Meet Julian, first Gunslinger of our Graphic Novels

He says: "My name is Julian, last gunslinger of Serana's Tribe."

I didn't ask.

This man invokes some childhood memory, an old awe that creeps up and quiets me. Is it his cocky saunter? thin frame flowing with the sand; or the cold eyes hidden amid early wrinkles of a weathered desert face? I've seen those fitted and travel-worn leather breeches, the loose yoked shirt, the polished guns, each as big as my calf.

He's looking at me uncertainly, brows furrowed, mouth open, not sure what to make of my ponderous silence.

"Here," say I, scared of loosing him and being haunted by whatever shapeless ghost his presence resurrected, "share my supper."

A broad grin takes over his face. "Oh yes, yes, yes," he replies, waving me aboard his enormous sand manta ray. Five tall men could sleep comfortably in his saddle. A dozen saddlebags line the rim, but only two seem to carry anything, and from these he pulls a large flask and a woven blanket.

When I raise the cheap liquor to my lips, another smell accosts me: stale sweat, that of a man who's lived his life with too little water. I choke, he laughs a booming laugh, and the shadow of a towering figure looms above me. Julian snatches the flask back.

"Too much for ya?" he says, still chuckling. "Now, where's this grub?"

As we eat and drink (he much more than I), he boisterously talks of his travels. My nods seem adequate encouragement as I puzzle over him, only the second human I've met in the open desert.

"My honey down there is Jezebel," he tells me, slapping the saddle. "She's the smartest, most loyal manta this godforsaken desert ever saw!" He slaps the old leather again, then jerks his head up to glare fiercely at me with one eye. "Remember that, compatri't."

"Sure," I say, taken aback. "I won't forget. Are you a, uh... freelancer?"

He's up on his feet in an instant, storming and stomping about. "A MONEY-GRUBBING MERCENARY?!" he thunders. After a full round of the saddle, he stops and points at me. "You think I'm some simple-minded soldier? Let-me-tell-you-sir: I am no slimy opportunist. I am a noble man--and free--a gunslinger."

Julian sits back down, scratching his unshaven chin and munching one of my jerky strips.

"Freelancer," he grumbles.

But his childish and harmless rage comforts me. "Most every other gunslinger I know does contract work--"

"--frauds--"

"So what are you doing out here?"

He eyes me suspiciously and hesitates for the first time, turning his gaze aside. "Hunting scorpions, the season ends soon and they fetch a good price around here. Plus, they're tasty."

Later, as I pack up, listening to him snore mightily, I realize I'm reminded of my uncle. A temperamental, inconstant god of my youth, he disappeared when I was six, probably starved to death. I'm almost grateful to Julian, for the nostalgia is sweet, if depressing. And, somehow, I can't find it within myself to rob this ragged relic, which was my plan from the off. Perhaps the ideal surviving within his heart is a little sacred to me as well. No, I can't take his guns. They're the only thing he'll ever love, even if they're also his chains.