I'm pretty new to writing, and am only a teenager so this is somewhat of an experimental thing, especially considering it's a Western. I just felt like trying it and first intended just to write this as fluff for my own amusement but decided to publish it for some criticism and critiquing. I was also thinking of continuing this to an entire story, but I want to know if the character sounds too shallow and such. Anyways, enjoy and give me your input.

The air was thick, almost to the point of disgust. You could taste the dirt kicking up into the humid air and the sweat of the overly fascinated observers. Some continued to pass by, while others stopped in almost childish praise of good, old capital punishment. The dying plants in the distance continued to ignore the nonexistent entertainment that laid around them, as one form of it, a brown ball of tumbleweed rolled across the long street of the barren city. Their already red and parched skin roasted in the fiery Texas sun; and as it set and prepared to say goodbye to me and my subjected pitiful claim to life, I merely shooed it off, insisting my persistence to live the life that no one wanted me to continue.

I shifted my observant gaze slightly to the left as I watched the sheriff who had been pursuing me for only God knows how long, tie a noose around my “sly, little neck” as he had previously asserted it as. As he finished the knot, he backed up almost stylishly, and smirked, while his big, brown moustache twitched slightly, almost in mockery of my compromising situation.

I chuckled right back at him, and purposely attempting to agonize him retorted, “Wipe that damn smile off your silly, ol’ face, you dumb bastard. And shave that moustache while your at it; it don’t hide your ugliness any better.”

His grin suddenly flattened, and his moustache’s obnoxious twitching fell to an expected stop as he growled and began to reach back for a sudden right hook to my face, but a hand stopped him.

Another man who had been helping to prepare the hanging grabbed his hand with urgency and said, “He’ll be dead soon enough, partner.”

I chuckled once again; aiming to feel the amusing wrath of Sheriff Newton, and cracked yet another comment, “Don’t count on it, fella’s.”

They both darted their heads in my direction, and appeared to be worried for a moment, but the look quickly dissipated as their confidence and the smirks that followed returned and they proceeded with the hanging.

Sheriff Newton continued to rest against the railing of the hanging platform, with his arms crossed. The assistant executioner followed, but then turned to grab a wooden handle, which assumedly would release the shaft I was standing on and if worked as planned, kill me, as everyone so seemed to desire.

The assistant looked at me with his hand on the switch, “Enjoy Hell, Smith.”

I put on a big smile, and retorted confidently, “I’m sure I will. I prefer hot weather anyways.”

He sighed at the realization that none of his comments or insults would seem to impact me. But at heart, I was quite nervous. I could die, and I knew it. I had always found my way out similar situations but I wasn’t sure how I’d get out now. I knew I could die, but somehow, other than a few bouts of nervousness, I was surprisingly calm. I just felt whatever occurred, I would not be able to change it. I would accept the events at hand, because I have no other choice. And at this realization, I awoke from my thoughts.

“… Guilty of treason, aggravated assault, vandalizing, arson, theft, fraud, homicide, kidnapping, resisting arrest, and the list goes on.”

I interrupted in an overly sarcastic and shocked tone, “Why you! Only half of those are true!” Then I continued to process the list in my head and thought, I think it’s only half.

The sheriff turned around to yell, “Shut up!” and then changed his view slightly to shout at the assistant and continued to yell, “Just hang the bastard already! I’m sick of his voice!”

The assistant nodded, and pulled the switch. For that split second where I was falling, I actually felt like I might continue falling and was thinking of other subjects; such as how much I wanted to shout back at the Sheriff after he called me a bastard. However, much to suddenly I was hastily enlightened to what I was doing tied to a rope as I stopped suddenly in mid air, and felt a humongous tug that was unpleasant, to say the least. I began to panic for a mere second as I hung only by a neck and dangled helplessly like a bird with a broken wing. I came to the sudden realization; I’m about to die. I am seconds away from dying. Shouldn’t I have an epiphany? Things I should have done? Things I shouldn’t have done? But my abstract thoughts were quickly cut short as seconds after the drop and sudden tug; a series of events caused me much relief.

Bang! A gunshot? A gunshot! I didn’t have any more time to process where the gunshot came from, as my rope suddenly came lose and I fell straight to--- A horse? Where I expected a rough landing to occur straight to the ground, I landed straight onto the back of a horse, that another man had ridden right below the shaft where I had been hanging. I leaned forward to identify my savior, and as I reached to see their face, my eyes widened in shock and excitement.

I quickly grabbed both of his cheeks with my open palmed hands and kissed him right on the forehead, “Ren, you bastard!” I shouted in enthusiasm.

Ren swiped my hands away and grabbed the horse’s reins and shouted back at me, “No time! We got to get out of here!” Then hurriedly he grabbed a belt of ammo, and two pistols hanging from a strap on the side of the horse. He tossed them back at me, and shouted, “Those are yours, Stanton!” just as we began to depart from below the hanging platform.

I laughed in relief of retrieving my sweet, old pistols, but my reprise was short-lived as the roar of guns reminded me of my position. I turned my front side to face the shooters and swung my guns into position; in a backlash of the attacks aimed at my escapee and me, I began firing in fury. The people in Mason City don’t call me “the best damn marksman in all of Texas” for nothing. My six-shooter revolver had six bullets in it; and I emptied the load with six challengers all on the ground. Six of my pursuers were dead or damn near, but I made sure to leave some alive to tell the story, especially Sheriff Newton; I merely shot off his hat in warning. The survivors merely cowered in shock at the array of bullets that did not fail to hit and decimate the law-abiders. The site where I was to be hanged was now a battleground, littered with casualties, as I rode of into the sunset, tipping my hat in appreciation of a satisfying adventure.