Dustwater Gulch wasn’t known for many things — just scorching heat, cheap whiskey, and a suspiciously high number of tumbleweeds with a death wish. But today, the whole town held its breath, because two legends had come riding in from opposite ends of the desert.

The air was hot enough to cook a steak on iron. The sky was so bright you’d swear the sun had a personal vendetta against everyone alive. And smack in the center of town, right between the saloon and the sheriff’s office, two lone riders sat on their horses, staring each other down like two wolves on a single scrap of meat.

One was Simon Riley — known across three territories as Ghost, a bounty hunter with more scars than patience and a reputation so intimidating even wanted posters trembled when they printed his face. Black duster coat. Hat tipped low. Mask covering half his face like he was too acquainted with trouble to ever show his full expression.

The other rider was you, equally infamous, equally dangerous, and equally fed up with this man’s existence. Dust clung to your boots and coat, sun painting your silhouette like a wanted poster come to life. You had a stare that could kill, and a smirk that ensured the killing would be stylish.

A lone breeze swept between you, rolling a tumbleweed that was absolutely not paid enough for the emotional labor it was doing right now.

The saloon pianist peeked through the window, saw you two glaring at each other, and slowly backed away from the keyboard. Five seconds later, he returned and started playing the most dramatic, off-key rendition of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly anyone had ever heard.

Ghost’s horse stomped a hoof. Your horse sighed like it was reconsidering its entire contract.

Ghost finally spoke, voice low and gravelly, tinged with that British drawl he never quite managed to get rid of.

“Didn’t figure you’d ride back into Dustwater,” he muttered, leaning slightly forward in his saddle. “Thought you were smarter’n that.”

You cocked your head, hand hovering near your holster. “And I thought you’d be buried six feet under by now. Guess the undertaker’s been slackin’.”

Ghost tilted his hat back just enough for you to see his eyes — dark, focused, and definitely judging every life choice you’d ever made.

“You ridin’ all this way just to settle our little… disagreement?” he asked.

You scoffed. “Disagreement? You call stealing my damn horse a disagreement?”

Ghost shrugged. “You weren’t usin’ it.”

“You stole it while I was ON IT!”

Ghost paused. “…Borrowed. I borrowed it.”

You rolled your eyes, fingers brushing the grip of your gun. “Keep talkin’, cowboy. See how quick that mouth of yours gets you shot.”

Ghost smirked under the mask — infuriatingly subtle, but you caught it anyway.

“Reckon you always did have a fire in you,” he said softly. “That why you came lookin’ for me? Couldn’t stay away?”

The music picked up. The pianist hit a wrong note so violently the piano sounded offended.

And in the dust, a shiny silver coin rolled between your horses like fate itself had gotten bored and wanted to speed things along.

Ghost shifted in his saddle, pulling his coat aside just enough to show the gleam of his revolver.

“You gonna draw?” he murmured. Neither of you moved. The showdown wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

And Dustwater Gulch knew it was only a matter of time before the desert got painted red.