In the twilight of the 1890s, the American West was a canvas of contrasting colors: the deep reds of its sunsets, the endless blue of its skies, and the dark shadows that lurked in the hearts of men and women carving out their destinies on this unforgiving frontier. The railroad, a sinewy line of iron and steam, was the lifeline of this expansion, a symbol of progress and a harbinger of change.

Amidst this backdrop of relentless transformation, one man stood as a testament to the old ways, a lone figure whose shadow stretched long in the dying light. Everett Forsythe, once a lawman in the tranquil streets of Silver Spring, Maryland, had ventured far from the cobblestone comforts of the East. Driven by a spirit that found no peace, he roamed the untamed expanses, a Pinkerton detective with a mind as sharp as his aim. His was a journey not just across the rugged terrain but through the mazes of human deceit and the dark corridors of his own soul.

Yet, for all his prowess and keen intuition, Everett was a man haunted. The specter of his late wife, Ruth, whose laughter was now but a whisper carried by the wind, clung to him like the dust on his boots. In moments of solitude, when the vastness of the West seemed to mock his loneliness, he sought solace in the amber embrace of whisky, each sip a bittersweet reminder of all that was lost.

It was in these depths of personal desolation that Everett found himself at the dawn of a fateful journey, one that would lead him to the bustling town of El Paso and onto the last train to Tombstone. Unknown to him, the wheels of destiny were turning, setting the stage for a tale of intrigue, vengeance, and redemption. Aboard that rumbling beast of iron, paths would cross, secrets would unravel, and the very soul of the West would be put to the test.

And so begins our tale, under the vast dome of the western sky, where every heart hides a story and every story weaves into the legend of the last frontier. Welcome aboard The Last Train to Tombstone.