The wind howled like a caged wolf over the dry plains of Edgewater. Dust rose in lazy spirals, circling around the weather-worn buildings and faded storefronts that lined the town's only street. A lone rider approached, trailing sweat and silence behind him.
They called Edgewater the "Devil's Gate"—a place where sins weren't just committed, they were celebrated. Drifters came and went, gamblers bled fortunes into splintered tables, and tempers ignited like gunpowder in summer. But when a man pulled iron here, the odds were even. Because law walked with a long shadow.
Marshal Reid Maddox stood at the edge of town, his thumb lazily hooked in his belt, eyes narrowed against the afternoon glare. His badge glinted in the sun, dulled at the edges but still visible. Like him.
His deputy, Caleb Rowe, huffed toward him, struggling with a stack of posters tucked beneath one arm.
"Marshal," Caleb panted, "Major Harlan made me wait three hours. Said he had 'more important matters' than sorting through outlaws."
Reid glanced at the sweat-darkened brim of Caleb's hat. "I told you to give them to the sergeant."
"You told me to give 'em to the major," Caleb protested.
"I should've explained." Reid's voice was even, weathered, like a man whose patience had been drawn and fired too many times.
"'S'all right," Caleb muttered, wiping his forehead. "The sergeant and I shared a few beers. It was… educational."
The marshal didn't smile, but his eyes relaxed slightly. "Glad you learned something."
The moment of calm shattered with the swing of the saloon doors.
"Marshal Maddox?"
The voice was heavy, slow like thunder rolling across the plains. A tall man entered, broad-shouldered and shadowed with road dust. He had the look of someone who had stopped apologizing a long time ago.
"Yeah," Reid said, not moving. "That's me."
The stranger nodded. "Name's Elias Kane. Sheriff outta Amarillo."
Caleb perked up. "Texas?"
"Yeah." Elias didn't sit, but his hand hovered near the empty stool beside Reid's. "I'm hunting a man."
Reid gestured for him to continue.
"Goes by the name Dane Craven. Heard of him?"
Reid shook his head slowly. "No. Should I have?"
Elias looked past him, eyes scanning the saloon like he expected the man to materialize out of the shadows. "Craven's killed three men in Amarillo. Two in fair fights. The third…" His jaw tightened. "The third wasn't even armed."
Reid's gaze sharpened.
"I didn't know the man," Elias added. "Just some gambler. But I'm not lettin' Craven walk away from it. I'm here to bring him in."
"You sure he's headed here?" Caleb asked.
"Yeah. Told one of his girls he was."
Reid folded his arms, thinking. "You looking for help?"
"No." Elias' tone was flat. "I'm not here to share a badge."
Caleb blinked. "Even if it'll save your life?"
Elias shrugged. "I'm not afraid of Dane Craven. And I don't miss."
There was something final in his voice. Something that dared contradiction.
Reid didn't offer one.
That night, as stars scattered across the sky, the saloon buzzed with whispers. People had heard the name Craven, even if they didn't speak it loud. Stories spread—about his speed, his cruelty, the grin he wore when he pulled the trigger. Some said he was faster than lightning. Others said he was the storm.
He arrived at midnight.
Craven strolled into town like he owned the ground beneath him, hat tilted, spurs chiming like death bells. His eyes were pale, unblinking, like a snake that had already decided how you'd die.
He walked straight into the saloon, ordered a whiskey, and turned toward the bar like he'd just finished a long, hot ride through hell.
"Marshal," he said. His voice was dry and cracked, but carried weight. "We need to talk."
Reid didn't move. "Talk, then."
"I just want to be left alone. That too much to ask?"
"Depends on whether you plan to kill anyone while you're being left alone."
Craven smiled. "Not unless they ask for it."
Elias entered behind him, gun hand already twitching.
"Craven," he growled.
The outlaw turned slowly. "Sheriff Kane. Fancy meetin' you here."
