The Gunslinger

Chapter 2: Shadows Over Silverton

The sun was just beginning its descent as Kens Blackthorne rode into the bustling town of Silverton. Unlike Red Rock, Silverton was alive with activity. Shops lined the streets, their windows glinting in the afternoon light. People milled about, engaging in the daily routines that kept the town running. But as Kens passed by, a hush seemed to fall over the townsfolk. Conversations died mid-sentence, and curious, wary eyes followed the lone rider as he made his way toward the sheriff's office.

Silverton was no stranger to visitors, but there was something about Kens that set him apart. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, with that cold, indifferent demeanor that made people wonder what kind of man lay beneath the surface. Or maybe it was the twin revolvers slung low on his hips, a clear indication of his trade. Whatever it was, it kept the townspeople at a distance, whispering behind his back but never daring to confront him.

Kens paid them no mind. He'd grown used to the stares, the muttered words that trailed him wherever he went. As he reached the sheriff's office, he dismounted his horse, tying it to the post outside. With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The sheriff, a grizzled man with a thick mustache and a belly that strained against his vest, looked up from behind his desk. His eyes narrowed as they took in the sight of Kens, but there was a flicker of recognition as well. "Blackthorne," the sheriff greeted him with a nod. "You've been busy, I hear."

Kens tossed a rolled-up poster onto the desk. "Sammy Graves. He won't be causing you any more trouble."

The sheriff unrolled the poster, revealing the crude drawing of Sammy's face, now with a large, red stamp that read "DEAD" across it. He grunted in approval and reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a stack of bills. "As promised, five hundred dollars."

Kens took the money without a word, slipping it into his coat pocket. As he turned to leave, something caught his eye—a small, dirty-faced boy standing in the corner of the office, his wide eyes fixed on Kens with a mixture of awe and desperation. Kens paused, his cold exterior momentarily cracking.

The boy couldn't have been more than ten years old, his clothes tattered and too big for his small frame. He clutched a ragged hat in his hands, twisting it nervously as he looked up at Kens. "Mister...you're a bounty hunter, right?"

Kens studied the boy for a moment before nodding slowly. "That's right."

The boy's eyes lit up with a spark of hope. "You must make a lot of money. Can you...can you spare some? My ma and me, we ain't got much."

Kens was silent, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slight shrug, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills, pressing them into the boy's hand. "Get yourself something to eat."

The boy's face broke into a wide grin, tears welling up in his eyes. "Thank you, mister! Thank you so much!"

But before Kens could respond, the door to the sheriff's office swung open, and two men stepped inside. They were lawmen, their badges gleaming in the fading light. One was tall and lean, with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes. The other was stockier, with a heavy brow and a permanent scowl etched into his face. They both looked like they'd seen their fair share of trouble.

The taller one pointed a finger at Kens, his voice laced with disdain. "Kens Blackthorne. Or should I say, the infamous gunslinger."

Kens turned to face them, his expression as impassive as ever. "I'm a bounty hunter."

"Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?" the stockier lawman sneered. "You're wanted for crimes across half the territory. We're here to take you in."

The boy, who had been standing frozen in place, suddenly stepped forward, placing himself between Kens and the lawmen. "Leave him alone! He ain't done nothin' wrong!"

Kens looked down at the boy, a flicker of something—compassion, perhaps—crossing his features. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, gently pushing him aside. "It's all right, kid. I'll be fine."

The boy looked up at Kens, his eyes filled with worry, but he nodded and stepped back, clutching the money Kens had given him.

Kens turned his attention back to the lawmen, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You want to take me in? Fine. Let's get this over with."

The lawmen exchanged a surprised glance. They hadn't expected Kens to go quietly. The tall one stepped forward, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Smart move. Now, put your hands where I can see them."

Kens did as he was told, holding out his hands. The tall lawman approached cautiously, the handcuffs at the ready. But as soon as he was within reach, Kens moved. His hands snapped forward, grabbing the lawman's wrist and twisting it with bone-breaking force. The man cried out in pain, dropping the handcuffs as Kens spun, delivering a powerful elbow to the stocky lawman's jaw.

The second lawman staggered back, dazed, but Kens didn't give him a chance to recover. With a quick, precise strike, Kens sent him crashing to the floor, unconscious. The tall lawman tried to draw his gun, but Kens was faster. He disarmed the man with a single, fluid motion, sending him sprawling next to his partner.

Kens looked down at the two unconscious lawmen, shaking his head slightly. "Should've known better."

The sheriff, who had been watching the entire scene with a mix of shock and grudging admiration, finally spoke up. "You know, they're not going to take kindly to you beating up lawmen in my town."

Kens shrugged. "They'll wake up with a headache, nothing more. I didn't kill them, did I?"

The sheriff grunted in response, clearly not eager to argue with Kens any further. Kens nodded, more to himself than to the sheriff, and then turned and walked out of the office, his long coat billowing behind him.

The saloon was just down the street, a beacon of warmth and light in the gathering dusk. As Kens pushed open the swinging doors and stepped inside, the lively chatter of the patrons momentarily died down, all eyes turning to the newcomer. Kens ignored the stares, making his way to the bar.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a patchy beard and a scar running down his cheek, gave Kens a wary glance. "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey," Kens said, his voice low and even. "And a napkin."

The bartender nodded and turned to grab a bottle from the shelf. As he poured the drink, he slid a folded piece of paper across the bar toward Kens. Kens frowned, picking it up. "I asked for a napkin, not this."

The bartender leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That paper has the details of a bounty worth two thousand dollars. The man and his gang have been coming around here a lot, robbing the place and causing trouble."

Kens raised an eyebrow, clearly uninterested. "Sounds like a job for the law. They're patrolling this area, after all."

The bartender shook his head, glancing around as if to make sure no one was listening. "This one's different. There are rumors...they say the man isn't just an outlaw. They say he's a Gunslinger."

Kens' eyes narrowed slightly, his disinterest momentarily giving way to something sharper, more focused. "A Gunslinger?"

The bartender nodded, his expression grim. "That's what they say. The bounty's high because no one's been able to take him down."

Kens downed the whiskey in one smooth motion, slamming the glass back onto the bar with a loud clink. He unfolded the paper and read the name printed at the top.

"Victor 'Viper' Navarro," Kens murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse. He folded the paper back up and slipped it into his coat.

Without another word, Kens turned and walked out of the saloon, his mind already working through the possibilities. The law might have their hands full, but a Gunslinger...that was something Kens couldn't ignore.

As he stepped back into the night, the town of Silverton seemed quieter, the shadows longer, the air thicker with the promise of violence to come. Kens Blackthorne had a new target, and this one would be different from the rest.