I do not own Laramie, unfortunately. All credit for character and etc. belong to their respective owners.
It's said a gunfighter is numbered among the most iconic figures in the Old West. Many tales have been told about how a gunfighter becomes the hero at the end of the day. In the truest sense of the title -gunslinger- it brings no kind of honor, respect or idol worship. No one respects a gunslinger; they fear him. Once a gunfighter rides into a town he brings with him one thing-the smell of death and misery.
There's many good reasons why some men choose to strap on a gun. Some put on a gun and hang it low just to prove they're grown up. Others, use it to fulfill vengeance, then finding it impossible to take it off after their dark mission is over, are forever at the mercy of the gun. The last kind, puts on a gun just for the sake of being too hot tempered and quick on the draw for the local Sheriff. He finds a cruel gift in the sake of being good with a gun. It's a tragic gift for death.
The last kind of gunfighter, finds no honor or place among even his own kind, shunned by society pushed out of everytown, never to find a place to rest. When the sun sets, he's no better than the outlaw on the run hiding from a noose. This kind of man eventually either dies in some wretched back alley-the crutch of hate-or finds his neck being fitted for a noose; watching the gallows being built in his honor. Set to die; legally.
No one truly mourns the death of a gunslinger. It's a well known fact the wicked are never mourned or remembered, for gunslinging is a business paid only in blood.
The target resting on the rocks captured his full attention. Standing at over a hundred feet from where the tin can sat, there was a large amount of possibilities where things could go wrong. The large boulders around it could rikochet and potentially kill him; instantly or gradually. Nevertheless, he was determined to hit the can dead center in this particular situation. His occupation required him to be good with a gun, but who said he couldn't test his skill?
Faster than a speeding bullet his hand went to the gun at his side and pulled it from the holster while he pushed the hammer back with his thumb. An instant before the gun was to hip height he fired. Two fast raps lifted the can into the air, spinning it crazily as the second bullet caught it mid-flight.
Spinning his wrist backwards, the gun was back in place in his holster before the can hit the ground. It was better shooting than more than ninety percent of gunslingers could pull off, but it still wasn't good enough for him, not until it was perfect.
"Is this how you spent your days? Wasting ammunition?" The tall cowboy sat on his horse sneering at his back.
A callous chill spread down his back to his toes. The fingers of his right hand clenched reflexively in warning. This red haired cowboy may pay him well, but that didn't mean he couldn't just kill the men after his job was completed.
"Do better Cowboy and we'll talk. Until then, stay out of my business." Even with his back turned he could tell the Cowboy had sat up straighter, a response to his deadpan challenge.
"Or what?" This man didn't seem to have a lick of horse sense in his entire body. The red haired man seemed to have forgotten the man he had hired could leave him rotting in the dirt.
"You know." His back may be to the man, but that didn't mean he couldn't drop the Cowboy before the man's gun cleared the holster. Killing an employer wasn't beneath him. To him, it was nothing more than another notch carved into the ivory stock of his gun.
"You oughta-'' He spun around and sent a bullet through the hand of the Cowboy.
The pale white horse who held the Cowboy, sidestepped as the smell of gunpowder and blood assaulted it's senses, meanwhile, the Cowboy's gun remained in his holster unfired. Looks like he overestimated the cowboy. Didn't even manage to get his hand to the gun before he was hit. His employer slid off the horse and onto the ground, clutching his bloody wrist in agony.
Idly, he meandered to where the Cowboy knelt in the dirt. He felt no remorse for this loudmouth if anything, it might have been better if he'd solved the towns troubles by simply killing the man. But… his gun had a price. If he killed a man without compensation that'd defeat the purpose of making a living this way. No compensation; no killing, that was his motto.
He knelt down in the dirt beside his employer and snatched his hand closer. Grimly, he observed the path his bullet had torn through the man's flesh. There was a fair sized hole right through the joint: exactly where he aimed at. He rose and looked down at the pathetic figure at his feet.
"I warned you."
"You've crippled me! You'll pay for this!" The gunslinger scoffed darkly.
"I think I've ended that possibility." Helpless, his former employer watched as he walked to the white horse the man had been riding. Gathering the reins, he swung in the saddle gracefully.
"What do you think you're doing? You have no right to take my horse! That wasn't part of the agreement!" The gunslingers lifeless eyes locked on the Cowboys, brokering no argument.
"I finished the job you paid me to do last night. As promised, Old Man Hastings is dead. Though, I did encounter one problem. See, that little job wasn't as cut and dry like you wanted it to be." Hope blazed through the Cowboy's frame thinking how the gunslinger would pay for murder. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not gonna hang for that crime. You are." His hope for revenge was snuffed out like a candle in the breeze.
The Cowboy attempted to rise to his feet only to sink back to the ground, strength exhausted. Brilliant red blood spilled from his lacerated wrist, keeping him at the mercy of the gunslingers latest scheme. Watching the blood spatter on the rocks beneath him, grim reality struck, he was helpless to run from the gunslinger or anyone for that matter.
"In town, everyone thinks the person responsible has been shot, but they don't know how bad." He nodded to the red headed Cowboy's bleeding wrist. "That'll convince the Sheriff and his posse. Funny as it is, that Sheriff of yours thinks you killed Hastings. He's partially right, you are responsible. Given how respected that old man was, I expect the posse'll be in a mood more to lynch you than give you a trial. If we traveled to your ranch we'd run right into that posse to collect my money, so I'm taking your horse."
"Why you no good-" The Cowboy cut off hearing the sound of horses thundering towards him. "Why didn't you kill me and get it over with?! Don't let me swing!"
The gunslinger gave the man a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You wanted Hastings dead no matter the consequences. Now, it's time you faced those consequences." Spurring the white horse, he left his former employer to his fate.
Cresting a hill several hours later, the gunslinger pulled his white mount to a halt alongside another man. The horse underneath him easily responded to his commands.
"Took you long enough." The comment was brisk but justified.
"I couldn't let that posse find me could I?" The gunslinger straightened his stetson hat and tugged his sleeves down further on his wrists. "I don't plan to hang for something I spent days framing another man for."
The stranger removed an envelope of cash from his vest. "Are you sure he's dead? You covered everything specified in the agreement?"
"Positive. He's hanging between broad limb and bare ground as we speak. The posse didn't bring shovels, they intend to let the buzzards have him. Not only is he dead, no one had a reason to suspect he was murdered. His reputation is tarnished and you're free to take over his lands with no one the wiser." The gunslinger fanned the stack of twenty dollar bills before stuffing them into his pocket.
"You'll get the rest of the money after the last man is dead, as promised." The gunslinger tipped his hat to the stranger and kicked the pale horse down the road leading to Laramie.