[Complete] When young Boone Rigger is pulled into the most fierce Gunslinger Tournament in the country, he must find the courage to kill, or be buried six feet underground.
The Iron Alchemist: Slinger Wars Book 1
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Boone's boots hit dirt and he was thankful to be on the ground safely.
The descend down the ladder was haunting, the crowds roars shaking the tower so violently he nearly slipped to his doom. One woman was not as lucky, screaming as she pelted beams, until they faded hitting the ground.
Boone yanked a pearl-handled revolver from his holster, bringing it to his chest. There was a screech beside him and he drew his barrel to the sound. The ladder rose fifteen feet; a good deal out of reach.
"How do they intend on us getting out of here?" He didn't stop to think for long.
Boone crouched, walking through a narrow passage between canyon walls, trying to keep his coat from snagging on the prickly cacti that guarded his exit to the next area. Thankfully he was skinny, and slipped through without a prick.
Around him stood crossed beams, wrapped in pale-brownish hides. Thirty if he'd have to guess. "Tents," Boone said. He looked towards the sun, reminded of how his grandpappy told him to use it to find his way. "It dips towards the west, on my left, therefore I'm in the southern region."
From deep in the canyon, gunfire echoed, and the ground shook. This was not like a Wildgun and Mammoth the Kid adventure. Their fates were always certain, rescuing the dasmel, and barely surviving. But they always got out alive. Boone took a breath, uncertain if he'd have the same luck here.
He moved into the row of tents, using his barrel to push back the hide. Inside were hanging, skinned animals and a bloodied-stoned knife buried in sand. The flies were gathered for the feast.
"Gross …" Boone said, grabbing his lips, gagging. He kept the contents in stomach from spilling onto the sand. He Bent down and relieved the knife from the earth.
It was a beautiful weapon. The blade made out of obsidian and the handle, a blackish-gold metal. "Coradite," He knew, watching it shimmer.
Blood dripped from the carcass on the scabbard the blade was paired with. The boy picked it up, a black-leather case, then sheathed the blade, wrapping it around his waist.
"I'm not much with a blade … but I'm not much with a gun neither."
Boone expelled from the tent, that was surprisingly cool compared to the outside. It was midday and the sun was baking the earth. The boy wiped sweat from beneath his forehead, breathing heavy.
"I'm going to need to find water or I won't survive out here for long —"
There came a noise from the center of the tents. A high, humbling chant. Errie to his ears; a song of mourning.
One of them featherheads, the boy thought, keeping himself low, moving from one tent to the other, pressing against the stretched hide, following a sweet-earthy scent to a clearing between the camp.
