text: Light shines on your face. Daylight peeks through the open curtains, not direct sunlight as the sun itself seems content to stay under a cover of clouds. Yours, on the other hand, are spread over the hotel bed, barely covering your body. Fully clothed, you roll up and grasp at your temple. A constant pulsing headache greets you, making its presence known with each movement, slight or otherwise.
  
  Loose strands of hair fall in front of your face, and you don't bother moving them out of your vision. You sit, hands propping up your body behind you. All you get is a hazy mess when trying to think of the night's events. Drinks, smokes—the rest is from recalled memory. Your stomach is growling something awful. The previous night must have excluded food then. You rise, coming to stand on both feet. There's a kitchen downstairs—
  
  —nausea hits you in a wave. You half sprint, half stumble to the balcony, swinging open the door, nearly taking it from the frame in the process. In a waterfall of dirty brown liquid mixed with stomach acid, you retch from the balcony onto the street below. It causes a commotion. A few curses are shouted towards your room in response. Feeling slightly better, you head back into the hotel room to gather your things before leaving, namely the wide-brimmed hat that you can shield your eyes with, when a knock at the door appears. Steady and confident knuckles rap against the hotel door, not the timid knocking from a maid.
  
  "It's unlocked," you call out, your voice carrying a rasp from the smoke and whiskey. You clear your throat as the door swings open. The first thing you notice is his boots. They're shined beautifully, a sleek black that would stand out on a moonless night. The man who wears them enters, a half cape slung over one shoulder, a lute on the other. His clothes are of a deep forest green, their style a mix of traveling garb and class.
  
  "Daniel," you state the bard's name.
  
  Daniel takes a glance at the hotel room, his blonde hair freshly cut, a tailored look all around except for the scruff of an incoming beard. You've known the bard long enough that it stays at that length, forever beyond the reach of a full beard.
  
  "Heard you were in town. Didn't feel like informing your oldest friend?" Like the music he plays, his voice hits each note brilliantly, never one to stumble on his words. The same can be said for the tuning pegs on his lute.
  
  "Had some business nearby in Redshire," you answer. "Went south. So I traveled further west."
  
  "South... Oh, funny," Daniel says with a laugh. Turning serious, he adds, "Redshire, huh. News is that it's a smoldering pile of ashes. I imagine your being there had something to do with that?"
  
  Damn, does news travel fast.
  
  "Not intentionally."
  
  "What happened?"
  
  "Natives. Raiding party hit the town hard. The lawmen there didn't stand a chance. No local militia or Goldwater presence."
  
  "Well of course there wasn't any Goldwater presence," Daniel says. "Redshire was an independent town. Bet they're wishing now they handed a few coins to the Goldies. You're ok though?"
  
  As loaded of a question as there ever was. The only thing worse than asking the question itself is a surface answer, so instead you give him full honesty. "Been better. Certainly been worse." As honest an answer as there will ever be. You have been better, and surely there's no way of being lower than when...
  
  "Glad to hear," Daniel clasps your shoulder. "Listen, I've got a gig tonight. Think it would do you some good to attend."
  
  > Decline
  The bard's right in that he is your oldest friend, but that still doesn't change the fact that you're not interested in listening to live music. The music itself is fine, although that's an understatement to the bard. You have just enough understanding of music theory to know Daniel is damn skilled with the lute. There's a greater sense of appreciation that accompanies the recognition of such a talent, unlike the vast majority of listeners, herds of people interested in the ambience rather than the skill required. You appreciate the talent, just from afar.
  
  You shake your head. "Not this time."
  
  "One of these days," Daniel utters more to himself than to you. "You know I'll keep inviting you until you come."
  
  "And I will," you promise. "Just not tonight. Don't plan on staying here long."
  
  "Got business elsewhere?"
  
  "You know how I feel about this place. Can't stay in the city long."
  
  Daniel reads right through you. "It's time to move on. She did. Come out with me. I'll introduce you to a nice girl I know."
  
  A shot in the dark. Doubling down on a poorly dealt hand of poker. You know it. Daniel knows it. Still, he has to try. It's in the man's nature. You give him a second shake of the head. "I'm ok. Never did think about that stuff much anyway."
  
  "Really, now." For the second time, the bard sees right through you. A blank slate to everyone else, you're not used to having someone read you. Daniel sighs. "Forget I mentioned anything. Grab an ale before you leave?"
  
  This time you answer with a nod of the head.
  
