Van Cleef retrieved the dynamite from the saddle bags hanging on the fence nearby. He moved quickly, his steps light as he made his way toward the bank, or what used to be the bank before the Red Irons gutted it.


    The night had settled deep, the sky stretched black above him, with only the dim glow of scattered oil lanterns flickering along the street. Shadows swallowed the corners of the town, making it easy to move unseen. He crouched near the bank’s entrance, setting the dynamite with careful hands. Three sticks trailed to a bundle of five. It was enough to send a message. Whether the gang believed it was a real robbery or not, they would not sit back and ignore an explosion on their turf. Outlaws had egos. Someone kicking in their door would demand a response.


    Van Cleef struck a match, bringing it to the tip of his cigarette. The flame flickered against his face, momentarily casting his sharp features in an amber glow. He touched the same match to the fuse and watched as the spark slithered along the ground. Then he turned and ran, hand pressed to the brim of his hat, boots hitting the dirt in long strides. He dove behind a cluster of old crates, crouching low just as the explosion tore through the night. The blasts sent a tremor through the ground, and a burst of fire licked at the sky.


    He exhaled slowly, then pulled his Ironfang Model 9 from its holster, flipping open the cylinder to check the load. Full. Just how he liked it. He reached into his coat, fingers closing around another stick of dynamite, along with his strike lighter. The Red Irons would come in force, looking for a fight. By the time they figured out what was happening, Van Cleef would already be moving, keeping them guessing, making them chase ghosts through the fire and smoke.


    The Viper moved like a phantom through the dark, his steps light as falling dust. The explosion had rattled the town, sending a chorus of shouts and panicked orders through the Red Iron ranks. The gang spilled from the warehouse like ants from a kicked nest, swords, rifles and pistols at the ready as they charged toward the blaze. But not all of them. Hex Jad lingered near his prisoner, his eyes gleaming in the flickering lamplight, his hands still crackling with lingering power. He was a man who took pleasure in his work. A man who would not be so easily rattled.


    The Viper slipped forward, sticking to the deep shadows along the fence line. The dogs were the first problem. Two lean, half-starved mongrels, their ribs visible beneath mangy fur sniffed about. The moment they caught his scent, they let out a low growl, then a sharp bark. He flicked his wrist, tossing the jerky soaked in Hell’s Ham Fist toward them. The meat hit the dirt with a wet slap, and the dogs, too hungry to think, lunged for it, snapping at each other as they tore into the treat. The Viper watched, his expression unreadable. They barely had time to swallow before their legs wobbled, their snarls fading into weak whimpers. One of them slumped over, the other staggered a step before collapsing beside its companion. Dead or unconscious, The Viper didn’t much care.


    He ghosted through the side entrance, the warehouse yawning dark and empty before him. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, rust, and gun oil. The diversion was working. Most of the Red Irons were gone. A few remained, lingering in the dim glow of gas lamps, their attention split between the distant chaos and the quiet of the warehouse.


    The first man barely had time to register his presence. The Viper slipped behind a stack of crates and waited. The guard strode past, rifle cradled in his arms, muttering curses under his breath about whatever idiot just blew up the bank. The Viper lunged, one hand clamping over the man''s mouth as his Azonian shortsword slid cleanly into his back, slipping between ribs. He twisted the blade, then pulled it free, lowering the body silently to the floor.


    The second man was easier. The Viper moved like a shadow, reaching out and seizing the thug by the collar, yanking him backward. Before the poor bastard could scream, The Viper twisted hard, snapping his neck with a sickening crack. The body crumpled at his feet, lifeless.


    The third man turned at the sound, just in time to see the glint of steel. He opened his mouth to yell, but The Viper’s blade punched through his mouth, silencing him before a word could escape. The body hit the floor with a dull thud.


    He wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s coat, eyes scanning the warehouse. No sign of Red Mack. The man must have been cowering in some dark corner, hoping his boys would keep him safe.


    The Viper stepped back outside, boots crunching lightly in the dirt. His gaze locked onto Hex Jad, who still loomed over his captive, unconcerned with the chaos erupting elsewhere. The Weaver’s hands moved in slow, deliberate motions, his fingers curling like a puppeteer’s. The captive let out another ragged scream, his body convulsing under whatever foul spell had hold of him.


