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Red
by faust
Usually he wore black shirts. He didn't know what had made him wear a white one today, but now he had to deal with it. Not for long, though, that was his only solace.
He took great care of his appearance; this was something his brothers teased him about mercilessly. Even on a cattle drive, he would wear a fresh shirt every other day; and here, at home, he took pride in never coming to town in soiled clothes. Even this white shirt somehow had made it into Virginia City spotlessly clean, despite the long ride from the Ponderosa on dusty roads.
And now, after just a short beer in the Silver Dollar Saloon and an even shorter argument with a stranger, there was dust on his shirt. This couldn't be avoided when lying on a dusty street, he guessed. And to be honest, the dust flecks weren't too bad. Not if compared to the steadily increasing bright red bloodstain.
For a moment he wondered if Hop Sing would be able to wash the blood out of his shirt, but the roaring in his ears and the way the colours of the street blurred together, becoming brighter and brighter until only a white, blinding light was left to see, told him that he didn't have to worry about shirts anymore.
And he stopped worrying. At all.
***fin***