Bad Company
(A tale of gunfighter Dallas Davidson)
by Steven L. Shrewsbury

   "Never thought ya would see me again, huh? Just a dumb soldier, ya said!"

   No words returned to my ears, well, not right away. Air escaped his mouth and his eyes leered at me. My grip was too strong and Hell was close at hand.

   At last, one word popped free—"DALLAS!"

   He remembered! It is so nice not to be forgotten.

   "That’s me, Mr. Magic! A stupid, white trash, piece of dung, ya said? Pretty damned stupid your own damn self, for a wizard!"

   He looked damn surprised, gaping into my hairy face. I never wanted to scare the life out of him. No, I wanted to choke it out of him up close and personal-like. Still, tiny veins in his dark eyes burst as the witch doctor stabbed through my gray tunic. He jabbed me in the guts a few times, but it only made my grip on his neck tighten. I think I felt the blade strike a rib, but that never stopped me.

   "No, Dallas!" he said, gagging, releasing the ivory handled knife. "I cast you out!"

   My boots ground in the ivory sands and I closed my eyes, remembering the final charge into Shiloh. That day riding with Forrest seemed so far away. The battle, the charge and the dying made my hands stronger and I twisted. That recollection always steeled my resolve. If I could follow Bedford-Forrest into that mouth of Hell, I could come back from anything. In time, the fight lessened in the filthy Necromancer and I finished the job.

   The bastard still stared at me, even though no breath came into his lungs. I knew I had to act fast. Grabbing the witch doctor’s amulet from his bare chest, I smashed it into his wrinkled, black forehead. Palming the five pointed object, I forced it into his flesh. As I drew my navy colt revolver, I saw the creature engraved on the back of the talisman. It was a grotesque fetish of a beast, almost toad-like in shape. I shook my head, clearing the salt water off my long hair before driving the handle of my gun into the bizarre charm. The dent in the witch doctor’s forehead insured he would never trouble me again.

   I buried his evil ass under the white sands of that beach in Texas. The branches and driftwood I propped up was more of a gravestone than he deserved, but it was not like I wasted much breath on his burial. Ya see, I have none left.

   Spitting on the sands, I removed the curved blade from my guts. No blood came out and I never expected any.

   "You are the first, Bon Deux," I grumbled at the shape under the drift wood tombstone. I looked up the beach and said, "You screwed with the wrong cowboy, you, your thieving gang, and your dark god Damballaugh. Now, to get on the trail of the rest of you bastards that killed me."

©2003 Steven L. Shrewsbury

www.stevenshrewsbury.com