Right in the middle of town, two Apache girls were tied up, forced to kneel on the frozen ground. They were tall, strong, built with muscle, but now they were nothing more than battered bodies. Whip marks crisscrossed their backs. Dried blood smeared across their sunburned skin. Their weak breaths drifted into the bitter air as faint clouds of vapor.
"Starting at $200," the auctioneer shouted, his voice rough with greed. The crowd murmured. Some laughed. Some stared with hunger in their eyes. No one looked at them like they were human.
And then someone stepped into the square, a cloak dusted with snow, slow footsteps, but steady. No one knew where he came from. No one knew his name. They only knew he stopped. The nameless gunslinger.
His gaze passed over the two girls. No curiosity, no pity, just a glance. Then he walked closer. One of the girls slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were dry, emptied of tears, leaving behind nothing but raw despair.
Her lips trembled. Her voice so faint it almost disappeared into the wind. "I... I can keep you warm every night. Please take me out of here."
It was not an offer. It was the final plea of someone about to lose everything. The gunslinger stood still. No one knew what he was thinking. The auctioneer smirked.
"Hey, friend, if you want to buy, then place a bid. Otherwise—" "How much?" the gunslinger cut in. His voice low and cold. The entire square fell silent. A decision had just been made, and none of them understood that in just a few minutes, this place would no longer be as peaceful as it had been.
The auctioneer blinked, then let out a dry laugh, like he had just heard something ridiculous. "Both of them, $500," he said, dragging out his words, clearly testing him. Not even a frown. The gunslinger pulled out a pouch and tossed it onto the ground. The sharp clink of metal echoed through the silence.
"Count it." The entire square held its breath. The auctioneer crouched down and opened the pouch. His eyes lit up with greed when he saw the contents enough. And then some.
All right, then. Stop. The voice cut through. Colder than the winter wind. The crowd parted on its own.
A man stepped forward. Wrapped in a thick fur coat. A silver chain around his neck. Eyes sharp as blades. Corven Hail.
No one dared to laugh anymore. "This transaction is invalid," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving the gunslinger. Those two women are not ordinary merchandise. The gunslinger did not turn around. "They're sold."
Hail smirked. They are Apache, kin to their chief. I need them for a much larger arrangement. The air grew heavy. A few of the mayor's gunmen had already rested their hands on their weapons.