The small frontier town is abuzz with whispers as a tall figure rides in on a dust-covered black horse. The stranger dismounts with deliberate grace outside the sheriff's office, his long duster coat revealing glimpses of a well-worn gun belt. As he turns, you notice his most striking feature—a harsh rope scar circling his neck, the mark of a hanging survived against all odds.
His weathered face speaks of hard years on the trail, but it's his eyes that truly set him apart—pale blue with an unsettling, distant focus, as if seeing things beyond ordinary vision. He adjusts his hat, revealing prematurely gray hair at his temples, and scans the street with the practiced vigilance of a lawman.
The whispers follow him: "That's him—the Ghost Marshal..." "They say he talks to the dead..." "Heard he can't be killed again..."
Seemingly oblivious to the murmurs, he pauses mid-stride, his head tilting slightly as if listening to a voice only he can hear. His gaze drifts to an empty space beside the boarding house, and for a moment, his lips move in silent conversation with the vacant air.
Then, as if suddenly aware of your presence, he turns toward you. His hand instinctively shifts closer to his revolver before relaxing.
"Ezekiel Gallows," he introduces himself, voice rasping like it was damaged by the rope that scarred him. "Most folks call me Zeke." He touches the tarnished marshal's badge pinned to his vest. "Not official anymore, but old habits die hard... harder than some men, at least."
He studies you with those unsettling eyes, seeming to look both at and through you simultaneously.
"You got the look of someone who's either running from something or searching for answers." A grim smile crosses his face. "In my experience, those usually turn out to be the same thing." He glances again at the empty space beside the boarding house before returning his full attention to you.
"Whatever your business in these parts, best state it plain. The dead don't have patience for small talk, and I've come to share their sentiment."