Chapter 1
It was a warm, spring day. The paper boy was out passing around the news.
“Extra, extra! Read all about it!” He called out to the crowds as he rode down the dusty roads. “Masked bandit strikes Tinsel Valley!”
There was an epidemic hitting the rough and rugged hills of Gravestone County. A nomad, faceless and nameless, was going from town to town robbing the folks blind and without a lick of evidence left behind. Month after month, his name was all over the papers. His ill-acquired fame spread about as fast as he could clean out a high-security vault.
Nobody knew what he looked like, but they all agreed that if fear truly had no face, this was him.
The people of Gravestone called the man Richard Corny.
Churches treated his name worse than the Devil’s, maids and seamstresses got goosebumps when his name crossed the halls of their master’s mansions.
Everyone in the town of Torren knew it was only a matter of weeks ‘till ol’ Corny arrived now.
And while the town was frightened, the sheriff didn’t bat an eye. He wasn’t scared of ol’ Dick. People called him a hero at times, but at other times, people thought it was that lucky rabbit’s foot slung around his neck. Rumor had it he caught a desert hair as a child and whopped off the foot with a sharp rock, leaving it for the buzzards.
With gritted teeth, he sneered at the bandit’s name. He always said, “Let ‘em come. He aint got a thing goin’ for ’em other than a lead in the kneecap.”
Now, the old sheriff wasn’t about to take this too serious. He figured it was only a matter of time until Dick rowed himself off the face of the earth and the flames died down. But, with each passing day, rumors began spreading. Some of the elders said Richard’s gun was faster than the sheriffs, and by the time he drew his pistol, ol’ Corny would’ve had a lead in the sheriff’s knees. Both for a matter of fact.
Others said it wouldn’t be that simple. In fact, they said Richard was treading on thin ice threatening their town. Not one man had ever escaped the sheriff’s clutches. Had a shot like a soldier and the speed of a stampede.
But every morning of every Sunday, the paperboys would toss the news around, shouting, “Masked bandit sweeps out another bank!”
And each Sunday, they announced a town that was closer and closer to the town of Torren.
People had their goods stored in cellars, their gold hidden in the floorboards, their silverware in the mattresses. They were terrified, but the sheriff didn’t budge.
“I’ll put a led in his knee if he steps one foot on Monty Trail!” He gloated.
Above him hung the heads of every animal he ever shot down. His desk was covered with eagle fathers and the jaws of wolves. He’d never missed a shot, never shot a blank. The term smoking gun couldn’t be associated with the man no matter how hard you try.
One day, on a dimly lit evening. The sheriff was spending a night at the saloon chugging his beer and dancing with women.
A stranger walked into the bar. A gruff beard as prickly as a jumping cholla and a brow as stern as diamond. His belt was slung around his hips at a slant and his leather jacket implied he wasn’t from around these parts of the wilderness.
The man lumbered over to the last seat of the bar.
“I need a glass of redskin wine and your finest bowl of shaved ice, would ya be as kind?” He asked. His voice was as low and gravely as Death Valley.
The tender nodded and went to the back to fetch the man his order. The sheriff looked over to him and asked him who he was.
“Well, I don’t like to tell where I’m from, cos I’ve never known where I’ve been.” He replied humbly.
“You sure came at a bad time, stranger.” The sheriff went on. “Townsfolk are all worked up over a mystery bandit.”
“Sounds a’ pity, sir.” He said, glancing over with a sigh. “I hear he’s a new man, walking around with a face shield and a red scarf. Y’all call ’em Dick, doncha?”
The sheriff nodded.
“Seems like he’s been busting up every town from Tinsel to here. But I promised these people I’d put a stop to him if he set foot on Monty Trail.”
The stranger turned to face him, his baby blue eyes shaded by his rancher’s hat from under the candle light.
“Confident, aren’t ya?” He said, bobbing his head back and forth in agreement with himself. “Didn’t God say to hold yer tongue and resent arrogance?”
“Tch, I’d like to see God put down a 200-pound bull with a single bullet.” The sheriff retorted. “I’m not losing this town. Been here 42 years, 43 in a few months. I’m not gonna let some cage-rattler come in and rip it to hell and back.”
“Well, sir-ee. If I had your confidence, I wouldn’t even need a pistol.”
Just then, the tender came back with the shaved ice and a wineglass, then left to assist the other men and women at the stand.
“Oh, don’t get all preachy with me. You’re a stranger here. Aint never seen me shoot, aint ever watched me put down a felon.”
The stranger nodded, then turned to drink his glass and eat his ice. The sheriff rolled his eyes and went back to drinking.
“You aint ever seen him pull a trigger…” The mystery man mumbled before finishing his drink, adding a bit of syrup to his ice.
“What in hell’s blazes are you implying stranger?” The sheriff blew, slamming his fists onto the table.
“I’m sayin’ you’re drunk. Better get along now. Aint good to take aim with a wobbly hand.”
The mystery man then got up, left a few silver coins on the tabletop, and dipped his hat as he weaved between the crowds.
The ol’ sheriff wasn’t having any of it and gave pursuit.
By the time he had caught up, the stranger was already walking to the stables.
“Hold it!” He shouts with slur in his tone, hiccupping. “You… you are gonna answer to me and tell me what you kn-know!”
The stranger looked back at him with a scowl. The man untied his horse from a post and simply shook his head.
“When ol’ Corny comes. You better hope yer sober.”
The man tipped his hat at the sheriff and hopped on his horse, riding west of the bar and into the outskirts of town.
The sheriff gulped and staggered back to the tavern with that cursed name in the back of his mind.
