The door at the alley's far end banged open. A man staggered out, clutching his ribs, blood painting his shirt in dark streaks. He spotted Colt sitting on the pallets and froze, wild-eyed.
"You," he rasped, pointing with a trembling hand. "You set us up… didn't you? You little rat bastard."
Colt didn't move, just tipped his head like he was considering it.
"Friend," he drawled, voice calm behind the bandana, "if I had that kind of pull, I wouldn't be sittin' out here gettin' wet. I'd be upstairs, feet on a desk, smokin' a cigar I didn't pay for."
The man's face twisted, disbelief drowning out reason. He stumbled closer, rage making him forget his wounds.
"Don't lie to me, cowboy. I saw you hand it over—I saw you smilin'. This was your doin'!"
Colt sighed, standing slow, water dripping from the brim of his hat. One hand hovered near his holster.
"Now, I tried bein' neighborly," he said, soft as a lullaby. "But you came barkin' at the wrong tree."
The crook lunged, blood and spit flying—
Bang.
The report cracked through the rain, echoing down the alley. The man dropped like a sack of bricks, a dark bloom spreading fast across the concrete.
Colt twirled the revolver once, slid it back into its holster, and sat again on the pallets, calm as if nothing happened.
"Shame," he muttered, almost to himself. "Could've just walked away."
The alley went quiet again, save for the hiss of rain and the last ragged gurgle of the dying man. Colt let it settle, then pushed himself off the pallets with a low grunt.
He crouched beside the body, fingers moving quick and practiced. The man's wallet came free easy—worn leather, fat with crumpled bills. Colt flipped it open, thumbed through, and let out a low whistle.
"Well, hell," he murmured, slipping the notes into his coat. "Guess the night ain't a total loss."
He dropped the empty wallet back onto the man's chest, almost polite about it, then stood and tugged the bandana down from his face.
Rain washed across his cheekbones as he glanced once more toward the smashed-up windows, where shadows still thrashed and gunshots cracked inside. His grin was sharp and secretive.
"Always pays to stick around after the storm."
One Week Later.
The Crooked Stag wasn't much to look at—half-lit signs, cracked mirrors behind the bar, and a jukebox that only knew three songs, all of them sad. But it poured whiskey like water and asked no questions, which made it home enough for Colt.
He'd been there an hour, boots propped on a chair, laughing too loud with a pair of cardsharps who'd already lost half their stake to him. His hat was tipped back, duster slung lazy across the chair behind him, and his cheeks glowed with the burn of good liquor.
"Another round!" Colt called, slapping the table. "On me—least till the cards say otherwise."
The barkeep grunted but poured, sliding glasses down the bar. Colt caught his clean, spun it once, and downed it in a gulp that earned cheers from the two poor bastards across from him.
He leaned back, whistling low, eyes dancing with the flame of mischief. He looked like a boy king on a crooked throne, ruling the night with nothing but charm and whiskey.
That's when they came in.
Rico Basile's boys—three of them, mean-eyed, leather jackets sagging heavy with the weight of whatever they carried underneath. They didn't bother ordering a drink. They just shouldered their way through the crowd until they stood at the cowboy's table.
"Cowboy," one of them drawled, voice dripping contempt. "Boss wants a word. Out back."
The cowboy tipped his glass, eyes hazy but sharp under the brim. "Out back, huh? I got a table, I got a drink, and I got company prettier than the three of you put together." He waved the waitress closer with a wink. "Reckon I'm already spoken for tonight."
The second thug leaned in, voice low. "Don't play dumb. You either come quiet, or we drag you out."
The cowboy's laugh cut through the bar noise, a warm, taunting sound. He leaned back in his chair, boots kicking up on the table.
"Boys, I don't leave a good party 'less the cops are here or the bullets are flyin'. Since neither's happened yet…" He raised his whiskey in mock salute. "…reckon I'll stay right where I am."
The thug closest to him grabbed for the front of Colt's duster, trying to haul him up. Colt didn't move at first, just let the man tug and strain until the bar stools around them creaked under the shift.
Then the barkeep's voice cut sharp through the haze.
"Not in my damn bar. You start swingin', I'm callin' GCPD faster than you can spit."
That froze the air. Nobody in Gotham wanted cops sniffin' around—not the barkeep, not Rico's boys, and sure as hell not Colt.
Finally, Colt slid his boots off the table and stood, rolling his shoulders loose. He smoothed his duster like he was brushing dust off a suit.
"Well now," he drawled, voice lazy, eyes glinting under the hat. "A gentleman knows when a party's over."
