The Hollow Hunter

III.

The hunter winces as he pulls the needle and thread taut, cinching the bullet wound closed with a final spurt of black blood. The bullet had penetrated the hollow of his shoulder and lodged itself into his deltoid.

After he had left the peacekeeper's station, the hunter had kept his head low, ignoring the murmurs and prying glances as he quickly crossed the street to where his horse was picketed. He retrieved some medical supplies from his saddlebags and went up to his room at the inn to preform the surgery, droplets of blood trailing behind him the whole way.

In the safety of his room he had set to work. First he had rinsed away the blood with bourbon, wincing as the fiery liquor stung his raw skin. Then he had grabbed a set of tweezers and fished out the slug, groaning and almost blacking out in agony before finally pulling it free. Lastly he had rinsed the wound again and sutured it closed with needle and thread.

When he finishes, the hunter wraps the wound with bandages and drinks deeply from the bottle of bourbon. Then he probes the slashes across his face. They're not that deep and won't need stitches. He dabs away the blood with a rag and circles his cheek with gauze. He takes another few swallows of liquor.

He hears a commotion coming from downstairs. He stands and crosses to look out the window overlooking the street just in time to catch a glimpse of two armed men walking into the front door of the inn.

"Shit." He throws his cloak around his shoulders and hooks the clasp before stowing his medical supplies back in the small dented tin that he had brought them in. He puts on his gun belt.

He can hear bootsteps on the stairs now and he swears again and drops the tin on the bed before crossing to stand beside the closed door to his room.

The door swings in to admit a hairy brute with a rifle clenched in his hands. As soon as the brute crosses the threshold the hunter shoulders the door closed, smashing it into the next man who screams and falls backward. The hairy man turns toward the hunter and bares his rifle but the hunter kicks it out of his hands and sends it skittering across the floor under the bed.

"Stay," the hunter says, cocking his pistol as the man coils to strike out. The hunter darts to the brute and wraps his injured arm around the man's neck, placing his gun against the man's temple just as the door bursts open to admit four more armed men. The men train their rifles at the hunter and his hostage.

"Let him go," one of them — a scrawny man missing his right eye — orders as he steps toward the hunter.

"Hold on there, fellas. I'm sure we can reach some sort of agreement that allows for all of us to leave with our lives."

"You killt the sheriff, ye fuggin bastard," the one-eyed man yells, spittle flying from his lips. "We're gonna string ye up in the town square and watch the Baron's hollows eat ye alive."

"Fun as that sounds I think I'll have to pass." The hunter shoots. The bullet catches the one-eyed man in the kneecap. He screams and topples over. Before anyone can react the hunter kicks his hostage into the crowd and sprints for the window. He shoots it twice to shatter the pane before diving through the splintering glass. He skitters down the porch roof and drops to the dirt with a roll. Bullets sing through the air and throw up dust around him as he ducks back into the shadow of the inn and out of sight.

The men race down the stairs after him but by the time they reach the street the hunter is already mounted up and urging his horse into a gallop. They fire a few potshots after him, all miss. "Get after the bastard!" The former-hostage yells. The posse rounds up their horses and sets off after the hunter, heading west into the deepening shadow of the mountains.