Mason looked up from the dusty street, squinting against the harsh sun as it beat down on the ramshackle buildings of Dreadworth. The town was a jigsaw of wooden facades and dirt roads, held together by the desperation of its inhabitants. At fifteen, he’d seen enough to know that the line between right and wrong was as blurry as the mirages that danced on the horizon. Orphaned by a bullet meant for someone else, he’d learned to navigate the town’s underbelly with the cunning of a coyote and the stealth of a ghost.

The distant rumble grew louder, and soon the unmistakable silhouette of a stagecoach appeared, a cloud of dust trailing in its wake like a restless spirit. The townsfolk stirred, their eyes lighting up with the promise of new faces and potential opportunities. For Mason, it was a reminder that the world outside his dusty cocoon was vast and full of danger. The coach rumbled closer, its wheels groaning under the weight of untold secrets and the thirst for fortune that had brought its passengers to this desolate outpost.

Mason leaned against the splintered wood of the old general store, watching as the driver reined in the horses, their flanks lathered with sweat and their eyes wide with fatigue. The door swung open, and a figure in a dusty black hat stepped down, surveying the street with a look that suggested he’d seen the worst the world had to offer and wasn’t impressed. The man’s eyes met Mason’s, and something in their cold, hard gaze made the boy’s heart quicken. He was used to the leers and sneers of the townsfolk, but this was different—this was the look of someone who saw him not as a nuisance, but as something more.

Gathering his courage, Mason approached the stranger, tugging at the brim of his own hat in a gesture of respect that was more habit than genuine. “Mister,” he said, his voice cracking slightly, “Could I help you with your bag for a penny?” The man looked him over, his expression unreadable, then nodded curtly. “I reckon you could,” he said, tossing a heavy bag into Mason’s arms without warning.

Mason stumbled under the weight but managed to keep his grip, his eyes never leaving the man’s as he followed him to the hotel. The hotel was the best that Dreadworth had to offer—or rather, the least worst—its peeling paint and crooked sign a testament to the town’s lack of pride. Inside, the lobby was a study in shadows and dust motes, the air thick with the scent of cigar smoke and despair. The man in black registered without a word, his eyes never leaving the ledger.

Mr. Kenneth ‘Luck’ Faulkner was his name, and he was as enigmatic as the town he’d just rolled into. His handshake was firm and brief, his grip like a vice that left no doubt about the strength hidden beneath his dusty duster. Mason felt a thrill run through him; he hadn’t met anyone like Luck before, not in the squalid alleyways and flea-ridden brothels that made up his world. There was a glint in the man’s eye that spoke of adventure and danger, a promise of a life beyond the daily grind of survival.

With a nod from Luck, Mason took the bag to the room, his footsteps echoing in the dimly lit hallway. The hotel was a labyrinth of creaking floorboards and peeling wallpaper, each room whispering its own sordid tale. He reached the door with the faded number 7 and paused, his hand hovering over the knob. The bag was heavy, the weight of its contents a mystery that seemed to grow with each step he took. His curiosity piqued, he considered peeking inside, but the look Luck had given him was one that said ‘trust is earned, not given’. So, he knocked instead, three firm raps that echoed down the corridor.

The door swung open, and Luck stepped aside, allowing Mason to enter. The room was sparse, with a single bed, a washbasin, and a chair that had seen better days. On the bed lay a collection of weapons, gleaming in the weak light that filtered through the dusty window. Luck’s eyes never left Mason’s as he gestured to the bag. “You can put it down there,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

Mason’s heart raced as he set the bag beside the weapons. What could be so valuable that it needed a personal escort to this godforsaken town? He tried to keep his curiosity in check, but the scent of adventure was intoxicating. As he turned to leave, Luck spoke again. “You got any kin, boy?”

Mason’s eyes dropped to the floor, the question a knife twisting in an old wound. “Nope,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Ma and Pa are both dead.”

Luck’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “Well, you’ve got a keen eye and a good arm for your size. You ever thought about learning a trade? Something that could get you out of this two-bit town?”

