I wrote a short story on Twitter and figured I’d repost it here.
The canyon walls echoed the rhythmic beat of hooves and the red ground rumbled. Birds, cowards of the sky, jumped to yellow-bellied flight.
Kilroy Hunter and James Seiker rode quick past the canyon into the lonely town of Jumper’s Creek. There was no creek, only dust. And death.
These men hunted for bounty and danger (and whiskey). Where they walked, bullets fell. Dismounted, empty streets pattered with horse sweat.
Like fallen scarecrows with pecked faces, bodies littered the streets. Black holes in white bone. “Happened here?” asked Hunter, spitting.
Seiker pointed a muddy glove to the centre of town. Old stone well crumbling in the noonday sun. “Well poisoned,” he said with a grimace.
“I know they’re well poisoned ya idjit,” said Hunter. “But how?” He ambled to the well and began to draw up the dripping bucket. “Parched.”
Bucket went spinning to the ground as pistol holstered. “Well’s poisoned,” said Seiker. “There ain’t no else dumb ‘nough to be my partner.”
“None ugly ‘nough to be mine,” said Hunter, smiling yellow and gold. “Let’s look about and see if we can’t find a neck for justice.”
They walked and something chewed on Hunter’s mind. Well water. Dust. The sun was too hot and constant for thinking clear. He needed water.
Seiker unfurled a poster that said “Wanted Dead or Alive: Crimes McCarthy.” “Name like that,” said Seiker, “Who can blame him? McCarthy!”
A dull thud and a whinny behind them. Seiker’s horse had dropped to the dust and lay still. “Weak beast,” spat Seiker. “No mind, let’s go.”
They stalked the streets, trying to match a face to a poster. Crows had been feasting for at least a few hours. It was grisly work. Hot sun.
Saloon doors swung inward to the music of buzzing flies. “There, by the piano player,” said Hunter, his dusty gloved finger straight out.
In that room full of corpses they found Crimes McCarthy. Dead of poison like the rest. Seiker brushed caked mud from his gloves and lifted.
As Seiker dragged McCarthy across the floor, a shot cracked into his spine and he crashed screaming. “Why’dja do it, Seiker?” asked Hunter.
“Bastard!” yelled Seiker, writhing. “Hunter, ya shot me! Why?” Hunter lit a cigar and glanced about. “Killed all these people, that’s why.”
“Your muddy gloves. Horse is dead tired. Ya rode here in the night and poisoned the well and now everyone’s dead. When ya go loco, Seiker?”
“I ain’t never gone no way, Hunter,” Seiker said, gasping for air. “I always been this way and you just too shit-stupid to notice. Always..”
Three men on one horse, two dead, one tired and sad. Jumper’s Creek a ghost town ruled by crows. Bullets scattered on the ground.
THE END.
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