Vengeance of OneShot

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Westerns  |  House: Booksie Classic

OneShot was only sixteen the day the town of Clearwater hanged his father for being a horse thief. All because he wouldn't sell the big black stallion he captured on the open range to the town's sheriff.

Oneshot finally pulled back on the reins and stopped at the base of the mountain. He reached to his neck and unloosened his bandana. Taking his neckerchief in his calloused hands, he began to wipe the sweat as it trickled down his face. He pushed his hat up farther up on his head and squinted into the distance. He held his hand up over his forehead to see if he could discern any movement on his back trail. Seeing nothing move, he clicked his tongue and rode his horse forward at a steady trot while determinedly looking to either side of the trail. The man had a smile now. He pulled his hat lower on his head and his smile was replaced by a grim line.

Oneshot waited outside of Clearwater until the timing was right, he'd plan this for months, and he was a patient man, and he could afford to wait. That was the name of the game, hurry up and wait. “There are too many graves in boot hills across the Southwest, ‘cause of some people refusing to have patience,” he thought to himself, as he looked once again toward the town. He made camp and watched the trail until almost midnight, holding his rifle at the ready. The timing was right, so he advanced toward his horse. He shoved his rifle back into the boot and swung up in the saddle. Oneshot sat astride his horse and gently let the reins droop over the mount’s shoulders as he fished in his pocket for his tobacco makings. Sitting on his horse and crossed his leg over the pommel of the saddle to roll a cigarette. Dragging a stinker across his thigh, he applied the burning match to the end of the cigarette. Oneshot took a deep drag and let the smoke trickle out of his nostrils and lips. Raising the reins once more, he put his heels gently into the side of the horse and continued the journey to town. Pulling on the reins, he stopped at the smithy, he dismounted and guided the horse into the blacksmith shop. He'd know the old man for years, so he called out to see if anyone was awake, and took a survey of the surrounding area. It wouldn't be long before he put his plan into motion, and extract his revenge.
The judge, sheriff, along with the crooked lawyer were going to pay for what they had done to his Pa that day. Hanging him without a decent trial. All because the sheriff wanted the big black stallion, my Pa refused to sell him. It took my Pa over a year to capture the animal roaming the free-range. He was going to make them suffer for their evil ways, and he would return it back to them. The judge would be first, the easiest to get to, up in his mighty fine mansion. There, standing in the middle of the courtyard, stood the judge. He would then slip up and slice the crooked judge's throat from ear to ear, with his Arkansas Toothpick, a twelve-inch long knife he picked for the purpose. It didn't take very long before the job was accomplished. Placing his forearm around the judge’s head and with his other hand, he abruptly slashed a deep cut across the neck. Warm blood gushed freely on his hand. Looking down at the lifeless form, he felt proud of his latest accomplishment. Laughing inwardly, he turned and then made his way back into town.
Next would be the crooked lawyer who prosecuted the poor excuse of a trial. He would do him the same way he'd done the judge, with a sliced throat. “At least, there had to be someone last,” he thought. The sheriff would be dealt with differently. Standing in the shadows of an alleyway, he took a moment to look closely towards the lawyer's place. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that there was no one to raise the alarm. "So far, so good," he thought, as he scrambled across the dusty street. He grasped a tree limb and started slowly to climb. The tree was once the hanging tree, now it seemed to lean gracefully against the wall of the hotel. By taking his time, he went from one limb to the other. By now, Oneshot reached the edge of the hotel. The wind started to blow harder against him. A hot, humid breeze made his hair stick to his forehead. His locks were starting to fall down in his eyes, obscuring his vision for a moment. He was afraid to brush the curls, as his toehold was not all that secure. Branches from the tree seemed to reach out and try to impede his progress. Nevertheless, he brushed them aside and held on tightly. Minutes went by; he thought it was an eternity. Oneshot looked carefully into the window of the hotel. "What luck!" In the glow of the dimmed lantern, he saw that the lawyer was sleeping. Oneshot quietly crawled over the edge and moved silently toward the unaware slumbering form. He stopped suddenly as the lawyer began to stir. The lawyer had only shifted positions by rolling over on his side. In just a moment, the lawyer had placed his hands across his chest and was starting to snore peacefully into the night. Oneshot scampered towards the bed, and raised the pistol above his head and brought it crashing down on the unsuspecting victim, sending bits of gore to splash against the pillow, then he deeply slashed the lawyer's throat. Once this was done, he easily climbed out the window and was determined to place as much distance between him and the dead man as possible.
