Johnathan sat on a ridge, overlooking the town. From what his contacts had informed him, the Tenney Gang was hiding in this town, or somewhere close by.
He slid back to his pack and began running a checklist. His revolver, a Colt Paterson, was holstered on his right thigh, and three speedloaders hung from his belt, which was riddled with loops for containing extra bullets. He had a small amount of food and water left in his pack - good thing he was within shooting range of Laramie. He glanced out at the town - one step up from a backwater. No wonder the Tenney Gang had gone unnoticed by the town - assuming the town wasn't complicit. You never knew.
He went back to his stuff. A rifle lay on it's butt, leaning against his pack. It was a Winchester, model 1873. They had just come out with a new model, but he didn't have the funds or any particular desire to pick it up. This worked just fine for it's job. He pulled a box out of his pack and flipped it open, revealing thirty 44-40 rounds, the bullets used in the rifle. He closed it and put it back. His horse snorted as he did so.
Everything seemed to check out. He tied his pack back up and slid his rifle back into it's saddlebag, put the pack on the back of the horse and saddled up, stroking the chestnut colt's ears as he did so. He jabbed him with his spurs, driving the horse into a run down the path into Laramie, and whatever awaited him down there.