Unwritten Code

Ethan Carver rode into the nameless town as the sun dipped below the jagged ridges, the sky awash in fiery hues. Dust clung to his duster, and his horse’s breath came heavy, nostrils flaring from the hard ride.

The town was little more than a cluster of buildings huddled against the basin, the wooden fronts worn gray by wind and time. Carver hadn’t been in the area in years—not since taking a Paiute wife and settled in the hills where the cottonwoods grew thick along the creek.

But that life was gone now, taken from him by a man who had mistaken his kindness for weakness.

The murderer had fled, but Carver tracked him. Through dry washes and over granite ridges, he had followed the signs—boot prints worn at the heels, a fire pit left smoldering, a strip of torn canvas snagged on sagebrush.

Now, the trail led here.

Carver dismounted and hitched his horse outside the saloon. The place stank of stale beer and unwashed bodies, where men huddled over cards and whiskey, talking low.

They went quiet when he stepped in, some recognizing him, others just sensing the frightful weight he carried. He moved to the bar, set his hands on the polished wood, and spoke low to the barkeep.

“Ben Latimer come through here?”

The barkeep, a narrow-eyed man who had seen his share of trouble, nodded toward a table near the back. Carver turned his head slightly, taking in the man seated there.

Latimer. A lean figure with a face that had gone to seed, his mustache barely hiding a cruel mouth. He was laughing at some jest, whiskey in one hand, the other resting near his gun belt.

Carver stepped from the bar, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The laughter at Latimer’s table died as his companions saw the look in Carver’s eyes.

Latimer saw it, too. He shifted in his chair, his fingers twitching toward his gun.

But Carver already had his iron drawn, steady as bedrock.

“You took my wife and boy from me, Latimer.” His voice was flat, carrying no more weight than a judge pronouncing a sentence. “A man like you ought to be set right.”

Latimer sneered, his fingers flexing, but he wasn’t fast enough. Carver’s Colt roared, the bullet catching Latimer square in the chest. The outlaw slammed back against the wall, whiskey spilling as his body slumped sideways, lifeless.

Silence settled over the saloon. Carver holstered his gun, threw a coin on the bar, stepping into the cool desert night.

The deed done, and justice, the only kind this land understood, had been meted. He mounted his horse and turned toward the open desert, where the wind whispered through the sagebrush.

He had no home to return to, no family left to welcome him. Yet, there were trails to ride and other men, requiring a reminder that the frontier carried an unwritten code and that it came as hot lead.