Mason looked up, hope flickering in his eyes like a candle in the wind. “I ain’t got much in the way of schooling, mister. But I can shoot a straight line and I’m quick on my feet.”

Luck’s expression remained stoic, but there was a glint in his eye that suggested he was weighing something in his mind. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tattered photograph, the edges worn from frequent handling. “Take a look at this,” he said, holding it out to Mason. “You ever seen this man around these parts?”

Mason squinted at the faded image, his heart racing. The man in the photo had a smarmy smile and a sharp nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. His name was scribbled in the corner in faded ink: Mr. Wallace ‘Prancer’ McMillan. He’d seen Prancer before, all right—he was the kind of man who left a mark wherever he went, usually in the form of a bruised cheek or an empty purse. “Yeah,” Mason said, his voice steady. “I’ve seen him around. Why you asking?”

Luck’s eyes narrowed, his hand hovering over the leather-bound gun at his side. “I’ve got business with him,” he said, his voice tight with an unspoken threat. “Important business.”

Mason nodded, his curiosity now a raging inferno. “He’s got a room over at the Red Door Saloon,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “Likes to play poker with the high rollers.”

Luck’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes sharpened. “The Red Door, huh?” he said, tucking the photo back into his pocket. “I might just pay him a visit.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar, flipping it to Mason. “For your trouble, kid. And for keeping your mouth shut.”

Mason caught the coin, feeling its weight in his palm. A dollar was more than he’d seen in a while, and it was a small fortune for a tip. “I ain’t one for blabbing,” he assured Luck, his voice steady. “But if you’re looking for Prancer, you might wanna watch your back. He’s got friends in low places.”

Luck’s gaze remained on Mason, his eyes seemingly sizing him up. “Friends?” he repeated, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Or accomplices?”

Mason shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Could be either, mister. Prancer’s got his fingers in a lot of pies.”

Luck’s eyebrow arched at the mention of pies, a knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Speaking of which,” he began, leaning against the doorframe with a casual air that belied the tension in the room, “have you heard about the nude catfight gambling match down at the Red Door tonight?”

Mason’s eyes widened, and he tried to keep his voice steady. “Nude ... catfight?”

Luck nodded, his smile growing. “Yeah, a real spectacle. Some say it’s the highlight of the month around here. A couple of the local girls settling their differences in the most ... bare way possible.”

Mason’s cheeks flushed red, his mind racing with the sordid images that painted themselves in his head. He’d heard whispers of such things, but he’d never been allowed near the Red Door. It was a place for grown-ups and outlaws, not for the likes of him. “I ... I ain’t never heard of that,” he lied, his voice squeaking.

Luck’s smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that made Mason’s stomach do a flip. “Well, it’s quite the event,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Gets all the blood pumping, if you know what I mean. High stakes, high ... emotions.”

Mason tried to swallow the lump in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. “I ... I wouldn’t know about that,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

Luck leaned in closer, his breath warm against Mason’s ear. “What if I told you I could get you in?” he said, his voice a seductive purr. “You know, as a little ... reward for your help.”

Mason’s eyes went wide, his heart racing like a wild mustang. He’d heard the whispers about the nude catfights, the clandestine meetings where the town’s most desperate and depraved gathered to watch two women fight until one was left standing, all for the pleasure of the betting men. It was the kind of thing that made his stomach churn and his blood boil, but the allure of the forbidden was too strong to resist. “I ... I don’t know, mister,” he stammered, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.

Luck’s smile grew into a full-blown grin, the kind that promised trouble and adventure in equal measure. “Come on, kid,” he said, clapping Mason on the shoulder. “You’ve got to start living a little. Besides, I could use a good lookout.”

Mason’s mind raced with the implications of what he was being asked to do. The thought of entering the Red Door, of seeing such a depraved event, was both terrifying and exhilarating. He’d heard the whispers of the nude catfights, the brutal fights that were more about humiliation than competition. But the idea of being part of something so taboo, so adult, was too tempting to refuse. “Okay,” he croaked, trying to sound braver than he felt. “I’ll come with you.”

