Flynn moved quick-like toward the livery stable at the edge of town, the girl rushin' right behind him. The stable smelled of fresh hay, saddle leather, and horses—good, honest smells. Inside stood three fine-lookin' mounts already saddled and waitin', almost like someone knew they'd be needin' 'em. Flynn eyed the closest animal, a sturdy buckskin gelding, muscular and calm, the kind of horse a man would trust beneath him when trouble was comin'. He swung easily into the saddle, testing stirrups that felt like they'd been adjusted special for him. He nodded to Luanne, who mounted gracefully, and without another word, they spurred their horses into a gallop.

  Flynn rode hard alongside the girl, kickin’ up dust clouds that chased them like ghosts along the sun-baked trail. The town fell behind quickly, left quiet and heavy in the wake of violence, though a stray thought nagged at him about the men he'd laid out cold on that empty street. Odd, he thought, that no regret stirred inside him—no remorse at takin’ those lives. He reckoned any man oughta feel somethin’, yet all he felt was a peculiar emptiness, like his empathy had been dulled, or locked away behind iron doors.

  He frowned thoughtfully, rememberin’ fragments of that strange voice—the promise of answers, the recovery of memories, somethin’ about a race, and the naggin’ suspicion that he was tangled in somethin’ mighty peculiar. Philosophical questions tickled at the back of his mind, questions of why he was here and who’d set this strange stage—but Flynn believed that a man survived by tendin’ to what was right in front of him. The mysteries could wait.

  The girl, Luanne, guided him swiftly, worry etched on her pretty face beneath that pale bonnet. She urged him along the dusty trail, her voice anxious and quick. "Pa was just outside town," she called over the hoofbeats, "we was headed for Paradise Valley, deliverin’ medicine and supplies. Folks up there need it mighty bad."

  She’d said it like it was someplace everyone knew, but Flynn couldn’t recall Paradise Valley, nor anyplace else for that matter. He simply nodded, keepin’ his eyes forward, keepin’ his thoughts to himself.

  About an hour down the trail, the land narrowed, turnin’ into a dry creek-bed twisted into a canyon of red rock, baked hard by countless suns. Flynn’s eyes narrowed cautious-like. It was prime ground for an ambush—perfect for trouble. As they rounded a bend, a shotgun’s hollow boom echoed sharply off canyon walls, followed by a dry, empty click that Flynn recognized instantly as the sound of a weapon spent. A rough voice cursed bitterly.

  Ahead stood an old wagon, tilted slightly where one wheel rested in a shallow rut, crates piled high beneath worn canvas. A white-haired man, sturdy-built but wounded, stood pressed against its side, holdin’ a now-empty shotgun by the barrel like a club. Around him prowled coyotes—not ordinary scavengers, but big brutes, starved and mean-lookin’, with eyes that glowed a faint, angry red like embers in a dying fire.

  The old man waved the empty gun defiantly. "Git back, you flea-ridden devils! You ain’t gettin’ my hide yet!"

  "Pa!" the girl called, fear straining her voice. "Hold on! Help's here!"

  Flynn leapt down from his horse, drawin’ smooth and easy, his revolvers comfortably fillin’ his hands. His heart settled calm and steady, instincts sharp and ready as honed steel. "Stay behind me, miss," he said quietly, steppin’ forward, pistols levelled.

  The old man’s eyes widened in surprise. "A gunslinger, Luanne? Where’d you rustle him up?"

  "Town," Luanne replied breathlessly. "I’ll explain later."

  The coyotes circled tight now, heads low, teeth bared, ears flat against their skulls. Flynn cocked his revolvers, their familiar clicks steady as his pulse. "Back off now," he growled at the animals, "or I’ll lay you low where you stand."

  One big brute snarled and lunged. Flynn’s pistols cracked sharp as whip-snaps, bullets findin' marks swift and clean. The beast fell, rollin' and yelpin', dust explodin’ around it. The others surged forward, wild-eyed, reckless in hunger.

  Flynn moved steady, his guns roarin’, methodically droppin' one coyote after another, cool and precise. Shots rang through the canyon like thunder, each one true, each one deadly. Beside the wagon, the old man stood wide-eyed, noddin’ approval. "Lord have mercy, that boy shoots straighter than any man I ever seen."

  "Just hold tight, Pa," Luanne called, voice proud and hopeful.

  The remainin’ coyotes hesitated, wary now, but their leader—a big, gray-furred alpha with crimson-glowin' eyes—stood firm, hackles raised, muscles coilin’ like steel springs. Flynn took aim, firin’ twice quick, but the beast twisted impossibly fast, bullets whizzin’ past harmlessly.

  Then, with a savage snarl, the alpha leapt, powerful jaws open wide, teeth flashin’ ivory-white in the sunlight.

