The last Ride of Hairlip Green

Durango

As Green rode into town, his eyes caught the sign posted at the edge of Main Street: "No Weapons: City Ordinance #3. Turn all firearms into the sheriff." He couldn't help but smile bitterly at the sight of it. Memories of Durango came flooding back—the last time he'd set foot here, he was no more than a wide-eyed, knee-high grasshopper. He'd witnessed Wild Bill, the outlaw who rode into town like a storm, cheat his way through a poker game, then shoot the sheriff dead in cold blood. That had been the end of the law in Durango, at least for a while. Wild Bill had spurred his horse and ridden out of town, leaving behind a trail of dust and a town full of whispers.

Since that day, Green had built himself a reputation. The outlaw's name spread far and wide, and now, as he rode through the same dusty streets, it seemed the town hadn't changed much—except for the law that now required a man to surrender his weapon.

The town was eerily quiet, especially for this time of day. No bustling chatter, no clinking of spurs, not even the sound of a dog barking. As Green spurred his horse down the main street, he watched tumbleweeds roll aimlessly across the dirt, chased by a gust of wind that kicked up clouds of dust in its wake.

It was high noon. The sun beat down relentlessly, casting long shadows across the empty street. Green dismounted and tied his horse to the post outside the saloon. He gave the animal a firm pat on the neck, appreciating the beauty of her sleek white coat. But as his hand moved away, a puff of dust rose from her coat, reminding him of the dry, unforgiving world they both rode through.

Green stood for a moment, the silence of the town pressing in on him, and he wondered just what had become of Durango since his last visit.

As Green climbed the rickety stairs to the saloon, a sharp, cold gaze met his—eyes that seemed to cut right through him from a shattered window on the upper level. He couldn't shake the feeling that the woman behind the glass was watching him a little too closely, like she knew him. That icy stare felt like it was tracing the scar that ran across his upper lip, the one that had earned him his nickname: Hair Lip Green.

The saloon doors creaked open under his hand, the sound too loud in the silence that hung thick in the air. Behind the bar, the bartender was polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes never quite meeting Green's. A few cowboys slumped over in the back corner, their bodies sprawled across the table, looking more like they were passed out than deep in thought.

Then a voice cut through the stillness, raspy, sharp—a man used to giving orders.

"Can't read, boy?"

Green turned. The man was thick around the middle, his boots heavy as he planted them on the floor, a six-shooter hanging low on his hip. His face was round, framed by a mustache that curled past his lips, and a black cowboy hat that hung low enough to shadow his eyes. He took a step forward, crowding Green, pushing the saloon doors wide with a heavy hand, making them swing just a little too long on their hinges.

The rustling from the corner told Green the cowboys had finally woken up. He could feel their eyes on him now, though they hadn't moved from their slumped positions.

The man took another step, getting closer. Green's gaze flicked to the star pinned to the man's brown vest, the only thing that seemed to shine in this forsaken town. It was a five-point sheriff's badge, the word Sheriff engraved across the center.

"What kind of law would take a man's only protection away from him?" Green asked, his voice low, eyes locked on the badge. His fingers itched toward the handle of his own gun, but he kept them still. This town wasn't worth the trouble—yet.

The sheriff's lip curled, and he stepped closer, but it was clear that Green wasn't going to back down without a fight. The tension in the room was thick, but the question hung between them, sharp as a knife.