Part 1 The Man with No Horse.


    Dustveil sat on the edge of the vast Atacambi Desert. It was a sun baked former mining town on the brink of oblivion, built up during a gold rush that saw the southern border of the Kingdom ablaze with folks who thought they could strike it rich. It sat in Avada County, which was never a popular place to live, but when gold was found in the hills fringing the desert, people had a change of heart.


    That rush to riches burned bright and faded fast. The desert regions were harsh and unforgiving. They were full of dangerous plants and predatory wildlife. The heat alone could kill. People often referred to it as "The Wasteland". This hostile reputation led prospectors to band together and build whole communities just to support their claims in the wastes. Dustveil was one such community. It was once a bustling hub for miners and prospectors to venture out into the surrounding desert and make a name for themselves. It was a boom town that served as a refuge from the Wasteland''s many dangers. Over the decades, however, the town declined. The meager gold deposits were mined out, and many people left. Despite the decline, Dustveil clung to life. Its people were hard working, industrious folk, and they etched out a living among the sand and cacti.


    Ranching and farming became popular professions that replaced mining and prospecting. Desert crops grew well in the fertile sandy soil. Aloe and prickly pear cacti were staples. They raised a special kind of reptile, called a Desert Walker which made for fine mounts or work animals, and excellent leather. They were sold all across the Kingdom. The town also raised Big Horn Sheep, Long Horned Cattle, and Desert Goats for meat, milk, hides, and wool.


    It was this industrial spirit that made Dustveil attractive to the Red Iron Gang. The gang was led by Vincent "Ironhand" Rouke. They saw a settlement surviving in the wastelands of the desert, and honed in on its productivity. Ironhand and his men moved in swiftly, and dismantled the local sheriff and his deputies. Three graves were all that were left of Dustveil''s lawmen. They took over the largest farms, and forced the farmers and ranchers to work without pay. Dustveil was reduced to a slave town under the Red Iron Gang. They inserted themselves directly into the leadership of Dustveil.


    The Gang made life miserable for the people of the town. They demanded protection money. They extorted, blackmailed, and harassed all of the local businesses and passing traders. The Gang constantly beat up or killed anyone who even thought about standing up to them. Their goons patrolled the streets and saloons day and night. Ironhand himself took up residence in the mayor''s house, forcing the mayor to live on the streets. Of course, not without giving him a thrashing first. It was the ultimate symbol of humiliation toward the people of the town.


    The people of Dustveil were living in tyranny, but for many years, no one could do anything about it. Until one dusty day...


    A man in a faded and frayed duster walked into town. He emerged from the dusts of the desert like a ghost. His long weathered duster coat flapped in the dry wind, and his boots jingled softly with their spurs'' metallic rhythm. Two bandoliers, gleaming with bullets, criss crossed his chest. A saddle bag was slung over his shoulder, yet he had no horse. A revolver sat snugly at his hip, and the stock of a lever action rifle poked out from behind his shoulder. The outline of a sawed-off shotgun was visible in the duster''s interior. His face was shrouded in shadow, and stubble. It was a mask of cynical detachment. His piercing blue eyes scanned the town with a cold calculating gaze.


    The dilapidated buildings leaned precariously and their wooden facades were bleached by the relentless sun and scarred by the passage of time. The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of a swinging saloon door or the distant bark of a dog. The sparse townsfolk that were on the streets moved with caution. Their eyes darted to the shadows. Each step was taken with a palpable sense of dread.


    Occasionally, a man with a repeating or lever action rifle stood guard on a corner, or outside of a business. Those men were a grim reminder of the oppressive force that held the town in its grip. These men, with their cold, hard stares, bore a brand burned on their hand or cheek. The brand was a simple "R", but the Stranger understood it to mean "Red Iron Gang".


    The townsfolk themselves wore the scars of the gang’s tyranny, both visible and hidden. Some had burns on their hands or faces. Those were crude brands left by the gang as punishment for defiance or to instill fear. Others carried themselves with a haunted look, their spirits broken by the constant threat of violence. The smell of burnt wood and flesh lingered faintly in the dry air of the town.


