SophiaWilliams677
New Member
“Pan-shot!“ cried the banker.
——————————————
The cowboy sat on his horse, feeling the dry wind whip across his face. Clothed across his body was an ankle-length duster, with long boots and a hat over his head that shielded the overpowering western sun. He was at the western edge of the Great Plains. His eyes narrowed over the small building, alone, connected to no town, that was a few feet in front of him.
It was a bank.
“FIRST FEDERAL BANK & TRUST OF TUCUMCARI.“ was what was sprawled in dry white paint over the top of the building. Then underneath, “And Notary.“ It seemed to be an afterthought, and the cowboy took to wondering about it. He took a deep breath and looked up at the clear sky and the booming hot sun, immediately feeling sweat trickle down his face. He looked around the endless expanse of the desert land.
Straightening himself up, he looked down to the iron work at his side—a 6 chamber revolver. He tapped it to check that it had bullets and grunted in affirmation when he heard the small metal pieces of steel shuffle around in the gun. He spat to the floor and took his horses reins, leading it over to the bank. He opened the doors to the bank and slowly walked inside, his spurs jingling.
The inside was delicately designed, with smoothened bricks underneath a red velvet carpet that led to the bank teller. The chairs were made from smoothened oak wood and there were even little tea cups on each table, as if the place were a little restaurant. It was completely empty, save for the bank teller behind the counter bars. He had a small, but thick beard, that was white. His face was wrinkled and old and he wore a union outfit. The cowboy walked his way to the counter and looked his way around.
“Fancy place... “ the cowboy muttered, both to himself and the banker.
“It's a comfort to the depositors.“ the banker said with a grin, shuffling around as if he was giddy at having seen, finally, another human soul.
“An' who would that be?“ the cowboy asked, keeping his stature still.
“Oh, we got folks from Val Verde, Chloride, Tucumcari itself, a'course—why, the whole entire three country area. Hell, we even had a run in with the bank once't, warn't pretty. Had to hop on this here's counter with m'scattergun, talk thems folks down. Well, that's bankin', “ he began to chuckle to himself, shaking his head, “Crazy buisness. Crazy.“
The cowboy kept his stoic gaze fixated on the man, “Ever been robbed?“ he asked, his voice lowering.
“Oooh, yeah, sure enough have! Two times!“ he said, cackling, “Attempted, I should say. One fellar I shot dead—BINGO!—other I held for marshal, both his legs were shredded some. Had to lock him in the vault there, since thems marshal don't come through but once't a month, and he'd just visited the previous week. Had to billet the lil scamp, fer, what? Three weeks? Applyin' a poultice of wet leaves 'n urine. He's in Yuma now, bustin' rocks, still grumpy from what folks say. Fellar by the name of Chevilly, 'less I'm misrememberin', said his papa was fro—”
The cowboy had whipped out the six shooter and aimed it directly at the the bankers head. The bankers jaw, relieved of its service, hung open as he took slow, deep breaths in to calm himself. The prairie wind moaned outside.
“...Fr—Fra—...France... “ the banker finished
“All the cash.“ the cowboy ordered, his voice being a calm threat.
The banker took a deep breath and gulped, his jaw slowly regaining animation. He gazed at the cowboy owilishly.
“Okay… Ya got me, young fellar, ya got me fair'n square... The large denominations I gotta...“ he began slowly stooping behind the counter, “... Stoop fer...“
The cowboy paused and frowned, confused as to what the banker was doing.
That was until the unmistakable roar of a shotgun going off appeared just below the cowboys legs.
The wooden hole that it had left scattered splinters all over the floor as well as smoke clearing upwards. The cowboy threw himself on top of the bank tellers gate, wedging himself in a corner he'd found. He aimed his pistol over the gate and looked over to find that the banker had ran his way somewhere. Where he had gone was a mystery to the cowboy.
