The sun beat down mercilessly on Dead Man’s Gulch as Thomas Cole stepped out onto the dusty street. His weathered boots left deep impressions in the parched earth, each step deliberate and heavy with the weight of years gone by. At forty-five, Cole had hoped his days of dueling were behind him, but fate had other plans.

The town had changed since he’d last passed through. Dwarven metalworkers had set up shop next to the general store, their forge sending sparks dancing into the dry air. An elven herbalist now occupied the old doctor’s office, her window display filled with glowing potions and dried prairie sage. But the essential character remained the same – a frontier town clinging to existence on the edge of civilization.

Cole adjusted his gun belt, his fingers brushing against the worn grips of his twin revolvers. They were masterwork pieces, crafted by the legendary dwarf-smith Jonas Ironheart. Each bullet chamber was etched with spirit-runes that sang with each shot, allowing him to channel the raw energy of the frontier itself. He’d needed every advantage he could get in his younger days, when he’d ridden with the Rangers.

Those days were long past now. Or at least, they had been until this morning, when the letter arrived.

Meet me at high noon, old friend. We have unfinished business from the Shadow Creek massacre.

The signature at the bottom had made his blood run cold: Marcus Blackwood. His former partner in the Rangers, before Marcus had turned to blood magic and betrayed them all. Cole had thought him dead these past fifteen years, another victim of that terrible day when shadow-spirits had torn through their ranks, leaving only Cole alive to tell the tale.

The saloon doors creaked, and a group of orcs hurried inside, clearing the street. Even the normally boisterous trolls who worked the livery stable had gone quiet. Everyone in Dead Man’s Gulch knew what was coming. They could feel it in the air – that peculiar stillness that preceded violence, like the calm before a storm.

Cole took up his position in front of the bank, its freshly painted sign casting a sharp shadow in the midday sun. Across the street, a figure emerged from the shadows of the undertaker’s shop. Marcus Blackwood hadn’t aged well. His once-black hair had gone stark white, and his skin had the sickly pallor of one who dealt too often with dark magic. But his eyes – those were the same. Cold. Calculating. Hungry for power.

“It’s been a long time, Thomas,” Marcus called out, his voice carrying easily across the empty street. “Fifteen years, three months, and twelve days, to be exact.” He raised his right hand, showing off the spirit-brands that crawled up his arm like twisted vines. “I’ve learned a few new tricks since Shadow Creek.”

Cole’s hand hovered near his revolvers. “The Rangers taught us to protect people, Marcus. To use frontier magic to help tame the wild places. Not… whatever it is you’ve become.”

Marcus laughed, a hollow sound that echoed off the wooden buildings. “The Rangers were afraid of true power. Afraid of what the land could really give us, if we were willing to take it.” His branded hand began to glow with an unhealthy purple light. “Like the power I took from our fellow Rangers at Shadow Creek.”

“So it was you,” Cole said quietly. “You called those shadow-spirits. Led them right to us.”

“Had to make my start somewhere.” Marcus grinned, showing teeth that had been filed to points. “The spirits gave me their power, and all they wanted in return were a few souls. A fair trade, I’d say.”

Cole felt the familiar anger rising in his chest, but he pushed it down. Anger made you sloppy. Made you miss. And against someone like Marcus, one miss was all it would take.

“Those were good men and women, Marcus. They trusted you. We all did.”

“Trust is for the weak.” Marcus’s brands pulsed with dark energy. “Power is the only truth that matters out here on the frontier. And after today, I’ll have even more of it. Your death will feed my spirits well, old friend.”

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of sage and gunpowder. Cole could feel the land’s energy thrumming beneath his feet, raw and wild. It was nothing like the corrupt power Marcus wielded, but it was power nonetheless. The same power that had helped settlers and natives alike survive in these harsh lands. The power that had forged unlikely alliances between humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs as they built these frontier towns together.

Cole’s fingers brushed his revolvers again, feeling the spirit-runes warm to his touch. “Last chance to walk away, Marcus.”

“You know that’s not going to happen.” Marcus raised both hands now, purple energy crackling between them. “The shadow-spirits are hungry.”

Time seemed to slow. Cole could see everything with crystal clarity – the dust devils dancing at the edge of town, the nervous faces watching from windows, the way Marcus’s brands writhed like living things beneath his skin. He could feel the land’s power rising up through his boots, clean and pure, ready to be channeled through his spirit-etched guns.

