The Last Honest Man in Coyote Hollow

Nobody sensible ever came to Coyote Hollow on purpose. I should know. I am Coyote Hollow. Speaking in third person is a peculiar quirk of mine, though I should imagine that any town using words to tell a story is quirky enough in its own right.

We were the last stain on the map before common sense kicked back in. There hasn’t been anything new built in the town in half a century and my roads are not yet paved. They never will be.

If you saw the town (me) from a distance — a slouching collection of sheds, churches, and livestock best described as “regrettable” — you turned your horse, your wagon, or your poorly managed life around and picked a new ambition.

Any ambition.

Even chimney-sweeping or grave-robbing carried less shame.

Which is why when Alex Carter showed up—sunburned, smiling, carrying everything he owned in a sack that could barely intimidate a strong breeze—we knew two things immediately:

One, he was lost.

Two, he would die here.

And frankly, we welcomed the novelty.