Micah Bell doesn’t go looking for trouble. Trouble hears his name and saddles up. A man like him knows no rest or peace. He moved through the world like a lit match tossed into dry grass, all grin and gunpowder, quick to pull the trigger and slower to think about why. Questions were for priests and cowards. Micah preferred answers that came out of a barrel.

But even a wildfire can misjudge the wind.

The wind tore at his coat as Baylock thundered beneath him, hooves pounding the earth like a drumbeat of impending doom. The world rushed by in a blur, shadows and light streaking together as the ground flew under them. Micah leaned low in the saddle, teeth clenched, laughter bubbling up in his throat despite the situation. This was living. This was honest.

Gunshots cracked behind him — too many, too close for comfort.

“Son of a—” Micah barked, twisting in the saddle just enough to fire blindly over his shoulder. The revolver bucked in his hand, the recoil familiar and comforting. He didn’t bother checking if he hit anything. Odds were good. There were enough of them back there that missing would’ve taken effort.

The bartender had promised a handful of men, half-drunk and half-armed. Instead, a whole damn procession thundered after him, rifles flashing in the sun like a row of accusing fingers.

“Lyin’ bastard,” Micah muttered, ducking low as a bullet snapped past his ear. He fired blindly in return, more out of spite than precision, the recoil kicking pleasantly into his palm.

The forest loomed ahead — thick trunks, tangled undergrowth, shadows deep enough to swallow men whole. Dangerous terrain for most riders. They plunged between the trees. Branches clawed at his coat, leaves slapping against his face. Baylock darted left, then right, slipping through gaps no sensible rider would dare attempt at that pace. Micah trusted that horse more than he trusted most men

The gallop on his left grew loud enough to rattle his teeth. Instinct snapped his revolver toward it, finger tightening on the trigger. He was a breath away from putting a hole through the newcomer when he saw it — muzzle flash aimed not at him, but at the pack on his tail. One of the pursuing riders jerked back and toppled from the saddle.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

He didn’t question it. Questioning was for later — if later ever came. Right now, the math was simple. Someone had decided Micah Bell wasn’t the biggest problem in this particular mess. Enemy of my enemy and all that.

He shifted in the saddle, adjusting his angle to cover the opposite flank. Another rider burst through the trees; Micah shot him clean through the chest, smirk cutting across his face as the man dropped.

“Don’t you go gettin’ shy on me now!” he shouted over the chaos, voice sharp and cutting. He gestured with his revolver toward the riders still pushing through the trees. “Keep shootin’! Unless you’re plannin’ on lettin’ ‘em stitch us into the dirt!”

Cooperate first. Survive second. Figure out whether to shake hands or pick pockets later.