The Long Trail to Rustwater

Eli Graves rode into Silver Gulch, his coat heavy with the dust of a hundred miles, the dying sun casting long shadows over the town. He was a man shaped by the West—his face hard, his hands steady on the reins. Dusty, his mare, clopped slowly down the dirt street, their journey nearing its end. The town, nestled between jagged cliffs and desolate plains, had the kind of quiet that bred trouble. Men stood on porches with eyes that followed him, judging and weighing a stranger in their midst.

Eli dismounted with a grunt, his legs stiff from the ride. He tethered Dusty to the post outside the Silver Spur Saloon, muttering, “Not long now, girl.”

A sharp cry split the evening air. Eli turned his head toward the alley between the buildings, where the sound of scuffling feet and a boy’s panicked voice carried through the thickening dusk. His hand instinctively brushed the grip of the Colt at his side. He walked down the alley, boots heavy in the dust, until he saw a large man pinning a boy against the wall, his fist raised to strike again.

“That’s enough,” Eli said, his voice low and even.