A Mother of a Fight

His mud soaked hands gripped the leather of his belt as he heard the words. They had struck him harder than the two stray shots that had found their mark in his flesh, earlier in the day. He was begging to be back in that simple gunfight now. Not this. This new perp would be harder to fell than any Indian.

A ripple from the edge of his fingers flowed all the way under his sweat-ridden shirt, through his vest and into his heart. It tipped his cowboy hat slowly towards the ground; the weight of this world was now upon his shoulders. But there were still options.

The nearest bush was no more than a few feet from them. It was a bramble; the prickles would be softer than the price he’d pay staying here. But then running from fear was not how he had earned his badge. He had a duty to the innocent. The same people that had now come out of hiding in response to the sudden break in the storm of bullets. And in doing so, they had made the choice for him.

With his head still hunched and his hat covering all but his lips, a smirk suddenly travelled across his face like lightening on a clear night. All the weight was swiftly lifted, and with it, his head. In one hand he held the remnants of a broken ice-cream cone. In the other a Colt .45, cocked. He pointed the barrel at my head.

“I knew this hour would come!” he howled. “You'll have to take me kicking and screaming, all the way home.”