The path to the mines wound like a snake through jagged hills, flanked by outcrops of sun-bleached stone and tufts of stubborn grass that clung to life against the odds. The Drifter's boots crunched over gravel and dust, his eyes sharp as they swept the horizon. Redwater grew smaller behind him, fading into a haze of heat and distance, while the black mouth of the mine loomed larger with each step. Old tracks, half-buried in the dirt, snaked their way from the entrance, their iron rusted and warped from years of neglect. A wooden sign hung crookedly beside the entrance, the name **'Black Hollow Mines'** painted in letters now chipped and faded. A single lantern flickered near the entrance, its flame struggling against the wind. The Drifter paused, scanning the landscape. Shadows moved in the distance—small, deliberate. Not animals. Men. He counted three, positioned near the upper ridge, rifles in hand. Guards, no doubt. Crowley’s men. He adjusted his hat, tilting the brim to shadow his eyes, and kept walking, unhurried. The first guard spotted him as he neared the mine entrance. A shout rang out, sharp and clear, cutting through the silence. The others turned, rifles raising, eyes narrowing as the Drifter approached without pause. "Hold it right there!" one of them barked, his voice rough from dust and drink. He was tall, wiry, with a scraggly beard that hung from his chin like dead grass. "Ain't nobody passin’ through here without Crowley’s say-so." The Drifter stopped, boots settling in the dirt. His hands rested casually at his sides, inches away from the iron on his hip. "Ain't lookin' for permission," he replied, voice low and steady. "Just answers." The guards exchanged glances. One spat into the dirt, a thick stream of brown that sizzled as it hit the ground. "Ain't no answers for you here, stranger. Best turn around before you find more trouble than you can carry." The Drifter’s eyes flickered up to the ridge, where the third man still stood, his rifle trained down. He smiled, just a small tilt of his lips. "Reckon I’m already carrying enough. One more won’t matter." The first guard tensed, his hand dropping to his sidearm. "Last warning, friend. Turn around and keep walkin’." "I don’t much like bein’ told where to walk," the Drifter replied. Silence stretched, taut and fragile. Then, like the crack of a whip, it snapped. The first guard went for his gun, but the Drifter was faster. His iron cleared leather with a whisper, barking fire and smoke. The guard staggered, a red bloom spreading across his chest before he collapsed to the dirt, eyes wide and unblinking. The second man shouted, fumbling with his rifle, but the Drifter was already moving. He fired once, twice—both shots finding their marks. The guard tumbled backward, the rifle skittering from his hands as he crashed against the rocks. The man on the ridge hesitated, his silhouette frozen against the sun. The Drifter raised his pistol, aiming true, but the man broke first, disappearing over the edge, footsteps echoing down the hillside. The Drifter holstered his weapon, the echo of gunfire lingering like a memory. He stepped over the bodies without pause, boots crunching over gravel and glass, and moved toward the mine’s entrance. Darkness loomed before him, thick and unyielding. He paused just at the threshold, casting one last look over his shoulder. Redwater was a distant shimmer now, barely a shadow on the horizon. He turned back, eyes narrowing as he stepped into the abyss. Inside, the air grew thick and stale, reeking of sweat and coal dust. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, creaking under unseen weight. His footsteps echoed back at him, too loud in the silence. The Drifter pulled the lantern from its hook, striking a match and lighting the wick. Shadows leapt and danced along the walls, stretching out like skeletal fingers. He moved deeper, gun in hand, eyes sharp and unblinking. The mines held secrets. And he aimed to find every last one of them.