The desert didn’t whisper; it groaned. Wind dragged heat through the dust like a dying man’s last breath, and the sun beat down like it was punishing the land for something it hadn’t confessed to. A single man crawled across this blistered plain—hat lost, boots torn, lips cracked like old leather. He was the sort of man who looked like he’d tried to fight the desert and lost the argument halfway through the first sentence.

He went by the name of Ellis Pike, though at this point, he was considering changing it to "Poor Bastard" if he lived long enough to write it down.

“Two more steps,” Ellis muttered. “Just two more steps and then ... ah hell.”

He collapsed in a puff of sand and grit, face-first into the earth, buzzards circling like bored dinner guests. His eyelids fluttered. Through the shimmer of heat, he saw hooves. A horse. A silhouette. Salvation—or maybe just Death dressed in spurs.

A boot nudged him.

“Awful lotta noise for someone who looks halfway dead,” came a dry voice, flat as a Kansas highway.

Ellis looked up into the face of a man who seemed carved from spite and tobacco spit. Leather duster, week-old stubble, hat dipped low. He squinted at Ellis like someone trying to identify a stain.

“You an angel?” Ellis croaked.

The man snorted. “Yeah, sure. Let me fetch my harp and halo. You want salvation or not, chatterbox?”

Next thing Ellis knew, he was slung across the back of the stranger’s horse like a sack of regret. The stranger climbed into the saddle, tugging the brim of his hat down.

“Name’s Ellis Pike,” Ellis wheezed. “Appreciate the help, mister. What's your name?”

“You wouldn’t use it right if I gave it to you.”

“Well now that’s just cryptic. You in some kind of trouble?”

“Nope,” the man said. “I am trouble.”

Ellis laughed—then winced. “Heh. You one o’ them poetic types?”

The stranger grunted. “You always this chatty when dying?”

“Usually I get worse. Once talked a priest into drinkin’ with me after bein’ gutshot. Said it was a holy experience.”

“I believe it. Mostly the part about you bein’ a pain in the ass.”

The road shimmered as they approached the town of Sundown Hollow—named either for the hour most of its murders happened or the angle at which its one good saloon faced the dying sun. The buildings leaned like drunks in a brawl, and everything smelled faintly of gunpowder, horse sweat, and last chances.

A crooked sign greeted them: WELCOME TO SUNDOWN HOLLOW – POP: VARIABLE.

As they entered, Ellis pointed to a place that looked less like a clinic and more like a barbershop with regrets.

“There! Ol’ Doc Merton runs that place. He once stitched my brother’s head back together. Only problem was, it wasn’t my brother’s head.”

The stranger ignored him and steered the horse toward the hitching post, eyes scanning every alley and rooftop.

“You always this twitchy?” Ellis asked.

“You always this mouthy?” the stranger replied.

“Only when I’m feelin’ safe, which, thanks to you, I now do.”

As the stranger helped Ellis down, five men stepped into the road. Dust curled around their boots like a curtain rising on a bad play. Guns gleamed on their hips, and the tallest one spat a wad of tobacco right onto the hitching post.

“Well, well,” said the leader. “Ain’t this a sight. The Black Vulture, strollin’ into town like he ain’t worth more’n a small ranch in bounty.”

Ellis blinked. “Wait, Black Vulture? That you?”

The stranger sighed.

“Of all the godforsaken towns,” he muttered.

“Boys,” said the leader, “five thousand dollars says we drop him right here.”

The stranger looked at Ellis.

“You see what happens when you talk too much? People start noticin' things.”

Ellis blinked at the five guns pointed their way.

“Well,” he said, “I’m startin’ to feel less safe.”

The Black Vulture rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, his voice colder than grave dirt.

“Let’s get this over with.”

There are certain moments in a man’s life when his choices narrow to two: run, or hope your underpants are clean. Ellis Pike, still wobbling from dehydration and a recent flirtation with death, chose a third option ... he froze like a possum in a lantern light.

The Black Vulture, on the other hand, looked like he’d just been asked if he preferred whiskey or bourbon.

The five gunslingers stood shoulder to shoulder, dust coating their boots, eyes hungry. Each had the look of a man who thought they were the main character.

“You got a preference who goes first?” asked the tallest, a man with a gold tooth and the sort of mustache that had never seen a proper comb.

The Black Vulture didn’t answer. He simply stepped to the side, giving Ellis a little shove toward the porch.

“Why don’t you limp behind that barrel, chatterbox,” he muttered. “You’ll just catch bullets out here, and you’ve already got enough holes.”

Ellis stumbled back, half from fear, half from the fact his legs were arguing with gravity.

“Don’t die,” he called weakly. “I owe you a whiskey and… maybe my life. But mostly whiskey.”

The gunslingers didn’t laugh. They were already spreading out in the street, hands inching toward holsters.