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    Shattered windows and boarded-up doors spoke of businesses long abandoned, unable to withstand the relentless extortion and intimidation. The few shops that remained open did so under the watchful eyes of the gang’s enforcers. Their owners were too frightened to protest the exorbitant protection fees demanded of them.


    A tattered poster flapped in the wind, nailed haphazardly to a post. It read: "No help will come. Red Iron rules here." The message was clear and cruel. It was a warning to any who might think to challenge the gang''s dominance.


    As the Stranger walked through Dustveil, he noted the wary glances and hurried steps of the townsfolk. Each person seemed to be pulverized by the Red Iron Gang''s tyranny. They moved with a resigned acceptance of their bleak reality. The presence of the gang was a constant weight that cast a long shadow over every aspect of life in Dustveil.


    The Stranger made his way further into town. He heard a commotion from one of the saloons. A man was tossed out by two thugs and landed with a crash on the dry road. Plumes of dust wafted in the wind as he picked up his hat, brushed himself off, and ran away in terror. The Stranger decided that was a good place to begin his business in town.


    He pushed through the saloon doors and stepped into the dimly lit room. Conversations hushed and all eyes turned to the newcomer. The Stranger''s gaze swept over the room, taking in the nervous glances and tense postures of the patrons. He sauntered over to the bar, his spurs jingling softly with each step.


    The bartender was wiping a glass with a dirty rag. He was a rail thin, dirty man, with a curly mustache.


    "Afternoon. Got myself a powerful thirst. How ''bout a whiskey?" The Stranger said in a slow, melodic drawl.


    The bartender nodded and quickly poured the shot. He slid it over to the Stranger. He took it and savored the taste for a moment before setting it down. It wasn''t that great, but it had been a minute since his last sip of whiskey.


    "Heard tell there''s a man ''round here causin'' trouble. Goes by the name of Red Mack. You know ''em?" The Stranger asked, casually, yet pointedly.


    "Can''t say we''re friends, stranger. Red Mack''s trouble. A few lawmen from Lost Hills came to arrest him a while back. Avada Rangers. All dead now. Best steer clear of him, if you know what''s good for you." The bartender replied, glancing around nervously.


    "Well now, trouble''s what I came lookin'' for. Where might I find ol'' Macky boy?" a smirk tugged at the Stranger''s lips.


    Before the bartender could answer, one of the thugs that threw the man out, a burly beast with a scar across his cheek, approached. He eyed the Stranger with a mix of suspicion and bravado.


    "You lost mister? Ain''t no business of yours where Red Mack is." the buff thug said with a cocky antagonization.


    The Stranger turned slowly, fixing his icy blue stare on the thug. His voice remained calm and easy-going, but with a sharp, biting edge to it.


    "Ain''t lost. Just curious. Now, you gonna point me in the right direction, or do we need to have ourselves a more pointed discussion?" He said calmly.


    The thug bristled. His hand inched closer to the sword at his hip. Before he could move, the Stranger''s revolver was out. His weapon was a finely crafted, and heavily modified .44 Duskfire Revolver. The barrel of the gun was aimed directly at the thug''s chest. The man hadn''t even noticed the Stranger going for the weapon.


    "I wouldn''t bother drawin'' on me, fella. Now, how about we try this again. Where''s Red Mack?" The Stranger said, calmly, with a hint of amusement in his voice.


    The thug hesitated for a moment. He looked around, and didn''t see his counterpart anywhere. He raised his hands slowly up, and away from his sword belt. He seethed internally, and the Stranger could sense his anger and frustration.


    "You want Red Mack? You ain''t even gonna get close to him before the boys take care of you. Ironhand doesn''t let his men get taken out by desert scum that blows in off the wastes. You want to die? Fine. Go to the old warehouse on the edge of town. I''ll be there, ready to spit on your grave." The thug replied.


    "Well ain''t you just the sweetest thang. Much obliged. Now, if y''all don''t mind, I''m gonna finish my drink." The Stranger said, turning away from the thug, and back to the bar. The tension in the room slowly vanished as the thug exited the saloon, likely to inform Red Mack and whoever Ironhand was. The Stranger didn''t care though.