the youth (Wild West Story)

The Girl 3

Under the bridge's grim cover, the youth stirred amid a collection of empty beer bottles, remnants of a shadowed night. Rising with creaking joints, he mounted his trusty horse, eyes catching a worn windvane atop a nearby homestead, showing the cardinal letters, N, W, S and E, all of which he had no idea the meaning behind of. He chose 'E' with resolute uncertainty. Miles stretched on, and his thoughts turned to his father - a puzzle cloaked in silence, a presence looming, both distant and hard to grasp. Never a mentor, never a guiding hand, yet never a fist raised in anger. Within this elusive figure, the youth glimpsed traces of hesitant humanity. His father's indifference had been a bitter pill, but within its chill, a peculiar grace lingered.

Out of boredom his fingers traced the grip of his revolver, a symbol of newfound authority. In an unintended flourish, a shot rang out, shattering the silence but teaching him how the contraption worked. Adjusting his aim, he practiced, grappling with the art of mastery. Each echoing blast left the trees untouched, a testament to the youth's rawness. Patience would be his teacher, and time, his steadfast companion, in this quest for command. A distant tumult tore through the quiet, beckoning him toward potential plunder. Approaching the commotion, he observed, silent but keen. The toppled stagecoach sprawled, a chaotic scene. Three women, bound to the trees, bore witness to the grim spectacle. Uniformed corpses lay still, silent witnesses to the savagery that had unfolded.

Three marauders, faces etched in malevolence, ransacked the coach's insides. Sheltered behind his vantage, the youth watched, detached yet vigilant. Time hung suspended, cocooned in watchfulness. As the marauders withdrew, their voracious dance complete, the youth emerged, his purpose clear. Amidst the remnants of hope, he found sustenance - two loaves, stubborn as the world that birthed them. Their taste was foul, but hunger was a harsher master. A voice, an intrusion, pierced the solitude. Startled, he turned.

"Why didn't you help?"

The question lingered, but the youth's gaze remained inscrutable, a mirror to the abyss that clasped his soul. The answer, if it existed, lay buried within him. In a world scarred by indifference, where survival eclipsed all, the line between savior and beast blurred into obscurity.

the youth looked at the asker of the question with his hand quickly making its way for his revolver.

"They'd've killed me." the youth answered

A silence settled, heavy and laden, between them. The youth studied the inquirer, discovering a girl of his stature. Her locks spilled like ink down to her shoulders, and her eyes held a dark, almost crimson hue. There was an inexplicable connection, an unspoken recognition that fate had woven their paths together. Their gazes locked, revealing a silent understanding.

Finally, she broke into a warm smile, finding solace in his unvarnished candor, in his detachment from the usual throes of human sentiment. She recognized his kind, not unique or profound, but a breed that sought solace in wealth or their perception of bliss, often meeting their end in battles not their own. To her, he was the quintessential guardian, prepared to wager his existence at the chime of clinking coins.

"As the progeny of noble lineage, I elect to engage your services as my stalwart protector, accompanying me henceforth to my familial abode in New Mexico." The words dripped from her lips, laced with a regality that bespoke of generations steeped in privilege.

The youth regarded her with vacant eyes, the contours of her speech slipping through his grasp like sand. She, in turn, noted his befuddled expression and sighed in exasperation. A muttering, veiled with impatience, escaped her lips, chiding the shortcomings of his unpolished mind. In the wake of her reprimand, she opted for simplicity, rephrasing her proposition in plainspoken terms.

"So I look after ya, see you safe to your home, and in return, you fetch me work and a heapin' of coin?" the youth reaffirms.

A nod, firm and resolute, affirmed his understanding. The pact was struck, an unspoken accord that echoed through the stillness.

A grin, as rare as rain in the desert, etched its way across the youth's face. It was as though fate, in its capricious dance, had once more intervened. The girl claimed her place at the rear of his horse, a partnership forged in that fleeting moment. With her guidance, they embarked on a journey across the plains, a voyage destined for both crimson reckoning and fleeting glory.