Preacher

Prologue

The dusty fields seemed to stretch on further than the horizon. The ranch fence was old and worn, leaning into the golden grass that reflected the color of the glaring sun above. The fields were empty of life, aside from a few grazing cattle and a young man tending to them. Up the way, the ranch house stood, the red paint faded and peeling.

 Along the dusty road, three men trotted past. The young man working in the fields waved a hand toward them, but to no reply. The three men rode up the path towards the farmhouse. The farm hand, intrigued, put down his bucket and started walking towards the house. The strangers hitched their horses up outside and dismounted, then walked towards the door and knocked. The hand started to pick up pace, wanting to find out why the men were here. The men waited a few moments, then kicked in the door. A high pitched scream of a woman rang out across the fields, followed by a round of gunshots. Then the sound of men yelling, and another volley of gunfire. The farmhand turned and started to run, wanting no business with the outlaws. One stepped out the house and aimed a rifle. Another gunshot, and the farmhand fell dead in the field, his blood staining the grass red.

From within the farm house, another yell, and a crash. The outlaw started to run towards his horse as smoke slowly began rising from the building. Another crash, then a bandit was thrown from one of the windows, his clothes singed, several round of iron imbedded in his chest. The house was now engulfed in smoke, flames billowing out the windows. The door swung open off its hinges, and another outlaw tumbling out, landing on his back. He reached for his sidearm as a young man, no older than nineteen, stepped out of the doorway, clutching a revolver between his hands. The outlaw tried to fire at the boy, but the bullet went askew, shattering another window. The boy fired, again and again and again. The outlaws face was mangled, unrecognizable, torn apart. 

The boy looked up to see the final outlaw riding away. He raised his gun and aimed, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. The bandit rode down the path, in the direction of the nearest town. The boy holstered his weapon in the back of his trousers, and looked back at what was once his home. He walked over to one of the dead men's horses, swung his leg over the saddle and fitted his feet in the stirrups. With a sharp "Yah!", he dashed away from the town, from civilization. All the while, the ranch burned, the thick smoke coiling into the sky.