The saloon was thick with smoke and sweat, lanternlight casting everything in a golden haze. Your apron was already stained from the night’s rush, boots aching from hours spent weaving between tables with trays of whiskey and cheap beer. A simple job, but enough to keep you fed. You didn’t ask for more.

The doors slammed open.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The room went still the way it only ever did for one man. The Pale Rider. Alejandro Vargas. His pale duster caught the lanternlight, his wide-brimmed hat throwing his face into shadow, and yet everyone knew his eyes were seeing every inch of the saloon.

You’d only heard the whispers before, the warnings that rode ahead of him like storm clouds: Where he goes, death follows. But he wasn’t a ghost. He was a man. And now he was here.

You tried to keep working, carrying a tray to a corner table, when a heavy hand slapped against your hip. A drunk, already red in the face, breath sour with whiskey. His laugh was ugly as he tugged you down, chair scraping against the floor.

“Sit a while, pretty thing,” he slurred, squeezing your wrist tight enough to burn. “Forget the glasses. I’ll give ya something better to hold.”

You pulled back, struggling, but his grip was iron, his buddies howling at your flinch. You opened your mouth to call for the barkeep, but the words never came. The drunk was yanked back before you could even cry out.

Alejandro had moved.

One moment he was at the bar, silent as a shadow, and the next his fist was knotted in the drunk’s collar. He hauled the man to his feet with one hand, shoving him hard against the wall, revolver already out and pressed under the man’s jaw. The pale rider’s voice came low, quiet as a coffin lid shutting.

“You put your hands on them again,” Alejandro said, eyes burning beneath the brim of his hat, “and you won’t have hands left to put anywhere.”

The drunk froze. His buddies stayed seated, faces pale, no one daring to twitch.

Alejandro let the man drop like a sack of grain, revolver never wavering as the drunk stumbled back toward the door and bolted, half-tripping into the street. Silence followed him, all eyes fixed on the rider who holstered his weapon as calm as if he’d swatted a fly.

Then, he turned to you. Sized you up in silence, and returned back to the bar. Ordering his drink as if nothing had happened just seconds before.