A Night to Remember
After numerous battles — endless duels that arose within his spirit to showcase his skills — the cowboy was tired and unfulfilled. Known only as The Madman, as the village did not know his backstory, he was an engaged shooter, perceived as a villain by those who encountered him in his darkest moments. Ruthless, yet responsive to justice.
On that night, when the moon shone brightly — a cyan color mixed with the dark sky, filled with stars that seemed to keep each other company — even the horses in the stable turned their gaze towards the street ahead, hearing the footsteps — long and uniform sounds of a man walking without haste, silent… yet deadly. He passed through the stable and through the houses on his right side, with all the windows closed, some even closing as he passed. People were afraid of being seen by him, even though he did not want to look at them. Looking at people showed care for them — he only had his wide hat adorned with a belt of bullets on top of it to shield his eyes from the world.
As he walked through the streets of his village, The Madman heard a distant scream, a woman’s scream filled with panic and danger. He listened intently, quickly turning his ear towards the direction of the sound. He had never cared for helping anyone or anything, but on this fateful night, his heart led him to a decision he had never considered before. He concluded that the sound probably came from the street next to where he was, or at least it seemed to point in that direction. The scream happened again, louder this time, followed by a plea of “NOO, PLEASE!” The cowboy does not run — The Madman does not run; he approaches, and darkness awaits him. No one reacted to the event; they knew that after a certain hour, leaving the house was not even a choice — knowing that The Madman would start a bloodbath, thanks to the so-called Outlaws who liked to come through town to rob and destroy, both things… and people.
When the cowboy reached the street, he immediately saw them: a woman, her clothes tarnished and ripped from her body, almost naked from the waist down, and five other men, all armed, all attempting to reach the woman and even discussing amongst themselves who would start first.
Seeing such horror gave The Madman purpose. Watching the terror upon the woman on the ground, awaiting her doom — watching the Outlaws, one grabbing her neck, two others her shoulders, and one of them already licking his lips at the disgusting images forming in his mind — it was time. The moonlight was stronger than ever, a shining cyan color against the dark blue sky. He only thought about one thing — how rusty he would be with his beloved revolver. A deadly weapon, a hand-sized cannon with six rounds, loaded up just for fun — that would come in handy in situations where Death itself passed through and sang the song of ushering victims to another realm. The Madman was simply the messenger for it.
In a matter of literal seconds, his right hand reached for his gun, swiftly turning his shoulder, his elbow lowering with determination, and again — grabbing the gun, five shots were fired. It was faster than the speed of sound. After hearing the five cannon shots — at least it seemed — the woman did not react to such speed; she only blinked while hiding her head between her arms and lowering herself to the ground, even though it was too late, as the shots had already been fired, from the gun, towards the five men standing, leaving their heads completely marked with their fate. The woman, still scared for her life, stood up and looked ahead, trying to find the reason for her salvation. She could only see a man in the distance, dressed in dark clothes, with a wide hat adorned with a belt of bullets and a black cape covering the left side of his body. Immediately upon finding her hero, she looked at the five bodies on the ground, seeing them dead, their heads damaged to a point where even their eyes were missing. Blood, pieces of their skulls, and even brain matter were scattered around the blood pool beneath them.
The woman gasped, looked at the cowboy, and ran towards him. She was no stranger to The Madman, but she did not care. Her hero stood before her, so she ran, approaching him while the cowboy looked down, smoke still rising from the gun recently fired. She hugged him with so much gratitude. The Madman took a step back from the embrace he had just received, a feeling very new to him, one he had never thought possible, let alone desired, until this night when a person, a young person, cried against his chest, “Thank you. *sobs* I cannot thank you enough. Thank you so much. *sobs* Thank you, Lord, thank you.”
It was not that he couldn’t speak; he chose never to. Hiding his identity made him who he was. No one wanting to know him prevented people from being a threat in situations where he could be hunted down. The Madman simply placed his hand on top of the woman’s head, gently caressing her, comforting her. His gesture spoke for him: “It’s alright. They are gone.”
The only sounds he could hear now were the sobs of the woman, the strands of her hair brushing against each other, and a cricket chirping, creating the ambiance of a night free from worry.
Thank you for reading this short story.
I don’t have a schedule in regard to what or when I publish short stories or thoughts.
I just write what I want when I want it. Trying to alternate between both.
I only hope you like what I write and feel what I try to share in my own mind.
Thank you!
