Good Evening, welcome to the latest in my series of using a daily writing prompt to spend 10-15 minutes getting some practice in (although I’ve been averaging 20-30, I get into the ideas). Please leave your feedback and your own responses to the prompt.
Prompt: Describe a high noon showdown between two cowboys in the dusty streets of a small town.
Genre: Western
Source: 100 Western Writing Prompts – EveryWriter
Time Spent: 45 minutes
Word Count: 1246
The days of the so called ‘wild west’ were long over and if they had ever truly existed outside the imagination of journalists and writers in the first place ‘showdowns’ at High Noon were not something that happened. It was, therefore, to the amazement of the good citizens of the town of Silver Creek to see exactly that taking place on the main road of their small town.
The summer day was perfect for it. It was hot and dusty and the sun scorched everything into a pale yellow and the air rippled with the heat. Those that lived and worked in the town, founded to support the local miners and now clung on by supporting farmers eking out what living they could on land bordering on desert, were mostly off the street, taking what shelter they could away from the sun, so at first they did not fully understand what was going on.
That morning a tall, thin man of elder years rode out of the desert on a dusty horse. A grey hat was upon his head with a wide brim, a shirt and vest of similar color that looked to once have fit but now sagged around the thing body. A long coat was wrapped around the frail shoulders and seemed to cling to him oddly. The man had a scraggly cray beard, going to white, and sunken grey eyes. His skin seemed almost paper like but despite frequent winces of pain, he held himself proudly on the horse.
On reaching the town, the man went into a small hotel that was a couple blocks from the town square, paid twice the landlady’s asking for room and board, and soon emerged, no long wearing his cloak or chaps and cleaned of much of the dust from his travels. His pants, also hanging lose and held up by a tightly cinched belt, were of a dark brown. A six-gun was worn on a holster on his right hip and a long knife was sheathed upon the other side. The man went to the local saloon, paid for a whole bottle of fine whiskey, and sipped it slowly as he cleaned his gun with the careful precision of an expert.
Being so openly armed would have likely earned the man a visit from the local deputies, but they were distracted on what was happening on the opposite side of the town.
As the first man was entering town there was a second arriving on a Model T car. This drew much more attention as cars were still uncommon in their town and seeing one actually stop, rather than driving through, was even rarer. A man of average height, obese of build, and advanced in years was aided out of the back by the driver. A grey Stetson sat upon his head, clean and well cared for, a blue shirt and a colorful vest clung to the man’s torso from the sweaty drive, and black pants, well tailored, completed his look. A gold pocket watch was affixed to his belt and tucked into a vest pocket and two revolvers were in holsters, on at his right hip and the other below his left arm.
Taking his hat off to wipe his brown revealed a nearly bald head with a few whisps of white hair and an impressive, and well groomed, white mustache covered much of the middle of his face. The left side of his face had a slight droop to it and he walked with a limp as he went into a nearby saloon, ordered a bottle of whiskey for himself and a round for the whole bar set about cleaning his gun.
Two such strange, and armed men, soon had the town abuzz with who they were and what they had come to do. Still, the work of the town was never done and little by little, people drifted back to their chores and jobs and other necessities and functions of life. This all changed when, ten minutes before noon, the two men had finished cleaning, inspecting, and re-assembling their guns and they stood up from their respective saloon tables, and walked slowly toward the town square. They did not idle or delay, but at the same time seemed in no particular hurry to reach their destination.
Word had reached one of the outlying farms, and as they were coming together, an elderly woman rode into town from a nearby farm and went and got a look at both men. She turned to inform her neighbors what she new.
“I canna be sure, mind you, they ain’t been in these parts for a couple decades now, but I think that there slim one is Caleb Fields and the heavier one be Martin Rook. They been after each other for, oof, could be as much as sixty years according to some versions of the story. Those are as numerous as stars in the sky but what is clear is that whatever the feud, they’ve been at it for decades. They’ve chased each other from one end of this country to another, only ever managing to wound each other, but tis said that many a friend and relative has died in the process.”
This story spread like wildfire through the town and soon every home and shop were emptied as the streets were filled with onlookers. The two men paid this no mind as they entered the town square and stopped ten paces from each other and regarded each other for a long moment.
As the bells began the slow, peal of noon, the skinnier man said, “Marty, aint seen you since I almost got you up in Boulder. I confess myself a might puzzled, though pleased, that you even showed up.”
The heavier set man nodded, and said, with some clear effort, “we-e-v’e bee-be–been tryin to ge-ge-get each for ye. . .years. I wanned one la-last go-o-o at. Tho-ough you-you lo-ook half in the gr-gr-ave already.”
Caleb nodded slowly and coughed with obvious pain. “Doc says cancer, and I aint got long. I couldn’t well go to ma grave with you still living. Not afer what you did to me at Waynsboro.”
Martin took a deep breath and said, “I ha-ah-ad a stroke, truth be I we-e-ere tryna fi-fi-fine you when I got the letter so we’s co-co-could settle this. You des-served fer you did afer what you didta my fa-fa-arm!”
The final peal of the bells for twelve noon began to chime and all of Silver Creek held its breath. Two dying men faced each other, hands hovering near their pistols and a calm finality showed on both of their faces.
*Ding* eight *dong* nine *ring* ten *ding* eleven *dong* twelve.
Everything happened at once and, befitting the complex history of Caleb Fields and Martin Rook, there was a different story from everyone who witnessed the event. What was certain was that there was a flurry of gunfire, two nearly hitting townsfolk, and rush and a brief scuffle and now, both men were dead.
They lay upon the ground, almost embracing, spent guns beside them, and with a look of. . .satisfaction upon their faces. Thus ended the last, and possibly even the first, duel at high noon in the west. The tale of the two men, more embellished by the year it seemed, proved to be an enduring mystery, with their stories and whatever truth they might have had accompanied both into their graves
The general idea of this I got from John Wayne’s last movie, The Shootist (which I would recommend, it is very good). I hope that you enjoyed! I would love to read your response to this prompt as well and also what you think of what I wrote!
I hope you all have a wonderful day, get the chance to do or experience something creative, and I’ll catch you on the next one.
– Jon
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