In the heart of a dusty town where the sun sets with a sigh and the moon rises with secrets, there stood an old saloon that whispered tales of the Wild West. This wasn’t just any saloon. It was the final resting place for stories untold, lives unlived, and mysteries unsolved. At the end of the bar, away from the raucous laughter and the clinking of glasses, stood a solemn monument: a stack of 11 old, worn skulls, each carrying the weight of its own history.

The barkeeper was the guardian of these stories. To any curious soul brave enough to ask, he would recount the tales of each skull, his voice a blend of reverence and sorrow. The first skull belonged to a notorious outlaw known for his quick draw, the second to a fearless sheriff who met his end in a duel at dawn. As the stories unfolded, the identities of the remaining skulls came to light: miners, cowboys, and even a wandering bard, each with a tale as rugged as the landscape they once roamed.