Straddled with issues of his own, he threw himself over the gate in fluidity and landed perfectly on his own two feet. The cowboy craned his head to notice that a shotgun had been stationed underneath the counter. He cussed to himself. Creaking open one singular vault, he went and took a sack that had been nearby. He stuffed the bills inside. Hundreds. Thousands. He held the top1 and gripped it, then made chase for the exit, slowly pushing the door open and hearing it let out a rusty-hinged whine, he ran outwards.
The booming sun was upon him again now like a freight train, blinding his eyes for a split second before his vision returned to him. He saw that his horse had steadied its way from behind the building and began to ran towards it.
BANG!
A shotgun blast, seemingly from nowhere, had kicked up the dirt from his feet and caused him to sprawl to the floor, dropping his money sack in the dusty sand and ducking behind a small well of sorts. He held his head against the rock of it and breathed in and out, straightening his legs and feeling his boots press into the sand. Then he paused and blinked, frowning a bit. Ahead in the distance, he heard the sound of cackling and whooping, as well as the strange sound of metal clanking against each other. He tried to hiss for his horse, but the horse ignored, more interested in chewing on the small bits of dried grass on the endless desert plain.
He heard the cackling again and decided to look up to see what in God's name was happening. His eyes slowly widened.
Across the sandy plains, just next to the bank, was the banker. Draped over his body and over his own head were pans and pots, hanging by small pieces on his uniform. One of the pans sat as a helmet on top of his head, and as he ran, the sound of clattering and clunking could be heard as the metal clashed against each other. He held a shotgun in one hand, holding it like a crusader holds ones sword.
The cowboy, not giving himself the time to comprehend the sheer absurdity of the situation, lifted his revolver and fired. He heard it ricochet off of a pan.
“Pan-shot!“ cried the banker.
The banker raised his shotgun forward and fired at the well, hitting the rocks and causing it to chip. The cowboy ducked his head down, then aimed up and fired again. Another ricochet.
“Pan-shot!“ the banker cried again, laughing more. This time he didn't fire, he simply ran crazed like towards the cowboy, weilding the shotgun like a hammer. The cowboy tried to raise his revolver to fire again, but the butt of the bankers shotgun connected harshly to the cowboys face, knocking him spark out to the floor.
The cowboy dreamt in his deep slumber.
He dreamt that he was falling in an endless abyss, lacking any light. Starblown and away from the town and from the people. Just falling endlessly. He was a delegation of human existence. His revolver not in his hand and his steel weapons no longer with him, his body being as God intended, stranded like a great ponderous infant.
After what felt like years, the cowboy stirred awake, his eyes blinking. The familiar radiance of the sun was cast down upon him and he felt that his entire mouth was dry. He looked down to see what he was sitting on but couldn't make it out. His view was blurry and in double-time, but he could make out a figure in front of him. He heard a voice talking to him and tried to move forward, but felt something tug on his neck.
“Do ye have anythin' to say 'fore yer sentence is carried out?“ is what the cowboy could finally hear. In front of him now was a man in a black jacket and a short, black beard, wearing a black mountain hat atop his face. His eyes bore into the cowboys.
The cowboy could now see and realised he was sat on his horse, with a noose around his neck. He looked up and saw that the noose was attached to a tree above him.
“I asked ye a question. Anythin' to say? 'Fore yer sentence is carried out.“ the man in front of him repeated, and now the cowboy could see that there were 5 other men behind him.
“… What's m'sentence?“ the cowboy asked, his mouth raspy and hoarse.
The 5 other men let out small chuckles and laughs as the man in black took a long sigh and spoke again.
“Son, we just held you some proceedin's 'fore an attempted bank robbery. Ye was off yer nut, feverish, for most of the goin' on's, but, it was a fair trial like we do here in New Mexico. These peers convicted ya, I passed the sentence of death and we found us this tree. Now's your opp'tunity to speak yer piece 'fore yer sentence is carried out.“
The cowboy stared at the whole scene, eyes glazing everywhere, sizing everything up. He licked his dry lips and spat once more to the floor, before saying his piece:
“That pan-covered old nutter don' hardly fight fair in my opinion.“
The man in black nodded respectfully, albeit with a sense that he had no idea what the cowboy was talking about.
