Shoot that bandits
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Gunsmoke hangs thick over Tomstone’s sun-scorched streets, and the dust-choked horizon churns with the hoofbeats of cutthroats hellbent on burning your home to ash. Saddle up, partner—iron’s your hymn now. Those vermin ain’t riding in for whiskey and handshakes. They’re here to bleed the soul from this town, and the only tongue they speak is lead. Lock your six-shooter loaded, steady your aim, and show ’em why coyotes don’t hunt where wolves still roam. Every bullet you fire is a heartbeat for Tomstone. Miss, and the gallows claim your kin. Hit your mark, and the dawn’ll break quiet again, saved by the grit of the last soul stubborn enough to fight like hell for a patch of dirt worth dying for. The law’s buried six feet under out here. You’re the reckoning now.
