The tall dark stranger rode into town to find some where to put his weary head down. He alighted his horse and tied it of course as he headed for the local saloon. This mighty man, propped at the bar, ordered a Jack Daniels in his jar. With his tilted Stetson over his face he downed the sour mash in a dash, then the barman topped him up another whiskey in his cup. Then in from the street came cool hand Pete.
He wore two guns and stood seven feet one, not the sort of man you shake hands with when you meet. Pete was like a cat with nine lives, shot at many a time by passers-by, all of them bit the dust on the floor as Pete’s guns roared, now everyone trembles when he walks through the door.
Now before cool hand Pete could reach the bar for his seat the stranger in the corner pulled back his poncho and dropped him without rising to his feet. You could hear a pin drop as the stranger finished his last drop. He headed to the swinging bar doors never glancing back at the floor. On his horse he climbed, rode out of town as the clock chimed. No one knew who that stranger was, or why he shot cool hand Pete. But no one cared, only that unknown stranger was the one that dared
© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017
Rhythm of the Ink 