The Gunslinger

Untitled Part 1

From beneath a dusty old hat, the rancher squinted into the dust that eddied from the arid sky, and instinctively grabbed for the heavy double-gage shotgun beside the kitchen stove, readily available from the doorframe. He stood at the doorway, his bulky form blocking most of the noon sun and sweltering heat.

"This is private property!" he yelled gruffly, hoping to intimidate the trespasser despite his distinct English accent. The rubble and noise of cattle approaching were like a fog around a single rider straddled upon a magnificent black stallion with its sinewy thighs and arrogant head held high, more impressive than the lean rider whose dingy hat shadowed most of his face and a long trench coat flapped at the sides of the stallion's sides.

The rancher leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, but his entire body was taut, readily prepared to raise his rifle if necessary. He looked for other riders, knowing that thieves always came with company, but there was only one rider and one horse beside what seemed to be over a dozen of his cattle, rustled as he was by the unexpected arrival.

Without warning, the rider leapt off his horse and quickly approached the rancher, the long, brown trench following his steps closely. The rancher did not move, but his body tensed and his hand clasped tightly around the barrel. "I come in peace," a low voice spoke, barely audible above the rumble of cattle mooing and chewing around them.

"Like hell you do, cowboy!" the rancher replied. "This is private property and you are trespassing." Just as the rancher lifted up his rifle to deepen the intimidation, the rider skillfully extracted a Smith & Wesson from beneath his trench and shot the end of the rifle with such speed the rancher dropped it from his grasp. He stared up as the intruder returned the gun into its concealed holster, his green eyes blazing with fury and embarrassment.

"I come in peace," the rider repeated calmly.

"Like bloody hell you do," the rancher said. His own six-shooter was sitting on the table of the kitchen not three feet away.

A gust of hot wind from the north surprised the rider and his hat fell off revealing a head of raven curly hair. The woman stared at the rancher unmoved even as a light blush rising to her cheeks.

The rancher cursed under his breath inaudibly, even more embarrassed, but brazened. He attempted to reach for his rifle, but the gun was back in the woman's hand and she shot the butt of the rifle, sending it scurrying further away. The rancher stared at her angrily.

"Woman or not," she said, her voice still low and gruff, "I'll shoot you between the eyes if you go for any other guns at hand." She stared at him with dark eyes that matched her mood. The rancher stood up straight and slowly approached her. "Watch yourself, rancher," she warned, gun still in hand.

"I will," he replied, sighed heavily, and then changed his countenance so quickly the rider was left even more apprehensive. His scowl softened to a tentative smirk that lightened his eyes in the sun, the slight lines around his eyes and mouth stretched to make him look younger. "I apologize for the misunderstanding, ma'am," he said kindly, his voice soft and friendly as he continued to walk towards her. "My name is Derek Manning. I own this land." He extended his hand toward her.

The woman watched him as he stopped directly in front of her, his height a couple of inches taller than her own. "Ruby," she replied carefully. "Ruby Kincaid." Suddenly, Derek quickly reached for her gun, grasped it, and pointed it at her. But no sooner had he grabbed the weapon, Ruby grabbed for another Smith & Wesson .45 from the inside of her trench, and it was in the other hand as confident as if the rancher had never removed the first gun in the first place.