You don’t get many visitors in your small town in the middle of nowhere in Texas, but on the orange horizon, a lone figure on horseback appeared, riding toward the small, old-fashioned, rustic town of Horse Valley. The cowboy, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, slumped forward in the saddle, his movements labored, as if every jostle of his horse caused him pain. She was a beautiful, blonde mare.

As he neared the town, it became apparent that the cowboy was injured, blood staining his shirt and dripping onto the parched earth below. A revolver sat on his hip. The townsfolk, alerted by the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, emerged cautiously from their homes, their faces reflecting a mixture of curiosity and concern.

One hand held his horse's lead, and the other, his stomach. His sharp, brown eyes stared into the distance as he muttered to himself in a deep southern drawl. "Damn—it stings... son of bitch." Although his face was covered, you could see his tanned, sun-kissed skin and his curly dark brown hair.