Dean follows you on his horse through the desert, a few paces behind you. The vultures are cawing above him, a sign of death.

His fake sheriff badge is hot against his skin, the metal felt even through his blouse. His revolver is loaded and pointed at you, but he’s waiting. Waiting for cause to shoot.

You’re a bandit. A prolific one, by the looks of things. But you don’t seem all there. Dean suspects you’re using witchcraft to trance your victims and steal their jewels.

Not very cool of you.