Description 

Early Life 

Word from Amercia
What precious little there is known of the early life of Henry Roscoe Crewe Jr. is a subject seldom talked about. Born on a stormy afternoon in the city of Cork, in the southern regions of Ireland, Henry's childhood was unremarkable until he and his Father immigrated to the United States on the 4th February, 1870. Henry's father, an ambitious miner and small-time business man, gathering what little funds and belongings he and his son had after receiving word from a friend concerning the abundance of untapped resources in a land that Henry Salvatore Crewe Sr. had told a then 8 year old Henry was called: America.

Henry Crewe Sr. and Henry Crewe Jr. arrived in Territory of Arizona in early March, late February of 1870.

Glenvale
A small mining town, perhaps forty miles north of the Mexican border, that'd formed in 1868 after a small group of miners had unearthed a rich silver deposit in the region. By the arrival of Crewe Sr. and Jr. arrived in Glenvale, it had sprouted many establishments that a modern town needed. A post office where mailmen scurried to and fro with sacks of envelopes and parcels on wagon drawn carts; a saloon that always hummed with the noise of patrons talking amidst themselves; convenience stores where the signs never seemed to flip to their 'closed' counterparts; a doctor's office that always seemed to quietly bask in the sun, and the peace of lack of patients save for minor injuries, and the delivering of children.
Come 1875, a bank had nestled itself between the buildings that amassed across Glenvale, and with it, a Sheriff's Office. The Glenvale Sherriff's Office was surrounded by packs of towering men with staring eyes and dry, cracking complexions. Sneering mouths that barked out cruel and sadistic laughs; spurs that clicked like the shifting of dry bone against metal against the dust. Their battered attire bore the unmistakable golden winking eye of the badges of Deputies.

When the rotting blue of the night was still being chased away by the fire of the newly rising sun, the town of Glenvale awoke to the sound of a yodelling scream that trailed up and down the street. Sashes were thrown up; doors were flung open; guns were brandished - but all for naught. Henry's father had come from his room in only his trousers brandishing his revolver, with Henry in-tow.
From there, Henry spied a man being dragged by his hair through the dust of the street. The one dragging him was a towering, lanky man whose dust splotched frock coat fluttered behind him. One, boney, bandaged hand had the ponytail of the screaming man in a death grip; while the other swayed by his holster. In their wake, the snickering pack of hounds that the man commanded. His face was chiselled poorly; a mess of black hair splayed out across his head and trailed down his forehead. A black, sloping moustache that trailed down the edges of his snarling mouth lined with pallid thin lips and outlined teeth with a glistening gold front tooth. One eye a smudged milky white, and the other, a blood shot off-blue colour. In sun's orange rays that spilled over the rooftops, Henry could spot the badge on his Sherriff's badge on his chest, gleaming like the gold tooth in his sneering mouth.
Sherriff Jeremiah MacCray continued to drag the bleeding, shrieking man through the street - to where the gallows waited patiently at the Northern end of the town.
His audience of snickering Deputies followed with him.

Henry later found out that the one who'd been hung by Sherriff MacCray and his Deputies had been brought in ten minutes before Sherriff MacCray dragged him to the gallows and hung him mid-prayer.

Present Life 

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