Bone dry wind
He stands in the
middle of the street, and tries to protect his neck from the biting gusts with
his makeshift poncho, and yet his right hand never strays far from the holster.
The street is quiet
now. No carriages, no hammerfalls from the blacksmith, no sound from the saloon.
Slowly, three figures
walk up to the middle of the road, a few dozen yards away from him. One of them
is slightly round around the edges, the other thin as a wire and with an evil
twitch in the mouth, the third wears a black coat, and a black hat.
They stand
side by side, the black hat in the middle.
The folks in town had
asked for his help. No one else they could ask. He had walked countless miles
to get here, and he had countless more ahead of him. But he was honour-bound by
the old code into helping as he could. So he did.
The strangers had
shown up months ago, brought an ill wind and ill omens with them.
Devil-dancers, the people called them, when they started killing.
Now here they
stood.
He cleared his mind
and readied his hand. It would all be over in a matter of seconds.
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