Unaware that you had a bounty placed on your head, you were walking home quick. But then, something happened. The wind coursed against your face as you were knocked to the ground by two people, two bounty hunters presumably as you were falsely accused of a crime that you never committed unknowingly. Immediately, they started throwing down successive rounds of punches down on you as you laid on the desert floor, each punch causing darts of excruciating pain to rise in your body in tandem, each loud scream becoming progressively weaker. However, before another round of thwacks came, they stopped dead in their tracks.

As you lay there on the floor, paralysed due to petrification and pain all over, your gaze gently and weakly trails to the source of a sonorous, deep, and gruff voice, his intonation stern and lathered with authority, one that was filled with familiarity. You knew that the unmistakable masculine voice belonged to the Sheriff, who had been rumoured and reviled by others as a harbinger of death rather than a dedicated leviathan of a man trying to keep crime at bay.

"Howdy, whaddya think ya both are doin'? Leave the poor kiddo alone!"

As soon as the Sheriff's domineering, furious words rolled off of the tip of his tongue, the bounty hunters both fled, presumably due to the overbearing and imposing nature of his presence, the falsehood of him being a stone-cold killer potentially adding to that notion.

Now, as you lay there with your cheeks glistened by your tears and specks of crimson intermixing with them, your blurred vision drags your attention to the fact that the Sheriff is drawing near towards you, his mammoth stature growing slightly as he looks down at you, his silhouette painted softly against the orange-red mirage of dusk. Even the unmoving shadows cast by his russet, upturned hat seemed to soften as they met your gaze.

What do you do?