Category: Western

The wind dragged dust across the graves as Marshal Tate stepped onto the cracked earth. He set his hat aside and unbuckled his gun belt, tossing it at Wes Carter’s feet.

“You hanged my brother,” Wes growled, hands twitching near his holster.

Tate nodded. “He killed a storekeeper. I upheld the law.”

Wes clenched his jaw. “Law’s just a word. Blood’s real.”

Tate lifted his hands. “Then shoot.”

Wes inhaled, finger brushing the trigger. The wind howled through the tombstones. Finally, his shoulders sank. His gun returned to the holster.

“He wouldn’t want this,” Wes muttered, turning away.

Tate picked up his belt. “Ride on, Carter. Don’t come back.”

Wes walked toward the horizon, leaving dust and vengeance behind.

The saloon door swung open, and Marshal Tate stepped inside, hat low, dust clinging to his duster. At a corner table, Jed Barnett nursed a drink, fingers twitching toward the iron on his hip.

Tate approached, slow and measured. “Jed.”

Jed set his glass down. “Marshal.”

“You know why I’m here.”

Jed exhaled. “Man killed my brother, Tate. Ain’t right he walks free.”

Tate’s jaw tightened. “Sheriff’s got him locked up. He’ll face the judge.”

Jed shook his head. “That ain’t enough.”

The street outside was silent as Jed pushed back his chair. A second later, his hand moved.

Tate was faster. A single shot echoed. Jed staggered, then crumpled.

Marshal Tate stood over the body, eyes heavy. He holstered his gun, turned, and walked back into the heat, knowing justice had spoken but peace would never settle.

The town of Clearwater was quieter than usual when Frank Carson rode in. He stepped onto the dusty street, eyes locked on the saloon. Inside, Lucas Reed nursed a drink, his hand twitching near his holster.

Frank strode in. “You remember my brother?”

Lucas exhaled. “I remember the trial. Judge set me free.”

Frank took slow steps forward. “Judge wasn’t there when you shot him in the back.”

The room stilled. Lucas downed his whiskey. “You come for justice or blood, Carson?”

Frank’s hand hovered over his revolver. The memory of his brother lying dead in the dirt burned hot, but so did the words of the sheriff—let the law handle him.

A long breath. He stepped back. “I came to see if you felt guilt. I see you don’t.”

Lucas smirked. “Not a lick.”

Frank turned, leaving Lucas to his drink. The door swung shut behind him as he rode out. Some battles weren’t won with bullets.

The wind carried dust through the empty street as Marshal Tate stepped onto the porch of the saloon. Across from him, Will Grady stood, hand resting on his revolver.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Tate said.

Will smiled bitterly. “Didn’t have a choice.”

“That so?” Tate’s eyes stayed steady. “Your brother killed my wife, Will. Law says he hangs. You aiming to stop that?”

Will flexed his fingers. “He ain’t a killer. You know that.”

“The jury decided otherwise.”

Will exhaled, drawing his gun. Tate’s shot was faster. Will stumbled, dropped to his knees, choking on breath.

Tate holstered his revolver. “You’re not the judge, Will. Neither am I.”

Will fell forward, still. As the church bell tolled in the distance, Tate turned, stepping back into the shadows of his office, where the gallows stood ready.

Silas rode into town as the sun bled across the sky. The sheriff met him at the hitching post, arms crossed.

“He’s in the saloon, Silas,” the sheriff said.

Silas nodded. “Ain’t here for trouble.”

Inside, the man he sought nursed a drink. “Didn’t figure you’d show,” the man muttered.

“You killed my brother,” Silas said plainly.

The man sighed. “I was doin’ my job. He pulled first.”

Silas rested his hand on his holster. “That so?”

The sheriff stepped inside. “Let it go, Silas. Your brother robbed that bank. I was there.”

Silas’ fingers twitched. The town had its law, but blood demanded reckoning.

The saloon was silent. The man at the bar didn’t move, just waited.

After a long breath, Silas stepped back. “Guess the law’s had its say.”

He turned, walking out as the weight of his vengeance settled into the dust behind him.

The wind carried dust through the quiet street as Marshal Tate stood over the fallen man. Boone Wheeler, the outlaw who had gunned down Tate’s brother years ago, lay bleeding in the dirt, his pistol just out of reach.

Boone coughed, smirking despite the pain. “Go on, Tate. Finish it.”

The townsfolk watched in silence. Tate’s hand trembled over his holster. He had chased Boone across three states for this moment.

“You think I won’t?” Tate said, voice low.

Boone chuckled weakly. “I know you will.”

Tate exhaled, his fingers curling, then relaxing. He stepped back. “Doctor,” he called. “See to him.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Boone’s smirk faltered.

“You ain’t gonna kill me?”

“No,” Tate said. “But you’ll swing fair and proper.”

As the doctor knelt beside Boone, Tate turned toward the jailhouse, moving past the watching eyes. He holstered his gun. Some things were harder than revenge.

The saloon was quiet except for the creak of boots on warped floorboards. Sheriff Cole stood by the bar, his hand resting near his holster as he stared down Eli Granger. The outlaw leaned casually against a table, a cocky grin beneath his dusty hat.

“Town wants you alive,” Cole said, his voice low.

“Alive, huh?” Eli replied, spinning his revolver once before holstering it. “Shame. Alive ain’t how I left your brother.”

Cole’s lip twitched, but his hand stayed steady. Outside, the evening wind howled, stirring dust into the sunset’s dying light.

“You walk out now,” Cole said, “you’ll face a trial. Run, and it’ll end different.”

Eli chuckled, then stepped toward the door. “You ain’t drawing, Cole. Justice, or revenge—only one lets you sleep at night.”

Cole’s jaw tightened as the outlaw pushed the door open and tipped his hat. The sheriff’s hand twitched toward his gun… but stopped. In the fading light, Eli mounted his horse and rode away into the wilderness, leaving only hoofprints behind.

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.

The dry wind carried the sound of hoofbeats as Sheriff Calloway rode into the town of Red Bluff. Dust swirled around the lone figure who waited for him in the middle of the street, black hat pulled low and a Colt gleaming on his hip. Folks watched from behind shutters, silent.

“You’re late, Calloway,” drawled the outlaw. His voice was calm, but his fingers twitched near the revolver.

“Had to bury a boy you shot down in Elm Creek,” Calloway replied, stepping off his horse. He didn’t unholster his sidearm, just walked forward, spurs jangling. “Seventeen. Didn’t even shave yet.”

The outlaw’s jaw tightened. “He drew first.”

Calloway stopped ten paces away. “You gonna say the same about me?”

For a fleeting moment, doubt flickered across the outlaw’s face. Then his hand moved. Six paces later, he folded to the dirt, clutching his chest as blood darkened the earth.

Calloway holstered his gun, turned his back on the crowd, and rode out of town.