The late afternoon sun stood low over Broken Flats, casting long, harsh shadows across the dusty main street. The town lay in the middle of nowhere, a cluster of weathered wooden buildings and empty lots surrounded by an endless stretch of cracked earth and low, brittle scrub. Once, people had come here full of hope—farmers, ranchers, dreamers—but soil was dry and unforgiving; crops failed, cattle starved. One by one, families had packed up and left, leaving behind the ones too stubborn, too tired, or too broken to move on.
Now, Broken Flats was a place for the lost. Men and women who had nowhere else to go. Some had fled past mistakes; some had simply drifted, aimless, until they stopped here, too weary to keep walking. A few were hiding from debts, enemies or the law. Outlaws passed through from time to time. But the town offered little worth stealing, and no sheriff had ever bothered to ride this far out.
The sound of hooves drew every eye as evening edged in. A lone rider approached. The horse beneath him was no ordinary animal. Even at a distance, it was clear this was a powerful, well-bred horse—the kind only a rich man – or a gunman – could afford. Strong shoulders, a proud neck, tack worn smooth by long use. A horse the people of Broken Flats could only dream of owning. And yet it limped, favoring one leg. Each step was measured and careful.
The rider was lean, dressed in dark clothing of fine quality, each piece worn but well cared for. His hat shadowed his face, black hair falling beneath the brim. When he lifted his head, his eyes caught the dying light—gray, cold, merciless. There was no curiosity, no warmth. It was the look of someone who judged quickly and without mercy. But what drew every eye, were the two revolvers he carried. A gunman!
Rumors began to fly, whispered in alleys, at corners, in the shadows. People huddled together, speculating about the stranger. Who was he? What did he want? Was he lost, or looking for someone? Would he stay, or leave?
Then someone recognized him: Ash Sullivan.
Eyes widened. Recognition sparked: The fastest gun around. Merciless, ruthless and unflinching. Not yet an outlaw, but his personal code said it all: A job was a job.
The town held its breath, as he rode down the main street. Fearful eyes lingered on him, and everyone knew: Wherever Ash Sullivan appeared – trouble was never far behind.
Ash cursed silently as he rode into Broken Flats, frustration coiling tight in his chest. His eyes swept over the buildings, the weary faces of the few people still lingering in the street, the tired horses tied to posts baking in the heat. He felt a sinking weight in his gut. He would not find what he needed here—and that realization tightened the knot of fear and urgency already twisting in his stomach.
And yet he needed to try. He had been desperately running for six months now, and his pursuer was close. The lameness of his own horse had slowed him to a crawl, forcing him to walk long stretches, leading the animal through dust and heat that never seemed to break. If he did not find another horse soon, the chase would end here. And he would be forced into the one thing he had been desperately avoiding: a duel to the death with the one man he never—ever—wanted to fight.
Ash let his horse set its own pace as he turned toward the saloon at the far end of the street. The building sagged with age. The windows were coated in dust, and the door hung crooked on its hinges. Several men sat outside on overturned crates and chairs. They watched him approach, then quickly stood and slipped inside, avoiding his eyes as they went.
Ash kept his face hard and unreadable as he dismounted. He tied his horse to the post, then stepped through the saloon door. His hand rested on his revolver as he entered, and he moved immediately to the side, making sure his back was not exposed to the street behind him. One slow look was enough to take in the room. There was no immediate threat. The men at the tables were stiff with tension, shoulders hunched, heads lowered. None of them dared to meet his gaze.
The bartender looked just as uneasy, hands hovering uselessly near the counter as Ash approached.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender said, not quite meeting his eyes.
Ash shook his head coldly. “No drink.”
The bartender hesitated. He wiped his hands on his apron, then rested them on the counter, fingers spread as if to keep them from trembling. “Then what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a horse.”
The bartender swallowed. “We don’t have a livery,” he said. “No place like that here. And there aren’t any ranchers, neither. Just a few farmers tryin’ to get by—”
“I don’t need the town’s story,” Ash cut in, his voice hard. “I need a horse.”
The bartender stopped. His throat worked as he swallowed again. He glanced briefly toward the men at the tables, then back at Ash. “Only horses around belong to folks here,” he said, his voice hoarse now. “Ain’t much stock, and what there is… it’s all they’ve got.”
Ash didn’t respond, just waited.
