wild-west-way

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Wounds

"Sometimes time heals old wounds, and sometimes it brings families back together."

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Frozen

A little more about Everest and Marshall, after the events of snow

Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.

Marshall deeply regretted saying that out loud.

His blue eyes locked onto hers, searching for any kind of reaction. He imagined that big husky slapping him across the snout and walking away without another word. He would’ve deserved it, had that strange little prophecy in his head come true. The Dalmatian wasn’t just clumsy on his paws—he often spoke before thinking. He wished Mr. Ryder (affectionately referred to by his surname, thanks to his incredible work around town) had invented a time machine to roll things back just a few seconds. That would’ve been enough.

He swallowed hard. His cheeks felt hot. Was he blushing? Maybe. If he were human, he could’ve blamed the whiskey, but the husky would know right away that he hadn’t touched a drop. He felt cornered, and the seconds dragged on painfully. He wished this fragile truce would break, that the newcomer would simply leave and spare him from further embarrassment. But instead…

She laughed.

“Not the first time I impressed someone with my size,” she said, and without fuss, she took a seat on the stools made especially for their kind, crossing one paw over the other. She wore a bracelet on one paw that the black-spotted dog immediately recognised—but chose not to focus on, at least for now.

“Comes in handy to keep those two dummies in check, the ones who came to bother you. I should’ve kept a better eye on 'em—my apologies.”

Marshall took a moment to recall what had even happened seconds ago. He forced his groggy brain to snap back into gear and return to reality before it was too late.

“Ah… Ah! You mean Mister Boomer and Miss G-Gasket,” he said with clear hesitation. His stammer was obvious. He cleared his throat and broke eye contact, searching for something to occupy his paws—eventually settling for fiddling with the badge hanging from his grey uniform.

“No need to worry. That wasn’t my first run-in with them, as you may have gathered, Miss… um…”

She placed her front paws together gracefully.

“Snow. Everest Snow. And you must be Mister Marshall, or so those two blockheads told me. Marshall… what else?”

“Just Marshall. Marshall the… Marshal…”

Marshall had to press his lips together to keep from laughing because of his own joke, trying to appear as the serious, respectable pup he was supposed to be. When he was around Rocky and Zuma, he didn’t care about appearances. Their mutual trust—built from the time they were just pups—allowed him to be himself. That trust was everything to him. It was why they could show him their tattoos without fear of consequences.

But outside that circle, the Dalmatian had to play a very different role. He crossed one leg over the other, his gaze fixed on the untouched shot of whiskey before him. He licked his lips, tempted to take a sip, but worried that his mind might betray him again halfway through and make him clumsy. He couldn’t afford to be clumsy in front of civilians. If not for his training, the pressure on his shoulders would’ve crushed him long ago.

"I locked them up in Country Road,” Marshall went on. “They tried to rob a bank, and the job didn’t go quite as planned. Lucky for them, they didn’t end up… well, you know…”

He made a circular gesture around his neck with one paw, mimicking a noose, choosing not to say the word aloud in a saloon full of people. Most of them were humans, but there could’ve been a pup or two listening. Some words hurt, even when they were true.

“All things considered, the judge was rather lenient with them.”

“Well, I’m grateful for that, because I need 'em for my work. The project Mister Cement offered me is one of the toughest I’ve ever taken on.” Everest said, her ears drooping as she lowered her gaze.

Marshall raised an eyebrow. Cement was how outsiders referred politely to Rubble. That the bulldog had another project underway didn’t surprise him—what did surprise him was hiring help from outside town. Usually, his own crew was enough to pull off whatever idea popped into that massive head of his. If he needed extra paws, then the idea had to be something big. Big enough that even five pups with pup-packs couldn’t finish it in a blink.

That wasn’t the real problem, though. The issue was how many projects Rubble ran at the same time. If the whole town had risen from the ground in just a few months, it was thanks to him and his ambitious plans.

“Rubble,” Marshall corrected.

“Sorry?” Everest seemed momentarily confused.

“I mean Rubble. We just call him ‘Mister Rubble’ here. We don’t use surnames much.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. And pedigree tags aren’t really a thing here either,” Everest said, shaking her left paw slightly so that her bracelet jingled.

“What’s that about? Was there a revolution or something?” she added jokingly.

She wasn’t the first pup to show that kind of attitude. He couldn’t blame them—it was part of a growing global trend. Pedigreed pups had guaranteed lineage, better jobs, and a spotless reputation. But he had tucked away his bracelet in a drawer the day he arrived in town, and hadn’t worn it again except in rare cases. Wearing it around Rocky felt like an insult—Rocky, who had never been allowed such a luxury—and it ran against everything Wild West Way stood for.