  Flynn holstered his left-hand pistol in a heartbeat, lungin’ forward to meet it. He caught the beast in midair, rollin’ back onto hard ground, muscles strainin’ as he struggled with the snarlin’ animal. Teeth grazed his shoulder, searin’ sharp pain flarin’ hot, blood dampenin' his shirt. But Flynn grit his teeth, pressed the muzzle of his revolver tight beneath the beast’s chest, and squeezed off three rapid shots.

  The alpha yelped, jerkin’ violently, then fell limp, its fierce eyes dullin’ to darkness.

  Breathin’ hard, Flynn pushed the heavy carcass aside and climbed slowly to his feet, dust and blood minglin' on his shirt. He glanced down at the shallow wound, then nodded grimly. "Reckon that's the last of 'em."

  Flynn stood slowly, the smoke still curlin’ from his pistol as the echo of gunshots faded down the canyon. Dust drifted lazily around him, catchin’ sunlight like bits of gold. The dead alpha coyote lay sprawled at his feet, fur ragged and red-stained, eyes dull now but still filled with wild defiance.

  Before Flynn had the chance to speak, a strange sensation stirred in the air—a ripple, like heat risin’ off baked earth after a summer storm. From the dead coyotes rose faint wisps of pale light, ghostly trails of shimmerin’ energy driftin’ slowly through the air toward him. He watched curiously, uncertain at first, until the energy brushed gently against him like wind through prairie grass, seepin' softly into his chest. Warmth flooded his body, spreadin’ slowly, pleasantly, easing the burn of the shallow bite the beast had left him.

  That familiar, detached voice drifted quietly into his ear—smooth, calm, feminine but without emotion. You have slain seven lesser Dire Coyotes and one Alpha Dire Coyote, it said softly, almost reassuringly. Notches earned. Progress recorded.

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed as his vision shifted, a strange shimmer in the corner of his gaze drawin’ attention downward. A translucent cartridge belt drifted into view, bullets nestled neatly in their leather loops, a symbol appearin’ to measure his progress. Eight fresh cartridges glowin’ faintly as the they filled the empty slots subtly with the energy he'd just absorbed. He knew, instinctively, that he’d moved closer to his next milestone.

  Skill acquired," the voice whispered gently, almost proud-like, its dispassionate tone contrasting with the warmth he felt inside. "Horse Ridin': You have learned to ride and handle horses with ease, improv’n your balance, speed, and control from the saddle. Continue down the D?o of the Gun to earn further notches and unlock greater abilities."

  Flynn tipped his hat slightly back, breathin’ deep as he steadied himself, feelin’ stronger, more confident than before. "Well now," he murmured to nobody in particular, eyes narrowin’ with quiet determination, "reckon I'm startin’ to get the hang of this game."

  Luanne hurried to him, relief and concern battlin’ in her pretty face. "Are you hurt, Mister?"

  Flynn offered her a faint, reassuring smile, though his shoulder burned like a coal ember. "Nothin’ more than a scratch. It’ll heal."

  The old man limped forward, leanin' heavily on his shotgun-turned-club. "Son," he said, extendin' a rough, calloused hand, "I owe you my life. Name's Weston—Jed Weston—and I thank you kindly."

  Flynn took Jed’s outstretched hand, shaking it firmly, man to man. The old rancher’s palm was rough as sandpaper, calloused by years of honest toil beneath a blistering sun. Around them lay the scattered carcasses of coyotes, testimony to the violence just ended. As Flynn released Jed’s hand, words drifted gently across his vision, floatin' like heat shimmerin' above hot sands:

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  "Quest Completed.”

  That same detached, feminine voice spoke again, clear and soft as wind through prairie grass. "Congratulations on reachin' Level 2."A ghostly cartridge belt flashed momentarily before him, fillin' swift-like with glowing cartridges before emptyin' just as quick. You have three stat points available. Would you like to allocate them now?"

  Flynn noticed Jed watchin' him curiously, clearly holdin’ his own thoughts close, and he waved the message aside quick-like. Time enough for whatever that was later.

  Jed shifted painfully, his face weathered but honest beneath his gray whiskers. "Son," he said with quiet sincerity, "you don’t rightly know what you’ve done for me an' mine. I'm in your debt now, an' truth be told, it’s one I ain’t sure how I'll rightly pay."

  Flynn shook his head, eyes narrowin' a bit as a small, quiet smile crossed his lips. "Well now, truth is, mister, I reckon I'm the one in your debt. These horses—" he nodded to the mounts they’d ridden in on— "weren’t exactly mine to borrow, and if you're lookin’ to pay me back, keepin’ my neck clear of a noose for horse-stealin’ would suit me just fine."

  Jed chuckled, a dry sound like gravel siftin’ through a prospector’s pan. He limped toward the wagon, favorin’ his wounded leg. Luanne hurried to his side, fussin’ with a doctorin’ kit she’d dug from beneath the wagon seat, her fingers nimble as she worked.

