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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Western · #2004090
A poetry-ish on death, storytelling, and modernization.
The Hawk and the Rattlesnake


There They stood.

The last bastions of the old west.

On the paved streets of an otherwise peaceful Virginia township.

Robert 'The Hawk' Cane.

Who could spot and hit his targets at nigh-impossible range.

Bounty: $5000 dead, $7000 alive.

Henry 'The Rattlesnake' Manco.

Merciless. Pitiless. And ungodly fast.

Bounty: $9000 dead or alive.

These Men were Living Legends.

Members of a proud, dying breed, determined to live.

They were outlaws and vicious criminals.

Butch and Sundance had disappeared.

Believed to be hiding out in Bolivia.

The Kid was dead.

Dispatched by Sheriff Garrett in the vicinity of Fort Sumner in 1881.

Jesse James was dead.

Shot in the back of the head by a friend hoping to collect the bounty on him.

Curly Bill, The espinosas, John Wesley Hardin: all dead.

But the Hawk and the Rattlesnake remained.

And it was only a matter of time before they crossed paths, and traded lead.

And so, there they stood.

Steeling themselves for the last display of Old West Dispute Resolution.

A young couple in an automobile stopped to observe the commotion.

Three lawmen stood a fair distance away, also observing.

Even the law wouldn't dare stand between these two legendary gunmen.

They knew better than to try and get involved.

They would just be ready to arrest whoever was still standing.

Every second seemed to take an hour to pass as they stared each other down with cold, deadly eyes.

Finally, the time came for Blood to be spilled.

Hands were positioned, tensed near holsters.

The small batch of onlookers backed up slowly to a safer distance.

The lawmen readied their own weapons.

The Hawk's Eyes were focused on nothing but his target: the small tear in his opponent's vest pocket.

The Rattlesnake Stretched his hands several times, preparing them to unleash a flurry of bullets.

The church bell began to ring.

Once.

...

Twice.

...

Thri-

Two shots pierced the air.

Robert Cane and Henry Manco both fell to the ground, dead.

Shot from a second-floor window by the town's gunsmith.

He would use the bounty money to send his son to college.

And life in that small Virginia township went on.




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