He tapped the brim toward the waitress, wink still plastered on his face, then strolled toward the door—moving slow, making them wait, like he owned every second of their patience.
At the threshold, he paused and fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat. With deliberate calm, he struck a match against the frame, flame hissing in the rain outside.
"See, boys," he said around the cigarette as he lit it, smoke curling from his lips, "I wasn't much interested in your boss. But I was in need of some fresh air."
Rain pattered steady in the narrow alley, pooling in the cracks of the broken pavement. Neon from the bar sign bled against the wet brick, painting everything in red and blue like a crime scene waiting to happen.
Colt leaned against the wall, cigarette smoldering at the corner of his mouth, smoke mixing with the drizzle. The three thugs fanned out around him, their eyes sharp, hands never straying far from their jackets.
One of them pulled a phone from his pocket, screen glowing cold in the dark. He shoved it toward Colt.
"Boss wants a word."
Colt took the phone like it weighed nothing at all, tapping ash off the end of his smoke before lifting it to his ear.
"Evenin'," he drawled, voice lazy through the crackling line. "You caught me between drinks. Hope this is worth steppin' out into the rain."
A pause, then a voice rolled through the speaker—smooth, steady, carrying that mix of patience and threat only Gotham street bosses seemed to master.
"Cowboy. Funny thing about rain—it washes blood off the streets real easy. You and me, we need to clear somethin' up."
Colt's eyes narrowed, though his grin never wavered. "Well now, mister… I reckon you got my full attention."
The pause on the line stretched, then Rico chuckled low, but there was no humor in it.
"See, here's the thing, Cowboy. My people talk. Word is, when the cops stormed in, they didn't just stumble into my boys by luck. They knew what was waiting inside. They knew Nightwing was there."
Colt's eyes narrowed, though his grin didn't falter. He blew a ribbon of smoke at the rain.
"Nightwing, huh? Ain't that somethin'. Man moves quicker than lightning. Blink and he's gone."
Rico's voice sharpened.
"And you knew it. GCPD didn't get their info from a crystal ball. Batman's golden boy shows up at the exact right moment, my crew gets hauled in, and guess who GCPD says put 'em onto it?"
One of the thugs stepped closer, his jaw tight, hand hovering near his jacket. Colt didn't move, didn't blink.
Rico hissed through the line.
"They say it was you, Cowboy. Said you dropped a word, passed a name, whispered somethin' in the wrong ear. GCPD told Batman. Batman told Nightwing. And my men paid the price."
Colt's smile tilted sharper, but there was iron in his tone now.
"Well now, mister… that's a mighty fine tale. But the way I see it, if I was tight with Gotham's finest, I wouldn't be standin' in the rain, takin' calls from you."
Colt let the silence stretch, smoke curling from his cigarette, the glow lighting his grin.
"Now, Mister Rico, I think you been listenin' to too many alleyway fairy tales. If I had the ear of Gotham's boys in blue, you reckon I'd still be scratchin' out a livin' runnin' packages for strangers in bars? No, sir. I'd be on a beach somewhere, drink in each hand, not one in the rain."
The thugs traded glances, uneasy. Rico's chuckle came back low and slow through the speaker.
"You're quick with your tongue, Cowboy. I'll give you that. But charm don't empty a cellblock. My men are rottin' in Blackgate 'cause of that night. And out here, we got a way of keepin' books balanced."
Colt tapped ash from his cigarette, the ember burning bright. "Balance is a noble thing, Mister Rico. But it ain't me you oughta be settlin' with—it's that ghost in blue that wrecked your party."
For the first time, Rico's voice sharpened, the easy calm peeling back to show teeth.
"Don't you dare try and spin this on me, Cowboy. My men bled. My operation burned. And while you sit there smilin' through that damn accent, they're locked up like dogs in Blackgate."
The line hissed quiet for a beat, only the patter of rain and Colt's low exhale of smoke filling the gap.
Rico's voice came back, colder, clipped.
"Blood will be spilled. That's how Gotham works. My men paid in iron bars. You'll pay in flesh. Keep talkin' sweet, Cowboy—it don't change the math. Every word outta your mouth just makes me want it sooner."
Colt let the words hang there, rolling the cigarette to the other corner of his mouth. His grin flattened into something colder.
"Blood, huh?" he muttered, voice low as the rain. "Reckon you just picked whose it's gonna be."
In one smooth motion, the revolver was in his hand, gleaming under the neon spill. The alley cracked with thunder that wasn't thunder—three shots, three skulls snapped back before a finger ever twitched on a jacket zipper.
