The Gunslinger and the Portly Man.

         Mountains hugged the surrounding terrain of flat, desert landscape in the valley located in New Mexico. The heat was bearing down in the mid-afternoon as two men on death's welcome mat trekked the terrain after losing track of their horses in the middle of the night. Malcolm Williamson, the smarter of the pair carried an empty canteen and a worn-out map of the known area. He slicked back his dirty brown hair from his fair colored face while the sweat continued trickle down his cheek. His partner on this voyage, John Roosevelt was a fatter, out of shape man with rosy colored cheeks that looked extremely redder due to the desert heat of the valley. "Let's face facts here. We are gonna die!" John waddle alongside Malcolm as they passed a large cliffside that provided a medium amount of shade. "We can rest here for a while. I have to check this map again." Malcolm was exhausted, yet he didn't let that show when John was close by, someone had to remain strong. The map was placed over a large boulder, John was busy trying to open a cactus for water, but continued to prick his meaty hands and gave up, relaxing in the shade afterwards. "Now we already went by the giant peaks, so we must be closing in on the entrance to this cavern." He rolled his broad shoulders, adjusting his gun-belt while he kept his mind on the task, so he wouldn't acknowledge the fact he was thirsty. "Now what Malcolm? I'm sure you have no idea where we go now! We are lost and dying!" John's face stood out in the shade, his anger boiled up since he felt Malcolm lied in order to rope someone into the wild goose chase. Malcolm folded up the map and stuck it between his gun belt. He began walking towards the cactus, silent during his associates rant before he slung his revolver from the holster with lightening speed, firing three rounds into the cactus. The water inside darted out into a steady stream that was gulped up into his canteen moments afterward. John's fat legs toppled over one another as he tried running for the liquid, catching the remains into his smaller canteen. "There is your water. Should we keep going or do you want to die under this lovely shade?" His words sharply rolled off his tongue and his stern face did not falter as he took a swig from his now fully canteen. "Let's move."

         An hour later, John's anger began to fester once more as his chubby stomach began growling. He had a revolver on his person, yet he never fired a gun before and was hesitant on why Malcolm made him buy one before the trip a day ago. They passed a huge peak of mountains where two bodies, withered away at this point rested on either side. Their hands were impaled into the rocks as a sick message that seemed to expire. "Getting close to the mountain tribe's stomping grounds. Keep an eye out John." Malcolm's right hand rested on his revolver as they kept walking until the image of the bodies was behind them. John heard faint voices up ahead which made him push Malcolm on the dirt with a heavy force. "You hear that?! Listen." Malcolm heard them too, a few yards up the trail they were on, alas they didn't sound hostile and he eventually pieced it together; they were on the hunt too. He crawled along the trail, hanging his head briefly off the cliff where the glimmer of campfire was visible. John shivered in the cold air, the wind whipped across his face that studied Malcolm's behavior. "We're going down there? What if they are killers?" Malcolm ignored John, pulling him along with a playful force. "Then we kill them."

         The campfire at the base of the mountainside crackled with life, the grey haired traveler brushed his attire down that consisted of a brown overcoat and salesman garb underneath examined his caravan that was forced to stop due to a faulty wagon wheel. He shook his head, nearly losing his brimmed hat in the process. "Boy, go find more wood for this fire. This wind is pickin' up!" The younger boy (twelve years old) obeyed his father and casually strolled near the wagon, trying to find items for the fire. A rabbit hopped along the brush, taking his focus on the task away from him. He tried to chase the hare, tripping over a loose rock. A small cut formed along his forehead, his tiny hand felt the blood form over his left eyebrow, while Malcolm and John crossed his path. "You okay kid? That your father over there?" Hesitant in speaking to strangers, the boy shook his head up-and-down. John was starving and began heading towards the fire and the wagon, determined to find food and a possible escape from the hellish journey. "Pa! Pa!" The boy ran towards his father who encountered the trio entering the campsite, his shotgun filled up both of his hands and a boisterous shout made Malcolm tense up where he stood, prodding his forearm into the advancing John. "We don't mean any harm to you sir! We're just a few travelers lost out here. We brought your son back." Malcolm calmly spoke, trying to avoid unnecessary bloodshed between this harmless man. "What do you want? I'm havin' my own troubles with this wagon. I don't need no trouble from you two. Take whatever you need be and get!" The shotgun flared up in his hands and John rushed towards the wagon after his words. "You heard the man! I'm taking the food!" Malcolm set his gun belt on the ground before stopping John's rouge antics, pushing him away from the wagon's interior covered by a thick black cloth. "Get yourself together! We are this close to finding the place and doing this isn't going to help! This man's stranded just like us, so back away from his goods." Flabbergasted by the words coming from someone with a history like Malcolm's he continued to try opening the wagon, his revolver slipped out of his duster. "You don't tell me what I can do, outlaw! I only came with you because you promised me a fortune now look where we are! Now either help me eat or get out of my way!" His portly cheeks jiggled with furious words while his advances kept getting blocked by the stronger Williamson, which caused John's body to fall beside his revolver. He picked the revolver up in a buffoonish mannerism trying to aim the sights of Malcolm. "Fine. Just fine Williamson. You want to be a moral man in the desert then live with this. You did this, not me!" Roosevelt turned the revolver onto the grey haired man and his son who was being hugged by his father who no longer held the shotgun. Three shots sprung from the revolver, the first one missed completely due to his poor shooting skills, but the last two struck the man in the neck, spurting blood over his clothing which abruptly brought him to his knees and eventually onto the sand in a final lifeless contorted shape. The kid was hit in the chest, laying down beside his father, still breathing and clinging to life by a very loose thread. Malcolm ran towards the boy to check on him while John entered the wagon to find a medium quantity of food. Williamson applied pressure on the boy's chest to stop the bleeding, but it was too late at that point.