“Okay… That it?“ the man in black asked.
“I reckon it is.“ the cowboy responded, spitting to the floor one final time.
There was a long, admittedly awkward silence as the rope creaked on the tree branch it had been hung on. That was until one of the members of the posse spoke up.
“Can I have yer horse?“ one man asked.
“No, no, me. Gimme yer horse.“ another perked up. The man in black stared at his posse reprovingly, then back at the cowboy.
“Ye want any of these boys to have yer horse? Saves scrappin' over it after ye passed.“ he asked.
The cowboy frowned. “I don' want any of em to have it.“
Just as the cowboy said this, an arrow sliced through the air and hit the man in blacks neck. Blood splashed over the dusty floors as arrows began compiling in 10s, then 20s. The posse raised their guns and began firing ahead.
Ahead was the Indian Comanche party. They were strung out in silhouette against the sun and then dropping under the crest of the hill into a fold of ominous shadows, clad in costumes strung from attics, or wardrobed out of some fevered dream. They let out loud whoops and cackles, the arrows flying and connecting with the flesh of the posse. They all fell downwards to the sand and their dead bodies laid bare towards the sun. They hadn't had a single chance.
The horse the cowboy sat on began to stir and become agitated, walking forward ever so slightly. The cowboy gagged as the rope tightened. He gently squeezed his knees against the horses stomach to calm it. The entire posse was dead and the party had rode themselves off into the yellowness of the west.
The cowboy sat there for a long period of time, the sun flowing heat waves over his vulnerable body. He could not move as his hands were incapicated behind his back, and the horse kept going further and further, trying to reach each plot of grass.
Each time the horse etched further, the noose tightened on his throat. He tried to stir it to stay calm but it seemed to have not heard him. His body could no longer move and he felt his breath slowly fading away.
As he peered over the landscape, he noticed the outline of a few animals and a man's voice. An outline of a shadow in the distance, on horseback. Seeing his way out, he let out a loud shout:
“HEY! OVER HERE!“
Is what he would yell with every atom of his strength. The silhouette paused on his horse and turned the cowboys way. It began to come closer and closer, till a young man came into the cowboys view. He seemed to be a cattle drover, judging by the amount of sheep he appeared to be herding.
He looked upon the dead posse with a shaken stare. “This'n Comanch?“ he asked. The cowboy let out a grunt in response, his ability to speak completely hindered and replaced with groaning and choking sounds.
The drover looked over the scene once more, then pulled out a revolver. “Hold still.“ he said, taking aim with a squint of his eye. After 9 seconds, he fired and the rope above the cowboy tore off of him as his neck was free. Greedily gulping in mouthfuls of air, life returned itself to the cowboy. The drover pulled out a knife and went behind the cowboy, lifting himself up on his tip-toes and cutting the cowboys hand ties, swiftly. His hands returned to their senses and the cowboy let out a long sigh, stretching out his hands and feeling them crackle and enjoying the sound of it.
As penance for saving his life, the cowboy offered to the drover to help him with the sheep he was herding. They both rode on horseback, herding sheep. The drover was enriched in a long tirade of complaint about bad friends.
“... Them two black men I hired t'help walk 'em t'west started grousin' 'bout the wages once the weather turned hot'n finally they left out is how I come here t'be by my lonesome. That's what ya call a foul-weather friend. Them boys didn't understand the first thing about sidekickin'. Maybe you could sidekick up with me on a permanent basis, this drive work out. Ya seem trustworthy enough, that's why I make the proposition. Why, a sidekick should be a reliable man! That's the very nature of a sidekick. Like you watch my back'n I watch your'n. Ya got to rely on folk. Fr'instance, I was walkin' a fence one day at the Purvis Turkey spread when I come across't this... Oh... “
The drovers voice trailed off as a shadow of 5 men on horseback came into view up the dry, grassy hill. He paused, his face becoming a picture of fear. “Damn!“ he yelled, before snapping the horses reins against the horse and taking off into the distant west, dust following the horses immense gallop away.
