Marshal Tate rode into Black Hollow at dusk, the dying sun painting the town blood-red. The air was brittle, high plains wind snapping at shuttered windows. By the saloon, a boy no older than fifteen leaned against the hitching post, cradling a rifle too big for him. Tate tipped his hat, but the boy only stared.
Inside, the buzz dimmed when Tate entered. Johnny Greaves sat at a corner table, nursing whiskey. His pistol rested in plain view. “Marshal.” Greaves’s voice was cool, the word heavy.
“Johnny. Came to take you in.”
Greaves smirked, shaking his head. “Ain’t justice what you want, Tate. You want me to pay for those homesteads. You want revenge.”
“Justice,” Tate replied, his hand brushing his holster, “don’t come with a smile.”
Silence stretched before Greaves stood. “Then let’s settle it.”
Outside, the boy still waited, watching as two figures faced off under the crimson sky. A single shot echoed. By nightfall, the saloon was silent again, and the marshal’s badge lay forgotten in the dirt.
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