         Malcolm ventured back to gather his gun belt, his hands covered in blood left prints on his belt and the map, leaving his gut with a sick feeling. John was snacking on a few pieces of dried beef, carelessly kicking sand over the bodies as he walked towards Malcolm. "You ready to find this fortune now or what?" A fist from Malcolm's right hand landed him on his back, the food in his hands scattered on his chest and he was unconscious from a single blow. Several hours later, nightfall swallowed up the landscape and Malcolm was finishing up burying the father & son into a shallow grave. He wiped his brow, patting down the thick layer of brown dirt, impaling the shovel into the ground beside the grave to mark the spot. A lone coyote entered the campsite, sniffing around John's body trying to steal the dried beef off his chest and eventually ran away when the fat man began to stir. "D-d-did you hit me?" His confusion gave Malcolm a little chuckle that faded faster as John stood up. "When we find this cave, you and me are gonna talk. That man and his boy didn't deserve that." Water poured into his mouth from the canteen and the blood covered map was sprawled across the back of the trading wagon. John wrestled with what he did, yet didn't care because he needed to survive and he did just that. "It should be a few miles south. Just have to look for the broken arrow formation in the mountain face. Can you manage?" His facial expression returned to a stern look at John, matching his gaze with a stewing tension arising. "How many people have you killed? We were starving and you egged me on!" The husky arms of John flung into the air, making his appearance match that of a gorilla. They just looked at each other before they gathered up food and the remains of the water, marching away from the campsite. Williamson adjusted his leather gun belt around his narrow waist, making sure it was snug as he canvassed the valley, looking backwards once at the shovel sticking from the grave. "I'll make this right." He told himself those words with every passing step, going deeper into the valley.

         Two days prior to the excursion, the small town of Loma Parde was beginning to take shape with a plethora of general good stores, medical offices, and banks. Malcolm rode into the town on a white stallion with a bushy, black mane. He was dressed in a matching black duster and a two-tone cowboy hat. The gun belt on his waist carried his silver revolver, making his appearance standout to the plain citizens making their rounds. The local deputy, a slender young-adult with a dark complexion met Malcolm near the saloon, which was quiet given morning just touched down. "You just passing through?" The squeaky voice rang through his ears when he popped off his horse, brushing down the soot from his coat. "Truth be told I'm looking for a guide. Need to enter the valley." The deputy flicked his golden badge prodding from his skinny chest, shaking his shaggy head of ginger colored hair. "The valley you say? That's one dangerous place my outlaw friend." The kid saw him for the man he was, only Malcolm was trying to change his image with his new life mission. He jumped back on his horse, trotting down the dirt road. "I'll be at the saloon doing what we outlaws do best. Drinking." Speaking sarcastically in tone, he turned the corner from the general store, tying up his steed on one of the roping posts near the saloon called Ima's. Inside the dusty, wooden structured saloon the crowd was light due to the morning and the drunks rested themselves where they fell, one of the men was asleep on the second floor ledge, nearly falling off the railing, but remained situated in slumber. "Excuse me, miss?" Malcolm tried gaining the attention of the bartender, a fair haired women with soft features and an enormous pair of breasts that almost popped out of her garments of silk, emerald green colored dressing. Her eyes were hazel in color and they flared up at the sight of Williamson. "You no good son of a bitch! How'd you end up all the way out here?" Lilith Tully went out of here way to travel deeper into the west away from his past as a prostitute and casual client of Malcolm Williamson who became violent on her once or twice due to his lifestyle and alcohol consumption when jobs he took went south. "I didn't even know you still ran around Lil. I assumed you just ended up dead by a client back in Riley's Gorge." He sat down on the rustic stool, his gun belt clattered as he took a seat while he could feel a few eyes on him from the second floor. "I don't want trouble here Lil, I just need to find me a guide up to the valley." She laughed and grabbed a cloth to wipe her counter down. "Still hunting after a false hope, huh? All that won't make you a better man." Hesitant in starting more damage to an open wound, he took a drink she offered before bringing out the map he acquired on his travels. John Roosevelt entered the saloon, his fat legs had trouble coming up the steps causing him to stumble inside much to the humor of the patrons.

