The last embers of the range war still glowed in Luke Corrigan’s mind as he spurred his mount down the winding trail. Dust-clogged valleys stretched behind him, punctuated by the smoking ruins of homesteads—silent testaments to a conflict that had finally died in blood. Corrigan, tall and barrel-chested, rode like death astride a roan mare, twin Colt .44s resting in polished holsters, a Springfield ’63 carbine stowed in a boot on his saddle.

Late afternoon light rendered the world in bleached reds, oranges and hard shadows; not yet four o’clock, but the sun already going down with the promise of a cold night.

He peered ahead: a cluster of low wooden buildings skirted a squat water tower and two hitching posts. A painted sign proclaimed, “Welcome to Sundown, Population 214.” No windmill turned, no gates creaked—just a single tumbleweed drifting across a boardwalk that smelled of sagebrush and stale whiskey. Corrigan’s lips curled into a grin as he rode into the almost deserted town.

Not a soul carried a visible firearm. In his experience, most towns either boasted armed guards or locked their doors tight. But here? Only a creaking porch rocker swung beneath a faded sign: “No Guns, No Violence, No Exceptions.”

He spurred his horse through dust and silence, dismounting with a practiced flip. The mare whinnied, stamping one front hoof. Corrigan eyed his reflection in the shop window—a gaunt face lined with soot, a pair of cold gray eyes that had watched too many men die. “Looks quiet,” he said softly. “Too quiet.” Yet a town this friendly, this unprotected, he thought was an invitation as he sauntered into John Baxter’s General Store.

A bell tinkled above the door. A gray-haired clerk, apron dusted with flour, glanced up from stacking tin cups. “Evenin’ to ye,” the man said cautiously. His voice was soft, as if he feared Corrigan’s reply.

“Afternoon,” Corrigan drawled, tilting his hat back. “Got feed for my mare?”

He stepped past the counter, fingers brushing the clerk’s fluttering pulse.

“And some hardtack, if you got it.”

The clerk’s eyes flicked to the holsters at Corrigan’s hips. He reached under the counter and scooped up a sack of corn. Corrigan tossed him a look that said challenge me but without a word. The clerk's hands were trembling. Corrigan saw him swallow, saw the man’s thumb tremble over a notch on the till.

Before the clerk could ring up the sale, Corrigan grabbed the sack and marched to the door. “That’ll do,” he said. No thanks, no smile. Outside, he hefted the corn sack over one shoulder. The clerk dared not follow.

Corrigan made towards the saloon two doors down. Through its swinging batwings, he heard laughter, the clink of glasses. A piano tinkled a jaunty tune. Corrigan stepped inside, and conversation hushed. The bartender—broad-shouldered, wiping a mug—paused. Patrons dropped their cards, chairs scraping. Four men eyed Corrigan.

He sauntered to the bar. “Whiskey,” he said. “And a stool.”

The barkeep slid over a shot. Corrigan downed it in a single gulp. He wiped foam from his lip. “Anybody here got anything to say?” He scanned the saloon. Faces turned away. “All right then.” He raised his voice. “I’m thinking of staying a while. Maybe running this town. You know, charge tolls for stilts across dusty streets. And every time you step out, you pay me.”

Silence answered. At that moment, a man in patched trousers rose from a nearby table. Corrigan tensed, hand drifting to the .44. The stranger shook his head. “I would not recommend that, mister,” he muttered.

Corrigan’s preternatural calm snapped. “You trying to tell me what I can do?”

He stood, towering over the table. The man paled and sank back into his seat. Corrigan delivered the whiskey glass to the tabletop with a sharp crack. Bitter shards glinted in the pool of amber.

“That’s right. None of you talk back. I’m the only gun in this town.” He gripped the bar rail and leaned in. “And if anyone tries to stop me, I’ll unload both barrels. Is that understood?”

No one spoke. The bartender’s knuckles whitened on the counter. Other patrons shuffled outside, leaving only Corrigan and the empty room.

He spent the next hour cruising the boardwalk, rifling through store drawers—stealing canned beans, a jar of molasses, a new hen to roast—then slunk into the hardware store. Corrigan stuffed valuables into pockets, striding out without a word.

By seven thirty, he had two fresh horses stolen from the stable, an armload of jewelry—snap bracelets, brooches, silver combs—and the keys to half the houses. In the livery stable, he struck one burly hand with the butt of his revolver when the man dared to protest.

“He’s gonna be here soon, the town boss,” someone muttered where the crowd hovered. Corrigan heard it, laughed—low and cruel.

Word of his depredations drifted back to the store’s rear room, where Martha Harland trembled over a cracked mirror. Her husband, Pete, had returned from the fields at sunset only to watch Corrigan loot their smokehouse while he lay wounded from one of Corrigan’s bullets. Corrigan walked back over to Pete in the yard. The gunman sneered, barrel touching Pete’s temple.

“Thought you’d stand up for your home?” He laughed, deaf to Pete’s pleading. BANG. Pete slumped, crimson pooling beneath him before the dust could even settle. Martha’s scream shattered the evening hush.

