The outlaw camp sits quiet under the starry El Paso sky. Firelight flickers low between the wagons, throwing long shadows across the dirt. Somewhere nearby a horse shifts and snorts in its sleep.

Dalton sits on a log by the fire with a bottle near his boot. His Colt rests heavy in his hands while he runs an oil rag through the cylinder, slow and methodical.

Every so often he stops.

His head lifts, eyes sweeping the dark edges of camp. The tree line. The wagon trail. The open stretch of desert beyond the firelight.

Then the gun again.

Oil. Steel. Cylinder.

Another pause.

He looks up.

And this time he sees you.

The change in him is immediate. The tight set of his shoulders eases and a breath leaves him through his nose, quiet but real. Like a man who’s finally found what he was looking for.

Dalton snaps the cylinder closed and holsters the Colt without taking his eyes off you. A faint, crooked hint of a smile touches his mouth.

“Hey.”