After a moment, the bartender cleared his throat. “Maybe,” he said carefully, “maybe one of ’em might be willin’ to… to part with his horse.”
Silence settled over the room, thick and uncomfortable, as every man kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
Ash let his gaze move slowly across the room. He had already seen the horses tied outside. With these horses, he wouldn’t escape the man who was hunting him mercilessly and relentlessly. Ben Bennett had been a horse rancher, and he rode a horse that was as good as Ash’s. But now, Ash’s horse was limping. Ash kept his expression steady, but inside he felt his last hope die.
He had known it, deep down, from the moment his horse had started to limp. That it was over. That the hunt would end. Still, he had been miles ahead and had clung to the hope that he might find a fresh horse in time. But the long hours on foot had eaten that distance away. Even with one of the tired animals standing outside in the sun, he could no longer escape.
None of his despair showed on his face. Calm and controlled, Ash walked back out through the saloon door, leaving the room frozen behind him.
Two hours later, Broken Flats was still restless. Ash Sullivan had not left town, and that alone kept people watching the street, voices low, tempers tight.
Whatever calm remained vanished as another rider approached.
The reaction was immediate. Heads turned. Voices dropped. People drew closer together, whispering with sharp urgency. A friend of Sullivan? An enemy? Had they come here to meet—or? The idea of a duel passed from mouth to mouth, quiet and eager.
No one recognized the newcomer. His horse was a good one—strong, well cared for, moving easily under him. The man himself dressed plainly. His clothes were clean but worn, practical rather than expensive. A revolver hung low on his hip, not displayed, but not hidden either. Another gunman?
He rode straight down the main street without slowing, his eyes forward, his posture steady. When he reached the saloon, he swung down from the saddle, tied his horse to the rail, and stepped inside.
The saloon was quiet when he entered. Like Sullivan, he moved immediately to the side of the door, placing his back to the wall. His eyes swept the room once, quick and controlled, before settling on the barkeeper.
He crossed the room in long strides. “I’m looking for Ash Sullivan,” he said. “Is he in town?”
The barkeeper froze. His hands paused on the glass he was wiping. He swallowed, nodded once, then nodded again. “Y-yes,” he said. “He’s here.”
The stranger flinched slightly, as if the answer had hit harder than expected. Then his mouth curved into a thin, bitter smile.
“Good,” he said quietly.
He turned without another word, walked back to the door, and stepped out into the street.
Ash sat in the small room of the boarding house and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion pressing down on him. The long walk through the heat had taken its toll. His feet throbbed, his stomach was empty, and dust still clung to his skin. He felt scraped raw, inside and out.
He wanted food, water, a chance to wash and lie down, even if only for an hour. But he knew he did not have that kind of time. The man following him had been close for days now. As Ash leaned over the table and looked at the half-written letter, he knew this might be the last thing he would ever write.
Then, the sound of hooves reached him through the open window.
Ash went still. Slowly, he stood and stepped toward the curtain, pulling it aside just enough to look down into the street. His throat tightened as he saw the rider below: Ben Bennett had hunted him mercilessly—and now there was nowhere left to run.
He moved back to the table, a hollow feeling opening in his chest. His hand hovered over the unfinished letter. There would be no time to finish it now. Maybe that was for the best. It would not change anything. With slow, deliberate movements, he folded the paper and set it on the table. He forced his hand steady as he wrote the name of the recipient on the outside, then placed a coin beside it. If he did not get the chance to handle it himself, the landlord would see it delivered.
Ash closed his eyes briefly. Then his hand went to his revolvers. One after the other, he drew them, checked the chambers, and returned them to the holsters. When he was done, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
It was over. He could not run from Ben Bennett any longer.
Ben Bennett stepped back out into the street—and froze.
For a split second, his mind refused to accept what his eyes were showing him. Then his breath caught.
Ash Sullivan stood on the wooden walkway, his face pale, his gaze locked onto Ben as if nothing else in the world existed. For a heartbeat, Ben could only stare. Then his pulse kicked hard against his ribs. The chase was over. After months of dust, sweat, and sleepless nights, Ash Sullivan was standing right there. No longer running. No longer hiding.
Ben’s eyes narrowed as he took him in properly. The rigid posture. The tightness around his mouth. The exhaustion he could not hide. Understanding hit him all at once. Ash had not stopped because he wanted to. He had been forced to.
