As you know I own nothing, AMC & those Gayton brothers do! I got this idea after talking with some friends on a fan group I'm in. We were playing a give Cullen a middle name game.

Meridian Mississippi Plantation

*Year 1902*

The wild west was dying out, last remnants and dangerous outlaws were being hunted and slaughtered down like lil piggies.

One outlaw in particular had managed to fool everyone and stay incognito once he returned East from his many years out West. It was rumored that this tall man with long grayish hair and beard ran to the West after he returned home from the war to find his family brutally murdered by the hands of the enemy. Rumors had it he became a train robber, a murderer, a walking boss, a foreman, head of security, a drunkard, an adulterer, and all in all a true gun slinger with a deadly hand-eye coordination.

This man was old, nearing 80 now, but no wear near frail and weak. He had experienced many sorrows, many heartaches, but no one in the Mississippi town he returned to knew what had happened in the past. No one dared ask either. Even though he was old his stormy eyes held a fire of death by the devil in them.

The man sat on his wooden rocker, the one by his side empty (not having been occupied for about 37 years…), as he gazed onto the blooming magnolias in the yard. He closed his eyes while he took out a very old and burnt needle point from his jacket. His wrinkled, calloused, blood soaked hands clenched tightly onto the cloth as he brought it up to his nose and deeply inhaled. He bit his lip and tucked the cloth back into his vest pocket; then he grabbed a pocket watch out of his vest. He popped the watch open at looked at the picture inside. Once he closed the watch he placed it back into his vest pocket, closing his eyes once more he visited certain memories of his past. Suddenly he opened his eyes when a small voice stirred him.

"Found your old saddle bag, can I have it?" The old man was asked by the small voice's owner.

He just nodded his head, giving permission, while mustering out a deep, "Go ahead."

Thud was the nose that was made whenever the worn, nearly ratty, leather saddle bag was plopped on the floor. One by one the mystery person pulled out the items in the bag. The items weren't much. Mostly old rail stubs from places such as Durant, Denver, Dodge City, Deadwood, Tombstone, San Franscico, St. Louis, Kansas City, and many more places. There was an old medical kit and an old flask that still sloshed a bit when shook. Just when the bag seemed empty an old calling card was pulled out along with a hankie that was once a crisp white, monogrammed with green thread were the intials CJB and light coral lipstick could be made out on it as well.

No questions were asked. The mystery person was told once what happened when the old man was asked about the hankie years ago. A man got shot, right in between the eyes in barely a second.

"I'm going inside, okay?" The old man was informed.

The old man nodded and hummed out a simple, "Mhm."

No more then 2 minutes after the small voiced mystery person left the porch a posse of men dressed in their slick suits with their shinny U.S. Marshall's badges pinned to their chest came onto the land. "Time to get your fair trial." The old man heard one young, ugly, greasy-haired marshall tell him.

"I ain't going nowhere with you." The old man told the posse as he stood up, proud and strong evoking fear like he once had as a younger man during his days in the wild west.

"Durant's been dead for almost 20 years and his blondie's been dead for even longer, no one's here to pardon you now." One of the men in the posse hissed, a hiss that cut the old man to the bone.

From the mention of names from his past the older man grew angry, fire boiled in his blood. He knew why they were here, he was the last notorious outlaw that needed to be rounded up to 'better' and make the country 'safer'. He knew it was either go out in a glorious blaze or rot in a jail cell. Damn it, he'd been in jail twice in his life and he wasn't going to make jail a third charming time for him. In a flash he grabbed the gun he'd always worn on his hip, an antique Grisswold from 1861. The gun was over 40 years old but it still worked like new, was cleaned everyday too, and fired it's shots like a cannon, quickly hitting the intended target.

Unfortunately 6 bullets is no match for a posse of men armed and ready, while the old man hit 2 of the men in the posse the other's had gotten him. Shots torn in his chest, arms, and shoulder, causing blood to leak and splatter onto the whitewashed porch. The older man dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, as he deeply breathed while blood curdled from his mouth.

The posse knew the old man was dying, so they collected their 2 dead men and left. Left right as pitter patter of feet scurried onto the floor.

Bullet shots were so loud that it echoed into the tobacco fields over yonder. A man, in his early 30's, dropped his plow when he heard the scream echoing loud and clear after the bullets had died out. Air echoing, "Grandpa, no, grandpa!"

When the man, tall and muscular with dark hair tied back, reached the back porch his father had sat on day after day his blood froze cold. The site made his heart stop. His little daughter, no older then 5, was knelt down by her grandpa trying to help him even though he had already bled out from his injuries.

He knew, Weston knew why it had happened. His father had been the last outlaw, gun slinger, cowboy, of the old west and the country wanted the old west to die so big industry could boom on. His father was legendary...even though he had retired a few years back he was still considered a 'threat'. The man walked over to his little girl and softly told her, "Carrean, it was his time."

The little girl looked up with sad teary blue eyes. "But why?" She quivered.

Weston held his little girl, trying to calm her down and honestly but simply told her, "Cause when Lord says it's your time it is."

Weston and his daughter Carrean buried his father beside his first wife, Mary, and his first son, Junior. Etched in the wooden cross was "Cullen Jennings Bohannon 1827-1902 Last Living Legend Of the West, CSA Officer, Union Pacific Railroad Man, Blessed Are The Peace Keepers."

Now, over 150 years after the Civil War, people are unearthing the past of CJB…a past, a live, a legend buried when he was laid to rest over a century ago.