Commander Edward Smith swung open the door of his office, the creaking hinges reminiscent of distant gunfire from the battles of the Civil War, fought only a few years before. The aroma of gun oil lingered in the air, an ever-present reminder of the frontier life in the 1870s. The flickering lamplight revealed Mister Blayke, seated at the sturdy wooden desk adorned with a tarnished brass oil lamp. His face, etched with weariness and fine lines of hardship, told tales of challenges faced on the frontier. Blayke's long white mustache and grey hair, held in place with pomade, gave him a distinctive appearance. His brown eyes shone with a quick wit, and experience radiated as if he had seen it all.
The raindrops clung to Smith's duster coat as he entered, tracing the outline of the Colt revolver holstered at his side – a faithful companion in times of uncertainty. The air in the room seemed to thicken with the unspoken weight of the past, and the ticking of a pocket watch on the desk served as a constant reminder that time marched on, but the scars of war lingered. Smith's misty blue eyes met Blayke's gaze beneath the brim of his Stetson hat. Brown hair framed a face that bore the hint of a man who may have indulged in a little too much last night.
"Why didn't you inform me about the murders, Smith?" Blayke's voice cut through the heavy air, resonating with the drawl of a man who had weathered more storms than Shadow’s End could count.
"They looked like accidents. Unfortunate events that occurred during the course of daily life here. There was no reason to believe they were anything more."
Blayke's expression tightened, revealing the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. The oil lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls adorned with a few wanted posters, remnants of a time when justice was meted out by the barrel of a Colt .45. Before Smith could offer a more elaborate explanation, Blayke dropped the real bombshell. "Cord joined me. He's out at the crossing, investigating what happened this morning."
Dread settled over Smith like a thundercloud. The ticking of the pocket watch seemed to synchronize with the rhythmic drumming of rain outside, marking the passage of time in a land caught between the echoes of the past and the uncertainties of an unwritten future.
"Why Cord?" Smith's voice, laced with frustration, cut through the ominous air. "Why did the council send him?"
Blayke, weariness etched on his face, responded with a heavy sigh, "I don't know, Smith. It doesn't matter now. He's here. Tell me rather how long this has been happening?"
A flicker of realization passed through Smith's eyes. "Did Marshall Haynes send him?"
Blayke hesitated, neither confirming nor denying. "The murders, Smith, how long? And is there any connection between the victims?"
Smith's expression hardened as he convinced himself that the Council's enigmatic decision was somehow orchestrated by the man he once considered a father figure.
"Why can't Haynes let the past be the past?"
Blayke, sensing Smith teetering on the edge of despair, burst out, "Smith, damn it! Focus! We've got to solve these murders before Cord decides to take matters into his own hands. Wallowing in guilt won't change the past. We've got to deal with the present."
Blayke's words sliced through the air like a sharpened blade, leaving an unmistakable edge that pressed upon Smith. The oppressive atmosphere loomed, thickening with each syllable, as if the room itself were conspiring against him. The weight of guilt seized Smith. His inner demons clawed at the edges of his composure, but in the midst of the tempest, Blayke's unyielding determination became a lifeline.
"No, no connection between them." Smith slowly regained his confidence. "They're random townsfolk."
Blayke, persistent in his quest for information, took a deep breath, contemplating his next question carefully. "What about the feathers? I've heard whispers of feathers found with blood at the scenes."
Smith sighed, a weariness in his eyes. "It's true, some feathers were found. But I wouldn't jump to conclusions. We can't be blaming Indians without solid evidence."
Blayke nodded, noting Smith's commitment to principles and fairness. "And the curse? Voices with influence on the council claim Shadow’s End is cursed."
Smith scoffed, a bitter smile forming on his lips. "That's just a folk story, Blayke. A tale to keep the children in line. There's no curse here, just people trying to survive."
As the exchange between Smith and Blayke lingered in the dimly lit office, an abrupt, ominous knock echoed through the room, shattering the fragile sanctuary of secrets. The door creaked open, and both men tensed, fearing the intrusive entrance belonged to Cord, ushering in the imminent threat of the unknown.