    The Viper drew his .44 Duskfire revolver, the worn grip familiar in his hand, and took aim. One shot, right through the skull, and this little nightmare would be over.


    But something felt off.


    He hesitated, narrowing his eyes as he studied Hex Jad. The man hadn’t so much as flinched at the explosion. The others ran, but not him. He hadn’t even turned his head. It wasn’t just arrogance. It was something else. A quiet hum filled the air, so faint most men wouldn’t notice. The Viper noticed. It buzzed at the edge of his hearing, slithered under his skin like something alive.


    The Weave.


    The Viper’s finger rested on the trigger, but he didn’t pull it. Not yet. Something told him shooting now would be a mistake.


    Hex Jad turned slowly, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across his face. He did not flinch at the sight of the revolver aimed between his eyes. Instead, he smiled, a lazy, knowing grin stretching across his sharp features. His teeth gleamed like a snake''s fangs.


    "Well," he growled, voice thick with amusement, "looks like I''ve got myself an uninvited guest."


    The Viper did not answer.  His expression was still unreadable, the barrel of the Duskfire steady as a grave marker.


    Hex Jad exhaled slowly, tilting his head as if considering something. His crimson cloak was covered in those iconic Ars Notoria constellations. "I have to admit, I did not expect to see you in the flesh, Viper. I thought you were a ghost. A whisper on the wind. A bedtime story for bounty hunters who think they are clever." His dark eyes flicked to the bodies crumpled near the warehouse entrance, then back to The Viper. His smirk widened. "Looks like the stories were only half right."


    The Viper cocked the hammer of his revolver with an audible click. "You do much talkin'' before you kill a man, or am I special?"


    Hex Jad chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Oh, you are special, alright. Special enough to learn why men like me do not fear men like you."


    He flicked his fingers outward, and the torches flanking the warehouse entrance burst into unnatural, writhing flames, tongues of blue and violet licking skyward. The shadows around him thickened, stretching unnaturally as if the darkness itself obeyed his command. The captive at his feet let out a hoarse, broken sob.


    The Viper moved to pull the trigger, but something was wrong. His hand hesitated, his vision blurred for a brief second. The world around him tilted at an impossible angle. His heart pounded against his ribs. He steadied himself, forcing the sensation away.


    "You feel it, do you?" Hex Jad whispered, his voice curling through the air like smoke. "That pull behind your eyes? The weight pressing on your chest? That is the Weave, bounty hunter. It does not care how fast you are, or how many men you have put in the dirt. It is older than you. Older than me. It will be here long after the worms have chewed through your bones."


    The Viper fired. The shot cracked through the night, loud as thunder, but Hex Jad was not there.


    A blur of movement. A shifting of air. The Viper’s aim veered toward empty space. Hex Jad was laughing now, his voice coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Tsk tsk. A man like you ought to know better than to trust his eyes."


    The Viper moved fast, rolling behind a stack of crates, his instincts screaming. Another shot rang out, this time aimed toward the Weaver’s voice, but again, the bullet found nothing but shadows.


    A whisper curled against his ear, close enough to feel the breath behind it.


    "You are quick, but I am quicker."


    The Viper spun, slashing with his Azonian shortsword, but his blade passed through empty air.


    The darkness around him shifted, twisted, swirled like oil in water. The world no longer felt solid. Shapes blurred and distorted at the edges of his vision. The ground itself felt uncertain beneath his boots.


    Illusions. The bastard was bending reality around him.


    The Viper closed his eyes for a brief second, centering himself. He had dealt with Weavers before, but none as strong as this.The Viper had heard a saying once, something about how a clever Weaver bends the Weave, while a fool lets it swallow them whole.


    Hex Jad was clever. That meant he would not make mistakes easily. Made him more dangerous than the average Weaver who could barely control the Power.


    The Viper breathed in slow and deep, sharpening his focus. He let go of sight, let go of the way the world twisted before him. He listened instead. The subtle creak of boots on wood. The scrape of fabric against metal. The faint hitch of breath just beyond the veil.


    He turned and fired.


    The bullet tore through the illusion, shattering it like glass. Hex Jad stumbled backward, a deep gash running along his side, crimson blooming across his robes. His sneer vanished, replaced with a flicker of real surprise.


