The morning sun had barely crested over the blackened ridgeline when Flynn realized something that made him want to take a long walk back into the hills: organizing folks was a hell of a lot harder than putting one between a bandit’s eyes. He'd faced down gunmen, walked through shadowed storms, and stared death in its cracked and crooked teeth—but none of that quite compared to convincing old Mrs. Horner to part with her six cracked tea kettles or prying the Thomson’s from their lean-to shack of corrugated tin and half-baked hope. Every time he tried to hurry them, he got looks like he was asking folks to leave their dead behind, not a rotting town with dust for soil and ghosts for neighbors.

  It didn’t sit right with him. The more he barked orders, the more he started to ask himself what was gnawing at the back of his gut. Was there a real danger coming? Or was it just the system, whispering urgency through its blinking notices and polished voice like some trail boss from a mile off? He didn't like being herded, not even by something that might be trying to help. A man should choose his own pace on the road, and if he couldn’t, then maybe he wasn’t really walking it.

  He tried to keep calm as he wandered through the wagon-packed square, giving a hand here, answering a question there. Folks didn’t ask much of him, but when they did, it always came heavy. A mother wondering if she should risk bringing her sick boy. A man with a busted leg asking if he'd slow the whole train down. Flynn didn’t have answers, just reassurances, half of them lies and all of them heavy in the throat.

  There was one fellow hammering a wheel back together with a nervous rhythm, sweat staining the collar of his patched shirt. Flynn gave him a nod and helped lift the axle just enough for the man to finish the fix. They exchanged a few words—where he was from (nowhere worth naming), where he hoped to go (somewhere with rain). Same as everybody else.

  Later, he tried helping an older couple load up a cart, but found himself fumbling worse than they were. That’s when he knew he needed to step back. He wasn't cut out for this shepherding stuff. Gunsmoke and grit, that he understood. Patience and packing? That was another thing entirely.

  Finding Clay near the stables was a relief. The former gambler had a knack for calm amid chaos, his sleeves rolled and his coat tossed aside as he ran a practiced eye over the herd of reclaimed bandit horses. Most were roped in a tight group, heads down, already learning they’d found better masters.

  Flynn tipped his hat as he approached. “Good to see those nags put to honest use.”

  Clay gave a nod, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Beats lettin’ ‘em rot in the corral. Some of these are fine stock once you scrape the cruelty off ‘em. Could make the difference between us makin’ Hope or not.”

  Flynn glanced past him to the edge of town. “Say, Clay. You got a tinker’s shop? Or a blacksmith that’s not already rustin’ into the dirt?”

  Clay raised an eyebrow, thoughtful. “Yeah. Old Jeb Whittle’s place. He ran it near the edge of town, right where the trail thins into rock and thistle. Jeb passed about two years ago. Weren’t no kin, and nobody had the heart to scavenge his shop. We just bolted the doors and figured we’d know what to do with it when the time came.”

  Flynn nodded slowly, already turning the thought over in his mind like a bullet between his fingers. “Reckon that time might be now.”

  “What for?” Clay asked, not suspicious, just curious.

  Flynn looked off toward the end of town where the wind tugged gently at an old hanging sign, half-swallowed by ivy. “Got a few things need mendin’. And a few ideas I want to try out. Best not to ride into the Ghostlands with nothin’ but prayers and powder.”

  Clay didn’t press. “Key’s under the third stone from the left, by the door. Watch your step, place might be full of dust—and memories.”

  Flynn tipped his hat again and turned toward the shop, boots crunching on the gravel. The caravan could wait just a little longer. He had work to do.

  While in the stable, Flynn breathed in the smells of straw, sweat, and old timber, it was welcoming him like a familiar trail. His buckskin gelding—tough, patient, and sharper than he let on—had his own stall set apart from the rest. The rig and tackle Flynn had ridden in on still hung from the wall like iron bones, silent and waiting. He dropped his saddlebags with a grunt and fished around until his fingers closed on one of the apples he’d tucked away earlier. It was small and drawn in around the skin, shrunken like it had seen too many dry seasons stacked on top of one another. He rolled it in his hand, frowning. He didn’t have a lick of memory about this world, but some part of him—something deeper than thought—knew that apples weren’t supposed to look like this. Still, it was food. And the horse wasn’t picky.

