The sun hung low over Crimson Mesa, a jagged scar of red rock that loomed over Dust Hollow like a judgment. The town below was a scatter of warped wood and broken dreams, its streets choked with dust that swirled like the ghosts of forgotten promises. Elias "Red" Voss knelt in that dust outside the Last Chance Saloon, his knees pressing into the earth as if it could absolve him. His red hair, wild and tangled, framed a face carved by too many years of sin. In one hand, he clutched a Colt revolver, its barrel still warm from the last man it sent to hell. In the other, a tattered Bible, its pages yellowed and stained—whiskey, blood, regret. Once, he’d preached salvation from a pulpit. Now, he whispered prayers before pulling the trigger.
Inside the saloon, Seraphina Kane sang. Her voice was a thread of silk in the smoke-heavy air, weaving a hymn about lost souls and broken wings. She stood on a makeshift stage, her black dress clinging to her like a shadow, her dark eyes finding Elias through the cracked windowpane. Some in Dust Hollow called her an angel; others swore she was a devil with a song. To Elias, she was both—a mirror to the man he’d buried beneath the outlaw he’d become.
The saloon doors creaked, and Marshal Gideon Holt stepped into the fading light. His boots thudded against the warped boards, each step a hammer on a coffin nail. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and unyielding, with gray eyes that burned like cold steel. A silver cross gleamed on his vest, pinned over his heart—a symbol of the righteousness he wielded like a blade. “Elias Voss,” he said, voice low and hard. “Time’s up. Heaven don’t take your kind no more, and I ain’t waitin’ for hell to claim you.”
Elias rose slow, dust cascading from his coat like a shroud. His shoulder ached where a bullet had grazed him two towns back, but he didn’t flinch. “Never was about heaven, Gideon,” he said, his drawl rough as gravel. “Just the fall.” His fingers brushed the Bible, then settled on the Colt. The air thickened, taut as a hangman’s rope.
Around them, Dust Hollow watched. Jonah "Bones" McCray leaned against the undertaker’s porch, his wiry frame hunched like a vulture. His bony hands fidgeted with a shovel, and his mutterings about omens drifted on the wind. Clara Rosewood stood by the stables, her husband’s old shotgun cradled in her arms. Her eyes burned with a widow’s hate—Elias’s gang had left her alone on that ranch, and she’d sworn to bury him for it. In the alley, Silas "Whisper" Teague smirked, his missing ear a jagged reminder of a betrayal that had bought him a sack of gold and a lifetime of looking over his shoulder. The Ashen Wings, Elias’s crew, were scattered now, but Silas lingered like a snake waiting to strike.
Seraphina’s song faltered mid-note, her gaze darting between the two men. The saloon’s piano player, a drunk named Doc Ezekiel Pratt, kept plinking away, oblivious or too far gone to care. Elias tipped his head toward Gideon. “You sure you wanna do this, Marshal? Ain’t no glory in dyin’ for a town that’s already dead.”
Gideon’s lip curled. “Ain’t about glory. It’s about justice. You killed good men, Red. Preacher or not, you’re a stain on God’s earth.” He drew his revolver, the metal flashing in the dying light.
Elias didn’t hesitate. His Colt barked first, a thunderclap that split the silence. The bullet punched through Gideon’s chest, blood blooming dark against his vest. The marshal staggered, but his gun answered—a sharp crack that sent a slug tearing into Elias’s shoulder. Pain flared, hot and bright, but Elias fired again, and Gideon dropped to his knees, the silver cross clattering into the dirt. He coughed once, a wet, rattling sound, then fell face-first into the dust.
The town exhaled. Seraphina stepped through the saloon doors, her dress trailing like a mourner’s veil. Elias stumbled to the steps, sinking down as blood soaked his shirt, a crimson prayer of its own. She knelt beside him, her hand trembling as it brushed his cheek. “Was it worth it?” she whispered, her voice breaking.
He pressed the Bible into her palm, his fingers slick with red. “Ask me when the devil answers,” he said, a faint smile tugging his lips. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, and his eyes drifted to the mesa, where the last sliver of sun vanished.
Clara lowered her shotgun, her vengeance snuffed out with Gideon’s fall. Bones shuffled forward, muttering about digging two graves before dawn. Silas slipped into the shadows, his smirk gone—Elias was dead, but the Ashen Wings might still come for their traitor. Inside, Doc Pratt struck a sour chord and laughed, raising a bottle to the chaos.
Seraphina cradled the Bible, its weight heavier than the gun she’d never touch. She didn’t cry—tears were for the innocent, and Dust Hollow had none left. Instead, she stood, brushing the dust from her dress, and walked back into the saloon. The piano picked up, and her voice rose again, softer now, a requiem for an outlaw angel neither saved nor damned, just gone.
By morning, the wind had scoured Elias’s blood from the street, leaving only whispers of his end. Reverend Amos Creed would rail from his pulpit come Sunday, calling it divine retribution. Tessa "Two-Bit" Malone would lift a coin from Bones’s pocket and spin a tale of Red’s ghost haunting the mesa. And somewhere, the Ashen Wings would hear of their leader’s fall, their wings itching for revenge.
But for now, Dust Hollow settled into its silence, the crimson mesa standing watch over a town that buried its dead and forgot its prayers. Elias Voss was a memory—a stain washed away, a hymn cut short. And Seraphina Kane sang on, her voice carrying the weight of a story yet untold.