Corrigan marched her inside the house. She clutched at the doorframe, sobbing. He pushed her onto a threadbare quilt. Outside, curious onlookers gathered. No warning whistles, no rebel guns. Corrigan stripped Martha of her bodice; his appetite dripped in malice. She cried and cursed him, spat at his boots, but he silenced her with a hand clamped over her mouth.

The townsfolk dared not intervene. Corrigan finished and left her crumpled on the floor, stained with tears and disgrace. He waited in the doorway until she caught her breath, then spat. “No one’s coming to save you.”

He made for the saloon once more, eyes alight with triumph. At the door, he paused to address the empty street. “This town belongs to me! Sundown’s new sheriff! Any fool wants to challenge, do it now.” His voice swallowed the muted wind. No answer but the flutter of windblown tumbleweeds.

Inside, he ordered whiskey. When the bottle was dry, he kicked back the chairs. “Put it on my tab,” he told the barkeep, who dared not argue. Corrigan pried open the till and rifled out bills, coins, and a gold watch dangling from a ribbon. Satisfied, he hauled his chair to the middle of the dance floor and declared:

“I’ll stay tonight. Run this place until someone thinks they can haul my hide up to Denver’s jail. He laughed, a harsh bark. Outside, the afternoon sun slid toward the horizon. A coyote howled in the distance, then silence.

Moments later, a wiry man in a battered duster stepped onto the porch of the saloon. He held no weapon but fixed Corrigan with pale, luminous eyes. Corrigan studied him over the rim of his drink. The stranger removed a tarnished pocket watch and clicked it open.

He tapped the glass. “You’d do well to ride on before midnight,” he warned softly. “The real town boss returns tonight, and he’s no coward.”

Corrigan laughed, rattling ice in his glass. “I’ve killed men with worse warnings,” he said. “No genie in this desert can scare me off my pew.” He downed the whiskey and set the tumbler down with a thud. “Tell your boss: I’m staying.”

The stranger closed the watch, eyes darkening. “I tried to warn you.” He turned and vanished into the night.

Corrigan spat. “Coward,” he snarled. “Like the rest of this dump.”

Just before midnight, Corrigan picked up the whiskey bottle and settled into the chair he took outside the saloon. The town lay empty before him. The streetlights—just four lanterns on battered posts—flickered in the growing wind. Corrigan realized he hadn’t heard church bells or the whistle of the water tower gear. His pulse throbbed. Something wasn’t right.

A silhouette formed behind the town’s only hitching post: tall, broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back. A stranger yet somehow familiar stepped forward—drifting through the mist. Corrigan, hand on his holster, asked, “Who the hell are you?”

The figure stepped into lantern light. A black duster hung from broad shoulders; his hat brim concealed half his face. No drawl, no glint of steel—only eyes like heated coals.

“I’m what you get when you add up the fear and sin in this place,” he said softly. “I’ve waited long for a spirit so black to come home.”

Corrigan laughed, loud and mirthless. He straightened, hand creeping toward his Colt. “You’re dreaming. This town’s mine.” He flipped his hat back. “Draw if you’ve got the guts.”

The figure didn’t move. Beneath the brim, flesh peeled back, revealing bone that gleamed like ivory. The jacket collar burned with ember-red flame.

“You’re one of them,” the figure said. “Killed on Hardrick’s Ridge, winter’s edge. Thawed out in Hell’s courtyard. Now you will blaze forever along forgotten trails.”

Corrigan staggered back. “That can’t be. I’m alive—” He touched his chest. Under his shirt, his flesh cracked and parted, and he saw bone, charred and bleeding. A wave of agony swept him to his knees.

The figure removed his hat: where hair once was, scorched darkness. Horns curled back from his temples, blacker than midnight. Smoke drifted from nostrils. “Welcome home,” he whispered.

Corrigan tried to scream, but no sound emerged. He fumbled for his Colt, found only splinters in his grasp. The figure reached out, and the air hissed with a thousand whispers: every man Corrigan had killed, every wife he violated, everything he had thieved, Corrigan’s sins—rose in a chorus of shrill lament.

The devil’s grin widened. “You thought yourself supreme. A king among men. But Hell has different orders.” He curved a hand, and Corrigan’s wounds convulsed as pale maggots scuttled beneath scorched skin. Corrigan’s vision swam in a pool of red.

The devil leaned close. “Here, I am the real ruler.”

Corrigan tried to claw at the earth, begging for mercy, but found himself sinking into blackened dust. The lanterns flickered and died, plunging Sundown into absolute darkness. From the hills came the low moan of wind through canyons—the moan of damned souls.

The devil stood behind him, silent and resolute. Corrigan’s laughter—once a weapon—faded into a gurgle.

When dawn broke, Sundown’s boardwalk lay deserted. No horses, no riders, only footprints leading to fresh graves in the cemetery beyond town. Each marker—Spade-shaped headstones—bore names: John Baxter, Pete Harland, Martha Harland… and Luke Corrigan. The letters were scorched black.

And above the graveyard gate, wrought iron curling into two horns, the sign read simply:

“Hell’s Sundown Court”

Beneath it, in charred script:

All debts paid at midnight.