Few people speak of Orient, but those who do either do so with reverence or fear. To the inhabitants of a handful of settlements at the civilized West's frontier, he is a present from God, sent to destroy the evils that plague the land. To the various bands of bandits, road agents or any other outlaw, he is the one person whom they wish to never meet. In some parts, just the mention of Orient's presence is enough to scare away some of the smaller outlaws, for they know that Orient does not need a bounty to hunt them. He would do so on his own volition, and end them with swift and brutal justice.

That is, of course, how Orient is seen. The truth is far less heroic.

Orient was once a Chinese labourer working on the railways of California, ignorant of his own parentage. Even as a thirteen year-old, he worked twelve hour shifts regardless of the weather, shifting heavy iron rails or wooden sleepers with his fellow workers. His nights were spent sleeping on the bare earth, with only a ratty tent shielding him from the elements. It only took a few months of work to convince Orient that he could either escape, or die like so many had before him. However, the overseers were many, and there were plenty of his fellow workers who frowned on the idea of running away. After all, if he ran, it would be they who would feel the wrath of the overseers.

However, when the opportunity presented itself when he was fifteen, Orient took it without hesitation. They railroad was crossing into wild territory, and the overseers were more concerned with getting attacked by Native tribes, rather than any of the workers making a run for it. After all, where could they run to? There was nary a settlement for miles and miles, and if exposure to the elements didn't kill them, then the animals, natives or outlaws would.

Still, Orient ran, deciding that if he were to die, it would be on his own terms. He spent his first night of freedom sleeping under a rocky overhang, jumping at the slightest of sounds. That was how he spent the second and third night, and by the time the fourth day reared its ugly head, he was practically on his last legs, having eaten nothing and drinking stagnant water for almost three days. It was just sheer luck that he was chanced upon by a roving patrol of United States Army cavalrymen.

The patrol brought Orient back to their fort, where he was allowed to rest and recover. No one asked him about his origin; there could only be one explanation for a lone Chinese boy lost in the wild, and, in a second stroke of luck, the local military commander was in no mood to send a rider to specially bring Orient back to his railroad. In fact, they even allowed Orient to continue staying in the fort, so long as he worked for his keep. Be it rolling paper cartridges, stowing away barrels of powder, tending to the horses or even mending uniforms, Orient did them all. The men of the fort even gave him an English name: Sheridan, from the way Orient's actual, Chinese name sounded to their ears.

By the time Orient turned eighteen and decided to join the army for real, he was already well-versed in the ways of the military. In fact, he only a few months of training, to learn how to shoot and ride, before he could join the same cavalry regiment he had been unofficially attached to for the past few years. His first few years of service were spent hunting down and either apprehending or eradicating Confederate hold-outs who were dead-set on continuing the war. It was during such skirmishes that Orient realized that he was not only good at fighting and killing, but that he enjoyed it as well. It was like winning, only so, so much better. To him, it was like he was finally in control, that he had power over people, rather than the other way round.

In late 1869, Orient and his regiment were tasked with pacifying one of the many Native tribes who were fighting against the Federal government. Even from the first skirmishes, Orient felt uncomfortable with the mission. At least when he fought the Confederates, he could fight knowing that the odds were more-or-less even; the enemy were using the same weapons, had similar tactics and would put up a fierce fight. These Natives, however, were barely armed. They fought with ferocity and plenty of courage, but that was hardly going to defeat the modern firepower of the army. At some level, Orient even felt guilty whenever he gunner down a Native armed with nothing more than a tomahawk, but he kept it to himself. He owed it to the ones who had saved him to carry out his duties to the best of his abilities.

However, there was only so much a man could take, and Orient reached his limit on a cold, December morning in 1870.

He, along with the other thirty men of his squadron, were told that they were to spring a surprise attack on a group of sleeping tribesmen who had been raiding caravans, both civilian and military. What Orient and his squadron found when they reached their destination, however, was instead a disorganized collection of tents, and only one or two men who actually looked as if they could put up a fight. The rest were women, children, the elderly and infirm. Orient was ready to simply turn around and report to their commander that they were horribly misinformed, but their squadron leader had other plans. Convinced that the natives were hiding something, he ordered the squadron to search the campsite, and to use force if necessary.

As a good soldier, Orient complied with the order, but it soon became clear that others were more willing to use this chance to vent their frustrations, whatever they might be. It started with the men simply roughing up the Natives, something which Orient didn't like, but was willing to turn a blind eye to. He didn't even flinch when he heard a gunshot ring out; sometimes you just had to really show that you mean business, that was how things were. When one of the Natives shouted for help, Orient felt his heart tighten slightly, but he still ignored it. You couldn't soften the moment someone cried out; that was how you lost your life in a battle.

By the time Orient heard the blood-curdling screams and cries for mercy, it was far too late. All he could do was simply stand and watch in shock as the men of his squadron brutally murdered any Native they could get their hands on. A few of the other soldiers tried to stop the carnage, but they were either driven off at gunpoint, or they too were subjected to a beating. Orient wanted to simply turn away, close his eyes and just pretend nothing was happening, but he couldn't. Thus, he did the only thing he could. He loaded his rifle, pulled back the hammer, and aimed it at a group of his fellow calvalrymen and shouted for them to stop.

Their response was swift and overwhelming. Within seconds, Orient was wrestled to the ground, disarmed and trussed up. He was brought back to the fort as a prisoner, and thrown into a cell. There, in solitude and silence, the weight of what he had witnessed came crashing down on him, and it opened the floodgates for years, and years of guilt to come surging through. He could have stopped the massacre, if only he hadn't turned a blind eye in the beginning. All the men he had killed, be it Confederates or Natives, they were simply trying to survive in a hostile world, just like himself. Suddenly, Orient felt as if he had won nothing, but had lost something he never even knew he had.

Within a week, he was summarily tried, found guilty of turning his weapon on a lawful combatant, and dishonourably discharged. Orient left the fort he had called home for the past seven years with whatever few possessions he had stuffed into a knapsack, a heart filled with guilt and without direction. He was fully prepared for the West to claim him, as it had almost did all those years ago, but the West had other plans for him. Stumbling into a small town in desperate need of an extra gunman, the local marshal wasted no time in hiring Orient to assist in putting down a small gang of cattle thieves.

Eradicating the thieves didn't ease Orient's mind, but it did lift a little of the weight off his heart. It made him feel as if he was finally doing something right, to offset the wrongs he had done. It gave him a new purpose in life, and from then on, he set out to find and destroy evil wherever it may be found in the West. He needed to make things right. Not for the ones he had wronged, they were long dead, but for himself. He needed to find his peace, even if it killed him.