    The Viper grinned. "Guess the Weave ain’t faster than lead, after all."


    Hex Jad’s face twisted with rage. His hands moved in a blur, drawing unseen symbols in the air, his voice rose in an incantation. The air crackled. Sparks flared along his fingertips, glowing with eerie blue light.


    The ground at The Viper’s feet erupted. Tendrils of shadow shot upward like grasping claws, trying to ensnare him. He twisted away, narrowly avoiding their grasp, but one coiled around his boot, pulling him down hard.


    Hex Jad stepped forward, breathless but triumphant. "You think your little tricks make you dangerous, bounty hunter? Let me show you what danger really looks like."


    He clenched his fist, and the tendrils tightened. The Viper gritted his teeth as the unnatural force constricted around his leg, dragging him closer to Hex Jad.


    Then, he smiled.


    A slow, easy smile. The kind of smile that meant trouble.


    "You wizards always get too fancy," The Viper said, his voice a slow, rolling drawl.


    He let go of his revolver with one hand, reached into his coat, and in a flash of dark metal, pulled free the sawed-off shotgun.


    Hex Jad’s eyes widened.


    The Viper pulled the trigger.


    The blast hit Hex Jad square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing backward into a pile of barrels. He choked out a breath, his body convulsing as arcs of blue light flickered across his limbs. The tendrils of shadow dissolved, releasing their hold.


    The Viper got to his feet, dusting himself off. He reloaded the shotgun with a lazy efficiency, stepping toward the wizard’s crumpled form.


    Hex Jad gasped, his fingers twitching weakly, his lips moving in a desperate attempt to summon more power.


    The Viper crouched down beside him, spinning the shotgun once in his hand before resting it against his knee. His piercing blue eyes locked onto the Weaver’s bloodied face.


    "Bet you thought you had me there didn''t ya?"


    Hex Jad’s lips curled, but the arrogance had drained from his face. "You… do not understand the Weave… you fight against what you cannot control… one day, it will crush you."


    The Viper exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Maybe. But that day ain’t today."


    With that, he pressed the barrel against Hex Jad’s temple and pulled the trigger.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The night swallowed the sound of the shot. The warehouse was silent for a breath.


    The Viper stood, rolling his shoulders. His body ached from the fight, his nerves still humming with the lingering touch of the Power, but he was alive. He holstered the shotgun, cracked his neck, and let out a slow, satisfied sigh.


    One less Weaver to torment the world. He picked up his Duskfire, and held it at the ready.


    Now, it was time to find Red Mack.


    Clayton Van Cleef dashed behind a stack of crates as a hail of gunfire ripped through the air, sending splinters flying in every direction. The pole he had been crouched behind only moments ago exploded into jagged shards, the sharp scent of burning wood mixed with the acrid stink of gunpowder. The bank burned hot behind him, smoke rolling thick through the street, casting writhing shadows in the dim lamplight.


    Thugs swarmed the area, cursing and shouting, firing blindly into the night. They had no idea how many men they were up against. Clayton had taken out nearly a dozen on his own, moving through the battlefield like a wraith, striking from the dark, vanishing before they could react. The dynamite had done its job, throwing them into chaos. The outlaws were scattering, stumbling through the smoke, jumping at shadows, firing at ghosts.


    Clayton kept moving, running, firing, dropping into cover. Every shot was measured, precise. His Model 9 kicked in his grip as he downed another fool too slow to realize where the real threat was. These bastards were used to terrorizing merchants and ranchers, not fighting a man who knew how to shoot back. When he returned fire, most of them had the sense to dive for cover. The brave ones held their ground, but Clayton was faster, better. He cut them down before they could even level their weapons.


    He slid into cover behind a stack of wooden boxes, the air thick with dust and drifting ash. He thumbed open the cylinder of his revolver, the smoking casings clinking against the ground as he reloaded with quick, practiced movements. Just as he snapped the cylinder shut, a shadow loomed over him.


    Something like a hammer blow smashed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling backward into the dirt. He hit hard, coughing as dust and grit filled his mouth. His hat tumbled off, and as he rolled onto his side, he saw the massive figure advancing through the smoke.


    Big Bob.


