The Sheriff's Station

The ride into town is a blur of heat and rising bile. You leave Ella standing on the porch, both of you looking solemn. Glancing at the empty ranch makes your stomach sink, even lower at the thought of asking the deputy for help. By the time you hitch your horse outside the sheriff’s station, your shirt is plastered to your back and the dust has turned to a gritty paste in the creases of your skin.

The station is a low, squat building that smells of damp tobacco and sweat. You step inside, the spurs on your boots clinking on the warped floorboards. The main office is empty, and you look toward the private office at the back—the door is shut tight, the heavy oak vibrating with a rhythmic, wet thud.

You take a breath, clutching your hat against your thigh, and knock. "Deputy? It’s John. I’ve got a—"

You’re cut off by a sound that stops you in your tracks.

"...hnnng ...god ...ahh!"

You hear the muffled sounds of a woman moaning loudly from behind the door. Oh god, is the deputy beating someone back there? You think as you start to panic.

"..hhhhnnn-yeeessss"

But as you listen more in your frozen state, you realize these aren't moans of pain, they're those of pleasure. They are loud, raw and quite different from Ella’s soft—hushed whispers during your lovemaking but there was an unmistakeable similarity in tone.

A hot flush of embarrassment and unwanted arousal creeps up your neck, your knuckles still hovering near the wood. You knock again, harder, **** to drown out the noise. "Deputy! It’s urgent!"

The sounds vanish instantly. There is a frantic, heavy scuffling, the sound of a chair over-turning, and a low, hissed command you can't quite catch. You wait, the silence in the hallway stretching until, finally, the latch clicks, and the door swings open.

Darius looms in the doorway, and the sheer, oppressive presence of him hits you like a wild bull. He’s a massive man, his shoulders so broad they nearly brush the frame. His uniform is a mess—his shirt is untucked and barely buttoned.

He's looking down and fumbling with something, your eyes are drawn to what he's doing. You get a glimpse of flesh as he clumsily tucks his pecker into his pants removing any doubt of what was going on behind the door. The flesh in question looked noticeably bigger than yours—making your own stomach twist with a sudden, cold sense of inferiority.

He reeks. It’s a suffocating mix of stale rye, sharp woodsmoke, and a thick, cloying musk—the scent of a man who was in the midst of a frantic, dirty act. He stares at you, his face flushed a deep, angry crimson, his eyes bloodshot and predatory.

"What the hell do you want, Doe?" he barks, his voice a gravelly rasp. "You got a knack for bad timing, boy. I’m a busy man."

"Someone took the livestock," you say, forcing the words past the lump of disgust in your throat. "Horses, cows... everything. I think it might have been Grey Hawk or his lot."

The mention of the name causes the flush to drain from Darius’s face instantly. The predatory sneer vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sharp tension in his jaw. He doesn't smile. His eyes dart toward the window, scanning the sun-bleached street as if he expects to see a war party cresting the hill.

"Grey Hawk?" he repeats, his voice losing its bravado, turning thin and tight. He lets out a sharp, nervous breath that smells of bourbon. "If that ghost is out there, you’re lucky you still got a scalp. I ain't chasin' that man into the canyons for no reason, John. That’s a suicide mission. It’d take a lot of... persuasion... to get me to risk my neck on a trail like that."

"Fact is," he continues, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive rumble, "I got a lot on my plate. But... I suppose I could find the motivation to help a neighbor out. If that neighbor was willing to do me a favor in return. A show of... appreciation."

"You got a real pretty thing out there, John," he purrs, "All I'm asking is for some alone time with her." he says with a cruel smile.