John Schmidt
a western story im working on
John enters his house it had gotten dark, and no longer could get a good shot at any of the small critters in the woods. He almost got a raccoon, but the fading sunlight did not aid in his endeavors.as he put the low caliber hunting rifle in the den. His father would never trust him with a gun powerful enough to kill anything bigger than a mangy dog. Speaking of his father, john could hear him right now. His father was talking loudly. he walked into the hall. The conversation was coming from the parlor.
There was his father standing in front of the couch, which seated 3 men. All looked menacing, yet their worn faces held expressions told stories of horror and pain. They were too busy to notice that john was snooping into their conversation. All he could pick up was that his father was not going to pay the west peak boys anymore.
John had no idea what was going on, and did not care all too much. He had worn himself out. And at that moment just wanted to go to sleep.
The thing that woke him up was that it had gotten too hot. Still drowsy he got out of bed, walked to the window and opened it.
The air rushed in, oddly enough. As the cool air blew into his room he smelled something, smoke. This jolted him awake. He stuck his head out the window and looked around, the side of the house was almost entirely engulfed in flames. This sent a sensation of terror through him, he ran to the door. He tried the door handle, it was extremely hot. It had burned his hand. blisters were already bubbling in his skin. He cried out in pain, cursed, then realized he wasn't getting out through this way.
He looked around his room, but the only other exit was the window. Which was located on the second story. With little hesitation he climbed out hand hung onto the window sill, dry heat from the flames threatened to burn him. He looked down, hesitation had finally set in.
John heard the almost deafening crackling of wood, the roof fell in on itself. The whole house shook, causing him to be thrown into the grass a few yards away from the house. The breath was knocked out of his lungs. As he struggled to catch his breath again he saw the men from earlier watching the house burn to the ground. Another deafening crack, and the entire house fell in on itself.
John woke with a startle, cold sweat ran down his forehead. He soon recomposed himself, he was on the train. The mountains in the distance and the grassland passed by the window. The other passengers looked at him, yet he payed no mind. He rested his head against the seat. It was just a dream he reassured himself. A few moments later the train pulled into the station.
He had no idea where to go. He saw he was the only one who got off at this point. A town was relatively close in the distance. he picked up his luggage with his badly scarred hand, and started walking in the direction of the town. The sunlight made the already warm summer heat hotter, beads of sweat formed on his mustache. Which was coal black just like his short trimmed hair. He reach the small town and the first thing he noticed was that there were bodies laying about.
Each seemed to have died various gruesome deaths, however they seemed to be caused by the same thing, guns. While inspecting the multiple gunshot wounds on one poor chap. He heard a weak voice attempt to get his attention. He turned to the source, and saw a man with graying hair propped against the wall of a building. As john approached the man, who didn't seem to well off. as various bullet holes spotted his torso. The man coughed up blood as he spoke. according to him the town's residents had either died as result of the west peak boy's killing spree, or fled. The man died after speaking his last words. The man had a revolver holstered to his hip, john took it of the man in case that gang decided to return. After fastening it to his own he picked his bag up again and continued back to the station.
John closed his eyes so he could think about his situation, the gang. They were here like he thought, or rather close to here. Lost in thought he never noticed the pickpocket looking in his bags. The lanky thief noticed john had a revolver at his side. His frightened him, thus he backed out of the of the relatively empty train car. The train pulled into the next station, the sun was setting low in the sky. Painting it with vivid orange and crimson.
He walked into the town the dust got kicked up with each step. The wooden buildings weathered by sun and dust. He looked around for an inn. Yet his eyes gazed to a sign, a saloon.The prior events of the day made him realized he needed a drink. He looked around once more. The sun falling below the horizon he steps into the building.