But as the wind picked up, a strange chill hit the air. It wasn't the usual desert cool. It felt... sickly.

He felt the weight of his holsters. On his left hip sat the familiar revolvers he’d used to hunt down his old gang—Bill Williamson, Javier Escuella, and the ghost of Dutch van der Linde. He’d lived through the tragedy of the , the bittersweet reunion with Abigail and Jack, and the relentless pressure of the Pinkertons.

The sun was dipping low over the mesas of New Austin, bleeding a deep, bruised orange across the desert floor. John Marston sat by a small campfire, the smell of roasted salted meat and cheap coffee mingling with the dust.