The cowboy stayed, confused as to what the man had run away from. But as the 5 men came closer and the rear end of a musket was slammed against the cowboys face and the glint of a star on the man's chest could be seen by the cowboy, he was able to take a wild guess.
The cowboy dreamt again in his deep sleep. He dreamt of his birth.
Night of the birth. How the stars did fall. The sun hung on the cusp of eclipse, then followed through. As the child of God let out its wail on the ere of its birth, the skies went into immense darkness. A muttering of fearfulness from the parents, and the light of the sky did return. The child bequeathed himself in the beauty of the world it now inhabited.
The cowboy awoke blinking. He was immediately shoved to his feet and made to limp blindly along the tracks. As his vision returned to him, he found that he had a chain and ball wrapped around his left leg, and handcuffs wrapped around his two hands, in front of his stomach. He was being paraded in a town by a bailiff, the men, women and children all letting out guffaws at his mere presence. He was dragged in front of an old man on the porch of the sheriffs office, who had himself a long beard and a bored expression on his face.
“No hats inna presence of Judge Hobby!“ the bailiff yelled, slapping the hat off the cowboy and into the dust.
“What this weasel do?“ the Judge asked, chewing a straw.
“Sir, I-” the cowboy began.
The bailiff smacked the cowboys head, “Hold yer tongue!“ he turned to the Judge, “Weasels a stock rustler.“
“Alleged.“ the Judge yawned.
“Yes yer honor.“ the bailiff responded respectfully.
“Sir, I didn't-” the cowboy tried again.
“Hold yer tongue!“ the bailiff smacked him again, then once again turned to the Judge, “He was caught drivin' rustled beeves.“
“Good enough, hang 'im.“ the Judge barely murmured out.
Before the cowboy could even speak his piece, the guards grappled his body and took him up to the gallows, next to 2 other men. The noose, now familiar to the cowboy, was tied around his neck as he stood over the platform, seeing the crowds watch him and jeer, some laughing, some throwing vegetables on the cowboys boots. He stared upwards and let out a long sigh.
Beside him, he heard the sobbing of a man, short stubbed of a beard and aged drastically. The cowboy studied him, wondering what depraved crime must've brought such a usual looking man to deaths door.
Almost in a mocking way, the cowboy smirked to the old man. “First time?“ he asked. The old man turned and stopped sobbing, now confused on what the cowboy was talking about. But as the men came over to wrap the black hood over his head, he resumed sobbing.
The cowboy smirked all around. At the mocking crowd, the skies, even the preachers at his side, trying to ensure his soul was treated with some ounce of dignity in the hereafter. But he didn't care. He just smirked at it all.
Above on house porch was a pretty lady. She had hair flowing down and soft, white skin and a beautiful dress. She seemed serene, any man would adore to be with her. And the cowboy did watch her.
But his eyes peered away from the lady and to the sparrow next to the lady. She was playing with the sparrow, feeding it. The sparrow was small and frittle, yet it's eyes were two black dots of innocence. It's tiny, soft body, frail and weak, yet so heavenly. He smiled wider, no longer interested in the lady, but the sparrow. The sparrow looked at the cowboy with an expression of bottomless sadness.
“There's a pretty bird.“ the cowboy said to himself, smiling happily to himself. That was until his vision was enriched in darkness as the hood was stuffed over his head.
The platform beneath his feet gave way and he was hanged, thus and then. The crowd erupted into cheering, as they always did. Even the fair lady flew her hankerchief in celebration over death.
The sun grew higher and bigger as the heat shined down to make the corpses plump and purple and the sparrow flew eastward to another domain and the sound of the roaring crowd faded fast.
