The snake rattled with warning. The sly serpent flicked and halted the two men in their spot. Its tan scales shimmered beneath the untamable hot air.

With fervour, Ranger bucked in fear, sending Everett down to the ground beneath himself. His tumble shook rocks and kicked up dust. Immediately Victor drew his gun and shot at the snake. It slithered off in a trail of upturned sand into the desert’s depths.

Victor laughed at Everett's misfortune, a spirited cackle filling the balmy air. He hopped off the horse and outstretched a hand towards an annoyed Everett.

Everett stared at Victor’s scarred hand before he took it and pulled himself off the ground. Everett then smacked the back of Victor’s head, knocking his ebony hat onto the ground.

“Hey!” Victor swiped his hat from the sandy desert ground and dusted it off before climbing back onto his horse. Donning his hat, the black fabric sat without obscuring his features.

“You started it.” Everett clarified with a mocking tone as he mirrored Victor’s movements.

“Ain’t my fault yer’ a scaredy cat.” Victor mumbled before kicking the horse forward.

They rode on for a bit longer, the sun slowly lowering itself into the horizon until darkness surrounded them. Sykes and Wiley came upon the rustling town of Cattlebrooks. They could hear drunken yells emanating from the town's tavern. Other than the tavern, Cattlebrooks seemed to be a ghost town. Scarcely a person was on the main street as they strolled through.

“Cross should be in the bar, he’s always on the bottle. Also hide yer badge. This ain’t a town for lawmen, not if you want to get of ‘ere alive.” Everett grumbled and slipped his badge into his bag. He was a Ranger, a lawman and lawmaker. He liked order, but apparently to take down violent gangs Everett had to slip out of the confines of the law.

Hopping off their horses, Victor and Everett tied them up near dying troughs. But it was better than nothing. Everyone was thirsty ‘round ‘ere.

And anyways, they wouldn’t be long.

Clicking open the tavern door, sportin' women filled the seats alongside sweaty men with alcohol-fermented aromas. Dark beards, darker Stetsons and billowing cigarettes. Some men played cards, others played poker. They paid no attention to the opposite looking pair as they moved to the back of the bar.

“You boys need somethin’?” Ignoring the female bartender Victor walked through to the back of the bar, weaving his way to a back door. He thumped thrice and yelled “Wilbur Cross!”. The wooden door shook with each knock.

Wilbur Cross threw open the door with wrath piquing his features but quickly his eyes landed on Victor and turned to a jubilant man, “Victor Wiley! I thought you were dead.” Cross led them into his office, a pristine desk to their left and a small unmade cot to the right.

Wilbur was an older man, unusual for this type of country. Grey peppered the edges of his dark hair as his skin was shaded after years of riding through the unforgivable desert. He seemed like the type of man not to cross with a confident stride and head held high. Sykes wondered if he knew the real reason Victor had come.

After all it wasn’t hard to spell out with the ever-deepening scowl on Victor that jutted out his cheekbones. His hand was resting on his holster, perhaps preparing or perhaps just reserved.

Part of Everett still questioned why Victor cared so much about killing off the Roscoe gang but if he was helping Everett achieve his goal, did it really matter?

Everett slipped off his hat, Victor didn’t mirror him as he responded to Cross, “One can only hope.” Cross leaned against the outer edge of his desk.  An open bottle and alcohol-wetted lips told Everett he’d been drinking. All the easier to kill him, Victor thought, knowing Everett noticed the whiskey too.  Unlit cigarettes were strewn about on his desk, obviously an avid smoker.

“What are ya doing in my town? Finally running home to mommy?” His accent thickened in the last sentence, a sneering and jeering tone shadowing his cigarette clotted larynx.

Victor scoffed, “As if.'' Everett watched the scene unfold. Victor wasn’t scared of Wilbur. They obviously knew each other but despite it, Victor's hand still rested atop his holster. His hat flipped over his face obscuring his features.

“Roscoe would take you back. What’s a little work for security and safety? We’re family after all.” His bushy eyebrow lifted as arrogance lined his thinning lips.

Suddenly a knife was against Wilbur’s throat. Everett had scarcely seen Victor move. “I ain’t goin’ back. And we ain’t family.” His voice was deadly. Victor Wiley was not a bluffin’ man.

The comment about family picked up memories of Everett’s own family. How opposite it looked to Victor’s. His Ma and Pa lived on a ranch alongside his sister and brother-in-law. They’d always been close. His father had been a Ranger like Everett and pushed him towards it. Memories of the ranch were fond and warm, huddled around the wood fireplace in the salon.

His Ma would stay up till the dawn of night alongside his sister, Aggie, to recite fervorous stories about the world around them. From why the stars twinkled to why men were greedy. Everett soaked them all up as a child. But this didn’t seem to be the kind of “family” that Everett was used to.

Grabbing Wilbur’s gun he threw it over to Everett who caught it quickly. That’s when Wilbur really noticed Everett. His eyebrow quirked, obviously unfazed by the knife to his throat. It didn’t surprise Everett, with men like Wilbur violence was a daily routine that they reveled in.

“Don’t talk about him. Don’t talk to him.” The knife pressed further into Wilbur’s neck, drawing trickles of hot blood. Blood pressure piqued behind Victor’s overshadowing hat. He’d imagined this day for years, now that it was on his doorstep there was no time for hesitation.

Maybe Neil had taught him one thing.

“Fine. I won't talk to yer friend. While you’re here, Victor, why don’t we reminisce?”

“When you were just a kid I remember Roscoe bringing ya in after yer Ma and Pa died. You tried to run back to ‘em. Roscoe lambasted ya with the tip of an iron rod.” He laughed to himself, the room deadly quiet outside of his hideous laugh. “Didn’t try and run after that.”

“I wonder what Roscoe will do to ya when he finds out you were here.” Cross took another swig of his whiskey. His throat pushed against the edge of the matted knife, uncaring about the swaying sword that dangled above his head.

“Why don’t you ask him?” And Victor sliced, side to side. Sharp blood surged from Wilbur’s neck. It matted his failing beard and dripped down his tunic and onto his boots.

Allowing the body to tumble to the floor, shaking the whiskey bottle on his desk alongside the thud. Everett stared down at Wilbur's body, one down; one to go. He was set on his goal and getting a major player in betting, gang activity and sportin’ women wasn’t a bad day's work. He almost wished he’d been the one to do it.

Victor wiped the bloody knife against his pants, leaving a streak of red across the black fabric. He did not smile at his work, only watching the blood rush to the tips of his boots as he waited for his hands to shop shaking.

The horses rode onwards away from Wilbur Cross and Greedbend in a dust-brimmed haze. Quiet floated between the two, a splatter of red blood  still sitting  against Victor’s collarbone.