The hardest: Old West Yarn

Lunch hour in the old west, at this particular hour more like someone's readymade funeral. Under azure sky, pistol shots split the air. Two figures spill out a building to the dusty outside. The pace is urgent, spurred by danger. It's a man and another. He six shooter in one hand, her hair in the other, gun belt round the waist. His head looks around frantic.

Another earsplitting shot, his finger remained on the trigger guard. Was the from the building's bowels behind them.

Not respecting the limited time will get someone killed. He takes the left, pulling the girl by the head hair along, she would fall but instead stumbled, regaining her footing before hitting the ground, all in a matter of seconds before actually running with him. Across the dust strewn ground, they rush. A few hundred feet away are 12 horses tied up to a hitching rail to prevent wandering around.

Upon reaching he lets her go and holsters the sidearm – only to free his hands, her comfort didn't reach his mind. Their stop is meant to be fleeting of course.

By chance finds a knife on a horse. Thinking on his feet, proceeds to cut the knot tying horses to the pole and send each scurrying by slapping them on the rear. Finished with under half when more shots. Two men a few hundred feet away. Girona reaches for the six shooter and in a fierce gunfight. Girl for her part meanwhile stooped, ears covered in fear and shock. He forces them to cover in a nearby ditch.

That done, felt like holstering it again, sent to running the remainder save for two. In a hurry from behind jumped up and into a saddle, grabbed the reins, kicked the horse's flanks and sped away. Seconds later finally does look over his shoulder. He stops the animal.

His English shouting came with a Spanish accent. 'Senorita you asleep?! Move your ass!'

The girl remained standing by her ride.

'Woman I leave your ass to the vultures!' She stood as before, at a loss like some prey critter.

Thinking fast again, 'Never learned to ride even a pony?'

She shook the head. Girona sped back. His voice was softer being close yet naturally carried a harsh tone. 'Up.' instructs he. The girl climbs onto a saddle. Girona holds her steed's reins and both horses leave a dust trail in their galloping wake, the small settlement would get ever smaller behind their backs.

Girona aka La Rata Spanish for the The Rat looks 45, rugged and mean. Sculpted by the hard living the frontier demands. This foreigner wound up in America.

De Miller. Yankee Caucasian girl the opposite, far smaller, barely 20, lean and attractive, looked fragile compared to the rugged Mexican.

The faunae are moving at say 30 miles per hour, the ground speeds by. She found enough courage to rival the fear of the beast's back permitting speech, 'Had to make bullets fly!'

'Since you think Girona a guilty dog muchacha, talk it out with the amigos back there.'

Off the path is a log house. Girona steers for it, there alights and gun at the ready does a quick search with the eye. No one. The man true to outward appearance, kicked the door in and led his steed inside. De Miller wasn't told anything – surmised it expected of her and copied him.

She shut the door.

The Mexican peered out the window, whilst keeping his body behind the wall.

His associate thought inside, This scoundrel doesn't have the decency to ask on a girl's wellbeing.

'How long you want us to do the hiding rabbit routine?'