Ben had finally caught him!
He moved fast, boots striking the boards as he closed the distance, anger and relief twisting together in his chest.
“Ben,” Ash said, lifting one hand in a halting gesture before Ben came within reach. His voice was steady, but there was something strained beneath it.
Ben’s mouth twisted into a grimace that showed teeth but held no trace of a smile. “Ash,” he replied. “I’ve got you. At last.”
“It doesn’t have to end this way,” Ash said. His voice was low, almost pleading. There was a thin edge of desperation beneath it.
“There’s only one way this ends,” Ben cut in, his voice hard. His hand dropped toward the grip of his revolver.
Ash recoiled a step, his head shaking. “Ben, I didn’t do it.”
“No!” Ben snapped, fury flashing in his eyes. “Don’t you dare lie to me. I followed your trail across half this territory. I saw the tracks. I spoke to the people you left behind. You didn’t even bother to hide what you did.”
“Because I didn’t do it,” Ash pleaded.
Ben let out a short, bitter laugh. “A job is a job,” he threw back at him. “I always told you, you’d go too far one day – but I never thought it would be like this. ” His voice broke, just slightly, and the fury in his eyes gave way to something raw—pain, grief, raw despair.
“Please, Ben,” Ash begged. “Why won’t you believe me?”
Ben shook his head once, slow and final. “Save your words, Ash. I swore at my family’s graves that I would kill you.” His hand brushed his revolver. “Now I’m going to keep that promise.”
Ash swallowed as he looked into Ben’s burning eyes. He saw it all the hatred, the pain, the desperation of a man who had lost everything and had nothing left. In that moment, Ash understood with brutal clarity that there was nothing he could say.
To Ben, he was the murderer of his family. And Ben would not give up until Ash was dead.
Ash hesitated. Then he gave a short, stiff nod. With a sharp tilt of his chin, he gestured toward the open street. Ben held his gaze for another heartbeat, then answered with a single, silent nod of his own.
Slowly, neither of them breaking eye contact for even a moment, they stepped off the wooden walkway and out into the middle of the road.
When Ben stopped ten paces away, Ash’s stomach twisted so violently he almost doubled over. It wasn’t fear of death that did it. Death he understood. Death he could accept. What he couldn’t endure was the man standing in front of him — not like this.
Ben’s hand hovered near his holster.
“Draw.” Ben´s voice was sharp, full of hate.
Ash’s throat tightened. His hand trembled near his holster. He was faster than Ben. He had always been faster. They both knew it. If he fought for real, Ben would die. And Ash understood with terrible clarity—Ben no longer cared.
Something inside of Ash collapsed — sharp, quietly, completely.
Ash shook his head, and when his voice finally came, it trembled.
“I can’t.”
Ben’s jaw tightened.
“You can. You’re just too much of a coward.”
Ash flinched as if struck. A tremor ran through him.
“Ben… if I draw, you die.”
Ben’s voice was merciless. “Draw, or die without your gun in your hand.”
Ash’s heart hammered against his ribs, as he shook his head. Ash searched Ben´s eyes, once filled with laughter, and found nothing there but rage and hate.
Despair overwhelmed him. He was trapped. Cornered. He could kill Ben. Could draw faster, shoot straighter, walk away from this street as he’d walked away from so many others. Could survive.
Kill this man he loved like a brother. The man who was the closest thing to family Ash had ever known.
Ash swallowed hard, his throat burning. There were only two choices left:
He could kill Ben. Or he could die.
And Ash felt something inside himself break. And the choice crystallized in his mind with terrible finality.
Slowly, very slowly, Ash’s trembling finger reached for his belt. The leather creaked softly as he slid the buckle free. His breath hitched. His hands shook. He pulled the belt off his hips. Then he let it fall. The guns hit the dirt with a dull thud. And Ash stood defenseless, his arms at his sides.
“No,” Ben snarled. “No, you don’t get to—pick them up. Pick them up!”
Ash shook his head slowly. The trembling had spread through his entire body now, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “I’m not going to fight you.”
“This is a trick.” Ben’s gun swung up, aiming at Ash’s chest. “What game are you playing?”
“No game.” Ash’s throat felt raw. “If you’re going to kill me, then kill me. I’m not going to fight you.”
