The hinges on the door squeaked to life as he entered Smith's Tavern. It was a dark and dingy place, nowhere you'd want to take your mother on a Sunday afternoon; but it was a place out of the sun and heat after a long day on the back of a horse. He strolled up to the bar, his duster dragging on the dusty floor as he moved; his wide brimmed hat cast a shadow over his already-lowered face. It didn't matter, though; everyone knew who he was as soon as he stepped through the door. His unmistakable presence was known to all; and if you didn't know him, you did when you saw him.

He was known simply as "Brown." That's it, no first name or even a clear last name, just "Brown." It seems odd that such a common and non-threatening name could provoke fear in men simply because the man wielding it was known to shoot you for no apparent reason. But that is the nature of man — fear of him who holds the power. In Brown's case, as far as normal men were concerned, he held the power, the power over life. Brown wasn't loco or nothin, just...well, mean. And all men knew it. Every man who heard the stories about Brown knew, don't cross him or you're likely to catch a bullet in your heart. So because of his reputation, he wasn't bothered as he approached the bar and asked for a drink. The bartender, showing little fear due to the fact that bartenders see all of the scum that slides in and so therefore became used to the presence that surrounds men like Brown; that, and to the fact that the bartender knew Brown wouldn't kill him for he was the man who supplied the drinks, slid Brown a drink. Brown paid, allowing the bartender to keep the change, which turned out to be one hell of a tip, and sat there, slowly drinking the whiskey he had ordered.

The bar was silent; all eyes were on Brown. Whether he noticed or not, he showed no sign. He only sat there. The other men in the semi-crowded bar whispered in each others ears. "When will he leave?" they wondered. "Is he mad?" "I hope he don't have killin’ on the brain." They all wanted to know when he would leave, for the tension between them — as normal men — and Brown — as skillful gunslinger — was too great for most to handle. One boy, who must only have been in his early twenties, and was sitting at a table with two other men, started to become restless.

"Aren't you going to do anything? Isn’t he worth like $10,000? That amount of money could really make a man."

"Sit down there boy. You don't wanna git yourself killed now do ya?"

"And why not? I'm willing to risk it for $10,000. And besides I know I can beat Brown. Look at him he is an aging outlaw..."

"You dumb fool," the other man said. "Don't ya know who that is? If you be mighty dumb enough to waltz over there and git a bullet stuck in your eye, well that's fine with me. But when yer dead, don't come crying to me. I warned ya."

The kid looked at the man with a confused expression, "after your dead don't come crying." Obviously not that bright, the kid thought, but at least his point came across.

"Look," said the kid. "I am not going to die, I have been practicing. Besides, I can catch him off guard."

"Sure kid, sure." They laughed.

The kid stood up in his dark, almost city fancy clothes and moved his way around the table. The two other men held up their beers in a silent salute to a fallen comrade. "Idiot."

The kid moved as silently as he could possibly muster, which was rather difficult due to the fact that the entire bar was keeping quiet. He stopped about ten paces away from Brown and began reaching for his holstered revolver at his hip. He swallowed hard as he felt the cool metal and wooded handle. He gripped it tight with his entire hand...

"Don't be stupid kid," Brown said as he raised his head, but still continued to have his back turned. "I would hate to kill ya because of some asinine thing ya might be tryin’ to pull. If I was you I would go sit down, buy another drink, and keep to your own god damned self."

The youth looked confused, but only for a second. His hand wavered at his gun and he soon found his hand gripping it once again.

"Mr. Brown, I.. I am afraid I have to take you in."

"Take me in?" Brown said as he turned, drink in hand. He stared at the boy, with an almost a humorous gaze. "I know you ain't the law, so what are ya? Just a kid looking to make $10,000 for himself? Yeah I bet ya are, trying to cash in for my no good hide, right? Better go sit down kid."

"No sir, I am not afraid of you. You see I know how to use a gun and I have no problem with killing a man, especially one worth as much as you."

"Is'zat so?"

"Darn right it is. Your poster does say: Dead or Alive."

The kid made a motion to draw his gun, but before he could get it out of his holster, Brown had already drawn his. He held his gun out straight in his right hand; and in his left he still held his glass of whiskey. He hadn't spilled a drop while drawing his gun. Surely Brown was a man of even greater skill than the newspapers had reported. The kid paused, his hand still frozen to his gun, which was about half way out of his holster. He noticed Brown's weapon; it was twice the size of his, and yet Brown handled it with such ease.

