Six-Shooters

Spurs sang among the dust, kicked up by weather-worn boots. Some of the townsfolk looked on from behind boarded windows. Others peeked round the corners of ramshackle lean-tos. All were silent. The whites of their eyes danced, for the stranger had finally appeared. One minute to high noon.

Cruel laughter broke out from the outlaw. He was brazen, standing in the road that bisected the town like a dirt river. Emit L’Arme he was named. On his hip, a holster carried his pistol. The same six-shooter that had dispatched the sheriff only a week ago. As though sensing the coming duel, the gun metal caught the sunlight, to glitter in a white-hot malice. L’Arme flicked his brimmed hat high, so he could regard his latest challenge. The outlaw looked lazily to the town hall’s clock tower. The arms so close they made hands in prayer.

Heavy footsteps preceded the stranger. He was heralded by a long shadow, and accompanied by the heavy groans that his footsteps made upon the saloon’s steps. Each one betrayed the age of the place. Like the rest of the town’s sorry buildings, they had no way of upkeep. L’Arme and his outlaws had seen to that. Like the folk that dwelled within them, they were a poor lot, and had suffered long and hard under the snakeskin boot of the ruffians.

“Sheriff Quint was smart enough not to be late to his execution.” L’Arme laughed at his own wit. His voice echoed throughout the town, warped and banshee shrill. The stranger walked through the noise, his pace never faltering. He waited until he had reached the centre of the road to say, “I ain’t Quint.”

The stranger did not raise his head to meet the outlaw’s gaze. His attention was only for his six-shooter. Pulling it free of his hip holster enough to expose the grip. Those close enough could make out the graven image. A striking rattlesnake.

“That pistol is quite the fancy thing.” L’Arme made an inane whistle. “It’ll be a fine acquisition.”

The stranger’s head raised by half an inch, his features ever obscured by his hat. The pistol returned snug into his holster, and the snake was again hidden. “Not while I breathe.” The tone that laced his words made the statement a threat. One that L’Arme did not fail to notice.

“This won’t take long.” This was the outlaw’s town. His, and his fellow desperadoes. The orders had been clear. Flee the wrath of the law. Wait until he dispatched the marshal. He knew them well. They would have been dicing and drinking up the creek. Safe... and far from the town. They would only complicate things, and Emit L’Arme preferred to do things quickly and easily. He would deal with the marshall the same as the sheriff.

He couldn’t believe his luck then, that the stranger that rocked up to the saloon was not a marshall. He wasn’t even sure if he was a lawman. The man had the gall to rebuff him when he asked. Now his patience had expired.

“Just tell me who you are, stranger, and I’ll call off the duel.”

The man stood unmoving, not twenty feet away. He did not adjust his footing, nor fidget in

place. When he did move, there was a calmness the outlaw thought intriguing. He raised his brow just high enough to see the eyes peer out. The scowl that pinned his face. L’Arme did not like that look. Not. One. Bit.

He sized the man up, and then spat, “I won’t ask again.”

A hoarse laugh erupted from the stranger. Then he raised his arms. “Yet you ask all the same.” The words carried throughout the town. Loud, and clear.

L’Arme gave a start. “Wrong answer.”

The stranger shrugged, and looked up to regard the clocktower. Those eyes did not hold any fear... the outlaw searched his adversary for a tell. Every man had one. He just had to find it. Impatience made him say, “Have somewhere you need to be?”

“No. Just waiting.”

“Waiting for your death, you mean. Even if you get a shot out of that fancy gun, my boys will come to finish you off.”

Only then did the stranger look L’Arme dead in the eye. “No. They won’t.”

A trickle of sweat slipped down the outlaw’s spine. A chill went through him, though the air was still. He had to remember to breathe. He had to think.

The knell of the clocktower sounded. Grave, and quiet. They all heard it. Had it always been so quiet?

Steel cleared leather. Gunfire filled the air. Then it was all smoke and dust. The outlaw laughed once more.