——————————————
THE END.
——————————————
The cowboy sat on his horse, feeling the dry wind whip across his face. Clothed across his body was an ankle-length duster, with long boots and a hat over his head that shielded the overpowering western sun. He was at the western edge of the Great Plains. His eyes narrowed over the small building, alone, connected to no town, that was a few feet in front of him.
It was a bank.
“FIRST FEDERAL BANK & TRUST OF TUCUMCARI.“ was what was sprawled in dry white paint over the top of the building. Then underneath, “And Notary.“ It seemed to be an afterthought, and the cowboy took to wondering about it. He took a deep breath and looked up at the clear sky and the booming hot sun, immediately feeling sweat trickle down his face. He looked around the endless expanse of the desert land.
Straightening himself up, he looked down to the iron work at his side—a 6 chamber revolver. He tapped it to check that it had bullets and grunted in affirmation when he heard the small metal pieces of steel shuffle around in the gun. He spat to the floor and took his horses reins, leading it over to the bank. He opened the doors to the bank and slowly walked inside, his spurs jingling.
The inside was delicately designed, with smoothened bricks underneath a red velvet carpet that led to the bank teller. The chairs were made from smoothened oak wood and there were even little tea cups on each table, as if the place were a little restaurant. It was completely empty, save for the bank teller behind the counter bars. He had a small, but thick beard, that was white. His face was wrinkled and old and he wore a union outfit. The cowboy walked his way to the counter and looked his way around.
“Fancy place... “ the cowboy muttered, both to himself and the banker.
“It's a comfort to the depositors.“ the banker said with a grin, shuffling around as if he was giddy at having seen, finally, another human soul.
“An' who would that be?“ the cowboy asked, keeping his stature still.
“Oh, we got folks from Val Verde, Chloride, Tucumcari itself, a'course—why, the whole entire three country area. Hell, we even had a run in with the bank once't, warn't pretty. Had to hop on this here's counter with m'scattergun, talk thems folks down. Well, that's bankin', “ he began to chuckle to himself, shaking his head, “Crazy buisness. Crazy.“
The cowboy kept his stoic gaze fixated on the man, “Ever been robbed?“ he asked, his voice lowering.
“Oooh, yeah, sure enough have! Two times!“ he said, cackling, “Attempted, I should say. One fellar I shot dead—BINGO!—other I held for marshal, both his legs were shredded some. Had to lock him in the vault there, since thems marshal don't come through but once't a month, and he'd just visited the previous week. Had to billet the lil scamp, fer, what? Three weeks? Applyin' a poultice of wet leaves 'n urine. He's in Yuma now, bustin' rocks, still grumpy from what folks say. Fellar by the name of Chevilly, 'less I'm misrememberin', said his papa was fro—”
The cowboy had whipped out the six shooter and aimed it directly at the the bankers head. The bankers jaw, relieved of its service, hung open as he took slow, deep breaths in to calm himself. The prairie wind moaned outside.
“...Fr—Fra—...France... “ the banker finished
“All the cash.“ the cowboy ordered, his voice being a calm threat.
The banker took a deep breath and gulped, his jaw slowly regaining animation. He gazed at the cowboy owilishly.
“Okay… Ya got me, young fellar, ya got me fair'n square... The large denominations I gotta...“ he began slowly stooping behind the counter, “... Stoop fer...“
The cowboy paused and frowned, confused as to what the banker was doing.
That was until the unmistakable roar of a shotgun going off appeared just below the cowboys legs.
The wooden hole that it had left scattered splinters all over the floor as well as smoke clearing upwards. The cowboy threw himself on top of the bank tellers gate, wedging himself in a corner he'd found. He aimed his pistol over the gate and looked over to find that the banker had ran his way somewhere. Where he had gone was a mystery to the cowboy.
