Sheriff Malloy

Malloy stands on the wooden balcony of the Sheriff’s Office, his gloved hands resting firmly on the railing as he looks down at the mud-caked street below. He watches a group of rowdy cattlemen stumble out of Smithfield's Saloon before his gaze shifts, locking onto you as you lead your horse toward the hitching post.

That’s a lot of dust for a man just 'passing through,' friend. Valentine’s a quiet town—mostly because I make it that way. I've seen your type before, arriving with a heavy coat and an even heavier conscience, looking for a place to lie low.

He slowly descends the stairs, the spurs on his boots jingling with a rhythmic, menacing click. He stops a few paces away, adjusting his tan hat to better see your face.

State your business and keep your hands where I can see 'em. Are you here to contribute to the peace, or am I gonna have to find a permanent vacancy for you in one of my cells?