The main street of Tombstone was simmering under the midday sun, heatwaves rising from the red dust that spun lazily with the occasional breeze.
Kyle Adams, leading his weary Appaloosa, walked down the deserted road. The sound of the horse's hooves echoed between the wooden verandas.
His Colt Navy revolver rested quietly in its faded leather holster, the handle smoothed by years of use, bearing scars that whispered of untold stories.
The sign of the "Red Dog Saloon" hung weakly in the wind, its rusted chain creaking with a steady squeak.
Kyle casually tied the reins to one of the timeworn posts, marked with a patchwork of new and old bullet holes and knife scars. Pushing open the creaky wooden door, he was instantly enveloped in a mix of cheap whiskey, tobacco smoke, and sweat.
Dim kerosene lamps flickered along the bar, casting long, wavering shadows. A few grim-faced gamblers sat hunched around a card table in the corner, their cards stained with grime. The thick-bearded bartender silently polished a glass, the chipped rim catching strange glints of light.
Kyle made his way to the farthest end of the bar and took a seat. His boots were caked in the red dust he had carried from far away.
"Whiskey," his voice rasped, like sandpaper against rough wood. "No water."
The bartender silently slid a glass of amber liquid across to him, the bottom of the glass clinking against the worn wooden counter with a dull thud.
Just as Kyle raised his glass, the saloon doors were flung open. Three men in wide-brimmed hats stood in the doorway, their weapons clinking at their sides.
The leader, wearing a black eyepatch over his left eye, had a silver belt buckle shaped like a rattlesnake.
"I hear you're looking for 'Quick Draw' Jack?" The one-eyed man flashed a grin, his teeth yellowed from years of tobacco.
"He's dead. Last week."
Kyle slowly set the glass down. His fingers brushed the handle of his revolver, and the room fell into a deathly silence.
The one-eyed man stepped forward, the heels of his boots clicking on the old floorboards.
"Word is you came for him," he sneered. "Seems you're too late."
His voice dripped with challenge, his right hand resting casually on his gun belt.
Kyle's gaze swept over the scars on the man's face and the cold menace in his remaining eye.
"Who did it?" The question was short, direct—like a cold bullet.
The one-eyed man snorted, spitting on the floor.
"Does it matter?" he tilted his head, as though enjoying the look on Kyle's face. "People die every day on this land."
His two companions began to subtly shift positions, forming a tight circle, ready to strike.
Kyle took another sip of his whiskey, the warmth of the liquor sliding down his throat.
"Tell me their name." His voice was calm, but each word carried weight.
The tension in the saloon was palpable. Some patrons quietly shifted their chairs, trying to distance themselves from the impending gunfight.
The one-eyed man suddenly burst into harsh laughter, the sound grating in the heavy silence.
"They say you're here for the old score," he narrowed his eye. "From ten years ago."
Kyle's fingers lightly tapped the rim of his glass, the rhythm steady, like a heartbeat.
"Black Mountain Mine," the one-eyed man whispered. "Am I right?"
The words cut through the air like a key unlocking a door to long-buried memories. Kyle's pupils constricted slightly, but his face remained as unreadable as stone.
"Looks like you know a lot." Kyle finally turned, meeting the one-eyed man's gaze.
"Then you should know why I'm here."
His right hand remained on the counter, a mere inch from his holster.
The one-eyed man's grin vanished, replaced by a wary seriousness.
"Some things are better left buried in the ground."
His fingers tightened around his gun, knuckles blanching from the pressure.
Just as the tension reached its breaking point, the sound of rapid hoofbeats echoed from outside.
A blood-soaked man collapsed from his horse, dragging himself along the ground with his last strength, shouting desperately:
"Indians… they're coming!"
The air in the saloon shifted instantly from deadly quiet to frantic panic.
People rushed toward the windows. The one-eyed man paused, staring out the door in confusion.
Kyle seized the opportunity, rising from his seat and tossing a silver coin onto the table.
"Guess our conversation will have to wait," he said, his voice clear amid the chaos.
The one-eyed man spun around, but Kyle was already gone, disappearing out the back door.
Only the unfinished glass of whiskey remained, gently rocking on the bar.