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.”