Near the end of his career, the invention of scope revolutionised the gunslinging trade. A new breed soon emerged, the sharpshooter, capable of hitting tremendous distance. Despite that, he chose not to use a scope, the reflection on the glass surface can compromise his position. Besides, it’s not like the Owl needs such a crutch.

Vision in the monochrome world is hampered but he is already used to it. Spotting a slight change between two leaves of a bush, he fires then immediately relocates.

The Stranger could barely avoid the shot. It leaves a hole in the duster, a proof of such frightening accuracy. This is a fight that she, who has no firearm in her current possession, can not afford to take head on.

It’s not like she gets to dictate the flow of this engagement. Despite being vastly more equipped, the Owl hasn’t shown himself yet. This woman has survived four shots sent her way. No one had ever managed to live past two. Not only that, but she has been getting closer and closer, pushing onto his position.

The Owl slowly makes his way down from the hill next to the hamlet, an area overgrown with tall grass. The Stranger is close, silently wading through the water. They are close to one another, although exactly how, none of them know.

The first to notice the other is the Owl who notice the slightest hint of ripple in the water surface. Throwing a dynamite over the corner, he shoots it with the revolver.

An explosion of fire and fury to signal the fight to come.

A lasso from seemingly nowhere up above wraps around the revolver. That ripple was just a bait, created by poking the water very slightly.

In less than a blink of an eye, the Owl draws out his second revolver. Ambidextrous, both of his hands are equally nimble and precise. In this split second, a decision must be made. He could either shoot at where he thinks the woman is at, or the shot could be directed at the lasso instead. With any other opponent, the former would be a clear choice. But not now, not here, not against this person.

She could get close to him without a scratch. Something that no other can claim to do, from the most fearsome of raiders to a distinguished gunslinger. A feat even the worst monsters of the endless desert couldn’t achieve.

The Owl fires at the lasso with the purpose of cutting it. The bullet goes through easily, but it leaves a single strand of rope behind. The lasso then suddenly shudders as if there is life within. It refuses to be torn apart, the hemp reforms, like a wound closing itself. The Owl drops the revolver, surrendering it before disappearing into the tall grass.

The Stranger checks on her new weapon, there are only five bullets loaded.

She wanders through the tall grass until reaching a clearing. A ominous place above the water, graves jutting out of the ground with no rhyme or rhythm. The tombstones are twisted like the inhabitants of this place, like thousands of tortured souls struggling. They fill the cemetery like a maze of the damned.

Through a tombstone full of holes, the Stranger meets with the Owl. He stands there, looking back with his eyes covered by round sunglasses.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Wyatt Black” She said.

“That’s a name I haven’t heard in long time” The man answered.

Even in his time, people known him as the Owl, the first of the Black family and the Founder of the Desert Ranger. They sang song about his exploits over the campfire, told his stories to their children as they were tucked into their beds. But the name they said, the name they chanted was the Owl.

“You a Ranger?” The man asked.

“Yes sir, Miriam Earp of the 22nd Company” The woman replied.

“I see…”

It seems like the Ranger is still doing fine without him, especially if they train someone like this. The founding thing wasn’t his type of gig, but he was the only one who could. The fastest hand in the West, a responsible leader, those two don’t go together. And thus, he walked away when the Desert Ranger was at its peak, good to see they are still holding up.

But that’s not why he is here.

Drawing his revolver, the man fires through a hole on the tombstone. The Stranger dodges the bullet shooting back in an instant. Wyatt avoids the shot, satisfied, he disappears once again in the maze of tombstones. Her speed is something to be astounded, maybe as fast as him.

The Owl can’t hold back a grin, finally, a challenge.

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___

The West is a land shaped by legends and those that could only called extraordinary.

The shooting at the Oxhill ranch was a seminar event in shaping the West, but not many still remember that story. The family that once resided there was a rare sight in the wasteland, a bastion of happiness. The father was an upstanding man. A person worthy of respect, but not for his fighting prowess but as a paragon of virtue.

But there were whispering of his dark secret. He was a twin, they said, but God made a mistake. All the goodness between them were given to him, while his brother inherited the evilness of two. A ghost that one, a pale demon with red hair, hair white as snow while his skin was almost see-through.

That was just a rumour, however, no one knew where it came from and none had laid eyes on the pale demon.

The father was an upstanding person, his ranch providing for the town of Riven in their time of trials. Dissatisfied with the state of the desert settlements, constantly being raided, he created the Minuteman. Brave volunteers that would appear in a minute upon being summoned, they were the protector of the people.

