《Dead Men Don't Run》


 Part 1: The Man with No Horse.

    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.

 Part 2: Snake Oil and Gun Smoke AND Part 3: Blood and Buzzards

    The Viper kills two Red Iron thugs at the inn, making his presence known. He''s in town looking for Red Mack. He gathers intel on Red Mack¡¯s warehouse hideout and learns of Ironhand¡¯s plan to massacre the town for hidden gold. A grieving mother, Martha, provides gang patrol patterns and pleads for justice. Weighing profit against morality, The Viper considers taking down Ironhand as well. Dawn breaks as he prepares for his next move.


    Meanwhile, Ironhand meets with Mr. Coins, a powerful backer funding the Red Iron Gang¡¯s takeover of Dustveil. Mr. Coins ordered the town¡¯s eradication to secure the land for political influence. He wants to know how things are going. Ironhand tells him about The Viper, and Mr. Coins says The Viper must be beaten, not killed, to avoid making him a martyr. Meanwhile, The Viper surveils the warehouse and witnesses Ironhand brutally interrogating a captured informant. Knowing the gang is tightening its grip, The Viper waits for the right moment to strike.


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 Part 4: Fire in the Night

    Part 4 Fire in the Night


    The sky was bruised with the fading colors of dusk as Clayton Van Cleef rode into Dustveil. His eyes scanned the town with a practiced calm. His horse''s hooves kicked up small clouds of dust as they clopped over the dry street. Van Cleef had the look of a man who had seen much, and carried it all with a quiet dignity. He had broad shoulders, a lean frame, and a face hardened by time and regret.


    He tugged his creased crown, curled brimmed hat, lower, concealing his eyes as a group of townsfolk shuffled passed. They whispered in hushed tones, and a name caught his ear. The Viper. Clayton''s jaw tightened. He dismounted and tied his horse to the post outside the Sunset Inn. He strode inside. His boots made a slow deliberate rhythm on the worn wooden floor. The room quieted slightly at his presence, but not with the same sharp fear The Viper had inspired. Clayton was a different kind of threat. Quiet and measured. No less dangerous though.


    He nodded to the innkeeper, who was wiping the counter with a nervous energy.


    "I heard there was some excitement here last night. Gunshots. Two Red Iron boys didn''t make it out." he said in a clipped north Azonian accent.


    The innkeeper looked up, eyes darting toward the door, as if to make sure no one was listening.


    "Stranger came in, called himself The Viper. Took care of ''em right quick. Shot the both of them dead before anyone could blink." She said in a lowered voice.


    Clayton''s lips pressed into a thin line.


    "That sounds about right. Red Mack still in town?" He replied.


    "Holed up in the old warehouse still, unless The Viper already killed him. Not likely though. Even a man of that skill can''t defeat an entire outlaw band alone." The innkeeper said, nodding.


    "Much obliged." Clayton said, tipping his hat. He turned and left the Sunset Inn. Outside, night was quickly casting its shadow over the desert. Lanterns flickered weakly along the main street, their light barely holding back the darkness. He left his horse tied to the post, and walked down the main street. Clayton Van Cleef moved at a measured pace, his eyes scanning every corner, every movement.


    His hand rested easily on his Ironfang Military Model 9, a heavy six-shot revolver with a blackened steel frame and a worn, ivory grip. Slung across his back was his Duskforge Wavebuster Shotgun, a short-barreled beast known for stopping anything unlucky enough to stand in front of it. Hanging from his other hip was a Royal Azonian shortsword, its scabbard scarred from years of hard use. Each weapon was a tool with a purpose. A reminder of a life filled with hard choices.


    He caught sight of a group of Red Iron thugs outside a dry goods store, pushing around a thin, older man. The farmer clutched a worn satchel to his chest, his eyes wide with fear.


    "Please! I need this for my family! It''s all I''ve got!" pleaded the man. The lead thug, a brute of a man with a jagged scar running down his face, grinned cruelly.


    "Then you''ll have to learn to live with less. Or maybe we should just take your farm too." the scarred thug said.


    Clayton stepped into the lamplight, his boots crunching on the dirt. His hand never left the grip of his revolver as he spoke, his voice calm and steady.


    "Sounds to me like you boys have taken enough from him." The thugs turned their eyes to Van Cleef. The scarred thug sneered and stepped forward with his hand hovering over his own gun belt.


