Wind and Sand Post Station

The dusk dyed the wilderness the color of rust. The wooden sign of the “Wind and Sand Post” creaked as it turned in the wind, its inscription faded by time, with only the iron nails securing it gleaming coldly. The cabins around the post had their doors shut tight, not even a shadow visible through the window cracks. In the distance, the wind carried grains of sand that rattled against the wooden walls.

Everyone knew that anyone still wandering outside at this hour was no ordinary soul.

The first to appear were the men of the Red Mane Gang. Nine of them, clad in black, tanned leather armor, their trouser legs tucked into cowhide boots. Their fiery red hair stood on end as if dyed by wildfire, and each wore a silver skull ring on their left ear. They moved without a sound—shoulders still, knees unbent—their footsteps silent on the sand, only the faint rustle of their leather armor betraying their presence, like desert rattlesnakes lying in wait.

They stopped before the post. The leader removed his silver skull ring and flicked his wrist. With a sharpclang, the ring embedded itself into the wooden doorframe, splinters flying before being swept away by the wind. The second man yanked out a handful of his red hair and sliced it clean off with the edge of his palm. He tied the hair to the ring. Without another word, the nine figures continued westward, their red locks fluttering in the wind until they became distant specks.

Before the silence could settle again, the sound of hooves approached from the east—rapid, like rain pelting a tent. Eight black horses galloped at full speed, their riders clad in indigo work shirts, revolvers holstered at their waists, wide-brimmed hats pulled low, revealing only stubbled chins. They raced past the post, and in near unison, eight flashes of silver streaked through the air. A series ofclangsfollowed as eight revolvers embedded themselves into the thick wooden post in the courtyard, their leather straps still swaying, the metal gleaming blindingly in the setting sun. The horses never slowed, kicking up a dust cloud that blotted out half the sky. By the time the dust settled, they were long gone.

A while later, hooves sounded again—this time heavier, as if dragging something weighty.

Only one horse arrived—a white stallion, not a single stray hair marring its coat. It reared up abruptly at the post’s entrance, its whinny revealing the rider: a bare-chested giant with skin like poured iron, his arm muscles thicker than the post’s wooden pegs, his beard wild and dust-streaked.

This was Anvil Joe, famed across the wastelands for his strength.

Dismounting, he eyed the silver skull ring on the doorframe and then the revolvers on the post. With a grunt, he strode to the cast-iron ale barrel by the entrance—a vessel holding at least thirty gallons, enough to last ten men three days. Bending, he gripped the barrel’s iron hoops, his Adam’s apple bobbing before a low roar shook the window frames. The barrel lifted, hoisted overhead, and placed steadily on the post’s roof.

The white stallion whinnied again, its mane fluttering but its hooves planted as if nailed to the ground.

Anvil Joe dusted off his hands, laughed—a sound rougher than the wind and sand—and turned to leave. His deep footprints soon blurred under the shifting dunes.

The street was empty now, even the distant sand dunes unnervingly still. Inside the post, silence reigned—the patrons who’d been drinking had slipped out the back the moment they’d seen the skull ring and revolvers.

The Red Mane Gang, the Blue Shirt Riders, and Anvil Joe—when these three crossed paths, trouble was inevitable.

Just then, a lone figure appeared at the end of the sandy road. Clad in a flaxen duster, a wide-brimmed hat shading silver-white hair that spilled over the coat’s collar, he strolled leisurely, twirling a brass cigarette case. He looked like a traveling scholar, but his sharp eyes betrayed no surprise when they flicked to the ale barrel on the roof.

This was Silver-haired Eli. No one knew his true trade, only that he’d been to the East and carried rare curios.

Stopping before the post, he sighed at the barrel. “Fine ale, left to bake in the sun.” Tucking away his cigarette case, he unwound the long scarf from his neck and flicked it like a whip. The scarf coiled around the barrel’s iron hoops, and with a gentle tug, the barrel slid smoothly down to his feet.

The white stallion whinnied, as if in thanks.

Eli patted its neck. “Go find your master. Tell him someone’s waiting to share a drink.” The horse flicked its tail and bolted in the direction Anvil Joe had gone.

Eli then plucked the silver skull ring from the doorframe and strode to the post. Tapping the top revolver’s grip, he produced a series ofclangs—all eight guns dropped at once. Wrapping them in his scarf, he called, voice quiet yet carrying: “Men of the Double Eagle Society, won’t you greet your guest?”

The post’s side door creaked open, and a wiry man in a black tunic darted out, agile as a monkey. Scampering up the post, he unfurled a flag from his chest—a white banner embroidered with a double-headed eagle, its talons gripping two short swords. The wind caught it, making the eagle seem ready to take flight.

Night fell swiftly, starless and moonless, the wind howling as it rattled the courtyard lanterns.

Eli sat at a wooden table, a whiskey bottle before him, pouring himself a slow drink. Suddenly, he smiled toward an old sandthorn tree outside. “Flame Roy, no use hiding. Come share a drink.”

A cackle, like an owl’s cry, answered. A figure dropped from the tree, landing lightly as a leaf. It was Flame Roy, leader of the Red Mane Gang—his hair even redder, three silver skull rings jingling from his ears, eyes burning as he stared at Eli. “You’re Eli of the Double Eagle Society?”

Eli nodded but didn’t rise. “That’s me.”

Flame Roy chuckled, fingers brushing the hilt of his curved dagger. “Heard the Double Eagles were something. Seems the tales didn’t lie.”

Hooves clattered in the distance—this time crisp, as if wrapped in silk. Flame Roy frowned. “White Horse Jessie’s quick.”

The rider dismounted at the post’s entrance—white leather boots, white shirt, even his vest pale cream, his skin whiter than his attire. He was White Horse Jessie, leader of the western horse gangs, notorious for his cleanliness and his ruthlessness.

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