They say the world always finds a way to make things right: every mountain gets flattened, and each valley is eventually filled. A hole in a man’s heart can get replaced with many things: pity, loathing, and even vengeance.
Dawson had been down this road for some weeks now, his horse ambling along the rugged path beneath the high noon sun. He hunted the man who took so much from him; it wasn’t a lot by many standards, but it was all he had left. Dawson’s quarry had always been one step ahead of him, traveling to the next town just as he arrived to claim his due, but not this time. Word had it the man was holed up in a little place called Vendetta. He was ready for a fight - Dawson was sure of it.
A boy in tattered clothing limped along the road head. Dawson rode alongside him, and looked back into the child’s hopeless eyes. All his vengeance was set upon one man, so he had no room for anger when faced with those in need. He took out the last biscuit he had and tossed it in the child’s open hands. “You look like you could use this more than me, stranger.” Dawson said. He then quickened the horse’s pace, and put his thoughts back to his dire goal.
A signpost in the distance marked the fork in the road. Its clues had long since faded, but Dawson knew what way to go. He stopped to draw his pistol and flicked its chamber open. On five of the bullets, etched in brass, was the name of each person he had lost; on the last the brass was blank, left for the man whose life he was yet to take. Content with the sixpromises it held, he spurred his horse and charged off toward town.
The road was straight and narrow, and had been traveled many times before. A few tumbleweeds drifting by were the only souls he saw in town, save one horse at the saloon. Dawson got off his horse and stepped inside, the doors creaking closed behind him. The man sat at the bar, his back to the room. A row of empty shot glasses lined the counter in front of him, and he had a full one in his hand. He was thin, unarmed, and wore a tattered petticoat. There was no fight in him; perhaps there never was.
“I blew all the townsfolk’s money on some swindler, and I just had to get it back somehow before they found out what I’d done,” The man said. “There wasn’t supposed to be anybody in the train car when it blew: only thing I wanted was on the other side of that safe.” His face looked down into his glass. He threw back the shot and poured himself another. Dawson drew the pistol at his side, and pulled the hammer back. The man jumped when it clicked, and drank the whiskey in his glass. He turned to face Dawson, and gasped when he saw Dawson staring back at him, weapon raised. He stumbled to the floor, his body perched against the counter side with one arm tangled in a barstool. “Just end it for me already. I can’t tell them what I’d done, and I got no place else to go.” The man’s head rose, and his beady eyes locked with Dawson’s vengeful gaze.
Dawson stood there for a moment, brooding over all he lost and the killer he had found. His arm was readied, his forefinger tensed; the manwinced and closed his eyes. Dawson’s heart jumped when he felt the trigger of the gun. Through his mind rushed a sense of anguish he had not felt until this moment.
“Killing you won’t bring them back,” Dawson said, uncocking the hammer as he lowered the weapon to his side.
“You’re not going to kill me?” the man asked.
Dawson opened the chamber of his gun and removed the bullets it possessed, save the one that had no name, and tossed it to the man’s lap. “You look like you could use this more than me, stranger.” Dawson said, and he turned to leave the saloon.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” The man asked.
“Maybe nothing; it’s really up to you.” Dawson said over his shoulder. He got on his horse, and rode out of town.
Dawson came back to the unnamed signpost, and looked to where the roads would take him. The time-worn path led to a place of broken memories; one he knew all too well. The way behind led to where he wished never to return. The last was along the path that had no name, full of twists and turns and new horizons. His heart content and his mind at ease, he set off into the world’s unknown adventure, and left along the winding road.
Dawson had been down this road for some weeks now, his horse ambling along the rugged path beneath the high noon sun. He hunted the man who took so much from him; it wasn’t a lot by many standards, but it was all he had left. Dawson’s quarry had always been one step ahead of him, traveling to the next town just as he arrived to claim his due, but not this time. Word had it the man was holed up in a little place called Vendetta. He was ready for a fight - Dawson was sure of it.
A boy in tattered clothing limped along the road head. Dawson rode alongside him, and looked back into the child’s hopeless eyes. All his vengeance was set upon one man, so he had no room for anger when faced with those in need. He took out the last biscuit he had and tossed it in the child’s open hands. “You look like you could use this more than me, stranger.” Dawson said. He then quickened the horse’s pace, and put his thoughts back to his dire goal.
A signpost in the distance marked the fork in the road. Its clues had long since faded, but Dawson knew what way to go. He stopped to draw his pistol and flicked its chamber open. On five of the bullets, etched in brass, was the name of each person he had lost; on the last the brass was blank, left for the man whose life he was yet to take. Content with the sixpromises it held, he spurred his horse and charged off toward town.
The road was straight and narrow, and had been traveled many times before. A few tumbleweeds drifting by were the only souls he saw in town, save one horse at the saloon. Dawson got off his horse and stepped inside, the doors creaking closed behind him. The man sat at the bar, his back to the room. A row of empty shot glasses lined the counter in front of him, and he had a full one in his hand. He was thin, unarmed, and wore a tattered petticoat. There was no fight in him; perhaps there never was.
“I blew all the townsfolk’s money on some swindler, and I just had to get it back somehow before they found out what I’d done,” The man said. “There wasn’t supposed to be anybody in the train car when it blew: only thing I wanted was on the other side of that safe.” His face looked down into his glass. He threw back the shot and poured himself another. Dawson drew the pistol at his side, and pulled the hammer back. The man jumped when it clicked, and drank the whiskey in his glass. He turned to face Dawson, and gasped when he saw Dawson staring back at him, weapon raised. He stumbled to the floor, his body perched against the counter side with one arm tangled in a barstool. “Just end it for me already. I can’t tell them what I’d done, and I got no place else to go.” The man’s head rose, and his beady eyes locked with Dawson’s vengeful gaze.
Dawson stood there for a moment, brooding over all he lost and the killer he had found. His arm was readied, his forefinger tensed; the manwinced and closed his eyes. Dawson’s heart jumped when he felt the trigger of the gun. Through his mind rushed a sense of anguish he had not felt until this moment.
“Killing you won’t bring them back,” Dawson said, uncocking the hammer as he lowered the weapon to his side.
“You’re not going to kill me?” the man asked.
Dawson opened the chamber of his gun and removed the bullets it possessed, save the one that had no name, and tossed it to the man’s lap. “You look like you could use this more than me, stranger.” Dawson said, and he turned to leave the saloon.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” The man asked.
“Maybe nothing; it’s really up to you.” Dawson said over his shoulder. He got on his horse, and rode out of town.
Dawson came back to the unnamed signpost, and looked to where the roads would take him. The time-worn path led to a place of broken memories; one he knew all too well. The way behind led to where he wished never to return. The last was along the path that had no name, full of twists and turns and new horizons. His heart content and his mind at ease, he set off into the world’s unknown adventure, and left along the winding road.
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