Blood Duel

The whole of Bart’s life had been spent preparing for this moment. As the dust swirled around his boots and spat in his eyes, his father’s words echoed in his head to the pulse of the undertaker’s count.

One

“I’ve taught you boys all I know, and now it’s time for you to make your own way.”

Two

Lewis was a good-for-nothing drunk, but he was still their father.

Three

They hated what he was, yet they wanted to be like him.

Four

How could he send them away, Bart at 17 and Cody, only 12?

Five

The weight of responsibility had nearly buckled Bart’s legs in those first few steps away from home.

Six

“Just remember boys,” their father had stopped them one last time.

Seven

“The honorable man doesn’t turn until ten.”

Eight

“But the man who wants to live turns on nine.”

Nine

Bart jammed his heel into the gritty earth and pivoted. His six-shooter flashed in the midday sun as he whipped it from his holster.

He locked eyes, for just a beat, with his mirror image, 18 paces between them. Two brothers reunited through circumstances and their father’s wisdom, echoing across the years.

One a lawman.

One an outlaw.

Neither one honorable.

How had they lost their way?

Ten

Two shots shattered the town’s uneasy silence.

Dummy Malloy: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Dummy Malloy was a legend all across the Utah Territory, even though no one could remember ever talking to the man.

Hell, it was doubtful he even could talk -- he wasn’t called “Dummy” for nothing.

But for the few people who could prove having met the dark, brooding gunslinger, there was no doubt he understood everything that happened around him, and more.

The proof?

The mangled fingers of a suspected card cheat …

A slug through the shin when Malloy perceived the slightest hint of threat in another man’s eyes …

An eavesdropper’s ear severed with the flick of a wrist …

There was even tell of another mute whose tongue Malloy had ripped out because of too many questions.

Were they all true?

No one could say for sure, but there were enough maimed frontiersman that the patrons of the Muskrat Saloon grew nervous when the dusky and diminutive man shuffled into the tavern.

This was a stranger, to be sure, and the boyish face and drag-footed limp matched what they’d heard about Malloy.

Men looked at the floor, occasionally flashing suspicious eyes to the intruder as he clubbed along. Women clutched their hands to suddenly flushed bosoms.

--

Anna Malloy steadied herself on the hunks of oak between her heels and the soles of her boots. Her rough red bandana scratched against her throat as she breathed harder, straining the strips of cloth wrapped tight against her chest.

Would this be the day someone finally figured her out?

Maybe. Didn’t matter, if she found her good-for-nothing daddy.

Same daddy who taught her to fight.

Same daddy who killed her mama and shot Anna in the leg. Left her for dead.

Same daddy, in fact, who taught her about disguises.

Anna squinted and scraped toward the Muskrat’s bar.