Then came the silence. Not the kind filled with anticipation—but the thick, syrupy kind that settled right before everything explodes. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, someone bolted a door.

The Black Vulture's fingers flexed once.

The gold-toothed man grinned.

Then five guns cleared leather.

But only one fired.

The Vulture moved like a breath in reverse—his coat swirling, his revolver already spitting fire before anyone realized he’d drawn. The man on the left spun and crumpled, his shot going wide and kicking dust into the air. Another screamed and dropped his weapon, hand bleeding and useless. Chaos bloomed.

Ellis ducked behind the rain barrel just as bullets slammed into it, sending wood splinters into his arm.

“Sweet holy hell!” he yelled, pressing his hat over his head like it was a helmet.

The Vulture didn’t duck. He glided. Every step he took seemed choreographed by something mean and patient. He fired once more, clipped the tall one in the shoulder, then pivoted and pistol-whipped another attacker straight into the side of a feed trough.

Two were dead. One was moaning on the ground. The fourth had run screaming.

The last - the gold-toothed leader, backed up, wounded but upright, gun still in hand.

“You ain’t makin’ it outta here!” he spat, blood on his teeth. “You’re worth too damn much!”

The Vulture didn’t speak. He leveled his revolver.

But before he could fire, a sharp whistle pierced the street. A lean man in a tweed vest—of all things—strode out from the saloon, twirling a silver pocket watch.

“That’s enough!” he barked. “No bloodbaths before supper, damn it!”

Ellis poked his head up, confused. “Wait… is that the mayor?”

“Town magistrate,” the man corrected, glancing sideways at the carnage. “And undertaker. In this place, it’s usually the same job.”

The Vulture stepped back, holstering his gun. “Self-defense.”

The magistrate arched a brow. “Well, no one’s gonna argue that. Besides…” He glanced at the bodies. “You did us a favor. Couple of those fellas’ve been making trouble since the last cattle drive.”

The townsfolk began to emerge from their hiding spots like prairie dogs after a thunderstorm. Whispering. Pointing. One of them shouted, “That’s him! The one from the Blackrock Pass job!”

Another: “He’s the one who burned the Rios Gang to the ground!”

“Some say he don’t sleep. Just sits on a rock, waitin’ for trouble to walk by.”

Ellis limped over, brushing dust off his shirt. “So, uh... what now? Do we get him a key to the town? Or maybe a really stern thank-you?”

The Vulture didn’t smile. He looked around slowly, the way a wolf might inspect a fence.

“Now,” he muttered, “we find a place to hide. Because this bounty? It’s only gonna bring worse.”

The magistrate sighed. “You just painted a bullseye on this town, stranger. You’d better make yourself useful.”

Ellis grinned and clapped him on the shoulder—then winced and pulled back. “Ow. Okay. Too soon. But still. I got a good feelin’ about this partnership. Like fate. Or intestinal parasites.”

The Vulture just walked toward the saloon.

Behind him, Ellis shuffled along, still talking.

“You ever play poker? You look like you cheat at poker. Or are very bad at bluffin’. That face ain’t exactly... flexible.”

“You know,” the Vulture said, without turning, “I liked you better when you were dying.”

“I get that a lot.”

As they disappeared through the swinging doors of the saloon, the town of Sundown Hollow held its breath.

Because The Black Vulture had come.

And the storm was just getting started.

The saloon doors swung shut behind them with a sigh, as if the building itself had been holding its breath since the gunfire ceased.

Inside, it was dim and still. The only movement came from a bartender who hadn't moved from behind the counter since the chaos began. He was a wiry old man with a handlebar mustache and a glass eye that seemed to follow trouble even before it entered the room.

The Vulture stepped up to the bar and tapped the wood twice with his knuckles.

“Whiskey,” he said.

The bartender gave a slow nod and poured a finger’s worth into a dusty glass, pushing it forward without comment. The Vulture took it, but didn’t drink. He just held it in one gloved hand, staring down into the liquid like it might whisper secrets.

Ellis pulled up a stool beside him with a grunt, the wood creaking beneath his bruised ribs.

“So,” Ellis said, voice lighter than the room deserved, “we gonna talk about what you meant? ‘Worse’ than the boys you just shot? Because I gotta say, I’ve seen worse, and I usually prefer when it stays far, far away.”

The Vulture didn’t answer. Not right away.

Then: “They weren’t hunting me for coin.”

Ellis blinked. “No?”

The Vulture turned his glass slowly. “They were sent.”

“By who?”

“Don’t know. Yet.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the quiet clink of glass and the soft creak of old boards adjusting to the weight of fate walking through their door.

Finally, Ellis scratched his chin. “You always talk in cryptic half-truths, or is this just a seasonal thing?”

