Note that the following is posted as-is, with no editing or forethought. It is, quite simply, my attempt at writing a western. EDIT: Alright, I lied. Wordpad doesn't have spellcheck, and I guess this counts as editing to. Anyway, just a little note. I realize none of the characters have names. If I can someone keep this going, they'll get them eventually, but right now they are placeholders. If enough people like it, I may continue, but at the moment it is just another one of those not-quite-a-story fragments. Alone in the plains, a small cluster of wooden buildings stood stretching their rooves toward the sky. The architecture blended so well with the landscape that one could make the assumption that the town was a natural feature of the geography and not a town at all. The heat waves of the mid-afternoon caused the town to wave and shimmer, like ripples in a pool of water. Stalks of high reaching grass swayed in the gentle breeze, sighing softly as they rubbed against one-another and faded gently into a yellow pallet of undulating color. A gunshot tore apart the silence, followed by two more in quick succession. Faint shouts echoed out across the landscape, accompanied by other various cracks, bangs, and snaps usually associated with guns. The scene inside the town was very much different than the tranquil, still picture from outside. In the town square, everything was in motion. On the porch of the tavern, an old man with white hair and a mustache cradled an equally aged rifle in his hands. This he fired again and again in the direction of the town square, at the dusty, veiled outlaws crouching behind the boxes and walls. A spray of wood chips flew screaming toward the man on the porch as a bullet ricochet of one of the support beams. A similar spray, this on of sand, flew up and met the legs of one of the outlaws while another bullet buried itself in the sand. This outlaw was wearing a faded blue bandanna which once might have been a rich navy color that had been dirtied, stained, washed, and stained again. The rest of his and his companion's clothing was in much the same condition. The man on the porch suddenly fell with a cry, dropping his rifle as he did so. The outlaw who had fired the shot dropped back to his former position behind the crate. The other townsman on the porch threw down his gun and cried out, "Enough! We yield, we yield!" "Put down your weapons. All of you." said the one who had fired. His voice was muffled by the cloth over his mouth and nose, but the dry authority behind it was clear as day. The man on the porch hesitated. The one who had fired repeated himself, more loudly this time. The former complied, placing his overly large rifle on the boards in front of him. He backed up slowly until his back met the wall, and he started. The outlaws slowly emerged from hiding. There were four of them, all equally travel stained and dusty. They were all wearing shapeless clothing, bandanna over their mouths and noses, and wide-brimmed hats pulled down over their eyes. All of them had a pistol in hand, and one man carried two. "Now you listen 'ere," the one who had fired said, walking slowly toward the tavern. "Yer gonna tell us where the bank is, we're gonna take our fair share, and we're gonna be on our way." He stooped to pick up the rifle, ascending the porch as he did. He put the revolver to the man's throat. "So, are you gonna tell us where the bank is?" "End of the street. Take what you want, but for God's sake don't kill anyone." the man said in a quiet but steady voice. He could smell alcohol on the bandit's breath. "I didn't say I wouldn't, nay, but I see no need to. 'S long as we don't git shot at, we won't be doin any shootin' ourselves." The bandit's voice was thickly accented, so thick that the man on the porch could barely understand him. He turned suddenly, descended down the porch steps, and walked down the street, companions in tow. The man on the porch waited, heart pounding, every instinct screaming to run. His friend, the one who had been shot, groaned, and the first man realized with amazement that the guy was still alive. The bullet had merely glanced off his leg. It probably hurt, yes, but he would live. The first man helped the one who had been shot to his feet, and stared down the street hoping to see the large dust cloud which would signify the outlaw's departure. He waited a few moments more, and then three gunshots rang out from the direction the man was looking. He set the man down gently, swiped up his rifle, checked the ammunition- it was half empty- cocked it, and sprinted down the street. An explosion echoed out, and he saw the four outlaws run back towards him a few feet, sacks of money in hand, mount their horses, and charge off away from the town. The man the bank, kicked in the door, and simply stared. The scene before him was like one out of a nightmare. The teller was lying against the back wall with a bullet hole squarely through the center of his forehead. An assistant lay before him with half his brains blown out the back of his head, and another lay against the wall to his left, with a hole where his eye should have been. The back of the building was on fire. The man vomited, turned around, exited the building, vomited again, and then stared at the receding bandits. I'll kill them, he thought, I'll kill them before they can do even more harm.
