The Cowboy

Chapter - 01

1912, Willow Creek, America

"Well, this sure ain't my usual," muttered the man slouched on a creaky wooden stool in the dimly lit saloon. His voice had a lazy Southern drawl, but there was an edge to it. He wore a worn-out cowboy hat pulled low over his brow, a faded checkered shirt that had seen too many rides, and jeans frayed at the seams. His boots, scuffed and caked in dried mud, rested heavily on the ground. Despite his disheveled appearance, his piercing blue eyes and handsome features were still discernible beneath the grime.

In front of him, an open bottle of whiskey stood like a last refuge, its amber contents shimmering in the dull flicker of a hanging lantern. He poured a generous measure into a chipped glass, stared at it for a second, then knocked it back with a grimace, lips cracking at the harsh bite of the liquor.

The saloon was unsettlingly quiet. The usual murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the shuffle of cards—all gone. Broken furniture and shattered glass scattered across the floor bore silent witness to the chaos that had unfolded. The swinging doors gave a long, mournful creak as a gust of wind stirred the dust, pushing them open.

An old man stepped inside, his slow, deliberate footsteps echoing through the room. He had long white hair that flowed past his shoulders and a dense white beard that covered most of his weathered face. His eyes scanned the saloon, taking in the wreckage. He walked with a slight limp, favoring one leg as he made his way toward the bar.

He reached the younger man, removed his wide-brimmed hat, and placed it on the counter. With a deep sigh, he settled onto the stool beside him.

"Was that really necessary, Jacob?" the old man asked, his voice gravelly and worn, carrying with it the weight of countless miles and countless mistakes.

Jacob didn't respond immediately, staring into his glass as if seeking answers in the amber liquid. The old man waited a moment before continuing.

"Pour me one, will you?" he requested, his tone softening.

Jacob picked up another glass from the counter. It was stained with a few drops of blood, so he rinsed it lightly with whiskey before filling it and sliding it across the counter. He nodded his thanks, and they both raised their glasses.

The old man took a swig, and instantly his face twisted in disgust. "Good Lord, what is this damn poison?"

Jacob's lip curled into a half-smile. "Some new stuff the rich folks are drinkin'. They call it 'refined,' but it tastes like horse piss to me. Only bottle left that wasn't smashed."

The old man shook his head, still grimacing at the taste. "Times sure are changing. Used to be, a man could get a decent drink in a place like this."

Jacob nodded, his eyes distant. "Yeah, things ain't what they used to be."

They drank in silence for a few moments, each lost in his own thoughts, before Jacob refilled both glasses, the whiskey sloshing slightly as it hit the rim.

"What happened, Jacob?" the old man asked, his voice carrying a mix of disappointment and concern. "You came into this town as a hardworking, honest young man. I was glad to have a good man like you around, someone who helped me clean up the mess sometimes."

Jacob sighed heavily, his eyes clouded with a mixture of regret and resignation. "I was never a good man, sheriff. I was just a man trying to run away—from my past, from the dark, from the blood, from everything." He turned to face the sheriff, his expression haunted. "I've found out that you can go from one end of the world to the other, but you still can't escape your past."

The sheriff sighed. "That's life, son. No matter how fast you run, your demons always seem to catch up."

The sheriff's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice dropping to a grim tone as he continued. "You know what happens next, right? You'll be hanged for the murders."

Jacob turned around in his chair and surveyed the gloomy scene in the saloon. Bodies lay strewn about in grotesque positions—some with their guts spilling onto the floor, others with bullet holes in their foreheads, and a few with their faces smashed against the walls. More than a dozen men, all brutally killed.

"It was just a single woman, Jacob," the sheriff said, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "Did you really have to kill all these good men for her? You didn't even know the woman, did you?"

Jacob didn't respond. He just turned back to the bar and refilled his glass, taking a long, deliberate swig. The sheriff watched him with a mixture of pity and frustration.