"I'd sit back down if I was you kid. I really don't have a problem in killin’ ya today, but I just plum don't want to. So if ya had any brains in that uneven shaped head of yours, you would forgit that ya ever saw me standing here in this puny, stinkin’ town of yours and continue to enjoy your life. I can tell you have got a lot to live for, something has got you. Your belly is full of fire and I'd hate to have to stop ya in whatever ya was meant ta do..."

Brown threw back his shot of whiskey; the gun didn't waver in any direction.

"But, if ya think ya know me as well as ya say ya do, then ya know killing ain't nothing to me." He smiled a nasty smile as he turned around once more.

The kid let go of his gun and let it drop back into its holster as he walked back to his original seat next to the two grizzled old men.

"This isn't my town," he said under his breath.

Then, as quick as lightning, the kid drew his gun once more. Brown knew the kid’s mind and smiled, for his gun was in his hand just as quick. In the blink of an eye both men aimed and fired. Two bullets streamed across the room; two deadly shards of lead awaiting their destination inside human flesh. Brown's bullet struck. The kid spun sideways in a circle and crashed down on the chair behind him shattering it. Blood leaked everywhere.

Brown quickly shoved his gun back into his holster and walked towards the door.

"Fuckin’ kids..."

He left the same way he entered, feared. There was only one small difference between his arrival and departure. On the way in, he didn't leave droplets of blood.

*************

It was hot. The sun drew beads of sweat on his brow. He lifted his hand to wipe them away, only to have a sharp stabbing pain enter up through his chest and arm. Glancing at his side, he noticed his once-white shirt was now red, stained with blood. "What a pity", he thought. "I just bought this shirt." The wound wasn't big, but it was there nonetheless. As he left Smith's he had hoped he covered his problem well; no one should know of his wound. He touched the hole in his side; it burned, but was now finally going numb.

He winced and thought, "Maybe ridin’ now ain't going to feel as bad."

He looked about in front of him, nothing but vast Arizona desert loomed on the horizon. He couldn't help but think back to the times he had first rode these plains of sand and rock. Life as an outlaw took hold of him early; he was only a boy when he robbed his first store and almost got caught. And from that messy beginning as a two-bit thief, he arose to become one of the West's most feared killers. He had gunned down about fifty men, ranging from men of filth to men of stature; men of infamy to men who weren't even known to their own neighbors. He had a good life of outlawing and killing, a life envied by most men. Being famous was as good as being rich.

Brown leaned back in his saddle; his arm hurt, as did his chest. But the wound was not giving him any more trouble. He felt the breeze on his blood soaked shirt, is was cold. The old blood had given his shirt that wet consistency that only amplifies the affect of a cool breeze. He didn’t mind. What was a little cold to a man with his power? He again wiped the sweat from his brow; his sweat was warm on his cooling body. He shivered. Why did he shiver, it was the middle of a desert day? He looked ahead and saw why. Almost as fast as he could see, clouds were brewing in the sky. It seemed as if time had quickened the storm; the dark clouds rolled and kept rolling faster and harder over the rocky cliffs, above the timeless hills and dirt of the arid ground around him. It seemed as if it were approaching him, but only from the sky. In the forefront of the clouds he saw something, something strange. Horns, it couldn’t be horns he saw coming out of the front of that dark mass, but it was. A pair of long dark horns... bull horns. Then the rest of the cloud took shape into a black bull of the sky. Rain flew from its nostrils, thunder roared from between its teeth, emanating from deep within its throat, lightning struck from his hooves as it hit the ground of the sky with each monstrous strike. It was amazing; Brown was awestruck. The beast roared by like a passing storm, its red glowing eyes not seemingly noticing Brown at all, and why should it? Compared to Brown, he was a speck of dirt on its underbelly, a tiny fly-sized creature not even to be acknowledged. Brown just watched as the bull’s storm came and went. Following the bull was sunshine, a bright cloudless sunshine, but soon, that too was interrupted.

Brown heard it before he saw; it was the sounds of cattle ranchers. Then as quickly as the bull appeared so did the Cowboys. Three of them, riding horses as big as mountains, all three of which, along with their riders, took most of the sky’s space. Only the horizon through the horses’ legs was left visible. They had a cloud-like gray quality and the sun seemed to keep shining through their immense bodies; however, Brown was not blinded, in fact, it made the Cowboys more visible. They slowed from their chase of the black cloud-bull and glared down at Brown himself. Brown continued to be awestruck and stared right back, his head leaning all the way to his back just so he could glare into the faces of these... men.