  Jed eased onto the buckboard, wincing as his daughter bandaged his wounds. Flynn, watchin’ quietly, suddenly realized the throbbing pain from the coyote bite had vanished, healed clean as though never there. He flexed his shoulder gently, feelin’ a curious strength flowin’ through his muscles.

  Jed glanced up, watchin’ Flynn's movements knowingly. "Well," the old man continued, grimacin’ as Luanne pulled tight on the bandage, "truth be told, mister, I own near everything back in town, includin’ that livery. Only horses you took were mine, so you ain't gotta worry none 'bout any hangman’s noose. But you saved my hide, an’ just clearin' that debt won’t rightly sit well with me."

  He paused, lookin' Flynn square in the eye, sincerity etched deep in his expression. "Least I can do is replace them cartridges you spent. And that horse you're ridin'—he’s yours now. A man oughta have a good horse beneath him." Jed hesitated, glancin' toward the setting sun as Luanne finished tyin' off the bandage tight enough to draw another small grunt from him. "But truth is, there's more I'd like to talk with you about—private-like. Reckon a campfire an’ a cup of strong coffee might ease our tongues some. If you'll help see us safely through to the far side of this canyon, I'd consider it an honor to fix you a proper meal and see to it you're rightly repaid."

  Flynn tilted his hat back slightly, considerin’. "Now, Mr. Weston," he finally said, "I appreciate the horse an' the ammo—mighty kind of you. But I reckon you oughta know I didn't ride out here lookin’ for reward. Just figured it was the right thing to do, helpin' folks in trouble."

  Jed smiled warmly, noddin’ slow-like. "I figured you’d say somethin’ like that, son. But the offer stands."

  Flynn turned, glancin’ up at the sun sinkin' toward the distant horizon. "Well, reckon a hot meal an' a fresh cup of coffee is one offer I ain't ever inclined to turn down. I'll ride with you folks, see you safe through to where you aim to camp. We can talk by firelight."

  Jed nodded approvingly. The old man shuffled carefully to the driver’s seat, takin’ the reins in weathered hands. The oxen, quiet beasts who hadn’t so much as flinched durin’ the fight, shifted patiently. As the wagon lurched out of its rut with a slow creak, Flynn tied the reins of Luanne's mount to the rear of the wagon. Then he swung himself easily into his saddle, nudgin’ his newly acquired buckskin forward, leadin' the way deeper into the canyon.

  His eyes scanned carefully ahead, alert for trouble, but his thoughts lingered back on the old man’s words, wonderin' just what lay behind them. A fire, a meal, and coffee—reckon a man couldn't ask for a better place to find some answers.

  ****

  Flynn rode quiet-like ahead, lettin' the wagon and the Westons trail easy behind him. The canyon walls loomed on either side, tall and weathered, casting long shadows across the dry, packed earth. He guided the buckskin carefully, his sharp eyes sweepin’ each turn and crevice for trouble that didn’t come. As the afternoon wore on, the walls began to spread farther apart, lettin’ sunlight flood the trail once again, warm and golden against his face.

  Satisfied there was no immediate threat, Flynn eased his horse back alongside the wagon. Old Jed sat hunched comfortably over the reins, his weathered face set firm, eyes squintin’ against the sun's glare. Beside him sat Luanne, her burnished hair catchin' the sunlight as she smiled gratefully at Flynn.

  "How we lookin' up ahead, son?" Jed asked, glancin’ sideways at Flynn with a curious eye. "Trail clear?"

  "Clear as a preacher's conscience, far as I can tell," Flynn replied easily. "Reckon them coyotes ain't like to follow."

  Jed chuckled dryly. "Wouldn't mind if we seen the last of 'em. Coyotes ain't natural that big, nor that mean."

  Luanne glanced up, thoughtful-like. "Pa's right, Mister Flynn. Never seen coyotes that fierce, 'specially not with eyes that glow like coals."

  Flynn nodded, eyes narrowin' a bit. "Yeah, somethin’ strange about 'em. Reckon there's plenty I don't rightly understand about this place. Truth told, miss, I can't rightly recall much at all before wakin' up in that town."

  Jed scratched thoughtfully at his whiskers. "No memory, you say? Well, son, ain't nobody ends up in a place like this by accident. If a man's memory fails him, it's usually for a reason. Could be there's somethin' you're meant to find out here."

  Flynn pondered on that for a moment, eyes squintin' against the late afternoon sun. "Could be. Right now I'm just followin’ my instincts, tryin' to keep breathin' and figurin’ things out as I go."

  Jed nodded approvingly. "Instincts got you this far, I reckon they'll see you through. And I ain't one to question a man's past—not when he's just saved my hide."

