Rawlins’ Range

Trace Rawlins had a reputation that could outshoot any gunslinger west of Hollywood. He wasn’t just the star of “Rawlins’ Range,” he was the range.

The hat, the swagger, the drawl, or so he’d tell you. His cast and crew might’ve told a different tale, one with a few more four-letter words and fewer camera angles.

On this particular Tuesday, Trace rolled up to the set in his shiny black pickup, thirty-five minutes late, sunglasses on, chewing gum.

“They can’t start without me,” he liked to say, and the thing was, he was right.

The director, a mild-mannered man named Jerry, met him with a half-hearted smile and a fresh ulcer. “Morning, Trace. We’re ready whenever you are.”

“Course you are,” Trace said, tipping his hat and striding past everyone like a conquering hero.

The scene today was another shootout, Marshal Trace Rawlins against that no-good outlaw Sam Brown. The historic Sam Brown, if he could’ve seen the script, might’ve raised a fuss over how he was a buffoon who couldn’t hit a barn if it fell on him.

Trace took his mark, twirled his revolver, and flashed that practiced grin. The cameras rolled.

“Draw!”

But instead of the usual puff of smoke and cue from the sound guy, there came a sudden gust of hot wind. The air shimmered.

The clapboard buildings of the backlot wavered and blurred, and when Trace blinked, the parking lot, crew, and craft services table had vanished. He stood in what looked and smelled like a real old west town, dust, horses, and all.

From the far end of the street came a figure, a tall man in a weathered coat, spurs jangling.

“Trace Rawlins,” he said, voice steady and low. “Name’s Sam Brown. Thought I’d come have a word.”

Trace chuckled nervously. “Nice costume, pal. You with production?”

“Production?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been makin’ a fool of me and my friends from Virginia City long enough. Time we settled this like men.”

Trace’s stomach tightened. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t do live ammo.”

Sam didn’t answer. He just squared his shoulders, hand hovering over his revolver.

The tumbleweeds, or maybe they were just the day’s bad decisions, rolled by.

Trace tried reasoning, joking, bargaining. “Look, buddy, I’m just an actor. You know, pretend.”

“Then pretend you’re fast,” Sam said. “Draw.”

Trace did not draw. He dropped to his knees faster than any stunt double could’ve managed. “Please, don’t shoot! I’ll do anything! I’ll make you look good, I swear it!”

Sam’s eyes softened a little. “All right then,” he said with a half-smile. “We’ve struck ourselves a bargain.”

And just like that, the desert heat vanished. Trace blinked and found himself back on set, Jerry shouting directions, the sound guy swearing, and a brand-new agent waiting by the trailers.

Trace dusted himself off, muttering about dehydration, and went to meet his supposed savior. But when the man turned around, Trace froze.

The clothing was different, but the face was the same, Sam Brown’s. “Morning, Marshal,” the agent said smoothly. “I’m here to make sure your show stays…authentic.”

Trace swallowed hard.

That afternoon, the new script arrived, one where Sam Brown outsmarted Marshal Rawlins and tossed him through a saloon window. No stunt double needed, apparently.

Trace flew through that window like a man who’d found religion midair.

And as he landed in the dust, wincing, he heard Sam Brown’s voice, calm, amused, and echoing faintly, “More changes to come, Marshal. Don’t go gettin’ comfortable.”

From that day forward, Trace Rawlins was never late again. Not once.