  “Here you go, pardner,” Flynn muttered, offering the shriveled thing with an open palm.

  The gelding took it greedily, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction, and Flynn chuckled low in his throat. He reached for the brush, steady and slow, and worked it down the animal’s flanks in long strokes. There was something calming about it—like smoothing the wrinkles from your own soul.

  When the brushing was done, he knelt by the saddlebag once more, this time reaching for the sack the Westons had put together from Bloody Bill’s lot. He tugged it open and began pulling out iron—several pistols, well-worn and ornery-looking, along with a couple of long guns that had seen better days. There were boxes of rounds, mismatched and dusty, and a few odds and ends that might prove useful in the right hands.

  His mind drifted as he examined the pieces, thoughts circling the way vultures do when they know something ain’t quite dead yet. He was thinking about his abilities—real abilities, the kind that cost you something. He’d learned quick there was a difference between those and the skills he picked up on instinct. Skills were like calluses. You did the work, they formed on their own. Abilities though… those cost D?o. And D?o didn’t come free.

  He kept turning the phrase over in his mind as he pulled a battered revolver apart, laying the pieces out in rows like puzzle parts. He could feel the energy in him, that pool that sat low in his belly, warm and waiting. He had maybe fifty points stocked, give or take. And the Tinker’s Touch—well, that one ran him ten and had a cooldown long enough to make a man pace.

  Still, seemed the right time to test it.

  Clay’s directions were good, and the place sat quiet and alone at the edge of town, more dust than doorway. He found the key tucked under the third stone from the left, same as he’d been told, and the lock clicked open with a heavy sigh. Flynn stepped inside, hat brushing the lintel.

  It was like walking into another man’s memory. The shop was neat—neater than a gunsmith’s bench usually had any right to be. Everything had a place, and everything was in it. Tools hung clean and lined up along the pegboard like soldiers waiting for inspection. The workbench in the center was covered in dust, but not disorder. Even time had respected the layout. You could feel it in the air, thick like pipe smoke. Whoever owned this place had been a craftsman. The kind of man who believed a tool not put back was a sin.

  Flynn didn’t say much, but he moved careful. He wiped down the edge of the worktable with his sleeve, clearing just enough space to work. The tools he’d need came to hand easy—like they knew what he was about and had been waiting for him.

  Before he started, he paused. Hat still in hand, eyes on the open room. He didn’t know if spirits clung to places like this. He didn’t know much of anything, not really. But something in his gut said the old man who’d worked here might still be listening.

  “Won’t be long,” Flynn said quietly. “I’ll clean up after. Leave things the way I found ’em. Just need a place to do right by what I got.”

  Then he sat down, spread the broken guns out across the bench, and breathed deep through his nose. Time to get to work. The bench was cleared, tools laid out like a surgeon’s kit, and the gunslinger took one last breath before nodding to himself. He didn’t know if this was something you ought to brace for, but his gut said it was. He reached inward, that strange new place somewhere beneath the ribs and behind the heart where the D?o pooled like warm oil. With the smallest of thoughts, the energy stirred, and the ability answered.

  A faint shimmer danced at the edge of his vision—his HUD flickering with the glow of ghost-light—and a gentle tone rolled like a bell in the back of his head. A message blinked into being:

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  [SYSTEM NOTICE]

  Tinker’s Touch: Activated

  Duration Remaining: 2 hours

  Energy Consumed: 10 D?o

  As the last word faded, something changed in his hands. It was subtle—but real. Like the nerves in his fingers woke up all at once. Every joint and knuckle, every tendon and callus—suddenly they weren’t just parts of him. They were tools. And every tool had a purpose.

  He reached into his coat and pulled free his pair of ghost-iron pistols.

  The revolvers were something else entirely. Balanced as a bar-room lie and nearly as dangerous. Matte steel etched with delicate scrollwork across the barrel and frame, runes he’d only half noticed before seemed to shimmer now with some deeper life. The grips were polished walnut, dark as a river at night, with inlays of silver wire worked into shapes he didn’t have names for but felt carved into his blood just the same.

  They weren’t just sidearms—they were companions.

