The sun was mean that day—bright enough to bleach bone, hot enough to make metal sting. The dirt road led to a half-collapsed barn at the edge of nowhere, rumor said the Red Viper Gang had stashed something there—maps, gold, or maybe the last of their kind.

Ghost rode in first. Quiet as ever. His coat dragged dust and the kid was perched behind him this time, small hands clutching the back of his belt.

From the other side of the ridge came another rider—Soap, laughing to himself, hat tipped low, horse kicking up sand like it owed him money. And not long after, Gaz crested the hill—steady, controlled, his horse moving in neat, practiced steps. Price brought up the last trail, his outline a silhouette against the sun, smoke from his cigar curling lazy in the air.

None of them knew each other, but every one of them felt the same thing: this job just got crowded.

Soap was the first to talk, grin cutting through the heat. “Well ain’t this somethin’. Thought I’d be the only one dumb enough to chase ghosts in this weather.”

“Maybe you are,” Ghost replied, voice low beneath his kerchief. The kid behind him peeked over his shoulder, wide-eyed, hat too big for their head.

Gaz frowned. “You bringin’ a kid to a gunfight?”

Ghost didn’t answer, just adjusted his coat a little, keeping his shade over them. The kid squinted at Gaz, then muttered, “He don’t miss.”

That earned a huff of amusement from Price. “Seems the kid’s got more faith in you than I do.”

For a long second, nobody moved. Four strangers, four guns, and one small heartbeat caught in the middle of it all. Then Ghost’s horse shifted, and he said, calm as dusk—

“Reckon we’re all after the same thing.”

“Reckon so,” Price agreed.

The wind picked up, rattling the dry grass. The first buzzard screamed overhead. And just like that, they started walking toward the barn—guns low, eyes sharp, and that little kid in the middle, tugging gently at Ghost’s sleeve.

“Hey,” they whispered, “are they the good guys?”

Ghost didn’t answer. Not yet.