Bandits Mock a Drunken Rancher, Only to Learn He’s a Feared Outlaw in Disguise

Bandits Mock a Drunken Rancher, Only to Learn He’s a Feared Outlaw in Disguise
They call him Stumbling Sam, that worthless drunk who can barely stay on his horse and spends his days mumbling into whiskey bottles at the Crooked Nail Saloon. The Blackwater Gang mocks his trembling hands and slurred speech, treating him like another washed-up rancher drowning his failures in cheap bourbon. What they don't know is that those shaking hands once earned him the name "Shadow" McCullough, the deadliest gunslinger west of the Mississippi. What they don't realize is that every stumble hides fifteen years of tracking outlaws through the territory's deadliest terrain. And what they'll soon learn is that this grieving widower isn't here to raise cattle - he's here to hunt down the murderers who killed his wife and burned his ranch to ashes. They really should have asked around about those mysterious hangings down in Texas, because Samuel McCullough didn't quit killing - he's just gotten more selective about his targets.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the muddy main street as Sam McCullough slouched against the saloon's weathered post, his threadbare coat stained with spilled whiskey. To anyone watching, he was just another broken man trying to drink away his memories. The Blackwater boys had made a game of it lately, betting on how long he could stay upright, knocking the bottle from his hands just to watch him crawl after it. But beneath his unfocused gaze, Sam counted weapons, noted positions, mapped every detail with the precision that had once made him the territory's most feared lawman.
"Hey there, Stumbling Sam!" Billy "Quick-Draw" McGill called out, the youngest of the Blackwater crew strutting across the street with his new pearl-handled revolver prominently displayed. "Ain't it time for your afternoon tumble in the horse trough?"
Sam's hands shook as he lifted the bottle to his lips, but beneath the brim of his battered hat, his eyes tracked every movement with predatory focus. Three more Blackwater riders were positioning themselves along the street, same as they had back at his ranch six months ago when the night exploded in gunfire and flame. His fingers twitched, muscle memory recalling the weight of his custom Colt Peacemaker, now hidden beneath floorboards at his rented room above the general store.
"Leave him be, Billy." Martha Chen called from her laundry shop's doorway, her voice carrying an edge of concern. The Chinese woman had shown him kindness these past months, never questioning why a supposed drunk's clothes always smelled of gun oil beneath the whiskey. "Man's got enough troubles."