SETTING SUN As he approached the house of ill repute, he knew that this would probably be his last night! Although anxious, he was looking forward to reaping
Robert Hicks
SETTING SUN
As he approached the house of ill repute, he knew that this would probably be his last night! Although anxious, he was looking forward to reaping his revenge. He'd surprise them! Their faces would whiten and their pores would open releasing a cool liquid. It had been two long painful months since they rode away laughing, scoffing and leaving him for dead! He hoped with a passion that their leader, Emilio Sanchez, was not only there but also drinking heavily - for Emilio was a crack shot. Butch was going to need as much advantage as he could, in order to avoid an early visit to the local cemetery!
He tethered his horse, placed his hand in the drinking trough and refreshed his weather-beaten and stubbly face. Women, children and the respectable citizens of Sunny Ridge walked around the small town whispering, building up speed as they went along and eventually closing shutters and locking themselves in their own homes. "Go get them Butch!" said the local funeral director with obvious ulterior motives and anticipation of a profitable day. Although businesslike, the director hoped - like many of the town's inhabitants - that he wouldn't be making a pine overcoat for Butch tomorrow morning. He checked his holster and shooters, made sure his knife was still down inside his right boot. Finally he struck a match, lit what could well be his last cigar and walked with trepidation towards the renowned saloon. People were now scampering in the opposite direction for fear of anything spilling from inside and onto the streets. He looked to the right and was greeted with a nod and a wry smile from sheriff Leatherman. The sheriff was just sat there outside his jail, rifle rested across his lap and his badge shining in the early evening sun.
From fifty yards, Butch could hear the tinkling of the ivories, the raucous laughter and the shouting of "Cheat!" as the aces fell from the sleeves of the poker players. The smashing of glass and the deafening sound of cowboy boots banging on the hard sawdust ridden floor to the beat of the music. The prostitutes high above the saloon on the balcony were whistling, laughing and giggling in his direction. They were lifting up their long dresses, steeped in alcohol with tobacco stains. Exposing their frilly underwear and stockings to whoever cared to look. This filled Butch with an almost uncontrollable sense of rage; he loathed this place and all that it stood for with its seedy implications!
For this was the place he rescued his little sister from in order to give her a better quality of life. Away from the unclean men, the beatings, the shootings, the pittance of pay for her services, the stained sheets and the total humiliation. Christina was all he had had left and the sense of guilt and loss was hitting him hard as he neared this godforsaken hellhole. It was like a mule's kick to the stomach, aching, churning him inside and filling him with nausea. They had left him for dead lying beside a cactus plant, shot ...
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For this was the place he rescued his little sister from in order to give her a better quality of life. Away from the unclean men, the beatings, the shootings, the pittance of pay for her services, the stained sheets and the total humiliation. Christina was all he had had left and the sense of guilt and loss was hitting him hard as he neared this godforsaken hellhole. It was like a mule's kick to the stomach, aching, churning him inside and filling him with nausea. They had left him for dead lying beside a cactus plant, shot in the arm, chest and neck. His beautiful and petite sister hanging from a near by Joshua tree, her bloodstained clothes in tatters and the tears still streaming from her unclosed eyes. The sickness he felt would never ever go away, but if he managed to get away alive tonight, he could then feel some miniscule fraction of relief, because no man on the planet should have to witness what he had on that day those two long, awful months ago. Butch knew that if he had never taken little Christina away, then she'd probably be alive today! And if so, would she have been any better off? He doubted that!
He was nearly there, the stench of the stale smoke was filling his lungs, the sawdust and cheap perfume along with the moonshine bourbon was not helping his stomach. Tilting his black Stetson forward and dropping his head to hide his chiselled features, scar and fear. Butch walked through the swinging doors and entered the saloon...
He was greeted with silence, the swinging doors creaked and a sprig of tumbleweed rolled its way into the bar upon a gust of wind from the brewing desert storm. The drunks, card players, dancers and prostitutes all looked his way knowingly and within an instant - a key was played - all was back to normal. They all knew that perhaps the desert wasn't the only place a storm was going to brew tonight!
Butch ordered bourbon, took a hit from his cigar and positioned himself at the bar. His back was to the steward who was by now rapidly cleaning glasses, putting them away below the bar and looking for a handy place to take cover if need be? From this position Butch could see the front doors, powder room doors and the stairs - which led to where Sanchez was bound to be.
"Come back here!" was the shout as the young woman came bounding down the stairs, holding up her skirt so that she wouldn't trip and with a bloody nose! The man was pulling up his pants and chasing the attractive girl - he became instantly recognisable to Butch as a younger member of Sanchez's gang. She headed past Butch and towards the powder room with terror in her eyes! He coolly stuck out his stirrup adorned boot; Sanchez's man went flying through the air and came to a bruising halt by the piano. Somewhat dazed, he struggled to his feet, picked up his hat, brushed it down against his shirt and stomped towards Butch. As he neared Butch removed his hat and the realisation dawned upon the younger man! "How could this possibly be?"
