The fatal strike

“Faster, Lady!” She shouted, kicking her worn-out heels into the horse’s sides.

The air was beige as the sand lifted off the ground from being hit hard by hooves. It swirled around Rose’s head, like a halo. Still, what she was on her way to do wasn’t good.

“Come on, we’re almost there,” she whispered.

Gunshots blasting from duels afar were par for the course. Bang, swoosh, pop. And in the midst of them, in plain sight, was Rose's target. Tall, bearded, and wearing a three-piece suit, her conman husband James was right at the end of the road, standing perfectly still. The ideal position.

At first, she almost didn’t recognize him, as his tangled hair was noticeably longer than it had been before he ran from the law, nearly two months back. Each dark-blonde lock waved almost all the way down to his stiff shoulders and grazed the tops of the three rifles slung across him. And next to his out-of-control strands, were his bloodthirsty, dirt-filled fingernails. They lingered, like flies over a corpse, around the triggers of the weapons—ready to commit the next fatal strike.

This made Rose gag.

She inhaled deeply and tightened her grip on the vibrating reins, causing her knuckles to turn bright white. Beads of cold sweat dripped from her forehead down to her olive-coloured eyes, making it hard to see. Rose shook her head, letting the distracting drops fall where they may over the dry, Arizona desert sand. This was her chance to get revenge, to get the money. She wouldn’t let anything stop her.

“Faster!” She shouted.

Lady's legs moved so quickly, that to a passersby, they'd likely be but a blur. Many were riding into town like she was, but none were able to match her speed. None shared the same determination or her rider's deep desire for vengeance. Still, in the midst of the rush, Rose felt for a moment that time was still. Like the clouds of smoke, the loud crowds, and the scent of manure were suddenly erased. And in their place, appeared the image of her dear father and brother. The people she loved the most in this Wild West and James' innocent victims, who were slaughtered simply for cash. Murdered by five bullets aimed right for the throat for three-hundred d0llars and a case of brandy. Only a quarter of a year's worth of their dairy farm's earnings.

"Fucking asshole," she mumbled into the emptiness.

But even though she hated his guts and had planned this moment for weeks, carefully considering the most obscure minutiae, Rose wondered as seconds stopped, if her murderous husband's demise and the retrieval of her rightful loot would truly avenge the ones she loved. If this obsession, this plight for revenge, would actually help dissipate her grief. Would any of it make a difference? Would her father and brother even want this? And would this truly be the justice they deserve? As she neared James, eyeing his unsuspecting figure, her gut told her a resounding yes. In fact, it screamed the words, "DO IT."

Killing him was the only way.

Rose lifted her sore back straight enough to reach for her pistol. It was her first and its brand-new silver shell still shone bright as the sun hit it.

"Lady," she cried out. "Are you ready?"

She placed her shaky finger over the trigger in the exact position that the shopkeeper had told her to, when it was time to shoot. And as Rose’s body bounced up and down from the ongoing gallop, she aimed right for the throat of the man she stupidly once loved, and in one breath, she fired.

Bang, swoosh, pop.