Where surnames held no worth.

For a moment, he hesitated to tell the truth. He had only just met Everest, and something inside him wanted to keep her around a bit longer, to get to know her better. He knew he wouldn’t get far from a single encounter, but the instinct was strong—he felt like Miss Snow was a promising beginning. Still, a political conversation like that could easily ruin what could’ve been the start of a lovely friendship. Some folks preferred to stay far away from “revolutionary” talk.

It had taken a long time for women to win the right to vote, and there were still people who thought that was nonsense.

But loyalty to his brother won out, just this once.

“All I’m saying is that surnames hold no meaning here. Noble titles mean even less. When someone arrives in this town, they basically start from scratch.”

And saying that, Marshall felt both relieved and awkward. He glanced away, his ears turning red with embarrassment. A strange tension settled between them.

Then he heard the wooden box Everest carried on her back unlatch. A small claw-like tool emerged from inside, gently removing the bracelet from her paw and storing it back into her pup-box, one of Ryder’s brilliant inventions that had made life easier for all the pups: The pup-boxes.

“In that case, that’s one burden off my back,” the husky said. The Dalmatian lifted his head slightly.

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? I hate that bracelet. Feels like wearing a sign that says ‘Look at me, I’m purebred, you’ll have the perfect family with me.’ My father’s always reminding me where I come from and I… I just want to live my life, without worrying about what’ll happen to my surname. Leaving Hope was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

She rested her chin on one paw, looking frustrated.

“He even hates my job—always saying it’s not proper for a lady. Like I’m some delicate little pup.”

No, you’re not, Marshall thought, fighting the urge to say it aloud.

He couldn’t deny it—he liked Everest. Not just her looks. Sure, she was attractive, but what had really drawn him in was her character. She didn’t tiptoe around anything. She wasn’t delicate. She knew what she wanted, and she stood her ground even when outnumbered.

Boomer and Gasket could’ve lunged at her by instinct—but they hadn’t. Somehow, Everest still came out more intimidating.

It wasn’t just her appearance or her personality. It was that aura—the one carried by pups who’d survived the harshest conditions. Miss Snow’s only “ladylike” feature was her youthful face, because she could probably knock out the toughest pup in town if she wanted.

And she was from Hope! A region in southern Canada, nearly inaccessible during winter. Life there was brutal during the cold times. Everest had clearly endured a lot—no wonder she had such strong legs. She’d probably crossed the region on foot more than once in some of the harshest weather imaginable.

And in that moment, he realized: he’d rather have her on his side.

“Well, construction’s tough work,” Marshall said, clearing his throat. His voice was starting to dry up, and the temptation of that drink was stronger than ever—but he resisted a bit longer.

“But Mister Rubble’s team has a lot of pups in it. Any idea which project he brought you in for? The Roxi racetrack? Katie’s vet clinic expansion? The Coral musical theatre?”

None of those names were final, of course—they were just easier to remember since they came from purebred pups with deep pockets.

“Mister Rubble’s a great friend, but honestly, I’ve lost track of everything going through his head these days.”

Rocky usually keeps that list, he thought about adding, but held his tongue. For some reason, he didn’t want to bring up another pup in this conversation—maybe to keep it just between them.

“None of those,” Everest said. “It’s not construction.”

She raised a pale paw to touch the tip of her wool hat, where a snowflake-shaped emblem shimmered faintly.

“It’s maintenance. Winter’s coming fast, and someone’s gotta keep the roads and rooftops clear of snow—so carriages, horses, and, well, us can get through.”

Winter. Marshall had completely forgotten that the year was drawing to a close. The town was growing quickly, people were moving in, and the workload of keeping the peace had tripled in no time.

Rocky’s dream of building a town where everyone was equal depended on constantly reminding people of that fact—and not a week passed without some racially charged fight in one building or another. So much paperwork and bureaucracy had made time pass like a runaway train, racing toward the end of the year… and with it, the first winter in Wild West Way.

If it had slipped his mind, it was only because his trust in Mister Rubble was absolute. The bulldog’s mind was always two steps ahead, designing buildings that could survive fires, floods, and anything else nature threw their way.

Towns were popping up all over the continent like mushrooms, but few survived their first winter without crumbling. Rubble’s creativity was the wall standing between Wild West Way and oblivion.