    The bastard was a mountain of a man, barrel-chested and thick-limbed, his massive frame casting a hulking silhouette against the burning bank. His face was twisted in a savage grin, yellowed teeth flashing beneath a wild beard. A jagged scar cut across his forehead, his dark eyes gleaming with something cruel and eager. In his fist, he held an Azonian Cavalry sword, the broad steel blade catching the firelight as he raised it.


    "You little weasel," Big Bob growled, his voice thick with malice. "I’m gonna cut your black guts out and nail your head to the damn bank door!"


    Clayton barely had time to react before the brute lunged. He yanked his Model 9 up and fired twice, but the shots went wild as Bob barreled forward. The bounty hunter twisted to the side, rolling over his shoulder as the cavalry sword came down in a brutal arc. The blade slammed into the dirt where his chest had been, kicking up a spray of dust and embers.


    Big Bob snarled and ripped the sword free, swinging again in a wide, savage slash. Clayton barely got his revolver up in time. The steel clanged against the barrel of the Model 9, knocking it from his grip. Pain shot up his wrist as the gun flew into the shadows.


    "Shit," Clayton muttered through gritted teeth.


    Bob was on him in an instant. A boot the size of a dinner plate slammed into his ribs, lifting him off the ground and sending him tumbling across the dirt. He hit a half-broken hitching post and rolled to a stop, his lungs burning as he gasped for air. Before he could recover, Bob was there again, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him up like a rag doll.


    The first punch was like getting hit by a freight train. Clayton’s head snapped back, stars bursting behind his eyes as blood filled his mouth. Another punch slammed into his gut, forcing the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp. Bob laughed, the deep, ugly sound of a man who enjoyed breaking people.


    "That all you got, fancy boy?" Bob jeered, shaking him like a dog with a bone. "Thought you bounty hunters were supposed to be tough!"


    Clayton spat blood onto the big man''s chest. "You hit like a damn farmhand," he rasped.


    Bob’s grin faltered just long enough.


    Clayton surged forward, driving his forehead into the bridge of Bob’s nose with a sickening crunch. The big man stumbled back, cursing as blood poured from his nostrils. Clayton hit the ground hard but rolled with the impact, his hand shooting to the shortsword at his belt. He yanked it free and drove the blade into Bob’s side, just beneath the ribs.


    The brute bellowed in pain and swung blindly with the cavalry sword. Clayton ducked under the wild slash, ripping the shortsword free in a spray of blood before lunging forward again. Bob roared, dropping his own sword and grabbing Clayton with both hands.


    The bounty hunter barely had time to react before he was lifted clean off the ground and hurled through the air. He crashed into an overturned wagon, the wood splintering under his weight. White-hot pain exploded through his back, and he struggled to push himself up, coughing as he fought to stay conscious.


    Bob staggered, his massive hand pressed against his bleeding side. His face was twisted in rage, his chest heaving. "I’m gonna tear you apart you bastard!" he bellowed.


    Clayton’s fingers brushed against something in the dirt. His strike lighter.


    Bob charged.


    Clayton gritted his teeth, grabbed the lighter, and struck it in one smooth motion. The small flame flared to life, just as his other hand pulled a stick of dynamite from his coat. He lit the fuse.


    Bob''s eyes went wide. "Oh shi—"


    Clayton hurled the dynamite straight into Bob’s chest.


    The explosion sent the big bastard flying, his body engulfed in fire and smoke as he was thrown backward into the street. The force of it sent Clayton skidding along the dirt, the heat licking at his face as he shielded his eyes.


    When the dust settled, Big Bob was nothing more than a charred, unmoving heap.


    Clayton groaned as he pushed himself up, his ribs screaming in protest. He was bloodied, bruised, scorched, and breathing like he had swallowed a mouthful of gravel, but he was alive. He spat again, wiping the sweat and blood from his face.


    "Should’ve used a gun, Bob," he muttered, grabbing his hat and setting it back on his head.


    He winced, pressing a hand to his side. That bastard had worked him over good. He had to keep moving. There were still plenty of Red Iron thugs out there, and the real fight was happening back at the warehouse. He took hold of his Wavebreaker Shotgun, and readied himself to make way for the Warehouse.


    With a final glance at the smoldering wreckage of Big Bob, Clayton turned and melted back into the shadows, loading the Wavebreaker as he went.


