Buckshot John

Dust-caked perdition sprawls beneath a sodium sun as Sheriff Amos Holt’s posse—spurs clacking like castanets of doom—corners Bad Jake Kennedy’s outlaws beside a bone-dry arroyo; bullets scrawl coppery calligraphy across the sky, and when the smoke sloughs away only Buckshot John remains, lips stitched shut by outlaw loyalty. Thirty calendar-pages of penitentiary mildew grind past; half-way to oblivion, a tent-revival thunderclap of repentance detonates inside his ribcage, and the gaunt bandit resolves to barter cartographic confession for celestial pardon. Enter The Great Gilmore, a top-hatted mountebank whose crystal ball is as hollow as his promises; with spiritualist hocus-pocus he milks the secret map from John’s fractured conscience. The moment the charlatan’s patent-leather boots strike pay-dirt, John’s enlightenment curdles into venomous wrath—he punches daylight out of Yuma Territorial, hitches a midnight freight, and gallops toward a reckoning drenched in kerosene lamplight and spent powder.