"You're coming back to Amarillo with me."
Craven laughed. "You'll have to make me."
The street emptied as the two men stepped outside. The night was so still it felt sacred, like something holy was about to be shattered.
Caleb turned to Reid. "You gonna let this happen?"
Reid stared at the doors. "It's the sheriff's play."
Elias moved in a slow arc, hand hovering near his hip. "I said you're comin' with me."
"Then come and get me."
They stood facing each other, shadows stretching long under the lantern light.
Elias stepped forward.
Faster than breath, Craven drew.
The thundercrack echoed off the buildings.
Elias staggered, a bloom of red spreading across his chest. He dropped, eyes still wide, lips moving soundlessly.
Craven reholstered slowly, turning toward the saloon.
Reid stepped out onto the boardwalk.
"You want some too, Marshal?" Craven called.
Reid said nothing.
Craven laughed. "That's what I thought."
Later, in the town doctor's room, Reid lay pale and silent beneath a sweat-soaked sheet. The bullet had passed through his shoulder, fracturing bone and tearing muscle. A second shot had grazed his forehead. Lucky, they said. Too lucky, others whispered.
Caleb sat beside the bed, eyes rimmed with red. "If he dies, I swear I'll put a shotgun to Craven's back and blow him in half."
Kit Vance, the saloon's co-owner and one of Reid's few confidantes, put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "That's not what he'd want."
"It's what I want."
A groan came from the bed.
Reid was awake.
Kit rushed forward, hope blooming in her chest. "You're alive."
"More or less," Reid muttered.
"Don't try to get up," the doctor warned. "Another inch and that bullet would've buried itself in your heart."
But Reid's eyes had already shifted. Focused. Sharp.
"Where's Craven?"
"Still in town," Kit said. "Still drinking. Still bragging."
Reid grunted. "Help me up."
"Don't be stupid," the doctor snapped. "You're in no shape—"
"I wasn't fast enough. That's all. But I can fix that."
"You won't fix that lying in a coffin," Kit said.
But Reid's voice was iron. "He's a gunman. And he doesn't stop. I have to."
On the seventh day, Marshal Reid Maddox stood at the edge of the Dodge House, a shadow against the morning sun. His left arm hung heavy in its sling, but his right rested near his holster—still, measured, patient.
Above him, on the second-floor balcony, Dane Craven leaned over the railing, chewing a strip of jerky. His spurs chimed faintly when he shifted.
"Marshal," Craven called, voice loose and easy.
"Dane Craven," Reid answered. "I've got a gun on."
Craven smirked. "I heard. Come to lose again?"
Reid's boots shifted in the dust. His legs were steadier than he expected. His heart, calm.
He wasn't thinking of pain. He was thinking of Elias Kane, falling backward into the dirt, blood blooming like a badge over his chest. He was thinking of the sound of Craven's laughter afterward. The town holding its breath.
"No," Reid said. "Came to end it."
Craven chuckled. "You know how fast I am."
"You miss at distance. You need to be close."
"Maybe I'm close enough now."
Reid's hand lowered slightly. "Take one more step and find out."
Craven hesitated.
A breeze swept across the street, stirring dust and silence alike.
Then he moved.
They drew at the same time.
One shot cracked like lightning.
Craven hit the ground with a thud that echoed into silence. A curl of dust rose from the body. No one moved.
Marshal Reid Maddox holstered his weapon, turned, and began to walk.
Then he stopped.
Turned.
He walked back to Craven's body and looked down for a long time.
"What do you see?" Caleb asked, stepping out beside him.
Reid answered quietly. "The storm passed."
He looked down the street, where a few townsfolk had begun to emerge from doorways, blinking at the sun like men waking from a bad dream.
"Let's make sure it don't come back," Reid added.
And with that, he turned, dust swirling around his boots, and walked back into Edgewater—not as a man recovering from a wound, but as the law it would take more than a bullet to bury.