"Anston Brown..." The first of the Cowboys uttered. Brown felt a wave of fear, the being knew his name, his full name. Brown hadn’t used his first name of Anston for over thirty-five years and as far as he knew no one beyond himself and his dead parents knew it. If it were any other non-awe inspiring being, Brown would have killed him on the spot for the disrespect. But killing was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

"Yeah. That’s me," Brown said, trying to keep the facade of being unafraid. Whether the Cowboys believed him or not, they made no sign.

"We know its you. We have been expecting to run into you, only not as you now are."

Brown was confused. "Then How?"

"As we are," the second one spoke now, "as a being without flesh, as one of the damned to endlessly ride this sky. You see, Anston Brown, you are slated to be one of us, for we were like you. We murdered for the fun if it, we took life and had no second thoughs. This is the punishment."

The third spoke, "We must ride forever, a ceasless, unending ride. It is our punishment to chase the devil’s herd. Endlessly riding across the sky to chase after what we can not hope to catch. But even if we do, it is set free yet again. It is a vicious circle you see."

"And you are telling me this is my fate? Why tell me? Now I have the power to escape this punishment," Brown said extremely nervously.

They all laughed. It was so loud that Brown thought the heavens would cave in an avalanche of clouds and stars.

"No Brown," the first spoke again, " We tell you not as a warning, for you can not escape your fate. We tell you because we expect you. You have had a life of sin my brother, sins that can not be cleaned in the time that you have remaining upon the earth. However, we may be wrong. Everything, even the Almighty Himself has been known to be wrong," again they all laughed.

"Please," Brown spoke softly, "how.. how can I stop this?" His mind was bewildered, and he seemed as if he would start crying.

"If you change your ways today, rider," the second spoke as he pointed to Brown, "you might be spared this fate! For if you do not you will ride these endless skies, chasing after a goal which is pointless, endlessly tired without rest!"

Brown lowered his head, a tear formed in the corner of his eye. His brain was racing, his heart was racing, his emotions flared up beyond his own comprehension. He was feeling something he thought he shouldn’t have been feeling: Fear, not just fear but despair; despair that he fled so far away from the path of humanity that he feared he would never be able to return once again.

"I will change!" He yelled, as his head was still lowered. He raised his head slowly; the tear dropped from his eye. Suddenly, a feeling overcame him, something he hadn't felt in a long time, perhaps ever, compassion. "I am not goin’ t’ ride with you. Never. You say if I change, if I cleanse my soul, I will not suffer your end. Then that's what I will do." He couldn’t believe these words from his own mouth. They seemed so fake, so not his own that he wondered if he was actually saying them. What would the others of his circle say now, if they saw him so determined to be a goody two shoes? He didn’t want to know. "Heaven awaits me."

He looked up to the Cowboys but only saw the clear blue of the afternoon sky. They had simply vanished. The clouds were back, the breeze again picked up and he began to tear. His eyes clouded with the tears as he realized how he had, his entire life, slipped on the side of evil and now it seemed he had a chance to save himself. The Cowboys had told him what to do, and if he did as they said, he would be able to spare himself an eternal struggle. Joy crept to the fore of his emotions, joy at his second chance. A tear dropped from his cheek and hit the hard leather of his saddle; another followed. He moved his arm up to wipe them away. The pain came back; it was never truly gone, but other circumstances had caused him to forget. He cursed aloud and to himself for the sudden painful movement, and put his hand back at his side.

Then he heard a voice. Not a loud voice, more like a whisper in the back of his mind. But it was extraordinarily clear — "You can not escape your fate."

Brown’s head turned and in his eye was a black hole, a gun barrel. A sudden flash of light and he felt his mind begin to cease its function. His body was thrown back with incredible force and he felt himself slide out of the stirrups and fall to the earth below. The dirt and sand of the desert floor moved closer to his face; he could feel the heat slowly escaping the rocks beneath him as he fell. His eye caught the sight of the gun which shot him, and the man holding it. It was the kid, the kid from Smith’s Tavern. He was riding a black horse, death’s color, Brown thought to himself. The kid was dressed in black as well: black duster, black boots, and a black hat. The shoulder of his gun arm was darker, stained with dried blood. He was saying something to Brown as he fell to the ground. But Brown couldn’t hear him; his ears were full of another sound, the sound of a bullet moving in through one part of his skull towards the other side, wanting to break free. Brown hit the rocky ground suddenly, and succumbed to the blackness.