The Man In A Slate Coat And Stetson

A western short story written on a rainy Sunday.

The man in a slate coat and Stetson sat off the road a ways atop his horse, barely veiled in a grove of thin cottonwood. He rolled a cigarette and listened to the morning sounds of the forest. Birds chirping, squirrels chasing each other. The occasional cascade of built up rainwater giving way from the branches above. Quiet in the calm stillness, the man in a slate coat and Stetson prepared to kill.

His name was Osborn. He twisted the tip of the cigarette up in front of his face, close to his nose. Spilled a pinch of tobacco, the grains caught by the flyer spread out on the horse's mane.

The flyer said REWARD. Underneath the bold word was the crude but efficient drawing of a man's face. A scar zig-zagged down his cheek from the corner of his left eye, his eyebrows dark and bushy, his nose short and round. The artist had drawn a generous patch of black hair on his scalp, a handlebar moustache around his mouth, the tips hanging past his chin.

The eyes told Osborn the artist had actually come face-to-face with the fugitive. These were the eyes of a man who didn't just choose the outlaw life, he was born into it. Unapologetically shaped by it. The anger in his glare wasn't meant for life and all the hardships it dealt him, it was meant for the artist because he dared to lock gazes.

At least that's what Osborn thought. He lit the cigarette and lifted the flyer, bent it carefully and tilted it to allow the loose tobacco to slide into a pouch. He pulled hard on his smoke and spread the flyer out again, reading the rest printed under the portrait.

$1500 DEAD OR ALIVE BOUNTY. CORBIN BAYER. CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. WANTED FOR MURDER AND TRAIN ROBBERY IN CONTENTION AND FAIRBANK.

Osborn folded the flyer and shoved it in his coat. This was the road Corbin Bayer would take if he fled Arizona. Secluded and out of the way, it'd lead him right through Nogales, and then Mexico.

He rode all night to beat the outlaw here. Skipped dinner and sleep but there'd be plenty of time for that later. Osborn needed to outrun the marshalls. No doubt they were on Corbin's heels.

Some time passed, long enough for a soft mist to fall and a light fog to roll in, before Osborn heard hooves.

Corbin emerged from cloudy cover, even at that distance noticeably and carelessly relaxed. The gelding carried him at a slow trot. Osborn raised the Sharps and watched him for several meters. The fool never even glanced his way. Why would he? He must have shaken the marshalls off his trail somehow to ride with such confidence, carrying the better part of ten thousand dollars in cash. Stolen off a train after shooting dead the conductor and two Pinkertons. By now the Pinkertons would have their own squad tearing up the countryside, hunting him.

Osborn knew if Corbin reached Nogales, even if he came within a few miles of it, someone else would pick him off and take him in. He allowed Corbin a few more feet, let him ride directly in front of him, framed his shot between the trees and -

The report echoed through the woods. Corbin's horse whinnied its last and fell, pinning the outlaw to the ground. Osborn knew he had to work fast.

As he approached he heard Corbin curse. No glint of silver so Osborn figured Corbin couldn't get to his gun. Shame.

The outlaw heard the other horse draw near and someone dismount. Corbin said, "You broke my leg."

Osborn listened to him groan. Watched him struggle. Finally, he said, "No. Your horse did."

Corbin stopped fighting the horse's carcass. "Osborn?"

The man in a slate coat and Stetson leaned over the horse, the Sharps in his left hand and a Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolver in his right. Corbin gaped, the anger from the flyer erased. Replaced with astonishment.

Osborn said, "You took my cut, you son of a b***h," and pulled the revolver’s trigger. Bits of Corbin blasted back along the dirt trail.

The marshalls or the Pinkertons would find him like this, and when they did they'd wonder who left the flyer next to Corbin's body but didn't claim the reward. It wouldn't take long to realize why.

There'd be no saddlebags. Each filled with a portion of ten thousand dollars in cash, maybe a little less. All of it gone forever. Loading the first one was easy, but Osborn had to work damn near ten minutes to pull the second one out from under Corbin's horse.

And Osborn Bayer figured by the time they did find his brother, he'd already be halfway to Sonora.

Author's Note

Tear it apart.

Reviews

[Jason Endfield]

Tense and atmospheric, expressively told...

[Leon C]

Good description of the scenery and action and nice sparse description of the protagonist.

I think you used metres as a measurement where possibly yards would be better.

Good solid story.

[Landon T. Stewart]

You're right. Yards would work better in this setting.

[Kyle Wynn]

I really enjoyed this story. The imagery was really good and it had a nice twist to it at the end.

[Landon T. Stewart]

Thanks, man. Glad you liked it.