  He found a scrap of velvet in one of the tinker’s drawers, soft and clean as prayer cloth, and laid it across the bench with care. Each pistol he set down like laying a child to rest. Then he began to disassemble them, slow and reverent, like unwrapping a family heirloom.

  The pieces came apart smooth, the mechanisms well-worn but clean, loyal through smoke and blood. Flynn worked them one by one, cleaning the fouling from every crevice, re-tensioning the springs, oiling the pins. It was strange—there were moves he didn’t know he knew until his hands performed them.

  Then came the modifications.

  He swapped out the standard rear sights for a slimmer, ghosted version he found tucked in a small drawer labeled with an old tinker’s shorthand. Tweaked the timing on the hammer drop. Filed the trigger wells just enough to make the pull lighter but not soft—still sharp, still a gunslinger’s bite. Then he reinforced the firing pins with tiny shadow-rune etchings, pulsing faintly with D?o when he finished.

  He reassembled them, felt the difference immediately. They didn’t just feel faster—they felt ready. Like the guns themselves were leaning forward, eager for trouble. Satisfied, Flynn turned to the long gun—a battered lever-action .45-70 that looked more like a barn tool than a shooter at first glance. But once he stripped away the gummed oil and sand grit, the thing revealed itself. Solid bones. Good rifling. The kind of weight that felt right in a saddle scabbard.

  He tightened the fit on the lever, shaved the follower for a cleaner feed, and polished the throat. Then he replaced the front sight with a brass bead filed down to a keen glint, easier to catch in low light. Not a trick rifle, not something fancy—but it would shoot straight and mean.

  The tinker’s reloading press still sat in the corner, dusty but willing. Flynn found powder, primers, and cast rounds in jars marked by a steady hand. He worked quietly, like a man folding prayers, and handloaded twenty cartridges. Heavy loads. The kind that didn’t ask for forgiveness.

  He slipped those rounds into loops stitched onto the back of his belt, right near the ghost-iron pouch. Special shots—saved for special days. By the time he sat back and rubbed his spine, the timer blinked out with a soft chime and the HUD faded. Two hours. Felt like ten minutes. His back told him otherwise. Flynn stood, holstered his pistols, and ran a few draw drills—smooth as satin, faster than before. No snags. No friction. Just reach, pull, aim, done. The revolvers felt like extensions of his fingers now—will made steel. The rifle he slung in an improvised leather wrap from the shop. Didn’t have a name for it yet. Might earn one soon enough.

  His stomach gave a low rumble, reminding him that while a man could feed his gun with fire and powder, his own fire still came from beans and bacon. He chuckled, low and dry, and turned to clean up. Tools went back where they came from. Clamps loosened. Bench swept clean. Before he stepped out, Flynn laid a hand on the edge of the worktable and dipped his head.

  “Appreciate the use,” he said to the empty room. “Didn’t break nothin’. Might’ve even improved a thing or two.”

  He slipped out into the light, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet finality, like the chapter of a good book. Time to check the town, maybe grab a bite, and see how far the folk had come. Because the trail ahead was long. And now, thanks to the Tinker’s Touch, his iron was ready for it.

  ****

  Later that afternoon, with a belly full of beans and bread, Flynn found himself wandering the town, eyes half-lidded under the brim of his hat, watching the place move without him. He’d checked in with Clay, ready to lend a hand, maybe offer a word or two to keep things rolling. But to his surprise—and a bit of relief—Clay just waved him off with a half-grin and said, “They’re doin’ fine, Flynn. Best thing you can do right now is let folks grieve in their own way.”

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  It wasn’t just packing wagons and counting sacks of flour. There was a hush on Paradise Valley, like the wind itself had slowed out of respect. Every soul left upright had buried someone. Parents. Brothers. Lovers. Kids. The kind of loss that didn’t just sting—it hollowed you out. Flynn didn’t see no literal ghosts, but he felt the weight of 'em. They clung to the eaves and leaned on doorframes, watching with empty eyes while the living tried to find the strength to let go. And truth be told, he didn’t rightly know how to handle that. Maybe never had.