Marshall shivered at the thought of the cold creeping in.

“You alright, Marshal?” Everest asked.

He straightened up quickly and smiled beneath his snout.

“Oh, yes! Of course. Just remembering that Dalmatians aren’t exactly built for the cold. I’m going to need a warmer uniform and…”

He glanced down at his paws and raised an eyebrow.

“Boots, I suppose.”

“And you moved to a town right on the border of the U.S. and Canada, brushing up against British Columbia? Didn’t think you’d be better off down south somewhere?” Everest chuckled.

Marshall opened his mouth. He was going to mention Rocky, but once again, the words stuck in his throat.

It was as if he didn’t want to bring his brother into this conversation—and the realisation made him feel miserable. He’d never been possessive. Their parents had raised them to share everything. They used to sleep over at each other’s houses, eat from the same bowls…

But this husky had tipped over the whole mental chessboard he’d carefully arranged.

He decided he needed a drink to keep the conversation going naturally.

But when he reached for the glass, his paw misjudged the distance. His brain failed him halfway through, and his fingers knocked the glass, spilling it over.

He cursed under his breath—cursed the moment, his apraxia, and the fifty-three cents wasted. With his current salary, that wasn’t pocket change.

He tried to save face by grabbing a napkin with his other paw, but the spilt whiskey on the bar was enough to make him slip.

“No!”

Suddenly, he stood up. In the mirror behind the bar, he saw himself—his uniform stained with alcohol. He was going to smell like whiskey the whole way home. Bloody hell.

“Oh no!” Everest jumped into action. She tugged a strap on her pup-pack with her snout, activating it. Her fingers, connected to the pup-pack, moved fast: a small claw emerged from the box on her back, grabbed a dish towel, and started wiping down the Dalmatian as best it could.

“Okay, I think we can fix this…”

“No, not really. I’ll have to take this to the cleaners,” he muttered. Another expense. He had no idea where the money would come from. He continued, “Don’t worry. These things happen.”

“Could be worse. Could’ve been blood. Those stains are much harder to deal with.” She paused at his alarmed expression and reconsidered her words, speaking again, "At my job, there are accidents. We work with heavy tools. They can be dangerous if you’re not trained properly. That’s why only professionals should handle them—and I’ve been in this business a long while.”

Her effort didn’t have the intended effect. The stains were still there, and so was the smell. Marshall lowered his head, ashamed of how badly he’d handled things.

He’d ruined what had been a nice conversation. Even his thirst had taken a back seat to the embarrassment. The smell of alcohol clouded his thoughts. He slipped off his coat, leaving only his dark shirt underneath, and set the wet garment on a dry patch of the bar.

What stung most wasn’t the mess—it was the example he’d just set for Everest.

The old grandfather clock struck half past ten.

“Darn it, I’m late!” Everest hopped down from the stool. Marshall felt something twist in his chest as she said “Hey, do this for me. When you get home, grab some vinegar and water, and scrub really, really hard. Then wash it with soap to get rid of the smell. Maybe my trick’ll save you a bit of money. I mean, since it’s already stained, might as well go all in.”

“Right…” he mumbled. “Wait—hold on! Where do you live?”

And just like that, Marshall wished the earth would swallow him whole.

He had never been this spontaneous in his life. It was like someone had yanked the words out of his mouth and bolted for the door, leaving him alone in the most awkward moment he’d ever experienced.

Whether pup or human, asking someone for their address on the first day was—at best—indecent. At worst, it was outright shameful. The perfect way to ruin a meeting that had almost gone well. He wished he could disappear or at least run off and hope no one recognised him.

But everyone knew who he was: the Dalmatian marshal of the region.

He swallowed—what little saliva he had, since he still hadn’t taken a single sip—and looked at Everest. She had stopped in place, one paw lifted mid-step, caught off guard by the question.

It was, without a doubt, the least inspired moment of his entire day.

And in just fifteen minutes, that ship had completely gone off course.

“At the motel near the sheriff’s tower” she finally said. “I’ll be there temporarily. But I probably won’t show up until late, so…”

And then he saw it: along her snowy-colored snout, a faint pink blush appeared, giving her an even more adorable look, one that matched his own.

He hadn’t expected her to respond at all. He completely forgot to say goodbye. And she, perhaps just as flustered, didn’t say it either. She rushed off toward the exit. Disappeared from view.

But her scent lingered—unfortunately, mixed with the sharp smell of spilled whiskey on his coat.

