Bitchy – A Western Short Story

Last town I was in, I was walking out of a shithole saloon in the middle of the night. Walking may be overstating it. However you want to call it, I was moving in a direction by use of my boots. Down an alley, I heard a girl screaming. Then the scream would muffle. I heard it a couple times. One time there was a word said: Help!

Goddamit all to hell. With the amount of whiskey I had in me, I felt right to intervene.  When I got closer, I saw that this big dude had ripped the dress off of a woman. Was she a whore? Who’s to know. She was bent over a hitching post and this dude was riding her from behind like a bucking bronco.

I didn’t say anything.

I just put some lead through his skull and watched the inside of it explode everywhere.

The woman didn’t thank me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I thought I was helping you out.”

She tired to pull her ripped garments together.

“You a whore?” I asked

“Does it matter?” She said

“Guess not.”

“Well, you better get the fuck out of here. You just shot the sheriff.

Sometimes I go to sleep in one place and when I wake up, it seems like I’m somewhere else. Everything looks the same pretty much. Barren wastelands of brown and red rock sitting in a golden dust that goes on forever. Even though the places look the same, they all feel different. That’s the problem.

I sometimes ride all day and ride all night. I never have a place to go or know where I’m going. That is all up to Bitchy. Bitchy is the name of my horse. She’s black and brown and is big as the biggest horse you’ve ever seen. She got that name because of her attitude. Not because it’s few and far between, but because it’s many and damn near constant. If Bitchy wants to go all night, she goes. If Bitchy don’t, then she don’t. The only reason I put up with it is because she’s always been good to me. Never asking for much and never caught with her hoof in my pocket. In fact, Bitchy always leads me to money. That is probably her strongest trait. Best of all she seems to like me, and that’s perfectly fine by me.

That sheriff I shot raping that lady didn’t bother me none. I’ve shot a lot of people. I’ve let a lot go. I had only been there in town for a night. I wasn’t leaving anything special.

Bitchy leads me places. Sometimes when I arrive at a town at night, it’s almost like I hear a voice in my head. The voice will say, “Go to the third house on the left and kill the man with the grey hair.”

I always do. I don’t know what kind of ramifications that’ll have on the town, but I just look at it like if it was a good enough idea for me to hear it, it must be right.

It seems like Bitchy hears it, too. Back when the voice told me about the third house on the left, Bitchy knew right where to go. I didn’t lead her. She walked right around to the back and stopped at the third house. On the second floor I could see a window right above my head.

“That the place, Bitchy?”

She head shook and she made a noise.

Even standing on the back of her, the window was out of my grasp, but there was an overhang to my right. That I could reach from Bitchy’s back. I did and scurried along a thin edge of wood along the side of the wall. The window was open and I climbed in. The breeze moved the thin white curtains and they fluttered about, clouding my vision. I pulled my revolver out out my holster and pointed it dead ahead.

There, in the bed, with the moonlight shining on him, was an old man with grey hair. His mouth was a wrinkled, straight slit across his face. His nose was bulbous and his eyes were a grey-blue and seemed very soft. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

He knew I was coming.

Landing on Bitchy from the height of the window, did worse to me than her. She turned and trotted back around to the front of the street and we slowly moved along the main street; the only street.  There were only a few houses, a shops, a saloon and a barber. I didn’t even think that the place had whores. The saloon wasn’t open. I had been hoping that I could spend some of the loot that I had just pulled. I had never seen a saloon closed.

It also seemed like the town was deaf. No one heard my shot. No one came running up the stairs, no one screamed from afar.  No one peered through curtains from high windows.

No one even knew that we had been there.

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