The Black Rider

The tall rider rode into the small western town of “Hell’s Bend". He looked coldly dangerous, riding a huge black stallion, clad in long black duster, black Stetson, and silver spurs.

People in the town stood and watched, trying not to stare as the tall stranger dismounted, tied his horse, and climbed the steps. His spurs rang in time with his smooth gait as he strode down the boardwalk. .

He swept back his duster, and stepped through the swinging doors of The Rusty Crow saloon. Pearl handled revolvers flashing into view.

As he entered, the room descended into chaos. The bartender reached for a scatter gun. Six other men stood from the table where they had been gambling, grabbing for their pistols. But it was too late.

Fast as lightning the man palmed his Colts and began firing. The first to feel hot lead was the bartender as a forty-five slug drilled him between the eyes. His chin hit the oak bar, teeth shattering, eyes going dull and glassy, as he fell to the floor.

The next two men to die never cleared their holsters. Dropping like marionettes, their strings clipped, by a single shot to the heart. Blood pooled, and ran between the planks.

The last four dove for cover behind the piano and staircase. The dark stranger strode back out and over to his horse. Diablo was skittish from the noise and the smell of blood.

“Easy big fella, it’s alright”. He opened his saddle bag, retrieved four sticks of dynamite taped together. He slipped the faded photo of his murdered wife from his pocket, gazed at the image as he lit a cheroot, touched the fuse, and then tossed it into the saloon.

He mounted up, looking a little less dangerous. He rode out. The saloon blew in a large fireball and burned furiously behind.