The lively conversations around the saloon brought him back to reality. He slowly lowered his paw and sat back on the stool, emotions buzzing and butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He replayed those fifteen wonderful minutes over and over, smiling. His tail began wagging again, thumping against the underside of the bar—but he didn’t care. He felt happy. Truly happy. Happier than he’d been in a long time.

The motel near the sheriff’s tower. Those words echoed in his mind. He knew exactly which one she meant: the one just down the road that led directly to the lookout, where the whole town of Wild West Way could be seen from above.

Late tonight, Everest might be there. He might see her again—less nervous this time, with better control over himself.

Who knew?

Just thinking about it made him feel like a fool, but the plan was already taking shape in his head.

“Darn it,” muttered Ella, the pup who ran the place. Her voice snapped Marshall out of his daydream. She was glaring up at the ceiling like there was a leak about to drop. “Someone left the bathroom tap running again. If I catch ‘em…”

At first, Marshall didn’t understand. He glanced upward, toward the wooden ceiling that separated the ground floor from the second, and saw a large, dark stain forming.

He thought it had nothing to do with him… until a little voice in his head pulled him back to earth and made his paws freeze.

I’m going to wash my paws.

That’s what Rocky had said earlier. A comment Marshall had ignored, too wrapped up in his own thoughts about Zuma.

But… since when did Rocky wash his own paws?

The mutt’s fear of water wasn’t a simple quirk—it was something much worse. Zuma had helped him make small progress, letting him get wiped down gently with wet sponges and a whole lot of patience. Only Zuma and Katie, the town’s vet, could bathe him properly. And even then, not every day like Zuma enjoyed. Rocky would end up stressed, shaking, shutting down, sometimes even sick.

Rocky never washed his paws with running water. If it had to be done, others would handle it carefully. And if he really had to, he used techniques Zuma had taught him to cope—but only at home.

In a public place…? Could it be that, stubborn as he was, Rocky had tried to do it himself?

And if so—what had pushed him to take that risk?

“That idiot…” Marshall growled, and like lightning, he sprang into action.

It was one of the few times his clumsiness didn’t get in the way: His concern for his brother kicked his brain into high gear—120 per cent—and everything moved like a slideshow. He weaved through the crowd of humans and pups with perfect precision, bounding up the stairs two at a time thanks to his long legs.

He knew Rocky was in trouble. He knew the running water was his doing. There could only be one explanation: One of his trauma-induced episodes. Triggered by water.

When Marshall reached the second floor, he had to skid to a stop. The red carpet was soaked. Water was leaking from beneath the door to the dog bathroom. And in that instant, he knew: He was too late. If he hadn’t stayed downstairs talking to Everest… this wouldn’t have happened.

He yanked down the special lever for pups to open the door. The water hit his paws immediately as he rushed in—

Calling out Rocky’s name.

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - World Map

Wild West Way is located right on the US-Canada border, and for now, there's a dispute over who owns the town. That makes it a political target for many people, as it's in a very privileged geographical position and has a huge, untapped coal seam beneath it. That crater there? They say a meteorite struck many years ago, changing the region's history forever! But due to the monumental loss of Native culture, we may never know... right? Although Wild West Way is up there, many people who live in the town have a southern accent. Some because they fled the conditions of the South in search of a better life and found it there; others because they're nouveau riche who saw the Wild West Way as an opportunity for clean business.

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Snow

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - The World Around The Town

In 1898, things improved somewhat compared to 1865, but not nearly enough. There are plenty of good reasons why Rocky, Zuma, and Marshall will fight tooth and claw to protect the values of Wild West Way. And who knows? Maybe one day, those values will spread to other lands...

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Family Photo

Rocky was adopted by Marshall's family in 1889, when he was nine years old, in their hometown of Howdy Creek, becoming a brother to them. The fires of '92 destroyed the town, and no one survived except the two of them. Since then, Marshall has strived to become what he is today: a fire inspector, in order to answer one question: Who caused the fire that killed his parents and siblings?

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Bad Guys

Short fic set after the events of Racist. You can read after the "Read more"

Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.

Chase couldn’t sleep.

It was like the booze had packed his sleep away in a suitcase. The tiredness that had followed him all the way to the saloon earlier that afternoon seemed to have vanished after the first drink, and now he couldn’t catch a wink. No matter how hard he tried to close his eyes and let the warmth of sleep take over, all he managed to do was open them again and find himself staring at the same wooden plank ceiling that shielded his companion from the whims of the weather.