The thugs hit the pavement like sacks of wet grain, blood mixing with the rainwater in the gutter.
Colt exhaled smoke through the muzzle flash's ghost, twirling the pistol once before holstering it back under the duster. He brought the phone to his ear again, calm as if he'd only flicked ash.
"Well now, Mister Rico," he drawled, stepping over a body, "reckon I just made a down payment."
The line hissed with silence.
The line went dead, Rico leaving nothing but the faint buzz of static. Colt stared at the phone a moment longer before handing it back—then dropping it into the nearest puddle with a smirk.
Word would spread fast. Rico Basile wasn't the type to rant; he was the type to pay. And in Gotham, coin talked louder than threats. By sunrise, there'd be a price on the Cowboy's head. Not whispers, not alley gossip—a bounty.
Big enough to turn every lowlife, backroom hustler, and small-time trigger-man into a hunter.
Colt lit another cigarette, dragging deep, rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
"Well now," he muttered, smoke curling into the night. "Reckon it's time to see who's worth their salt."
The motel room was a box of peeling wallpaper and the faint stink of smoke ground deep into the carpet. Colt had dropped onto the bed around nine that morning, hat still tipped low, whiskey still burning in his gut. By the time his eyes cracked open, the weak light of evening was bleeding through the blinds.
He sat up slow, rubbing grit from his eyes, the bandana still around his neck like it never left him. The clock on the nightstand blinked 5:02 in dull red digits.
First thing he did was reach under the bed. Fingers brushed cold steel. His rifle. The old lasso coiled beside it. A satchel with cartridges, a couple sticks of dynamite wrapped in oil cloth, and the worn leather grip of his revolvers. All there.
Colt pulled the cigarette pack from his duster, struck a match, and let the flame kiss the paper. Smoke filled his lungs as he leaned back against the headboard, rifle resting across his lap.
Colt laid the rifle back on the bed and pushed himself up with a groan, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. The motel's bathroom was hardly more than a closet, cracked tiles and a mirror that hadn't seen Windex in a decade, but it did the job.
He peeled off his shirt and let the water run until the pipes coughed themselves warm. Steam filled the room, curling around the edges of the cracked door. He stepped under, the spray washing away rain, smoke, and the grime of the night before. For a long minute, he just stood there, head bowed, letting the water drum against him like a steady hand on his back.
When he was done, Colt wiped the fogged mirror with his palm, revealing his own reflection—eyes red-rimmed but sharp, the grin still lurking under it all. He brushed his teeth slow, methodical, spitting into the cracked sink like it owed him money. A comb ran through his hair, fingers tugging the curls back into place before the hat would hide it anyway.
Clean shirt, fresh bandana. He strapped the guns back on last, steel glinting in the harsh yellow light. That final ritual, like a priest with his vestments.
…
The Batcave was quiet but alive — servers humming, screens dripping with Gotham's whispers. Alfred stood straight at the Batcomputer, a faint frown on his face as he scrolled through a flagged data stream.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said carefully, adjusting his glasses. "Word is circulating through less savory channels. A bounty's been placed in the Narrows. Small in scale, but significant in attention."
Batman moved in, cape brushing stone as he leaned over the monitor. Damian was already there, one knee on the desk like a perched hawk.
"Who's the target?" Bruce asked.
Alfred tapped a key. The screen lit up with scattered chatter: Cowboy, stranger, gunslinger. No name, just a trail.
"A man styling himself something of a desperado," Alfred explained. "Armed, violent, and already leaving a trail of bodies. One Rico Basile has seen fit to make him everyone's problem."
Damian scoffed, tugging his gloves tight. "A fool with revolvers in a city of automatic weapons. Let him burn out. Gotham devours men like him before we ever have to step in."
Bruce's eyes narrowed, scanning. "He's already survived more than Basile expected. That means he's dangerous. To the wrong people — and to the right ones."
Alfred clasped his hands behind his back. "And dangerous men, left unchecked, tend to make themselves at home here, sir."
Damian's smirk sharpened. "So we hunt him?"
Batman's voice was flat steel. "We watch. If he's reckless, he'll draw out the worst of the city. If he's deliberate… we'll decide what he really is."
Alfred inclined his head. "Then I shall continue monitoring the channels. Though, if I may say… it's been some time since Gotham had a gunslinger. Almost quaint."
Damian rolled his eyes. "Quaint until he shoots the wrong person."
Bruce didn't answer — but his silence was enough.