The Ghost of Red Rock

By Choose An Ending - Interactive

Garrett Thorne thought he had left the Arizona Territory—and his past as a Pinkerton agent—buried in the dust. When a bounty poster for The Meridian Killer crosses his path, the reward is too large to ignore, and the insignia stamped at the bottom is one he hoped never to see again: the closed iron circle of a secret syndicate that once destroyed his life.

Drawn back to the harsh mesas and desperate border towns, Garrett follows a trail of coded ledgers, corrupt lawmen, and blood-soaked secrets that could decide who controls the Territory's silver trade. Every step forward forces him to confront old ghosts and new betrayals.

This is an interactive Western, where your decisions steer the story. Will you drive Garrett toward cold-blooded revenge, ruthless profit, or a dangerous kind of justice that might redeem him at last? Each choice opens new paths, alliances, and consequences in a land where mercy is rare and reputation is everything.

Saddle up, load your Colt, and decide what kind of legend Garrett Thorne will become.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Choose An Ending - Interactive
• Release date: Dec 6, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232908799

Book preview

Scene 1

The dust of the Arizona Territory clung to the inside of Garrett Thorne's throat like regret, a familiar, bitter taste that had become his constant companion over the years. He sat perched high above the settlement of Two Pines, the brittle afternoon sun baking the mesa stone beneath him until it radiated heat through his worn leather boots. Below, the ramshackle settlement was barely visible through the heat haze, a collection of forgotten buildings and desperate people clinging to survival in this unforgiving land. The former Pinkerton agent had been tracking Jedediah Holt, a low-level courier with nervous hands and a guilty conscience, for three long days across terrain that would break lesser men.

Holt was not the bounty that had drawn Garrett back to this godforsaken territory. The courier was merely a thread in a much larger tapestry of corruption and conspiracy. The man carried a key, a physical symbol of something far more dangerous than any single criminal enterprise. The official bounty poster for the so-called Meridian Killer had been massive, the reward far too generous for a lone highwayman operating in the desert. But it was the small, almost invisible symbol etched near the bottom of the seal that had truly called to Garrett, pulling him from the relative peace of his drifter's existence like a moth to a deadly flame. A closed iron circle, the sigil of a secretive cabal he thought he had buried along with his Pinkerton credentials and his former life.

The Iron Circle had orchestrated the infamous train robbery that had shattered everything Garrett believed in, the disaster that had ended his career and haunted his dreams for years. They had not stolen gold or currency from that train. Instead, they had taken a set of coded ledgers that contained secrets powerful enough to reshape the entire territorial government and seize control of the burgeoning silver trade. Garrett had been the lead agent on that case, and his failure to prevent the theft had cost innocent lives and destroyed his reputation. Now, the conspiracy had resurfaced, and he could feel the weight of unfinished business pressing down on his shoulders like a physical burden.

Through squinted eyes, Garrett watched Holt emerge from the saloon, shuffling through the main street toward a livery stable at the edge of town. The courier moved with the nervous energy of a man who knew he was being watched, constantly patting his breast pocket where the small, intricately carved iron lockbox key was certainly concealed. Garrett's hands rested on the worn grip of his customized Colt forty-five, steady despite the years of running and the accumulated weight of bitter memories. He had failed once before, letting his focus slip at a critical moment and allowing the conspiracy to retreat into the shadows while good men died. He would not fail again.

The shadows began to lengthen across the mesa, painting long, purple streaks across the arid landscape as the sun dipped toward the western horizon. This was the moment of decision, the fork in the road that would determine the course of everything that followed. Holt was walking toward the cover of the stable and the open desert beyond, a place where tracking would become significantly harder but where the noise and witnesses of the town would vanish entirely. Garrett needed that key, and he needed whatever information Holt was carrying, but he had to secure both without causing a bloody scene that would draw the attention of the local marshal or, far worse, the Iron Circle's enforcers who were undoubtedly watching from somewhere in the shadows.

He considered his approach with the analytical mind that his Pinkerton training had instilled in him years ago. A direct confrontation in the open street would ensure the key was secured before Holt could lose it or pass it to another contact. The courier was a coward at heart, the type of man who would break under pressure rather than fight. But such an approach carried risks of its own, the possibility of gunfire and the certainty of witnesses who might carry word to the wrong ears. Alternatively, shadowing Holt into the relative quiet of the stable could offer a chance for a non-lethal, covert interrogation, but it risked losing the man entirely if he made a break for it through the surrounding brush or had confederates waiting inside.

Garrett shifted his weight on the sun-baked stone, the leather of his gun belt creaking in the sudden silence. The sun dipped lower, and the first rays of orange light caught the dust kicked up by Holt's heavy boots as the courier approached the stable doors. He was a creature of the shadows now, Garrett reminded himself, but sometimes the only way to clear the darkness was to step directly into the light and face whatever waited there. The risk of the townsfolk seeing him was secondary to securing the key that might finally lead him to the ledgers and the men who had destroyed his life.

What would you do now?