Straddled with issues of his own, he threw himself over the gate in fluidity and landed perfectly on his own two feet. The cowboy craned his head to notice that a shotgun had been stationed underneath the counter. He cussed to himself. Creaking open one singular vault, he went and took a sack that had been nearby. He stuffed the bills inside. Hundreds. Thousands. He held the top1 and gripped it, then made chase for the exit, slowly pushing the door open and hearing it let out a rusty-hinged whine, he ran outwards.
The booming sun was upon him again now like a freight train, blinding his eyes for a split second before his vision returned to him. He saw that his horse had steadied its way from behind the building and began to ran towards it.
BANG!
A shotgun blast, seemingly from nowhere, had kicked up the dirt from his feet and caused him to sprawl to the floor, dropping his money sack in the dusty sand and ducking behind a small well of sorts. He held his head against the rock of it and breathed in and out, straightening his legs and feeling his boots press into the sand. Then he paused and blinked, frowning a bit. Ahead in the distance, he heard the sound of cackling and whooping, as well as the strange sound of metal clanking against each other. He tried to hiss for his horse, but the horse ignored, more interested in chewing on the small bits of dried grass on the endless desert plain.
He heard the cackling again and decided to look up to see what in God's name was happening. His eyes slowly widened.
Across the sandy plains, just next to the bank, was the banker. Draped over his body and over his own head were pans and pots, hanging by small pieces on his uniform. One of the pans sat as a helmet on top of his head, and as he ran, the sound of clattering and clunking could be heard as the metal clashed against each other. He held a shotgun in one hand, holding it like a crusader holds ones sword.
The cowboy, not giving himself the time to comprehend the sheer absurdity of the situation, lifted his revolver and fired. He heard it ricochet off of a pan.
“Pan-shot!“ cried the banker.
The banker raised his shotgun forward and fired at the well, hitting the rocks and causing it to chip. The cowboy ducked his head down, then aimed up and fired again. Another ricochet.
“Pan-shot!“ the banker cried again, laughing more. This time he didn't fire, he simply ran crazed like towards the cowboy, weilding the shotgun like a hammer. The cowboy tried to raise his revolver to fire again, but the butt of the bankers shotgun connected harshly to the cowboys face, knocking him spark out to the floor.
The cowboy dreamt in his deep slumber.
He dreamt that he was falling in an endless abyss, lacking any light. Starblown and away from the town and from the people. Just falling endlessly. He was a delegation of human existence. His revolver not in his hand and his steel weapons no longer with him, his body being as God intended, stranded like a great ponderous infant.
After what felt like years, the cowboy stirred awake, his eyes blinking. The familiar radiance of the sun was cast down upon him and he felt that his entire mouth was dry. He looked down to see what he was sitting on but couldn't make it out. His view was blurry and in double-time, but he could make out a figure in front of him. He heard a voice talking to him and tried to move forward, but felt something tug on his neck.
“Do ye have anythin' to say 'fore yer sentence is carried out?“ is what the cowboy could finally hear. In front of him now was a man in a black jacket and a short, black beard, wearing a black mountain hat atop his face. His eyes bore into the cowboys.
The cowboy could now see and realised he was sat on his horse, with a noose around his neck. He looked up and saw that the noose was attached to a tree above him.
“I asked ye a question. Anythin' to say? 'Fore yer sentence is carried out.“ the man in front of him repeated, and now the cowboy could see that there were 5 other men behind him.
“… What's m'sentence?“ the cowboy asked, his mouth raspy and hoarse.
The 5 other men let out small chuckles and laughs as the man in black took a long sigh and spoke again.
“Son, we just held you some proceedin's 'fore an attempted bank robbery. Ye was off yer nut, feverish, for most of the goin' on's, but, it was a fair trial like we do here in New Mexico. These peers convicted ya, I passed the sentence of death and we found us this tree. Now's your opp'tunity to speak yer piece 'fore yer sentence is carried out.“
The cowboy stared at the whole scene, eyes glazing everywhere, sizing everything up. He licked his dry lips and spat once more to the floor, before saying his piece:
“That pan-covered old nutter don' hardly fight fair in my opinion.“
The man in black nodded respectfully, albeit with a sense that he had no idea what the cowboy was talking about.
