Dust and Silver

You ride into Redrock alone, the setting sun painting the saloon walls blood-orange. Your pockets are heavy—with gold, with paper, with the weight of what you chose.

The barkeep pours your whiskey without a word. You stare at your reflection in the dusty mirror and see Jim's face staring back.

Tomorrow you'll ride out. The trail stretches long and lonely ahead, and you wonder if any bounty was ever worth the silence that follows you now.