         Lilith prepared him a hearty glass of whiskey as per usual for his morning ritual before he started his day at the general store he ran. He overlooked Malcolm as another outlaw in a new part of the west he could ruin, alas when he saw the map covering his corner of the bar, he began using his brain and deduced that this outlaw could be a jackpot if he could figure out what the map was for. Williamson was growing tired of Lilith's banter and began standing up, heading to the door which made John rise in his usual slow pace so he could introduce himself to the outlaw. "Sir, may I inquire about that map? Never seen one like that before." He put on a mask of stupidity in order to weasel himself into the man's scheme. Malcolm shrugged his shoulders, grunting back in frustration at seeing Lilith. "Unless you can guide me through the valley and can handle yourself, I don't think we need to exchange anymore conversation." John lit up a large roll of tobacco after he wedged it between his plump, pale lips, taking a drag before letting whips of smoke trail out into the air. "Yeah, I can handle myself and that valley is easy depending on how far you go on horse." Williamson was hesitant at the fat man's words, but he was desperate to start the search and obliged John to gather a canteen and he handed him his backup revolver. John held in his nervousness at holding the gun, letting his uneasiness show before he manned up and went off to prepare himself. "You can do this. Just have to follow this guy until I get what I want."

         Silent in conversation, the pair delved deeper inside the valley where the large mountain face shaped like a broken arrow head reared itself towards Malcolm's eyes which now widened at the discovery. "We're here." John perked his head up the mountain face and began walking faster to reach the landmark. Malcolm caught up to his portly anchor, whipping him around by pulling his shoulder so they could meet face to face. "Before we head there I think you and me hash out what happened." Tumbleweeds bounced on the rougher terrain of the deeper portion of valley, the wind picked up severely, and Malcolm's hand was wrapped around his revolver with a snake-like coil. "Your smarter than you led on you know that? What was I just coin in your fat pocket?" A speech challenged John didn't know how to retort back so he whipped the revolver out from his own duster, placing the aim on Williamson's chest. "Don't suppose I need you now, do I outlaw? You led me right to the feeding trough of riches!" The loud pop of the revolver echoed around the valley, causing a few roaming coyotes to run away in the distance. Malcolm hit the ground hard, his chest was bloodied, yet he still drew breath and his eyes overlooked the clear skies with some mental clarity.

         Running towards the crevice of mountains making up the landmark, John went over the tattered map he snatched off Malcolm's body, scanning every detail while maintaining a view of his surroundings. He poked his sausage-link sized finger on a marking contained on the map, squinting at the broken boards covering up an entrance way. "This is it!" Shouting out loud, he started prying the loose, white boards off of the cave before he stepped inside the pitch black cavern. He slowly pulled out his last match and found a torch hanging from a rusty rung bolted near the entrance. The fiery light revealed the shear scope of the cavern around him as he marched forward with his greed seemingly controlling his steps. Slipping down a wooden walkway that creaked from the weight of his dark brown boots, he spotted a skeleton at the base of the steps, it was dressed in native american clothing with an arrow still stuck in the skull. He tripped over the leg bones of the skeleton, quickly picking up his torch when he gained his footing back. He felt it in his gut that riches were around the corner as he waltzed through the next section of cave, triggering a pressure plate made of stone inside the next area. The sheer rock wall rose upwards into the cave and his jaw hit the floor.

         Struggling to walk, Malcolm's gunshot wound was still fresh and he managed to stop the blood flow that covered his shirt enough to carry through the crevice. He panted, holding the mountain wall with his hands, leaving bloody prints marked on the mountain. The entrance to the cavern was already unveiled and his joy was long gone. He didn't feel excitement, just the misery of slowly dying haunted his mind. Using whatever strength he had left to carry on, he crept through the cavern, using his hands to feel where he was heading. The skeleton met his blurring vision like a new friend when he stumbled past it, hearing jolly noises along the path. His bloodied hands jerked the arrow from the skeleton's skull, managing to keep the sharp point in tact. He could feel the blood pouring from his wound again, stepping around the corner, he saw John rummaging through the crates of gold and silver coins looted by Indians years prior. He slowly crept along the crates, using the last of his energy to tackle John down. "This here is done!" Malcolm plunged the arrow into John's right hand, causing a crying howl to echo through the cave. He struggled to pull the arrow from his hand, unaware that a revolver was pointed directly at his head. "You'll at least die with riches around you." The gunshot rung through his ears, the bullet sprang into John's head leaving him lifeless while the pink brain matter covered the section of cave near his body. Malcolm stumbled back, holding his chest before exiting the cavern with the treasure. His black boot struck the pressure plate in a startled manner, closing the room. "I told you I would make this right." He spoke to himself, collapsing on the floor from blood loss. He held the revolver in his hands, contemplating his life as an outlaw, but he felt at peace with his final act of killing a swindler. Before the trigger could be pulled, he passed out with a smile stuck on his face, dying.

The End.