Confrontation Outside of Yuma by _db

The events henceforth occurred outside of Yuma, during my walking down a gravel path with a handle of scotch in one hand and a greener in the other, polished spurs clinking quietly as my boots kicked dust into the air. Dusk had fallen and the sky was clear and a cool breeze cut through the desert valley, bestrewn with saguaro and barrel cactus, the outlines of which I could see by the light of the starry heavens which cascaded across the dark as a nebulous firmament, beyond which only speculation could provide a glimpse of, and which conjured in the minds of men terrifying thoughts of eternity that not even the sweetest embrace of a woman could soothe.

So lost in thought I was of the cosmic fantasia that I had failed to perceive a stranger in pursuit. Suddenly I heard a voice call out from behind in an unfriendly manner, telling me to drop my gun and put my hands on my head and not try anything funny. In this time and place such an encounter could mean only a single thing and that was vengeance, though for which action I could not say for I had more sins than could be confessed. I wagered that if this was my time to rejoin the infinite void of eternal sleep then I might as well have a look at the devil who was to send me off, so I shuffled around to face my belligerent.

The silhouette paired with the high octave voice suggested a boy not even twenty, just barely off the teat, with stones unfallen and not a murder under his belt. The lad appeared to have a revolver which was aimed in my direction. I presumed it was cocked and loaded for it would have been mighty foolish of him to approach without it being so; though still it was for him to be out here alone with me after what I had done to all the others, and the way the voice quivered told me he knew this also.

The hesitation he displayed I did not match, for in a duel as this the fates had arranged there was no room for such. The greener I had left ready for such an encounter and I swiftly lifted the barrel and gave it a crack, orange fire erupting out of the muzzle like a metal draconic from the myths of yore. A blast echoed through the valley and I waited, witnessing it fade as it was the eulogy for the departed of which I knew not face nor name nor cared to learn. The shape of the body crumpled, the head of which no longer remained but had vaporized into a slurry of bone and brain and blood which moments before had been thought and sense and spirit.

I turned back around and fixed my shade and uncorked the bottle of scotch and took a long swig before continuing down the dusty road to nowhere, polished spurs clinking quietly.