the youth (Wild West Story)

Great plains 2

In the dimly lit bar of the Wild West, the youth clutched a revolver, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar contours. Strewn across the floor were remnants of a reckless night - shattered and half-drunk beer bottles, a testament to a chaos that had unfolded, likely at the youth's own hands. Nearby, the lifeless body of the bartender lay, his blood seeping into the worn floorboards. He was a man merely tending to his duties, a cruel twist of fate connecting his path with the youth's, ending his life in brutal haste.With a touch of frustration, the youth tucked the revolver into his pants. It was his now, taken from the bartender he had just killed. In his world, might dictated ownership, and so the revolver became his prize, a symbol of the power he now held.Stepping out through the creaking gates of the bar, the youth emerged into the fading light of the small, forgotten town. The vast plains stretched before him, a sea of grassy indifference.

He scanned the horizon, his voice a low mutter of curses. In the distance, a cluster of stray horses grazed, and among them stood his wayward companion, a mule who had strayed from his side. A spark of recognition flickered within the youth, a rare moment of connection in a world that felt distant and detached.

Reaching the small herd, he patted his mule's back, the touch devoid of sentiment. With practiced ease, he swung himself onto its back, the familiar rhythm of hooves against earth a comfort in this desolate world. The youth guided the mule back towards the heart of the town, the darkness of night slowly encroaching on the horizon. The town's inhabitants, if there were any left, remained hidden away, their existence as unremarkable as the buildings that lined the streets. Under the unforgiving sun of the Wild West, the youth rode astride his mule, a lone figure in a forgotten town. His face was a canvas of indifference, etched with the weariness of endless miles. They ventured through streets lined with timeworn buildings, each structure bearing the weight of forgotten stories.

It was in this forsaken hamlet that fate interceded, threading the youth's path with that of a rugged old man. This stranger, a relic of harsher times, brandished a revolver with a steely glint in his eye. He barked demands for money and belongings, unaware that the youth possessed neither.

In a breathless instant, the world hung in suspended animation. The youth's resolve solidified, a cold detachment settling over him. With calculated precision, he lunged forward, meeting the old man's aggression with an unforgiving force. The struggle was brief, marked only by the hollow echoes of their desperate fight.

The old man's body lay still, his presence reduced to a lifeless form on the sun-bleached ground. The youth, untouched by remorse, took what meager possessions the old man possessed - a worn wallet, a battered watch, and a photograph whose edges curled with the passage of time.

Leaving behind the scene of his own reckoning, the youth guided his mule towards a modest horse dock. Beneath the fading light of the relentless sun, he exchanged his mule for a sturdy steed, its sinewy muscles rippling beneath a coat of dusty brown. Commiting a crime in broad daylight without fear of being caught, after all they'd probably just end up like the other 2 that had come before.

Within the shadowed confines of an outhouse, he found a moment's respite. The walls, bearing the scars of years, offered a fleeting escape from the world outside.
As the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in muted hues, the youth emerged, a specter in the gathering dusk. He mounted his new companion, the warmth of the horse beneath him a stark contrast to the chill that clung to his soul.

Under the canvas of night, they moved as one, the youth and his steed, cutting through the stillness with each measured step. The town lay dormant, its secrets concealed within the timeworn facades. In the hushed moments, the youth's thoughts were an empty expanse, a void untouched by the echoes of the past.

The revolver, nestled against his side, remained a silent testament to the power he now wielded. The stars above bore witness to this solitary figure, a fragment of a world that cared not for the deeds of men.

And so, they journeyed on, this duo forged by detachment, the youth and his horse, navigating a world that had long lost its luster. In the heart of the Wild West, they were but phantoms, forgotten remnants of a time soon to be swallowed by the unyielding passage of history.

END OF CHAP 1
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A/n: I'll focus on making longer chapters