The saloon doors swung in the light breeze. Sun had just set, but the party was already roaring. The raucous could be heard even from outside. Men yelling, the upright piano playing a loud, upbeat tune and the townsfolk singing along drunkenly. 

Inside, the Sheriff, a tall, heavy man with a large silver mustache, sat with his men at the central table. Every man had a glass of beer in his hand. Not much happened in old Ironside these days. The town was separated from the outside by miles and miles of desert. The odd traveler stopped by every once in a while, but besides that, the town was a quiet, happy place. 

But something was odd that night, Sheriff Rick could feel it. He took a long swig of his beer and looked around the room. His people. His town. Their safety is what mattered to him, and he hadn’t had this feeling of unease in quite some time.

As if on cue, the saloon doors burst open and a scrawny young man collapsed to his knees in the middle of the floor. The saloon instantly fell silent.

“Sheriff… I dunno who they are,” he panted, pointing a finger back towards the saloon door. “But they are demanding to speak to you. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’ like it one bit.”

Rick took another sip of his drink and stood up. He ran his fingers over his mustache and looked at the young man. “Son, there ain’t been trouble in this town in months, and now you come in ‘ere shouting about some people demanding to talk to me. Almost middle of the nigh’ no less. Now who in their right mind would be trying to stir up trouble at this time of day?”

While the sheriff and the young man were speaking, another man, with his hat pulled down over his face, stood up and looked out the window. He sighed under his breath. The sheriff called out to him, “What seems to be the issue, son?”

The man tipped his hat up as he turned to the sheriff. “I know these folk. They ain’t from around here…” he said as he stepped towards the sheriff. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a small box with foreign symbols on it. “Your bullets ain’t gonna do a lick a good against ‘em. If things go south, these are your best bet.”

The sheriff opened the box and found it to be full of bullets made from pure silver. “What are you sayin’ boy?”

“Not sayin’ anything yet, sir. ‘Cept that I don’t like the looks a this. Not one bit.” He began walking towards the door. The sheriff followed close behind and the two men stepped out onto the saloon’s patio. 

Six hooded figures stood in the street. Each holding a candle just low enough that their faces remained hidden in shadow. 

Rick took a step forward, “Now who do you think you are? Comin’ here in the dead of night, scaring my people. What business do you have in Ironside?”

One figure stepped forward. “We come for the boy.” 

“Well, there’re lots of boys in this here town. Your gonna have to be a little more specific than that.” Rick responded.

“The one who is sick. His sickness calls to us.”

“Our doctor is already attendin’ to his illness. Besides, we ain’t just givin’ up one of our own just because you are demanding it.” 

“We will have him, one way or the other.” And at once, a sword slid out from the sleeve of each of their cloaks. 

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“Like hell ya will,” Rick said and he instantly drew his pistol and took a shot at the figures. 

The shot burst through the shoulder of the lead figure and blood exploded out the back. The cloaked figure hissed in pain. “SSSilverrrr! But how?”

    Rick looked at the man next to him. “What did you say your name was again son?” 

    “I didn’t,” he said, lifting his hat to expose his face. One eye was a deep brown, but the other had a scar running from the top of his eyebrow to the bottom of his left cheek. This eye was white and cloudy. “You can call me Deadeye.” He drew his pistol and pointed it at the hooded figures. “But I suppose  y’all already knew that though, didn’t ya?” He pulled the trigger and his bullet buried itself directly between the eyes of the hooded figure, blood splattering the others behind. As it fell, the hood fell off and the Sheriff could see that the figure’s face was covered in tattoos. 

    Four of the remaining five figures screeched and began flying towards the saloon. Deadeye tackled Sheriff Rick out of the way. “Stay down, shoot for the head. Don’t stop until they are dead, because they sure as hell won’t.” 

    The saloon erupted in screams as the figures flew about. Their speed was unlike anything Rick had ever seen before. They effortlessly cut through his men in the saloon. Shots were fired, but their copper bullets bounced off them harmlessly. Rick took a shot at one of the figures and again found the figure’s shoulder. The figure screamed and lurched towards him. Just as the figure was about to reach Rick, a shot rang off and the figure’s head exploded in a bloody mess. 

    Deadeye drew a second pistol from his belt as he spun the other deftly around his finger. “Wasn’t looking for a fight tonight, but these things don’t know when to quit.” He kicked in the door of the saloon. “Alright ya bastards. Someone’s dyin’ tonight, and it ain’t gonna be me.” The figures turned towards him and hissed. Two shots rang out, covering the saloon floor in crimson. Deadeye turned just in time to catch the last figure with the tip of his pistol. Barrel against its forehead, Deadeye leaned in. “Now tell me. What do you want with the boy?” 

    “It’s too late.” the figure cackled. “We already have what we came for.”

    “What do you mean?” Deadeye asked.

    “Look for yourself,” the figure said as it raised a pale finger towards the window.

    Deadeye pulled the trigger and bolted for the door. He burst into the dark street and saw the last of the six holding the young boy. He watched in horror as a black, shadowy circle opened before them. The figure, boy in his arms, stepped forwards and disappeared into the darkness.

    “What in God’s name was that?!” Rick shouted to Deadeye. “Son, if you don’t start giving me answers, there’ll be hell to pay. They knew who you were. They must’ve followed you here! You brought this upon my town. My people!” 

    “Sir, it has been years since I have dealt with their kind. Ain’t no way they were here because of me.” Deadeye responded as he lit a cigarette. 

    “Yeah?! And just what kind might that be?”

    “Demons.” 

    “Demons? You expect me to believe that bullshit?!” Rick exploded.

    “Better start believin’ Sheriff. Look what they did to your men. You think something human could have done that?” He pointed towards the blood soaked door of the saloon.

    “Fine. But I expect you to be the one to bring that boy back unharmed.” 

Deadeye took a deep drag of his cigarette. Waited a moment, then blew the smoke into the air. “Then I’ll be needing a team. And not those slouches you had sittin’ at the table with you tonight.”