The Duststorm disaster

Now, gather 'round, all you eager listeners, and let me spin you a yarn about the day Sheriff Harlan Smith decided to play a game of cat and mouse with none other than the infamous Big Al Band. Picture this, my friends – a convoy, laden with more riches than a dragon's hoard, winding its way through the canyons, unaware that justice was about to descend upon them like a stampede of angry buffalo.
Now, Sheriff Harlan, that wily fox, had caught wind of Big Al's grand plan to relieve the convoy of its burdens. What does he do? Oh, he didn't just sit back and twiddle his thumbs. No sir! He rallied his deputies, strapped on his trusty six-shooter, and set the stage for a showdown that'd make the heavens themselves stop and watch.
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the trail, the convoy appeared, glistening like a mirage of untold wealth. And there, in the shadows, Sheriff Harlan's trap was sprung – a symphony of gunfire erupted, echoing through the canyons like the wrath of thunder gods. It was a shootout, my friends, that'd make even the rowdiest saloon brawls seem like a tea party.
Bullets flew, dust billowed, and the very ground trembled as lawmen and outlaws danced the dance of danger. Harlan, with the grit of a lone wolf, faced down Big Al and his band of ne'er-do-wells, each shot fired a thunderclap in the showdown of the century.
The tale of that exaggerated ambush, my friends, is etched into the very fabric of Sunlight County, spoken in hushed tones by the wind itself. Sheriff Harlan, they say, played puppeteer to the outlaws' misfortune that day, and the legend of the ambush grew with each telling, as if the West itself couldn't resist adding a touch of the fantastical to its own history.