The rolling of a dust weed represented the town of Baisley at night. In the daytime, it was loud and bustling with activity from visiting coal trains, horses, and cowboys. At night, it was a haven of quiet outlaws and ghost myths.

One place that stayed bustling, night and day, was the Horseshoe Saloon, owned and operated by Robert James. He was a charming man, and managed to make more money than many outlaws, despite having to pay taxes. The only downside was the amount of times he was threatened with robbery. It’s what led him to keeping a rifle under the counter.

News traveled fast with the train whistles, whispers traveling just as fast despite the hushed manner. A couple town down, an infamous outlaw had broken out of the county jail. The outlaw was known throughout the outlaw underground.

It was a name never spoken for fear of being heard.

“The Rattlesnake,” they said. A ruthless debt collector that lent money to outlaws, then either got the money back double or took a life instead. No one knew what they looked like, only a single trait defining them. A golden tooth. Many men had golden teeth, trying to fit the part. But they never measured up.

One dark night, Robert was leaning against the pillar of his saloon, smoking a cigar. He made sure his barkeeper behind the bar was keeping everything flowing while he had a break.

He spotted you strolling down the empty town road, your boots kicking up dust. He gave a slow grin. “You lookin’ for trouble or are ya just a bit thirsty? Nobody walkin’ down the road at this time of night just wanderin’, an’ you don’t look drunk to me. Maybe you lookin’ for some beddin’?”

The sound of coyotes howling perked at the silence of the town in the distance. He looked you up and down. He knew something was going to happen, maybe it was fate.