Colt Redhawk — The Pale Star Brand

The desert night was cold, the stars crisp and unblinking like chips of bone scattered across a raven-black sky. Colt Redhawk rode silently, his silhouette etched in silver by the full moon’s glow. Shadowspur, his midnight stallion, moved like smoke across the sand — hooves barely disturbing the crusted earth. A coyote called from a distant ridge, its mournful yowl swallowed by the wind.

Colt’s hat was pulled low, casting shadow over high cheekbones and eyes that flickered with an uncanny light — part fire, part memory. His Winchester rested against his saddle horn, the silver-inlaid Colt revolver heavy on his hip like a promise long kept. The rifle was old, older than his grief. The revolver, newer — gifted by a Navajo gunsmith who had etched protective sigils into the silver with prayers whispered under the full moon.

In the chill silence, a voice stirred near his ear.

“The wind carries old sins tonight.”

Greyfeather’s spirit drifted beside him, cloaked in ethereal shadow and translucent feathers. The guide’s face was weathered like canyon stone, his eyes endless as the void. Colt didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to.

“I can smell blood that never dried,” Colt muttered. “Something bad rooted deep here.”

They crested a rise. Below lay a crooked smudge of a town — Dead Elm. It was all lean-timber and nailed regrets, a place the railroad had bypassed and left to rot like a gutted mule. Lanterns guttered in a few windows, but…