The Vulture glanced at him, and for a flicker of a moment, something behind his eyes almost smiled. Almost.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Barely. Thanks, by the way. I think.”

The saloon door creaked open again, slow and hesitant. A boy, no older than ten, stepped inside with a nervous gait. He held something wrapped in oilskin—something small but heavy.

He approached the bar, glanced at Ellis, then turned to the Vulture.

“This came this morning,” the boy said, voice thin. “For you, I think.”

The Vulture didn’t move.

The boy unwrapped the parcel and placed it on the counter.

It was a single crow’s feather, dipped in blood, curled like a question mark.

Ellis leaned forward, frowning. “That… doesn’t feel like a thank-you gift.”

The Vulture stared at the feather, unmoving. Then he reached into his coat and drew out a coin, placing it silently beside the boy’s hand.

“Go home. Lock your door.”

The boy didn’t hesitate.

When the door shut behind him, the saloon felt colder.

Ellis rubbed his hands together, suddenly very aware of how quiet it had gotten outside. “So... any idea what that means?”

The Vulture downed the whiskey in a single motion, then finally spoke.

“They know I’m here.”

“Right,” Ellis muttered. “And who’s they, again?”

The Vulture stood, his coat falling like a shadow.

“The ones who trained me. The ones who thought I died in the fire.”

He turned to the door.

“And if they’ve sent the first feather, that means the second isn’t far behind.”

Ellis stood too, eyes wide. “You’re saying there’s a second feather? What’s that mean?”

The Vulture looked at him.

“The first is a warning.”

Ellis swallowed. “And the second?”

The Vulture pushed open the saloon doors and stepped into the fading light.

“The second means they’ve already drawn their guns.”

And just like that, Sundown Hollow’s breath caught once more.

Because the real storm hadn’t come yet.

But it was riding hard.

And it knew exactly where to look.

The dusk didn’t cool the air so much as paint it darker. Heat still shimmered off the dust-choked streets of Sundown Hollow, curling around eaves and clinging to the shadows like a warning that refused to lift.

The Vulture moved like someone who didn’t trust the ground to stay still beneath his boots. His coat whispered against his legs as he walked, every step deliberate, every pause a calculation. Behind him, Ellis caught up, breath tight and quick like a man trying not to think too hard about the choices he'd already made.

“You sure we shouldn’t, I don’t know ... leave?” Ellis asked, trying to keep his voice light. “Feels like a good time for one of those classic disappear-into-the-night kind of exits.”

The Vulture’s eyes stayed forward, scanning rooftops, doorways, windows shuttered but not dark. “You run when you owe a man money. You don’t run when you owe him blood.”

Ellis grimaced. “Comforting.”

They passed the old general store, where Mrs. Whittle watched from behind cracked glass, her shotgun resting in her lap. She didn’t wave. Just nodded once. The Vulture nodded back. The town wasn’t stupid. It knew what blood smelled like before it was spilled.

At the far edge of town, past the old hitching posts where horses once waited and ghosts now lingered, they reached the old church.

Or what was left of it.

Half-burned in some long-forgotten blaze, its charred bell tower stood like a broken tooth against the horizon. Weeds had taken the steps. The door, blackened and warped, hung by one hinge, creaking softly with each breath of wind.

The Vulture stopped.

Ellis stepped beside him, squinting. “We waitin' for something?”

The Vulture’s jaw tensed. “No. We’re remembering.”

Inside, the air was still, and thick with ash that never truly settled. The pews were mostly gone, scorched wood and rusted nails marking their graves. At the front, a pulpit leaned sideways like it had been shoved in a hurry—by fire, or something else.

The Vulture walked to the altar, knelt beside it, and pressed two fingers into a crack in the stone. A moment passed.

Then another.

Ellis fidgeted. “Should I ... should I say something?”

“No,” the Vulture said quietly. “But listen.”

At first, Ellis heard nothing.

Then a low whistle. A sound that tugged at the base of the spine. Not threatening. Not yet.

Then it stopped.

And something clicked behind them.

Ellis turned just as the back wall of the church gave a shuddering groan. A hidden door, not visible a second before, swung inward, revealing a stairway that dropped into earth blacker than the sky above.

The Vulture stood, and for the first time, his voice carried weight like iron.

“They built this place to bury the old ways. The feathers. The fire. What came before.”

He glanced back at Ellis.

“But nothing stays buried. Not forever.”

Ellis swallowed. “So, what’s down there?”

The Vulture stepped onto the first stair.

“The part of me they couldn’t finish.”

The stairwell swallowed them.

Above, the burned bell tower creaked again, only now the sound was less like wood in wind, and more like breathing.

And out on the main road into Sundown Hollow, where no riders should be, a crow perched on a fence post.

Its feathers shimmered red at the tips.

And it waited.