He was a bit arrogant. Always smirking, like he knew something we didn't. Still, boy was a natural shootist, and pretty good with a blade. He always had a bit of ice in his blood, I recall. Some folks would go out of their way to bring their targets alive. Caleb would only ask once.

In my prime, I figured I was the top dog in the Mojave. Any target, no matter how ruthless or well-armed, I killed. Young punks with something to prove all came to me, looking to learn my methods, or to kill me and take glory as my killer. Never worked for 'em.

And he may as well've been a ghost. Nobody knew anything more than his name, at most. No contacts, no friends, no hometown. It's ridiculous. Now that I'm almost 80, I finally know where he is... And I can't get there. It's too far. I'm done. I'll never catch him.