QUICK DRAW

Sand swept all around this miserable little dust town perpetually, always scraping at peoples' eyes and teeth. Dust would pile a finger's width high on any surface, be it indoors or out. Windows were almost useless, but they were not unappreciated. Only the town beggars or crooks were blamed for holding a door open, inviting the ever-present dust. As if it was their fault.

My eyes have always been sensitive to bright light reflecting from the shifting white carpets I plodded across on many festering hot days. My skin swells into smarting blisters long before my mind has been overpowered by the sun. My hands have always fumbled and faltered when I tried to plot out my actions. My body always fails me, so I have become a thinking man.

But on this day, despite my reasoning words and kind offers, I find myself straining to stare at the drunkard bathed in desert phosphorescence who has challenged me to a primitive form of mortal combat (isn't all mortal combat primitive?) His sunken, shaded eyes scrutinized me, pierced me like the burning slug he would soon hurl at me.

Somewhere, many horizons away, the soft sobs of my dear Maria drifted toward me, weakened me. I would have to forgo all senses and let my primordial instincts guide me to "victory."

Instantly my body shifted. The heels of my boots cut into the soft sand, the spurs tinkling as my feet stiffened. My shoulders lurched forward like a cat ready to pounce. My hand fell near the glinting silver of my revolver, proud in all its feral glory. With the rim of my hat casting soothing darkness over my eyes, I must have looked as much a walking corpse as my dance partner.

So grand it might as well have rumbled as it cut through the sky overhead, a cloud sent the town into a noontime midnight. Across the way, I could hear him grunt nervously.

The fight was starting.

The sun pushed away the cloud that blocked its anticipating view of our fight. It wanted to know as much as I who would win.

Both of my hands were raised in an instant, one shielding my eyes and one participating in the contest of reflexes. Soon though, my hands shared in one task: covering my bleeding wound.

The ground swerved from under my feet and hit me from behind. I sensed feet pounding toward me, felt a pair of hands grip me and shake me, but that couldn't penetrate the veil of death shrouding me.

A touch on my lips. Oh, God! Maria! Maria! ... She can't hear me. And I can't see her! I can't see my love for the very last time. Why would you deny me that?

Why...?