The Western

The Western

A Story by Miles McGee

A western fashioned after Spagetti Westerns

From out of the high desert sun came a man. He walked with a persistent trudge that kept the same rhythm with every step, never faltering or changing. To the people of the town, the stranger seemed just that, another stranger wondering into town. His silhouette showed exactly what he was, a man with a gun.
        The townsfolk stared at his frame get closer and closer to the edge of the small town from their square, white plastered houses. The stranger walked by them without a glance to either side. His cold, grey eyes stared only straight ahead from the tanned, deeply wrinkled face of a man who never left the sun. His leather wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his tanned face as he walked.
        The townsfolk had seen many like him come and go, but never quite like him. The stranger came in on foot. That meant he walked across the desert expanse that surrounded the small town. No one ever walked. They noticed his long, leather duster that hung to his calves. His jeans had once been blue but now had no color, the color of the desert. His steps kept that same rhythm. Under his duster, the townsfolk saw a leather vest covering a blue, cotton button shirt.
        Ahead, three men stepped out from behind the white buildings and stood with their hands reaching for their guns. The stranger paused and stood with his grey eyes scanning the three men out in front. They were fifty paces; far enough away that their faces were unrecognizable, especially with the sun at their backs. A faint shuffle came from around the small town as the townsfolk gathered their children and ushered them into the buildings.
        Suddenly, one of the three men went for his pistol. The stranger drew and quickly fanned the hammer of his sidearm. Three shots rang out and three men dropped to the dusty, baked earth of the street. The stranger quickly twirled his revolver back into his holster. The stranger kept walking.
        The stranger came to the main street that ran through the center of town towards the city hall. The city hall was a tall, white building made of wood with a small sheriff�s office and jail off to the side. The stranger started walking towards the white building. The white, square plastered buildings slowly gave way to two-storied wooden ones. These were businesses and hotels with second story balconies that ran along the whole of both sides.
        A man threw open a wooden-shuttered window from the second story of the bank and took aim with a long barreled rifle. The stranger quickly turned and drew, firing from the hip taking the man in the chest. The man fell from the window and landed with a dull sounding hit on the boarded sidewalk. Again, the stranger returned his pistol to its holster. He then continued walking down the dry, empty road.
        A saloon door opened on its butterfly hinges and two men leapt out and a man for the other side of the street sprang from the alley. The stranger quickly drew and fired his last two bullets at the men from the saloon then pulled another pistol from within his duster. He took aim from the hips and fanned the hammer once, sending the lead through the man�s heart, causing him to twirl and fall into a watering trough. The stranger quickly reloaded both revolvers and quickly snapped them back into the leather holsters at his hips. He kept walking towards the courthouse.
        The stranger stopped in front of the whitewashed building and waited. Slowly, three men came out. Each had a small silver star that gleamed from their chests. The man on the left was tall and lightly muscled. His eyes were cold and his dark hair was long and wavy under that black hat with its silver headband. The man on the far right was shorter and had a wise look to his eyes. His face was covered in a thick red beard that made him look older than he truly was. His hat was tan and made of thick canvas. His neck was covered with a red piece of cloth that was tied in the back. The man in the middle was the oldest, though he was not ancient. He was as old as the stranger that stood before him. The man in the middle had a tanned face like the stranger though his face was shaven, not like the stranger whose face was covered in stubbles that had no real color. The man in the middle stared not in fear, but in recognition.
        The man on the left suddenly went for his pistol. The stranger cut down the man on the left and the man on the far right, leaving the man in the middle with his gleaming badge and the stranger with his dried out duster.
        The man with the badge licked his lips slowly and stared at the stranger�s eyes. Those eyes showed no emotion, only cold. Those eyes were sunk deep into the stranger�s face and were nearly covered by the wrinkles that had come with the long years in the sun.
        The man with the badge licked his dry lips again. �I always knew you would come for me.�
        The stranger looked at the man for a long time saying nothing. He studied the man�s face with its wrinkles that had been made by the same sun. Finally, a dry voice cracked from within the stranger�s throat that sounded if it had not made noise in centuries. �Yup.�
        The man with the badge nodded then sat still. The stranger stood, unmoving like a statue made of dirt and leather. The town was silent. There was no wind or birds. No one moved. It was just the man with the badge and the stranger.
        The man with the badge went for his revolver at his right hip and the stranger went for the revolver at his own left. Two shots fired and one man dropped to the ground. The shots� echoes sounded through the silence as the dust settled. The stranger stared at the fallen body. The bullet had taken the man with the badge through the forehead above the right eye. The stranger stared for a few more moments then turned back the way he had come.
        As he walked, people opened the doors and windows of the buildings and gazed at either the stranger of the bodies lying in the dry dust. Some stared at both. The stranger turned the corner and started to walk again with the same rhythm back into the desert. The people watched his figure grow smaller and smaller in the reflective waves of heat. Finally the desert ate his tiny image and the town again grew silent.

© 2008 Miles McGee

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Nicely written. Reminds me of an 1960's Western starring Clint Eastwood

Posted 11 Years Ago

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Added on February 27, 2008


Miles McGee
Miles McGee

Walla Walla, WA

My name is Miles McGee and i am a 19 year old guy. i love to write. i have since the 6th grade and now I want to hone my skills more. You aren't sure where you came from. Perhaps your sire d.. more..

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