    The Viper was pinned down behind a rusted metal water tank, the thick sheet metal ringing with every bullet that struck it. Sparks danced from the impacts, and the acrid scent of scorched metal filled the air. He crouched low, rolling his jaw as he checked his revolver. Three shots left. Not nearly enough.


    Red Mack and Soggy Bill had dug in, sending wild bursts of gunfire his way. Mack had no business being this brave. The weaselly bastard should have been running for his life, not trading lead. But Soggy Bill was another matter. The old outlaw was mean, steady, and he knew what he was doing. The Viper had tangled with men like him before, the type who only got more dangerous with age. He had a scattergun, and every time The Viper tried to peek out, the air filled with buckshot. Getting close would be a mistake.


    “Come on out, you son of a bitch!” Soggy Bill hollered, his voice hoarse with smoke and fury. “Ain''t no tricks left for you now!”


    The Viper smirked despite himself. “Oh, I got tricks, Bill. Just ain''t decided which one to kill you with yet.”


    A shot slammed into the tank near his head, sending a sharp ringing through his ears. He swore under his breath and tried to move left, only for Mack’s revolver to crack out, kicking up dust near his boots.


    They had him boxed in.


    That was when he heard it—the distinct boom of a Wavebreaker Shotgun.


    Red Mack yelped, his shot going wild. A second blast tore through the crates he had been using for cover, sending splinters flying. The Viper seized his moment, spinning out from cover and firing twice in rapid succession. The first bullet hit Mack’s revolver, knocking it clean out of his hands. The second grazed his arm, spinning him around before he hit the ground, clutching the wound.


    Soggy Bill whipped toward the new threat.


    Van Cleef stood at the edge of the warehouse yard, his coat torn and bloodied, his hat slightly askew. The shotgun’s barrels still smoked from the shot, but it was his stance that told the story. The man was holding himself up through sheer stubbornness. His ribs were likely cracked, maybe worse. Blood dripped from a split in his lip, and his left eye was already swelling shut. He had been through hell, but he was still standing.


    The Viper grinned. “Took your sweet time, Van Cleef.”


    “Had to walk off a proper ass-kicking,” Clayton rasped, pumping another shell into the shotgun. “Now you gonna kill these bastards, or do I gotta do everything?”


    The Viper laughed and turned his attention back to Soggy Bill. The old outlaw was already leveling his scattergun at Van Cleef.


    Clayton fired first.


    The shotgun roared, and Soggy Bill staggered as the slug punched into his side. He let out a wheezing grunt, his grip loosening. The Viper finished it, raising his revolver and putting a bullet square between the man’s eyes. Soggy Bill crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut, the scattergun falling from his limp hands.


    Red Mack, still on the ground, scrambled to his knees, his hands raised. “I surrender! I surrender, damn it!” His voice was high-pitched, trembling. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and dirt.


    The Viper tilted his head. “Now why would I let a snake like you live?”


    Before Mack could answer, a single gunshot rang out.


    Van Cleef staggered back, a bloom of crimson spreading across his shoulder. The Viper’s head snapped toward the source.


    A tall figure stood at the far end of the yard, stepping out from the darkness of the warehouse. A wide-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow over his face, but there was no mistaking the iron gauntlet on his right hand.


    Ironhand Rouke.


    A thin stream of smoke exhaled from the barrel of his pistol, his stance relaxed, easy. Like a man who had done this a hundred times before. His eyes flicked to Van Cleef, watching the bounty hunter clutch at the wound, sinking to one knee.


    “Well,” Ironhand said, his voice slow and deliberate, “looks like I got here just in time.”


    The Viper’s revolver was already raised, his grip steady, but he did not fire. Not yet. Ironhand was crafty. He was no fool.


    Ironhand smirked, rolling his shoulders. “You know, I have lost count of how many men I have shot standing just like you are now. Gritty little bounty hunters thinking they got what it takes to bring me down. Fast ones, slow ones, mean ones, righteous ones. Every last one ended up bleeding in the dirt.”


    The Viper adjusted his grip, his thumb easing the hammer back. “That supposed to scare me, Ironhand?”


    The outlaw leader smiled. “I do not expect fear. Just respect. I have seen your work tonight. I know your reputation. However, reputations are just stories men tell before they die.”


