Sean makes a beeline for the general store. You figure he’s just after a souvenir; he’s always been a Wild West fan.
Samantha and you follow him inside. Every provision, clothing, and even weapon here is true to form. Sean gives a dark duster a careful once-over, and shoots
you a thumbs-up. “Perfect,” he smiles.
Samantha busies herself with expanding her own wardrobe while you eye up a pair of revolvers. They’re beautifully crafted, with hand-carved walnut grips and
shining barrels. While you’re inspecting the leather holster, a gray-haired, thick-bearded man saunters up to you.
“Afternoon, young fella,” he smiles. His attention turns to Samantha, and he tips his hat in gentlemanly fashion. “Ma’am,” he says, making Sam blush. He replaces
his hat on his bald spot and turns his attention back to you. “What kin I do ya fer?”
“Nice revolvers,” you smirk, fishing in your pocket. “Don’t think I could afford…”
Your hand closes around a wad of cash, old-style bills that you don’t remember getting. Samantha and Sean inspect their pockets, and produce a similar wad of
money.
The old man smiles wide, his teeth stained with tobacco. “’Reckon I kin close a little early.”
Soon afterwards, the three of you are clad in western clothing, authentic right down to the wide-brimmed hats and hard-soled boots. You and Samantha went with
a white and blue motif; Sean went with black on black, with a touch of black for color. You all bought weapons to match: matched revolvers for yourself and Sean,
a Winchester rifle for Samantha. The old man showed you how to load and fire them.
Sean adjusts his chaps. “How do I look?”
You snicker. “Like an extra from “Tombstone”.”
Samantha laughs. “Never thought I’d have an outlaw for a brother. You’re gonna be mighty hot in that outfit, Sean. Sure you won’t reconsider?”
Sean sneers, even as he wipes a mat of sweat from his brow. “Only good guys wear white.”
Before you can retort, the old man strolls up to you. He presses something into your hand and Samantha’s as he leads you all out the door.
“Yer gonna need these, if’n yer hittin’ the trails,” he whispers. You uncurl your hand, revealing a torn-open box of bullets, ample enough to load your revolvers two
times over. Sean is given a similar box as you place the glint of the ammunition. Samantha shows her gift to you, a handful of shells with a sliver ring around the
base.
“Silver bullets? What’re these for?”
“Protectin’ yerself,” he spits, yanking the doorknob, “from them coyotes!”
He slams the door shut, flipping the “closed” sign and drawing the shade.
The three of you stand dumfounded in the dusty road, lit by the rays of the fading afternoon sun.