Text copyright © 2026 Ed Herrington
⚠️ Content Warning: Gun violence and gore
The hooves of the horses hit the hardpan, kicking up dust that drifted on the hot winds pouring out of the eastern hills. The brown cloud lined up behind the two riders like a beacon on the open plain—find the dust, find the horses, find the men. Two canteens rocked against a saddle, slow and steady. Two more clanked, hollowed of their life-giving fluids. A bladder in the saddlebag hinted at more, but promised nothing.
They only needed to make it to the train station—a mere speck of a town at the end of the tracks. But it would have water, enough for the train’s big steam engine, enough for the plain folk that tended it. With water, the riders could meet the rails in three days, two if the wind died—but the last time the wind died, so did Jean. Without water, one rider would die tomorrow, the other a day later.
Between here and there was a town, though. A dead one. Some say it was always that way, that it was a tombstone planted by God to show white men what happened when you wandered too far. The Collector, well, he didn’t believe any of that. This dead town would have a well, though, and water if—how did that ancient tale go?—if God willed it.
The painted stallion the Collector rode was new to him. But it had been a fine horse that hadn’t shied away from gunfire. The Collector would rather give water to the stallion than to the bounty. But isn’t that always the way. Behind the Collector rode a black mare, muzzle tethered to his saddle. And atop the mare’s bare back was the bounty, laid on his stomach, callused hands bound and hanging down one side, bootless feet bound and hanging down the other.
In the lee of a cliff, out of the wind, the Collector broke saddle. The canteen brushed across cracked lips as he took one sip. Two more, but that was it. Any more and the math would fail. The cans of food were spent. All that was left was hard tack which soaked up the water, leaving a dry mouth in its wake. The Collector hobbled the horses and let them squeeze whatever water they may from meager brush.
The winds brought heat even at night, baking the Collector in his boots. Still, he would have liked a fire to fend off coyotes, but the smoke would be a stronger beacon than the dust. Not even a match strike could be risked on the clear, moonless night. Instead, he threw out his bedroll and leaned against the cliff wall.
On the bedroll, he laid his pistols—the big irons of the law. The only mementos he was allowed to keep from that time. That place. He did not need the light to guide him as he took each weapon apart. Quick Hand did the work, brushing out the dust, then oiling the barrel and six chambers of the cylinder. He counted each bullet as he wiped them clean. Twenty. Twenty rounds to keep him alive and the bounty in his hands.
“Water.” came a dry rasp. The bounty roused against the mare’s flank.
The Collector got up and unceremoniously pushed the bounty off the horse. He slid down, feet first, then pivoted into a crumpled heap on his back. The dust stirred, the critters of the night did not. The bounty dragged himself to a boulder and leaned against it, rubbing his head with his bound hands.
The Collector poured two thimbles of water into the canteen cap and held it out to the bounty. “Don’t waste it. This is all you get.”
“Are you trying to let me die?”
“You’re still breathing aren’t you?”
The bounty didn’t complain anymore and took the cap, sipping, savoring. He handed the cap back, kicked away an encroaching scorpion with his bare foot, and laid his head flat against the boulder’s smooth surface
“Why am I here?”
“You know why.”
“Are you a bounty hunter?”
The Collector went back to his bedroll, sat down, leaned back, snugged one pistol in its holster, and laid the other across his chest. It pointed to the north, the bounty sat westward. No matter, Quick Hand would point it where it needed when it was needed.
The bounty must have been hit in the head harder than the Collector intended because he kept babbling.
“I didn’t do nothin’. It was Johnny Gringo’s boys. I was the one who found her body. I rode out to the law and told ‘em. I told ‘em the whole disgusting story.”
The Collector tapped his fingers along the sandalwood grip of the pistol, but said nothing. The bounty was smarter than he looked because he kept his mouth shut.
The bounty slept uneasily. If the Collector slept, only the night knew. The sunrise crept around the rock wall, reflecting, reaching. But all it found was bare dirt brushed clean by the wind.
By late afternoon, the dead town was on the horizon. The wind did not die with the night. At least it pushed the dust trail away from the town instead of announcing the riders’ approach.
This day, the bounty rode upright, bare back, still bootless. His bound hands were tied to the Collector’s saddle hitch along with the mare’s harness. The bounty could jump and run for it, but the Collector would drag him across the hardpan. If he broke free, barefoot and without water, he’d be dead by nightfall.
The Collector led the horses down the town’s only street to the well in the center. There would be water, but only if God willed it. Buildings hid shadows, but all the glass was gone and half the wall boards were missing. The Collector knew this would be an ambush, but as God willed water, God would have blood.
Quick Hand fired a single shot into a saloon second-story window, eliciting a cry, then a thud. Nineteen. Why did that number tug at his memory? In a single motion, the Collector flung the saddlebag onto his shoulder, dismounted, and dragged the bounty, protesting, off the mare. He entered the saloon, ignoring the dead body already shattered among a broken rail atop a rotting card table.
He shoved the bounty into a corner and threw the saddlebag on the bar. Quick Hand fired into the gut of another man entering from the back and again into his chest. The man fell against the wall, blood slicking it as he slid down, mewling. The Collector stood behind the bar and fed three fresh rounds into the cylinder. Sixteen was the count.
