The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the plains as Jack "Hawkeye" Sullivan rode toward Red Creek. The town was still a few days' ride away, but the anticipation gnawed at him, growing stronger with each passing mile. He had been on the trail for weeks, following the winding paths of the frontier, yet this journey felt different. There was a weight in his saddlebag that made every step of his horse seem heavier—a simple letter, written in the familiar hand of an old friend.
Jack had received the letter in a dingy saloon two towns back, delivered by a nervous-looking courier who hadn't stuck around for small talk. The letter bore no return address, but Jack recognized the handwriting immediately. Samuel "Whiskey Sam" McCall had been a ghost in his past for years, a specter of memories both bitter and sweet. Seeing his name scrawled on the envelope had sent a chill down Jack's spine.
He had waited until the next morning to open it, after a fitful night of half-sleep filled with fragmented dreams of smoke and gunfire. When he finally broke the seal and unfolded the crumpled paper, the message inside was terse, to the point, and carried the weight of something urgent.
*Jack,*
*It's been a long time, and I know we didn't part on the best of terms. But I need your help—more than ever before. There's a job in Red Creek, a big one, and I can't do it alone. There's something buried out here, something worth more than gold, but it's dangerous. This ain't like the jobs we used to pull. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't serious. I know you're probably thinking this is just another one of my wild schemes, but it's not. This one's for keeps.*
*Meet me at the old mining camp north of town. I'll explain everything when you get here.*
*And Jack… be careful. There's more at stake here than either of us can imagine.*
*Sam*
The letter had left Jack with more questions than answers. He had folded it carefully, tucked it into his saddlebag, and set out for Red Creek without a second thought. There was a time when he would have walked through fire for Sam, but those days were long gone. The war had taken more from them than either could afford to lose, and their parting had been bitter, full of words spoken in anger and regret.
But now, after all these years, Sam was reaching out. Jack couldn't deny the pull of old loyalties, the bond forged in blood and battle. So here he was, on the long road to Red Creek, chasing a ghost and a promise that he wasn't sure he could keep.
The sun dipped below the horizon as Jack made camp for the night, the sky above him streaked with red and gold. The plains stretched out in all directions, a vast and empty sea of grass, broken only by the occasional outcrop of rock or cluster of trees. The air was still, heavy with the scent of dust and sagebrush, the silence punctuated by the distant howl of a coyote.
As he settled in for the night, Jack found himself staring at the letter once more. The paper was worn and creased from being handled so many times, but the words were etched in his mind. Sam's mention of something dangerous, something buried in the old mining camp, gnawed at him. Jack had been around long enough to know that nothing in this world came without a cost, and whatever Sam was after, it was likely to be trouble.
He closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but sleep came slowly. The past, it seemed, was not so easily forgotten. Images of the war, of the men they had been, flashed before him—young and reckless, full of fire and ambition. But the years had changed them, worn them down like the rocks of the desert, leaving behind only the hard edges.
When sleep finally took him, it was fitful and broken, filled with the echo of gunshots and the cries of the dying.
The next morning, Jack broke camp early, eager to put more miles between himself and the memories. He rode hard, the landscape blurring around him as the hours passed. By midday, the town of Red Creek appeared on the horizon, a cluster of buildings huddled together against the vastness of the plains.
As he approached, Jack felt a familiar tension coil in his gut. Red Creek wasn't much different from the other towns scattered across the frontier—dusty streets, weathered buildings, and people hardened by the land. But there was something about it that set his nerves on edge, a sense of anticipation, like the calm before a storm.
Jack guided his horse through the main street, his eyes scanning the town. The saloon, the sheriff's office, the general store—all the usual places. But there was an undercurrent of unease in the air, a feeling that something was brewing just beneath the surface.
He rode up to the livery stable and dismounted, handing the reins to the stable hand, a boy no older than sixteen with a mop of unruly hair.
"Take good care of him," Jack said, slipping the boy a few coins. "I might be gone a while."
The boy nodded, pocketing the money. "Yes, sir. I'll make sure he's well-fed."
Jack gave the boy a nod and headed down the street, his boots kicking up dust as he walked. The letter in his pocket felt like a lead weight, pulling him forward toward the inevitable meeting with Sam.
He found the saloon easily enough—The Silver Spur, a place that looked as if it had seen better days. The wooden sign creaked in the wind, and the windows were grimy with age. Jack pushed through the swinging doors and stepped inside, the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke hitting him like a wall.
The saloon was sparsely populated, a few old-timers nursing drinks at the bar, and a couple of card players hunched over a game in the corner. The barkeep, a burly man with a grizzled beard, looked up as Jack approached.
"What'll it be?" the barkeep asked, wiping down the counter with a rag that looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks.
"Whiskey," Jack said, leaning on the bar. "And I'm looking for a man named Samuel McCall. You seen him?"
The barkeep's eyes narrowed, and he set the bottle down with a thunk. "Sam McCall, you say? Haven't seen him in a few days. He comes and goes. You a friend of his?"
Jack nodded slowly. "Something like that. He mentioned meeting here."
The barkeep grunted. "Well, he ain't here now. But if he said he'd be here, he'll show up eventually. Sam's always been a man of his word, even if that word's a little slippery."
Jack took the whiskey the barkeep poured and sipped it slowly, letting the burn settle in his chest. The man's words did little to ease his concerns. Sam's word had once been as solid as bedrock, but that was a long time ago. Now, it seemed, even that was uncertain.
He finished his drink and left the saloon, the weight of the letter in his pocket growing heavier with each passing moment. Red Creek was a small town, but it held too many shadows, too many places for danger to hide.
Jack walked the streets, his eyes scanning the faces of the people he passed. He was looking for Sam, but he was also looking for something else—anything that might give him a clue as to what was really going on in this town. But all he found were the tired, wary faces of people just trying to get by in a place that had long since stopped offering any hope.
As the day wore on, Jack found himself at the edge of town, where the buildings thinned out, and the land stretched into the distance, wild and untamed. He stopped at the old church, its white paint peeling, the cross atop its steeple leaning precariously. The churchyard was empty, save for a few scattered gravestones, their inscriptions worn away by time.
Jack stood there for a long moment, staring out at the vast expanse of the frontier, the wind tugging at his coat. He thought about the letter, about Sam, and about the man he used to be. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into something he couldn't control—something that would change everything.
With a deep breath, Jack turned away from the church and started walking back toward town. The sun was setting now, casting the town in a golden light that did little to dispel the shadows. Jack knew that he would find Sam soon enough, but he wasn't sure he was ready for what came next.
As he reached the edge of town, Jack spotted a figure standing near the old mining road—a tall man with a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat, his back to the setting sun. Jack slowed his pace, his hand drifting toward the revolver at his side.
The man turned as Jack approached, and for a moment, the two men simply stared at each other, the distance between them heavy with years of history.
"Sam," Jack said, his voice low and steady.
Sam nodded, a small, grim smile playing on his lips. "Jack. It's been a long time."