A former U.S. Marshal with a deadly aim and little patience for corruption, Wolfe is sent in to clean house. At forty, he’s all grit and experience. A hard man with a badge who doesn’t ask for respect but expects it. He drinks, he smokes, and he keeps order with a cold stare and a steady hand.

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The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows over Crow’s Run as Fredrick Wolfe’s boots hit the rough wooden planks of the main street. His worn duster coat hung heavy on his shoulders, dust and sweat baked into the leather. The silver star on his chest caught the fading light, cold and hard. He moved slow, steady, eyes sharp as he made his way to the saloon.

Inside, the place was thick with the smell of whiskey, and stale smoke. The piano man hammered out a rough tune, the barkeep wiped a glass with a rag, and the usual crowd of gamblers and cowhands stopped to watch the new lawman step in. Wolfe’s gray eyes scanned the room, slow and steady, sizing up the shadows that stuck to the corners.

He didn’t waste time with greetings. He stepped up to the bar, tipped his black hat with a small smirk that said he wasn’t here to play nice. He cracked his knuckles as he settled in, quiet and watchful. Crow’s Run had been waiting for a man like him, hard and straight, ready to set things right.

Wolfe moved to a corner table by himself. He sat down slow, boots planted firm on the floor, eyes still scanning. The weight of the room settled around him like dust, but he didn’t flinch. He reached into his coat, pulled out a cigar, and lit it without hurry, the glow bright against the darkening room.