The Bounty in the Crooked Town

Silas Crone pressed his boot into the warped planks of Perdition’s main street, eyes narrowed against the sulfurous haze curling from beneath the boardwalk. The brimstone veins nearby pulsed a dull orange, setting his shadow to writhing at his feet. He adjusted the brim of his hat, scanning the saloon doors as a cowled figure slipped inside, ignoring the way the sign flickered between ‘Last Chance’ and ‘First Exit’. Someone, something, cackled from a nearby alley, cut short by the wet snap of a revolver. Silas’s bounty was rumored to frequent this watering hole, but the town’s shifting alleys and deceitful echoes made every step a gamble. He reached for his iron, feeling the handle pulse faintly with borrowed brimstone, and strode toward the saloon, boots leaving singed prints in the dust.

Silas shoved the swinging doors open; the wood creaked sharply against the frame. He stepped into the thick, smoke-choked gloom and scanned the room. His voice sliced through the murmurs.

"Daddy's home."

The murmuring stuttered, drawing uneasy glances from a few patrons. The cowled figure in the corner stayed motionless.

The saloon's murmur faded, replaced by the sharp crackle of an oil lamp flickering with an unnatural violet glow. Silas felt the floorboards pulse beneath his boots, the wood softening briefly like damp clay. The stranger stood motionless, the cowl hiding every feature, while the air between them turned icy cold.