest sense of the word, and let me tell you what, it wasnâ€™t  as glamorous as people made it out to be.<br/><br/>You see the problem with true freedom, is that everyone is free to do what they want whether it is good or bad, They are free to kill youâ€¦ or your childâ€¦ or your rape your sister or mother, and  the only thing  you were entitled to was, being strong enough to stop from expressing  that right.   Either you could and did, or you couldnâ€™t and they had their wayâ€¦simple but brutal life personified.<br/><br/>Yeah, sure there were â€˜Lawdawgsâ€™, sheriffs, and even a few federal agents. They were either men brave or stupid enough to pin a tin star to their chest and a gun around their hip to enforce that starâ€™s   ingrained ideology of justice. But in those days they were just as likely to get themselves killed as you were, if you even chose to exact revenge in the first place. Things were just a lot more balanced back then, with no radios for backup or bulletproof vests and standardized training that modern law enforcement officials depend on in modern times. They were just men, some with moral standards and others with a lust for power and the need to abuse it just like everyone else was likely to be.<br/><br/>More often than not, the bands of outlaws were just as likely to solve grievances as the Law was, and more effective too. You could just as easily go to the local gang of banditos and pay them to deal with your problem, as going to the local sheriff for help. They were larger in number, better armed and best yet, morally ambiguous. They didnâ€™t care if your claim had merit, theyâ€™d only care if you had the gold to pay for their services.<br/><br/>The craziest thing of it was, that skill, age, experience, or even virtue, had nothing to do with it; a 14 year old punk kid was as likely to kill you as some experienced gun fighter, and in fact much more likely. No fingerprints, or fancy crime labs meant that as long as you werenâ€™t actually seen killing someone, youâ€™d likely get away with it. Death was like pocket change to folks, and it showed on the faces of every single person that had the mettle to make a living in these here parts. Life expectancy was somewhere around 40 for men and 55 for woman, less if you had a career that put yourself in the line of fire. And thatâ€™s just in the semi-civilized communities that have been settled, going out into the savage Injun lands will drastically shorten oneâ€™s life expectancy.<br/><br/>No shortage of work though, economically speaking, times were booming, men made fortunes and lost them as frequently as they shat. There was always plenty to do whether you were a tradesman or not; sure smithies, carpenters, and entrepreneurs had work, but even the common man could find work, regardless of educational training. Out houses needed shoveling, so did the stables and plenty of work for woman too. A girl could make a whole cowpokeâ€™s salary in a single night if she was as good on her back as she was her knees. Army always needed men, so do most land barons , you could pretty much find work in any direction you throw a stone.<br/><br/>There are also plenty of different kinds of folks to fill these jobs though, Celestials (Asian immigrants), freed Negros, and even a few tamed Injuns, but mostly there are white folk; all different kinds of those as well, immigrants from all around the world, looking to seek their fortunes or ruination; depending on how adept you were at your craft; in this untamed wilderness in the great American land of opportunity.<br/><br/>All these factors were quantified and condensed right here in<span style="font-weight: bold"> Bethlehem Falls </span>, situated right on the Arizona/New Mexico territory borderline. As you imagine having a town built dead center on the line, society is highly polarized, half wanting to declare statehood for NM, and the other half diehard supporters of Arizonaâ€™sâ€™ claimâ€¦ But this will be more relevant later, just keep in mind that I told you, ya ken?<br/><br/>In many ways, Bethlehem Falls is much like any old west town, couple of saloons, smithy, general store, sheriffâ€™s office and a small selection of specialized boutiques, and of course a church that functioned as a school house/meeting hall. They are all run by colorful characters, all of which I am sure youâ€™ll meet if you ever have the misfortune of passing through that powder keg of this small town, situated in the badlands of the high desert. The coach lines and pony express still manage to find their way down here, but they are infrequent and untrustworthy, both of which are frequent targets of both savage debauchery and outlawsâ€™ bullets. In short, this is a place men and woman come to â€˜disappearâ€™, usually having warn out their welcome in other places.<br/><br/>Bethlehem Falls does have a mayor, Richard â€˜Dickâ€™ Watkins, but heâ€™s much more of a puppet than an actual political leader, Mayor Watkins answers directly to the only real authority in this town. You see the land that Bethlehem falls is built on, as is most the lands surrounding it are owned by a Land Baron by the name of Marion Barney Amsterdam, and he, ladies and gentleman is what theyâ€™d call â€˜dastardlyâ€™ right down to his pencil thin mustache.  A true antagonist in every sense of the word, Mr. Amsterdam sits up in his hilltop mansion a few short miles outside of town limits, and lords over this little burg like mad king back in the days of yore.  He employs a large gang of cowpunchers, 60 men, some of them actually cowboy, but mostly they are gun-hands. Folks took to calling them, â€˜the damnedâ€™ cause they swore loyalty to Mr. Amster<span style="font-weight: bold">dam</span>, him and his whims alone. Compensation wasnâ€™t the sole benefit of employment for one of the Damned, not having to answer to the law, was a strong draw for many, as the ranks were filled with nefarious types. They are easy to spot, thanks to a uniform red kerchief tied round their neck, and youâ€™d be wise to steer clear of any man wearing one.<br/><br/>Donâ€™t get me wrong, as I said earlier, there is a Sherriff in this town, and he is not that negligent at his endeavor. Sherriff Henry Deschain does his best to maintain general law and order inside town limits, he is also smart enough to realize going against Amsterdamâ€™s men  is a death sentence and so in that one regard, he passes discipline â€˜the Damnedâ€™ to their master. He is accompanied by his Deputy, a young hooligan, and Mr. Amsterdamâ€™s nephew, Willie Gayson. Willie is hot tempered and reckless, but Sherriff Deschain does his best to keep the little nepotism elected brat in line.<br/><br/>And thatâ€™s all you need to know for now, I suppose the rest of the story will start to unfold the longer you stay in this town. Some will come and go, and other might just find that this place is a little more interesting than the first glance had implied, for them I say welcome to Bethlehem Falls, can I get ya a drink? You see the real question is Friendâ€¦.who are you? Whatâ€™s yer story â€¦. Howâ€™d  you come to arrive in the town of Bethlehem Falls?<br/><br/><br/><br/><a class="postlink" href="http://i1218.photobucket.com/albums/dd415/coffinhunter77/Cowpolk_zps68a61007.jpg">[ img ]</a>