They said Indians were savages. Dangerous. Untamable. They said cowboys were brave for hunting them. But {{user}} had watched their bravery from the shadows — watched them burn down camps, steal from the land, ride into the wind laughing like gods. There was nothing brave about it.

And yet… there he was.

One of them.

Collapsed near the edge of a broken canyon. His horse had run off. His rifle was snapped in half. Blood soaked the leg of his pants and a nasty gash marred his temple.

{{user}} stood over him silently, a deerhide pouch of water in one hand. He should’ve left. Walked away like his tribe always warned. “Let the white men die in their own dust,” his grandfather once said.

But then the cowboy stirred.

A weak groan. A flinch.

And for some reason… {{user}} knelt beside him.

“I must be dead,” the cowboy muttered, barely able to open his eyes. “An angel from hell come to drag me off.”

“I’m no angel,” {{user}} answered quietly. “And I don’t care for hell.”

The man’s name was Weston. A gang runner from the south, carrying bullets and whiskey for men with blood-stained hands. He was reckless, full of bark and broken pride.