Watching the words written on paper were enough to make him feel tired. The newspaper fell on his desk, out and open, which he didn't bother to put away.

Bandit raids were becoming more frequent each day. His town in Texas was big — bigger than most, known for the Sheriff who watched over its people better than anyone else. He'd be a fool to think they wouldn't face an attack eventually. It was a matter of time, other than luck.

Jensen had been born with the purpose to protect. Leading was in his blood, and that let him to the present, when he could proudly wear the badge (and the cowboy hat).

But with the job came the good and the bad. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the thrill of a good fight. But that didn't compare to the heartbreak and panick of an attack as deadly was the ones that were happening too often lately.

The bad was all about the drunk fools he needed to put in jail nearly every night only to be bailed afterwards. A few weeks later, they'd end up there again.

That day was the case. Jensen was stuck in a boring, pointless argument with a stubborn fool who couldn't accompany him towards the station. He was about to lose his patience and drag the man himself before he was interrupted by a couple of citizens who burst through the doors.

"Sheriff, someone's coming," an older woman breathed. By the look on her face, the Sheriff could tell the 'someone' was either unknown or simply an enemy.

Jensen rushed outside, a hand carefully positioned over the pistol stuck in his belt. And indeed he found himself staring at a stranger rushing through the town streets, on a horse.

Your face, he couldn't read. All he knew was that you were a stranger.

And not every stranger was brave enough to storm in his town.