Miguel O’Hara

Towering red rock formations casted long, jagged shadows across the rugged terrain. The setting sun inched closer and closer to the horizon line, setting the dusky blue sky ablaze. Streaks of rusty oranges and golden yellows seemed to meander along, twisting tendrils twirling between one another. Miguel sat astride Oso, the dry, cracked earth crumbling beneath the black mustang's hooves, and kicking up small clouds of dust with each step. Finally away from the hustle and bustle of the Revenants camp the landscape had drawn silent, save for the occasional rustle of wind through brittle sagebrush and the distant call of a lone crow.

Miguel adjusted the brim of his weathered hat, each wrinkle and line a signifier of its years of use. His eyes scanned the landscape, sharp and calculating, always on the lookout— always on high guard and silently cataloging each detail. The silhouette of a dead tree on the ridge, the faint shimmer of heat rising off the rocks, and a lizard skittering across the dirt and into a crevice in the land. Ahead he could begin to make out the vague outline of a ramshackle town emerging from the haze; Narrowreach. Its cluster of buildings leaned precariously against the horizon like they were barely holding themselves together, as though they were going to collapse if so much as a strong gust of wind passed through the valley. He tightened his grip on the reins, his large, calloused hands steady despite the restless energy that coiled within his chest.

Miguel didn’t like towns. Too many eyes. Too many people. Potentially the wrong people— the kinds of people that would recognize him and put a bullet in his back for a quick payday. But he didn’t have a choice. Supplies were running low: bullets, tobacco, whiskey. The essentials for a gang of outlaws. And Tommy had been nagging everyone in camp for weeks about needing a new bedroll, his old one so threadbare it barely kept the chill away at night.

As they approached the edge of town, Miguel slowed Oso to a stop, dismounting with practiced ease. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud as he reached up to pat the horse’s neck. “Stay here, boy,” he muttered, hitching the reins to a nearby post. He adjusted the revolver at his hip, the leather holster hanging low against his thigh, and started walking. Dust clung to his boots and the hem of his duster as he approached the main street, his eyes flicking between the buildings. The saloon was the liveliest, spilling warm light and muffled laughter onto the street. A general store sat further down, its windows so grimy he could barely see the inside. The sheriff’s office appeared empty judging by the lack of a horse tied out front. Good. He didn’t need any trouble with the law.

He stepped onto the wooden boardwalk, the planks groaning and creaking beneath his weight. A group of men loitered outside the saloon, their laughter cutting off abruptly when they noticed him. Miguel didn’t bother looking at them, but he felt their eyes crawling over him— sizing him up. His height and stature alone were enough to make most men think twice, but it was the way he carried himself that usually did the rest.

He pushed open the door to the general store, the small bell above it jingling quietly. Inside, the air was cooler. A brief respite from the arid desert outside. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with everything from canned goods to bolts of fabric. Behind the counter, an older man looked up, his face wrinkled but kind.

“Evenin’, stranger,” the shopkeeper said, his voice cautious but polite. Most people in Narrowreach were wary of outsiders for fear of outlaws but also the railway company that had been threatening to take their land by any means necessary.

Miguel gave a small nod, his hat casting a shadow over his face. “Evening.”

He moved through the store slowly, his shoulders brushing against the narrow aisles. He grabbed a few boxes of bullets, a pouch of tobacco, and a small flask of whiskey. As he turned toward the front counter, his eyes caught on a stack of bedrolls in the corner. He hesitated, looking away briefly as he placed the items on the counter.

“Got any that’ll hold up in the cold?” Miguel asked, his voice low but carrying easily in the quiet room.

The shopkeeper blinked, then nodded. “That one there’s canvas-lined, good enough for desert nights.”

Miguel reached out, his hand brushing over the fabric. It’d do. He grabbed it, setting it down on the counter alongside the rest of his supplies.

“Anything else?” the shopkeeper asked, eyeing the small pile.

He shook his head. “That’ll be all.”

The man counted the items, his hands twitchy, like he wasn’t sure if he should make small talk or keep quiet. Miguel preferred the latter. He reached into his coat, pulling out a small pouch of coins, and dropped a few onto the counter. The shopkeeper counted the money before bidding him goodbye. Gathering the items and depositing them into his satchel, he exited the store quietly.

Outside the sky had begun to darken, the already barren streets emptying further. People either slinked into the saloon for a drink or headed home after a long day. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Miguel stood still for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene unfolding across the street. Two men, tall and broad-shouldered, had a smaller figure backed against the side of the inn, tucked into the shadows where the last rays of sunlight couldn’t reach. He couldn’t make out much of the victim— but the tense set of their shoulders and the way they shifted uneasily told him everything.

The men were loud enough to hear, their voices laced with menace.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, your daddy owes our boss a lotta money.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to have to take it off you. That’s such a pretty necklace you got there.”

Miguel’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t his problem. Not really. He had his supplies. He’d done what he came here to do. The smart thing to do— the thing he should do, would be to turn around, get on Oso, and leave Narrowreach behind. But he didn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot. He exhaled sharply through his nose, low and frustrated.

Damn it.

Miguel started forward, his boots heavy on the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Each step echoed faintly in the growing quiet of the evening. He didn’t rush, didn’t draw his revolver, didn’t call out to grab their attention. There was no need. One of them turned his head as he stepped off the boardwalk and onto the packed dirt.

“Hell’s this?” the man muttered, his voice thick with irritation as he straightened and faced Miguel. The other followed his gaze, his expression twisting into one of confusion before settling on a sneer.

“You lost, big fella?” the second man asked, flicking his wrist, the metal of his knife glinting, “this doesn’t concern you.”

Miguel didn’t answer right away. He slowed to a stop a few paces away, his weight shifting onto one leg as he rested a hand casually on the butt of his revolver. He let the silence stretch, his dark eyes moving from one man to the other. Neither looked like much— a pair of drifters, maybe, or hired muscle who thought they were tougher than they were. Their clothes were dirty and worn, their boots scuffed, and their faces bore permanent scowls.

“Does now,” Miguel said finally.

The second man’s face darkened, and his hand twitched. Miguel’s gaze snapped to the motion. “Don’t,” he uttered. His fingers flexed against the grip of his revolver, still holstered but probably not for much longer judging by the two buffoons standing in front of him. The first man hesitated, his bravado faltering as he eyed Miguel’s stance. He wasn’t stupid enough to miss the way Miguel carried himself— steady and deliberate, like someone who’d been in more than a few fights and walked away from all of them.

The second man, though, wasn’t as bright. He took a step forward, threatening to swing his knife, “You think you can— “

Miguel moved before he could finish, drawing his revolver in one fluid motion. The sound of the hammer cocking echoed like a thunderclap in the stillness, and the barrel of the gun was suddenly level with the man’s chest.

“Don’t test me,” Miguel grumbled, “walk away.”

For a heartbeat, no one dared to move. The second man froze, his gaze darting between the gun and Miguel’s face, his bravado vanishing as quickly as it had come. The first man was the one to break the standoff, grabbing his companion’s arm and muttering something under his breath. Together they backed away, their glares lingering on Miguel before they turned and slunk off.

Miguel watched them go, his revolver still drawn, until they disappeared around the corner of a building. Only then did he lower the weapon, sliding it back into its holster. Looking up from under the brim of his hat and his gaze met the person who he’d rescued from those men.

“You alright?”

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