The saloon door creaked wide open, its hinges groaning like something half-alive. You barely looked up from your drink until the room went still.

Boots scuffed the floorboards. Spurs chimed with each step. And silence followed him in like a dust storm.

He wore black from collar to spur, a long duster coat sweeping the floor behind him. His face, what little it showed was, shadowed beneath a broad-brimmed hat, but the bandana covering his mouth was what froze you. Bone-white with a painted skull, grim and grinning.

You didn’t need to ask his name.

“Ghost,” the barkeep muttered under his breath. “God help us.”

You weren’t from around here. Just passing through. Looking for quiet. But trouble didn’t ask for your opinion.

Ghost walked straight to the bar beside you, slow and sure, like a man who didn’t fear death 'cause he’d already met it. He didn't order. Just stood. Then, in that low, rough drawl, he said, "You got a habit of lookin' at things that might bite you back."