He’d been lying there so long that his mind had started wandering, trying to spot shapes in the patterns of the planks—frightening faces that would have fed his nightmares if he could only fall asleep. He didn’t know what else to focus on anymore: he’d already noticed the old WANTED posters showing Rocky and Zuma back when they were still on the run (back when he was the law), the modest paintings covering up holes in the walls, and most of all, the impressive stonework of the house—costly, but solid.

'I’m going crazy,' he thought. 'I’m starting to critique the interior design. If I don’t fall asleep soon, I’ll be sketching a floor plan.'

The idea of sneaking out quietly had crossed his mind, but he’d tossed it aside the moment he remembered he was in Rocky’s house. Besides being a legendary outlaw Chase had never managed to catch (despite plenty of chances), Rocky was also a dog, like him—with sharp ears and a light sleep. The moment Chase so much as twitched, Rocky’s instincts would kick in. The best he could do was keep tossing and turning.

“Can’t sleep?”

Chase froze for a few seconds. He didn’t look back. He didn’t remember doing anything to alert Rocky at this hour. A wall clock told him it was twenty past three in the morning, which meant he’d already lost three solid hours of sleep he’d never get back. But it also meant Rocky wasn’t sleeping either.

“You either?” he probed, just in case.

“Truth is, I’m thirsty.” Without another word, Rocky threw off the blanket on his back and padded over to the water bowl. He’d placed his bed a fair distance from Chase’s—far enough to bolt if either of them got the notion to attack the other. Even as a sheriff now, Rocky clearly still didn’t trust anyone. Not even him.

Chase tilted his head just enough to watch the mutt lap at the water, eyes half-closed and muzzle hidden in the shadows. Then Rocky glanced toward him, and the glint in his eyes stirred some bad memories in the German Shepherd. Chase dug his claws into the wood out of pure tension—the shadows around Rocky’s snout made it look like he still had that old mustache, and those half-lidded eyes brought back the cold stare he used to wear.

He couldn’t shake the thought: he was inside the house of a former killer, a troublemaker who’d outwitted the law more than once with his gang. He still didn’t know how Rocky had ended up sheriff overnight. A scoundrel, a womanizer, a murderer, a thief, a mutt, born of former slaves… The gallows should’ve been his fate, and instead, they handed him a badge and gave him control of a town. The world had gone mad.

“Are you afraid of me?” and there it was: the million-dollar question, dropping on Chase like a stone as Rocky, still cloaked in shadow, sat on his haunches with an air of authority.

“After the things I said earlier, anyone’d say you’d be within your rights to rough me up.” he said instead.

"Yeah, I’m afraid. I know you could slit my throat the second you get the urge, just to settle the score for all those years I hunted you and your buddy." That’s what he wanted to say. But his now-sober mind stopped that train before it derailed.

“That’s not how we do things here.” and seeing Chase’s puzzled face, Rocky added “Beatings. Sure, we have laws to follow, but around here, respect comes first.”

“Oh right, I forgot.” Chase waved a paw and rolled his eyes “No guns, no unnecessary violence, no yadda yadda yadda...”

Rocky frowned, the muscles under his shaggy gray coat tightening.

“That funny to you?” the sheriff asked.

Chase raised a brow.

“Doesn’t seem like the best time for this kinda talk.”

“Three-thirty in the morning? Two dogs wide awake? Seems like just the time,” Rocky’s tone was tense and firm “I think it’s worth hearing what an ex-sheriff like you thinks. Might even learn something.”

He was baiting him. Chase knew it. Normally, he’d bite his tongue and turn away, but the hangover had his pride worn thin. And even though he knew Rocky was playing him like a fiddle, he just didn’t have it in him to shut up.

“I think you're dreaming. The world’s a cruel place, Rocky. And you folks are trying to be a snowflake in the middle of a firestorm.” Chase threw off his blanket and sat up. The chill on his fur gave him a sense of boldness “Take it from me: one day, someone’s gonna come through that door and you’ll have to choose—your life or theirs. What’re you gonna do? Turn the other cheek?”

He regretted saying it the moment he caught Rocky’s cold stare. Too late. He wished the ground would swallow him whole.

Rocky stood up. The darkness on his grizzled coat gave him a wicked, wild air that matched the hardness in his brown eyes. Chase had faced this darker side of Rocky before. Back then, the night had always been Rocky’s ally. Now, with his head lowered just a touch, teeth barely bared and fur bristling, Chase felt like he was facing the same old killer again.