    "Who the hell are you?" he growled.


    "Just someone who hates bullies. Van Cleef retorted, tilting his head. The thug lunged forward with his hands outstretched, trying to grab Clayton''s throat. Clayton sidestepped and grabbed his arm. He twisted hard and a loud pop echoed down the street as the thug''s elbow dislocated. The brute screamed in pain, and dropped to his knees.


    The second tough swung a club for Van Cleef, but Clayton ducked under it and slammed the butt of his Ironfang into the man''s ribs. The man collapsed, gasping for air. The scarred thug stared at his fallen companions, his confidence wavering.


    "You''re dead, old man. Ironhand''ll string you up for this." He snarled.


    Clayton aimed the Ironfang in one fluid motion, and leveled it at the man''s chest.


    "Then you better run fast. Maybe he''ll string me up sooner." Van Cleef''s voice was calm and measured. The scarred man hesitated for a breathless moment before turning and running into the darkness, leaving his two friends groaning in the dirt. Clayton watched him go. Then he holstered his gun and turned to help the farmer up.


    "Thank you!" Gasped the farmer. "I thought they were gonna kill me."


    "Stay inside for a while. Trouble''s just gettin; started." Clayton said to the man. The farmer nodded and hurried off into the shadows. Van Cleef adjusted his hat. His eyes were already on the distant warehouse looming at the edge of town.


    The Viper crouched low in the shadows, his eyes locked on the warehouse with quiet determination. The soft glow of lanterns flickered from within, casting long, jittery shadows that danced on the walls. His mind worked quickly, plotting how best to tackle the situation. The Red Iron Gang had at least forty members scattered across Dustveil. At any given time, there were ten to fifteen guarding the warehouse. Killing them all would be a tall order for any man, even one with The Viper¡¯s reputation. He¡¯d need a way to break them up, scatter their ranks. Or he¡¯d need help.


    The thought had barely taken shape when he heard the soft crunch of dirt behind him. His hand instinctively brushed the grip of his Duskfire as he turned. Out of the twilight, a familiar figure strode toward him with deliberate ease.


    Clayton Van Cleef.


    The Viper¡¯s eyes narrowed. He tipped his hat back slightly, revealing a faint smirk.


    "Van Cleef," he said in his slow, melodic drawl, the name rolling off his tongue like a lazy threat.


    "Viper," Van Cleef replied, his proper north Azonian accent clipped and formal.


    The Viper turned back toward the warehouse. His smirk faded. He didn¡¯t care much for seeing Van Cleef here, it meant trouble. They had crossed paths before, each time hunting the same target. Clayton was a dogged hunter, just like The Viper, but a bit too by-the-book for his tastes. Not a bad man to have in a fight, but usually more nuisance than ally.


    Clayton stood beside him, resting his hands lightly on his gun belt, his eyes studying the warehouse with that measured calm he was known for.


    "You can¡¯t take on the whole gang, Viper," Clayton said, his tone was matter-of-fact, but not unkind.


    The Viper chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving the building. "Who says I¡¯m plannin¡¯ to take them all on?"


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    Before Clayton could respond, a sudden commotion broke out behind the warehouse. Both men leaned forward, their eyes narrowing in the dim light. The man who had been tied to a stake out back, with his skin blistered and burned from a day in the sun, was surrounded once again by several gang members. The thugs dragged him up, their voices rising in a harsh chorus as they interrogated him.


    The Viper and Clayton strained to listen, catching fragments of the conversation as it carried on the dry wind. Ironhand¡¯s voice rang out clear and commanding. His words were slow and deliberate.


    "You had your chance, friend," Ironhand said, stepping aside with an air of cold finality. "We¡¯ll let ol¡¯ Hex Jad have a go at you now."


    The prisoner¡¯s sun-scorched face paled visibly at the name. His cracked lips parted in a silent plea, but no mercy was coming.


    The Viper frowned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. He hadn¡¯t heard of Hex Jad before.


    A figure stepped forward from the shadows, draped in a crimson cloak that caught the flickering lamplight. Beneath the cloak, the stock of a rifle jutted out from his side, but it was the way the man moved; calm, deliberate, with the air of a predator, that marked him as something else.