  The ale does wonders for your pulsing headache. In all reality it's pushing it off until a later time, a field tourniquet, but it helps in the moment. Both of you toss back several cups, reminiscing about younger days. You take the opportunity to put some food in your belly, grateful that it seems to stay down. Fried eggs, greasy bacon and sausages fill your plate, devoured almost as soon as the waitress placed it in front of you. An hour later, Daniel clasps your shoulder and says farewell. You return the gesture. Bags packed, you whisper the words of power to summon the mustang and ride out of Westhaven.
  
  Overhead, clouds fill the sky, preventing any sort of blue from poking through. The ground is damp from the previous night's rain, although luckily no such downpour accompanies your journey. You ride west deeper into the frontier. There's no more civilized cities marked on your map. Perhaps there are a few small, unmarked villages daring to settle further west of the haven. Besides that, you're not expecting to run into any settlers, part of the reason why you're continuing west in the first place. Being in Westhaven only a day gave you your fill of being around people, not that you engaged with anyone other than Daniel save for transactional interactions, booking a hotel room, ordering whiskey, that sort of thing.
  
  Riding atop the mustang, feeling the wind against your face, the passing trees become a blur of brown and green. Your route takes you across the Haven Plains, grassy lowlands in constant supervision of the surrounding mountain range, their peaks towering above the plains wearing white caps. With good time made, you slow the mustang down to a canter. Truthfully, you don't have a destination in mind. There's a general sense of a plan: head west, look for work. You've only exchanged blood for money a few times before. Somehow you sense that's where life is taking you once again. Others are skilled with the hammer, the saw, tools of craftsmanship. Your tool rests on your hip and rings death with each pull of the trigger.
  
  Several days later, you reach the mountains just as the sun gets low in the sky. At the base of higher elevation, it dips beyond your vision earlier than it normally would in Westhaven. The air turns cold. It's not just that it's late in the day. The mountains themselves receive less direct sunlight, various pockets of the road never getting any during the day. You button your overcoat to the top, allowing your chin to feel your body heat within, and pull the brim of your hat down.
  
  Dark and cold, you press forward unaware of the sets of eyes upon you. They watch from the darkness. Watching, waiting. Their presence will soon be made known. A grave mistake. A deadly mistake. Like countless before them, realization will appear in their expression at the very end, and the end is brought near for those setting upon the gunslinger.
  
  > Nighttime
  Darkness arrives, a pure absence of light that hides the most vibrant of shadows. You've taken shelter at the base of a blackened tree. It's not the only one. The area itself shows signs of a wildfire, blackened scarred trees with jagged branches and burnt soil. No natural cover protects you from rainfall. Instead, you've taken a piece of canvas and tied it to one of the dead branches that hangs over your head. It'll protect you against a constant drizzle. Anything more, however, and you'll find yourself and your equipment soaked to the core. But such is the burden of traveling light and alone.
  
  Leaning against the tree, you light up a smoke and allow the trunk to bear your weight. A full day of hard traveling takes its toll on the body. A puff of smoke fills your limited vision in the night as you think back to your first few days on the road, a young man full of promise and potential. Wide-eyed, naive, you soon learned the harshness of reality.
  
  This business isn't for the faint of heart. It's not for those looking for a grand adventure and a story to share. Many young men who have thought that way find themselves bleeding out in a ditch. Many have found themselves there by your hand, the dealing of lead not in their favor. Better that you learned early. Gone is the happiness. Gone is an optimistic view. They've both been exchanged for the ability to survive.
  
  A twig snaps, pulling you from your thoughts. The six-shooter appears in your palm, the hammer cocked back.
  
  "Either identify yourself or I start shooting in your direction," you state into the darkness. It's silent for a moment. Whoever—whatever's out there is taking their time to think. Then, footsteps. No longer an attempt to mask their approach.
  
  Into your makeshift camp enters a man dressed in black. Like you he wears a wide-brimmed hat. Unlike you, slung over one shoulder is a small crossbow, a longsword across the other. His attire might be mistaken for priestly garments, but you recognize the design. Killer in the night. Holy man turned slayer. A witch hunter. He gestures at the ground in front of you, and you nod. The witch hunter takes a cross-legged seat on the ground.
  
  Rather than a hand-rolled cigarette, he pulls out a long carved wooden pipe, stuffing frontier tobacco down the bowl. "Got a light?" he asks.
  
  Gun still trained, though hammer back to neutral, you flick a match in his direction, a test to determine his skill. Unsurprisingly for a witch hunter, he snatches the match from the air with two fingers, striking it across his boot in the same motion. A second later, he puffs smoke into the shared air between the two of you.
  
