Chapter 1

In the dusty, forgotten corner of the Wild West, where the sun baked the earth and the shadows grew long before noon, there lived a man named Donald ‘No Horse’ Crawford. He was sixty-five years old, with a mottled grey beard that hung to his chest like a moth-eaten blanket. His eyes, once a vivid blue, had faded to the color of a cloudless sky, and his back was bent under the weight of untold years. Each step he took echoed through the desolate streets of Dreadworth, a town that had seen better days.

The people of Dreadworth knew him well, though not always by name. He was a fixture, a silent spectator to the town’s slow decay. They’d see him shuffling from the livery stable to the saloon, his calloused hands wrapped around a cane that had seen more battles than any gun in town. His clothes were patched and faded, hanging from his bony frame like the last leaves on a dying tree. No one knew where he came from or why he had ended up here, living like a ghost on the fringes of society.

Every night, Donald found refuge in the dilapidated train station. The wooden benches, worn smooth by the countless travelers who had passed through, now cradled his weary body. The distant rumble of the occasional passing train was the only lullaby that soothed his troubled dreams. It was a hard life, but it was the only one he had left.

One sweltering afternoon, as the sun painted the sky with fiery strokes, Donald sat in his usual spot outside the general store, watching the tumbleweeds dance in the dust. His stomach growled like a caged animal, but his pockets were as empty as the streets around him. The town was quiet, save for the occasional snicker of a horse and the dry rustle of the wind through the desiccated shrubbery. It was a stark contrast to the days when Dreadworth had been a bustling hub of trade and opportunity. Now, it was a mere shell of its former self, haunted by the specters of prosperity lost.

As the shadows grew longer, a figure emerged from the saloon, spurs jingling with each step. It was the town’s marshal, a stern man named Hank T. Justice. His eyes narrowed as he approached Donald, his hand hovering near the gun at his hip. “You ain’t causing trouble, are ya, No Horse?” he asked gruffly, the stench of whiskey on his breath.

“Just passing the time, Marshal,” Donald replied, his voice as dry as the dust beneath them. “Ain’t got the strength for trouble anymore.”

Marshal Justice studied him for a moment, his eyes scanning the old man’s frail form. Then, with a gruff nod, he spoke. “I might have something for ya, No Horse. There’s a job up at Fort Killhills. They’re looking for a cook’s helper. It’s a fair hike from here, but it’s honest work, food, and a roof over your head.”

The offer hung in the air like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Donald’s eyes lit up, the first sign of life they had shown in years. “Fort Killhills?” he repeated, hope crackling in his voice. “What’s the catch?”

Marshal Justice leaned against the post of the general store, his hand still hovering near his gun. “No catch, No Horse. Just a job that needs doing. They lost their last helper to a bear, so they’re desperate. Can’t say I blame ‘em. That place is a tough nut to crack.”