A light brown horse trotted along the main road of Agua Fria. Its tail flipped from side to side. Atop it a young man, no older than twenty three rode on his steed. His muscles ached from days of non-stop riding. His medium-length blonde hair was dusted with sand and despite having a large hazel hat, a bright red sunburn picked at his neck. The wind whistled and sand rushed through the air. The man's hazel duster coat layed saddle and his hazel Wellington boots clacked against the metal stirrup.

The town was quiet but not deserted. The horses' feet clicked loudly. The man kept a watchful eye on the town as he headed deeper. Buildings lined the road; a saloon, a bank, a dry goods store. A few citizens sat on chairs before the buildings. Another few smoked and whispered chatter filled the dry mid-morning air.

The man stopped before the county jail and sprang down off his horse. The dust puffed up into the air as his burly boots thumped against the ground and created an impression in the dirt.  He tied up his horse near a small trough, letting it drink from the stale water. His boots thumped against the wooden stairs and the door creaked as he made his way inside.

There were two men in the sheriff's department. One man behind bars, still sleeping and the other sitting at a nearby mahogany table polishing his revolver. The man who sat at the table was wearing a white hat that had fallen onto his forehead as he sat back in the chair. His golden sheriff's star twinkled with the sun as it moved through the windows.

Both men took their hats off before speaking. The sheriff looked at him with expecting eyes. The man started, "You the sheriff?"

"Sheriff Clayton Goodman." They shook hands. Clayton was older than Everett, at least his face was. Deep wrinkles had cemented themselves onto his dark coloured skin and greying hair speckled the sides of his short-coiled hair.

"Everett Sykes. I'm the ranger you called for."

"Thanks for coming 'round, we don't have the manpower here to deal with our issue." His Texan drawl wrapped thickly around every word. Clayton was the same height as Everett.

"My pleasure," Everett took off his hat and tipped it to the sheriff, "always here to help. Can you tell me more about your issue?" He took a seat at the mahogany table across from Clayton.

"Out of towner showed up a few days ago, trailing a couple bodies behind him. Young one too. People 'round here are getting worried about him, so I called for y'all." The worry wrinkles seemed to dig deeper across Clayton's forehead as he described the town's predicament.

"Well I thank ya' for your time and I'll be taking him off your hands soon." Everett got up from the seat and shook hands with The Sheriff. "Do y'all have a hotel nearby?"

"Yeah about three doors down." Clayton pointed to the left using his index and middle finger.

Everett didn't go to the hotel, first he went to the bar. 3 doors the other way. The bar was loud, music played, bottles clinked and rough barks of anger filled the room. Some citizens played cards and drank whiskey.

He sat down at the bar, "Y'a need somethin'?" The bar dog questioned. He was a nice looking man, his brown hair swept to the right and thick-black straps of suspenders hugging the top half of his body.

"Adam's ale. You know anything about the outlaw?"

"No. And I'm sure if you ask anyone else, they're all gonna say the same. Ain't nobody wanna get involved with him."

The bar was loud, music played, bottles clinked and rough barks of anger filled the room. Some citizens played cards and drank whiskey. Everett kept one hand on his whiskey and the other lazily on his Revolver. He didn't know the type of citizens, and any threat, even simple was that, a threat.

As night fell, Everett left the bar and made his way outside. He walked down to his horse, Ranger, and unwove his pack from the side of the horse. He made his way to the nearest hotel. The hotel signboard was half broken, banging with the wind.

"Sir," he removed his hat, "You have a room for the night?" The hotel clerk had a short pointed chin with stubble running across the bottom of his face. His long and protruding nose was sneered and a wooden toothpick hung from the groomed moustache above his lip. A dirt speckled beige shirt and leather suspenders decorated the man.

"Second door on your left." Everett gave the man some coins and went on his way. The hallways were quiet for not being so late into the evening.

The room was small, yellow patterned wallpaper lined the walls. A peeled wooden bed frame and a horsehair mattress with a thin knitted blanket sat in the far left corner of the room. A small chamber pot was stashed beneath it.

Everett flicked a match and lit the white - half melted - candle that sat in the middle of the side table alight. He took off his brown hat and hung it in the end posts of the bed. His feet ached from riding and his boots came off easily. Putting his badge on the side table, Everett flopped onto the bed.

He slid his loaded gun beneath the pillow. Sleep came easy after such a long day. His neck ached and he hoped that maybe a good night's sleep might do him some good.