Tuesday, August 17

The cowboy is hurting. He'd been shot just below his ribcage on the left side, and that gang of no good teenage ruffians are still after him. The cowboy limps badly as he rounds the shed, his ankle twisted, and tugs at the locked door. He can hear their horses coming close, their hooves churning the dust and rocks as they pound after him.

He had said some things, made some lewd gestures, and maybe now he regrets it a little. Some things aren't seemly of a cowboy, but sometimes cowboys get a bit cocky and think their torsos are impermeable to bullets, and only after they get pierced below the ribs on the left side are they reminded of their mothers and siblings and that girl he'd been flirting with for years now and how he should probably ask her to marry him, or should have already.

He tries think of a way to appease these angry gun fighters, these wild near-children who've decided they can kill people whenever they want.

He will die, this cowboy. The shed will be locked, but there will be a deep well not far. The cowboy, in his desparate search for safety, will jump into this well. He will fall and break both his legs, but it turns out to be the best of hiding places, as his persuers continue past, thinking there's no way he would jump into a well. But he did. He jumped into the well.

And no one will find him until his bones are yellowed and clean of pierced flesh, both legs broken, and any messages to family or lost loves scrawled in the mud walls will be long washed away by the rain.

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