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Lone Mine was a place where your journey stopped they said. Where wealth lay within the ground for all men. But the stories neglected to mention the heat and the dust.

There was dust everywhere, a constant aggravation, even on the body. Blood still sluggishly oozed from the gun shot wound, yet the man was most definitely dead. The Sheriff puffed on his cigar before rubbing it out on his tin star. His lined face was aged more than his forty years from the sun and drink. He pocketed the cigar for later. His knees creaked as he knelt by the body. His dirty handkerchief was used to pilfer the body. What little of value found itself pocketed by the law.

Once he was done the Sheriff stood back up and motioned to his deputy to come closer. The tall beanpole spat a wad of chewing tobacco before closing the distance.

"Ya." The deputy said.

The Sheriff nodded to the body. "Call the body snatcher. Bloke's dead." 

The Deputy's head bobbed. Roger was always happy to please. "Ya S'riff." He scuttled off, leaving the Sheriff to look over the nervous townsmen. The screams of the Baker's wife had drawn quite a crowd. Hawkins had to force his way through the crowd to even see the body. Now everyone waited to see what the Sheriff would do. He took in a deep breath. The air smelled of horse, smoke and fear.

Nervous looks were cast towards the mine. Hawkins knew they were afraid of the man, the Mine owner. Money flowed from the mine to the town. Without the mine the town would shrivel up and die like a weed baked too long in the sun. The haze made their faces move almost comically. 

"Bugger off." The Sheriff ground out at the crowd. Everyone scattered to a safer distance. A few drifted back to the saloon, disappointed there would be no show that afternoon. He lifted his hat and mopped the sweat off his bald head. He squinted at the sun then placed the hat back down on his crown. 

Eyes followed the Sheriff as he strode back to his office. Whispers followed in his wake. The dead man, they hissed, knew something. He had come West on a story. And he had found one. Then it killed him. When the Sheriff vanished from view all the eyes turned back to the Mine. Stories here were dangerous. They were better left unwritten.