The lonely gunfighter stands at the center of the road, rifle at the ready.
He has nothing left but his code, guns and the memory of her.
He looks out to where his posse rode away.
They said they’d be back in an hour.
If only there could be someone coming, maybe coming to kill him, that would be something. He could slip off the road, maybe hide behind that boulder there, and get the jump on the bastards as they ride past.
In his left boot, a pebble squeezed itself beneath his flat arch. Anyone with flat arches knows that even a jagged stone correctly positioned can provide relief.
A coyote strides on down the road, taking no notice of the dusty, old gunfighter.
Even the coyote has somewhere to go.
Champagne Punch Magazine 
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