Luck’s grin grew wider, and he reached into his bag, pulling out a well-worn cowboy hat. It was black, with a silver band and a small feather tucked into it. “Here,” he said, placing it on Mason’s head. “You’ll need this. Can’t have a young ‘un like you going around looking like a lost pup.”

Mason’s eyes went wide as he felt the weight of the hat settle on his head. It was a gesture of acceptance, a sign that he wasn’t just a street rat anymore. He tipped the brim down, the shadow it cast over his eyes giving him a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Thank you, mister,” he murmured, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat.

Luck nodded, his smile fading into a more serious expression. “Don’t go getting any ideas,” he warned, his tone firm. “This hat comes with responsibilities. You wear it, you represent me. You got that?”

Mason nodded, his heart racing as he took in the gravity of the situation. The hat felt like a beacon of hope in a town that had given him so little. It was a symbol of belonging, a ticket to a world beyond the squalor he’d known his entire life. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice firm.

Luck’s eyes searched his for a moment before he nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Good,” he said, his voice gruff. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up. Can’t have you looking like you just rolled out of the prairie.”

Mason followed Luck back outside, the dust swirling around them as the townsfolk went about their business, oblivious to the deal that had just been struck. They stopped at the town’s only bathhouse, a small shack with a wooden tub and a bar of soap that had seen better days. Luck tossed a few coins to the haggard-looking woman at the counter, and she grunted before letting them pass.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lye and sweat, but it was a welcome change from the stench of the streets. Luck handed Mason a bar of soap and a threadbare towel, his eyes never leaving the boy’s. “You clean up good, and you’ll fit right in,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. Mason nodded, eager to prove himself, and set to work scrubbing the grime from his skin. The water was cold, but it felt like a small piece of heaven after a day spent in the unforgiving sun.

As he washed, Luck’s words echoed in his mind. A good lookout. It was the first time anyone had offered him a role beyond the occasional errand boy or theft. It was a chance to be part of something, to have a purpose. And the idea of seeing the nude catfight ... it was a siren’s call that whispered sweet nothings to his curiosity and burgeoning masculinity.

When he emerged from the bathhouse, the setting sun painted the sky in hues of pink and orange, casting long shadows across the street. Luck was waiting for him, a cigar clenched between his teeth and his eyes on the horizon. He took one look at Mason, clean and dressed in his best clothes, and nodded approvingly. “You clean up nice, kid,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Mason felt a flutter of excitement in his stomach as they approached the Red Door Saloon. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that only comes before something forbidden and thrilling. The saloon was a far cry from the dilapidated shacks he was used to, with a fresh coat of paint and a sign that swung gently in the breeze. The red door itself was flanked by two burly men with arms like tree trunks, their expressions as unwelcoming as the desert that surrounded Dreadworth.

Luck flashed a gold toothed smile and a fistful of coins, and the bouncers stepped aside, allowing them to enter the dimly lit den of iniquity. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale beer and sweat, the sound of raucous laughter and the clank of spurs on the wooden floor. The walls were lined with men, their eyes glued to the makeshift stage where two women were being led out, their expressions a mix of anger and resignation.

Mason’s heart hammered in his chest as he followed Luck through the crowd, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination. He’d never seen women like these before, their beauty marred by the harsh lives they led. They were stripped down to their underthings, their bruises and scars on full display. His stomach churned at the sight, but he couldn’t look away.

Miss Sophie ‘Phantom’ Duffy was a tall, lithe figure with hair as dark as midnight and eyes that could cut through a man’s soul. Her skin was pale and dotted with freckles, a stark contrast to the leather bustier that barely contained her ample chest. She had a wildness about her that made the air crackle with electricity, and her fists were already balled in a sign of her readiness to fight.

Mrs. Katie ‘Night Rider’ Haney, on the other hand, was a fiery redhead with a temper to match her hair. Her green eyes flashed with anger as she was pushed onto the stage, the fabric of her tattered chemise clinging to her damp skin. She was shorter than Sophie, but her muscles rippled with the promise of a brawler’s strength. Her cheeks were flushed with a mix of embarrassment and rage, her small fists flexing as she took in the leering faces of the men who had paid to see her degraded.