The dust trailed behind Cole Mathers like the sins of a man who'd been gone too long.
Evening light stretched thin across the plains, casting long shadows from the dying sun as Cole rode toward Rust Creek for the first time in ten years. The town was no more than a cluster of tired wooden buildings gathered around a crooked street and a dry riverbed that hadn't seen real water in years.
Boone, his sturdy dun-colored horse, moved at a patient pace. Cole didn't rush. He wanted Rust Creek to see him coming. Let the land feel his weight again. Let the old wounds stretch open.
At the crest of a ridge, he stopped. Below, the town slept in the same silence it had the day he left—smothered under the rule of men who'd mistaken fear for power. The church steeple still leaned to the left. The saloon's roof sagged more now. And the Sheriff's office stood tall in the middle of it all like a liar in Sunday clothes.
Cole rolled a cigarette, struck a match on his belt buckle, and inhaled slow. The smoke was sharp, like the memory of blood drying on dirt.
It was time.
---
The hooves echoed down the main street like war drums. Heads turned. Some faces widened with recognition. Others turned away fast, afraid of what those eyes might bring back with them.
He passed the blacksmith's shop, now shuttered. The old hotel had become a brothel. Children no longer played in the street—just stray dogs and slow tumbleweeds.
At the hitching post outside The Last Drop Saloon, Cole swung off Boone and tied the reins. The horse snorted, sensing tension in the air.
The saloon doors creaked as he pushed them open. It was as if the air froze.
Inside, time stumbled.
Eyes turned. A card game stopped mid-hand. The piano hit a sour note and then silence. The bartender blinked like he'd seen a ghost.
Behind the bar stood Evelyn Boone.
She didn't scream. Didn't flinch. Her eyes locked on his like the wind had never changed direction.
"Cole," she said, almost under her breath.
"Evenin', Eve."
Ten years hadn't taken the sharpness from her. Her auburn hair was pinned up, streaked with gray now. She wore a pistol beneath her apron and looked more like a survivor than the girl he left behind.
"You should've stayed dead," she said flatly, setting a glass down with too much force.
"I didn't stay anything," he replied, voice low and graveled. "But I came back."
A burly man near the bar rose quietly and slipped out the swinging doors. Probably headed for the Sheriff.
Cole walked to the bar, calm as dawn, and sat.
Evelyn poured two fingers of whiskey. "They say you killed your own brother."
"They say a lot of things."
She studied him a second longer. "What do you want?"
"Justice," he said. Then after a beat: "Truth."
She gave a bitter smile. "In Rust Creek?"
---
Outside, the street was slowly gathering watchers. Word moved fast in towns like this. A man long thought dead had returned, and not just any man—Cole Mathers, the ex-gunslinger who vanished the night Silas Mathers died, the night everything changed.
"Sheriff Elridge works for Jed Tucker now," Evelyn said. "He'll come for you."
"I'm countin' on it."
"You've been gone ten years, Cole."
"I ain't here to stay."
She leaned closer. "You're not here just for answers."
Cole looked at her. "No."
"Then you better have a plan."
He smiled. "I am the plan."
---
The saloon doors swung open again. A boy peeked inside—barefoot, dusty, maybe twelve. He looked at Cole with wide, unblinking eyes.
Evelyn saw him. "Billy! Get back upstairs."
"Who is he?" the boy asked.
"Just a customer," she said, too sharp.
Billy kept staring. Cole gave him a slight nod.
"You his mother?" Cole asked once the boy disappeared.
"No," she said. "He's smart, quiet. I found him near dead in the winter storm five years ago. Been cleanin' up ever since."
"He's got eyes like your brother used to," Cole muttered.
"That's why I kept him."
---
Cole finished his drink and stood.
"Where you going?" Evelyn asked.
"Gonna say hello to the Sheriff."
"You sure that's smart?"
"No."
He stepped out into the cool night air, the street now holding more eyes than usual. A drunk staggered back into an alley. A dog barked and was quickly hushed.
Sheriff Elridge's office was three buildings down. The lamp inside flickered. Cole pushed the door open without knocking.
Sheriff Elridge looked up from his desk. Time hadn't been kind to him. He was heavier now, gray in the beard, and mean behind the eyes.
"Well, damn," he muttered. "Cole Mathers. That you?"
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I thought I buried you."
"You tried."
Elridge stood. "You got a lotta nerve coming back here."
Cole stepped closer. "I didn't come for forgiveness. I came for Jed."
Elridge's mouth twitched. "You think this town needs saving?"
"No," Cole said. "I think it needs cleaning."
"Then you better start with a coffin," Elridge growled. "'Cause Jed's the law now."
Cole smiled thin. "Then the law's already dead."
---
He walked out before the Sheriff could draw. Cole knew men like Elridge. They didn't shoot in daylight—or when they didn't have backup.
Back at the stables, Boone was calm. The boy—Billy—was brushing his mane.
"You take care of horses?" Cole asked.
Billy nodded. "He's limpin'. Wrapped his hoof."
"You do that?"
Billy nodded again.
"You ever shoot a gun?"
Billy hesitated. "No."
"You wanna learn?"
A spark lit in the boy's eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Then don't call me sir."
---
Upstairs in the room Evelyn had reluctantly given him, Cole sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his saddlebag and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside were three things: a photograph of his brother Silas, a folded letter, and a single bullet engraved with the letter S.
He placed the bullet on the windowsill. Outside, the town slept beneath a pale, ghostly moon.
He closed his eyes and let the silence wash over him.
Tomorrow would be louder.
Because karma didn't whisper.
It struck.