Death of the Short Story

Answering the West

I had never felt sicker in my entire life. The jostling of the carriage was turning my stomach on every side, forcing me to clutch a stained handkerchief to my mouth. Beads of sweat were dripping down my forehead and the back of my neck, making my collar uncomfortable. My left hand tightly clutched my knee, bunching up the dark black clothing. I had never traveled this far before and certainly after this trip I never would again. The consistent hoofbeats of the five horses were perhaps the only thing keeping my mind sane from the intense heat.

"You still alive in there, Reverend?" A butch voice called out; despite being muffled by the thick wooden walls. I swallowed back bile before lowering the handkerchief shakily.

"Y-Yes." I gritted out; my voice weak compared to the rider. I heard a low chuckle, that seemed to drown out all other noise for a few moments.

"Never ridden this long before, have you?" He responded. I could see his shadow from behind the thin lace curtain hanging over the door. It didn't provide much shade from the blistering sun, but enough to keep the passengers alive.

"N-No, sir," I stammered," Might we stop for today? I'm feeling.... I'm feeling rather uneasy."

I heard yet another chuckle, which made my face grow hot. I heard the rider let out a loud 'woah' and the carriage soon came to a slow stop. I sighed with relief, as my stomach settled and a dried my sweaty palms on the legs of my pants. I folded the soiled handkerchief before tucking it away in my waist coat pocket. I then wiped my forehead of sweat and looked around the carriage. My eyes soon landed on the small book lying at my feet. The leather-bound Bible stared up at me, its edges worn and frayed, but it still somehow projected a high power and importance. The golden title shimmered in the warm light, causing the worry in my chest to ease.

I reached down a gently grabbed the small book and pulled it into my lap. The pages had been torn over many years of use, but still held His word within. I had preached God's word for many years in a small church just south of Philadelphia, but I had heard the call of the Lord and took my great work out further west. The west was infected with thieves, killers, and all types of sin. I felt the pull towards the great unknown land, and I knew that it was my duty to spread God's word throughout it. However, I had no way of getting to my destination, nor getting there safely. I had been lucky enough to find four western riders who had seen the way before me and promised to deliver me as far as I wanted if I paid them accordingly. So, here I am. Traveling as my Lord commands.

"We'll stop here for the night and be off at first light." A raspy voice called out. I tucked the Bible back into my coat before reaching for the door and slowly opening it. I immediately shut my eyes, blinking and squinting trying to adjust to the bright light. Once I had gotten used to the yellow sun, I gazed out on the landscape. The ivory blue sky, stretched on to infinity, spotless as the sun burned brightly inside it. The orange and yellow dirt surrounding us, gave a pleasant contrast to the ever-expanding sky and divergent rock formations dotted the horizon line. It was as though I was looking through a portrait of the picture-perfect west.

I could've gone on staring for hours at the beauty of God's country, but a loud sputtering cough broke the peaceful landscape. Running an anxious hand across my oiled hair I stepped down from the carriage.

"Afternoon, Reverend Jackson." The same low voice called out. I turned towards the voice and stared up at the large burly man. His name was Wiley. No last name, none of them had one. Wiley was a large and stocky man. His eyes were a striking shade of blue, reflecting a dangerous glare as the sun glinted through them. His dark, coarse hair was braided back, only letting a few stray hairs fall around his face. His nose was short and bulging on his face and judging by the different angles it was turning, had been broken multiple times. He wore a faded, red shirt underneath a thick jacket. He was covered in ammunition, rings of them slung over his chest. Two polished revolvers hung loosely at his hip, his pride and joy. He had boasted about them to me, brandishing them at any chance he could get. Various knives and hunting blades were scattered across his person, from hidden pockets in his jacket to tucked away in his boots.