Page one of the second draft of my western The Red Seven.
The Red Seven.
“It’s harder to heal than it is to kill.”
It had been some hellish, long years, but this would be the last crooked cross planted in the ground in the name of revenge. As the bullet ripped through Hidalgo’s neck, The Ghost held his breath.
The dust settled. The world was quieter. Birds sat in the tall trees took a break from their throaty, harmonious songs. The bugs buzzed less. The wind died off, holding its breath.
Somewhere off into the distance, a vulture sniffed death in the air. With great force it took off. It would find the scent of demise.
Hidalgo would pay his debt to the devils below. For each death tallied under the heels of his boots, justice was served. The Ghost’s pistol slipped out of his hands, and into the blood stained grass. Hidalgo’s breaths ceased. The sun soaked the skin of the dead man, refracting off the bloodshot whites of his eyes.
All of the men who soiled his family name lay in shallow graves. The Ghost could rest his bones knowing that his brother Daniel was avenged. His niece and nephew didn’t die in vain.
My American Suicide.
Horse hooves drifted across the muddy property. The soundtrack of the storm allowed cover onto the Masterson land. Seven men rode straight into infamy, with their fingers on their triggers.
The Masterson children helped mother set the table. Their father, Daniel carved the bird. A fire popped and crackled as smoke rose through the chimney and into the rainy night. Evening prayers were offered and thanks were given, this was a special night for the little family. Mattie had news: she was of the family kind. There’d be another Masterson running around soon enough. This was grounds for family celebrating.
The glass from the window exploded as buckshot blasted through the hole. Rain began to come in the house. The Mastersons fell to the floor. Daniel yelled to his family.
Mattie and the children cowered in fear under the kitchen table. The draping arms of the tablecloth hid them from plain sight. The tears of the children stained Mattie’s shirt. She hushed them as their cries reverberated into her bosom. The baby inside Mattie could only sense the strife through the distress of his mother.
As Daniel scrambled for his hunting rifle, a chill crept in the house.
With his rifle raised, Daniel Masterson walked out of his front door and into a confrontation.
Seven pairs of eyes met him; tunnels straight into hell. Seven men who even in the cover of darkness and rain, looked as sinister as evil described around the dancing flames of a campfire, Lucifer rode along with them.