    The man raised his hands, fingers curling in strange, unnatural shapes. His voice rang out in a guttural chant, each word dripped with power. The air around him seemed to thrum with energy, vibrating with an unseen force.


    The captive screamed an awful, guttural sound filled with both terror and pain. His body twisted unnaturally, veins darkening as some unseen force wrapped around him.


    "By the Powers," Clayton whispered, his voice barely audible, "they¡¯ve got a Weaver."


    The Viper didn¡¯t respond immediately. His eyes were locked on Hex Jad, taking in every detail. The crimson cloak, the strange constellation symbols stitched into the fabric, the cold confidence in his movements. He¡¯d encountered Weavers before, and they were always the deadliest threats. No amount of bullets could save you if you weren¡¯t ready for their tricks.


    "He¡¯s the most dangerous one here," Clayton said after a long pause. "If we¡¯re gonna take Mack and his boys, we¡¯ll need a plan. One that starts with dealing with him."


    The Viper finally turned his gaze to Van Cleef, a slow, deliberate smile curling at the edges of his lips. The flickering torchlight from the warehouse cast sharp lines across his face, deepening the shadows under his hat.


    "Well now," he drawled, his voice easy, unhurried. "Good thing I¡¯ve tangled with Weavers before. Always a pain in the ass, but I got a knack for dealin¡¯ with ¡®em."


    He studied Van Cleef for a moment, eyes glinting with something between amusement and challenge.


    "That said, you sure you¡¯re up for this, Van Cleef? Even with me doin¡¯ most of the work?"


    Van Cleef exhaled through his nose, a quiet chuckle escaping as he smirked.


    "If there¡¯s one thing I never pass up, it¡¯s a chance to outshine you."


    The Viper nodded, then tilted his head toward the grim spectacle unfolding behind the warehouse. Hex Jad stood over the prisoner, his crimson cloak swaying slightly in the night breeze. The poor bastard tied to the post let out a hoarse, ragged scream as something unseen twisted through his body, his muscles spasming violently under the Weaver¡¯s spell.


    The Viper watched for a moment, his expression unreadable, before speaking again.


    "Now let me spin you a little tale ¡®bout our friend Hex Jad. Can¡¯t say I know ¡®im, but you see that cloak? Covered in stars, moons, all that celestial nonsense?" He gestured subtly toward the Weaver¡¯s flowing robes. "That means he is, or was, Ars Notoria. An actual trained Weaver. Not some hedge wizard who barely knows his own ass from a spell book."


    Van Cleef¡¯s brows knitted slightly.


    "You sure?"


    "As sure as I am that you¡¯re gonna keep slowin¡¯ me down." The Viper grinned before turning his attention back to the scene. "Now, I reckon he ain¡¯t with the Ars Notoria anymore. Not if he¡¯s ridin¡¯ with an outlaw gang. My guess? They either kicked him out, or he decided he liked coin more than cause. Either way, he¡¯s the real deal, and Ironhand¡¯s been keepin¡¯ him close."


    Van Cleef nodded, following his gaze. "Which means he¡¯s priority number one."


    "Exactly." The Viper¡¯s voice was calm, steady. "We cut the head off this snake first, then we worry about the rest."


    "So, what''s the play?" Clayton asked.


    The Viper leaned against the old fence, rolling his cigarette between his fingers as he spoke, his voice slow and easy, like a man discussing the weather instead of plotting a massacre.


    "First thing we do is separate the herd. Get most of ¡®em runnin¡¯ the other way. A little fireworks display across town should do the trick. Lucky for us, I happen to have some dynamite just itchin¡¯ to be useful. Now, you set off a loud enough boom in a place that looks important, and those boys¡¯ll go ridin¡¯ off like spooked cattle, tryin¡¯ to figure out who¡¯s stupid enough to pick a fight with ¡®em."


    He tapped his cigarette, watching the ember fall into the dust. "That leaves ol¡¯ Hex here with fewer friends watchin¡¯ his back. During the chaos, we slip into the warehouse. I got a little treat for the dogs. Jerky soaked in Hell¡¯s Ham Fist. Stuff¡¯s strong enough to knock out a grown man, so I reckon it¡¯ll send those mutts straight to dreamland."