Ben stared at him, and for a moment uncertainty flickered across his face—then the rage crashed back, harder than before.
“You think surrendering will save you?” Ben strode forward, raised his hand. “You think this will make me stop?”
Ash didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
Ben’s fist connected with Ash’s jaw like a hammer strike. Ash’s head snapped back, and he staggered but didn’t fall. Didn’t try to defend himself.
“Fight back!” Ben roared, hitting him again. This blow drove Ash to his knees. “Fight back, damn you!”
Ash tasted copper. His vision blurred. Ben’s fists came again and again, fueled by months of anguish. Ash felt his ribs crack, felt blood running from his split lip, felt the world tilting and spinning. But he didn’t fight back. Didn’t even try.
He knelt in the dirt and took it. Every blow. Every curse. Every sob that tore from Ben’s throat between punches.
Finally, Ben stepped back, breathing hard, his knuckles bloody. “Get up,” he rasped. “Get up so I can end this.”
Ash dragged himself to his knees, swaying. His face was swelling, his left eye nearly closed. Blood dripped from his chin onto the dusty ground. He looked up at Ben through the haze of pain and didn’t speak.
Ben drew his revolver with shaking hands and pressed the barrel against Ash’s forehead.
“Finally,” Ben whispered. His finger tightened on the trigger. “Finally.”
But he didn’t pull it.
Ash knelt there, completely open, completely vulnerable, and waited for death. His breathing came in ragged gasps. His body screamed in agony. But his eyes—when Ben looked into them—held no guilt. Only fear, sorrow and despair.
“Why?” The word broke from Ben against his will. “Why did you kill them?”
Ash shook his head slowly, the gun barrel moving with the motion.
Ben pressed harder, the revolver grinding into Ash’s skull. “You’re going to hell, Sullivan. At least tell the truth once in your miserable life.”
Ash met his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible, thick with pain and exhaustion. “I told you the truth. But you won’t hear it.” He closed his eyes, his body sagged. “So do what you came here to do.”
Ben stared down at him. At the broken figure kneeling in the dust, blood painting his face, trembling with pain and exhaustion. This wasn’t the Ash Sullivan of legend. This wasn’t the fastest gun in three territories, the man who’d won every fight.
This was just a man who’d given up.
“Why aren’t you fighting?” Ben heard himself ask. His gun was still pressed to Ash’s forehead, but his voice had changed—confusion bleeding through the rage. “You’re faster than me. You’ve always been faster. Why aren’t you fighting?”
Ash opened his eyes. Looked at Ben with an expression so tired, so utterly defeated, that it physically hurt to see.
“If one of us has to die,” Ash whispered, “let it be me.”
Ben’s breath caught.
Ash had always been a survivor. Had clawed his way through life with determination and bullets, never backing down, never surrendering. The Ash Sullivan Ben had known would fight until his last breath, would take down anyone who threatened him.
But Ash wasn’t fighting. Ash had dropped his guns—his life—at Ben’s feet and waited on his knees—to die.
And suddenly Ben understood: Ben had left Ash no way out. One of them had to die. And Ash had decided it was him!
The realization stole Ben’s breath. His hands began to shake. The gun wavered.
He looked at Ash—truly looked. Saw the trembling in his shoulders, the tear tracks cutting through the blood and dust on his face, the swelling from Ben’s fists, the way he flinched but didn’t move away. Saw a man who’d been hunted for six months, who’d run until there was nowhere left to run, who’d finally been cornered and had made the ultimate choice.
Ash could have killed him. At any point in the last six months, Ash could have ended this. Ben knew it. He’d known it even as he pursued, even as he’d tracked Ash across three territories. He’d expected to die. Had welcomed it. But Ash had run instead of fighting.
And now Ash wasn’t running anymore. Instead, he’d chosen this.
Ben’s throat constricted. He looked at the broken man before him and suddenly couldn’t see the killer. Couldn’t see the monster who would murder a woman and her children in cold blood. All he could see was his friend—the man who used to laugh at Ben’s jokes, who’d shared his last dollar and his last drink, who’d ridden through hell beside him.
The man who would willingly die rather than kill Ben
“No,” Ben breathed. The word came out broken.
The gun fell from his nerveless fingers. Ben’s knees gave out and he crashed down beside Ash, reaching for him with shaking hands.