Upon seeing the large bullet shaped scar on Butch's neck, the shooters and the rage in those dark blue eyes - he whitened and dread took over him. One quick swipe was all it took and he was back on the floor, this time lying among the broken glass from the bourbon bottle he'd just been hit with. As he furrowed around on the dirty deck he tried to stand, tried to make sense and tried for his weapon. His head was spinning from the blow and this made him both predictable and vulnerable. On all fours, he received a deafening kick to his midriff; he rolled in the splintered glass, struggled for breath and curled up into a ball. Butch swiftly grabbed him from behind, placed him in a headlock and began to squeeze the air from him. He was far too strong for the younger man and he realised that this part of the vendetta would soon be over. After reaching for the knife inside his boot - and with instinct - he cut the wheezing and coughing mans throat! A thick dark groove appeared across his Adams apple and for the third and final time he fell to the blood stained floor.
Butch could now hear the distinctive sound of boots and stirrups clambering down the wooden staircase. He looked up and saw Sanchez! The familiar sombrero, gun belt and eye patch filled him with anger and dread. As he walked for the door he grinned at Butch - the smile with its missing teeth, beard and scar was filled with irony. "You and I have some unfinished business Amigo!" Butch followed him outside and into the breezy street...
There was no need to talk, plenty of need for wariness and concentration, but no need to talk because both men knew what was going to happen! People spilled from the bar and onto the street, the funeral director checked his pocket watch and grasped his tape measure. Everybody except the two duellers eyed the clock tower above the town hall and waited with a mixture of nausea and excitement. Tumbleweed and sand rolled through the dusty thoroughfare as Butch walked towards the dying sun. Both men were walking and checking their weapons at the same time, making sure the safety catches were off and all shooters fully loaded.
Now they were back to back - the closest Butch had been to Sanchez since that awful day. He pondered on whether to just shoot Sanchez in the back right now - the cowards' way. Knowing that he'd never be back in this town again, he wondered why he was worrying about issues such as gentlemanly conduct. It wasn't in him though, he needed to see this scum in the face when he killed him, and anyway he had the sun to his advantage.
At seven o'clock the bell would chime seven times, one step for each chime, silence then the most agile and accurate man would win!
The first chime almost stopped his heart; he'd never heard anything so loud in his life! The sound was amplified because of the surrounding silence and as he took his first step he heard every last vibration from the trembling bell. Then the second - just as loud but with more meaning - another step to his destiny and his brow began to sweat. Three and four brought two more steps, time for tactics and some drastic measures.
When Sanchez turned, Butch knew that the sunlight would shine straight into his face and one good eye. Seeing as the bad eye was Stanches right one, he guessed that at the strike of seven he'd dive low to his right, roll over and aim low whilst the sun was startling Sanchez. He knew he had to dive or roll and not just turn because Sanchez was such a fast draw - At the same time he also knew that whilst doing this a bullet or two would be flying in his direction before he'd have chance to fire himself!
His hands were sweating profusely, his shirt stuck to his sodden back, his stomach churning and filling with nausea. At the seventh strike he dove hard and fast to his right, rolling and reaching for a shooter at the same time. The unmistakable sound of gunfire from his opponent filled the air - not once but twice as Butch took aim and offloaded his single shot...
The scream from Sanchez was ear piercing as he fell to the floor clasping what was left of his left kneecap! Realising that he wasn't hit himself, Butch ran towards the whimpering figure and kicked both of his guns away to a safe distance. He now towered over his nemesis, rolling in the sand, weeping and pleading for mercy. This was it - the moment he'd been waiting all of this time for and yet it wasn't giving him any pleasure. He raised his gun and aimed at his forehead. "No please don't - I'm sorry - no!" Bang!!!
Butch dusted himself down and walked towards his trusty steed. The locals gathered around the now dead Sanchez, they took his valuables, cash, his clothes and dignity leaving him in just his underwear. The funeral director measured him for his final resting place and went back to his workshop, whistling on his way. Butch was in a daze, he was feeling sick now but knew in a day or two he'd feel fine and visit Christina's grave to give her the good news. He dug his stirrups into the horses' rested sides and went slowly up the street. The woman he saved came running alongside him "Do you need any company mister?" Without a word, Butch reached down and grabbed her with one arm, swinging her onto the horse and neatly behind him. On their way out of town he again passed the sheriffs' jail - he received another wry smile and cantered towards his friend and saviour - the low setting sun.