Pistol Whipped

The wheels of the stagecoach came to a halt, dust and weeds blowing beneath the leather straps of the thoroughbraces. I sensed movement inside. With a short twitch, my thumb moved back to cock the hammer of my gun.

I gave a tight grin and stared the nearest horse in the eyes. She turned her head away and got so scared she started bucking like a drunk dancin’ girl. I turned my head back to the coach as a man fell out, dropping to the ground as the bucking horses moved the coach forward. Eyes like thin cracks, he stared me down as he stumbled to his feet. Nervous as a whore in church, he reached for his gun.

I let him stumble to his feet and take a shot. His aim was off so I let him fire another round before I shot him twice in the face. Still clutching his gun, he raised his hand and aimed it in my direction. I cracked his skull with the butt of my pistol and kicked him hard to make sure he was dead.

Next thing I remember was the barrel of a shotgun in my back and then the feel of thick rope around my neck.

View this story's 12 comments.