“Quick Hand, c’mon out!” A woman sat horseback just outside the non-existent batwing doors of the saloon. Two riders sat beside her, Winchesters raised and pointed at the Collector.
“That’s not my name.”
“We know who you are. Hand over the bounty and we’ll let you go on account of respecting your reputation.”
“Leave me now and you can keep the reputation.”
“Any other day and I’d take that offer, Mr. Quick Hand, but my boss Johnny Gringo wants your man in there. He’s besmirched Johnny’s good name.”
The bounty shouted in hushed tones, “Don’t let them take me, please. They’ll kill me. Untie me—untie me and give me a gun. I can help take ‘em.”
Ignoring the bounty, the Collector shouted out the door, “That’s not my name!”
Quick Hand fired again, the round drilling into the eye of the rider on the right, leaving a void where his mind had been. He was a fair shot, that is, when his mind still worked.
The Collector fired the big iron that was already in his left hand at the other rider. The first shot missed. The second caught the rider’s shoulder, triggering an involuntary shot from the Winchester that went across the Collector’s arm. Just a graze. But a graze still bleeds, so God was satiated for now. Thirteen.
Gunfire rang out from all directions toward the saloon. Tables and chairs exploded into splinters. The bounty cowered in the corner, protecting his eyes. The bar was stopping rounds, but wouldn’t hold for long. The Collector slipped out the back door.
A shadow blocked the back alley, but Quick Hand fired two rounds, one hitting the heart, the other piercing the throat. More than necessary, but you couldn’t always be sure with shadows. Before the shadow hit the ground, Quick Hand fired into the shadow behind him, emptying all chambers of that pistol. Ten.
The Collector reloaded six rounds into the spent pistol. He ran to the other side of the building, leaning left around the corner, fired. One. Two. Three times. A couple made their mark. He slid back, but not fast enough. His left bicep was bleeding. God would have blood.
The big iron was now too heavy to lift. He had to keep moving. While running to the other side, he pulled out the remaining round, holstered the weapon, and palmed the bullet. Seven.
The Collector ran past an alley and behind the next building. When he rounded the corner, he was confronted with a bearded man. Grease from this morning’s bacon congealed in the long curly hair and glistened from the low sun. The barrel of the bearded man’s pistol glistened too. Quick Hand was fast, but not faster than a bullet.
A red blur buzzed in front of the beard, then stopped instantly. The man’s eyes crossed to see what threatened him. Quick Hand fired into his skull before he could focus. The hummingbird 1 flew away unfazed. The Collector slid the bullet from his palm into the empty chamber. Six.
The wind never died. Without the buildings blocking it, the main street was a cloud of dust. The Collector sprinted out, pistol raised. There was no time to stop. Stopping was death. He moved and the big iron fired with each step. Five. Four. Three. It would be enough. Or it wouldn’t. Only Quick Hand could say, but Quick Hand was busy.
The woman fell from her horse, her gray duster stained in blood. The Collector stood over her, gun aimed at her still chest. A sharp click brought his eyes up, his attention forward. The bounty, hands untied, held a pistol leveled at the Collector. The bounty fired.
The Collector heard the report. Looking down, he saw his shirt stained with blood, but no fresh blood seeped out. He looked behind himself to see Johnny Gringo slumped on his horse.
The bounty lowered his gun an inch. “How’s about we calls it even? I go my way, you go yours.”
Was this man as innocent as he said, or the bastard they said he was? He was good at killing, but isn’t everyone still alive out here?
By the calculus, one bullet was left. Whether the shot could be made was never in question. But the payday would be half. Too little. Too late. If the Collector let the bounty go, the payday would be nothing. But the bounty had saved him. And didn’t the Collector owe him something for that?
The Collector lowered his gun an inch. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
The bounty nodded and holstered his gun. The Collector did the same.
The bounty turned to walk away. In the last flash of the sun slipping below the horizon, in the twitch of a squint, the Collector saw it—a smirk. The one a man wears when he knows he’s gotten away with everything.
Before the Collector could finish this thought, Quick Hand had already done the job. Its judgement laid bare by the crimson blooming on the bounty’s back. The bounty collapsed to the ground.
The Collector had weighed the cost and reached the only conclusion. He would get half.
Author’s Notes
I channeled Stephen King’s The Gunslinger with this one. I don’t know if I made the mark, but if you felt a vague familiarity, then I’m satisfied. Also, I barely know how to write in third-person.
This started as a story for a prompt. I don’t really write for prompts. But Bradley Ramsey’s latest Power up Prompt hit so many Gunslinger themes, I couldn’t pass it up. I went for all three levels:
The Ghost Town
The Disgraced Deputy
Delivering Justice
Writing with King’s style, I did not clarify these points too deeply.
While this started as a prompt, King’s dreamlike writing and the unreal nature of Quick Hand made me think of The Cog and a particular hot headed hummingbird. So I consider this my first submission for The Cog.
Gotta love a good gunslinger story. I liked the bullet countdown, classic haha. Great stuff 👍
Brutal piece in such a good way :) I can feel the violence and the slump of the bounty as a weakened body on the page, and I thought this was well captured. I also think the desert scene was thoroughly imagined here. Glad to read a your take on a gun-slingin' western!