1. Move swiftly to intercept Holt before he reaches the stable.

2. Shadow Holt into the stable using the fading light.

Choice 1

Choice 2

Scene 2

Coal smoke and nervous anticipation hung thick in the air of Redemption as I surveyed the town from my concealed position in a dusty, derelict boarding house. The journey to this moment had been long and dangerous, but I had arrived with advantages that months of careful investigation had secured. I possessed either the vault key, knowledge of the underground tunnels, or critical intelligence about the Iron Circle's operations, tools that would serve me well in the final confrontation now approaching with the inevitability of a desert sunset.

The town itself was buzzing with unusual activity that confirmed my intelligence about the impending transfer. Extra guards patrolled streets that normally saw only the occasional drunk stumbling between saloons. Coded communications passed between lookouts using lantern signals I had learned to interpret during my Pinkerton years. Most significantly, the Governor's personal security detail had arrived the previous day, elite gunmen whose presence announced that the conspiracy's leadership would soon gather to finalize their plans.

I had spent hours mapping my approach to the bank vault where the main ledgers were stored, refining every detail of my infiltration strategy until I could execute it with mechanical precision. The escape routes through the tunnels were committed to memory, offering multiple paths to safety if the operation went wrong. But a new variable had emerged in the form of an unexpected visitor who knocked softly on my door as the sun began its descent toward the western mountains.

The woman who entered called herself Maeve, a local saloon girl whose sharp mind and sharper ears had made her invaluable to anyone willing to pay for information in this town. I knew her reputation from previous visits to the territory, a survivor who walked the dangerous line between the law and those who broke it with equal skill. She claimed to have vital information about the Meridian Killer, a secret route to his private safe that even his closest associates did not know existed.

Maeve was a notorious opportunist whose loyalty extended only as far as the next payment, and trusting her was a gamble that could easily prove fatal. Her information might be accurate intelligence that would give me a decisive advantage, or it might be a carefully baited trap designed to lead me into an ambush from which there would be no escape. The Meridian Killer had proven himself a master of misdirection, and using an attractive informant to mislead his enemies would fit perfectly with his established methods.

But if Maeve spoke the truth, the private safe she described might contain the cipher key I needed to fully decode the ledgers, or perhaps a third set of documents that would provide irrefutable evidence of the Governor's personal involvement in the conspiracy. The potential reward of following her lead was enormous, the kind of intelligence coup that could transform the entire investigation. I had come to Redemption to secure evidence, and she was offering exactly that.

I looked at the careful plans I had drawn, the tunnels marked in red ink and the guard rotations noted in my precise handwriting. The strategy was sound, built on verified intelligence and years of experience. Abandoning it to follow a woman whose trustworthiness I could not confirm felt like exactly the kind of impulsive decision that had cost me everything during the train disaster. But sometimes the unexpected opportunity was also the right opportunity, and rigidly adhering to plans in a fluid situation had its own dangers.

The choice crystallized before me with uncomfortable clarity. I could stick strictly to my original infiltration plan, ignoring Maeve and her tempting offer to proceed along routes I had personally verified. This was the safe and predictable approach, maximizing my chances of surviving the night if not of achieving the decisive victory I craved. Or I could take the risk that her information was genuine and pursue the secret route she described, gambling everything on the possibility of securing evidence that would end the conspiracy forever.

Make a choice...

1. Proceed with the original vault infiltration plan.

2. Trust Maeve and pursue the secret route.

Choice 1

Choice 2

Scene 3

Memories of the ambush remained sharp and unwelcome, a spike of cold panic that refused to fade even as the desert heat pressed down on me like a physical weight. I pressed my back against the adobe wall of a deserted water station, the rough texture digging into my aching muscles through my sweat-soaked shirt. The Meridian Killer had slipped away like smoke in the chaos of our confrontation, but the encounter had left me with new information that might prove more valuable than capturing the man himself. Scattered papers and a cryptic, half-burned map now rested in my saddlebag, evidence that demanded careful analysis.

The documents I had recovered confirmed my worst fears about the scope of the conspiracy I was fighting. The Iron Circle's influence reached far higher than I had ever imagined, encompassing judges, territorial senators, and powerful railroad men who controlled the flow of commerce across the entire region. The partially destroyed map, though incomplete, hinted at a meeting point far to the north, a place referred to only as the Assembly where the conspirators planned to finalize their next major move against the territory's remaining independent interests. This gathering represented an opportunity to expose the entire network if I could reach it in time and with sufficient proof.

The cost of survival weighed heavily on my mind as I assessed my current situation with brutal honesty. My horse had been injured during the ambush, forcing me to travel on foot through terrain that punished every step. The lack of proper sleep over the past several days was wearing on my judgment, making the simplest decisions feel monumentally difficult. I knew I needed to bring this new information to someone who could use it effectively, someone with the resources and authority to act on what I had discovered, but my options were limited and each carried significant risks.

My immediate choices were geographically distinct and would lead me down very different paths. The first option led directly to the nearest telegraph office, a small outpost approximately twenty miles to the east where I could send a coded message to my old contact in the Territorial Marshal's office, a man named Sheriff Banning. This move carried obvious risks, as telegraph lines were notoriously monitored by those with enough money to pay the operators for