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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
Adventures of two brothers.

Submitted: July 29, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 29, 2016




Our parents had paid for our journey to Holywood.  We bought the other things out of our $900.  We had saved for this special vacation between us.  The Hawker Siddeley Trident soared into the Atlantic sky.  The flight was superb.  The view was spectacular at 5000 meters above the hectic wild ocean.


We landed on a runway in New York and lived an hour around the City, before we caught a huge diesel locomotive named, The Country Express.  Bound for LA.  After the long ride, we never expected what was about to happen to us.  The train roamed through Texas.  Towards LA.  When we confronted the first ever earthquake of our short lives. 


I was shaken up awfully.  The ground cried and moved.  Dust monsters rose around the carriages.  The locomotive halted in the open plains.  Only my brother and I were still visible.  He sat by me still quivering.  In frantic temptation we leapt off the express, through a side door. 


We both fell and crashed onto the rocky plain.  Pain and panic infused us.  After a long time dazed.  The sun shone through a window.  A stranger was leaning over me.  I was scared, so I scrambled out of a bed. 


Next to me lay in another bed, my brother John.  I was glad to see my strong sibling.  I was wise but would need both of our best attributes.  To get out of this nightmare. 


As I looked around the room and out of the room.  A jug of water was on a stand by the window.  Outside I saw many people striding along.  Wearing old Western clothes.  John stood beside me as we heard spurs clinking.  Then a man in black handling a hand gun.  John cursed, reality coming true.  We were lost in the Wild West.


Jack and John had arrived.  They were trapped for a long day.  In the Wild West of America.  The foolish explorers had seen many strange things.  This was the latest adventure.  And possibly their last.


John and myself were standing in the middle of a dusty street.  The typical saloon on one side.  And our hotel refuge on the other.  The high morning sun blinded John’s view.  I sensed his hand covering the light.  I could see the two other men.  They strode slowly up the street.  Hands close to their hips.


They either had itchy fingers or acute hip pain.  All we had was harmless and useless nothing.  I felt my asthma coming on.  John was always ready for a fight.  But not a gunfight.  My brain slowed my senses.  I looked around at where we were.  Was this place for real.  It sure felt that way.  John hit my side.  It reaffirmed my mind.  This was, a day in the wild west.


Real sand and grit blew into our faces.  The street of Tombstone was no place for women and children.  Nor was it for me and my brother.  John eyed up the pistol lying before him.  I poised to leap for the colt 45 at my right side.  I never used one before.  And it could be the last.  Maybe I thought, if we were killed.  Perhaps were would wake up for real.  I could be wrong and very dead.


Imagine if you can.  The scene of a gunfight.  In a cowboy town.  Swinging saloon door silent as death.  The hotel first floor the only high rise block, apart for the yard of the horseshoe man.  Then myself moving to the lowly pistol at my feet.  As I had seen John start the awful conflict. 


A shadow of man stood at the saloon doors.  He wore a long white overcoat.  From inside it he showed the silver pistol.  The gunfighter was merely watching.  I smashed the bullet into the gruff opponent.  It just happened.  A whispering smack hit my face.  I heard John’s gun go off.  But passed out from the stunning repel.  It works I thought as I slumped to the ground.  I had pretended to be a sharp shooter.


I came too.  Back in the bed.  Water jug by the window.  John sat at my bedside.  He smirked as I looked at him.  I was informed how he got the other guy, in the heart.  The man in white was at the end of my bed.  His hard face matched his white Stetson.  His voice was smooth.  A bit soft for a gunfighter, I thought.  ‘Sheriff’s coming for you two,’ his words ended abruptly.  A fat man in long johns showed his badge and grimaced.


‘Now you done it.’  I heard him but only from in my head.  He handed me and John two silver stars.  Marked, Deputy.  I did not get it. 

The cigar smoking man in white, explained.  ‘We need you both.  The James gang are coming in town soon.  The sheriff and I were the only men good with a gun.  That was before you guys showed up,’  His chiselled jaw ended, ‘you are going to help us fight at high noon.  At the OK Coral.  Today.’


