The wind howled across the barren stretch of badlands, sweeping up a storm of dust that danced like ghosts across the open desert. The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, casting long, blood-orange shadows over the rugged terrain. In the distance, a lone rider approached—his silhouette sharp and unwavering against the twilight sky.
His name was Calder Nash.
To most, it was a forgotten name. But to a few, it was a whisper of reckoning.
Calder rode his weather-worn horse, a stallion as scarred and stubborn as its rider, into the outskirts of a broken town called Deadman's Hollow. Buildings leaned like old drunks, their timbers creaking under the weight of time. Dust blanketed the streets like death itself. The town looked like it had been spit out by hell and left to rot in the sun.
Only one building still had the spark of life in it—the saloon. Faded paint on a swinging sign read: Deadman's Saloon – Where the Whiskey's Cheap and the Bullets Cheaper.
Calder dismounted, boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. His long coat swayed in the wind, and the butt of a Colt Peacemaker peeked from his hip. He pushed through the saloon doors with the weight of a man who'd been through fire and came out the other side with scars to prove it.
Inside, the saloon was a haze of cigar smoke, cheap whiskey, and hollow laughter. The piano stuttered to a stop as every head turned toward him. Card players froze mid-bet. A woman with rouge too bright and a dress too tight paused on the staircase, her eyes narrowing with cautious curiosity.
Behind the bar, a one-eyed barkeep reached instinctively beneath the counter. His good eye squinted. "You lost, cowboy?"
Calder stepped forward. "No. Just thirsty."
He dropped a silver coin on the bar. The barkeep poured him a glass without another word.
From the darkest corner of the saloon, a man rose. Tall, thick-shouldered, with a snake tattoo winding up his neck and a cruel smile of silver teeth. "You got a name, stranger?"
Calder didn't look at him. "Not for you."
The room tensed. Hands twitched near holsters. The woman on the stairs backed away like she knew blood was coming.
The tattooed man stepped closer. "You talk brave for someone new in town."
Calder finally turned to face him. His eyes were steel, and his voice was colder. "I'm looking for Elias Vane."
Silence crashed over the room.
The barkeep stopped moving. The piano player stood and quietly slipped out the door.
The tattooed man's grin faded. "You got a death wish, friend."
"Not a wish," Calder replied. "A promise."
Without warning, the man reached for his gun.
But Calder was faster.
The Colt barked once. The bullet punched through the man's shoulder, spinning him to the ground with a scream of pain and splinters. Panic erupted. Chairs overturned. A woman shrieked.
Calder stood calm amid the chaos.
"Next one pulls iron, I shoot to kill," he warned, voice steady.
No one moved.
He stepped over the bleeding man, heading for the staircase.
"Where is Elias Vane?" he asked the barkeep.
The one-eyed man swallowed. "Last I heard, he rides with the Blackthorn Gang. South of Devil's Pass. But you don't want to go down that road."
Calder nodded. "I do."
He left the saloon the same way he came—quiet, with the wind at his back and death following close behind.
Deadman's Hollow would not forget him.
And Elias Vane would soon remember the name Calder Nash.