  "I should have known better than to sneak. But I wanted to gauge who I was dealing with. Apologies," the witch hunter speaks. HIs goatee is neatly-trimmed, showing signs of silver at the tips.
  
  "Sneaking up on an armed man is usually a mistake only committed once," you say.
  
  "And yet here I am, alive, ready to repeat the same mistake twice." The witch hunter utters a small laugh. He continues. "Not many travelers out. Might I ask your business?"
  
  "Heading west," you answer. Hell, that's as honest an answer as you could offer.
  
  "Untamed frontier," he comments. "I hear the native raids are getting worse. Did you hear about Redshire?"
  
  "I heard a bit about it," you say.
  
  "Shame... You can be sure the Goldwater Knights are going to find themselves new business because of it."
  
  "And what about you?" you ask, breathing out a puff of smoke. "Witch hunters don't usually stray this far into the frontier."
  
  "True, there is plenty of work in the cities and small settlements. It's no coincidence that demons possess men near heavily populated areas. More souls to feed on. Plus, and I'm sure you can attest, those traveling alone in the frontier are normally strong of will, not to mention quick on the draw."
  
  "You're not under contract then?"
  
  The witch hunter takes his turn adding to the accumulating smoke in the air. "On the contrary, I've been sent by the guild to investigate the mountains. There's a missing transport. Priests spreading the work of God in the west."
  
  "To who?" You chuckle. "The natives?"
  
  "All men need God."
  
  Your mind briefly flashes to the young native who cut you free from the gallows. "At least you refer to them as men. Most settlers call them savages, cannibals."
  
  "Oh, they're but men who are lost. It's not their fault for being born into wicked customs."
  
  "Agreed," you say.
  
  It's quiet between the two of you for a moment, the conversation not flowing as smoothly as, perhaps, the witch hunter hoped. He breaks the silence again.
  
  "Tell me, have you seen anything out of the ordinary since arriving in the mountains?"
  
  You shake your head. "No. This is my first night though. So far it's been quiet except for you."
  
  The witch hunter answers, "It's the same for me. Listen, I'd like to hire your help. You seem to know about my trade—we don't often journey into the wilderness. I could use your expertise with the area, and two sets of eyes are better than one. The same goes for hands bearing arms."
  
  You eye the man. Religious types are often straightforward in your experience. It's a difficult thing, to beat around the bush when dealing with matters of heaven or hell. You're traveling west to find work. You might've just found it, even if it's not what you were expecting. The fact that the witch hunter snapped the twig on his approach verifies his claim of lack of wilderness expertise. You're no tracker, but neither are you unfamiliar with surviving in the wild. You take another drag of the cigarette in thought, the thing nearly burned through. The witch hunter looks at you expectantly.
  
  > turn him down
  You give the witch hunter another shake of the head. "Sorry. I've got my own business to attend to. Best of luck."
  
  That answer seems to satisfy the man. "Fair enough," he answers. "God protect both our paths."
  
  You murmur your acknowledgement and return the gesture. Rules of the road, though loose, call for friendly parties to share camp whenever possible. It's silent between the two of you again, the kind of silence that causes uneasiness for most people. You've always preferred it, taken solace in it. There's no law stating that words must be shared, that you must entertain strangers. So you speak when spoken to, asking questions when you want answers. No more than that. Fortunately for you, the witch hunter appears to have the same level of comfort with the gap of unspoken words. But also, he senses your desire for solitude.
  
  "I'll take my leave then," he says, emptying the contents of his tobacco pipe. "I'll be in the area if you change your mind. Planning to set up camp near the eastern ridge. Find me there if you stumble upon anything."
  
  You say you will, the both of you knowing the chances of that are slim. With a farewell, the witch hunter leaves you alone, your hand-rolled smoke nearly burnt through. Though traveling at night is less than ideal, your location has been marked. You don't like the idea of resting in a place known to others, so you quickly pack up the canvas along with the remainder of your belongings and continue west.
  
  It's not often you know which decisions change the course of your life, never to return back to the path you once traveled. If you knew what taking the offer meant, you wouldn't have entertained it as long as you did. For the evil that lurks in the mountains, that the witch hunter would face, is cause to head west, never to look back. None of that registers in your mind, and you continue west just the same, not knowing the terrible danger you managed to escape.
  
