by Travis Pasch
The weight bearing down on Zale's eyelids drags them shut before he can even think about resisting. He wants to survey his new surroundings before succumbing to the sweet embrace of sleep, but his body doesn't allows him that luxury. At least the pestering sleep enables new ideas to burrow themselves into his brain. That's the reason he moved thousands of miles away to the desert after all. In a moment the dreams are playing out before him, plastering the back of his eyelids with viscous scenes from his disoriented imagination...
The hero tries with every ounce of his will to focus his eyes on the man standing a full twenty paces across from him. The dust tries to disrupt his concentration and march unopposed into his already crowded vision. Finally, in this nasty little town, he managed to track down the wanted man. The hero's long and battered duster coat flutters in the desert wind as the entire town looks on from the imagined safety of their wood homes and shops. The killer is better known as the Butcher, and has somehow managed to kill over twenty men in his short life.
"I hope you said your prayers this morning bounty hunter!" his prey yells at the hero over the howling desert sands. The hero doesn't respond, but removes his large hat in an attempt to get a better view of him.
"Well? Are we going to do this?" the Butcher yells to him again, visibly becoming unnerved by the inhuman calm of his adversary. The hero's hat floats gracefully through the air as he tosses it aside. Without warning the Butcher's bullet rips through the dry, beautiful day. A shooting pain explodes through the hero's left side, but pure calm plays across his face.
The gathered townspeople let out a collective sigh when he finally and methodically begins to remove his pistol from his holster. The gleam from the sun coming off the gun is powerful enough to blind the strongest hawk. The hero has to admit to himself that the Butcher has more pride than he expected, even as he takes aim the man stands there with his head held proudly, though the rest of the killer's body is shaking violently beneath his heavy jacket. Miraculously he doesn't even attempt to fire off any other shots.
The hero's draw comes almost as if in slow motion. With every inch he moves, a thousand pounds of dust assault the decrepit buildings that surround him. Then in a flash, he fires, the Butcher is lifted from his feet, and his heavy gun flies from his dead hands as he falls. His ten gallon hat starts its lofty descent to earth from its former, grand perch. Again the townspeople let out a gasp, this time not in relief, but in surprise.
Kicking the dead man's boot the hero takes a short glance at the man's destroyed face, now nothing more than a mass of bones and blood. He picks up the Butcher's hat and gun before shouting, "Who's in charge of the bounty?"