Day 4 - Western Story

Western Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

The sun beat down over the Arizona desert.  Hot and dry.  Very very dry.  And the sun, that bright callous, unrelenting sun, just kept beating down. The year is Eighteen-Eighty-Eight. 

In the distant horizon, in that hazy area where the earth meets the sky, a tiny figure moves.  Slowly.  So slowly, and so far away, it is difficult to make out whether or not the figure is real or if this is but some mirage.

The ground is cracked, the vegetation scarce and sporadic.  There is no visible life anywhere.  But still, in the distance just in front of the horizon, that tiny little figure moves.

Above the sun keeps shining down.  Hotter than hot.  The sort of hot Dante talked about.  Painful melting and dripping, sense numbing heat that makes a person want to do nothing but sleep.

The figure moves closer and closer.  Not imaginary, not a mirage, it is a cowboy on a horse.  The horse moves slowly, methodically kicking up dust as it moves.

Behind them is a trail.  Little wet drips resting above the scorched earth, staining it red.

Blood.  The trail is obviously blood.

Drip by drip, soaking into the parched earth.

The reigns hang down, bouncing along with the horse’s motion.  The man above bounces right along, not making any attempt to control his animal.  It’s obvious that no one is in control here.  Horse and master – both have been shot.  Both bleed.  Neither is near consciousness.  It’s a wonder their journey continues at all.

Sweat rolls down his face.  That sweet salty sweat that you wished brought some form of relief but instead is just a sick reminder of all that is wrong with nature and the afternoon sun.

The man slumps further down in the saddle.  A blood covered hand drops from his stomach revealing a sick twisted pulpy mess. His shirt is stained, his stomach stricken.  That fallen hand that was held so tightly against his stomach must have been the only thing holding his innards in.  It must have been a battle he couldn’t possibly win.

The man is in terrible shape.  Half unconscious, half dead, he leans back and almost falls out of the saddle.

Above, the sun keeps shining down.  Harshly.

Below, the horse keeps moving.  Slowly.

                Finally his horse has had enough.  It falls to the ground, taking its half dead master with it.  The cowboy remains still for a long time, his face pressed into the dirt, sweat and blood mixing with the sandy salty earth.

Then, miraculously he pushes himself up and begins to crawl, a bloodstain left as a remnant.

In the distance a galloping horse approaches.  The man slowly crawls away from his dying horse, his blood marking his path.  The galloping horse gets closer and closer until it rides up to the crawling man is.  The horse stops, spurs rattle as someone jumps down. 

The crawling man stops.  A boot steps down in his path.

There stands a rough and tough looking desperado type.  He steps up to the crawling man, blocking the sun.  The rough rider tips his hat up and looks down at the crawling man. 

“Hello Hank.”

Hank looks up and opens his mouth to speak and gets a mouth full of kicked dirt for his efforts.

A lot of things flashed in Hank’s mind – his life, his past, and especially what brought him to this exact moment.

“Quentin… Listen—”

Quentin pulled his .32 Smith & Wesson and slowly tracking it towards Hank’s head.

“I don’t care, Hank.  You took your shot and you failed.”

Hank began coughing up some blood.  He had nothing to say that would fix the hole in his gut or fix his friendship with the man that was aiming the gun.

“Now, I could just let you rot out here.  I’m sure you’ll be dead soon enough.  But that’s not really me.  Me?  When I take aim at something, I like to see it through.”

“Do what you need to do.”

Quentin did.  He pulled the trigger.

Above the sun kept on shining, but somewhere in the distance the vultures were gathering.