  They rode in easy silence a spell, the creak of the wagon wheels and the plodding hoofbeats the only sounds beneath the wide sky. The land flattened out gradual-like, grass turnin’ from sparse and dry to thick and lush. Soon enough, Flynn drew rein again beside the wagon, tilting his hat back slightly.

  "Jed, you reckon on stoppin’ soon? We got daylight fadin', and horses could use rest. You know a good spot around here?"

  Jed squinted into the distance, eyes brightenin’ with recognition. "Yeah, I reckon I do. Just a ways ahead there’s a clearin'—nice spot by a stand of cottonwoods. Used to be a regular stoppin' place for wagons headed toward Paradise Valley. Good grass, clean water, decent shelter from the wind."

  Luanne smiled warmly. "It's a nice place, Mister Flynn. Folks always feel safe there."

  Flynn touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment. "Sounds like just the place a man would appreciate after a day like today."

  Jed chuckled again, flicking the reins gently to move the oxen a bit quicker. "Son, after what you done back there, reckon you’ve earned your rest an' then some. Let's push on an' get settled before the stars come out."

  Flynn swung down off his horse as the sun dipped low, castin’ the desert in long, golden shadows. It didn’t take much doin' to set up camp at the spot well-worn by those who’d come before. A circle of stones marked a place where many fires had burned, and beside it lay a neat stack of dry wood—courtesy left by the last travelers. Jed, movin’ stiff but steady, gave him a hand raisin’ a small canvas tent, while Luanne set a heavy iron pot over the fire, fillin’ the air soon enough with the warm scent of simmerin’ stew.

  Once camp was squared away, Flynn led his new buckskin down to the little waterin’ hole nearby. As the horse dipped its nose to drink, Flynn loosened saddle cinches and gently lifted the rig from the animal's back. Curious-like, he noted a fully packed saddlebag, brimmin' with trail supplies: dried beef, coffee, flour, an old battered coffeepot, and even a rolled beddin’ blanket. Whoever had set him upon this strange trail, Flynn reckoned, had seen to it that he had all he’d need.

  As daylight faded into twilight, the stew was ready, hot and savory. They ate in quiet contentment, with the moon risin’ full and bright, bathin' the desert landscape in silver and shadows. Once finished, Luanne gathered up dishes and moved off quietly to the waterin’ hole, leavin’ Flynn and Jed sittin’ close by the flickerin’ fire, each man cradlin’ a battered tin cup of strong, boilin'-hot coffee.

  Jed studied Flynn thoughtfully, eyes narrowed as if weighin’ him like a steer at auction. "Son," he said finally, his voice low and cautious, "seems to me you ain't exactly just some drifter blowin' through these parts. Reckon you’re somethin' a mite different. Am I right?"

  Flynn sipped his coffee slow-like, lettin' it burn a comforting trail down his throat. After a moment's silence, he nodded slowly. "Mister Weston," he began quietly, "truth is, I don’t rightly know myself. Can't remember nothin' before wakin' up in some strange room, a voice babblin' 'bout a race, about memories I could get back—then I walked a hall, picked up these here revolvers, and next thing I knew I was standin' in that dusty street facin’ three men dead-set on seein' me meet my maker." Flynn paused, starin' deep into his coffee. "I don't know where I come from, don't know what brought me here. Hell, I'm lucky I know my own name. But these pistols," he patted them reassuringly, "reckon they fit me like skin."

  Jed’s eyes narrowed, the firelight flickerin’ across his weathered features. Suddenly, a subtle change seemed to ripple over him—his face grew calm, eyes flashin' an odd shade of blue for a fraction of a second. Flynn tensed, wonderin' if he’d imagined the shift or if it was just a trick of the firelight.

  When Jed spoke again, the easy western drawl had faded to somethin' softer, calmer, like the voice Flynn had first heard in that strange place he'd awakened.

  "Flynn," Jed said quietly, his tone gentle, emotionless. "We're approachin’ the end of your tutorial."

  Flynn stiffened slightly, eyes narrowin' sharply. "My what?"

  "Tutoring period," Jed—or whatever spoke through him—continued steadily. "This is your chance. You've got one opportunity now to speak plainly with me, face-to-face. You got questions, you best ask 'em quick. I'll answer what I'm permitted, within the rules. But understand this clear: once this conversation ends, there ain't likely to be another until you’ve finished this leg of the race."

  Flynn stared hard into Jed’s strangely calm face, his gut tightenin'. Questions burned inside him, stacked high as kindlin'—but he'd learned enough today to know the importance of pickin’ his words careful.

  He set his coffee aside, leanin’ forward slightly, the fire throwin' flickerin' shadows across his grim face. "Well then," he said low and steady, his eyes meetin' the strange blue gleam in Jed’s gaze, "reckon we better start talkin'."