How the West Was Won
A scouring wind scudded across the hard-crusted soil raising the occasional, though sparse, dust devil. The faint aroma of yesterday’s…
A scouring wind scudded across the hard-crusted soil
raising the occasional, though sparse, dust devil.
The faint aroma of yesterday’s cooking was a reminder
that he had not eaten for hours.
With a dry mouth, he stepped off the hardstand
and headed across the short stretch of scrubland,
his boots scuffing, and the dried cracked leather
of his chaps chafing through the faded denim.
He was old now, and his gnarled skin highlighted
the grizzled wire of his beard and sideburns.
His hat too, pulled low and angled, had seen better days,
and his gait showed the stiffened sinews of the passing years.
Once, his eyes had been sharp and his aim true
but time, and alcohol, had not been kind to him.
He felt the tight knot of fear in his stomach
as he approached the sullen young cowhand.
He knew his time was now, and he accepted his fate,
as he stopped and stared into the eyes of the youngster.
With a wry grin, and his reputation behind him,
he raised the Colt to his temple, and was gone.