The Gunslinger

Chapter 1: The Town of Dust and Shadows

The sun hung low in the sky, a fiery orb that cast long, wavering shadows across the dusty plains. The once-vibrant Wild West had begun to fade into the annals of history, replaced by the encroaching grip of law and order. But in the far reaches of this desolate land, there were still places where chaos reigned, where the strong survived and the weak perished in the unforgiving heat.

One such place was the town of Red Rock.

It was a forsaken stretch of land, forgotten by time and the law alike. Buildings stood on either side of a dirt road that split the town in half, their wooden facades weathered and beaten by the relentless sun. The windows were dark, the doors shut tight. Red Rock was a ghost town, but not the kind that had been abandoned by its people—no, this one had been taken over, claimed by the ruthless hands of outlaws and bandits who saw the end of the Wild West as their last chance to carve out a piece of the world for themselves.

But Red Rock had not gone unnoticed.

From the horizon came a figure, a lone rider on a horse as black as night. The rider's hat was pulled low over his eyes, casting his face in shadow. A long duster coat flapped in the wind, revealing the twin revolvers strapped to his hips. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, as if the weight of the world meant nothing to him. But the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his hand hovered near his gun, told a different story.

This was Kenny "Kens" Blackthorne, a name whispered in fear and awe across the West. A bounty hunter by trade, he was known for his unmatched skill with a gun and his cold, unfeeling demeanor. But those who knew him best—if there were any—would say that beneath that icy exterior lay a heart, albeit one hidden deep within layers of indifference and cynicism.

Kens' eyes flicked up to the sign that hung crookedly over the entrance to the town. "Red Rock," he muttered under his breath, the name carrying with it the weight of his purpose. The bounty he had been tracking for weeks had led him here. Samuel "Sammy" Graves, leader of the Graves Gang, a ruthless group of bandits who had made a name for themselves by robbing trains and murdering anyone who stood in their way. The bounty on Sammy's head was enough to buy Kens a quiet life somewhere far from the chaos of the West, if he ever decided to stop chasing bounties.

But first, he had to deal with the gang.

The horse slowed to a stop as they reached the outskirts of the town. Kens dismounted, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust as they hit the ground. The town was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that told him he was being watched. He could feel the eyes on him, hidden in the shadows of the buildings, watching his every move. But Kens was in no hurry. He reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a match he struck against his boot. The flame flared for a moment before he extinguished it with a flick of his wrist.

Kens took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled, the smoke curling around his face like a lazy serpent. "Come on out, boys," he called, his voice carrying easily through the still air. "I ain't got all day."

For a moment, there was no response. Then, from the shadows, they came. Bandits, rough-looking men with scraggly beards and eyes that gleamed with malice, stepped out into the street. They were armed, each one carrying a gun or a knife, and they spread out in a semicircle around Kens, blocking his path into the town. At their center stood a man taller than the rest, with a scar running down the side of his face. He grinned, showing a row of yellow teeth.

"You're a long way from home, cowboy," the man said, his voice thick with a Southern drawl. "What brings you to Red Rock?"

Kens took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes never leaving the man in front of him. "I'm looking for Sammy Graves. Heard he was hiding out in this shithole of a town."

The man's grin widened. "You found him. Now, why don't you turn around and ride on out of here before you get yourself killed?"

Kens dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot. "Sorry, but I got a job to do."

The tension in the air was palpable, the kind that comes before a storm. Kens' hand hovered near his revolver, his fingers twitching slightly as he sized up the men in front of him. They were a ragtag bunch, but there were a lot of them. It would take more than just speed to get out of this alive.

Then, in a flash of movement too fast for the eye to follow, Kens drew his gun and fired.

The first bandit went down with a hole between his eyes before he even had a chance to draw his weapon. Kens was a blur of motion, his revolvers firing in quick succession as he moved through the group with deadly precision. Each shot found its mark, and each bandit fell to the ground, clutching at the wounds that would be their last.

But the bandits were not without fight. As Kens took down the fifth man, a bullet whizzed past his ear, close enough to ruffle his hair. Kens dove behind a water trough, using it as cover as the remaining bandits opened fire. Bullets pinged off the wood, sending splinters flying into the air. Kens waited for a break in the gunfire before popping up and taking out two more men with quick, controlled shots.

Sammy Graves watched the carnage with wide eyes. He had heard stories about Kens Blackthorne, but seeing the man in action was something else entirely. The speed, the accuracy—it was as if the devil himself had come to Red Rock. Sammy knew he was outmatched, but pride and fear kept him from running.

"Get him, you idiots!" Sammy shouted at the remaining bandits, but his words fell on deaf ears. Kens had already closed the distance, his revolvers empty, but his fists just as deadly. He disarmed one man with a quick twist of his wrist, sending the bandit's gun flying into the dirt. Another tried to take him from behind, but Kens spun on his heel, delivering a bone-crushing kick to the man's chest that sent him sprawling.

Finally, it was just Kens and Sammy.

Sammy's hand hovered over his gun, but he hesitated, fear rooting him in place. Kens, on the other hand, was calm, his icy blue eyes locked onto his target. "Go ahead," Kens said, his voice cold and emotionless. "Draw."

Sammy's hand twitched, but before he could even reach for his gun, Kens was on him. With a swift, practiced motion, Kens knocked the gun from Sammy's hand and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him close. "You're worth a lot of money, Sammy," Kens whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wind. "But dead or alive, it don't matter to me."

Sammy swallowed hard, his throat dry. "P-please... I can pay you more than the bounty. Just let me go."

Kens stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he threw Sammy to the ground. Sammy scrambled to his feet, backing away slowly. "I'll leave," he babbled. "You'll never see me again. I swear!"

Kens watched him with cold eyes. "Too late for that."

In one fluid motion, Kens drew his gun and fired. The shot echoed through the empty streets of Red Rock, and Sammy Graves fell to the ground, a lifeless heap in the dirt.

For a moment, Kens stood there, the silence pressing in around him. Then he holstered his gun and turned away, his expression as unreadable as ever. He made his way back to his horse, mounting it with the same lazy grace he had shown earlier. As he rode out of Red Rock, the town was silent once more, the bodies of the bandits lying where they had fallen, a testament to the deadly skill of Kens Blackthorne.

The sun had begun to set, casting the world in hues of orange and red. Kens rode on, the bounty collected and another name crossed off his list. But even as he left the town behind, the weight of the West, of the lives he had taken, hung heavy on his shoulders. He was a bounty hunter, a killer for hire, but there were moments—like this one—when the cold, indifferent mask he wore threatened to slip.

But not yet.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Kens urged his horse into a gallop, leaving the town of Red Rock—and the ghosts of the past—in the dust.