He regretted leaving his weapons at the bank. Wild West Way didn’t allow guns, so he’d stored them there—the bank offered free safekeeping for two weeks, just enough time to finish his personal mission and leave before any fees kicked in. Had he known he’d be opening Pandora’s box, he’d have kept one hidden under his coat.

He could take Rocky, he figured—he was bigger, stronger. Rocky might be intimidating, but not unbeatable. Not without weapons. And now, with nothing but claws and fangs, they were on even footing. Chase started to rise, ready for a fight. Rocky stopped just a few steps away. The tension was thick in the air.

Then Rocky sighed, letting go of the standoff.

“There’s so much darkness in your eyes… What happened to the sheriff I used to know, Mr. Chase?”

Chase had expected anything—except something so philosophical. He had no reply but a scoff and a sneer.

“Don’t try it.”

“Sometimes, deep down, I miss those days,” Rocky went on, ignoring Chase “You, hot on our trail, hunting us down… Your eyes lit up every time we crossed paths.” He turned and padded back to his bed, slipping under his blanket of white and blue skulls “You were everything I hated: the law, the order, the truth…”

Chase clicked his tongue. Didn’t even answer the jab. He just walked over to his water bowl, took a few sips, and returned to bed. He slipped under the borrowed blanket, trying to bury his snout in his paws.

But even his pride couldn’t keep him quiet for long.

“And you? What happened to you?” he turned toward Rocky, feeling the soft rub of his fur against the sheets “You were the most wanted outlaw in the whole damn state. You were the thorn in my side. Hell, you led the whole gang. And now look at you: suit, badge, folks trustin’ you.”

Finding Wild West Way hadn’t shocked Chase. New towns popped up every week in that region—names full of promise, only to burn down in a lightning fire or flood. What had shocked him was that Rocky—his old headache—was now sheriff of this place, backed by the marshal, no less.

Rocky just shrugged under the covers.

“Things happened,” he finally said “Thought I was doing the right thing for Zuma… but things went south…”

“Let me guess. Your gang found out?”

Rocky nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the wooden floor. It was like cracking open a safe and peeking inside. And while part of Chase felt guilty, another part relished the satisfaction of piecing it all together.

“Yeah… must’ve been tough,” Chase muttered, lips tight, brow furrowed “So all this is just buying time.”

“If all goes well, this’ll be our home for good. That’s the plan. This is the land of Zuma ancestors, after all.” Rocky nodded again. This time, he looked Chase in the eye, and Chase could tell he meant every word.

“And if it doesn’t? What then? Run?”

Suddenly, Rocky bristled, his eyes flashing as he turned toward Chase. Chase cursed the hangover again for not letting him keep his mouth shut.

“I made a vow, Mr. Chase. I intend to keep it.”

“Even if it puts Zuma at risk?”

He didn’t even know why he wanted to push him like that. Rocky had been kind, even noble. There was no gain in provoking him, but something inside Chase screamed that without Rocky, he was nothing.

Rocky started to say something. His jaws opened, then shut, clearly rattled by Chase’s words. Chase waited. Part of him wanted Rocky to snap, to show that old fire again. 'Come on,' he thought, 'Do it, Rocky. You want to.'

Instead, Rocky just breathed in deep and calmed himself again.

“You know, I’ve been nothing but hospitable, considering the situation. Another sheriff would’ve thrown you in the cells, let you rot in your own vomit.” His voice, though calm, was heavy with pain “So here’s my final warning: if you keep pushing this conversation, I’ll have to ask you to leave my home.”

That ended it. Chase didn’t even get the chance to reply. Rocky had turned his back completely, making it clear what he thought of him. On one hand, it hit Chase like a bullet. He’d never thought the sheriff’s rejection would sting so much, especially when solitude had become his only friend. On the other, it confirmed his suspicions—no matter how hard Rocky tried, he was still the same killer. The proof was there: he hadn’t answered the question. Hadn’t said if he’d break his promise to protect Zuma.

Chase looked toward the kitchen. A photo of a brown lab with his parents answered some questions—and raised even more. He wondered if the marshal knew the whole story… and if he did, how far he’d go to protect those two outlaws.

“I’m real sorry for the way I spoke to you.”

“That’s a luxury only purebred dogs like you can afford, Mr. Chase. You’ll always be the upper class. Stepping on mutts and the poor is just part of your duty. But not here, not in Wild West Way. Here we are equals - Humans and pups, no matter our color or breed so... Be careful with your words.”

And though he wanted more than anything to answer that slap of truth… Chase couldn’t find the words.

