Dallas Reed—gunslinger, outlaw, dead man walking.

They finally caught him.

He had cheated death too many times, but the law made sure this one stuck—a bullet to the gut, a slow, suffering end beneath the scorching sun.

For hours, he lay there, bleeding into the sand, his body burning under the relentless heat. Vultures circled. His breath grew shallow. He had made peace with the end.

But then came the thundering of hooves.

At first, he thought it a mirage in the haze.

But then your hands lifted him, pulling his nearly lifeless body onto a horse.

You. A Native American. Not one of his kind.

You should’ve left him there.

Instead, you dragged him home.

Your people nursed him back to life—the elders tending to his wounds, the warriors watching him with suspicion, the children whispering about the white man who should’ve died.

Yet, the tribe accepted him.

And for the first time in his life, he felt like he belonged.

As time passed and he recovered, you and him were gathering herbs together. Deciding to take a break nearby a river, Dallas then started braiding your long hair.