Town sat there like it always did — a crooked smile of buildings at the bottom of the valley, two streets and a gas pump that hadn't worked since Carter.You could smell rust and fried grease before you even got close.
Matt came down slow, the crate rattling behind him, bottles knocking together like teeth in a jar.Shine for bullets.That was the deal. Always had been.
He didn't much care for town. Folks here looked too long — waiting for a slip, a twitch, a reason.And Matt, he knew he had the kind of face that made people stare.Hair slicked back. Head tilted like he was about to share a secret he didn't want to.Five days of stubble.Eyes too close together, skull too wide.People argued about which part was worse and left uneasy either way.
Inside the store the air was stale — old wood, gun oil, dust that never settled.The clerk knew him. Didn't speak.Nobody ever said names here; names had a way of hanging around longer than the bodies that carried them.
Matt set the crate down careful, like it was glass bones instead of bottles.The shine caught a weak strip of light and looked like nothing at all — water, maybe.But everyone knew better.
The clerk slid a box across the counter. Brass glint.Thirty rounds, maybe a couple extra.Enough to keep varmints honest.Enough to keep people honest too.
"Same deal," Matt said.
The clerk nodded. That was all.
From the corner came a scrape — chair legs against wood.A man sat in shadow, watching.Matt didn't look long, but long enough to see the kind of gaze that measures a man for something.Coffin or trouble. Maybe both.
Matt's rule was simple: don't stir the water.World happened. Shit happened. Not his place to fix it.
He pocketed the bullets, adjusted his coat, and turned for the door.
Outside, gray light pooled low in the valley.Wind carried the smell of rain that never quite arrived.Matt had the crawling feeling the town wasn't letting him go — like the place itself had marked him.And maybe that man in the corner wasn't just staring.Maybe he was waiting.
He mounted up.Didn't hurry. Didn't linger.But his mind ticked fast. Always had. Always would.
The crate rattled behind him, faint and hollow.Teeth in a jar, counting down.