    He flicked his gaze over to Van Cleef, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Then we take out the guards quiet-like. No need to be makin¡¯ noise and gettin¡¯ Hex all jumpy. Once that¡¯s done, we put the Weaver six feet under. The rest of these bastards can shoot at us all night, but Hex? He¡¯s the real problem. You don¡¯t fight a Weaver, you put him down before he knows he¡¯s in a fight."


    Van Cleef folded his arms, nodding along, but his brow furrowed. "And Mack?"


    The Viper exhaled a slow breath through his nose. "Mack¡¯s worth more alive, so we make sure he don¡¯t get himself killed tryin¡¯ to run. After that? We burn this whole damn place down. Not ¡®cause we have to." He let the words hang for a second before smirking. "Just ¡®cause I don¡¯t like these bastards."


    Van Cleef tilted his head slightly. "And what if Hex or Mack, hell, both of ¡®em, go check out the diversion instead of stayin¡¯ back at the warehouse?"


    The Viper chuckled, shaking his head. "Mack ain¡¯t goin¡¯ anywhere. That man¡¯s yella clear through. He''s pure chicken-shit. You could set his bed on fire, and he¡¯d still be too scared to run out from under the covers. Hex though? That one¡¯s got a brain. If the distraction¡¯s too big, he might think they need his powers to deal with it. So we make sure the diversion is just big enough to draw out the grunts, but not so big that they think they need their pet sorcerer."


    He flicked the last of his cigarette away, straightened his hat, and turned his sharp blue eyes on Van Cleef. "That all sound sensible enough for you, or do you need me to say it slower in that proper North Azonian you¡¯re so fond of?"


    "Sensible enough. What about the end game. We split 50/50?" Van Cleef asked.


    The Viper tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face like he¡¯d just heard the setup to a good joke. He let the silence hang for a beat, watching Van Cleef with those sharp, knowing eyes.


    "Fifty-fifty?" he repeated, drawing out the words like he was savoring them. "Now, Clayton, I didn''t take you for a comedian."


    Van Cleef crossed his arms over his chest. "Fair split for a fair job."


    The Viper let out a soft chuckle and shook his head. "See, here¡¯s the problem with that, friend. You¡¯re settin¡¯ off some fireworks and playin¡¯ hide-and-seek while I¡¯m the one slippin¡¯ into a death trap filled with armed men and a damn Weaver. You tell me, does that sound like equal work to you?"


    Van Cleef¡¯s brow furrowed. "I don¡¯t see you gettin¡¯ Mack without my help. That distraction¡¯s the only reason you¡¯ll get inside without a dozen barrels pointed at your head. That¡¯s worth half."


    The Viper tapped his fingers on the grip of his revolver, as if considering. Then, he let out an exaggerated sigh and shook his head.


    "Tell you what. I¡¯ll be generous. Sixty-forty. You still get a cut big enough to buy yourself a new coat, one that don¡¯t make you look like a damn lawman. And I get the lion¡¯s share, ¡®cause I¡¯m the one who¡¯s gonna be doing most of the lion¡¯s work."


    Van Cleef scoffed. "Sixty-forty? That right? Funny, I seem to recall a certain fella who nearly lost out on a bounty in Cactus Crossing ¡®cause he didn¡¯t have a second gun to cover him when things got messy. What was his name again? Oh, right. You."


    The Viper clicked his tongue. "Ah, now I see. You¡¯re bringin¡¯ up old business. See, if I recall, I still got my man in Cactus Crossing. Just needed a little more elbow grease. This, however, is different. Ain¡¯t no clean exit here. We fail, we die. And if we die, I¡¯d sure hate to go out thinkin¡¯ I got swindled in my last negotiation."


    Van Cleef sighed, rubbing his temple like he was dealing with a particularly stubborn merchant. "Sixty-forty, huh? Fine. But I get the first drink when this is done."


    The Viper tipped his hat. "Now that¡¯s a deal I can shake on."


    The handshake was short and firm, a silent pact between two men who didn¡¯t need to like each other to get the job done.


    Van Cleef adjusted his gun belt. "I¡¯ll start settin¡¯ up the distraction. You be ready."


    The Viper gave a lazy stretch, rolling his shoulders. "Van Cleef, I''m more ready than a rattler in a rabbit hole. You just worry about keepin¡¯ that pretty head of yours attached."

 Sunrise over Dustveil

    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¡ª"


    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¡ªthe 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¡ª"


    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.