“Okay… That it?“ the man in black asked.
“I reckon it is.“ the cowboy responded, spitting to the floor one final time.
There was a long, admittedly awkward silence as the rope creaked on the tree branch it had been hung on. That was until one of the members of the posse spoke up.
“Can I have yer horse?“ one man asked.
“No, no, me. Gimme yer horse.“ another perked up. The man in black stared at his posse reprovingly, then back at the cowboy.
“Ye want any of these boys to have yer horse? Saves scrappin' over it after ye passed.“ he asked.
The cowboy frowned. “I don' want any of em to have it.“
Just as the cowboy said this, an arrow sliced through the air and hit the man in blacks neck. Blood splashed over the dusty floors as arrows began compiling in 10s, then 20s. The posse raised their guns and began firing ahead.
Ahead was the Indian Comanche party. They were strung out in silhouette against the sun and then dropping under the crest of the hill into a fold of ominous shadows, clad in costumes strung from attics, or wardrobed out of some fevered dream. They let out loud whoops and cackles, the arrows flying and connecting with the flesh of the posse. They all fell downwards to the sand and their dead bodies laid bare towards the sun. They hadn't had a single chance.
The horse the cowboy sat on began to stir and become agitated, walking forward ever so slightly. The cowboy gagged as the rope tightened. He gently squeezed his knees against the horses stomach to calm it. The entire posse was dead and the party had rode themselves off into the yellowness of the west.
The cowboy sat there for a long period of time, the sun flowing heat waves over his vulnerable body. He could not move as his hands were incapicated behind his back, and the horse kept going further and further, trying to reach each plot of grass.
Each time the horse etched further, the noose tightened on his throat. He tried to stir it to stay calm but it seemed to have not heard him. His body could no longer move and he felt his breath slowly fading away.
As he peered over the landscape, he noticed the outline of a few animals and a man's voice. An outline of a shadow in the distance, on horseback. Seeing his way out, he let out a loud shout:
“HEY! OVER HERE!“
Is what he would yell with every atom of his strength. The silhouette paused on his horse and turned the cowboys way. It began to come closer and closer, till a young man came into the cowboys view. He seemed to be a cattle drover, judging by the amount of sheep he appeared to be herding.
He looked upon the dead posse with a shaken stare. “This'n Comanch?“ he asked. The cowboy let out a grunt in response, his ability to speak completely hindered and replaced with groaning and choking sounds.
The drover looked over the scene once more, then pulled out a revolver. “Hold still.“ he said, taking aim with a squint of his eye. After 9 seconds, he fired and the rope above the cowboy tore off of him as his neck was free. Greedily gulping in mouthfuls of air, life returned itself to the cowboy. The drover pulled out a knife and went behind the cowboy, lifting himself up on his tip-toes and cutting the cowboys hand ties, swiftly. His hands returned to their senses and the cowboy let out a long sigh, stretching out his hands and feeling them crackle and enjoying the sound of it.
As penance for saving his life, the cowboy offered to the drover to help him with the sheep he was herding. They both rode on horseback, herding sheep. The drover was enriched in a long tirade of complaint about bad friends.
“... Them two black men I hired t'help walk 'em t'west started grousin' 'bout the wages once the weather turned hot'n finally they left out is how I come here t'be by my lonesome. That's what ya call a foul-weather friend. Them boys didn't understand the first thing about sidekickin'. Maybe you could sidekick up with me on a permanent basis, this drive work out. Ya seem trustworthy enough, that's why I make the proposition. Why, a sidekick should be a reliable man! That's the very nature of a sidekick. Like you watch my back'n I watch your'n. Ya got to rely on folk. Fr'instance, I was walkin' a fence one day at the Purvis Turkey spread when I come across't this... Oh... “
The drovers voice trailed off as a shadow of 5 men on horseback came into view up the dry, grassy hill. He paused, his face becoming a picture of fear. “Damn!“ he yelled, before snapping the horses reins against the horse and taking off into the distant west, dust following the horses immense gallop away.
