Chapter 4: A Dust Storm

A few weeks passed, and the dry wind of the desert began to chill at night. Barok had seen the terrain change—more hills, a few scattered rivers, and old, weather-beaten homesteads that looked like they had been abandoned long ago.

They were crossing the heart of the western frontier, far from the cities, where people turned to dust and bones just as easily as they turned to gold.

They had made a name for themselves as Black Dust, the ragtag duo who came into town with nothing but guns and quick wits, and always left with more than they arrived with.

Sometimes it was cash, other times it was influence, and sometimes—though rarely—it was nothing more than a trail of angry men with a vengeance on their heels.

Today was no different.

They rode toward a small settlement called Duskhaven, a place that hadn't yet caught the attention of major lawmen but was starting to smell like trouble. The local saloon was known for illegal card games and drinking contests that could end in bloodshed. Word had it that Jack Rust, a notorious outlaw and part-time gunfighter, was holed up there with a handful of his men.

As they approached, Bastian caught sight of a weathered sign hanging over the saloon's front door: The Golden Warrant. He smirked.

"I've got a feeling we're going to enjoy this one," Bastian said, yellow eyes gleaming with the thrill of the unknown. He gave his horse a gentle nudge, urging it toward the saloon.

Barok, ever cautious, followed behind at a more deliberate pace. "Don't get too cocky, Bastian. We don't know what's waiting inside."

"That's the fun part," Bastian replied, tipping his hat back. "You stick to the strategy, Barok, and I'll stick to the fun."

They dismounted just outside the saloon and walked in, their boots striking the wooden floor with purpose. The low murmur of conversation stopped as soon as they entered, eyes drawn to the strangers in the room. A few rough-looking men leaned against the bar, while others played cards at the tables. Behind the bar, a burly man with a thick mustache gave them a hard look before nodding toward the back of the room.

Jack Rust was there, just as the rumors had said. He sat at a table, surrounded by three of his men, a bottle of whiskey in hand. Rust was a man with a reputation for cold calculation and even colder eyes. His revolver was resting on the table in front of him, its ivory grip worn smooth by countless use.

Bastian, ever the gambler, couldn't resist a smile. "Well, well... looks like we've found ourselves a game."

Barok shot him a warning glance but said nothing. They'd come for information, not a confrontation. At least, not yet.

As they made their way toward a table, the men at the card game eyed them with suspicion, but Jack Rust raised a hand to stop them.

"I don't know what kind of show you two are putting on," Rust said, his voice gravelly, "but this town's got enough trouble without you bringing your circus act to the table."

Bastian smirked, his hand already reaching for his deck of cards. "Trouble's exactly why we're here," he replied smoothly. "But don't worry, we won't cause a scene. Not unless you force us to."

Rust eyed him, then glanced at Barok, who stood silently, arms crossed. After a long moment, Rust nodded toward the seat opposite him. "Sit. But don't think you're going to outplay me at my own game."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bastian said, taking the seat with an easy grin.

Barok remained standing, but his sharp eyes scanned the room, noticing the way the men had subtly shifted. A small group near the back had their hands close to their weapons, while one of Rust's men was eying Bastian's hands with obvious interest. It was a classic setup—try to get the newcomers on the defensive. But Barok's mind was always two steps ahead.

"You'll have to excuse my friend here," Bastian said, sliding the deck of cards onto the table. "He's just trying to figure out how he's going to beat the odds."

The atmosphere was tense, but Bastian's charm seemed to melt some of the hostility.

At least for now. Rust and his men exchanged glances, and then Rust leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"I don't usually play games with strangers," Rust said, "but I've got a soft spot for gamblers. What do you say to a hand of poker, then? Winner takes all."

Bastian's grin stretched.

"You're on."

Barok stayed silent but stepped slightly closer to the table, his mind running calculations. He wasn't worried about the game itself—it was just cards, after all.

But he was more concerned about what Rust's men might do once the stakes got high.

As the cards were dealt, Bastian's hands moved with uncanny precision. He wasn't just playing poker. He was manipulating the odds, twisting the deck with slight gestures and subtle glances. His gunmancy didn't just affect his bullets—it bled into his card tricks as well.

For a moment, it looked like Bastian had the game in hand. But just as he was about to make his move, there was a shift in the room.

Barok's sharp ears caught the faintest scrape of metal on leather—the unmistakable sound of a revolver being drawn.

He knew it was coming.

Before Rust's men could make their move, Barok's voice cut through the silence, low and steady. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said, his eyes flicking to the man who was reaching for his gun. The man hesitated, his fingers twitching over the handle of his revolver.

Rust's eyes narrowed. "What's your game, mister?"

Barok smiled, his voice cool and calculating. "Just a little reminder. You have more to lose than we do."