"So far, I’ve killed two men, and now I’m on my way to kill the sheriff! Not bad, if I say so myself," Oneshot smiled, in appreciation of his night’s work, mentally rubbing his hands in glee. Silently, he ran to the side of the blacksmiths, where he pressed his back to the wall and stealthily crept along the path. Oneshot heard snoring coming from inside the structure as he went toward the opening. His father's best friend had returned from the saloon and was in the office, sleeping in a cot next to the wall. He made a quick survey of his surroundings, then strode boldly into the smithy, climbed up into the hay loft and rested until daylight. To his mind, he had no compunction in the killings, and it had to be done and who else but him would do it to revenge his father. Oneshot had endured two years before he was able to do just that for his father.
Gary was the sheriff. Medium build, with ash colored hair falling to his shoulders. He wore all black, like an undertaker. His black hat had a leather hat band studded with small turquoise stones. A vest, trousers and Mexican vaquero boots were also all in black. The only other colors were an off-cream colored shirt with red garters at the sleeves and a bright red bandanna loosely tied around his neck. A Colt .45 pistol was strapped to his right leg in a leather holster that was securely tied down with a leather thong. Gary wore his hat at a cocky angle, as if to dare anyone to say anything to him.
He would saunter down the main street, with his eyes constantly darting. "A chip on his shoulder," some would say behind his back, but always with a grudging respect. No one dared to accost him, as they knew him to have a quick temper. Or, the least ways, do it and not expect him to do anything about it. Many had tried, yet few lived to caution others not to be so foolhardy. The townspeople had hired Gary to be sheriff, a laugh to Gary, as he would do as it pleased him.
There was talk of hiring another deputy but, as yet, no one had really applied for the position. Though many asked, they all said that it was too dangerous. Besides, there was not enough pay. These reasons were the two main concerns the applicants had voiced. Gary had wanted to settle down, and this opportunity was a godsend for him. He was tired of being a loner and having to always look over his shoulder for someone who wanted to plant him in an unmarked grave out on the desolate prairie. He still could not control his temper very well, but to give him credit, he tried. "Well," Gary said, getting to his feet and yawning, placing his hat on his head and turning to go. Then he pulled his timepiece from his pocket and, flipping open the cover, peered at it intently. He had to squint to make out the time, as the lantern did not shed that much light. "It’ll be daylight before too much longer. I guess I’ll go and make my rounds. See you later, Tim." The sheriff would stop every so often to rattle the door handles of the businesses. "All’s quiet tonight," he thought, as he turned toward the jail, visions of upcoming sleep already making his eyes drowsy. Unbeknownst to him, Oneshot was lurking in the shadows of the blacksmiths.
Oneshot watched the receding back of the town’s law. He waited until the sheriff went inside the jail. When he thought he had waited long enough, he slipped into the entrance of the jail. The jail had a brick front and bars were at the window. Upon reaching the doorway, he squatted beside the entrance and looked through the window to see if the sheriff was sleeping yet. The moonlight allowed him to see inside buildings as if it were a lantern burning. Oneshot thanked his stars for the bright moon. He smirked as he cast his gaze about him, his beady eyes darting here and there were taking in everything. Both the deputy and sheriff were dozing inside, so he quickly placed a wedge under the front and back doors, trapping the two inside. Next, he poured lantern oil through each of the windows of the jail. When he had soaked the place in enough to make sure that a fire couldn't be put out, he started it burning. Then ran across the street to watch while it burned down. He was going to send the sheriff to hell in blazes. Gazing on the flames rising from the jail, seeing that were ever the two men moved, they felt pain and suffering. Soon it had burned enough, sending it tumbling to the ground. The heat from it was hotter than any forged fires of hell. Oneshot had got his revenge on those whom are responsible for the death of his father. Not one witness came forward to tell about the deaths. Oneshot stayed with the old blacksmith until the day he passed away, leaving the smithy to him.

 


Submitted: November 10, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Intoxcy8me. All rights reserved.

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