Every ten years or so, the mountains of sand in the desert move. Every day the wind works to move the mountains, grain by grain. Sometimes these mountains cover up the sins of the past, yet sometimes they reveal the truths that lie beneath. As for now, they are slowly swallowing a small town.
Staring down at the roofs and chimneys of the houses as they peak out from the sand is a young man.
His black boots sport a rusted set of spurs, years of riding has left them worn and dirty. The rust and the grime create an almost brass color on the spurs. His pant legs are covered in ash and soot, making the dark jeans almost gray. Holding his pants up is a blue belt with a small belt buckle. The belt is holding the man's holster at his waist, and a bandolier of bullets across his chest holds another holster and the pistol inside it. The man wears a large red jacket over the bandolier and his vest underneath it. His long dark hair rests on his shoulders, while the rest of his unkept mane is held in place by the large wide brimmed hat the man wears. The man, Thomas Stone, stares down at the charred remains of the town beneath him, he removes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket.
The town the man stands over was once so famous for its wickedness. Just the name shot needles of fear into the most hardened of souls. Shooters' Draw.
Yet today it is nothing but a husk of what it once was.
Overnight Shooter's Draw became synonymous with evil and outlaws, yet even faster than that, it disappeared from the minds and memories of the people. Gone without a trace. Some said it was swallowed by the desert for its sins, others claimed the town had been struck down by the Gods and erased from the planet. What was true was that no one knew what really happened to Shooter's Draw, except for of course the town itself. The truth stood over the remains, and he smoked while he stared.
Thomas began remembering a time in his life where there had been stability, when things felt normal. He had been born in Shooter's Draw, an outlaw from birth. Thomas grew up in its heyday, witnessing outlaws from all over the world seek asylum from the bounty hunters and lawman who chased after their heads. Now he stood over what was left, a lawman chasing after his past. Thomas could remember the day that Shooter's Draw died like yesterday, it was the day his normal life came crashing down. Nothing in Thomas' life was normal anymore. An outlaw from birth hunting down outlaws for the government, how low he had fallen.
For so long he had survived on hatred and anger, a hope for revenge. Yet recently that drive had been ripped away from him, and with it Thomas became a shell of himself. Something about the town spoke to Thomas, as if it were another person. Memories came flooding into his head, and suddenly Thomas felt as if he had 'woken' up. He stared down at what was left of his birthplace. Twelve years before he had been in that exact place. Today he was a man, then a boy. It's strange how fate decides the path a man walks. Some people are born who they are but spend a whole life searching anyways.
Luck and Fate are often seen as sisters, what was once thought to be unlucky became fated. Thomas was fatefully lucky he had been brought down this path, for now he knew what he really was; an outlaw.