    The night was silent. The wind whispered through the wreckage of the fight. Van Cleef let out a ragged cough, blood flecking his lips as he leaned against a crate. Red Mack had gone still, his eyes darting between the two gunslingers.


    Ironhand’s fingers twitched over the grip of his revolver.


    The Viper smiled, easy and unbothered. “You talk a lot for a man about to get shot.”


    Ironhand’s eyes darkened. “You aren''t fast enough.”


    The Viper’s grin widened. “Ain’t I? Well, let’s find out.”


    They moved in the same breath. Two gunshots split the air. One man stood. The other crumpled.


    Ironhand Rouke hit the dirt, a clean bullet hole in the center of his forehead. His gun slipped from his fingers, his iron gauntlet twitching once before going still.


    The Viper exhaled slowly, rolling his neck. His revolver smoked at his side. He tipped his hat down, stepping over Ironhand’s corpse. “Told you.”


    Van Cleef let out a pained chuckle from where he sat. “Damn.”


    The Viper knelt beside him. “Still breathin’, Van Cleef. That means you owe me.”


    Clayton smirked through the pain. “Reckon I do.”


    The Viper glanced toward Red Mack, who had not moved a muscle. The outlaw’s face was drained of all color. He flinched when The Viper turned his gaze on him.


    “Now,” The Viper said, his voice smooth as silk, “you and me got some business back in Sagebrush.”


    Red Mack whimpered, his hands trembling where they were half-raised in surrender. The fight had drained from him, leaving only the stink of fear and sweat. The Viper stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his boots crunching against the dirt. He knelt down, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Mack’s.


    "You look like a man who just found the Light," The Viper murmured. "Shame you did not take up prayin’ before all this."


    Red Mack swallowed hard. "Please—"


    The Viper stuffed a rag into his mouth before he could start his begging proper. He yanked the outlaw’s hands behind his back, wrapping thick rope around his wrists, binding them tight. He gave the knot a sharp tug, just to hear Mack groan.


    "Quit your bellyachin''," The Viper muttered, securing the other end of the rope to his belt. "You are walkin’ to Sagebrush, one way or another. You make it hard, I will make it worse."


    Satisfied, he rose and turned to Van Cleef, who was hunched over, pressing a hand against the wound in his side. The bounty hunter was pale, sweat beading on his brow, but he still had enough grit in him to glare.


    "How bad?" The Viper asked.


    Van Cleef let out a slow breath. "Bad enough."


    The Viper crouched, giving him a once-over. The wound was deep but clean, and while Clayton had been through worse, a march through the desert would turn bad into fatal real quick.


    "Shame you ain’t fit for ridin’. Suppose you will be sittin’ pretty here for a while," The Viper said, digging into his coat. He fished out a small, sealed slip of parchment and pressed it into Van Cleef’s hand.


    "What is this?" Clayton asked, frowning.


    "Note for a few Ars Notoria down in Sagebrush. The ones who know a thing or two about mendin’ the broken. I will send them your way." He stood and dusted off his gloves. "Be nice when they get here. They are a delicate sort."


    Van Cleef huffed a laugh, wincing as he shifted against the crate he had slumped against. "Never figured you for the charitable type."


    The Viper grinned. "I ain’t. You still owe me, remember?"


    Van Cleef smirked, rolling his head back against the wood. "Yeah. Reckon I do."


    The Viper watched him a moment longer, then adjusted his hat and turned back to Mack, who was shifting anxiously in the dirt. He knelt down, grabbed the rope, and gave it another sharp tug, just for good measure.


    "Time to go," The Viper said. "Hope you like the desert."


    Red Mack’s muffled protests were swallowed by the quiet hush of the wind as The Viper started walking. He did not look back. He did not need to. Van Cleef would live. Dustveil would pick up the pieces. And Ironhand was just another corpse in the dirt.


    The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, a soft glow cresting the horizon. The first hints of dawn stretched long over the desert, bleeding gold and crimson across the sands. Dustveil, broken and smoldering, lay behind him, while the long road to Sagebrush stretched ahead.


    Mack stumbled behind him, dragged forward by the rope, his bound hands scrabbling at the dry earth. The Viper did not slow. He did not acknowledge the groans of his captive or the weight of the journey ahead. He just walked, steady and unhurried, his silhouette long against the rising sun.


    He had never needed a horse. And he never would.