Zeke didn't sleep that night. Not that he could, even if he'd wanted to.
He'd found a shallow hollow in the side of a rocky rise, enough to get him and Dusty out of the wind—or whatever passed for wind in this strange, silent place—but every time he closed his eyes, he saw those horned coyotes again. The sparks from his bullets. The way they'd moved without sound.
When the second sun dipped below the horizon, the darkness had been complete. No moon, no stars, just black stretching in every direction until the red sun returned hours later, staining the grass a dull crimson.
Zeke's hands were stiff on the reins when he rode out at dawn. He didn't know where he was going. Truth was, he just didn't want to stay still.
The land rolled out in low hills and wide valleys. The grass changed colors as the suns rose—silver in the white sun's light, gold in the red's. It was beautiful in a way that made his gut tighten. Beautiful, but wrong.
By midday, he saw it.
Smoke. Thin and gray against the horizon.
His first thought was fire. His second was people.
"Let's go see if they speak English, huh, girl?" he murmured to Dusty, nudging her into a canter.
The closer they got, the more detail he could make out—fields of some kind of tall, broad-leafed crop; narrow dirt paths cutting between them; and at the heart of it all, a cluster of buildings.
The architecture stopped him cold.
Stone walls, timber frames, thatched roofs. A couple of larger structures with steep, gabled roofs and wooden beams so old they'd blackened with age. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the sound of hammering carried faintly on the air.
Zeke felt like he'd ridden straight into a history book.
Dusty slowed as they approached the outskirts. Zeke didn't blame her—there was movement now, figures in simple linen shirts and wool skirts, their heads bent over baskets, buckets, tools.
And every one of them froze when they saw him.
The first was a woman drawing water from a well. She stopped, bucket still halfway up the rope, her eyes going wide. The man beside her grabbed her arm and pulled her back, muttering something sharp in a language Zeke didn't recognize.
He kept riding.
Two boys stopped chasing a wooden hoop and stared. One bolted inside a nearby house. The other just stood there, mouth open, until an older man barked at him from across the way.
Zeke's hat, the dust-stained duster, the Colt at his hip—he could see it in their eyes. These people had never seen anything like him.
Or maybe they had. And maybe that was the problem.
By the time he reached the center of the village, there were at least a dozen pairs of eyes on him. Conversations had stopped. The air felt thick again—not the same silence as the grasslands, but a stillness made of human fear.
He reined in near what looked like the market square—three open stalls, each stocked with goods that wouldn't have looked out of place in the 14th century. Bread, dried fish, bundles of herbs.
"Afternoon," Zeke said, tipping his hat. It was a stupid thing to do, but old habits died hard.
Nobody answered.
The nearest man—bald head, leather apron—took one look at Zeke's revolver and made a sign with his fingers, tracing it in the air like a warding charm. Then he spat on the ground.
"Alright," Zeke muttered under his breath. "Guess English is out."
A little girl peeked from behind a stack of firewood, staring at his boots. Zeke gave her the smallest smile he could manage. Her eyes widened, and she bolted inside a nearby doorway.
It was the whispers that got him next. Low, rapid words passed from one villager to the next. He couldn't understand a damn thing, but the tone was clear—fear, edged with suspicion.
He dismounted slowly, keeping his hands where everyone could see them.
"Just lookin' for some water," he said. "Maybe a little food. I ain't here to cause trouble."
The leather-apron man took a step back. An old woman hissed something and clutched a pendant around her neck.
Zeke sighed. This was getting him nowhere.
He led Dusty toward the well. A few villagers backed away, but one didn't move—a wiry man in a dark tunic, eyes sharp and narrow. He said something to Zeke, voice hard.
"Don't suppose you got that in Spanish?" Zeke asked.
The man's gaze flicked to the revolver. He said another word, louder this time.
Zeke shook his head. "This? Just a sidearm. Nothin' to—"
The man cut him off with a bark of something harsh, pointing at the gun and then at the ground.
Zeke didn't like his tone. He liked the way the others were closing in even less.
"Alright," he said softly. "Think we're about done here."
He stepped back toward Dusty.
That's when it happened.
A sharp, metallic clang rang out from somewhere above.
Zeke turned in time to see the bell tower—a squat, wooden structure at the far end of the square—swinging its great bronze tongue. The sound rolled over the village, loud and urgent.
Every villager froze. Then, like someone had thrown a switch, they scattered—ducking into houses, slamming shutters, pulling children indoors.
The only ones who didn't move were the wiry man, the leather-apron smith, and two more who stepped out of the shadows with the kind of precision that didn't belong to farmers.
Boots pounded on the dirt road.
Zeke looked up the main street and saw them.
A dozen men in rough leather armor, carrying long spears tipped with iron. A few had bows slung over their shoulders. Their faces were set, grim, and their eyes locked on him.
They fanned out in a practiced arc, boots grinding into the packed earth, spear points leveled at his chest.
Dusty snorted, side-stepping.
Zeke's hand hovered near the Colt, but he didn't draw. Not yet.
One of the archers nocked an arrow without breaking stride.
The wiry man said something sharp in that same strange language, gesturing to Zeke with a wide sweep of his arm.
The leader of the guards stepped forward, his armor scuffed but his bearing steady. He pointed the tip of his spear directly at Zeke's heart.
Zeke exhaled slowly.
"Well," he muttered, "guess I just met the welcome committee."