The Young Indian

Stand-Off

"Shima!" A young boy jumped out from his small home, running towards a frail woman by the river bed. The woman had thick, black hair, wearing animal hide and beads. She was in the middle of making a gift for her son. "Hello, Shiyaazh." She whispered, never turning away from her project. The young boy was not older than twelve but had so much wonder and imagination that he could have only gotten from his parents. "Mother, what are you doing?" He asked, his warm brown eyes widening in curiosity. "I'm making a special gift for you, but you must be patient." Her voice was soft yet stern while talking to her over-hyper son. "But, mother, father has me doing chores and I needed something else to do." He complained, grabbing a small stone and whipping it across the river. "Well, by the time you finish your chores, my gift will be complete. Now, run along and listen to your father." Her son was not happy about this as his small face became sorrowful as he sauntered his way back to the house. She smiled at her young boy, wishing a happy and long life for him while she held up a small beaded necklace she had made of the most beautiful stones that shimmered in the warm sun.

Ten years had passed as a man of tall stature stood over two graves, covering them in his shadow. His skin was medium brown, hair the color of coal and pulled into a ponytail with his mute brown eyes staring down. "I am sorry." These were the only three words he would say to the gravesites. The young man was known as a cowboy around the town. Sporting a six-shooter and a slick, black cowboy hat while riding his patched brown and yellow mustang. He knew the people hated him, especially the deputy but he had made a vow. He would protect the innocent whether they wanted his help. Ever since his parents passed, he trained himself with a gun, getting so good that he could shoot a man's hat off at 50 yards without breaking a sweat. People knew how well he could shoot, people knew how well of a person he was but because he was half Navajo, most townsfolk ran away from him like he had the plague. He was almost always alone except when he would visit his parents. This day seemed abnormally hot, as the young man wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned towards his horse where he would ride into the town of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The town was dusty and dirty as all towns were at the time. But Santa Fe had it all from the saloon to the bank, to the small general store and hotel run by wealthy aristocrats. Farmers and ranchers would come from all around just to stop and drink, but this also included a few unwelcomed visitors. Today, some lowlife named Jameson had ridden into town and got plastered drunk. Eventually, causing a bar brawl and shooting his gun into the open air. The young man had noticed this nonsense and made his way to the commotion. Opening the bar doors, he had seen almost all the furniture broken, the bartender hiding behind the bar and the ladies looking down from their rooms. "Mr. Jameson!" The young man yelled, getting the attention from the old geezer. He drunkenly stubbled around, eyeing the man standing in the doorway. "Hello, Shaw!" He yelled, lazily waving around his gun. "Mr. Jameson, I'm gonna have to ask you to put down the gun and come with me to the sheriff's." He proclaimed, making his way towards the drunken buffoon. "Awe, Shaw. I was...just have ana...little fun." He stated, slurring his speech. "Right, why don't you put the gun down and the sheriff will show you his newest bottle of rum?" Shaw said, leading the man out the doors. The old man's face lit up with joy as he followed the young fellow.

Shaw had to practically carry Mr. Jameson to the sheriff. "Hello Mr. Shaw, I see you brought in Mr. Jameson. He's the one makin all that ruckus?" Sheriff Edwards really could be careless about Santa Fe, he was just there to make sure no one of importance died, but who's even worse is his deputy, deputy Davies. He would constantly badger Shaw, mocking him and making slurs towards him and his family. Not only that, but he would try to get at decent women, women who had nothing to do with the prostitution at the bar. "Put em in there, Shaw. Give 'em some time to cool off." Sheriff Edwards was leaning back in his chair, smoking down a cigar he had stolen from a couple of kids. "Well, I'll be on my way." Shaw was about to leave when the Sheriff had stopped him, "Hold it. My daughter's coming into town today, Shaw." He looked almost perplexed as to where this conversation was going. "Well, could you show her around? She's the new school teacher, replacing Jameson here." The old man then perked up, swearing and slurring at the sheriff. "Guess, he hadn't told his goose was cooked." Shaw thought to himself, looking back to the unmoving face of the sheriff. "Alright, Edwards. But as long as you keep that no good deputy away from me, I don't need his trouble." Shaw made the deal but he knew the sheriff couldn't keep it. "Can't make promises, kid." Shaw just sighed, heading the way of the school house.