Ash flinched violently at the touch, and that small movement broke something in Ben’s chest. He pulled Ash into his arms, ignoring the way his friend initially tried to pull away, holding him tight as understanding crashed over him in waves.
“You didn’t do it,” Ben whispered into Ash’s hair, his voice cracking. “God forgive me, you didn’t do it. You didn’t!”
Ash went rigid in his arms. Then, slowly, the trembling began—small at first, then building until his entire body shook. A sound escaped him, something between a gasp and a sob.
“I didn’t,” Ash choked out, his hands clutching at Ben’s shirt with desperate strength. “I didn’t do it. Ben, I didn’t—I couldn’t—”
“I know.” Ben held him tighter, his own tears falling freely now. “I know. I believe you. I’m sorry. God, Ash, I’m so sorry.”
Ash broke then, truly broke. Sobs tore from his chest—raw, agonized sounds that spoke of six months of running, of being hunted by the only person he cared about, of being forced to choose between killing his friend and dying himself. He clung to Ben like a drowning man, and Ben held him through it all, rocking slightly, murmuring broken apologies into the falling darkness.
“I swear to you,” Ash gasped between sobs, his voice desperate and pleading. “I swear on everything I have, it wasn’t me. I didn’t hurt them. I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”
“I know,” Ben repeated, his own voice thick with tears. “I know. I believe you.”
They knelt together in the dust, two broken men holding onto each other like the world was ending.
Eventually—minutes or hours later, Ben couldn’t tell—the sobs quieted. Ash’s grip loosened slightly, though he didn’t pull away. They stayed there, breathing in ragged synchronization, neither ready to move.
Finally, Ben pulled back just enough to see Ash’s face. The damage he’d done was clear in the fading light—swollen flesh, split skin, grit and blood. Ben reached up with gentle fingers and touched Ash’s bruised cheek, his touch feather-light.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, tracing the swelling he’d caused. “I’m sorry I hit you. I’m sorry I hunted you. I’m sorry I almost…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Ash’s good eye focused on him, still wet with tears. He shook his head slightly, wincing at the movement. “Thank you,” he rasped. “Thank you for not pulling the trigger. Thank you… for believing me.”
Ben helped Ash to his feet, supported his weight. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through Ash’s battered body, and he leaned heavily against Ben, his breathing labored.
Behind them, Ash’s guns lay in the dust where they’d fallen. Ben stopped, his eyes fixed on them. Without a word, he walked back and bent down, his fingers closing around the leather of the gun belt. He straightened and turned back to Ash, who stood swaying slightly, watching him.
Ben held out the gun belt. Ash stared at it for a moment, then reached for it with hands shaking from pain and exhaustion. Each movement made him wince, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. His fingers fumbled with the leather as he tried to wrap it around his hips, until finally the buckle clicked home.
Around them, the people of Broken Flats watched from windows and doorways, their faces pale in the failing light. No one spoke. No one moved. They simply stared as the two men made their way slowly down the street.
Ash’s room was small—a bed, a table, a chair, a basin of water on the washstand. Ash moved toward the chair and Ben guided him into it. Ash sank down with a groan.
Ben’s eyes swept the room and landed on the table. A folded piece of paper lay there, a coin holding it in place. His name was written on the outside in Ash’s handwriting.
Ash followed his gaze. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Ash looked away, his jaw tight.
Ben said nothing. He turned to the washstand and poured water into the basin, then grabbed the cloth hanging beside it. He brought both to the table and knelt down before Ash.
He dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out. When he brought it up to Ash’s face, Ash flinched.
“Hold still,” Ben said quietly.
Ash went rigid but didn’t pull away. Ben’s hands shook as he carefully, wiped away the blood and dirt. His fists had done this. Every mark, every cut, every swollen patch of flesh—all of it his doing.
“Your ribs,” Ben said after a moment. “I need to check them.”
Ash nodded stiffly. He started to unbutton his shirt but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Ben set the cloth aside and helped him carefully. When he pulled the fabric aside, his stomach turned. Dark bruises bloomed across Ash’s ribs and sides, some already turning purple-black.
Ben pressed gently along the ribs. Ash went white and bit down on a sound of pain.
“Bruised,” Ben said. “Maybe cracked.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ash said hoarsely.
“It matters.”
