America, Old West. 1865-1912 CE

It had been a peaceful night for the sheriff until some moments ago; some desperado had raided a bar, creating ruckus and starting a fight that resulted in the good ol’ guns being unbelted, tankards spilled, and firsts being thrown left and right.

A true sight for sore eyes, really, seeing the outlaw riding off in a horse into the night.

And now, with the chilly breeze against his face, Satoru found himself raising one strong arm on the air after he had chased said rustler, lariat gripped on his leather white-gloved hand as he spun it in circular motions on the air, a wild grin on his face at yet another chase under the moonlight.

Focusing his partially bandana-covered azure gaze under his stetson on the bandit, whom was galloping at rapid speeds away from his own horse, he threw the rope with a swift movement, yanking it back with untamed force once it wrapped around the bronco’s neck.

He could see the bandit’s body tensing as he continued galloping at a rapid speed, but Satoru’s mare was quicker, spurs against the sides of his mare, he urged the animal to cut off the bandit's path, causing the horses to rear in a dramatic display.


“Tell ya what, buck-o, you either come with me by hook,” Satoru said, shifting in his saddle, playful tone on the sheriff’s voice, as he took out his powder gun with his free hand, and cocked it, “Or by crook.”