Galloping Gunfire

Galloping Gunfire Part 4

I tacked up and prepared for a long day of riding. I was going to find the person who shot Alaska no matter what. No one gets away with hurting my best friend. I urged Alaska into a canter and rode towards the tree where I had seen the silhouette. I pulled on the reins as I noticed something glittering in the sunlight. I slid off of Alaska's back and knelt down to pick up the shimmering object. My eyes widened as I realized what it was. A tiny, golden bullet. I placed it in Alaska's saddlebag and jumped back into the saddle, my eyes narrowing as I decided where to look next.

We cantered along a dirt road, Alaska's hooves kicking up gravel as they pounded against the path. The clicking sound of her metal leg was the only thing to be heard. Minutes later, we arrived in a dirt clearing, trees circling the area. I had never been there before, but directions in my mind lead me there. I slid off of Alaska and stood beside her, gripping the reins tightly. I peered through the trees, wondering if anyone was around. I was about to hop back onto Alaska when I heard the crunching of leaves and the sharp snap of a twig. I turned towards the trees once again. A silhouette emerged from the shadows and into the light of the clearing. Tangled blonde hair hung over dull grey eyes, which seemed to stare straight through me. Long, bony fingers clenched a large gun. I did not recognize the person. I started to back away slowly. All of a sudden, they spoke.

"Give me the horse."

Pushed by a hidden strength inside of me, I jumped onto Alaska's back and squeezed my heels into her sides. She reared and set off at a swift gallop. I did not dare look back. I heard gunfire, but the person had obviously missed their target. Alaska kept galloping until we reached the house, and by that time we had lost the gunman. I panted heavily as I tied Alaska onto the fence and dragged my feet through the front door.

I asked my mother about the mysterious man that night at dinner. Her sea-green eyes bulged as I explained the features of the person who shot Alaska. Once I had finished speaking, she gasped and walked into her bedroom. She came back out with a photograph in her hand. I could see tears in her eyes as she handed it to me. I studied the image. It was a photo of the gunman I had seen in the dirt clearing, standing in front of a church and wearing a suit. I looked up at my mother, confused. She cleared her throat .

"That is your father."