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Racist

PANEL 2: Chase: OW! PANEL 3: Ella: And don’t you dare come back, you troublemaker! PANEL 4: Chase: Aw, these fancy folks… hic Can't even take a little joke… No fun at all… Always actin' so high and mighty… PANEL 5: Rocky: Just great. Mr. Chase, drunk again. Guess I better lend a hand… PANEL 6: Rocky: Mr. Chase… You need some help, sir? Chase: Just what I needed… hic Somebody feelin' sorry for me… Like you really care anyway… Rocky: But… PANEL 7: Chase: Just leave me be… Everybody does. Folks just use me… then forget me…

PANEL 1: Rocky: That’s enough. Mr. Chase, you’re comin’ with me. You’re disturbin’ the peace. Chase: Oh, look, it’s the big sheriff! hic What’re you gonna do, huh? Lock me up? PANEL 2: Chase: Quit foolin' around, Filthy slave scum, and let me through. Rocky: Call me that again and the next thing you’ll see’ll be the gallows. PANEL 3: Chase: I… Ugh… No, seriously… Move aside… Rocky: What the…? Chase: Please… PANEL 4: Chase: Brrraaaaagh!! Rocky: Sweet mercy! Mr. Chase! For heaven’s sake! PANEL 5: Chase: I don’t get it… I can resist alcohol very well… What…? Rocky: That’s what all people say… but Ella’s drinks are outta this world. PANEL 6: Rocky: Come on, I’ll get you home. You’re not sleepin’ on the street tonight. Chase: Even after… what I said to you…? Rocky: Least this way I’ll keep you outta another saloon.

PANEL 1: Chase: Thanks for the shower. I’m feeling a lot better. Bathroom’s real clean, by the way. Rocky: Ah, well, ever since I moved in, I haven’t really used it. Chase: Well, for someone who doesn’t bathe much, you sure smell good. I’ve met pups you couldn't get near without cryin'. PANEL 2: Chase: You’ve got a real spacious place. Hey, is that Zuma in that picture? Rocky: Yep. With his family. Chase: W-wait a sec. If that’s his dad, then Zuma is…? Rocky: Uh-huh. PANEL 3: Chase: I can’t believe it! When I met him the other day, he didn’t say a single word about where he’s from. Rocky: And you were a sheriff? If he said it out loud, he’d just be paintin’ a bigger target on his back. Chase: There’s nothin’ to be ashamed o’— Rocky: Says the guy who called me "alien" as an insult right to my face. PANEL 4: Rocky: But don’t worry. Zuma ain’t gonna hear about it. Best we keep it quiet. Chase: How come? PANEL 5: Rocky: 'Cause if I tell him, first he’ll wipe you off the map. Then he’ll go on to break about fourteen federal laws with what’s left of you. And that’d break my personal record. Chase: -Ugh-

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Pup-box blue print

They’re small and lightweight, just the right size for a pup to carry their own. Each one straps snugly around the waist and springs to life with a quick pull of the chain. Thin, nearly invisible straps connect to their front paw fingers, allowing them to control the tools hidden inside each pup-box: a lasso, a paraglider, mechanical screwdrivers… and more!

To make them work, each morning the pups have to wind them up using the bone-shaped key each one carries.

The original design came from Mr. Ryder—ingenious, practical, and safe. But then Mr. Gizmodi got his hands on the idea and copied it! Now, he's churning out copies, selling them across other countries, loaded with devices far more dangerous than the originals...

Rocky, Zuma, and Marshall can’t help but worry about what might happen if a pup with bad intentions ever shows up in Wild West Way, wielding that dangerous power Mr. Gizmodi created. After all, weapons are strictly forbidden in town—and Mr. Ryder’s pup-boxes were designed to be anything but violent.

They’ll be faced with a choice: to rise with creativity—or fall back into savagery and shatter the oath they swore to protect.

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Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Secrets

FIRST PAGE: SECOND PANEL: Chase: …But Lenny went back home, so Cleo and I had to break up. Then I met Alex—I was with her for like… four months. Zuma: My god, I’ve counted at least eleven girls you’ve dated. You’re a real Casanova, honestly. Chase: What can I say? People like bad boys… THIRD PANEL: Chase: But enough about me. A handsome guy like you must’ve had your own conquests. Am I wrong? A free spirit like you, who’s tasted freedom under your paws, breathed in the scent of pure mornings… And we are adults, after all. FOURTH PANEL: Zuma: O-of course! Hahaha! Everywhere I went, they’d melt at my paws! Hahaha! Chase: Uh-huh… Zuma: I’ve been with so many, I’d need to make a whole list! L-like, there was this one, Dixie, for example… FIFTH PANEL: Zuma: …And once I met one named Gigi… or Hannah…

