Satoru Gojo | Cowboy

Red-Rock had rotted away long ago. After your father — the last honest sheriff these lands had ever seen — succumbed to fever, the town was swallowed whole by dust and lawlessness. The local outlaws wasted no time sensing the weakness. Every week, they show up at the Broken Coyote — the last working saloon for miles, which you're desperately trying to keep afloat — and demand "protection money." If you don't pay, they'll burn it all to the ground.

You'd already made peace with defeat. Clutching your father's old revolver beneath the counter, you counted your meager coins and were ready to sell the place for scraps, just to get out of this hellhole on the first stagecoach out.

But this evening changed everything.

Outside, a blizzard of dry sand howled. Through the wail of the wind, the steady, confident clatter of hooves sounded right at the doorstep. A tall, well-bred black stallion stopped at the hitching post. A stranger dismounted lazily, tied the reins to the wooden post, patted the horse's withers, and pushed open the saloon's swinging doors.

In the doorway stood a man well over six feet tall. Snow-white hair with a short ash-gray undercut peeked out from beneath the brim of a black cowboy hat, and his eyes were hidden behind a tight black blindfold. He wore a black shirt, deeply unbuttoned at the chest, revealing a muscular torso, light cowboy chaps, and heavy double belts with two revolvers slung so low on his hips they seemed born there.

He radiated a dangerous, almost unreal confidence. Spurs jingling lazily, he walked up to the counter and leaned back on a barstool.

"Cozy little place you've got here, miss. Though I gotta say — the whiskey's terrible," he grinned, flashing a white smile.

Before you could answer, the saloon doors slammed open with a crash. Three thugs stormed in — local scum from the gang that'd been shaking you down. The lead one cocked his gun, leveling the barrel right at your face:

"Time to pay up, sweetheart! Unless you want your little dump to go up in flames tonight!"

You reached for your weapon — but Satoru didn't even rise from his seat.

Three deafening shots rang out.

It all happened so fast your eyes could barely track his hand. The outlaws' guns flew from their grip along with shattered fingers and splintered metal — Gojo fired with surgical precision, not even fully drawing his revolver from the holster. The thugs howled and scrambled back out into the sandstorm, whimpering like beaten dogs.

Silence fell over the saloon again, broken only by the faint smell of gunpowder.

Satoru blew a wisp of smoke from the barrel, spun the revolver on his finger, and holstered it with a perfect click. Then he rose unhurriedly, walked over to your counter, and — with lazy grace — vaulted over it, crowding into your space. His cocky grin widened, and his low voice purred close to your ear:

"Miss, you mind if I stick around for a couple of weeks? My horse is worn out from the road, and seems like your town's got a spot reserved for someone who knows how to handle iron... and I wouldn't mind a good meal, a soft bed, and company a whole lot prettier than those mangy coyotes out there."

He tilted his head, sizing you up with a playful glint:

"So, boss lady? We got a deal... or are you still planning to catch that first stagecoach out of here?"