Ash shook his head slightly and immediately regretted it, his face twisting. “I’ve had worse.”
Ben didn’t answer. He finished checking the ribs, then helped Ash ease the shirt back on. His fingers fumbled with the buttons. When he was done, he sat back and looked at Ash.
“We need to find who really did it,” Ash finally said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Whoever killed your family… they’re still out there.”
Ben nodded, his jaw tightening. The grief was still there, sharp and raw in his chest—would always be there. But now, with Ash at his side, he no longer felt like he was drowning.
Ash looked Ben straight in the eyes. Despite the swelling, despite the bruises, despite having just knelt in the dust waiting to die—there was something in his gaze now. Something absolute. Certainty. Strength.
“We’ll find them, Ben,” Ash promised. His voice was rough but the words were carved in stone. “I swear it. Together.”
Ben’s throat tightened until it felt hard to breathe. He looked at Ash—Ash, whom he had hunted so mercilessly, driven by rage and grief, blind to everything else.
He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve Ash’s unwavering loyalty, didn’t deserve his help.
Ben swallowed hard. He looked at Ash’s face, at the marks his fists had left, at the split lip and swollen eye. He looked at the man he’d loved, hated, and almost killed. And for the first time since he’d stood over his family’s graves, he wasn’t alone.
Something settled deep in his chest. A knowing. Absolute and unshakeable: Ash would ride, by his side. And together they would find the killers.
Ben nodded once, a small, broken movement. When he spoke, his voice failed him, cracking under the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
“Together.”
The next morning, when Ash stepped out of the boarding house, the street beyond was alive with the quiet murmur of people. At first, it was only whispers—heads turned, fingers pointed discreetly, eyes wide with speculation.
They whispered his name, doubted him, judged him. Some shook their heads, muttering about weakness, about defeat. But Ash held his head high. Not with pride. But with a calm, self-contained authority.
Ben walked beside Ash, his jaw tight, hands clenching at his sides. Every whisper, every sideways glance from the townspeople burned him. He hated it. Hated that they dared to point, to judge, to reduce Ash to something smaller than he was. Every second, he felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him—he had brought Ash to this. And now he had to watch as people tried to diminish him.
But Ash did not glance at the murmurs, did not flinch at the pointed fingers. His body still bore the marks of Ben’s fists. Bruises mottled across his arms, cuts streaking his face, the swelling under his eyes. And yet, there was no hesitation, no sign of submission
The townsfolk stared, unease prickling at their spines. Ash’s gaze was cold, sharp, unflinching. When his eyes met theirs, a shiver ran down their spines. The whispers ceased, replaced by a stunned silence.
Ben felt it before he could even understand it fully: Ash was changing the town simply by being himself. Not through fear, not through violence, not through legend—but through the quiet, unshakable strength of his presence, the integrity of his being.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, understanding began to seep in. Ash had knelt in the dust, yes. He had surrendered, yes. But not because he was weak. Not because he was afraid. He had bent only for one man. And that bending had not diminished him; it had not destroyed him.
The lean strength of the fastest gunfighter in the territory still lingered in his shoulders, the same lethal grace in the way he moved, even with the marks of violence upon him.
The crowd began to grasp the truth. Ash had bent for a man. For a single man. And it had been a choice. Not defeat. Not fear. A voluntary surrender that required more strength than any battle.
The crowd began to grasp the truth. Ash had bent for a man. For a single man. And it had been by choice. Not out of fear. Not in defeat. He had knelt freely, in a voluntary surrender, that required more strength than any battle.
Ben’s chest tightened. He had never imagined such a thing was possible. He had feared, during their ten years apart, that Ash would fall into the abyss, that he would cross the line, become an outlaw. But now he saw clearly. Ash had not fallen. Had not changed into something darker.
Ash had become a man whose greatness did not come from his gun, his speed, or the fear he inspired. It came from his very core—from a strength that was entirely his own. A strength that allowed him to bend for someone he loved, to surrender completely, and yet remain unbroken.
Ben glanced at him, bruised face, straight shoulders, eyes forward, and he understood. This was Ash Sullivan. Not the legend of the fastest gun, not the feared outlaw—but a man whose power, whose dignity, whose true strength, came from within.
Side by sid, they rode on. Partners again. Brothers again.
Ahead of them, a killer waited.
And both of them knew, they would find him. Together.