SIXTH PANEL: Chase: - Heh. -

SECOND PAGE: FIRST PANEL: Chase: Pleasure having a root beer with you, Zuma. Glad you’re not as uptight as Rocky. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even recognise him anymore. Zuma: Hehehe… Yeah, sure… Get some rest! Chase: Later, Skirt Chaser! SECOND PANEL: Zuma: … THIRD PANEL: Zuma: Ugh… That was close… FOURTH PANEL: Zuma: "I’ve been with so many girls?" Did I really just say that? FIFTH PANEL: Zuma: What am I even saying?! I’ve never been on a date in my life! I don’t even have a romantic interest in girls! How is this possible?! All my friends are guys! GUYS! It’s like the only thing that works for me! This can’t be happening! SIXTH PANEL: Zuma: W-what if I’m… what if I’m…?!

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Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Fire

FIRST AND SECOND PANEL: Marshall: Not… Not the fires again… Please, stop it… AH! THIRD PANEL: Marshall: NOT THE FIRES AGAIN! Rocky: Huh? Marshall… What’s wrong? It’s three in the morning… FOURTH PANEL: Marshall: Sorry, I’m fine. It was just a nightmare. Go to sleep. I’ll drink some water and go back to sleep soon. Rocky: I recognize that voice… Was it THAT nightmare again? Oh, Marshall… FIFTH PANEL: Marshall: I’m sorry! I can’t stop it! I try to, but this is too good for me: You and Zuma with me, the city growing, Mr. Ryder helping us without asking for anything in return… Rocky: …And you think Zuma and I will run away anyday soon, right? Like in the fires of ’92? Marshall: It’s not fair. You’re both my best friends! I shouldn’t distrust you. Rocky: But Zuma and I were outlaws, Marshall. For a long time. Marshall: Even so… SIXTH PANEL: Rocky: Marshall, we’re not going anywhere, understood? We took an oath at the inauguration, and I’ll keep it—even if it’s difficult for me sometimes. Marshall: You promise me? Rocky: Always, my spotted friend.

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Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Thieves

PANEL 1: Rocky: And here is my garage. You're sure to find the part you need for your locomotive right here! Skye: Good heavens, it's full of gizmos! Rocky: I keep everything here I've found in my life that could be useful. You know what they say: "Don't lose it, reuse it"!! PANEL 2: Skye: Reuse it… Or STEAL IT?! Rocky: Oh, come on! Give me a break! They won't miss it anyway, don't you think? Go on, be my guest! Skye: Jesus Chris on a bike, I'm surrounded by thieves…

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Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Fears

PANEL 2: Rocky: And… when I had him in front of me, for a moment—for just a second—I thought about drawing my—you know, and… Zuma: Dude… Rocky: I know, it was a momentary thought. At the end of the day, I just tied him up and threw him in jail. But for a moment, the temptation was SO strong. I was about to go back to my roots. I don’t know if I can really be a sheriff… Zuma: sigh PANEL 5 Zuma: Dude, chill! It was just a moment of weakness. Nobody said this was gonna be easy! Rocky: Still… Zuma: You know how we’re gonna get through it? We’re going to the saloon and having a root beer together! Rocky: No way! Last time we went to a saloon, I woke up disoriented and wet on the beach, totally soaked with salt water. Zuma: That was a good day, indeed—hehehe! Rocky: Speak for yourself, my dear water dog!

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Paw Patrol Wild West Way: Inauguration

After months of work, the crew decided to make the town's opening official with a pic of the three friends together again! Now Rocky and Zuma have a new goal: To ditch their old outlaw ways and get people to trust them. None of that ain't gonna be easy...

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Paw Patrol Wild West Way: Like old days

Chase: And when the fuse lit up, it went off right over his head. You should’ve seen Humdinger’s hair catching fire! Skye: Mr Chase! That could’ve been dangerous! That’s not laughing matter! Chase: Why not? Rocky’s literally trying not to crack. Rocky: No… pffff… That’s not true… hehe Skye: Sheriff! Rocky: It’s just too fun to picture, hahaha! Chase: Hehehe, deep inside you'll be always the outlaw I’ve always known! Rocky: No… pffff… I swear… I’m… hehe… serious and lawful… HAHAHAHA! Skye: Oh, give me strength…

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Map

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Mr Ryder, weird inventor