  The following days bring more of the same. Gray skies. Light rain. No one but your thoughts to keep you company. You ride atop the mustang, but there's no comradery between the animal and yourself; the horse is merely a means to an end, the ability to travel at a quick pace. All your horses that came before are dead, some of which you held an unbroken bond with until the end. The more that fell, the more you learned it's better to keep one's self from such tethering. They're but four-legged creatures bred to run fast. Nothing more, nothing less. Your destination is west. No clear plan has defined itself since leaving Westhaven, traveling through the plains, and now, nearly through the mountains.
  
  Eventually you find the path heading at a constant decline, finally through the thick of the mountain range, the exit route from the rocky ridges. The road takes somewhat of a direct shot through, not having to crest snow-tipped peaks. The days blend into one another. Sunrise, or the cloudy equivalent of it, you ride. Nighttime. You rest. Enjoy a smoke. Yet sleep does not come easy. It never has, and it doesn't start now.
  
  The other side of the mountains opens into flatlands, far as the eyes can see. From your vantage emerging from the range, you see various lakes scattered across the land, their deep blue surfaces the exact shade the sky should be. Above you, though, the sky remains in a constant state of gray, a continuous misty rain reminding you of the fact. Forest green surrounds the lakes. Lowlands, yes, but full of life, both wild and free. There are no cities here. No laws, and questionable men enforcing them. Simply, life. With nothing else to do, you continue west.
  
  > continue west
  You take shelter near one of the lakes. Not seeing signs of humanity or the opportunities presented by the problems of man, you work on building a camp that will last the coming days. With your small hatchet, you cut down young saplings, strapping together their thin trunks to create walls, their flat palm-like leaves making ample resource for the roof. The days, rather than spent in travel, fill themselves with work, cutting trees, shaping the raw material into usable form. The hours of the day are long, the nights seemingly longer. Rest still escapes you, despite the amount of time spent asleep.
  
  Your company is your thoughts. Internal dialogue, rarely of a positive nature. You do your best to fill your mind with the tasks that need doing, the rough craftsmanship of your small cottage a challenge for one lacking the expertise of a carpenter, the knowledge of a craftsman. The lake offers a small level of comfort; little compares to a refreshing dip after a day of laboring. The lake, your solace. The lake, your source of fresh water and food.
  
  Your cottage nearly complete, a skeleton of the finished product, you build a small fire to cook the day's trapping from the lake. Two small crab-like animals wandered into your traps set from the morning. After crushing their crustacean shell, you found a thick layer of meat inside. It's bland unlike their saltwater-dwelling counterparts, but it's filling and nourishing to the body. You'll take that over exquisite taste any day. You tracked the days when you first found the location. Nearly 80 notches lined your designated tree trunk before you stopped. Since then it's been... 30 more? 40? You've lost count. Through the ever-present cloud layer, the moon shines its light on the lake water, a surface brighter than the one above you.
  
  Hunger satiated, you work towards other impulses, the need for a good smoke, your small flask of frontier whiskey that ran dry weeks ago. Like the whiskey, you've burned through the small supply of smokes you traveled with. Instead, you've tried your hand at harvesting and drying your own; frontier tobacco plants aren't difficult to find after all.
  
  You pull the crumbling leaves from the drying location and attempt to crush the leaves into usable strands. The leaves are brittle, like a layer of rust that is decaying on its own. In the moonlight, it crumbles beneath your fingers, slipping through in a fine dust to be carried by the wind. No smoke will be had tonight. Your last batch, like the others before, is ruined.
  
  You whisper a curse to yourself, the choice word quickly becoming the only one uttered from your lips. That's when you see them. That's when they appear, tall men standing as still as the trees around them. Through the dim lunar light, you can barely make out their features, no more than four shadowy limbs and a blank face. Their height gives them away. Natives. Perhaps it's due to your lack of human interaction over the past weeks. Perhaps it's because of the native that saved you from hanging until dead in Redshire. But you raise a hand in greeting, rather than a gunpoint in warning. Their presence acknowledged, the natives, two of them, scamper off into the woods.
  
  Yet again you're alone, and you don't give it a second thought until they return later that night.
  
  You're not quite asleep when you hear their footsteps, a little known benefit of restlessness. You lay in the center of your unfinished cottage, moonlight pouring through the cracks in the walls. Off and on you drifted asleep, the cloud layer absent as you woke for the third time.
  
