A Western Gentleman

Chapter 1

A dry tumbleweed rolled across the dusty desert plain, indifferently ambling over the emotionless face of an armadillo. The animal gave no response, parched and mummified as it was. What started as a simple search for food and drink on the open rock flats hadn't panned out, making the creature another victim of the harsh Arkansas sun. The oppressive waves of heat blasted the flat rocks, keeping in time with the slow, steady pulse of a horse and its rider. The horse was jet-black, save for the glistening sweat pulled forth by the sun. It made no mind or effort to dispute its lot in or raise any kind of protest for its situation. The man atop the horse portrayed a mood as black as his steed, his fine jacket and bowler hat dark as well. His pale face held a neatly trimmed black handlebar mustache, waxed into perfect shape. He, too, made no protest about his situation despite the sweltering heat that he felt under his jacket.

The rider and his horse sauntered along the rocky plateau under the baking sun aiming for the shaded cover of a nearby river bank. Within thirty yards of it, the rider and his horse approached
a little ridge with a bluff. Small, scruffy bushes gripped the edge obscuring a small depression beyond the ridge from view. It was a minor detail, a drop of only a couple of feet. Nothing in and of itself ed any challenge to the rider's progress to the cool, green paradise in the distance.

As the rider approached the outcropping of sparse foliage there was a rustle, conveniently just out of view below the ridge. Now odds are, out in this country, the odd rustle could be as harmless as a prairie mouse. At worst, it could be a rattler. The thought of the latter was enough for the cowboy to rest his hand on the butt of his colt revolver. The fact that the rustle came from the one and only spot on the entire landscape that he couldn't see made him cautious enough to wrap his fingers around it. The rustle turned into a scuffle and slowly grew into the sounds of steel and leather, rock and hooves, clumsily scraping together in an inept ambush attempt. The rider slowly pulled his iron from its holster and rested it on top of his saddle horn in preparation. When the first gun muzzle appeared above the nearest bush along with the corner of a dirty, -beaten hat, a voice muttered to itself. The rider leveled his iron, aiming towards his would-be hijacker.

"Now hold on a minute, partner," came a greasy voice from under the hat. "That there is an act of hostility towards a man of the law."

A  dirty face emerged from behind the bush. Filth and stubble blended together in a mottled, uneven tone. Large jowls shook under the ugly face. Carrying on the theme of dirt and stubble, he was covered with a thin layer of greasy sweat which caused him to glisten like a Christmas pig. His eyes were small, beady, and unnaturally close together; sunken and deep under a small, but pronounced brow ridge. Overall, his face looked as if it had shrunk somehow and been placed on a head two sizes too large. The muzzle of the rifle held tightly in his hands looked open toward the cloudless sky as if hoping for the blue expanse to give up some rain for its parched throat. Beige cowhide pants and pale blue shirt topped with black suspenders were visible under the man's open jacket. The jacket was a dark navy, or at least, after years of dust, dirt, and neglect, it made the worn and frayed garment look that dark; it could have been lighter. Besides the lapel, pinned over his heart, was a tin star.

Behind him approached another man, equally dirty and greasy. This one was thin where the other was fat. He had the same beady eyes tucked under the same pronounced brow ridge, but the rest of his face was harsh and narrow, with -like features. A bushy, unkempt mustache took up a quarter of the man's face; almost, but not quite hiding his pointed upper jaw. A severe overbite gave his mouth a gawkish, horse-like appearance. He wore a faded red shirt under blue suspenders that struggled to hold up a pair of denim coveralls that appeared several sizes too big for him. Over his trouser, he wore a gun belt that held a shiny, expensive looking six-shooter on either side of him. They looked to be made of polished silver with mother-of-pearl handles. His right hand rested on the handle of his gun, ready to draw. The other hand held a leather strap, a bridle attached to a large mule being reluctantly pulled along. This man also wore a tin star pinned to his chest, matching his companion's.