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I step out into the cold night, feeling the breeze sweep across my skin. The few trees and dead plants are scattered in the desert sand. A group of twenty to thirty men wearing all black and an assortment of masks climb on the back of their golden brown horses as my mind start to slam back into reality.
“Let’s finish this gang off once and for all,” Pete says.
The other men laughed and agreed, I sat there calmly and unenthusiastic. Pete Winterhouse, he was my best friend since sixth grade. He is tall man, well over six feet and very pale. He had dark brown hair that hung over his eyes and is about twenty-one years old. His nose looked as if it had been broken many times. He was a very cocky man, with the build of a giraffe, long and skinny. His voice was raspy and had the hidden sense of hatred towards the whole world. This hatred comes from his father, a man who repeatedly beat his wife and disowned his son Pete. Some called him “Trigger Finger Pete” for his quick sense to pull the trigger with any gun. Many feared him, I do not, and I guess that’s why we’re best friends.
“Be careful, this gang… they have a large group of followers, no doubt they have over forty followers with them,” Pete reminded.
“Forty, that’s it, by the time we’re done not a single shred of their gang will exist,” snickered Charles.
Charles Redman a small man around five feet four and about twenty-two years of age. He was built of all muscle though. He was stocky and walked as if he had an extra set of shoulders on his arms. He had a short buzz cut that was dyed black. His skin was a tan color to the point of it being almost golden. His bulky stature may be the reason people call him the “muscle” of our group. I only knew Charles for a couple of years, his smirk, smart talk, and questionable feelings for other men tend to make me have few conversations with the man.
“Shut up and let’s go,” I said quieting everyone.
Who am I you ask, my name is Richard Self. I’m twenty years old, the youngest of these riders. I’m five feet eleven and I have pitch black hair that ends around the middle of my forehead. My nose is pointy and I have a chubby face. Many people take that as a fact that I’m soft, they’re wrong. My father was an out rider bigamist, my mother committed suicide the moment she saw him marry another woman. This put my father into a spiral of depression, so one night riding him and his friends had a shootout with another gang. His depression and distractions soon lead to his death. Left alone, I quickly learned how to use a gun and ride a horse. My feelings for others became numb as I learned how to only defend for myself. I became hardened with a shell virtually unbreakable. I’ve become one of the best known “gunslingers” there is in this area, and one of the most wanted men too. As far as I know I have no nicknames.
The men loaded their guns and prepared for war. We went through the night riding our horses to the spot. It was an old ghost town that everyone had forgotten about; the name was “ForKensing”. The old wooded saloon stood tallest amongst the short selection of houses and random item shops. Tumble weeds blew by the area; I stared at our shadows waiting for that time of the shootout. The crack of dawn, waiting for that time to come, I heard the sounds of horses and the pitter patter of their hooves. It was about to start.
The other gang arrived with horses filling the street, I counted thirty-nine while I heard others on my team say forty or thirty-eight. I saw them count us too, some snickering for thinking that we were too small to defeat them, those are the ones to die first. I see the leader ride in on his all black horse. A man who looks to be around five feet ten stocky build and a bald cut on his head, his face was hardened and his voice sounded dead.
“Let’s get this started,” he said.
The first bullet cracked out of one of his men’s barrel, I don’t know who was hit, but I didn’t care. All I know is that bullets went flying every way imaginable. I took shelter behind the saloon door picking off people from a safe distance. I saw Pete blasting his gun and wasting bullets, while Charles was pounding one man’s face into a rock.
My clip quickly became empty, as I sat down to reload my gun I felt a cold circular object hit my head. I jumped up and tossed the man into the saloon, we struggled against one another until we broke free. It was their gang leader, the bullets started to quiet down outside.
It was me versus him, we lifted are guns at the same speed firing at the same time and dodging the bullets at the same pace. We shot at each other until we made it across the room from one another. As I stared at the ground I saw to clips on the ground, I felt my pocket for my clip, it fell his must have also. Knowing this, I began counting bullets, eleven are on the ground, we both only have six rounds. The other man knew this also; as we both stand we walk slowly to one another. Putting each other’s gun to the other’s head. I was scared; scared out of my mind, as I slowly flirted with the trigger I squeezed and prayed for the best closing my eyes. A blast sounded, I opened my eyes just to feel myself alive. Then I saw his body laying on the ground as I was paralyzed for a moment, I absorbed my victory.
That’s when I noticed the gun shots died completely outside, peeking out my head to see the results. Pete, Charles, they were all still alive. I cracked a smile, the first smile time I smiled in ages. I slowly walked over to the celebrating crowd for the battle they have just won, the sense of pride I had was astounding. I didn’t let it get to my head though, because as of now we are a very well known and wanted team.