Marcus moved first, shadow-spirits erupting from his hands with a sound like tearing silk. They rushed across the street, hungry mouths gaping, claws extended. But Cole had been waiting for this moment. He drew both revolvers in a single smooth motion, the runes blazing to life along their barrels.

His first shot caught the nearest shadow-spirit dead center, the bullet wreathed in golden light drawn straight from the land itself. The spirit exploded into dark mist. His second shot took another, and his third, and fourth, each bullet singing with raw frontier magic.

Marcus snarled, pouring more power into his assault. Shadow-spirits filled the street now, their otherworldly screams setting dogs howling all across town. Cole kept firing, kept moving, each shot precise and purposeful. He could feel the land responding to his need, filling his bullets with the same energy that made the prairie grass grow and the rivers flow.

Then his guns clicked empty.

Marcus’s laugh boomed across the street. “Finally! I’ve been waiting fifteen years for this moment, Thomas. The moment when—”

The sound of a shotgun blast cut him off. Cole had dropped one revolver and drawn the sawed-off shotgun from his back holster, its twin barrels gleaming with freshly activated runes. The blast caught Marcus full in the chest, not with lead shot, but with concentrated essence of the frontier itself – all the wild, untamed energy of the land, condensed into a single devastating burst.

Marcus flew backward, his shadow-spirits evaporating as his concentration broke. He hit the ground hard, his brands flickering and fading. When he tried to push himself up, Cole was already there, standing over him with his remaining revolver aimed straight at Marcus’s head.

“The frontier gives its power to those who respect it,” Cole said quietly. “Not to those who try to dominate it. That’s what you never understood.”

Marcus coughed, dark blood staining his lips. “You always were… a self-righteous bastard, Thomas.” His hands twitched, trying to summon more shadow-spirits, but nothing came. The land had rejected him.

Cole’s finger tightened on the trigger. One more shot would end it. Would give justice to all those who’d died at Shadow Creek. But as he stood there, he realized something – he was tired. Tired of death, tired of vengeance, tired of the weight of the past.

“I’m not going to kill you, Marcus,” he said finally. “But I am going to make sure you face justice for what you did.” From his pocket, he pulled out a spirit-brand suppressor – a simple iron ring etched with binding runes, standard Rangers equipment for dealing with rogue magic users.

Marcus’s eyes widened in fear for the first time. “No… you can’t—”

“I can. And I will.” Cole slipped the ring onto Marcus’s finger, watching as the brand-marks on his arms went dark and cold. “The Rangers will be here within the day. They’ll want to hear everything about Shadow Creek.”

As if on cue, the wind picked up again, carrying with it the distant sound of thundering hooves. Cole looked up to see dust clouds approaching from the east – the Rangers patrol he’d sent for yesterday, right after receiving Marcus’s letter. He’d known, even then, that he wouldn’t be able to kill his old partner. Not in cold blood. Not if he wanted to keep living with himself.

The town slowly came back to life around them. The orcs emerged from the saloon, the trolls returned to their work at the stables, and the dwarven smiths’ hammers began ringing again. An elven healer hurried over to bind Marcus’s wounds, though Cole noticed she wasn’t being particularly gentle about it.

Cole holstered his revolver and picked up its twin from where he’d dropped it. The spirit-runes were still warm to the touch, humming with the land’s power. He’d have to visit Jonas Ironheart soon to have them recharged. But for now, he had a report to make to the Rangers, and a long-delayed justice to set in motion.

As he walked away, he felt lighter somehow. The weight of Shadow Creek hadn’t lifted entirely – he suspected it never would – but it was easier to bear now. The frontier had given him what he needed, as it always had. Not revenge, but something better: the chance to prove that the principles he’d fought for all these years still meant something.

Behind him, the sun continued its slow arc across the sky, casting long shadows across Dead Man’s Gulch. Just another day on the frontier, where magic and gunsmoke mingled on the dusty streets, and justice sometimes wore spurs.

Feature Photo by Roberto Lee Cortes

After writing this short story, I thought more about it and have since expanded on it. It has gone on to become the first in what I hope will be a series of novels – the Frontier Mage series. If you are interested in a preview of that first book, Shadow’s Daughter, let me know!