"Mr. Albert, Mr. Jones, Mr. Rickard, and the others," the sheriff continued, his voice rising with anger. "All of them were the leading businessmen of the town. They were the reason our town was thriving. They provided jobs, brought prosperity. And what did you do? You killed them all at once, for a goddamn prostitute." The sheriff slammed his hand on the table, causing one of the dead bodies, which had been leaning against the bar, to slump down to the floor with a sickening thud.

Jacob's face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered with a momentary hint of pain. He set his glass down with a trembling hand. "She wasn't just a prostitute," he said quietly. "She was a woman who didn't deserve what they did to her. No one deserves that."

The sheriff shook his head, his expression softening slightly. "Maybe so, Jacob. But was it worth this? Was it worth your life?"

Jacob met the sheriff's gaze, his eyes hardening. "They had it coming. Every single one of them. They thought they could do whatever they wanted, to whoever they wanted. Someone had to stop them."

The sheriff sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. "And now you're gonna pay the price for it. You can't take the law into your own hands, Jacob. There's a reason we have laws."

Jacob snorted, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Laws? The laws only work for those who can buy them. For men like them."

Jacob's voice was gravelly with restrained fury as he continued. "She had a child. A daughter, barely five years old. Do you know what those monsters did to her?" His eyes bore into the old sheriff, his gaze piercing with raw emotion as he recounted the harrowing scene he had stumbled upon.

"They had her locked in a cupboard while they took her mother in the room next door," Jacob continued, his voice thick with anguish. "She suffocated in there. I arrived just after those monsters were done having their fun with the mother. The mother was battered, barely able to move, and yet she crawled to her daughter's lifeless body. The sound of her wail... I can't shake it from my mind." A tear escaped Jacob's eye, tracing a path down his dirt-streaked cheek.

The memory flashed vividly before Jacob's eyes: the cramped, airless space where the little girl had been imprisoned, her small frame huddled in fear; the mother's broken form, battered and bleeding, desperately reaching for her child only to find her already gone. It was a scene of unspeakable horror that fueled Jacob's rage and thirst for justice.

The sheriff sighed heavily, his aged features drawn with weariness and regret. "Well, ain't that just the most godforsaken situation," he muttered, his hand finding its way to Jacob's shoulder, offering a brief, consoling pat.

"I have to take you in, son," the sheriff said softly, his voice tinged with resignation.

Jacob's eyes blazed with accusation as he turned to face the sheriff squarely. "Do you know what I discovered while I was dealing with them? They had done this before, countless times. They murdered and violated women, and yet they never faced justice. How is it possible they were never caught?"

Jacob's gaze bore into the sheriff's soul, challenging him to deny what he suspected. "You were part of it, weren't you, sheriff? You provided them with targets—women they could abuse without consequence. Just another missing person or a convenient accidental death to cover their tracks."

Silence hung heavy in the stale air of the saloon as the two men locked eyes, the weight of accusation and truth passing between them like a silent storm.

"I didn't know she had a daughter," the sheriff finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "If I had known..."

In an instant, Jacob's hand flashed to his holster, drawing his revolver with lethal intent. The gunshot echoed through the saloon as he fired, the bullet finding its mark in the sheriff's neck. Blood gushed from the wound as the sheriff staggered, clutching futilely at his throat. Life drained from his eyes, his final breath escaping in a rasping gasp.

"That wasn't a good enough answer, sheriff," Jacob said bitterly, his voice hollow with grief.

The saloon fell into a chilling silence, broken only by the steady drip of blood pooling beneath the fallen lawman. Jacob stood over him, watching the macabre scene.

Jacob reached into his side pocket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. With a practiced motion, he pulled one out and flicked open his lighter, the small flame casting a brief glow on his face. He lit the cigarette and took a long, deep inhale, letting the nicotine work its way through his system. The familiar burn in his throat and the rush of calmness helped steady his nerves, pushing what little jitters he had to the back of his mind.