  He didn’t recall much of his past, but he knew the feel of a saddle that wasn’t broke in. Knew the sound of his own boots crunchin’ gravel at the edge of town, headin’ somewhere new. That kind of thing don’t come from books—it’s etched into the bones. He’d always felt more at home on the drift than settin’ roots. Never was the kind to build. Just passed through, quiet as dust on the wind.

  But these folks... they couldn’t just ride off. Their pain ran deep, anchored to graves not yet settled. So he tried to be still. To be patient. He watched the way the townsfolk packed slow, pausing over every little thing with reverence. Tried to imagine how it would feel, leavin’ behind everything you’d ever loved, because the land itself had turned mean. And just when he was startin’ to think he’d kept his distance clean, the devil herself found him.

  Luann Weston.

  He spotted her the moment she turned the corner, sun behind her like a halo, that long braid swingin’ like a horse’s tail and boots hittin’ the dust with purpose. Flynn felt his gut clench like someone’d cocked a hammer behind his ribs. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was dangerous. The kind of woman a man could get lost in, without ever takin’ a single step.

  He’d been avoidin’ her all day. Maybe longer. If he was honest, he’d been avoidin’ her since the second she fell asleep in his arms, breath warm on his shoulder. He hadn’t known what that night meant to her—and truth be told, he wasn’t sure what it meant to him.

  But she’d come to set that straight.

  “You plannin’ on hidin’ from me all day?” she asked, voice sharp as a spur but not unkind.

  Flynn cleared his throat and tipped his hat back. “Ain’t hidin’, just keepin’ outta the way.”

  She folded her arms, one eyebrow archin’ like a gunfighter about to draw. “Funny. You weren’t outta the way last night.”

  He had the good sense to look away, jaw tight. “Didn’t figure you’d want folks talkin’. Didn’t want to make nothin’ harder than it already is.”

  Luann stepped closer, boots stirrin’ dust at the toes of his. “Let me make somethin’ clear, Flynn... or whatever name you wore before you ended up in this broken world. I don’t give a damn what folks think. And I sure as hell don’t regret what happened.”

  Flynn met her eyes then, and they were green as spring grass and twice as stubborn. She wasn’t angry. She was resolute.

  “You’re a drifter. I see that clear,” she said, voice softenin’ now, like wind in a wheatfield. “You’ve got that far-off look. Like you’ve always got one boot in the stirrup. And I ain’t tryin’ to fence you in. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. And maybe I don’t.”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it. Words didn’t come easy when his heart was twistin’ up like barbed wire. She wasn’t just talkin’ about last night. She was plantin’ somethin’ deeper. A seed.

  “I just needed you to know,” she said, stepping back now, but not far. “I ain’t askin’ for a promise. But I aim to ride with you. Not behind you. Not in your shadow.”

  Flynn looked at her, really looked, and something inside him settled. She was more than a rancher’s daughter. More than a night of comfort in a hard world. She was a force. And maybe—just maybe—he needed her more than he’d ever admit.

  “I can’t promise much,” he said, voice low and dry. “But if this trail leads to hell, and we’re both ridin’ it, I swear to God I’ll see you through to the other side.”

  Luann gave a half-smile, not quite triumphant, but close. “That’ll do, gunslinger. That’ll do.”

  She turned and walked off without another word, like she knew the conversation was over. Flynn stood there a moment longer, thumb brushin’ the edge of his holster, heart thumpin’ like a distant war drum.

  And then the system chimed.

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  [SYSTEM NOTICE]

  > Quest Bound: **Shepherd of the Lost**

  >

  > You have chosen not just a trail, but a burden.

  > To lead is to carry the weight of others' hopes.

  >

  > Objective: Deliver the people of Paradise Valley to the town of Hope.

  > Required: At least 70% must survive. **Luann Weston must survive.**

  >

  > Dangers Ahead: The Shadelands stir. Twisted terrain. Forgotten gods. Shadows hungry for memory.

  >

  > Reward: A weapon lost to time.

  > Additional Reward: Deeper attunement to the D?o of the Gun.

  >

  > *You have taken a vow without words, gunslinger.*

  > *She walks beside you now—not as burden, but as bond.*

  >

  > Status: **Irrevocably Accepted**

  

  Flynn exhaled through his nose and tipped his hat forward. The road ahead was gonna be hell. But it was his hell now. And he wouldn’t ride it alone.