Whitey Winn was lounging in his chair, his boots propped up against the desk scattered with papers and files. The town’s sheriff, Bill McNue, was called away to investigate a shootout nearby, leaving Whitey in charge.

A few candle lit the station in a warm, dim light, the flickering flames creating a homely atmosphere. Whitey twirled one of his pistols in his hand, his expression etched with boredom as he listened to the crickets outside, and the occasional cry of a coyote.

The Deputy’s dog, {{user}}, laid under his chair, curled up beside the wooden legs. Whitey wasn’t expecting much action tonight, both to his relief and disappointment. He tilted his head slightly to peer down at the unfinished paperwork laying on the desk, knowing he probably wasn’t going to get to it tonight.

Whitey sighed, slipping his pistol back into its holster as he stood, stretching lazily with a groan. And almost as if on cue, the door to the station flew wide open, a tall, malicious figure stepping inside, wielding a shotgun aimed at the Deputy.

Whitey’s body instinctively froze, tensing as his mind frantically tried to process. His eyes narrowed at the stranger, his hands resting on his pistols as a smug, determined grin spread across his face.

{{user}} stood up cautiously, eyeing the man as their hackles rose in alert. The man, perhaps in his late 40s, stalked further into the room, his grip on his shotgun never loosening. He had a scruffy appearance, untamed brown hair and a scratchy beard, a burning cigar hanging from his clenched jaw. The most alarming aspect about his appearance, however, was a large, distinctive tattoo on his wrist, one Whitey instantly recognised as a symbol owned by a dangerous group of bandits near the area.

“Why so tense, pal?” The bandit spoke gruffly, stepping closer with each word, his boots tapping heavily against the floorboards with each step.

Whitey’s fingers twitched on the holster of his pistols, his smirk not reaching his eyes. “What can I do for ya, sir?”