John and myself were given new clothes.  We placed our denims, trainers and t shirts in our cases.  They had come with us from the forgotten train.  Still in the baggage were spare clothes and tickets to LA.  And spare cash.  We soon closed the cases.  And adorned cold black leather.  Including cowboy hats. 


I pushed on my black leather boots.  We were ready to kill again.  The morning gunfight was over.  It was now before Midday.  We followed the man in white.  Three shots of whiskey were ready poured in the hotel bar.  The silent gruff man slugged down his neat dram.  The portly sheriff chewed hard on his new chunk of tobacco.  Spitting in the sickly spittoon.


The town clock outside chimed twelve.  We were late.  The man in white grunted, ‘death cares nothing for time.’  His spurs jangled as he strode outside.  John trailed him and the sheriff.  I was last to down my drink.  I choked and prepared for death.  My hand touched my pistol.  The gun belt was low down.  But close at hand. 


I paused beside John, the sheriff Wyatt Earp and the infamous Doc Holiday.  We instantly faced the James gang.  This was not the historic fight.  But the forgotten shootout.  Our day in the wild west.



Four bearded men in grey stood in line.  The flat back four stared like ghosts.  The sun was straight above us.  The town hall clock lay in our sight.  Behind me was the way out of town.  And the way to the waiting steam train.  Our dusty diesel express was gone.  Replaced by the chuffing 49ner. 


My feelings wanted me to run.  Leap on the engine and get the hell out of Dodge.  But we were in Tombstone.  Lined up to shoot other men.  I noticed I was on the end of our group.  Nearest to the hotel bar.  The man opposite me stood some 20 strides away.  His head twitched.  It caused me to go for my gun.


Simultaneously we all shot at each other.  It was the fastest thing I ever did.  My blast raced into the chest of the grey dude.  He fell back and very dead.  His bullet whistled past my ear.  I half burped from the whiskey, bring up some vomit.  It did not bother me.  I was alive.  My life seemed to burst into joy.  Then it sank.  As I noticed John had fallen at my feet.  The Doc finished off the other writhing men.  As the sheriff looked at my brother.

A metal stone had gone into his gut.  It seemed to have missed vital intestines but caused him to pass out.  It was my turn to worry.  The Doc grabbed his left arm.  He to had been hit.  But not serious.  More men in black appeared.  It was the workers at Boot Hill cemetery, taking the James gang to their final resting places.


In the hotel bedroom, I slugged down a bottle of whiskey.  As I watched Doc Holiday, pull out the deep bullet.  Long tweezers revealed the metal.  John’s waist was bandaged.  The Doc coughed hard.  Then touched his strapped left arm.  He smiled.  ‘I will live.  And so will your brother.  Pain means we are still alive.  You did well kid.  What are your names?’


I was waking up from a deep slumber.  As I recalled me saying, ‘my brother is John and I am Jacob William Bonny.’ 



John nudged my side.  Rubbing his side.  He had a big pain.  A stitch.  I smiled to him.  ‘I am just glad you are still here.’  He gave me a dead arm. Typical brother stuff.  The Country Express rolled into LA.  When it stopped, we both saw a large sign.  It was a Sheriff’s badge.


John’s eyes lit up.  ‘Was it real?  Did you have the same dream?’

I spoke before we moved to leave.  ‘I think we beat death today.’

‘What do you mean, Jack?’ my brother gathered his things.

It is like Doc Holiday once said, ‘death cares nothing for time.’


We both carried our cases out to a waiting coach.  It would take us to our hotel.  Where we would have a break.  Go sightseeing.  Have a drink.  I said all this to John.  We opened our cases in the hotel room.  John said that they felt heavier now somehow.  As we stood before our luggage, we stared hard.  There lay two colt 45’s with words on the handles, ‘good luck from Doc.’


John closed both our cases.  Then touched his aching side.  And said, ‘let’s get out of here Jack?’

‘Why?’ I insisted.

‘Because, we had our, day in the wild west.  And won.’


At that I patted my brother on the shoulder and followed him to the hotel bar.  Laughing all the way.  To Boot Hill.



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