A gambler, a farmer, a former outlaw, none of that matter, if you have a gun and the good heart, the Minuteman wanted you.

The campaign was a success, the raider tribes of the Western desert were routed and dispersed. A monumental success, all thanks to the father. It’s human nature to be selfish, to only to look out for themselves. But the father was different, not only was he without fault, his charisma was a rare talent. His speech of a brighter future had spurred many to action to join the Minuteman, even raiders betrayed their tribes to join his vision.

But the world is a cruel place. It only lets good things happen, so it could yank it out underneath the people’s feet.

The remaining raiders formed an alliance and they had a plan. To end the father once for all. They wanted it to be discreet, an assassination. But that was doomed to fail, no one was going to betray the leader of the Minuteman. The killers they sent all failed or worse, turned against them. Driven to the brink of extinction, they launched an assault on the Oxhill ranch.

It was a success, the father, after an extended shootout was finally fell. The raider took over the ranch as their new base.

The people of Riven wept and so did the wasteland. And what of the father’s family? They survived as he had scarified himself for them. The man managed to say goodbye to them, but it wasn’t all. He also told his wife that someone would come and when that person arrived, she would pass on his last words.

The night of the funeral, a stranger rode into town. His white hair and pale skin were a sight indeed. The dogs stopped barking and cowered, the flies avoided him. He was unmoving, some weren’t sure if this was not a corpse or not. That wasn’t the case as the man interrupted the ceremony with only a few words.

“Anyone who wants to, meet me outside the ranch before sunrise”

With only that, he rode off. Needless to say, the people were angry, to crash into the father’s funeral like that. No one joined him, that was until the widow told them to, the father spoke of this person.

And so, a small posse of five gunmen was formed. An inadequate force against what maybe a base filled with raiders. But they rode off anyway. Those men and women would all return in one piece, all in a state of shock. All because of a sight they witness.

Without waiting for anyone, the pale demon would wade into the Oxhill ranch with a bag by his side, filled with revolvers. In an instant, six of the raiders were shot down before even realising what had happened, of the doom that had befell them. Dropping his weapon for another one, the pale demon dropped six more before they could pick up their rifles.

The raiders, horrified, tried to fight back. But their effort was like a mere pebble thrown at a hurricane, futile.

The man was like a storm, a plague, he was death itself. His expression unchanged, his eyes hidden by the sunglasses, the man killed like it was nothing to him. To him, firing a gun was as simple as breathing. Rain falls, birds fly, fishes swim and the demon kills.

When he was done, the Oxhill ranch was devoid of any life.

The pale demon returned to Riven and stood over his brother’s grave. He tipped his hat to say and then proceeded to leave. That day, the sun refused to shine, hiding behind the cloud so not to gaze upon the pale demon. The people Riven all returned to their home and bolted their doors and windows shut. The street was deserted as he rode off slowly.

But one decided to stop the pale demon, the widow, standing in front of his horse.

The man continued to ride ignoring her. The people yelled at her to get out before she got trampled. And yet, the woman stood her ground and the pale demon stopped in his track.

“What is it?” His cracked lips opened, the man asked.

“I need to tell you something” The widow answered “My husband last words, he wanted you to hear it”

She stopped to bite her lips. Simply mentioning her lost love was a painful thing. The pale demon patiently waited for those words. Then finally, after regaining her composure, the widow spoke.

“This world is beautiful… don’t give up on us”

The pale demon remained silent, his head hung low. No one could tell what was going on in his mind but that day, the man decided to stay. The town of Riven had a new sheriff and the Minuteman had a new leader. Under his leadership, they became something else, a new organisation. Not only did they fought off the raiders but other threats plaguing the Western desert, the eldritch that loomed over.

The Desert Ranger protected the people of Riven and the whole West. They are mankind last line of defence against the world.

That moniker, ‘the pale demon’ was soon forgotten for something different. Another stranger also moved in, one Dr. Frankenstein. A traveller, he told stories of the world, of the places he visited. In one of his journeys into a snowy forest, a presence always observing. From that story, a new name was used to call the ‘pale demon’. Not his real name, oh no, legends were not remembered for what they truly were, that didn’t matter.

The Owl watched over his brother’s people, family and legacy.

Then one gloomy day, like that time at the father’s funeral when the sun hid away, the Owl simple left. His legend would soon eclipse his own brother, but was it truly his life? The widow would marry him but was she his wife, was the Black his family?

The man disappeared as sudden as his appearance. Even now people still remembered him, however, the Owl, the Founder, the Black, the leader of the Desert Ranger.

And yet, his name was forgotten, but it’s not like that is something important…