Thy Will Be Done
The dirt road released a trail of smoke as a stage coach rushed towards the town of Laramie. Alongside it another figure rode with a modified Winchester '66 rifle ready in his other hand. As the horses huffed into a halt on the main road of Laramie, the rider stopped as well to speak with the driver while the passengers got out and the cargo was unloaded.
"Good show, kid" the driver said as he counted a wad of dollars before handing them towards the rider dressed in fringed bucskins with a dark brown stetson as well. Two ammo belts for the rifle were across his chest in an X pattern. You could see that he wasn't exactly what you would imagine someone guarding a stage coach to be and apparently it was a side job for him just as well.
"Thanks, old man. If you want to give me more easy money, you can find me around" the 30-something man said with a smirk and slid the Winchester inside a holster hanging from his saddle. While he rolled himself a slim cigarette, the horse continued along the main road until it got a tug from the reins in front of the saloon and right across the street from the general store. As the man stepped off the horse, he lit the cigarette and looked around, noting the Sheriff watching with a deputy towards his direction. He couldn't see if it was him or the two Colt Army Model 1860 revolvers, which had several notches on the grips, hanging from his waist that got their attention, but in all truth he didn't give a hoot about them. The rider wasn't here because of them, or at least mainly.
His spurs gave a jingle as he walked to the saloon doors and stepped inside. A couple of men were laughing while walking past him and out the door and the rest of the saloon was filled with noise as well ranging from the piano and traveling show to the angry shouts at the poker table. You could barely hear the jingle of the spurs as the man walked further inside and leaned against the bar, ordering a whiskey. The man next to him suddenly jumped and gasped at the sight of the man and slapped the drink's payment on the table in front of him.
"Red! Red ye old dandy! Whacchyou been up -hic- up to? Lemme buy yer drink for ye, 'kay pal?" the drunkard said in a rather loud voice and the man he called Red only smiled in response.
"I haven't scheen ye sinche we fought in Sand Creek" the drunkard continued and this time got a rather cold look from the gunslinger he was buying a drink for. After Red gulped down the whiskey, his arm swung to the man but instead of hitting him, he grabbed the man by his shirt and drew him close enough to nearly feel his stubble against his forehead. The rider's Bowie knife touched the chin of the drunken man and a fire burned in his eyes.
"We never did anything. You spilled blood at Sand Creek like a savage. I didn't. Now get out of my sight before I decide to avenge the Indians who died that day" he said and pushed the drunken man hard enough for him to stumble and fall before scurrying away. Some of the people had turned to look at the scene but a sharp glance from Red Dalton turned most of their looks away before the undercover US Marshal ordered another drink for himself.
"Our posturings, our imagined self-importance,
the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe,
are challenged by this point of pale light.
Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark.
In our obscurity – in all this vastness – there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves."
- Carl Sagan
Last edited by Black Knight of Keno; 01-15-2008 at 02:30 PM.