yrahcaz2
04-08-2011, 04:36 PM
Two holes in a man’s forehead means one thing: death. A crimson trail lost its way out of each smoking pit and found its way into the lips of the deceased. He was dead. Reginald Wells was dead.
The firefight lasted a mere five minutes, but the capacious saloon was riddled with splintered wood and shattered glass. The hand-carved, oak banister hung from the stairs like a man hanging from the gallows. The wooden railing swung to and fro like his legs, kicking for life or any other alleviation from pain.
Amidst this destruction lay Reginald Wells, plastered against the saloon’s drink arrangement. A waterfall of whiskey and other unwholesome spirits soaked Well’s leather overcoat, but not a bullet marred this cracked leather. All it took was two shots, two holes in his forehead. A sign of a man with no resolve left in his life, but to die in the company of loose women and the distinct burn of alcohol.
Reginald Well’s was a man defined by his vices, vices that no priest or atonement could vanquish. His soul was lost. The devil’s grip was one not easily loosened, and it certainly never was with Reginald. Whores filled his bed and his lust for women and money drove him to a lifestyle, which I am ashamed to admit, was less than chivalrous.
Well’s found himself among the coarsest of men, and with them he robbed, raped and ravaged the dry southwest surroundings of Providence, Texas. Banks shuddered at the thunderous sound of his posse rolling into town. Saloon owners cautiously slung them their whiskey lest they be shot for any wrong words. General store managers closed early to avoid ten of the most ungodly men handling their wears. Worst of all, sheriffs were never to be found whenever the Well’s Gang rode into town, and when the gang left they coincidently found their way back into town.
However, Reginald Wells would no longer rape anymore women, rob anymore banks and ravage anymore anything. He was dead. Two holes proved that much. Sheriff Blackwell decided to put an end to his crime, he gave no warning except two, sharp cracks and the red mist ensued. Well’s men turned tables over as Blackwell’s men followed suit and the gunfight was brief, but the carnage wasn’t. Six of Well’s men died and the remaining three managed to escape out the back. However, that was the end of Reginald. That was the end of the Well’s Gang.
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This is only a portion of a short story that I am writing.
The firefight lasted a mere five minutes, but the capacious saloon was riddled with splintered wood and shattered glass. The hand-carved, oak banister hung from the stairs like a man hanging from the gallows. The wooden railing swung to and fro like his legs, kicking for life or any other alleviation from pain.
Amidst this destruction lay Reginald Wells, plastered against the saloon’s drink arrangement. A waterfall of whiskey and other unwholesome spirits soaked Well’s leather overcoat, but not a bullet marred this cracked leather. All it took was two shots, two holes in his forehead. A sign of a man with no resolve left in his life, but to die in the company of loose women and the distinct burn of alcohol.
Reginald Well’s was a man defined by his vices, vices that no priest or atonement could vanquish. His soul was lost. The devil’s grip was one not easily loosened, and it certainly never was with Reginald. Whores filled his bed and his lust for women and money drove him to a lifestyle, which I am ashamed to admit, was less than chivalrous.
Well’s found himself among the coarsest of men, and with them he robbed, raped and ravaged the dry southwest surroundings of Providence, Texas. Banks shuddered at the thunderous sound of his posse rolling into town. Saloon owners cautiously slung them their whiskey lest they be shot for any wrong words. General store managers closed early to avoid ten of the most ungodly men handling their wears. Worst of all, sheriffs were never to be found whenever the Well’s Gang rode into town, and when the gang left they coincidently found their way back into town.
However, Reginald Wells would no longer rape anymore women, rob anymore banks and ravage anymore anything. He was dead. Two holes proved that much. Sheriff Blackwell decided to put an end to his crime, he gave no warning except two, sharp cracks and the red mist ensued. Well’s men turned tables over as Blackwell’s men followed suit and the gunfight was brief, but the carnage wasn’t. Six of Well’s men died and the remaining three managed to escape out the back. However, that was the end of Reginald. That was the end of the Well’s Gang.
-------
This is only a portion of a short story that I am writing.