A wooden sign hung over the saloon across the dusty town road, bearing faded black lettering that read, “Lone Pine by Lewis De’Luer.” Seeing the sign triggered a flood of memories in the Writer's mind. He recalled sitting on a beach as an adult, holding a novel with a cover depicting a wild cowboy on horseback. The title was "Lone Pine: Rider in the Night." The Writer scanned the first few pages and found them completely uninspiring and just like every other western ever written. “How do people read this?” he muttered, tossing the novel into the sand before walking into the water. He had glanced back and saw the back cover, which featured a tall man with green eyes and a white cowboy hat.

Now, here in this dusty town, he saw the same man standing before him. The man was the Sheriff, riding a petite black horse. Dressed in plain white western wear, but he wore no sheriff’s star. The Sheriff rode up to the Writer, turned, and spoke without dismounting. “Console Control - change this man’s dress into a ragged desperado.”

Nothing happened and this seemed to puzzle The Sheriff. He stared at the Writer from some time as if he was waiting from something.

“Sheriff, is that you?” the Writer asked.

The Sheriff pulled back on his horse as if about to gallop away but regained his composure and turned back. “Are you real?” he asked.

“Yeah. You know me, I’m from the condo,” the Writer replied, he was puzzled now too.

The Sheriff’s confusion deepened, but then he cracked a faint smile and dismounted. He walked over and sat beside the Writer on the steps leading out of the challenge room. “You didn't meet me, and I don’t know this Sheriff. My name's Lewis De’Luer. I sold the rights to everything I would ever write to Angel Inc. in return for them uploading me here after I died. The man you met was the version of my consciousness whose sole purpose was to write books for which I own no rights. I lived for another three years, watching them publish his works. Then I got sick, died, and woke up here.” Lewis gestured around the town.

The Writer looked around and saw various people walking in and out. The town was a stereotypical western town, with a single street lined with a few businesses: a bank, a saloon, a general store, a hotel, and a livery stable. Women dressed in prairie attire and men in spurs and cowboy hats went about their day, seemingly unaware of the Writer's presence. They were nothing like the masses in the city he had seen moments ago.

“You wrote all those ranch romances, right?” the Writer asked.

“Yes, now I live them,” Lewis said as he stood. “And if you’d be so kind as to go into that store with me, we can get dressed and go save the girl and the ranch.”

Lewis grabbed the Writers hand, leading him toward the general store next to the saloon. But then the Writer stopped, pulling against Lewis. “I can't stay here. I have to find Miss Rapusha.”

Lewis crossed his arms, showing two gold revolvers hanging low in a gun belt on his hips. He blew out a deep breath, his green eyes still fixed on the Writer. “This world doesn’t render with me. You’re going to have to do my thing first, then we can talk about yours,” Lewis said, walking toward the general store.

The Writer stood in the middle of the street watching dust come from Lewis’s footsteps. Why would he need to follow him? He had didn’t have to do such things with the Sheriff before. But then Lewis entered the general store and the door closed behind him, and in a flash, the Writer found himself inside the store next to Lewis.

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The Writer checked his wrist and hands, ensuring everything was as it was. Lewis was flipping through pages in a catalog while an attendant flipped a coin in front of him. The walls displayed various items: clothing, food, tobacco, guns, and ammunition.

Suddenly, the Writer's clothes changed. His khaki shirt and pants were replaced with a white shirt, white jacket, gray wool pants, and brown cowboy boots. A brown gun belt with a silver revolver with a pearl handle formed on his hip.

“I have plenty of coin, so I made sure your gun at least looks nice,” Lewis said, turning to the Writer. “Your horse is the small brown one outside.”

Lewis turned and walked toward the door. The Writer looked around, taking in everything around him. He stared at the person behind the counter, who continued flicking his coin as if it was his only job. He noticed a small nick in his left ear. Then he was pulled out of the general store back into the street as Lewis walked through the door.

“Mount up,” Lewis said, mounting his small black horse.

Outside was a small brown horse tied next to Lewis's. Lewis motioned toward the horse, and the Writer figured it was the horse Lewis had bought him. However, the Writer had never ridden a horse before, and it took him considerable time to mount. Lewis tapped his wrist impatiently as he waited. The Writer foot sliding around as he tried to pull himself onto the saddle.

Finally, the Writer managed to get his foot into the stirrup and pull himself on to the horse. “Grab the reins, and your horse should follow me,” Lewis said, kicking his horse into a gallop.

Lewis galloped through the bustling town, the Writer’s horse trailing obediently behind. He rode with reckless abandon, indifferent to the startled townsfolk who swiftly leaped aside to avoid him.

However, quickly they were out of town, following a dirt road that wound through an endless grassy plain. In the distance, a train track stretched out, its engine chugging faintly. The writer’s small brown horse trailed closely behind Lewis’s black steed, and the writer fixated on the back of Lewis’s head. Questions swirled: Why was he here? How had he ended up following this man on an unknown quest?

Abruptly, Lewis dismounted, causing the writer’s horse to screech to a halt. Stooping down, Lewis plucked three yellow flowers and stashed them hurriedly in his saddlebag.

“What are we doing?” the writer asked.

“I need three more of these,” Lewis said to the writer.

Lewis mounted his horse, pausing for a moment atop his steed, he seemed to deliberate, should he gallop off again?

“I don’t know how you got here, and we’ll deal with that later,” Lewis replied. “But this is a timed mission. So ride with me and shoot the people who shoot back.” He kicked his horse into motion, adding, “But don’t shoot the girl.”

With that, Lewis spurred his horse into a full gallop, and the writer’s mount followed suit. They covered ground swiftly, leaving behind the rolling prairie. The scenery shifted, no more grassy fields; now it was mountainous, snow falling around them. Thick pine trees filled their world, occasionally paired with other travelers: cowboys on horseback, families in wagons. Some greeted Lewis, but he rode past each one without a word. The Writer smiled at the first few, but quickly he adopted Lewis’s stoic response.

Finally, they came to a halt on a hill overlooking a camp. Louis extracted a long rifle with a hefty scope, placing it on a large rock on top of the hill. The writer peered down spotting campfires and tents, and figures moving in the distance. Then Lewis’s rifle bellowed, followed by a rapid succession of shots, about six in total.

The small figures scattered, some mounting horses and charging toward them. Lewis continued firing, but as the horsemen closed in, bullets whizzing past. Lewis switched tactics, drawing his two pistols and returning fire.

“Shoot, damn it!” Lewis shouted at the writer, who stood frozen. But before the writer could react, three bullets struck him almost simultaneously. He dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. The world blurred into crimson, the same pain he’d felt in prison flooding back. In a fleeting moment, he glimpsed a man approaching, a giant in black cowboy hat, and a dirt black cotton shirt, shotgun in hand. Without a doubt, it was Bert.

Bert leveled the shotgun, firing point-blank. Darkness enveloped everything.

(Lives 1)