Windblown Saviour

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This town is no longer friendly. 

A few short days ago when I dusted the road off my travel weary body, I was welcomed with open arms. They were glad to see me then; children ran excitedly around me mimicking my walk, women lowered their eyes to the floor in blushing admiration and men shook my hand, listened to my tales and bought me drinks.

Back then I was a potential saviour, the man who would save them and throw down the yoke of oppression that left them quaking in terror. Now I am no longer the hero but another one of the hated. Killer, murderer, problem; take your pick.

Even as the blood of the fallen soaks into the sand and dries in the never ending prairie wind I am aware of the baleful stares of the townsfolk, despite them hiding in the gloom behind twitching curtains and fastened windows.

What did they expect? Some sense of empowerment or a glorious cheer from on high? No. It was murder.

All they got for their money was a short lived relief from the terror before the suspicion starts again. For he who lies there was me only a few short months ago.

It was murder, sanctioned by money.

I was born fast, born skilled and endless practice has made me the best: until someone better comes along.

He was the best once.

A brief rush of adrenaline, noise, the smell of cordite and then one of us crumples to the dust. This time it was him.

The best, the fastest, the answer to all their problems.

Gunslinger: I may be feared and admired, but I can call nowhere home. My guns and my skill define my existence. 


Cover by BobJan70

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