The Rifle
- Darragh Kempson
- Nov 5, 2021
- 2 min read
It's day 3 of Nanowrimo and theres something a little special available for all of my patrons. Continue below for a taste of my next short story, The Rifle.
It were easier when he held it. He had this kind of presence, you know, a way of being that were somehow more solid. When he were here, we knew what were what and who were who. There were no questions, nothing complicated. Just him, his rifle and the rest.
I still remember that first night. He found me by the side of the road and dragged me up into the saddle. My breath stood out like smoke by then, my fingers near pure blue. I tried to hold tight to the cold brass, the thumping gears inside the beast simulating a heartbeat. The holster hung loose, swaying with each bounce of the horse. I watched it, seeing how the polished leather caught the moonlight. Black as pitch with the slightest gold trim, it were out of place, a rich man’s weapon on a drifter’s waist. The cold of the night and the hunger in my belly seemed to fade while I watched it, as though my mind were leaving my body.
When we stopped at the next town over, he checked the holster, fingering the clasp before jumping from the horse. I didn’t move, my head still spinning, not that he seemed to notice. He walked to the doors of the nearest saloon and wandered right in, not a care in the world. I snapped back when the shooting started. Three quick shots, like thunder in the stillness of the night, then he were there helping me down.
We slept in an upstairs room, the finest spot I’d ever been in. It had full beds and everything, there were even proper blankets and a fire for the cold. They brought us food and he shared it out evenly, not a word spoken, just a nod and a plate passed over. I’ve not a clue what we ate, I inhaled it before my belly knew I’d started. Once done he pointed me to a bed and lit the fire. I didn’t argue, didn’t speak, just nodded and curled tight in the wool.
His rifle stayed on while he stripped for bed, the black holster somehow stranger in the firelight. He didn’t take it off to sleep, tucked it by his leg, and dosed off with a hand on the clasp. I conked not long after, welcoming the sweet blackness of it.
In the morning we were off again. I never saw him pay, never saw the bodies neither. That were how it was, every town we rode through, every stop we made. He’d hop the saloon, or the whorehouse, or the convenience store. Then there’d be three quick shots, and we’d have what we needed. He were a murderer or an outlaw, something like that, but it didn’t bother me. I had food, warmth, shelter, and a steady bit of traveling, who could ask for more?
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