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The WesternerThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Nathan Weaver | |
| Monday, 23 June 2008 | |
[sub-category: Western]
Twenty-seven years ago and on cursed ground, a U.S. Marshall chased Thomas McKay through the backwoods and hills of Missouri. McKay had left his mark back in Kansas City, nine dead and seven others wounded. A saloon burned all the night previous, stables were cleared and horses paraded through the streets untamed. The U.S. Marshall was running on foot after McKay, they’d both been running since it was still dark. The sun was rising now, the dew was collecting and the fog was barely lifting.
The legs of the U.S. Marshall pulsed with pain, he sweat pours from his head though it was cold enough to snow. He reached a clearing and began to cross it, watching closely the footprints in front of him. These footprints in the mud and yellow grass had taken him far from Kansas City; he knew he was approaching his man.
Suddenly, a chill overcame the U.S. Marshall and he stopped. He felt two stinging sensations in his right shoulder; on the corner of his eye a tall and slender figure, dark in nature was erect in the field. The figure was at least fifty cubits away. He turned and gazed upon the figure standing in the clearing—
Thomas McKay was tall, slender but hunched over. His hat covered his face, his right foot he held on its toes. The other foot he planted firm to the ground, he slouched a little to his right and this leaned the arm lower than his gun and holster. His left hand he had planted to its appropriate hip. McKay was young, vengeful and unrelenting in his pursuit. He came to Kansas City with one goal, following an entourage of revelers. His goal was realized in one night, in less than one hour.
Panting, the U.S. Marshall placed his gun in its holster. He’d run with the gun in hand all through the night, unaware of any ounce of chivalry or honor McKay may or may not have. The two walked towards each other and meeting face to face, Thomas McKay raised his head and looked the U.S. Marshall in the face,
“Ten?” McKay asked.
“Ten,” the U.S. Marshall replied.
They both turned from one another and began their respective ten paces. The U.S. Marshall counted aloud; McKay counted within his mind. At six paces the U.S. Marshall slowly turned around and slid his gun from its holster, all whilst taking his paces. He finished his paces walking backwards away from McKay, who finished his stride in the forward motion. They stood for a moment in silence, only the winter breeze could be heard through the U.S. Marshall’s numbed ears.
“Shall I call it?” the U.S. Marshall shouted to McKay.
Only a nod of approval was shown from Thomas McKay and the U.S. Marshall hesitated, aiming his gun to the back of McKay. He placed his thumb upon the hammer, ready to ****—his finger ready on the trigger,
“DRAW!”
In one motion McKay spun to view his opponent, landing his right knee into the soft ground, drawing his gun, cocking with his left land and firing with his right. The U.S. Marshall was knocked off his feet, landing on his back at which point a rock in the Missouri soil cut into his left ear. He still held his grip upon the gun.
McKay’s left hand rested upon his right wrist now, he removed it and stood. He walked to the U.S. Marshall and stood towering above him. He replaced his gun to its holster and watched. The U.S. Marshall looked at Thomas McKay and than to his hand, with his thumb he pulled the hammer down. And then, as his soul was released, so was his grip.
THE END. Copyright 2008 Nathan Weaver |
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