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The Sun had risen an hour earlier, and the landscape before him would had been breathtaking if the man had been into that sort of thing. He didn't notice the artistic rock formations in the distance that children would call out animals they thought the rocks looked like. Nor did he notice the various small animals that lived out here in the edge of the barren wasts of the desert in which he traveled through.

No, the man noticed none of those thing, his eyes roamed the landscape for possible trouble, threats, and ways for his tan mare to break a leg in a hole. This man had nothing to do with beauty of nature or the sun. There wasn't much beautiful about him either.

His cold granite colored eyes looked upon a particular farmstead that sat from the local shithole village a fair ways. He didn't mind, in fact, the further from prying eyes (and ears), the better off the Man in Black was. No need for the locals to get involved. Much better that they didn't.

The farmstead that the Man in Black looked at looked the same as any farm. Animals in the barn, or out in the fenced fields. Some crops grown close to the house. The Man in Black's eyes looked for signs of life in the old farmstead. He saw only one.

The woman had been on her knees for the better part of half an hour, rooting out weeds from the small tomato garden she maintained. Wiping sweat off her brow, she tilled through the ground with her fingers, grabbing skinny green stalks, and yanking out suspicious ones from the ground, trying to get the roots as well. A wood bucket was half full with her weed prizes from earlier. Grunting with work, sweating, she didn't hear the sound of booted footsteps approach her.

What she did here, was the familar ka-ching of a rowel spur spinning. That got her attention. She looked up from her hard work, and looked over her shoulder, looking at what at first appeared to be a Marshall behind her, hands akimbo on his belt.

He stood in the sun, his silhouette covering his features so the woman didn't recognize the Man in Black. Nor wouldn't she, for she had never seen his scarred face before. But she had heard stories of him. But the black hat, black blazer, twin gun belts criss-crossed on his narrow hips with shooting irons low on his thighs told all she needed to know. So did the hard caliber he had in his hand.

"Where is he? The old man?" The Man in Black drawled from his mangled cheeks.

"If I were you," the woman said, calm and patient, "I would be worried where he was, too."

The Man in Black just laughed. "Crazy poudunk bitch. May they etch those words on your grave." He cocked back the hammer, the giant gun's cylinder doing it's eternal spin. The woman never moved her eyes, but the Man in Black knew they weren't alone.

The Man in Black turned his head around, his gun never leaving the woman. There, not thirty feet away, was his quarry. In farmer's clothes, the man looked older than he really was, but in his eyes, even from that distance, the Man in Black could see the fire in his eyes. The Man in Black smiled. He had a gun in his hand. All his quarry had was a slop bucket.

The Man in Black squeezed the trigger.

Laughter ensued as the bullet report finally died off, and the Man in Black swung his blue steel at his quarry, still chuckling. The Man in Black saw his quarry look at what remained of the woman's head, and back at him, at the gun. Yes, there it was, the fire in his eyes, like a glimpse of hell itself.

"Goodbye."

The Man in Black dropped stanced, fanning two shots with his free hand, hitting his quarry twice. The man in the farmer's clothing dropped to the ground, hard, the slop bucket next to his head. The Man in Black walked up, looking at his shots. He didn't doubt his accuracy, but he didn't just ride across a desert and empty territory just to be wrong.

Approching the body, slinging his half spent gun into the leather holster, the Man in Black looked, kicking the bucket away. A hole appeared near the man's left shoulder, and another just under his chin. Blood splattered under his chest and head, and more oozed out. Satisfied, the Man in Black walked towards his horse, unteathered it, sattled up, and rode out.

-END-

12/15/2003

Author's Note: Explanations: -Rowel Spur - a five pronged star used to 'spur' horses to speed. Rowel ment they rolled, making it less likely for them to catch on something. Hands Akimo - Superman stance, but with hands on your belt instead of fists on your hips. Poudunk - (slang) local, or small-town. Insultive. Slop Bucket - What you usually use to hold food before putting it into a trowl, or animal feeding port. Usually for pigs. Dropped 'Stance' - Old shooting stance, square shoulders, square feet, gun at hip.

Posted on 12/15/2003
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