This is a short story that has been in my mind for a while. It's surprisingly easy writing characters who don't really have the same sense of morality as oneself. Maybe it's the cynic in me :)
English isn't my first language, and I tried writing this (at least the clearly subjective parts), as the character might say it (dialectal) rather than what might be ''correct English'' (inserts massive air quotes). Not sure how well I succeeded.
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dead Redemption
Underneath a large pine tree at the foot of a mountain, sat a man. With a somber expression, he wiped a soiled rag over steel.
He was alone but for a horse hitched to the ground beside the tree. The thin creature nibbled on the patches of grass it could reach, tremors moving in waves over its skin when the wind struck especially harshly.
The man was cold, too. But he didn't mind. There came a time, he often thought, when chilled air creeping through clothes and running over bare skin was something one got accustomed to. At least there was no snow no more.
A twig snapped somewhere close by. His movements stilled. Tilting his head, he looked into the dark night. Listening.
When he deemed it to be nothing, he went back to cleaning his gun. Meticulously he worked, for longer than he had to, for the whole night; until the sun rose on the horizon, spreading its golden rays across the land below.
At first light, he packed up his bedroll. Full of holes and nothing else, what had once been a soft bedding was now falling apart. The nights he did sleep, him waking with an aching back was proof enough of that.
The horse made a disgruntled sound when he climbed on, but he paid it no mind. He clicked his tongue and kicked with his heels; urging the horse along the trail snaking down a slope, then disappearing among the trees.
He dug through the saddle bag and got a hold of an old can of peaches he'd snatched from a hunting cabin a few days back. They were still good. He gulped them down, and threw the can over his shoulder. Reaching into the bag again, he felt the edges of two other cans, but that was it. He had no more time for hunting, or more ammunition to spare. He'd just have to find some other place where he could help himself to more.
Every day brought him further east. It had been years since he last came to these parts. He didn't know 'em as well as he'd like, but well enough to track down that band of arrogant bastards. Them walking 'round like they owned the earth, taking what they wanted, how they pleased.
But he'd show 'em. He'd show 'em, and who'd be laughing then?
He came upon a torn up deer carcass one day. If it had been fresh, he'd be worried. But it weren't, and the only discomfort it caused him was a reminder of his empty stomach. Game had been scarce in the mountains, and there was almost nothing left of the little he had scavenged.
But he carried on. If he remembered it right, there was a gorge coming up. He could only cross it one place if he didn't take a detour he didn't have time for. So, out of the woods he went.
The thaw made the birds sing. They sounded different here. And they were everywhere. He'd almost forgotten their songs up there in the thin air. Now, he could listen, follow, and be warned.
The horse flicked its ears, noticing something further up the path. In the distance, he saw a rider on a dark horse trotting along the dirt road. He held back a bit, waiting for him to pass. Then he followed, heading in the same direction until he had passed the wooden bridge over the deep cut in the ground and could go off the beaten track again.
He was close now, he could feel it. After days on end on that scrawny nag, his body was sore and ready to give up, but hell would freeze over before he let it. Sticking to game trails when he could, he pushed the poor excuse for a horse as fast as it could go.
He found another cabin where he grabbed a few cans of beans and a pack of biscuits. The biscuits were a bit moldy but he'd eat 'em anyway.
The sun was slowly setting when he rode off again. He looked up at the sky, but wasn't discouraged by the dark clouds assembling, or the distant roll of thunder. The only time he stopped was at night, when the dark made it impossible to find one's way.
He smelled the rain before he could feel it. When it finally hit his face, it did so almost softly, almost comforting. Everything was like that in the beginning. Soft. It was only a matter of time before it ran down his collar and got him soaking wet.
If there was a God, the man thought as he tilted his hat forward, he sure as hell weren't the one keeping the downpour waiting until daylight had gone. He thought himself past gratefulness, but deep down, some part of him was glad to keep some of his warmth. Just because one's used to cold don't mean it's what one would prefer.
He made camp for the night. Getting the fire going was tough in the rain, but under the cover of a tree he managed to. Leaning back against the trunk, he listened through the sounds of the oncoming storm, and imagined voices talking and boots trudging through mud around a campfire somewhere near.
Pulling his gun from its holster, he weighed it in his hand. Then he dug through his pocket for the oily rag and let his hands work.
The rain went from drizzle to pour. The man looked up when he heard the wind moving through the treetops, going from gentle breeze to raging wildly above.
The fire was going out, smothered by the storm. In the shadows cast by the dying flames he saw the faces of his past, distorted, clouded in darkness. He raised the revolver, shining in the reflecting light, and aimed it at one of the faces.
They would pay.
It kept on raining. It poured down like hell the day he crossed the territory line into New Hanover. The damn horse kept slipping after losing a shoe. If the thing broke a leg...
Water ran down the brim of his hat, dripping like a waterfall. He weren't superstitious, it was just shitty luck, this weather. He didn't have far to go, now. Not far at all – but the traitorous ground and the cursed shoe slowed the horse down.
He was beginning to feel like he was back on that mountain when the shivers started. His clothes hung heavy on his body, soaked through. But, like in the snow, he'd get used to it.
On the horizon, there were the outskirts of a town. The man pulled the horse to a halt and watched. Everything came down to this. He would walk into that town, and he would find 'em.
Still watching, he got off the horse and made himself comfortable on the ground. Slowly, he pulled out both gun and rag, and kept a watchful eye out while he waited for nightfall.
Finally. The time had come at last when they would reap what they'd sowed. He almost laughed at 'em, standing there, unaware of his presence, looking all high-and-mighty. In the dim light cast by the lantern outside the saloon, he moved towards them.
One of them leaned against the railing, and as he did so, looked over the shoulder of his companion. With squinted eyes, he had him spotted.
Hell, there was no turning back now. There never had been.
By now, he had attracted the attention of the whole group. They looked him up and down, one of 'em turned his head and watched a girl in a skimpy dress leave the saloon on the arm of a man almost too drunk to stand.
So, they took him for nothing? Weeks on the road hadn't left him in a pretty state, but there was a hatred burning in him, stronger than they could ever see with their unimpressed eyes.
''What do ya want?'' one of them asked.
So they had already forgotten. Maybe they never even remembered.
They deserved no words. They deserved hearts heavy with lead.
His hand was steady when he raised it. It was all as he had pictured it, all them times. A face down the barrel of the gun. The sound of a shot fired ignited a fiery gloating in him. At last.
Then his hand began to tremble.
Someone laughed when he crumbled to the ground, and there were other voices, rushed voices, urging others to leave.
Chest heaving, he reached out. His hand slipped through thick mud. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing but the sight of black boots retreating and knowing that he had sought redemption, and he had failed.