  Along with the blue tint of light, darkness moves, long shadows cast by the approaching natives. They move slowly, intently. They don't know you're awake, sensing their presence. Your breathing slows. The footsteps draw nearer, soft moccasins on the forest floor, barely making a sound, yet each one thunders in your ears, the kind of sound that you've spent a lifetime training your ears to detect. Your ears aren't the only thing trained as the revolver lands in your palm, unbeknownst to you, for the first time since settling near the lake. It feels more comfortable than the hatchet or the fishing trappings you've crafted. The time removed from your business has finally caught up with you. Let another pick up the tools of craftsmanship. Let others suited for creation take up the hammer, draw with the paintbrush. You're no artist. You don't create. You destroy. Dismantle. Kill. Let others deal with building, for you deal in lead and it's time to remind the world of that fact.
  
  The choice is made, solidified by the natives' actions. Red-orange adds to the soft blue glow of the moon. Torches. They mean to smoke you out like a nest of rats. The thought registers in your mind, drawing the first smile to your lips since your night in Westhaven. You wanted a smoke, and they're going to give you some.
  
  Unable to control it, laughter escapes your lips in an unstable tone as the first torch is thrust through a crack in the wall, the second closely following. Outside, you hear the natives shouting in their language, incomprehensible to you. Your place is built from wood and dead vines. The flame hungrily eats at your cottage with a zealous fury. In an instant, the inside of your cottage is as bright as a summer day. Support beams start to crumble, the structure quickly losing integrity to hold itself upright.
  
  Laughter continues from your lips as you step through the doorway, shirtless, your long hair falling down past your shoulders like an open curtain on a stage. Neither do you wear boots, the bottoms of your bare feet warm from the flame, picking up splinters with each step forward.
  
  You do as you're trained to do, as you're meant to do, as you're born to do.
  
  > Deal in lead
  It's still just two of them. If there are others, they aren't taking part in the midnight assault. They tower above you, dressed in simple tan hides, each wielding a hunting longbow. They've found themselves on the wrong end of the hunt this time; the death they seek will be their own. Long hair, much longer than yours, falls to their waist, tied back with colorful beads. They train their bows on you, arrows drawn so that their feathers gently touch their cheek.
  
  Your eyes meet. No friendly words are shared. Instead of an open palm, you greet them with gunfire.
  
  You add to the smoke in the air with two shots of the revolver. Thunder cracks as the six-shooter kicks back in your palm, your arm holding the barrel steady. Each shot fires true, tearing through the legs of the natives. A moment later, their arrows release heading wide, planting themselves firmly in the side of your cottage, which is now groaning under the stress of the fire. Any second now it will collapse. Weeks of work, pouring yourself into cutting down the saplings, shaping the lumber into usable planks is gone. The sweat, countless hours of strain and work, brought to the ground by two simple torches.
  
  Far away from the ashes of Redshire, to the chaotic streets of Westhaven, across the plains and through the mountains you traveled, each place bearing disappointment, each place holding a certain aura that unsettled your mind. No peace could be found in the presence of others. It seems no peace can be found in the wilderness of the frontier either. The laughter that recently escaped tastes bitter on your lips, the smile strange on your face. Now both are gone like your cottage soon will be.
  
  You stand over the natives, their hands clutching at the bullet holes in their legs. You don't understand their language, but you have a fairly good idea of the type of words that are spilling from their mouths in sporadic fashion; they're likely of the same type that spilled from your lips with the recent tobacco batch ruined. Four bullets remain in the chamber of the revolver. You only need two more.
  
  One.
  
  Your life flashes in your mind as you pull the trigger. Once a young man, full of promise and potential. One day, you're not sure exactly when, promise and potential was exchanged for a realistic view of life. Those seeking adventure find pain. Those who wish for their name to echo throughout history find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun. Once you counted yourself among them. Now you'd settle for peace. Goddamnit, you'd settle for just a bit of rest.
  
  Your earlier days were likely similar to the native bleeding out in front of you. Native, singular, for the other lies unmoving and will not move again unless it's by the strength of your own hands. A stranger invaded their lands, a man of lighter skin and who dressed in foreign clothing. A man who carried iron on his hip, who understands the ways of the world.
  
  A man who raised his open palm in greeting.
  
  You were trying to live a simple life, an honest life away from the complexity of civilization and the rules, both the written law and unspoken societal ones. They took any chance of that happening here. In the place you had convinced yourself things could be different, they taught you a lesson: wherever mankind lurks, destruction follows. The statement is true sevenfold for those who deal in lead. There is no simple life in your future. No honest way of living. There's mankind and the iron that rests on your hip, as simple as it gets for a gunslinger.
  
  Two.
  
  The End