The cowboy stayed, confused as to what the man had run away from. But as the 5 men came closer and the rear end of a musket was slammed against the cowboys face and the glint of a star on the man's chest could be seen by the cowboy, he was able to take a wild guess.
The cowboy dreamt again in his deep sleep. He dreamt of his birth.
Night of the birth. How the stars did fall. The sun hung on the cusp of eclipse, then followed through. As the child of God let out its wail on the ere of its birth, the skies went into immense darkness. A muttering of fearfulness from the parents, and the light of the sky did return. The child bequeathed himself in the beauty of the world it now inhabited.
The cowboy awoke blinking. He was immediately shoved to his feet and made to limp blindly along the tracks. As his vision returned to him, he found that he had a chain and ball wrapped around his left leg, and handcuffs wrapped around his two hands, in front of his stomach. He was being paraded in a town by a bailiff, the men, women and children all letting out guffaws at his mere presence. He was dragged in front of an old man on the porch of the sheriffs office, who had himself a long beard and a bored expression on his face.
“No hats inna presence of Judge Hobby!“ the bailiff yelled, slapping the hat off the cowboy and into the dust.
“What this weasel do?“ the Judge asked, chewing a straw.
“Sir, I-” the cowboy began.
The bailiff smacked the cowboys head, “Hold yer tongue!“ he turned to the Judge, “Weasels a stock rustler.“
“Alleged.“ the Judge yawned.
“Yes yer honor.“ the bailiff responded respectfully.
“Sir, I didn't-” the cowboy tried again.
“Hold yer tongue!“ the bailiff smacked him again, then once again turned to the Judge, “He was caught drivin' rustled beeves.“
“Good enough, hang 'im.“ the Judge barely murmured out.
Before the cowboy could even speak his piece, the guards grappled his body and took him up to the gallows, next to 2 other men. The noose, now familiar to the cowboy, was tied around his neck as he stood over the platform, seeing the crowds watch him and jeer, some laughing, some throwing vegetables on the cowboys boots. He stared upwards and let out a long sigh.
Beside him, he heard the sobbing of a man, short stubbed of a beard and aged drastically. The cowboy studied him, wondering what depraved crime must've brought such a usual looking man to deaths door.
Almost in a mocking way, the cowboy smirked to the old man. “First time?“ he asked. The old man turned and stopped sobbing, now confused on what the cowboy was talking about. But as the men came over to wrap the black hood over his head, he resumed sobbing.
The cowboy smirked all around. At the mocking crowd, the skies, even the preachers at his side, trying to ensure his soul was treated with some ounce of dignity in the hereafter. But he didn't care. He just smirked at it all.
Above on house porch was a pretty lady. She had hair flowing down and soft, white skin and a beautiful dress. She seemed serene, any man would adore to be with her. And the cowboy did watch her.
But his eyes peered away from the lady and to the sparrow next to the lady. She was playing with the sparrow, feeding it. The sparrow was small and frittle, yet it's eyes were two black dots of innocence. It's tiny, soft body, frail and weak, yet so heavenly. He smiled wider, no longer interested in the lady, but the sparrow. The sparrow looked at the cowboy with an expression of bottomless sadness.
“There's a pretty bird.“ the cowboy said to himself, smiling happily to himself. That was until his vision was enriched in darkness as the hood was stuffed over his head.
The platform beneath his feet gave way and he was hanged, thus and then. The crowd erupted into cheering, as they always did. Even the fair lady flew her hankerchief in celebration over death.
The sun grew higher and bigger as the heat shined down to make the corpses plump and purple and the sparrow flew eastward to another domain and the sound of the roaring crowd faded fast.
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THE END.
