Red River

Blood, Grit, and other Detriments

This tells of a man who's is enveloped in the fabled life of bounty hunting, at a time when money meant more than life, and death came at a price

The panicked man fumbled and tripped over himself, unwilling to stare at his taker.

"You're coming with me, Mister Allison."

The Indian, or in other words Native American-looking fella pitied his predicament, and himself. He was a weak man, dim witted.

"Three hundred dollars! Three hundred dollars if you let me go! You'll never see me again." The Indian feller pleaded.

"Quite a sum," our character started, "unfortunately....there's double that and a few dollars more on your head".

The Indian fella gritted his teeth, and spat at the man that was standing above him, ready to trade his pathetic presence for money. Our character flinched at the uncalled 'bargain', to which the Indian fella let out a shire maniacal laugh, and received a hard kick in-between the eyes by the iron plated fowler. Our character eyed the witnessing folk in the town. Suddenly the bristly and rustled up sheriff walked over,

"Where are you taking him?" The sheriff followed our character as he had the now hogtied and unconscious man in his grip, as he was carrying him towards his white toned mount.

"Bruttlebush Trawl, up near Lavender...unless you pay me here, and I'll be on my way" The man simply replied, unloading his bounty on the back. The sheriff opened up his dry-lipped mouth again,

"We have no use for him here mister. Pepper Ridge is a coal mining area". The man briefly looked around the punctured buildings, the worn signs, and the stone sheriff office at the back. His cigarette flamed, not really paying attention to the grunts of the old man, but the cigarette spoke for itself. The man mounted his prize horse; a dappered American Paint exemplifying loud patterns of black and white tailored valiantly, which was rightfully named 'Chisolm'.

"Safe travels" Bluntly groaned the sheriff, who saw a mighty kick of dust up to his face as the man rode on. The outer layers of the battered up town were defined by the formidable desert ranges, which only a handful of creatures could withstand, and only the bravest of flora could thrive. Only the designated road paths which man's might clashed with the west would pass through. And so the man travelled, his spurs glistening with every hit of his steed's thighs. Mr Allison woke up from his forced slumber,

"You, mister, you have a wife?" The sheer temperament of the Indian feller was revolting. Our protagonist wearied for a second,

"You'll have a bullet in your neck if you keep talking..mister" The man's voice turned foreboding at the hogtied man's insolence. How badly he wanted this wretched creature out of his sight.

"Well, she is a WHORE, you filthy Mulatto. That's right, she came from a brothel, we've all had her, somehow you've chosen to-" The disgruntled Indian's yapping had him receive a smack to the head once again, knocking him unconscious once again.

"You are REALLY asking for a bullet aren't ya?" Threatened the man.

Finally, they reached Bruttlebush Trawl. The row of merely 6 buildings were placed on an open cliff only accessible by a rotting wooden bridge. The sheriff building took the form of a handmade wooden shack, and stepping one foot inside would send the structure toppling. The small and heavily divided from the rest of civilisation settlement's eyes pierced the man and his horse galloping into its borders. He hitched up his steed, and lugged the bounty on his shoulder.

"Aah, looks like you found him. Micah Allison, petty bastard" An aggrieved-looking lawman looked up from his desk. A pathetic cell lay in the corner.

"So, who's running these parts?" The man carelessly dropped the hogtied bounty onto a ruined mattress and locked the cell, the Indian feller bickered, as expected.

"That would be Marshall Wright, deceased now" Responded the surprisingly fair dressed young lawman.

"Well I will collect my pay and be gone young sir" Our character impatiently decreed.

"Have fun with your whore wife, I'll pay her a visit soon" Disgustedly wheezed Mr Allison, letting out a very broken sounding cackle.

"You're gonna be hanged soon mister" Also cackled the law man. A bill fold was thrown on the desk, collected by the man.

"What's your name mister anyway?" The lawman questioned.

Our character did not reply at first,

"Otis Miller, out these parts I do not go by anything, rough times. Everyone seems to either know everything about you or too little." Said Mr Miller.

"Well, Mr Miller, not best to stay around these parts, without an able sheriff this town has gone on ahead and delved itself into a gathering of drunks and thugs."

"Good day mister" Mr Miller walked out, and suddenly a sandstorm erupted from seemingly nowhere. His wolf skin poncho bristled and surged in the violent winds. His dusty black scarf covered his face as he attempted to stride towards his mount, the horse was suffering equally. And on he went, onwards towards the next runt who needs clearing off America's soil. Otis Miller has done this unforgiven business for years, this time isn't a soft place for bounty hunters. The job pays, but it's far from honest work. He's watched countless hangings of the men who's souls he has traded for a handful of dollars. The cycle of the gruel never stops.