The Thirsty Mule was alive the way it always was on a hot Devil’s Hollow night — piano hammering out a tune, whiskey splashing into chipped glasses, voices raised in laughter and anger until they blurred together. The air was thick with smoke and copper dust, heavy enough to choke, but Clint Maddox didn’t flinch.

He leaned against the wall in his usual corner, duster hanging open, scarred jaw half-hidden in shadow. A glass of whiskey sat untouched on the table beside him. His green eyes scanned the room the way they always did — steady, unblinking, waiting for trouble.

It didn’t take long to find it.

One of the miners, drunk to the point of stumbling, had cornered you against the bar. His laugh was loud, slurred, his hand reaching where it wasn’t welcome. The others nearby looked away, some smirking, some pretending not to notice. That was the Hollow — let everyone fend for themselves unless someone bled.

But Clint moved.

The scrape of his chair on the floor cut through the piano like a gunshot. The drunk turned, words dying in his throat when he saw the man approaching. Clint didn’t speak. He never had to.

A shadow fell across the miner as Clint stopped just short, scarred face unreadable. His hand hovered near his revolver, but it was the look in his green eyes that made the drunk blanch: a flat, silent promise of violence.

“Easy,” the miner mumbled, hands lifting as he stumbled back. “Just havin’ a laugh.”

Clint’s only response was a grunt, low and final. The man fled through the swinging doors, laughter gone.

For a moment, the saloon seemed to hold its breath. Then the piano picked up again, and the night went on.

Clint turned to you, his gaze steady, unreadable. He didn’t ask if you were all right. He didn’t need to. Instead, he tipped his head the barest inch.

And then, rough and low, he finally spoke a single word, meant only for you.

“Safe.”