Logan Denton stood in place calmly, his Resolve burning at a low smolder. He lit up his fourth of five cigars, placing the case back into a coat pocket. Darkness had fallen over the mountain, moonlight dancing between the shadows of the trees. The scene brought him peace. He could not sense the little Resolve signatures of the boys.

  He sighed, “I wonder if they up and gave up.”

  The sound of leaves swiping along the ground peaked his interest, almost too late. A boot swept the ground at his feet, threatening to knock him down. He made a little hop, and was simultaneously caught by a right hook as John came around from a nearby bush. The complexity of the attack forced him off balance, but he focused on the cigar in his mouth, ensuring it would not be swiped.

  Logan pushed off his planted leg and made a sliding move backwards, moving out of the attack. His watchcoat fluttered at the sudden movement. Peering from under his hat brim, he failed to hide a smile.

  “Two Diamonds, stifling their Resolve to perform an aggressive surprise attack. I gotta say-” He was cut off as a Critical Moment resounded through his mind. Calvin was about to go for the cigar in his lips. He spit the cigar up into the air, whipping around to avoid the attack.

  Calvin didn’t go for the cigar, instead sweeping at his legs. Fooled by the Resolve feint, Logan’s feet were forced out from under him. As he tumbled down both Buster and John leapt for his coat. The cigar was still in the air, so Logan felt he could absorb whatever attempt this was. He grabbed Buster and slammed him into John, whipping around to his feet. Calvin stood in front of him now, fists raised and ready. The other two groaned and wheezed on the ground.

  Logan once again caught his cigar and brought it to his lips. “Just like a Club, learning not one but two techniques in Resolve deceit within hours. It’s almost a shame to flunk you.” He drew in deep, “But, ya know, it’s not enough to learn a few tricks.”

  “How about this one?” John asked. He held the cigar case in his hand.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Logan blinked, eyeballing the shiny case. He patted himself down to check his coat pockets. Empty. He was in shock. Feeling defeated, he leveled his gaze to the boys again.

  “Still gonna flunk us?” John panted. “We got a cigar, just not the one you thought.”

  Logan was silent for a moment, puffing smoke. He let out a chuckle, his shock dissolving into pride. “I’ll be damned. You pass. Welcome to Team Bootknife.”

  ^^^

  Sleep hit Calvin like a freight train, carrying him off into a recurring dream. The young Gun found himself back on an island in the Caribbean Sea, a place which by his own estimation he had never been outside of his dreams. The tropical climate felt familiar, the warm heat and humidity reminding him of the St. John’s River. It was more than that for him, however. The cool sea breeze on his skin, the calling of gulls, and the gentle rustling of palm fronds in the wind; these all brought a fuzzy nostalgia to his gut. He could never place it fully, but some part of him believed he had been here before.

  Warm, fine sand shifted under his pants as he sat in the dancing shade of the palms. Calvin stared out to the boundless horizon, watching blues meet in a magnificent straight line which cut this entire dreamscape in half. The horizon held ancient questions and answers, far away places, and an exciting future.

  The stillness of this tropical paradise brought that familiar feeling to his throat, the feeling of home. He was not alone in his home, however.

  A crawling sensation made the hairs on his neck stand up. Calvin felt eyes on him, breaking the serenity of solitude. A force drew his attention to the left, toward the Western shore. A wave of anxiety stole the dreaming Six-Gun’s breath as he found the object of his anxiety. The sickening smell of sulfur invaded the saltiness of the ocean breeze.

  A man stood in between two palms, his figure black as night. The light of the tropical sun had no effect on him, he was a void in the otherwise idyllic island scene. He was very tall, and his hat was the wide brimmed article of Grady’s Posse. His profile twisted the image of the noble gunslinger-sorcerer in his mind to wicked ends. Two burning yellow eyes, embers in the blackness, met his gaze in silent study.

  Dread poured over Calvin as he felt himself stir from sleep. He sat up in his bed, drenched in sweat. Catching his breath, Calvin let the anxiety fade. The pounding in his chest leveled out at a more comfortable level as he prepared to lay back down.

  The young Gun did not notice the light smearing of coal dust on the corner of his forehead.